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viaviavie · 2 days ago

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BLOT BATTLEMENT (100 FOLLOWERS MILESTONE)

in which he suffers watching you fawn over his overblotted copy who seems to be in love with you.

SUMMARY: after an experiment gone wrong, an overblotted clone of one of the victims has re-emerged. luckily for everyone, it's reasonably powerless and will eventually disappear. unluckily for him, the clone seems to reflect his true feelings towards you.

PAIRINGS: overblot gang x reader (seperately)

WARNINGS: suggestive (for jamil, vil, and idia), slight possibility of drowning (azul), projection for ob!vil

NOTES: this is in celebration of hitting 100 followers! thank you so much for following my work, and for all the comments you have left behind! i will also be rewriting malleus's section once book 7 is complete! on another note, pls invade my inbox if you immediately see that reference from malleus's section, mwah!

"That's enough. If one of you barks one more time, I will have to show you what happens to unruly puppies that won't obey." Crewel sighs and pinched his nose, another hand gripping his baton in irritation. "Unfortunately, we cannot fix this in an hour. You bad doggies need to get along until this entire issue is resolved."

The professor clicked his tongue, shoving the two out of his office. "I have already contacted someone to get you both. Surely, the Prefect has survived both of you once and will be able to do it again. So stay put, and be good. Or else."

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

Seeing his Overblotted self summons waves of shame and embarrassment for Riddle. It was not his best moment at all, and that inky copy is a reflection of his worst flaws and traits. You could imagine how rushed Riddle was to collar his copy in fear that it would hurt others again, especially you who had already dealt with it once.

"Don't make me repeat myself, I demand that I see my King of Hearts, this instant!" It's very much like babysitting a spoiled child, and it makes Riddle so wracked with embarrassment. He cannot control his copy as it stomps and yells outrageous demands to see you. Riddle was really on the verge of collaring it and dragging it back to Heartsyabul when you turned the corner.

OB!Riddle's smile is so wide that it could be mistaken as sinister. "My rose!" Inky blot is smeared all over your uniform as the fake runs towards you. Just as Riddle was about to whip out his wand to stop it, you relax and return the embrace, albeit with a confused expression. Riddle manages to explain very quickly whilst trying to pry off his copy, but you suggest that it is best to let it do what it wants.

What Riddle doesn't tell you is that his copy reflects his desires as well, claiming he is uncertain why it insists on being so affectionate with you. However, it seems to be quite the blessing when OB!Riddle marches to the Heartslabyul dorm to resume its position as Housewarden. In fact, the entire dorm thanks you profusely for being able to manage that little tyrant with a bat of your eyelashes and a gentle voice.

"Trappola, have you not learned your lesson!? Rule #186, you shall not eat hamburg steak on Tuesday! OFF WITH YOUR HEAD—" Tapping lightly on its shoulder, you attempt to placate the copy with a weak smile. "Riddle— I mean, Housewarden Riddle, Ace has not been able to eat all day and the steak was the only thing left in the cafeteria. He did not have much of a choice." Suddenly, the copy's face softened before relaxing back into its seat.

"My rose, I mustn't bend the rules. If I bent them for one, I would have to bend them for all." It scowls, only sinking further into its chair as you rub gentle circles around his forearm. The entire table stares at you with looks of gratitude and relief, all in agreement that you just saved everyone a tantrum's worth of stress. You hummed at the copy, nodding softly. "I know, dear. May I remind you that rules are there to ensure everyone is happy and safe? If Ace hadn't eaten his lunch, perhaps he might have gorged on the tarts instead."

"I suppose you are right, my King of Hearts."

Riddle seethes from the other side of the table, arms crossed and face on the verge of turning red. It was hard for him to decide whether he was merely jealous, or upset at his own copy rampaging around as if he were the real one in charge. He pauses for a moment as an epiphany comes to him.

Is this what it looks like whenever the Prefect is here to calm me down from my temper?

Even though OB!Riddle cannot use his magic, Riddle is extremely watchful of his copy. It is perhaps the ugliest side of him, and the last thing he wants is an Unbirthday Party ruined and spoiled by ink. They only had to put up with it for a day, and surely, Riddle has enough patience to ride out this episode.

He does have to watch and hold himself back as his copy acts so familiar with you. A hand at your lower back, perhaps an inky kiss on the cheek, and you being referred to as 'his rose'? It should have been me!

When his copy disappears, Riddle takes the time to pull you aside and admit the truth behind the blot's behavior. His jealousy seems to have pushed him into confessing, and he makes it clear that he would rather earn your feelings properly instead of coercing you for affection with potential tantrums.

"Forgive me, Prefect. I apologize for my copy's behavior. I have to tell you the truth— it was reflecting my innermost feelings. Prefect, I harbor these affections for you and I yearn to be more than friends. You do not have to tell me anything else at the moment. If you wish for time, I understand as well. Allow me to be curt, at least just this once. I like you more than a friend should, and I would hope to hear your response soon." (So polite!)

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

What a drag. Does he really need to help monitor his own Overblotted self? If you were able to survive it once, you should be able to handle that huge lion on your own. OB!Leona appears to be nothing but a grumpy lion who answers to no one, only being forcibly dragged around by his original self.

It changes when you show up. Suddenly, the copy springs to life in your presence and is completely disobeying the original.

You are taken by surprise when OB!Leona backs you onto a wall, a clawed hand lightly brushing against your cheek. "Herbivore," He breathed as his green eyes zoned in on you. "You should be more careful when you wander these halls alone." You couldn't help but gulp as he grins, fangs glinting against the sunlight. "You never know who might just be planning to eat you."

But when Leona takes notice of his Overblot's sharp nails cut into your skin, his attitude changes as well. The original takes initiative to pull you away and stand between you both. Perhaps you don't understand the way they bare teeth at one another, taking aggressive stances as if one or the other would jump and claw at their target. It sets the tone for a very tense environment as you attempt to drag them both to Savanaclaw.

It was best to keep both lion beastmen confined in his room. Considering that OB!Leona was focused on getting your attention, it wasn't hard to manage him. It was all that his overblotted self wanted; attention and absolute adoration. Leona, on the other hand, was more so bothered by the fact you smelled too much like ink in his own room.

"Tell me, do you look at anyone else like this?" Having been kicked out of his own bed, Leona could only stare blankly from his couch as his copy kept you trapped against its chest on the mattress. It only served to annoy him further when you seemed to reciprocate the attention it was giving you. "No, only you." The copy smirks, its tail entangled around one of your legs. "Then tell me, why? What do you adore about me?"

You hummed, sighing while your hand began to play with his mane-like hair. "You're brilliant. You're the most cunning lion that I know." Leona swears you were teasing him as you take a quick glance at him, smiling slightly. "And you're the only one that can protect me." With a mocking grin, the copy cups your cheek and returns your gaze to his own. "Tell me more, herbivore."

When the copy finally reverts back to ink, Leona can't help but find some relief in having the bed (and you) all to himself again. The first thing he does is drag you to the mattress and keep you trapped against his chest. You still smell of ink and lion, and it's his job to fix that.

"Go to bed, herbivore... Ha? I don't have to give you an explanation. You're a smart cookie, haven't you figured it out yet? ... Even with all the answers my blotted copy gave you, you're still not satisfied? Hmph, that's not my problem anymore. You're mine now, is that what you wanted to hear? ... Good. Now if that is all, let's go to sleep. You reek of ink..."

AZUL ASHENGROTTO

It had become priority to get Azul's overblotted self into the biggest Octanivelle tank, which also happened to be the most isolated one. While OB!Azul seemed to be temporarily human, he seemed more irate with each second spent on the surface. It only relaxes slightly when it spots you, but his grip on your arm never relents. "Prefect, please. I need the sea..." He's just so needy and in pain. You'd help him, would you?

Azul is absolutely livid. He doesn't want you to see his copy in such a pathetic state. He most certainly tried to get you to turn the other way and march straight home, but you had to hit him with, "Even if it's your overblotted self, I would still help you." It might have been just a small comment, but he takes it as if you would move mountains for him. You weren't making it transactional, and that's practically special treatment for him.

You thought that his overblotted self would settle once in that tank. The copy immediately sheds its human form in favor of his merform, much to Azul's embarrassment. The businessman ready to drag you out and leave that blotted mess to fend for itself when a tentacle had dragged you into the water. Suddenly, you're met with teary blue eyes just before you were submerged. "You didn't plan to leave me here alone, did you?"

And goodness, Azul is just torn between fuming and panicking as his copy drags you further and further down. To make things worse, you haven't even taken a breathing potion! That was more than enough to make the octomer shake off his anxieties and plunge down into the waters after you before you drowned.

"And then what? What exactly were you planning to do once you had the Prefect here?" Azul pinched the bridge of his nose as he crossed his arms, unable to even make eye contact with you. Clutching at the little potion bottle in your hands, you do your best to ignore the way that the copy's tentacles seem to latch onto every single limb of yours. Not to mention how they twitch and slowly coil against your skin, or the way that the copy buries itself into your neck with a whine while it ignores its original.

"Why? Why won't you give me an answer?" It murmurs, arms caging you into its chest. You can see Azul's jaw clench, but you cannot exactly tell if he's embarrassed by how pathetic his overblot can be or envious of how it got a chance to be so close. "I'll give you everything. You will never want for anything. All you have to do is say that you'll be mine." The copy grits its teeth as it tightens its grip on you, tearing a surprised gasp from your throat.

"Why won't you surrender to me?"

The moment that this entire fiasco ends, you never see Azul for another two weeks. Every time you go to the Mostro Lounge to see him, he's suddenly occupied with every single disaster known to man. It isn't until Floyd gets bored of the entire thing when you get the opportunity to be tossed into the tank again. It isn't until Azul jumps into the tank after you with another breathing potion to save you, again.

"Please don't speak of that incident, Prefect. I wish you never had to be witness to such a sorry display... W-What do you mean Floyd told you about that botched blot experiment?! ... Don't play with me, Prefect. You can't just say that you'll surrender to me, you'll hurt my poor heart! ... If you dare say it again, I am afraid that the contract can never be broken. Choose your next words wisely, Prefect. Not all agreements have to be in writing."

JAMIL VIPER

Of all the Overblots here, Jamil's was the most... unhinged one, surprisingly. It was also the nastiest, based on how it seemed to disregard everyone around him. Truly, it was the worst of Jamil's envy and wrath towards everyone around him for shaping him as a servant. No matter what Jamil did to snap some sense into his copy's head, it only served to tick it off even more.

When you came to assess the situation, however, you immediately got the sense that the Overblot will not be cooperative unless it gets what it wants.

"Master Jamil," Both copy and original froze, slowly turning their heads to you, who has knelt onto the floor with a small smile. "A frown does not suit such a handsome face. Is there anything I can do for you?" Jamil remains frozen, mentally screaming in his head while his Overblotted self smirks, sauntering towards you with desire swirling in his maddened gaze. "Rise, my diamond. You certainly may do a little favour for me..."

Thanks to Kalim and the coordination of the entire Scarabia dorm, everyone has tricked OB!Jamil into thinking it was the boss of the place (at least for a day, Kamil is super understanding of the situation!). At least someone expected the copy to see through this farce, but OB!Jamil's ego was so stroked by you and everyone around that it seemed to buy into the delusion.

Unlike Leona's copy which was super uninterested with anything that didn't concern you, Jamil's blotted self was extremely irritant with everyone else. Had it not been for you, Jamil would never be able to live down the embarrassment for having such an... unpleasant copy. So far, there have been no disasters while Jamil was occupied with keeping his copy at bay.

It's just that... Jamil has been watching from the sidelines as you are perched on his copy's lap, feeding it and attending to it's every beck and call!

Gripping his knee, Jamil's eyes narrowed onto your flushed gaze as your fingers combed through his copy's hair. If he had envied everything that Kalim ever wase, he certainly envied the abomination wearing his face as it rested its head on your lap. You didn't have to look at Jamil to know that he was seething, but it wasn't as if you could abandon the blotted copy either. It had only been a few hours since it had latched onto you, and this was not the best time to agitate it.

"It seems that I have not rewarded you." The copy sings. Its expression remains content, shuddering at the sensation of your fingers pulling gently at its scalp. "Do tell me what you desire most." Your breath hitched at the copy's purr. You do not react either as the fake Jamil sits up to caress your warm cheek. Biting onto your lower lip, you shook your head. "I desire nothing but to make you happy, master." You swear that you see Jamil's expression strain itself, and you already see how tight he grips his knee.

"Is that so?" You say nothing when the copy leans in closer to you, licking its lips with intent. You should be frightened, and most certainly be running away, but you don't. "You wish to make me happy, then? Is it me that you want?"

All the signs were there. That copy's hand was pressed against your lower back, the other hand was on your cheek, and his face was so so close—

Its lips are hot to the touch, and you melt immediately into his hands as he pushes and prods with his tongue. Against the candlelight, Jamil cannot tell if your cheeks were truly flushed red. He watches as your own hands crept up onto the copy's shoulders, pressing and digging nails into its shoulders until you have the strength to push yourself away for air.

You pant as your vision returns to you, meeting the copy's cruel smirk. It is looking down on you, and yet, you do not feel animosity towards it. You only feel disappointment once you recall it was only a fake.

"Or perhaps," A gasp is torn from your throat when the fake grabs your cheeks with a firm hand, forcing your gaze to fall upon a stunned, yet flushed Jamil. The copy smiles wickedly against your cheek, humming with absolute glee.

"Is it him that you want instead?"

You nod, and Jamil's heart skips a beat.

Yeah, no. Our boy Jamil ain't recovering from this. The moment that the blot disappears, you best expect that Jamil ain't letting you leave that room without an answer.

"I wouldn't act coy right now, Prefect. You may be clever, but I have no patience for your antics. Now, are you going to be honest with me? ... Why don't you tell me what you want, instead? What? But you were so honest with that fake only a few moments ago. Where have your words gone? ... You wish for me to force the truth out of you, then? ... As you wish, Prefect. I will give you everything you want."

VIL SCHOENHEIT

This was such an inconvenience for poor Vil, and he hates his copy to the same extent that Azul does. Just like Riddle, Vil feels a sense of shame when he looks at his doppelganger because it was a personification of his insecurities and selfishness. However, at least the copy was very calm and cooperative, perhaps even melancholy until it sees you.

Seeing Vil's Overblotted self again doesn't change the fact that the fake was still so beautiful. You are actually stunned into silence when you are brought before the two. Grim swears you have stopped functioning because being in the presence of two Vil's is too much for this world.

If you weren't watching yourself, you would've passed out the moment OB!Vil cupped your cheek with its inky hand and smiled down at you. "Ah, Prefect..." You gulped as it cooed at you, much to Vil's alarm. Its surely dangerous, but danger loves you so much and you can't pull away from it.

OB!Vil never lets you out of its sight after that. Wherever you went, the blot would follow. It seems to be fixated on being in your sights, which was not exactly a problem when you brought yourself to Vil's quarters where you would wait the entire thing out. It does concern you, however, just as the copy seems to grow more and more unhinged with each second that passes.

Vil is not exactly envious of how intimate the fake acts with you. Rather, he's extremely perplexed and observant of the way it pines for your attention and praise like a lovesick puppy. However, it isn't always so sweet. It isn't so sweet when the copy comes so close to scratching at your skin as it begs for your honesty. It certainly does not appreciate being lied to.

"Tell me, Prefect. Who is the fairest one of all?" It asks for the hundredth time.

Vil cannot exactly explain how he found himself watching his copy cage you into his own bed. It has straddled your hips, pinning your hands down onto the mattress without a care for the mess it makes. Ink drips and spills over his silk sheets, his pillows, you. Your neck has been smeared with ink, and so have your clothes. His copy is smiling with ink dripping from its lips and its hair, an obscure yet beautiful mockery of the original.

The original's breath hitches as your lips part into a breathy smile. You look like absolute art, and his fake looks like an absolute mess. "You, Vil. You're the fairest one of all." Vil shut his eyes at your quiet whisper, and he wishes that you stop bending yourself over for this pathetic imitation of him.

The copy snorted in dismissal, a sinister grin taking over its features. "Ha!" Even as it grips your wrists tighter, you know better than to believe that the copy would dare hurt you. Your heart pounds, however, as it leans in closely to your face with desperation on its breath. "Why do you say such, Prefect? Why do you say such when you feast your gaze on the ugliest part of me?" A choked breath stills the copy, its grin growing more crooked and maddened. Ink splashes against your cheek, and the copy pathetically takes a long finger to smear it away, only obscuring your features further.

"Are you trying to lie to me?" It croaked, maintaining that desperately smile.

Vil thinks you'll push it away. Vil thinks that you think of his copy so hideously, and so ugly. Vil thinks that you see him as ugly.

And you dispel all those cursed thoughts as your hand reaches out to cup the copy's cheek, dirtying your own hand in turn. "You've pushed yourself so hard, Vil. You've worked hard for everything you dreamed of." The copy's crazed expression remains, and more ink pours into you. Still, you return it with a gentle smile of your own. "Even when everyone complains, you're only pushing them because you care the most. Perhaps you act like the evil queen everyone makes you out to be, but that crown is yours by right."

Vil's heart stops. He still cannot bring himself to look at the sight. It's that cynical part of him that believe in your acting skills, that this was all a ruse to satiate his fake. The knife digs into his chest further as you hummed sweetly. "Your flaws are just as beautiful to me."

Only then does Vil bring himself to look at his copy. It is still smiling, eyes so wide as blotted tears fall upon your skin. You are covered in ink, covered in the ugliness that had consumed Vil, but you accept it all. You embrace the mess, just as you embrace the ugliness of Vil's heart. "Do you truly mean it, Prefect?" Its whisper shakes with hope, very much unlike the weariness and suspicion it held towards you the entire time.

Both you and the copy slowly glance at the real Vil whose eyes had widened at your softened gaze, filled with nothing but adoration. The heart in his chest ached, and he imagines that his entire body is melting into your hands. You are his weakness, after all.

"I mean every word, Vil."

When the situation died down, Vil takes the time to walk you back to Ramshackle Dorm. However, he makes a quick stop when the moon is set at the right spot, just to cast down light on your starstruck gaze.

"To think that the ugliest part of me revealed such feelings— you deserve an appropriate confession, at the very least. The affection that my fake expressed to you was no different to what I feel for you. I realize... that you meant more to me than you should have. I am not a benevolent prince, nor am I pure as the white snow. Still, I offer my heart for you to keep in a box. I only ask you to accept me, for all my beauty and ugliness... Ha, potato. My lovely potato, you're mine..."

IDIA SHROUD

Surprisingly, Idia got along the most with his Overblotted self. It wasn't as if he was driven by pride or competition— there was just some sort of acceptance when OB!Idia was first manifested. There wouldn't have been much issues.

At least, that was what he wanted to believe before OB!Idia set his eyes on you. It sent Idia into a choking fit when he saw OB!Idia approach you with such cool indifference, acting like one of those aloof protagonists from those dark otome games that he saw on a playthrough once. It's the way that OB!Idia leaned down towards your ear, muttering something about his boredom and suggesting to retreat to his dorm.

Idia took an hour to recover before sprinting to his dorm to ensure nothing has happened. All he found was you sitting on OB!Idia's thighs (it insisted!), and Idia swore that his copy was smirking at him.

OB!Idia was nothing to be concerned about. It wasn't as if it had the power to open up the Gate of the Underworld, which so happened to be far away. Other than the fact that the copy seems so... forward with you, Idia tried his hardest to ignore it.

"You look tense, Prefect." The copy smirked as it gently backed you against the wall. It places an arm right above your head, the figure leaning down at you. Behind the mask it wore, you can almost see it smirking down on you. "Don't I scare you?"

If this was the copy's attempt to intimidate you, ha! You got it covered! Idia is practically weak to any sort of romantic notion, it should surely send his overblot into a flustered fit! Boldly, you close in the gap slightly, crossing your arms around his neck and smiled at him. "Not at all, Idia." Much to your surprise, however, the copy takes its hand to cradle the back of your head, gently nudging your face closer until you barely a hair's worth away from kissing his mask.

"Are you sure about that?"

Suddenly a flare of red catches your attention as you glance to the side to see a fuming Idia who snuck over to your side. Wrapping a possessive arm around your middle, the original Idia glared at the fake and gritted his sharp teeth. "Listen here, bucko. You ain't getting more action than me, so buzz off!" He towers over you, hair threatening to burn orange if this fake continues to toy with you. "You wanna play, huh? Only one of us can have her, and you're nothing but a MagicMart knock-off!"

Cocking its head to the side, the copy snorted. It didn't seem to relent its hold it had on you. Instead, it leaned in towards Idia with a taunting stare. "Yeah? Why don't you ask the Prefect, hm? Seems like our little guest is enjoying all the attention." Both of them glance down at you, who seemed to be busy turning red to even give a proper response.

The blotted copy takes its hand to cup your cheek gently, but it was only a ruse as it forces you to look at Idia, eyes hazy with want. The way your breath shudders makes the original itch to steal you away from the copy.

"Don't you?"

Take that ending however you will. Idia does end up confessing to you once his copy is reduced to ink once more.

"Don't give me that look, Prefect. You totally loved seeing me get all riled up. And don't you dare deny you hated the idea of getting sandwiched by two of me... Please don't make me say it. I ain't good at the 'asking out' part, but I don't wanna skip over to straight up dating. Ugh, fine. I actually liked you for a really long time, and oh Great Seven, I just hope that I'm saying the right stuff to get onto your route. You're the only route that I wanna pursue."

MALLEUS DRACONIA (Book 7 is incomplete at the time of this posting)

Had it not been for the lack of potency in the blot, OB!Malleus would have been the end of NRC. Lilia was not a stranger to Malleus's ability to change the environment based on his mood. Even when this was a mere fake that they were dealing with, no one really wants to find out the consequences of upsetting the copy.

Malleus looks down on his Overblotted self. It was a flawed part of him, but nonetheless, a part of him that he was most disappointed by. The Fae Prince should know better than to act so wickedly, but the original understands. He tries to be as sympathetic as he can be for the copy, but it was only indifferent to what the original demanded of it.

Being the concerned friend that you were, you went to see them both despite all warnings from Sebek. Admittedly, Malleus would rather you be as far away from this poor imitation as possible. He does not want to see you hurt, let alone be at the mercy of his copy. Alas, it is too late now. The blotted copy will not allow you to leave.

Malleus hid his frustrations and anger underneath that collected demeanor. The only thing keeping him from doing anything rash was the fact that you were cradled against his chest. With a protective arm holding your waist, you were seated upon the fae's lap. The copy is forced to look up at him as he sat on his makeshift throne, and the fury behind its eyes is most evident, based on the way its hands grip your knees as if it were the only piece of you left.

Alas, it is only a stalemate now. With each tug that the copy made at your lower half, Malleus would simply pull you closer to him in turn. The fae hummed, glaring down at the copy who seems indifferent to intimidation. "Prefect, you may only say the word and this fake will be no more." He grunted, and you resist the urge to whimper as the copy's lips turned upwards into a smile. "If you wish for it, Prefect, I will disappear." It cooed, and the glint in its eyes reflecting the madness of blot.

Hesitantly, you shake your head and only feel Malleus's nails brush against your waist. "I don't want you to disappear." You whispered meekly, uncertain of what to think of the fake's lovestruck gaze. "Prefect, do you know what I can give you?" Even as the fake is forced down by the original, it still has the nerve to reach out and cup your cheek. "I can grant your dreams. I can make your fantasies a reality. I can give you everything."

Malleus lets out a breath of warning, leaning down to your ear as he narrowed his eyes at the fake with restraint. "Do not listen to this mockery, Prefect." His words are tinged with a hint of desperation, as if he had something to hide, something to shield you from. No matter how much he attempts to intimidate the fake, his blotted self presses on with a cruel smile.

"Prefect, all you have to do is love me, fear me, and do as I say. I will be your servant to will, to rule, to ruin." You are frozen as Malleus loses his temper, swinging out his staff to dispel the fake once and for all. Much to his dismay, his blotted self backs away just in time as its glowing green eyes lock onto yours once more.

"All you have to do is stay with me, forever."

The campus lets out a collective sigh of relief when the OB!Malleus disappears. However, suddenly, the entire campus is holding its breath again when Malleus doesn't immediately let you leave his room.

"Prefect, I beseech for your forgiveness. I fear that the fake has reflected my most selfish desires... You have nothing to fear, for I shall never withhold you against your will. How could I do such a thing when I am already so weak to your whims? ... Perhaps you do not have to stay forever to render me your servant. I pine for you, Prefect. My heart has already been yours long before I noticed. Please, grant me your forgiveness, Prefect, lest you cast me aside and I shall let my feelings fade with time."

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luveline · 18 hours ago

Text

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]

c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I don’t want to see you anymore.

The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest.

He puts down his pen.

The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club.

His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.

He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in.

He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can.

Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him.

Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you.

And now it’s over.

He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk.

“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“What happened?”

Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?”

“Hotch?” Morgan asks again.

Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage.

The fifth time, you answer.

He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks.

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?”

He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.”

“I don’t want to be with you.”

“Have I upset you?”

“Would that make it easier?”

“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.”

“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”

“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.”

“No–”

“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.”

“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.”

“I’m on my way.”

He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.

He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment.

He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day?

Now he’s thinking, What did I do?

He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks.

“Come in, Aaron.”

He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom.

You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share.

“Hi.”

“Can I sit down?”

You gesture for him to do as he likes.

Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.

“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly.

“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.”

You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone.

“What’s making you feel that way?”

“Does it matter?”

Again, avoiding and evasive.

He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?”

“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree.

“No?” he asks.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.”

You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?”

“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.”

“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?”

You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting.

“What do you want me to say?” you ask.

Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead.

Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow.

“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.”

“Then what’s making you feel this way?”

You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze.

He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.”

“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?”

“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”

“What about what I think?”

“What do you think?”

You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.”

Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.”

“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly.

“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.”

“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.”

“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.”

“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago.

“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.”

“I don’t know who I am…”

“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles.

“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.”

“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.”

You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.”

“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.”

You share a look.

“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble.

“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.”

“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath.

“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly.

Your breath warms his arm. “No.”

“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.”

“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath.

“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.”

“You like making girls cry.”

“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…”

Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.”

“All my fault.”

“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.”

“Stop making me feel guilty.”

His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.”

“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.”

“I know. Just step on me a bit.”

“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…”

“Just rough me up a little.”

“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.”

“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching.

He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh.

“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.”

“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.”

“Sorry. Just had to get it in.”

He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.”

“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.

You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely.

“Sorry,” you say.

“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.”

“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden.

You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you.

“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.”

“I’m not that young,” you say.

“So you admit it?”

You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar.

—

…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…

Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off.

The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate.

You press a hand down your side.

To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl.

You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said.

This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite.

“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?”

You laugh. “I bet you hope so.”

“That’s accusatory in nature.”

“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom.

Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling.

“Home only,” he says.

“I knew you’d say that.”

“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil.

“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.”

Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.”

“I said too slutty.”

“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…”

“The man who loves me?”

“Exactly.”

He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause.

“Spin?” he asks.

One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles.

“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.”

“I have a confession.”

“Yeah?”

“This one was for you.”

He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.”

“This is the last one.”

“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion.

You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you.

You ease the pillow down his face.

“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask.

“Not purposefully.”

“You look a little… hot.”

“That makes two of us.”

It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face.

“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest.

He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard.

They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady.

“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply.

You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron?

“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you.

“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.”

His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest.

You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about.

“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful.

He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.”

You knew he’d like the white babydoll.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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beloveds-embrace · 2 days ago

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Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

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sonarspace · 2 days ago

Text

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆STUDY BREAK (FT. GOJO)

꒰ synopsis. being in the same class as gojo satoru was bad enough; having him as the professor’s insufferably smug assistant made it worse. content. college au. nsfw. (teasing. slight praise kınk. fıngering. oräl. p in v. multiple ōrgasms.) wc. 5.3k. an. to clear up any confusion 😭.. satoru’s a senior student + the professor’s assistant in the course you’re both taking. (fic is kinda all over the place so idk if this works but let’s pretend like it does).

there’s something about gojo satoru that drives you insane. not in the fun, heart-fluttering way that comes with a secret crush or the thrill of banter. no—this is the kind of insane where you want to hurl something, preferably at his stupidly smug face.

“class,” he drawls, leaning lazily against the desk at the front of the room, his shirt slightly rumpled like he doesn’t give a damn—and he doesn’t. “these papers? a mixed bag. some of you really impressed me. others… well.” his lips curve into a smirk. “let’s just say the recycling bin was hungry.”

you groan inwardly, already sensing where this is going. he’s done this before, holding your work hostage like it’s part of his routine entertainment.

“and here,” he continues, brandishing a paper like a prop. your paper. “is a prime example of someone… almost getting there. strong ideas, decent execution, but the conclusion? oof. fell harder than my GPA sophomore year.”

a few students laugh. your jaw tightens, the heat in your chest bubbling up into something sharp and biting. he doesn’t have to name you; everyone knows exactly whose paper he’s waving around.

“anyway,” he finishes with a shrug, tossing the paper onto the desk like it’s disposable. “there’s potential. keep at it.”

you don’t even wait for class to end before your resolve solidifies: you’re going to kill him. maybe not literally, but metaphorically? absolutely.

you don’t plan on storming to his dorm room. it just… happens. one moment, you’re replaying his smug grin and the way his eyes gleamed when he mocked your paper, and the next, you’re standing outside his door, your fist raised to knock.

he answers quickly, and the sight of him makes you falter. his hair is damp, sticking out in soft tufts like he just got out of the shower, and his plain white t-shirt clings to him in a way that’s almost—no. you shake the thought away.

“well, this is unexpected,” he says, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that’s all teeth. “if you wanted private tutoring, you could’ve just asked.”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, brushing past him into the room without waiting for an invitation.

he whistles low under his breath. “feisty tonight. to what do I owe the pleasure?”

you spin to face him, your hands clenched at your sides. “what is your problem with me?”

he blinks, his smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before returning full force. “problem? sweetheart, i don’t have a problem with you.”

“you humiliate me in class,” you say, your voice rising. “you make these comments, you single me out—what, are you that bored with your life?”

“humiliate?” he echoes, feigning a wounded look. “i think you mean ‘motivate.’ you’re one of the smartest people in that class. if i don’t push you, who will?”

“that’s bullshit,” you fire back, stepping closer. “you don’t ‘push’ anyone else.”

“because no one else is as fun,” he replies easily, his grin tilting into something sharper. “the way you react, the fire in your eyes—it’s addictive.”

your breath catches, the heat in your chest spreading to your cheeks. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, here you are,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel heavier. “in my room. alone.”

“because you drive me crazy,” you snap, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

his eyebrows lift slightly, as if he’s genuinely intrigued by your outburst. “good crazy or bad crazy?”

he takes a step closer, too close. the kind of close that makes your pulse stutter and your instincts scream at you to step back—but you don’t. instead, you stand your ground, your jaw clenched as he waits for your answer, his gaze steady and almost daring.

“what does it matter?” you mutter, your voice quieter now, the heat of your earlier anger ebbing into something more uncertain.

“it matters,” he says, his voice low as his eyes flicker to your lips. “because I need to know if I can do this.”

before you can ask what he means, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. but you don’t. his hand finds your waist, tugging you closer as the kiss deepens, his mouth hot and insistent against yours.

it’s like a dam breaking. weeks—months—of tension and unspoken words all come crashing down in a rush of heat and urgency. his other hand slides into your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, and the sound you make in response is embarrassing and needy, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you should stop this. you should push him away, tell him he’s crossed a line. but the way his thumb brushes against your waist, the way he tilts his head just right, the way he kisses like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have—it’s addictive. you can’t stop. you don’t want to.

but then reality slams into you like a cold gust of wind. what are you doing? your chest tightens as the weight of it crashes down all at once, the heat between you dissolving into something sharper, more terrifying.

you pull back abruptly, your breathing uneven. “i can’t.”

he blinks, his expression softening from one of heat to confusion. “what?”

“this—this is a mistake,” you stammer, backing away. your hands feel clumsy as they fumble behind you for the door. “i shouldn’t have come here.”

“wait.” his hand reaches out, almost instinctively, but you’re already opening the door, your chest tight and your mind racing as you step out into the hall. you don’t look back, even as the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin.

────

you avoid him after that. in class, you sit as far from him as possible, claiming a seat in the back corner, close to the door. the usual tension he brought to the room—his teasing remarks, his piercing gaze when he caught you rolling your eyes—feels conspicuously absent. he doesn’t call on you, doesn’t glance your way, doesn’t even acknowledge you.

it’s been weeks since that night in his dorm, and as the semester nears its end, the distance feels heavier with every passing class. his silence, once the thing you desperately wanted, now presses on your chest like a weight. you wonder if he regrets it, if he’s just as caught in the what-ifs as you are—or if he’s already forgotten.

the final project looms, deadlines creeping closer, but the distraction isn’t enough to stop the quiet ache that’s settled in your chest. you remind yourself it’s for the best. boundaries were crossed, a line you know you shouldn’t have stepped over. it doesn’t matter how he made you feel, how his kisses left you breathless and yearning. none of it matters.

and yet, every time you leave class, you rush, head down, praying he won’t stop you. and every time he doesn’t, the ache grows.

when class ends today, the air feels heavier than usual. your peers chatter around you, their voices blending into background noise as you pack your things quickly, eyes fixed on the door. if you can just slip out unnoticed, avoid another day of walking the tightrope you’ve been balancing on since that night—

but then a hand wraps gently around your wrist, warm and familiar.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says, his voice low and steady. there’s no edge to it, no teasing grin or smug undertone. just quiet certainty, like he’s stating a fact.

you freeze, your heart thudding in your chest. it’s been so long since he’s said anything to you that the sound of his voice directed at you feels foreign.

“i’m late,” you mumble, tugging your wrist weakly in an attempt to free yourself. “let me go.”

“you don’t have any classes after this,” he says, his grip loosening but not letting go. his eyes meet yours, calm but resolute. “i checked your schedule.”

your jaw tightens, irritation flashing through you. “you shouldn’t have access to my schedule.”

“probably not,” he admits with a shrug, a hint of the old satoru creeping into his voice, “but i’m me.”

you open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him to back off, but he cuts you off first. “come have coffee with me.”

you blink, caught off guard by the casual offer. “what?”

“coffee,” he repeats, his tone light, as if this is perfectly normal. “you like coffee, don’t you?”

“that’s not the point,” you snap, yanking your wrist free from his grasp. “what is this, some weird apology?”

“it’s not weird,” he says, his smirk faltering slightly now, his expression open and strangely earnest. “it’s just coffee. with me.”

you stare at him, struggling to find the right words. “gojo,” you begin, your voice heavy, “you and i are not friends.”

his face falls, the shift so quick and unexpected that it makes your stomach twist. you see the way his shoulders tense, the way his gaze drops for just a moment, but you force yourself to look away. without giving him a chance to reply, you turn and push past him, your steps quick and unsteady as you leave the classroom.

the ache in your chest grows with every step, and even as you round the corner, out of sight, the image of his expression lingers. there’s no relief this time. only guilt.

────

you don’t know why you’re here. no, that’s a lie—you know exactly why you’re here. the memory of his expression, the slight drop of his shoulders at your retort, has been looping in your mind, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

your feet carry you down the familiar path to his dorm, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step. before you can talk yourself out of it, your fist is already knocking on the door.

it opens almost immediately, and the sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. his white hair is a mess, sticking up in chaotic directions, and his glasses are perched crookedly on his nose. there’s a faint crease on his cheek, like he’d been leaning against a book, and his shirt hangs loosely off one shoulder, rumpled from sleep or hours spent working. he looks… soft. disarming. almost painfully cute.

“coffee,” you say, holding up the cups like a white flag. “can i come in?”

his lips twitch, a hint of a smile breaking through the haze of surprise as he steps aside. “bribery, huh? didn’t think you had it in you.”

his dorm is as cluttered as you remember—papers and notebooks sprawled across his desk, a blinking laptop shoved precariously to one side. you set the coffee down on the edge of the desk, your gaze catching on the scrawled notes and dense blocks of text.

“grading?” you ask.

“research,” he replies, dropping onto the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. his hand rakes through his already-messy hair, making it stick up even more. “finals prep. you know, glamorous TA things.”

you hand him a cup, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. the simple contact sends a jolt up your arm that you stubbornly ignore. “thought you could use it.”

he hums as he takes a sip, his lashes fluttering briefly before he lets out a quiet sound of approval. the noise is so low, so soft, it makes your stomach twist. you glance away quickly, your grip tightening on your own cup.

“about the other day,” you start, the words quiet and tentative.

he glances up, the coffee still in his hands. his expression is unreadable, but his fingers still against the cup, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “you don’t have to explain,” he says, setting his cup down on the desk. “if you don’t want this—if i got it wrong—just say so.”

“it’s not that,” you blurt, the words tumbling out too fast, too raw. warmth floods your cheeks, creeping down to your chest. “i just… i don’t know what this is.”

he doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t fall into his usual teasing deflection. instead, he stands, crossing the small space between you with deliberate steps. his gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you can’t control.

“let me show you,” he says softly, his voice low, uncharacteristically serious.

he’s so close now, his hand brushing against yours, his touch light, almost hesitant. and then his lips are on yours, and everything else fades away.

this kiss is nothing like the first. there’s no uncertainty, no restraint. his hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moves against yours, hot and insistent. your grip on the coffee slips, the cup hitting the floor with a dull thud as your hands find his shoulders, clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

when his hands slide under your shirt, the roughness of his palms against your bare skin makes you shudder. he guides you backward, his body pressing into yours until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. you sink down, the weight of him grounding you as he follows, his lips trailing fire along your jaw and down your neck.

his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, brushing the underside of your ribs, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch of you. when he pulls back to look at you, his lips are curved in a wicked, breath-stealing grin.

“you’re infuriating,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough as his eyes rake over you, drinking in every detail.

“you’re worse,” you manage, though your voice is barely more than a whisper.

his grin widens, and his laugh is warm against your skin as he dips his head, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “you’re already so worked up. it’s cute.”

“shut up,” you snap, though the way your hips arch into his touch betrays you.

“make me,” he challenges, his lips brushing against yours before descending lower, kissing down your collarbone and tugging your shirt higher with every inch. his hands roam greedily, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him without a second thought.

his mouth is back on you immediately, nipping and kissing along the swell of your breasts as his hands work the clasp of your bra. when it comes free, his lips part in a satisfied hum, his hands kneading your soft skin like he’s savoring every second of this.

“so fucking perfect,” he mutters, his voice husky as he leans back slightly to take in the sight of you. his gaze is heavy, filled with something dark and hungry that makes your stomach twist in the best way.

“stop staring,” you grumble, though the heat in your cheeks betrays the sharpness of your words.

“can’t help it,” he says, his grin tilting into something softer, more genuine. “you’re gorgeous.”

before you can respond, his mouth is back on you, his tongue flicking over your nipple as his other hand trails down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your pants. your breath hitches as he pauses, his gaze flicking up to meet yours.

“can i?” he asks, his voice quieter now, his expression serious.

you nod, and he wastes no time. his fingers hook under the fabric, tugging your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. the cool air against your bare skin makes you shiver, but the warmth of his hands is there immediately, coaxing you to relax under his touch.

“look at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick as his hands part your thighs, his gaze drinking in every inch of you. “so fucking pretty.”

your cheeks flush, and you try to turn your head away, but his hand cups your chin, gently coaxing you to meet his eyes. “don’t hide from me,” he says, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “not tonight.”

his other hand slides between your thighs, his touch featherlight at first, teasing. when his thumb brushes over your clit, a jolt of heat shoots through you, and your hips buck involuntarily.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a wicked grin. “i barely touched you, and you’re already squirming.”

“shut up,” you snap, your voice shaky as your fingers clutch at the sheets beneath you. but the way your body reacts—arching into his touch, chasing the pressure—makes it clear that his teasing isn’t far from the truth.

“you don’t really want me to, do you?” his voice is low, almost a growl, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. “i think you like when i talk to you like this. when i tell you how good you’re doing, how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

your chest heaves as his fingers dip lower, sliding through your slick folds with infuriating slowness. every movement feels deliberate, calculated, like he’s savoring every second. when his fingers finally slip inside you, the stretch makes your head fall back, a gasp tumbling from your lips.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers begin to move, slow and deliberate at first. “you feel so fucking good, baby. so perfect.”

your hands fly to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he curls his fingers, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. “oh my god—gojo—”

he tuts sharply, his fingers pausing inside you, his thumb stalling its maddening rhythm. your head snaps up, breathless and confused, to find him staring down at you with a dark look, his lips curving into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“no,” he says firmly, his voice low and commanding as he tilts his head. “say satoru.”

“w-what?” you stammer, your heart racing as his fingers remain perfectly still, the tension building with every passing second.

“not ‘gojo,’” he says again, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, his grin sharpening. “say satoru.”

you hesitate, your breath hitching as your body trembles beneath him. he presses his fingers deeper, curling them just enough to make your toes curl, and your resolve shatters.

“satoru,” you gasp, your voice breaking on the syllables.

his smirk widens, something dark and triumphant flickering in his eyes. “good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb resuming its slow, torturous circles on your clit as his fingers pick up their rhythm again, harder this time, deeper.

your head falls back against the mattress, your body arching into his touch as the pleasure builds again, higher and hotter than before. his name tumbles from your lips like a mantra, breathless and needy as he drives you closer to the edge.

“that’s it,” he coaxes, his voice dripping with praise as his free hand slides down your body, his touch possessive. “just like that, baby. let go for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens to the breaking point, and when he curls his fingers just right, pressing against the perfect spot, it snaps. your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and overwhelming, and his name spills from your lips in a broken moan.

“satoru—fuck—”

“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval as he works you through the waves of pleasure, his movements slowing but never stopping until your body goes slack beneath him, trembling and spent.

he pulls his hand away slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a deliberate, satisfied hum. “even better than i imagined,” he says, his voice dripping with arrogance, his eyes gleaming as they roam over your flushed, trembling body.

you blink, your breath still uneven as his words settle over you. “wait—” you say, your voice catching slightly. “you’ve thought about this?”

his grin widens, slow and deliberate, and he leans down, bracing himself on his forearms so his face is just inches from yours. “oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, “you really think i haven’t?”

your cheeks flush even hotter, your pulse racing as his words sink in. “you’re—” you stammer, at a rare loss for words. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous?” he repeats, feigning offense, though the wicked glint in his eyes never falters. “i’d say i’m a man of focus. you’ve been in my head for weeks, driving me insane with that sharp mouth and the way you look at me when you think i don’t notice.”

“i don’t—” you begin, but his lips curve into a knowing smirk, cutting you off.

“you do,” he insists, his tone softening just slightly. “and every time you glared at me, every time you rolled your eyes or bit back some little retort, all i could think about was how much i wanted to shut you up. like this.”

his lips capture yours again, and this kiss is slower, heavier, laced with an intensity that makes your toes curl. his hands roam, sliding over your bare skin with a reverence that feels almost out of place against his words.

when he finally pulls back, his gaze is still on you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “and now that i’ve got you,” he says, his voice dipping into something darker, “i don’t think i’ll ever get enough.”

the weight of his confession leaves you breathless, and before you can respond, his lips are trailing down your body again, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.

“what are you—” you start, but his eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them steals the rest of your words.

“relax,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a soft, almost mischievous smile. “i’m not done tasting you yet.”

his hands slide to grip your thighs, pulling you apart with ease as his lips descend, brushing over your inner thighs, teasingly slow. his tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, and when his mouth finally finds you again, you feel your body arch instinctively, your breath leaving in a sharp, unrestrained gasp.

he’s relentless. his tongue drags up your folds in a languid stroke before circling your clit with maddening precision. his mouth is hot, the slick, wet sounds mingling with your soft moans, and his breath—warm and uneven—fans against your skin with every movement.

his hair brushes against your thighs, soft and messy, and your fingers thread through it again, tugging sharply enough to make him groan against you. the vibration of it sends a jolt of pleasure straight through your core, and your hips buck against his mouth.

“satoru,” you gasp, but it’s barely coherent, your voice breaking as he latches onto your clit, sucking just enough to make your toes curl. “oh my—”

the cold press of something against your inner thigh pulls you out of the haze, just barely. it’s sharp, unfamiliar, and you glance down—his glasses. they’re still perched on his nose, slightly crooked, the metal frame fogging faintly from the heat of his breath. he’s so lost in the moment, so focused on the way his tongue works against you, that he hasn’t even noticed.

your hand drifts down, brushing against the cool frame, and you slip them off without a word. the absurdity of it—the way he’s been eating you out with his glasses still on—makes you want to laugh. the corners of your mouth twitch, and a soft sound bubbles up in your throat, but then his tongue presses flat against your folds, dragging up in one slow, deliberate motion, and the laugh dissolves into a sharp moan.

your head falls back against the pillow, your hand tangling back in his hair as you toss the glasses onto the bed with the other. the noise they make as they hit the mattress is faint, drowned out by the obscene wet sounds of his mouth, the low hums of satisfaction he lets out as he devours you.

“fuck,” you whimper, your thighs trembling as his tongue flicks against your clit again, faster now, more insistent. your body arches instinctively, chasing the pressure, and his hands tighten on your thighs, pulling you even closer to his mouth.

he growls against you, the sound low and rough, vibrating through you in a way that makes your toes curl. his tongue dips lower, teasing your entrance before sliding back up, and the sharp scrape of his teeth against your swollen clit has you seeing stars.

“so fucking sweet,” he mutters, his voice muffled against your slick skin. “can’t get enough of you, baby.”

you can’t respond, can’t think. the only thing you can focus on is the way his tongue works against you, precise and relentless, building the heat in your stomach until it’s unbearable. your fingers twist in his hair, pulling harder, and the groan he lets out in response sends you spiraling.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips like a prayer, breathless and broken. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his mouth dragging you closer and closer to the edge until you can’t hold on any longer.

your orgasm hits you hard, ripping through you in waves that leave your entire body trembling. your hips jerk against his hold, your moans loud and unrestrained as you ride it out. his tongue slows, working you through every aftershock until you’re left panting, boneless against the bed.

when he finally pulls back, his chest is heaving, his lips and chin glistening with your slick. his hair is a mess, strands sticking up where your fingers had tugged, and his eyes—those impossibly bright blues—flick up to meet yours, gleaming with satisfaction.

“twice,” he says, his voice low and teasing as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

he sits back on his knees, his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs as he takes in the sight of you—flushed, panting, your chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. his grin is lazy, self-satisfied, like he knows exactly what he’s done to you.

“you’re staring,” you mutter weakly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“hard not to,” he replies, his tone low and full of amusement. his fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch soft, teasing. “you look so fucking good when you come.”

your cheeks burn, and you want to glare at him, to tell him to shut up, but the words catch in your throat as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. in one fluid motion, he pulls it over his head and tosses it to the side, the movement effortless and maddeningly confident.

your eyes follow the shift of his muscles, the way they ripple under his skin, lean and defined. a faint sheen of sweat glistens across his chest, catching the dim light, highlighting every sharp line and curve. your gaze drifts lower, down to the sharp ridges of his abdomen. the faint trail of white hair starting just below his navel draws your attention, leading your eyes further, until his hands move to the waistband of his boxers.

he doesn’t rush. he hooks his thumbs under the fabric, dragging it down slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach. as the fabric falls away, your breath hitches.

he’s fully bare now, and your mouth goes dry.

his cock is… breathtaking. thick and flushed a deep pink at the tip, already leaking beads of precum that catch the light as they drip down the length. it’s long, the kind of length that makes your thighs press together instinctively, wondering how he’ll fit, but the heat pooling low in your stomach burns hotter, overriding any hesitation.

his hand wraps around it, and he strokes himself slowly, his thumb swiping over the head to collect the wetness there. the motion is deliberate, almost lazy, and the soft groan he lets out sends a shiver down your spine.

you’re staring—you know you are—and he notices, his lips curving into a wicked grin as his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he leans forward, the head of his cock brushing against your folds, slick and hot. “i’ll make it fit.”

his words send a shiver through you, his voice low and dripping with confidence. the weight of his cock against your folds, hot and heavy, is enough to make your hips twitch instinctively, chasing the friction. but he doesn’t push in right away—of course he doesn’t. instead, he drags the head up and down your slick, letting it catch on your clit with every pass, teasing you until you’re squirming beneath him.

“satoru,” you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. you’re not above begging at this point. “please.”

his grin widens, his head dipping to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “what’s the rush, baby? we’ve got all night.”

“satoru,” you repeat, more insistently this time, and he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, his cock twitching against you.

“fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight now, losing some of that smug edge. “you sound so pretty when you beg.”

he lines himself up, his hand still wrapped around the base as he presses the head against your entrance. the stretch is immediate, a sharp, overwhelming mix of pleasure and pressure as he pushes in slowly, inch by inch.

“holy shit,” he breathes, his voice rough as his head falls forward, his hair brushing against your cheek. “you’re so fucking tight.”

your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your breath catching as he sinks deeper, the fullness stealing every coherent thought from your mind. he pauses halfway, his free hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

“you okay?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

you nod, your voice shaky as you answer. “yeah. just—keep going.”

his jaw tightens, and he exhales slowly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he starts to move again. every inch feels impossibly deep, your walls stretching around him, and when he finally bottoms out, you both pause, your breaths mingling as you try to adjust.

“fuck,” he groans again, his voice strained as his hips twitch against yours. “you feel so good. better than i ever—” he cuts himself off with a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “shit, you’re perfect.”

you can barely respond, the stretch and fullness leaving you trembling. but then he starts to move, pulling out almost entirely before sliding back in with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. the drag of his cock against your walls is enough to have you moaning, your head falling back against the pillow.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his voice rough and approving as he sets a steady rhythm. “good girl. taking me so well.”

your hands trail down his back, your nails scraping lightly against his skin, and the groan he lets out sends a fresh wave of heat through you. his movements quicken, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, and every thrust has him hitting that perfect spot deep inside you, making you cry out.

“satoru—” his name falls from your lips again, and he leans down, his teeth grazing your neck as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you in place as he drives into you. “you feel so good—so fucking perfect for me.”

the coil in your stomach tightens with every roll of his hips, the pressure building higher and higher until it’s unbearable. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles that make your vision blur, and your moans grow louder, more desperate.

“come for me,” he demands, his voice rough and low in your ear. “let me feel you.”

the command sends you over the edge. your orgasm rips through you, your body arching into his as you cry out, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. your walls clench around him, and the sensation makes him groan, his thrusts growing erratic as he chases his own release.

“fuck—” he gasps, burying himself as deep as he can go as he comes, the heat of him spilling into you, thick and warm. his head falls to your shoulder, his breath ragged against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure.

the room is quiet except for the sound of your heavy breathing, the air thick and charged as he finally pulls back, his weight pressing into you as he collapses onto the bed beside you. his arm slides around your waist, pulling you against his chest as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your temple.

“told you i’d make it fit,” he murmurs, his voice still rough, but there’s a hint of smugness there, his lips curving into a small grin.

you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, your body still trembling against his. “you’re such an asshole.”

“yeah,” he agrees, his tone light, teasing, as he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “but you like it.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat to it, your lips curving into a faint smile as you bury your face against his chest. “shut up, satoru.”

“never,” he replies, and the warmth of his laughter vibrates through you, grounding you as your breaths slowly even out.

an. gojo with glasses... *hnnggghh*

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

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stonerfromlesbos · 2 days ago

Text

✦ make it worse. | b.e

warnings: smut, oral, strap usage, hair pulling, tit sucking (all !r receiving), degrading, spanking, brat !reader, brat tamer !billie, mentions of safe word (not used), jealosy, billie being sweet at the end.

summary: how you should react to that? some random girl calling your girlfriend ‘mommy’ right in front of you, after weeks that billie hadn’t fucked you properly… well, maybe you ill had to tease her until you get what you want.

“baby please, i have to get ready to enter the stage in a few minutes.” billie said as you two were cuddling on the dressing room couch. your legs crossed on both sides of her waist, holding her sides tightly. “im gonna miss you so much.” you said with your usual whiny dramatic tone, making a pout face.

“is just one show… you will be watching it in your usual vip spot tho, ur already being privileged, my girl.” she says giggling and kissing your forehead softly. her fingers go up to your head, caressing your hair gently. the ‘my girl’ never failed in getting you flushed. “let me be selfish, bills.” you said with a pout face again, she just smiled gently at you. billie loved the way you wanted to be glued with her 24/7. she gave you multiple fast kisses, getting up and entering the box she was transported in.

the show was starting now, you could hear all the fans screaming and shouting at billie while she sang. her voice was almost angelic, she sang all those lines with all her heart. billie couldn’t stop herself of looking at you, no, she looked at the crowd, but at you? she boldly stared. those lines at her song ‘lunch’… she was almost singing them just for you. at many moments you cried, hearing her soft voice sing the most beautiful lines in the world.

but one in specific was your favorite, when the party is over. and it was a big moment in her show too, you felt so proud remembering that you gave her the idea of synching the vocals, she didn’t thought it was going to work because of the silence but it did. and it was fucking beautiful everytime. when she was preparing herself, she started her usual speech.

“guys.. i need you to be quiet right now.” she said and shortly after you could hear a girl screaming from the crowd, and it just made your blood boil. “yes mommy!” the girl said, clearly kidding, but after that billie started giggling. she was fuckin’ laughing at that, in front of you? it wasn’t a big deal, but, your blood just boiled, knowing that other girl called her that, and she fucking thought it was funny.

you would usually think it is funny too, but after she dragged you into a tour and almost refusing to fuck you, you were almost insane. billie didn’t want to take a night off to pay an hotel to be alone with you just because all of you were going to give the first tour break in like, 3 days. you were trying really hard to fight the urge of fucking her every single night, but this? this was too fucking much. as soon as the show ended, she leaded you towards the backstage.

“hi my angel” she said gently, holding your waist and walking with you by her side towards the dressing room. “hi billie.” you answered in an raspy tone. giving a clear hint that something wasn’t okay. “what happened?” she says closing the door behind her, looking at you with true concern. “you tell me, laughing at those fucking stupid things.” you didn’t look directly at her eyes, crossing your arms, you were acting childish, but you couldn’t help it.

“its because of that? seriously?” she said in misbelief, giggling getting closer to you, holding your waist. you still refused to stare at her, those goddam eyes, the smirk you could feel on her face, it was all to much. you took her hands out of you, going towards the other side of the room. sitting on the couch and going through your socialmedia, completely ignoring her.

“ignoring me huh?” she said standing in front of you, grabbing the phone from your hand and lowering herself to make you stare at her. her hair was messy and down now, but her black liner was still perfect. billie’s eyes just drowned you into them, it was some sort of magical power. “js showing you what you should’ve done with that girl.” you said raspy, staring at her with a nonchalant face, trying to hide how bad you wanted to make her take you right there.

“stop bein’ a fucking brat, you know damn well it was a joke.” she said with a serious tone, but you knew her. she wasn’t being serious, she wanted you to misbehave. just with that phrase you knew, she was going to fuck you tonight. “maybe i wouldn’t be if you just fucked me like you usually did, now im here, having to watch other girl call you ‘mommy’ while the ‘mommy’ here is just an lazy bitch.” you said trying so hard to not smirk, it was kind of your game… you would push her to her limits, until she was fucking you brainless.

“you’re such a slut, are you even hearing yourself right now? you can’t stand not being fucked by a week? maybe i will gift you a fucking vibrator if you need to cum that bad all the time.” she said mockingly, smirking at each word. “maybe i wouldn’t need a vibrator if my girlfriend wasn’t so incompetent, why im even dating you if you can’t make me cum properly?” you said getting up, staring at billie, getting closer trying to intimidate her. as she just grabbed your arms tightly. “i can’t make you cum? you are really sayin’ that?” she says with an smirk, you knew that you reached it, you made her mad enough.

billie’s hands were now grabbing your hair, not in a gentle way. she forced you to sit on the couch as she refused to kiss you. “gonna show u what i can do, slut.” she said almost ripping your tank top off, now staring at your exposed tits. “no bra?” she said sliding a hand underneath your skirt, and realizing that you were not wearing nothing underneath. “no underwear? desperate slut almost begging to be fucked.” she said in a low teasing voice. “stop being a fucking bitch and do it.” you said smirking and looking at her eyes, the next thing you felt was a harsh slap across your face, as billie grabbed your chin and pulled your face closer to her.

“fuckin’ behave, this is not going to end well to you, so you might as well don’t make it worse. keep this up and ill edge you all night, not letting you cum even a single fuckin’ time. understood?” she says with a even lower voice. staring deep at your eyes, you knew she was serious, because she already did that. and it was fucking hell on earth. she slapped you like thirty times just because you touched your clit. “yes..” you said giving in, in a more fearful tone.

“already tamed? weak slut, can’t stand the thought of not cumming huh?” she said mocking you, smirking as she layed down, giving her lap gentle pats. you understand the signs and go to sit on it, straddling her sides. billie’s hands quickly find their way to your skirt, lifting it up to exposed your bare ass. you try to kiss her, but she puts you away. “if you act like a slut, you get treated like one.” she says grabbing your ass tightly, feeling your soaked cunt starting to grind on her crotch. “fuckin’ stop that, sit on my face, now.” she demanded you, as you started going up. finally fitting the lower half of her face in the middle of your thighs.

“you’re dripping baby.” she said before entering your needy hole with her tongue, and after that, making her way to suck on your clit. you could feel every way she flicked her tongue on your sensitive spot. you covered your mouth with your own hands, trying not to scream in pleasure right now. it was not a fucking hotel, it was an dressing room, and you knew that all her team was on the room beside this one.

“taste s’ good, mamas.” she was fucking devouring you, like she was a starving beast. you could feel your hips grinding billie’s face as you were almost cumming. she could feel your insides tightening around her tongue, and then, she stopped. “do u really think im goin’ to let u cum this easy? after all you did?” she smirked giggling as she took your hips off her face, getting up of the couch and grabbing her bag.

that fucking bag.

billie took two straps out of the bed, one black and one red, you were used to the red one… but the black? that one was new. your eyes widened as you saw the size of it, it was fucking huge. “what do u wanna take first? huh? the black is 9 inches and the red is 7,5.” you were so fucking screwed, you were sure it wasn’t going to fit inside of you. “9 inches??? bills… i can’t take that.” you said with genuine concern.

she opened an gentle smile. “but you will.” her smile started to turn into a smirk. “ill get you prepared to it, and if it really is too much, you know what do to.” she said refearing to your safe word. you knew she wasn’t ever gonna do something to hurt you, so you trusted her. now she was unbuckling her belt and placing the red strap on her, getting closer to you again. “face down, ass up.” you obeyed her without questions, getting on the position she demanded you to.

"such a good girl." she says placing the faux cock on your folds, teasing you. you kept quiet, whimpering as you were being teased... it turned billie on, but she wanted to hear you. she harshly slapped your ass cheek. "are you behaving because you´re a good girl or a needy slut who got tired of acting up, huh?" she says chuckling, and grabbing a fistfull of your hair, pulling your head back. "don´t get cocky, you know i had to act up. or else you would keep me here insatisfait... then maybe i could write a song just like "over now".." you said giggling, mocking her, she kept quiet, but you still decided to hum the lyrics of her song.

"It's not that complicated"

"I wasn't satiated"

"You weren't that bad, just lazy"

you were so focused on humming the lyrics that you couldn´t realize that she was placing her cock right on entrance with the hand she had free. billie slammed her whole cock into you, making you unable to continue teasing her. she was rough, but she didn´t want to hurt you. after slamming her faux dick on your insides, she kept it there for long seconds, making you get used to it. after that, her pace was brutal. you could tell that she just kept quiet in that moment for you to burn yourself even more, and give her an excuse to be even rougher with you.

"never gonna tease m' like this again, mama." she almost growled as one of her hands holded on your waist as the other slapped your ass in a way that you knew that you´d be all sore. you tried your best to keep quiet, failing miserably. in a stupid attempt you shoved your head into the couch cushion, trying to muffle your moans that were coming out as almost screams of pleasure. "im gonna teach u a fuckin' lesson, cock addicted slut." you just whined, your whimperings being muffled by the cushion. "such a fucking whore, only able to behave with my cock filling you up, huh?" she mocked you, but you were unable to even form a sentence.

billie could feel your insides tightening around her, and then, she pulled it out, not letting you cum. you whined, with your legs trembling. "do you think you deserve to cum that easy huh? pathetic slut." she says as you turn yourself to lay on the couch and stare at her. she walks towards the bag again, taking the 9 inch strap from there and handing it to you. "you want to cum with wich one angel? do you think you can handle that one?" she spoke softly, with genuine concern not wanting to take it too far. "yes... i think i can bills, jus' let me be on top.. okay?" you said looking up at her with your usual sweet eyes. "whatever you want, angel." she said giggling "seems like i fucked the bratiness out of u so easily, huh?" she chuckles, taking the dildo from your hands and strapping it onto her crotch.

billie sat on the other side of the couch, because you made a mess on the other one. "come here angel." she pat her lap, as you crawled towards her, now straddling her sides. she holded you by the waist, pushing your sore body towards her. she gently caressed your cheek, pulling you into a slow and soft kiss, that just turned you on even more. you broke the kiss after she started to play with your neglegted clit, not being able to be quiet anymore. her skilled finger just played with it slowly, it felt like a torture. her half lided eyes just staring at you with a smirk on her face. she stopped, not wanting you to cum just yet... she took her strap and took your hips up, placing it on your entrance and staring at you, with both of her hands.

"whenever you´re ready, angel." she said as you took a deep breath and started to lower yourself in her cock. "so good baby, you´re doing such a good job." you managed to get half of it inside of you, taking another deep breath. "if you want to stop, just say the word, okay?" she says remembering you "i-im okay.." you say with your shaky voice, lowering yourself slowly until your cunt hits the base of it. "such a good girl, taking all of me." she says kissing your neck, and then going down to your exposed tits, sucking on it briefly as you are getting used to the size. "can i see where im at?" she asked and you nodded, allowing her. one of her hands started press a few places on your belly, until she saw the bump that were on your tummy, smiling knowing she was that deep inside of you.

you started moving yourself, riding her, it was slow. she helped you with your moviments, holding your hips and guiding you. "doing so good for me baby, so good." at this point, you were already in a fast pace, riding her cock as you got used to the size, it hit your g spot just right. your moans were increasing, so you took your hand to cover your mouth. she was staring at you, admiring how pretty you were while fucking yourself on her cock, how pretty you sounded being filled with her. "wanna hear you, mamas... don´t worry about them, you can fuckin' scream if u want to." she says grabbing your arm and putting it down, you soon took both of your hands to the sides of the couch, leaning on it to help you move, you were so fucking loud.

the room was filled with sounds, the sound of billie´s cock being shoved into your drooling cunt, of her sucking your tits, or even the wet sound of her playing with your clit... but it was clear that the loudest one was of you moaning, whining, screaming while being filled by her. "you´re so gorgeous fuckin' yourself on my cock, such a angel." your walls tightened around her faux dick as your moviments slowed down due to your now tired hips.. "i-im so close, can you help me.. bills?" you say staring at her with your tired eyes "don´t even need to ask me twice." she grabbed your hips, pulling you up, as she started to pound you in that position. she wasn´t gentle, but she didn´t hurt you. "gonna cum huh? gonna let you cum now, such a good slut." she mocked you, trying to get back to her dominant self. her pace was fast, hitting your g spot over and over again.

but she ended you in the moment that she stopped holding your hips with one hand and started to play with you clit again. in that moment you could feel your orgasm hitting you in one way you never experienced before. your whole body was trembling, as you were almost unable to moan. her pace slowed down, letting you ride through your orgasm in a way that you felt like you were on heaven. "can i pull it out already, babe?" she asked you, bringing you back to earth after pulling you onto the edge of pleasure. you nodded, as she gently took it out of you. holding on your waist gently while she pushed you closer to kiss her.

billie kissed you slowly, letting yourself rest after all she put you throught. "you know that you´re the only one, right my love?" asked you.. "i know." you answered it in a lazy tone. she quickly took her phone, texting someone. "what is it?" you ask "gonna take you to a good hotel tonight okay? gotta take care of you now, prepare yourself, gonna to spoil you all night baby.." she said in a soft tone "really huh?" you said giggling with a wicked smirk "gosh not in that way... you´re so naughty sometimes... can´t be a good girl even after i had railed you?" she says slapping your exposed ass again. "so no naughty spoil?" you said in a playfull sad tone.

"only if you can take it, my love."

taglist: @chrissv4mp @karaeilishh @iluvapplesxh @hkkuugu @bilsdillldough @n0vabug @certifiedwomenlover @dollyvuu

#billie eilish #billie eilish blurb #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish concert #billie eilish fic #billie eilish fanart #billie eilish fanfiction #wlw #hit me hard and soft #billie eilish hmhas #hmhas tour #hmhas billie eilish #hmhas #smut

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sovamurka · 3 days ago

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my brain goes brrrrrrrr after so few hours of sleep BUT you won't believe how much timebomb content I just got

Fractured Jinx voice lines?

CRAZY. all three versions of Jinx talk to him differently and yet all three share one trait - they care. A LOT. she cares and has certain feelings towards him that she can't really put into words that well. she's not at all antagonistic towards him, even when she taunts him.

These ones break my heart honestly because they're not said mockingly. There is no malice, or joke. They're said with exasperation and sadness. She especially can't bear the way he looks at her (you should hear it yourself honestly).

Jinx ruins fixes everything?

THEY SHOWED US THE FIRELIGHT TREE. It seems like it happened a little bit after they sincerely talked with each other. Ekko showed her his little paradise and it's the first time we see so much light in this game. The entire place is so warm even Jinx herself warms up, she's is both calm and excited, she's... hopeful, actually. Ekko, what did you tell her? How did you console her? What kind of hug technique did you use to make her so hopeful?

Jinx assembled her final weapon (and named it Rhino) in Ekko's engineering room after exploring the room for spare details. She also finds a photo of Ekko and Benzo.

And when we explore the entire hideout... We encounter their circle bike that they build and upgraded together (yes, the one we saw when we explored Benzo's shop in Wild Rift, yes, the one that only he and Powder could use because Ekko did not allow anyone else to use it).

And oh... Did you know that she still can't forget the way he looked at her on the bridge? And that she never will?

This one obliterated me, actually.

#arcane #timebomb #also got some skyvik from viktor's new voice lines. turns out he enjoys sky's presence more than anything. he's glad she's always with him.#which is... so oddly sweet. he wishes she was able to feel everything around her physically but at least he can always show her the world #anyway. saviour viktor is pretty much a sky simp while jinx SOMEHOW manages to simp for ekko in all three of her fractured skins

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moon-us-sun · 2 days ago

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Sometimes my mind feels like this.

I can feel when a storm is about to come and even though it’s scary, it almost feels magical

My heads a mess, I know that

I know that I will forever have that part in me that hurts and cries

That’s in search for a love of a man that never loved me. That never showed me what it was like to be loved right.

He did his part to make sure I was alive but never the part to make sure that I lived.

My heads a mess, I know

But if you listen closely you would hear the way I feel about this world

How I’m amazed of the beautiful colors of fall in the trees and how I wish I could sleep on a cloud

You would be able to see thru my eyes the beauty of the people

The way my mom has freckles and her wrinkles makes her so much more beautiful

The way my nephews smiles even with imperfect teeth making my heart hurt of love

If you could see and feel

If you could just stay, just after the storm

You would find me, once the fog died out

A younger me

8 years old longing for a love I can’t find in my house

For a mom who can’t stop working and a dad who just doesn’t give a shit

He use to

I don’t know what happened but something in him stop trying, it turned off like a switch and he forgot to be a father

But I remember

The only time he ever made us breakfast

A bag of grapes and we went to the store and bought a nesquick milk

The way he used to kiss my mom and hold her hand

The time she would dance with us and how when he was drunk we would find the old him again

The one that cared.

How he use to sing to me and tell me he loved me

He would try to hug me and quiet frankly time passed by and I didn’t want the drunk him, I took the old him for granted

I took it all for granted

My head is a complete mess, I know

But I can’t help and think of the amazing things there is to see out in this world

Of where I could be if I just left what I could see

When the storm rolled over into my head and it gets cloudy

When the grass is swaying and the trees are dancing

When the clouds are dark yet beautiful

You’ll see what it’s like to be in my head

On the head of a women who just wants to live

To be more like her sister

To not care as much

But is that really what I want

Im telling you I know, my Mind is a mess

In most cases I can’t even keep my thoughts straight and all I know is that everything hurts and everything is felt Deeply here

When the storm is over and the sun comes out I’m at the beach

Listening to the waves and playing in the sand

Waiting for the next storm, to mess with my crazy head.

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avelera · 2 days ago

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Parallels between Jayvik and the Phantom of the Opera

I can't believe I haven't seen any discussion yet around the musical theater influences in Arcane S2 so far (besides my one mention of its parallels with Les Miserables).

So as a basic, Phantom of the Opera-loving bitch, can we please take a moment to examine the Phantom of the Opera parallels that are literally shoved in our faces during this opening sequence and what that means for Jayvik?

Viktor is the Phantom. The show opening outright says it. The parallels are there. They're impossible to miss.

And then, when you dig a little deeper, hooo boy those parallels become even more stark. Especially if you read Viktor as romantically pining after Jayce, which 99.9999% of humanity does.

To quickly summarize, Phantom of the Opera is the story of a deformed genius who falls in love with an opera singer, Christine, and then nurtures her talents, only for her to in turn fall in love with a nobleman, Raoul. The ensuing love triangle is the heart of the plot, with Raoul and the Phantom both vying for Christine's love.

This shouldn't be a hard one to see the parallels for.

Viktor = The Phantom. Literally a genius born with a disfigurement, in this case a disability he sees as a weakness and a disease that is sapping away his life and hope of a legacy. He is riddled with jealousy for the person trying to pull his scientific/musical partner away from him, a person who happens to be beautiful and live a life of privilege that Raoul/Mel could offer to Jayce/Christine instead.

Jayce = Christine. Instead of sharing genius in music, he and Viktor share genius in science. Like Christine, he is tugged between the glittering world of politics and privilege, vs his genius and love at a more esoteric skill, in this case science instead of music.

Mel = Raoul. Literally an aristocrat who is far more beautiful than the Phantom/Viktor, who steals away his partner's attention and offers them a glittering life of privilege in the public eye instead of the wonders of their joint musical/scientific pursuits. Whether or not Mel meant to embody this, or steal Jayce from Viktor, this is the role she fulfills in Viktor's view of the world.

But the most profound moment for me of, "Oh wow, they're doing Phantom of the Opera! Actually, they're not just doing Phantom, they're doing Phantom fixit fic?!" was this:

Which, if you'll forgive the potato quality of the screenshots, is literally the moment Viktor has his mask knocked away and then cringes in on himself to hide his exposed face from Jayce.

Which... is literally a scene in Phantom of the Opera? Just after "Music of the Night"?

But we're already in Phantom fixit territory, because Jayce doesn't recoil like Viktor expects! Instead, he embraces Viktor and loves him for all his self-perceived flaws.

And then, AND THEN, in a moment that made my Phantom-loving heart sing, Viktor tells Jayce to go!

And Jayce doesn't.

In the final song of the Phantom of the Opera musical, Christine is forced to choose between Raoul and the Phantom. She chooses the Phantom and kisses him. Flooded by remorse, the Phantom then relinquishes her to the man he knows she truly loves, and when Christine hesitates to leave, he shouts at her, "Go!" and then, of course, she and Raoul leave together.

Viktor is expecting that to happen! I think his order to Jayce very clearly implies that he thinks Mel and Jayce are still together. It's the classic, "Go be with the woman you love instead of staying here and dying with me," trope that we see over and over again in dramas.

But Jayce. Defies. The Trope.

Unlike Christine and just about every buddy war movie out there, he stays with Viktor. He chooses his scientific/artistic partner over the life of aristocracy and privilege that Mel would theoretically offer him. He chooses the masked genius with the disability and calls him perfect. He refuses to go when he is ordered to leave. He stays with Viktor until the end.

And I still can't believe that no one else is talking about this!

#phantom of the opera #jayvik #arcane #arcane spoilers #arcane meta

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hitomisuzuya · 2 days ago

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hi again suzu !!! could you do like really mean and harsh smut with obsessed scaramouche who kidnaps reader; and reader is actually obsessed with him aswell; if that makes sense 😞

you can make it kinky too; but that’s completely your choice!

- 🎧

yandere!scaramouche x fem!reader. smut. obsessive/possessive behavior. kidnap. drugging. blowjob. harsh degradation. degrading praise. creampie. mean!scara. if any of these themes make you uncomfortable, DNI.

scara really enjoys himself in this 😳

today was the day. scaramouche knew today was the day. the world was encroaching too much, too fast around you. because you are so strong, it would be too much for you. that's exactly why you need him to protect you.

life wasn't going to dig it's hideous claws into you like it had done to him. he absolutely wasn't going to let that happen.

he has everything all prepared, even a new bed with a soft mattress and softer pillows. various things that would make you happy and comfortable. it was easy for him to acquire the sedative he would use, which is also something he considered carefully. something mellow and soft that would make you instantly drowsy and fall right to sleep. you wouldn't feel a thing.

scaramouche knew your schedule inside and out. you didn't have any idea he was following right behind you the entire time, having made promises to meet up for a date later. you, being so easily trusting of him, would walk right into his plans.

you are just way too kind. way too naive. far too sweet. all too much for your own good. but that is okay. he is here now.

absolutely nothing would go wrong. he would successfully retrieve you, and snatch you up away from the world. keep you hidden and at his side. where you belong. after all, you already look at him with such devotion, love and adoration.

he swooped in the moment you inevitably stopped walking to check your phone. you'd been keeping such an eye on the weather all day.

your breath hitched in your throat, startled as scaramouche came up behind you. "ssh, it's okay," he cooed, gently cupping a hand over your mouth, "you won't feel a thing, i promise. this is for your own good," your eyes widened a little feeling the pin prick on your neck, but you didn't panic. you'd heard the sound of scaramouche's voice, that let you know not to be scared.

he shivered seeing your body relax even before he sedated you. you trusted him that much that he didn't scare you. you really are amazing. he picked up as you slumped against him.

that was how you ended up on your knees, naked in front him, his hand stroking your hair lovingly before grasping it firmly. "go on, slut. use that pretty mouth of yours to tell me what you told me shortly after you woke up," he narrowed his eyes in a glare down at you, sending a shiver straight to your throbbing clit.

he brought your mouth close to his cock. you look up at him so sweetly, your soft little tongue darting out to kitten lick the head of his leaking cock. "you are all i ever think about, scara," he groaned softly as your tongue danced on the precum gathering in his slit.

incidentally, scaramouche only asked you to repeat yourself. it was you who insisted on sucking and licking his cock while you elaborated. it made his ego stretch as much as his cock aches. "i love you. my heart only ever belonged to you. i didn't want to give it to anyone else but you," you continued, wrapping your hand around his cock, pumping your hand as you scooped his cock head into your mouth to suck on.

scaramouche moaned, his cock pulsing on your velvety warm tongue. he pushed your mouth down onto his cock. "good girl, you know your place. on your knees. sucking my cock like a fucking slut," you muffled a moan on his cock, sucking obediently as pumped his thick length in and out of your mouth.

fuck you look so breathtaking, drool pooling from the corners of your mouth while he ruined your throat. "you look adorable with my cock stuffed in your mouth. i can fucking feel your throat enjoying me," his hand tightened on your hair, holding your head in place.

he let out a loud, husky moan as he pushed his cock into your throat. you coughed, your throat convulsing and spasming in a heavenly way on his cock. "as good as using your throat feels, it would be such a shame to not cum inside you first," he took your mouth off his cock, enjoying the way you were submitting and letting him essentially manhandle you.

the look in your eyes only deepened with further adoration for him.

"on the bed, and spread your legs," he commanded, his cock straining harder watching you spread your legs, your little fingers parting your folds for him. he feasted his eyes on your creamy cunt, all his for the taking.

crawling on top of you, scaramouche wasted no time putting his cock between your drooling folds. he slowly grinded his cock over your clit, hissing in pleasure feeling your juices soak his length.

you mewled, your legs shaking and your hips rocking up to grind back against him. "please, i am begging you to stretch me apart," you pleaded, spreading your legs more.

"needy, pathetic whore," he hissed, adruptly bullying his cock inside of you. "you are all mine," he bottomed out all at once, tearing the sweetest cry of pleasure from you. "do you understand?" his cock was shiny with your slick as he pulled halfway out of you.

he wanted to fuck his cock back inside of you at the exact moment you said you understood.

"i'm all yours, scara!" you cried out, your hips jerking up to help him fuck his cock deep back inside of you. your walls clenched tight from his harsh degradation, your cheeks flushed as you squirmed with need.

need that was all for him.

scaramouche lost control then.

he possessively held you down, his hips smacking into yours. his grip was bruising on your thighs as he held them apart. you could barely keep up with the intense pleasure of his cock driving into your sweet spot. your fingers shook as you reached down to rub your throbbing clit, your ministrations tinging your shameless moans with whimpers.

"what a whore. what a good girl," he groaned, his cock on the cusps of emptying inside of you. the wet warmth of your pussy sucking him in was almost too much for him. "fall apart faster for me," his eyes followed the motion of your hand on your clit.

you shook underneath him, your orgasm washing over you in dizzying proportions. scaramouche couldn't get enough of your cries of pleasure while you creamed on his cock.

"keep crying just like that for me," his cock squelched wetter in and out of your pussy, ribboning ropes of cum inside of you. you wrapped a leg around him, happy to let him fuck his cock deeper into you as he chased his high.

#genshin impact #genshin smut #fem!reader #genshin imagines #scaramouche #scaramouche smut #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x y/n #scaramouche x you #tw yandere #tw kidnapping #tw drugging #yandere scaramouche

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xxsquiddkiddxx · 3 days ago

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Heels ~ Viktor x Reader

Pronouns for reader: She/Her

Relationship type: Platonic, romantic feelings, slight enemies to lovers if you unfocus your eyes a bit

General Idea: Viktor used to hate the sound of those damn boots of hers, but now he's grown to find an odd sense of comfort in the noise. Along with... a series of other feelings.

Content Warnings: Fluff, swearing, Viktor being sassy, s1 Viktor, Takes place between S1E3~E4, Viktor's kinda down bad but in a denial way, Viktor also isn't good at realizing he has feelings for the reader, Jayce needs a 32hr nap

A/N: My Viktor headcanons got a LOT more love than I thought they would... so I decided to write some more Viktor XD

(Nobody's POV, but it's mostly told. through Viktor's thoughts)

~☆~

The lab was pretty much silent. The only sounds heard were the sounds of Viktor tinkering with a Hextech device and the occasional flipping of pages as (Y/N) read some notes that Jayce had written. It was late, definetly past midnight as the two worked.

"(Y/N)," Viktor says, breaking the silence. The girl's head pops up at the sound of her name. "Come here for a second? I need a second pair of hands."

"Be right there." She says, finishing the page she was on. She stands up and walks towards him, the sound of her boots hitting the tile as she walks.

Clack

Click

Clack

Viktor used to hate the sound of her boots. "Those damn boots are so annoying," He had complained to Jayce during the first week of (Y/N) working as a part-time assistant. "Click clack click clack, drives me insane!" He had mocked before sighing.

"Viktor... don't both your boots AND your cane make that noise as well?"Jayce had responded, raising an eyebrow with a teasing smile. This made Viktor at a loss for words.

"Well... It's annoying when she does it!" He had sassed back in response, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

That was 3 years ago. Now, he found a weird sense of comfort in hearing the sound of her boots hit the floor. He couldn't explain why, enjoyment of familiarity maybe?

"What's up?" (Y/N) says, standing behind Viktor. The smell of her perfume was almost overwhelming to him, overloading his senses. Which was weird, seeings as it must've been almost 13 hours since she'd last applied perfume. And that doesn't last long... was he delusional? Or maybe just tired? Whatever. It doesn't matter.

"Yeah, I just need you to hold this in place." Viktor says, not even looking up from what he's doing. He gestures to a little piece of metal he's holding. (Y/N) leans over Viktor and holds the piece in place as requested. The scientist trys his best to ignore the feeling of her closeness and the racing of his heart... holy crap was it warm in here? It must've been. Although it seemed strange to him that it was magically warm in here all of a sudden. This spirals him into a memory, a memory that took place a little less than a week prior to now.

Viktor sat at his desk, for once not to work on Hextech, but to run his hands through his hair and stay deep in thought.

"Viktor?" Jayce asked. "Are you OK? You haven't been as focused as you normally are today. Did something happen?"

"I think... I think there's something genuinely wrong with me." Viktor says. "Like... maybe I'm coming down with something?? I don't know." Viktor stands up, leaning on his cane slightly for support.

"Oh?" Jayce asks, raising an eyebrow. "Could you, uh, possibly elaborate on that?"

"Well, for one everytime Ms.(L/N) comes near me I about have a damn heart attack." Viktor says, his cane clacking softly on the floor as he paces. "Like yesterday, perfect example. She accidently brushed my hand when she was passing me a paper and I actually thought I was dying."

Jayce suppresses a smile, trying not to laugh. Was Viktor really getting THIS worked up... over a little crush? "Oh?" Jayce says, still suppressing a smile. "Is that it?"

"Whenever she's near me, I swear to the gods that I become hyperaware of... like... everything." Viktor says. "Like the room feels warmer, her perfume or her shampoo is ALL I can smell, I'm almost convinced I know every single speckle of color in her eyes... I think I might actually be going crazy." Viktor says, stopping his pacing. "I'm positive. I've actually hit the breaking point and am decending into insanity."

Jayce now can't help but laugh. Maybe it was his lack of sleep from working on Hextech for days on end, maybe it was the seriousness in Viktor's voice about his "decent to madness." Jayce's laughter came out as almost wheezes due to how hard he was laughing.

Viktor throws his hands up in exasperatedness. "Jayce!" Viktor scolds. "This ISN'T funny! There's-"

This just makes Jayce laugh more and more. "Yes it is, Viktor." Jayce manages to say through wheezes. He's holding onto the desk for support as he laughs. It gets to the point where passersby become mildly concerned for the scientist's wellbeing. "I assure you you're not decending to madness."

"Then what the hell is going on????" Viktor exclaims, collapsing into his chair.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine." Jayce says, wiping the tears of laughter away as he tries to steady his breathing.

"Viktor?" The sound of his name snaps him out of the memory. "You good? I think I said your name like five times." (Y/N) says with a chuckle. Viktor shakes his head slightly.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine." Viktor says, continuing what he was doing. He tried to ignore the slight shake in his hands, the side of his own hand pressed against Ms. (L/N)'s own hand. When he's done. He about throws the screwdriver down. "Thank you for your assistance." Viktor says, the weight off his shoulders earning a little sigh of relief.

"Was that all you needed?" (Y/N) asks.

"I'm pretty sure, yeah." Viktor says. (Y/N) hums in response, walking over to her desk. Click, clack, click, clack. Her boots echo in the room. She grabs her coat and walks towards Viktor again.

"I'm gonna head out then." She says. Click, clack, click, clack. The sound of her boots ring in Viktor's head, a haunting sound that he didn't actually mind having on replay in his brain. "You should too soon." She says, her voice kind and soft.

Viktor's stomach feels like it's about to leap out of his body. Even though it was scientifically impossible, he couldn't help but worry about it. "I will soon." He says, the softness in his voice actually shocking him. Normally he'd just lie out his teeth and sleep in the lab, or not sleep at all. However, when he said that he would... he truly meant it. His eyes move away from the project and to (Y/N). "I'm just gonna finish this little bit up."

(Y/N) smiles, it's tired and small, but it's still a smile nonetheless. Seeing her smile along made the corners of his lips feel like they were moving on their own. He suppresses a smile the best he can, but it still shows on his face. "Goodnight, Viktor." She says, her voice still soft. She didn't speak full volume, and that for some reason made Viktor's heart rate skyrocket.

"Goodnight, (Y/N)." He says, the same tone and volume as (Y/N). She turns and walks out of the room. Click, clack, click, clack. He listens to the sound of her shoes until they completely fade out.

"Relax you just have a little crush, it's fine."

Viktor didn't have a crush on (Y/N)... did he?

~☆~

For more fics: my masterlist

Feel free to request fics!!!

~Squeed

#hyperfixation #fanfic #fanfiction #arcane fanfiction #arcane #arcane leauge of legends #arcane lol #viktor #viktor arcane #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #viktor x you #viktor x reader #viktor fanfiction #i love my pretty princess

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silversprings-mp3 · 2 days ago

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oh my god i don't even know where to begin to describe how devastating this was, but in the absolute best way possible

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.

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.

“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.”

i don't think i've ever related to a fic as much as i did with this - the longing, the loneliness is painful, but holding onto hope that my soulmate is out there makes it worth it

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.

oh my god the smile i had on my face when i read this part.....i just KNEW something like this would happen, that evidence of a soulmate would show up on logan

“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.”

and this part tore my heart out - "i hope it's you" GOD i lost it

i could add like 10000 more quotes here but i'd end up rambling for ages because this is easily one of the best fics i've read in my life, thank you so much for writing this

“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.

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 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

#i need to collect myself lol #logan howlett #fics

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