#Dress in the age of jane austen

[perioddramapolls]

Period dramas dresses tournament: Green dresses Round 1- Group A: Bertha Russell, The gilded age (gifset) vs Jane Austen, Becoming Jane (gifset)

[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

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

just for tonight

a/n: sure, I was vigilantly working on a different wip (a very long one that needed a lot of strength to get through) but then this whole fantasy came to me and i just couldn't stop myself... at least i downgraded the idea from a full-fledged series (which i sadly very much do not have the time for) to just a slutty little one shot in an au that i can always pop back into whenever the itch pops up (or when anyone has a slutty request for it hehe).

summary: before you could even consider the possible consequences, a desperate request then fell from your lips, “well, what if I’m not asking you to be with me? What if it’s just for tonight? What if I’m only asking you to be with me for one night? Would you give me that?” you blinked up at him, scarcely breathing at all, “would you be mine just till the sun comes up?” 

warnings: bodyguard!bucky barnes x reader, smut, reader's mom is the british ambassador to france, age gap (10-15 years), tattooed!bucky (both a metal arm and tattoos as picked in a poll by you), beefy!bucky, forbidden romance, posh political party, alcohol consumption, wet dream, lingerie, stockings, one night stand (except we already know those fools can't keep it to just one night), kissing, dirty talk, manhandling, size kink, oral, fingering, impact play, squirting, gaping, belly bulge, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie

word count: 4907

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“You sure, you don’t want some?” you squinted over at your bodyguard as you lowered the champagne flute from your lips, “this shit costs more than my dress, which is really saying something,” you pointed to the red silk gown that hung from your frame, “this is Dior.”

“I’m good, miss,” Bucky uttered, tight-lipped as always. 

“Right, sorry,” you sat the glass down at the tall table you stood beside, “can’t drink while on duty.”

Posh parties such as the one tonight were always a bit of a drag to get through. Even though you’d been hauled along for most of your life, they’d never gotten any more amusing. 

But when your mother hired Barnes to be your personal bodyguard a few months back, the thought of getting dolled up just to have a bunch of provoking politicians talk your ear off about ideas you’d never in a million years support, somehow didn’t seem as bad as it used to now that he was constantly at your side. 

It had been a little incident involving your phone getting hacked, an explicit video nearly getting leaked, one that had been made for an ex who lived in another country to make the distance more barrable, and a few threatening messages from the perpetrator that had been the reason for your new shadow. 

Though you’d been resistant at first, storming into your mother’s office to state that you were a grown woman and didn’t need a babysitter just because someone tried to exploit an old sex tape that in your opinion wasn’t even that big of a deal, swiftly got squashed when a then stranger cleared his throat behind you and shared the more gruelling threats that had been made alongside the hacking. 

You’d hoped and prayed that he’d turn out to be a pain, that his personality could squash the feelings that fluttered inside of you whenever you looked at him, but unfortunately, he wasn’t an asshole. He was quiet, professional to a fault, but he wasn’t a dick. If anything, all of the silence and all of the glances to always keep track of you made the crush worse. It made you feel as if you were in a Jane Austen novel, reading between the lines of subtext your unreliable brain came up with.

“You tired?” he asked as a yawn rolled out of you. 

“Mhm,” you hummed behind the palm you had brought up to your lips. 

“The car’s ready to take you back to the embassy whenever you are.” 

A grateful smile twitched at your lip as you offered him a small nod of confirmation, “I’ll just go tell my mom.”

The ambassador, your mother, had her back turned to you as she talked business with a small group of people even though the hour had grown late. 

You waited for a sliver of a break before you tapped her on the shoulder and whispered in her ear.

“Hey, mom?” her palm found yours as she turned to look at you, “I’m gonna head home.”

“Oh, alright,” she leaned in and pressed a small peck to your cheek, “see you tomorrow, love.”

“Bye,” you gave her hand one last squeeze before heading out of the elegant venue, your guard still only a few paces behind you. 

A dusty drizzle met your skin as you exited onto the midnight streets of Paris. The sensation made you want to walk home, though you still followed Bucky to the black car already waiting and slipped in when he opened the back door for you. 

The light from the city reflected on the back of his metal hand as it gripped the steering wheel. You could faintly spot the prominent veins on the other one dance beneath the inked skin as it did the same, tattoos you still ached to discover just how far they stretched beneath his dark suit. 

Though soon your gaze flickered away from his silhouette as he drove, and fluttered out to the glittering cityscape rolling by, the vision of which swiftly lulled you to sleep. 

When you arrived home, Bucky’s steely eyes found your slumbering form in the rear-view mirror. You didn’t rouse when he opened your door and carefully picked you up into his arms. You didn’t wake either as he carried you inside, all the way up to your bedroom, and layed you down on your bed. 

Gently, he removed your heels and quietly placed them down on the hardwood floor before he grabbed your duvet and tugged it over your form. 

But just as he moved to leave your side, half asleep you caught his hand.

“Don’t go…” you murmured hazily, eyes still shut. 

And so, he didn’t.

Bucky simply reached for the tufted chair nearby and, as silently as he could, scooted it closer to the bed. 

Barely an hour passed before you woke. 

Before you even blinked open your eyes, your fingers began to slide down your body as the sinful dream you’d been blessed with still lingered in your foggy brain. 

Though when your eyes did flutter open and discovered the star of the dream sitting in a chair right next to you, your hand halted its voyage, and you sucked in a startled breath. 

“You okay?” he asked softly as you blinked a few times. 

“Uh,” the throbbing that still lingered from the dream probably wasn’t going to fade any faster with him sitting there with his unwavering stare, “yeah, I’m–, uhm…” you propped yourself up on your elbow before sitting up more, “I’m fine.” 

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No, it wasn’t a–…” your sentence then crumbled as you sucked in a breath, “what are you doing watching me sleep?”

As you met his gaze, he then uttered, “you asked me to stay.”

Your eyes then widened, “I did?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…” though you couldn’t recall, heat still began to bloom on your cheeks, “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

“It's alright,” his shoulders offered a faint shrug. 

Averting your gaze, you noticed that you were still in your dress. You weren’t quite sure if it pleased you or not that Bucky didn’t try to strip it off you, though it was probably less the moral intentions and more the fantasy of him peeling it off of you that swayed you. 

“Were you just planning on sleeping in that chair all night?” you asked. 

“No,” he shook his head, “I wasn’t planning on sleeping at all.” 

A tinge of guilt stung in your chest, “I’m really sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking, I must have been asleep or something…” you then swung your legs over the side of the bed and got up. As your fingers raised up to pluck off your sparkling earrings, your feet began to carry you in the direction of your wardrobe. Dropping the jewellery off in a small porcelain bowl on the opposite bedside table, you then glanced back at your bodyguard and said, “you don’t have to stay any longer, you can go back to your room and get some sleep.” 

Offering you a nod, he then began to walk towards the door. 

Though, as you reached back to undo your dress, you abruptly uttered, “wait,” and he stopped before his steely fingers could enclose around the door handle. Turning to glance back at you, a bold request then hesitantly fell from your lips, “could you maybe help unzip me?”

He barely made a noise, simply hummed quietly in response before his slow stride carried him towards your frame as it twisted for your back to be turned to him.

When you felt his touch on the zipper, tugging it down ever so slowly, your breath came in ragged, and your eyes fluttered shut. You swore you felt his radiating heat seep into you as he exposed more of your goosebump-ridden spine. 

As the straps tumbled over your shoulders, your hands came up to your chest to hold it up even though you wished for nothing more than to let it drop before him.

And when the zipper finally reached its end, he lingered right behind you just long enough for you to catch the tether of it. Slowly, as if you were dealing with a skittish bird, you rotated around. You didn’t dare to look him in the eyes as you let yourself follow that magnetic pull you’d been trying to keep at bay. Your gaze flickered up to his lips as heated puffs of air seeped from your lungs and you slowly, hypnotically, inched closer. 

But then Bucky opened his mouth and said in a soft and quiet tone, “what are you doing?” making you halt, though not pull back. 

“Please don’t act like you don’t already know… I know you do…”

“You can’t,” he uttered, though didn’t move to walk away either as he captured your gaze, “we can’t, alright?”

“Why not?” you breathed, your eyes returning to his lips, “is it really that important for you to stay professional over everything else? Or is it that I’m just a job to you?” your heart felt as if it was gonna beat straight out of your chest, “you know I like you, I know you do. You notice everything, so of course you know. Am I right?”

A long exhale then flowed from his lungs before the faintest of nods tilted his head, “…yeah.”

“And I have eyes too, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” a shiver trickled down your spine, “so, are you really gonna just stand there and pretend you don’t feel something too? Just go back to your own room and continue to protect me like nothing’s going on?”

“Y/n, I can’t be with you,” he shook his head heavily, “you know I can’t.” 

Can’t or won’t?

Before you could even consider the possible consequences, a desperate request then fell from your lips, “well, what if I’m not asking you to be with me? What if it’s just for tonight? What if I’m only asking you to be with me for one night? Would you give me that?” you blinked up at him, scarcely breathing at all, “would you be mine just till the sun comes up?” 

As if your quiet whispers melted him completely, your bodyguard breathed, “…fuck…” and the next thing you knew, he’d grabbed your face and seized your lips. 

It was like something inside of him had snapped, something you had shattered, with the way that he kissed you as if he’d been drowning and your lips were oxygen. 

As you lost yourself in the sensation of his tongue dancing across your own, you let the red dress drop down your body, passed the sheer stockings that clung around your thighs, to the floor. Like fire, one of his hands disappeared from your cheek and ran down your frame, grazing over the black lingerie that was now exposed.  

Though heated and hungry at first, the kiss soon softened into lighter pecks. 

With his metal hand, he held your face close to his as he withdrew from the kiss, an action you weren’t quite ready for as you dreamily trailed after him a bit, longing for his lips. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” his hot breath fanned across your features. 

“Yes,” you whispered swiftly. 

But as you dizzily blinked up at him, he simply hummed for you to elaborate, “hm?”

“Yes, I want you,” goosebumps tingled across your skin. 

“You want me to what?” his thumb swiped over your cheekbone. 

“I want you to–, to–…” you fumbled as you felt your desire drip and soak your panties, making them cling to your aching core. 

“To what, huh?” 

“To–… fuck me,” the embarrassingly desperate words tumbled out your mouth. 

“You want me to fuck you?” his unwavering stare briefly dropped to your parted lips.

“Yes,” the syllable rushed out of you. 

“Say it again,” he tilted his chin. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Louder,” his feet began to shift, causing yours to shuffle back as well. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

“One more time,” his hand had dropped down to your jaw and his fingers curled slightly to dent your soft cheeks. 

“I want you to fuck me, please!” 

With the hold he had on you, he swiftly dipped down and pressed his lips to yours once more. The world then fell out from under you as his grasp scooped down your frame and plucked you up.

Your arms tangled around his neck right before your back collided with the closet door and your lips tilted away from his as a short squeak slipped out. The distance however lent Bucky to let his kisses dance down the length of your neck and across your cleavage, so perfectly framed by the sheer fabric of your bra. 

Though the hickeys he began to plant across your skin made your eyes roll in your skull, your fingers still captured his tie and tugged him back up for your lips to crash against his. As you moved to push his blazer off, his sturdy grip on you shifted though still held you close as the jacket fell from his burly frame and your palms swiftly scooped over his broad shoulders and down his chest, now one layer closer to letting you actually get to feel the furnace roiling beneath.

Cupping his face close, whimpers seeped out of you and vibrated against his lips as his fingers dug into your ass and rubbed your barely covered cunt over the palpable tent in his pants, your want surely drenching through your thin underwear and marking him as well. 

You almost didn’t realise that Bucky had moved till he dropped you down on the bed. Taking a step back, his tongue briefly flicked across his breathless lips as his fingers lifted to tug his tie off. 

Staring directly into your soul, he uttered, “take your bra off,” as he tossed the tie to the floor and your fingers scrambled to fulfil his request. When you flung the lingerie to the ground, right next to his crumbled tie, the cool night air kissed your pebbly nipples and Bucky let out a murmured curse right before bending down to press his lips to yours. 

Balanced on your elbows, you parted your lips and let his tongue sweep across your own. His touch coasted down your frame, barely granting your tits any attention before his grasp hooked around your thighs and yanked you closer to the edge of the mattress. A surprised yelp escaped you at first at the sudden shift, but as the sting of saliva, that had lingered and connected you from your sloppy kiss, snapped back against your skin, the short cry morphed into a fizzy giggle. 

The light laugh however faded away when you watched him sink to his knees at the foot of the bed. Your legs curled up even further on either side of you, though you weren’t quite sure if that was you or him pushing them up and cracking you open that much more. You could feel his breath hit your pantie-clad core as his gaze fixated on the soaked spot right over your puff. 

When his palm slid up your inner thigh, he only had to reach out his thumb for the broad pad to ghost over your covered slit. His eyes swiftly flickered up to capture yours, checking your reaction as you began to squirm from his feathery light touch. 

Hooking his finger in the gusset, he pulled it to the side and a glossy string stretched out and clung to the fabric as he revealed your glistening pussy. 

A breathy moan billowed out of you as he began to touch you, rolling your little pearl beneath his touch. Finding your eyes once more, he held your gaze as he then leaned down to press a gentle kiss over your clit. 

“This okay?” his voice vibrated against your bundle of nerves, making you twitch. 

“Mhm,” you nodded foggily, “you can do anything you want.”

“Anything?” his lips twitched into a smirk as his fingers stretched from where they were clutching your panties to brush over your button.

“Yeah,” you breathed, “fucking anything.” 

Your mouth then hung agape at the sight of him dipping down to ruthlessly taste your desire. It didn’t take long before he lost himself in you so fiercely that he momentarily leaned back only to rip your underwear off. Both of his hands curved around your bottom, raking across your skin as he drew you even closer to his tongue and dragged it through your wet folds.

Bumping his nose against your clit, he let himself make out with your cunt a moment longer before planting a farewell peck over your pearl and pulling back. A dollop of spit dropped from his lips down onto your pussy. Catching the drop with his fingers before it slid away, he rubbed it into your own juices and made you that much more of a mess. 

“O-oh,” you moaned as he slowly slid a long finger into you after teasing your weepy entrance enough to make you shiver. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groaned at the soppy sounds his efforts conjured.

Craning down to kiss your clit sloppily, Bucky then slid his ring finger in beside the other, curving them gently as he reached even deeper. 

When he momentarily retracted his digits to land a small tap over your puffy petals, the smile that bloomed on your face only egged him on further. Plugging you back up, he then retracted and repeated the slap though with more ferocity. 

Your head began to lull a bit as he brought his vibranium digits down to roll your clit and his fingers began to fuck you harder, not faster, but with an intent that made your pussy sing for him. 

With your thighs trembling, they nearly slammed shut as you felt the end near, but your bodyguard only slid his strong metal forearm over your legs, hooking it right under both of your bent knees, to keep you spread nice and open for him. 

The veins on the back of his inked hand popped from how fiercely his fingers rocked within you. 

Stretching his thumb up to strum your clit, he tried to sneak a third finger inside of you as he felt your walls begin to flutter around him. 

“That’s it, I’ve got you,” as he always did in every manner, evidently. A smile curved at his lips as your eyes fluttered closed and a symphony of moans flowed out of you with every last tender stroke he offered you to carry you over the edge, “atta girl.”

Melted against the sheets, you caught your breath as he planted one last peck on your inner thigh before standing back up. 

Slowly, with his gaze ever glued on you, he unbuttoned his shirt, gradually revealing the silver shine of the dog tags that hung from his neck and the tattoos that sprawled across his skin. Going all the way up from the hand still shiny with your essence, the ink swirled up his right arm, across his pecs, down his back and even curved over to his left shoulder and intentionally tangled into the gnarly scares sprouting from the border of his prosthetic. 

When the button-up hit the floor, his fingers drifted down to unhurriedly remove his belt, pulling it out of the loops, he let it join the shirt before he undid his pants and let his cock spring free. 

“Jesus christ…” your jaw couldn’t help but drop to the floor as your eyes fluttered at the intimidating reveal. 

Noticing the anxiety that peeked through your lust-ridden expression, his low voice found your ears, “what? Did you change your mind?” 

“No, I just–…” you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his fat cock as it throbbed before you, “I got a bit nervous all of a sudden.” 

“No reason to be nervous, baby,” he breathed out a smile as his fist curled around his girth.  

“Oh really?” you nearly began to laugh. 

“You’ll be fine,” drool threatened to escape the corner of your lips as he slowly began to stroke himself, “trust me.” 

“Really? Because I’m not so sure I’ll be able to take that…” 

“You will,” he uttered calmly as he dipped down to give you a kiss, “don’t worry,” a hand slid into your hair as he cradled your face and ushered your gaze to find his, “you know I’d never hurt you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So, you’ll be fine,” his thumb curved to sweep over your cheek a few times. 

“Yeah,” you gently nodded and repeated after him, “I’ll be fine.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiled. Kissing you once more, he then pressed a peck to your forehead before his grasp found your hips and he suddenly flipped you around, onto your stomach. 

Helping you up onto your hands and knees, a hazy smile stretched across your features as he bent down over you and pressed kisses all along your spine. Dragging his bulbous tip through your sopping folds, he then teased you for so long, never granting you any more than a dizzying nudge, that whines began to escape from you.

“P-please,” you heard yourself beg as your fingers bunched up the sheets. 

“What?” he continued to flick and tap your swollen clit with the head of his heavy cock.

“I–I want it–, plea–, please fuck me,” you blubbered desperately. 

“Oh, now you want it, huh?” you could hear the smirk that dominated his face, “suddenly not so nervous anymore about me stretching you out, are you?”

“Bucky, plea–, o-oh–,” you felt your limbs tremble beneath you as he slipped the very tip inside. 

His efforts were so slow at first, gradually giving you more of his length and just shallowly fucking you till you blossomed and opened up for him. 

Gradually, his thrusts began to ease from a mind-numbingly slow pace to something that truly scrambled your brain. You soon lost yourself completely to the molten sensation of his fat girth steadily splitting you open. 

Though when he finally bottomed out within you, a shrill gasp slipped out passed your lips and your frame shuttered beneath him. 

Drawing his hips back just enough for you to regain the ability to fill your lungs with oxygen once more, you heard him murmur in your ear, “what, is it too much dick for you?” retraining his thrusts slightly, he kept his tip from kissing your cervix, “that better or is it still too deep for you?” his hands dented your hips.

“N-no, no, it feels so good, it’s just–,” a whimper slipped out of you and broke up your slurring, “you’re so fucking big, I’ve never–,” you felt like you could feel him all the way up in your throat, “no one’s ever been that fucking deep before.”

One of his hands curved down to your clit at the exact same time as your own did. As they met, he let your own fingers swirl over your puffy pearl as his simply lingered, till he suddenly grasped your wrist and gently led it away from your pussy, further up to your lower stomach. 

“That deep?” he pressed down on your palm and let you discover the dull bulge that formed in your belly at every one of his dizzying thrusts, “has no one ever stuffed you that full before? Not even one of your pretty toys you play with so often?”

“Nuh-uh,” you panted as his warm contact dissipated from your spine and he straightened back up. 

A gravelly moan slipped out past Bucky’s lips as he glanced down to see how tightly your creamy pussy was gripping onto his cock. Your fingers returned to the sheets as his wide palm came down to slap your ass, your back arching at the impact and consequently angling his efforts so that the details of his dick brushed against your g-spot in the most heavenly way imaginable. 

He only buried himself inside of you a few more times, his heavy sack tapping against your buzzing clit at every electric buck, till your pussy gushed around his fat girth. 

“There you go,” he pulled out only to insistently flick your puffy pearl with his tip, “fucking hell,” he then plunged his cock all the way back in before dragging it back out, “keep going,” ushering more squirt to drizzle out. He kept up the overwhelming pattern till your pussy stopped gushing for him, till he’d pushed you through the overstimulation and your cunt slowly began to relax again for him. Eventually, when he steadily withdrew from you, he craned his neck to relish in the way your little hole had stretched out and accommodated so well for him, it even winking sinfully at him every time he pulled out, “good fucking girl,” he growled at the sight, “told you so, you’d do just fine,” your shaky frame jolted as he slapped your ass again, “look at you now fucking gaping for me, christ…”

With a ring of your cream staining the base of his cock, he let himself return to your warmth for longer than just a few seconds, fucking you with such ferocity that your pliant form, still molten and unsteady from your second orgasm, collapsed onto the mattress below. 

Though he successfully caught you before you could slip off his cock entirely, he still let you drop down on the bed, though softened the fall for you, before he followed suit. 

The weight of him on top of you felt so comforting and soothed on your tingly skin.

“You okay?” he kissed your cheek before spreading your stocking-clad legs with his own. 

“Hm,” you nodded foggily and felt yourself drool onto the sheets as he squished you further into the mattress.

Your shaky moans filled the bedroom as he slid back inside, “fuck, you feel so good…” sloppily nipping just below your ear before he picked up his pace. 

The chain that dangled from his neck felt cool on your skin and acted as a stark contrast to how hot his body felt pressed against your back. 

“You think you can be a good girl and cum for me again?” he groaned into your ear as his efforts echoed sloppily, “let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze around me one last time?”

“I-I don’t know,” you trembled beneath him, every one of his deep thrusts making you jolt and gasp for air as he was practically splitting you in half. 

“You don’t know?” he sweetly whispered in your ear as he curled his arms under you. One hand slid under your tit and caught your pebbly nipple in a rude pinch while the other soared down to your sore and swollen clit, “can you try for me? Try and cum again,” your eyes had fallen completely shut, so your whole reality had just become Bucky’s reassuring weight, his tantalising efforts, and his sinful whispers that seeped directly into your soul, “try and squirt for me one last time, sweetheart.” 

And so, you did. It didn’t even take that long before you tumbled over one last time and your pussy creamed for him, drenching the already damp sheets beneath you, as he swiftly came as well, throbbing deep within your clenching cunt and filling your little hole up to the brim till it tried to leak and escape around his girth.

His heavy pants faded from your ear as he slowly crawled off of you, cascading a tender trail of kisses all the way down your body till he gently retraced his track of pecks and settled down next to you. Fluttering your eyes open as his palm slid up to your heated cheek, he gazed into your hazy eyes for a moment before leaning in to softly press his lips to your own. 

You wanted to curl in closer to his frame, but your body was so exhausted that you could barely raise your pinkie finger. Fortunately though, as you layed there in wordless wonder, Bucky’s arms draped around you as he scooted in close, hugging you to him and gently caressing your skin as you continued to blink back into his ocean eyes, not uttering a word out of fear that you’d ruin the blissful moment.

After perhaps a small eternity had passed, he briefly raised his head up slightly to catch sight of the small clock on your bedside table. 

“There’s still a few more hours left before the sunrise…” he settled back down beside you.

“Oh, yeah?” a soft smile tilted up your lips as his touch began to travel south. 

“Yeah,” his lips gently parted in a silent moan as his fingers slid through your sore folds. His stare was transfixed on how your brows knitted together and a quiet hiss slipped out of you as he swirled over your sensitivity, playing with the hot load he’d pumped into you as it slowly leaked out, one of his digits too brash not to try and stuff it back inside, “what do you think?” sharing your breath, he inched in and let his nose nuzzle against your own, “do you want me to be yours just a little bit longer or would you rather I’d return to my own bed?” 

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[reiderwriter]

✍️Introduction and Masterlist✍️

About me: Hi! I'm Kacie, I'm 21, and I use she/her/any pronouns. I'm from the UK but I'm currently an English Teacher in South Korea (if you want to know more I'm totally open to conversations about it!) and this is my side blog, so I follow and respond to comments from @studykac

Writing: At this point in time. I only write for Spencer Reid. I will pass on any requests that focus on other characters because I don't currently write for them. A lot of my work is also NSFW. If you are under the age of 18, do NOT interact with any of my posts that are tagged #maturereiding - please block this tag!! When my requests are open you can request through the Ask box, or through DMs, but please keep in mind I do have a full time job, so I will do my best to get things out quickly. You can find my recommendations in the tag #reiderrecommends!

Other interests: kpop, especially Seventeen, SHINee, NCT and BTS, Criminal Minds (obv), NCIS, reading any genre of books (here's a link for my GoodReads page), Percy Jackson, languages (learning Korean currently!), English Literature, Jane Austen etc.

Requests are: CLOSED - find my request guidelines here!

Writing:

Spencer Reid x Reader NSFW

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress // 3.8k

Summary: The AC at the BAU decides to take a holiday during a summer heatwave, and when you decide the FBI’s dress code is merely a suggestion, you unwittingly catch Spencer’s eye.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, semi-public sex, fingering, car sex, degradation, name-calling, edging, praise-kink, dumbification

Everyone Looks Better in a Sundress pt. 2 // 2.4K

Summary: After a hot encounter in your car, Spencer pulls you inside your apartment hoping to give you some more relief from the heat.

Warnings: Dom!Spencer, sub!Reader, soft Dom, oral (M receiving), pet names, degradation, face fucking, messy sex, creampie, breeding kink

Margaritas and Mistakes // Part 1 // Part 2

Summary: On a group night out, you get a little more drunk than you want to, and when Spencer shows up looking like the love of your life and not just your coworker, you realise that the margarita’s are having more of an effect than they should be.

Warnings: Suggestive language, dirty talk, heavy petting, hickeys, making out, mentions of arousal etc. (part one)

Show You What Devotion Is ❤️‍🔥

Summary: After a lustful encounter on the jet, you and Spencer decide to try out a friends-with-benefits relationship. What you didn't expect was for his sex drive to be so high, and your need for him to overpower your ability to function properly.

Warnings: So many, check the post for details.

More Than Words 🫶 // 8k

Summary: After telling a white lie to your family about your relationship status, you're forced to ask your coworker Spencer to pretend to be your boyfriend for a weekend wedding.

Warnings: Mostly fluff, penetrative sex, creampie, mentions of Spencer's childhood.

The Us That Could've Been 💔 // 5.7k

Summary: They say to get over a man, you have to get under another. Spencer isn't sure why the idea of you doing just that makes him feel so bad.

Warnings: angst, unprotected sex, creampie, spoilers for season 8, mentions of Maeve, Spencer is emotionally illiterate etc.

Unhappy Holidays 👻🦃🎄🎆// 5k

Summary: You're unlucky enough to run into Spencer Reid at holiday celebrations four years in a row. In the New Year, you're resolving to rid him from your mind forever, but you never were one to stick to resolutions 👻🦃🎄🎆

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, low-key work rivals, semi-public sex, car sex, hate sex, fingering, thigh riding, creampie, unprotected sex (no condoms but contraceptive mentioned), slight spoilers for s4 of Criminal Minds (but not really).

Flirting with the FBI // 7.1k

Summary: To catch a killer, you have to first out him on the FBI's radar. By hacking their systems and flirting with Spencer Reid, of course.

Warnings: Rough sex, Dom Spencer, bimbofication, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, use of slut and good girl, more in the fic warnings.

Spencer Reid x Reader SFW

The Lightbulb Moment // 4.8k

Summary: You want Spencer all to yourself for the first few months of your relationship and he's only too happy to comply. Unfortunately, you're two dumbasses who can't keep their hands off one another.

Just Hanging Out // 3k

Summary: To kick off your vacation, you find yourself at Rossi's mansion with your team for a big summer barbeque. A hammock in the garden catches your eye, and you enlist Reid to help you have some fun in the sun.

(Not smut but highly suggestive, read at your own discretion).

Isn't She Pretty, Daddy? // 2k

Summary: You're a teacher, and you have to call in one of your students' parents to talk about their recent troubling behaviour. It's more embarrassing than you thought when Spencer Reid shows up.

Series

That's What You Get // complete 💕

Summary: After three weeks on a case in Vegas and a particularly draining phone call from your mother, you decide to take Reid up on his offer to show you the sights of Las Vegas. When you wake up the next morning, you realise that one of the sights was a 24hour Wedding Parlor, and that you're now Mrs Reid.

Genres: Fluff, smut in later chapters, angst in later chapters, happy ending.

Playlist: Me and You in 2024

Summary: One song fic a week throughout 2024!

Genres: Various, check individual chapters for specific warnings!♡

Answered Requests

(NSFW) Request inspired by Taylor Swift's False God 🙏// 2.2k

(NSFW) Request for a soft!Dom Spencer with cockwarming and breeding kink 💕 // 2k words

(NSFW) Request for Reader introducing vanilla!Spencer to a BDSM lifestyle ✨// 0.7k words

(SFW) Request for Reader kidnapped by unsub and saved by Spencer 💕 // 2.2k

(SFW) Request for pregnant Reader and Spencer who is an absolute fool for her 🌸 // 1.2k

(SFW) Request for shamelessly flirting with an oblivious Spencer 😊// 2k

(NSFW) Request for post-Maeve Spencer who uses sex as a coping mechanism 🫡//4.6k

(NSFW) Request for alt!sub!Reader meeting the team for the first time (and they totally think she's the Dom) 🤭// 1.5k

(NSFW) Request for CNC office sex with Spencer 🚫// 1k

(SFW) Request for Spencer finding out you knew Emily was alive 😿// 0.7k

(SFW) Request for training session with Spencer 🤼‍♀️// 1.8k

(SFW) Request for I Can See You inspired angst 🥺// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer making the reader beg for it ❤️‍🔥// 1.6k

(NSFW) Request for CNC with soft!Dom Spencer - shower sex 💦// 1.3k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Professor Reid doesn't know he's distracting the class 👓// 3k

(NSFW) Request for Sub!Spencer begging reader to dominate him 🫣// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for Genophobic virgin!Reader ❤️‍🩹// 5k

(NSFW) Request for Professor Spencer with a jealous gf 🐺//2k

(SFW) Request for reader helping Spencer through recovery 🤕// 1k

(NSFW) Request for possessive Spencer reacting to your little black dress 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - Undercover with an "excited" Spencer 🕵‍♂️// 3.6k

(SFW) Request for playing video games with Spencer 🎮// 1k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - munch! Spencer is obsessed with you 👅// 2k

(SFW) Request for Spencer babying an oblivious reader 👶// 2k

(NSFW) PROMPT REQUEST - sharing a cold bed with Frenemy Spencer 🛌// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for reader being distracted while Spencer is reading 📚// 1k

(NSFW) Request for Pillow fort sex with Spencer ⛺️// 2k

(NSFW) Request for car confession and oral with Spencer 🚗// 1.7k

(NSFW) Request for dancing the night away with Spencer 💃// 2.5k

(NSFW) Request for the morning after Spencer loses his V-Card 😶// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for reader confessing to Spencer when he's in his anthrax shower 🚿// 0.7k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer finding readers unusual sensitive area 🤝// 3.5k

(NSFW) Request for Spencer and Hotch!Reader secret relationship 🤐// 6k

(SFW) Request for reader being jealous of Spencer and Lila 🤽‍♀️// 2.1k

(NSFW) Request for gun kink 🔫//3k

(SFW) Request for Shy! Spencer and Flirty!Reader 🫣 // 2.3k

[tossawary]

Sewing adventures continue with delightful surprises. I was paging through a pattern book in the fabric store, looking for ideas on what garments I might be able to make and modify, and looked through the costume section for fun. Lots of Jane Austen historical dresses and "we legally cannot specifically say this is intended for 'Game of Thrones' cosplay" "medieval" outfits in there, which was to be expected, and then I turned the page and barked out a surprise laugh because there was a photograph of a woman who was VERY CLEARLY cosplaying as Lan Wangji from "The Untamed".

It's not a surprise that cosplayers go to fabric stores and buy patterns. In my ten years of experience or so with this stuff, the stereotypical middle-aged and old ladies who work there will often very happily tell you about their previous encounters with the cosplayers helping to keep them in business. I simply haven't been to a convention since before COVID and had not known that "The Untamed" had become THAT level of popular.

Delightful.

EDIT: Here's the link to the pattern I originally encountered and a link to the cosplayer's own website.

[copajay]

high society

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

masterlist

HAPPY NEW YEARSSS im going through a bridgerton phase rn and was reminded of my quarantine obsession w jane austen and enhypen so here's a jake period piece :P

summary: it's the early 19th century regency era, you belong to a well-known noble family but your father has been noticing a decline in his finances. determined to save the estate and his honor, he encourages you to mingle with any and every suitable bachelor in your town to secure the family fortune through marriage. none of them catch your eye, until you meet park sunghoon...'s stableman. (not proofread)

date: 01/01/24

scenario themes: period piece, rich girl broke dude cliche

idol: jake sim or sim jaeyun of enhypen

concept: fluff

warnings: mentions of hitting women (nothing crazy i swear)

word count: 7.28k

it was a typical sunday morning, you woke up in your satin sheets, calling to your servants to ready you for the day. after getting dressed and having your hair fixed, you made your way down the stairs to enjoy breakfast with your family as usual.

you've always enjoyed a life of luxury. belonging to a dignified household constantly bustling with an array of servants, housekeepers, cooks, and more, you never felt any need to marry.

why go from such a grand, happy estate to a smaller one to live with complete strangers as opposed to the hands that practically raised you? why abandon your daily latin lessons with your governess to listen to your mother-in-law lecture you about producing an heir?

luckily, you were the youngest daughter of six siblings, three girls and three boys. your brothers ensured your family name would survive and your sisters provided your parents with plenty of marriage proposals to occupy themselves with. there was absolutely no reason for you to be wed any time soon.

at least that's what you thought before you sat down to breakfast. "good morning, y/n" your mother greeted. "good morning mother, father." you acknowledged the man sitting across the table from you, occupied with a small journal in his hands.

as you were about to take a sip of your morning tea, you heard your father sigh, exasperated. "what seems to be the matter, father?" your elder sister asked, eyeing the journal.

"i'm simply going over finances. there's no need to panic as it is a matter of little emergency. we will need to find a new source of income by next sunday, and since your lazy and careless brothers cannot be bothered to fulfill their duties as men, it is up to you girls to marry men who can." he asserted.

unaffected, you continued to pick at your breakfast. you have two older sisters who are perfectly fit to wed, why should you worry?

"we have already begun looking for matches for catherine and y/n." your mother noted. your head shot up upon hearing your name, "pardon me?" you exclaimed, "what about arabella? she's the eldest of all of us."

"we have been looking for a suitor for arabella for a twelvemonth now. she is clearly unfit to be a bride, just look at her!" your mother began, prompting your oldest sibling to roll her eyes.

arabella has always been... unladylike to say the least. she sported breeches while horse riding and insisted on discussing politics and sports instead of more suitable feminine topics. it's no surprise most of the men in this age couldn't stand her.

you personally never minded. she did a better job educating you than your own governess, reading controversial female literature to you and encouraging you to avoid marriage for as long as you can, which you gladly did.

unfortunately, you weren't as forward as arabella. you wouldn't dare disagree with your parents like her, recalling how she boldly rejected a marriage proposal from a wealthy lord, angering your father.

you bit your tongue to prevent a protest from leaving your lips. what are the odds you'll actually find someone? all you have to do is push away all the suitors long enough for catherine to find someone. after all, she was a model young lady: quiet, pretty enough, and obedient.

you, on the other hand, could only be described as spoiled and insolent. perhaps not as impertinent as arabella, but you were definitely sassy in your own right. most men found your attitude off-putting and made empty threats to "whip you into shape".

"enough of this discussion. we will be attending a ball tonight in an attempt to mingle with some members of high society. I expect you girls to be on your best behavior. and be sure to invite any potential bachelors to our estate for tea!" your mother rambled.

you were undoubtedly annoyed at the circumstances, but oh how you loved getting ready for functions like these. wearing your nicest gowns, displaying your expensive jewelry and unique hair styles. then, actually arriving at the formal and being able to listen to delightful pianoforte and dance with strangers.

the ball was being held by the park estate, renowned throughout the province for being incredibly wealthy. the parks had four sons, two of whom were already married. which left sunghoon and jay as the biggest targets of every unmarried girl within a ten kilometer radius.

they were quite handsome, but you weren't interested in either. perhaps they'd make good matches for catherine, supplying your family with an alarming amount of wealth and allowing you to remain a happy spinster for the rest of your days.

before you knew it, it was time to ready yourself for the ball. excitedly, you threw on your finest corset and carefully selected your prettiest lavender gown, pairing it with a dainty pearl set.

as you situated yourself in the carriage with your sisters and mother, you couldn't help but zone out as they excitedly discussed meeting the park brothers. "i hope jay asks me for a dance!" catherine giggled, prompting arabella to shift uncomfortably.

she always seemed to react a bit oddly to any mentions of jay. you honestly didn't mind him, he's generous and far more liberal than most men. maybe not liberal enough for arabella, but you suppose nobody is.

by the time you reached the park estate, you excitedly jumped out of the carriage first, rushing into the doors of the large manor. you're not one to be impressed by ostentatious displays of wealth, but by God was this place striking.

marble and gold mosaic lined the interior walls with chandeliers latched onto the high ceilings, illuminating the magnificent paintings along the walls. a group of musicians was situated in the corner of the large room, playing loudly as dozens of ladies and lords conversed, dressed to the nines.

you looked to your left and noticed arabella fiddling with her dress. grasping her hand, you smiled before sighing, "isn't it beautiful?"

she playfully rolled her eyes, "it is, but not beautiful enough to marry into this mad family. don't fall for whatever trap mother and father are attempting to catch you in." she warned.

"yes, yes, I know. can't you just enjoy the ball?" you pleaded. she simply shook her head and announced that she would be heading to the garden for some solitude. as odd as she is, your sister is dear to you and you'd like to see her happily settled down with a good man one day.

turning, you were greeted with the sight of park sunghoon. great. you could see your mother eyeing you in your peripheral vision so now you had to acknowledge him.

"hello, sunghoon." you half-smiled and curtsied. he bowed in response, "good evening, y/n. would you care to join me for a dance?" he asked, extending his arm to you. i'd rather eat dirt. "I would love to." you took his arm.

it's not like you dislike sunghoon. he's a proper gentleman. he enjoys hunting and composing music, he's tall, handsome, and not to mention extremely well-off. but he bored you to no end, and he was very old-fashioned.

you vividly remember overhearing a conversation between him and your brothers, where he proudly claimed he would spank arabella until she behaved if he was her husband. you also remember jay getting quite upset at him afterward.

"i heard your parents were looking to give your hand" he started, interrupting your thoughts. "yes, it appears so." you responded, absentmindedly. "have you met anyone suitable yet?" he carefully continued.

you weren't an idiot. it's apparent sunghoon has had a sort of infatuation with you for a while now. "no, not yet." you sighed. you didn't miss how his eyebrow raised. uncomfortable, you decided to excuse yourself, "I need to freshen up. would you mind pointing me in the direction of the bath?"

"certainly." he responded, sounding rather annoyed. after showing you the way, you practically sprinted out the door in your heels, desperate to get away from the smell of his headache-inducing fragrance.

you spotted a greenhouse and deduced it must be close to the garden, where arabella should be. making your way there, you stopped in your tracks when you heard a clanging noise followed by muffled shushes.

deciding to investigate, you inched closer to the source of the sound and nearly yelped at the sight.

you saw arabella and jay embracing one another. but not just embracing. they were fondling, kissing, grasping at one another. it was quite possibly the most lewd thing you've ever seen.

you didn't know what to say or how to react. so you turned and ran in the opposite direction, praying neither of them saw you. unfortunately for you, you're completely unfamiliar with the grounds and ended up running headfirst into a door.

you fell on the ground with a pounding pain in your temple. sitting up, you looked around for a clue as to where you were but to no avail. you were too dumbfounded at the sight you just witnessed to process anything else.

thankfully, you heard footsteps rushing to where you were and a strong pair of arms lifting you up. "are you alright, ma'am?" the stranger's voice fretted.

"yes, yes I--arabella. OH MY GOODNESS ARABELLA. you have to help me sir." you grasped at the thin, cloth shirt the boy opposite you was wearing.

"who's arabella? what's wrong?" the man asked. you noticed he had a very peculiar accent, one that sounded more akin to commoners. his clothing was quite dirty as well. he must've been a new servant, probably a stablehand.

"my sister. she was--he--jay was... doing something to her." you rasped. it wasn't long before the man began chuckling. "oh yes, they do that quite often."

he slowly released his grip on you and stepped back. "you need not worry about her. would you like assistance heading back to the ball, ma'am?"

he turned around before you even responded, heading towards the manor before you grabbed his arm. "wait. i would actually prefer to stay out here."

you must sound like an idiot. and the puzzled look on the boy's face only affirms that. the truth is you just don't want to have to deal with your mother pressuring you and sunghoon's advances.

"what's your name?" you asked the servant, changing the topic. "jake, ma'am." he responded swiftly. "you need not call me ma'am. y/n will do just fine." you shot jake a smile.

you're not sure why you enjoy this boy's presence so much. perhaps it's his puppy-like eyes or his soft voice. "well, y/n," jake prompted.

just hearing him say your name sent shivers down your spine. what has gotten into you? he's a stablehand. a servant.

"i suggest we go inside as it is exceedingly cold out. we wouldn't want you to develop an illness" he sympathized. he led you into the dimly lit stables, where you could get a better look at him.

he had thick pink lips and long black hair that nearly covered his eyes. his nose was long and tall and he had highly defined cheekbones coupled with a sharp jawline. he was dangerously handsome.

you caught yourself staring at him and got a bit embarrassed before you noticed that his eyes kept darting down at you and away, nervously. you looked down to see your corset was disheveled after your fall, revealing a bit of your cleavage.

screaming, you threw your purse at him while attempting to cover yourself. was this stableboy about to do to you whatever jay was doing with your sister?

he put his hands up above his head as if to surrender and apologized profusely. "i'm so, so sorry ma'am! I meant to mention it earlier but I was a bit apprehensive as I didn't want to offend you-"

you steadied yourself a bit seeing how anxious jake looked. attempting to console him, you held his shaking hands. poor thing probably thought you were going to get him whipped, or worse.

"it's fine. I'm just a bit on edge after... never mind that. could you please explain to me what I saw jay doing with my sister? it is still heavy on my mind." you hesitated.

jake began looking bashful again. "when two people are overcome by lust, they tend to... fornicate." he explained awkwardly. you gasped. you weren't familiar with what fornication actually looked like, but you knew it was a great shame.

"please, please don't tell anyone." you begged him, still gripping onto his hands. "of course, not, ma'am--y/n. it's not my business to tell." he assured.

smiling, you let go of his hands. the two of you stood in comfortable silence for a while, looking out the doors to the stable at the starry sky and beautiful garden underneath it.

jake broke the silence first, "i believe it's time for you to return to the ball. your family must be getting worried."

your mood immediately soured. you wanted nothing less than to return to the ball you were once so excited to attend, especially because it was now a matchmaking event for your parents.

"right." you straightened down your gown. "do you think you could... help me adjust my corset before I go?" you cautioned. the truth is you could've easily fixed it yourself, you just wanted another excuse to be close to jake again.

he shuffled behind you before fastening one of the buttons on your top that had come undone. his hands were shaky yet his grip was firm. your breath hitched as he gently moved your hair to the side.

the tension was palpable, and before you knew it, you had turned around and were face to face with jake. your noses were nearly touching and you felt an electric shock travel from your stomach to your head.

feeling lightheaded, you moved a bit closer. you could hear his breathing speed up.

the next thing you know your lips were touching his. you knew this wasn't right, that this was not only a shameful thing to do as an unmarried woman, but with a stablehand of all people?

but in that moment, you couldn't care less. you attempted to deepen the kiss awkwardly but it was apparent you had no idea what you were doing. he didn't seem to mind though, reciprocating your efforts.

you were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching. panicking, you pulled away. you didn't miss how jake seemed to lean in again subconsciously, which almost prompted you to jump back into his arms.

but you were way too terrified of getting caught. without thinking, you ducked behind a bale of hay. holding back a laugh, jake turned to face the front of the stables where arabella and jay walked in. arabella was wearing trousers and a linen shirt that she must've had on under her gown.

"jake, ready two horses at once." jay ordered, sternly. "of course, master jay." jake obediently answered.

"are you sure about this, jay?" arabella whispered, tugging on the boy's sleeve. "we have no other choice, you know my parents won't approve of you." he insisted sympathetically, grasping onto her hands.

were they about to elope?

jake handed jay the reigns to two separate horses. jay simply smiled and thanked him before handing one of the horses over to arabella. "I wish I could've at least told my baby sister." she sighed.

rage built up inside of you. how could she keep this from you? she definitely doesn't have to tell you now because you're going to make it known that you're well aware.

you jumped up from behind the hay like a madwoman, your corset still slightly a mess with straw in your hair. "arabella! how could you?" you yelled accusingly.

yelping, your sister quickly covered her mouth. "y/n, what on earth are you doing in here?" she retorted, still slightly shocked. "never mind that. were you about to elope... with him?" you motioned over to jay.

"y/n, I'm not sure what you think of me at this moment but I assure you it was for the best-" he started. "I don't care. unhand my sister at once." you seethed. "y/n! do not speak to him that way!" arabella defended.

you were furious. arabella, your tomboy and supposed spinster of a sister was secretly fornicating with jay park and now she was planning on eloping with him.

jake looked awkwardly between you and your sister as jay held his head down. you and arabella on the other hand were having a heated stare-down.

"if you stay, i won't tell a soul about this. if you leave, I will tell the entire county and a search party will be sent for the two of you within an hour. it's your decision." you growled.

sighing, arabella shot jay a knowing look to which he nodded in agreement. "we will stay. but if you know what's best for you, you'll be quiet." she warned. you wanted to scoff at her threat, but you knew it would just fan the flames all over again.

jay suggested heading back to the ball as the three of you had been out long enough. after jake led you through the servant's staircase, the three of you joined the party once again, luckily right before it was about to end.

sunghoon caught your eye right as you were leaving, and of course, your mother happened to be right in front of you when he approached you. "y/n! i've been looking for you the whole night. I was hoping to get a second dance," he slurred, it was evident he had one too many glasses of port wine.

"perhaps next time, sunghoon." you grumbled. your mother sent him an apologetic look before waving goodbye.

fortunately, there were two carriages sent to retrieve you and your family after your mother complained that the one was too cramped. unfortunately, mother and catherine jumped into the first one, leaving you and arabella alone in the second.

you honestly couldn't bare looking at her, let alone speaking to her on the way home, so you opted for staring out at the countryside through the small window.

"why were you in the stables?" arabella began. you shot her an annoyed look. "i know you're upset with me, y/n, but you wouldn't understand what it's like to be in love with someone you can't be with. it's unbearable."

"no. maybe I don't. but I do know that it's wrong to leave behind your loved ones. besides, you and jay nearly had an arrangement! was there really a need to go and do all this? mother practically begged you to be with him-"

"and his parents couldn't stand me. they told him he could never marry such an uncouth woman." she sputtered, tears forming at her eyes.

your heart hurt for your sister, but you were still far too upset to embrace her. "the stablehand, jake." you blurted.

she looked up at you, confused. "i saw you and jay..." you explained, prompting arabella to look away once again in shame. "...and I ended up hitting my head on the stable doors somehow. jake came out to help me and we somehow ended up kissing." you admitted, slightly embarrassed.

arabella's mouth opened slightly, before it closed and formed a smile. "do you like him?" she chided like a small child.

that was one of the things you loved so much about your sister. she was never judgemental, always open to hearing whatever you had to say.

"I believe I do." you smiled sadly, "but it would never work. he's a servant for crying out loud."

"do you want to see him again?" she asked, unexpectedly. you nodded before seeing a mischievous glint in her eye. she smiled widely and made a proclamation, "how's this? I help you hide your meetings with jake and you help me with jay. it may not be a long term solution but it would help, wouldn't it?"

"what about mother's obsession with marrying me off?" you huffed. "she's not obsessed with just you marrying. besides, sunghoon alone is wealthy enough to fix our financial woes. let's set him up with catherine, convincing her to set her sights on him." she stated.

springing up from your seat, you held your sister while cheering, "genius! you're a genius!" causing her to laugh and cheer as well.

that night you couldn't sleep. your mind kept replaying the kiss between you and jake. you could still feel the ghost of his soft lips on yours. giggling to yourself, you realized you probably look like a madwoman. yet, you didn't really mind. all you cared about was seeing jake again.

the next morning you mentally prepared yourself as you made your way down to breakfast. all you have to do is fib a bit to your family, it can’t possibly be that hard.

making eye contact with arabella as you waltzed down the stairs, you held back a smile before greeting your parents.

“mother, you’ll be delighted to know that i believe i’ve found my match.” you announced, rather dramatically. your mother nearly dropped her spoon upon hearing the good news, and your father simply smiled and asked, “who is it, my dear?”

“jay park.” you grinned, watching as arabella shot you a mischievous wink from across the dining table. “i was thinking we could perhaps have a luncheon at the park residence today. sunghoon also made it very apparent to me that he has been showing an interest in one of my sisters,”

this caught the attention of catherine.

“which one of us?” catherine yelped. “clearly not arabella,” your younger brother snickered, earning a light smack to the back of the head from your sister.

“he… erm, didn’t say. which is why we must find out today at the luncheon!” you stammered. as unconvincing as you sounded, your parents and siblings seemed to fully believe you, which meant your plan was now in motion.

from that day on, you and arabella were able to make your way to the park’s estate nearly daily by lying.

part of you felt guilty, but that guilt was alleviated as soon as you felt jake’s warm embrace. the two of you would lay in the garden some days, and sneak around the manor on other days, using the servant passageways.

you would constantly cover up for arabella as she would for you. and to your surprise, you witnessed a romance slowly blooming between catherine and sunghoon.

“what are your plans for the future? would you like to start a family, settle down in the countryside? or would you like to move into the city, somewhere in london perhaps?” you asked jake. you were sitting in the shade of a large oak tree behind the park manor with his head in your lap as you ran your fingers aimlessly through his soft hair.

he laughed lightly, “i always assumed I’d be stuck here forever, picking up horse dung.”

you felt a pang of hurt in your chest, being reminded of the harsh reality of being a servant. “surely that can’t be. don’t you have a home? where is your family residing?” you asked.

“of course i have a home,” jake started as he slowly got up from your lap. you immediately felt the cool breeze hit your lap in the absence of his warmth. “it’s in the southern part of town, my parents and brother own a bakery near there, on 5th street.” he smiled to himself.

“why didn’t you work in the bakery?” you prodded. you felt a bit nosy, but you were genuinely curious. “we were hardly making anything, it seems like nobody has enough to even spend on bread anymore. I had to find a job elsewhere and this seemed to be the only option.”

you felt a sense of guilt wash over you. you were so used to your own servants hanging on your every whim yet you never wondered about their livelihood. with income running low, father cut their salaries which you’re sure was already low.

“enough of that.” jake coughed, visibly uncomfortable, “will you read to me?”

you smiled, grabbing the long-forgotten novel in the grass behind you.

everything was running smoothly until the parks decided to come over for tea one eventful afternoon. you happily greeted lord and lady park along with their two youngest sons as they sat down in the drawing room.

you were only excited to see jay so you could cryptically ask about any developments concerning jake. unfortunately, you wouldn’t have any time to as your parents did most of the talking.

“so, i hear that jay and y/n are getting on quite well,” lady park beamed. your mother nodded vigorously in approval while you and jay feigned bashfulness.

“i also heard good news about sunghoon and my dear catherine.” your father added, to which lord park raised his cup to.

it was a typical, and rather boring, conversation until sunghoon decided to pipe in, “i always presumed i would end up with y/n,” he said casually, chuckling to himself.

catherine suddenly looked to mother, shocked. “i thought you were interested in catherine, mr. park.” your mother quipped.

“oh, of course. but that is a much more recent development. i’ve been pandering after y/n since we were kids for christ sake.”

your mother glared at you, clearly upset with your lying but at least you could cover it up by claiming you were too occupied with jay to notice sunghoon’s advances.

coughing awkwardly, your father suddenly stood up, brushing himself off. “lady l/n and i have long thought about this decision, and wanted to ask you personally instead of relying on correspondence.” once he had everyone in the room’s attention, he continued,

“we believe y/n and jay should be wed by tomorrow.”

you froze. you watched as jay and sunghoon’s jaws dropped and the elder parks began to protest. tomorrow?

“as happy as we all are that our children are getting on, don’t you think tomorrow is making haste?” lady park commented, but your father insisted, “we don’t need to plan the grand ceremony just yet, but an intimate procession in which legal and religious matters are sorted would be nice to get out of the way, wouldn’t it?”

you knew exactly why your father was so desperate to get you married by tomorrow as it would be saturday, meaning you had only tomorrow to correct the family finances.

“with all due respect, i feel like this is a bit rushed. jay and i haven’t fully gotten to know each other yet. don’t you think sunghoon and catherine would make a better match?” you suggested, your voice shaky.

“nonsense. you’ve gone over to the park’s nearly every day this week, spending hours there each visit. surely you’ve gotten to know him enough.” your mother insisted.

“then it is set. the two are to be wed tomorrow, let us discuss the details!” lady park shared gleefully.

you couldn’t bare listening any longer. wordlessly, you stood up, heading to your room, passing by arabella who was eavesdropping by the steps.

“she must be nervous.” your father announced after your departure.

once you found your way to your bed you collapsed. what were you going to do? how were you going to tell jake? you felt hopeless.

you heard a knock on your door. then another one, this time more impatient. “come in.” you groaned, ready to unleash your wrath on whoever walked in.

“are you alright, miss l/n? i heard a large slam coming from this direction.” an elderly maid asked innocently.

seeing her familiar face calmed your nerves. she had been working around the house for as long as you can remember, but she looked much more tired now. you thought back to your conversation with jake and realized how little you seemed to notice her condition weaken over time.

christ, you didn’t even know her name.

“i’m fine,” you smiled. “um, could you please set up a carriage for me? if you’d like, i’d prefer it if you joined me.” you suggested.

she looked taken aback but quickly composed herself, “yes of course, miss l/n.”

it wasn’t long before the carriage was drawn and you and your maid stepped inside. “where to, miss l/n?” she asked, “the bakery on 5th street, i believe it is located south of here.”

“pardon me miss l/n, but isn’t fetching bread a servant’s job?” she hesitated. “please just call me y/n, and i plan on doing more than simply ‘fetching bread’” you responded reassuringly.

she nodded and the two of you set course for the bakery. along the way, you decided to learn more about the maid. you found out that her name is agatha, she was aged three and forty, had three kids of her own, and had been working for your family since you were born.

once you arrived, you and agatha stepped into the nearly empty building. the only person you saw was a young man behind the counter who you assumed was jake’s brother.

“good afternoon, ma’am. how can i be of assistance?” the boy greeted, dusting off his flour-covered hands on the counter.

“i’d like to purchase ten loaves of bread.” you beamed. agatha glanced over at you, confused. “that would be ten shillings, ma’am” he smiled. he looked strikingly similar to jake when he did so.

“who on earth could be buying that much bread-” you heard a familiar voice emerge from behind the counter. you were surprised to see jake wearing much more casual clothing than you’re used to seeing him in, holding a loaf of steaming bread.

he stopped upon seeing you, quickly pulling himself together. “my apologies… ma’am.” he nearly whispered before disappearing back into the kitchen. for the rest of the time he popped in and out the two of you did your best to ignore one another.

after nearly half an hour of waiting, your order was finished. as you loaded the loaves into the carriage with the help of jake and his brother, you felt the sudden urge to tell jake about your impending marriage.

unfortunately, you couldn’t find a way to without raising the suspicions of either agatha or his brother, so you thanked the both of them and went on your way. hopefully it would all be sorted out and he’d never have to know.

once alone with agatha, you handed the loaves to her. “please distribute these among the servant’s families, and keep one for your own. I’d like to make a quick stop before i return.” you shared. “of course, where to?” she asked.

“your home.” you answered casually. “miss l/n-”

“y/n.” you corrected. “y/n, is something the matter? i apologize if i’m speaking too freely but you have been behaving a bit oddly today.” agatha nervously shared.

“yes actually, there is a cause for great concern. i am to be wed tomorrow to a man i have no affection for meanwhile i am hopelessly in love with a stableboy.” you stated carelessly.

you yourself are unsure of why you decided to confide in agatha but you felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders once you did.

“I’m sorry to hear that. i hope for the best for you always, you know you’ve always been my favorite of your siblings.” she half-joked, lightening the mood.

you couldn’t help but laugh, and before you knew it, the two of you were joking with each other like old friends.

once you arrived at agatha’s house you handed her two shillings. “this is double your salary for the day. take off early, i insist. neither mother or father will hear a word of this, i swear.” you said, clasping her hand in your own.

her expression turned to one of immense gratitude and she rushed to hug you. before you could react, she pulled away, apologizing repeatedly.

you simply pulled her back in, embracing her even tighter. she bid you farewell as she stepped out of the carriage and you began to make your way back as the sun set.

arriving home, you were greeted with the sight of your parents standing behind the front gates, visibly furious.

“where were you all this time? it is nearly dark and you did not notify anyone of your departure. my goodness, and you set off alone!” your mother gasped.

“is this how a lady is to act before she is about to be married? you better correct yourself before jay catches onto this scandalous behavior.” father boomed.

you grumbled a “yes, father” before hurrying inside, back to your chambers. you were surprised to see arabella waiting anxiously on your bed.

“where were you?” she jumped up. “nowhere important.” you shrugged. “christ, i thought you had eloped!” your sister exclaimed. to be frank, you were beginning to consider it as an option.

“nonsense. i won’t be eloping just like i won’t be marrying jay.”

you saw her face drop at the mention of her lover. “sister,” you sat beside her, “i promise you we will fix this mess together.”

“but how?” arabella sighed. “i say we convince sunghoon and catherine to marry instead of jay and i.” you shared.

your sister raised an eyebrow at your proposal, “how on earth will we do that?”

“we have to tell them the truth about you and jay.” you declared. you could see a glimpse of fear in arabella’s eyes, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t a bit afraid yourself. “fine.” she agreed. you held her hand tightly as she confided in you the rest of the night.

the following morning, the park’s estate was bustling, the servants all gossiping about jay’s new match. jake was never one to listen to rumors going around but he was particularly interested in this one, wondering if arabella had finally gotten through to lord and lady park.

“i hear the bride is the youngest daughter, y/n.” one of the cooks shared excitedly. jake froze. “where did you hear that?” he suddenly asked. “from the tailor that was fitting her dress. apparently they’re going to have a small, intimate ceremony at the church today-”

before she could finish her sentence, jake sprinted to the stables and began saddling the nearest horse.

he didn’t know what he was going to do once he arrived at the church, or even what would happen to him afterwards, but he didn’t care. he refused to stand by as you married someone else.

while at the church, you fiddled with your veil anxiously. arabella assured you that she would speak with sunghoon and catherine without mentioning anything about jake.

it was nearly time for the ceremony to begin and you were starting to worry that something had gone wrong.

suddenly, the door to the room you were in burst open, revealing catherine and arabella. “quick! give me your veil and remove your dress!” catherine ordered.

while rapidly exchanging clothes with your sister, arabella filled you in, “the couple agreed to our plan upon hearing about mine and jay’s story. sunghoon made a rather dramatic declaration of love to catherine before jay could even stand at the alter and luckily, our parents decided that these two were more deserving to be wed.”

you let out a huge sigh of relief. you were able to evade marriage with jay, but how much longer could you keep this lie up?

arabella led you down to the area where the ceremony would be held and within a few minutes, catherine made her way to the alter.

the two shared last-minute vows and right as the officiant asked if there were any objections the door to the church flew open.

“stop! stop the ceremony!” a disheveled jake panted. everyone in the room’s jaws flew open except your own. you didn’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed at his commitment to you in this very moment.

“what is the meaning of this, boy?” lord park boomed. “i’m in love with her, sir.” jake confessed, pointing at your veiled sister. you wanted to dig a hole in the ground and lay there.

jay coughed, nodding his head in your direction, prompting jake to make eye contact with you. as soon as he saw you, his mouth made an o-shape.

you couldn’t take it anymore, standing up dramatically and declaring “he meant me. he’s in love with me and I’m in love with him.”

just when you thought the situation couldn’t possibly worsen, your mother fainted.

at this point the church was a noisy, swarming mess. lady park and arabella attempted to calm your mother after she regained consciousness and became hysterical while your father had to be held back by his sons and lord park from attacking jake. catherine was sobbing in the corner and the officiant simply stared awestryck at the scene unfolding in front of him.

while everyone was distracted, you grabbed jake’s hand and ran out the church doors. the two of you mounted the horse he rode over and ran off in a random direction.

you looked back once to see everyone emerging from the church, frantically looking for you and jake.

“where are we going?” jake asked, clearly on edge. “keep going until we’re too far for them to catch us.” you ordered.

you ended up stopping nearby a small field. dismounting the horse, you noticed a large tear in his shirt. “how did that happen?” you asked, worried.

“your father ripped it open at the church.”

for some indescribable reason, that sentence alone made you both burst into laughter. perhaps it was the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

as jake laughed, you noticed how his nose slightly crinkled, how all his teeth showed, how his eyes closed and his head was thrown back childishly.

you realized just how much you had fallen for him, and how little you could care about your family’s blessings.

“i love you.” you blurted. you quickly placed your hands over your lips as if it would take back what you said. sure it had been implied before, but you had never said those three words to his face. to anyone’s face, really.

“i love you, too.” he whispered, now moving closer to you. the two of you shared a short kiss, breaking apart before leaning back in again.

this time the kiss was deeper, more passionate. his hands travelled to your lower back as yours cupped his jaw.

you felt yourself desperately moving more and more forward, still not feeling close enough to him. he pulled away first, leaving you gasping for air.

“what are we going to do?” he asked, out of breath. “we’re going to get married.” you responded firmly.

grabbing his hand, you hoisted yourself up on the horse once again, patting the seat behind you. “are you sure about this?” he asked, hesitant.

you nodded wordlessly as he seated himself beside you. you charged back in the direction you had just come from.

you, the girl who never cared for marriage, were now determined to fight for your right to marry the man of your dreams.

you made it back to the church within minutes, spotting your both enraged and confused family standing outside.

arabella saw you first, rushing over. “you should have left, y/n. father is going to murder the both of you.” she warned.

you ignored her, walking up to lord and lady park. before you could open your mouth, you felt a harsh grip on your arm, yanking you back, “not only have you sent your mother into a frenzy, you have bought immense shame upon our family with this illicit affair. i am disgusted to call you my daughter.” your father spat.

“don’t speak to her like that.” jake threatened, moving closer to your father.

“enough of this, lord l/n. i have an enormous headache from today. it is safe to say no arrangements will be made between our children. boys, let us leave at once.” lord park commanded.

neither jay nor sunghoon moved, prompting lord park to repeat himself. again, no reaction.

“oh for christ’s sake. i understand sunghoon being a bit hesitant but this girl is clearly not right for you jay-”

“i wish to marry arabella.” jay announced, “and i don’t care if she doesn’t meet your standards. i refuse to leave the church grounds until she is made my wife.”

“neither shall i until catherine and i are wed.” sunghoon chimed in.

“and neither will i until you give my hand to jake and only jake.” you challenged, looking your father in the eye.

“this is nonsense. what has gotten into you kids?” lady park objected. your mother fainted once again, but this time nobody seemed to pay her any mind.

the officiant peeked his head out from the door, “if you’d like, i can officiate the three weddings for the price of just two.”

you saw your father become visibly more upset at the mention of pricing and were reminded of the reason your parents were so adamant on getting you married in the first place.

“father, if arabella marries jay and catherine marries sunghoon, our income nearly doubles. we won’t have to worry about our finances any longer. what is stopping you then from allowing me to marry jake?” you plead, desperate.

“he is a servant. a stablehand, y/n. below a commoner. it was a grave error on your end to even look his way.” he scoffed.

“he’s no longer a servant of mine,” lord park added, rubbing his temples, “not after this mess.”

“then he is now a baker.” you quipped. “pardon me?” your father asked, irritated. “his family owns a bakery so therefore he is a baker. not a servant. i don’t see any reason as to why i cannot marry him now?”

“just let them bloody marry.” lady park cursed just as your mother came back to her senses, causing her to fall unconscious yet again.

“fine.” your father sighed, “but you will not be living on any of my estates.”

“i will give them one of mine.” jay interjected, patting jake on the shoulder.

after that, the ceremony continued. this time with three brides, two disgruntled father-in-laws, and a single annoyed lady (as the other is still passed out).

fast forward to a few months later, you and your parents have reconciled although your father is still weary of jake.

the two of you have settled into your new estate, courtesy of jay. jake is back to working at his family bakery, which has seen a large increase in profit. you also decided to appoint agatha as the head housekeeper in your new home.

jay and arabella are happily married, as are catherine and sunghoon. your family’s finances have improved greatly and you couldn’t be happier for your parents.

you reflected on how drastically your life has changed within the span of a year as you readied yourself for morning tea at arabella’s house.

you put on a simple purple dress and in the corner of your eye, saw the pearl set you wore the night you met jake. grabbing the earrings, you placed them carefully in your ears, reminiscing to yourself in the mirror.

suddenly your husband made his way into the bedroom, placing a firm kiss on your cheek before announcing his departure for work, a tradition the two of you now have.

wishing him luck, you shared one last embrace before you sent him off.

[lannistertwinz]

"You loved me then what right had you to leave me?" - the parallels between Jaime/Cersei and Wuthering Heights

"There's a dialogue that goes on through the years and over the centuries where you read someone else's work and you're inspired by it, sometimes infuriated by it, and you say 'No, that's not quite right, here's the way it would be' and then you write your own twist on it, your own answer to it! There is this conscious playing with tropes, replying to other authors and making a reference or an homage in some cases… but there's also unconsciousness. Those are are rife, sometimes you read a book and you haven't looked at it for twenty years, but it's still there buried inside and suddenly someone points out 'this seems just like this' and you go 'Oh my god! It's right, I forgot about that!'. So it works both ways." - George R.R. Martin, Trinity College Dublin

“The first books I read besides comic books were cheap paperbacks which cost 35 cents back then. There were no bookstores in Bayonne so I got my paperbacks from a spinner rack and all the books in that were mixed up. There were science fiction books and fantasy books, which I liked, but there were also mystery novels, romance novels, nurse novels, gothics, spy novels and, of course, there were classics of literature mixed in with that: Shakespeare, Dostoiévski, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, etc.” – George R.R. Martin, Gamer’s Haven Podcast

As pointed out above, George has (whether conscious or unconsciously) taken inspiration from other works to create his own characters, and with this post I’d like to explain as to why I believe A Song Of Ice And Fire specifically plays with Heathcliff and Catherine’s relationship from Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights through Jaime and Cersei’s dynamic.

To briefly explain it to those who have not read it, Wuthering Heights is essentially the story of Heathcliff’s revenge on the Earnshaws and the Lintons for the discrimination suffered at their hands and their involvement in his estrangement from his friend and lover Catherine Earnshaw (aka Cathy) and, at it’s core, it is a novel about intergenerational abuse and family dysfunction.

Shaped by these circumstances, we have at the forefront of the book the toxic romance between the foster siblings Heathcliff and Catherine who, like Jaime and Cersei, develop a very intimate bond early on in their childhood:

She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was to keep her separate from him. – Nelly, Chapter V He could never bear to be long apart from his twin. – Jaime, ASOS

‘I was a child; my father was just buried, and my misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the panels aside: it struck the tabletop!’ – Catherine, Chapter XII Though Cersei often slept alone, she had never liked it. Her oldest memories were of sharing a bed with Jaime, when they had still been so young that no one could tell the two of them apart. Later, after they were separated, she'd had a string of bedmaids and companions, most of them girls of an age with her, the daughters of her father's household knights and bannermen. – Cersei, AFFC

We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks. – Catherine, Chapter III "Sometimes as a lark we would dress in each other's clothes and spend a whole day each as the other." – Cersei, ACOK

I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dogkennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. – Catherine, Chapter III The dank and dismal fortnight Cersei spent at Greenstone, the seat of House Estermont, was the longest of her young life. Jaime dubbed the castle "Greenshit" at first sight, and soon had Cersei doing it too. – Cersei, AFFC

Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father’s knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. – Nelly, Chapter V "Care for a bath, Brienne?" He laughed. "You're a maiden and there's the pool. I'll wash your back." He used to scrub Cersei's back, when they were children together at Casterly Rock. – Jaime, ASOS

Additionally, in both cases, the female characters have, from early on, a clear influence over their male counterparts:

His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, and her ready words; turning Joseph’s religious curses into ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most showing how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do her bidding in anything, and his only when it suited his own inclination. – Nelly, Chapter V “Father will never consent,” Jaime objected. […] “Is it a rock you want? Or me?” He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. […] By morning Casterly Rock seemed a small price to pay to be near her always. He gave his consent, and Cersei promised to do the rest. – Jaime, ASOS

‘He’s considering he’d rather I’d come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard. You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!’ – Catherine, Chapter XII She rose, her eyes brimming with tears. “Is it truly you?” She did not come to him, however. She has never come to me, he thought. She has always waited, letting me come to her. – Jaime, ASOS

And there’s an element of adoration as well. In Wuthering Heights, at the end of Heathcliff’s life, Nelly refers to Catherine as his “departed idol” and Heathcliff describes Cathy as “so immeasurably superior to everybody on earth”. On the other hand, in A Song Of Ice And Fire, Jaime puts Cersei on a pedestal as the figure of “The Maiden” and describes Cersei’s flame in his weirwood dream as “the only light in the world”. Furthermore, the two claim to have suffered through hardships solely for the sake of these women and that their love is the ultimate factor that drives them:

‘I’ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!’ – Heathcliff, Chapter X When morning came, he made himself eat. They fed him a mush of oats, horse food, but he forced down every spoon. He ate again at evenfall, and the next day. Live, he told himself harshly, live for Cersei. – Jaime, ASOS

‘Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!’ – Heathcliff, Chapter XVI Beside Lord Tywin stood his sister, pale and beautiful, a torch burning in her hand. Her torch was the only light in the cavern. She turned to go. “Stay with me,” Jaime pleaded. “Don't leave me here alone. Don't leave me in the dark!” – Jaime, ASOS

However, the most striking similarities arise from the way that Catherine and Cersei perceive their relationships with Heathcliff and Jaime respectively. Catherine, though far from being the worst person out of the cast of characters present in the novel (certainly Hindley and Joseph and even Heathcliff himself are more morally reprehensible), is the one that possesses the most traits stereotypically ascribed to narcissism: she’s very duplicitous and self-absorbed, she has a completely delusional opinion of herself and consistently projects her own flaws onto others, she’s often contemptuous of the weaknesses of those around her, she has a very explosive temper and reacts with aggression when crossed, she flips situations on their head to make herself look like the victim and she certainly sees her relationships as transactional, including her relationship with Heathcliff:

‘And should I always be sitting with you? What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be dumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for anything you do, either!’ – Catherine, Chapter VIII

It is also frequently mentioned that Catherine enjoys being in control and does not take well to being contradicted:

It was nothing less than murder in her eyes for anyone to presume to stand up and contradict her. – Nelly, Chapter IX Cersei is as gentle as King Maegor, as selfless as Aegon the Unworthy, as wise as Mad Aerys. She never forgets a slight, real or imagined. She takes caution for cowardice and dissent for defiance. – Tyrion, ADWD

I observed that Mr. Edgar had a deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow cloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a frown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. – Nelly, Chapter X His sister liked to think of herself as Lord Tywin with teats, but she was wrong. Their father had been as relentless and implacable as a glacier, where Cersei was all wildfire, especially when thwarted. – Jaime, AFFC

And this leads to a point of contention when Heathcliff returns a changed man from his time away:

‘Don’t vex me. Why have you disregarded my request?’ – Catherine, Chapter XI Why does he insist on vexing me? – Cersei, AFFC

‘Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the grave. That is how I’m loved!’ – Catherine, Chapter XV “You swore that you would always love me. It is not loving to make me beg.” – Cersei, AFFC

All of this, combined with the particular way in which Catherine describes her feelings for Heathcliff, led critics of the book to accuse Catherine of perceiving and thus loving Heathcliff as an extension of herself. And, surely, most of these things she privately confesses to Nelly could have easily come out of Cersei’s mouth, who has been confirmed by the author to being written as highly narcissistic.

In chapter IX, Catherine says that her love for Heathcliff is a necessity and throughout the series Cersei’s sentiments for Jaime are frequently displayed through that same lens:

The wench had the right of it. He could not die. Cersei was waiting for him. She would have need of him. – Jaime, ASOS They rode hard the next day, at Jaime's insistence. His son was dead, and his sister needed him. – Jaime, ASOS “Jaime, you're my shining knight. You cannot abandon me when I need you most!” – Cersei, ASOS “I need you with me. In me. Please, Jaime. Please.” – Cersei, AFFC “Why would Cersei need the Warrior? She has me.” – Jaime, AFFC She licked her lips, shivering. “Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.” – Cersei, AFFC Jaime, I need Jaime. – Cersei, ADWD

Of course, in Cersei’s case, she “needs” Jaime because he is, in her mind, the brawn to her brain (“He was meant to be my sword and shield, my strong right arm.”), her protector, her agency in a patriarchal society… but she also needs him because she does not feel like a self-realized autonomous human being without him as she believes her own personhood has been split into two entities. And the same goes for Catherine:

‘I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here?’ – Catherine, Chapter IX “Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies.” – Cersei, AGOT

‘Supposing at twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth, from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where I grovelled!’ – Catherine, Chapter XII “I was lost without you, Jaime. I was afraid the Starks would send me your head. I could not have borne that. I am not whole without you.” – Cersei, ASOS

In fact, both women go as far as claiming their partners’ identities as their own:

‘Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He’s always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.’ – Catherine, Chapter IX “You are me, I am you.” – Cersei, AFFC ‘It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am.’ – Catherine, Chapter IX

And from this idea of a shared existence and a lack of purpose when apart comes the desire for union in death and the mythologizing of these relationships:

‘If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it.’ – Catherine, Chapter IX “If he were dead, I would know it. We came into this world together, Uncle. He would not go without me.” – Cersei, ADWD ‘She’s dead! I’ve not waited for you to learn that’. – Heathcliff, Chapter XVI

‘We’ve braved its ghosts often together, and dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But, Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I’ll keep you. I’ll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep, and throw the church down over me, but I won’t rest till you are with me. I never will!’ – Catherine, Chapter XII I cannot die while Cersei lives, he told himself. We will die together as we were born together. – Jaime, ASOS ‘I wish they may shovel in the earth over us both!’ – Heathcliff, Chapter XXIX

What’s interesting about Wuthering Heights, though, is that, other than codependency, there is an inherent selfishness and possessiveness to this. In chapter XV, when Catherine is effectively dying, it is clear that she does not want Heathcliff to outlive her and she’s terrified by the idea of him moving on and finding happiness elsewhere:

‘How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live after I am gone?’ – Catherine, Chapter XV “Will you forget me? Will you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence, ‘That’s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was wretched to lose her; but it is past. I’ve loved many others since: my children are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not rejoice that I are going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave them!’ Will you say so, Heathcliff?” – Catherine, Chapter XV

Indeed, Catherine goes as far as telling Heathcliff that she wishes he would just die (and suffer) alongside her:

‘I wish I could hold you till we were both dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do!’ – Catherine, Chapter XV ‘I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only wish us never to be parted.’ – Catherine, Chapter XV

And Cersei does something comparable when she (in her delusion) asks Jaime to be her champion in a mortal combat knowing he is likely to lose for his handicap:

“My queen,” said Qyburn, “have you . . . forgotten? Ser Jaime has no sword hand. If he should champion you and lose . . .” We will leave this world together, as we once came into it. “He will not lose. Not Jaime. Not with my life at stake.” – Cersei, AFFC

Heathcliff and Catherine don’t die together, however, and, despite what happened in Game Of Thrones, I’m still highly sceptical that Jaime and Cersei will die together in the books either. Yet the impression that Wuthering Heights leaves is that the unhealthy nature of Heathcliff and Catherine’s bond is at the root of their own self-destruction and tragic end:

Ere long, I heard the click of the latch, and Catherine flew up-stairs, breathless and wild; too excited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have surmised an awful calamity. – Nelly, Chapter X ‘Mrs. Linton is now just recovering,’ I said; ‘she’ll never be like she was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her, you’ll shun crossing her way again. […] Another encounter between you and the master would kill her altogether.’ – Nelly, Chapter XIV ‘You have killed me and thriven on it, I think.’ -  Catherine, Chapter XV “’Nay, it’s enough that he has murdered one of you,’ I observed aloud. ‘At the Grange, everyone knows your sister would have been living now had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were, how happy Catherine was before he came, I’m fit to curse the day.’ Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw, for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath in suffocating sighs.” – Isabella, Chapter XVII ‘She might have been living yet, if it had not been for him!’ was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes, Heathcliff seemed a murderer. – Nelly, Chapter XXI

‘I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer but yours! How can I?’ – Heathcliff, Chapter XV ‘It was a strange way of killing: not by inches, but by fractions of hairbreadths, to beguile me with the spectre of a hope through eighteen years!’ – Heathcliff, Chapter XXIX

The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, ‘Let me in let me in!’ ‘Who are you?’ I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. ‘Catherine Linton,’ it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton) ‘I’m come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!’ As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window. - Mr. Lockwood, Chapter III The following evening was very wet: indeed, it poured down till day-dawn; and, as I took my morning walk round the house, I observed the master’s window swinging open, and the rain driving straight in. […] I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there laid on his back. His eyes met mine so keen and fierce, I started; and then he seemed to smile. I could not think him dead: but his face and throat were washed with rain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that rested on the sill; no blood trickled from the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it, I could doubt no more: he was dead and stark! – Nelly, Chapter XXXVI

And I wouldn’t be surprised if A Song Of Ice And Fire were to go in the same direction:

It is raining again, he thought when he saw how wet she was. The water was trickling down her cloak to puddle round her feet. How did she get here? I never heard her enter. She was dressed like a tavern wench in a heavy roughspun cloak, badly dyed in mottled browns and fraying at the hem. A hood concealed her face, but he could see the candles dancing in the green pools of her eyes, and when she moved he knew her. – Jaime, AFFC I thought that I was the Warrior and Cersei was the Maid, but all the time she was the Stranger, hiding her true face from my gaze. – Jaime, AFFC The Stranger represents death and the unknown, and leads the dead to the other world. Whilst referred to as male, he is neither male nor female. The Stranger's face has been described as half-human, concealed beneath a hooded mantle. – A Wiki Of Ice And Fire

“Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.” – Maggy The Frog, AFFC “Tyrion is the valonqar. Do you use that word in Myr? It's High Valyrian, it means little brother.”  - Cersei, AFFC “He came into this world holding my foot, our old maester said”. – Cersei, AGOT “The Imp is no longer my brother, if he ever was.” – Cersei, AFFC A man stepped into the lantern light, and she saw his cloak was white. “Jaime?” I dreamt of one brother, but the other has come to wake me. – Cersei, AFFC

So, in conclusion, I find it plausible that George might have simply taken the narcissism, the violence and the “twin soul”/“other half” connection present in Wuthering Heights to it’s even more extreme by creating the chaotic mess that is the incestuous relationship between twins who are mirror images of each other... And there's a decent number of parallels to at least make a case for it!

Tag: @faintingheroine

[no1tolerateitfan]

i sit and watch you reading with your head low...

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spotify deep dive;

gracie abrams , taylor swift , olivia rodrigo , sabrina carpenter , chappell roan , madison beer , lana del rey , clairo , billie eilish , lizzy mcalpine , noah kahan , maisie peters , laufey , role model , phoebe bridgers , harry styles , reneé rapp , mitski , tate mcrae , cas , paramore , boygenius , beabadoobee , niall horan , conan gray , billy joel , the neighbourhood , fleetwood mac , ethel cain , marley brown , arctic monkeys , abba , the cranberries , alessi rose , mazzy star , zach bryan , chris stapleton , ariana grande , avril lavigne , mckenna grace<3

film files;

little women , la la land , the princess diaries , lady bird , 10 things i hate about you , 13 going on 30 , pretty woman , 27 dresses , the devil wears prada , scream , when harry met sally , call me by your name , 500 days of summer , how to lose a guy in 10 days , notting hill , runaway bride , clueless , priscilla , a rainy day in new york , midnight in paris , corpse bride , the perks of being a wallflower , black swan , dead poets society , harry potter , narnia , enola holmes , beautiful boy , pride and prejudice , the notebook , the proposal , mamma mia , dirty dancing , grease , the parent trap , white chicks , ella enchanted , sixteen candles , she's the man , miss congeniality , my girl , the virgin suicides , the edge of seventeen , the amazing spiderman , mean girls , legally blonde , thirteen , breakfast at tiffany's , girl, interrupted , twilight , uptown girls , star wars , heathers , old disney<3

tv show archive;

grey's anatomy , gossip girl , gilmore girls , the oc , one tree hill , one day , friends , derry girls , baby , pretty little liars , anne with an e , how i met your mother , the office , criminal minds , supernatural , tsitp , bones , the flash , outer banks , suits , stranger things , you , the crown , emily in paris , satc , agggtm , jane the virgin , the vampire diaries , scream queens , supergirl , killing eve , glee , teen wolf , b99 , boy meets world , dawsons creek<3

────˚₊⋅ ୨୧ ⋅₊˚────

please please please reach out to me if we have the same interests , need to chat , or wanna be moots, i love meeting new ppl and being able to interact with you guys. my sideblog is @vani11alattes , if you wanna check it out! xoxo💗

!! dni if you are nsfw , 18+ , a mature themed blogs , racist , homophobic , misogynistic , and rude. this is a safe space for myself and others, do NOT ruin it by being oppressive !!

^if you are over the age of 18 and a girlblogger you are exempt from this

i am catholic , pro-palestine , and do not support russia. i don't typically talk about these topics, but if you don't agree with my views and beliefs , simply do not interact with me. thank you!

[anamazingangie]

In defense of ‘House of the Dragon’ costumes.

I doubt anyone will read this, but at least I can link to it instead of arguing with people.

I don’t even like the costumes that much, truly, but every fucking time the criticism is paired with examples of the costuming work on ‘The Borgias’, ‘The Tudors’, or even ‘Reign’. I have thoughts on the costumes from those shows too, but will readily admit they do have more detail and texture than most garments worn in HotD.

HOWEVER

Whenever I hear these mentioned in comparison I want to scream. 

Tudors is set in 16th-century England.

Borgias is in 1490-1500 Italy

Reign [allegedly] depicts mid 16th century Europe. 

None of these have examples of medieval fashion. The middle ages spanned from the 5th century to the 15th (and by then, the renaissance movement had come to Italy, so the Borgias does not depict medieval clothing, either.)

ASOIF is a fantasy universe, true, but GRRM has stated many times that the Middle Ages served as a basis for the world he created and that historical realism was an important grounding factor for making the universe feel real, too.

I think it’s fair to say this should apply to clothing, just as it applies to decor, atmosphere, and technological advancements in both the books and the show. Clearly it is supposed to replicate the middle ages, or a very similar equivalent in Westeros.

I’m happy to suspend some disbelief given the fact it is a fantasy setting—for example none of the garments in GoT were historically ‘accurate’ but the more traditional gowns kept a silhouette and stylistic details that were similar to garments from the 15th century [most pointedly Sansa’s and Cersei’s gowns from the earlier seasons] which would fit the period in history that influenced the books.

I genuinely think HotD was trying to do something similar, drawing from fashions from the slightly earlier 1300s/1400s—which follows with the established timeline.

And, obviously, that is very much not the time period shown in borgias, reign, or the tudors. It is in fact HUNDREDS of years earlier. 

To put this into context: 

Comparing the 1300s to the 1500s is equivalent to comparing your wardrobe to what is in a Jane Austen film. 

Comparing the 1500s to the 1700s is like comparing civil war era uniforms to what is worn by the military today. 

A lot changes in 200 years.

And you know what? Garments in the 1300s weren’t that pretty. 

Almost all of them lacked closures, which meant they went over the head and were shaped with belts or ties.

Corsets were not worn during this period so any sort of tight, supportive, and shapely bodices in this era is a thing of fiction.

Though layers were often worn, they were typically only visible at the hems and not the neckline [so the layers of a partlet/visible chemise as seen in the 16th century was unlikely, too]. 

In fact the only realistic depiction of this period I've seen in costuming is on the show “Hollow Crown” and do you know what those dresses looked like? Well…

Not to mention this is a difficult period to research in general since so little paper survived. This website has timelines for fashion, and where the 15th century page features a dozen examples for each decade, the 14th century page has less than a dozen examples TOTAL.

Now I’m not saying the costumes couldn’t have been better. I do think fabrics with more texture could have made even the simple gowns look more interesting, and I wish the amazing embroidery that we saw hints of was better utilized. 

But, I think given the historical examples the designer was probably tasked with interpreting in a fantasy setting, the costumes are just not going to be as fantastic as what you see in dramas from later periods. 

(The wigs however were unforgivable, i’ll give you that, lol. )

ALSO I'm not saying you can't complain about them or think they were ugly. I'm just saying that if you are going to compare them to something, please compare them to garments from other fantasy dramas, or things that actually take place in the same period.

Ok. Rant over.

[maspers]

I think it'd be funny if there was a novel written in the style of Jane Austen with all the classic tropes and character archetypes and all the characters behave as you would stereotypically expect, but with one exception: the protagonist is male instead of female, and is extremely baffled why rich gentlemen are trying to court him and why people have labeled him as the third hottest of his seven sisters. He just wants to hide in his room and read books. 

I'd like to clarify that this is a comedy, not a romance or coming of age story. While the plotlines of "all the unmarried men in the story are gay and trying to marry the one son in the family in defiance of social stigma" and "the one son is trying to get people to understand that he is a son despite being assigned as a daughter at birth and thus should not be considered as a possible wife" are totally options and you're free to write them as you wish, I was going for the sheer humor of the protagonist being a straight cis male that everyone treats as if he has the social role of one of the daughters. Like, they all know and understand he's a guy, but the parents are still "oh no we have no heirs with which to save the family fortune" and he's like "I'm right here hello" and their like "good we can marry you and sisters into rich houses so even though the family name will die the bloodline will live on" and he'd be fine with that but they keep trying to introduce him to handsome gentlemen when he'd much rather be introduced to a gentlewoman who despite being female nonetheless ticks all the boxes of "stereotypical Jane Austen male love interest". There will be extremely hilarious conflict between the gentlewoman and the gentleman who WOULD be the stereotypical love interest if the protagonist were female, they compete for the son's love and he's just like "dude you keep telling me to wear dresses and corsets I know how much my sisters hate corsets I'm not touching one if my life depended on it" 

And then the gentlewoman reveals she also wanted to see him in a flouncy ballgown and corset and he just sits down and sighs.

[heathtrash]

tww drabble exchange team! i have here a list of media that i’m very fond of for secret drabble purposes (i.e. any hallowe’en costumes or maybe crossover if you can make it work?? some of these are definitely here for costume purposes only). i realise that not everyone knows all the stuff i’m into and i don’t even talk about all of these on a daily basis. i hope you can find some common ground so we can be unwell about these characters together! you can go with a very subtle reference or like a full-on whatever your brain comes up with, as per my chaos request

you can use these however you wish—individual characters as costumes (or random crossover)—or couples costumes. ship them cross-media if you like??? with media that contains m/f, cross-dressing is very welcome unless stated otherwise (in which case i probably don’t want the male character(s)). anywhere i’ve put a ship name, assume the individual characters are up for grabs too

i’ve probably forgotten something, so if you’re like, “what about _?” send me an anon and i’ll let you know if it’s something i like or don’t mind receiving a reference for!

101 Dalmatians (Cruellanita)

Battlestar Galactica (Starbuck)

Beauty & the Beast (cross-dressed)

Buffy (Buffy/Faith, Willow/Tara)

Carmen Sandiego (series. i love Julia Argent SO much. you have no idea. also Carmen of course. and whatever their ship name is)

Carol (Carol/Therese)

Charmed

Critical Role (Imodna, Vexleth, Beaujester, Beauyasha. no m/f cross-dressing here actually)

The Devil Wears Prada (Mirandy only)

Discworld (any of the witches (main series. I don’t know Tiffany Aching yet) - i don’t ship them but they’re fun. also Susan Sto Helit hhhhhhh)

Doctor Who (except 10th Doctor. Jenny/Vastra, 13/River, 13/Missy)

Downton Abbey (Lady Mary/Baxter my beloved)

Dracula (novel. the ladies. idk. i love vampires)

Dragon Age (only played origins so far but i love Leliana, Morrigan, Wynne)

Enchanted

Frozen (Elsamaren. Elsa & Anna only if they’re not portrayed by a romantic ship)

Gentleman Jack

GLOW (Ruth/Debbie but i love all these gays)

Hacks (Deborah/Ava)

Hades (the game. idk i love Nyx, Artemis, Aphrodite. all of the ladies)

His Dark Materials (Marisa Coulter/Mary Malone only)

Homestuck (if you pick this you’re so cursed (affectionate). Rosemary or any f/f ship. but heck, anything if you’re this committed)

The Incredibles (Edna Mode, Helen Parr)

Jane Austen (any novel)

Jane Eyre

Kim Possible (Kim/Shego)

Lady Dimitrescu

Lady Felicia Montague from Father Brown

A League of Their Own (any)

Little Witch Academia (i love Ursula Callistis)

The Locked Tomb (Griddlehark, any)

Lolly Willowes

Maleficent/Briar Rose

The Marvellous Mrs Maisel (Miriam/Susie)

Mary Poppins

Mass Effect (Liara/femshep, Chakwas/femshep, any f/f)

Matilda (Jennifer Honey)

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (Phryne, Mac)

Ms Valerie Frizzle

The Mummy (Evelyn/cross-dressed Jonathan. or better yet, Evelyn/Meela from Returns)

Nintendo (Zelda, Link, Rosalina, Samus, Peach, Daisy)

Orlando (character by Virginia Woolf)

Phantom of the Opera (Christine/cross-dressed Phantom)

Rebecca (Mrs Danvers/Rebecca, Mrs Danvers/narrator)

Ride the musical

Sailor Moon (any f/f but i’m also into the idea of cross-dressed Tuxedo Mask)

Scooby-Doo (Velma/Daphne)

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (Catradora but any f/f ships)

Star Trek (Kiradax, J7, Jadzia Dax/Lenara Kahn, Christine Chapel/anyone, literally whatever f/f)

Star Wars (movies/series. Dedra Meero/Arihnda Pryce. Padmé Amidala/Satine Kryze. Sabine Wren/Shin Hati. i do not know what happens in the majority of the novels. any other f/f you can imagine or some fun cross-dressing)

Steven Universe (Pearl my beloved. anything f/f but i’m not that interested in Steven or the human characters)

Tangled (Cassunzel)

Ugly Betty (i don’t have any ships idk)

Wednesday and The Addams Family (Wednesday/Enid, Morticia/cross-dressed Gomez)

The Well of Loneliness

The Wheel of Time (Moiraine/Siuan)

Wicked (Gelphie)

The Witcher (Yennaia)

Wuthering Heights

Xena/Gabrielle

non-fandom specific:

any legendary historical ladies (Joan of Arc, Julie d’Aubigny)

any generic costumes that aren’t gross (i.e. poacher/prey animal, ball and chain. basically anything that has you asking if the cishets are okay)

[beeblelady]

Mary Colette Fontaine (Andrew's Listener)

Full Name: Mary Colette Fontaine

Nickname(s): May, Coco, Darling (By Andrew)

Birthday: August 27 / Virgo

Age: Early 20s

Birthplace: Liverpool, England

Parents Names: Edwyn and Grace Fontaine

Parents Occupation: Owner of a Large Fashion Label

Former Residence(s): Liverpool, England (4 Years), New York, USA (16 Years)

Current Residence: London, England

Living With: Andrew Marston

Right or Left-Handed?: Right-Handed

Words/Phrases: "Ummm.", "Sure."

Habits: Tapping Objects When Nervous

Appearance

Height: 4'11

Weight: Secret

Skin Tone: Fair

Body Shape: Hourglass

Hair: Blonde and Wavy

Eyes: Green

Face Shape: Round

Everyday Dress Style: Academia (Anything in Particular such as Light and Romantic), Skirts, Button Up Shirts, Ballet Flats

Formal Dress Style: Dresses and Hair Barrettes, Flat Shoes

Any Jewellery: Emerald Choker and A Custom Made Necklace Andrew Gave Her, Silver Star Earrings

Facts About Mary

Mary's parents are very famous, but Mary wants to keep it low profile and wants to be seen as a normal person

Mary is a fan of old literature and especially Jane Austen books (Her Favorite is Pride & Prejudice)

Mary has friends from New York who still keeps in touch with her and visits her in occasions their names are Lina Holt, Brian Roffe, Honey Kennedy and Abigail Jennings

Her friends gave her a Collection of Butterfly Hair Pins before she leaves for college.

Originally, Mary plans to go to college to NYU with her friends but she got rejected. Her other plan is to study in London and That's where her journey starts.

Mary had interacted with Bernadette (Isaac's Listener) considering they were friends but drifted away as year passes by.

The Emerald Pearl Choker was a family heirloom but stops wearing it as years passes.

During her spare time, Mary would do hobbies she loves like painting, knitting, practicing ballet, writing and reading

Unfortunately, she has a strained relationship with her father and she already knows that her father is very hostile towards Andrew. (Hopefully it gets resolved)

Her Favorite shows are Gilmore Girls, The Crown and Cheers.

Her Favorite Film is definitely Shark Tale without a doubt

Favorite Singers and Artists are AG!, The Beatles, Anything Easy Listening Singers

Favorite Music Genre: Classic Rock and Easy Listening

Favorite Candy are KitKat and Candy Floss

Her Favorite Beatle is George Harrison

She drinks Affogato and Bubble Tea for relaxing.

Before meeting Andrew, Mary never dated anyone and her life in New York she's more of a third wheel on dates.

Andrew is her first. 😉

She owns an old vintage camera to capture memories as she discovers "Anemoia"

When she's depressed she drinks alcohol.

Her Possible Careers can be an aspiring Author or Curator.

Mary is a bit homesick and misses New York, but she does receive presents from her friends from time to time.

She says the things she misses about New York is shopping at Macy's and getting her birthday cake at Magnolia Bakery.

Her Favorite AG! Member is Mizyu

Mary cannot stand Coriander.

Her worst fear is being alone.

Mary does not like confrontation but if someone wants to confront Andrew it's different.

She does sometimes wears Andrew's glasses as she would playfully tease him.

Mary and her best friend Honey have matching friendship Bracelets.

Mary is Bipolar

[princesssarisa]

Character ask: Mr. and Mrs. Bennet (Pride and Prejudice)

Favorite thing about them: They're both funny characters in their different ways: Mr. Bennet intentionally, Mrs. Bennet unintentionally.

Least favorite thing about them: Well, they're both basically terrible parents to their daughters and terrible spouses to each other. Mrs. Bennet's own foolish behavior makes all the troubles she worries about much worse, while Mr. Bennet's habit of doing nothing except mocking it all is both unkind and irresponsible.

On a meta level, I do sometimes wonder if Austen's portrayal of Mrs. Bennet shows classism (since her socially ignorant behavior stems at least in part from her lower-class background – although her brother Mr. Gardiner doesn't share her faults), and/or internalized misogyny (while Mr. Bennet's flaws are made clear, we never quite lose the sense that Mrs. Bennet is meant to be seen as worse). I understand why so many readers think her portrayal is unfair and mean-spirited, though I'm not sure if I agree.

Three things I have in common with them:

Mrs. Bennet:

*I can be neurotic.

*I can be over-enthusiastic.

*I sometimes make social faux pas.

Mr. Bennet:

*I prefer reading to socializing.

*I can be irresponsible, especially with money.

*I like Elizabeth Bennet.

Three things I don't have in common with them:

Mrs. Bennet:

*I'm not a middle-aged British woman.

*I'm not married and don't have children.

*If I had daughters, even if I lived in Georgian England, I would rather they stay single than be married to the likes of Mr. Collins or Wickham.

Mr. Bennet:

*I'm not a middle-aged British man.

*I'm less witty than he is.

*If I had children, I would remember my duties to them.

Favorite line:

Mr. Bennet:

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least."

"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do not marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."

Mrs. Bennet:

"Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied."

brOTP: Mr. Bennet: His favorite daughter Elizabeth, if anyone. Mrs. Bennet: Her sister Mrs. Phillips, and her favorite daughter Lydia.

OTP: Each other, if only because that's what they deserve. Ideally, though, other people whom they never met.

nOTP: Any of their daughters or their daughters' husbands.

Random headcanon: Mrs. Bennet's first name is Jane. Just because the 1995 miniseries calls her "Fanny" doesn't make that name canon, and in the 18th and 19th centuries, it was common for one daughter in a family, usually the eldest, to be named after her mother.

Unpopular opinion: We don't need to choose whether to side with Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Bennet. This isn't a case of "one is right, the other is wrong" or "one is the good parent, the other is the bad parent." They both have sympathetic qualities, yet they both have glaring faults that nearly ruin their daughters' futures too. The old-school viewpoint of "Mr. Bennet is the likable, sensible parent; Mrs. Bennet is an idiot" and the more recently popular viewpoint of "Mrs. Bennet is just trying to secure her daughters' futures; Mr. Bennet is the bad parent" are both faulty and reductive.

Song I associate with them: None.

Favorite picture of them:

This illustration:

And this one:

Mary Boland and Edmund Gwenn in the 1940 film (dressed in costumes from the wrong time period, but I couldn't resist the sight of Hollywood's iconic Santa Claus from the original Miracle on 34th Street looking very unlike Santa as Mr. Bennet):

Benjamin Whitrow and Alison Steadman in the 1995 BBC miniseries:

Donald Sutherland and Brenda Blethyn in the 2005 film:

[lottiexevans]

One of the trauma nurses asked me what I was dressing up as for Halloween this year for the party thrown by one of the other residents, and of course I haven't really thought about it to be honest. I said I was contemplating going as a comic book character or maybe as the Seer from the original Charmed. Then they proceeded to call the original Charmed 'ancient', and I swear I could feel myself age 100 years in that moment. The show isn't that damn old! Okay so it came out 25 years ago, but that's not ancient. I swear I'm starting to understand what those Jane Austen women must have felt like being considered 'spinsters' and old women in their 20s or 30s.

[heathcliffdt]

The Heroines in L.M. Montgomery’s Books

Anne Shirley - daydreaming, spoken word poetry, childhood best friends, spring flowers, shades of green, enamel necklace, annotations on book margins, boat rides in the summer, pinky promises, pumpkins on October, academic rivals

Emily Byrd Starr - Jo March, windy afternoons, quill and ink, newspapers, purple opal, ink-stained fingernails, little elves in the garden, touch-me-not cottage, amateur poetry, leather-bound diaries, Swiss mountains, Edgar Allan Poe’s stories

Sara Stanley - the vibrant shade of red, boisterous laughters, childhood sweetheart, summer, pastries, golden afternoon, barefoot and grass blades, June weddings, stories told in the dark, sleepovers, bruises in knees, sketches of European cities, nostalgia

Jane Stuart - the moon, crisp salt air, bottles filled with seashells, newspaper clippings, old handwritten love letters, baking, summer holidays, Studio Ghibli films, staying at home, yellow summer flowers, a green thumb, a yearning for the sea, gloomy city rain

Valancy Stirling - roaring 20s, feet digging deep into snow, crackling fire in the fireplace, evenings spent with your lover, rebellion and rage, a string of pearls, wrapping Christmas presents with dainty bows, dinner parties with friends, iceskating, Persuasion by Jane Austen, isolation, streams of light penetrating through the trees,

Pat Gardiner - coming of age, vintage box filled with letters, spring fairies, a witch’s cove, aching pain for childhood, yellow summer dresses, baby’s laughter, dipping feet on streams, an old-fashioned kitchen, early heartbreaks, little stick houses, watercolor hues of blue and green

[lavendarneverlands]

tell me some completely random stuff about you :)

Ooo that’s a good one and once again surprisingly hard😂 as an introvert (despite the fact I’m going to ramble… I always ramble… I’m a little ADD from C-PTSD in case you can’t tell from my pages of chaos😂) — but there’s some random facts right in there. 1. I am an introvert (another reason I love Tumblr over other platforms😂) 2. I love psychology & learning! 3. I’m a huge fan of therapy & advocating for mental health especially in childhood trauma & chronic illness.

It’s also why I love fandoms & books because they have been an incredibly powerful coping mechanism for me & I find it beautiful how much fictional stories can inspire real change.🥹😊

As you can see from my page I’m a HUGE fangirl! … I was lucky enough to be raised in what I consider to be “the golden age of fandoms”: Percy Jackson & the Olympians, Harry Potter (though I do not support LGBTQ discrimination or generally any toxicity within any fan-base), Star Wars, Divergent (RIP my fangirl self… that series wrecked me), Once Upon A Time, anything by Kiera Cass, & everything Leigh Bardugo, Twilight😂 (yes I was that emo teen) & of course Vampire Diaries🤣 I will always be a Marvel nerd (Agent’s of S.H.I.E.L.D. & Agent Carter & WandaVision are forever favorites). I’ve seen every sit-com you could probably think of but here’s some: Gilmore Girls, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, New Girl, Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, The Office, Parks and Rec, Brooklyn Nine-Nine. I love history & am an old soul (Downton Abbey was an era of MY LIFE😂); I would happily read Jane Austen anytime. I love poetry & the Brontë sisters, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, etc.

Pretty much anything artsy; poetry, writing, painting, singing, dancing, acting, design, etc. I kinda hop around hobbies & interests. I almost always have music on (I love Broadway; Hades-town & Hamilton are favs) I am a major Swiftie of course (& I do fit the “stereotype” of LOVING FALL😂 if I could live in combat booties & sweater dresses, survive off pumpkin spice latte’s, & always have rainy weather to curl up with my cat & a book I would) my taste can be all over the place (I can pretty much find something to enjoy in anything) Conan Gray, Olivia Rodrigo, Chapell Roan, Maisie Peters, Sabrina Carpenter, lorde, Ashe, Lizzo, Lana Del Rey, Gracie Abrams, Lizzy McAlpine, Aaron Dessner, Avery Lynch, Billie Marten, Clairo, Delaney Bailey, Em Beihold, Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus, boygenius, Mitski, Laufey, AJR, Billie Eilish, FINNEAS, Hozier, Shawn Mendes, Adele, Paris Paloma… this list could go on forever.😂

I have horrible insomnia but it’s my secret weapon when it comes to work, school, family & friends, + having seen/read as much as I have.😅😂🤣

I am mostly fluent in sign language & sarcasm … I use both often🤣

I LOVE ANIMALS! I am obsessed with my pets! If I could run an animal shelter out of my home I would.

The true joy of my life (that anyone who knows me knows) is my little siblings, being their big sister is the greatest honor of my existence + my nieces/nephews are the coolest little humans & being aunt/nanny is my dream job always.😊🥰