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bougiebutchbitch · 1 year

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(starcee anON) HOLY SHIT? LMAO? I LOVE THAT SO MUCH???? your response was better than i expected tbh i was sitting here thinking "oh nooo they're gonna think i'm so weird for asking such a random tfp ship question" ajsdjsfdsfk i would sincerely love to read that first chapter anytime that you are comfortable sharing it! you obviously dont have to commit to the long fic unless if u absolutely wanted to, i know its difficult to keep up with long fics just in general. and take it from me as someone with adhd and autism i know you cant, like, force a hyperfixation to stay at a certain level for a certain period of time in order to actually Make Things for said hyperfixation, let alone gather the energy for even Making the Things. i am but a friendly neighborhood anon simply showing my very strong support for starcee fucking if you ever wanted to grace us with it <3

sdkfghjgfsdg you are a DELIGHT! I would be all too happy to share - though alas, I have so many projects on my plate I can't guarantee this one will ever get finished. But a teaser-taster for you, dear Starcee nonnie!

Super messy and unedited....

FATE MISNAMED

There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed – Napoleon Bonaparte (I’ve always felt that he and Starscream have something in common…)

ARCEE KNOCKS UP STARSCREAM, hatefrag to grudging friendship with kid on the side.

It was the second tight-band communication burst in as many human months. The difference was, this time Arcee wasn’t the only bot online to receive it.

“Starscream,” said Ratchet, loading that designation with every ounce of frustration the mech deserved.

Arcee froze, spark skipping an entire spin.

Frag. Not again.

The silo interior abruptly lit with the targeting systems of her HUD. Her intakes raced; her plating clutched tight to her protoform. Her optics clicked, zooming in to a sharper degree of focus, as if she were about to transform blasters and fire. Battle protocols online.

Damn him. Damn him. Had it taken the glitch only one of this planet’s moon-cycles to renege on their deal? That they would never speak of what had happened, ever again?

:What does he want?: beeped Bee.

Bulkhead snorted, lumbering over from where he’d been helping Miko with her latest art project – something about releasing the inner child through finger-painting, which Arcee suspected Miko only chose because one of Bulk’s digits alone was enough to blot her entire canvas. “Lemme guess. He wants to trade intel again.”

Ratchet scanned the message, frown ossifying onto his faceplates. “No,” he said, slowly.

“Arcee?” she heard Jack say, as if from a distance. “Are you…?”

“It says,” Ratchet continued, his narrow blue gaze swinging ominously to settle upon her, “that he wants to talk. With you.”

The rest of the conversation washed over Arcee like the flares of solar radiation that prickled your mesh when your shuttle flew too close to a dying star. Bulkhead, trying to crack a joke about how he knew Starscream was stupid, but he’d never pegged him for suicidal. Bumblebee, nervously twittering that they couldn’t really be considering letting her go alone. Ratchet, muttering half-hearted threats about blocking that frequency band entirely. Jack, saying her name with worry apparent in his voice, while Miko suggested an imaginative array of possibilities for how this could be a trap.

And Optimus, studying her with his usual even expression. Impassive. Unjudging.

Arcee sure hoped that lasted.

“I’ll go,” she growled, stepping over Jack as she stalked towards the activation rings of the Groundbridge. “He sent coordinates?”

Ratchet pinged them across. Bumblebee beeped that he would be waiting to provide back-up, Bulkhead shushed Miko when her suggestions of what Arcee ought to do to Starscream became violently graphic, and Optimus said nothing at all.

Oh, Arcee was so fragged.

She sent Jack one last reassuring smile, doing her best to disguise the whirling anger in her spark. Her hate for Starscream – that conniving, vicious excuse for one of Primus’s children – was too furious to be contained by her form. Then she stepped into the swirling groundbridge vortex, passing in a single step from the warm-lit silo interior to the forest where she and Starscream had last clashed.

The forest was much as she had left it. Cold, dark. Gloomy in an organic sort of way.

Dead pine needles crunched beneath her pedes. Pesky things; she’d have to spend an hour coaxing them out with a pair of medical tweezers upon her return. Yet another way in which Starscream managed to make her life a torment, through his mere existence.

There was something eerie about walking on dead organic matter, especially when it formed a fuzzy green carpet atop regolith made from yet more compacted dead organic matter, on which the currently living organic matter fell. The circle of life, as Jack had once tried to explain it, with an accompanying movie that re-enacted a modern play from a few hundred years’ back with cartoon lions. Arcee wasn’t buying it. After all, Cybertronians managed to reproduce without needing to consume either the literal flesh of other sentient beings, or plant matter that drew nutrients from corpses.

Still, whatever the humans’ perturbing foibles, they had proven themselves to be kind, warm-hearted, and deserving of Arcee’s respect. Unlike some bots she could name.

One such bot was the only piece missing from this familiar scene. Last time, he’d been curled by that stump there, optics shuttered from the pain, barely discernible from the shadows but for the quiver of his wings.

Bring medical kit, the message had read. Come alone.

Arcee, being the only insomniac to walk through the command hub at the late hour when the message came through, had obeyed the latter directive.

Still, Starscream must’ve begged treatment from somewhere – Knock Out, perhaps. From what little intelligence Arcee could gather on the intricacies of the Decepticon hierarchy, he was one of the only mechs who could tolerate his ex-Commander in concentrated doses.

Either way, Starscream stood now, the slice on his leg (MECH, he had whimpered, making his optics fill his face in an attempt to extort her pity. Then, because he would never not be a slave to his own pride: A lucky shot, you understand) healed to a nanite-glittering scar. He faced away from her, wings spread at their fullest extent, hands clasped behind his narrow back. As, she imagined, a Decepticon XO had once presided over the Nemesis’s bridge. As he had stood and waited for Cliffjumper to be dragged before him…

Her fist curled, but the accompanying rage was muted. Not lessened, merely quietened for a while, as her processor replayed the last time that back was presented to her.

Turn around, for frag’s sake. The last thing I want to see is your pathetic face.

He’d done it, too. Scoffing, scowling, rolling his optics to the sky. But he’d turned. And she’d dug her digits into his winglets (fluttering with imperious affront before her face) followed swiftly by her teeth…

Mistake. A mistake, nothing more. A fumbling, furious thing, borne of frustration and spark-guttering hatred, a need to ram their fists into each other’s faces that had fragmented under pressure into a different mode of physicality. One she had no intention of repeating.

She’d hoped Starscream felt the same. But, considering the circumstances of this second summons, perhaps the record needed setting straight, and they could return to the face-punching part again.

Arcee raised her chin. “Turn around,” she demanded – then winced at the unintentional call-back to things best left forgotten. “If you have the nerve to summon me like some organic pet, the least you could do is look me in the optics.”

Starscream laughed. It had never been a pleasant sound, but his stint as an exile had done him no favors. His throat sounded sandpapered, as if he’d been crying. Or, more likely, drinking impure energon.

“Trust me,” he grated, pivoting on one long, slender leg. Arcee had never been attracted to lightweight-class fliers. Too skinny, too elongated, like a handful of metal splinters plucked from a crash-site that Primus had bound together and breathed into life. But there was a certain grace to their movements she could appreciate. Even hampered on land, walking on a layer of mulched humus that was disconcertingly squishy underfoot, Starscream maintained his balance as if it was as effortless as intakes and ex-vents. This was especially impressive, considering he had his chest plates open. The plating fanned out to either side, evoking the uncomfortable image of a victim on MECH’s operating table. “You want to see this even less.”

For once in his regrettably long and deservedly miserable lifespan, Starscream was right.

Arcee stared.

Arcee shook her helm.

Starscream, grimly, nodded.

Arcee shook her helm some more, and waited for the purge-order pop-ups to fill her HUD before dismissing them with a mental flick.

No. No. It couldn’t be. They’d used and abused each other for the better part of a joor (Admittedly, Arcee had done the predacon’s share of the abusing. She might’ve felt bad about afterwards were it not for how vocally Starscream had liked it). But the merge? It had been blessedly short. Barely ten klikkas had passed between the seeker tantalizing her with a vibrant, volcanic sliver of sparklight, and her realizing this was a pit-damned, Primus-forsaken, Optimus-shaming idea.

A merge involved more than the spark, after all. Or rather, the spark was more than just the glowing nodule of life-force that resided in each Cybertronian’s chest cavity. It was their essence. Their thoughts, their fears, the slimy little ambitions that crept through the cracks in their psyche, their ecstasy, their physical bliss. Their remorse and regret – and their jarring, tank-wrenching lack of it.

Arcee hadn’t intended to scan for what Screamer had felt, as he drove his talons into Cliffjumper’s spark. Her only thought had been to slake this twisting, snarling scratch of claws in her belly, her urge to pin him and bite him and (egged on by his breathy, delirious chant of yes, yes, oh yes, Primus) hurt.

She’d found that memory in his mind, regardless. And in that moment, she’d known that the bot she was fragging was every bit the monster she’d always accused him of being.

But now that monster stood before her, chestplates once again bared from his spark. Or rather, his sparks.

Dear Primus on high.

“They’re yours,” said Starscream. “In case you were wondering.”

He sounded horribly accusative.

If Arcee left her mandible dangling much longer, oral washer fluid would start to leak.

“Frag,” she said.

Starscream sneered. “Yes,” he said, shutting his spark casing with a vicious snap. “Unfortunately, we already did.”

#starcee #starscream #arcee #tfp #starscream x arcee #arcee x starscream #my fic #my art #hohohohoho

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 4 years

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And Do I Dream Again?

We’re throwing it WAY back to the early 2000′s with this one, guys. One of my first hyperfixations crossed over with my latest; poetic, really. I also dug into my Weird Memories archive and remembered that we used to make banners for our fics back in the fanfic.net days (I’m old as hell and I’ve been doing this for a long time). So...without further ado, the first story in my A Very Bouncey Halloween series:

Jaskier perched on the velvet-padded stool in front of his dressing room mirror and ran a brush through his soft brown hair. He hoped to remove the curls it had been pulled into for the performance and return it to its normal fluffy mess; unfortunately that wasn’t entirely possible, the pomade his costumer had applied was too thick.

Once his chestnut locks were as silky smooth as they were going to get, Jaskier placed the silver brush back on the tabletop and sighed. The Phantom had left him another plain red rose with a plain black ribbon around the stem. No note. No name. Just Madame Yennefer’s quiet, “He was pleased with you.”

A whisper in passing.

Valdo interrupted the young starlet’s thoughts when he poked his head in the door and smiled brightly. Jaskier pulled his delicate white dressing gown closer around his shoulders and chest, hiding whatever skin he could despite its laciness. An ingénue’s aesthetic did not always lend itself well to preserving one’s modesty, ironically enough.

“You did wonderfully tonight, my sweet,” the Viscount purred from his place in the doorway.

“Thank you.”

“Could I have the honor of escorting you to a late dinner?”

Jaskier was about to turn him down outright when he struck upon a very particular thought. If his Angel of Music was as possessive as Jaskier hoped, surely he’d step forward and show his face to deter the Viscount. If the Phantom thought his claim on the pretty opera prodigy was being threatened then perhaps he’d make an appearance. The scheming young starlet smiled softly and let his excited Angel-related blush do the work for him in regards to Valdo Marx, “That would be lovely, Viscount Valdo.”

The mustachioed cavalier beamed. “I’ll have my footmen bring the carriage around.”

And then he disappeared back out the door.

Jaskier turned towards his mirror, still clutching the robe around his shoulders tightly to keep it closed. He wished desperately that he hadn’t changed out of his costume before the Viscount arrived at his door. Valdo had all the appearance of a gentleman, and he’d been kind enough when they were both children, but something about the way he’d looked at Jaskier in such a state of undress, like he was hungry…

The prodigy shivered and ran his hands up and down his upper arms for both comfort and warmth. The corset around his middle felt unusually tight as he stood to get dressed in his street-clothes. If he was to meet with the creepy young Viscount for dinner then he’d need to be dressed.

Before he could move an inch, however, a cold wind swept through the dressing room and doused the candles. Jaskier gasped and let his hands fall to his sides. Had his plan really worked so well? Had his Angel decided to step out of the darkness and finally show him the face behind the roses?

The deep, familiar rumble of his tutor’s baritone seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling the pitch dark room with sound: “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory! Insolent fool, your brave young suitor; sharing in my triumph!”

The possessive note in his Angel’s voice sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine and he replied quickly, already halfway under the Phantom’s dizzying spell: “Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen; stay by my side and guide me. My soul was weak and I wished…” - the boy shook his head to clear the thought away - “Forgive me. Enter at last, Master.”

“Flattering child,” the Angel chuckled darkly. “You shall know me soon and see why I hide my face in shadow. You shall understand at last why I have not let you lay such innocent eyes upon me in all these years.”

“Yes,” Jaskier breathed, stepping forward into the embrace of darkness. From behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Geralt gasped softly. He felt his heartbeat double in speed. The longing on his flower’s face was exquisite. It lit a flame in the composer that could not be dampened by the mists of any Paris catacomb. The boy cast his eyes around the dark room, searching for his tutor, “I want to see your face, my Angel. Don’t tease me any longer with your pretty words. I’m tired of spending my nights alone, Phantom.”

Geralt was going to fall to his knees and cry if the boy said another word, so he interrupted: “Look at your face in the mirror.”

Jaskier turned to the full-length mirror on the wall and saw a light shimmering faintly from behind the glass. He reached out involuntarily and his eyes went wide with confusion. There was definitely a figure there...a tall, broad-shouldered man standing just beyond the wavy glass wall. He was holding out his hand in Jaskier’s direction. The singer’s ghostly, lace-clad reflection stared back at him with hazy vision, enthralled entirely by his Angel’s presence.

“Angel of Music, hide no longer!” Jaskier begged, stepping forward again. “Let me see you, please!”

“Come to your Angel of Music,” the figure in the glass beckoned, waving him forward with that broad, outstretched hand. Further into the room. Into the dark.

Jaskier placed one delicately slippered foot in front of the other, crossing the carpet in a slow but determined line. He tried to keep his legs from tangling with his dressing gown as he moved, slipping it open a bit to reveal his mostly-bare legs. Geralt bit his lip at the sight of all that skin, too much and too little at the same time. Gods, how he wanted to touch the younger man. Hold him. Please him endlessly.

Jaskier’s eyes never wavered from the figure in the mirror. His Angel had finally come for him and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to see his tutor up close. To feel his Angel’s hands against him. He reached out towards the glass and the white silk of his robe slipped easily from his shoulder, baring a swathe of pale skin.

Geralt hadn’t been aware, until that very moment, that someone could feel both predatory and terrified at the same moment. He wanted to take Jaskier away and hide him beneath the Opera house forever where nobody could ever touch him again; but oh, how sinful would it be to keep his talented student sequestered from the sun. He didn’t want to be rejected. He didn’t want the boy to see his face, his hideously scarred face and strange white hair, and turn from him in terror. He wouldn’t be able to live through that.

And then…

“Jaskier!”

Fuck. That stupid little Viscount was going to ruin everything Geralt had worked for! Had waited for! Had prayed and begged and yearned for!

But the starlet didn’t turn around.

The posh young fool pounded against the strong mahogany of Jaskier’s dressing room door, screaming his head off to get the opera star’s attention but Jaskier’s bright blue eyes stayed trained on the composer’s outstretched hand. His gaze was glassy and out-of-focus.

Hypnotised by chance, Geralt mused. I probably should have expected that, given the circumstances and the usual nature of our meetings.

It had been months since the Phantom of the opera last had to hypnotize his prized pupil; and it was only to keep him from getting too close to his lair.

Now his darling little flower, the boy whose voice he’d trained from good to gorgeous, was standing willingly before him. His face was void of anything but devotion. His eyes were misty and his lips were parted oh-so-sweetly as he stood before his Angel, utterly enthralled. The decadent white lace of his dressing gown had fallen from one of his shoulders, baring not only his entire left collarbone but the long, statuesque expanse of his neck as well. Geralt took his flower’s pale, rose-petal soft hand in his larger, more calloused one and whispered, “Will you come with your Angel of Music?”

Jaskier nodded and breathed out a soft, pleading: “Yes. Take me, Angel.”

Geralt pulled the younger man’s robe back over his shoulder to return him to a state of oddly indecent modesty before grabbing up the torch and turning his back on the dressing room entirely. Jaskier followed behind as they walked, the gentle whispering swish of his robe’s lacy train a constant reminder of his presence. You are taking Persephone down to the Underworld, a little voice at the corner of Geralt’s mind whispered. You are pulling your flower away from the light of the sun.

He shook away his guilt and squeezed the starlet’s hand. Jaskier squeezed back instantly, firmly, and any doubt left in the composer’s mind flew clean away. He wants me back, the older man realized. He came with me into the Underworld.

They rounded the final curving corner of the low, quickly-dampening stone hall and came upon Roach. The trusty mare was waiting as patiently as ever where Geralt had left her bridle fastened to the wall and she perked up her ears when her master approached. The opera ghost lifted his muse up into Roach’s saddle and nervously met Jaskier’s blue eyes with his malformed gold ones, “Sing once again with me our strange duet.”

“Your power over me grows stronger yet,” Jaskier replied easily, finishing the rhyme of a song Geralt had once composed for him. His hand reached down to cup the side of the Phantom’s face that wasn’t hidden by the white plaster mask. Geralt flinched away but Jaskier paid the movement no mind, continuing to caress him wherever he could reach. “Oh, my sweet Angel.”

The composer turned away, leading Roach down the echoing hallway as quickly as possible. He tried not to glance back at his flower too often, afraid of having his intentions misunderstood by the drowsy-looking boy but oh - the way Jaskier looked sitting astride the horse with his stockings still fastened above his knees and his underthings only barely reaching to meet them. The way his dressing gown, all thin white silk and fine lace details, cascaded down around his hips and spilled over Roach… “Fuck.”

“My Angel?” he inquired. He sounded half asleep and Geralt bit his lip in shame. It wasn’t right to look at someone like that without their permission, first. He’d apologize later.

“Nothing, my little flower. Would you sing for me?”

They’d reached the shore of the underground creek that cut through Paris. It wasn’t the sewer but it wasn’t exactly nice either. Geralt swung Jaskier down from Roach and into the boat, settling him back against a pile of velvet pillows gathered (stolen) just for this occasion. He wanted his love to be comfortable. He wanted the boy to return once his tutor gave him back to the outside world.

Because Jaskier could not be kept away from the sun. From the stage. From the adoration of the Paris elite.

No, Jaskier was destined to succeed.

Jaskier sang through the final notes of the aria he’d performed earlier at the Gala, daring to push his voice further and pitch the notes higher than was written. It sounded heavenly as it rang and bounced off the curved brick walls of the tunnel system. Geralt knew his home would never sound this lovely again and he marveled in it for a moment.

“Sing for me!”

Jaskier went ever higher, his face turning pink with the effort of sustaining the song. He gasped for breath between notes.

“Sing, my flower! Sing for me!” Geralt demanded, rowing the tiny boat closer to his odd little home. Jaskier was so caught up in pleasing his Angel, his tutor, his Master, that he didn’t pay attention to how constricting his corset was or how little air he’d actually been taking in.

The desperate opera singer finished out the final two notes of his aria as strongly and loudly as the rest before he slumped, unconscious, to the floor of the boat.

The phantom dropped to his knees, abandoning the oar completely. He gathered the younger man into his arms and laughed in shock. His fingers paused at Jaskier’s neck to feel his pulse. He was alive. He would be fine. He’d been so eager to impress that he had run himself out of air.

“The little fool,” Geralt chuckled, settling him against the pillows again to resume rowing. “I’m fucked.”

---

Jaskier’s eyes blinked open slowly, surveying the unfamiliar bed he’d found himself in. “Angel?” he called nervously. There was no reply, but in the distance he could hear an organ playing quietly. Jaskier stood and stepped gracefully from the bed, summoning up all his greatest charms to impress his teacher.

When he crossed the floor and ducked into the antechamber he gasped; the Phantom wasn’t hideous at all. He wasn’t a hunchback like Triss had suggested. He wasn’t deformed like Firman claimed. His Angel’s hair was long and white, swept halfway up and away from his face while the other half hung to sweep against his shoulders. Jaskier knew already that his eyes were deep honey-gold and slit like a cat’s; they had haunted his dreams before.

He had seen them in Box Five before. Watching him sing.

“Angel!”

“Jaskier!”

The music stopped as his darling Phantom rushed to reach his side, arms outstretched to steady him if necessary. Jaskier thrilled at the attentiveness of his soon-to-be-lover (he hoped) and let himself fall bodily against the Phantom’s chest. His head fit perfectly against the older man’s broad shoulder and he sighed contentedly as he settled into place. “I thought you’d never show me your face.”

“I still haven’t.”

“Let me see,” the brunette pleaded, reaching for the edge of the mask where it sat on Geralt’s face. The composer turned away and grasped Jaskier firmly by the wrist. His grip sat just on the edge of painful and Jaskier bore it bravely. If he had to prove himself than by gods he most certainly would. “I want to see you, Phantom. I want to know your name and your face, truly.”

“You’ll… I don’t want you to leave yet,” Geralt whispered brokenly. Jaskier’s heart ached for this man, the man who had taught him to sing so beautifully. Surely the only thing beneath the mask could be more beauty?

“I’m not scared of you,” he reassured. “I love you, my Angel. Can’t you tell? I’ve been waiting for you for years, now.”

“You were merely a boy, then.”

“You aren’t much older than I am,” Jaskier huffed. “What, six years? Maybe seven?”

“Closer to ten.”

“And if I hadn’t been orphaned so terribly young then I would have been married at fourteen,” Jaskier reminded his tutor, whose face had turned pink beneath his covering. “I was a noble’s son, my dear. Please let me see you.”

Geralt sighed and removed the mask, baring the scar that marred one half of his otherwise very attractive face. Jaskier’s fingertip traced feather-light across the surface of his wrinkled skin. He didn’t flinch this time.

“Beautiful,” the boy muttered. “You’re so beautiful, my love.”

“My love,” Geralt sobbed, burying his face in the younger man’s neck. “My name is Geralt.”

“Geralt,” the prodigy whispered softly, like a prayer. “My sweet, perfect Geralt. You have shone so brightly in the darkness of my life, darling Geralt. You must know that I love you deeply and dearly.”

“As I love you,” the Phantom admitted. This had been more than he’d ever hoped for. Tolerance he was prepared for. Tolerance he understood. Reciprocity? Acceptance? He was terrified and thrilled and giddy.

“You are brighter than all the stars in the sky,” Jaskier beamed, pressing his lips to the opera ghost’s. Geralt kissed back, pressing their bodies together from hips to shoulders. Feeling him.

“You are my little flower,” Geralt stated, pressing another soft kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Come,” the starlet insisted, pulling away and tugging at his hand. “If I am to be your virgin sacrifice in the pits of this Parisian Hell then I intend to enjoy it thoroughly.”

The Phantom laughed and followed his darling into the bedchamber.

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master-sass-blast · 6 years

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Authority Issues

Well, well, well. What do we have here?

(AN: I’m not abandoning Strong as Stone. This was just my entertainment for the day.)

Long story short: I had a dream with Piotr Rasputin/Colossus in it last night. It was glorious. I might’ve kissed him.

Like I said. Glorious.

And thus, after kissing the dream Colossus, I woke up inspired to write some fanfiction loosely inspired by my dream.

So, essentially, welcome to my latest hyperfixation.

For the record, I haven’t seen the Deadpool movies. I haven’t read the X-Men Comics. I haven’t seen the X-Men movies.

Yes, you got that right, this is undoubtedly the crackiest fic you’ll ever read.

Or maybe not. I’ll let you be the judge.

So, loosely based in the Deadpool Movieverse/X-Men universe, I present you this: a self insert pic with Colossus.

You’re welcome.

Also, @colossus-and-cable, I blame you for suckering me into this hyperfixation! Because of your brilliant writing, I can’t get enough Colossus content!

Well, they say create the content you want to see.

Rating: M for kidnapping, mentions of abuse, sexual assault, sequences of terrifying action (nightmares), and stong language.

Pairing: Reader x Piotr Rasputin.

Alright, so, it wasn’t your fault. Technically.

Remember that ‘technically.’ It’ll come in handy later.

For context: you are the latest trainee/recruit/refugee at the Mutant Mansion a la Professor Xavier is really stinking rich to afford the utilities bills for this group.

You’d seen the X-Mansion briefly, two years ago, on a newscast that your mother had turned off as soon as she’d seen you watching it, then forced you up to your room to ‘pray for protection against the ungodly lures of the outside world.’

Ah, the joys of growing up in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere --zero tolerance of the queers, people of color, and mutants.

You’d read about the X-mansion’s purpose --taking in and training mutants to control their powers--in a newspaper article a few months later --well after your parents had decided that TV was ‘too great a portal to temptation’ for someone of your ‘unnatural, hedonistic tendencies.’

You’d been shocked. You hadn’t known that there was an actual group out there that was willing to take in mutants, much less train them.

Your father had ripped the paper out of your hands a few moments later and tossed it into the burning fire, stating that the X-Men were nothing more than heathens upsetting the natural order of God’s holy creation.

Perhaps with some great amount of foresight, your parents had decided to lock you into your room that night. Not that it mattered; the lock on your bedroom door had always been easy to pick.

No one ever said that foresight and practical wisdom were the same things.

You’d packed a bag of everything that mattered --clothes, toiletries, a stuffed bear, your state ID--then crept downstairs and broken into the family safe. You’d taken all of your paperwork --birth certificate, social security card--and all the cash that your parents had kept in there, and left.

Looking back on it, you were incredibly lucky the universe had gifted you with the powers to control air and wind. Instead of having to plot out a route via bus and train routes --thus risking being caught by the authorities and shipped back home--you could simply fly to the X-Mansion, stopping to buy food and rest as needed. Within a couple days, you’d found the X-Mansion, dropped yourself on their doorstep, knocked, and asked if you could stay.

Which, apparently, they were used to, because they’d just said ‘sure’ and let you in.

Two years later and look at you now!

A --still, technically--trainee on account of your difficulty controlling your powers and hot, hot issues with authority, under the tutelage of the X-Men. Free room, personal bathroom, three hot meals a day, and the fastest WiFi the world has ever seen.

And, well... a boyfriend, too.

Piotr Rasputin, code name Colossus, with the real secret to his identity being that he was a massive marshmallow with a heart of gold. He’d wooed you in his own sweet, subtle way as he’d helped you adjust to your new life at Xavier’s, taking your poor impulse control and hot, hot issues with authority in his patient, gentle stride.

It had been a good two years. The best two years of your life.

Which wasn’t to say that everything was perfect...

Right, so this is where the ‘technically’ comes in. And, as with ninety percent of your ‘technically’s, Wade Wilson is along for the ride.

You and Wade get along like a house on fire --compatible in all the wrong ways and usually resulting in some sort of damage to persons and/or property.

Wade, also known as Deadpool, also known as the Merc’ with a Mouth, also known as ‘the Obnoxious Red Dildo,’ has widely known and accepted authority issues, zero impulse control, and a daddy kink a mile wide that he likes to remind everyone of at any given moment --which is all of them.

You, the formerly repressed and abused mutant who has had their first taste of freedom and are itching for more, are --unfortunately--all too willing to help Wade execute any sort of prank, joke, or hijink, because for fuck’s sake, people, live a little!!!

Cue today’s incident.

It had started with a bet. Wade had bet you that there was no way in hell you could use your powers just right to launch a lit firework into Scott Summer’s --aka Cyclops’s--room.

The man had given you kitchen duty for being fifteen minutes late to morning training. The loser had to buy the winner pizza. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up!

You're just about to light the firework when something lifts Wade off the ground and hefts him to the side. A large shadow falls over you, and you look up with a cheesy grin. “Hi, babe.”

Piotr stares down at you, arms across his chest. He’s in defense mode, which means he isn’t here on the friendliest of terms. “What are you doing, myshka?”

You look down at the firework in one hand, the lighter in the other, then up at Scott’s open window. “Uh...” You look back up at Piotr and give him the most convincing look you can muster. “Arts and crafts?”

He isn’t convinced. “Professor Xavier sensed your plan.”

Ah. Well. That would do it.

“Hey! Russia’s Greatest Love Machine!” Wade interrupts, madder than a hornet and a little more crooked than the human body usually looks. “Stop fucking throwing me everywhere, you giant metal dildo!”

“Wade, watch your language, please.”

“Suck a cock!”

“In my defense,” You interject before Piotr can go off on his usual spiel about rules and ‘appropriate language,’ “it was Wade’s idea.”

“Hey!”

Piotr is still unmoved. “You are capable of making your own choices, dorogoy. Wade did not force you.”

“He was going to buy me a pizza, Colossus! How do you expect me to refuse?”

“Hey, that was only if I lost!”

“Yeah, well, you were gonna lose!”

Piotr sighs, shakes his head, then extends a hand to help you off the ground. Even when he’s busting you for misbehavior, he still treats you with the utmost respect and courtesy. “Come. We need to talk to Professor.”

You sigh and trail after him. This is gonna suck.

It does, in fact, suck. Talking to Xavier --again--sucks like a vacuum cleaner gone prostitute that’s hellbent on sucking its client’s dick off.

The professor, as always, is patient with you in talking about rules and your struggles with following them.

Scott Summers, who must have a serious anal kink considering how far he has a pole wedged up is ass, is not. “I’ve just about had enough of your acting out! Either act your age or--”

“Or what?” You interrupt with a roll of your eyes. “You’ll kick me out?”

“No,” Professor Xavier interjects firmly before Scott can speak. “You will always have a safe place at the Institute, Y/N.”

Scott scoffs. “Safe for her and no one else.”

You narrow your eyes at Scott. “Says the guy who has to wear glorified sunglasses all the time or he’ll blow a hole through the wall. You look like a tool, by the way.”

“Your destructive tendencies are way out of hand!” Scott snaps.

“My destructive tendencies? Logan goes through four phones a month and cut your bike in half because you drank one of his beers! How come he always gets away with it?”

“We’re not talking about that right now!”

You sit back and your chair and nod, feigning amicability. “Ah, I see. You’re a misogynist.”

“Y/N--”

“No wonder Jean’s always looking at Logan the way she does. You must be a pain in the--”

Scott’s hand smacks down on Xavier’s desk, cutting you off. “Are you looking for extra kitchen duty? Because I’ll be happy to provide it for you.”

You refocus on Xavier. “Okay, I have an administrative question. Why’d you make the actual tyrant in charge of punishment duty?”

“I run a fair and understanding system!”

“You gave me three nights of kitchen duty after I was late for morning training! By fifteen minutes!” You look back at Colossus, who is standing post in the back of the room. “Does that seem fair to you?”

Piotr flounders. “Well... being on time is important...”

Your jaw drops. “You’re not honestly siding with him.”

“I think things have gotten out of hand,” Xavier says, reasserting control over the room. “And I think I need some time to speak with Mr. Summers about his ‘system.’”

Scott recoils. “What?”

You pump your fist in the air. “Ha! Suck it, dickhead!”

“In the meantime,” Xavier added with a stern, if somewhat amused look in your direction. “Mr. Rasputin, I’m discharging Y/N into your care. I’d like to keep her separated from Mr. Wilson until she and I have had a chance to talk about the root of her rebellion.”

Your mouth falls open at the Professor’s orders, and your shock only mounts as Piotr actually accepts. You’re so shocked that you let yourself be ushered out by the metal man himself --ever gentle and respectful of your space--into the hall and away from Xavier’s office.

It isn’t until you’re halfway down the hall that it hits.

Rage. Red hot and burning. Rage at being chastised by Scott, rage at Piotr’s refusal to defend you, rage at being unfairly separated from your best friend. You were an adult, for fuck’s sake! You could make your own decisions!

You storm ahead of Piotr, ignoring his concerned calls, and march to your room.

Like the exposition said: hot, hot issues with authority.

You manage to grab the essentials --bag, wallet, ID, phone--and make it halfway to the front door before he catches you.

Technically, he’s already waiting there for you, in his human form.

Well, that would explain how he beat you there and why you didn’t hear him.

Piotr looks up at you, expression patient if somewhat admonishing. “And where I are you going, dorogaya moya?”

“Out,” You say. No point in denying the obvious.

Piotr sighs and shakes his head. “I do not think that would be wise.”

You shrug. “Arguable. I just need some time to blow off some steam.”

Piotr presses his lips into a firm line. “Y/N.”

Uh-oh. You recognize that tone --the ‘we need to talk as serious adults about serious things in a serious manner.’

Right now, it’s just seriously annoying.

“This is fifth incident in as many weeks.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, can the record please note that Wade and I have been trying to scale back our ‘escapades?’ The car blowing up was a complete accident, not that Scott cared --oh, by the way, thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

That one lands hard, you can tell by the way his shoulders tense. “This behavior is irresponsible.”

“What, exactly, is with the vendetta against having fun?”

“Throwing firework into someone’s room is dangerous, myshka. Someone could have been hurt.”

You roll your eyes again. “It was a smoke bomb, Piotr. Not a 4th of July finale piece! Remember was I said about ‘scaling back?’” You finish descending the stairs and reach for the door handle.

Piotr reaches out --not much of a reach, he’s still a giant in his human form--and places his hand against the door. “No, myshka. You stay here.”

You bristle as you glare up at him. “I don’t remember for asking for you permission.”

Piotr exhales through his nose, the first sign that he’s actually getting frustrated with you. “The Professor--”

“Is not my dad.”

“--has asked me to watch you.”

“Well, I mean, if you want to come with me, I wouldn’t mine.” You grin up at him. “It could be a date.”

“I have things to do here.”

“Of course. Well, in that case...” You yank at the door, but Piotr is unmovable. “Look, Piotr, I’m an adult. I can make my own choices.”

“My instructions are to look after you. I cannot do that if you are not here.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “And how are you going to keep me here? Lock me in my room like my parents did?”

The comparison hurts him, you can tell by the way his blue eyes flash, but it’s enough of a distraction to suit your purposes.

While he’s still reeling from your words, you rip the door open and dart onto the front lawn. You can hear Piotr pursuing you, shouting your name, but outrunning him is easy, even when he’s in his human form. You simply manipulate the air around you to propel you forward. Before he’s even taken three strides, you’re over the wall and out of sight.

You grin as your feet hit the ground outside the wall that borders the grounds of the mansion and run towards the city.

Freedom.

The first thing you do is find a diner and order a heaping plate of food. A massive, greasy cheeseburger with extra bacon, a small mountain of fries, fresh out of the fryer, and a thick, sugary chocolate milkshake that comes in a glass bigger than your head.

It tastes like heaven. Junk food is in rare supply at the mansion, what with Piotr’s obsession with proper nutrition. You love him for it, but you miss your guilty pleasures.

The next thing you do is find that arcade Wade took you to for your birthday. You still have the credit card he bought for you, and you spend the day switching from game to game as you please.

It’s early evening when you leave, and it occurs to you that Piotr is going to be absolutely --you’d use the word furious, but you’re not sure if that’s even genetically possible for him--upset with you when you get back to the mansion, so you stop by the chocolate shop he took you to on your first date and pick up some fudge for him. He rarely treats himself, but you know it’s a favorite.

As you start walking the path back to the mansion, you get the eerie sensation that you’re being watched. Maybe it’s just the unfamiliarity of the city after growing up in a small town, maybe it’s just being a woman in an unfamiliar place while the sun is setting, but--

You look behind you, trying to find anything out of the ordinary.

A man, wearing a black sweatshirt, quickly turns to look in one of the store fronts.

You watch him, anxiety churning in your stomach. You catch his eye, he nods, and starts walking in the opposite direction.

You sigh in relief, and resume your progress back to the mansion. False alarm.

A few blocks later, and that creeping sensation on the back of your neck is back with a vengeance. You turn around again, unable to shake the suspicion that was curling in your chest.

The man in the black sweatshirt was back, standing about twenty feet behind you.

You grit your teeth as you pick up your pace. You focus on trying to find a place where you can duck out of sight and use your powers to run back home, back to the safety of the X-mansion, back to Piotr’s waiting arms --because even when you’ve been an ass, he’ll still oblige you with buckets of affection.

You spot an alley ahead --not ideal, but out of sight enough that you should be able to levitate yourself to a roof top, then hide there until the guy goes away and fly home.

You glance over your shoulder to check the pace of the guy following you and nearly have a coronary.

He’s now five feet behind you.

How did he catch up that fast? You break off into a run, desperate to reach the alley before the guy reaches you.

A man steps out of the alley, grinning malevolently at you. “Going somewhere, doll?”

You barely have time to skitter to a stop before something hits you in the back of your head, knocking you to the ground.

Your last thought before you lose consciousness is how bizarrely empty the streets are.

“Hey there, doll. Open those pretty eyes for me.”

You come to in some sort of basement, dirty and littered with crumpled beer cans and other garbage. You’re tied to a chair, arms tied to the arms and legs to the legs, with another thick rope tying your waist to back of the chair. There’s a gag in your mouth and odd weight hanging around your neck.

The man that jumped out at you is sitting in a chair in front of you, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. “You’ve been difficult to track down. Lucky us, you decided to step outside your precious fortress for the day.”

You’d smirk at the man if you weren’t gagged. Apparently, for all their efforts to find you, they didn’t research your powers very well. You flick your fingers, ready to send the man flying across the room with a gust of wind.

Nothing happens.

You try again, then again, stomach sinking with dread as the man’s grin grows.

Nothing.

The man leans forward and taps at the weight on your neck, a soft metallic sound resulting from the press of his fingernails. “Suppression collar. No powers for you.”

Shit.

Left with nothing else, you try to yank yourself out of your restraints. You thrash and struggle to no avail --no amount of training was going to make you as strong as Piotr, even in his human form.

“They told me you were feisty. Apparently, you tried to run away from home several times before finding the X-Men.” The man leans forward, watching you with a lurid gaze as you struggle.

You growl at him through the gag. Just wait, motherfucker. I’ll get out of these ropes, and then I’m going to beat your ass stupid.

“Not gonna lie. It’s pretty hot.”

You try to flinch away as he reaches towards your face, but are ultimately subjected to the unpleasant sensation of his fingers caressing your cheek.

His touch is nothing like Piotr’s --it’s too rough, too forceful, and nowhere near loving enough.

“Now, we’re supposed to just take you back home--”

Your eyes widen at the mention of home --the small town you grew up in--and you start your struggle to free yourself anew.

“--but maybe we should have some fun first. After all, we’re not in any hurry.”

You stiffen and stare at him as your mind puts together what ‘fun’ might mean, then thrash around violently, almost knocking yourself over in the process.

The man reaches out and grabs the chair, forcing it back into its normal position. “Of course, I’d have to untie you for that, and I don’t want to risk you running away...” He turns to look at the other man --the one that had been wearing the hoodie. “Go get me the paralytics.”

You watch, horrified and on the verge of tears as the other man walks away and up the stairs, and let out a muffled scream.

“Oh, it’s alright,” the man said, leaning in to run his tongue over the shell of your ear. “You’ll be doing a lot of that later, and you’ll be loving it.”

You’re about to headbutt him, but are distracted by the sound of several heavy thuds on the floor above you.

You and the man look up in unison, both trying to discern the source of the noises.

Then, there were several brief bursts of gunfire, accompanied by several metallic pings.

Silence follows.

The man growls under his breath and pulls a gun out of his jacket. He points it at your head. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You watch him ascend the stairs, then start trying to work yourself free. In your efforts, you cant the chair sideways and fall on your side, back to the stairs. You wince at the impact --your arm’s going to be bruised as shit later.

You flinch at the sound of another gunshot.

Everything’s silent for a minute, and then there are footsteps on the stairs again.

You start crying, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you try anything to wiggle your way free.

Then, there are a pair of hands on your shoulders, pulling you up and turning you around, and--

Piotr kneels in front of you, resplendent even in his human form, smiling reassuringly. “It’s alright, moya lyubov’. I’ve got you.”

You draw in a sharp breath and moan at him through the gag.

“Hang on.” He pulls the gag out of your mouth --carefully, the man is always careful--and lifts it over your head.

A cry bubbles out your mouth, followed by a breathless apology. “Piotr-- I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry--”

His thumbs are already wiping the tears off your cheeks while his lips press sweet, gentle kisses along your hairline. “It’s okay, myshka, I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He leans back and flashes you a crooked grin. “Let’s get you out of here, da?”

You nod, already itching to be out of the chair and in his arms. “Da. Yes. Si. Now, please.”

He chuckles and pulls a knife off his belt. “I need you to hold very, very still, moya lyubov’. Can you do that for me?”

You nod again and focus on holding still while he works at the ropes holding you in place. “How did you find me?”

“Tracker on your phone. Men forgot to turn it off.”

You manage a weak, half-hearted giggle. “Idiots.”

He chuckles back, mostly because it’s clear that’s the response you wanted. “So, what did you get up to before all this happened?”

“Oh, you know.” You tip your head back to try and hold back the tears that are threatening to reappear. “Got a bite to eat, smashed Wade’s highscore in Pac-Man at the arcade.” You manage a wavery smile as you tip your head forward to look at him. “I stopped by that chocolate shop you took me to on our first date, got you some fudge.”

“That was very sweet of you, dorogoy.” He’s done with your legs and waist and already halfway through the ropes on your left arm.

Your laugh comes out less as amused and more as hysterical. “Yeah, well, I figured it’d pay to have a bribe.”

“Bribe?”

“To get back in your good graces after being an ass.”

He smiles at you, soft and sweet, as he tosses away the rope that had been holding your left arm in place. “You don’t have to earn my ‘good graces,’ Y/N. You’ll always have them.”

It’s serendipitous timing that he finishes freeing your right arm in that moment, because you want nothing more than to be in his arms after that comment. You launch yourself at him, winding your arms around his neck. You sob, the weight of what could’ve happened hitting you full force, and press your face against his chest.

Piotr is forced to temporarily abandon his knife, tossing it off to the side so he can wrap his arms around you. He’s massive, exceedingly so, and it’s easy for him to curl himself around your --much smaller--body. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m so, so sorry, Piotr! I shouldn’t have run off, and I shouldn’t have said those things, and--”

“It’s okay, dorogaya moya, it’s fine.” He presses his lips against your forehead. “Let’s get you out of here, then we talk. But first.” His hands turn to the solid steel you know so well, and he presses his fingers against the suppression collar. “Hold still.”

You keep yourself still as he tears the collar off of you, then let out a relieved breath, sending a gust of wind throughout the dusty basement.

“Much better,” Piotr murmurs as he rubs his hand up and down your back.

You press against him, trying to close every tiny gap between you and him. You’re shaking like a leaf in a gale, body trembling with adrenaline and relief. You let out a tiny squeak as he lifts you into his arms and wind your arms around his neck as he starts carrying you up the wooden stairs. “I half expected you to come down in full metal.”

“House is very old,” Piotr grunts as he navigates the rickety steps with ease. “I am surprised I did not fall through floor.” He pauses halfway up the steps to look at you. “You may want to close your eyes.”

You oblige him and lean your head against his shoulder. “A grisly scene, unfit for the eyes of a lady?”

A puff of laughter ghosts over your cheek. “There was struggle.”

You can’t resist the temptation to peek at the scene as he carries you through the house. You open your eyes and gasp at the sight of bodies crisscrossing the floor, riddled with bullet holes.

“I thought I told you to close eyes.”

“You should know by now I’m not good at listening.”

That finagles a chuckle out of him. “Stubborn girl.”

“Well, duh.” You peer at the bullet holes --some in the bodies, some in the walls--then check Piotr over for any sign of injury. “How’d you survive the shooting?”

“I came in defense mode. I was not sure stairs would hold me, so I changed.”

“They should’ve thought about the ricochet.”

“Da.”

The sun is almost done setting as he carries you outside to the awaiting jet.

You wince as your eyes adjust to the fading natural light, then blink as you realize you couldn’t have been captured for more than a few hours. “How did you know to come looking for me in the first place?”

“Professor Xavier got letter from intelligence operative. Said your parents had hired bounty hunters to find you and to keep you at X-Mansion until coast was clear.” He clears his throat and ducks his head, looking sheepish. “My... over-protective instincts got the better of me.”

You can’t help but tremble in his arms at the mention of your parents or the fact that they hired a fucking bounty hunter, good God. Your stomach churns as the memory of the hired man threatening to rape you and asking for paralytics, and you cling tighter to him. “Well, I’m glad they did.”

“So am I, moya lyubov’. So am I.” He carries you onto the jet and sets you on one of the seats. “Stay here. I will come back when we are in stable flight pattern.”

You try to stay in the seat as he starts the take off process, but you can’t help but stumble up to the cockpit after him.

“Yes, I found her.” Piotr looks up at you as you press yourself against his arm, and pauses to kiss your forehead. “She is alright, a little shaky.” He pauses again as he pilots the jet high enough to clear the top of the trees and surrounding buildings, then nods as the voice in the pilot’s headset speaks. “Da. We are on our way back now.” A few more exchanges between him and the voice in the headset, and then he’s setting the jet on autopilot and taking the headset off. He turns to face you, flashing you a crooked grin. “I thought I told you to wait.”

You try to reciprocate, you really do, but the past few hours as catching up with you. You lower lip starts trembling, and you slump against Piotr, crying quietly.

He wraps his arms around you and presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Come on, dorogaya moya. Let’s get you checked out.” He carries you back into the main bay of the jet and --with a gentleness that completely belies his sheer size--deposits you on one of the seats. “How did they capture you?”

You lift your hand to the back of the head, wincing as your fingers brush against a small lump. “They hit me. Knocked me out.”

Piotr’s lips are set into a tense line as he pulls a flashlight out of his suit pocket. “Look at my nose, myshka.”

You stare straight ahead as he checks your pupil response to the light. “Piotr... I’m really sorry for being such an ass at the mansion.”

He chuckles. “It is alright, dorogoy. I need you to follow light with your eyes now.”

“And...” You add quietly as you track his light with your eyes. “...I’m sorry I compared you to my parents. That was... royally unfair of me.”

“It is okay, Y/N. I forgive you.” He clicks off the light and turns his attention to the nice, ugly bruise forming on your left forearm. “How did you get this?”

“I knocked myself over trying to escape.”

Piotr chuckles as he carefully prods the bruise. “That’s my girl. My fierce myshka.”

“Getting herself bruised,” you mutter with a wince. “That sounds about right.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“Well, it’s a bruise and you’re poking it. What do you think?”

“I am trying to ascertain if it is broken.”

You shake your head. “I’ve broken my arm before. It just feels like a bruise.”

He stops prodding at your forearm in favor of encapsulating your hands with his massive ones. “Did anything else happen? Anything you can remember?”

“No, I was out for most of it.”

“What happened when you came to?”

“I tried to use my powers to throw them across the room.”

Piotr snorts --actually snorts. “I suppose, for them, it was good thing they had collar. You would have kicked their asses otherwise.”

“Good for them, pain in the ass for me,” you mumble, annoyed. “He pointed out the collar, so I tried to yank my arms free.”

“I figured. You have rope burns on your wrists.”

You have to stop to force down the bile creeping up your throat before you can go on. “He said I was feisty. Said it was hot.”

Piotr’s hands tighten around yours. “Anything else?”

You start shaking again. “He said that he had to take me back home... but that he didn’t have to rush. He... asked for some paralytics... said he was going to make me scream.”

Piotr’s jaw clenches, and he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly.

You giggle hysterically against his chest. “You came in the nick of time. He’d just sent the guy up for the paralytics when you crashed in.”

“Bozhe moi, I am grateful. I am grateful I found you when I did.”

“Me too.”

He presses his forehead against yours, taking deep, shaky breaths. “Was there anything else that happened, lyublyu?”

You frown. “Yeah. He touched my cheek and licked my ear.” You rub your cheek, then your ear. “God, that was gross.”

Piotr is quiet for a moment. Then, he lifts his hand to your cheek, rubbing his thumb against your soft, supple skin. “Like this?”

You lean into his touch, smiling weakly. “Yeah. Yours is better, though.”

“I would hope so.” He’s quiet for another moment, then leans forward.

A shiver runs down your spine as he presses a soft kiss against your ear. “Piotr,” you sigh.

He presses the side of his face against the side of yours. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

And, oddly enough, it is. It was as though Piotr’s touch erased the traces of the bounty hunter’s harassment. Sure, you could remember it happening, but you couldn’t quite remember how it felt. All you could feel was Piotr’s loving, tender touches and the affection he so willingly lavished upon you.

You turn your head towards him and press your lips against his.

He kisses you back for a moment the way he always does --with a tenderness that never fails to make you weak in the knees--and then pulls back. “I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I was too controlling. You are an adult, and I need to respect that.”

“Eh, I think I need to talk to Xavier about that one more than I do you.”

“Still, I am sorry--”

“I forgive you, Piotr. Stop beating yourself up.”

He ducks his head, smiling sheepishly. “Khorosho. I also want to apologize for not defending you in front of Scott. He was out of line.”

“It’s alright. I’m just glad to be with you right now.”

“As am I, myshka. As am I.”

After one of the resident medics gives you a thorough check over and a blood test to ensure you hadn’t been injected with anything while you were knocked out --at Piotr’s worried insistence, and you were too worn out to put up too much of a fight--you're given a clean bill of health and instructions to rest for a few days.

Piotr escorts you to the living space side of the mansion, his hand a warm and soothing presence on your shoulder.

The two of you are met by Professor Xavier and one very pissed off looking Scott Summers.

“It’s about time,” Scott snaps. “We have jobs to do, you know. We can’t just waste our time keeping up with your outbursts.”

You roll your eyes. “Geez, Scott, who rusted the pole up your ass?”

Before he can retort, Piotr steps in between the two of you. “Enough,” he says, voice deep and hard. “She has had long day. She needs rest.”

“Yes,” Professor Xavier agrees. “We’re glad to see you back safely, Y/N. Rest for now. We can resume our discussion when you feel more recovered.”

You nod and let Piotr escort you to your room.

“The medic cleared you for concussion, so you can sleep on your own tonight.”

You bite back a frown. You would rather stay with him --in general, yes, but especially tonight, given the circumstances. Dammit. Why couldn’t I have a concussion? “Okay.”

Piotr cups your face in his massive hands. “If you need anything, come wake me up. Time does not matter, okay?”

You nod, then roll up onto your toes to kiss him. When he tries to break away once, you grab onto his shirt and cling to him.

He humors you for a few moments longer before disentangling your hands from the material of his shirt. He kisses both of your hands. “Sleep well, myshka.”

You manage a smile for him, but it dissipates as soon as he turns away.

You’re not sure sleep will come easy tonight.

You’re not sure it’ll come at all.

The needle glints in the glaring overhead lights of the basement, sinister and clinical.

You wrench at your restraints, but you’re stuck, frozen in place.

The man in the hoodie holds you still while the man from the alley stabs the needle into your arm, slowly injecting you with its malevolent contents.

You try to fight, try to free yourself, but you can feel yourself quickly becoming sluggish. Your limbs are heavy, stiff from the dose of the paralytic.

You can only watch, frozen, as they cut your ropes away. Tears trickle down your cheeks, but you can’t so much as flick a finger.

You’re helpless. Completely at their mercy.

You’re laid out on the dirty stone floor without any decency or preamble.

The man from the alley laughs as he cuts your pants away from you, laughing at your tears and the sight of your shame. He leans towards you, close enough that you can smell the beer he drank while waiting for the paralytic. “You’re going to love this, doll.”

You stare at the ceiling, crying as you try to will your useless limbs to move --to fight.

You jerk upright, breathing hard.

You’re in your room, lonely and terrified in your bed. The darkness around you feels oppressive, like it’s choking you.

You try to calm yourself, to still the tremors in your hands. You use your powers to draw more air into your lungs, to try and quiet your nerves.

You can still smell the beer on his breath...

You can still feel your limbs going numb...

You bolt out of your bed and fling open the door --screw anyone who complains about the noise. You dart down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of Piotr’s bedroom door. You rap your knuckles at the door, trying to stay upright while your knees knock together. “Piotr! Piotr!”

A light flicks on his room, the glow creeping out from around the edges of the door. There’s the thud of footsteps --too light for him to be in defense mode--and the door swings open to reveal Piotr’s confused, sleepy face. “Zdravstvuyte? Hello?” You must look worse than you thought, because the exhaustion drains from his face in seconds. “Myshka, what is it?”

“I had a nightmare,” you whimper.

Piotr ushers you into his room, closes the door behind him, and kneels in front of you. “It’s okay. You’re safe. They can’t reach you here.”

You sniff and slump against him. “I dreamed that you didn’t get there in time, and that they injected me with the paralytics, and--”

Piotr wraps his arms around you and holds you against his chest. “Sh, lyublyu, it’s alright. You’re safe, I’m here.”

You wipe your eyes with the back of your arm. “Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

You hadn’t asked earlier to avoid making him feel awkward. Piotr was such a stickler for rules and ‘appropriate behavior,’ and you had no doubts that he would consider sleeping in the same bed --especially since your relationship was still fairly young--to be inappropriate, to say the least.

However, he doesn’t so much as hesitate when you ask. He simply presses a kiss to the top of your head and whispers, “Of course, dorogoy. All you had to do was ask.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and let him carry you to --and set you on--the bed.

There’s bit of shuffling as Piotr finds a pillow for you, and then he shuts his bedside lamp off and lays down next to you.

You wiggle across the bed until you’re pressed up against him.

Rather than mind the invasion of his space, he simply winds his arms around you, holding you against his large, muscular body. “I would’ve have offered earlier, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

You can’t help but smile at his sweetness. “Well, I would’ve asked earlier, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Politeness gets you nowhere.”

He huffs out a soft laugh and runs his fingers through your hair. “You don’t mean that.”

No. You really don’t.

Rather than admit defeat, you opt to trace your fingers over his chest. He’s wearing a loose t-shirt, exposing his collarbone and the tops of his pecs. His skin is warm and soft under your fingertips.

Something in the back of your mind registers satisfaction at the shuddering gasp you pull out of him when your fingers graze over his collarbone, but you’re too tired to let the thought manifest past that.

By all means, it’s really soothing. Piotr’s fingers playing with your hair, his comforting embrace and warmth, the way his skin feels under your fingers. It’s almost enough to lull you into sleep, save for one nagging thought--

You tilt your head back to peer up at him. Piotr’s face is near indiscernible in the dark, but you can make out the shadowy outline of his features and the soft glint of his eyes. “What happens if I have another nightmare?”

“I will wake you up and comfort you.”

That --the promise that you won’t be left to suffer alone--is enough to finish calming you down. You close your eyes, lay your head on his chest, and let yourself fall back asleep.

You wake up --but not in the place you fell asleep in.

You’re in your room --not the one at Xavier’s, but in your old room, back in the middle of nowhere.

You bolt out of bed and race to the door. You yank and pull on the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

You try the windows next. You rip the curtains away, only to find that you’ve been sealed in. The windows are boarded over; not even a trace sunlight peeks into your room --your cell.

You pound your fists against the walls, desperate to find a way out. “Help me! Please, help me!”

A bright light floods the room, seemingly from nowhere. Someone grabs your shoulders--

“Y/N!”

You jolt awake, mid-scream.

Piotr is holding you by your shoulders, expression pinched.

Oh. That’s right. You’re in Piotr’s room. Not at home.

The relief hits you like a brick to the chest, and you start crying.

“Oh, myshka, what happened?”

“I dreamed was back home, trapped in my room.”

His arms slid underneath you and lift you off the bed. “It’s alright, love. I’ve got you.”

You draw in shaky, uneven breaths as you press your forehead against his shoulder. “I know. I’m just happy that I’m here, instead of stuck back there.”

“So am I, lyublyu. So am I.”

You sit at one of the many window seats, staring out at the cool, rainy day. Normally, a view like this --gray skies and damp grass--would leave you in a foul mood. Today, however, you were simply grateful to be seeing it.

It was horrifying to think that if Piotr hadn’t started looking for you, or if you had left your phone at the mansion, or if the bounty hunters had turned it off, or --a thousand other things, who knows. Point stands, you would be on your way back to your parents, never to see Piotr or the other X-Men again.

Or, maybe you wouldn’t have been underway to see your parents by now. Maybe the bounty hunters would’ve kept you in the basement, torturing you however they pleased.

You’re so lost in thought that you don’t hear Piotr sneak up behind you. You shriek as he lifts you off the seat and spins you in a circle.

“ Zdravstvuyte, myshka.”

You can’t help but smile at him as he settles you into his arms, bridal style. He’s in defense mode, which makes things a little uncomfortable, but you don’t mind. “Hey, yourself. I didn’t heart you coming.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I was lost in thought.”

“Good thoughts, I hope?”

Your smile fades. “Not really, no. I was just thinking... what would’ve happened if I hadn’t had my phone on me...”

Piotr’s grip on you tightens. “Easy, dorogoy. There isn’t much to be gained by those thoughts.”

“I know. It’s just kind of horrifying.”

He kisses you gently, then carefully sets you on your feet. “You need distraction. Have you had lunch yet?”

“No.” You intertwine your fingers with his --a near impossible task when he’s in defense mode, but you manage. “But, I can think of a couple other things if you really want to distract me.”

He ducks his head and chuckles. “Perhaps another time, myshka. Skipping meals is not healthy.”

You smile and let him lead you out of the library and in the direction of the kitchen. “Of course. Heaven forbid we mess up our meals.”

#sass writes #piotr rasputin x reader #x-men fanfiction #colossus x reader #piotr rasputin imagine #colossus imagine #self insert #welcome to my new hyperfixation #enjoy the stay #i certainly have been #colossus is the biggest marshmallow and no one can convince me otherwise #oops it got long #like 7k words long

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