#and it happened every time i read one of its names | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xuchiya · 2 days ago

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"stuck in this fairytale" || choi san || series || tenth part

| genre: prince! san. fluff. angst. adventure | mentions: cursing. | here's the first part

back to masterlist | chapter 11

Jongho sat alone in his room, the one Wooyoung had given him when he arrived, unable to shake off the memories that haunted him. This was where he first met you—more like you tackled him— and this was also the place where he lost you, a fact that weighed heavily on his heart. The memory played in his mind on repeat, an endless loop of guilt and regret. He tightened his grip on the book in his hand, as if it might somehow tether him, keep him from being consumed by the depths of his own remorse.

He blamed himself. He’d had the power to act, to protect you, yet he’d done nothing. Still, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to resent you. Sacrifice was in your nature. You’d always been known for it.

“I’m sorry, bookie…” Jongho’s voice trembled with emotion as he held the worn book, Dragon Mountain, close to his chest. With a heavy sigh, he opened the book and began flipping through its familiar pages, curious as to why this one hit him in the head in the first place.

Eventually, he stopped at an illustration he’d often lingered over: a striking figure of a woman with flowing, fiery red hair, a crown resting regally upon her head, and a wreath of flames swirling around her. The name below the picture read simply, Brigid. He traced the letters with a gentle finger, his gaze lingering on the character’s face. At first, the woman looked like a figure out of Greek mythology, powerful and godlike. But the longer he looked, the more he saw subtle details that reminded him of you. The arch of her brows, the determined set of her mouth, even the glint of warmth tempered with strength in her eyes—it all whispered of you.

As he stared at the illustration, a wave of memories washed over him, transporting him back to the days when he had first come to know you. You had never been a campus celebrity or someone who stood in the spotlight, but you left an undeniable impact on everyone you met. To those who truly knew you, you were unforgettable.

A freshman at KQ University majoring in computer science. He’s been part of the student council, immersed in his responsibilities when he noticed you, looking lost but determined. Before he had a chance to offer help— it was you who approached him but in a different matter— you’d hurried over to him, grabbing his arm just in time to pull him out of harm’s way as one of the string lights hanging above came crashing down where he’d been standing.

The moment left him stunned, but you only brushed it off with a simple, “You’re not hurt, are you?” He nodded slowly, still processing what had just happened, while you let out a relieved sigh, you were about to speak when Wooyoung appeared behind you, tackling you with his usual playful energy. Jongho could still remember how you laughed as Wooyoung’s arm draped around your shoulder, pinching his side in response to his antics.

“Ah! Jongho-yah! So you met my childhood friend!” Wooyoung had grinned, pulling you close. “I finally convinced her to join us here at KQ University. Meet our very own fierce, loving, and feisty girl.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes at his playful description, but extended your hand to Jongho with a warm smile. From that day on, you became friends. Not because you had saved him, but because you saw him—really saw him—for who he was. You saw beyond the labels and expectations, beyond his status as the son of a well-known sports car brand, Dragons. To you, he wasn’t a title or a legacy. He was simply Jongho.

And that made Jongho breathe. That made Jongho smile for the first time without having to put up with a fake one. And Jongho had grown close to you, treasuring every laugh, every shared moment. He admired your ability to balance strength and kindness, to bring light into every room you entered. But now, as he sat alone with the weight of your absence pressing down on him, he felt hollow. The memories of you, of your laughter and your fierce loyalty, were all he had left.

In his heart, Jongho knew that he’d have given anything to change that day. To be the one to step forward, to shield you. But you had acted first, your nature as protective as ever. And so he was left here, gripping that book as if it could somehow bring you back or lessen the ache of your loss, haunted by the echoes of what he should have done.

“Mourning is for the dead. She’s not.” A voice brought him out of his trace of memories. He blinks, looking up from where it came from. There stood—clad in a formal prince outfit— was his senior and the prince of the story, from what Wooyoung filled him in, Choi San.

“I– I was not! I was…” He sighs, looking back to the book, a sad look in his eyes, “It’s my fault.”

San, who was on his way to his library office when he came across his room, the door was ajar and the first thing he saw was Jongho's hunched body by the bed. Deep in thought and a blank dull look on his face. San was absolutely shocked to discover a new member that came in when Wooyoung introduced him to who he is over dinner time. San and his father were able to lean forward at the same time in discovering ‘Choi Jongho’, someone with the same last name as them. It has become a tradition to know the relation of parents to whoever has the last name related to the royalties. When the King questioned about his family line, Jongho had simply explained about his family line by owning a carriage.

It’s like the explanation in an old time explanation of his modern life. Wooyoung explained to him to speak in their time as no one recognized who he was, unlike Jongho recognized everyone.

San sighed softly as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his tailored dress pants, stepping fully into Jongho’s room. Without saying a word, he crossed the quiet space and settled beside Jongho on the edge of the bed. The silence was thick, almost reverent, until San finally broke it, his voice gentle. “Do you want to know what she said to me when she first arrived here?”

Jongho looked up, a deep frown knitting his brows. “What?” he murmured, a hint of curiosity breaking through his sadness.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of San’s lips as he cast his gaze downward, recalling the vivid memory. He could still hear the echo of your laughter, bright and genuine. Ignoring the quickened beat of his heart, he let the memory wash over him.

“She told me…” San began, chuckling quietly, “she told me, ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ right there in the library. And then she burst out laughing. Loudly, too. I’m sure everyone within earshot heard her.”

Jongho’s eyes softened as he imagined it, a small smile breaking through his somber expression. He could picture you standing there, laughing at San’s formal attire, teasing him in that light-hearted way that only you could. Despite the ache in his chest, he found himself chuckling under his breath. “Sounds like her…” he murmured, the warmth in his voice undeniable.

San nodded, his smile widening as he continued. “Even in a strange place, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, she just… looked over the horizon, like nothing could weigh her down. She’s always been that way. Positive. Strong-willed.” He paused, looking off to the side as he marveled at the memory. “It amazes me sometimes—she was just so sure of herself.”

Jongho nodded, a fond look in his eyes as he remembered more moments with you. “She’s always been kind to everyone, even… animals,” he said, chuckling at the memory that surfaced. “One time, at the zoo, she even managed to befriend an eagle. It just landed on her shoulder out of nowhere and sat there. She looked at it like it was an old friend.”

San raised his brows, intrigued. “An eagle?”

“Yeah,” Jongho said, nodding. “The keepers were trying to get it off her shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge. It stayed there, like it had some kind of bond with her.”

San fell silent, and his expression grew thoughtful. The mention of the eagle triggered a memory. Just eight days after you’d disappeared, he had gone back to the riverside himself, desperate to search every corner for any sign of you. The search, however, had turned up nothing, just as Seonghwa’s had. He remembered the journey back to the Choi Kingdom afterward, when an eagle had soared above them, its piercing cry echoing through the sky. It had circled overhead for what felt like hours. Eagles weren’t known to fly near the kingdom; they preferred the isolated mountains. The sight had left him with questions he couldn’t quite answer.

“Why? Did the eagle leave?” San asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone.

Jongho shook his head, “No. It stayed until she was the who placed him back in his nest.”

Something about the story tugged at San’s heart, a quiet familiarity lingering with the mention of the eagle. He knew someone who kept an eagle, a memory that felt close, almost within reach.

“Does it … have a name?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jongho watched San carefully, sensing his growing interest. “Yes,” he replied, “Its name is Aven.”

The name jolted San from his thoughts, his eyes widening slightly. Jongho noticed his reaction, concern etched on his face. “San-hyung, is something wrong?”

San shook his head, his expression softening as he turned back to Jongho. “No… not really.” He gave Jongho’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “She must be taken care of one of the townspeople of JeoKang kingdom, so she'll be fine. We’re still looking for her.”

Jongho’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but a quiet sigh escaped him. “I know. She’s tough. Some people even call her a dragon.”

San’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “A dragon?”

Jongho nodded, his voice steady with admiration. “Yeah. People say she has the spirit of a dragon—untouchable, unbreakable. It’s like she has this invisible armor that shields her, that nothing can penetrate. And when she feels strongly about something, it’s like she breathes fire. Her words, her passion… she doesn’t hold back. But even with that fierce spirit, she’s one of the most protective people I know.”

San nodded absentmindedly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he absorbed Jongho’s words. “She really does sound like a dragon,” he murmured, as if hearing the description of you had brought you back into the room, even if only for a moment.

As he stood to leave, he made his way to the door, but paused when he heard Jongho’s voice.

“San-hyung…”

San turned, amused by the nickname. “Yes, Jongho?”

Jongho gave him a small, knowing smile. “She likes you, you know.”

San’s eyes widened, a rush of warmth spreading across his face. He stammered, struggling to form a response, his usual composure faltering. “I—I… I’ll believe it when she’s the one to say it,” he managed to reply, clearing his throat as he turned back to the door, his cheeks tinged with a hint of red.

With one last glance over his shoulder, he stepped out, closing the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the wall in the hallway, exhaling a deep, shaky breath as he placed a hand over his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he made his way back to his library office, the thought of your smile and the possibility of your feelings lingering in his mind.

The rich scent of honey and herbs wafted through the room as you cradled a steaming cup of tea. Across from you, your mother settled into her chair, her gaze warm yet contemplative. The little girl beside her—Hyunjin, as she was introduced to you—kicked her legs in delight as she munched on the bread you had given her earlier. Watching your mother smooth Hyunjin's hair and gaze at her with such tender care pulled at your heart, reminding you of countless moments from your own childhood. Memories surfaced of your mother comforting you, teaching you, and showing you an unwavering love, which seemed now to have extended itself to Hyunjin.

“So … what really happened here?” you asked softly, savoring the honeyed tea as you awaited her answer.

Your mother’s gaze met yours, serious but gentle. “Jeong Yunho and Kang Yeosang were half-brothers,” she began. There was a weight in her words, a gravity that seemed to reach beyond the bounds of a simple family story. She held your gaze as she continued, “Even with only half of the same blood, they were meant to rule.”

“Meant to rule… but also to be part of this curse,” you murmured, following her lead.

Your mother’s face softened, but her sigh carried the weight of years of sorrow and mystery. She turned her gaze out the window, eyes distant as if recalling a memory she had long tried to bury. “They were symbols of hope and kindness. Whenever they helped us, we felt a spark—a reminder of the goodness they brought into this world.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “But what happened to them? What exactly was this curse?”

She shook her head, her brows knitting together. “I don’t know, my darling. The night before their coronation, we were all ready to celebrate. But instead of festivities, we only received word from the palace speaker about their sudden disappearance. No one knew where they went, and no one dared to ask.” Her voice held a sadness mixed with regret, as if she wished she could have done something to prevent it.

You felt a strange sense of unease stirring within you, knitting your brows together as your mind traced back to the celebration in the Kim Kingdom. You thought of the strange, flickering sparks that had danced in your hands, the feeling that something was watching, waiting. Pieces of memory and intuition fell into place, forming a half-completed puzzle in your mind.

“When was their celebration?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper, a hunch taking root in the back of your mind.

“Three months ago. Why do you ask?” she replied, a hint of concern crossing her face.

Your heartbeat quickened as the timing became clear. It had been about two and a half months since you’d arrived in this universe, just before the Kim Kingdom’s celebration and the appearance of the curses. Now, only Wooyoung and San kingdoms remained untouched by the strange wave of misfortune sweeping through these lands.

“What about the Jung Kingdom? When is their anniversary?” you pressed.

Her gaze flicked to a makeshift calendar pinned on the wall, eyebrows drawn in thought. “I’m not certain… but I believe the kingdoms celebrate with about three months’ difference between them. My friend mentioned that the Jung Kingdom was the first to celebrate, followed by the JeoKang, then the Kim Kingdom—”

A realization struck like lightning. “San!” you exclaimed, standing up so suddenly that a sharp pain shot through your leg, making you wince. Your mother’s brows drew together in a frown as she urged you to sit down, her eyes laced with concern.

“I don’t know what’s on your mind, but you must stay focused,” she cautioned. “You’re here for a reason. Find it and don’t let anything deter you.”

Her words anchored you as you sank back into your chair, feeling the weight of her advice settle in. A growing determination flickered within you, strengthening your resolve. You were piecing together a story that seemed set on a tragic course, yet you knew now that you could change its path.

You are starting to think that this story you are trying to navigate to its happy ending has its fixed plot yet an unidentified ending.

“Just because we’re in a different universe doesn’t mean you have privileges. Think about living but with more control of what you can do.” You nodded, smiling, “Just one more thing,” you murmured, and she raised a curious brow. “Could I borrow a lamp?”

That afternoon, after your mother’s insistence on caution and Hyunjin’s pleas to accompany you, you set out alone. Her worried gaze lingered on you as she pressed the small lantern into your hand, her fingers grazing your cheek with a gentle touch.

“Please be careful. You could have just let this pass first so you can heal your leg.” You look down at your casted leg but you sigh, looking back up at her, “I don’t have much time mom. I don’t know if I have two weeks or less before the Choi Kingdom faces their curse wave— it could be worse than that but let’s not hope for it.”

She sighs knowing that you were right as much as she wants you to be scolded, she only gave you the lamp that you were requesting. Her hand hovers on your cheeks, a smile on your lips as she leans in and places a sweet kiss on your forehead, leaning her forehead to yours, “Come back home, okay?”

Your throat tightened, but you smiled and nodded, whispering, “I always come back home.”

After a few teary departures, you made your way to the palace. The trees swayed gently in the wind, shadows played across the forest path as you climbed the stairs to the palace doors, feeling a chill roll over you as you crossed the threshold, you huffed glaring at the stairs before you pushed the door open.

The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the soft creak of the ancient door as it closed behind you. You made your way towards the throne. The two thrones, like always, were covered in vines, dried or new. You sigh, brushing a dried leaf, only for the vines to writhe and retract, curling defensively around the throne as though it were a living creature. Your eyes widen as you let go, looking at the vines, you only now realize how they were moving so slowly up close like snakes circling its prey.

“Woah …”you whispered, tracing the vines with your gaze, saw that much of the vines were everywhere, the floor, the walls and up to the ceiling, following some of them and it leads you to a broken floor to ceiling window that leads outside— a garden park of the palace.

Outside, the remnants of grandeur lay in ruins. The bushes dried, rusty chair set ups and water of the fountain had either dried out or were full of moss. You walk down the rocky path, the rocks crashing underneath your foot. Yet in the midst of decay stood a statue, tall and proud—carved likenesses of the two brothers, Yunho and Yeosang. Their expressions were solemn yet kind, and as you looked up at them, an eerie silence settled over the garden.

“Where have you both disappeared?”you whispered to the statue, feeling the weight of their absence. At that moment, an eagle’s piercing cry shattered the stillness. You looked up, startled, to see the bird perched atop Yunho’s stone head, blinking down at you.

As crazy as it sounds and in a moment of desperation, you cupped your hands around your mouth and called, “Do you know where the brothers are?” It only looks at you, blinking. You knew you won’t gain anything but you were expecting at least a lead but of course, not everything is laid out for you.

Sighing, your hands fell on your side as you made your way to sit on the bench. You look around, at least trying to find something that will help you find another clue. You lean back on the bench, sighing as you look up on the statue, “Just tell me where you guys are. We don’t have ti— AHH!” The bench you were sitting on suddenly tilted backwards and you were greeted with darkness but you can feel your back and yourself sliding downwards in a speed.

You were screeching until you suddenly halted into a stop. You cough when you realize you were now laying down on your back and dirt dust everywhere, you slowly pushed yourself up as you swat your hand in the air, coughing until everything was clear yet it was dark.

You look around, barely seeing anything, sighing as you know what you have to use. You look down to your hand, “Don’t fail me now.” With a flick of your wrist, a small amount of flame ignited. You chuckle in disbelief as you rose your hand up to your face, “Well at least you’re still here.”

The dim light revealed rough walls and a narrow corridor, seemingly untouched by time. As you turned, preparing to move forward, a face appeared mere inches away from yours, startling you into a scream. You stumbled back, pain flaring in your injured leg.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” came a gentle voice, filled with both apology and surprise. You look up in shock. You were either seeing things because of the dark or because of your desperation to find the brothers or the answer of their disappearance.

Through the dim light, you took in the figure before you. In front of you, clad in the same outfit as the rest of the cousins— but this one covered in dirt, is Jeong Yunho. You take in his appearance and it seems like he did go missing for a long time as his feet were no longer covered in shoes and bare instead, clothes torn and covered in different dust and the dishevelled look on him.

“Prince Yunho?!” Even with his appearance, he still bows to you formally. “As you call.”

“How… How long have you been here?” You tried to stand, but the pain pulsed through your body, forcing you back down. Heart pounding, you looked up at Yunho, his face framed by the dim light. He noticed the strain in your expression and lowered himself to your level, a gentle insistence in his eyes. “Please, stay seated.”

His gaze softened, a flicker of hope breaking through the weariness etched on his face. “I don’t know exactly, my lady. Ever since that night, daylight hasn’t reached me again.”

Settling yourself more comfortably, you extended a hand between the two of you, as if bridging the gap of lost time. “The night of your coronation anniversary?”

Yunho shook his head with a sad, almost nostalgic chuckle. “No, not quite. That was a misunderstanding. The kingdom celebrated its anniversary, not our coronation. But over time, people began to think of them as one and the same.”

The air grew heavier as silence settled around you both, layered with the weight of shared understanding, secrets unspoken yet felt. You took a steadying breath, finally daring to voice what lingered between you. “Were you… cursed?”

His eyes widened, a momentary spark of shock and recognition passing over them as he processed your question. “How did you…?” he began, before trailing off, his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s… complicated,” you admitted, feeling the strange familiarity of the moment. “I may not be from here, but I am here to help. To save you… all of you.”

A glimmer of fragile hope illuminated Yunho’s face, his eyes brightening with a feeling he had long forgotten. It was as if, after all this time, the shadows that had ensnared him were finally loosening their grip. Memories of his brother’s distant, desperate calls flooded his mind—the last trace of family he had clung to, and his one worry left in the dark, still haunting him. But now, as you sat here, he felt a warmth flooding him, the promise of deliverance finally within reach. He looked at you, his voice a soft murmur of gratitude. “Thank you…”

With a gentle smile, you extended your hand, offering the simplest of introductions to solidify your shared resolve. “I’m Brigid.”

Yunho took your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours with surprising warmth. For the first time since he’d been trapped, something beyond despair welled up within him—a new dawn, rising slowly but surely.

One week later…

Jongho jolted awake to the lively sounds of bustling footsteps and voices just outside his door. Still groggy, he rubbed his eyes and shuffled to the doorway, squinting in surprise at the sight of maids rushing back and forth, carrying gowns, trays, and elaborate decorations. He barely had a moment to register the commotion before stumbling back, almost colliding with San, who appeared suddenly, flanked by Hongjoong and Wooyoung.

“Ah…” Jongho muttered, confused, as San nudged him back into his room. Hongjoong’s critical gaze swept over him, eyes narrowed with appraisal as he circled him like a hawk assessing its prey. Shifting awkwardly, Jongho asked, “Uh… Is something going on here?”

Wooyoung squealed with excitement, darting to Jongho’s wardrobe. He threw open the closet doors, rummaging through clothes with impressive speed—some landing on the bed, others strewn across the floor. San, calmer but clearly amused, simply shrugged and said, “It’s the kingdom’s anniversary. You’re expected to join the ball tonight. It’s a big event.”

“Ball? Anniversary?” Jongho echoed, furrowing his brows. “Wait, no one told me about this.”

Without missing a beat, Wooyoung approached, reaching to smooth Jongho’s hair. Jongho instinctively leaned back, bumping into the doorframe, only to feel Hongjoong’s hands firmly grip his shoulders as he expertly measured Jongho’s torso.

“Our kingdom celebrates this every year,” San explained, watching as Jongho gradually accepted the preparations. “It’s a tribute to our founders, honoring their sacrifices and dedication. A tradition to remind us of who we are.”

Jongho looked at San, his intrigue growing. “And the ball… it’s part of this, too?”

San nodded, a hint of nostalgia in his expression. “Yes. The ball is a symbol of unity and strength, with dances to show honor. Offering one’s hand to a woman signifies a promise to protect and cherish her heart.”

A mix of admiration and nerves stirred in Jongho as he glanced at his friends. “You’ll be there too, right?” he asked, eyes flicking to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung’s usual brightness dimmed, his gaze softening as a bittersweet smile crossed his face. “Yes… This time, I won’t leave.”

He turned away, and his fingers absentmindedly brushed his collar as his thoughts drifted. He remembered the last time he’d seen you, a memory laced with anguish. You had clung to him, crying, as he lay gravely injured. Since then, he had scoured every corner of the land, calling on the winds for guidance, each attempt ending in frustration and heartache. When the Kim family had allowed you to embark on that ill-fated journey, he’d confronted them, fury simmering beneath his composed exterior. Hongjoong’s words still haunted him: *“Predicting the future doesn’t mean avoiding it. Sometimes, we have to face it, no matter the cost.”*

Hongjoong, too, had been shaken when he learned of your disappearance, an unexpected pang of sorrow piercing his heart despite knowing you only as “the savior.” Even Noella had been taken aback, realizing that while they could foresee certain events, some paths remained hidden in the mist—part of a larger, elusive fate.

A quiet voice interrupted Wooyoung’s thoughts. “Woo…”

He glanced in the mirror, meeting San’s concerned gaze. Wooyoung’s distance from everyone, even from San—his closest cousin and confidant—had not gone unnoticed. San understood; he knew the ache of a missing friend, a piece of one’s life suddenly gone.

“You should be with your father by now, welcoming the guests,” Wooyoung said, his voice unintentionally cold, though he didn’t mean it. A trace of bitterness lingered—San had been part of the mission that had taken you from them.

San sighed, nodding slowly. “Woo, I’m sorry. I promised I’d protect her, to make up for my past mistakes… I really did try.” He looked away, guilt casting a shadow over his face. “Head Guard Seonghwa’s made some progress—he’s on his way to Yunho and Yeosang’s kingdom tonight, following a lead.”

Wooyoung’s tense posture softened, and he turned to face San fully. “I hope… I hope they bring us good news.”

The weight of unspoken words settled between them, and Wooyoung felt his own exhaustion seeping through. His eyes softened as he looked at San. “San, I’m… sorry too.”

San, recognizing Wooyoung’s vulnerability, stepped closer and pulled him into a brotherly embrace. “You’re not alone, Woo. I’m here, Jongho’s here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

Wooyoung let out a small, choked laugh, feeling a bit of the heaviness lift as he thought of Jongho, who had recently stumbled into their world and was adjusting with endearing reluctance. San ruffled his hair playfully, breaking the somber mood, and made for the door. Wooyoung shot him an annoyed look, batting San’s hand away.

“Yah! Do you know how long it took me to get my hair perfect?” he protested, turning back to the mirror to fix it.

San smirked, his playful jab lightening the room’s atmosphere. Just before leaving, he poked his head back in with a mischievous grin. “Better hurry up! Your mother’s here, and she expects you to help greet the guests.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened, spinning around in shock. “Wait—she’s what?!”

After what felt like an endless journey through the dim, damp tunnels, you finally emerged into the late afternoon light. Yunho blinked, shielding his eyes as the sunlight washed over him. It was as though he had been reborn, stepping from a shadowed past into a world that seemed painfully bright. For a moment, he simply stood there, taking in the warmth, savoring the air with deep breaths, as if he were inhaling hope itself.

But his relief was short-lived. His gaze fell upon the once-vibrant palace grounds, now overtaken by silence and decay. The gardens he remembered as lush and colorful were now choked with weeds and vines, abandoned and forgotten. His heart sank, his shoulders drooping as the reality of his kingdom’s abandonment struck him like a physical blow. He whispered, almost to himself, "Everyone… left."

You glanced over at him, feeling the weight of his despair settle in your chest. Words felt useless in the face of such loss, yet you reached out, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “True loyalty remains,” you said gently. “Sometimes, even when all hope seems gone, that loyalty endures. And those with kindness can still revive it.”

Yunho looked at you, your words reaching past his sorrow. A small, grateful smile softened his expression. “Thank you, Brigid,” he murmured, the name holding a new depth as he regarded you with a trust and fondness that hadn’t been there before.

Just then, a familiar cry pierced the air. Yunho’s head snapped up, his face lighting up with a joy that was startling in its intensity. He extended his arm, and an eagle swooped down, landing gracefully on his forearm. Yunho chuckled, stroking the bird’s proud feathers with a tender hand. “Aven,” he said, relief and affection flooding his voice.

You smiled at the sight, noting the uncanny resemblance between the two. Aven’s feathers—faded blond and brown, like sun-kissed earth—seemed to mirror Yunho’s own windswept hair. “He must have been searching for you all this time,” you murmured, marveling at the loyalty between them.

With a warm laugh, Yunho lifted his arm, letting Aven take flight once more. The bird circled above, as if signaling there was still work to be done. Yunho’s face grew serious, the joy fading as he looked back at you. “He knows there’s one more person to find.” His eyes met yours, determination flickering like fire. “Will you help me find my brother?”

You hesitated, caught between relief and the daunting journey ahead. Part of you longed to return, to bring back the fragments of hope you had gathered. But something deeper bound you to this place—a feeling that this mission was far from complete and that both kingdoms, perhaps even more lives, hung in the balance.

Steeling yourself, you met his gaze. “Yunho, I don’t often ask for favors in return for my sake, but I’ll need your assistance. And it’s not only for me. This search affects you, your brother, and the fate of your kingdom.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Yunho’s face, and he nodded, accepting the weight of your words and the sudden weight of his invisible crown. “Anything, Miss Brigid. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

With a deep breath, you pressed on. “Once we find your brother, I need answers. I need to know the truth about Brigid and the curse that haunts your people.” His expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and reluctance. Few dared to speak openly of the goddess or the curse, words whispered only in shadowed corners and distant memories. But he sensed your resolve and, with a nod, accepted the responsibility of revealing the buried past.

Side by side, you moved toward the palace, each step a deeper descent into the kingdom’s forgotten secrets. The once-grand hallways were draped in vines, twisting over marble columns and intricate carvings. Green tendrils clung to the walls like unnatural veins, as though the palace itself were bound and suffocated by its own sorrow.

When you brushed one of the vines, it recoiled with a sharp hiss, startling both you and Yunho. “This isn’t normal, is it?” you asked, watching as the vine writhed like a living creature.

Yunho shook his head, his expression wary. “These vines… they’re like cursed sentinels. They sense intruders and cling to whatever life they find.” The vines seemed to shift and sway as you followed them, leading you deeper into the forgotten parts of the palace, places even Yunho rarely ventured.

The air grew colder, and an unsettling stillness wrapped around you as shadows deepened. Finally, the vines guided you to a hidden chamber, one untouched by time but heavily guarded by thick, twisting roots. At its center, wrapped in a monstrous snarl of vines and shadow, lay Yunho’s brother, Yeosang, imprisoned and barely recognizable.

Yunho’s breath caught in his throat, a strangled cry escaping him as he stumbled forward. “Yeosang…” he whispered, desperation and fear cracking his voice.

You placed a steadying hand on Yunho’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way to release him. But first, we must understand what binds him here.”

“Yeo!” Yunho’s voice echoed, his shout piercing the eerie silence of the garden. The ground trembled, and the twisted vines around you seemed to awaken with a hiss, vibrating with a sinister life of their own. Both you and Yunho stepped back instinctively as the vines, now alive and hostile, wriggled and coiled, their barbed edges glinting like sharp fangs in the faint light. They were no ordinary plants; they guarded something—someone—with a fierce, unnatural protectiveness. Your gaze darted to Yeosang’s unconscious body, entangled and held captive within the thick, snakelike tendrils. Though he lay still, his chest rose and fell in a faint rhythm; he was alive.

Suddenly, you felt a vine wrap around your ankle, squeezing tighter against your injury. You gasped, clawing and pulling at it, but the more you struggled, the tighter it constricted. “Miss Brigid!” Yunho’s voice drew your attention. You looked over to see him, arms and legs bound by more vines, his face contorted in pain as he fought against their relentless grip.

“Yunho…” you gasped, panic rising as more vines slithered around your legs, winding their way up slowly, each movement deliberate, as though savoring your terror. The thorned tendrils crawled across your torso, tightening across your ribs, climbing toward your neck. Your breathing grew shallow as your hands, trembling, attempted to pry them loose.

“Yunho… Is this Yeosang’s curse?” you managed to ask, straining to keep your voice steady amidst your fear.

Yunho struggled to respond, his voice muffled by the vines encasing him. “From what I’ve seen… yes, it must be! But I don’t know how it works!” His answer sparked a desperate search through your mind, grasping for any memory, any detail from books you’d read about Prince Yeosang. But the histories were vague, shedding light only on his gentle nature, his love for peace, and his connection to the garden—the very place that now seemed to be his prison.

“Yeosangie … He is always a kind prince to everyone.” Yunho muffles as he struggles within the hold of the vines, his voice tinged with sorrow. His face softened in memory, and for a brief moment, you saw the look of a brother missing his sibling’s laughter and light-hearted innocence. “The garden … that his place. His solace.”

The words hung in the air, lingering like a clue. You turned them over in your mind—kindness, the garden, a place of solace. And then it clicked. The curse wasn’t harming Yeosang; it was protecting him, preserving him in twisted vines of his own making, his kindness turned into a trap to keep him safe yet hidden from the world.

“Kill them with kindness… “ You whisper. You look at the vines as they are starting to tighten, “Yunho … “ He was trapped underneath the garden of his brother because he was the hope. The sun shines but it never reaches the townspeople because all hope was lost because that was Yunho’s curse. He was the hope of people and by hiding him from the darkness, hope cannot be found until someone kind finds his way.

Hope is the last one to find. Just like Pandora's box. It all started clicking together as you chuckle airly as it felt all too well and good to finally solve.

“Kill them with kindness they say …” Desperate, you closed your eyes, focusing inward, summoning the warmth that lay dormant in you. You rotated your wrists, a small flame flickering to life in your hands. The light immediately drew a reaction—the vines hissed and shrank back, loosening just enough to let you wriggle free.

And with the light, the vines all hisses away from you, letting you go in the process. With a painful thud, you hit the ground, looking up at the glowing flame in your hand, “Argh!”

You stood up, patting your butt, “Geez … Okay Yunho .. this might sting!” You raise your fist, the flames dance across your knuckles, you smirk your eyebrows arching in surprise, “Good to know you are still with me.”

With a swift punch, you drove the fire into the thickest part of the vines. They screeched, the flames burning through their dark coils, and they immediately released Yunho, dropping him unceremoniously to the ground.

His heart pounded as he took in your appearance. A fist of fire in a blue dress and fiery hair. He had never seen it coming true in his life, it was just an image in his dreams and now, “Brigid …” Yunho’s eyes widened as he took in your power, but before he could fully process it, the vines twisted into a frenzy, reacting to the flames with an even fiercer rage. They writhed and snapped, lashing out at anything within reach, their movements erratic and frenzied as they sought to defend their hold on Yeosang.

“I’ll explain later,” you shouted over the chaotic noise. “But I figured it out—Yeosang’s curse is a twisted kindness, one that traps him in this garden for his own protection… And you, Yunho—you’re the kingdom’s hope. That’s why the darkness was drawn here, to hide you away.”

“Pandora’s box …” Yunho mumbles as it becomes clear to him too. He was a man full of hope and dreams to his kingdom yet when the time he was buried under the depths of the garden, it felt like a part of him had vanished, making him weak and fragile until light— you came.

“We just have to finish this and see if we can deal with more of your curses.” You focused on keeping the flames steady, the heat radiating from your hands as you burned through the thick vines that coiled around Yunho's brother. But as you burned away one tangle, another would rise up from the darkness, snapping viciously. It was a relentless fight, and even with the flames, the vines seemed almost endless, replenishing themselves with every inch you gained.

Pain flared up your leg, making you falter, “Shit …” Yunho looked at you but you brushed him off as you fought, a thick vine crept silently along the ground, slithering behind you, its barbed surface gleaming in the dim light. You were too focused on the vines in front of you to notice it as it reared back, preparing to strike. But Yunho’s sharp gaze caught it just in time.

“Watch out!” he shouted, darting forward with a speed that surprised you.

In one swift motion, Yunho grabbed your shoulder, pulling you out of harm’s way, and held you close to his chest as he thrust his sword forward— to which you do not know where it came from but it did— intercepting the vine just before it could strike, its thorned edge narrowly missing your side. The vine hissed in fury as it met the steel of Yunho’s blade, twisting wildly as it tried to pull back. But Yunho held firm, gritting his teeth as he forced the sword deeper, severing the vine in one powerful motion.

“They’re faster than they look,” he warned, his gaze intense as he positioned himself protectively in front of you.

A surge of vines lunged toward him, their thorned edges aimed directly at him. Yunho swung his blade with precision, slicing through each tendril as they came, his movements fluid yet fierce. He fought with a desperate strength, each strike filled with a sense of duty, as if protecting you was his only mission. But the vines were relentless, and for every one he cut down, two more seemed to replace it, their thorny coils trying to wrap around him, restricting his movements.

Seeing him struggle, you summoned your flames once again, directing a burst of heat toward the vines attacking him. The fire danced along the vines, burning them away from Yunho’s path. He gave you a quick nod of gratitude before pressing forward, slicing through another wave of snapping tendrils.

Suddenly, a larger vine burst from the shadows, its thick, snake-like body heading straight toward you with blinding speed. Yunho’s eyes widened, and he lunged, catching the vine mid-air with his sword. But this one was stronger, and the force of the impact knocked him back a step. The vine coiled around his blade, trying to wrest it from his grip.

Struggling against the vine’s strength, Yunho gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he pushed back, determination blazing in his eyes. “I’m not letting them take you,” he muttered, driving his blade deeper into the vine as he twisted it free with a powerful shove.

The vine recoiled, thrashing as it retreated, but not before lashing out in one last attempt. In a final burst of strength, it snapped toward you, the barbed end hurtling in your direction. Without a moment’s hesitation, Yunho stepped in, shielding you with his own body as the vine’s thorns sliced across his shoulder, leaving a shallow but painful cut.

Ignoring the pain, he pushed you behind him, raising his sword defensively. “Stay close to me,” he commanded, his voice low but fierce.

With Yunho guarding your back, you focused on your flames, pouring every ounce of your energy into the fire, illuminating the entire chamber with an intense glow. The vines hissed and recoiled, unable to withstand the flames’ heat. You directed the fire toward the thick, coiled mass that held Yeosang, watching as the flames burned away the final layer of vines.

Finally, with one last searing blaze, the vines shriveled and fell away, leaving Yeosang’s unconscious form free at last. His pale face was covered in dirt and faint scratches, but he was breathing.

You both moved quickly, Yunho helping to lift his brother while keeping an eye on any remaining vines. His shoulder was still bleeding, but he waved off your concern, his focus solely on getting his brother to safety.

As you left the chamber, a sense of triumph and relief settled over you. Yunho glanced at you, a faint smile breaking through the exhaustion on his face.

“He’s okay,” he said, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. You sigh in relief, your flames disappearing as you knelt beside Yunho as you took in Yeosang’s feature. Aside from your friends and Seniors in your university— Yeosang is a stranger to you. Yet his statue, perfect tan skin and his plump lips made him still look so handsome despite being confined in the vines for more than many months now. You look out of the window to see the sun had already set.

“Yunho, I may know someone that can help you both for tonight.”

Standing with a small smile on your lips as your mother gasps quietly on her spot before moving towards the living room, “Come in! I’ll prepare the living room!” As you enter her home, Yunho carries an unconscious Yeosang inside, guiding them as Yunho settles him on the soft cushions of the sofa. You watched her work, feeling a sense of comfort in the familiarity of her presence.

You watch to the side whilst your mother speaks to Yunho as he helps your mother clean Yeosang up.

“They’re okay…” You look at Hyunjin as her mouth was gape open, gazing at the two princes whilst squeezing her doll. Your eyes trailed on the doll then remembering the images, the stained mirror back in the palace.

“Hyunjin…” you murmured, kneeling beside her. “Do I… look like her?” The question felt strange, as if pulled from a memory you didn’t quite own.

Hyunjin giggled, her innocent eyes sparkling. “She is you.”

“Brigid …” Your eyes travel to your mother, she looks worn out after taking care of the two princes. You smile at her, placing a hand on Hyunjin’s head as you and your mother move towards the outside of the house.

Later, as the house settled into quiet, your mother joined you outside. The night air was brisk, and the stars seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly light. She placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You did well, honey,” she murmured, a note of pride in her voice.

The night had grown colder, the wind had picked up the pace as it blew harsher coldness. You sigh, removing your coat to place it on your mother, it was just a thin coat you got from Lucy. “Prince Yeosang is okay, dehydrated and malnourished but he will be fine as for Prince Yunho, he is doing well, slightly shaken up but he will be fine.” You nodded as you looked around. Silence covers you both like a blanket but your mother has spoken again.

“Did you find out about their curse?” You nodded, “Prince Yeosang wasn’t cursed but his kindness is what held him captive and Yunho had been trapped in his own misery.” Your mother nodded as she smiled at you.

You leaned on your mother, “How can I break their curse and set them free?” Your mother sighs, placing a comforting hand on top of your head, soothing you down.

“That is for them to know and you to find out honey.” You sigh deeply, looking up at the night sky.

“It’s hard to keep going when you don’t have a clue…” Your mother’s face softened, taking in the weight of your words. She didn’t know everything happening around you, only that this place had changed in unexpected ways over the years.

“I know,” she said, “but what I do know…” She gently grasped your shoulders, turning you to face her as her comforting gaze met yours. “I know my daughter wouldn’t give up so easily, no matter the challenges, even if she gets hurt…” Her eyes flicked down to your injured ankle, prompting a small chuckle from you before she continued. “Or lost…”

“Or pressured,” she added, “she always finds her way back to her own path.” Tears welled in your eyes as you smiled, and you pulled her into a tight hug, taking in the familiar warmth and scent of her embrace. Suddenly, Hyunjin came running out of the house, panic flashing in her eyes.

“Mommy! Prince Yunho and Prince Yeosang are acting strange!” You exchanged a quick glance with your mother before both of you dashed inside.

You froze, heart pounding, as you took in the scene around you. Dark, twisting vines had invaded the house, snaking up from the floorboards and crawling across the walls, relentless and alive. They slithered in through the windows, curling around furniture and creeping up the wooden beams, consuming every inch of the space they touched. They were just like the ones you’d seen before, but this time, they seemed angrier, more menacing—alive with a dark energy that made the air heavy and hard to breathe.

In the center of it all, Yunho stood motionless, ensnared by the thickest of the vines. His arms were pinned to his sides, and one thick tendril coiled around his face, covering his eyes, leaving him helpless and vulnerable. His usually calm, reassuring presence was now ghostly, as if he were barely there at all, swallowed by the curse that had wrapped itself around him.

“Yunho…” you called out, voice trembling. You took a tentative step forward, but a loud hiss from the vines echoed through the room, sharp and angry, halting you in your tracks. Instinctively, you threw your arm out in front of your mother, trying to protect her as best as you could from whatever dark magic was at play. She gasped, clutching your arm tightly.

“The curse… it’s active,” you whispered, each word heavy with dread. An icy fear curled around your heart as the realization set in. The wave you’d been dreading about—the one that would mark the Choi Kingdom’s celebration—had begun. A week had slipped by, and now the curse was moving, bringing with it a darkness that threatened to engulf everything.

You barely heard your mother calling out to you; her voice sounded faint, as if coming from a distance. A ringing filled your ears, drowning out her words and every other sound in the room. Fear sank into your bones, leaving you rooted to the spot. Shadows seemed to grow and dance at the edges of your vision, and a series of whispers, low and insidious, began echoing in your mind.

The whispers told you of failure, of helplessness, feeding into every doubt that had ever lingered within you. They spoke of the princes’ fates, of the doom that awaited them—all because of you. A hollow ache filled your chest as the shadows convinced you that you had failed them all, that you would never be enough to save them. You couldn’t even save Yunho, who now stood before you, trapped and silent.

The light in your eyes dimmed as the weight of these thoughts pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe. Everything blurred, colors fading into shadow. But then, through the haze, you caught a flicker of movement.

Yeosang was watching you, his gaze piercing through the darkness as he stepped toward you. There was something steady, unwavering, in his eyes—an intensity that broke through the fear clouding your mind.

“Wake up…” His voice was soft, yet it cut through the whispers, grounding you back into the moment. His hand reached out, and you felt a sudden, forceful tug, as if he were pulling you from the depths of a dark ocean.

The world spun as you were yanked backward, and then you felt yourself falling. You hit the dirt outside, the cold earth grounding you as the ringing in your ears finally ceased. Blinking rapidly, you became aware of Hyunjin’s distressed cries somewhere nearby. The sharp pang of reality jolted you fully awake, and you looked around, dazed and disoriented.

Your mother knelt beside you, concern etched across her face as she helped you sit up. “Honey? Oh my!” Her hands clutched your shoulders, and the warmth of her touch anchored you, steadying your racing heart.

You reached out instinctively, grasping her arm, grounding yourself in her familiar presence. As you did, a looming shadow fell over you. Startled, you turned to find yourself ranking your eyes upwards, standing just a few feet away, watching you with a serious, unreadable expression.

“M-Mingi?” you stammered.

taglist: @passerbyforfun . @seongwars . @candied-czennie . @ffenjoyerdazme

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez scenarios #ateez choi san #san ateez #ateez san #choi san #ateez san fluff #ateez san x reader #ateez fluff #ateez atiny #choi san fluff #choi san x reader #choi san ateez

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nutcoffin · 6 hours ago

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I would like to call out and formally ask miss @shittyzinkoo to stop tracing other peoples art. And not just for a certain amount of time. Stop it for good.

What am I talking about, you may ask?

Well a few months ago i have found her youtube account because of her kinitopet animations. It was all fine untill I looked into her community posts, where she has been tracing the following artists:

@sin-simps (on tumblr)

Original:______________________________________

Traced/copied:_________________________________

//Note: These have been deleted since, because Sin-Simps talked to her about it(as long as I know). Although this doesn't change the fact it's happened.//

@Scarletwaltz (on tik tok)

Original:______________________________________

Traced/copied:_________________________________

//Note: It's still up on her youtube account.//

@nutcoffin (me on tumblr)

Original:______________________________________

Traced/copied:_________________________________

//Note: The only reason I added the second picture, is because of the same KinitopetAU name that I have. I give the benefite of the doubt though, that its a coincidence. At least I hope so.//

In my case, the one that was on pinterest has been also deleted for my request since:

//Note: She answered that she already deleted it a long time ago, I just couldn't screenshot properly the chat so her answer can be seen//

To be honest it's already a scumy thing to trace a drawing that was made for someone as an answer for a submission-

BUT AFTER A MONTH SHE UPLOADED IT AGAIN

At least I believe so, because I was browsing on pinterest a few days ago and I have found it again without searching for her account or opening a link for the post. The only difference was that the comments were locked so I couldn't wrote that "Hey, this is traced!" in there as I did before.

I have to say I wasn't so nice the second time -

//Note: After a few minutes of my response, this also have been deleted.//

And I would like to apologise for this. I wrote to you in anger and because of that I was rude, but you have to understand that it's not okay to steal other peoples art. Tracing is stealing. Even if it's just a stupid little doodle. You can draw just fine without it, believe me.

For the end I would like to inform you that from now on every time you repeat this with anyone's drawing, your work will be reported. Doesn't matter what platform do you use or if you block this account of mine.

Thank you for reading.

#I want to be peacefull about this so please stop it #anyway #stone tf out of me

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lokilaufeysonslove · 2 days ago

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𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐧𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐨 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐨𝐲 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞!𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝!𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝!𝐠𝐫𝐲𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

// Summary // your parents were never kind and sweet type of people, but in your sixth year things got out of hand. To put a cherry on top, a certain platinum blond haired Slytherin Prince decided to be Sherlock Holmes and found out your secrets, ones nobody is supposed to know.

// Warnings // mentions of violence, both physical and verbal violence, abusive parents, bullying, hate towards reader, ignorance, name calling (shame, disgrace, disappointment, waste of time), reader has a backstory.

// Author's Note // please pay attention to warnings! This is enemies to lovers. Also, I have mentioned once that reader is 16, but for the sake of this plot, since every sixth year is 16. Also, I added a last name for the reader, but not the name, since it would be an OC in that case. I needed a pureblood last name. This is a part three, please read part one and two first! / divider by the amazing @saradika-graphics / gif by @talesfromthecrypts

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 in progress

It was a rainy morning. Every drop of rain felt like salty tears that would roll down one’s face until it would fall to the ground; every roar of thunder sounded like screams of a person who was in pain; every crack of lightning looked like horrible scars that eventually fade away, but always stay in your head.

Sun was nowhere in sight. Instead of warm, comforting and welcoming giant lit ball, clouds covered the sky, clouds that once were fluffy and white like snow, now cold, grey, empty, putting everyone in a grumpy mood. It was as if nature knew about the nearing dark times.

As much as you would love to stay in bed, stare at the ceiling and think about nothing, you had class to attend, and skipping classes wasn’t very smart choice. You rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. Your roommates were still asleep, so you tiptoed around, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

Walking into the bathroom, mirror was the first thing you saw, hanging above the sink. You looked at your reflection and sighed deeply. Memories of last night flooded your mind and suddenly you felt nauseous. You leaned on the sink for support, your hands gripping either side of it and your head hanging lowly. You wanted to forget everything, but you couldn’t. You couldn’t get them out of your head, as if someone put it on replay. You shut your eyes and just stood there for a few seconds. A single tear escaped your eye and rolled down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away though. You watched in the mirror as it neared your chin and then fell on the floor. You sniffled quietly and turned on the cold water, splashing some on your face in order to clear your mind.

When you were finished there, you stepped out of the bathroom door and back inside your sleeping area. To your luck, your roommates were still asleep. You quickly changed into your robes and silently opened the door, praying it wouldn’t make a cracking noise. You sneaked down the stairs and headed out of Gryffindor common room.

It was pretty early in the morning, Great Hall was mostly empty, only very few students were sitting here and there.

Sighing, you walked towards your house table and sat down quietly. The breakfast was laying in front of you, its delicious smell making it impossible for you to not look at it, but you didn’t have an appetite. Your appetite depended on your mood and right now you were in a terrible mood. Not that it was unexpected, anyway. After all, what sane person would be in a good mood if what happened to you yesterday, happened to them?! You were scared. What if he would tell someone, let alone everyone?! No live being on Earth was supposed to know about your horrible secret.

Draco was not the best person. Not for you, at least. The guy decided to be your sworn enemy on the day you met and has successfully been one since then. He was always cold towards you, embarrassing you mercilessly in front of the whole school. He would always bring you down or make fun of you, insult you and even cast some unpleasant spells on you. He was always so loud and annoying, making his presence known every time he would enter the room. That’s why you were confused when you noticed major changes in the Slytherin Prince.

What confused you even more was that yesterday, when he was angry, you saw something else in his eyes, something you had never seen before. Was it fear? Did he fear that you would actually die? Not that he would lose you or anything. He couldn’t lose what he never had; or was it- no, it couldn’t be. He is Draco Lucius Malfoy, for Merlin’s sake! He hates you, silly! You scolded yourself and shook yourself out of your stupid thoughts. But you were still curious. You wanted to know how he felt. What did he think of you, of your parents. What was he doing now?

As if on cue, the said platinum blond haired boy appeared in the hallway. Entering the Great Hall, he immediately looked at you, but you were already looking at your plate of food, picking on your now-cold egg with the silver fork, pretending to be eating. He sighed quietly, the sound coming out almost inaudible. Even when he was already sitting at the Slytherin table, you could feel his intense stare burning your face. And the fact that your front was facing him didn’t help at all, quite the opposite actually; you couldn’t look up, because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to avoid making eye contact with him, and that was the last thing you wanted.

Draco, on the other hand, wanted you to look up, he wanted you to look at him. Why, he didn’t know either. Maybe he just wanted to see the look in your eyes, he wanted to know how you would look at him. Would it be disgust? Or hate? Maybe annoyance. Perhaps fatigue. But what if it was exhaustion, loneliness? What if you just needed help? He scoffed at himself; why would you ask help from him? Why would you even consider that he would help you?

He was so deep in thoughts, he didn’t even notice when did Zabini and Goyle walk in, followed by the Golden trio shortly after. All of them were equally confused. Scene was confusing, indeed; the Slytherin Prince was staring at his rival Gryffindor, his eyes begging for you to look up, but you were avoiding him on purpose. The two Slytherins didn’t understand why was he staring at you, but the trio didn’t understand why was he staring at you.

When he realized that he was caught, he quickly looked away from you and down his breakfast. Taking fork in his hand, he cleared his throat and started eating. Meanwhile, Harry, Ron and Hermione approached you. Hermione sat right next to you, Harry and Ron directly across from the two of you. Hermione smiled brightly at you, trying not to show how curious she was about you and Draco. “Good morning, Y/n! How are you?”

You also smiled at her, although with force, you hoped they wouldn’t notice, "I'm fine. What time is it?" You sneakily changed the subject, "I don’t want to be late for class."

Harry understood your intent but said nothing, “Don't worry, you won't be late. We have Potions too." Hermione tried to sneak in, “Well, Malfoy was looking at you a bit strangely. Did something happen?” Yes, something happened, very bad thing happened, you thought to yourself, but then you faked a scoff, “Not that I know of. I mean, he’s Malfoy.” His last name came out of your mouth sharply, as if it were a venomous thing, not someone’s last name.

Hermione nodded her head, seemingly buying it. One thing about you; you were an excellent actress. Standing up, you looked down at the three Gryffindors. As much as you didn’t want to be with anyone else right now, you couldn’t shrug them off now when you had the same class, “Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s go to Potions.” They all nodded their heads and followed you.

On the way to the dungeons you were practically following behind the three like a lost puppy, but you didn’t seem to care, you didn’t even pay attention to their dialogues, you didn’t know what they were saying, maybe they were talking to you, maybe they weren’t, who knows.

You finally got to the classroom and sat down at one desk in the side of your house, Hermione sat next to you, as expected, with Harry and Ron sitting behind you. Snape was nowhere in sight. Of course, you scoffed to yourself, the bastard had to barge in for special effect and then start being a total bitch, not that he ever stopped anyway. And now he would start throwing random ass insults at every Gryffindor, which were not necessary at all. But, of course, he had to attack you first, because you were a filthy blood traitor. You rolled your eyes at the thought and looked down at your unopened book.

“Psst, Potter, Potter!” Malfoy. Of-fucking-course! Snape was not there, so he just had to seize the moment, “Saw you talking to that lunatic last night, like her or something?” Parkinson snorted at that, Zabini smirked and Goyle started laughing. Harry glared at him, rolled his eyes and mumbled a “Shut up Malfoy”.

Ron furrowed his brows and leaned towards him “Who did he mean by that?” Harry looked at his best friend and shook his head “Dumbledore sent me to Professor Trelawney yesterday evening, to tell her something”. Ron nodded his head and just as he was about to say something, the doors of Snape’s chambers bursted open and in walked the said man himself. You shook your head at his dramatic antics; barging in with his cloak floating, swinging his greasy hair back. You rolled your eyes, at this point, god knows how many times you have rolled your eyes that day.

“Students, we have a very important lesson today,” he started, with his monotonous voice, looked around the class, making the pause even more dramatic, and then “Dueling.”

There were groans from Gryffindors and excited noises from Slytherins. Pansy and Goyle had that sickening smiles across their faces, the kind of smile that makes you want to throw up.

Snape wasted no time and started naming people “Mister Weasley and Mister Zabini”.

Ron grunted silently, but stood up nonetheless. The two students climbed on the dueling podium, positioned and waited for professor to give them a sign to start. As soon as they got a nod of approval from Snape, Zabini shot a disarming spell towards Ron, which he blocked with 'Protego'. Then Ron threw a 'Locomotor Mortis' which glued Zabini’s legs together, but before he could fall, he shouted 'Rictusempra' which caused Ron to laugh uncontrollably.

“Enough.” Snape ended their duel and looked around the class. Ron and Zabini nodded at each other, by force of course, and sat back down at their desks.

“Miss Parkinson.” Snape announced next, “who wants to compete with Miss Parkinson?” But it was not a question for students to answer, “Miss Granger.”

Hermione stood up, a little nervous, and walked up to the girl. Snape nodded and they started dueling. Hermione shot 'Tarantalegra' towards Pansy, which made her start dancing. Pansy, shouted 'Expelliarmus' which successfully disarmed Hermione.

Suddenly, Snape raised his hand, stopping both of them in their tracks.

“Sit down.” He said with his cold voice. The two girls sat down and looked at Snape, "What you are doing is the bare minimum. You're not doing enough. I need the best you can do.” Snape made a little pause before speaking up again, "Now, do any of you want to come forward?”

Goyle’s hand immediately shot up. Snape glanced at him, "Okay,” he hummed to himself before announcing, "Mister Goyle."

Goyle stood up and walked in the middle of the classroom, climbing up the podium and facing the class.

"Who wants to compete with Mister Goyle?”

Silence.

Snape glanced at the Gryffindors sitting in front of him, and scoffed “Nobody?” he asked, rather amused than disappointed.

“Miss.. Armand.” You looked at him with a disgust stretched across your face. Pairing was very unfair.

Goyle was one of the very few dangerous, merciless students. He was very good at Dark Arts and dueling. He was large and muscular compared to you. It was even funny, seeing you and him fight against each other, since he was practically towering over you.

Snape gave the two of you a sign to start, but you didn't start immediately like others did. You observed each other for a few seconds.

Goyle shot non-verbal disarming spell towards you, but you blocked his spell with non-verbal shielding charm almost immediately. Goyle was always fighting sneaky fight, he would not say anything out loud. He would do anything and everything to appear more 'impressive'.

He shot 'Stupefy' towards you, but you easily blocked it with 'Ennervate'. You never attacked first. For the first few moments of dueling, you would only defend yourself and make it seem like you were not strong enough, and when your opponent would run out of spells or get even tiny bit tired, you would attack with your full force.

Goyle sent another 'Stupefy' towards you, but you did a backflip and successfully avoided the spell. You, then shot a non-verbal curse which momentarily blinded Goyle.

It was a curse that very few people knew of, almost a secret, that you found in one of the dark books your parents’ kept in their library. A curse that temporarily blinds the opponent and causes a white, blinding light to fill the victim's vision, rendering them sightless for a short period of time, causing confusion and disorientation in its targets.

You used his distraction for your advantage and moved behind him. When he was able to see again, you waited for him to turn around, and when he did, you shot a 'Flipendo' that knocked him backwards.

One more thing about you, you would never attack from behind.

When he gained his strength and stood back up, he shot a non-verbal 'Expelliarmus' which somehow disarmed you. The whole class gasped and Goyle smirked in victory, but little did he know that you let him disarm yourself on purpose. Gregory aimed his wand at you, but before he could even think of a spell, you sent a non-verbal, wandless 'Funnuculus' which made his skin boil. He dropped his wand in agony and you immediately summoned it by a simple 'Accio', holding it to his throat.

"Do you surrender?” You asked, digging his wand in his throat deeper.

Goyle gulped before squealing out a yes. You removed his wand from his throat and returned it to him.

The whole class was shocked. Even Snape. You looked at him, nodded to Goyle and went back to your seat.

“The lesson is over.” Snape announced suddenly. He looked as if lightning just struck him.

As soon as you heard his words, you stood up and marched to the exit.

Draco, on the other hand, was frozen, he couldn’t move. Never in the hundred years would he have imagined you were this strong. For some unknown reason, he wanted to run after you and ask if you were okay.

He didn’t know what was happening to him, but suddenly he cared for you. In reality, he actually liked you since the very beginning, but he didn’t know it himself. Not yet at least.

#tw: abuse #draco malfoy #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy x abused!reader #draco malfoy x gryffindor!reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #x reader #x female reader #harry potter #harry potter universe #potterverse

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lambergeier · 3 days ago

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wip whursday here's another 4.6k. initially kept writing bc i needed a good fic to pick at to keep my game up while i read enough batcomics to get started on fic for THAT fandom, and then i downloaded genshin again yesterday bc who gives a fuck anymore lol. so now here's another 4.6k! this is basically like posting a serial. like charles dickens

---

They don’t leave exactly on time. But it’s pretty close.

The caravan with whom Alhaitham bought himself (and now Kaveh) (they were very understanding) a ride departs Sumeru City just after noon, with the sun at its dizzying peak, and Alhaitham and Kaveh crammed onto a single sumpter beast’s swaying back. The drivers’ understanding about Alhaitham’s surprise guest had not extended to giving that surprise guest a separate mount. Kaveh digs his hands into the sumpter’s rank fur and holds on tight.

It’s a long afternoon’s ride to Paradisea, then a significantly longer ride to Aaru the next day. They stay the night between in a lodging house just down the hill from the Akademiya’s palatial greenhouses. At dusk the wind changes and fills their rented room with the smells of flowers, as thick in their mouths as honey. They fuck each other senseless in a haze of perfume and nearly miss their ride the next morning.

“There have been strange reports back from the desert, in the wake of the Traveller’s passing,” Alhaitham says, long legs crammed tight against Kaveh’s in the the shade of their cart’s small awning. He plays with Kaveh’s hand in his lap like it's a puzzle to crack, pressing at each callus and bone with the limitless fidgeting energy of his teenage self. Kaveh sweats beside him, unwilling to withdraw.

“The great red storm has ended,” Alhaitham says. “The skies above Hypostyle are clear for the first time in two thousand years.”

Kaveh nods, lips against Alhaitham’s shoulder. He's not really listening, mind on houses and fireworks and the depthless unknown of the future. He tucks his toes beneath Alhaitham’s thigh as they exit the hot shade of the Wall and rattle into the desert. “That much is verified,” Alhaitham continues. “By every man, woman, and child of the lower desert. A scholar was with the Traveller and Paimon—his reports, what they saw—tombs unseen since the Archon war.” Alhaitham pauses, eyes on something far distant. “But there's more, from even deeper in the sands.”

Even Kaveh had heard about the end of the storm, in his blinkered way. He freely admits to the thinness in his news diet, but the architectural digest had reported on it, and the merchants and tradesmen in Lambad’s, and the tourists from Liyue at the docks. “What else?” Kaveh asks. “How did you find out?”

“The Traveller writes to Nahida,” Alhaitham says, always on a first name-basis with his god. “Others do, as well. Scholar-cults supposedly dead for centuries find a way to write to Nahida, who leaves all of her papers in a pile on my desk.”

“You snooped?” Kaveh smiles.

“It’s my desk,” Alhaitham says. “Something happened in Hadramaveth that no one can describe the same way twice. Giants wake and the eternal storm walks with them. The tribes who do no business with scholars are on the move. At the edge of the inland sea the ghost of a tree rises to the height of the moon.”

“How much did that correspondent have to drink?” Kaveh asks, thinking mostly of the pile of his hair pins growing ever larger beside Alhaitham’s bed.

“They see it in Fontaine,” Alhaitham says. “The sailors brought the first news last week, plus a letter for Nahida from their Duke under the water.”

“I suppose it's real, then,” Kaveh says.

“Two months,” Alhaitham murmurs. “It’s only been two months since they left the forest.”

Alhaitham presses his thumb into the lines of Kaveh’s palm. Kaveh puts his mouth to Alhaitham's red neck. It’s only them in the back of the cart, with the bags of rice and the linen. They have an exhausting amount of sex again that night in their guesthouse in Aaru. Kaveh wakes early, in the grey light before dawn, to an empty bed.

Bleary, he pushes himself up on his elbows, frowning at the rumpled sheets where Alhaitham used to be. It is, for now, the perfect temperature, with sweat neither beading nor cooling on Kaveh’s back and a slow breeze from the windows pulling at the mess of his hair. He really should have taken all his hairpins out before Alhaitham got his pants off. That was a rookie mistake.

There's voices speaking outside, from the flat adobe roof of the house’s first storey. Kaveh shuffles toward the little curtained door that opens onto it, a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders, and sees Alhaitham, in his sleeping clothes, speaking to—of all people, Hat Guy.

Kaveh blinks, realizing he should be listening to this but not really awake enough to do so. The waterfalls beneath the village are thunderous in the morning, nearly as loud as the birds, and Hat Guy says, “—you understand? This isn’t just history anymore. This isn’t a game.”

“I’m aware,” Alhaitham says.

“I don’t know how that could possibly be the case.”

“I’m aware,” Alhaitham says again. His hair is the same becalmed color as the sky.

Hat Guy’s comically large headgear bobs. Could be a nod, could be the wind. “Then keep your head on straight. Be careful. And don’t fuck it up. And don’t fucking say—”

“I’m aware,” Alhaitham says, with a mean, handsome, perfect smile.

Kaveh’s hand slips on the beaded edge of the curtain. Both men turn at the noise and Hat Guy sees him there, naked but for a blanket and the hickeys down his neck—Kaveh ducks back inside the house, red with shame, before Hat Guy can finish laughing. He scrambles and is back in bed with the blankets over his burning ears by the time Alhaitham returns to the room. He thinks Alhaitham will say something, make some comment about Kaveh looking like his kept man, his little pet, for all to see, but no such comment comes. When Kaveh peeks between the folds of his cocoon, Alhaitham is sitting on the edge of the bed, rolling his vision in his hands. Kaveh can tell it’s his vision because it’s not Kaveh’s, which is much a piece of Kaveh as his sight or pulse. Alhaitham weighs his gift from the gods in one loose fist and looks at the wall.

Kaveh won’t look this particular horse in the mouth. He shuts his eyes and wills himself back to sleep. If one more person knows about their relationship, then, whatever. Whatever! Not like anyone likes talking to Hat Guy, anyways.

–

“Okay, so it’s like, really gone,” Kaveh says, staring up at the sapphire blue skies above the mausoleum of King Deshret. “You weren’t kidding.”

“I was not,” Alhaitham says, not even breathing hard from the last dirty slide down the road to the dune field. Bastard. “Why would I?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Kaveh blinks again, eyes watering in the undiluted brilliance of the sun above the sand. “Well, okay. Okay. It’s so blue.”

“The sky usually is.”

Kaveh maintains his dignity and doesn’t kick any sand at Alhaitham’s stupid pedantic boots. He’s an adult with several different ongoing debt repayment plans and a semi-sentient briefcase. Also, they’re absolutely surrounded and someone might see.

He’s really never seen this many people in the sands at once. The packed dirt trail to the steps of Deshret’s mausoleum is as busy as any city street, crammed with not just scholars and merchants and the mercenaries who usually accompany them, if not always at this density—but families, too. Children, parents, elderly residents of Aaru being helped down the rocks and into the dunes by their neighbors and spouses. The whole village emptied out this morning and accompanied Kaveh and Alhaitham into the desert, happy and chattering. They led the way.

“How was it opened? How did she manage this?” Kaveh asks.

“The Traveler? With a robot, a stone slate, two Tanit mercenaries, and a middling amount of violence. Tirzad was with them.”

“Tirzad the fifteenth-year Vahumana student?”

“He may finally graduate, once he finishes writing this up,” Alhaitham says, with a sweep of his hand. “Though he was hardly there for all of it. She kept opening doors, once he returned to the city.”

“What does that mean?”

“Tirzad gave an oral report to Nahida upon his return, at her request. I sat in. He described only the opening of the mausoleum and the towers of Khaj-Nisut in his journey with the Traveler.” Kaveh boggles. The fact that the throne of Khaj-Nisut is real, found, and open to visitors is all news to him. Alhaitham describes it like he would a spot of river traffic at the docks. “Letters trickled in afterwards, from scholars and matra across Hypostyle, which I obtained copies of. They had all begun to find the same thing. Doors were open, everywhere, in every structure under study and some we’d had no idea existed at all, because the structures themselves had been locked in sections of the cave systems never before seen.”

“But that’s—” Kaveh struggles to fit this into his understanding of the world. He looks at the people surrounding them, the kids and grandfathers and shepherds and bricklayers of Aaru, the dogs capering between them, just happy to be included on this day away from home, and then looks up. Shadow flashes over them in magisterial bands—the columns that mark the edges of the great paved plazas beneath the pyramid. “That can’t be right. The desert is huge. The underground caves are—It can’t have just been her and Paimon, and, what, a robot?”

“It wasn’t. The Tanit woman took the robot.”

Kaveh doesn’t know what any of this means. But they’re in the pyramid, and a door that Kaveh touched himself once, as a student, running careful fingers through centuries of unmoved dust, is open wide. The crowd moves through it, more feet than these halls have seen in a thousand years. The corridors beyond are lit brightly by complex mirrors and a system of flowing power Kaveh has never seen before. The air changes. They enter the pyramid’s great hall.

It’s blue. It’s so beautiful. Kaveh, without much control over the situation, sits down in the middle of the carved stone floor and puts his hands to his mouth.

Some time later—tricky to say how much, doesn’t really seem relevant to the day’s events—Kaveh looks up to a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, hello,” he says, then, “Oh! Collei! Hello! Are you—what are you doing here?”

“Hello, Senior Kaveh!” Collei says with that sweet smile of hers as Kaveh stumbles up, papers raining from his lap. He’d just been making a few sketches, several dozen sketches, of the vast interior of the hall, the thunderous repetition of its forms, which he thinks he might dream about, every night, for the rest of his life. Each torch, each carved relief—all of it rising, pulling the hall up with itself, toward the great mechanism, toward something far above. Like a summons—the culminating urgency, thousands of years of history all striving to meet some incomparable, celestial unknown—

“I came with Master Tighnari and General Cyno,” Collei says. She’s in traveling clothes, like Kaveh himself, a long robe tied loosely at the neck and red with sand. Her freckles are just barely darker than her sunny cheeks. “We got here a few hours ago, have you been here long?”

“Uh, maybe!” Kaveh says. “How are you doing, how are your classes going? You started learning about herbalism, recently, right? With the, with the plants?”

“Yes, Senior Kaveh,” she says with a laugh she tries just a bit to hide.

“No, come on, don’t call me Senior, you make me sound so old,” Kaveh says, which makes her laugh again. Oh, she’s so sweet. He’s known Collei since Tighnari decided he and Kaveh were going to be friends, of course, for years by now, and still he wants her to like him so bad it makes his knees shake. She’s just so lovely! “We should have checked if you were coming out, though, we could have traveled together! Tighnari didn’t mind leaving the forest for all this heat?”

“Oh, well, you know Master Tighnari,” Collei says, which means Tighnari was a crabby old hag from the moment they left Ribat, “but General Cyno was going, and Master Tighnari didn’t think he should go alone, and so, you know, we came, too!”

“He shouldn’t go alone?” Kaveh says. “Why not? The road’s hardly dangerous these days.”

“Oh, no, of course it is! And of course General Cyno could defeat anyone he came across,” Collei says, with perfect, reverent faith. “Master Tighnari just thought someone should be with him. When he saw all this, for the first time.”

“Oh,” Kaveh says, and feels like an entire bundle of idiot. “Of course. Duh.”

“Yeah,” Collei says, and smiles again, with more grace than a teenager should ever be capable of. Tighnari and Cyno are so lucky to have this kid. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“It really is,” Kaveh says. The crowds have only grown since Kaveh last paid attention to anything except architecture. Not far from him and Collei, two women hold up their young children to one of the reliefs of Deshret and his kingdom, the King carved as tall as any building in Sumeru City. The women are from deep in the desert, dressed in the colors of a tribe Kaveh isn’t familiar with—they speak rapidly to their children, bounding over each other in their eagerness, like they have to retell every story of Al Ahmar now, at this second, here, while their children stand where he stood and smack their small hands to the stone of his knees.

“Who would have thought that we’d see this place in our lifetimes?” Kaveh says, craning his neck back to the monumental peak of the ceiling. “It’s unbelievable.”

“There’ve been a lot of unbelievable things this year!” Collei says.

“That’s too well-adjusted, Collei, I need you to be more freaked out,” Kaveh says, and is rewarded with the infinite riches of her laugh. It’s much bigger when she’s surprised. “Well, where’s Haitham gone? I assume he tasked you with finding me. Sorry, on his behalf.”

“It’s okay, you weren’t hard to find. You were sitting right where he said he’d left you!”

“Of course. He knew where I was, but couldn’t be bothered to come back himself. How long ago did he wander off?”

“I’m not sure, I was only back by the wall for about fifteen minutes before I tapped you on the shoulder.”

“Fifteen minutes!” He rounds on her, hands on hips, but she’s still smiling. “Collei! You should have said something! You didn’t have to wait for me!”

“It was nice!” she protests. “It’s okay, really! I liked watching you draw. Do you know you chew your hair when you draw? I couldn’t tell if you knew.”

“I do. It’s a terrible habit. The split ends never go away,” he says, and bends to gather up his many scattered pencils and socks (in which the pencils had been carefully stored within his traveling bag). “So, where did he go?”

She shrugs, hair bouncing upon her shoulders. “He said he was going to look at the mechanism but—”

“God forbid he specify which mechanism, in the enormous hall full of interesting ancient mechanisms.”

“Yeah, that,” she says. “But he said that when he was done he’d meet us where Master Tighnari and General Cyno are.”

“It’s fine, Collei, you're not his runner, I can just go find him. He’s pretty predictable, luckily.”

“Sure, I bet you could,” she says, in a casual knowing tone that makes Kaveh narrow his eyes suspiciously. Do five people now know about his and Alhaitham’s relationship? “But he said you’d probably want to see where Master Tighnari and General Cyno are right now.”

“...And where is that?”

She points. “Over that way, in the rooms outside the hall. Senior Alhaitham said they looked liked quarters for the priests who tended the mausoleum before it was abandoned?”

Kaveh inhales sharply. Domestic architecture? From the age of Deshret? Damn the man!!

Collei is smiling again. Like perhaps Haitham informed her how Kaveh might react to such an indescribable temptation. “Well, if that’s where everyone’s going to be meeting,” Kaveh says, with what little dignity he can muster, and lets Collei lead him away.

He does get to find out about her herbalism classes as they make their slow way through the hundred little knots of people gazing in wonder at the work of their ancestors’ lives. She is doing very well and had only mixed up a potion and poultice once. And it hadn’t even been that big a deal, because Gülsha (another apprentice, Kaveh understands) had mixed up a potion and a poultice the other way around and had had to vomit behind the classroom for ages before the ranger in charge would let her stop! Collei had just stained her arm red for a day or two, which Master Tighnari thought was funny. And Gülsha’s boyfriend was really sweet during the whole thing, Collei assures him as they reach the far door of the hall.

“Oh, yeah?” Kaveh says. The corridor beyond is much emptier than the hall, the sand thicker upon the tiles. He likes letting Collei chatter. It feels like such an accomplishment that she chatters at him.

“Yeah, he kept running down to the river to get her water even thought she couldn’t, you know, keep it down! He was kinda stressed out, but she thought it was funny after. They’re so cute together.”

“They sound like it.”

Collei’s big doe eyes go, as best they can, conspiratorial. She isn’t very good at it. It’s like a kitten trying to slip you a few extra mora for that bottle of cream on the high shelf. “She told me she wants to go talk to Hassan’s parents soon. To introduce them to her parents!”

“Whoa, getting pretty serious!”

“Right?” Collei says, with an eager nod. “They’ve only been together for a year, but she really likes him, I think!”

They pause outside one of the neat sloped doors in the eastern wall. Kaveh can hear familiar voices beyond, tucked somewhere close and safe. Collei has her hands tight over her chest and is looking like she wants to ask him something.

“Everything okay?” Kaveh asks, as Collei, in total silence, does honorable battle with whatever it is that she will or will not say. Her eyes are very big.

“You—” she starts, but that’s as far as her recent bloom of confidence will take her. “Nevermind-Senior-Kaveh-I’ll-go-get-Senior-Alhaitham-bye!” she continues at the approximate speed of a hunting tiger and then, face flushed and huge with panic, she vanishes.

“Ah, so close,” Kaveh says to the emptied hallway. He gets it. He’s been there.

“Collei?” Cyno calls from inside.

“Gone to get Haitham,” Kaveh replies, and steps past the ancient shelves by the door (God, shelves!! Whoever lived here lived a life that included shelves!!) to find Cyno in a tailor’s seat upon the stone. The room is small and easily warmed by the torches on the wall, more of an clearing room for the cells beyond it (for sleeping? Arranged around a common eating/study area? The implications!) than a grand space itself, but with plenty of room for two grown men to sit on the floor together. Kaveh does so, folding his overlong legs to match. “She said Tighnari was with you?”

“Yes,” Cyno says, then, “I think so. Tighnari?” he shouts, to which there is no reply. He’s holding a hand-written note in one hand and a few pieces of decorative stone in another, which he sets down carefully. Kaveh, not a child, resists the impulse to lean over Cyno’s shoulder and sneak a peek. “I think he went to go get water. There’s an exit south of here that leads to one of the underground rivers. He was making that face like when he’s pretending he doesn’t want to wash his ears immediately.”

“He’s really not a fan of the desert, huh.”

“Fool,” Cyno says, with a big, creased grin. Kaveh laughs. “How’s Collei? There are more people here than we were expecting.”

“Great, actually. She’s so cool. How’d you get such a cool kid?”

“She’s not my kid.”

“Does that mean she’s up for grabs? Can I have her?”

“You couldn’t handle her,” Cyno says, in the confident tones of someone who is very proud of their cool kid.

“Well, you don’t have to be so truthful about it!” Kaveh laughs. “Surely I could at least make an attempt! We were having a pretty nice conversation, up until—well, she wanted to ask me something right before we walked in but I have no idea what, she immediately got tongue-tied and ran off, so…”

“She wants to know when Alhaitham’s going to make an honest man of you,” Cyno said.

Kaveh, who had been pretty nice time in the thousand-year divine tomb until now, goes tense all the way down to toes. His face feels suddenly like a war banner: big, easy to read, and scarlet red. “What?” he says. “She—she knows we’re dating?”

“Yes, somehow,” Cyno says. “Though strenuous detective work.”

“That’s not—you didn’t tell her, did you?”

“That wasn’t necessary, no,” Cyno replies. He sounds so casual. But Kaveh really hadn’t—they didn’t even sit next to each other when they had dinner with Tighnari and Collei in Gandharva! Kaveh had wanted to, to keep it between them! Just for now, just for the start. But Cyno is still talking: “Does it bother you so much that she knows?”

It shouldn’t. Collei is Cyno and Tighnari’s family. She’s a wonderful kid. But still, Kaveh can’t bring himself to answer.

“She quite likes it,” Cyno goes on. “You two being together. She thinks you’re cute.”

“That’s…wonderful. But—Cyno, we’ve only been together three months. There’s no need for her—for anyone!—to be thinking about marriage!”

“By one reckoning.”

“What?”

“Three months by—don’t worry about it. She won’t mention any of it to anyone else. She’s barely mentioned it to us.”

“No, I know she wouldn’t, she’s not—” Kaveh stumbles over himself, fingers knotting painfully in his lap. “It’s not like—look, you guys aren’t even married! Right?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant. Tighnari doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“Wait—really?”

“It’s not a thing for Valuka Shuna,” Cyno shrugs. “Or most of the desert, outside Aaru.”

“So you don’t mind? Even though you guys are…” The two most married people Kaveh had met since his father died?

“No,” Cyno says, with a noise almost like a scoff. “Why would I? I could have no greater piece of his heart.”

“Sure,” Kaveh says, as if that’s not the most romantic line he’s ever heard in his life.

“But you believe in marriage,” Cyno says.

“Sure,” Kaveh says again.

Cyno considers him. His jackal-head sits in his lap, showing off the shocking intensity of his eyes. “You seem uncomfortable. Do you want me to change the subject?”

“Please,” Kaveh says.

“Okay,” Cyno says, and laughs at him. It’s not unkind, because very rarely can Cyno ever be unkind. “Do you like the architecture?”

“I love the architecture,” Kaveh says, and seizes the opportunity Cyno presents him, to talk for several minutes uninterrupted about the beauty of Deshret’s great halls.

“I don’t know, it just seems so impossible to believe,” Kaveh says. There are people outside in the hallway, their footsteps soft over the sandy stone. Candace passed by earlier, nodding to Cyno, and he’s learned that the note in Cyno’s hand was left by Sethos—days ago, when Sethos, before almost anyone else, discovered the depths to which the Traveler had opened her doors. He came in the back way, through the caves and the river, and wrote something he knew Cyno would find. “All of this, miles of it, sleeping for century upon century and we, of all people—”

He brought this up before, or almost did, with Collei, but he can’t stop thinking about. His mind circles it like water around a drain. Why this? Why now? Why them? “Look, just—” he’s not going to be able to stop himself for asking again. “Did you ever expect to see any of this? To be here? Was this, like, part of your five year plan?”

To his credit, Cyno takes his time to consider this. It’s an insane question, driven by insane impulses, Kaveh’s fingers once again pressing Kaveh’s knuckles to a pulp in his lap, but Cyno gives it its due. “No,” he says at last. “But many things have happened recently that weren’t part of my five year plan.”

“You know, that’s almost exactly what Collei said.”

“Yes. I’m trying to learn from her.”

“Learn what?”

“How to live within change. To roll with the punches, as Dehya might say. Collei’s very good at it.”

Kaveh almost protests, thinking of Collei’s nerves, the fears she works so carefully and notably to set aside and walk away from—but that’s not quite the same is it? They’re distinct. “...I suppose you’re right,” he says.

“I am,” Cyno says, with surety. No wonder him and Alhaitham get along. “I think some days she even forgets what her childhood was like. I can hardly do that. But she spent a long time being certain of her future, in a very unpleasant way.”

“Yeah…God, I mean, she must have been.”

Cyno nods, as much to himself as to Kaveh. “Right. But then it wasn’t what she thought at all. All of our lives—who knows what’s to come? Oh, Candance,” he says, as Kaveh blinks and grasps for a response. Candace is entering the room, something in her hand, and behind her, making Cyno’s face shine like the sun in the cloudless sky, Tighnari. “You found him? It?”

“I believe I found it,” she confirms with a gentle smile. “Its presence was tangible in the far western hall. Tighnari required no finding.”

“Hello, love,” Tighnari says, leaning down to envelop Cyno’s face in his hands. “Doing okay?”

“Just fine. How are the ears?”

“I don’t think that’s any business of yours,” Tighnari says smiling, then leans to the side. “Here.” Candace hands Cyno something crumbling and beautiful. Cyno takes it with a sudden, electric smile and Kaveh realizes that it’s of a set—it matches the pieces of stone Cyno had held earlier with the note.

“Gifts from Sethos,” Cyno explains, as he lays out the pieces of an ancient painted relief upon the floor. “He found most of it, but couldn’t find the last before he had to leave. He trusted we would be able to dig up the rest.”

There’s more soft noise, Collei and Alhaitham at the door. They hesitate to enter, Collei out of unsurety, Alhaitham out of his usual distaste for sentiment, but Kaveh can see that he’s feeling it too—the thing radiating out of Cyno’s careful adjustment of stone against stone like a beacon over the dunes.

The relief is small but masterful. Assembled, if not whole, it shows Al Ahmar, in his familiar representation, as he is portrayed with Lesser Lord Kusanali and the Goddess of Flowers, his equals and lovers. Beside him is the jackal-priest commonly identified as Hermanubis. Cyno strokes his finger down Al Ahmar’s edge and Kaveh realizes he’s crying.

Tighnari does too, and Collei, but Cyno smiles and shakes his head, waving them off. “It’s alright,” he says. “It’s alright. It’s just my friend.” That’s how he refers to the spirit within him, when he’s amongst company that won’t require an explanation. His friend. Kaveh feels Alhaitham’s eyes upon him. Tighnari takes Cyno’s hand. “He’s just—very happy to be home.”

behold: opening 3k of current haikaveh wip. feeling ambivalent about ever finishing this just bc i have so fully dipped from genshin since all the natlan racism lol, so just in case this doesn't get finished.... starts with porn, so watch out for that!

---

The first thing that happens that day is that Kaveh gets a letter from the Akademiya’s Desk of Graduate Recordings and Happenstance on the subject of future mailings to his address. Well, sort of. Well, it’s almost the first thing. The first first thing that happens that day, Kaveh supposes, is that Kaveh wakes up in Alhaitham’s arms.

“Not yet,” Alhaitham says, sleepy and firm, his hands pressing around Kaveh’s stomach and sweating chest as the midmorning birds sing from the eaves.

“Mmm, Haitham,” Kaveh says, then, “Haitham, let me up, Haitham, I’m—”

Alhaitham presses his mouth to the back of Kaveh’s bare neck, his chest to Kaveh’s hot shoulders. “You have time,” he says. “Not yet.”

Does Kaveh have time? He has no way of knowing. He’s still so asleep, hot and slow-moving as glass, blinking against the brightness in Alhaitham’s bedroom like some kind of newborn housepet. He has a meeting today, right? With a client? Perhaps a vendor?? Unhelpfully, Alhaitham shapes his body to Kaveh’s like skin over muscle. Kaveh feels the desire to purr.

It’s as bad now as it’s ever been. There’s no respite. He’s never been this disorientingly horny in his life. Not just this morning, when the prospect of orgasm is immediate and obvious, but for days now. Weeks? They’ve been sleeping together for—his breath hitches abruptly as Alhaitham’s hand on his hip becomes Alhaitham’s fingers petting down his fattening cock, stroking his sac with focused care—oh, God, it’s been at least three months. Three months in what must finally, formally, be called a relationship, and Kaveh feels now as he did that very first afternoon: insane. With lust, with need, with panic, with flagrant desire. Has he ever thought this much about sex, this regularly, in his entire life? Alhaitham’s bush is scraping his ass raw, Alhaitham’s cock hard enough that Kaveh can feel the hot tip of it against his skin, and that makes him twice as insane as all the rest of it.

“Haitham,” he pants, “I have to get up.”

“Not yet,” Alhaitham says again. He’s like creeping vines this morning. He doesn’t intend to be removed.

Three months Kaveh has been thinking about sex with Alhaitham, morning to night. Unbearable, and yet still better than thinking about the other thing—how much he wants to be with Alhaitham, morning to night. How much he wants to be pulled into him, like sunlight into sprawling leaves. A fish into an ocean. A man into a relationship he wanted profoundly and understands minimally. Compared to that, an obsessive contemplation of a quarter-year’s unbridled libido isn’t bad at all.

“Fuck me,” he pants. Screw the client and the vendor. Give him this. “Haitham, your cock, fuck me.”

Alhaitham, nearly on top of him, is urgent and threatening to roll Kaveh face-first into the sheets. “If you think,” he says, “I’m going to go get the damn harness when you,” he’s not managing the scornful tone particularly well, “look like this—”

“Not your cock!” Kaveh says. “Your cock!”

Praise God, he gets the picture. Alhaitham rolls Kaveh over, pins him to the sheets, and starts to thrust.

Face down, panting like a dog into Alhaitham’s overpriced pillow, Kaveh struggles briefly to spread himself before Alhaitham realizes what he’s doing and deigns to help. He shoves Kaveh’s thigh up and toward his side and Kaveh grabs it, pulling his own hips wide and eager. This is good. This is great. The more he has to be in his body the less he has to be in his head. Alhaitham has an arm across his shoulders and his pelvis to Kaveh’s ass as he thrusts the tip of his short cock against Kaveh’s hole. It’s not quite firm enough to penetrate and drives Kaveh thoroughly insane. He pants for it like an animal.

“Good” Alhaitham says, “good,” his greatest of praises. What’s Kaveh good at? Being limber and getting fucked? That’s not so bad!

“Yes,” Kaveh says (it’s outside of his control), “yes, yes, yes, yes,” with a rising intensity as Alhaitham’s thrust threaten to bash them both into the headboard. “Yes!”

“You’re,” Alhaitham pants, “repeating yourself.”

Kaveh shouldn’t let this example of Alhaitham’s worst behavior go unpunished. Unfortunately, right now he’s so powerfully turned on he thinks he might shatter, might vanish, might rocket into the air like a firework. And it’s always like this. Puberty was less intense than this! Kaveh barely survived puberty!

“C’mon, give it to me, give it to me,” he says. The heat of the sun inflames his neck, his back, his chest. He doesn’t know what he wants. He wants so desperately it’s going to rip him apart. He bruises his own thigh. Alhaitham bruises his hips. He fucks his cock against Kaveh, using Kaveh for all the pleasure he can get.

“Desperate,” Alhaitham says, which makes Kaveh gasp a little, red and brainless. How could Alhaitham tell? How did he know? Can he see that it’s more than the sex? Does he suspect like Kaveh suspects that he’s desperate, actually, for all of it? Desperate to sit beside Alhaitham in the morning and drink their coffee together? To rearrange the bookshelves together? To debate the world’s philosophies together? To spend all the years of their life in the pleasure of—

Can everyone see it? What is Kaveh supposed to do?

Alhaitham pulls him back, fishing Kaveh from the sudden plunge of panic with all the gentleness of a tiger upon its prey. “Up,” he gasps into Kaveh’s ear, sweaty chest sliding across Kaveh’s sweaty back, “get your hips up, you perennial imbecile—”

He gets so punchy when he’s turned on. Maybe Kaveh could just rub himself to completion on Alhaitham’s sheets as Alhaitham rubbed himself to completion on Kaveh. Maybe he’s dizzy with the idea of it, actually. But he shuffles up, obedient, movable as clay, and at Alhaitham’s prompting gives his own cock three quick strokes that end—predictably. With fantastic, enervating clarity. Kaveh gasps wetly as he falls back on the sheets, Alhaitham coming down with him, getting in a few last hot thrusts against Kaveh’s ass and quivering thigh.

It’s not quite enough for him—he rolls over, on his back beside Kaveh, eyes screwed shut as he rubs himself with an almost furious impatience. Kaveh watches him with one eye, sweat pooling between his shoulders. He likes Alhaitham’s tense, closed face, the shuddering ridge of his shoulder as he works himself like an unruly machine. He reaches out a hand, tracing the gray hair around Alhaitham’s nipple and down his abdomen. Kaveh fingers meet Alhaitham’s at the base of his hot cock. That’ll do it. Alhaitham gasps, tenses, and opens his eyes wide. When he closes them again, relief flows off him like cool water.

“Good morning,” Kaveh says.

Alhaitham hums, low and rocky. Kaveh keeps stroking the whorls of his chest hair. It’s always so soft. He never expects how soft it is. “Good morning,” Alhaitham says. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

“Ass,” Kaveh says, unable to help a smile, and then the hour-horn calls from the market and Alhaitham raises an eyebrow and Kaveh realizes he is quite seriously late.

“Ass!” Kaveh shouts from the bath as he scrubs come off himself then leaps damply toward the other bedroom. His bedroom. The bedroom that is still officially his, because it has his drafting table and wardrobe and jewelry (despite how much of that jewelry and wardrobe and even the drafts have begun to emigrate into Alhaitham’s bedroom with no hope of return) but they’ve only been dating for three months, and it would be crazy for Kaveh not to keep his own bedroom, so he does. It’s this one. He can’t remember the last time he slept in it. But it is 100% his own bedroom!!

Kaveh emerges from the bedroom (his) with most of his clothing on the right way around. Alhaitham sits in the living room, sipping his morning coffee.

“Aren’t you late?” Kaveh says.

“Nope.” Alhaitham takes another sip of his coffee. He’s wearing loose trousers, sweat still shining on his bare chest. Bastard.

“Don’t tell me you—oh. Wait.” Kaveh frowns. “The trip? Is that today?”

“Yep,” Alhaitham says.

“Two weeks?”

“Two weeks.”

Kaveh frowns harder, though of course they’ve both been away from home longer than that. Just not recently. “And this is for—have you told me what this is for?”

“I haven’t.”

“Haitham, come on.” He’s reading a book flat on the table, flipping through the pages at a speed that indicates he’s not so much reading the book as using it as a means to avoid eye contact. Haitham, having grown since their teenage years, now only does this when he’s upset about something—or being a massive bitch.

“Oh, sorry, was the mind-blowing morning sex not enough for you?” Kaveh snaps.

Alhaitham jerks his head up. “What? The sex was extremely enjoyable.”

“Oh, yes, it—” Abort, abort. Kaveh backpedals wildly. “---Was for me, too. Actually. Forget that. Where are you going?”

“The desert,” Alhaitham replies, flicking the book closed as he rises for more coffee. “I’m undertaking a survey of recent changes to the environment following the Traveller’s journey to the north coast.”

“Huh,” Kaveh says. “For Lesser Lord Kusanali? Like, at her request?”

Alhaitham makes an unintelligible noise into his mug.

“Well, alright,” Kaveh says. “Two weeks isn’t that long. Right? It’s not that long. And you’re leaving in the afternoon, you said.” Kaveh really should go. He’s not getting less late. “So you’ll be here when I come back.”

“I will,” Alhaitham says.

“So I can say goodbye then.”

“That would appear to be the case.”

“Right, okay. Well—”

Alhaitham catches his sleeve as he makes to leave. As if unable to himself, as if by the biddings of his soul, Kaveh turns towards him. Alhaitham kisses him with the care and dedication of a craftsman, humbling himself to his art.

It doesn’t mean anything, how intensely he feels about Alhaitham. They’re just dating. They’re just trying all this out. If they’re moving a bit fast, if the high isn’t wearing off—if Kaveh has the suspicion, hot in his heart as molten brass, that he has entered into the last relationship he will ever have, that what he is doing with Alhaitham is a flare in the sky that everyone on the continent can see—it’s not. He isn’t. It’s only as serious as he wants it to be. He still has time to figure things out.

For God’s sake, only like four people even know he’s living with Alhaitham!

“I have to go,” Kaveh pants, mouth against Alhaitham’s.

“So go.”

“Ass.”

“See you later,” Alhaitham says, pressing a last firm kiss to Kaveh’s lips (he’s insatiable this morning! Kaveh wants to climb him like a tree!). Kaveh stumbles away, snatching his cape, shoes, and non-Mehrak briefcase as he goes. His keys are on top of the pile of mail that Alhaitham always leaves unopened by the door because he doesn’t believe people should have the ability to contact him at this home address. Kaveh, red up to his ears, just takes the whole mess with him. He can check for bills on the way. He’s feeling really normal. He’s fine, actually. It’s only as serious as he wants it to be. And if he doesn’t yet know exactly how serious he wants things to be—that’s fine, too!

Outside, proceeding at a brisk walk, feeling refreshed by the morning air and the scents of the Tree’s great flowering vines, Kaveh opens the first of the letters from the pile. It’s addressed to him—great. It’s from the Desk of Graduate Recordings and Happenstance. Perfect. They probably just want him to participate in another guest lecture. He feels capable and confident that he can accomplish this task.

It’s not that. They’re updating their mailing records. His mailing address is currently listed as the Puspa Cafe (where Kaveh has been sending his mail for years as he bounced between the dorms, his childhood home, the couches of various acquaintances, etc.). Is this address still correct? Is this address still preferred? If neither correct nor preferred, could Kaveh please return the included form with his new address at the earliest convenience, postage prepaid?

Kaveh stops in the middle of the ramp-street, sun beating down his neck. “Ha,” he says. “Ha ha. Ha?”

—

Okay, this is absolutely not a problem. Kaveh totally, 100%, without a doubt knows the address at which he’d like to receive mail. It’d be crazy if he didn’t!

This is what he tells himself, very reasonably and in a normal tone of voice, as he careens through his morning.

Because obviously it would be odd if Kaveh kept getting his mail at Pupsa’s with all the sailors and mercenaries and students too recently landed in Sumeru City to have a fixed address. He has a fixed address. He’s been living in Alhaitham’s spare room for almost two years. Recently, to be frank, he has been living in Alhaitham’s room. He’s been—

“Sir?” asks the carpenter whose bid he’s reviewing over a meze lunch at a nice little restaurant in the roots of the market. “Sir, are you alright?”

He’s thinking about the carpet in Alhaitham’s room, taking the skin off his knees, burying his head between Alhaitham’s heavy thighs until the breath runs out and his chest pounds and they both can’t—

“I’m fine!” Kaveh laughs. “Ha ha!”

Because it’s not like changing his address, telling the Akademiya and all their subsidiary organizations that actually he is living Alhaitham, and even has been living with Alhaitham, and presumably will be living with Alhaitham until some indeterminate future—Kaveh narrowly avoids walking into a pole, half a mile from the market and with another mile to the docks—that wouldn’t be great, either. Like, it just doesn’t seem that nice! The system he has now is fine, right? It’s not like Alhaitham likes telling people things about himself, god knows. Especially the Akademiya!

It would just be so final. So definitive. A commitment, in blue ink on white paper. Is that necessary? Like is it really necessary?

He imagines writing the Akademiya and telling them he has no fixed address. He imagines writing the Akademiya and telling them that he does. He imagines spending another five years picking up his mail alongside snotty homesick students and drovers reeking of sumpter beast. He imagines telling the Akademiya that for the next five years he, Kaveh, will be available to be reached at—

“Haitham!” Kaveh says, throwing open the door to their—Alhaitham’s—the house. “I’m coming with you.”

Alhaitham, dressed for travel in woolen pants and both shoulders actually contained within his cloak, for once, looks up. His mouth forms several silent shapes before he says, “You are?”

“I just think it’s been ages since I’ve left the city!” Kaveh says, blowing past Alhaitham and his assembled bags to start packing his own. His briefcase and the pile of this morning’s letters (contained therein) he leaves by the door. He won’t need those where he’s going! “I need some inspiration. My work is growing stagnant!”

“...Did you forget a loan payment?” Alhaitham calls from the living room as Kaveh empties his wardrobe onto his bed. “Is this a collections issue?”

Kaveh laughs airily—even casually! “I’m all paid up, Haitham, don’t worry!”

“Are you avoiding a deadline? Or a client?”

“My diary’s in order!” This is mostly true. This is true enough. “I just need some time off!”

“I’m going to be gone for two weeks,” Alhaitham says, standing with an uncomfortable look in Kaveh’s bedroom door. “At a minimum.”

Kaveh strips out of his clothing, reaching for his nearest traveling shirt, a nice airy linen he picked up in Bayda last year. “Yeah!” he says, from within it.

“It’s not going to be safe. I’m leaving the caravan roads in Hadramaveth.”

“All the better to have a partner, right?”

Alhaitham shifts again, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Is this a panic attack?”

Kaveh pauses. The expression on Alhaitham’s face is, to Kaveh, in this moment, indecipherable. Like the workings of Dahri machines. “It’s—does it matter? Do you not want me with you?”

Alhaitham shifts and changes, tensing and humming like a struck stone. Kaveh has no bead on him. He can’t tell what’s happening and can’t try to—his own body feels like a plucked string, like a note held so long it’s about to break the instrument. He stares at Alhaitham, cloak in his hands, with no idea what Alhaitham will do.

“Of course I want you with me,” Alhaitham says.

“Oh!” Kaveh says. “Oh, great.” He smiles, huge and breathless. “It’ll be nice. Won’t it? A little time away. When do you—we leave?”

“Five minutes ago,” Alhaitham says. He looks down at the pile of clothing on Kaveh’s bed. And floor. Kaveh looks, too.

“Great,” Kaveh says. “Great. Just one second.”

#genshin impact #usually posting chaptered works sucks all the enthusiasm right out of my bones and i never finish what i start #but it's different. this is different. i'm claiming this. i CAN do wip whursday in whatever fashion i like

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svtskneecaps · 2 months ago

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so what i'm putting together from osmosis and the wonderful livebloggers and the incredible arkanis english updates account is something like this

Prefeito Jota: Hello, I'd like to hire you to investigate what happened in my city/island(?)!

Bagi, who was previously "invited" to a mysterious island/city by its elected official, subsequently trapped on the mysterious island/city, investigated the deep mysterious history of the island/city, came to no conclusions, found her brother after years of searching, was separated once again from her brother, gained and lost an adopted daughter (possibly to being kidnapped by the island government, which was evil), gained and lost a demon fiancée (possibly to being dragged back to hell, so there's no way to find her), gained and lost a close demon friend to dubious circumstance (did he die for his children? is he with skeppy in the gas station?), and has had an unknown amount of time to process and/or suppress all of this: Sure! :D

#ah shit now i gotta tag this #arkanis #qsmp #qsmp bagi #q!bagi #long tags #hopefully that covers it for people who don't care abt the lore tie-ins; i think they'll be able to filter this post #this is mostly a qsmp post so i hope you are able to filter it at your leisure :)#i try very hard not to bug have a good week :D #shut up vic #block game brainrot #is valigma an island or a city i'm unclear on this #or is it a city that's on an island #is there an island??? there's not. there is. where were they travelling. there was a boat i know that #fe//lps crashed the boat there's gotta be a port somehwere close by #but it could just be a port city.... is it an island??#brother i'm cooked i don't speak portuguese and i work during the streams.... cognates save me....... save me cognates.........#the name of my tiktok collection for qsmp is 'context clues only' bc i was determined to follow its story through only osmosis.#i was wrong about that one but. welcome back context clues only.#idk anyway hopefully this post can be filtered by people in either fandom who don't care abt crossover lollll 😭#look q!bagi has every reason to distrust elected officials that try to invite her places #last time it happened it was a bona fide second location.#it's kinda wild she was willing to do it again lmao #do you think she got the request and idly wondered how long she was gonna be stuck this time #we kinda had to skim over that aspect of q!bagi's arrival bc of the weird meta parts of the presidential invitation #but iirc the qsmp president inviting her was canon. which is WILD lmfaooo #and also how she was fiancées with tina (a demon) and friends with bad (a demon) and coparents with mouse (a demon)#and then she gets invited and comes to valigma and she's probably already got insane déjà vu and then BOOM. matt.#like i'm not cc!bagi so i don't know but i didn't read q!bagi as someone who just. moved on.#i don't think she would process the events of quesadilla island i think it's more likely she suppressed it. really really well.

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100-gar · 28 days ago

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Controversial take but i watched all of jjk, in subbed, so it had my full attention 100% of the time, and i am of the opinion that it just fucking sucks.

So me and my wife were talking about it, and we were trying to figure out why people like it and we've come up short. I do not understand what's so appealing about this show for so many people. Can someone PLEASE tell me.

#yes the animation is phenominal and honestly i would have stopped watching after the first episode without it #MAPPA creates some beautiful art like just gorgeous #but the constant force-feeding of every minor character's backstory was hellish for me #had me rolling my eyes every time they did it (every three seconds)#the vast majority of characters are unlikable or bland or dead #often all of the above #choso is the only character i actively liked?? like i understand him i reallu do #i liked mahito? he's a freak so that's a given #i liked that one old guy with the weird still frames power #uhhh i like sukuna's weird obsession with ripoff sasuke #edit i member: i liked megumi he deserved better #oh i also REALLY liked nanamin or whatever his name was (it's been a while)#i think yuuji's suicide mission that he didn't think through is super interesting #alright heres my most controversial take of all #i don't care at ALL abt gojo. he's so mid there's like a million characters exactly like him #and he's UGLY why do people say he's attractive bro is UGLY A HELL #the intros are baller tho i sat through them every episode no skipping that shit #gorgeous animation as i'd expect from this studio #like! there's so many little drops of things that i liked about this show! which is why it pissed me off so much every time they did boring #ass exposition dumps on characters that are gonna die in five seconds. or worse-they are gonna live and continue to bore me to tears #and when i tell you i physically couldn't read the manga because of how fucking BORING it is #i got caught up and was like 'okay ill read the manga i kinda like what's currently happening n ive made it this far might as well keep goi #g' nah man i couldn't even read a whole chapter. jjk is king of exposition dumps #i do think the powers and how if you tell your opponent what it is it gets stronger is rad #and it drives me insane because i know they know how to drip-feed information about a character! and when they do that they do it SO WELL!!#but they just force feed you all this information the rest of the time like BRO ITS TOO MUCH SLOW DOWN AND JUST LET THE CHARACTERS DO THEIR #THING AND IT WILL BE MORE SATISFYING #anyways not tagging this because i don't wanna put hate in the main tags #just like. if you see this please explain to me what im missing PLEASE i want to like this show SO bad

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ratatatastic · 3 months ago

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"Your first full season in the American League (Stockton Heat 2016-17; AHL) you played with Garnet Hathaway, Brandon Bollig and Jamie Devane. And I'm wondering—those are 3 tough guys. Did you guys do any work together? Did you ask them for tips and stuff? Because in prepping for this podcast, I'm watching all your fights and like, brother, you know what you're doin'! You know what I mean? You're counter-punching Maroon, you got a good grab, control, you're coming in, you know which guys are lefties so you're working that strategically. You really know what you're doing!"

"Yeah, that's—It's something that... I always love being aggressive and fighting, and stuff like that. So I was always drawn towards these guys—Growing up, watching the tough guys, you watched Don Cherry; my favourite part was always the fighting and the big hitting, and stuff like that. Once I turned pro—every tough guy I played with—I would ask to drop the gloves and for them to show me something.

Whether it's something they always do, something they don't want a small guy like me to do to them...just picking up tips from every single one of them. Huge shoutout to those guys! I played with a lot of tough guys, especially in the American League, and every one of them showed me something that I carry with me to this day.

Right to the first guy: [...] in my Stockton days. He was a Toronto legend growing up where I grew up. He was my stall-mate, he's such a badass, cool dude. I remember dropping the gloves with him in practise, and asking him to show me some things. I'm always trying to learn, and do different things.

When I first started fighting although I asked for—to show me... it's not too comparable because our fighting styles are a little bit different; he fights a different caliber-type of fighter than I do. When I first started fighting I was more a straight defensive fighter—you know, you hold on and when you see an opportunity you punch, and other than that it's a pretty boring fight. And then as you get more comfortable and you start to learn a little bit more—get punched in the face a couple times and realise, you know, it doesn't hurt all that much...then you can start to try new things. I still remember the first time I ever threw a left punch in a fight! Definitely a lot of trial and error...

Jamie Devane, specifically—actually, I remember I got in a fight...Jarred Tinordi blew up Rasmus Andersson in the middle of the ice. I can't remember the hit exactly, but it was elbow to the dome. It could've been clean, I don't know. I remember looking around... we had some tough guys on our team, like we said—none of them were on the ice. I'm looking around like 'Aw, fuck. I'm gonna have to...I guess it's my number, I'll go...'

I go over and I fight him, we grab on and he punched me once—whatever. I go to punch him, I'm like this far from his face...

...So I realise 'Oh god, this isn't gonna work out very well.' I kind-of just hold him out there as much as I can...He's just punching my helmet, I couldn't sleep on this (my left) side of my head for like 2 weeks! Helmet's broken, it doesn't click anymore—Helmet's broken.

I get in the locker room, I'm like throwin' my shit and Devane was actually—I don't know if he was hurt or scratched that game—comin' out of the shower and sees me all pissed off, he's like, 'What the fuck happened?' I'm like, 'This fucking—fuck, Tinordi!' and he was like right away, 'Did he string you out?' And I'm like, 'Yeah, I couldn't fucking touch him! I couldn't get in there!' He's like, 'Alright, tomorrow (because it was a back-to-back) I'll go out with you and I'll show you what to do when that happens.'

He showed me what to do. If it happens again I'm gonna revert back to what he said. I would imagine it's gonna work because he's been in that situation multiple times where he's stringed guys out. He told me what guys do against him and what works and what doesn't.

It's things like that: where I'll go out of my way or they would go out of their way—but just that respect to acknowledge how tough...these guys are...they're just as willing to help out a guy that's willing to do something like that for his teammates."

The Buzz Pod | 8.7.24 (x)(x)

"[Devane] is one tough customer! Obviously a lot of guys listening to this probably have no idea who he is 'cuz he's an AHL-lifer, but guys he's—"

"I've never seen that guy lose a hockey fight once! Never seen him lose a fight!"

"He's as tough as they come, man!"

#ryan lomberg #i think its so important to hear this fighting diatribe from lombo #it is very much quintessential to lombos fighting philosophy #its a long doozy (4 minutes) but very worth it #go read/listen to it #also ahl appreciation for the grinders #my ears gave up trying to understand which player he named as his stallmate and i shant try to understand it #very much obsessed with lombo sparring with every guy he meets to gain fighting tips like hes natsu dragneel #welcome to lombos fight club #can he please drop a list of all the players hes learned from i need it so bad #also getting the shit beat out of him that devane was like okay well ill teach you what to do so that doesnt happen again #also because lombo was throwing a hissy fit XD #do you know how genuinely wild it is to say “everyone one of them showed me something that I carry with me to this day” about FIGHTING #WHAT ARE YOU A SHONEN PROTAGANIST #WHAT IS THAT #i need to lie down for a long time i love and miss my wife so much #she should be fighting for us :(

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pyrriax · 5 months ago

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ANYWHO goodnight tumblr i'll be back on the art grind tomorrow i think 🙏

#haunted ecosystem #i'll take a burst of creativity in a different form than usual than the burnout slump i've been in for a few months #<- part of why my fandom stuff has taken a smidge of a backseat #dont get me wrong i am still very excited about my fandoms im just having fun off in oc hell (affectionate)#its nice to just be able to create and not really worry about perception. and also i feel Less bad about just throwing ocs into the wringer #((blame the fact i've been REALLY interested in whump recently and i have been. fixated. on one of my characters.))#and ALSO i've been! rekindling my flame for wtds. i've been putting off thinking about it since that fic got.#nothing bad happened? but it was still very devastating that somebody who i considered a friend from that fic just. evaporated.#but i'm gonna finish that fic for him :) even if it takes a year. even if it's the one thing i finish ever. it'll be wtds.#for where its gotten me and the fact its what got me out of my shell and is the reason i trust that my writing is good!#i used to really hate rereading my work. i catch flaws that are obvious to me. but that fic. i just think about how *good* the story is #that story means. a lot to me? as a person? like the main character is not a good person. but people care about him anyway.#and there are so many little things. so many sentiments. so much that is a love letter to people who've done bad but learnt to do better #because. god knows i wasnt a good person even just a few years ago. and maybe i see myself in him a bit.#he came from a place of paranoia and fear and pain. and maybe its a good thing that i've found it difficult to write him recently.#because god. i've been HAPPY. even with the rough moments and bad days. i've been happy. i mean fuck.#my birthday's what. ten days away? god damn man. i'm going to be 18. that's an achievement.#i want to look the kid who thought it was over at half my age and tell him we fucking made it. and there are more years to come.#there's a life ahead. even if it's going to be a bitch. even if it's going to be tough. there's love in your heart and people who care and #you're going to fucking live and you're going to feel better one day. you have people to meet properly and thank and cherish.#because for every day it feel like the world's ending there are a dozen more where the sun shines just the right way through the rain #and you can't help but smile because it's just so god damn beautiful.#and fuck it. you're sick. your hands hurt and your legs don't work right. and it's tough sometimes. but you have people who understand.#you have people who honest to god love you for who you are and appreciate your company. and 18 is the first step.#you've spent half your life unlearning things and you've spent half your life relearning how to be what YOU want to be #and if you're a mediocre artist and passionate writer then you'll be fucking great at that. taking the time to learn when it strikes you.#and maybe this is for me. but its also for anybody reading it too. please god if there's one thing you take from this let it be that #somebody out there cares. *I* care. god i care. even if we've never spoken proper i care about you.#i practically have a list of everybody i see in my inbox. i love seeing familiar names show up. i.#i dont know how to neatly wrap up this tag ramble. but. i am so damn full of love it hurts sometimes. its scary to be happy but thats ok!

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bloodbankzz · 5 months ago

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it is painful to learn the "normal" ways that people reasonably around my age were motivated to do things their parents wanted, ie chores or getting good grades in school. this is a pain that has built over time because, seeing it around me as a kid, i could reason that maybe every single one of my friends were just spoiled. but, eerily, every time it seems the topic of motivating children comes up in whatever conversation is bringing it up, it seems like. and it still feels presumptuous to say. but most people as children were rewarded for good behavior. the one i was most envious of as a child was that multiple of my friends got paid money for getting As, and it was actually very shocking to me to find out that that is at least kind of a little more universal than i really really was sure it was not, but that's not the big thing that causes me pause now. generally, it seems, children are rewarded in some way for doing things their parents ask of them. writing and then stepping back and reading such a sentence makes me feel like an alien trying to puzzle out the function of the human pancreas lmfao but i dont know. in the wider conversations where this happens to come up, describing these motivators is never the point, which is maybe part of the difficulty for me. it's really hard to process that not everyone was doing what their parents said to do out of cold pure fear for their life. there's so many things it turns out other kids were getting. stickers and movie tickets and candy and praise and love. i am so sad.

#abuse tw #its hard to evensay because in a way somehow im still sure every single person is going to turn on me #despite this having been a long growing revelation based on things other people have said without it even being possible for me to have #influenced what they were saying i am like #deeply sure somehow that everyone will Know i really am just the entitled spoiled ungrateful one #idiot dont you know everyone gets screamed at and hit and chased down until theyre cowering with their back to the wall begging for mercy #all possible exits blocked because you didnt want to go out to eat with the rest of your family after church service? why would you even sa #something stupid like what you just did. you know it was right after all. just like when you got a B in that class you remember and you kno #you KNOW what happened was right #you only whine to other people because youre such a fucking bitch trying to smear the good name of your poor parents. they suffer to the da #<- in my mind i write this and immediately every person i know comes out of the shadows to say this to me because its what theyve believed #and known all along and then they all leave me and i die here #i probably need to go back to therapy but ive spent 5 years doing weekly sessions + months in an institute and i dont know if at this point #anything is going to help #5 years of my life 5 years #ive heard what feels like fucking everything #i crack open a work book or jusgt a like a normal book on the topic of (insert mental disorder) and i have already read it a billion fuckin #times and i keep up with the meditation and the journaling until it drives me freaking bonkers and i have to take a break from the frustrat #-on like WHAT do i do. at this point fuck it we ball + just make sure to stay on alert for snake oil salesmen bc i know im vulnerable #in this sort of position

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tchaikovskaya · 2 years ago

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I could/should elaborate when I’m not falling asleep as I am rn but like. I feel like for the people who you “mourn” who have died young and/or suddenly who you knew only in passing, or only casually interacted with, or were once close to but in the years between then and their death you barely spoke, etc etc etc, you arent actually mourning them or their presence in ur life (and now palpable absence) (supposedly) but just what it means to be a human on earth who has to grapple with inevitable loss and the immense weight of what a Person is and their footprint on everyone they interact with that is fleeting even tho there are several billions of us on the floating rock but none of those billions of lifetimes are ever overlapping 100%…. sigh :/

#context a student who graduated last semester (undergrad) died in a car crash like 500 miles away #and one of my fellow grad students/TAs and a few of his former profs are so upset about it and like………#u barely knew this kid I mean of course I feel terrible that someone with his life ahead of him was snuffed out in the blink of an eye #but like…….. if u had never found out about this. or if this hadn’t happened and he went on to live a boring long life #he would mean next to nothing to u !!! u would be none the wiser! u would probz not even recognize his name in 10 years! why are u crying!!!#idk I would be less ANNOYED and hashtag BOTHERED by it if the same people didnt say such nasty derogatory shit about their undergrads #like every other time I talk to u about mundane news ur complaining about how ur students are all lazy untalented idiots #but now THIS ONE who was never meaningful to u before THIS GUY is SPECIAL to u…? u mourn him?#2 weeks ago if I showed u his student ID photo u would struggle to remember his name but NOW HE MEANS SOMETHING #NOW THAT HES GONE AND IT DOESNT FUCKING MATTER ANYMORE NOW HE MEANS SOMETHING TO YOU #tldr if ur still reading lmao I feel like this stuff is always about yourself and almost never about the dead person #which is valid in its own way I mean I’ve literally cried after passing mangled cars and ambulances with people who defs aren’t gonna surviv #but it’s never been about their life’s overlap with mine and retconning some kind of memorable or emotional significance to it #idk why I’m so emotional about this in like 3 separate directions but it’s just so fucking frustrating !!!!!!! 🥲🤡

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bitchfitch · 2 years ago

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I've had to make a spreadsheet to keep track of the vignettes. and I'm pretty certain over half this book isn't going to be about Conall and Arlo. This format really gives me room to play with the whole time fuckery that happens around Arlo so the connections between sections are going to be more about themes vibes and flow than linear story progression. Like I'll make a key that sorts all 7 ish timelines linearly within themselves and another that sorts them all into one timeline. Because a good portion of these happen concurrently.

Like, A scene might play from Arlo's pov and ten sections later you'll get it from Conall's. and while that's happening the two different versions of Asena are both doing their own thing at that same moment.

Also there's 2 Asena's now. one of them isn't happy about it but the other doesn't know that other version of herself exists.

#the one who isnt happy about it isnt happy because she knows she kinda doesn't exist. Shes a dream manifested by Arlo on accident.#Since he never stops thinking of her as his daughter he kinda breaks time and makes an alternate line where he just kills Conall #and raises Asena himself.#tbh the point of making it non linear is to let ther be explanations for a lot of things without someone having to say the explanation #Like why do werewolves love Arlo? well heres the scene where his mommy makes them for him and his brothers #also Haze gets to have a section in the Anger portion of the book to explain Why he told Rhiannon a prophecy he knew would cause #so much pain.#The king also gets a section but i dont think hes getting a name.#Its there more to be a show of what would have happened between Conall and Arlo if Conall was an enabler instead of a paragon #i think the whole. like Challenge with this exercise is making every single section work on its own and as part of a larger story #like i want people to be able to track the plots as the story goes on but not Need to.#like you could open up to a random section read it and grok it 100%#or read a few then put the book down for a few weeks and be able to continue from where you left off without too much confusion #thats probably the only way to keep this whole thing from being Obnoxious as hell.

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soft-spooks · 2 years ago

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sun n moon song :

#its such a cute song ok. ok.#you didnt have to say my name/ ignite my circuits and start a flame/ but you did #LIKEEEEE #my like. rough ''story'' or whatever for them is just a combination of every x reader fic ive read so like #*starts working @ pizzaplex. becomes friends w robots. spends time in daycare on the clock #bc funny robot guys. oops got a crush but oblivious about it. sb plot kinda sorta happens. domestic apartment life a la bol. etc. roughly #aaand. idk. this is such an oops funny robot guy falls in love at first sight song #bc this random human was nice to them and treats them like an actual. person. oops ! whoopsie ! oh no!#hello goodbye twas nice to know you how i find myself without you that ill never know #like. waaaaaaaah #TURPENTINE ERASE ME WHOLE CAUSE I DONT WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE ALONE WELL I WAS WAITING FOR YOU ALL MY LIFE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#sun is sooooo hopeless romantic coded to me. ok. waxes poetic but like in a sorta silly dramatic way.#hello goodbye im rather crazy and i never thought i was crazy but what do i know?#<< also a sun coded lyric #OK THIS SONG IS MAYBE MORE SUN CODED THAN MOON BUT LIKE. I HAVE A GOOD MOON ONE TOO ILL POST IT IN A SECON D #☀️#🌙#mine #musicposting #<< gonna start making that a tag. i think its fun hehe #Spotify

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joelsgoldrush · 1 month ago

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“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

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