#At least longer living if allowed to die from old age

[passimtemere]

i know it's just animation inconsistencies (animators not wanting to make different models for all characters) but the hyena trio look the same pre-Simba (start of TLK 1/2) and end of TLK sooo according to TLK lore then....

Hyena are longer living than lions

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot. 

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away. 

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away. 

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds. 

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone. 

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates. 

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming. 

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up. 

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?” 

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had. 

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid. 

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together. 

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.” 

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage. 

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change. 

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door. 

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?” 

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face. 

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all. 

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?” 

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction. 

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression. 

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. 

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again. 

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts. 

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize. 

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door. 

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place. 

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void. 

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.” 

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[n1ghtwr1ter]

At the end of my latest TLT reread and it’s been physically painful attempting to read the last 40+ pages of Nona. Like, the short shrift that Gideon/Kiriona gets given by the people in the story…the theoretical good guys who honestly only see her as a thing, as a means to an end with an inconvenient dead soul attached to it… It makes me want to rip my own heart out of my chest.

Nobody has cared about Gideon her whole life. Most people, in fact, if they remembered about her at all, went out of their way to tell her how much they wished she didn’t exist. In the final chapters of Gideon, she finally gets the thing she’s been desperate for her whole life: somebody telling her that they need her, they care that she exists, and they badly want her to go on doing it. This allows her to make peace with the prospect that at the ripe old age of 18, she needs to die so that that person can go on living and living and living, using the castrated remnants of her soul as fuel to do so. Not a great way to go, but at least Gideon would get to be useful to somebody, would get to be remembered for something.

And then she wakes up in the wrong body, and finds out that her sacrifice - her attempt to be useful in the most selfless way possible, in that her self will no longer exist - has been rejected. And not only that, but the person she tried to give herself to - the one who was supposed to care about her - went to extreme lengths to make completely sure that she no longer remembered about Gideon.

She literally cut Gideon out of her brain.

And now, drifting along in the worst sort of half life where she’s inhabiting her body but it’s no longer really hers, in very obvious fashion - there’s holes in it, her heart is missing, and it’s got her shitty father’s handprints all over it (not even touching how much of a violation that is), indelibly - she finally meets back up with the small group of people who could theoretically be relied upon to be glad to see her again.

But then the one who was supposed to care about her most tries to kiss her (massively OOC for Harrow), and turns out to not even be there - it’s some weird baby inhabiting her body, and doing a really shit job of it too. The rest of them won’t stop talking about how they need her to break into the Tomb - as if she was just another key, same as the ones they worked together to acquire in Canaan House, just bigger and more inconvenient - and/or how they both fucked and killed her mom, who also (surprise, surprise) wished that Gideon had never existed, but saw her as a thing that needed to be done for the good of the mission.

Ultimately, they all make it abundantly clear - Palamedes, Camilla, Pyrrha, and especially Nona, all these people who are supposed to be kind and good and right - that they would prefer she wasn’t there. That it just be her body, with no Gideon attached - at least not Gideon the way she is now, broken and rejected and miserable. They would all far have preferred that she not have her own inconvenient thoughts and feelings and desires and impulses - that she just be inanimate and let the important people, the grown ups, get things done.

They wish she didn’t exist. Same as everybody else in her life, save one, and now she’s left wondering whether Harrow really meant it at all. Because if she did, she wouldn’t have left Gideon to Kiriona’s fate.

And honestly? Really, truly? I know everybody in the fandom loves Pal and Cam and Nona and Pyrrha, but in the end I couldn’t give less of a shit about them. They are fucking side characters, and as intriguing as Nona has been from a worldbuilding standpoint, I ultimately resent having been forced to read 400+ pages of filler bullshit about fucking side characters. I am a butch, and I’m here for my sarcastic, loving, angry, vulnerable, forgiving, and yes, inconvenient sword butch. I’m here for Gideon. But Gideon has been fridged for the last two books of the series in which she is supposed to be a, if not the, main character.

And it feels like almost nobody else in the fandom feels the same way, which, fine. I’m used to that. I’m also used to being told I’m projecting; and I’m used to being told that I’m inconvenient too, in my thoughts and my opinions and the mere fact of my existence. I spent the first eighteen years of my life being told I was inconvenient. Yet another point of overidentification with Gideon.

But in case anybody still thinks that Nona proves that Gideon was an asshole all along, think about all of the above. Think about how it would make you feel to come back from not just death but from the erasure of your existence, something you chose in order to save the life of someone you loved, and be told that you’re inconvenient. Think about how you’d feel if you’d been told all your life that it would be better for everyone if you didn’t exist. And then tell me that Kiriona isn’t in the right and that I should give a rat’s ass what happens to literally anybody else.

It’s Kiriona Hours up in this House, butches. We’ve spent long enough caring about people who would prefer we weren’t around. For once in our entire lives we were told we were important; we were told we mattered; we were told we were the main character. We were going to, if not get the girl and save the world, at least get to do something real, something important, something like being the hero.

But that’s over now; we’re back to being wrong and bad and inconvenient thanks to the simple fact of our existence. So it’s time to embrace it. Let’s be a little shit. Let’s be kind of a dick. Let’s have our own agenda, let’s play our cards close to our heartless chest, let’s allow our circle of empathy to contract to ourselves and maybe one more person. That’s where I’m at right now. And I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

[lovelylivewirez]

Figured I should post this on it's own since @au-sonic-smackdown has already begun (but I kept forgetting so... a few days later it is lmao)

I'll take this as a chance to ramble a little about this AU as well- putting under the cut tho bc it's gonna get a bit long and is probably a bit disjointed lol

So Sonic in this AU is immortal, right? He's like a demigod kinda. But so are Shadow and Tails (Shadow being the Ultimate Lifeform and Tails being a kitsune). They live far into the future, long enough to meet Silver as a child and see him grow, and will live far longer still.

Sonic is a nomad and lives anywhere as long as it's off the grid. He doesn't like other people knowing of his immortality out of fear that it will be exploited somehow. Eggman Nega would eventually prove that fear true, and some of his scars are from encounters with him.

(Some scars are from his childhood, but the prominent one running down his torso and the one in his ear, as well as a few other big ones covered by bandages, are relatively recent. They're indicative of some of the ways he has died before, if you're willing to take a guess.)

Shadow has taken over the role as Mobius' current hero, at least in the eyes of the public, but Sonic has remained a hero of legend. Silver also does his fair share of hero-ing, too, and is constantly chasing after Nega and foiling his plans with Shadow's help. Sonic will come in and help often, but leaves just as quickly as he came, often remaining unseen.

Meanwhile, Tails uses his kitsune powers to appear as a regular fox and hide his status as immortal. He poses as a local mechanic in Onyx City (the city from Archie Sonic Universe's Silver Age arc, but like. A good future instead of a dystopia) and helps Shadow and Silver covertly with his advanced tech.

When he's not saving the world from impending doom, Sonic either wanders the world to find places to nap in, hangs out with Tails or Shadow, or is hunted down by Nega.

Sonic's immortality allows him to regenerate and come back whenever he dies. The Chaos Energy inside of him won't let him die, he just heals and comes back, but it often leaves a scar, especially if the injury is severe. It's left him with chronic pain and fatigue. He uses a cane he carved himself out of a stick, unless in werehog form, where he just walks on all fours instead.

As a werehog, he's extremely irritable and pretty feral, but since he can control when he transforms most of the time (except new moons), he avoids transforming unless the boost in strength is absolutely necessary.

He's gotten pretty attached to lots of old things that remind him of his friends. Even if those things have started to decay, he hoards them in secret burrows across the world and refuses to let them go. His memory is not the greatest and has gotten worse as he aged, so he holds onto things that remind him of his late friends to ensure they live on in some way.

Anyways, that's all I have for now. Go vote for your favorite Sonic in the smackdown!

[my-pjo-stuff]

I think it's really weird how most of the fandom considers Luke somewhat- older(?) than he actually is? Not in the way that they THINK he's older, but that they treat him in the way you'd treat a fully mature adult man. When, in reality, Luke isn't. Or at least not really. I mean.. the guy's 19 during TLT. Which yes, technically makes him an adult- but let's be real here for a moment. Just because you're over 18 doesn't mean you immediately have the attitude and knowledge of a fully grown adult. Or can be held to the standarts of one. The human brain doesn't fully develop until 25! The guy was 23 when he died. Where I'm from some students graduate at the age Luke was in TLT!

At the time of his death he would have only been allowed to legally drink for 2 years in the US! Luke may LOOK old and adult compared to other demigods due to his personality and being an outlier in surviving longer than the average- but if you look at it in a normal context he really wasn't.

If we wanna do math- the average lifespan of an American male is round-about 80 years. That means that Luke, who lived for 23 managed to get a little less that 29% of the average lifespan. He didn't even get to the full 30%- Not even the full 29% tbh. And that isn't even taking into consideration that Kronos' been manipulating the poor guy since he was 17! Like- yeah Luke is much older than most the main cast. But that doesn't mean that's he's actually OLD! 23 is nothing in terms of age, and certainly not an age to die.

[mjrtaurus]

I just realized something funny

Crocodiles don't die from old age, they just slowly continue to grow. They die from injuries, starvation or illnesses

Which means that grandmadile, Crocodile, Gabriel, and possibly Luffy can live much MUCH longer if they're lucky. They literally can outlive their enemies if needed

The name of this particular biological phenomenon is “negligible senescence” and it’s fucking WILD. It’s when the typical degradation of the body associated with living to an extensive age is so little in comparison to our own lifespan that it seems the creature is immortal.

It doesn’t mean the creature cannot age, per se, but that it happens so slowly by our standards that it seems that way. For example, we would very much come across as exhibiting negligible senescence to many of our fluffy little friends, such as dogs, cats, guinea pigs, and rats, etc…

We document this in certain species of tortoises and sharks, and- yes indeed- many crocodilians. It’s not out of the realms of possibility that some dinosaurs were the same way. In fact there are theories that mammalian lifespans are the way they are because of how long living the ancient reptiles were. The distant common ancestors to modern mammals- including ours- had to reach maturity quickly and reproduce quickly in order for the species not to die out from predation. Think rodents and how often they reproduce and how many babies they have per reproductive cycle due to having to compensate for all the snakes and lizards and birds of prey that eat and outlive them. But this is still just a theory, mind.

Crocodiles don’t die of old age in and of itself, as far as we can observe, but can- as stated above- indeed die of complications associated with their environments, luck of their genetic draw, and how they behave just in general.

Another thing with crocodiles specifically is that they don’t have a set “adult” size. They can grow as large as their food supply and environment will allow, but this can be to their detriment. Look no further than the case of the saltwater crocodile Lolong, who grew to a massive 6.17 m (20 ft 3 in) in length and 1,075 kg (2,370 lbs) over the course of his 50 or so years.

Lolong is to this day considered the largest saltwater crocodile to have ever been caught and put in captivity, and his cause of death? Pneumonia and cardiac associated with his size and his poor living conditions. Bear in mind he was caught because he was so big (and a man-eater at that), and did not become that big in captivity. If left to his own devices in the Philippine waterways, he very likely could have gotten bigger and lived longer. He just would have had to spend more time in the water so gravity didn’t crush his vascular system beneath his own weight.

All of that to say, yes, Crocodile and his family are very long-living and well-aging if left to their own devices.

Given his status as a logia, and-debatably- Luffy’s as a mythical zoan, they’re set to live comfortably into their hundreds. Gabriel, just on account of his durability from the Lunarian heritage alone is probably going to have them all beat in terms of long life. That isn’t even touching on the additional bioengineering that the World Government did. I would reckon little Sir Gabriel is looking at well over a comfy 300 years at least.

[foggyfanfic]

Hey! Any chance you want to elaborate on that AU where Bruno got resurrected and it helped with his OCD and anxiety? Because that sounds incredible and I am incredibly curious now. How did he die? How did he come back? What are the circumstances surrounding all that? Is it in your existing AU with Leandra and their kids? Inquiring minds and all that. (If you want to talk about it of course!)

I would love to talk about it! You’ll have a harder time shutting me up! This one was after all my future fics with Juan, trans!Buba, and Heraldo. It was mostly the vehicle through which I tried to figure out how the Madrigal family will work long term. Because they all have magic, and these amazing magic rooms, I kinda assume nobody is really going to want to move out of Casita, at least not long term or without some big reason. So what does that look like after a few generations? All of the future fics I’ve posted are actually technically flashbacks from this AU before it went completely off the rails and became its own thing.

The idea was that Bruno comes out of the walls and the last half of his life just starts getting better and better. He gets closer to his family, he falls in love, he even ends up with a handful of kids that see him as a father figure. Eventually he dies of old age, peacefully, goes to heaven, and is dead for at least a decade before he gets resurrected by the villain that wants to use Bruno’s gift for evil. In the meantime, the Encanto has become semi-isolationist since the advent of the internet, and are now debating whether they should let the internet into the Encanto or go full isolationist. Mirabel’s youngest granddaughter and Camilo’s youngest granddaughter get led out of the Encanto and to Bruno by the miracle, rescue him, then they have monster of the week type adventures with my super self indulgent self insert who originally existed in the story to provide money, a boat to live/travel on, and explanations on internet safety. She was also there so the Madrigals have somebody to tell family stories too, thus allowing me to play around with the development of the Madrigal family. Right before it went off the rails I also added a great great great nephew who one, was older than both of the great great nieces to illustrate how large and complex the family structure is, and two, had a gift that allowed him to bring the rest of the canon characters in and out of the main plot.

And that was where I should have stopped brainstorming, but I didn’t, and now this AU is how I explore my own anxieties about current events, so it takes place ten years from now, in what is hopefully the worst version of the future, and the self insert OC is no longer a representation of me with better skin and more money, but instead exists so her tragic backstory can serve as a warning of how much life will suck if things go a certain way. But let’s not talk about that! Under the cut is the longer explanation of the Madrigal OC’s and Bruno’s character arc throughout the original AU before it became my therapy. I’m literally just going to info dump the whole thing, because I know I won’t be turning it into a fanfic, so this is probably going to be my longest post ever.

So the three teenagers are Eduardo (Dolores’ great grandson), Etta (Mirabel’s youngest granddaughter) and Maria (Camilo’s youngest granddaughter). Eduardo was sorta the prototype for Gabriel’s character, he has a crappy father, looks up to Bruno as a better role model, and is struggling with his identity in relation to his father’s legacy. His gift is to travel through shadow because he’s trying to escape his dad’s shadow, and unlike Gabriel, he did spend the first part of his childhood trying to be like his crappy dad, so he is now trying to redeem himself for being a bit of a bully. He also has terrible taste in women, that serve as the inciting incident for a few of the “chapters”, like when he gets kidnapped by his fairy princess girlfriend and the other characters have to deal with a DnD type dreamworld to get him back.

Etta is the first adopted Madrigal, so ends up facing a lot of the same emotional struggles as Mirabel. Her mothers adopted her later in life, think mid-forties, when her birth family died due to their well being contaminated. Her birth mother survived long enough to give birth and nurse Etta thanks to Julieta, so Etta is one of many kids named after her. Her mothers entire thing was that they were the first fully out gay couple in Encanto, Etta’s Madrigal Mom was a surprise baby along the lines of Antonio and she grew up close to Isabela and trans woman!Buba, so she knows with absolute certainty that being gay isn’t a big deal, and her family will be normal about it. She wants to marry her wife in a church, so they come out and Mirabel publicly states that if god disagrees with people being gay then he’s free to take the miracle back. They get married, the miracle doesn’t get taken back, and after that more people start coming out instead of just being poorly kept secrets. They wait so long to adopt because people are a little pissy about them “rubbing it in everyone’s face”, but they love Etta endlessly. Her gift ends up being ice powers because she wants to feel like she fits with her mother who has an elemental gift (fire), and her mother ended up with that gift because she wanted to fit in with her much older brothers, who all got elemental gifts because they’re really proud of the triplets thing and wanted to match when they were younger. I just kinda like the idea of Mirabel’s branch having a bunch of people who are so proud to be a part of their family they end up with themed gifts.

Then Maria is one of my two favorite OC’s I’ve ever come up with. She’s the youngest of a ridiculously large brood of siblings, who in turn come from Camilo’s youngest son. Camilo, of course, doesn’t have a favorite grand child, because that would be bad. But Maria does have his wife’s perpetual poker face (cough autism cough), and Camilo’s sense of mischief. It results in a very calm child that is also somehow endlessly chaotic, especially when paired with Etta’s never ending quest to be as helpful as possible. Maria wanted her gift ceremony to be a quiet affair but her parents invited the whole town, so Etta (taking after Mirabel’s gift for leadership) mobilized the cousins into chasing the guests out by making it snow and throwing snowballs at everyone that didn’t live there. Maria tried to cover for Etta by telling the adults she made it snow, and when her father doubtfully asked how she did that she very calmly looked him in the eye and told him in the solemnest voice a five year old can manage “Papá, through Jesus Christ, all things are possible” and Camilo fell out of his chair laughing. Her parents are always a little too busy to give their youngest and quietest their full attention, so Camilo happily takes the little gremlin everywhere he goes. Maria’s gift allows her to look into the past of anything she touches, so she’s a little exposition machine, unlocks tragic backstories, and “tells” most of the flashbacks to various Madrigal adventures. She is bad at the whole people thing, but doesn’t usually care that much, until she meets a pretty girl she likes and can’t figure out how to tell if the pretty girl is also into her. She is also the first seer in the family since Bruno passed, since in this universe seers are the rarest magic users.

Then finally! Undead Bruno! As mentioned the last half of his life is pretty great, and knowing what waits for him when he dies does a lot to reassure him when he’s worried he might be a horrible person. He hit rock bottom, then things got better and he eventually went to heaven, so he now has faith that no matter how bad things get, happiness is still possible. And that’s where he’s at when he gets resurrected. The story would have had three parts, each a reflection of what’s going on for Bruno internally. The first part would be the most light hearted, literally just him getting used to being alive (and relatively young) again, while the narrative establishes the rules of this universe and introduces groundwork for important plot stuff later. Plus midway through part one he would get a diagnosis and start figuring out his medication needs so that combined with the new sense of peace given to him by going to heaven would completely change his life. Part one ends when Bruno discovers the resurrection spell works by sacrificing somebody and essentially giving the dead person their body, which is why Bruno is young again, because the man killed to bring him back was in his mid-thirties. So the second part would be Bruno struggling with that, and low-key trying to find a way to switch back with the sacrifice because Bruno doesn’t hate life like he used to, but he also thinks everybody should get the chance to fully explore it, and he had his turn. In parallel, we’d explore the darker side of this world Bruno has woken up in, and see all the ways magic can create problems. It ends when Bruno discovers he can’t undo the resurrection spell and decides to live as much and as well as he can so at least the life he “stole” isn’t wasted. Then part three is him learning how to go after what he wants as it slowly dawns on him that he’s about to have the chance to do his forties over again. This of course parallels them figuring out what the villain’s plans are and how to stop him.

And this is the part that I love about the Encanto AU version of this story! The villain’s plans and the solution to stop it. So the larger universe of this story is the Disney Universe, y’know. Like the characters go to modern day Corona and Arandelle and such. Bruno goes to the region of France Cinderella is from and meets the descendants of her talking mice and is absolutely thrilled. Things like that. So in the version that’s still an Encanto AU, the villain went to Bruno to get a vision back in the sixties, Bruno did the vision and was horrified by what he saw. The villain on a throne of bones, some of Bruno’s family killed to get there. He wants to make sure the vision doesn’t come true, but of course! Your fate is sealed when your prophecy is read. He has to think fast, try to come up with some way to prevent it, but knowing that’s not possible. Except, Bruno saw the villain doing all sorts of magic, he rolls the dice. He tells the villain that in order to win he’ll have to get his hands on Excalibur, but oh no, that’s a problem because it was destroyed in an evil cauldron. Shucks, guess there’s nothing the villain can do. The villain is like “Bah, with my power nothing is out of reach”, so he does some research, concludes Excalibur was destroyed in the Black Cauldron from that one flop and goes back in time to prevent it. But! Going back in time alters the timeline, changing the future, and erasing the villain’s victory. And then this next part is a little complicated, but because the villain is spurred into going back in time by a future that no longer exists it kicks off a time paradox that the whole world is now stuck in until somebody can figure out some way to stabilize it. New timelines are being created, get to the point when the villain was supposed to take over the world (around now-ish), then fall apart and another timeline starts up in its place. The villain is powerful enough to see through the paradox and is targeting Bruno because Bruno’s the one that robbed him of his victory, plus he figures if he steals Bruno’s gift he can use it to navigate the different timelines being created and destroyed by the paradox, then stabilize the one that’s best for him. The miracle, on the other hand, is some sorta mysterious force that can see through the time paradox and has been trying to figure out how to stabilize the resolution that’s most favorable for the Madrigals. The story ends when they figure out how to do that, defeat the villain, then all go home to the Encanto where my self-insert with better skin and more money pays for them to install the infrastructure needed to bring the internet in, then she spends her life there in a paradise where she doesn’t have to worry about the latest election or the looming threat of fascism, and she teaches classes on internet safety so the Encanto can enter the modern age without sacrificing their way of life. The end, send post.

[thesternest]

ok so since @jennifer-hamilton-wb said she would like that explanation of Immaculacy I might regret making this since explaining Immaculacy requires at least mentioning other stuff ok so all magic in the universe I'm creating (still needs a name) draws from one of two sources: Lifespan and Immaculacy Lifespan is the force that fuels souls, everyone is granted a specific amount when they are born and that amount goes down and down until its nothing and they are dead of old age, However if for various reasons somebody were to die before all their lifespan depleted their soul would dissolve allowing the lifespan to escape, this would not be noticeable at first or at least it wouldn't be noticeable in the Landscape (the physical realm might delve into it in a different post) however in the Labyrinth you could see that lifespan and it would take form differently depending on the planet.

for various reasons it creates a lot of problems if too much lifespan accumulated in one spot. So Soulbinders were created Soulbinders are living creatures (always sapient but not always human) that are born with the ability to absorb the souls of others and manipulate their own souls.

after their soul has enough lifespan their soul gets a sort of gravitational pull allowing them to eat souls over a distance, That is a Soulbinders first step to descending to godhood.

Once a Soulbinder has Absorbed a lifespan roughly equivalent to a planet they will be transformed into a formless being known as an Aspect. Aspect are one of the closest things in this universe to gods

every Aspect represents one trait and will start out with their original personality but will eventually be consumed by the trait they represent A list of known Aspects contains(i might have forgotten some though): Repose Manipulation Progression Grace Strife Prominence Ignorance Determination Composure

they can give their godhood to somebody else but they cannot preserve their own life in that process.

Now that we got to Aspects we can get to the second and more common and versatile source for magic.

Immaculacy Aspects like every creature need Lifespan to live, they are essentially endless containers of the stuff, usually residing on a planet and feeding on all who die prematurely in it.

it is possible that one of the reasons a lot of the Planets they tend to live in have high death rates in some form such as war or disease is the Aspects intentionally cause more death to live longer When Lifespan is absorbed by an Aspect it turns into a type of Immaculacy that is Unique to that Apect. Every Immaculacy has two forms, a true form and a stale form Every Aspect is associated with two colors that their Immaculacy tends to take in physical presence For instance, the Stale form of Manipulation's Immaculacy is black crystals. While its true form is golden ribbons

Now it's important to say that a trait that is shared across almost all Immaculacy types is that it does not like being stored in one big place for a long time. no matter what Immaculacy will eventually leak from any container. the more immaculacy contained the faster it will leak.

That includes Aspects which means that Aspects aren't really capable of not developing magic systems in the worlds they reside in.

In callbringers when Ashelyn draws energy into her forged Arm she is essentially just drawing Immaculacy from the Aspect of Manipulation and storing it in her copper hand. and when she wants to release that Immaculacy the copper hand transforms it into fire.

Magic systems that use Lifespan tend to be a lot more limited and complex so I won't delve into it now (I haven't figured them out completely)

Different types of Immaculacy have different effects in the natural forms in general. and the True and Stale forms have different abilities too Manipulation's immaculacy is highly dangerous to people in its true form via its mind control abilities but in its stale form it Conducts Immaculacy

While Strife's Stale Immaculacy Absorbs Lifespan to create life from its own form Determination's Stale Immaculacy Absorbs souls whole and does some complicated stuff with them

[bbygirl-aemond]

How long could Vhagar have lived before dying of old age?

Hi all! This ask here brought up the topic of Vhagar's longevity, and I actually have a lot of thoughts on this because it has implications for dragon biology in ASoIaF in general. So how long might Vhagar have lived, if it weren't for the Dance and she was able to die of old age? Let's turn to Balerion, the Black Dread, for an answer.

Balerion is the only dragon in known history to have died of old age, which is a problematic sample size to draw species-wide conclusions from. It's implied that he died because he was simply too big to fly anymore, but I don't necessarily think this applies to other dragons for a few reasons.

First, not all dragons grow at the same rates. We see that Dreamfyre, who is older than Vermithor, is still smaller than him. Dragons like Vermithor, Vhagar, and Balerion are discussed by Maesters are being unusually large, even for dragons. So if dragons die because they grow too big, certain species might live longer than others simply because they grow more slowly and tend to be smaller.

Second, Balerion's death might not have been solely due to old age. There were two extenuating factors that could very well have contributed to him dying earlier than he might have otherwise done. From 55-56 AC, Balerion and Aerea were completely AWOL, and when they returned Aerea was near death in a really freaky way, and Balerion had a nine-foot-long gash all down his side. It's thought that the two ended up in Valyria, went up against some freaky magic, and lost. Maybe the magic took more of a toll on Balerion than understood. Then, right after this, Balerion is chained up in the Dragonpit, and is kept underground for thirty seven straight years, until Viserys rides him a single time in 93 AC. We know that being chained is harmful for dragons' health and tends to physically weaken them.

So it's likely that if these things hadn't happened, Balerion would have been much stronger, even at the age where he died in canon. As for how much longer he might have been able to live, we can't fully say. I don't think it would be too much longer; probably a few decades at most. But all this is basically to say I don't think we should assume that dragons' lifespans max out at 200 years.

Around the start of the Dance, Vhagar was about 180 years old. So I'd say that she would live to at least 200 but likely longer, so long as she was allowed to remain unchained and uninjured. I'd say around 250-260 isn't unreasonable here. So if, in this scenario, Aemond has also survived, I actually think they could end up dying at around the same time; if Vhagar died at the age of 250, Aemond would be 86.

[pluppsauthor]

mind sharing some ino lore (with their perfect musical theme)? anything you want - silly to serious, said before or brand new, dealer's choice! can't wait to read your stuff!

(I know you're probably still asleep rn, but you'll have something to wake up to) Alright, starting with some basics before hopping into spoiler territory. Since you wanted lore, you're getting lore.

Firstly, Ino is a demon and appears in the story Frequency: Forsaken. He's found in a lightless pit by Dusk and Zenith who free him in exchange for information, since Ino is very old and has knowledge others have forgotten.

Secondly, about his theme (posted here), it is meant to be melancholic for most of its runtime, until the end when it swells with a rush of emotion as Ino remembers memories of his past and reminisces about his former life.

Alright, Spoiler Time!

In the story Frequency: Hellfire, one of the main characters is a demon named Hazzin. They meet the other main characters after they die and go to (my settings version of) hell, aka Un'thil'ar, land of demons. It's a long story, but I won't dive into that right now.

Anyway, Hazzin joins the group as a guide to help the group through the layers of Un'thil'ar as well as planning to escape Un'thil'ar with them.

All demons have a singular desire that drives them, Hazzin's is to be free. Their secondary goal, not directly tied to their desire, is to bring happiness to all creatures, or as many as possible, demon or human.

Since this desire is not harmful to people, the group allows Hazzin to join them.

After they free themselves from Un'thil'ar, Hazzin joins Akita and Kai as they found a group called the Autumn Organisation, a group tasked with hunting down and eliminating all evil or harmful demons. Aka, not Hazzin.

A few years later, Luna has Hazzin join them (along with two others) in their quest to rid the gods of their madness (again, long story, check out this post for more info).

After this story, Hazzin temporarily takes on a human appearance for about 100 years until they die of old age (since they are now human, normally demons don't die of old age).

After they die, since they are no longer human nor completely demon, their soul is sent to neither the afterlife nor the land of demons. Instead, since their soul is blessed by the Daemon Ez'nomol, their soul is sent to Yismor, land of the gods.

They spend the rest of their eternal existence as a soul in Yismor, now reverted back to their demonic appearance. Eventually, due to things I refuse to spoil here, Yismor eventually becomes the New World mentioned in Forsaken.

Here, Hazzin is found by fearful superstitious people who chain them in the bottom of a pit made from living darkness. Due to their Frequency, Hazzin couldn't die to the darkness, and he couldn't die through other means since they were already dead and a demon.

So, they became trapped for at least half a century. Over that time, they lost many parts of themself, including their name. When they were later found by Dusk and Zenith, they give him the name "Ino".

Ino is the name of a hero from a children's story in my setting. The hero Ino sets off to rid the world of strife and fear, bringing happiness wherever they went. This hero is directly based on Ino, formerly Hazzin, when they were a human all those years ago.

Ino and Hazzin are two different characters, but the same person. Ino was Hazzin, but neither are the other.

That is about all I can say for now.

As an aside, I want to bring up the topic of Hazzin/Ino's pronouns.

Hazzin, is a demon. As a demon, Hazzin doesn't have a sex or gender, in fact gender and gendered words/pronouns do not exist in the demonic language. So the group calls Hazzin by "they/them", and so do I. But it wouldn't be incorrect to refer to them as "it" either. Technically, any pronouns are valid just as none of them are.

Ino, meanwhile, uses he/they. By the time of Forsaken, Ino would have a much larger grasp on the human language, genders, and identity. Moreover, they spent some time as a human, specifically a human male body, and grew accustomed to that. So, they assigned those pronouns as they best fit. But, generally, they don't really care.

Also, I'm going to include my tag list for lore dumps and writing, since I'm not as frequent with writing posts.

(Tag list for writing/lore: @illarian-rambling, @casualsuitturtle, @tildeathiwillwrite, @thecomfywriter, @the-letterbox-archives. Message me, or comment/reblog this saying you want to be on/off of the tag list)

[omgkalyppso]

Hi i've been insomnia scrolling thru étoile's tag reading as much as i can about them & i LOVE paladin characters, and the devotion => oathbreaker pipeline in particular is sooooo tasty (my first tav had that trajectory), so i was wondering if you could share more about that aspect of their character (sorry if you have somewhere else and i just haven't found it yet)

You're so very kind, thank you! (:

I have a post about what I allowed to cause their Oathbreaking in-game.

But I'm happy to elaborate! (Me @ me: That's not necessary—)

I also have a few scattered posts about the following details that I'm happy to compile in one place.

.

The [temporary camp character] I'm referring to in that linked Oathbreaking post is Arabella, and she asked if we'd found her parents. And I was like, okay let me not have this conversation covered in blood— But there was no way to back out of that conversation "neutrally," I guess, the best option being "I haven't found them yet. (lie)" And the Oathbreaker Spirit saying "Something in you has broken" for that was so annoying, but someone told me that it completely explained why the stereotype of classic d&d Paladins was Like That and why Xenk's characterization in D&D Honor Among Thieves was the way that it was.

For Xenk specifically, his inability to make exceptions to upholding goodness paired with his way of speaking ("Just because that sentence is symmetrical doesn't make it not nonsense.") is entirely constructed to avoid Oathbreaking = losing his god's favour, losing his abilities, and breaking his code of honour. Perhaps if Étoile had been able to tell Arabella, "That which can be found must first be lost." Then they would have avoided lying / Oathbreaking; or maybe they should have just been honest and ignored the blood.

.

Their mother, Wylla, being a Paladin in Tamriel (Skyrim, ESO) meant she had entirely different constraints on her morality (none). I think this means that her Oath in the Forgotten Realms was almost so vague as to be meaningless. Let me come up with an Oath to satisfy myself and move on from this point:

Oath of Kinship

Allegiance Above All. Defend those who would call you ally. Never turn against your kin.

Mercy. Offer patience and forgiveness to enemies that change their hearts.

Rivalry. Challenge peers and adversaries with pride and prowess. Flaunt wisdom and ability.

Honor Your Community. Strive to support your friends and respect the boundaries of your neighbours.

Easy enough for Wylla to reason out that anyone who looks on her with fear as they die hasn't truly changed their heart, and all who seek to injure her family isn't kin.

.

But her Oath is important because it would have been her achievements that initially inspired and motivated Étoile to continue down this path. Her training could have changed to just protecting their home if Étoile had instead pursued something more like being a priest of Auril, or to just protecting themself if Étoile had wanted to leave the mountain for any other life. It was an Oath she kept from her outset as a Paladin, which would have been around 27 years of age, until her death at 66. 39 years.

I think of Zevlor too, and how he might've been a Paladin from a young man. I'll say 23, to his Oathbreaking (whether after leaving his order when Elturel returned from Avernus or after Act 2, depending on your perspective) — I held a poll and found most people think he's 45 years old, I like 64 for Zevlor; that's either 22 years or 41 years in his Oath.

Étoile expected to live in their Oath for centuries. They were setting up a way of life for themself. They only managed from the ages of 100 to 166, but that's 66 years, and longer than either of these other two Paladins, and probably many more besides.

.

Auril, Étoile's forgotten realms deity, has had a surprising number of Chosen in my opinion, and at least two, possibly three, that seem to be concurrent. I would have assumed a god could only have one Chosen at a time!

One of her Chosen was the Neutral Good Bard Artus Cimber, a famous adventurer who held titles such as, Master Historian, Grumog's Bane, and God Slayer.

I think that such a devout and revered member of Auril's faithful was able to maintain both her favour and their alignment had also instilled a hope (or even an expectation) that Étoile would be able to get through their own trials without Oathbreaking / changing too much.

They do love people and strive to protect them, though for others that has meant death. They wouldn't have thought siding with the living of two choices (He Who Was vs Madeline) would have been perceived as the evil action, especially with how they personally felt about Madeline's actions.

They had already been allied with beings that most Paladins would have not tolerated due to stricter definitions of evil, and somehow these actions had been forgivable, but not this.

It made them a little crueller, more willing to express hatred and impatience, to side with evil beings and choices, no longer required to uphold their Oath, only their dignity.

With this in mind:

They were able to support Shadowheart through the loss of her faith and way of life, and eventually to support her in spitting in Shar's eye for the sake of reuniting her with family.

They signed Raphael's pact instantly.

Their greatest fear has always been a loss of autonomy and the Emperor's actions and presence was a direct risk to that, if not an outright flaunting of that power: Étoile remembers their body twisting on its own to find that first illithid parasite. They never used their ~Abilities~, though it can be noted that they did debate the temptations a lot in Act 2, never deciding it was worth the risk. And then knowing the Emperor had witnessed their every intimate moment, and possibly their every private thought, for the past few tendays, was unforgivable.

They liked Lae'zel more than the Emperor. Raphael had been the first entity to uphold part of a promise by giving them the privacy of their own mind for five minutes, and what did Étoile care if the war in the hells shifted in his favour. Getting the Crown of Karsus off the Material Plane sounded like a wonderful fucking idea. Mystra had made no promises to Gale about removing his or the others' illithid parasites and based on Gale's experience with her, Étoile didn't think she would! Karlach wanted to steal the contract, but Étoile thought Raphael would make a better ally than Mystra than he would make an enemy.

Étoile was like half-way through their signature when Raphael added that he wouldn't even use the Crown to dominate people on the Material Plane or whatever the fuck and like ? oh, that's nice.

They would have allowed Astarion to kill his siblings if he'd thought that was best, but they couldn't let him kill the spawn, that was too many. People he didn't know, with just as much capacity for growth as he'd had. Étoile had lived on the outskirts of a village of 400 — not even in the village! — the scope of 7000 was just so many.

While Étoile would never, under any circumstances, risk their mother's life, their relationship to her was far different than Wyll's relationship to his father. They convinced him to get out of his pact; in Étoile's opinion if Ulder truly cared for Wyll then he wouldn't want him to stay indebted to Mizora, and if he didn't then fuck him Wyll deserved better.

Their only real regret that was part of their "base canon" was not offering to go with Karlach to Avernus. I kept hoping Wyll would offer after they added that possibility, but it never happened in Étoile's primary save file. I'd like to play them again sometime, and hopefully then the end of Wyll's quest won't be bugged for them and we can finish the stuff with Ansur. Étoile was afraid, and selfish, and had things they wanted to do / people and causes they were devoted to on the Material Plane, so they didn't offer.

And I say "base canon" because keep the headcanon that a piece of the Mourning Frost / the upgraded Dead of Winter in their personal quest, is able to magically cool Karlach's raging heart and allow her to remain on the Material Plane.

.

Also sharing this post about post-canon Étoile written before the epilogue came out.

.

I think their Devotion never truly leaves them, but they can never return to their Order (which is part of why I never bothered naming it) and can never rise in the ranks. They would also feel they don't deserve the respect of a Paladin, especially ones living in their Oaths, and I feel many others would also feel this way about them. But they killed people before their Oath, during, and after. It's only their conduct that's changed, and not so much that they're unrecognizable from Neutral Good to Neutral Evil, but enough that they feel it, and enough that it terrifies those who relied on their goodness — even Astarion balks at the idea of the pact with Raphael.

.

From my Bad At Biting fic; Étoile x Astarion:

“A single night would suffice [for a vampire to turn someone into a vampire spawn],” Astarion confirmed, whilst Étoile took a deep breath between their teeth. “Death is the requirement.” He winced through his smile, waiting a moment while his gaze danced between their person and their visage. “You let me lead you very close last night.” Despite their recent understanding of their circumstances, Étoile still managed to smile in response. The answer was easy. There was a fellowship in surviving starvation in the north, and a camaraderie in those who ran from the same enemies, who sought comparable freedoms. Étoile’s mother had eaten people, and their own hands were hardly clean — not like their conscience. Denying a vampire a mouthful of blood hardly felt in-line with their upbringing. They knew their Oath, and they knew their code, the path where they met was always going to be difficult, and hard for others to understand. Even vampires, it seemed. “I trusted you would stop,” Étoile said generously, more believable in past-tense than it might have been in the moment.

From my Magic In The Air fic; Étoile x Gan (evil path) (headcanons about the limits of Auril's magic):

“Three years ago,” Étoile explained, “Auril was defeated by a group of adventurers. It’s what put a stop to her Everlasting Rime. When she died, I lost use of Ray of Frost until she was reborn on the following winter solstice.” They closed their hand, tighter than they needed to to dispel the magic. “So there are limits to the distribution of magic,” Étoile concluded. “Even innate.” Gan’s poise and patience should have felt distancing, they were ever sharp and unabashed in their valuations of their enemies and allies both, but Étoile couldn’t help feeling mollified by her attention. Étoile hoped that Gan would recognize this extension of their trust in baring this vulnerability. “Between our … victory over the grove,” Étoile said, dropping their hand to their side, squaring their posture, “and the following night, I could not use magic that was powered by my oath as a Paladin, not until that was restored by the Oathbreaker Knight, but even then, despite losing my capacity to be her Paladin, I was still Auril’s faithful, and … this spell wasn’t lost to me, as maybe I felt it should have been.” “You’re stricter with yourself than your goddess?” Gan asked, amusement in their tone and an sympathetic tilt in their brow. Étoile scoffed through a smile. “It had just been some time since— Well. I’d been living in Baldur’s Gate and among … people. If I had only been trying to live and learn, maybe I would’ve been different, but with those I grew close to, I was trying to advocate for my own manner of people — and to do that, included bending to laws and morality that are not the providence of my god. It is a relief to know that she would still have me, regardless.”

[monsterspet]

Tav is the God of Defiance

Headcanons/ Fic Plot Overview

A/N: Has life been kicking my ass? Yes, but let’s not get into that. The whole Tav as God thing has really been burrowing deeper into my psyche and I need to get it out here or I may actually just go insane.

Enjoy some quickly thrown together headcanon type ideas - I may expand on these later if I can find the time in between work and everything else.

See prior drunken ramblings about God!Tav here

Before BG3:

Tav has been living almost exclusively in the material plane since the events of the Second Sundering. While they are empowered to live amongst mortals because Ao forbids it they can’t exactly risk returning home in case they get stuck there. It's sneaking back in when your parents are distracted sort of situation.

I imagine that at one point that Tav was traditionally worshipped, but as the other Gods pulled further back on Ao’s command the mortals around Tav likely began to question why their God was still walking amongst them. Or maybe a wandering God is simply too hard to keep track of in legend - especially when they can no longer disclose their godhood to followers. The old ones die - and no one was there to replace them. The traditional faith simply died out.

Tav has been adventuring for centuries, strengthening the resolve of their companions in the face of dire circumstances and impossible odds. This defiance they demonstrate in close proximity to the God enough to sustain Tav even if it wouldn’t grant them the same power they had before from temples and clerics.

I think regardless of the class you choose Tav is at least a little bit of a bard - if only to hide their godly magic as some form of bardic inspiration during a battle.

They always inevitably end up alone as their companions leave them behind, either leaving adventuring to retire or more likely dying despite Tav’s best effort.

While they can defy almost anything, there’s a finality in death that’s much older and primal than even Ao and there’s nothing to be done against that. Tav takes the pleasure they can in staving off death for their beloved friends as long as possible before it comes to claim them.

Tav doesn’t just simply gravitate towards the longer lived races on Toril, there’s something more potent probably in the defiance of a mortal that is risking their almost comically short life in comparison to that of an aged elf. Though longer lived races do allow Tav to go longer before losing another friend or lover.

During BG3:

As a God, hearing whispers of a new God calling itself the Absolute isn’t what you want to hear. Not when they - like you, appear to be directly interfering with the lives of mortals. Tav gets away with it purely by the nature of their domain. This new God may not be so lucky.

Combined with the increase of murders in Bhaal’s name in Baldurs Gate, and stirrings at Moonrise Towers which Tav knows all too well to be a Shar cursed land - Tav is compelled to investigate.

Finding themselves aboard a nautiloid has Tav panicked - this is looking to be a much larger threat to their beloved mortals than previously expected.

They have no allies with them though - no angered cries or acts of defiance to power them in this moment. Not that it matters. Interfering in the lives of a handful of mortals is one thing - but fighting against multiple Gods for the sake of all mortals would be a step too far for Ao.

This all changes when Tav is infected with a mindflayer tadpole.

Those infected with tadpoles are a threat to all those around them for many reasons. An individual with secret and forbidden knowledge is a tantalizing target to add to an illithid colony’s hive mind. What would happen if a God were to be transformed? Tav’s hand is forced, they’ll need to escape - gather allies and fight.

Upon crashing the nautiloid near the Emerald Grove and realising that most of their innate abilities are dampened by the psychic powers of the tadpole, Tav has to scramble to form an adventuring party. Thankfully - a group of desperate adventurers all with their own tadpoles to remove and lives they desperately want to return to just may very well have enough defiance in them for Tav to kill a God.

Tav just has to convince them to fight long enough to get the job done.

[altairtalisman]

Cass' Bio

"Look, I don't care if bees are helpful! Just get them away from me-"

More details on Cass is under the cut

Name: Cassia "Cass" Vijay

Age: 978

Height: 168 cm

Birthday: 10 Itis 1044 (Ebhi)

Orientation: Sapphic Demigirl

Pronouns: She/They

Species: Dryad

Country of Birth: Ghalrava-Balhyta

Likes: Spring, candied fruits, marble soda, video/card/tabletop games

Dislikes: Bees, winter, axes, sudden noises

Hobbies: Gardening, drawing, playing video/card/tabletop games

Personality: Amiable and sympathetic, though some think that this allows her to be manipulated. Despite her calm (albeit melancholic) appearance, they don't deal well in stressful situations and has been observed swearing at surly guests, going as far as to throw toilet paper at them

Style: Wears saris over a black crop top and a black half-slip, also wears a pair of black slippers

Abilities: Has the ability to heal almost immediately unless they had a burn (that takes at least a day), communicate as well as manipulate plants, is also an expert marksman

Background: As a forest dryad based in Ghalrava-Balhyta's sacred forests, Cassia grew up with the expectation that she was to protect it from intruders. Believing their elders to be correct, she never questioned the rules set by them

At 421 years old, the dryads imprisoned a traveller that had mistakenly entered the sacred forests. Cassia assumed that the dryads would let her go free, especially since she had a family to return to and four children to feed. They was horrified to learn that not only did the others not believe her, but planned to execute her via using her as nutrients for the sacred forest

Horrified by the absolute mindset the sacred forest had, she tried escaping the forest at 503 years old. She made it to Dhakzya before collapsing, and was brought back by a Dhak snake spirit. Upon returning to the sacred forest, the dryads scolded them for leaving the sacred forest, informing her that dryads aren't allowed to leave the forests that they're bound to or else they would die

Cassia was shocked, not knowing that dryads were bound to the sacred forests. They then asked how does a dryad know that they were bound, she received the explanation that the moment a dryad came into existence, they were bound to the area containing the most flora and that leaving the area for an extended duration meant death

They then spent centuries researching the history of dryads in nearby archives, eventually coming across a tattered journal about dryads being able to bind with other areas containing flora provided the flora accepted them, else they would die immediately

Three years after she learnt how to potentially leave the forest, Mingyue was caught entering the sacred forest and imprisoned, set to be executed by trapping her with tree roots for the trees to use for nutrition. The snake spirit tried to convince the dryads that she didn't mean to enter the sacred forest on purpose and merely wished to go to Wulfenz, but only Cassia believed her

Recalling the mother's execution centuries ago, the dryad decided to help Mingyue escape. Her decision resulted in the other dryads viewing Cassia as a traitor, forcing them to leave the country. Due to Mingyue's poor sense of direction, the dryad provided directions to Wulfenz while Mingyue helped the latter to make it to the country as her state rapidly declined

Once they had arrived in Wulfenz two months after fleeing Ghalrava-Balhyta, Mingyue went for a walk-in interview and left Cassia in the hotel's greenhouse in the hopes that they would regain her energy. She was then discovered by Hana, who realised that the dryad was dying due to being away from her bound area

Cassia eventually regained her energy, no longer on the brink of death as the flora in the greenhouse accepted her. After explaining her situation, Hana decided to employ the dryad as the hotel's gardener so that they could live as well as to provide Cassia with a safe refuge

[karmicretributixn]

opinions...?!

In order to properly start off a rewrite, I’m going to start by addressing the things I did and did not like about Halloween Ends. While I have my list of criticisms for this movie, I want to establish that I don’t think it’s a terrible movie. There were some things in it that I think were done well and gave the trilogy’s ending some less expected elements (which, when working with a source material that’s been sequeled and rebooted to hell with various but fairly similar plots, is admirable to at least attempt).

I feel like some types of content are implied given that it’s a slasher movie, but aside from the obvious gore and violence, some other stuff that will be involved in the discussion: suicide/suicidal ideation, mentions of incest, Black stereotyping

GOOD STUFF:

Establishing attempts to move on. While it is a bit of a longer time skip than I expected, Laurie really needed to reclaim her life for her own sake and for the sake of not seeing her stuck in the same emotional arc each and every movie. From becoming a better mother figure to Allyson to finding really endearing, awkward old people love with Frank (a character we’re at least somewhat familiar with already), I enjoyed seeing Laurie learn from the mistakes her former intense state of paranoia caused her to make and try to create a life for herself. It was an enjoyable glimpse into the Laurie we might have seen if Michael hadn’t plagued so much of her life, a person outside of fear. (I found her attempt to bake the pumpkin pie as a “Halloween tradition” to be really sweet and a sign of her genuinely trying to work past the trauma surrounding the holiday.) I would’ve liked to see more of this from Allyson as well outside of finding work. However, I felt the justifications for why she struggled to return to normalcy were valid; losing your mom alongside feeling responsible for the mental and emotional wellbeing of your grandmother who you’ve known to be unstable most of her life isn’t exactly the formula to create a normally functioning young adult.

“Suicide or cherry blossoms.” Sort of an extension of the above, but the idea that there are things worth living for even when it seems like it would be easier to die. Up until Michael’s final death, Laurie struggles to feel like she should live, especially when a decent amount of Haddonfield’s community blame her directly for the man’s most recent serial killings. We see her consider suicide through several means, whether by her own hands or through allowing Michael to take her life in order to finally sate his bloodlust (or so she believes). However, Laurie finds little things to hang onto, whether that be writing her book to try and help others through their own respective hells, finding a cute boy for her granddaughter to take to a Halloween party (you tried queen

Michael taking a temporary interest in someone specifically outside of the Strodes, even if just for his own gain. I don’t entirely enjoy how the writers developed Michael and Corey’s relationship primarily because it made Michael seem really underwhelming in a movie that’s… well, supposed to be about his famous reign of terror ending. However, I like the idea of Michael having a brief period of dependency on someone else because it drags them down to his level and provides a window into seeing more human aspects of him. Not exactly in the way we’d expect from a normal person (since Michael is… at least partially a supernatural being at this point? Lore really likes to go back and forth about that lol), but it at least indicates that the parts that are definitively human are starting to catch up with him (e.g. age). While it was primarily orchestrated by Corey, I feel like it would’ve been interesting for Michael to see Corey as his pet project, if at least to get more people for him to kill in order to charge his power back up to get back to his original mission of killing Laurie. (I’m… not even going to pretend like I know what the whole “killing to become stronger/undying” thing is about. I feel like it’s okay in concept, but when I feel like the movie tries to boil it down to “Michael is just a guy in a mask” at the end I’m just like ??? sorry you literally established that’s not true like 30 minutes ago)

STUFF I DID NOT PERSONALLY CARE FOR:

Corey’s character arc was a mess. It was already pretty bold to try and fit him into the final movie of the trilogy without having anything previously established about him while also trying to wrap up the existing plot, and I feel like the time crunch really did a disservice to what he could’ve been as a character. While I can appreciate how writers tried to set him up as a new “boogeyman” for the town of Haddonfield to focus on and vent their fears onto while Michael was still at large, I feel like there isn’t sufficient time for the audience to grow to care about Corey before he starts killing. The fact he becomes almost JD-esque makes his emotional struggles as a person seem really disingenuous in favor of creating a confident persona out of nowhere that stems from him doing… more of what initially ruined his reputation? His life? He wasn’t even at rock bottom anymore at the point of coming into contact with Michael. He had a job, a father figure that (while certainly imperfect) showed at least some understanding of his struggles both at home and in Haddonfield at large and tried to give him a footing to get his life back together. While Corey still certainly had reasons to have outbursts after a lot of inner turmoil, it still doesn’t make sense to me for him to resort to killing so quickly. Even when you feel like no one will ever see you as anything but a monster, why after getting a girlfriend who is apparently your everything now and doesn’t see you as a freak would you try and make things worse? Especially by teaming up with the guy who ruined her life via his own homicidal rages? It doesn’t even make sense under the context of Michael somehow infecting him with his “evil” (however that’s supposed to work) considering Corey still shows agency over his actions and wouldn’t have any reason to lean into the whole killing thing so hard. 

Speaking of evil… I’ve struggled with this since the original Halloween, but what exactly are we considering “evil”? The lack of definition starts to become concerning when the movie begins to draw direct parallels between Michael and Corey. There could have been an interesting opportunity to distinguish between someone who believes they’re inherently evil for doing something wrong by accident (killing Jeremy, in Corey’s case) and people who commit heinous acts with ill intent and don’t hold themselves to those moral standards. Instead, the movie attempts to group Corey and Michael together as being one in the same which is…ridiculous, quite frankly, given the fact one of them is a prolific serial killer with little to no visible signs of humanity and the other being a pariah who just doesn’t want to be bothered anymore and regularly expresses that he feels awful about causing the death of another. It would have been more compelling to see Corey stoop to Michael’s level, realize he himself was never that terrible despite what others said about him, and then help our main gang stop Michael once and for all. Killing himself in a near typical yandere fashion of “if I can’t have her, no one can” over a girl I dare say he barely knew was incredibly underwhelming and unfulfilling in terms of satisfying his character arc.

Allyson and Corey’s romantic relationship was awkward, rushed, and did not at all feel organic. The fact that Allyson was almost immediately and visibly interested in Corey upon meeting him literally made me cringe, it just really gave off “boy character meets girl character so obviously they will date!!”. Their following interactions also felt really sloppily put together and didn’t really generate a lot of meaningful chemistry outside of establishing a mutual hatred of where they live and, uh. Liking motorcycle rides at night and kissing. Considering they are both outcasts in their own right, it would’ve been nice to see them actually get to know each other and understand their respective struggles beyond just the obvious ones related to killing. (Corey and Allyson both also had family struggles regarding their mothers, but that literally never gets brought up aside from ragging on Laurie whenever possible.) I feel like their connection would’ve been better embodied by friendship and possibly misplaced romantic feelings sourced from feelings of isolation in their homes and community. The idea of a really sudden romantic relationship from Corey’s end also feels strange to me because... while I feel like it was a really extreme bomb to be dropped without elaborating on it much, it seems to be implied that he’s a victim of covert incest (overt when we see it at its height)? While that in itself doesn’t mean Corey should never have a romantic relationship, I feel like it was somewhat insensitive writing in light of that to give him a female partner that escalates their relationship fairly quickly. Not that it’s not mutual, but Allyson definitely seemed to be more of the leading force in initiating the romantic and physical parts of the relationship whereas Corey was initially more hesitant. (Maybe I’m reading too much into that, but it feels odd to me without them having more onscreen platonic chemistry leading up to that)

I noticed the movie tries really hard to recycle tropes typical of 80s movies and fit them into a movie set in 2022. First, you have the typical high school bullies that drive around in Rich Dad’s fancy car to harass our classic outcast on the side of the road (why are high schoolers bullying a 25 year old like he’s one of their peers? Not incorrect but definitely odd in execution). A radio station making inflammatory statements about happenings in the town also gives off that vibe. Then, you have the more obvious good boy-gone-bad with the motorcycle and survivor heroine duo who both think the place that hurt them needs to burn (cough Heathers cough). I feel like chances to incorporate some modernity were underutilized in favor of emulating the aesthetic created by the first Halloween movie. I think the most modern thing I saw was an iPhone, and even then, they looked like the ones from 2015 LOL

Whether by accident or not, many of the Black characters in this movie are portrayed as aggressive towards the main white characters. It’s never really a good look when a large portion of Black characters in a film display little personality outside of being an asshole, and the few who manage to not fall under this category are still found victim blaming white characters with what little screen time they have. Let’s round out their personality traits to make them more of a whole person with their respective place in a story rather than just an agent of physical/emotional conflict for other characters.

if you read this far. i am staring at you with beady eyes. i have more thoughts but i figured 2000 words might already be a lot for one post LMAO. let me know what you think or if you have any additional thoughts! (just be respectful pls)

[demphen]

Needed

Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, (referenced) suicide attempt, generally mentally unwell Thomas. Also read on AO3. WC: 753 A/N: In the movies, it’s implied that Thomas is suicidal. I wanted to share how I think he views his life and the idea of suicide. Also probably the shortest thing I've written.

Thomas has never particularly wanted to live. Yet he continues to, for too many people need him.

WHEN THERE WAS quiet, Thomas’s mind would wander. By thirty, the sound of his own voice had become little more than a memory. If he were to speak, if he were to try, it felt as if no sound would come out. Not now, not after so long. 

So quiet plagued him often. 

In that quiet, he pondered death. Only occasionally, only sometimes. Thomas knew that he came into the world already a burden. Another mouth to feed in a time when no one could afford it, yet still, he was born and something somewhere didn’t allow him to die. Something somewhere allowed him to be found, carrying the weight of that burden on his newborn shoulders. It was his birthright and it was unchangeable. 

That burden would only grow with him as he lived. The longer he was alive the longer his family knew him, and the longer they knew him, the more selfish it would be to leave them. Thomas knew he was needed. If he was good for one thing, it was the work he could do. It was being useful. He was strong, always had been. God had gifted him with one thing—maybe to make up for the rot that grew from his face. To die now would be to starve his family. Did he truly want to die that selfishly?

Still, in his room he’d watch the moon’s reflection in a blade held up to his neck. It’d only ever stay pressed against his skin because to go any farther would make him picture his mother, hearing his heavy body hit the floor and watching him bleed like a stuck pig through the frame of his door, unable to do anything to save him. Or maybe she wouldn’t hear that bump in the night and instead wake up to the sight the next morning, when the flies were already taking their pick off him. Either way, she’d find him. 

Could he do that to his mother? Have her bury her youngest son, after all she did to bring him home? Was that all the thanks he could give her? Taking his life when she had worked so hard to support it?

No, he’d resolve. He couldn’t do that to her. 

So he couldn’t do it himself.

When he grabbed the saw from his old boss’s office, the next half hour felt like a daze. He killed a man. He killed him, he liked it, and he felt no regret for it. Just relief instead. An ease off his shoulders, because he knew the sheriff would be coming for him. When the sheriff did come, he’d see Thomas with the saw and shoot him down before he could blink—and in that way, Thomas wouldn’t have done it to himself. 

It was the easy way out, sure. He would still die and he would still have been weak enough to allow himself to, but a way out is a way out. He would have died for a reason. He had become a murderer after all. Where else could he go after that?

…

Charlie killed the sheriff, though. Thomas ate his first full meal in weeks and lived to see the next day. That night, too, was like a haze, because it wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t thought of getting into bed that night. There wasn’t supposed to be a night. 

There wasn’t supposed to be anything at all. 

Afterward, he kept on living. Time kept on moving, just as fast and at the same time just as slow as it had before. The killing began shortly after the real Hoyt died. The first group was just a handful of college-aged kids. They ain’t do nothing. They didn’t pose any real threat. They were just trying to pass through, and now they were dead.

In truth, Thomas had even more of a reason to die now. More blood on his hands. But he couldn’t die. Not now, when the killing was doing good. When meals became more frequent and his mother smiled more. When things showed even a semblance of being okay, at least for his family. Not now. 

Each day Thomas would wake up, get out of bed, get dressed for the day, and continue to live while facing the quiet. He would live because he needed to. Even if it would break him, even if he knew that one day he’d fall, he needed to. If not for himself, then for his kin. 

He’d try to live. 

[cjbolan]

Up to Chapter 14 of Emily Windsnap and the Tides of Time. More thoughts...

Is Emily learning in school about Greco-Roman mythology? Her classmate mentions King Midas...

Aiden: Something about gold. King Midas or something.

Does this mean Emily is learning in school about King Neptune? Being a human school, would they get the facts right about Neptune? After discovering that Shiprock and Neptune are real, would Emily’s school have to change their lessons about Ancient Rome? I’m sure every school has to teach about Ancient Rome at some point, be it through history or English literature class. This also brings to mind my headcanon about Emily being possibly Greek...if she is, would this affect how much she knows about Neptune?

IF ONLY Emily had just waited to talk with Shona first before making her 2nd wish DX .....

I KNEW there was gonna be some catch to things in Shiprock becoming better.

There’s a recurring theme of small run-down playgrounds getting replaced by bigger playgrounds. Make of that what you will. Kinda funny because IRL the reverse is happening, with playgrounds getting downside due to safety/financial reasons.

I giggled at the mention of old mermen with “strong muscled” arms XD. Because it reminds me of this viral shot of JK Simmons:

Did Shona just imply Emily offers sexual favors XD?

Adult Shona: *to adult Emily* How did you get here? Still got that friendly guard on the border?

Millie’s future may be the saddest, if not second saddest, part of the series. Maybe even sadder, because Millie this time is gravely ill without any doctor nearby she could see. Again this also hits home hard: my neighborhood getting rapidly gentrified coincided with rising homelessness, more business closures, and more chain stores getting relocated.

Where’s Mr. Beeston in the 2nd future? Did he die of old age? For some reason I always just assumed he’s really old.

LOVE the bait-and-switch on who Councillor Windsnap is. Just like Emily I thought Mary P. was the mayor of Brightport. Makes sense as she’s known Brightport way longer than Emily would, she has the right persistence and compassion for the job, and Book 4 showed she's capable of bringing a peaceful co-existence between humans and merfolk. Until I was shocked to find out instead Emily became mayor. If Emily became mayor, then why didn’t she get her mom a better place to live than that shabby boat? Did Emily at least try? 

Are humans more feminist than merpeople? I’ve mentioned this before, but Brightport electing a woman mayor brings me back to something I noticed through the series. The last 3 books make me think human women have way more equality and opportunities than mermaids do. In the human world women can be…

Mayors (Emily)

Queens (Pirate Queen)

Captains (again the Pirate Queen)

Goddesses (Terra Mater)

Tribal Leaders (Ella though she’s technically just second-in-command)

Business Owners (Mystic Millie, Mrs. Rushton)

School Principals (Mandy)

Meanwhile teachers are the only mermaid authority figures we ever see . No hate to teachers but, compared to human women…mermaids don’t have many options. Also everyone working for King Neptune is male, does Neptune not allow mermaids in politics? Meanwhile on land Emily just assumed her mom is Mayor, which suggests women politicians are nothing new to humans. I can better see why Mary hated Allpoints Island. She went from a world where women can be anything, to a world where women can be only teachers or stay-home housewives.

Mary Penelope: …look at my life here. What do I do all day?  Sunbathe, comb my hair, maybe go to synchro swim a couple of times a week. This isn’t a life for me, Jake. I want more than this. (Emily Windsnap and the Castle in the Mist)

I wonder how shocked Jake was learning how much more human women are allowed than mermaids. 

SOOO happy this time Mary P. and Jake are still together!!! These 2 really are my OTP for many reasons One of those reasons being the only couple that stays together the entire series. All the other couples either broke up (Emily/Aaron), started dating later (Shona/Seth), or met a tragic fate (Neptune/Aurora, Archie/Millie). And they’re good people unlike the Pirate King&Queen. I might do a later post about just Jake/Mary P.

Are Jake/Mary P. the next Shona/Seth? In this 2nd future they’re still in a relationship, but just don’t spend much time together because one of them is busy working for Neptune.

King Neptune is such a sly cunning bastard. Shortly after releasing Jake from 12 years of imprisonment, he has Jake working for him. In both situations Neptune is keeping close tabs on Jake. I guess to make sure he doesn’t break the law again. Unfortunately this means Jake having to spend long periods of time away from his family, which is especially cruel after he was forcefully separated from them for 12 years. Gotta both admire and loathe Neptune for keeping people in his clutches in such a clever way.

What do y’all think Aaron is like 20 years later? Because this book keeps mentioning him.

Gonna keep reading! If you’ve read this book, what are your thoughts? Always down to talk more about my favorite book series.