#They reappear after every 20 years or so | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelsgoldrush · 2 months ago

Text

“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

4K notes · View notes

reasonsforhope · 7 months ago

Text

"GNN has reported several times over the last three years about large baleen whales returning to waters in which they haven’t been sighted for decades.

Now again, news from Argentina shows that the benefits of the 1946 International Convention for the Regulation of Whaling are still compounding, with sei whales returning to the South American nation’s coastal waters for the first time in nearly a [century].

Overhunting during the 1920s and 1930s led these massive blue-grey giants to abandon their ancestral waters in Argentina.

“After nearly a century of being hunted to near extinction, sei whale populations are now bouncing back and returning to their former habitats,” said Mariano Coscarella, a biologist and marine ecosystem researcher at Argentina’s CONICET scientific agency, who added that the whales “reproduce every two or three years, so it nearly took 100 years for their population to reach a level where people could notice their presence.”

The third largest whale in the world, the sei can grow up to 64 feet (20 meters) in length and weigh up to 31 tons (28 tonnes). It’s also among the fastest whales in the world, and is certainly the fastest for its size group. It can swim 31 mph over short distances.

Despite being recognized on the IUCN Red List as Endangered, there are estimated to be 50,000 sei whales in a global population that is trending up.

Apart from sei whales and Argentina, a recent survey in the Seychelles sighted 10 groups of at least a few blue whales, the first such observations since 1966.

Back in March, a New England Aquarium aerial survey team sighted a gray whale off the New England coast last week, a species that has been extinct in the Atlantic for more than 200 years.

The largest animal on Earth, the blue whale, is returning to coastal Californian waters in numbers not seen since before the whaling industry, GNN reported in 2023 based on a 2014 survey.

And down in Antarctica, where many different whale species come to feed and breed, recent surveys have found the Southern Ocean is once again becoming a Sarengetti for whales, with an estimated 8,000 Southern fin whales found between 2018 and 2019."

-via Good News Network, May 16, 2024

558 notes · View notes

not-magdi · 8 months ago

Text

-first kiss / pablo gavi

Warnings: None / sorry for any mistakes I'm too lazy to proofread it currently

Words: 1.3k

Reading Time: 5min 20 sec

A/N

I've had this in my drafts fo sooo long now it's unbelievable. But I'm done now so yeyyy!! Hope you enjoy it

Love you guys, Magdi

To celebrate Barça's win and Pablo's reappearance at the stadium today, Pedri invited the whole team to a get-together at his house after the game. And like every time Pablo got invited somewhere, he asked you to come with him as his plus one.

You were always Pablo's plus one at any event, it didn't matter if it was a fancy gala or a simple team dinner, you were always by his side, and you never really gave it much thought.

"Y/N, hurry up!" Pablo screamed from downstairs. You had to drive to Pedri's house as Pablo still wasn't allowed to, which meant he had been waiting for the last 30 minutes for you to get ready.

"Jesus Christ! I'm comming, ok!" Adding the last bit of shimmer to your eyes, you make your way downstairs, completely missing the way Pablo's eyes nearly pop out as he sees you.

You see. Pablo has been trying to muster up the courage to ask you out for about a year now, but every time he comes close to telling you, he chickens out. Because the last thing he wants is for a lifelong friendship to end just because of an immature crush.

So, for the last year, all of your friends had to painfully watch how you two would pin after each other. Then, contrary to Pablo's belief, you weren't any better than him. The slight difference between you is that your crush has been going on since you were twelve.

You managed to hide your feelings pretty well, or so you thought. The truth was everybody knew you liked Pablo except himself. Which was pretty confusing for everybody as you were "Looking at him with heart eyes," in Aurora's words.

Anyways, back to now. After some slight arguing over what music you should play, you finally drove off. The car ride was silent, not an uncomfortable kind of silence, more a comforting kind. You were both recharging your social batteries again before meeting his teammates.

Something you and Pablo have in common is not being the most talkative on the planet, you two prefer to be affectionate rather than talk someone's ear off.

*Timeskip cause I'm lazyy*

After arriving, Fermín dragged Pablo away, wanting to talk about "football stuff". You didn't mind it, knowing Pablo missed his teammates terribly, so you let him be, getting yourself something to drink and sitting down next to Pedri, who greeted you with a big smile.

"Y/n! It's so good to see you! How are you doing?"

You fell into a relaxed conversation with Pedri about his season, how his brother is doing and many other things. You were finishing your fourth drink when Pedri bid his goodbye to find Ferran, you gave him a lazy smile and said bye.

You start to feel the alcohol in your system and decide to look for Pablo. You haven't seen him since you arrived, and that was 3 hours ago. With a slight sway in your walk, you make your way around the house, trying to find him.

You nearly gave up, wanting to call him instead, you saw him outside, sitting on a lounge chair with Fermín deep in conversation. Carefully opening the door, you step out, sneaking up behind Pablo to scare him.

"Hey guys!"

"Ahh ... Dios Y/N!"

Pablo nearly falls out of his seat, screaming like a little girl. Fermín still sits in his chair, holding one hand to his chest, looking at you with a shocked face. You, on the other hand, nearly fall over laughing, holding onto the wall beside you.

"Oh my god! Y-you guys should have seen your faces, hahah!"

Sitting up again, Pablo looks at you with furrowed eyebrows, grumbling something under his breath. "Sometimes I wonder why I'm friends with you."

Fermín starts to laugh when he sees your shocked expression. "Excuse me! I'm awesome!"

Pablo raises his eyebrows at you and says nothing, his expression already tells you enough.

You cuddle yourself next to Pablo on the lounge chair and throw your legs on Pablo's lap. Almost naturally, his hands find your legs and start to stroke them.

You two completely miss how Fermín watches the whole scene with a knowing smile, too engrossed in each other to notice anything.

------

It was currently half past twelve at night, and at some point, the topic of the conversation changed to first kisses.

You now know that Fermín had his first kiss under the bleachers of their old training grounds as children. You laughed at him for the next ten minutes, asking if it could be even more cliché.

"Okok, stop laughing. Was your first kiss any better?" You heard Fermín ask between your giggles.

"How should I now. I never had one." You just blurted out casually.

"What!!" Both men screamed in unison.

You were startled by their sudden exclamation nearly falling back with your chair.

"Dios mio, what's wrong with you two?!"

Fermín was the first one to find his voice again, "So you're telling me that you never kissed anybody in your entire life? Like ever?"

Taking a sip of your beer, you answer, "Jep, never."

Both men now look at you like they've seen a ghost, mouth hanging wide open, eyes staring into your soul.

"Guys it's no big deal really, calm down." You couldn't contain your laughter any longer as you kept looking into their faces, they looked absolutely ridiculous.

After a few minutes they calmed down again and the conversation flowed easily, well you and Fermín talked, Pablo kept quiet the whole time looking like he was lost in his own world.

-----

After some time, Fermín left, mumbling something about being way too cold. You didn't pay him much attention your focus shifted to Pablo a long time ago.

After Fermín left, there was silence between you and Pablo, not an uncomfortable one, more a comforting and calm one.

"Is it true that you've never been kissed?" Pablo breaks the silence.

"Yes, you idiot, why would I lie about something like this?" You laugh at his question.

"I don't know, the tequila scrambeled my brain."

Giggling, you throw your legs over his and make yourself more comfortable.

"You know, I've always imaged you would be my first kiss."

You were talking so quietly Pablo thought he heard you wrong, but he realised quickly what you said and looked at you with a gaze you couldn't read.

"Why did you never tell me?"

"Well, what did you want me to say? Hi Pablo, nobody ever kissed me. And I know we have known each other since we were 5 but would you want to? Yeah right."

"I would have ..."

Looking up from your lap, you see his brown teddy bear eyes looking at you.

"Wha-"

"I would have kissed you."

His tone and his expression told you he meant what he said. You didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else, but a wave of confidence hit you, which led you to ask him, "Would you also kiss me now?"

Pablo said nothing but started to lean in, grabbing your chin with his hand and making you look into his eyes.

"I would love to." He whispered before leaning in, softly connecting his lips with yours.

The feeling of Pablo's soft lips against yours was addicting. You never wanted it to stop, ever again.

Sadly, the lack of air in your lungs made you two pull away from each other, taking a deep breath while gazing into each other's eyes.

"And, was that ok for your first kiss?"

"Ok, it was magical!" You exclaimed, linking your hands behind his neck.

"That's good because I was not planning to stop at one kiss. Is that ok with you?"

A blush made its way onto your cheeks as you heard him say that, nodding you hide your burning cheeks in the crook of his neck.

"Yeah, I'd really like that."

"Good, then come here."

-------

Don't forget to leave a note if you enjoyed it, feedback is always welcome !!! ❤️

#pablo gavi x reader #gavi x reader #pablo gavi oneshot #pablo gavi x you #pablo gavi icons #pablo gavi #pablo gavi x y/n #gavi x you #fc barcelona #spain #barca

186 notes · View notes

jhoneybees · 1 year ago

Note

Hey there! I absolutely adore your work and I was wondering if you could write a fluff piece with 70s E? I’m thinking, 1975/76-ish. The reader is wayyy younger than him (like, early twenties), and he’s sort of insecure about being “too old” for her? Something real cute and fluffy? Thank youuu! ☺️

Ahh!! My first ever request!! Thank you for requesting! I love this idea so much, made my heart clench :(

I really hope you like it!

____________________

Too Old

Elvis and you have been dating for a couple of years now and your relationship is quite publicly open, especially the obvious 20 year age gap but that doesn't stop you two from loving each other. You adore Elvis in every way and same goes for him, you two couldn't have asked for another lover in the whole world, you both love eachother so much.

The newspapers often ramble on about the age gap you two have and he knows he should just ignore it but Elvis can't help it to think maybe he's too old for you, thinking he can't catch up with you and your young antics. The thought of dating a 40 year old man while you're in your early twenties does seem a little much but the love you have for your boyfriend is all that fills your mind. Having to slow down for Elvis so he could catch up is something you really don't mind doing, you would be sad if he misses out on anything.

You two are usually quite open with your thoughts and feelings but Elvis worrying about his age is something he doesn't want you to know, the thought of him being an old man as he watches you from the couch, dancing with your friends at a party or squeezing your thigh gently as you sit on his lap whilst chatting with the others about things that he doesn't understand in this new generation made him feel so insecure.

One night after a party, Elvis stumbles into the TV room, sitting himself down on the couch and grabbing the remote to flick through the channels on his TVs as you get yourself ready for bed upstairs in the bedroom. That stupid thought of his age is really getting to him, he thinks of you possibly leaving him to go find someone more suitable for your young age is eating him alive. His thoughts get interrupted by you calling his name, he calls for you in a tired tone “In the TV room” Your walking turns into a skip making your way to him, seeing Elvis watching a random dramatic soapy on one of the TVs, you quietly sit beside him. His arm wrapping around you so you could rest against his chest, you let out a content sigh as your hand slips through the low V cut shirt Elvis has on to feel his soft chest hair. The silent moment made you smile, the cosy ambience of being in Graceland watching TV with Elvis was something you have always dreamt of doing as a teenager but a prickly feeling made you come back from your daydreaming, a feeling that something was wrong with Elvis. He has been quiet this past week but you just thought he was just tired which he usually is but you realised maybe there's something else.

Looking up to see Elvis' face blank with a hint of sadness as his blue eyes stare at the television. You carefully sit up and ask him “Feelin' alright?” Earning a quiet hum in return. You frown slightly “Are you sure Elvis?” Elvis' eyes that were glued to the TV looks down at your hand that sits on his thigh, he looks up at you noticing you worryingly watching him. Giving you a soft smile, he nods “I'm alright honey, don't worry about me” with a slow nod you reply with a “Ok” kissing his cheek softly before returning to the position you were in before.

After a few minutes of reappearing silence you begin talking about something that you and your friends have been babbling on about and Elvis just replies with quiet hums and uhuh’s. He doesn't understand what you're talking about so he hesitantly interrupts “I-i'm sorry honey but could ya explain that?” You nod as you obediently sit up making Elvis' hand slide from your hip to your knee. “It's about the Beatles! Lucy was tellin' me about how she went to one of their concerts and told me how much she loved it” Elvis nods, a thought running in his head that maybe he's losing his musical touch and everyone is losing interest in him now.

You continue to babble on, not noticing Elvis' eyes drifting away from you and giving his troubling thoughts attention. Your talking comes to a halt as you watch Elvis look down at the carpet, your eyebrows furrow “Elvis darling…” turning his head to look at you with your fingers on his chin, he smiles weakly “ M’sorry y/n got carried away” he chuckles unconvincingly “what's on your mind?” You ask. Elvis gulps and looks down from your eyes before he gently moves your hand away from his chin, caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. He sighs “I'm too old for you…” your eyebrows furrow even more, shaking your head as you bring your other hand to cup his cheek “Elvis sweetie..” he can't bear to look you in the eye “You always wait for me to catch up on ya…on this young generation” you knew Elvis gets insecure about himself a lot and it really breaks your heart, you want him to see what you see of him in your eyes. A loving man that gives you all his love that you never asked for. “Honey, I don't mind waiting on you… it means the world to me for you to join in on the fun” you smile nervously, he shakes his head “better to just leave me and go find someone younger” you shake your head frantically and a sad “No..” leaves your mouth. Cupping both of his cheeks forcing him to look you in the eye “How could I ever leave you? You're my baby, my honey, my love” He gulps again as he listens “We may have a big age gap but I don't care about that Elvis, I really don't…all I care about is loving you, taking care of you, waiting on you. I'd do anything..” your voice begins to crack, the nasty thoughts that were plaguing his mind disappear as he hears your devotion for him. “Doesn't matter how old you may be I will always love you no matter what” Elvis smiles softly “You mean it?” You nod in return “I swear on my own grave” he looks at you in awe “I love you so damn much..” he says just above a whisper “I love you too, daddy” making him genuinely laugh.

____________________

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis fans #70s elvis #elvis imagine #elvis presley x reader #my heart is aching

212 notes · View notes

dandelionsresilience · 1 month ago

Text

Dandelion News - October 22-28

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles on Patreon!

1. Industrial wastelands to wildlife oases: Five nature wins that have actually worked

“[An archipelago in the Indian ocean] experienced a major whale comeback after signing up to a debt for nature swap[….] In Sri Lanka's capital of Colombo, local efforts have transformed what was once a rubbish dump to a wetland teeming with [wildlife….]”

2. Louisville launches America’s first 100% electric garbage truck fleet

““These innovative EV collection trucks will fulfill our trash, compost and recycling needs, reduce noise pollution, and include larger windshields to increase each driver’s field of vision and lower greenhouse gas emissions[….]” [The trucks are equipped with] audible devices that alert nearby drivers and pedestrians to compensate for their quieter operations.”

3. How a nearly extinct crocodile species returned from the brink in Cambodia

“By the late nineties, [Siamese crocodiles] were thought to be extinct. […] Today there are about 1,000 Siamese crocodiles in the wild[….] The first crocodiles were reintroduced into the wild in 2012 and they have begun breeding in the wild: over a hundred eggs were discovered in the forests in July, the most so far.”

4. Before his death, this conservative combat veteran filmed a PSA advocating for his transgender son

““Eric [“a conservative South Carolina U.S. Army combat veteran and father of a transgender child”] believed in the importance of freedom for trans kids — the right to live authentically and without fear,” [his widow] said. “He saw this not as a political issue but as a human one, recognizing that every child deserves the chance to thrive and feel whole.”” [Curator’s note: obviously, utmost condolences to Eric’s family; I’m including this as good news because it’s impactful to see a respectable member of the political party more often known for transmisia instead publicly advocating for his son’s human - not just political - rights]

5. Azores to create largest Marine Protected Area in North Atlantic – and a 'blueprint' for the rest of the world

““The Azores’ waters are a hotspot for marine life, hosting a third of the world's whale and dolphin species,[…” and harbouring] “cold-water corals and sponge fields that act as nurseries and feeding grounds for countless species, from deep-sea sharks to commercially valuable fish stocks.””

6. ‘It’s a big lever for change’: the radical contract protecting Hamburg’s green space

“Citizen power forced Germany’s greenest city-state into a binding agreement balancing housing and nature[….] The authorities signed an agreement with the citizen’s initiative to protect 30% of Hamburg’s land area – 10% as untouchable nature reserves and 20% with a looser conservation status – and ensure the share of public green space in the city rises over time.”

7. Behind the Scenes at the Federal Bee Lab Powered by Native Plants

“Once native plants reappeared at the lab, he says, the impact was dramatic. In the first year, many of the region’s 200 native bee species arrived in droves. [… B]irds Droege had never before seen on the premises began to turn up to feed on the native plant seeds[….]”

8. Atlanta neighborhood hired case manager to address rising homelessness. It's improving health and safety for everyone

“Michael Nolan, an Intown Cares social worker, is trained in an approach that emphasizes individual autonomy and dignity, recognizes that being homeless is a traumatic experience, and prioritizes access to housing. [… H]iring a social worker has enabled East Atlanta Village to resolve conflicts gently, through conversation and negotiation.”

9. Loggerhead Sea Turtle Nests Make a Remarkable Comeback in Greece

“As long-lived and migratory species, [loggerheads] contribute to the health of seagrass beds and coral reefs, which are vital habitats for many marine organisms. Their nesting activities also contribute to beach ecosystems and help promote biodiversity.”

10. Rapid genome analysis of a Whippet sighthound sets new standard for biodiversity research

“[Scientists] have sequenced and analyzed the complete genome of a Whippet sighthound in less than a week. […] Rapid analysis is increasingly important for the conservation of endangered species, [… giving] insights into their biological relationships, evolution and adaptations to environmental conditions.”

October 15-21 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

40 notes · View notes

pastshadows · 3 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 20: A Plea for Tomorrow

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 5.5K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Marry me?

The fabric of time warps, slowing and then seemingly stopping in concordance with your heart as you watch Astarion and Aldous grapple with each other. Your throat constricts around the sound of the erratic scuffing of Astarion’s soft-soled boots as he loses his footing. Every blistering beat of your heart circulates a new shockwave of escalating panic that paralyzes your body. It feels like being trapped in your own skin, your bones becoming a cage that keeps you frozen in time. The only indication that you’re screaming is the burn that roars through your throat as you let out a soul-shattering wail.

They say that when you’re about to die, your life flashes before your eyes, but what happens when it’s not you who is dying but your soulmate? Your mind’s eye combusts into a carnival of flashing memories: the first glance of him on the coastline, the first real smile, his infectious laughter, the first kiss, the first hug, the first time he said I love you, the way his scarlet eyes always seemed to dance with a mixture of mischief and adoration when he looked at you.

Every memory is so vivid that it floods your senses. You can hear his voice uttering words that leave you defenceless, feel his skin against yours with every touch in stolen moments, feel the coolness of whispered secrets fan the heated skin of your cheeks, and hear his promises of eternity toll like a soft bell in your ears.

An eternity that now dangles in a void. You can almost see the seductive smile of death, circling like a raven-coloured vulture in the squirming shadows of the Underdark, ready to descend on the ruins of your life and pick them clean of the last scraps of hope.

How many times will you be forced to lose him? How many times can your soul stand to be broken again and again and again until nothing of you remains but a shattered husk? The memories twist into you like a knife, piercing your heart and soul, poisoning the joy into a medley of nauseating heartbreak.

Why didn’t you listen to Shadowheart, Gale, and Hecat? They had protested before you left camp. You paid little attention to their pleas and focused instead on Astarion’s protests. It made sense to leave them behind when you thought the feral spawn were a danger. The more beating hearts, the more it would send them into a frenzy should you run into them, but you had not anticipated Aldous.

You should have known better. Turn your head for one second, and fate will twist the tables against you. You’re used to keeping steps ahead of your adversaries, but you’ve been too caught up in your own pain, too afraid to think straight, and now that preoccupation has had an unfathomable cost. The realization washes over you in waves of shattered dreams and love, leaving only emptiness and unbearable grief in their wake.

No.

It cannot be.

It will not be.

You’re not sure what you would call the feeling that takes over your body as you sweat off the ice that has kept you bound in place, and you begin to wake up from this nightmare and spring into action. You sprint and leap off the edge of the derelict tower. Is it an impulse? Instinct? An inherent tendency toward self-destruction? Whatever it is, it blanks your brain enough to barely recognize that you’re moving forward until you’re plummeting.

A prickling sensation across the skin of your back invites you to lean into it, and you do, allowing your body to take control. The Weave revolves around you, sweeping across your skin in a rosy aura. Your robe is shred to pieces as a pair of dragon wings sprout into existence, expanding to their full span with a thunderous roar.

Your eyes lock with Astarion’s, and your adrenaline surges, detonating into determination. Mustering all your strength, your wings beat the air in a powerful down stroke, and you send yourself hurtling earthward. The tattered strips of your robe flutter in the rush of the current, your hair whips wildly across your face, and your arms outstretch, reflexively teaching toward Astarion as you dive.

Aldous bursts in a red puff of haze in midair, similar to what Astarion’s siblings had done when Cazador called them back from the attack on your camp. You’ve never been against killing, per se, realizing that sometimes it’s necessary, but you’ve always considered it more of a last resort. It was one of the reasons you agreed with Astarion when he wanted to release the spawn. They deserved a chance to live.

Aldous will not be given the same opportunity. Whether he can control his actions or not, you cannot wait to bring about his demise.

The tips of Astarion’s fingers brush yours as he reaches toward you with an awestruck expression. I’ve got you, you whisper, but the sound of your voice is lost in the torrential roar of the wind. The gentle brush against your fingertips is like pulling the ripcord from your heart, and your steadfast stubbornness and obstinacy drive away the survival instinct to slow your rate of descent as you see the other spawn begin to shatter against the looming earth in sprays of blooming red mist.

With a quick aerial manoeuvre, your arms enfold around Astarion’s waist, hooking under his arms to catch his dangling body, and your wings shoot out and expand to their full span. The lurch from his weight and yours as you try to slow the rate of descent feels like it nearly tears your arms from your body, and you grit your teeth against the pain of your bones and muscles straining in their sockets.

The ground is still coming up to embrace you much too quickly, and your wings beat against the air furiously as you try to fight the laws of physics and gravity. You manage to shift your position slightly to your left, so that the small, spindly Sussur tree is far enough away that your magic cannot be depleted and its branches cannot inadvertently stake Astarion.

With each beat of your wings, your altitude continues to diminish, and you realize that you will not be able to carry the weight of both of you. Your hope wanes, and Astarion seems to have the same realization. He tugs at your wrists in a plea for you to let him go, lest you both meet your demise. Your grip on him only intensifies along with your resolve, and with a final, desperate surge of power, your wings buffet the air, slowing your fall just enough to cushion the impact.

Curling your wings around Astarion to protect him, you crash into the rigid terrain, bouncing across it like a skipping stone. The force of the collision rips Astarion out of your arms, and the coarse sediment rends your arms, legs, and face as you skid over the abrasive soil. The air is expelled from your lungs in a heaving wheeze, and you fight to fill them again when your body finally lies fallow.

Agony radiates through every one of your limbs, and a piercing ache snarls your lungs with every breath. The frigid air gnaws at the skin exposed between the remaining ragged pieces of what is left of your robe, chilling you to the core. Seconds, minutes, or hours pass, trapped in this limbo while you fight the relentless pull of darkness beginning to envelop you like a suffocating blanket.

You war against the threat of unconsciousness as black creeps further and further into your vision with every stunned, slow blink. Eventually, you lose the battle to cling to the fragile thread of life, and you’re carried away on the wings of vestigial oblivion.

Your sandals clack against the paved streets as you and Astarion make a quick getaway from the Blushing Mermaid. You try your best to stifle your inebriated giggling as Astarion ducks you in and out of dark alleys and passageways, over fences, and through backyards, until he’s assessed that you’re far enough away that the patrons you swindled will not be able to track you down.

“That was your fault, love.” He chuckles exuberantly while smoothing your sundress down, tugging at the hem that rode up during your retreat, exposing the skin of your upper thighs.

“My fault?” You huff and shove him playfully. He barely wavers on his feet, and you end up sending yourself stumbling backwards, the spirits in your blood making your limbs loose and unsteady. Astarion’s quick to dart forward, and he wraps his arms around you, lifting you off your feet slightly. You wriggle in his arms, but eventually give up trying to escape his clutch. You wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m not the one who robbed them of all their coin in a game you knew they had no hope of winning!”

“Smart people don’t make bets unless they know they can win,” he snickers with a mischievous delight twinkling in his ruby-red eyes that are still bright against the dim light of the alley. “You were encouraging me!” He mimics your voice irritatingly well but adds his own flamboyant touch. “Come on, Astarion. Just one more round. Give them a chance to win their coin back.”

You snort to showcase your dissatisfaction and descend into a fretful fit of giggling. “Okay. I may have done that. What can I say? I just adore watching you in your element, Rogue.”

He pushes your back up against a wall and catches your lips in a kiss almost as rough as the stone pressed against your back. His skilled fingers kneed into the meat of your thighs with the perfect pressure, almost bordering on pleasurable pain.

“I’d be happy to demonstrate all my talents if you’re amenable,” he purrs, running his fingernails up and down the sensitive skin on the backs of your thighs. It sends a shiver cartwheeling down all the nerves of your spinal cord, and you sigh into his greedy mouth. “Come. Let’s go home, yes? As much as I would adore to take you right here, I am far too selfish, and you, my love, are far too loud.”

“As if you’re not equally as loud,” you taunt.

He places you carefully back on your feet, making sure you’re steady before offering his hand.

“I never was before, you know,” he says, half bashfully, half thoughtfully, with a slightly canted head. “I suppose you make me feel heights of pleasure that were previously unknown to me. The firsts are ever abundant with you.”

“Is that another one of your famous lines?” You quip with an arched brow.

He laughs heartily. “Sweetheart, my lines are markedly more exceptional than that.”

Astarion peeks around the corner to make sure that there are no guards walking the main concourse before you venture out onto it and start to make your way home. The conversation between you flows light and smooth until suddenly Astarion goes silent, and you realize he’s not beside you any longer.

When you look back, he stands and stares up at the tall, dark tower that stands like a poltergeist, looming high into the sky and casting a shadow over the city streets. You usually try to avoid this area with him, because every time he sees his old home, the now abandoned Szarr Palace, he looks at it sombrely. Sometimes you wonder if he regrets not completing the Rite, and that tower is an ever-standing reminder of what he could have had if only he hadn’t listened to you.

“Astarion?” You look up at the tower, standing like a thorn in the sky, casting a black mark upon the soul of the city. “Are you alright?”

With his attention enraptured on the abandoned palace, he doesn’t answer for a spell, and a frown settles over his expression, creasing his forehead and curling his lip up. You place your hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Hmm?” Astarion jolts slightly at the physical contact and does a double take, as if he didn’t even remember you were there in the first place. “Apologies. I’m fine. I just detest that building.”

The words erupt out of your mouth before you have time to think about them. “Let’s burn it to the fucking ground.”

Astarion chuckles but cuts himself off abruptly as he reads the fire in your eyes and the motivated heat in your expression. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“No.”

Your fingernails press into your tingling palms as your magic spikes and warms your skin. You may not be able to cleanse his mind of the horrors that infect his thoughts, but maybe you can cauterize the still-bleeding wounds in his soul, however slightly.

Astarion glances around and speaks in hushed tones. “As much as I would very much love that, the damn thing is constructed mostly of stone.”

“You’re about to be very impressed with me,” you wink. “Come on.”

You take his hand and tug him along, sneaking up through the back where you entered the first time. Not entirely surprisingly, it’s sparsely guarded, and by sparsely, you mean not at all. With Cazador dead and the Netherbrain attacks reducing the number of Fists substantially, they no longer patrol this area, and you’re able to walk straight in.

The door creeks forebodingly as you push it open, finding it unlocked. Cobwebs hang from the scones and writhe in the light breeze from the open door as they hang from the ceiling like strings of thinning memories. The obnoxious art is starting to peel away from the canvases, along with the wallpaper. It looks nothing like you remember it — forgotten and forsaken by the elements and time. Yet, the oppressive atmosphere still bears down on you with the weight of centuries.

Astarion stares spitefully at a decaying portrait of Cazador that seems to stare back at him with the same haughty disdain.

“Burn it, love,” you coo, letting a flame hover above your palm. “You cast terribly, but well enough for this.”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been casting—“

“Since before I was born,” you finish with a smirk. “Yes, yes. You keep reminding me how old you are. It doesn’t mean you cast well.”

Astarion’s nose wrinkles, but he shakes his head with a smile. He stares at the painting for a moment longer before he reels back. “Ignis!”

Cazador’s painting takes on a flame like dry timber and burns brightly in the midst of the gloomy darkness. You hope he burns in the flames of the Hells with such ardent fervour.

With a quick twitch of your fingers, you cast Telekinesis and fling a table across the foyer. It slams into the wall with a thud that echos through the deserted hallways and bursts into pieces that land haphazardly around the floor.

“Let’s trash it!” Astarion growls excitedly with a half-crazed, dark smile snaking across his lips.

The two of you run through the palace halls, laughing and breaking everything in sight. Sometimes you smash it, sometimes you burn it, and sometimes both, depending on what the item is or how it seems to affect Astarion. It’s quite cathartic, even for you, and you were not witness to the horrors that took place within these walls.

You can only hope it’s similar, if not better, for Astarion.

Astarion pays special care to Cazador’s study, where he was barred from going for two centuries. He flips the desk with little effort and sets the books aflame. His expression is one of almost madness as he tears through his prior life like a dragon tears through flesh.

You keep quiet, allowing him to relish in this destruction until there’s nothing left but your ragged breaths and the broken pieces of a life that once was. Smoke clings to the air from the burning furniture.

“Well,” Astarion pants, “I suppose that’s the best we can do.”

You smirk and lay your hand on one of the stone columns. Fire encircles it, burning brighter and brighter until the stone itself becomes molten and starts to drip like the wax of a candle. It takes not a trivial amount of your power to do so, but you do not let the effort of it show.

“You have the power of dragons at your side, my love. Stone is no match for me. What do you say we bring this whole building down?”

“Burn it, my fiery love.” Astarion takes one last glance around at what had been his home, or perhaps prison, for centuries. His brows pull down low over his eyes, and his teeth are bared. His voice is all gravel and malice. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”

The Weave swarms into your body as you gather all the power you can possibly muster. The air around you vibrates, crackling with anticipation and energy. The auroral shimmer from your magic mirrors that of the frenzied blames you’re about to unleash.

Your eyes anchor on Astarion’s, and you hold your hand out to him. “Together.”

He takes your hand, fire blooming in his palm, and he gives you a curt nod. You unleash a torrent of fire that expands outward like a supernova. Your magic and his intertwine, tangling together like the limbs of long, lost lovers who have finally found each other’s embrace once more. The inferno swims through hallways like liquid, up the walls, and decimates everything in sight. The stones begin to melt under the searing heat, and black smoke billows across the ceiling.

Pushing yourself to the limits of your power, you compel the fire to burn white hot and shroud every possible surface in it until all is flame, ash, and smoke. There is a fierce sense of satisfaction that emboldens you, like you are cleansing the world of the atrocities that were committed within these walls. The flames leap as if aggravated, a pyre of vengeance, and they begin their insatiable dance across any surface they touch.

The fire burns with a brightness unknown to these corridors in countless years, and you have to squint your eyes against the light and heat of it. Sweat instantly veils your skin, dripping down your forehead. Astarion tugs on your arm, pulling you toward the doorway and across the threshold into the night.

You and him watch from a safe distance, staying off the main road so as not to be seen. Flames twist like serpents out of windows, black smoke billows into the night sky, and embers rise from the stone tower like angry red eyes against the darkness. With a final explosive burst, the palace begins to collapse in on itself.

The flames will consume the last vestiges of that place, and there will be nothing but a smouldering ruin where Cazador’s grand palace once stood by morning.

You wish Astarion could stay and see it.

Astarion’s ears twitch suddenly. “As much as I would love to stay and watch, we must be going. Guards are on their way, and I would rather not get arrested tonight. Dawn will be upon us soon.”

He grabs your hand and leads you to avoid the paths of the guards. It’s a silent retreat, with the both of you glancing back periodically to admire your handiwork.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t stay and watch,” you say, sweeping your thumb across the back of his hand comfortingly.

“It’s okay, my sweet.” He offers you a small, albeit sad, smile before pulling you along. “I belong in the shadows. They are part of me.”

But they don’t have to be…

Astarion hesitates, only for a moment, and brushes his thumb across your cheek, wiping away the mix of sweat and soot. “This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I won’t forget it.”

Taste is the first sense that comes back to you, and the copper tang of blood films your mouth. Dirt grinds between your teeth when you clench your jaw, and you try to force your eyes to open. Your eyelashes hardly flutter, even though you’re straining. It’s as if they’ve been glued shut. There is a persistent ringing in your ears, like insects are buzzing annoyingly right beside them, and you cannot hear your surroundings well.

Your stiff and achey fingers twist into the soil beneath you, and you grasp blindly for anything that might keep you from descending back into the unconsciousness that your battered body yearns for. When you are finally able to pry your eyes open, the world is nothing but a confusing swirl of darkness and light that makes your brain pulse in your skull.

You try to move, but your limbs are laden, and a searing agony shoots through you that keeps you pinned to the cold, damp earth. A wave of thick dizziness blankets you with every small movement. Your hand comes to your head as if you might be able to steady your vision by holding it and comes away, slick with blood smeared across your dirty palm.

Fragments of memories begin to coalesce until they wash over you like a tsunami, nearly knocking you back to the ground in their intensity.

Aldous. The spawn. The battle. Astarion.

Astarion.

Your heart begins to pound against your ribs, revived by panic and love simultaneously. You manage to sit up, but the world around you swims, blurs, and distorts. Your wings are limp, dragging at your back, and you relinquish the manifestation. They waver, flickering as the magic is dispelled, and fade out, leaving behind only rosy, needlepoint glitter that rises into the air and ebbs.

Dread claws at your throat. “Astarion?!” You croak; your voice is rough and cracking. “Astarion!”

Just like it didn’t the first time you were down here alone, the only answer you get from the impenetrable darkness is the echoing of your own frightened cries. Gathering your dwindling strength, you manage to drag yourself to your hands and knees. Everything spins, blurring and contorting in a sickening disarray, and you dry-retch repeatedly. Your unquenchable desire to ensure Astarion's survival propels you forward.

You do not allow yourself to think about the alternate possibility.

Crawling on your hands and knees, you search forward blindly while your injured body screams in protest with every movement. The earth is uneven and littered with remnants of the tower that have crumpled away over the years, and you must drag yourself through the rubble.

You manage to hoist yourself to your feet with the aid of a large boulder. Leaning against it to keep yourself upright, you survey the bleak surroundings. Pale, motionless figures litter the ground in broken heaps. With your vision still hazy, it’s hard to discern details from afar. You stumble toward them, tripping over your own feet, rocks, and roots alike.

The scene is like walking through a surreal nightmare. The bodies are gruesomely mangled, some of them barely recognizable as people. Blood from the wound on your head drips into your eyes, sitting heavy on your lashes. Your horror mounts, your hands shake, and your breath rattles out of your trembling lips the longer you search.

“Astarion?” You call out again, and again, a deafening silence is the only answer you receive. “Astarion, please,” you whimper, devastated, rubbing your eyes to try and clear your vision.

An arm shoots out, clawed fingers wrap around your ankle, and they sweep you off your feet. Blood-red eyes set against a backdrop of inky black bore into you with a crazed fixation. The spawn crawls up your body, its fingers clawing at your flesh. Its legs are broken and bent in unnatural positions, and its jaw hangs loose on one side as it tries to sink its fangs into you.

Your tired arms strain against its weight, struggling to keep it away from your neck. You grit your teeth against the pain, and a deep-seated, previously repressed rage kindles and arcs within you. This world has used you up and let you down. Gods and devils alike have tried to use you for their own means, stepping on you, and you have refused to break.

You will not be killed here. Whatever it takes. You try to call on your magic, but it barely sparks across your fingertips before fizzling out.

Your power is depleted until you rest.

One hand relinquishes its grip on the spawn and chaotically searches the earth beside your body for something, anything, you can use as a weapon. The spawn lurches forward, its fingers blindly grasping at your face and hair, trying to drag itself closer. Its unhinged jaw snaps dangerously close to your neck, and saliva drools out of its mouth.

Your fingertips finally brush against the cool, rough surface of a brick sticking out of the dirt, and you frantically wrap your hand around it. With a roar, you bring the brick up, bashing it into the side of the spawn's skull hard enough to knock it sideways and off balance. You scramble to take advantage of the opening, pinning it down with your body, and bring the brick above your head and down as hard as you can.

You strike it again and again and again, ignoring the way the blood splatters across your face and coats your fingers. In your bitter frenzy, you don’t stop until you’re out of breath and your arms ache, even when the body beneath you lays still.

Getting to your feet, your chest heaves, and your eyes finally come away from the disfigured form lying by your feet. They dart around until the tiniest flash of silver catches them. You stagger toward it, the brick still held so tightly in your grasp that the bones of your hand jut out abnormally.

Astarion lies stationary, and he does not stir when you drop down beside him, discarding the brick, and take his face in your hands. His usually silver-white hair is matted and weighed down with drying blood, and only patches of his alabaster skin are visible between the blood and grime.

“Astarion.” You shake him vigorously — much harder than you should. You brush back the red-tinged hair sticking to his forehead. The coldness of his skin is a chilling echo of death. “Astarion, please get up.”

Tears trickle from your eyes while you unbuckle the clasps and undo the ties of his armour to get a look at his wounds. Pushing the leather jerkin to the side, you gasp at the puncture wound. You press your hands against it, putting pressure on it to stem the bleeding. His blood oozes between your fingers, relentless in its flow.

You shuck off what remains of your robe quickly, balling it up and pressing that against the wound instead. Can vampires bleed out? You’re not sure, and you’re not interested in finding out.

“Come back to me,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and broken. “I need you. I need you to… to….” The word lodges itself in your throat, refusing to be spoken.

I need you to marry me.

You press your lips against his forehead, the warmth of your breath rippling against the cold of his skin. When you met him, you knew intuitively that the threads of your life would always entwine with the threads of his. Now, the threads seem fragile and prone to snapping.

“We have beaten Gods together,” you rasp in shaky breaths, pulling him into your lap with the last of your remaining strength. “Remember the Goblins? They had been no match for us. The hag? Both times, we took her down, laughing. Bhaal’s chosen? Slayed. Raphael? Slaughtered in his own home, no less. We felled a Netherbrain and lived. We have beaten the odds time and time again together, and we are together. Please, fight. Let us beat the odds once more. Stay with me.”

Could you get him back to Shadowheart? No. You are too far from camp to drag him that far, and your wings are a once-a-day use. All the scrolls and potions of healing you had are somewhere in a bag, likely at the top of the tower, smashed to useless bits.

Your heart stutters in your chest as you look for any signs of life, but you find none. Astarion is technically already dead; you’re not entirely sure what you can look for. He doesn’t have a beating heart, so you cannot check his pulse; he doesn’t need to breathe, so you cannot judge that; his skin is always ice cold. You cannot tell if you’re sitting with the corpse of your soulmate on your lap.

That thought alone threatens to choke you.

“Please,” you plead again. To him. To any God who is listening. To time itself. “Don’t leave me. Not again,” you choke out, your tears spilling and mingling with the blood and mud slathered across his face.

A torrent of anguish washes through you. It feels as if your soul is being wrung dry, and fear once again gnaws at your core. Why have you been hiding from him? Why have you been afraid to be with him? Life looks so different when you are safe and sound, tucked away behind walls. In those moments, the illusion of time seems to stretch on infinitely.

You thought you had so much time to figure things out, but all it takes is one wrong move, one wrong choice, one wrong step, and one lucky swing of a blade, and all that time you thought you had is severed in an instant.

The crunch of peddles beneath boots makes you sigh, squeezing your eyes closed for a moment in exasperation. There is no need to look up and see who it is. You can feel his repulsive stare creep over your skin like waves of endless spiders.

“That was quite the show, sorceress,” he drawls. “Wings to go along with those spectacular scales.”

“Come one step closer,” you growl under your breath in a voice that sounds far too dark to be your own, “and I will kill you.”

Your hand grips the hilt of one of Astarion’s discarded daggers lying in the dirt by your side. There is no way to know how long you were unconscious for or how long Aldous has been watching. Does he know your magic is depleted? Why did he not kill you and abscond with Astarion when he had the chance? Is Aldous so hellbent on vengeance that he would wait until you’re awake so you can witness your death?

Probably. Aldous is many things, but smart or a strategist is definitely not one of them.

“I always did admire your spirit.”

He takes a middling step closer, and your hand tightens on the hilt of the dagger. Your fingers shuffle it into your grip, twisting it so that it fits comfortably and is balanced in your palm.

“I suggest you admire it from afar.” You hiss with serrated contempt.

“Your persistent obstinacy is inspiring,” he sneers with his lips pressed into a thin line. “But stupid, given the predicament you find yourself in.”

“Good Gods, Aldous!” You snap. What is he waiting for? Why hasn’t he attacked? Is he simply revelling in your pain, or is there more to his perceived constraint? The mortal man you knew had very little in the way of self-control. “What do you fucking want? Whatever you’re doing here, get it over with! I tire of your childish games.”

“My master will give you one last chance to take the deal offered. All of this could end here and now.” He crouches down, gesturing toward Astarion and fastening his eyes to you. “I will allow you to leave with your life intact, and you can return to your life free of this strife.”

It does sound nice, doesn’t it? In a perfect world, you could take the deal and never look back. There is a dark stain on your soul that yearns to take the deal, damn Waterdeep to its fate, and let someone else take up the mantle and play hero. You swallow hard as whatever light is left in your soul wars against the taint of dark temptations.

Your eyes fall to Astarion, and you recall the conversation you had with him. He did not think he could take the deal and live with the guilt. When did he become the voice of reason while you lean toward chaos and self-preservation? You bark out a sad laugh at the thought while sweeping your thumb across his cheek.

“In the next life it is, my love,” you whisper.

“How touching.” Aldous feigns sympathy with a scornful, ridiculing pout.

The numbing embrace of promised death caresses your heart, laughing from the shadows upon its winged chariot, ready to take you away. Your brow pinches as your eyes fall on Aldous with a grim defiance.

“It is like you say,” you chime with a voice of taunting, iced honey. “I am pigheaded to a fault. My answer remains the same. There will be no deal.”

“Honourable,” he concludes, “but foolish.”

“The only fool here is you, Aldous.”

He growls, launching himself forward with inhuman speed. His blade glints with an icy blue, reflecting the light of the Sussur tree. Your hand squeezes the hilt of the dagger, and you bring it up.

Gods.

You thought you had more time.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

I did some research, and dragon wings are an actual thing for draconic sorcerers! Naturally, we had to give Kamena wings.

I've made a 3D render from a scene in the last chapter of these two. Since I have not included many details of Kamena's appearance in the story, so everyone is free to imagine their own Kamena, I'm going to link it instead of posting it here in case anyone would rather not see it since it is my vision of Kamena.

If you're interested in viewing it, the link is posted at the bottom of this chapter (20) on my AO3 here.

#astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion smut #astarion romance #baldurs gate astarion #astarion ancunin #shadows of the past

44 notes · View notes

disneyanddisneyships · 1 year ago

Text

@gyubby99 I like causing pain.

Warnings: mentions of drugs, alcohol, cheating, and depression

Aponi drank a bottle of beer as she read the Pamphlet again.

"I had frequent intimate meetings with Linda Davis," it had read.

Over and over again.

She kept reading it.

Over.

And over again.

In her drunken state she threw the bottle in anger.

It hit the wall, smashing to peices as tears rolled down her face.

Her phone lit up with a text from Valentino.

Val: E canceled on me. Somethin about reveling in your misery. You have her time if you can get off your ass and pull yourself together.

Aponi: be there in 20

Val: good. Sing somethin sad. We've been getting more asking about a sad song.

Aponi rolled her eyes and threw the Pamphlet onto her bed before taking a bottle of wine and a pack of cigarettes out.

She left her apartment.

..........

Aponi walke dinto the back of the club, her head pounding as she took another cigarette out of the pack.

It was her 4th one.

"'Poni?" Angel asked as he saw her. "The fuck happened to you?" He asked.

"Haven't you heard? Alastor's been sleeping around with a little bunny," Aponi replied before getting dressed.

"He fuckin WHAT?!" Angel asked, his features fuming.

Aponi nodded before snatching a performers cocaine, snorting it quickly before straightening herself out.

"Hey.... 'poni you.... I've never seen you do..... drugs...." Angel muttered, worry on his face.

"Whatever. I'm up," Aponi stated before wlaking onto the stage.

The music started.

Aponi had told Val that this was the song she wanted to sing next time she got to, so clearly he made it happen.

She took a breath before starting to sing.

I got no excuses for all of these goodbyes Call me when it's over, 'cause I'm dying inside Wake me when the shakes are gone And the cold sweats disappear Call me when it's over and myself has reappeared

She sang as she threw the cigarette that was in her hand, down onto the floor, stepping on it so it went out.

She knew the song, but she felt if she didn't stop singing it, she'd just break down into a million pieces.

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why I do it every, every, every time It's only when I'm lonely Sometimes I just wanna cave and I don't wanna fight I try and I try and I try and I try and I try Just hold me, I'm lonely

She sang some more, wrapping her arms around herself as a tear ran down her face for the first time since the Pamphlet.

.......

Deborah walked into the club.

E usually came here to spy on her daughter.

Which worked out really well tonight, seeing that she was on stage.

Deborah smiled softly before taking a seat. However, as she listened to the lyrics, her smile faded.

......

As aponi looked out she saw her mom. And that's when she broke.

Momma, I'm so sorry, I'm not sober anymore And daddy, please, forgive me for the drinks spilled on the floor To the ones who never left me, we've been down this road before I'm so sorry, I'm not sober anymore

As Aponi sang, tears fell fown her face, her voice practically raw with emotion.

Deborah looked at her daughter, worried, but keeping her distance.

I'm sorry to my future love for the man that left my bed For making love the way I saved for you inside my head And I'm sorry for the fans I lost who watched me fall again I wanna be a role model, but I'm only human

She sang as she took off the stupid promise ring Alastor had given her, throwing it to the dogs as they all scrambled to get the expensive jewelry.

As she sang, she watched a few regulars walk out of the club, making her feel even worse.

Her face contorted.

It was angry as she sang a few lyrics.

How could he do this to her? After 8 years....

As she sang, she took the microphone and walked to the front of the stage, sitting down curled in a small ball.

She looked at her mom, before turning away in shame.

I'm sorry that I'm here again, I promise I'll get help It wasn't my intention, I'm sorry to myself

As she finished the song the lights went out. She walked off stage like she usually did, and walked straight into her dressing room, curling up on the couch.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Go away, Angel!!!!" Aponibyelled as she wiped the tears from her face.

But the door opened to reveal her mom.

"M-mom?" Aponi asked, shocked as she tensed up.

"Hey Bug...." Deborah muttered.

"Listen, I knownim a big fuck up, but i would really prefer if you didn't tell me 'I told you so'" Aponi stated with a sniff.

Deborah sighed and walked briskly over to her daughter, hugging her from the side.

"Ohhh Lillian.... honey, I know it hurts...." She said in a quiet whisper before pulling Aponi so she was cradling her like a child.

That's when Lilly broke down.....

"I loved him mom," Lilly sobbed as she held onto her mother.

Deborah rocked back and fourth, shushing her.

"Oh honey, I know..... I know you did," She muttered as she stroked Lilly's hair gently.

"Why can't I find love like you and dad did? Why am I so easy to leave and cheat on and fuck up? Why am I so broken?" Lilly sobbed even more.

"Shhh shhhh... baby, you're not broken... other people are... you just.... you just need to find the right person, bug," Deborah replied as she kissed her daughter's head.

#Spotify

252 notes · View notes

charliedawn · 8 months ago

Text

St Louis : Freddy Krueger’s Origin story

His beginning in St Louis

Warning: LONG !

Freddy was bored. He was aimlessly wandering the streets of his empty nightmare world and groaned loudly in annoyance. He had built this place to scare people, but why didn't people come to him then ?! He was tired of being alone in those empty endless corridors and wished for at least a little entertainment. It had been years since his last visitor or his last escape to the actual world. He wanted out of this place and almost regretted not keeping one of those pesky children around, just so he could make a deal and see what's out there.

He kicked a piece of metal on the floor that hit one of the metal pipes running along the walls and the sound echoed loudly. He sighed and was about to go back when he heard it—a small whimper.

He smirked.

Seemed like someone had finally found their way into his lair.

He found the source of the noise crying underneath a dirty rug, located between two pipes. Her face hidden behind her arms. She was a small shivering thing with her legs against her chest, her pink pajamas and her black hair covering her face.

~Oh. He would have fun with that one.

His smile widened.

"Seems like it's my lucky day..Fresh meat.", he made his presence known and she finally looked up at him with big tearful eyes. He relished in the fear in her gaze. She tried to escape, but Freddy grabbed her arm before she could and in an instant, they were plunged into darkness. All the girl could feel was a terrible cold—numbing her extremities and making her teeth clatter. She tried to rub her arms with her hands to gain a little bit of warmth, but to no avail.

And then, Freddy reappeared and pinned her to a wall before taking a long inhale of her scent. She smelt like jasmin and orange blossom. It was sickeningly sweet. He then slowly raised his clawed hand and tucked a strand of her hair away. He smirked when he felt her shiver in fear underneath his touch and he took a closer look at her face. He was agreeably surprised.

"You're pretty. I like pretty. It's a nice change.", he commented appreciatively. She didn't say anything and he then pondered on whether he should kill her right now—or play a little first ? But then, he realized she was maybe the only person he would get to see before another century. She was also his only available ticket out of here. So, he kept his demon at bay in order not to frighten her any further and offered her a small smile that he hoped didn't seem very threatening, but he didn't count on it.

"Sorry, princess. I forgot my manners. Now...What's your name ? And tell me, how's the world been doing since I kicked the bucket ?"

He took a step back—but didn't back off enough to give her the chance to run away. She slowly turned her face back towards him and he could see that her lips had turned blue. His eyes widened as he realized he had forgotten he couldn't feel the cold, but she did.

"Oops. My bad." He quickly said before snapping his fingers and in a matter of seconds—they were both in front of a fire and she had a hot cup of hot cocoa in her hands. Well...a king of first impressions, he was ! He shook his head at his own mistake before waiting for her to be warm enough to answer. And finally, she did.

"My name is Eva."

He grinned and extended his hand forward.

"Freddy. At yar service." The girl still seemed a little spooked, but she still shook his hand.

"Eva."

He tilted his head and the girl stared at his every movement carefully.

"And tell me, Eva…When are you from exactly ?"

"When ?"

"Yes. When ?"

"Well...It's 20** now and..", she started, but wasn't allowed to finish as Freddy's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Damn," he interrupted her. "Really ? Sh*t. Haven't realized how long it has been.."

She nodded and Freddy sighed. To think he was already in another century...It seemed like yesterday that he was a simple gardener in a kindergarten. Well, before he went on a killing spree after his death. He then eyed her suspiciously. Normally, he could feel immediately when someone entered his realm, but he hadn't felt her…He then wondered if she knew him by any chance ? Maybe, was she the unfortunate offspring of one of the brats he had killed ?

"Say...What's your last name ?" He asked and she frowned in incomprehension before answering him.

"Cortez."

Nope. Definitely not. None of the kids at his trial had that last name. He relaxed and they fell into an awkward silence until he eventually broke it.

"Say...you didn't answer my earlier question. How's the world been doing ? Anything to report ? You seem like someone who went to war. Did World War III broke out or something ?", he asked half-jokingly.

People who ended up in his realm were people who were scared as hell or were searching to escape their reality. Literally. So, what had brought her ? She visibly tensed up at the question.

"I mean...No offense. But, I do not want to answer. We don't know each other."

Oh. It made sense now. He had fallen on one of those pesky closed-off overthinking brats with a lot of personal issues. He held out back an annoyed groan before addressing her a plastered smile.

"What ? Daddy gave you no house money, so you decided to make a deal with a demon or something ?", he jeered—but Eva glared at him with such animosity—and his grin immediately fell.

'Careful, little girl. I don't like that look..', he thought while raising his claws warningly. It would be so simple and satisfying to slash her pretty little neck and be done with it. Eva seemed to realize and lowered her gaze before explaining.

"No. I just lost my dad and my mom is always away for work." She then looked away. "She didn't even assist to the funeral.."

Well...Way to go. He had maybe just tear his own ticket to freedom to pieces. At this point, he may as well kill her. But, he was too curious.

"And why are ya here ? Why did ya summon me ?"

Eva sighed and seemed to hesitate whether or not to tell him.

"…I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to summon a demon."

Freddy tilted his head curiously.

"Yeah ? Then what ?"

She hesitated before confessing.

"…I wanted to see my dad."

They both stayed silent for a moment. He could kill her. She was right there and his bloodthirst was already boiling in his veins. But, instead decided to give her a choice—which was rare for him.

"How about you and I make a deal, princess ?", he said before entering her personal space once more—his sharp blades shining red with the light of the fire. "You get me out there, and I’ll give you a dad. How’s that ?"

He extended his unclawed hand forward with a grin and she frowned with uncertainty. Was it really wise to trust him ? She sighed. Well, it was too late to backtrack now. She finally indulged.

"Fine. But, I heard that demons couldn't break their vows so...You won't hurt me and you’ll hold your end of the promise, alright ?"

Freddy rolled his eyes, but out of options, agreed. Besides, she didn't seem to have caught on the fact he was only half demon. As far as deals were concerned, they didn't apply when he was in his human form. But, he wasn't going to tell her that. Besides, he wasn't counting on staying long.

"Fine. I ain't gonna touch you and I’ll do whatever ya say." He conceded and Eva frowned—unsatisfied.

"How can I be sure you're telling the truth ?"

Freddy sneered before suddenly moving incredibly close to her, so close she could see the flames of hell sparkling in his eyes.

"Would you believe me if I said I swear it on my heart ?", he asked with a malicious grin and Eva frowned.

"No."

She hadn't meant to sound so rude, but she didn't trust Freddy. She had heard of rumors and she knew what he was capable of.

"Fine. Here." He tear a piece of his shirt and gave it to her. She frowned and looked up at him with a skeptical frown.

"What's that ?"

Freddy scoffed. The girl wasn't even aware of what a gift from a demon involved, the most powerful way to get a slasher under someone's control. Some people had died for it, but Freddy didn't mind. He could tell the girl was the kind to be careful.

"A talisman. We usually don't give it that easy, but let's say I like you, kid. And you seem to be intelligent enough to use it when it's necessary."

Eva wasn't convinced, but she still shoved the piece of clothe in her pocket and then asked.

"Okay...What do I have to do ?"

"Nothing much. Just stay close to me and when you wake up, I'll wake up next to you."

Eva nodded and they both sat next to each other. Freddy looked up at the ceiling and Eva at her feet. They had to wait a couple of minutes for Eva to wake up and Freddy had no idea what to say to her.

Was it all a dream ?

Eva didn't know. And she didn't know if she wanted to know.

When she woke up :

Eva blinked several times before recognizing her ceiling and the little stars she had crafted when she was in second grade. She sighed

It was really just a dream after all...She closed her eyes. However, she was awoken once more by noises coming from her kitchen.

She quickly got up and ran to the kitchen, only to see her kitchen in a disastrous state. It felt like a bull had ran over everything and left it a mess. She was so shocked—she failed to notice the stranger behind her until he spoke.

"Sup' ?" Eva almost fell backwards when she heard the voice behind her. She turned around swiftly and saw a stranger standing there with chopsticks and looking completely unbothered by her. He only kept slurping loudly on some noodles while staring at her.

"Is that my last noodle box ?" She finally asked with an arked eyebrow and the man shrugged.

"Is that my talisman ?" He shot back.

Eva looked down at the piece of cloth in her hand and sighed. Of course. Of course Freddy Krueger would haunt her nightmares. And of course she would bring him back to life...

"Touché." She conceded before settling down on one of the kitchen's chairs. She poured herself a bowl of cereal before looking up at the time and quickly finished her bowl. She then got dressed and grabbed her bag.

"Don't touch anything !"

Freddy scoffed. He would touch whatever he damn pleased...Matter-of-fact...He smirked to himself and followed her...He would take a look at her school—since he didn't have much to do anyway but scare a couple of teens.

At the end of the day :

Eva was called into the headmaster's office and she sighed. She hadn't meant to cheat. She just wanted to pass and had been unable to resist. She felt ashamed—but it was too late now.

"We called your father." The headmaster announced and Eva blinked once in confusion.

"My father ? But he's..", she started—but reconsidered. Did Freddy really hold up his end of the bargain ? Had he…? A smile drew on her face—but it was quickly wiped off by a loud voice in the hall.

"DADDY'S RIGHT HERE SWEETIE !" Freddy slammed the door open and raised his hands in the air with a big grin plastered on his face.

"Sorry. Got lost searching for the milk for the last 18 years. But, hey ! I'm here now !" He shook the hands of everyone in the room as if it was award-day before sitting down beside Eva who looked like she wanted to kill him.

...What was he doing ? Where was her dad ?

"As we've told you before, Eva is an excellent student. She just seems to be a little preoccupied those days and we were wondering if it had maybe something to do with what was happening at home ?", the headmaster tried to explain and make Freddy talk about Eva’s home situation. But, Freddy was having none of it.

"My kid is perfectly fine." He scoffed. "She ain't troubled. She just needs people to leave her the fuck alone."

All the people in the room were shocked by his words and the headmaster finally spoke again after scratching his throat awkwardly.

"Mr. Cortez. No cursing please."

Freddy rolled his eyes before replying.

"Am gonna curse if I damn want to…"

He then raised his hand, but Eva suddenly grabbed it and lowered it back against him.

"Calm down, dad."

The glare she sent his way made Freddy immediately sit down—grumbling. The principal started explaining how Eva’s grades had been falling recently and how she was becoming more and more disrespectful with the teachers. Eva stayed silent while Freddy seemed to barely be able to contain himself. He was starting to get bored and annoyed. At the end, when the principal asked for his opinion…he didn’t have a lot to say.

"Go. Fuck. Yourselves."

The principal and the teacher present were dumbfounded and before anyone could stop him, Freddy grabbed Eva by the wrist and dragged her out of the office. When they were far enough, she pulled away and glared at him.

"WHAT WAS THAT ?!"

He cackled.

"Come on ! They were pissing you off too !"

Eva shook her head.

"Not that ! You pretended to be my dad !"

She seemed genuinely angry and it took Freddy by surprise.

"Daddy for a few weeks. Chill, kid. I gotta come back to my world at some point. Not that I don't like your nerdy a**. But, I ain't gonna torment you forever. Even I wouldn't handle it."

Eva frowned. What was he talking about ?! Where was her real dad ?! She had asked him for her real dad ! Not a damn knock-off ! She was about to answer when someone cut her off.

"FREAK !"

They both turned their heads towards the voice and Freddy saw a blond boy in the middle of the corridor. He was jot looking at Freddy though. He was looking at Eva. And from the expression on her face ? They certainly weren’t friends…Freddy grinned and squeezed Eva’s shoulder.

"Step outside, sweetheart. I'll be right behind ya."

She was about to protest when Freddy squeezed her shoulder once more and the look he gave her made her shiver. She begrudgingly complied and walked away.

As soon as she was outside, Freddy’s smile grew as he turned back towards the boy and grabbed him by the collar to pull him forward harshly.

"Now, listen to me good, bitch. You speak to her like that one more time, and I'll paint this whole school with yar fucking blood, got it pretty boy ?"

"Y—Yes, sir !", the boy replied frightfully and his eyes went wide at the sharp blades now so close to his face.

"Good boy. Now, scram.", Freddy finally said before releasing the boy who ran away.

Freddy cackled before stepping outside. When Eva asked what he had done ? He didn’t answer. But, that boy wouldn’t be bothering her anymore…

Back home :

The moment they were back at the house, Eva turned around to glare at Freddy.

"I asked you to bring back my dad ! What’s wrong with you ?!"

Freddy sniggered mockingly.

"Nah nah, sweetheart. I can’t bring back the dead. I only told ya you could have A dad. Not YOUR dad."

Eva gritted her teeth and threw her backpack in his face.

"LIAR !"

Freddy barely managed to avoid it before glaring back at Eva.

"Not my fault ya one gullible lil’ girl."

Eva was furious and yelled.

"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE !"

Freddy cackled before suddenly grabbing her wrist to pull her towards him. He then grinned maliciously.

"Not a chance, sweetie. Am here to torment ya. And I’ll stay till ya lose yer goddamn mind !"

Eva gasped and her eyes widened at the cruel streak in his eyes. What had she been thinking ? Of course he wasn’t her friend. He would never be. She wrenched away from his grip and glared at him.

"…You are a monster."

He held back a snort.

"Took you long enough."

She huffed and slammed the door of her bedroom. The moment she was out of reach, she started crying on her bed. Freddy could walk through doors in his dreamworld, but not in the world of the living. He sighed and knocked at her door.

"Hey, kiddo. Open up."

She didn’t answer, but her door wasn’t locked. When he entered, he found her buried underneath layers of blankets and he hesitated whether or not to joke about it. But, he couldn’t help himself.

"Hey, rabbit. Get out your rabbit hole, will you ? Gotta talk to you."

She sighed before getting her head out and looking at him.

"What ?"

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. This was going to be one hell of an awkward moment.

"Uh…Are you hungry ?"

Eva frowned. Why would the dream demon care about that ?

"…Not particularly. No."

They stayed in perfect silence for a while until Freddy’s stomach suddenly rumbled and suddenly, Eva understood. Her mouth twisted into a knowing smirk.

"Oh…Now, that’s hilarious." She looked up at his face and realised he was trying his best not to blush in embarrassment. Freddy wasn’t in his dream world anymore, which meant…"You’re hungry, aren’t you ?"

He grumbled something and suddenly, Eva pulled the covers off her to stand up in front of Freddy. Now that she thought about it, he wasn’t that tall. She thought he would be taller. In her dreams, he was this terrible dream demon who could make anyone’s life miserable. But here ? He needed to eat and bend down to human needs. So…

"Fine then. I’ll make you food. But, on one condition."

Freddy frowned as Eva’s grin widened.

"…You’ll do exactly what I say. And no doing anything without asking me first."

His eyes widened and he crossed his arms aver his chest.

"Oh ? You think you can control me, little girl ?"

She mimicked him and crossed her arms over her own chest.

"You wanna starve and live on the street ?"

There was a silent challenge between the two of them until Freddy finally yielded. He sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Fine, girly. You win. No more acting out."

Eva smiled victoriously before walking past him and getting downstairs to prepare dinner.

Maybe…Living with Freddy wouldn’t be such a pain after all.

A few days later :

Turns out, Freddy held his promise. He didn’t interfere with Eva’s life anymore, as long as he was fed. He stayed in the house most of the time and watched TV. But, Eva knew better than to trust the dream demon. Freddy was dangerous. And she would be foolish to forget it.

However, it seemed he wasn’t as much an inconvenience as she thought he would be. He was annoying. Rude. A pervert. But, he kept her company and actually helped around the house—which seemed rather strange. But, she wouldn’t be the one to point it out.

And soon enough, a strange thing happened.

They both fell in this sort of comfortable everyday life. She would leave for school, but Freddy was always there when she would come back. She didn’t ask what he was doing when she wasn’t there, but he told her anyway. Since he was technically human in the real world, his conversations were rather lively to talk about the most mondaine of things. He would talk about what he saw on TV like he hadn’t seen one before, he would marvel at the smallest things like Chinese takeaway and was so easy to satisfy…It was almost comical. He did have the occasional gross statements about the good looks of the women neighbours or his old kills. But, other than that ? He wasn’t that bad a roommate.

Unfortunately, Freddy hated being bored. And she knew that when he would be bored…he would come and annoy her. And soon enough, he finally found something to use against her.

They were sitting in the living room. Eva was doing her homework while Freddy was sitting upside down on the couch—staring at the clock. He had made the deal to get out and have some fun, but all Eva was doing was ignore him, pretend he was just a spider on the wall. He was tired of it.

He groaned loudly in annoyance before standing up.

"That's it. We're doing something fun !" He thought Eva would at least spare him a glance, but all she did was continue working. At this point, he was scared the girl didn’t even know how to have fun. He sighed as she kept ignoring him and he looked down at her bag before noticing a bright purple flyer. He picked it up and smiled as he read that Eva had a dance in two weeks. He looked at her—still plunged into her work. His smirk faltered.

Yeah…Fat chance she was ever going.

"Ya got a dance right ?"

He suddenly slammed the flyer in front of her eyes and Eva barely flinched. But, she did seem mildly surprised as she looked up at him with a quizzical raised eyebrow.

"Yeah. And ?"

Freddy seemed stunned by her complete disinterest and sat in front of her with a grin.

"And…Let me teach you a move or two."

Her eyes widened and for the first time since they met, Freddy saw Eva laugh. She burst out laughing. He would have taken offense if he wasn’t so shocked. When she was finished laughing, Eva shook her head in disbelief.

"I am not dancing with you."

He sighed and shook his head before suddenly slamming his hand on the table.

"Let me rephrase that. Either we have fun—or I go out and find myself a nice bunch of innocent virgins and make a blood sacrifice to...me."

Alright—not really convincing. But, at this point, he didn’t have much to lose. And he thought she would just brush him off, as always. But, her eyes glanced down at the flyer and she bit her lower lip in hesitation. She did want to go. But…She didn’t know if she should.

She finally closed her eyes and sighed loudly in defeat.

"Fine…Five minutes."

Freddy was surprised she was complying, but he wouldn’t lose his chance. He smirked and clapped his hands excitedly. He then grabbed Eva’s hand before she could change her mind and smirked as she tried to pull away. But…She then relaxed as Freddy started leading her into a dance. They didn’t say anything until Freddy started giving her instructions.

"You’re too stiff. Relax. It ain’t like there’s anyone around. Just your ol’ pal Freddy."

Eva sighed.

That was the problem.

"…Why are you being nice ?"

She asked and Freddy forced a smile onto his face. He tried to look reassuring, but it didn’t work. It made her worry even more.

"Am bored. Wasn’t trying to be nice," he tried to tell her…but Eva wasn’t fooled.

"Freddy…Tell me the truth."

Freddy stopped.

He hesitated.

He remained silent and Eva finally pulled away from him.

She waited for him to explain. He seemed…worried.

"Look…girlie. I…Hum…I have to tell you something." He didn’t know how to tell her that it was almost time for him to go. He had noticed that his body was slowly decomposing. He was a dream demon. And dream demons couldn’t stay in the world of the living.

But, the more he looked at her and the more he wondered if he should tell her. She wouldn’t care, right ? It’s not like they were friends or anything…

He huffed a laugh and shrugged.

"Just…Try not to fall on your ass when you get to prom, alright ?"

She tilted her head and didn’t seem to believe him at first, but he then decided to use her momentary inattention to trip her backwards and smirk as she almost fell to the ground. But, he caught her.

"Like that."

She huffed and groaned in annoyance before quickly standing up and giving him a glare.

"You scared me, idiot."

His smirk grew into a victorious grin.

"Well, I did my job right then."

She rolled her eyes before walking away—a tiny smile on her face. She was gonna cook dinner. Freddy followed her with his eyes and smiled as well…But, his smile fell when he looked down at his trembling fingers. He could feel his strength dwindling away…He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

…He wasn’t going to tell her.

It was for the best.

The next day :

Would you be my prom buddy ?

A note was left on the table next to his breakfast plate. He looked at it. He looked at it for a long time. He actually stared at it until it was the end of school for Eva and she came back.

"…What the fuck is that ?"

He asked her before she could even put down her backpack. There was a long silence until Eva opened her mouth.

"…Can’t you read ?"

He glared at her.

"Yeah. Ahah. Don’t play smartass with me. What does it mean ?"

Eva sighed.

"It’s an invitation to prom. I know. It’s stupid. But, I thought…"

"You thought…what exactly ?" He cut her off. "Hey ! Let’s ask the dream demon for a dance at my stupid highschool dance ?"

Her eyes widened. She didn’t think it would get such a rise out of him. She thought he would actually appreciate the offer and it would go straight to his gigantic ego. But, he looked mad. Really mad.

"Freddy…Why are you so mad ? It’s just a stupid dance. Nobody asked me and you showed me that you liked dancing yesterday. I just thought…"

Freddy’s eyes softened. He knew that he shouldn’t be so angry. That it was the perfect chance to scare some teenagers and embarrass the girl for ages. But…His fingers were still shaking and he could feel his body’s slowly but surely withering away.

He looked away.

He couldn’t tell her.

He couldn’t tell her he probably wouldn’t be there anymore by the time she gets to the fucking prom.

Eva mistook his silence for spite and huffed a laugh of disbelief. She knew the demon was stubborn and cruel, but she didn’t think he would be the one to give her the silent treatment. Freddy was everything but quiet. It was one of the only great things he was. Loud. At least, she always knew what was going on through his dark twisted mind. But, seeing him acting like this was just…weird.

"…Fine. Have it your way." She finally huffed before walking away and Freddy winced as he heard Eva’s door slam shut. He sighed before looking at his hand where the decomposed flesh was already showing.

A few hours later :

Freddy eventually went upstairs and hesitated whether or not to knock at her door. Finally, he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob before turning it silently and entering discreetly. The bedroom was dark and Eva had her back to him. His eyes softened as he saw her asleep.

He raised his hand over her face and slowly moved a strand of her hair away from her face.

How could he tell her ? How could he tell her that he couldn’t stay ? How could he tell her that if he stayed in the world of the living for too long…He’d disappear ?

"How am I supposed to go back when you got me all wrapped up around yar little finger, huh brat ?", he muttered while booping the girl with his finger. Eva turned around in her sleep and Freddy unconsciously smiled. Freddy tilted his head and smiled before wincing at the feeling in his chest. He didn't want a kid. He had already tried..People usually got hurt around him—if not worse.

He sighed before standing up to leave. He would keep his mouth shut. It was for the best. He thought she was asleep—he thought wrong. The moment he tried to walk away, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist and when he turned back—Eva's eyes were on him.

"Why are you talking weird..", she asked with a weak sleepy voice and Freddy sighed before sitting down next to her on her bed. "Listen. There is something I've been meaning to tell you but..."

She frowned worriedly and Freddy finally decided it was best to just show her. Eva gasped when he showed her his rotten arm and Freddy could already see she wouldn't understand. So, he explained.

"I'm dead, kiddo. I can't stay forever."

Eva squeezed his arm and shook her head vividly. No...It couldn't be.

"We..We'll go get some doctors. We'll figure this out. I'll..I'll find a way," Eva started crying and Freddy sighed before holding both of her hands in his.

"It's okay, kiddo. We both knew it was temporary. Besides, don't tell me you aren't glad to actually see me gone ?"

He was trying to cheer her up—but the nasty glare she gave him afterwards made him realize it was the wrong move.

"You are so f*cking stupid, Freddy Krueger.", she spat and Freddy knew he shouldn't get angry—but there was something truly infuriating about the hurt in her eyes. He was a monster. A slasher. She shouldn't be looking at him like that...like she cared...like she wanted him to stay. And worse of all, he shouldn't feel so damn disappointed he couldn't.

"What do you want from me, kiddo ? I do not make the rules."

"Bullshit !" She interrupted him. "You’re Freddy Krueger ! You do not have rules ! You just wanna leave me ! Like my parents did !"

Freddy’s eyes widened.

"Now, wait a minute, kiddo…That’s not fair. I swear I can’t stay. I am already rotting, little girl. There’s no…"

There’s no way I can stay. Sorry.

He wanted to say, but the words stayed stuck in his throat. Eva was glaring at him and he knew she hated him. And he knew he didn’t have a heart. He shouldn’t care about what some lousy brat was thinking…He really shouldn’t.

"You are a coward."

The words hurt more than he cared to admit, especially when Eva was looking at him with such hatred in her eyes. He knew what it felt like to be abandoned. But…

"Look, Eva…I…I really can’t stay. I wish I could."

He hoped she would understand.

A week later :

He had actually showed up.

Eva didn't know if she was happy or upset. But, he had put on his glamor and for a man with absolutely no taste, he had actually cleaned up good.

"...You're late.", she couldn't help but comment—but Freddy only shrugged.

"Hey. I'm here, ain't I ?", he retorted and even though Eva sighed in exasperation, she still smiled and took his hand.

"I'm glad...", she finally admitted and Freddy laughed before nudging her.

"Hey ! Don't go all soft on me now."

She huffed a laugh before discreetly wiping a few tears from her eyes.

"Yeah...You're right."

But their heartfelt moment was cut off by the mean comments of some of the other students.

"AHAHAH ! Look at those two freaks !"

"Is that really your dad ?"

"That’s just embarrassing…"

Suddenly, Eva felt all of their eyes on her and let go of Freddy's hand who threw a nasty glare around at all the other teens. He had forgotten how much they could all be a bunch of little shits. Made him not regret killing some of them when he had the chance.

However, Eva's reaction was what surprised him. She seemed to be hiding herself behind him, which would have been hilarious in any other circumstances than this one. She seemed genuinely afraid. She was shaking and Freddy sighed before turning around to face her and shield her from the others.

"Hey. Calm down, drama queen. You're going to be alright. Take a damn breath. It's only a stupid party." He whispered to her—but Eva shook her head and whimpered.

"I should have never come..."

He felt her anger and disappointment as if they were his own and his smile vanished.

"That damn party will be enough to make me fail my entire life. If I don't make good face, I won't have a good social circle, with no good social circle, people will think I'm stupid and that I don't have what it takes to go to college..I won't marry. Have kids. Have a life."

She started rumbling and Freddy's eyes widened in astonishment. What was she going on about ?!

"Who cares ? You're 17. Live a little.", he told her—but she shook her head again.

"I'm 18, asshole. And what ? You want me to end up like you ?"

Okay. Ouch. That last part did hurt, but fair. At her age, he had already given up on school and had probably already been sent off to delinquent camp. He wasn't like her. At all. But, from what he could see—she was too fuckin' anxious for a kid.

"Now, you listen here, ya ungrateful little shit. I don't know who taught you that life is all about good grades and marriage and fuckin' kids..? But, they're full of shit ! Life is all about you and what you want !"

He forced her to look at him and was about to continue when he saw the desperation in her eyes. Fuck. He knew that look. The look of the lost. How many times had he looked at himself in the mirror with that very same expression on his face. Too tired. Too angry. Too fuckin' miserable. It didn't look good on her...

"AND I WANT YOU TO FUCKING STAY !" He was rendered speechless as she finally confessed the real reason why she was so upset. She wanted him to stay and remain her dad. Eva knew it didn't make any sense, but she wanted Freddy to be her father forever. She stormed off and Freddy gritted his teeth. Shit.

He ran after her.

"HEY ! COME BACK HERE ! DADDY'S NOT DONE TALKING !" Eva flipped him off and he rolled his eyes—even though he was proud to have taught her something. He then grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him just as the music was starting again. He could feel her big crocodile tears wetting his collarbone and her fists clenching in his shirt.

He wanted to make her forget. He wanted to make her happy. Fuck ! It was her damn graduation party and it felt like a damn funeral !

"How about a dance, champ' ?", he finally asked and smirked when he saw the way her eyes widened in shock. At least she wasn't crying no more.

"DON'T YOU DARE—!"

Her protest fell into deaf ears as she was suddenly led into a dance. Freddy started twirling her around and even though she wanted to stop and yell at him some more, she couldn't. He turned elegantly, his body in tune with the slow music. Yet, there was a sort of harshness to him, like he was someone who shouldn’t be underestimated.

"Come on ! Let loose, girly. Let's not waste the little time we got."

His confident smirk made her feel as if he could do anything and she was just enjoying the ride, the thrill of dancing with danger. And even though she shouldn't, it made her feel as if she could do anything too. The warmth between them grew more powerful by the second. Her heartbeat was growing steadily along with the musical beat and if it was to be her last night with Freddy ? She would make it count. Their dance wasn't perfect; everything from their hectic breathing to how their feet moved to stay in sync with the music, but she wouldn't have it any other way. If, by the end of this dance her breath was taken away, she would know the exact reason why.

Eva didn't hear the dark whispers around her, as she was trying to keep up. And even though she was mad at him, she couldn't lie that it was the most fun she had had in a long time. Suddenly, Freddy went faster and to her surprise, she succeeded in dancing alongside him and when he bent her backwards, she even laughed.

"Here it is ! That smiley face people know and love.."

She opened her eyes and her smile fell when she saw Freddy's face. She hadn't realized that the reason for her classmates' cruel jeering was that Freddy's face had slowly melted away.

"F...Freddy ?", her voice shook with worry as she started touching the gooey texture he had tried to cover his face with. It felt...odd.

"Sh*t.", he almost dropped her as he tried to cover his face, but it was too late. He was vanishing. And he could now hear all of your classmates whispers around you both. He was the one ruining your party now...

"Hey. Look at me. F*ck them." Eva tried to drag him back into the dance—but he refused. Freddy only shook his head before storming out of the room to the gents' toilets and tried to hide his face all the way. He had never been ashamed of anything in his life, but he didn't want her to be hurt.

"She ain't even that pretty."

He kicked the door open and before either of the boys could escape, he had them both pinned by the throat.

"WHAT DID YOU SAY ABOUT MY KID, YOU FUCKERS ?!"

"Fuck y'all. Wouldn't recognize pretty even if it was to spit you in the f*cking face."

He walked over their corpses and didn't look back. He knew she would be angry, but he didn't give two shits. The contract would be over tonight and he would be gone. If his last action was to offer her a little break from assholes like them ? Then, he'd gladly take the chance.

But, he didn't think of the consequences...

Not until his right hand started hurting him and he realized it was rapidly rotting away.

He looked at Eva—waiting for him on the dance floor. He hesitated before looking at the window of the men's restroom.

His exit.

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

"Sorry kid..."

A few hours later :

"FREDDY !" Eva ran towards him and he winced and was about to tell you not to come any closer, but the pain started worsening in his right leg and he couldn't stay up any longer.

She rushed forward just as he hit the ground and held him closer to her as she cried out.

"What is going on ?!"

He didn't answer and only smiled before raising his face to gently stroke her face.

"...Pretty," he muttered weakly and Eva broke into sobs.

"We..We can fix this. I'll just break the contract. We'll make another deal. Please. Why did you do this ?" She asked while he was spitting blood and he shrugged.

"Never liked school."

She laughed and wiped her tears away.

"Stop making jokes. You are dying, you moron."

"Bah. Not really. It's just this body's expiration date. I'll still be around. In your head."

"...You didn't have to do any of this, idiot."

"Bullshit. They needed someone to teach them a thing or two about respect."

"Hey. I was an alright dad, right ?", he asked as blood started dripping down his chin and Eva hiccuped a laugh.

"Are you kidding ? The best.", she said and Freddy let out a small cackle.

"You're a terrible liar..."

She held his hand tightly and smiled weakly at him.

"Daddy for one more day...Please ? Stay. For me ?" She pleaded and Freddy's breath hitched. Freddy's face slowly melted away and his burnt face showed underneath his glamor. But, Eva wasn't afraid anymore.

He huffed a laugh before offering her a genuine smile and tipping his hat at her. "Are you kidding me ? Daddy for life, kiddo. For better and definitely for worse."

Eva smiled and kissed his forehead lovingly, but was then pulled back from him and dragged away.

"Wait...WAIT ! No. Please ! He was only trying to protect me !" She tried to explain—but nothing could have convinced them. Her eyes watered and in one last attempt to protect him, jumped forward to wrap her arms around him.

But then, she heard cars screech in the distance and stop just in front of the both of you. A man then stood out of the car and approached the both of you. He took a glance at Freddy's terrible state and sighed before introducing himself.

"Hello, Mr. Krueger. Nice to meet you. My name is Liam McCain and I am the head of security in a facility that is specialized in cases such as yours for complete rehabilitation..Do you accept ?" Freddy arked a skeptical eyebrow at him before eyeing the multiple holes in his chest significantly.

"In case you haven't noticed, I ain't got a lot of time left, buddy.." Liam seemed to realize and asked one of the nurses to bring something. When Eva saw the needle, she frowned and immediately grabbed his arm before he could inject whatever that was in his veins.

"Now, wait a minute ! What is that ?" She asked and Liam seemed to only realize now her presence since the moment he had stepped out of the car.

"Who is he to you ?" He asked in all seriousness and she was speechless. She actually didn't know who he was to her..Was he a friend ? No...That wasn't the right word. She glanced at Freddy's pitiful appearance and even if he must be in terrible pain, he forced himself to smile reassuringly at you.

"He's my dad." She finally settled for before holding his hand and squeezing it lightly.

Liam stayed expressionless at first, but his face was soon brightened with a knowing smile.

"Of course he is.."

He then hit her on the back of the head and you fell to the floor—unconscious. Freddy's chest heaved as he didn't even have the strength to raise a finger and could only yell at general McCain.

"HEY, YOU FUCKER ! GET AWAY FROM HER ! I'LL REMOVE YOUR HEAD FROM THE REST OF YOU, ASSHOLE !"

He used his last strength to raise his clawed hand and try to get to you, but was unsuccessful. Liam ignored him and carefully picked you up before putting you in one of the officers' arms.

"Get her home safely."

The agent nodded promptly before carrying you away. Once you were out of sight, Liam crouched back next to Freddy and sighed when he saw that Freddy was giving him the middle finger.

"I can't believe I'm going to save the infamous Freddy Krueger..."

He then injected the substance inside of him and Freddy fell unconscious.

Freddy's eyes suddenly snapped open. But, before he could move as much as a muscle, Liam attached a sort of collar around his neck and he suddenly had a lot of riffles pointed at him.

"Welcome back, Mr. Krueger. And welcome to St Louis."

Freddy looked up and his eyes widened as he saw a big building made with red bricks. He could feel the power of this place and seethed.

"What the f...?! What the heck is this place ?!"

Liam smiled enigmatically.

"...Your new home."

Freddy was once again sedated before being dragged inside.

A few years later :

Eva Cortez entered St Louis and she took a deep breath. She had finally found it. It had taken her years, but she had finally found it…St Louis. Her feet immediately guided her towards the basement and once she was in front of Freddy’s cell—she stopped.

"...Hey, Freddy."

Silence.

Freddy didn’t answer and Eva sighed.

She had his talisman wrapped around her wrist and gripped the bars of his cell.

"You remember me ?" She asked, but Freddy remained unresponsive.

"...Come on. It's me." She insisted and smiled. She was trying not to cry as she realised he wasn’t reacting. She sighed before asking in a weak voice:

"Daddy for a day ?"

Suddenly, Freddy seemed to react as he slowly turned his head towards you and his eyes lit up in recognition.

"...Daddy for life, kiddo."

Eva smiled and tried not to cry as she extended her hand through the bars and held his hand.

"I'm here. I'm here, dad." He smiled, but Eva was surprised when Freddy pulled her flush against his cage and his eyes seemed so cold.

"Go. Leave this place. Now. It ain’t for you here. Get out. Get out now."

Eva couldn't help but smile and even though her every instinct was telling her to run, she used her other hand to gently stroke Freddy's cheek.

"I missed you too.."

Freddy's face softened and he sighed before pressing his forehead against hers.

"Please. Leave, kiddo."

However, Liam entered behind her and Freddy's face twisted in anger. He scratched her hand while pushing her away and Eva fell to the floor.

"Go. Leave." Freddy told her and Eva’s eyes widened at the sudden change in behaviour of Freddy.

"I do not understand…Why ? Freddy ?"

Freddy didn’t say anything—his eyes glaring daggers at Liam.

"Miss Cortez. Please. Wait outside." Liam said and Eva sighed in defeat.

"Alright." Eva complied and Freddy sat back in a corner. Once she was gone, Liam returned his eyes on the cage where Freddy was waiting. Liam sighed.

"Your daughter came to visit you. The least you could do is thank her. She really did everything in her power to find you."

Freddy snorted.

"She shouldn’t have. And I have no daughter. She’s just a chick. Just…send her back."

Liam chuckled and Freddy glared at him.

"What’s so funny, asshole ?"

Liam kept a smile on his face.

"I am afraid I cannot send her away. You see…Miss Cortez applied to a position as a nurse in our establishment and she was hired."

Freddy’s eyes widened and he suddenly reached out to Liam to cut his throat.

"You BITCH ! There are other slashers in here ! She’s gonna get herself killed !" He roared and Liam laughed as he walked away.

"Those are the risks of the profession, Mr. Krueger !"

Freddy punched the bars of his cell and yelled:

"NO ! NO ! Get her out of here ! You hear me ?! OR AM GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU, MCCAIN !"

Liam chuckled again on his way out and Freddy sank on his knees.

No.

No no no…

She couldn’t work here. She couldn’t.

Freddy gritted his teeth and his eyes became red with anger…He would kill them all.

HE WOULD KILL THEM ALL.

#Spotify #freddy krueger x reader #freddy krueger x child!reader #freddy krueger #slashers au

29 notes · View notes