#because it used to be school work that took to long and art that was fast but now over summer it’s like art is taking too long

[pretentiousbrownie]

Art by @red-wood-raven

Art by @jadequarze

Art by jinxpawz

A lovingly curated collection of my OC power couple, Alto and Katherine: Bonded by the weight of shared responsibility, a common cause, and a fiercely protective instinct, the two are driven by a self-sacrificing love and the unyielding desire to fight for everything they believe in, to give their loved ones the happiness and safety they themselves so desperately sought.

This unlikely werewolf and angel pairing is one that represents two extremely distinct aspects of myself. Embodying strength, perseverance, and a quiet determination to persist, Alto is the protector of my true self - the savior of my younger self, and the guiding light towards the realization and acceptance of who I was then and who I am today. Characterizing grit, resolve, and a fighting spirit that is so unabashedly true to them, Katherine is the determination to not only exist and persist, but thrive, in all senses of the word. Together, they are the forces that helped me become the person I am today; they are the personified aspects of my past, present, and future selves, and all struggles they’ve dealt with in order to reach this point right now.

They are the story of how I came to be, how I came to understand and accept myself, and how I persevered - against all the odds - in realizing that self, and that is why each piece is so much more than the sum of their many stunning colors, rich depths, and powerful expressions.

To the artists and friends that have continued to work with me in creating these pieces and more, you have my eternal gratitude and love for giving these characters shape and form and color and life. They are everything to me, and more. Thank you all so very much!

As one final aside, I wanted to leave each of you with this as well; these pieces (and the other commissions I have done over the past few years), have also been a way of recapturing what was taken from me so long ago; I'm not sure you could quite call it a dream, or even a goal, but I was an artist. From young, I always carried a sketch book or drawing pad with me. Armed with pencil in hand and the spark of creativity, I used to lose myself for hours, completely tuned out of the world, engrossed in each and every line and detail I so painstakingly drew.

I did it for myself, but I also did it to explore more than what I was. It started with architecture, design, decor, and abstracts, before delving into people and creatures and animals. I won't ever claim to be "good" - I was a kid without any formal training and only the world around me as my inspiration, but I always hated qualifying terms like "good" and "bad" with art. I just created art, and I did so because I enjoyed it and it was comforting.

Throughout grades school, the relative value of my art had been recognized by the teachers and peers who shared in those same interests and goals as myself, and I was welcomed into so many spaces that encouraged and helped develop those skills further. For the longest time, I was so incredibly happy to be doing what I loved more than (almost) anything.

And then came high school.

I won't lie, I had a wonderful time in high school. Yes, even contending with difficult situations, certain traumas, a great deal of depression, and the loss of multiple people very close to me, but one thing beyond all of that did change in an irrecoverable way; art.

Coming out of middle school, I was recommended for studio art and the honors art track that could further hone and nurture those skills/passions I shared. In my final year of middle school, I had the immense good fortune of having an arts teacher that actively encouraged her students to explore art in whatever forms it took, and was set aside from the typical art class to develop my own portfolio throughout the school year. I was set to work on several smaller pieces and one large piece for an exhibition in a local arts competition.

I was given free reign and ended up with several pieces featured on display at local events and at the statewide exhibition. I was thrilled beyond all belief that I was experiencing art in its freest forms and being actively encouraged to pursue it.

But as luck (or rather misfortune, or I suppose more misunderstanding than misfortune) would have it, that same recognition and appreciation for art did not resonate with my parents as well.

They were supportive, to many degrees - they certainly loved the skills and talents I'd worked so hard to develop and commit myself to, but they weren't convinced there was any real purpose to my arts beyond the hobbies they saw. So, when the time came to make a decision towards my educational track in high school, they pushed me away from art and "encouraged" me to think more about practical things.

I was denied the arts track as I was pushed towards a long-term language goal (four years of foreign languages), I was placed in the music program (which, in fairness, represented some of the very best times I had in high school), and was then set up for an intensive program in double maths and sciences for the next several years (in addition to sports, other AP/honors classes, and part-time work).

The workload was grueling and positively miserable.

In the end, art had to take a backseat otherwise I'd lose myself and my time towards the things that supposedly mattered more. By my sophomore year of high school, I'd all but given up on art, and pushed out maybe a few last pieces before never returning to the supply store to buy more materials.

Fast forward almost a decade, and here we are.

I am an adult, living (mostly) my own life, and rediscovering the things that have made me, well, me.

The irony is that my job is art, in some loose sense of the word.

I operate a photography studio and shoot commercial photography for automotive clients. I work with a local dealership and one of the foremost importers of enthusiast vehicles in my region. I have deep connections to other prominent names in industry, including motorsports and NASCAR, and engineering and design. I shoot for all of them, they value my inputs, and many of my long-term goals are aimed at improving automotive design and ergonomics in design for more human-centric interaction in an increasingly disconnected driving world.

Between the work I have done, the goals that I've encountered, and the people I've surrounded myself with in my personal and professional lives, it's given me the time and the space to focus on the things that matter to me.

Art has been a way of recapturing the love my younger self shared for creativity and free will/expression. After coming out years ago, it's also been a way to engage in the spaces and ideas that have long faced me without answer. Art has allowed me to be truer to who I am, who I was, and who I'd ultimately like to be. These commissions are a partial reflection of all of that, and everything it's taken to achieve that, and they're also the goals I've set as I rediscover my love for arts with the newfound freedoms to explore it.

So, it way too many words, these pieces are everything to me. I don't quite know how else to put this other than thank you. Thank you to everyone that shares a common appreciation for art, that has enjoyed seeing these pieces as much as I have, and that feels in some way (no matter how large or small) a connection or relation to the words I've said here.

And to the artists that have made these pieces and others for me; you may never quite know what they mean to me. These are all the ideas I could fit on a page while working, so I am a bit pressed for time, but your time and your creativity and your energy spent realizing what I could not - that means so much to me. It means more than I could every reasonably tell you or pay you or otherwise verbalize in some actionable way. So, seriously, thank you all so very much. From the bottom of my heart, I love and appreciate all you each done for me.

And I will leave it there for now. Thank you all for sticking around - I know this has been a very long read. I really do hope you love my OCs as much as I can. And hey, if you have a sec, if you've got a couple ideas, go make some OCs of your own. If it's within your realm of attainable, commish some of your favorite artists, or doodle out some of your doods - I promise it'll be some of the most fun you can have!

[hms-no-fun]

Oh yeah the big pickups to work in an office job infuriate me to no end. A whole parking lot full of death machines that have never known the touch of a gravel road or hauled anything larger than a big Costco run. I have a nice lil electric hatchback tho.

the thing is, i always wanted a car. my parents took me on a lot of road trips when i was growing up (i remember a couple years before he died, my dad told me he was very proud to have shown me so much of the country when he himself had grown up poor and could only travel as far as the next job took him), so of course i have in me that quintessential American longing for The Road. in high school, i fantasized about getting into a car and disappearing into traffic, traveling to some distant corner where nobody lived and finding a situation to occupy. god help me, as a teen i bemoaned being born too late and longed for the naive vision of the 60s i'd received from my parents and pop culture and the rusted-over kitsch that dotted the remains of Route 66 (which my dad loved to talk about).

i hate car culture in part because i used to love car culture. it's a microcosm of indoctrinated American patriotism in general. they sell you on the dream, right? the freedom of travel, of expression. i wanted to be the millennial Jack Kerouac, whose work i did not actually read because i was young and dumb and drowning in dysphoria. but as i got older i saw how quickly little bumps and scratches can turn into massive financial burdens, to say nothing of cracked windshields or flat tires. then my mom died and i was given the responsibility of handling her car, a silver scion xb. i was 19, i did not have a license and had next to zero experience driving, nor had i ever had a job before. when i say "given the responsibility to handle her car" instead of "given her car," i mean that i didn't just get her car. like, i had it, i had the keys and no one was around to tell me not to drive it. but in order to get the title signed over to me, i had to go through an insane bureaucratic process of proving that my mom was dead, and that i was her kid, and that i should have the title to the car. this took months of back and forth miscommunication as dated notices were sent and bills piled up. because it wasn't just the car i got, but the debt as well. some $30,000 of it left unpaid by mom, which i was now expected to pay in her stead. my first job was working night shifts at a wal mart stocking the frozen food department, and that was the job where i rode my bike on the highway to get to work. i didn't drive because i didn't have a license, didn't have experience, was terrified of highway drivers, and knew very distinctly that if anything went wrong i'd instantly be in so much more debt (monetary and bureaucratic) than i already was. eventually my sister, a career nurse with three kids and a house, took over the car from me.

nobody understood why i didn't drive that car more. even my mom, when she was still alive, she said "when i was your age, i was dying to get out of the house." i was too! but for all that cars culturally represented freedom, in practice what they came to represent to me was the expected cost of participating in society. i was already sensitive to adults sneering at me for my perceived immaturity (the joys of being a millennial), which only compounded on learning that i didn't have a car or license, that i wasn't proactively joining Clubs or Organizations, that i wanted to pursue the arts of all things, that i wasn't Christian, etc etc etc. i never got out to see live music because i didn't have a car and didn't have money. i didn't get my first smart phone until late 2015. i spent a lot of my college years feeling alienated because i was at least two years older than everyone else (i already didn't want to go to college straight out of high school even before my mom died), still used a flip phone, and didn't have a car. which is to say i was a working class person trying to get by in a middle class institution. and i only got in because i was very good at peddling my sob story for sympathy points. FAFSA loves to finance the odd tragedy, i'm telling you (don't worry, i still had to take on a ton of student loan debt). when i expressed to family that i didn't want a car because i didn't feel safe as a driver, and felt that i shouldn't need to have a car in order to participate in society, they said "everyone feels that way at first, but you just have to get over it. or move to a big city. good luck affording that!" as a related aside, when i told those same people that i liked being in college for the pursuit of knowledge and wanted to graduate towards being a sort of generalist, they flatly insisted that that's not how college works anymore, and that i should instead put my energies towards a Useful Degree that would Get Me A Good Job.

of course they were sympathetic, at least on the surface. they told me these things in a kind tone, the way adults always do when what they're saying boils down to "it's not fair, but life ain't fair." and i've just never been able to accept that. before i knew anything about socialism or communism or materialist dialectics, when i was still very much under the thrall of post-Clinton liberalism, i still felt this deep-rooted conviction that when people said "life isn't fair," they were giving up something. that it was an excuse, an appeal to a higher power, a resignation to the status quo. my experience with cars, by the time i hit 25, was that you bought them for the freedom they promised, and then spent of your life driving that car between one of maybe five locations on the regular and doing very little else. the only time i ever felt free in a car was on a road trip, which happened with vanishing irregularity as all the associated costs skyrocketed in the 2000s. all the other time was spent driving in circles looking for parking, only to balk at how expensive it was. spent stuck in traffic for hours, amid concrete dunes of overpasses tangled with one another like a four-year-old's first try at tying their own shoes. spent angrily judging the poor driving conduct of other people, spent resenting anyone and everyone who inconvenienced their drive, spent rubbernecking at horrific accidents on the side of the road, spent worrying about car payments and insurance payments and how much it's gonna cost to get a tune-up, and then someone breaks in and steals all your stuff and your insurance doesn't want to pay for it, and then you get into an accident and you spend months haggling with your insurance and their insurance in the hopes that someone will maybe pay for the debt you've had to take on in getting your car repaired, because of course professional life doesn't take a break just because your mode of transportation got totaled.

and if i was applying for a job and the employer found out i didn't have a car, i was denied on the spot. i learned very quickly to lie about such things as often as possible. but i also learned that i could only bluff for so long before the lack of a car became a genuinely insurmountable hurdle. which fucked me up tremendously because at no point in my adult life, to this day, can i ever imagine being able to afford all the associated costs of having a car. in many respects, not having a car was the only reason i was able to survive the way i did. it meant i could work part-time while i was in school (with student loans making up the shortfall), share an apartment with two or three or four other people, and just barely have enough to eat the bare minimum and go see a movie sometimes. of course i wanted the freedom all my car-owning friends had, but mostly i wanted it so i could drive out into the middle of nowhere at night and be truly alone. i wanted a car so that i could escape from the frictional sandpaper bureaucracy of american existence... and i knew from experience by then that that's simply not how the world works.

it took me until 2020 to finally move to seattle, one of those mythical Big Cities with Actually Existing Public Transit. and holy shit, it's a revelation! i have better access the place where i live now than i ever have, and it's a freedom that costs SO MUCH LESS than the same would've cost me back home. but i've also lived here long enough now to see all the ways in which our transit system here is deeply flawed and run by the wrong people. i see many of the same forces at play here as i did back home. i see now how car owners and allies to the car dealership fiefdoms of the nation utilize car ownership and road maintenance as a tremendous lever of power. they've deliberately trapped us in this cycle of poverty and personal transportation reliance, and used the money they got from us buying their cars to then buy politicians so that they defund public transit and oppose any urbanist reforms. did you know that much of america used to be covered by street cars and rail lines? if you live in the midwest or on the west coast, your town very likely only exists the way it does because of mass public transit. they were necessary for bringing people into these remote places to create new markets for wealth extraction. once the population in those places was stable, and mass-produced personal vehicles became the norm, the capitalists of those areas deliberately allowed the transit networks to "go bankrupt" (ie they pretended transit is a business and not a utility that pretty much by definition can't turn a profit in a traditional manner) so they could be bought up and liquidated by future car dealers. this is what i think of when i remember my family telling me "that's just not the way the world works."

why? it used to be the way the world worked. why can't it be again? if the current status quo is the result of choices that created economic pressures which shaped the nature of society, why can't we do the same thing again but different? the way things are now is sick. it's unhealthy. the vast majority of microplastics come from car rubber, and what socioeconomic classes do you think are mostly likely to live close to high-traffic roads? it's not rich people, i'll tell you that. it's not the car dealers or the small city councils worried that a bus connection might bring the poors in. when i say "car owners need to be oppressed" i'm talking about these people. suburban supremacist dictators and their sycophantic liege lords whose biggest priorities in life are to keep gas prices low and to maintain their god-given right to never having to see a poor person. i hate these people because i've been sneered at by them my whole life, while they have been personally responsible for many of the same socioeconomic conditions which resulted in the deaths of both my parents, along with many other members of my extended family. i've long since stopped believing in the idea of "death by natural causes." only the rich live long enough to die old. the rest of us die by a thousand cuts borne of neglect. our healthcare is gatekept, our education is gatekept, our transportation is gatekept. freedom is a thing to be bought, and when you don't have money, the next best thing is your blood. you give it up for a piece of something and you convince yourself that it's enough for you. but it is only a piece, and its apportionment is the result of greed and avarice happening in broad daylight all around us. i fully believe that a genuine war will need to be waged against the car barons before this horrendous now can be toppled, and it will be a war because they are aligned with the cops and with capital. this, too, is a microcosm, and in it we see the nature of our struggle for socialism unburdened by neoliberal word salad.

people have made the world this way. and people will make it something else.

[upathosarts]

yipee mahiru reference (if anyone knows the actual source pls lmk)

[dawnlotus1]

I draw every single day you would think I’d be good at it.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Everytime I face a new character limit on a website that didn't have them before/used to have really long ones... AUGHHhhh the modern social media world was not made for people like me (lovers of details, rambling, elaboration, thorough explanation, and nuance)

[venomgaia]

i also have been testing pngtuber+ vs veadotubemini and heres rhe fruit of a 49 layer model

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Love giveth and love taketh away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love maketh you miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are soulmates. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A part of you died with him that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

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

“And why’s that?”

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

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

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. Was that your fork?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still a sensitive topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

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

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nighty-night, Logan.

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

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

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

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

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

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

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

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

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

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

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

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

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

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

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… the fuck?”

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

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

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

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

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

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

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

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

“You and Wade…?”

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

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

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

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

“And I can tell you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“And where is yours, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door almost closes on his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where is yours, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you pregnant?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

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

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel about reading?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

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

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

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

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

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

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

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

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll take more than a book.”

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If anything, it made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks... ridiculously good.

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

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

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

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

“Logan, you don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, this isn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic? Error 404—not found.

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

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

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

That’s when recognition settles over you.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, Logan.”

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

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

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

“He’s closer than ever.”

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

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

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

“No. You’re not.”

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

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

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

“It’s what we both need.”

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t go well in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

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

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

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

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

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

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-captain reader x Curly

Previous - FINAL PART - Bonus

"Let me see"

You mentioned while laughing, sitting in front of the man who looked at you affectionately as you touched his face and observed him attentively.

"Your eye looks a bit red... Have you been using the drops the doctor recommended?"

Curly: "Maybe... I forgot them... today"

His voice was still somewhat strange to hear, it had the essence of what his voice once was, but much rougher and it was difficult for him to say long sentences, he had to pause between words to be able to say them.

You caressed his cheeks with your thumbs, seeing the scars on his face.

At first, it wasn't the same skin you knew; you were surprised at how his body returned to that familiar skin, changing its texture, gradually becoming the skin you love to touch.

You noticed the ring hanging from his neck, with the lack of hands, he wore his ring that way to keep it close.

He had to convince you to give him back his ring, but at that moment you were in crisis because you had told him that the day you took it off, you would leave him. Although you reached an agreement to annul that promise.

Five years had already passed since you returned to Earth, and too many things had happened.

On your side, you started following your dream when you were little, and today you have your own bakery.

But it was hard work getting here, because the first thing you worried about was your husband's well-being, who spent half a year resting in the hospital, and then you had to take care of him with attention at home.

Pony Express decided to give you a percentage of your salary and a bonus for the damages they suffered, so with that money, they performed the man's first surgeries.

A skin graft, hair, and facial reconstruction, among others, over the next two years.

He used prosthetics that helped him walk and pick things up on his own, although just in case, you still had his wheelchair as a backup, which he refuses to use again, and when you're not watching, he tries to get rid of it, but you've locked the room where it is.

You even adopted two dogs, the first was Jupiter, a Labrador, a service dog who helps Curly when you're not around, and he's also a very good companion.

And after insisting for so long that Jupiter needed a little sibbling, you adopted Sunset, a dog you had found outside your bakery begging for food, a golden retriever who had escaped from her home, where it seemed they only used her to have puppies and sell them because she was purebred.

Both animals got along well right away, both quite calm, they don't cause any problems.

On the other hand, you stayed in touch with the rest of the crew.

Anya was able to get into medical school a few months after returning, and she is currently in her final year to receive her diploma.

Swansea retired and stayed at home with his family and children, being welcomed by his wife and the little girl she had had a few months ago.

Daisuke tried again with the art school, giving his all and with the support of his parents, he was able to get in. He even has a blog where he talks about the experiences he had in his life to motivate other young people to follow what they love.

Jimmy on the other hand... The last thing you heard about him was that his sentence was extended further for causing conflicts during his time in prison.

As for the little baby... you found out she was adopted by a good family, and that was all you needed to know about her.

Curly: "They're already... about to arrive"

He alerted when he heard Sunset start barking upon hearing a car park nearby.

He got out of bed and went outside to open the door and let his friends into the yard.

There was something that became a tradition among you, every year you celebrated the anniversary of the day you returned alive to Earth after such an experience, having a meal at your home.

Daisuke: "Who is the cutest girl! Let me pet you, fluffball!"

The boy, every time he went, was determined to make Sunset his friend, but she always ended up hiding where he couldn't reach her.

Anya: "Today is a wonderful day... And the food smells really good, every year they surpass the previous year's food, it's incredible."

Swansea: "Not bad, huh! Did you make this grill by yourself, Curly? The meat looks incredible."

Daisuke: "Where is (Yn)?? I want to greet her!"

He had managed to catch the dog, who was resigned in his arms while Jupiter was barking at Daisuke, knowing how upset Sunset was.

Curly: "She has... a surprise for... all of you."

He said, smiling, waiting for you to come out in the summer dress he had bought for you, quite loose and comfortable, perfect for your growing belly. 

Everyone was surprised to see you, Daisuke was left speechless, dropping Sunset.

Daisuke: "But! You said-!"

"Well, not naturally—but... I was given the opportunity to do it in vitro and it was a success! I was afraid it wouldn't work because of my eggs, but... after several failed attempts... we finally got very lucky."

You caressed your belly, smiling.

Swansea: "Look at that... Congratulations, kid!"

Anya: "That's wonderful! Oh my God, how many weeks are you now? Do you already know their gender? Why didn't you tell us anything?"

She approached to touch your belly, happy that you have achieved what you wanted so much.

"I'm already in my 29th week... And we already know it's a boy! We were deciding on a name!"

Daisuke: "I have a really cool one!"

"I'm not going to call him Daisuke."

The boy let out a disappointed "aaaw" that you weren't going to consider his name for your son.

Curly: "We thought... of Charles"

"That I'm still not at all in agreement with that name."

You pointed at him, making him laugh and roll his eye.

Anya: "You still have time! When is your due date? I would like to be with you when it happens."

Daisuke: "Can I be there too? Maybe the second time I won't faint, hehe."

Swansea: "I wish you the best, boys are not difficult to entertain, they are difficult to keep alive, they love danger even after reaching adulthood."

You felt very excited about all the support you were receiving, happy to have met such wonderful people.

You didn't regret at all for having done everything possible to get them out of that situation.

The gathering continued with everyone eating and talking about the things they had been doing lately, catching up on their activities, until dessert time arrived, everyone's favorite moment.

Curly: "The best sweets... are from my wife..."

Swansea: "You don't even like sweets!"

Curly couldn't help but smile anyway when he saw everyone enthusiastically eating the ice cream cake you had made for that hot day, while he had his own special portion that you prepared for him so he could eat without too much sweetness.

You couldn't resist feeding him, and even though he wanted to seem annoyed, he adored the attention you gave him.

"Oops~ I'm sorry~ I stained your cheek"

You said with a smile to kiss his cheek, you started smearing hkd face with the dessert and left kisses on all those spots.

Swansea: "Get a room!"

Daisuke: "...Did you ever do it on the ship while working?"

"DAISUKE!"

You shouted with your cheeks red at such a true thing that had been said.

Curly: "...Two or three times..."

Swansea: "That's nothing, you managed to control themselves quite well."

Curly: "....During the week"

"Can I send it back into space?"

You didn't know how to hide your face in response to his declaration, you were extremely embarrassed.

But you had no escape, from the day you said yes, that man was going to stay with you until the end of his days.

And you knew well that he is going to be an incredible father soon as well.

In the end, everyone was able to have their well-deserved fate.

[forwhomthewordsflow]

The Start of Something New

modern music teacher eddie munson x art teacher fem reader

18+ ONLY MDNI

warnings: just fluff…lotsa fluff

author’s note: i’m still new to this whole author thing so please be gentle!!!  also, i’d totally be into making this a series if you guys are into that…

word count: 3.4k

If you had asked him five years ago if he thought he’d ever set foot back into this shithole ever again, under any circumstances, Eddie would’ve told you to fuck right off.  But alas, here he was, grading papers in his classroom during his grading period.  Yes, that’s right folks.  Eddie Munson – resident town freak – is now a proud music teacher at Hawkins High School.  Who would’ve thought?  Certainly not Eddie.  Or anyone else for that matter.  But apparently all it took was a mandatory Music History 101 class that he was forced to take in community college, and he was hooked.  Eddie tried as hard as he could to hate the class, but he couldn’t help the fact that he had a natural gift for the subject.  Begrudgingly, Eddie Munson earned his first A+ ever, and an invitation to join the class for another semester as a TA.  He couldn’t believe it, but he said yes.  And so began the long and surprisingly painless journey of a town freak turned teacher.  

Eddie still sometimes wonders how he ended up here.  He recalls his days of detention and lunch-time table speeches like it was yesterday, wishing he could walk right out of class and never come back.  But, he figures that if he has the chance to be the teacher that he never had for another kid just like he used to be, then he should probably fucking take it.  The job isn’t necessarily all bad.  Sure, the pay isn’t great and dealing with parents can be a bit of a shitshow, but Eddie still manages to find himself having fun while he’s at work.  The kids he teaches are pretty damn awesome, and he honestly really likes spending his days hanging out with them and teaching them about music.  But even after all the great students and the sweet vacation time he gets each year, his most favorite part about his job is you.

You, the brand new, drop-dead gorgeous art teacher here at Hawkins High.  Eddie couldn’t believe his luck when he met you towards the end of July during orientation.  He likes to think he has an above-average amount of game when it comes to women, but it’s as though every ounce of cool-ness was sucked out of his body as soon as he entered into your vicinity.  Eddie cringes as he thinks back to your very first meeting, where he opened up with a very smooth, “So…you come here often?”

And even though that moment plays on a continuous “you suck” reel in his mind, your sweet, shy giggle that came afterwards makes it all worth it.  He still remembers the blush on your cheeks, the smell of your perfume, and the sparkles on the inner corners of your eyes that made it damn near impossible for him to look away.  You had been kind to Eddie that day, willing to look past his stupid idiot boy self and explain to him that it was your first day on the job and that you had moved here from the city.  Eddie had managed to ramble out a few more mismatched words to you as he was staring at your pretty smile and the smattering of freckles on your nose before he was rudely interrupted by the beginning of orientation.  Eddie didn’t see much of you after that until right before the start of the school year, when teachers have a week or two to say goodbye to summer and set up their classrooms before the first day of school.  He had just finished putting his records back up on display when he figured it was time for a little break.  He meandered down the halls under the guise of stretching his legs, when really he was just trying to see which classroom the new, beautiful art teacher was given.  And of course, because the universe apparently has it out for him, he found you on the complete opposite side of the school from him.  Eddie smiled at the way you had decorated your door, made to look like an artist’s palette.  He wondered if you’d made each individual part by hand, and how long it had taken you to piece each one together on your door.  The idea that he’d probably rarely ever cross paths with you throughout the year is what led to his face back and forth pacing in the hallway while he thought of a plan.  You’d think that they’d put the art teacher a bit closer to the music teacher as they were both considered “electives,” but fate has a nasty way of fucking things up for Eddie.  Nevertheless,  Eddie was determined to find ways to bump into you.   He was on a mission for a first impression do-over, this time featuring cool-sexy-funny Eddie instead of the awkward and embarrassing version of himself that you met during orientation.  He was going through his mental stash of one-liners to open up with, and unfortunately, was not paying attention to where he was walking.  Just as Eddie went to turn around and continue on with his hurried pacing, he bumped into someone…hard.  He heard a squeak, a splash, and a gasp as his brain tried to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.  There you were, so beautiful, so angelic, so…wet?  Eddie steps back in horror as he realizes that his clumsiness has resulted in you spilling what looks like paint water all down the front of your shirt.  

“Oh no!  Oh shit, I- I’m so sorry!  I wasn’t even looking where I was going – shit, fuck – I’m so fucking sorry holy shit –” Eddie rambled on in a panic induced frenzy while you stared up at him in shock, clutching the now empty water cup in your hand.  Eddie stilled as he felt your other hand graze his arm – holyfuckingshit you’re touching him!!! – in an attempt to calm him down.

“Eddie!  I promise, it’s totally okay!”  You laughed as you said this, and Eddie felt his eyes turn into giant red hearts like they do in the cartoons.  “If I freaked out every time I spilled something on myself during a project, they’d have sent me to the nuthouse a long time ago.”  Your eyes widened as you realized that might’ve been a weird thing to say to this gorgeous man that you don’t know that well, but his deep chuckle calms you down immediately.  You both stare at each other grinning like fools for a few moments before the icky feeling of a sopping wet shirt gets to you.  You bend down to pick up the few paint brushes that had scattered on the ground, and Eddie quickly gets down onto one knee to help you.  

“I uh, I’m really sorry again about this.  I’m usually much cooler than this, I swear.”  Eddie mentally punches himself in the dick for saying such a dumb thing.  Why can’t he just operate like a normal fucking person right now?  To his surprise, your adorable giggle graces his ears.

“I swear it’s really okay.  I have an extra shirt in my classroom.”

At the mention of your shirt, Eddie can’t help but to sneak a peek at your body through your sopping wet t-shirt.  He can just barely make out the tops of your collarbone, the outline of your tank top, the curve of your breast–

Eddie’s impure thoughts are interrupted by you standing back up and pulling at your wet shirt.  

“Well, I’d better get back to it then I guess.”  You look at him with a different look in your eye than what it was moments ago.  It almost looked like you were waiting on him to say something. Did you want him to come with you to your classroom?  Apparently he spends too long contemplating your desires because you give him a small smile and start to turn back towards your room.  Eddie manages to buck up and find his inner cool-guy just in time.

“D-Do you need any help with anything?”  You turn back around with a smile on your face, happy that he finally said something.  “I’m known to be pretty handy, if you need any help hanging things up, building shelves…anything at all, I’m pretty good with my hands.  It’s the least I can do.”

Eddie’s grin makes you clench your thighs a little, you hope he doesn’t notice.  Even if you tried to speak, you’re not sure any words would come out, so you nod your head and try to fight the blush that’s blooming on your face.  Eddie spots it of course, he thinks it’s adorable.  You jerk your head over your shoulder, telling him to follow you, and start back to your classroom.

Eddie can’t help but to bust out a few celebratory fist pumps as he trails behind you.

Stepping into your classroom felt a lot like stepping into a different world.  Eddie felt his jaw drop as he looked up and around the room at all the colorful signs and decorations you had put up everywhere.  There were wooden shelves lined with more art supplies than Eddie had ever seen in his life, various paintings in different mediums hung up around the room, and a large carpet in the middle of the room that looked like someone had splattered paint all over it.  After he was done taking in the wonder of the room, Eddie’s eyes landed on you standing by your desk.  You watched him look around at all your hard work, and you really hoped that he liked it.  You hoped he didn’t think you had overdone it or that you were trying way too hard.

“So, what do you think?” You ask nervously.

“What do I think?” Eddie responds, “I think that I would’ve killed for a classroom like this when I was in highschool.  This is the coolest fucking thing ever.”

Eddie thinks your beaming smile could light up an entire town.  

You look down, blushing hard.  “Thank you, Eddie.”

Eddie loves the way his name sounds coming out of your mouth.

You begin to pull at your shirt a bit, the wet material making you more and more uncomfortable by the second.  The cups in your hand clink together as you fumble them around, and Eddie rushes to help you.

“Here, let me help with those.”  

You look up at Eddie with wide eyes, and notice he was standing quite close to you.  His big brown eyes had tiny flecks of a caramel color in them, and his lips were pulled into a soft smile.  God, you hope he didn’t notice you were looking at his lips.  

(He totally did.)

“Oh, th-thanks.”  You awkwardly dump the cups and paint brushes into Eddie’s waiting hands as he chuckles quietly.  Pulling your shirt away from your body with both hands now, you spare a glance to the closet near your desk in the back corner of your classroom.  “I’m just going to change into a new shirt really quick.”

Eddie blushes at the thought of seeing your bare skin.  “Oh, do you want me to like, turn around o-or I can totally leave if you wanted –”

“No you’re fine, I’m wearing a tank under this.”  You shoot him a small smile over your shoulder and turn to open up the double doors of the closet.  

Eddie wonders if you hear his breath hitch while he prepares himself to see you in a tank top.  

Inside the closet, Eddie can see jars of wrapped candies, some clothes hanging on a short rod, various school supplies, and a few blankets folded near the bottom.  He thinks it’s so adorable how organized you seem to be, and wonders if it’s like that inside your home.  He’s ripped away from his thoughts when you peel your wet top up and over your body, revealing a white ribbed tank top underneath.  Eddie feels his heart pounding inside of his chest as he takes you in.  The skin tight material of your tank top, the curve of your waist, your beautiful bare shoulders.  When you turn around, Eddie’s condition intensifies.  He feels his jeans get tighter at the sight of your round breasts, and the water that spilled onto your shirt must have soaked through a bit, because Eddie can just barely make out the lines of a beige colored bra underneath.  Eddie suddenly coughs loudly and looks up to the ceiling, mentally scolding himself for being such a horn dog.

Of course, you had already seen Eddie ogling your chest, and you couldn’t help but to feel a little flattered and hide your smug grin as you pulled your new, dry t-shirt over your head.  “There we go, good as new!”

Eddie took this as his cue to stop observing the tiny divots in your ceiling tiles.  You had put on an oversized green t-shirt, and you looked absolutely adorable in it.  Eddie wondered what you’d look like in one of his shirts…

“If you want, you can set those right on that empty shelf over there.”  You point to his left at one of the shelves lining the wall.  Eddie looks confused for a moment until he remembers he’s holding your cups and paintbrushes.  He walks over to the shelf and places the items very carefully next to the other cups, turning back around to face you afterwards.  You wring your hands together in front of you, struggling to meet his eyes.  Why is this so hard?  He’s just a guy.  A very hot guy with cool tattoos, pretty hair, a dangerous smile…

Eddie tries his hardest to find a reason to hang around in your classroom with you a little longer, he can’t blow this, not when he still has so much to learn about you.

“So, why all the lamps?”  Eddie begins to wander around your room, stopping to look at each of the light fixtures you’ve placed throughout the space.  You wonder if he’s making fun of you, but the genuine interest on his face says differently.  

“Oh, um, I sort of hate big lights.”

“Big lights?”  Eddie turns to you with a grin and a soft chuckle.  “What are big lights?”

You point up at the LEDs lining your ceiling.  He looks up with you and realizes what you mean by ‘big lights’.  

“Oh,” Eddie laughs ,”Big light.  I get it now.” He takes a step closer to you and notices your chest rising and falling a bit quicker.  You don’t hold eye contact for more than a few seconds before finding something to look at on one of your walls, Eddie thinks it’s adorable how shy you are right now.  “I’ve always hated how…clinical they make everything look sometimes.”

“I know right?”  Your small outburst surprises Eddie a bit, you’re looking him in the eyes now and he’s thinking you might not be as shy as he guessed.  He’s also thinking about how goddamn beautiful your eyes are, and that he might have found his new favorite color.  “I mean, I know I’ll have to turn them on for at least one or two art projects during the year, but I just feel like the softer lights make it look a lot more inviting in here, right?”  Eddie nods along and can’t help but smile at how cute you are when you’re a little fired up like this.  “And I’ve just read so many articles about how the harsh LED’s make it harder to focus sometimes for the kids, and some even said it can actually make them more nervous!  Well, no way, not in my classroom.”

You huff and look at the ground, realizing that you might’ve been doing a little too much just now.    

“Sorry.  I get really passionate about the kids sometimes.”

“Hey, no way.”  Eddie takes a step closer until he’s looking down at you.  “I really like how obvious it is that you care so much.  Some of the teachers around here seem like they couldn’t give two shits about their students.  That, or they’re too goddamn old to remember how.”

A giggle bursts out of your mouth, and Eddie wishes you wouldn’t have covered your smile with your hand.  He might just have to make it his life’s mission to get you to smile and giggle more.  

“Seriously though, these are super cool lights in here.  The kids will love them.”

“Really?  You think so?”  You look up at him anxiously.  It’s clear to him that you’re genuinely worried about your students not liking you or your classroom, and he wishes he could take all of that anxiety off your shoulders.  If he knows anything from years of working here,  he knows the kids will love you.  

“Yes, I do.” Eddie places a hand on your shoulder.  “The kids are gonna freak out, your room is the best one in this place by far.”  You smile up at him and he smiles back.  He realizes that he’s touching you and pulls his hand back before he can think too much about it.  He takes a step back and plucks a curl from his mane of hair to mess with, a nervous habit of his.  Eddie racks his brain for an excuse to stay with you longer.  He still has so much to learn about you!  He wants to know your favorite color, if you listen to rock, who your favorite artist is…he needs to use his big dumb brain and think of something quickly before the lull in your conversation teeters into the realm of awkward.  Suddenly, he’s hit with a stroke of genius.

“You know…” You look back up at him with a smile.  You’d been hoping to God that he’d say something else to keep your conversation going.  “I’ve actually been looking to spice up my one classroom a little bit.”  He looks down on you with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.  Definitely.  I think you may be just the right person to help me, seeing as your room is decorated to perfection.”  You giggle and swat your hand in front of you in an “oh, stop it” motion. 

 “How may I be of service?”  You look up at him, batting your long lashes with your hands clasped behind your back.  Eddie gulps and tries like hell not to let his mind wander too far.

“I – uh, have recently learned a few things about the evil and illusive ‘big light’,” Eddie makes air quotes around the word ‘big light’ and you giggle at how dramatic and silly he’s being, “and I find myself suddenly in need of some lamps of various shapes and sizes, similar to the ones that are displayed in this lovely room.”  He makes a sweeping gesture with his  muscular arm towards your lamps.  Amping up the drama with you might’ve been a risk, but Eddie decides it’s paid off in full when he notices you trying, and failing, to hold back your laugh.  

“I think I may be able to help with that.”  You sigh and tap at your jaw in a thoughtful way.  “You know, I got most of these at IKEA if you’re really in the market for some.  At a fairly good price too.”

Eddie nods at this new information.

You take a tiny step closer to and look up at him through your lashes.  Eddie struggles to breathe, you smell so good and you look so pretty and he really should be focusing on what you’re saying but he can’t get over how gorgeous you are  –

“You might need some help finding them in there though…IKEA is huge and you wouldn’t want to get lost in there.”  Are you implying what he thinks you’re implying?  “I could…go with you maybe.  Help you pick out a few new lamps for your room.”

Eddie is speechless.  You just asked him to hangout?  Outside of school?  Eddie must look like a fucking idiot as he struggles to speak, and you mistake this for hesitation. 

“Or–or not, if that’s not something you’d be into.  I totally get it if you want to keep things professional and not meetup outside of work–”

Eddie interrupts your nervous rambling quickly.  “No, no!  Are you kidding?  I’d love to IKEA with you!   I – I mean, go to IKEA.  I’d love to go to IKEA with you.  Whenever you want, I’m free whenever you want.”

You let out a big breath and smile at the blush that’s blooming on Eddie’s cheeks.  The two of you stand there in your classroom smiling like idiots for probably a little too long, but who cares?  The gorgeous music teacher wants to take you to IKEA to shop for lamps, and you can’t help but feel like this could be the start of something really, really good.

[emeritusemeritus]

You think you know someone. [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Title: You think you know someone.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

Timeline: OOTP- canon and timelines altered for purposes of the story. Some bits have been exaggerated for artistic purposes. Based more on the films than the books. Reader joins DA but what if instead of Cho ratting them out, it’s you?

Summary: You had everything during your time at Hogwarts- good friends, Fred Weasley as your boyfriend and a promising future, until Dolores Umbridge turns up.

Warnings: This one turned out a little dark. Mentions of injury, torture, bullying, wounds, blood. Umbridge is a bitch. Snape is a bully. Use of unforgivable curses. Punishment. Kissing, pranks, swearing. Dumbledore’s Army and resistant forces. Brief mentions of Voldemort and probable war. Pet names: baby, sweetheart, princess. Not beta read. Happy ending I promise.

Word count: 9.3k (I feel like I’ve written a novel here)

This work is gifted to @kellyxo1 thanks to the wonderful request that I couldn’t turn down! I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to get this out but it’s been a complete labour of love and I hope you like it!💕

You knew Dolores Umbridge was trouble the moment you spotted her in the Great Hall, her gaudy pink outfit and matching pink cheeks made her stick out like a sore thumb amongst the classic, muted colour pallet you knew to be Hogwarts. Her smile unnerved you, the cold expression in her eyes never once matching the infallible twisted, sadistic smile that so often painted her face. Everything about her rang alarm bells in your mind.

Fred and George had been sitting either side of you at the banquet table in the Great Hall as she took centre stage and delivered her speech about being very good friends, as ominous and foreboding as it seemed.

"That's likely," the twins had mumbled, resting their heads on their hands, elbows on the table as a small act of rebellion against the airs and graces she clearly put on. You'd subconsciously scooted closer to Fred when she stood, reaching for his spare hand under the table that he'd offered you, sensing a little of your discomfort. Fred was always acutely aware of your emotions, able to read you like a book, you supposed it was a natural consequence of being together for so long.

You'd met on the first day of Hogwarts when you'd stepped into the train compartment he shared with George, locked eyes and the rest was history. You'd been dating since your second year, both of you unable to deny the childlike crushes and stolen glances of your attraction and as you grew up, you grew together. Now you were in your last year, with big plans ahead of Fred and George's business which you'd planned to help them with initially and bigger promises of moving in together in the flat above the shop. The natural progression of a happy relationship and an exciting prospect that kept you motivated to finish school on a high.

The atmosphere at Hogwarts was different this year: understandably tense and foreboding, not just because of Cedric's death and the rumoured return of Voldemort but of the disquiet around Harry's claims and the propagandistic reporting from the Daily Prophet refuting Harry's claims. It seemed everyone was divided into wether they believed Harry or if they believed what they were reading in the media. It was evident that the ministry had worked hard to deny and deflect Harry'a claims, disparaging and slandering him publicly. Of course the arrival of a certain Pink adorned dementor didn't help things, especially when she, as new defense against the dark arts teacher, did away with the old curriculum and removed any defensive, practical teaching in favour of simple theory- which would be of no use in real life situations, of which you were all undoubtedly facing. Then the educational decrees began where she was appointed Hogwarts' high inquisitor and sought to change anything she was as unsatisfactory, backed by the ministry, which seemed to propel the whole school further and further away from what it should be teaching and how it should be preparing it's students for what was inevitably happening.

"She can't do this! It's ridiculous, George is fuming, never mind Fred," you overheard Ginny say as you were about to take a seat for dinner but quickly stopped as you gave her a questioning look, not knowing what she meant, her eyes focusing in on your frozen form.

"What?"

"You haven't seen the new decree?" She asks curiously, placing down her fork onto the plate. You shook your head briefly before walking quickly out of the hall, dinner be damned to examine the wall of decrees, trying to fix your eyes onto the new plaque on the wall.

Educational Decree No. 30: All Weasley products will be banned immediately.

You rushed upstairs to the common room, split in two minds about wether they would be there or on the quidditch pitch, trying to expel their frustrations... until you remembered that broom flying had been outlawed unless part of a lesson or during Quidditch games, as few and far between as they were coming due to the constant cancelling.

When you found them in their dorm, George was pacing the room, kicking the wooden frame of his bed after every circuit whilst Fred sat perched on his own bed, face downcast and eyes filled with anger.

You knew it wouldn't stop them, nothing ever did, but the business they forged from nothing had suffered for a while as students were afraid of the repercussions of being searched and found with their products.

"Can't sell my products, can't fly a broom, can't even kiss my own girlfriend unless I find a way to snog her from six inches away!" Fred had been furious and rightly so but there seemed to be no hope in sight.

It seemed no one was unaffected by the drastic measures Umbridge was taking and you were all facing the consequences of the increasing restrictions, in multiple ways. You'd been given detention for the stupidest things, including casting a spell to undo the jinx Malfoy had placed on Neville one afternoon, another leg lock jinx that you'd fixed for him, received another for the muggle book in your possessions and another for deigning to be within six inches of George. The punishment was cruel and twisted but you'd hidden it from Fred, knowing how protective he was and how he'd act out to retaliate against her which would only land him in worse trouble. She seemed to focus on you in particular, for whatever reason you weren't sure but she hardly hid her distaste for you publicly. Fred said it was because of your connection to him and George but you weren't sure, it seemed more personal than that.

It had been Hermione's brilliant idea to forge a sort of rebellion in order to actually learn the practical side of defence and you'd been eager to sign up after attending the first meeting at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade, knowing that you had to arm yourself in whatever way you could, the feeling of unease at the current climate always looming overhead. You'd been pleasantly surprised by the turn out, seeing many familiar faces as you'd walked hand in hand with Fred into the small, freezing cold room as you waited for Harry, Ron and Hermione. Cho, Luna, Neville, Ginny, Michael and so many others from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had turned out to fight for the cause and as you looked around the room of friends and familiars, it was evident that this could work.

You'd signed the parchment Hermione had brought with no hesitation, lining up between Fred and Ginny, clearly marking your name under his in the pencil provided. As you walked back to the castle in a group, Fred's arm around you and his hat in your head to keep the cold away from your ears, you felt determined and inspired to make this work. You'd just need to find somewhere to practice away from the prying eyes of the inquisitor.

Then came Educational Decree No.68: All student organisations are henceforth be disbanded. Any student in noncompliance will be expelled.

This time, you weren't angered or afraid of the newly instated restriction but instead felt empowered to rebel. Neville, in a feat of brilliance, had discovered the room of requirement one Saturday afternoon as he made his way down the seventh floor corridor. It was perfect, exactly what was needed, and you'd all wasted no time in putting the room to good use.

Within just two weeks, you'd mastered disarming spells, stunning spells, hexes, jinxes and defensive charms that you'd never thought you could do. Ginny had proven herself to be incredibly skilled and you'd stood watching in amazement as two magpies flying around the room, both coming from your boyfriend and his twin. The twins had taken to placing bets, mostly against Ron, all of you in good spirits about finally being able to do magic again. You and Fred took full advantage of being shielded away from the eyes of Hogwarts and had taken to lingering in the room after the sessions so you could be close to each other, to kiss freely and be intimate again. It had seemed so long, so cruel to have to keep away from him, at least in public and as you watched him master spells so effortlessly and looking so deliciously hot as he did it, often with messy hair and rolled up sleeves, it was exactly what you needed to relieve yourself of the building frustrations.

Fun and laughter had once again returned to Hogwarts, though shielded from the regulating eyes, it was just like before. The twins had even taken to pranking again, no longer concerned by the changes, including giving Filch laced chocolates which made him erupt with giant, puss-filled boils on his face when he got too close to the scent of your secret gatherings.

Educational decree No. 82: All students will submit to questioning about suspected illicit activities.

Umbridge had began to gather students for an inquisitorial squad which would earn them credit for joining, most notably the Slytherin students that weaselled their way into Umbridge's good books. Most probably by being pure bloods. They took great pleasure in pulling up the younger students in particular for punishment or questioning and abused their powers frequently.

Then you returned to school after winter break and the news of the Azkaban breakout happened, constant storms were forecasted, Umbridge's cruel regime heightened. Everything felt so restrictive, so unnecessary, so twisted. The only place you found solace was during DA meetings when you could be yourself, free to act and perform as you wanted surrounded by your friends and boyfriend. Always alert at the imposing threat, knowing Filch was on to you all and the rest of the inquisitorial squad which only fuelled you to keep discreet.

It had been a regular day of classes until your DADA lesson where you'd been required by the toad to write an essay on the benefits of conversational reasoning as opposed to practical magic to handle disputes with half breeds and lower class species, such as centaurs. You'd almost immediately refused to write such things, particularly due to the disgusting terms used to class different species but also due to the ridiculous concept.

"I am teaching you verified way of effective communication, in which you do not have to use your wand," she defends with a sickeningly fake smirk.

"Or our brains by taking away our autonomy," you'd argued, not even under your breath.

"Are you questioning my methods of teaching miss y/l/n? By all means if you think you can do better I should like to see you try."

"Can't be hard, Professor Quirrel did a better job and he shared a head and a singular brain cell with Voldemort."

A murmur of concealed laughter burst from the students around you and for a singular moment you felt the victory of it, empowered even.

"Detention!" She's utterly outraged, her face turning a dangerous shade of fuchsia. You could feel the eyes on you, most notably your boyfriend and his twin from across the room but you didn't care. Since returning to school you'd been torn away from Fred, unable to be anywhere near each other and certainly not in a group with your friends as it would break at least three decrees. You were frustrated and had hit breaking point, anger simmering in you but why you didn't know. You'd completely had enough.

"It's a date Dolores," you said sarcastically with the sickliest smile you could muster. More snickers erupted around you and even a clap that sounded suspiciously like it came from the direction of your future brother in law.

"My office, now!" She screams, pointing with her pink tipped finger towards the door. You grabbed your stuff from the desk and walked out without a single look in anyone's direction. On your way to her office, you pulled the special coin from your pocket and checked over the date and time to check you had it right. There was a DA meeting later that evening and you'd hoped this would be over quickly so that you could still attend.

Only, that never happened. Instead you'd been tortured for hours in the cruelest of ways, repeatedly questioned over your involvement with the alleged group and had been forced to drink truth serum until the words had slipped out of your mouth. You'd had no control over it, no way of resisting any longer and with great shame, you'd told her about the room of requirement, completely unable to stop the words from coming out.

The inquisitorial squad was on you in mere moments, as soon as Umbridge had signalled them from outside the door and Malfoy's grubby hands were pulling your weak and exhausted body from the chair before you could even register the intrusion. The things you'd been through, the pain and the anguish, it was nothing compared to the fear you felt at the DA being discovered; you could only pray that you'd held out long enough so that the meeting was over.

"Where is it?!" Umbridge screamed into your face when you wouldn't disclose the exact location of the room of requirement, having already inadvertently let slip that the room was your meeting place. You gave her your darkest look, no longer feeling controlled by whatever she had obviously put in your tea. When she didn't get an answer, her hand struck you hard right across the cheek but you hardly flinched, hardly feeling the pain anymore.

"I know the way Ma'am," Filch said, his saggy face appearing around the corner creepily, his features twisting into a vulgar, perverse smile. You could hardly look at Umbridge's face as it twisted into a pleased, twisted grin as she fixed her jacket and allowed Filch to lead her. Malfoy grabbed hold of your robes tighter in his fist and you were dragged along with them until you reached the seventh floor.

You felt sick to your stomach, wanting to scream and cry, resist in anyway you could as you fought against Malfoy's hold but you were physically tired and weak. Crabbe had grabbed hold of the other side of you, your thrashing too much for Malfoy to hold down by himself and his hands were much tougher against your skin, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake. When the door to the room of requirement didn't appear, you felt hopeful that she'd realise you were lying, even if that meant horrendous consequences for you. There was no way of warning them, nothing you could do to allow them to flee, you'd have to watch as they were all caught redhanded. They'd think you ratted them out, your friends, the love of your life. You knew it was exactly what Umbridge wanted, to turn everyone against you- and she was undoubtedly going to get it.

"Bombarda Maxima," her eerily calm and squeaky voice rang out as she pointed her want at the wall. Your scream mixed in with the large bang as a giant hole was created in the wall, depris and dust flying everywhere.

When the dust cloud cleared, you were dragged off from the side viciously by Malfoy and Crabbe until you were presented in front of the Army- your friends. You didn't want to look up from your spot on the floor, still fighting against their holds on you but something made you look up. And then you met his eyes.

Fred had never looked at you that way, ever. The looks of love and adoration you'd become accustomed to over the years, the playfulness and the intimate looks, it was all gone. The look in his eyes would haunt you forever, the coldness, betrayal and the resentment and it was explicitly clear what his expression told you.

He believed that you ratted them out, believed that you could ever do that to him, to them all.

You had to look away, desperate to see any hope that someone believed you, that someone sympathised with the torment you'd endured but as your eyes travelled across to George, you stopped short. He looked furious with you, disgusted and despite everything you'd been through in the past few hours, you'd receive no sympathy or chance to explain yourself to the people you loved.

You were dragged away as Umbridge dealt with the Army, bestowing threats and punishments upon them that you couldn't hear. You no longer fought against the holds of the Slytherins but instead went willingly, feeling guilty, shame and simply dirty for your role in all of this, even if it wasn't your fault.

Members of the ministry arrived not too long after, having been alerted prior to the discovery of the DA. You couldn't look at Kingsley, much too distraught to see his look of disgust at you, no doubt planning to tell the Order what you'd done. Harry was ushered in not long after having been caught in the skirmish. His newfound hatred of you seemed to radiate off him as he stood beside you and this alone made you want to scream and cry out of frustration, tears welling in your eyes that you wouldn't allow to spill.

The final straw was when Percy walked in, without so much as a glimmer of recognition towards you and took over from Malfoy to restrain you and Harry, keeping the shoulder of your robe balled up in his hand. The minister ordered him to dispatch an owl to the Daily Prophet and he diligently nodded, trying to manoeuvre you along with him.

"Get off me Weatherby," you demanded viciously, fighting against his hold and managing to break free, only to be stopped as you all looked on in amazement as Dumbledore disappeared out of sight in a magnificent display.

You'd hoped after that, you'd be able to get Harry alone, to explain yourself to him, to tell him what had happened but he'd completely avoided you, blanked you entirely. You hardly blamed him but you needed to explain, to clear your name. Umbridge then commanded Harry to join her in the hall where the punishment was being conducted, all of the DA together.

You'd been permitted to return to your dorm after the meeting had finished but you stood outside of the hall doors, desperate to see Fred and explain yourself, hoping he could bring you at least an ounce of comfort. Your head was pounding from the pain earlier and the marks on your arms were throbbing, sore and weeping though you fought not to look at them, knowing the pain would only be worse when you saw what was tormenting you. You couldn't go to Madame pomfrey, Umbridge had made that very clear and so you suffered in complete silence until you could reach out for your friends.

You lingered outside of the door for what felt like hours, the anxiety and the nerves you felt seemingly freezing time. When the doors opened, the members of the DA began pouring out with soured looks on their faces which only heightened when they caught sight of you. It was never hard to spot Fred and George amongst a crowd, their towering height easily distinguishable amongst a sea of people.

The look on everyone's face was near identical, the disgust and the resentment evident in their eyes as they spotted you but none clearer than the twins. George looked like he detested you, his face scrunched into a look of utter distaste, eyes glaring into you as he walked past without a care. Fred looked away, ignoring your presence completely as he glided past you without muttering a single word, his face stone cold and void of expression.

"Freddie, please," you said weakly and emotionally, with tears in your eyes, turning around in the spot as he walked past you. But nothing, he didn't turn, didn't react, simply walked away without so much as a single glance.

"Harry," you implored, taking a step towards him but he too blanked you again, pushing past you and walking quickly up the steps to avoid you.

You stood alone in the cold and empty corridor, feeling more isolated and alone than you ever had and finally allowed yourself to cry. Silent tears fell down your cheeks, shoulders sagging as you cried for everything you had undoubtedly lost, for the treatment you'd received and for the pain you still felt in your head and arms. Finding a spot in a hidden corner, you finally allowed yourself to pull up the sleeve of your robe and look upon the damage that Umbridge had inflicted with her sadistic quill. It was horrendous, an onslaught of slurs and vicious words etched into your body, no doubt intentionally done to leave the scars as a permanent reminder.

You sobbed your heart out in that little nook between two cold, stone pillars as you tried desperately to heal the marks but no spell was strong enough even to numb it in your weakened state.

You eventually made your way to Gryffindor tower, stepping through the portrait and finding the common room practically deserted. You sighed and walked up the stone steps to your dorm, only to find that the door had been shut and your blanket and pillow had been thrown outside of it, a clear sign you were not welcome even within your own dorm. You were painfully exhausted and wanted nothing more than to curl up in your bed and cry into your pillow until you eventually passed out. But you didn't even deserve that.

With a heavy sigh, you collected your blanket and pillow and trudged down the steps back towards the common room, eyes blurry through a mixture of tiredness and tears. You stopped short the second you crossed the last step, seeing Fred and George step in through the portrait hole, your stomach flipping nervously as you anticipated a barrage of insults or horrible pranks, their allegiance turning from you now.

"Fred, Freddie please," you begged, dropping your makeshift bedding to walk towards him, trying to reach out for him. You paused as you saw the redness on the back of his left hand, a clearly fresh punishment, 'I must not break rules'. George intercepts immediately and barges past you, blocking you from getting to Fred as he turns his twin away from you.

"You think you know someone," George mutters as he gently nudges Fred up the stairs, sending you a vicious glare before he walks up after him, once again leaving you alone. Fred didn't even spare a single glance at you, not even to recoil away.

You curled up in a corner armchair as soon as the tears appeared, pathetically dragging the blanket over you and cried until you fell asleep in the uncomfortable chair.

The two weeks that followed were the absolute worst weeks of your life. Umbridge had stripped you of everything you loved in one fell swoop, turned everyone against you and left the place you called home feeling miserable and lonely. You deserved it, you knew that, having ratted them out. You'd antagonised her and now had to live through then consequences, as cruel and twisted as they were.

The glares from everyone you had once called friends hadn't stopped, especially from George, which hurt the most. Fred had outright ignored any effort you'd made to reach out to him, no matter how desperate you'd sounded or how hard you'd tried to make him understand. He didn't care. He believed the lie.

The first week you'd tried to take your meals with the rest of the Gryffindors but it was made abundantly clear to you that you were not permitted nor welcome to join your friends and had been cruelly banished to the end of the table, beside the first years. The second week you'd stopped attending meals at all, not able to push through the shame and embarrassment of being cast away, exiled from your group. Lessons were monotonous and any down time was utterly excruciating as you were left enclosed with the other Gryffindors, namely your ex boyfriend, though no one would make any contact with you. You'd tried to sleep in your dorm but the girls had done nearly everything to prevent you from actually sleeping, talking loudly, setting off whizzbangs inside your curtains and had even transfigured your blanket a few times to varying degrees of horrid things. At the end of the night when you were certain everyone was asleep, usually very late, you'd creep down to the common room and huddle into your uncomfortable chair to sleep, only to be woken mere hours later when the first of the easy risers woke up. Your life was hell.

"There's just something I don't understand," Hermione says as they all stand on the bridge, the golden trio, Ginny and the Twins, all wrapped up in warm clothes and sweaters as they discuss the changes put into place since Umbridge had taken over as Headmistress. Naturally, the conversation had diverted to you, something Fred was entirely displeased about. The group turn to Hermione after her words, intrigued by the change in tone. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes before opening them again, as if building the strength to say her next sentence.

"I jinxed the enrolment parchment, for Dumbledore's Army," she admits, not quite meeting the gaze of the group around her. "It was purely a preventative measure, incase we were betrayed by one of our own. The person who disclosed any secrets would be jinxed to break out in spots, to spell out 'sneak' across their forehead, so we knew who the betrayer was. Y/N didn't have that, she never even had a single spot."

"Blimey Hermione," Ron says a little breathlessly, disbelieving she'd have actually gone that far.

"I know," she says a little defensively, "I just can't work out how she got around it!"

"Maybe she wrote her name wrong? Did she know about the jinx?" Harry suggests but Hermione shook her head, at the very same time that Ginny replied.

"I was behind her, I saw her write her name. It was right."

"Maybe the jinx didn't work?" Harry suggests carefully but stops himself when he receives a forceful glare from Hermione at the very notion of her failure.

"What does it matter? She dobbed us in wether or not she's covered in spots!" Ron says rather harshly, leaning against the wooden bannister.

Fred can't listen anymore, completely overwhelmed by the conversation and the thought of you betraying them. He turns and walks off back towards the castle without so much as a word to the others, not even his twin, and ignores their calls of his name as they watch him fade into the distance.

Spotting you sitting alone in the corner of the room when he returns to the common room, he frowns to himself. He'd known you since the moment you stepped on the Hogwarts express and had loved you for nearly just as long. It was wrong to see you sat alone, so sad and without the usual spark you naturally emitted. Everyone had always been drawn to you, your humour and wit, your dazzling smile, the fact you made everyone aroun you feel comfortable and valued. Too many boys had been drawn to you for his liking but you'd never even given them the time of day, never once wavering in your loyalty to him or ever made him doubt that it was him you wanted. You'd spent years supporting him, helping him and George develop their products, cheering for him loudly at every Quidditch game and had wormed your way into the hearts of every single one of his family members. Secretly, it crushed him to see you so lonely and tired, even if he still felt the sting of your betrayal.

It didn't add up, though he wouldn't disclose this to any of the more angered members of the group, why you would do such a thing. You'd been excited to start the DA, had joined in enthusiastically, kept the secret for so long and most of all you completely despised Umbridge. He couldn't deny that he still loved you, even though he was conflicted with his feelings now, he still held out hope that this would all go away, that there was a reasonable explanation but his anger wouldn't allow him to listen. It killed him to push you away, wanting nothing more than for things to return to normal but he felt a deep sense of betrayal that he couldn't shift.

"Fred?" He heard from behind him, pulling him out of his musings making him realise that he'd been staring at you all this time as he turned towards the person addressing him. Her name was Emery Atkinson, a Gryffindor from the year below that he'd never really acknowledged or spent much time with.

"Yeah?" He replies politely though he couldn't escape the edge of irritation after being pulled away from his thoughts. He watches as the girl giggles as soon as he acknowledges her and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"Oh good I got the right twin!" She giggles, ignorant to the blank look she received from Fred. "I was wondering if you had some canary creams I could buy? My brother loves them and it's his birthday soon. Your inventions are so clever, I don't know how you and George find the time between your studies and Quidditch, it must be exhausting. You're so good as Quidditch, I always cheer you on. Plus your girlfriend, but I heard that you weren't together anymore right?"

Truthfully, Fred had only registered the first half of her speech, tuning out after Canary Creams but his attention had been drawn back at the mention of you. He can't help but feel that little stab of sadness at the mention of you, especially someone referring to you as his girlfriend, or Ex rather. In the back of his mind he wonders if you heard that, from your short distance away, he hoped not.

"I still can't believe it, why would she do that? If I was with you I wouldn't even dream of ruining it." She sounds faux-scandalised and quite frankly, rather bitchy as he reaches out to touch the sleeve of his sweater. Fred doesn't humour her and instead takes half a step back subtly, reaching to scratch the back of his head as a discreet way of getting her off.

"Er, yeah I think we have some creams leftover, I'll send George over with some later, alright?"

"Not you?" She says with a sad little face, trying out her best puppy dog eyes that have absolutely no affect on him.

"George deals with the confectionery," he says a little too quickly; which is a complete lie. "Sorry, I've got somewhere to be but I'll let him know you're interested in buying."

He breaks away, giving her a forced but polite smile and a brief, parting wave but it's awkward and he's inwardly cringing as soon as he puts his hand down. Turning to where you had been sat in the chair, he notices you've disappeared and he is instantly overcome with a wave of guilt. You'd heard it all.

—

The next few days passed in blur for Fred, his mind wandering between what he was doing and thoughts of you, like he couldn't concentrate for more than a minute. He felt so conflicted within himself, made worse by the time spent apart from you, the longing beginning to set in. He'd never really been apart from you for very long, at most only a few weeks during the summer holidays and even then you'd have sent numerous letters by now, keeping in contact as much as you could until you were back beside each other. Now it was just torture, having you so close but so far away and the knowledge that he was the one that had pushed you away only furthered his guilt and internal conflict.

Fred was in a terrible mood, battling his thoughts, surviving on very little sleep and now the threat of her sadistic punishment was the icing on the cake of a really crap day when he and George had been forced to Umbridge's office. Harry had been caught trying to use the floo, to alert the order or escape and had been caught red handed by Umbridge. Each member of the DA had been frogmarched into the office, shoved and restrained by members of the inquisitorial squad and each member looked as uneasy as the next. His stomach turned when he saw Ginny held down by Goyle and he fought to get out of Graham Montegue's hold but it was useless when Umbridge mindlessly cast a spell to subdue him.

Harry was sat in the chair in the centre of the room, the first to be questioned with Umbridge hovering dangerously close to him, her temper boiling over as she speaks frantically in his face.

"You were going to Dumbledore weren't you?" She says, leaning down threateningly in front of Harry.

"No," Harry responds.

"Liar!" She screams back and in a move that shocks each member of the DA, she pulls back her hand and slaps Harry hard around the face, the harsh sound echoing through the otherwise silent room.

She pauses for a moment, simply glaring at Harry until her face twists into a sick, twisted grin as she straightens up and composes herself, each movement carefully thought out as she turns her back to him.

"Very well, you give me no choice Potter," she says with an even cadence, her tone dangerously low. "As this is an issue of Ministry security, you leave me with... no alternative, unless Professor Snape arrives within moments."

Fred feels like he can hardly breathe, the tension and unease in the air so thick that the room feels like it's getting smaller by the second. The unpredictability of the woman before them was alarming, the dangerous undertone of her voice despite her light and breezy tone was almost scarier than his worst nightmare.

"The cruciatus curse ought to loosen your tongue," she says, adjusting her pink jacket.

"That's illegal," Hermione states in outrage but Umbridge hardly flinches. Instead, she reaches out for the photo frame of the minister on her desk and pauses briefly to look at it before turning it over and lying it down flat on the desk, so that Fudge could not see her next move. She straightens herself and extends her wand, only to stop when Snape appears by the door, his eyes fixed to her outstretched wand that was pointed directly at Harry.

"You sent for me Headmistress?"

"Snape, yes," she says, taking a step back and everyone in the room exhales, relaxing only slightly. "The time has come for answers, wether he wants to give them to me or not," she says, her eyes flicking to Harry only briefly.

"Might I suggest against the cruciatus curse this time headmistress," he says evenly and carefully, "the consequences of such an audience might be... disagreeable. In fact I would hesitate in conducting any of the prior disciplinary methods in this instance.""

This time? She'd used the cruciatus curse before? And on a student? Prior disciplinary methods? Fred thinks, did he mean the quill?

"Very well," she says after a moment of pondering, her arm falling to her side as she relents, eyes wandering over the all too familiar Quill that sits proudly on her desk before her gaze shifts back to Snape. "Have you brought the veritaserum?"

"I'm afraid you've used up all my stores, the last of it interrogating Miss y/l/n."

Snape carries on speaking but Fred doesn't hear a single word, blood rushing to his ears as his heart pounds. He feels like he's received a stray bludger straight to the chest, his stomach dropping with fresh shame, sadness and overwhelming guilt.

Suddenly it all made sense. She'd tortured you into giving out the information- the cruciatus curse, veritaserum, what else had she done to you?

He couldn't help but let out a dry sob at the information, sensing everyone's eyes on him at the news. He struggled against the holds with everything in him, needing to fix what he'd broken.

He'd believed them, so quickly, believed that you could have betrayed them like that. The pain you must have felt, the loneliness and the guilt and then after your whole ordeal he had cast you aside, pushed you away and never given you a single chance to explain.

He eventually turned to look at George who looked utterly broken by the news, his regretful inner thoughts so evident upon his face. Each member of the DA looked a mixture of guilty, sheepish and sad, realising how wrong they'd been about you and what they'd done to someone who had once been their friend, someone who had suffered so much for all of them.

The meeting seemed to go abhorrently slowly until Umbridge left with Harry and Hermione on a sort of mission based upon a quickly constructed lie and Fred didn't waste a single moment before turning around on the spot and punching Graham Montegue straight in the face as soon as Umbridge had left. Seizing the momentary upper hand, the remaining members of the DA turned on the inquisitorial squad and fired an array of jinxes and spells at them in order to get away.

"Fred, Go!" George had urged whilst stunning Crabbe, allowing Ginny to step free. Malfoy fought back but he was quickly matched by Angelina who covered for Fred, blocking the exit.

"Go, she needs you!" Angelina shouted as she sent a jinx flying towards Cassius Warrington's smug face.

Fred didn't hang about and immediately ran out of the office and towards the common room where he was praying you'd be. It was quiet on the main staircases, perhaps it seemed much quieter because of the lack of portraits and bare walls but even to the few people Fred passed, he offered no explanation nor cared about what they thought. He needed to find you.

"Y/n!" He said bursting through the portrait hole and scanning the common room for you, checking the chair you'd so often occupied but found nothing except a couple of bewildered faces at his strange outburst.

"Y/n?" He called again, walking up the stairs towards the dormitories but received no reply. In his haste, he accidentally misstepped as he climbed up to the girls dorm and nearly triggered the blocking slide to appease but fortunately managed to regain his balance and stress carefully over the path he'd taken so many times before, the secret message in the steps that allowed him to breach the rules.

He threw open your dormitory door and stopped blankly when he found nothing. Your bed looked like it hadn't been slept in, there was hardly any of your things around the bed and the room. Had he come to the wrong room?

"Fred?" Your voice said shyly from behind him and he whipped around to see you looking up at him hesitantly from near the door, holding a few things in your arms and your robe tied tightly around your chest.

"Y/n," he says with a sigh of relief, moving forwards quickly to reach out to you but once again stopping short as he noticed you visibly flinch at his sudden movement. Suddenly the overwhelming agony of guilt and regret hit him anew and he vowed to slow down, hoping not to scare you away.

"I'm so sorry," he said, voice breaking slightly as he looked at your tired, sullen face and those wide, scared eyes. He'd never seen you look so broken and it killed him.

"I didn't, I don't ," he stutters, dropping to sit on the side of your bed. "You haven't been sleeping here have you?"

There's a minor pause and he wonders if you're actually going to reply to him, if he even deserves it, until you step forward and place your things down onto the bedside table. He watches in silence, noting the large book and a few packaged bandages that slip onto the table as you gingerly take a seat beside him, your feet no longer touching the floor.

"Kind of hard to when you're banished by the rest of your dorm," you reply quietly. He can't detect the tone of your voice, expecting it to be sarcastic or unhappy but it actually sounds flat and completely void of emotion.

"The chair," he realises, "you've been sleeping in that chair?" He's slightly bewildered and profoundly ashamed now, not having clicked until now that you'd been there early in a morning and late in the night, much later than you'd ever typically stayed up before. You shrug and turn your attention away, though you're yet to actually meet his eyes.

He drags a deep breath in through his teeth, resisting the urge to hang his head low on his shoulders.

"Y/n, I am so sorry, I, I don't even have words," he says, stumbling over his words- something so uncharacteristic for him that it briefly startles you. "You didn't deserve this, even if you had told Umbridge about us, no one deserves this. We were all so shocked that it could be you, of all people. We never stopped to think of why," he pauses again, steadying himself. "Snape admitted what she did to you, she tried to use it on Harry but he stopped him."

"But the quill was broken? How could she use it on Harry?" You say, finally looking up with a look of complete confusion.

"What quill?" Fred asks, completely lost himself, "the black quills? I meant the cruciatus curse, she, I mean she, on you, didn't she?"

Your silence says everything and he has to close his eyes and steady his breathing at your silent confirmation.

"What quill?" Fred feels a little bolder now and reaches for you but you pull your arm back and place it in your lap, trying not to wince as you catch the healing scars. "This one?"

He holds out his hand and shows you the faint markings from his punishment, 'I must not break rules' barely visible now. He frowns when you shake your head but don't offer any other explanation. He's frustrated that he's not getting anywhere but it's internal and he knows it's not your fault, he just wishes he could help, or go back in time and fix everything.

"Tell me, please," he says, keeping his eyes locked in the side of your face, trying to urge you to look at him. "What happened in that detention?"

"It doesn't matter," you say quickly, hopping down off the bed and stepping over to your trunk to get a fresh shirt from the laundry pile, knowing it would need changing. "I've got to shower."

You go to turn away but Fred lunges for you and grabs your arm to stop you from leaving, making you cry out in pain as soon as his fingers make contact with the tender skin. As soon as the shock wears off, he frowns, looking down at your arm before looking up to your face, seeing tears falling down your cheeks.

"Please baby, please just tell me," he says, voice breaking as his own tears well up in his eyes.

"She told you about the veritaserum?" You ask, assuming anyway and Fred nods. "Then you know what you need to know."

"No, I don't," he says quickly, trying to think of ways to stop you leaving without hurting you. "She used an unforgivable curse on you! Gave you truth serum, you cried when I touched your arm and you have bandages on your bedside table, please just tell me what happened!"

"Fine," you say, pulling your arm back. "You want to know? She tried to force it out of me, tried to get me to drink the stupid tea but I wouldn't. When that didn't work she pulled out that little stupid quill and wrote anything she wanted all over me. You wanted to know about the bandages? Fine," you said viciously, clawing at the fastening of your robe. Underneath was your once crisp, white shirt that had a considerable amount of red blood staining the sleeve. You didn't stop undressing, all but ripping the buttons away as you fought to show Fred what was underneath.

Bandages littered your forearms, with blood oozing out the sides. Fred's frozen as he looks at the bandages on your body, sick to his stomach already.

"Did you know Snape is a skilled occlumens? I didn't, I do now. So after she was playing with that sadistic little quill, writing whatever she wanted into my skin, he enters my mind and shows me every single fear I've ever had, every nightmare. But I didn't say a word, not a single fucking word. Do you know what it's like to have visions forced into your own mind of your boyfriend dying in front of you repeatedly, over and over until you start to go mad? All whilst your skin is slashed open just to get you to talk? Only it didn't work, so she dropped the quill and picked up her wand. I've never felt closer to death in my life but still so far away from it. But I wouldn't talk. So she forced veritaserum in my mouth and I couldn't stop it, she got what she wanted no matter what I'd fought for. And the best part? They don't heal, not truly. Nothing I do stops it, like a constant reminder of what happened."

"Princess," Fred chokes out, tears streaming down his cheeks, fighting to hold back his sobs at your words.

"No, not princess," you say sternly, emotions all falling from your face. "Not anymore."

"Please, I want to make this right, anything I can do, I want to support you," he says, nearly begging. "I have to make this right, I can't lose you."

"No."

Your voice is harsh and stern, your face expressionless again. "You believed them so easily, you all did. You believed I could do that to you, without hesitation. You didn't let me explain, never even looked at me because you were so certain that I could have done it. I've been exiled, banished and forgotten by all of you I called friends without a single thought. So you and your stupid brother and the rest of Dumbledore's friggin army can go fuck yourselves, it's not my fight anymore."

Fred flinches as the door slams shut behind you and he's left to sob openly, his devastation consuming him. Eventually when he returns to his own dorm, George says nothing upon seeing his twin's stricken face and his curtains fully closing around the bed.

The next morning, Fred has already left the dorm by the time George wakes up and doesn't see him at all around the common room or the hall, though he's not surprised. But when he doesn't show to his lessons, George worries and goes in search for his twin with increasing worry. Eventually, he finds him in the library, pouring over an array of books from the restricted section, most of them about healing spells and anatomy.

"Freddie?"

When Fred looks up with red rimmed eyes and an intense look in his eyes, it's clear to George that Fred hadn't slept. "Whatever it is, let me help."

One week. It took one week of endlessly pouring over book after book until they finally found options.

It's early morning on a Saturday when Fred creeps down to the common room was before the sun has risen, seeing you hunched over in your chair. Angelina had told him that they'd apologised profusely to you and had accepted you back with open arms back to the dormitory but you'd simply walked away and carried on sleeping by the fire, not yet willing to forgive them for the treatment you'd endured.

"Y/n, y/n, wake up," he says quietly, carefully touching your shoulder, trying to avoid anywhere that he had seen bandaged.

"Freddie?" You ask sleepily and his heart soars with hope at the noise, the familiarity of it abs the softness of your voice so heartwarming.

"I have something to show you, me and George," he says lightly, waiting for you to wake up.

"Told you both to get fucked," you mumble, squashing any hope he had, but he perseveres.

"Just this once prince-y/n, please," he says quietly. You open your eyes, seeing him still dressed in his pyjamas, pleading with his eyes and looking so vulnerable that you relent and agree to whatever he had planned. Throwing back the blanket, you surprise a groan at the stiffness in your neck and diligently follow him back up the stairs towards his dorm, accepting his hand as he guides you. Your hand fits perfectly into his, just as it always had.

"Where's Lee?" You say as you walk into the dorm room, seeing only George who gives you a small but timid smile.

"Bunking with Ron," Fred says somewhat vaguely, gesturing for you to sit on his bed. The room looks exactly as you remember albeit slightly less dishevelled than you'd experienced previously, but you don't mention anything. Fred takes a seat beside you and George moves forward, grabbing a book from the chair beside his bed.

"We don't know if this will work," George says.

"But it's better than nothing," Fred finishes, gingerly reaching out for your hand.

"What?"

"The wounds," George says gently, "Fred told me, we just want to make them better. Might not get rid of them completely but it's worth a shot."

"Found this in an old healing book, it's a counter curse for wound healing by curse," Fred says, taking the book from George to show you. "Figured Umbridge's quill must have been cursed so this might work. Please let us help."

All it takes is a nod from you, albeit slightly hesitant but truthfully there was no one you trusted more than the twins, before at least.

You could hardly look them in the eyes as you pulled away the bandages, the vile words etched into your skin by her personal sadistic quill. You heard George inhale at the deepest cut along your inner right forearm but didn't react, knowing it would be shocking to anyone.

"Take my hand, if it hurts too much all you have to do is squeeze and we'll stop, okay baby?"

Biting down on your lip to stifle your cries, you hold Fred's hand tightly as George begins to cast the counter-curse, each of you watching on with rapt attention and slight amazement as the cuts begin to slowly knit together. It was working.

You whimper as he works over the deepest, the same one Fred had accidentally caught the week before and Fred's hand squeezes yours automatically for support.

"You're doing so well sweetheart, it'll be over soon I promise," he says quietly in your ear, comforting you in anyway he could.

After the last cut is sealed, George immediately drops down to sit onto his bed, his concentration and energy depleted from focusing so hard. You can't believe it as you look down at your arms, no longer seeing blood and only able to see the faintest of marks and redness where the wounds had once been. Only then do tears begin to fall from your eyes as you launch yourself towards Fred, throwing your arms around him in appreciation. He steadies himself after a moment of being caught off guard and holds you tightly against him, shushing you gently as you cry. His arms wrap around you so perfectly, so protectively and his smell comforts you like to no other, exactly as you remember.

"You did so well, so well, it's okay baby," he coos into your ear. You pull apart slowly and immediately walk over to George, pulling him into a hug though it's a lot less intimate.

"Thank you both so much," you sniffle.

"You're welcome," they answer at the same time, making you smile.

"We've missed you," George says after a moment. "I'm so sorry for what you went through and for what I said. I should have known it wasn't your fault, you've been my best friend for so long and I'm so ashamed of myself for how easily I believed her over you, that should never have happened."

"And you know how sorry I am," Fred says, walking over to you and kneeling down until he's directly in front of you.

"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me and I was an idiot for ever thinking it was you. I know things can't ever go back to how they were before, but I love you so much that I can't lose you. Seeing you hurting almost broke me and I know that you might need time or never see me again but you need to know exactly how I still feel about you."

"It's not just you," you say in reply, heaving out a long breathe, "I pushed people away."

"We deserved it," George says.

"Baby," Fred says gently, getting your attention. "I don't know how to fix this or how to make things better, but I'll do anything. I was an idiot, a complete git but I'll spent the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. Please say this isn't ruined."

For the first time since the incident, you allow yourself to feel hopeful that things could get better, that Fred could love you again. Sat surrounded by the two people you loved most in the world, you finally felt the love and protection you'd been needing since that awful night.

"I want that," you say quietly, picking at the blanket under your fingers, "I just want things to just go back to normal." You raise your eyes up to Fred's to see him smiling back at you, clearly pleased with your words.

"Well, let's start with this then," he says with a mischievous smirk, leaning towards you painfully slowly as if he's giving you plenty of time to say no or push him away. His soft lips press against yours gently and you can't help but feel a warmth spread all over your body, almost like you were defrosting and returning back to you're usual self. His hand reaches up to cup the side of your jaw and you're certain you can feel a fear hit your cheek, though it doesn't come from you.

The next morning, you walk hand in hand with Fred into the great hall for breakfast and sit right back at the centre of the table with your friends. You assume Fred or George had threatened them not to say anything as everyone around you acts normal, pretending the previous weeks didn't exist, though one by one they all apologised to you, most notably Ron and Harry. Ginny thought you were badass for everything you'd been through, not relenting even though you'd been tortured into eventually revealing the secret. Hermione had apologised so eloquently and thoroughly that you both ended up crying in the common room as she explained about the jinxed parchment and how she'd held out hope that it hadn't been you.

Each person made it up to you in anyway they could, admitting their mistakes and regrets and though you would probably never forget, you chose to forgive.

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[yourelliewillms]

the guy from the record

store wasn't a guy?

ellie williams fanfic

━━ chapter 1 wc: 1.9k

read the chapters here !!

you've recently discovered this record shop, the perfect place to find everything of the new kind of music you've just gotten into, rock. your friends wouldn't share this interest with you but maybe the cute guy from the store will.

━━ he/him pronous are used for ellie sometimes but it's for plot purposes i swear !!

BASED ON THE GUY SHE WAS INTERESTED IN WASN'T A GUY AT ALL !!!! i love that manga so much i needed an ellie version so i did it myself. of course this is going to be shorter and pleeaase go read it i swear you won't regret it <3 i hardly recommend you to listen to the manga's playlist too, i'll add some of the songs to this fanfic. literally all i want is my lesbians to have the recognition they deserve. ALSO green is the characteristic color of that manga so i'll be using it here too, everything will be green bc we love green lesbians.

another warning, english is not my first language so you may find some mistakes.

it's been a long day at school but at least the week of exams has ended and you've done pretty good. "i deserve a prize" you think to yourself while your feet guide you out of the building. certainly the exams drained you, the only thing you want to do now is take a long nap to catch up on sleep.

walking down the sidewalk, you put on your headphones which have been your best friends for the last few months when you discovered this band nirvana. it is in fact a popular band but in your friend group? no, not at all. your friends prefer other kind of music. pop, kpop, even jazz, but rock? impossible.

so you find yourself unable to share your new music taste with your friends. even if you beg them to give it a chance, they'll refuse it every time. this is definitely the worst, how are you supposed to fully enjoy this work of art only by yourself? they definitely don't understand what good music is, if only they gave it a chance you could-

just when the music from your headphones stopped, you could still hear one of your favorite songs smells like teen spirit coming from a... record store?

your mind is full of questions, since when has been this store here? this is just 5 minutes away from school and you've never noticed it. maybe this is the prize you deserve for having successfully passed all your exams. buying your very first vinyl will surely be the boost of serotonin you need.

you took off your headphones before getting into the store and quickly walked to check all the beautiful vinyls. the excitement could be seen in your eyes, all the vinyls of your favorite bands in one store and you're even considering finding a job, buying everything of this store is not a want but a necessity. this must be heaven.

after what felt like seconds but were actually 20 long minutes, you finally make your choice and find the vinyl that'll have the privilege to be your very first and most appreciated acquisition.

you turn around, walk towards the shop counter and just then realize how rude of you was not to greet the old man at the store. however, you don't care that much, he should understand that you were too excited to even speak and... was it an old man? did you even look at the person who was next to you the last 20 minutes?

"i'll take this" you place the vinyl on the counter before looking up at the person in front of you.

but now, you reassure one more time that you're not on earth anymore. this is definitely heaven, or maybe something greater because the angel in front of you isn't from this planet at all. green eyes, auburn hair drawn back in a messy bun, a scar on one eyebrow, black clothes with a nirvana t-shirt, an arm tattoo and a mask. this is the most gorgeous guy you've seen in your entire life and you were rude to him, you didn't talk to him for this entire time.

"i love this one" he gave you your new purchase in a bag "you have good taste" that raspy voice that'll live in your mind rent free for an eternity, you're sure about that.

meanwhile, your mind has been spinning for the last 30 seconds. a cute guy with a stunning style and majestic music taste, you've seen only his eyes but you can already imagine a life with him where you get married and play your favorite songs in your wedding.

"thanks, you too. bye" and just like that the conversation ended. you're definitely not the most flirtatious person but you didn't ask him anything, maybe it was too soon to ask for his number but not even his name? really? you can already hear your friends scolding you but at least you remember half of his face and that's enough to be delusional the following months until you find another crush.

8 in the morning and you've been talking for half an hour to your friends about this cute guy from the record store. of course they scolded you for not asking his name but your excitement couldn't be taken away that easily. no other boy from your school has ever made you feel like this, no one called your attention like he did.

"is there any possibility that you see your boy again?" dina, your best friend asked "and maybe ask him out"

"dina!" you frowned as if she had just said the craziest thing you've heard in your life "it's too soon for that. but as soon as i see him again i'll ask him his name" you started kicking your feet "and he'll fall in love with me."

dina and your bursted out laughing and spent the whole morning planning your future life with someone you saw once.

maybe you've been talking too loud or maybe she doesn't like you, but the girl next to you has been glancing at you and dina and she seemed a little too much interested in your conversation.

ellie. you've been classmates for almost a year but you two never spoke. she's like any other girl at school. she wears the same uniform as you, a white shirt and a gray skirt. she also wears these square glasses and she has her headphones on most of the time.

she seems like one of those nerds but one that doesn't participate that much in class. she comes to class, listens to the professors and goes home. you've never seen her talking to any other classmates but she seems comfortable only drawing on her notebook and listening to something on her headphones, it's not that you don't like her, but you haven't had the opportunity to get to know her.

but today she seemed quite distracted and instead of focusing on the class, she was focused on you. she seemed nervous, maybe she wanted to join the conversation and make some friends?

however, the bell rang. you were too busy talking about your new guy to try to figure out why ellie's been looking at you more than usual. you began to pack up your belongings; notebook, pencil case, some other books and, are you forgetting something?

the moment you're getting up from your seat, you can feel ellie's presence approaching you. you stare up at her for a few seconds and before you can say something, her hand reached your ear and put on one of your earbuds.

"you dropped this" your eyebrows furrowed, did she always had those pretty green eyes?

the song that you'd been listening on loop nothing at all was playing on your earbuds loud enough for her to listen to it "that song rocks, doesn't it?" and just like that she walked out the door leaving you completely confused. you're sure you've seen those eyes before, you think that maybe for a split second you stopped looking at ellie as your classmate and maybe... someone else.

on the other hand, ellie has been walking in silence staring at her feet while her mind is about to explode because the girl who sits next to her, her classmate and one of the most popular girls at school, has met and is interested in a guy who works at the record store. but no guy works there, just ellie.

she got a part time job and she's been working there for a few months but that was the first time she saw you there. you didn't recognize her though, since the style she has at her job is the opposite of the one she has at school.

probably the best option is to tell you the truth, the guy you're interested in isn't a guy and is actually the boring, nerdy girl from school, the girl you'd never talk to because that would only ruin your reputation, or at least that's what ellie thinks.

ellie thought that her job should be boring and only boring, she didn't want to have to deal with something else than that. and now that girl has a crush on her, or she has a crush on the person she thinks ellie is.

fortunately, ellie's job is calm. not many people visit the store so she spends her first hours of work tidying the place, not paying much attention to the store itself.

while cleaning at the back of the store, ellie heard the ring of the little bell on the door warning the presence of a client. she sighed and fixed her clothes before getting into the store again but got surprised when she noticed that the client was actually you.

if it weren't for the music playing at the store, the place would have been in complete silence. no one was on sight when you walked in so the sound coming from the back of the store scared you and you jumped. "you scared me, i didn't know you were here" you giggled nervously.

"have you been looking forward to it that much?" you were starting to stutter when the green eyed spoke in what seemed a flirty way. "no- i mean! the new foo fighters album" she interrupted herself "you were looking forward to it because you wanted to buy it, right?" she tried to hide her shaky voice, did she just accidentally flirt with you?

"i swear it's so good, you can hear it a thousand times and it'll still sound amazing. also, i know you like nirvana too because you bought the vinyl. you'll love it, i totally recommend it."

you were in a dream, did you just exchange more than two words with that guy? and he was showing a lot of interest it seemed unreal. you'd be a fool if you mess this up.

"i really want to buy it but uhm..." your pockets were empty, you spent all your money in that vinyl and being an unemployed student is not helpful to your situation "i'm a bit short of money right now" not to say that you're dry.

"i'm sorry but i-" yet she didn't let you finish your sentence "i bought this one for myself. you can have it and tell me your opinion when you return it."

he couldn't be more charming to you. only 5 minutes talking and you had already fell down on your knees. "thank you. you can give me your number so that i can bring it back." your hand sweating for you've finally made a move on who you thought was the guy from your dreams.

"no," no? he rejected you just like that, he didn't even a think a second to answer your question "it's just... i can't use my phone at work."

laying on the counter in front of you was a black ink pen which you quickly grabbed and started writing your phone number on his wrist next to his tattoo.

ellie looked at you stunned, she was glad she was wearing a mask because her cheeks had turned crimson. she noticed your hand shaking and that was the moment she realized the trouble she'd gotten into.

"i thought that if i wrote it on a paper, you'd lose it." the music playing in the background just made the atmosphere between you two dreamlike. you waved and smiled at him as you left the store hoping your burning cheeks would go unnoticed. not only did you have someone to share your interests with but also it was someone who you were crushing on really hard.

the first person on the taglist will be my editor/manager/first person who read this @ohnopoteito thank uuu 💋💋

[sugudoe]

➥ ──── MOMMY MILKERS ‼️ BITCH. ღ

gojo satoru is the greatest mind behind MIB, also know as MU IOTA BETA, although is a inside joke the name Mommy mIlkers Bitch, because he thinks there is a large amount of members with huge breasts. Satoru is filthy rich and spoiled, he was a rainbow baby and an only child for some time, everything he wants he can have. his parents only asked him to go to college for business administration, so one day, gojo’s enterprise can be in his good hands. he doesn’t mind, had no plan of life instead of just enjoying it, but he hopes he can still have a lot of vacations all around the world. that’s actually his favorite thing to do, just get up from the bed and travel. gojo and the MIB were pretty popular on campus, but what took their social medias sky rocketing was the brilliant idea to create a tik tok account for their fraternity, showing their parties and random funny moments. of course, what everyone really wants to see, is their fucking beauty. he is the older adoptive brother of megumi, who is too young for fraternities, but gojo thinks he can bend the rules if megumi wants to get inside (gojo can’t & he doesn’t).

geto suguru is studying graphic designer by his choice, although his parents disagree, they can’t say no to him — after all, they are scared for their son and want him to be happy. truth is, geto and gojo had been best friends since high school, and it’s no secret that suguru tries to hide about his long battle with depression. things are getting better as of lately, specially now that his two younger sisters, mimiko and nanako, are allowed to have a cellphone and had been calling him daily. geto can be found in three different places, besides the MIB’s house — the art room of college, choso’s tattoo parlor and in the garage with sukuna, although for only a few minutes before he himself leave with his bike, that he calls his love. he is the vice-president, and helped gojo with the ideas to create the house, he also is the reason why nanami got inside because suguru knew they would need someone that knows how to be an adult, he got surprised with nanami’s true personality later, but hey, he is doing a good job, no complains. his favorite companions outside of the members are the pets and shoko, he adores her very much, she is also a best friend from high school that cared for him in his most vulnerable depressive episodes.

zen’in toji comes from the respected family zen’in, but unlike his relatives, toji does not give a fuck about reputations and traditions. that has casted him aside, something he is no longer sad about, he actually loves that he can do as he pleases. he study physical education, has always had a talent for fights and training, and likes the idea to be able to teach others some day. his first students was his two little cousins, maki and mai. he used to work as a partial time private trainer, but after tik tok found out, it was getting too uncomfortable with those new clients, so he started to train his friend sukuna and his little brother, yuji, the payment is extraordinary. he has a pitbull puppy named kitana and she is one of the pets at the house, and his pride and joy. he got inside MIB because gojo wanted to have him, toji refused at first, until satoru showed him the private gym of the house and toji was sold right away. he gets weirdly along with megumi whenever the boy comes visit, they bond over their dogs and strangely looking resemblance.

nanami kento is not the MIB’s president, but he stills acts like it, and gojo is more than happy to let him have that unofficial position. gojo makes the parties and pick the box with candidates names, nanami takes care of the expenses and pick the best to get into, to avoid fame seekers and people with bad reputation — some thinks he started that after gojo put sukuna inside the house. nanami takes care of the formal parts, that’s mostly influenced by his finance majoring, he spends most of time inside his room studying or bakery hopping to experiment new pastries. don’t let this take you away from the truth, this man is not a calm, educated and study inclined person, he is half-french and therefore gojo has to be careful, or nanami will start a revolution and put satoru out of the house. he easily gets distracted by his interests and his anger, and since MIB becoming a hit on the internet, he is extremely mad. nanami cares a lot about his private life, he blocked gojo on twitter after satoru quoted kento’s account and he gained a lot of weird followers — he blocked most and went private. nanami is very found of ino, and as the initiation process of complying to the older members’s request, he had to shave his head (suguru demanded as a revenge for cutting his waist long hair to his shoulder) ino was quite sad, but did it, nanami did as well to support the youngest. surprising everyone, because nanami loves his long blonde hair as well. everyone was touched, so gojo cut his as well, kinji dyed on ino’s choosing color (purple) and even sukuna did as well, but red — all was done by kinji’s partner, kirara.

kamo choso is the middle brother of sukuna and itadori, through their shared mother. he is studying computer science, but everyone knows he is doing just to get the degree, give to his mom and go do his own thing — tattoos! ever since high school, he started to work in tattoo shops as receptionists, then he started a course and now he owns his own mini parlor near campus, named garu’s tattoo, because he is often compared with the character (it has absolutely nothing do to with the fact he used to let his younger brother do his hair the same way, everyday for high school). choso doesn’t trust anyone but himself to make his own tattoos, but he folds easily when yuji asks to try, so he has a mini spider-man doing peace signs on his calf. it’s his favorite tattoo. he got into MIB because he started to be friends with his favorite client, geto, and suguru invited him. choso’s mom separated sukuna’s father and got with choso’s dad, then she left and met itadori jin, he accepted all her sons as his, and choso secretly hopes one day jin will adopt him. he likes that MIB went viral because now he has more clients, what he doesn’t like is how everyone views him as a bad boy, when he is clearly a sweetheart.

shiu kong is a transfer student from south korea, and just like nanami, he is majoring in finance, following his dad’s and grandad’s steps. his family is very rich and stoic, but shiu came to the world in a completely different way. he likes to crack jokes, smoke a cigarette every hour, and to make his family hair get white earlier. the last post he has on instagram is a video of him doing hearts, but purposely he posted because it looked like a middle finger. shiu is best friends with everyone, but mostly sukuna and toji, and outside of it he’s friends with shoko and uraume. he thinks it was bound to happen to be a hit on the internet, because of his funny and chaotic way! his twitter is where he shows his true self, actually, the header is his own picture from the day after fucking a neighbor before moving out of the apartment to MIB’s house. it’s been a month and a half and he’s feeling the effects of not getting laid in some time, not because he doesn’t have options, gojo says he wants someone to match his freak while doing a dance — he slapped gojo after that. the reason for he to be in MIB is because he thought it would be funny to piss off his dad, it worked.

hiromi higuruma is the most normal person in the house, which is something to worry about. his free time used to be spend traveling to rural areas of japan, now he stays in the sofa with achilles, his cat. he used his money to make a game room in the house with lots of pool tables and videogame consoles. he likes to bet with everyone, and he keeps winning. talking about that, everyone avoids to argue with him, at first he cared too much and would own all the discussions, specially when he would bring out the projector and show evidence of how he was right — don’t fucking argue with a lawyer. nowadays he is much chill, that’s obviously because he is in exam season and keeps inside the house or library, he left the group chat to focus on his projects and the court hearings he now attends. nanami is the one to send him all the messages he needs to see and to lend his phone in case hiro wants to add something to the chat. hiro was obliged to be part of MIB by his best friend, nanami. oh, the classmate in his twitter’s bio is utahime iori, she doesn’t now his twitter and he doesn’t know hers.

ino takuma is a lucky motherfucker. he is the youngest at the house and the newest member, out of many candidates, nanami chose him, and for that he is eternally grateful for his senior. majoring in history and having a talent for photography, ino likes to be outside all of the time, he takes pictures of every bright thing that seems to copy his happy aura, everyone finds him adorable. nanami tried really hard to keep him away from gojo, but it happened eventually, satoru is the one that matches his freak and they both kept adding fire to the other crazy ideas. they are the ones doing weird challenges and pranks on the tik tok account, and nanami keeps grounding them for it. besides hiro, achilles adores ino and is often on his lap. takuma introduced the movie “house bunny” to the boys once and now gojo wants to have the “sacrifice a virgin” party, after he found out ino is a virgin. he is embarrassed, but still thinks i’ll be awesome to slide down a fake volcano and kiss a pretty girl. . . maybe more.

ryomen sukuna is. . . something. everyone knows that one of the reasons MIB’s tik tok became a hit is thanks to his quick appearance, after all he was already know on social media before, ryomen is a professional boxer, as a way to let his anger issues dissipate and avoid hurting his brothers or friends, he punches sand bags with toji and later, willingly strangers. he is know as “one punch man” because one time he was seriously pissed with his dad, went to the ring and with just one punch, won the fight — he hated it, he needed more punches throw. ryomen is majoring in forensic science, when asked why he says is because he wants to know how to get away with a murder properly, of course he is joking but the stoic face sure scares everyone. adding to his curriculum, he also likes to repair cars, MIB’s garage is filled with everyone’s cars and there is space for sukuna’s three vintage babies, he always finds some problem in them whenever he needs to clear his mind. sukuna’s best friends are uraume, shoko and shiu, because they all don’t give a fuck about his anger issues and treat him normally. he is adored by kinji’s partner, kirara, and he actually adores them as well, but he avoids them because he can’t say no to kira, and they try to make ryomen a model. sukuna is, with choso, the target of people with the “i can change him” mentality, he adores it because it’s fucking funny the desperation. he would rather eat glass than admit, but he’s only in MIB because choso was scared to go alone, and he wants for yuji to come as well when he gets of age, he thinks his younger brother will like it. he is a good brother, he just doesn’t say much, good thing choso and yuji understand him and love him either way.

kinji hakari is the only member who is in a serious relationship, if anything, he is the only one getting any action. he never had any plans of being in college, only following his partner and luckily discovering a talent in fashion school, that was what got gojo satoru’s attention, and he begged for hakari to be part of the MIB. he almost declined, but thought it would be cool, and with his baby’s permission, he accepted. kinji brings more chaos to MIB, he likes to be the cause of his friends headache in the group chat, and also to get blackout drunk in the parties and make out with kirara on every surface. he got a lot of attention on his social media as well, but he does not give a fuck, because he thinks everyone is trying to get into his pants and he is a loyal dog man, so he says no no interactions with anyone besides his friends and love.

✶ 𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: all the appearances, are just for reference, there is no fancast just pics with the characters vibes. you can imagine them as you please. but i did edited sukuna’s hair so applause. i know nanami is half danish, but i want the revolutionary gene of france on him. TOJI’s AND GOJO’s ig has miD instead of miB, pretend you didn’t see it, pls.

✶ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: please comment if you would like to be tagged. all the chapters will be linked in this post and with the first tag @minzxec @d3jecteddoll @shuuji71 @emilyywhyy @ducky1232 @mfcherry

[eleteo125]

"Be Mine or You Will Burn"

Rollo x GN!Reader

AN: Me and my friend are Rollo fans and they've inspired me to write this idea out 🤣

You were simply just walking around admiring the scenery of Noble Bell where you went back to the cathedral to appreciate the artistry of the stain glass. Each panel depicting how Judge Claude Frollo and his accomplishments.

Rollo, the school’s student council president has welcomed the NRC students by giving them a tour but his obvious disdain for magic users made it clear that he was rushing to get the tour done as fast as possible to get away from them. Heck you would even bet that the only reason he was able to get through the whole tour was because he only set his attention towards you barely minding the other guests. He sometimes casts a watchful eye on them but other than that he doesn’t particularly engage with them compared to you.

With those signs in display, everyone from NRC has come to the conclusion that them being invited here has an ulterior motive to it. Briefly shaking those thoughts from your mind, you admired the lights coming through the different colored windows surrounding you in a colorful halo.

My what a beautiful sight indeed.

Magic wielder or not, you’re still a student from NRC so of course Rollo has kept a close eye on you when freely strolling around the school. But he can’t help the fact that you’re devoid of any magic at all has him deeply fascinated. And to think to mingle around those…ahem.

Do not be fooled he’s only keeping watch of you because he can tell that everyone from NRC are quite attached to you especially that dragon fae. What better way to keep them in check when he has you close and in his clutches.

Walking towards you he silently stood in behind you. He held in a small chuckle as he saw you’re awestruck face looking at the beautiful work of art. “Impressed?”

Jumping a little bit in surprise, you quickly looked behind to see him “O-oh! Yes, I haven’t seen a stained glass window in person before, just through pictures.” You confessed

“Hmph of course such beauty is painstakingly crafted by hand of course you won’t see a lot of it. Craftsmanship that took people’s skill and talent with no assistance from cheap tricks everyone reveres.” He spits

“Magic?”

Rollo stayed silent at your question.

You decide to let go of the subject with his sudden silence. Instead you walked closer to the window to admire the small details. It was such detailed you can’t even imagine how long it would take to finish such a large piece.

Too lost in thought, you started to reach your hand out to the window but you’re once again surprised when you felt a strong grip around your wrist.

You were about to apologize but instead freeze up when you felt him step closer behind you. You tried to step forward to get some distance since you’re starting to get flustered at our position but realized that you don’t have much space to move in since you’re very close to the window.

“I’m sorry but those were just cleaned by the careful hands of our cleaners hands off please.” He whispered in your ear.

You shuddered at his closeness and the sensation of him speaking carefully so close to your ear. “I-I understand.” You stuttered while unconsciously leaning into his ‘embrace’.

He seems to have lost himself also since he buried his nose in your hair while his other hand rubbed your free arm.

You two stayed like that for who knows how long just basking in each other’s contact. “Why not transfer here, I can tell how ‘generous’ the headmaster is in your current school.”

“I can’t” you managed to mumble out after almost melting at the close soud of his voice yet again.

“You’re surrounding yourself with magic that is as deadly as fire.”

You leaned closer “Fire can be useful too.” You whispered

You felt his sigh in your ear and your knees almost gave up but he held you up when he sensed you were about to fall.

“Consider it.” He kissed behind your ear “Be mine or you will burn.

He carefully let you go after making sure you won’t collapse to your knees before walking put and leaving you under colorful light.

[henreyettah]

Happy (belated) birthday to the boy 🫶

(Lil ficlet under the cut)

SIMON

We’re on the train, headed to Baz’s parents new house. It’s in some place I’ve never been before, but that’s ok because Baz took care of the tickets (I did offer to fly us, but again, I don’t know the way) (it’s also a bit away and neither of us were sure I’d be able to carry myself and a grown vampire for that whole flight)

He’s had a long day; he’s got this posh office job now which he wanted very badly, but the hours are horrendous.

As usual with Baz, this change in lifestyle has brought with it changes to his wardrobe: he wears loungewear now, as soon as he gets home. After particularly awful days he won’t even have the strength to change into them himself; he’ll step through the door and spell his office ones off and the cozy ones on. They complement his sharpness nicely; makes him more tangible, more like something within reach, that I’m allowed —encouraged, even— to grab a hold of and not let go.

Our luggage is stuffed beneath my seat, and my heels keep bumping into the side of it when I shift. We’ve only brought enough for the two nights we’re staying over, but Baz has this new suit set he wants to wear for his birthday dinner tomorrow and apparently it required ‘room to breathe, Snow’.

Whatever that means.

I’m not going to complain about it, however. It looks absolutely stunning on him; he’s started leaning into the vampire look again, like in school when he slicked his hair back to show off his widows peak, and it’s working wonders now just as it did then. The suit is a sleek and slender thing, paired with a blood red shirt that somehow manages to shift in color depending on where you stand. Baz said there was something special about the fabric (“Is it magic,” I’d asked, rubbing the sleeve between my fingertips. “In a sense,” he’d said. “It’s Normal magic, the art of weaving.”)

We had a drink with Penny and Shep before we left the flat, and the alcohol burns warm in my gut still. I don’t drink much, these days. Haven’t the need to.

[loserlvrss]

꒰ 𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓 ꒱ 김동현

summary : you and your boyfriend were truly opposites, but the saying has always been that they attract, hasn’t it?

genre : fluff, leehan x afab!reader, college!au, slice of life tws : language, zombies (yeah..), pet names, mentions of not eating (could be linked to a eating disorder but also idrk) author notes : cringe couple alert (that should be me) word count : 1.4k

your hands were covered in clay, grey-brown coating your skin. you could feel the uncomfortable, but familiar feeling of it drying on your wrists, and you were glad you wore something you were okay with getting messy; because today you had done so many pieces, you were covered in muck.

you had just finished a vase, the bottom a thick sphere, tapering off as it furthered to the top. you spread the wire, after picking it up from beside you, and ran it along the stone. you picked it up carefully, grabbing the damp sponge to smooth out any finger prints.

pottery was your hobby, and you were glad you majored in art. you loved doing pieces on the wheel, and you loved sculpting unconventional things. it never felt like homework to do, and you often found yourself forgetting all about time and spending hours in the schools basement; dusty and dirty, haired tied back, back and shoulders sore, and sweats caked over.

that being said, you also often forgot to have meals as collateral to your happiness, spend time with your friends, and do things that people would deem normal. you hated the saying that you weren’t like other girls but truthfully you’d rather be in this dimly lit room than a club, like the people your age were.

but there was also one person who refused to let you starve to death in this poorly decorated room. and truthfully, he hated the flashing lights just as much, if not more than you did.

“y/n,” you looked up, a smile plastering to your features at the sight of your boyfriend who had been doing work on his computer waiting for you to finish for the last however long. “you’re done?” you nodded, moving the piece to the side, preparing to take it over by your others waiting to get glazed and fired. “it’s pretty.”

“i was thinking about painting little fishes on it and putting it inside our apartment after it gets graded, what do you think?”

“only if you eat first.” he stated, making you laugh in response. “going to die in this ugly place one day, y/n. i swear i’m going to find your body, and that wheel’s still going to be spinning.”

you walked over to the sink, opting to listen as you felt your stomach growl at the thought of eating something for, maybe, the second time today.

“my girlfriend would be a zombie, oh my god, an artsy zombie. wait, what does that even mean?”

you tried your best to scrape the clay from under your nails, however you both were used to finding it in weird places—laughing about it like it was an inside joke.

“actually, i think you might be hot like that. imagine all the rotting skin—you’d never have to do skincare ever again because it’d be falling off all the time—messy hair, but i think you’d hate this being your forever ghost outfit.”

you made a grossed-out face at his obvious jokes; however if he had said this to, or around, anyone else, it would’ve seemed genuine due to his monotone nature and straight face.

“you’re so strange, donghyun. if zombies were your type, i could’ve done my makeup differently.” you pinched his cheek with wet fingers. “but i love you anyways… even if you wouldn’t make a hot zombie.”

“what?” he exclaimed. “no way you think this!”

you were taken aback. “i didn’t know you were so serious about us being zombies… we could be a silly-little zombie couple if you want.” you giggled.

he scoffed. “how romantic, y/n. truly,”

“shut up.” you stuck your tongue out at him. “what’d you bring today?”

he took out a glass container; because he refused the plastic ones, saying something about the consumption of microplastics and fish long before you two had even entertained the idea of being in a relationship, to which you replied, save the turtles, and thrusted your fist in the air.

“leftovers from last night.” he stated, uncovering the pizza you two had shared over a couple episodes of game of thrones. you were late to the hype, but you liked the show nonetheless. he had fallen asleep on top of you after your hand had made its way into his shaggy hair, half an episode in, small snores echoing against the drama.

you two woke up on the couch in the morning.

“do you want me to heat yours up?” you questioned, motioning to the microwave that was probably older than either of you. “you know i’d rather have it cold as leftovers… but if you want me t—”

he took a bite, focusing back on his laptop. “don’t worry about it, love.”

you, too, took a bite. “what are you even working on?” you asked curiously, looking over his shoulder.

his face was inches from yours when he turned. “can you chew any louder in my ear?” you scoffed, pushing his head lightly to the side, and mocking an obnoxiously loud chew at him. it was probably the least sexy thing you could do. he laughed. “it’s my research final. twelve pages in. i’m writing about aquaculture and its impacts on the environment—did you know that they’re actually bigger than agriculture? not that either are greatly sustainable.”

you admired how different you two were, but you loved listening to him go on and on (and on) about the ocean and fish, even if you had no idea what anything truly meant. he really did suit being a marine biology major in your eyes. his enthusiasm was your enthusiasm.

you did love his little fishtank though. and despite him denying it, you knew he loved that you named them all.

“my final is much better than yours,” you laughed, watching his eyebrows furrow behind his glasses. “all i have to do is make a couple pots—which we’re gonna use for our herb garden after! our green onions and garlic are getting so big!” you cooed. “i was thinking about using their old pots for our basil and rosemary plants, do you think that they would work?”

he took his last bite, using both hands to type now. “i think that would be fine, love.”

“and we can use our new vase as our table centerpiece? your mom’s going to come over for dinner soon, i think she’d like it—maybe i’ll make her one.”

he knew that once you put your mind to it, there was no stopping you. “i’ll get you some pretty flowers for both of them.” he was just glad that you had eaten something before the idea popped into your head.

you pondered. “what’s her favorite color, baby? do you think i should make her a couple mugs or a vase? or a cutesy little plate collection? or a pot? fuck it, i’ll just do them all, she has a gar—”

“y/n,” he cut your ramble off. “you’ve already made her a cutesy plate collection for christmas, and a mug for mother’s day, and a couple pots last semester.”

you pouted. “but those plates are deco—”

“make her the vase, love. her favorite color is purple.” he smiled sweetly. “i’ll help you paint it after you’re done turning it. we can give it to her as a slightly-early birthday present when she comes over, yeah?”

“we’ll get her calla lilly’s, right?” you pleaded.

his hand rested against your cheek, taking a break from the keyboard. “yes, and you can tell me all about the meaning while we stand in line.”

you grabbed his wrist. “great… now c’mon!” he eyed you as you pulled him up with you. “you made me watch that fish documentary with you the other day, so i’m going to show you how to make this vase now.”

“baby, i have three pages left,” he tried to compromise, but you blocked it out. “i’ll just help you paint it.”

“no,” you whined, which he found more adorable than annoying. “she’d love it so much more if you helped me spin it, don’t you think?”

he knew that there was no use arguing with you—after all if this whole art-thing didn’t work out, law had always been your alternative.

“fine,” he gave in, sitting down on the stool as you happily skipped over to grab him an apron and collect an adamant amount of clay. “but if i find clay inside my keyboard after this, you’re in for it.”

“terrified. so scared. i’m shaking in my boots, donghyun.” you shuddered playfully. “i guess you’ll actually get what you want if that happens—a zombie girlfriend—luckily for you, though, this zombie girlfriend of yours has a toothpick and a lot of love for her living boyfriend.”

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[inkskinned]

i know some of the poets outside of their books, like cameron awkward-rich; who was my seminar teacher for a semester in grad school. you know him, he wrote about keeping his hand on the walls of his stupid heart. he gave us a journal without lines in it, so the pages were all blank and naked. we had to write down 3 words every day, ruminations on our own lives.

in pink glitter pen, i watched my handwriting cramp and spill from pristine and well-meaning to the slant of someone deeply suffering. the words stopped being lyrical over the course of february. bad, it said. bad and bad and bad. each day carving out a little bit of marrow, the sparrow of my heart acting as roadkill. that winter i was only allowed to eat apples, like a horse. my ocd had decided i could only touch food if it was red. i was sleeping on the floor and a spider bit me.

i wanted him to be my thesis advisor, but it was covid the next year, and we never spoke again, and i'm worried that i embarrassed myself by asking him repeatedly. for my final project in his class, i wrote about my disability. i called myself a rat, fondly.

his most famous poem is titled Meditations in an Emergency. i didn't know it until three weeks after i had graduated from that university.

at one point, he sat me down after class just to discuss some of my work. it was a night class, and we were all a little drowsy. he blinked up at me. i think sometimes the way you see the world is a little bit alarming. i wonder about that, in hindsight. i wonder if all of us who are walking on thumbtacks always recognize when someone else's spine is the undulating form of a siren. i could see it in him and you can see it in me, if you're looking.

yesterday nat said some of this is worrying.

i told cameron i was fine and i told nat i was fine, but i think maybe all of us had learned a long time ago how to be fine the way a poem is fine - because it happens outside of you. it can be honest, the confession, but it cannot be spelled out across your ribs. we make our art so that the sorrow can hang, limbless, trembling on the fetid walls beside us.

you learn to turn the ugliness into some kind of work, because you must smash the entire human experience of your stupid bones and teeth and tongue into something, so that you have anything to show for it. otherwise, what is the fucking point. why were you suffering, if not to polish the runoff and say - the melancholy is the signature of my art. i took the splinters out of my gums and filed them down into a thesis. the thesis has been turned into a book which is getting published.

cameron, to my knowledge, still has not read it.

i hope he has found his way out of the maze. i hope you and i one day write our own lanterns. i hope we are able to find some kind of peace without viscera. without having to fight for it. i hope we are able to stumble without falling. i hope one day the sky is empty of vultures and we can cross the desert of our memories without starving.

in the meantime we get up and leave the circled shadow in the writing.