#wolverine ff

pink means smut!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Robbie Turner

Uncharted Territory

Georgia Clark was changing bandages, gulping at the look of the rushed stitches between his chest. He was asleep, his face was twitching before waking up. His breath hitched, his cold blue eyes searched for something, or someone. One look was enough to tell how harsh war had treated him. TW! angst, hurt/confort, cecilia is dead, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex.

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │ Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Charles Xavier

The night you kissed me

Elora Cuana was born with a gift. She was, what someone would call, a mutant. No one had really noticed her gift, even if it was hard to keep a secret. People would say she had been blessed with beauty, and nothing more. From every side, every angle, she was ravishing to no avail. Her mutancy had been easy to deal with, not even she had noticed the oddness of her angelic features. There was no death count to her power, because she seemed to have no power. Until recently, only one man had neglected her advances. Charles Xavier could not reach her mind, and she could not reach his pants, or can she? TW! tease, m!masturbation, f!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.

A part of us

Once, you and Charles Xavier were everything to each other—now, he’s a ghost at your door, stirring old wounds. But Logan’s words, raw and real, confessed a truth you couldn’t ignore. Torn between betrayal and confession, who do you choose when your heart is split in two? Charles Xavier x Reader x Wolverine

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6 │Chap 7 │ Chap 8│ Chap 9 │Chap 10 │Chap 11 │Chap 12 │Chap 13 │Chap 14 │Chap 15 │Chap 16 │Chap 17 │Chap 18 │Chap 19 │Chap 20 │Chap 21 │Charles' Ending │ Logan's Ending

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Brian Jackson

Sore Loser

The bottle stopped spinning. You grinned at him from across the circle, mischief glinting in your eyes. Before he could overthink it—before he could ruin it—you leaned in, and your lips met. Who would imagine Brian Jackson to be such a fuckboy? TW! tease, first time, m!masturbation, f!oral sex, making out, unprotected sex.

Chap 1 │ Chap 2 │ Chap 3 │Chap 4 │ Chap 5 │ Chap 6

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Bruce Robertson

Bite me

Bruce Robertson does not give a shit about the weather. In fact, he thinks he’s better. Amanda Drummond has drunk a little bit too much. TW! dubious consent, mention of drugs, angst, in public, jealousy, making out, unprotected sex, asphyxiation.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂

Tom Lefroy

Out of touch

Tom Lefroy enters a brothel expecting indulgence, but instead finds himself utterly schooled. With sharp wit and a stolen kiss, you leave the arrogant charmer breathless, his confidence shaken, and his education—unexpectedly—expanded. TW! prostitution, in public, making out, mention of f!oral.

She wonders where she would be now without it. Would she still be inside that little cabin on the hill? Nails coated with dirt and a heart never knowing someone else's love–other than her mother. Would she have known any differently if her mother hadn't become ill? The life that radiated and boomed within such a busy city. The windchimes, once a lullaby, are now replaced by the sounds of sirens. It’s frighteningly loud compared to the quiet of a far-off field. She makes peace with it for the sake of simple company. For the sake of a single voice to fill her space, rather than the emptiness her mother leaves behind.

Would she ever gain the guidance needed to survive what her eyes witnessed? The lingering souls of long-departed strangers as they roamed the earth. Unfinished business leaves them trapped until closure sets in or locked in repeated loops of time with an unsettled heart. Death stands at the girl's side, easing the pain of witnessing so much loss among the living. Unseen by all except for her.

Would she have gained a friend? A girl roughly her age giving up on the idea of finding another soul to share her space. Hoping to lessen the grief of money until Dawn shows up on her doorstep. “What?” She practically spits once the cigarette is pulled from between her painted lips. Dawn is so nervous that she forgets to speak. The paper crumbles in her fingers as she fights for the right words. 

“If you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’.” Another long drag is taken, held tight in her lungs as she waves down the street to another building. “Don’t ask them. They’ll rob you blind. Buncha hagglers.” She warns. And within seconds, the door begins to shut in Dawn's face.

“Wait!” She cries out–a sudden rush of bravery that leaves the stranger stalled on the other side of the door. “Y-you’re looking for a roommate?”

The woman she would come to know as Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I-I was. How’d you know about that?”

Without hesitation, she offers up the newspaper clipping. An ad was put out for the public in case they were looking for a place to call home. All she ever found were perverts or untrusting women, ready to take all she had of value–which wasn’t much. Charlotte takes the tiny paper, and a smirk is seen on her face as she reads over the damaged print. “This is from months ago. How’d you-?”

“I found a newspaper in the trash,” Dawn states without thought. Thinking nothing of the action or the stares she received while elbow-deep in the bin.

Charlotte invites her in for coffee that day, and Dawn never leaves. They laugh through the brief interview, and it's an easy choice to welcome the girl under her roof. It had been years since she first stepped into that empty bedroom–now decorated with what a low salary could afford. 

Would she have ever met him?

The man with dark hair and a brooding atmosphere around him. An unseen barrier to keep all at bay–including the women who longed for company. They come and they go, and he seems mostly uninterested with his mind elsewhere. His replies are dull and douse the flames of any hope, leaving him by his lonesome at the bar each night. She sees him–but she's unsure if he sees her. Just a stranger too busy drowning his demons so he could survive another day–another second. 

She's lost track of how often he appears. Some nights he's long gone from her infrequent visits. Other times, he is miraculously there each night she makes her way through the front doors. Dawn's lived here for years now–her name comes easily to the bartenders as they smile and welcome her. A drink was already prepped and slid in her direction as she sat at the bar. Following the pattern they’ve built over time. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” Barry greets. His gentle smile was hidden away beneath a thick and aged mustache. His beard was untamed through the long and stressful hours of a rush, his fingers pulling anxiously. “It’s on the house.”

She gawks–jaw slacked with the quirk of a smile. “Really?”

The older man shrugs as he grabs a freshly cleaned glass, cloth wiping along the damp edges. “Call it a birthday gift.”

Dawn smiles and says her thanks, tipping the glass in his direction before he moves on with his shift. Some nights he stays to chat–barking orders in between the kindness he gives her. But with the business only half decorated for the holiday and the flow of traffic neverending, he’s needed elsewhere. She’s simply left to enjoy the comedown of a hectic day, oblivious to the early drunks and rambunctious conversations at her back as they challenge friends and strangers over card games and darts. Peace once looked like a quiet night by the fire–but as the years passed, she favored the noise.

It kept her mind busy.

“Celebratin’ alone?”

She doesn’t anticipate his voice–let alone to be looking in her direction, lips just hardly touching the glass filled with whiskey. Her face is warm–damn near scalding from his attention. For a moment she considers if he was speaking to another, but dark eyes peer just above the tilted glass, studying the lonesome woman with all intentions buried and impossible to read. Maybe the man had finally grown tired of the silence he was drowning in.

“N-no. I’m–well, it’s technically tomorrow.” She averts her gaze. The intimidation of his presence is dizzying, and she forces herself to focus on the chill of the glass in her hand, twirling it back and forth. “This is my ‘I’m stressed’ drink.” She ends with a laugh, risking a glance his way to see a lazy, crooked grin. 

He huffs out a laugh before the glass connects with his lips. The amber drink vanishes in one gulp. His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth, sighing in questionable relief or bliss of the burn. “I’m familiar with those.” The empty glass sits small in his hand–extended outward in a silent plea for another round. Barry no longer hesitates in filling it, having spent many nights watching him stroll out into the night without swaying or stumbling. “I have a high tolerance,” he would claim, and prove it each time.

He speaks again, but his voice is lost in the excitement surrounding them. She’s not even entirely sure it was him, but the glass lowers with haste and spares a look his way, only to find him still locked on her. “D’you say something?”

His brow quirks in amusement. “I asked what had you so worked up.”

Hot air blows past her lips. The girl's mind scattered and raced as she relived her last few hours of work–and if she should confess it all to a total stranger. She was teaching class–boys and girls at their designated stations with bowls and ingredients, mixing and crushing. Combining everything into something delectable–something they could be proud of and eventually make on their own. 

A young girl takes a bite of her small cheesecake, immediately overwhelmed by the flavor and praise from her teacher, Dawn. But as the seconds tick on, her skin begins to flush. She complains about an odd itch on her tongue, and before anything else is said, Dawn takes the girl by the hand to whisk her down the hall to the nurse's office. The young girl is treated and her parents are called, while the teacher paces back and forth with a flickering focus as she searches for Death to show its face.

“Not this one,” she whispers on repeat. 

Maybe Death had heard her plea and chose grace–or maybe Fate had sewn together a long thread for the child. Expanding out into the universe until she grows old and weak. The girl is given epinephrine and carted to the hospital for overnight observation, but holds great promise for simply walking out by morning as if nothing happened. Despite her recovery, Dawn feels burdened by the guilt, all because of a Goddamn unlisted egg allergy.

“I failed,” is all that escapes her. The tone now shifted from something so lighthearted to something aching and painful. She feels the fist of disappointment clench around her heart, squeezing until it nearly ruptures. It brings a fresh wave of tears to just barely reach the surface before being wiped away. She’s already shed her sorrows once class had finished and on the drive home. It left her second-guessing if all she had worked for–all the trust she had earned–was for nothing. 

The stranger doesn’t seem to notice her sadness in the moment. By the time she looks back his way, he seems equally lost to wandering thoughts. Moving through his own journey that led him to where he was now. Demons were not left behind but instead clawed up his back to force a memory he wanted to forget. “Been there before.”

Dawn knows she should leave it. She should take this moment as a victory. The lone wolf finally peered outside of the shadows and into the light, and to simply leave it be. Corner an animal or push it beyond its breaking point, and you’ll only find the end of its claws dug through your skin and its teeth clamped around your throat. But she sees an opening–one that he’s carved out for her, and she takes the bait, entranced by the mysterious man who’s finally spoken more than six words.

“What about you?” She questions.

“What about me?” His tone is difficult to read–his expression even harder as his gaze lowers to hide in the shadows. 

She shrugs. A look of pure confusion and curiosity is written across her face as she leans in a little closer, folded arms stretched out across the space next to her. “What’s got you so worked up? Out here, drinkin’ by yourself?”

He meets her gaze again, though it’s faulty. Attention flickering between her and the cigar he pulls from a leather case just next to him on the counter. He lights it effortlessly–the flick of the lighter happening so fast, she barely notices until smoke is spilling from parted lips. “Who said I’m alone?”

Dawn reacts without thought–quick in response as she pulls back, swiveling in the stool to fully survey the busy bar and the idiots that cheered over their silly games. Her lips purse and her nose crinkles in dissatisfaction. Beer spills down their flannels and into their mud-covered jeans, eyes filled with the madness of intoxication. “Which one’s yours? I gotta be honest; you seem like a guy with better taste.”

It’s all fun and games–and he catches on quick. By the time she glances back his way, he’s smirking again but says nothing in return. “I mean, no offense.”

He snorts–a refreshing sound, and the sight of his laugh lines gives a certain spark of warmth in her chest. The tall walls he built were breaking down before her very eyes, crumbling to dust in the space between them. “I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

There’s an eruption of noise off in the distance. Broken glass scattered along the ground as two men meet with faces red and veins protruding from scarred skin. Some unheard arguments between the pair finally come to a head. But before they can exchange blows, security stands between them and escorts them out with fists locked around their shirt collars. He nearly dusts his hands of the problem once they are gone from his sight.

“You’re sure one of them isn’t yours?” She questions. His toothy grin is vibrant as he takes another long drag of the cigar. Maybe it’s stupid–maybe she’ll live to regret it, but she closes the distance between them; both now sat just at the corner of the bar. “I’m Dawn,” she greets with a timid smile. Half expecting him to slap money on the counter and bid herself and Barry a goodnight. No more pleasantries and forced conversations as the wolf retreats into the night.

To her surprise, he stays, though seems uncertain. She can see the flex of his fingers as they briefly tighten around the glass and the curious raise of his brow. A silent conversation brewing within himself. He releases his drink all too quickly, reaching far down to his right for an abandoned bowl of pretzels, sliding it between their places. “Logan.”

They laugh and drink together. Sharing stories–or rather, she seemed to be sharing stories. Dawn would ask a question to better understand this man named by her side, and he seemed to have some gift of twisting it around to know her instead. He learned she was a teacher, and she managed to squeeze out that he was a freelancer. Anything to make a buck while he looks for a safe place to land. 

“I'm working construction right now,” he confesses in a cloud of smoke, dark eyes on her as she downs the last remnants of her drink. Maybe his gaze lingered a little too long as the tequila and orange juice dripped down her chin. The lick of her lips and the quick swipe of fingers along her skin.

“D'you like it?”

Logan is suddenly embarrassed–ashamed? Caught like a child, red-handed as he studies every delicate feature. The shape of her cupid's bow and the slight indentations of dimples, growing deeper whenever she smiled. He shakes himself out of the daze, leaning forward on folded arms. “The construction? Or working for hire?”

She hums in debate. Her body visibly tilting back and forth in thought before answering, “Both.”

Another stale pretzel, and he answers with a shrug. “It’s good for now. There’s no shortage of busy work, so I don’t think I’ll get bored too soon.” His eyes are wandering at the sudden realization the crowd has somewhat changed, replaced by a more rowdy group–and she doesn’t seem to notice.

But he does, and maybe it's stupid to worry about a girl who's lived here for far longer than him–but he still tries to make her aware of the passing time. “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering.

But her face twists up in disgust, laughing almost too loudly, and Logan feels himself deflating from relief in the stool. “No,” she scoffs–but the realization tastes unfavorable for her, too. Thinking back to just how long it’s been since she’s even held someone's hand. “No, I–there's no one. Just my roommate, but she works late.”

“Roomies, huh?”

“Yeah, why? Lookin’ for a place t’crash?”

He smirks against the glass, mumbling a “no” in reply as he envisions nothing but trouble and awkward conversations. Even questionable looks and rumors between neighbors as he moves beyond the threshold.

The girl doesn’t take the rejection to heart, still wearing a kind smile that is quickly pried apart by a sudden yawn. It’s embarrassing, and she knows she’s been caught with her hand raised to conceal it. His brow is raised–amused as he taps the ash away into the nearby tray. “Didn’t mean t’bore you, sweetheart.”

Dawn’s eyes widen at the sudden nickname, her heart pounding as the name sinks in like an anchor in her unsteady waters. Some form of stability as the winds carry waves high into the clouds. Her face is flush, and her fingers are tight around her forearm to remain focused. Nearly getting lost in all of the excitement. “I’m not bored.” She defends. “You try waking up at 6 AM t’take care of kids all day.”

He eyes her carefully, thinking of that certain sparkle of pride seen in her eye when she mentioned working at a school. There was clear passion in it–a love that couldn’t be described. Yet, there’s a twist of frustration in her tone. “Thought you liked it?”

“I do! It–it’s just-”

The young girl’s look of fear fills her vision. Splotchy red skin spreads like a virus as her lips swell up in seconds. If she had waited any longer, her throat would have tightened, and that color would transition to purple and blue as she gasped for air on the floor, in Dawn’s arms. It would have been her fault.

Her fault.

Death meets her when the school bell rings. They stand out in the cleared hallways with the face of someone unknown. A woman–though all Dawn can see is the flickering creature using her as a puppet to make nice with any strangers to pass by. It’s a frightening sight at first. Dawn takes a step back with a hand clutched to her chest, her other arm guarding the door. A protective instinct, despite the room now being empty. 

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps, and with a subtle smile from the well-dressed woman, her shoulders relax, and she pulls at her bag a little tighter. “You couldn't have knocked, or something? Any warning at all.” Dawn moves without hesitation, knowing the space just at her side would fill with the Being that always crept in her shadow. 

“ɎØɄ'ⱤɆ ₦Ø₮ ₩ɆⱠⱠ.” It states in her mimicked voice. Eyes warm and welcoming–a complete contrast to the void of brilliance. The enchanting halo of light you follow into the afterlife. “ł₴ ł₮ ฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₲łⱤⱠ?”

Dawn nearly laughs–just nearly. Her lip twisted up into a scowl with a huff passing through anxiously bitten lips. “I thought you were going t’take her.”

“฿Ʉ₮ ł ĐłĐ₦'₮.” Death states plainly, reaching for the girl's elbow to halt their barely begun journey toward the exit. Their expression is unchanged at the sight of glistening eyes–reliving the fear and what could have been and what eventually will be. “ł₴ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₦Ø₮ Ɇ₦ØɄ₲Ⱨ?”

It was never enough. 

Dawn had put her trust in this Creature–her guidance through the horrors she had been forced to witness at such a young age. A mentor as she bends the darkness she once could not control. Taking a lost girl in a big world and giving her a purpose as the right hand of Death–a master of the undead.

But trust couldn't douse the fear of love and loss. To grow with someone and learn every flaw and gift, only to watch their soul stripped by the very thing that took such a fragile girl beneath its wing, and it was unstoppable. There was no malice or guilt–Death simply acted on what it was made to do. Granting peace to those suffering.

She sees this man as another heartache–whether by his hand or not. Another loss among the friends she gained she would have to tread through if Death didn't take her first. “It can just be tiring.” She continues with a weak smile. “Everyone has a limit, right?”

The man takes another hit, his focus unwavering and all too intimidating. “S'pose they do.”

“And right now…my limit is one Tequila Sunrise. Charlotte is going t'be a force t’be reckoned with by morning.” Regrettably, she’s easing herself away. Stepping down from the stool, though, in his direction to give him a final opportunity to stop her. Yet he doesn’t.

“Your roommate? Not even going t'let you sleep in on your birthday?”

She takes her time. Sliding her coat on with care, just to spare another second before reaching for her heavy book bag, filled to the brim with notes for class and little projects she’s constructed for the children. “It's Halloween. There's lots t'do.” 

Dawn begins to teeter in place–chewing at her lip as the reluctance to leave builds. It’s stupid to be so worried; she may never see him again. He’s still only a stranger and intends to keep it that way by how much he keeps to himself. Yet it doesn’t keep her from grabbing at a napkin and an abandoned pen for tipping and scribles down the address for him. “We’re having a party.” 

The paper is slid in his direction. Brown eyes follow its movements until it’s trapped beneath a single finger, pulling it in closer for inspection. He says nothing, but the smirk around the cigar is telling, along with the raise of a brow. He’s interested–or amused at least that she would be so bold. The napkin is folded up and tucked away into his pocket.

“Please don’t be a serial killer.” Dawn teases. Her knees are weak, legs reluctantly pulling away from the mysterious man who refuses to break eye contact with her. Maybe just to get one last look–not knowing if he'll see her again, despite the invite. “Goodnight, Mr. Logan.”

Finally, he breaks. Head dipped low just to hide a childlike grin as he spares a small wave in return. His fingers hardly lifted from the countertop, keeping it casual regardless of wishing she would change her mind and stay. But is that truly what he wanted? Needed? Another girl to confuse and break on his path of self-discovery, forgetting her name the moment he’s gone from the shared bed by morning.

Her name seems to stick like candy. Sweet with something sour–something to leave him wanting another taste, mouth-watering. Goosebumps of desire race along too-hot-to-touch skin as he speaks it again–just once more. “Happy Birthday, Ms. Dawn.

Chapter 01

The day at the X-Mansion had begun like any other—uneventful, heavy, and tinged with regret. Charles Xavier had woken up multiple times during the night, each time pushing back the inevitable moment when he’d have to rise from his bed. His head throbbed, a relentless drumming in his ears that served as a bitter reminder of the two—or was it three? Maybe five—drinks he’d downed before finally collapsing into a fitful sleep. The day was already shaping up to be a disaster, and it hadn’t even truly begun. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, sighing as he realized just how far he’d let himself go.

A few days earlier, Wolverine had shown up at the mansion, desperate for help. With Magneto’s betrayal still fresh, they needed someone to fill the void, someone with a power strong enough to match Erik’s. Wolverine had insisted on making peace with Magneto—or with you. But Charles hadn’t thought of Erik. No, his mind had gone straight to you. Someone whose soul had once been so deeply intertwined with his, someone he’d tried to reach through Cerebro countless times, only to fail miserably every single attempt. You had become unreachable, a ghost in his mind. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh, one that hinted at a plan forming in his mind—a plan that involved you and your mutation. He stumbled through his room, knocking into furniture as he made his way to the bathroom. He had to see you. But not like this—not disheveled and reeking of regret. He didn’t want you to see how much he’d unraveled since losing you—and Magneto—in one fell swoop.

He stripped off his pajamas, letting them fall to the floor as he stepped under the hot stream of water. The heat was a small comfort, a rare pleasure in his otherwise bleak existence. But even this reminded him of you. The water cascading over his scalp, cleansing his body—it was yours to manipulate. The oxygen in the air, the very breath in his lungs—it was yours to control. Your power was terrifyingly beautiful, the ability to strip someone of their breath, to bend water to your will, to look at him with those doe-eyes that once held so much love—and now, he feared, only contempt.

When he was done, he dressed himself, the scent of cologne masking the lingering stench of regret. He slipped into his usual formal attire, the kind he always wore when he needed to feel in control. His reflection stared back at him in the mirror. Should he shave? The hair wasn’t so bad—long, but clean. The beard, though, told a story. Patchy, unkempt, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. He trimmed it just enough to frame his face, to make himself look somewhat presentable.

Charles made the decision then and there. If he couldn’t reach you telepathically, he’d go to you physically. 

Manhattan stretched out before him as he walked a familiar path, the neighborhood still smelling of unfiltered smoke and the faint stench of rats. He climbed the stairs to your apartment, skipping steps in his haste. When he reached your door, he rang the bell.

“I’m coming!” Your voice called from inside, sharp and impatient.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though it was tinged with sadness. You used to say those words often, back when you were together, though the tone was always different—softer, teasing, as you lay bare in his bed. The door swung open, and there you were, wearing an oversized t-shirt that did little to hide your legs. His eyes flickered over you unconsciously, a habit he couldn’t quite shake. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“What are you doing here?” Your tone was dry, bordering on hostile.

“Have you ever thought about coming back?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though desperation clawed at the edges.

“Not in your wildest dreams,” you shot back, already moving to close the door.

His hand shot out, stopping the door before it could slam shut. “Wait.”

“I could make you fuck off right this instant,” you warned, your voice low and dangerous. “So do me a favor and go back to where you came from.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Your apartment was as cluttered as he remembered, a reflection of the chaos in your life—and his.

The air between you was thick with tension, a mix of betrayal, anger, and something else—something neither of you wanted to acknowledge. Charles could feel it, the weight of your emotions pressing down on him. But he wasn’t here for a reconciliation, not really. He was here for something far more urgent.

“If you’re here to beg me to join some grand plan of yours,” you began, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “know that I’d help anyone else but you.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He should’ve never kissed Raven, should’ve never let things go that far. But he had, and he’d regretted it every miserable second since.

“Look, I’m sorry—” he started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t give me that pitiful look,” you snapped. “I know you’ve been trying to reach me, and I want you to swallow your ego and let me go.”

“It’s not like that—” he tried again, but you weren’t having it.

“Those words sound so familiar,” you spat, your voice trembling with anger. It was the same thing he’d said when you’d caught him with Raven, his face buried between her legs, his betrayal laid bare for you to see.

Charles flinched, the memory hitting him like a punch to the gut. He remembered the look on your face—the pain, the disbelief, the way your doe-eyes had shut as you turned away from him. He’d deserved it, every second of it.

“Get out of my home,” you said, your voice cold. “You’re not welcome here. Get out of my life.”

“Wolverine asked for you,” he said, grasping at straws. “Blame him, not me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Wolverine?”

There was still a soft spot in your heart for the gruff mutant, even if you’d cut ties with everyone else to avoid crossing paths with Charles again.

“Tell him to come himself,” you said, crossing your arms.

But then you noticed him—really noticed him. The long hair, the beard, the way he looked so different yet so familiar. You cursed yourself for finding him attractive, for the way your heart still skipped a beat when he was near. Why had he come here? Why did he have to remind you of everything that had happened? Why couldn’t he just stay out of your life, like he had for so many years? He’d been unfair to you, but not to others. He was a man with a brilliant mind and a heavy burden, and you’d fallen for him despite it all.

Did he regret what he’d done, or did he just regret losing you?

“Please, just go,” you said, your voice breaking. “Go back to where you came from. If Wolverine needs me, he can come himself.”

Charles knew you were stubborn, unwilling to listen, unwilling to forgive. He’d lost so much because of his mistake—his team, his best friend, his love. And now, he was losing you all over again.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t entirely his fault. Raven had manipulated him, played on his weaknesses, and now he was paying the price.

“Whatever excuse you came here with, you can take it and leave,” you said, your voice firm.

“Why won’t you listen to me?” he pleaded.

“Because if I look at you long enough, I’ll remember how you fucked Raven right in front of me,” you said, your voice trembling. It was a lie, and he knew it, but the pain behind the words was real. “Now, if you ever cared for me, respect the fact that I don’t want to see you again.”

“This is bigger than us,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Can’t you understand that?”

“Oh, it’s so big that Charles Xavier himself had to come here and ruin my day,” you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Congratulations. I don’t give a shit.” You gestured to the open door. “Get out.”

He faltered as your eyes locked onto his. His breath caught in his throat, his pulse spiking as your power took hold. You were that powerful, even if you couldn’t fully control it. He felt his lungs tighten, his vision blurring as he struggled to breathe. And then, darkness. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious. When he came to, hours later, you were sitting beside him, your face turned away. He could sense your tears, the way they spilled down your cheeks. He hated himself for putting you through this, for letting Raven manipulate him, for losing you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to hurt you. But I can’t bear to see you. Not now. Not yet.”

“Please,” he croaked, his voice weak. His pulse fluttered as your eyes met his, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of the love you once had for him.

But you looked away, standing up and walking to the other side of the room. The memory of that night played in your mind, over and over, a wound that refused to heal.

“Please don’t think I came here because I don’t respect your wishes,” he said, his voice trembling. “I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. You know that. You know me.”

“Apparently, I don’t,” you said, your voice cold.

“There’s a man capturing mutants,” he said, his tone grave. “A mutant himself. He’s been taking them—some have disappeared, others have been found dead.”

Your head snapped up, worry flickering in your eyes. “How?”

“He’s powerful,” Charles said. “He’s been targeting mutants, one by one. We don’t know how he’s finding them, but he’s… he’s killing them. Or worse, experimenting on them. We’ve found bodies, but others… they’re just gone. Vanished.”

Your breath hitched, and for the first time, the anger in your eyes wavered, replaced by something darker—fear. “Who is he? What does he want?”

“We don’t know,” Charles admitted. “But he’s strong. Stronger than any of us anticipated. He’s been able to neutralize their powers, suppress them somehow. We think he’s using their abilities to enhance his own.”

Your hands clenched into fists, your mind racing. “And you think I can help?”

“I think you’re one of the few who can,” he said. “Your power… it’s unique. He won’t see it coming. But you need training. You need to be ready.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. The thought of mutants being hunted, captured, killed—it struck a chord deep within you. You’d shut yourself off from the world, but this… this was different. This wasn’t about Charles or your past. This was about your kind, your people.

“For you?” you scoffed, though the edge in your voice was softer now. “And give up my peace of mind? Absolutely not.”

“I won’t try to reach you,” he promised. “Not like before. I swear.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

“You need to come back to the X-Mansion,” he said.

“You’re out of your mind,” you said instantly. “I’m not going back there. Not now, not ever.”

“You almost killed me,” he pointed out. “Your powers are lethal. You need training. I can’t let you face this alone.”

“Then give me a schedule, and I’ll be there,” you said.

“But it’s so far,” he argued.

“I’m not staying there,” you said firmly. “I’ll come, but I’m not spending more time than necessary.”

Chapter 20

The air was cold and heavy as Logan, Hank, and Charles made their way toward Cerebro. The tension was palpable, anxiety radiating off each of them like a static charge. No one spoke—the only sound was the mechanical hum of the door sliding open with a robotic, “Welcome, Professor.”

Hank’s eyes were burdened with guilt.

They stepped inside Cerebro, the vast chamber looming around them like a cathedral of forgotten technology. Hank broke the silence first, his voice tight. “Raven’s wounded. She won’t be moving fast.”

Charles, meanwhile, brushed the dust off his helmet, his hands trembling slightly. Logan’s lips twisted into a grimace. At least in this twisted version of the timeline, Raven would live.

“These are muscles I haven’t stretched in a long time,” Charles admitted, his voice tinged with unease.

He placed the helmet on his head and immediately gasped, his body jerking as thousands of voices flooded his mind all at once. Cerebro’s systems groaned under the strain, lights flickering as the machine struggled to keep up. Charles’ face contorted in pain as the cacophony of thoughts—screaming, crying, laughing, cursing—overwhelmed him. He tried to focus, to push through, but it was too much. He cried out, his voice raw.

“Charles!” Logan shouted, rushing forward to pull him back.

The machine sparked and hissed before exploding, its systems overloading. Charles groaned, yanking the helmet off as it smoked in his hands. Hank moved quickly, trying to calm him down.

“I’ll check the generator,” he said, already heading for the door. “Cerebro hasn’t been used in years. The fuses might be blown.”

Logan watched Hank leave, then turned to Charles. “It’s not the machinery, is it?” he asked, his voice low.

Charles shook his head, his breathing ragged. “I can’t do this,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “My mind… it won’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” Logan said firmly.

“It’s not a question of being rusty,” Charles snapped, his tone a mix of frustration and fear. “I can flip the switches, I can turn the knobs. But my power comes from here—” He tapped his temple with a clenched fist, then slowly moved his hand to his chest, over his heart. His voice faltered. “It comes from… here. And it’s broken.” He turned his wheelchair away, his shoulders slumping. “I feel like one of my students. Helpless.” He rolled further from Cerebro, his voice rising. “It was a mistake coming here. A mistake freeing Erik. Calling her was another fucking mistake. This whole thing has been a bloody disaster.” Tears streamed down his face now. “I’m sorry, Logan. They sent back the wrong one.”

Logan nodded, his expression grim. “You’re right,” he said.

Charles stopped, turning back to face him.

“It was supposed to be you,” Logan continued, stepping closer. “But I was the only one who could physically make the trip.” He crouched in front of Charles, his voice softening. “I don’t know how long I’ve got here. But I do know that a long time ago, I was your most helpless student.”

Logan leaned in, his loyalty to Charles outweighing his anger. “You unlocked my mind,” he said. “You showed me what I was. What I could be. I don’t know how to do that for you. But I know someone who might.” He paused, his eyes locking onto Charles’. “Look into my mind.”

Charles hesitated. “You saw what I did to Cerebro,” he said. “You don’t want me inside your head.”

“I saw what you’ve done to y/n,” Logan shot back.

Charles flinched, biting his lip.

“There’s no damage you could do that hasn’t already been done,” Logan said, his voice steady. “Trust me.”

Reluctantly, Charles reached out, his fingers brushing Logan’s temples. Instantly, he was plunged into the chaos of Logan’s memories—flashes of torture, of battles fought and lost. And then, among it all, you. Smiling. Laughing. Always just out of reach. Then your tears. Logan’s choices. Your battles. Your sacrifices. It was overwhelming.

Charles recoiled. “I don’t want your suffering. I don’t want your future.”

“Look past my future,” Logan urged. “Look for your future.”

Charles hesitated, then dove deeper. This time, he wasn’t in Logan’s mind—he was in his own. Traveling through consciousness, moving beyond time. He saw himself, older, broken, a man who had lost you. The grief in his future self’s eyes was unbearable. He called out to himself, his voice soothing, desperate. It all became clear. This was him in the future—a man still fighting, still grieving, still desperate to hold onto what he’d lost. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t lose you.

Charles snapped back to the present, his breathing ragged. “Where is she?” he demanded, his voice desperate. “What will happen to her?”

Logan exhaled, then let him see. A different future, the future he came from. A version where you were safe. A version of you that belonged to Logan—your hair longer, streaks of gray framing your face, a gleaming ring on your finger as you hugged Logan tightly. Your face was radiant, untouched by scars, unmarked by pain.

But Logan pulled him back quickly, his grip firm. He wanted Charles to know, in the most possessive way possible, that you loved someone else. That someone was Logan. At least, in the future he was fighting to hold onto.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” Logan asked, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Chapter 12

Your head rested against Logan’s shoulder, your eyes still red and swollen from crying. A dull, relentless ache throbbed behind your temples, exhaustion settling deep in your bones. It felt like you had just crawled out of a nightmare.

The jet hummed around you, the sound steady but distant, like white noise. 

Charles sat across the cabin, alone, staring out the window. Even from a distance, you could feel his presence as if he were right in front of you. There was a part of you that wanted to go to him, to talk to him, to hear what he had to say—even if it was harsh. You could see the weight of his thoughts in the way his shoulders slumped, the way his fingers twitched against his knee.

You knew he was holding back, biting his tongue. You could feel the weight of his disapproval, his disappointment in what you’d done. But deeper than that, you knew he blamed himself too. And that hurt more than anything.

The feelings you once had for him—those complicated, tangled emotions—had never really gone away. How could they? You watched him now, curious, almost studying him. IIt was the first time you’d been able to look at him from afar without the ghost of Raven’s grin haunting your thoughts.  And there he was—the man who had once given you everything, only to have it all ripped away. Manipulated, betrayed, abandoned. He had lost you. He had lost his friends, his students, his school—his very identity. Even his mutation.

Would he have fallen so far if you had stayed by his side? If someone had fought for him?

You hated the way he reeked of whisky, the way he could look at you and make you believe, for one fleeting second, that he deserved another chance. And in all that hate, you hated how your heart still fluttered when his gaze met yours, how his jealousy made him irritable and unpredictable. 

You hated that he still cared. Because it made you weak.

Suddenly, Erik rose from his seat, carrying a chessboard. He approached Charles with a smirk, his tone light but laced with challenge. “One for old times’ sake?”

Charles ignored him, his eyes fixed on the window.

“What happened to your powers?” Erik pressed, sitting down across from him.

Charles didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.

“How did you lose them?” Erik asked again, his voice sharper this time.

“The treatment for my legs,” Charles finally said, his voice tense. “It affects my DNA.”

Your stomach dropped. Had he really lost his legs? Logan was right—Erik had hurt Charles that badly. A surge of anger burned through you.

“You gave up your powers… so you could walk?” Erik asked, his tone incredulous.

Charles turned to him slowly, his eyes cold. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose a part of yourself.”

“I’ve lost my fair share,” Erik shot back.

“And you think that justifies what you’ve done?” Charles’s voice was icy, his stare piercing.

Erik’s expression hardened. “You have no idea what I’ve done.”

“I know you put me in that chair,” Charles snapped, his voice rising. “I know you took the things that meant the most to me—”

“Well, maybe you should’ve fought harder for them,” Erik said, his words cutting and devoid of compassion.

“You want a fight, Erik? I’ll give you a fight—” Charles said, his voice trembling with rage. It was the first time you’d seen him like this—unhinged, furious, raw.

“Sit down,” Logan growled, his voice low but commanding.

“No, let him come,” Erik taunted as Charles swung at him.

Your eyes widened in shock. Charles threw punch after punch, his movements fueled by years of pent-up anger and pain. 

“You think you’re the only one with pain and anger? You think you’re the only one who’s suffered?” Charles shouted, grabbing Erik by the collar and slamming him against the wall.

“I said SIT DOWN!” Logan roared, his voice shaking the cabin.

The metal of the plane began to creak and groan, the structure destabilizing as Erik’s powers reacted to his emotions.

“Come on, let’s see what you can do without your powers,” Erik sneered, shoving Charles away.

“Guys! You’re messing up my aerodynamics!” Hank yelled from the cockpit, his voice panicked.

Charles and Erik continued to wrestle, their fight sending the plane into erratic movements. Then you saw Charles—his body slammed onto a table, momentarily dazed. He wasn’t helpless, but seeing him like this, so desperate and exposed, made your chest ache. You were angry too—angry at Erik for hurting the man you once loved, for abandoning him when he needed someone most. 

Your gaze flicked to Erik, the man who had torn Charles apart. Who had abandoned him when he needed him most. Your lips curled. A single thought whispered through your mind—

Make him suffer.

And Erik felt it. The plane lurched violently, and you realized it wasn’t just Erik’s powers causing the chaos. It was you.

You watched as Erik’s breath hitched, his face reddening as he struggled for air. You smirked, reveling in the control, in the power. You gave him just enough oxygen to keep him conscious, just enough to hear him gasp and pant, his neck straining, veins bulging. He was vulnerable, and you enjoyed every second of it. This was for Charles, but it was also for you. 

For your own satisfaction.

He was helpless. And it felt—

Good.

You leaned in, savoring the sight. His red-rimmed eyes locked onto yours, pleading, furious, desperate. You bit your lip, amusement flickering through your chest. 

“Stop! Y/N, whatever you’re doing, stop!” Logan’s voice cut through your haze as he shook you roughly.

But you didn’t. You kept your gaze on Erik, watching as his body wavered, the last vestiges of strength draining from him—tortured, breathless. Your grin widened.

Then Charles was there, pulling you back. 

His hands were firm, his expression a mix of concern and care. But it was his eyes—those pale blue eyes—that snapped you back to reality. You released Erik, the rush of power fading as quickly as it had come. 

You were in Logan’s arms now, but your gaze was fixed on Charles. His eyes held you there, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge.

Your heart hammered. Your breath came fast.

Chapter 16

Hank tended to your wounds carefully, disinfecting the gashes on your face before administering a heavy dose of narcotics to numb the pain. The drugs hit you fast, making the world tilt and blur as you stumbled back toward the others. 

You stumbled as you tried to rejoin the others, your body betraying you, the drugs pulling you under. You would have collapsed if not for Charles. His arms were around you before you even realized you were falling. His hand found yours, steady and sure, guiding you through the jet. You were too weak to resist, too far gone to question it.

His fingers intertwined with yours, claiming you in a moment where you had no strength to protest. You weren’t even fully conscious, yet he held you as if he had never let you go. A gentle press of his lips against your forehead—a touch so familiar it broke you.

“Goodnight, sleepyhead,” he murmured. The same words he used to say when things were simple, when you were his and he was yours.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had happened between you. The world faded into a hazy dream, and you were back in that place where everything was simple, where you could rest your head on his shoulder and feel safe. 

Your cheeks flushed as you looked up at him, his long hair tangled with yours, his pale blue eyes searching yours as if trying to memorize you all over again. His lips barely curved into that faint, knowing smile you used to love. Had it really been so long? So long since you’d last been this close to him? His beard was unkempt, but it made him feel different, like he was both the man you remembered and someone new. Someone who was still, inexplicably, yours.

But then the tears came, blurring your vision. It wasn’t the wound that made you cry—it was your heart. It felt so small, so fragile, so utterly incapable of understanding why, after everything, you still wanted him. After all the pain he’d caused, it was him. It had always been him. Even after everything.

“I’m here,” Charles whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m still here, honey.”

His words cut through you, threading through your ribs and pulling tight around your lungs. As if he knew. As if he had always known.

Your fist clenched.

And you hit him.

Your hand collided with his chest. Once. Twice. Again and again. How could he? How could he do this to you? To both of you?

“How could you?” you choked out, your voice trembling. “How could you?”

Your punches landed again and again, but they grew weaker with each strike. Charles didn’t stop you. He just sat there, taking it, his expression a mix of guilt and sorrow. But the images burned in your mind—him, loving you, betraying you, missing you. Him, not moving on. Him, not searching for you. 

You hated that you still cared. You hated that, even after everything, the thought of being with someone else felt wrong. You hated that hurting him hurt you just as much.

Your tears fell freely now, your punches fading into nothing as you finally gave in, resting your head against his chest. His heart was racing, but somehow, the sound of it calmed you. Why? Why did his presence still bring you peace? Why did his eyes still feel like home?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

You wanted to scream. What did “sorry” even mean? But deep down, in some twisted way, you understood. How was Charles supposed to know? If someone had faked your mannerisms, your appearance, how could he have seen through it? How could he feel truly sorry?

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But what hurt most wasn’t that he had been tricked.

It was that he had let you go.

He didn’t fight for you. He didn’t push Logan away. He didn’t tell you the truth. He just… let you walk away.

“Why did you let me go?” you finally asked, your voice hoarse from crying.

Silence.

You looked up at him, his eyes red and filled with regret, but he couldn’t find the words.

“It took you two months,” you whispered, your lips trembling. “Two months to come to me. You traitor.”

You let out a humorless laugh, the sound hollow. “You promised me to never let me go, yet you did.”

The rage swallowed your sadness whole. It was easier that way. Those were the last words you remembered saying before the drugs pulled you under.

You woke up hours later, the faint sting on your cheek a reminder of the scar you now carried. You frowned, confused, as you glanced around. Logan was asleep, sitting far from you. But his hand wasn’t the one holding yours.

You turned your head.

Charles sitting beside you, staring out the window. As if he had been watching the world pass him by. As if he had been waiting. He noticed you waking up and turned to face you.

“Hey.” A soft smile. Tentative, almost shy.

You pulled your hand away from his, annoyed. “What are you doing here? Why am I next to you?”

Charles shrugged, his smile turning faintly mischievous. “The heart is a treacherous thing.”

You hated him. You hated him for saying that, for making you feel things you had no right to feel anymore.

You rolled your eyes and stood up, walking over to Logan. You sat down beside him, leaning into his warmth. Almost instinctively, even in his sleep, Logan’s head tilted to rest on yours.

Chapter 02

The grounds of the X-Mansion felt just as they always had—the grand house surrounded by lush, sprawling gardens that seemed to stretch endlessly. You couldn’t help but remember how you’d fallen in love with this place. Every morning, you used to wander through the gardens, marveling at the smallest details—the way the sunlight caught on dewdrops, the industrious ants marching in perfect lines, the delicate flutter of butterfly wings. It had become a ritual, something you did on your first day here, your last day, and now, here you were again, walking the same paths as if time had folded in on itself.

You hadn’t always been this way—calm, reflective. Once, you’d been a rebellious teen, always seeking trouble, always pushing boundaries. You’d had a knack for finding your way into places you didn’t belong. One day, while exploring an old, abandoned mansion, you’d stumbled upon Charles. Your first instinct had been to run—fast and far—but your feet had faltered the moment his voice reached you, calm and commanding, his eyes piercing through every memory, every motive. In your desperation to escape, your mutation had flared, leaving him breathless. You’d giggled nervously back then, though now the memory made you wince. Why did it always seem like your meetings with him ended with him gasping for air, suffocated by your emotions?

You made your way to the training rooms, your footsteps echoing down the familiar halls. The truth was, you didn’t want to hear his excuses, his justifications. He’d made so many promises, and yet here you were, with none of them fulfilled, with no shared story to hold onto. You tilted your head up, blinking back tears. You refused to cry over him again. He’d messed you up, made you feel like you were never enough, like you were interchangeable. How many times, you wondered, had Raven disguised herself as you, and he hadn’t even noticed? The thought stung. You’d lived completely different relationships with him, and yet he’d come to you with inside jokes you didn’t understand, references that didn’t belong to you. It was clear now—he’d been with both of you at the same time.

You didn’t blame him entirely. Raven had used her powers, her ability to shift her appearance. With just that, she’d fooled him. But it didn’t make the betrayal hurt any less.

As you walked through the mansion, your eyes traced the walls, the corridors, every inch of the place you knew so well. It was as if nothing had changed, as if the years had left no mark. The familiarity was both comforting and painful.

When you entered the training room, a familiar face greeted you with a silent nod. Logan—Wolverine—looked exactly the same as you remembered. It was like stepping into a time capsule. You moved to the wardrobe, pulling out the training attire that still fit you perfectly, as if it had been waiting for your return. You sat on a bench, wrapping a bandage around your knuckles, the ritual soothing in its repetition. The only thing you’d missed about this place was the chance to punch those mannequins, to release the tension coiled tight in your chest. The bandage snugly covered your thumb and palms, your fingers flexing as you adjusted the fit.