ay mi amor, te morfo a besos
chill, I'm not going anywhere, thks for the love </3 my heart fills with joy when I read these kinds of messages, I appreciate it so much, babe
heyyy is the stepsister dani fic over? (not tryna pressure u if it’s not i just don’t know bc i don’t think it is but also last chapter kinda resolved in an ending way) xx 💋
hiii darling, yes, that was the last chapter! Maybe I'll write something similar when I finish my exams at university! Sorry for the late reply :(
luv u
Did you hear about the controversy surrounding BTS?
yeah... that shi definitely wasn't on my 2026 bingo list, but hey girls open YOUR eyes, most famous men DON'T RESPECT women, it's all MARKETING, IT'S ALL FOR FAMEEEE
likewise, I'm surprised at how CONSERVATIVE my generation has become, I mean... what the heck!
toquen pasto, fumen un porro y por favor busquense UN problema real, gracias polilla
𝙁𝙊𝙍 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙍𝙊𝙒𝙉 • AUKATSEYE
©️sophiaswife23(tiktok, photos)
ᵗᵃᵍˢ ⭑HighFantasy ⭑ Royalty ⭑ QueenF!Oc ⭑ Original Character ⭑ Political Intrigue ⭑ Period Drama ⭑ Tension ⭑ Ot5 g!p ⭑ PinV ⭑ Unprotected Sex ⭑ MDNI.
English is not my first language!
¹³. Serve your queen.
- smut
Valeska-XVIII
(Remember to leave your vote for more content)
The news of the French shipwreck had hit the court like a bolt of lightning. The harbor fishermen, euphoric and with their hands still smelling like salt and gunpowder, hadn't been able to keep the secret; the rumor of the Valois' destruction had leaked through the slums' taverns before the first royal patrol even made it back to the gates. By the time the Council received Megan’s official report, half the city was already lighting bonfires in the squares. The official news would be delivered from the great marble balcony at break of day, in front of the whole town, but the celebration within the walls no longer belonged to politics: it was an explosion of relief.
The crown, against all odds and after months of suffocation, had triumphed once again.
In the center of the hall, Adelaide was running the show when it came to the joy. The sovereign's stiffness had melted under the heat of the torches; her silver cup didn't hold the crown's smooth liquor, but the thick, red wine from the Laforteza cellars, a strong brew that tasted like victory. The queen raised the metal, her cheeks burning with laughter, and clinked her glass with Adéla's and Lara's, whose features reflected the same overflowing pride.
—To the blood that resists! —Adelaide toasted, her voice clear, feeling the weight of the throne lighten up for the first time in a year—. To Valeska!
All around her, the lords, ladies-in-waiting, and off-duty guards joined their voices in a single roar. These weren't the solemn hymns of the royal liturgy; it was the typical Valeska tavern song, an ancient, rustic chant that talked about the roots of the oak trees that no enemy wind could tear up, about swords being sharpened by the storm, and about kings drinking with their people on the eve of freedom. The men pounded the tables with pewter mugs, keeping a thunderous beat that echoed all the way up to the ceiling beams.
Daniela stayed close to the musicians, passing her shameless energy onto the most serious courtiers, while Sir Alister, sitting next to a Felipe who was smiling with a gaze lost in the old days, downed his own mug with the satisfaction of a job well done. Megan watched from the entrance archway, keeping her composure, but the slight smile on her lips gave away that the baroness had also surrendered to the general euphoria.
Adelaide took a long swig, feeling the warmth of her most cherished ally's wine run all down her throat. She looked at the fire in the great hearth, and then toward the dark stained-glass windows where the storm was still beating down on the kingdom. Nothing and no one was gonna ruin her happiness tonight. The Valois were floating in the water, an enemy lay unconscious and chained in her dungeons, and the capital was safe. The queen laughed again, surrounded by the unanimous singing of her people, knowing that under that very same rain, somewhere on the map, fate was finally starting to settle its debts.
Adelaide... was breathing.
The roar of the folk song hit its absolute peak, with the laughter of women and men echoing in the ceiling beams. Adelaide, with her glass still half-full between her fingers, let her gaze keep wandering through the hall, soaking in her people's triumph. But it was right in that moment of general relaxation that her eyes, almost out of habit, drifted over to the musicians' area.
Right where Duchess Avanzini was doing her thing.
Daniela had stripped off her heavy dress coat, which now rested tossed over a chair, leaving her in just a fine linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck from the heat of the dancing and the drinks. The sweat from the euphoria made the skin on her collarbone and chest glisten, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows revealed the flex in her arms. Her hair was messy, damp from the rain that hadn't fully dried yet, and a flirty smile was plastered on her lips as she moved to the beat of the drums, holding the gaze of anyone who dared to look her way. She looked damn good, a force that contrasted with the sobriety of the rest of the court.
Adelaide froze, the rim of her glass resting between her teeth.
For the first time all night, the noise of the Great Hall seemed to get muffled in the queen's mind. She looked... really looked at the duchess.
It was then that a realization shot right up her spine. Adelaide had always seen her as the shameless, hot-headed Avanzini, a valuable but chaotic piece of her political duty. However, seeing her right there, bursting with life, fire, and an undeniable physical appeal in the middle of victory night, made the queen's heart do a flip and her breathing go deeper.
The young woman remembered those past conversations, the looks loaded with an intent that was never fully explicit but never innocent either, even the hints in the war room, the low-key accidental brush of her fingers over the wood while spreading out a strategy, the low, suggestive tone the duchess usually leaned in with to speak into her ear during the tense Council meetings.
Yes... the queen admitted to her own conscience that: in the middle of the siege and the angst, she had simply brushed off that attitude as the natural boldness of an Avanzini.
But now... on this night of triumph, without the ghost of defeat breathing down their necks, that... unresolved tension was taking on a completely different shape.
Adelaide lowered her glass super slowly, feeling a sudden heat in her cheeks that didn't belong to the Laforteza wine.
The duchess paused for a second, pushing a wet strand of hair away from her face, and turned her head toward the throne. Her eyes locked with the queen's.
Daniela knew exactly who had been checking her out all night.
There was no head tilt, no bow. The dark-haired girl just held her eye contact, drawing out a lopsided, mischievous, and shameless smile, while raising her own mug in a private toast, meant strictly for the woman wearing the crown.
Adelaide's heart pounded with a violent force against her ribs.
By the gods..., the sovereign thought, her fingers tightening around the stem of the silver cup. The dowager queen caught herself responding to the gesture: she raised her glass toward Daniela, holding her own in that silent provocation floating above the noise of the crowd.
Adelaide relished —fully aware now— the work the torches were doing on the neck of Daniela's linen shirt.
The curve of her throat was exposed, her throat line —a bit small, but attractive in her female anatomy—, there was something wild about her stance, an elegance unique to the blessing of her Avanzini lineage, that seemed to demand Adelaide's attention, not as her subject for a night, but as her equal.
That was when the famous heat wave hit the queen.
A sudden, burning heat burst into Adelaide's lower belly with a force that snatched her breath away. It was a fire she thought was dead, smothered and forgotten under layers of mourning, royal duty, and the coldness she had ruled with ever since she became a widow.
For months she had convinced herself that her body belonged strictly to the crown, that carnal desire was a luxury that politics had stolen from her forever.
She was wrong.
The heat spread fast, liquid and sharp, burning her whole inside. She felt the skin on her thighs get goosebumps under her heavy velvet skirts and a live, undeniable moisture sprout in the intimacy of her underwear.
Adelaide parted her lips, letting out a muffled sigh that got lost in the music. The fixation on the duchess's dark, bold eyes, the glisten of sweat on her skin, and the certainty of the power they both held in that court lit up a primal urgency, a need the queen never expected to feel again.
The Duchess... come on, she has eyes.
Experience.
She definitely caught the shift in her queen.
Without saying a single word, Daniela set her mug down on the musicians' table and headed toward the center of the hall.
She broke eye contact at just the right time, shifting her attention toward the courtiers who greeted her as she passed, as if her most inappropriate thoughts had never existed.
—What a night, ladies —she dropped as soon as she reached the royal table, leaning her weight against the back of a chair—. If someone had told me I'd see the enemy navy drowning like rats before the week was over, I would've bet my best horse... hands down, an unbelievable job by the Gods.
Adéla and Lara laughed, caught up in Avanzini's euphoria.
However, the duchess, drawn by the secret in the most beautiful eyes in the capital, leaned in slightly with a short, elegant bow that didn't fully hide the loose neck of her shirt.
—But the real masterstroke, Your Majesty... —Daniela started, holding the queen's gaze with a spark of pure admiration in her eyes—... wasn't just luck. It was that brilliant stroke of madness you cooked up with Baroness Skiendiel behind everyone's backs... making them think the capital was unguarded... It was brilliant.
Adelaide remained seated on her throne, resting her chin on her intertwined fingers, looking at her from her spot.
The queen was fascinated. Truly fascinated.
Maybe it was the Laforteza wine sweetening her ear and loosening her morals, or maybe it was the fact that having the wild Duchess Avanzini praising her cleverness in such a direct, devoted way was fanning the flames of her pride.
—A queen must know when to use her weapons —Adelaide replied—. I'm glad to know you appreciate the strategy.
Daniela took a small step closer to the stairs, resting a boot on the first step. —I appreciate everything that comes from you, Your Majesty —she murmured, not taking her eyes off the sovereign's lips.
The queen mentally savored the weight of that veiled confession.
With calculated slowness, she tilted her wine glass toward her lips and took a long swig. The red brew, thick and fruity, gently burned her throat, giving her that last touch of poise and confidence she needed to take the next step in this game of shadows.
She lowered the glass, letting the air dry the moisture on her bottom lip. She looked at Daniela from the top of the stairs and, with an flawless voice that maintained the perfect facade of royalty, she set the trap.
—The victory is sealed and the people are celebrating, duchess. However... the freezing wind from the harbor has left an unbearable dampness in my clothes. Plus, I need to retire to my quarters... I drank too much wine and my head feels heavy now. I require... someone I fully trust to guard me.
Holy shit.
Daniela didn't blink. The duchess listened to every word carefully and, right as the queen finished speaking, ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, licking them with a shameless, sensual slowness that made Adelaide catch her breath for a second.
—It would be an unforgivable oversight to let my queen wander around unprotected tonight —she replied, taking a step back with an flawless bow, but holding her gaze with a hungry glint—. Allow me to escort you, Your Majesty.
Upon hearing the instant reply and witnessing the gesture of those lips, Adelaide confirmed what her body had been screaming for hours.
Maybe tonight... her bed wouldn't be empty.
The hearth fire in the royal chambers cast long shadows over the massive oak bed, where the silk sheets and fur blankets lay tangled in total disarray. The sandalwood incense smoke blended with the heavy scent of Ferrum wine and the unmistakable trace of passion that had just erupted behind closed doors.
No explanations or dancing around the subject were needed. The trap of protective duty had been left on the other side of the threshold the exact second the heavy bronze latch fell over the wood.
Now, in the intimacy of the royal chamber, the court hierarchy had melted down into a dynamic of pure desire and shared dominance.
Adelaide sat tall on top of the duchess's body, riding Daniela's thick, erect dick at a slow, steady, and relentless rhythm. Daniela filled the queen dowager completely, burning her insides with every firm, demanding slide down onto her crotch. Adelaide kept her back arched with a wild majesty, her unbuttoned dress skirts falling to the sides and her lips parted, letting muffled sighs slip out that dampened the echo of the night's thunder.
Daniela lay reclined against the large velvet pillows, her shirt wide open and her bare torso glistening with a fine layer of sweat. She held the silver goblet in one hand, bringing it to her lips for a slow sip of wine without missing a single detail of the show.
The duchess didn't try to take control; she admired with an almost religious devotion how her queen used her as she pleased and demanded. Seeing Valeska's sovereign surrender to the pleasure of her own body, using Daniela's flesh to claim the satisfaction she thought was lost, was an elixir more intoxicating than any liquor.
—That's it, Your Majesty... —the dark-haired woman murmured, her voice raspy from the alcohol, running her free fingers over Adelaide's hip to lightly guide her down—. Claim what's yours.
Adelaide pressed her hands against the duchess's chest, digging her fingers into her skin as she picked up the tempo.
Adelaide's inside was hot, tight, and sensitive, yielding to Avanzini's filthy, perfect throb that seemed to mold the sovereign's inner walls to her liking, filling every empty corner. It was such a dense, overwhelming feeling that treacherous little moans escaped Adelaide, completely unable to keep her regal composure.
From this affair onward, Adelaide knew she would never be the same. Her mourning had burned in the fireplace; the grieving widow had been buried under the tangled sheets. This new version of herself was alive, thirsty for a power that wasn't exercised with decrees or swords, but with flesh.
On a particularly deep stroke, the duchess pushed upward just as Adelaide came down hard. The impact hit so deep that the queen froze in her tracks.
Adelaide dug her nails into Daniela's sweaty shoulders, throwing her head back as her eyes momentarily rolled back from the intensity of the spasm. The air got caught in her throat before breaking into a soft, almost unhinged laugh—a breathy gasp drunk on pure pleasure.
—By the gods, Daniela... —the queen whispered, laughing at her own inability to contain the forbidden delight rushing through her.
Below, Daniela dropped the wine goblet onto the rug, ignoring the liquor spilling everywhere. The duchess was used to seduction; her reputation in the halls across Valeska was no secret, and relaxing or pleasing noblewomen was an art she mastered with an almost arrogant skill.
But her queen?
Seeing the woman everyone bowed to, completely surrendered, laughing with eyes clouded by climax, reduced Daniela's defenses to ashes. It was no longer a game of courtly flirting; it was a sacred privilege.
God... she would give her everything.
She would give her house, her name, her life, her steel, and every drop of her vigor if Adelaide asked her to right at that second.
With a low growl, Daniela gripped Adelaide's hips firmly, leaning up to close the small distance left between their bodies. —Take whatever you want from me, Your Majesty —she whispered against her neck.
My god... was this the same Adelaide stuffed into court protocol?
No...
No. Thank goodness she wasn't.
With a firm, authoritative shove against the duchess's shoulders, Adelaide pushed her off just enough to force her back. Daniela, breathing heavily with her dick still throbbing with anticipation, was left sitting on her heels in the middle of the messy sheets, thrown off for a second by her queen's initiative.
Adelaide didn't waste time. She stretched toward the edge of the bed, trailing her fingertips across the floor until she grabbed the wine pitcher—the only thing left standing. Holding the vessel, she sat back up over the duchess's body, looking down at her with a proud, magnetic stare.
—Open your mouth —she ordered.
Daniela parted her lips immediately, obeying without a second thought, her gaze locked onto the other's dark eyes. Adelaide tilted the pitcher slightly and poured a stream of the thick red liquid straight into her mouth. Daniela swallowed greedily, feeling the sweetness of the red wine slide down her throat while the liquid subtly spilled over the corners of her lips. Without breaking eye contact or pulling the pitcher away, Adelaide brought it to her own lips and drank the same way, chin raised in total defiance.
The next move was a declaration of war against modesty. Adelaide faced Daniela's thighs again, sinking her insides all at once over the duchess's dick with a moan that got choked up in her throat. As she rode her again with that renewed fury, the tilted pitcher ended up spilling completely between their bodies.
The burgundy wine ran over Daniela's flat stomach, soaked the sheets, and stained the queen's skin dark red, turning the act into a pagan scene.
Seeing the trail of liquid over her queen's torso unleashed Daniela's instincts completely. She lowered her face and began tracing a path with her tongue from the center of Adelaide's chest, licking up the wine and sensitive skin, slowly ascending up her neck to her jawline. Then, taking Adelaide's hand—now sweetened with the same flavor—she brought it to her lips and kissed every knuckle with devotion, worshipping the hand that ruled Valeska.
Below, Daniela's cock kept working wonders inside the queen, who kept her lips parted in a perfect O from which rhythmic gasps escaped, while her slightly arched brows framed an expression of absolute ecstasy.
—Don't stop... don't fucking stop —she pleaded.
Daniela wasn't going to.
The wine spread between them, soaking into the bed, only stoked an insatiable thirst. With a fast move, Daniela scooped up what was left at the bottom of the fallen pitcher, took it into her own mouth, and in a surge, sat up to kiss the queen directly on the lips.
It was a wet, desperate kiss, with the shared Sophia wine flooding both their mouths and spilling out in waves over their lips. The burgundy poured down their chins, staining their skin while Adelaide, with her hands firmly locked in Daniela's messy, curly hair, pulled her even closer, gasping and letting herself be devoured.
Daniela grabbed the queen's ass with both hands, digging her fingers into her skin with a firmness that left no room for second thoughts; she drove her hips upward in a deep, ruthless upward thrust that made Adelaide's whole body convulse.
—Ah... Daniela! —the queen's scream wasn't muffled this time; it rang clear and sharp against the ceiling beams, stripped of any courtly restraint.
The duchess gave her no break. She started pounding from below in a violent, rhythmic cadence, matching the curve of the sovereign's hips while her dick, completely wet with wine and shared fluids, made a continuous wet slap that filled the room. Every hit jolted the queen's body, making her breasts sway with the movement.
Adelaide finally let herself be held by Avanzini's ferocity. With her legs shaking on either side of Daniela's torso, she threw her head back, exposing her neck.
Pressure was building up deep in her belly until it became unbearable.
—Focus... Adelaide, let everything go.
And Adelaide obeyed.
Their eyes met right as a brutal wave of contractions took over her insides. The queen's orgasm broke like a silent earthquake: her vaginal walls clamped down with a crushing force around Daniela's cock.
That squeeze was so intense that Daniela let out a choked curse against the queen's shoulder, and unable to hold back any longer, she came inside her with several final, deep thrusts that sealed the act deep within her.
The heavy, racing sound of two people desperately catching their breath was the only thing heard in the heir's private chambers.
Adelaide collapsed forward, dropping her weight onto Daniela's chest. Daniela caught her in her arms, wrapping around her back, keeping their genitals joined while their pounding heartbeats collided. The Ferrum liquid was slowly drying on their skin, sticky and sweet, as if... Sophia had been... indirectly part of that wild night.
Ironic... isn't it?
[taglist open: @azu21things - @bootsnic - @mouselyn -@rlotpuppy - @hexthysoul]
Congrafuckinglations Daniela
ᴍɪꜱꜱ ɢʀᴇʏ?
- Pairing: Jean Grey (adult) x Female Reader
ˢᵘᵐᵐᵃʳʸ ⭑ To the corporation, you were just an efficient weapon created to take hits and give them back with twice the rage. To the X-Men, a fugitive on the verge of collapse who crashed right at the doors of the X-Mansion.
Isolated from everything you know and used to responding to pain as your only form of human interaction, you find yourself trapped in the underground labs under the strict care of Dr. Jean Grey.
Between routine questions, poorly executed lies, and a physical exam where every medical touch tests the limits of self-control, both of you realize you aren't just playing "doctor and patient"...
ᵗᵃᵍˢ ⭑ AGE GAP (25 R. 33 J.) ⭑ Famke Janssen Visuals ⭑ X-Men (Movies - Original Trilogy) ⭑ Mutants & Experimentation ⭑ Trauma & Healing ⭑ Flirting & Teasing ⭑ Doctor/Patient ⭑ Hurt/Comfort ⭑ Sexual Tension.
long fic.
request - next.
You close your eyes and the pain is the only thing reminding you that you’re still alive. To the world, you’re a nobody now. You don't have a name, a home to go back to, or a safe place to run. You are, and have been for as long as you can remember, Agent 66. A number tattooed on the file of a corrupt corporation; an object designed to take hits from others and dish them back with twice the violence. You forgot the faces of your parents, the sound of their voices, and even the real name they once whispered in your cradle before selling you off for a handful of dirty cash to survive the famine. They ripped everything away from you.
But there’s something the needles, the chemicals, and the electric shocks could never wipe from your head. It's the words that guy in the cell next to yours whispered in your ear, right before his body couldn't take any more of the RNA trials:
"There are good people looking for folks like us to give them a shot. Make them notice you, and save yourself for both of us."
That promise was your compass in hell. So when the Avengers came down from the sky and Earth turned into a chaotic mess of explosions to stop that global threat, you saw your only way out. You didn't sacrifice yourself for the politicians you were escorting out of loyalty; you did it to bury Agent 66. You took the full brunt of the blast, felt your veins light up in that intense, radioactive green that almost torched your muscles, threw the punch back with insane force, and let the fire erase your trail. To your captors, you died an efficient weapon. To you, it was the day you were born.
Exhausted and running on absolute empty, you made it to the massive gates of the X-Mansion. Your body was shaking from the strain, and the green glow in your veins was barely starting to fade under your worn-out clothes. You don't remember hitting the ground, but you do remember the feeling of a warmth that lulled you to sleep before you passed out.
Your first few days under the care of the X-Men passed in a blur of medical lights and a silence you weren't used to. You woke up in the underground labs, hooked up to monitors tracking the stress in your muscles. Dr. Jean Grey was the first person to greet you, not with syringes or orders, but with a look of deep empathy. Patiently, this powerful, high-status woman stabilized the painful residual energy in your green veins using special serums, explaining to you without a drop of judgment that your modified RNA needed urgent rest.
At the foot of your bed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, you'd always spot a hard-looking guy named Logan. He didn't talk much, but his eyes carried the recognition of someone who’d also been a government experiment; his quiet presence, far from intimidating you, became your strongest anchor of safety against the paranoia.
When they finally let you head up to the top floors, the culture shock was huge. Professor Xavier gave you a room of your own, a concept your brain could barely process. You spent the first few afternoons watching from the window as the mutant kids ran around and laughed in the gardens. It felt unreal that a place existed where being a mutant wasn't synonymous with torture or military service. Your reflexes, the ones that used to kick in to copy kill moves, were now involuntarily tracking the everyday gestures of the students: how they held a book, how they laughed, how they lived in... peace.
For the first time in twenty-five years, you stopped feeling like a weapon on display and started feeling like a human being in progress.
You managed to escape. You managed to fulfill your late friend's last wish.
...
The underground level lab became your sanctuary and, at the same time, the only place where your body went right back to high alert. The glass walls and the constant hum of computers created a perfect shield from the rest of the school. No kids running around or sound of laughter down here; it was just you, your veins reacting to the slightest spike of stress, and Jean.
—Breathe... you're not in a test. Nobody's measuring you to kill you —Jean's voice rang out soft behind you, cutting through the electric buzzing in your ears.
You flinched instantly, instinctively dropping into a defensive stance your muscles remembered better than your own memory. Your hands started sparking with that radioactive green glow, threatening to overload the medical scanner right next to you.
Jean didn't back off. With absolute calm, she walked slowly toward you. She was wearing her medical coat over her street clothes, and the fluorescent lab light brought out the copper tone of her hair, thrown up in a messy style. There was a maturity in her posture, an elegance tempered by responsibility that made you feel strangely tiny, despite the destructive violence packed in your fists.
—Look at me —she asked, stopping just a step away.
Slowly, you looked up. At your age, you were used to people looking at you with fear or the ambition of a black-market buyer. But Jean, at thirty-three, looked at you like she could read every single scar on your RNA without even touching you. She had that signature deep gaze that left you completely exposed to her mental analysis of you.
—I'm not going to hurt you —she said, slowly raising her hands to show they were empty—. I need you to let the energy flow, not hold onto it like a shield. If you bottle it up, it's going to wreck your tissue all over again.
Without asking for permission, but moving slowly enough for you to dodge if you wanted to, Jean placed her fingers over your wrists. Her skin felt cold compared to the radioactive fever burning under yours. The physical contact made you jump involuntarily, but you didn't pull away.
The green glow in your veins started to tone down under the steady, firm pressure of her hands.
—That's it... good job —Jean whispered. She was so close you could spot the fine lines around her eyes—. Your body copied the absorption structure during the blast, but your brain is still processing it as trauma. You can't control your power if you keep treating it like the weapon they built.
—It's the only thing I know how to be —you managed to get out, your voice scratchy from lack of use. It was one of the few times you'd spoken out loud since waking up in the mansion.
Jean held your gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary. There was a flash of something unreadable in her eyes—maybe telepathy, maybe just raw human empathy—before she gently let go of your wrists. The sudden loss of her touch left a feeling of emptiness so sharp you had to clench your fists to cover it up.
—Then we'll learn from scratch —she said, turning around to log some data on the digital screen, though you noticed her fingers pause for a second over the keyboard.
—I don't need you to teach me anything —you snapped, taking a step back to put distance between you two—. I didn't come here to get dumbed down or play good girl at a school. I came because I was dying in a ditch.
The older woman didn't get worked up, didn't even try to stop you. She simply... spun around on her ergonomic black leather chair, crossed one leg over the other with effortless grace, and rested her elbow on the armrest, leaning her cheek against a tilted fist. A loose strand of hair fell over her forehead, but her eyes didn't leave you for a split second.
—Go on —she dropped in a measured voice, inviting you to vent with an unbearable calm.
And that chill attitude threw you completely off. It was the exact tone of someone who didn't see you as a threat, but as a symptom that needed checking out.
—You guys don't get a damn thing! —you shouted, the echo bouncing off the tempered glass of the underground lab. You took a step forward, clenching your jaw until your teeth hurt—. The Professor, you, the guy with the claws... You all talk about "control" and "potential" like this is some kind of gift. I had to burn myself from the inside out just to avoid being another corpse in a classified file. If I stop squeezing, if I stop holding onto this shit in my veins, I get weak. And weak people in this world end up on a dissection table with a number tatted on their neck.
With every word of your pain, the rage surged right back into your body, showing up as it lit up the web of capillaries in your arms. The radioactive green glow flickered beneath your skin with erratic violence, an off-beat pulse that made the medical screens around you vibrate. The sharp pain hit immediately, tearing through the tissues of your wrists and shoulders, threatening to rip up the muscle fibers the doctor in front of you took days to rebuild. You felt the burn, felt your breathing pick up, felt a spike of fever run up your neck... but you refused to let go. You clung to that pain like it was your only proof of... existence.
You kept screaming your ghosts out at her, throwing in her face the smell of cheap disinfectant from the labs where you were "raised," the cold blood of your old instructors, the crushing guilt of being alive while the guy in the next cell ended up as chemical fertilizer. You broke wide open in front of her, using the anger as a riot shield so you wouldn't collapse on someone else's floor.
Yet through your whole speech, Jean didn't blink once. She stayed dead still in her chair, analyzing every shift in your tone, the uncontrollable shaking of your hands, the stiff posture of your shoulders, and above all, that self-destructive drive to overload your own body. She passed on using telepathy to calm you down; she didn't need it, honestly.
She read you in a purely human way, backed by years of field experience.
When you finally ran out of air, chest heaving and fists clenched tight enough to draw blood from your palms, the lab fell dead silent. The only sound left was the low hum of the monitors tracking your stress spike.
Jean took three full seconds of silence. Then, she let out a slow sigh, dropped her hand from her cheek, and sat up in her chair.
—Are you done? —she asked softly.
The brevity of her question left you paralyzed, disarmed right on the spot. You were expecting a lecture, a threat of lockdown, or a sedative shot. You were expecting the response a soldier or a test subject always gets when they step out of line. But there was zero trace of that on her perfect face.
—Why are you doing this? —she continued, leaning forward slightly. Her gaze locked onto yours was raw, serious. No babying pity in it, but a deep understanding that stripped you bare—. What are you trying to prove to me? That you can handle pain? I've already read your file, I know what you're capable of. I know you could level half this facility if you set your mind to it. You don't need to prove to me that you're strong. Not to me, not to anyone.
You tried to answer, but the words got stuck in your throat.
—You're clinging to self-destruction because it's the only language they taught you to speak —Jean added, her voice dropping a notch, turning more intimate, almost confidential—. You think if you stop hurting, you're betraying the memory of the ones who didn't make it out. But breaking yourself over and over doesn't make you brave. It just keeps you trapped by the people who put that number on your skin.
Her diagnosis hit you harder than any physical blow from your past.
Jean, now standing, pulled a natural authority that didn't need a raised voice to be heard. She walked calmly to the counter, poured a glass of fresh water from a glass pitcher, and headed back over to you.
—Your body is absorbing its own energy in a destructive way because you're looking for an enemy that isn't in this room anymore —she added, staring down at the dying green still clashing under the skin of your knuckles—. Take this. And after, if you still want to wreck yourself to prove a point, you're gonna have to explain to me exactly what you plan on gaining from it.
You look at the glass of water. You look at her fingers holding it with a steady grip. Your brain was screaming at you to reject the offer, to turn your back on her and lock yourself in your room, but your drained muscles and the burning in your veins dragged you back to the cold reality: you were flat-out exhausted from fighting the whole world.
So... slowly, you reach your hand out.
Three whole days passed without you setting foot in the lab. Three days of taking detours every time you caught a tall, red-headed silhouette at the end of a hallway, or slipping down the service stairs to dodge bumping into her. It wasn't hate. It wasn't a grudge. The problem was the exposure.
You had laid out the raw guts of your past for her. You had handed her that dirty, rotten truth that only Charles Xavier had witnessed when digging through your unconscious mind the night you dropped at the mansion gates. And, worse yet, you had yelled at her.
In the corp, raising your voice at a superior meant three things: solitary in a dark cell, shock therapy to adjust your behavior, or food deprivation. The body remembers, and your brain registered that outburst of anger not as a release, but as a severe infraction that would cost you big time sooner or later. The shame you felt didn't come from childish shy anxiety, but from the instinctive discomfort of someone who knows they broke the golden rule of survival and was now bracing for the hit.
But the hit never came.
Instead, you remembered the awkward but genuine piece of advice Hank McCoy gave you in the hall, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose while watching you wander around like a ghost.
"The human mind eats itself alive in isolation. If you don't want to think about your ghosts, go find the noise of others."
You wanted noise. Any kind. White noise, laughter, shouting, the clatter of steps against the hardwood floor; any external stimulus to drown out the constant buzzing still ringing in your ears. You didn't want solitude. Solitude dragged you back to the corporate lab; back to the steel cell where you used to listen to the other test subjects die on the other side of the wall.
That's how you ended up on the upper balcony of the training hall, leaning against the hardwood railing, watching the lower court.
Down there, the Professor had handed you a simple job: watch over the physical practice session of the younger students, the kids between twelve and fifteen. Arms crossed, standing stiff with that hawk-like gaze military life drilled into you, you didn't take an eye off a single one. You picked up on who hesitated before a jump, who left their left flank open, and who was trying to play off their legs shaking from the strain.
You had no clue that this was actually another test set up by Charles Xavier. Could you step out of your shell? Could you function outside the logic of a cell?
The answer was yes. You were doing it.
You took the gig because that little watch duty gave you a purpose, a structure your abused brain understood perfectly, but with one massive difference: nobody here was being trained to kill. Watching the clumsy innocence of those kids, hearing them laugh when someone lost their balance, or seeing how they backed each other up after messing up a drill acted like an anesthetic on your nerves. Your mind, used to pain as its only input, was starting to process kindness as something real for the very first time.
From his office, the Professor knew it from moment one: you weren't a broken weapon. You'd be a valuable asset for humanity; you just needed time to unlearn the poison. That's why he gave clear, precise instructions to the whole team, especially Dr. Grey.
"Give her space. Don't push her. Remember, no one is hunting her out there; let her figure out on her own that time is on her side here."
What you didn't see coming was that the quiet wouldn't last forever.
It happened during the afternoon break. The kids had run off to the locker rooms, leaving the training area in a silence that suddenly felt uncomfortable again. You stood there, solo on the balcony, gripping the wood with knuckles slightly green from the residual tension.
—You know... for someone trying to fly under the radar, that guard stance gives you away from three miles out.
The voice rang out right behind you.
You tensed right up, but didn't spin around instantly. No need to; you knew who was at your back.
Jean Grey walked up slow until she was standing next to you, resting her hands on the same railing. She had on a simple top and dark pants, no white lab coat. Her hair was down, falling over her shoulders. No monitors, no scanners, no digital tablets to log your pulse. She was just standing there, looking out at the empty court, sharing the same air.
—The Professor says you're doing a solid job with the kids —she mentioned, her voice calm, slightly tilting her head to catch you out of the corner of her eye—. Says you command respect. Though I get the feeling you're hiding up here so you don't have to head down to the basement level.
You clenched your teeth. The shame you'd been hoarding over the days threatened to creep right up your neck.
—I'm not hiding —you muttered, keeping your eyes glued to the gym floor, jaw locked. —I was... busy.
—Riiight. I get it... —Jean let out a low laugh, a warm, brief sound that gave you goosebumps. She turned toward you, leaning her hip against the wood and crossing her arms, unconsciously mirroring your stance—. You don't have to explain yourself to me. And you don't need to apologize for the other afternoon either.
The comment made your head snap up to meet her eyes.
—I yelled at you —you said, dryly trying to cover up the vulnerability of the confession—. Anywhere else, for a reaction like that, they would've...
—We're not "anywhere else" —she cut you off, firm but without raising her voice—. And I'm not your old captors.
You froze, feeling the raw urge to look away, to search for a physical or verbal exit; but that woman's eyes didn't offer a quick way out. There was absolute clarity in them, a hard refusal to let you slide back into cell logic.
Jean sighed softly. She caught the subtle tremor in your hands, where the greenish tint of your energy was barely fading.
—You know what your problem is?... I think you do.
—I don't even remember my own name and you expect me to diagnose myself?
You immediately caught the way her lip curled up.
—Your problem is you expect punishment like it's the only valid way to interact. If there's no pain, you don't get the rules of the game. And that scares you more than any experiment.
Her words cut deep, striking right at the crack you were trying to hide.
Jean didn't use your silence to back you into a corner. Instead, she unanchored from the railing and took a step away from you. She stopped a couple of meters out, turning to look back over her shoulder.
—Hank put together an RNA stabilizing solution in the lab —she said, in a professional tone that couldn't hide the subtle challenge underneath—. It's not to test you. It's to keep your veins from flaring up every night from the tension you're holding onto.
She took a second, running her eyes over your stiff posture one last time before adding casually: —If you want to come down and take it, I'll be there.
...
The basement floor greeted you with the same cold air and the hum of medical gear. This time, though, the vibe felt different.
Stepping through the glass doors, you spotted her. Dr. Grey was standing by the center table, back to the entrance, checking out some glass vials under the white light of a microscope. She had her lab coat back on, but the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, showing off her toned forearms. There was something hypnotic about how meticulous her movements were: no rush, no sudden moves. Everything about her gave off an order that clashed hard with the chaos you carried under your skin.
The door sensor called out your arrival with a soft chime. Jean didn't flinch. She took her time placing the vial in the rack, wiped her hands with a dry cloth, and finally turned around to face you.
—You showed up —she murmured softly. No victory in her tone, none of that "told you so" attitude you might've expected. Just a quiet confirmation.
—I don't like owing anybody anything —you shot back, keeping your distance by the door, hands shoved deep into the pockets of your worn jacket—. Don't want Hank thinking I'm blowing off his work either.
Jean nodded.
—Take a seat then —she gestured toward the medical bed in the middle of the lab—. And lose the jacket. I need access to your forearms.
Your body went rigid on instinct. You hesitated for a couple of full seconds. Jean didn't rush you; she stood by the metal tray holding a pre-measured syringe and antiseptic solution, giving you room to process the order... or the request.
Finally, with slow moves, you stripped off the jacket, dropping it over a nearby chair. You sat on the edge of the bed, straight up, back stiff as a board and thighs tense, ready to pop up at the first sign of trouble.
Jean walked over slowly. The smell of antiseptic wrapped around you, clearing out the heavy basement air. She rolled over a swivel stool and sat right in front of you, placing herself slightly lower. That choice of posture was no accident: being lower broke any power hierarchy, forcing you to look down at her from a higher position.
—Give me your left arm —she asked.
Without arguing, you extended your arm. Your skin, tanned from training outdoors but tracked with veins still glowing, shook just a fraction of a millimeter.
Jean didn't hesitate, but she didn't rush it either. With her fingertips, she held your wrist from underneath.
The impact of the contact was instant. Her skin was cool, clean, smooth; a thermal drop compared to the fever burning under your muscles. A green spark shot across your knuckles immediately, a reflex of your radioactive energy reacting to the invasion of your personal space.
You tried to pull your arm back, but Jean's grip, while not aggressive, stayed locked. She didn't fight your strength; she just held on like an anchor in a heavy swell.
—Easy... —she whispered. Her eyes drifted up from your wrist to lock right onto yours—. Don't fight me. Let me in.
—It... burns —you gritted through your teeth—. When people touch my skin... it usually hurts.
At that, Jean, using her free hand, skipped reaching for the alcohol pad and instead slid her fingers incredibly slow from your wrist up the inner side of your forearm, following the main vein glowing in its signature shade.
The path was agonizingly slow. Every inch her fingertips brushed sent a charge that wasn't sharp, but pure nerves. Your heart rate spiked on the monitor behind you, going off in a fast beep that gave away your cardiac overload.
—Your heart rate is at one-twenty —she noted, without taking her fingers off your skin, feeling the wild gallop of your blood beneath the surface—. But your veins aren't taking in the energy. They're relaxing.
—It's... panic —you lied, looking away toward the glass wall so you wouldn't get lost in how close her face was.
—No, it's not panic —the older woman corrected with a calm that cornered you. She picked up the cotton pad soaked in antiseptic and wiped it gently across your shoulder. The cold liquid made you give a suppressed flinch—. Panic spikes toxins in your RNA. What you have right now is resistance to letting go. You've spent years believing that if you drop your guard, you die.
Right after, the doctor prepped the syringe with Hank's mix. The needle glinted under the light. You felt your bicep lock up hard as stone, making it impossible for the needle to go in.
Jean picked up on the stiffness and, instead of forcing the shot or coldly telling you to relax, placed her full palm on your bare shoulder. The weight of her hand, warm and steady, acted as a counterweight to your panic.
—Look at me —she ordered softly, in a low tone, almost a whisper meant just for this bed—. Don't look at the needle. Look at me.
Involuntarily, your eyes snapped back to hers. You drowned in them and...
The tip broke your skin. It was barely a quick pinch compared to the pain you were used to, but what truly paralyzed you was how Jean's hand on your shoulder tightened just a bit, giving you physical support while the stabilizing serum entered your bloodstream.
A wave of icy cool started spreading through the rest of your body. It felt like someone putting out a fire that had been burning in your gut for weeks. The glow in your veins started dying down gradually, dropping in intensity until it completely vanished under your skin, leaving behind just the normal texture of your arms.
The needle pulled out slow, but Jean—right away—pressed a small patch over the spot.
Her hand stayed resting on your shoulder. Her face was inches from yours. You could feel the warm air of her breath brushing your cheek. For the first time in the whole deal, you caught the doctor's eyes drop for a split second down to your lips before tracking back up to your eyes.
—See? —she whispered—. Nothing broke. You're still whole.
You were so stunned by how close she was, by the weight of her presence and the weird vulnerability of having your powers totally powered down, that you couldn't even make a move.
Jean seemed to notice. Her fingers on your shoulder moved slightly, her thumb lightly grazing the curve of your neck before, very slowly, pulling her hand away and standing up.
The sudden lack of her touch hit you like a physical punch.
—You're gonna feel a bit dizzy for the next ten minutes —she reported, turning her back to toss the used gear into the biohazard bin, though you picked up that her moves weren't ridiculously flawless like before; there was a slight hurry in how she set the vials back on the tray. —Uh... your glucose levels are gonna take a sudden dip over the next few minutes. You'll probably feel cold in your hands and feet, a slight heaviness in your eyelids and... dizziness. It's the metabolic reaction to shutting down your RNA overload all at once.
At first, you were listening to her. Her voice drifted through the lab air like a steady melody you tried to track so you wouldn't get lost in the void left by her missing touch. But then, her prediction hit. The floor under the bed felt like it tilted slightly, and the ceiling lights turned into a blurry streak of white light. A shudder ran down your legs.
You ignored it. You locked your eyes onto one of the turned-off screens to force your brain to stay present.
But your head... damn, your head was about to explode.
You brought your hand up to your head, digging your fingertips into your temple to press the spot where the throbbing was turning unbearable.
—I won't... get hooked on this shit, right? —you asked while rubbing your skin.
Jean, who was putting away the antiseptics in a steel cabinet, stopped, turning around slow, resting her hip against the counter and crossing her arms.
—No —she answered without a single shred of doubt—. The doses don't carry any addictive compounds or synthetic neurotransmitters. It's not a daily treatment either. We're just leveling out the chronic inflammation spikes in your tissue.
She took a short step toward you, watching how you kept your hand on your temple. —Honestly, the shots are just a temporary fix. I didn't mention it, but Hank and I are designing a backup; a subcutaneous regulator. A small device that would be implanted in the back of your neck to filter the radioactive energy constantly without needing needles or serums.
She stepped a bit closer, placing a hand on the edge of the bed just inches from your thigh, and started breaking it all down. With crisp clarity, holding back zero technical details, she laid out the physiology of the procedure. She talked about material compatibility, about how your body might react if they put a foreign object in your bloodstream or under your skin. She detailed precisely what would happen if your immune system rejected it—fever, localized swelling, the natural pushback against the alloy—what would happen if it fully took, and the adjusted tweaks they'd have to make on the microchip depending on the severity of your flare-ups.
—It'd be a step-by-step process —she added, looking you straight in the eye while her voice carried through the quiet lab—. Everything rides on how your RNA reacts. Basically, trial and error.
And that word...
Error.
The dizziness washed away instantly, swapped for a heavy pit landing right in your stomach. The word hung in your head, heavy, ugly, covered in scars. Everything in your life had been that. A endless list of trials and errors. Errors that meant amputations for other subjects, errors that ended with bodies dumped in black plastic bags in the corporate hallways...
Your mind flashed right back to the cold tiles, to the smell of your own skin burning when a test went sideways and the doctors just logged another stat in the binder before grabbing the next needle.
Your breath caught in your throat. The hand on your temple slid down slow, shaking, until it rested on the leather of the bed. The vulnerability you'd just shared with Jean, the warmth of her touch from moments ago, evaporated instantly under the crush of past panic.
—I... I'm not sure about going through with the procedure —you whispered, voice barely readable, keeping your eyes pinned to the lab floor.
Both of you went silent on that.
Still, Jean stayed right there, within arm's reach, taking in the drastic shift in your body language.
—Look at me —she asked gently.
This time there was no command tone. It was a low invitation, almost imperceptible. When you finally found the nerve to lift your head, you didn't find the coldness of a scientist studying a specimen refusing to play along. You found a woman who looked like she had read the exact nightmare that had just crossed your mind.
—Nobody is putting a single sensor on you if you don't want it —she said—. You're not a rough draft to us. When I say "trial and error," I don't mean putting your life on the line or using your tissue as a playground. I mean you have the steering wheel to decide how far we go. In this lab, the only one who gets the final say over your body is you. Got it?
She leaned in closer, taking in the scene unfolding in front of her. Even though you were trying to hold your guard high and digest every word she said about your agency, the side effects of the dose paired with the sharp drop in tension had completely invaded your system.
The doctor reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a small penlight and her glasses, putting them on; the lenses slid down to the tip of her nose, leaving room for her to inspect you over them with full focus.
—I'm going to check your pupils —she gave a heads-up in a whisper, stepping a bit closer.
The yellow beam swept fast across your eyes. Jean immediately picked up on the hot flush coloring your cheeks, a pinkish hue that clashed with the pale tension from minutes ago. Your breath, once held tight and cautious, turned heavier and paced out, lifting your chest unevenly.
—Do you have a fever? —she murmured, slightly knitting her brow.
She dropped the light and, without hesitating, laid the back of her bare hand across your forehead.
It was burning up.
The skin on your forehead was throwing off an almost feverish wave of heat that clashed wildly with her cold fingers. It was, maybe, the first mistake or bad tweak in the dose.
—How are you feeling? —she asked, bringing her hand down to lightly tap her knuckles against your knee, checking your response.
—It's... hot —you answered, slurring your words slightly as your body sank a bit into the bed—. But my body doesn't hurt... just my head.
—Your head? —Jean wondered, leaning forward, resting a hand on your thigh to hold her balance.
—Mgh —you grunted in a low groan, squeezing your eyes shut.
She tilted her head, watching the faint scowl on your face.
—What are you feeling?
—Sharp stabs. Like I'm getting hit over and over with a baseball bat —you blurted out, trying to describe the internal pressure throbbing behind your temples.
Jean let out a brief, low laugh, a warm sound that echoed in the quiet lab. —You like baseball? —she asked with a bit of sweet irony.
Before you could answer, her fingers slid back up your face until they settled on both temples. With firm yet delicate precision, she started working a circular massage, pressing the exact spots to ease the muscle tension in your head.
—Never... saw a game —you answered, eyes closed completely, letting your head drop forward slightly, giving in by instinct to the relief her touch brought.
—And how do you know about the famous bat? —she asked, keeping up the steady rhythm of her thumbs against your skin.
—I... I don't know... kids play it every now and then —you scowled when the pressure from her fingers briefly blocked out the sharp throbbing. A paranoid thought cut through your foggy head—. Are you... getting inside my head? —you asked, opening one eye to lock onto her.
Jean shook her head slow, keeping her eyes on your relaxed features. —No —she said, pausing the massage for a second but leaving her fingertips resting on your skin—. I have no reason to.
—You need reasons to jump into someone's mind? —you probed, voice scratchy but lacking the earlier edge; now it sounded like pure curiosity.
She smiled without showing teeth, a small smile that barely crinkled the corners of her eyes behind her glasses. —Yeah. And my patient's privacy is one line I don't cross without permission —she answered, picking up the circular motion for a few more seconds before slowly pulling her hands back.
"My patient"
Oh...
That hit your brain with a totally fresh weight. It wasn't the cold, detached label corporate scientists stuck on their Test Subjects; coming out of Jean's mouth, the word carried a different tone. It meant protection, responsibility, an unspoken bond of care and follow-through. It was true: now you were something to her. Someone to check on, preserve, and rebuild. And even though the thought of belonging to or relying on someone used to make you sick, coming from Dr. Jean Grey, strangely enough, you were okay with it.
—How are you feeling now?
—It... stopped —you confessed, letting out a long breath as the sharp pain backed off into a distant shadow.
—Good. That's better —Jean concluded.
You sat up slow on the bed, feeling the fever heat start to back down, leaving behind a heavy but comforting exhaustion. Jean was still right there, inches away, fixing her glasses and watching you get your footing back.
—Dr. Grey... —you said, letting the formal title set the new ground between you two.
Jean paused for a second, thrown off by the respectful yet distant tone you just dropped.
—Should I head down tomorrow at the same time... or will you call me when the device is set? —you asked, waiting for orders like the good patient you'd turned into.
—The device is gonna... take a few days to get tuned, we're in no rush with that —she answered, taking a step back without breaking eye contact—. But yeah, I want you down here tomorrow. Same time.
She crossed her arms over her lab coat. —We still need to monitor how your RNA handles today's dose.
You let out a soft breath through your nose, almost a quiet laugh, while sliding off the bed. —Got it, Doctor.
...
Walking through the hardwood halls of the mansion hours later, fate—or your own faulty survival instinct—had you run straight into Logan.
He was leaning against the frame of a door leading out to the backyard, lighting a cigar. His white tank top left his arms exposed, marked up by old scars, and when he looked up, his small, sharp eyes locked right onto you. He didn't need telepathy or medical files; he saw the exact same poison he carried in his own blood sitting in your stiff posture.
—Looks like you don't know what the hell to do with your hands. Relax, nobody's shooting —he said, blowing a thick cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
That guy reminded you of your friend who barely made it to eighteen before his heart gave out during testing. He had that same heavy energy, that way of standing like he was ready to take a hit any second. You felt a natural, quiet connection with him. Logan got you without needing to wrap words up in speeches about fitting in or hopes for a better future.
—Got too much energy —you answered, leaning your shoulder against the opposite frame.
He raised an eyebrow, glancing down at your forearms, where your skin looked suspiciously clear and calm.
—They give you a serum, didn't they? —he asked—. You oughta be in bed.
—Don't want to be in bed —you said stubbornly—. Need to move.
Logan held your gaze for a few seconds. He saw the desperate need to blow off steam, to prove you were still useful, to not feel fragile after the medicine hit. He let out a sigh, dropped the cigar to the floor, and crushed it with his boot.
—Let's hit the gym. If you drop dead, I'm breaking your arm —he muttered, though there was zero threat in his voice.
...
The workout wasn't brutal. Logan was an insanely intuitive instructor: he didn't demand spikes of power or force you to channel the radioactive energy in your hands. He stuck to teaching you hand-to-hand combat moves, blocks, weight shifts, and short hooks. For an hour, the flow was smooth, almost rhythmic. The impact of his fists hitting your sparring gloves acted like the ultimate anti-anxiety fix. You felt alive, strong, in control.
The issue didn't show up during the workout. It hit when it stopped.
—That's enough for today, kid —he said, unwrapping the tape from his hands and tossing you a water bottle—. Good hustle.
You dropped onto a mat, breathing heavy but smiling on the inside. But the second your muscles completely relaxed and the adrenaline started to crash, disaster struck in seconds.
The shift was brutal.
Your body, which had just taken a chemical engineered to shut down defenses and repair tissue, was forced right back into combat mode. The serum's components crashed violently against the metabolic spike from working out. A cold, icy, sticky sweat covered the back of your neck instantly.
Your vision went blurry. The floor felt like it dropped out from under your back, and a wave of nausea hit your stomach with the force of a physical hit.
—Rookie? —Logan's voice sounded miles away, like it was coming from the bottom of an underwater tunnel.
—I'm... fine —you gritted out, though your legs weren't answering.
Taking advantage of Logan turning his back, you used every last drop of your willpower to push yourself up. Wobbling like a drunk, you slipped out of the gym before he could notice. You dragged your feet up the service stairs, leaning against the walls so you wouldn't drop to your knees in the hall.
You made it to your room on pure animal instinct. You pushed the door open and threw yourself right onto the bed, without taking off your sweaty clothes or boots.
The second your head hit the pillow, your heart went completely off the rails. A wild, erratic gallop, so fierce it pounded in your throat and ears like a war drum.
You felt your chest tight, crushed by an invisible weight. For forty agonizing minutes, you were convinced your heart muscle couldn't take the overload; that your story was ending right there, on a clean bed at the X-Mansion, victim to your own stupidity.
Thank God you didn't have a heart attack. But the cost was steep.
You spent hours trapped in a feverish state, shaking under the blankets, feeling your body fight an internal battle to clear the wreck you'd caused. Time lost all meaning. Afternoon fell, the sunlight faded behind the window, and the room sank into a heavy dark.
By the time your racing heart finally dropped back to a human pulse and the cold sweat started to dry on your skin, the night was well underway.
You sat up slow on the bed, head heavy and muscles sore like you'd been beaten with a pipe. And it was in that moment of post-crisis clarity that reality smacked you in the face...
The appointment.
Jean had told you plain as day: Same time. She was waiting in the basement lab to check your RNA, working on your device, trusting you'd keep your end of the deal as her patient.
And you had completely blanked on it.
You blew it off. You failed the only person who had put hands on your wounds without trying to hurt you. God... you were gonna be a massive headache for the Doctor.
You showered quick, letting the warm water wash off the sticky sweat, the gym smell, and the leftover fever chill that almost wiped you out. You threw on a clean, comfy set of clothes: dark sweatpants and a loose cotton tee that wouldn't squeeze the veins in your forearms.
Finally, you headed down the stairs to the basement level in total silence.
As you got close to the lab's glass doors, your steps ground to a halt.
Jean was still there. Through the translucent glass, you spotted her, wearing her medical coat over street clothes, hair pulled back in a loose bun. But she wasn't alone.
In front of her, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug in hand and the straight stance of someone who'd belonged there forever, was Scott Summers. He was wearing his usual ruby-quartz glasses, talking to Jean in a low, casual tone. At one point, Scott said something that made the doctor smile—a wide, relaxed smile of deep closeness and years of shared history—and lightly touch his forearm.
You froze a couple of meters from the entrance, partially hidden by the shadow of the hall.
Your military brain, shaped by years of protocol, flashed an instant warning: Do not interrupt your superiors. Do not intrude. Watching the two of them together, sharing that space that just hours ago felt so exclusive to you, tied a weird knot in your stomach. A mix of regret for missing your appointment and a sharp discomfort from suddenly feeling like an intruder.
Was it better to turn around, go up to your room, and wait for her to come look for you if she actually cared about your state?
You took a half step back, hesitating in the dark.
However, before you could retreat toward the stairs, the glass door gave off a soft chime as it picked up the motion sensor in the hall. The sliding panels swung wide open.
The low chatter inside killed over instantly.
Both Jean and Scott turned their heads toward the door. She locked onto you right away. She didn't need her powers to tell you were trying to hide the fact that you were about to bolt.
Scott gave a polite, if somewhat distant, nod. —Evening —he greeted, before looking over at his ex-girlfriend—. I'll leave you to it, Jean. See you upstairs.
He grabbed his cup, gave you a quick nod as he passed, and left the lab, leaving you completely at the mercy of the doctor's gaze, who took her time: she dropped the file she was holding onto the table, took off her glasses, and set them down next to the metal tray.
—You're... four hours late —she said, checking her wrist watch.
You keep your posture stiff at the entrance, taking the weight of her gaze without blinking. You could pull an excuse out of thin air, blame the disorienting exhaustion, or even throw Logan under the bus, but... —I know. I didn't mean to —you answer in a neutral voice, owning your mess-up with no fluff.
Jean holds the silence for a couple more seconds. There's no hot-headed lecture in her eyes, nor the punitive move your muscle memory was waiting to take. She simply gives a slow nod, taking your brief apology, and shifts her eyes over to the black leather bed at the back of the lab.
You don't need anything else. The unwritten language between the doctor and her patient snaps right back into place.
You walked over in silence, feeling your legs still a bit heavy from the drain.
Up on the bed, you rested your hands on your thighs and lowered your head slightly, waiting.
Jean walked toward you. The lab coat swayed gently with her step. She stopped a foot away, resting a hand on the nearby workbench before staring down at you. —Could you tell me how you're feeling right now, now that the dose has cleared your system? —she asked in a calm, steady voice.
—Tired —you admit in a low voice, running a hand over your still slightly damp neck—. Felt a really bad crash a few hours ago. Cold sweat, dizzy... my heart went off the rails.
Jean doesn't say anything right away. She steps up slow and sits on the swivel stool right in front of you, leaning in slightly. She pulls her small penlight from her pocket, clicks it on for a second to check your pupil response, then puts it away. —Your pupils are dilated —she observed—. And your pulse, even though it's dropping, is still higher than normal for someone who was "just" resting in their room.
She grabbed your left wrist. The coldness of her skin acted as an immediate contrast against your body's off temperature again.
—This isn't the leftover effect of the dose —she cleared up, looking you dead in the eye with a seriousness that left zero room for dodging—. This is the reaction of a body forced into heavy motion right after taking a treatment.
You don't answer. You lock your jaw and keep your eyes fixed on hers.
Jean let out a slow sigh, slightly knitting her brow, but without losing that steady composure that defined her.
—Logan —she murmured, not as a question, but as a logical call that didn't need proof—. You were training with him.
—It was my call —you jump in right away—. He had nothing to do with it. I needed to move.
—You should've rested —she cut you off, and this time her voice hit with a hard firmness.
She dropped her hand from your wrist, but didn't back away.—I get that you're scared of feeling fragile —she continued, dropping her tone to a much more intimate whisper—. I know that for you, being... relaxed feels like being unarmed. But if you're gonna be my patient, you need to learn to trust the timing I give you. You can't heal if you keep treating your own body like the enemy you have to beat... Tell me, does anything hurt right now?
She used her power to float a glass of hydrating solution over.
—Huh... just... my head. A little —you answered, taking the glass hovering next to you.
You drink it slow. The cold liquid smooths out your dry throat, putting out the last flare of leftover heat in your gut. Meanwhile, Jean adjusted some files on the digital screen beside you, picking up a small medical notepad.
She settled into the chair across from you, crossing one leg with her usual flawless posture.
The checkup starts.
—Did you feel sharp pain in your joints after working out?
—No... Doctor —you answered right away, keeping your eyes on the empty glass.
—Did you have blurry vision or green flashes when you got dizzy?
—No, Doctor.
—Do you feel burning along your veins when you take a deep breath?
—No, Doctor.
—Did your heart rate level out before or after you showered?
—... before, Doctor.
Your tone was flat, robotic, almost automatic. It was the standard response of a soldier answering a routine questioning just to get it over with. Short, dry answers designed not to show weak spots or drag out the evaluation any longer than necessary.
Jean didn't write anything down; she stuck to holding the pen between her fingers, taking in the closed posture of your shoulders, the faint defensive shake in your hands, and the stubbornness keeping your eyes down. She knew damn well you were lying. You lied to her about the workout with Logan a minute ago, and nothing guaranteed you were being straight with her now.
She let the notepad drop onto the metal table with a sharp clack. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees to close the gap between you two.
—Did you feel sharp pain in your joints? —she repeated the first question, slower this time.
You tensed up right away.
—I already answered that —you muttered, squeezing the glass way too hard.
—I'm asking you a clinical question —Jean didn't even blink.
—Joint pain? —she called for again.
Jesus Christ...
—Yeah —you finally confess—. In my wrists and my knees. Happy, Miss Grey?
The corner of the older woman's lips picked up just a fraction of a millimeter, not out of cockiness, but from the satisfaction of winning without having to raise her voice.
—Much better...
Without taking her eyes off yours, Jean reached her hand out slow, resting it directly on your knee. She gave a measured, casual squeeze.
You tried not to react, but the faint twitch in your leg gave you away.
—It's swollen —Jean called it, dropping her eyes for a microsecond to your lips before tracking back to your eyes—. Lying to me doesn't make any pain go away. It just means I have to get stricter with you.
—I don't need you to go easy on me —you challenged.
Jean didn't back down. —Don't confuse patience with going easy.
From her stool, she looked up at you from below.
You weren't clueless. During your years as Agent 66, physical contact always meant two things: violence or manipulation. But outside the corp, in those brief windows where humanity managed to slip through the cracks of your conditioning, you had known what real closeness was. That girl you protected on your last run before escaping, the least clueless one in that whole corrupt setup, had managed to break through your shell. She chose to get to know you, to talk to you like a person and not a containment weapon. You knew what desire felt like; you knew how to spot when the air between two people got too heavy to ignore.
And what was going down with the Doctor right now... damn.
The brush of her cold fingers sliding down the side of your leg made the hair on your skin stand up right away. Your breathing grew heavier, an uneven rhythm echoing in the room.
—Feel the pulse right here? —Jean asked, pausing her fingers near your ankle, where the artery was beating crazy hard.
—Yeah —you got out, throat dry.
—That's your body calling out —she said, keeping her hand there—. Are you calling out against me?
—I'm... tired, Doctor —you manage to say in a quiet breath, trying to get back that neutral, distant tone that had just dissolved in your throat.
Then Jean slid her fingertips a couple of inches higher, working slow up the curve of your calf until stopping right at the inner side of your knee.
And at the touch, you let out an involuntary long sigh.
Jean caught it instantly.
Her fingers held on the tendon, but she didn't pull her hand back.
There was a deep read in her eyes, an ongoing search for answers that went way past a simple check for symptoms.
—If I wanted to, I could go into your mind right this second. I could wipe this headache out with a single thought, know exactly what scares you and why you're reacting to this exam like it's a trap.
A chill ran all the way down your spine.
—Why don't you then? —you challenged—. Save yourself the questions. You'd know exactly how to act around me.
—Because you're my patient...
Yet, the weight of her own words started to crack. For the first time since you walked through the lab door, Jean was the one to break the eye contact. She shifted her eyes slow down toward your neck, then to the tight line of your collarbone, and finally toward the glass where the digital screens flickered in silence.
And... you found yourself stunned.
Because watching the great, cool, and unbreakable Dr. Jean Grey look away for a second was the weirdest win you've pulled off since stepping foot in the mansion.
The air between you two turned suffocating.
—It's not fair, Doctor.
—What's not fair?
—That you know exactly when I'm lying, when I'm hurting, or when my heart goes crazy... and I can't know a single thing going through your head —you brought up, letting your voice fill with a slow, bold edge—. You're being mean. You demand the truth from me, but you hide behind the lab coat and routine checkup questions.
Jean parted her lips slightly, caught off guard by the unfiltered boldness of your move.
—I'm not hiding. I hold the lines. The same lines that keep you safe here.
—Safe from who? —you push, sliding your own hand over the leather mat until your fingers brush, almost by accident, the hem of her coat—. From the corp that thinks I'm dead... or from you?
The air caught in her chest, and you noticed her breath turn as heavy and uneven as yours. The hand she had on your knee closed with a sudden grip that felt more like holding on than a medical check.
—You're my patient —she repeated, but this time it didn't sound like a hard fact, but like a reminder she needed to say out loud to avoid crossing the line.
—Maybe I'm only your patient when it works for you, Doctor Grey.
You were definitely going to be her headache...
—The exam is over, go back to your room.
Heyyyy ma'am. I NEED you to write an X-Men story focused on a mutant created as a weapon who absorbs radioactive energy and reflects it in glowing green veins (yeah, I smoked something before writing this request) and Dr. Jean Grey (visually played by Famke Janssen -SHE IS SOOOOO HOT-)
The plot needs to be a Slow Burn packed with physical and psychological tension
"Us"/Reader just escaped from a corrupt corporation and is recovering at the X-Mansion. She hates feeling fragile, struggles to trust, and sees everything as a test or a punishment. Jean treats her in the underground lab as her patient, but the dynamic between them needs to be a constant tug-of-war of authority, compliance, and vulnerability
I LOVE SCOTT, BUT PLEASE IGNORE HIM
that's all, ilysm, waiting for the "don't blush" update
I want u to know that I've divided the fic into two parts; I'll post it in a few minutes ;)
btw, Famke is the hottest woman I saw in my childhood, along with Rebecca Ferguson and Cate Blanchett.