#i love their slow burn but i just LOVE a ''oh no'' moment
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>>> TUNES TO LOSE YOUR MIND TO <<<
KEEP IN MIND: This is a living playlist! Songs may be added and removed at times to further curate the vibe I'm going for. I'll try to keep this post updated, but you can just check out the link for an up-to-date track list.
(EDIT: Song discussions are not finished! I have a lot more to say. I'll reblog when I've updated.)
This is set in a sort of nebulous time between Harry's life right before Martinaise and the night before he lost his memory. I wanted this playlist to feel erratic-- full of manic energy one second, then slow and bleak the next, dreamy, unreal, then right back to ridiculous.
(In no particular order. Shuffle for full emotional whiplash effect.)
I Don't Like My Mind - Mitski
I don't like my mind, I don't like being left alone in a room [...] And then I get sick and throw up and there's another memory that gets stuck / Inside the walls of my skull waiting for its turn to talk / And it may be a few years, but you can bet it's there, waiting still
The days before cleaning out the rooms... also, eating an entire cake and throwing it all up again feels very harry-esque... Overindulgence
A whole cake, so please don't take / Take this job from me
End Of The World - Hether
I mean, I could just post the entire set of lyrics as evidence, tbh. Struggling to find meaning and purpose in his life in the wake of heartbreak (5 year old heartbreak, but who's counting anyway)
I wake up in the morning and I wonder / Why everything's the same as it was I can't understand / No I can't understand / How life goes on the way it does
Cane Shuga - Glass Animals
Baby, don't go / I'll stop breathing coke / No more bloody nose / No more John Does Burn through my love / Just like your drugs / I've had quite enough / Or lack thereof
This is about the last moments of Harry and Dora's relationship to me. The chorus (a kind of circular, endless, self-aggrandizing internal monologue likely fueled by stimulants, implied in the song) continuing after the second verse kind of reflects the solution for Lonesome Long Way Home.
"11 Voyager Road. You no longer live there. Those times are gone, and so are those people. Why did you come here? Why are you still here? And where’s the dealer? You have to get back to work. That’s all you have now."
Hot Venom - Miniature Tigers
Hot venom is mixing with my blood / I can feel it on my fingers and taste it on her tongue / It feels so good to fall in love with you
I've heard a lot of people say this song is about heroin addiction, which is thematically appropriate for this playlist, but also. Harry's unhealthy obsession with Dora/Dolores Dei. Adoration (and hatred) so strong it's killing him.
Her venom makes me strong / Stronger than I am on my own / Before too long, I'll wake up to it gone / Wondering how I ever was happy [...] You can't go back now; that's not how this works / And as long as she's gone, I can never be happy
Who Is She ? - I Monster
This is just straight up about Harry's recurring dream to me. Just. Gestures at the lyrics.
Oh, who is she? / A misty memory / A haunting face / Is she a lost embrace? Am I in love with just a theme? / Or is Ayesha just a dream?
I feel like it falls in line really well with the idea that Harry's mind has been affected by the Pale-- a lack of memory, or maybe mixed memories, in a misty haze beyond the boundaries of reality. (and maybe Dolores Dei has started haunting him via Pale? Like some theories I've read.)
Somewhere across the sea of time / A love immortal such as mine Will come to me / Eternally
I Don't Miss You at All - FINNEAS
Dummy - Portugal. The Man
F the World - The Northern Boys
You Stupid Bitch - Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV Show)
These shards are a metaphor for my soul Won't stop the self-pity 'cause I'm on a roll
This song perfectly captures the inherent melodrama of a mental downward spiral imo. Catastrophic and all-encompassing. This is what I think it sounds like in there (Harry's head).
You ruined everything / You stupid bitch / You ruined everything / You stupid, stupid bitch / You're just a lying little bitch who ruins things / And wants the world to burn / Bitch / You're a stupid bitch / And lose some weight
Oleander - Mother Mother
Intermission - Scissor Sisters
Skit #2 - Kanye West
Self explanatory. He's got no money. He's got no clothes. He has no car and he has no hoes.
We broke, broke broke phi broke We ain't got it Broke, broke, broke phi broke We ain't got it Don't spend no money, ain't got no clothes Ain't got no cars, ain't got no hoes
Nobody - Mitski
My God, I'm so lonely, so I open the window To hear sounds of people, to hear sounds of people
This one is more about the feeling of the song itself rather than the lyrics specifically; I love the upbeat tempo that continues through the song (trying to remain steady, continue working), how the beat is simple at first then builds into a kaleidoscope of sound by the end of the track (overwhelmed by the world), then ending in a distorted loop (trapped in a cycle). This song has always felt really authentic to my own experience with mental spirals. The themes of loneliness tie it all into a nice bow.
I'm A Broken Heart - the bird and the bee
Not Allowed - TV Girl
Party Time - The Northern Boys
Comfortably Numb - Scissor Sisters
(Do The) Act Like You Never Met Me - TV Girl
Novocaine For The Soul - Eels
Basket Case - Green Day
Do you have the time / to listen to me whine About nothing and everything all at once? I am one of those melodramatic fools / Neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it
I just think this one fits him well during Martinaise... just shaken up and unloading trauma onto unsuspecting strangers like a can of soda (bad analogy lol), depending on the dialogue you choose.
I went to a shrink to analyze my dreams She says it's lack of sex that's bringing me down I went to a whore, she said my life's a bore So quit my whining 'cause it's bringing her down
Sometimes, I give myself the creeps / Sometimes, my mind plays tricks on me It all keeps adding up / I think I'm cracking up Am I just paranoid, or am I stoned?
Also it's just a little pathetic, which just... it fits. Sorry Harry.
Labyrinth - Miracle Musical
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sfw alphabet | park sunghoon (en-)
୨ৎ : synopsis : sfw a-z alphabet for park sunghoon
୨ৎ : word count : 1366
୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ
(a/n) : don't forget to like & reblog !! my requests are open!
a ⤖ affection (how affectionate is he? how often does he show affection?)
sunghoon might not be the type to shout his love from the rooftops
but his affection is a quiet fire that burns steadily.
he'll leave you little notes hidden in your pockets
remember your favorite flower and surprise you with it "just because"
and his eyes will hold a special warmth when he looks at you.
b ⤖ beginning (what would he be like as a bsf; how would the friendship start?)
imagine bumping into him at a cozy café, both reaching for the same book on the shelf his dry wit and unexpected humor would draw you in
you'd find yourselves talking for hours, discovering a shared passion for music, art, or maybe even the quiet beauty of a snowy day.
c ⤖ cuddles (does he like to cuddle; how would he cuddle?)
oh, he absolutely loves to cuddle. picture this: a rainy sunday afternoon, soft blankets, and sunghoon holding you close, his chin resting on your head as you both get lost in a movie.
he'd be the perfect big spoon, his embrace a safe haven where you can let go of all your worries.
d ⤖ domestic (does he want to settle down; how good is he at cooking and cleaning?)
while he thrives in the spotlight, a part of him longs for the quiet comfort of a home with you.
he'd be surprisingly good at keeping things tidy, maybe even a bit of a neat freak.
cooking might be a learning curve, but he'd be eager to try new recipes with you, turning kitchen mishaps into laughter-filled memories.
e ⤖ ending (if he had to break up with you; how would he do it?)
breaking up would be his absolute last resort.
if it came to that, he'd do it with the utmost respect and honesty.
he'd choose a quiet place where you could talk privately, his eyes filled with sincerity and regret as he explained his reasons.
he wants to make sure you know it's not your fault.
f ⤖ fiance (how does he feel about commitment; would he want to get married quick?)
commitment is not something he takes lightly.
he'd want to be absolutely sure before proposing, ensuring that you're both ready for a lifetime together.
he wouldn't rush into marriage, but when he finally gets down on one knee, it would be a moment filled with deep love and a promise of forever.
g ⤖ gentle (how gentle is he; emotionally + physically?)
sunghoon's gentleness is woven into his very being.
he'd handle your heart with the care of a sculptor, always mindful of your feelings.
his touch would be feather-light, a whisper against your skin that sends shivers down your spine.
h ⤖ hugs (does he likes hugs; how often does he hug you; what are his hugs like?)
his hugs are rare but precious, a silent language of love.
he'd pull you close when you need it most, his arms a warm cocoon that melts away your stress.
his hugs would linger, a quiet moment of connection that speaks volumes.
i ⤖ i love you (how fast does he say he loves you?)
those three little words would be sacred to him.
he'd wait until the moment feels perfectly right
j ⤖ jealousy (how jealous does he get; what does he do when he is jealous?)
he's not the possessive type, but a flicker of jealousy might cross his face if someone gets a little too close.
he wouldn't make a scene, but he might subtly pull you closer or hold your hand a little tighter, a silent reminder that you're his.
k ⤖ kisses (what are his kisses like; where does he like to kiss you; where does he like to be kissed?)
his kisses are slow and tender, savoring every moment.
he'd adore kissing your forehead, a gesture of affection and protection.
he'd melt under your kisses on his jawline, a secret spot that sends shivers down his spine.
l ⤖ little ones (how is he around children?)
he might seem a bit awkward at first, but his playful side would emerge around children.
he'd be patient and kind, engaging them in imaginative games and making them laugh with silly faces.
m ⤖ morning (how are mornings spent with him?)
mornings with sunghoon would be slow and peaceful.
he'd wake you up with soft kisses and whispered "good mornings," followed by a leisurely breakfast in bed
definitely enjoying each other's company before the day begins.
n ⤖ night (how are nights spend with him?)
nights would be a blend of quiet intimacy and shared passions.
you might find yourselves curled up on the couch, lost in a good book, or sharing headphones as you listen to your favorite music
but the silence is 100% filled with unspoken affection.
o ⤖ open (when would he open up; does he say everything at once or does he wait to reveal himself?)
he'd open up like a blooming flower, slowly revealing his deepest thoughts and feelings as your bond deepens.
late-night conversations would become a sanctuary where you share your dreams and vulnerabilities
p ⤖ patience (how easily angered is he?)
his patience runs deep
he'd approach conflicts with understanding and a willingness to listen
always seeking a peaceful resolution.
q ⤖ quizzes (how much would he remember about you; does he remember every little detail; or is he forgetful?)
he'd be a keeper of your secrets, big and small.
he'd remember the way you take your coffee, your favorite song lyrics, and the story behind that tiny scar on your knee.
your life would be etched in his memory, a testament to his love and attention.
r ⤖ remember (what is his favorite moment in the relationship?)
his favorite moment might be the first time you looked at him with pure, unguarded love in your eyes
in that moment he knew he was falling for you just as hard as you were falling for him.
s ⤖ security (how protectice is he; how does he protect you; how would he like to be protected?)
he'd be your silent guardian, always looking out for you, whether it's holding your hand as you cross a busy street or defending you against unkind words.
he'd appreciate a partner who offers him emotional security, a safe space where he can be vulnerable without fear of judgment.
t ⤖ try (how much effort does he put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
he believes in quality over quantity.
dates would be thoughtfully planned, anniversaries celebrated with heartfelt gestures, and gifts chosen with your personality in mind.
he'd show his love through everyday acts of kindness, from making you breakfast in bed to surprising you with your favorite takeout after a long day.
u ⤖ ugly (what are some of his bad habits?)
he might be a bit too hard on himself sometimes
always striving for perfection in everything he does.
he might also overthink things, getting lost in his own thoughts.
v ⤖ vanity (how concerned is he with his looks?)
he takes pride in his appearance, but it's more about self-care than vanity.
he understands the importance of looking his best
w ⤖ whole (would he feel incomplete without you?)
while he values his independence, you'd become an essential part of his life
for him, you're a source of joy and strength.
he'd cherish your presence, your laughter filling the spaces in his heart he didn't know existed.
x ⤖ xtra (random headcanon for him)
he secretly writes you love poems in his spare time, hiding them away in a special notebook
y ⤖ yuck (what are some things he wouldn't like; in general or in a partner?)
he wouldn't like dishonesty, rudeness, or people who try to pressure him into things he's not comfortable with.
in a partner, he'd value kindness, understanding, and a shared passion for life.
z ⤖ zzz (what are his sleeping habits?)
he might be a cuddler in his sleep, subconsciously seeking your warmth and comfort.
he might also talk in his sleep occasionally, murmuring sweet nothings that make your heart melt.
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#enhypen imagines#enhypen reactions#enhypen scenarios#enhypen fanfic#enhypen fluff#enhypen angst#enhypen x reader#enhypen oneshot#sunghoon imagines#sunghoon oneshot#sunghoon reactions#sunghoon fluff#sunghoon angst#sunghoon fanfic#sunghoon x reader#kflixnet#ficscafe#enhypen#enhypen sunghoon#sunghoon scenarios#park sunghoon imagines#sunghoonhours#𐐪♡︎₊˚ ― jungwnies#jungwnies
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i was the anon who was talking about how dirtbag danny would use the whole inexperienced reader roleplay as an excuse to be gentler and sweeter and oh my god, what you wrote in response... it's got me thinking
i could definitely see daniel going through something, and he finds it very hard to be vulnerable with the reader so he obviously doesn't tell her what's going on. but suddenly he's always needing something slow and deep and intimate in bed and he's being sweeter, and he's holding her closer than usual afterwards. and she kinda wants him to go back to being mean and degrading because everything is easier when there's some emotional distance between the two of them. and because when it's all slow and intimate between them, it feels a lot like making love and that's obviously not what they're doing... right? 👀
— I’m so glad you liked it! One roleplay after another, yet they were all the same: soft, sensual, sweet. the things you weren’t familiar with from him, the ones you didn’t want to be familiar with. While it was confusing, you weren’t sure if you hated it. 18+ content below
Daniel had been different lately. His usual edge—the sharp dominance, the biting words—had softened into something quieter. He didn’t explain why, of course. He never did. Instead, he threw himself into this… roleplay. That’s what you told yourself it was. That’s what he said it was.
It had started a week ago, his hand on your cheek as he looked at you with something just shy of tenderness. “You’ve never done this before, huh?” he’d asked, his voice low and teasing, like it was all part of some game.
But this was Daniel. Dirtbag Daniel. He didn’t do tender. He didn’t do sweet. And yet here he was, night after night, coaxing you into his bed with soft words and slower touches, guiding your body like he was teaching you how to feel good for the very first time.
And tonight? Tonight was no different.
His hands were on you now, rough but measured, sliding down your sides with a reverence that made your skin burn. You lay beneath him, his body pressing yours into the mattress, and for the hundredth time, you felt the cracks in his persona. His hips rocked into you, slow and deep, every thrust deliberate, every drag of him inside you speaking more than his words ever did.
“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His hand slid under your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Letting me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
The words made your stomach twist, and not in the way they used to. You almost hated how soft his voice sounded, how his gaze pinned you in place like you were something fragile, something precious. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This wasn’t supposed to feel like…making love.
You tried to push back against it, to claw your way back to the usual dynamic. Your hands slipped over his shoulders, pressing against him in a bid to flip him over, to change the pace, to remind him who he was. “Let me ride you,” you whispered, your voice shaky but determined.
But he didn’t budge.
“Uh-uh,” he said, his tone still soft but firm enough to pin you in place. His hands gripped your hips, holding you down against the mattress as his thrusts continued their maddening pace. “Not tonight, sweetheart. You stay right here.”
There it was—the dirtbag edge, the flash of dominance that usually had your body tingling and your mind spinning. But even that felt different tonight. The smirk on his face didn’t reach his eyes, and when he leaned down to kiss you, it wasn’t the usual teasing brush of lips before he pulled back to make you beg.
This kiss lingered, soft and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your heart stutter. You whimpered against him, trying to take control of the moment, but his hands tightened on your hips, grounding you.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against your lips, his voice breaking just slightly. “Just let me, okay?”
Your chest tightened at the words, your nails digging into his shoulders as he rocked into you again. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel like more.
“Daniel,” you gasped, unsure of what you were even trying to say.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his hand cradling your cheek. “What is it?” he asked, his tone gentle, almost concerned. “You need me to slow down? To stop?”
You shook your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “No… I just…”
“Just what?” he pressed, his thumb brushing over your cheek. His movements didn’t stop, his thrusts slow and steady, building a pressure inside you that you couldn’t fight. “Tell me, sweetheart. What do you need?”
The question made your head spin. What did you need? To break the tension? To push him away? To rebuild the distance he was so carefully dismantling?
But you couldn’t speak. Not when he was looking at you like that. Not when his body was pressed so tightly to yours that you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. His thumb brushed over your cheek, coaxing your gaze back to his. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just let me feel you.”
When you nodded, his hips shifted, his thrusts growing deeper and faster, you couldn’t stop the moan that tore from your throat. He buried his face in your neck, groaning as your walls clenched around him, and you felt the crack in his persona like a lightning bolt.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, the words shaky and uneven.
The way he said it made your chest ache, and you hated how much you wanted to believe him. This was supposed to be fun, dirty, and detached. It wasn’t supposed to feel like he was pouring everything into you, like he was holding on to you for dear life. His lips found yours again, the kiss slow and deep, and when he pulled back, his gaze didn’t waver.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely audible.
Your breath hitched, and you shook your head, trying to deny it, trying to hold on to what little control you had left.
But he didn’t let you.
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, his tone soft but unyielding. “I know you feel it. You’re not as good at hiding as you think.”
His words shattered the last of your resolve. The pleasure building inside you reached its peak, your body trembling as you came undone around him. Your nails dug into his back, holding him closer as you cried out his name.
Daniel groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress as he buried his face in your neck.
But even then, even as his breathing slowed and his body relaxed against yours, he didn’t pull away. He stayed there, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him afloat, whispering words you weren’t ready to hear.
“You’re mine,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “You’ll always be mine.”
And for the first time, you couldn’t tell if it was still part of the roleplay—or if he meant every word.
want more dirtbag!danny? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days
#dirtbag!danny#di’s dirty drabbles#thef1diary fic#daniel ricciardo au#daniel ricciardo oneshot#daniel ricciardo imagine#daniel ricciardo fanfic#daniel ricciardo smut#daniel ricciardo fic#daniel ricciardo x reader#daniel ricciardo drabble#daniel ricciardo blurb#daniel ricciardo x you#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 imagine#f1 x reader#f1 fanfiction#f1 smut#f1 rpf#f1 x you#f1 au#f1 drabble#f1 blurb#f1 one shot
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warnings: smut (mdni), thigh humping, fem!reader.
thigh humping vi because she just wanted to have a nice, chill cuddle session with you but instead she got you all worked up in her lap sprawled out on the worn-out couch and you couldn't even help yourself :((
vi just wanted some comfort. laying down with you after such a stressful day, tangling her fingers in your hair and drifting off with your head warming her chest. no more, no less.
but it seems like your brain had different plans of how to spend the night with your lovely girlfriend. because her chest's so firm and comfy, and you can feel her heart thumping gently against her ribs. big, protective arms wrapping around you, her hand stroking your skin like you're the most precious thing to ever exist—to her, you're everything and more.
she notices that your breath catches, and your nose nudges into her neck when her fingers rest lightly on your hip, moving in slow, lazy circles. notices how your legs shift (you're so bad at subtlety, but she’ll let you get away with it), trapping her thigh beneath you, pussy clad in just some flimsy lace panties. and then—oh—oh. the first slow roll of your hips against her bare thigh. her breath stutters. eyes crack open, half-lidded, just in time to catch your guilty little face.
her brain’s like, shit am i dating a horndog? simple answer to a simple question: yes. yes, she totally is.
and she's gotta indulge you, doesn't she? there’s no saying no to that sweet, needy little whimper. not when she's disgustingly in love with you. so, of course, she lets you. guides your hips with firm, calloused hands, back and forth, thinking about how good it'd feel to actually fuck you if you weren't so desperate and impatient to get off. listening to your ah–hah, vi, fuck, all breathy and broken now. your knees start burning with the friction against the couch as you get more and more riled up picking up the pace.
tits pressed to her chest, your hard nipples rubbing against hers. moans turning so fucking loud and high-pitched vi’s glad no one's around to hear the shameless sounds her sweet girl does.
her loud groan surprises her when your mouth crashes into hers. messy. wet. sloppy. her fingers dig into your ass, arm cradling your thigh, pulling you harder against her, hips rocking up to meet yours. fuck, you got her turned on too. and now she can feel the soft tickle of your bush brushing the skin of her thigh. “hmm, hah,” she hums when your tongue slips into her mouth, she completely forgot what she was thinking. your tongue playing with hers is way better than whatever dumb thing she could've said.
it doesn’t take long (she knew it when your hips started slacking off) to have your body's shuddering as you cum, soaking through your panties, and leaving a sticky, damp mess on her thigh. you bury your flushed face in her neck, trying to hide from the fact that you just came all over her, as if you weren't the one who started it all. she just laughs, low and teasing, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,” she murmurs—ugh, the smug bastard she is—hands still gripping your hips while your legs shake against her. not that she’s complaining. not even a little.
“i didn't wanna fuck,” you whisper, voice all offended, like she’s got some nerve even suggesting that. you just wanted to have a moment. ’s not your fault she’s so hot and her strong thigh makes your pussy wet, right?
#𐔌 . ⋮ vemathie .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱#˙ . ꒷ 🫁 . 𖦹˙—eva writing#vi arcane smut#vi arcane#vi arcane x reader#arcane#vi arcane x you#hmmmmmmmmm#i wanna write something longer..
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Under His Spell
Warning = captivity, kidnapping, controlling behaviour, isolation
Pairing = Malleus x reader
Summary = You somehow become entangled in Malleus Draconia's world. A world where love and possessiveness show no mercy.
Word count = 2.7k
A/N = kinda diff writing style... idk if i like it
It had all happened so quickly. One moment, you were walking back to your dorm, and the next, you were trapped in the clutches of Malleus Draconia. The world around you was a blur as he whisked you away into another world, far from the safety of your friends and the walls of NRC. You barely had time to react, the overwhelming pressure of his magic sealing any chance of escape.
The fabric clung to you in ways you despised. The gown, if you could even call it that, was more revealing than anything you’d ever worn. Every movement you made reminded you of how little it covered your skin, and every moment in it only fueled the indignation burning in your chest.
You didn’t want to wear it.
You never would have chosen this for yourself. But choice wasn’t something Malleus Draconia gave you the privilege of anymore.
He stood across the room, his imposing figure bathing in the eerie green glow of the enchanted light fixtures lining the walls. His gaze was heavy, deliberate, raking over you as though you were a masterpiece he’d created, a vision only he could fully appreciate.
“Beautiful,” he said finally, his deep voice sending a chill down your spine.
You crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to shield yourself from his scrutinizing eyes. “I don’t care what you think,” you snapped, the bitterness in your voice cutting through the still air.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it wasn’t one of amusement. It was one of satisfaction, as though your defiance was something he enjoyed playing with. He stepped closer, each movement slow and calculated.
“You speak so boldly,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk. “But look at you now… draped in the finest of fabrics, adorned as you should be. You wear it well, even if you resist.”
“I didn’t choose this,” you hissed, stepping back, only to feel the cold stone wall press against your bare shoulders. “You forced me into it.”
“And yet, it suits you,” he replied, tilting his head slightly as though pondering a work of art. “I knew it would.”
You wanted to tear the dress off, to scream, to fight. But the magic woven into the room, into him, was suffocating. Every fiber of the garment seemed laced with his power, and removing it felt as impossible as escaping his grasp.
“I’m not your doll, Malleus,” you spat, your nails digging into your palms. “You can’t just... dress me up and pretend I’m okay with this.”
His eyes softened for a moment, but only for a moment until it was quickly replaced by the intensity you’d come to dread. “You misunderstand me,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You flinched, but he didn’t pull away. “This is not about what you want. It’s about what you need. And you... need me.”
“I need you to let me go,” you countered, glaring up at him with all the fury you could muster.
He chuckled, low and almost fond, but it had a hidden subtext that made your stomach churn. “Oh, my dear,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “You’ll come to understand. In time, you’ll see that everything I do... is for you.”
You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze, but that only seemed to amuse him further. His fingers brushed against your cheek, and the touch sent a shiver through you, not of fear, but of the undeniable power he wielded over you.
The weight of his magic hung in the air, binding you in ways that no physical chains ever could. No matter how much you fought, how much you resisted, the reality was undeniable.
The silence between you both stretched on, thick with tension. You refused to meet his eyes, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, but Malleus didn’t seem to mind. He seemed content enough with simply watching you, studying you, almost as if you were something to be dissected. Something to be admired.
“You’re still resisting,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost like a murmur. “How charming.”
You could feel the weight of his gaze, like an invisible burden you couldn’t escape. You wanted to snap, to lash out, but every part of you screamed to hold onto your dignity, to not let him see how much his control rattled you.
But it was getting harder and harder to maintain that illusion. His presence was all-encompassing, overwhelming. His very being wrapped around you, suffocating you with his power.
"I don’t need this," you whispered, your voice shaking despite your attempts to sound firm.
Malleus took a step forward, and you felt your heart race. You couldn’t back away this time. The wall had trapped you. His eyes bore into yours with an intensity that almost sent you to heaven.
“You do not understand,” he said softly, reaching for the hem of your ‘dress��. “I do this because I know what’s best for you. You are mine, and everything I do for you... it is because you need it.”
The words were strange, unsettling. As though you were just a thing to be molded. Just a thing to be controlled. He didn’t even see you as a person anymore, but as something to shape, to dress, to possess.
“I am not yours," you said again, but this time there was less conviction in your voice. The truth of the situation was pressing down on you, hard and unyielding. You were his, whether you liked it or not. And the realization burned in a way that felt worse than any physical pain.
Malleus smiled, a faint curve of his lips that was equal parts warmth and danger. "You are. And one day, you will accept it."
You clenched your fists at your sides, frustration starting to rise to the surface. "If I do," you spat, "it’ll be because you forced me to."
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were contemplating your words. “Perhaps,” he mused. “But you see, my dear, it’s already begun.”
With that, his hand reached for you again, his fingers brushing over the fabric of the dress you were trapped in. His touch was almost tender, but the intent behind it was anything but. The way he traced the material, his fingers lingering on the edge of the neckline, sent a chill of discomfort through you.
"I’ll allow you to adjust," Malleus said, stepping back to give you space, but his eyes never left you. "But don’t mistake this for kindness. This is my mark on you, and you will wear it proudly. Everything I do is for you. And soon enough, you will realize that, in time.”
His words lingered in the air, like a spell, still present. You couldn’t even tell if he was being serious, or if he truly believed that. But either way, you didn’t have much choice now. The magic binding you to this place was stronger than your will to resist.
The realization was sinking in, and you hated it. Hated that you were so powerless in his presence.
With one final glance, Malleus turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the room. “Rest,” he called over his shoulder. “We have much more to discuss tomorrow.”
And with that, you were left in the cold, dim room, the dress still clinging to your skin, your mind swirling with the tormenting thoughts of what could come next. He could eliminate you in an instant, but he didn’t.
You had been left alone in the room for what felt like hours. Malleus’s departure had left a heavy silence in his wake, but the oppressive weight of his control lingered in the air. You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had touched you, the way his eyes had gleamed with that unsettling mix of affection and possession. The way he’d claimed you… your body, mind and soul.
But you weren’t his, no matter what he thought. And you weren’t going to stay here forever.
Your mind raced, plotting every possible way to escape his clutches. You couldn’t just run. That would be predictable, and you knew Malleus would catch you quickly. His magic was too strong for that. But there had to be another way, something less obvious that he couldn’t see.
As you paced the room, your eyes scanned every inch of it. The walls were high and covered in eerie, ancient tapestries depicting dragons, castles, and landscapes. You had no idea how this room was even built or how you could get out, but your gaze shifted to something else: the balcony door. It was locked, naturally, but you had seen Malleus use magic before. Maybe you could use that to your advantage.
It wasn’t running. It wasn’t reckless. It was just… a calculated risk.
You waited until you were sure Malleus was far enough away, probably in the garden or some distant part of the castle, before you even decided to move an inch.
You tried to recall any spell you had learned, any incantation that could break through the magic that held the door closed. You weren’t a magician by nature, but there had to be something. You were resourceful, you can use what you have.
Your fingers brushed over the surface of the door, searching for something, anything, that might give. Then, faintly, you felt it. The magic on the door was delicate. It wasn’t solid, just a thin veil keeping you trapped inside. You could feel the faintest pulse of it, just enough to give you the idea you needed.
“Focus,” you told yourself, taking a deep breath. It was risky, and you had no idea if it would work, but you had to try. You reached into your pocket, your fingers brushing against the familiar cold of your small pendant. It was a trinket you had found years ago, neglected but oddly comforting.
It wasn’t enchanted, but the pendant had always brought you a sense of calm. Maybe, just maybe, it could help you focus enough to channel your own inner magic. You closed your eyes, focused all your energy into the pendant, and visualized the door unlocking, the magic dissipating, leaving a way out.
For a long, heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. The door remained locked, the magic still pressing against you.
But then, a subtle click echoed through the room.
You opened your eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat. It worked.
Quickly, you slipped past the threshold of the door and onto the balcony, heart racing. The moon was high in the sky, casting long shadows over the landscape below. You could hear the distant sound of Malleus’s voice, low and steady, but you didn’t have time to waste.
The castle walls seemed to stretch infinitely upward, but below, there was only a series of interwoven wooden framework covered in vines. Maybe this was your escape route. You swallowed hard, the feeling of everything moving making your head spin in circles, but you didn’t have any other choice. You couldn’t afford to waste any time, and you knew Malleus wouldn’t be fooled for long.
Your fingers gripped the vines, your feet finding itself on the stones of the trellis. You were careful, precise, and as silent as you could manage, climbing down as carefully and gracefully you could.
And then, just as you reached the ground and took a step forward, the unmistakable sound of a door slamming open echoed through the courtyard. Your heart leaped into your throat.
“Malleus...” you muttered under your breath, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.
You had no idea where you were going. You had no plan beyond getting away. But as the sound of his heavy footsteps grew nearer, you pushed yourself faster, deeper into the woods.
You forced deeper into the woods, branches and underbrush tugging at your clothes as you ran past the array of trees. The soft crunch of leaves from every step you took was drowned out by the loud sounds of your heartbeat, each thump against your chest reminding you of the danger you were in. The moonlight leaked past the trees leaves, but the shadows in the forest were thick and suffocating.
Behind you, Malleus’s presence loomed. You could feel it even if you couldn’t hear his footsteps. His magic was always near, an invisible thread pulling at you, and it made your skin crawl. The forest wasn’t safe, not with him so close, but it was your only chance.
You didn’t dare look back. Instead, you focused ahead, each step faster than the last. The more distance you put between you and the castle, the more you could breathe, the less his overwhelming presence could crush you. But the sense of being hunted never faded.
The air was cooler now, and the forest seemed to stretch on endlessly. You couldn’t hear Malleus anymore. Maybe you had gotten far enough… maybe you had outrun him.
You stumbled to a stop, gasping for air. Sweat trickled down your brow, your legs burning from the effort. The trees around you were silent, but something still felt off. Your gut told you he wasn’t far behind.
You moved cautiously, your instincts alert, eyes darting in every direction. The silence was too still. Too perfect. And then, in the distance, you heard it. The sound of footsteps. They were deliberate and slow, almost like they had all the time in the world.
Malleus. The man you oh so desperately loathe.
You froze. His voice, too, reached your ears, a deep, rumbling whisper that seemed to wrap itself around you even from a distance.
"You cannot escape me," he called softly. His voice was a low growl, but there was no anger in it. Only a cold, confident certainty.
You bit your lip, eyes darting desperately, searching for an escape route. There was no way you could outrun him. Not now. He had already closed the gap. And then, you felt it, the sharp prickling sensation of magic weaving its way through the air, binding you in place.
He was here.
Before you could move, a figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing. Malleus, as you had known he would be. His eyes glowed like two eerie embers in the darkness, and the corners of his lips curled into an almost amused smile. But his gaze was cold, calculating.
“You don’t think I would let you go that easily, do you?” His voice was soft but laced with something darker, something that sent a shiver down your spine.
You took a shaky step back, every instinct screaming to run, to fight, to do anything to break free of his grasp. But his magic had already coiled around you, tight and unyielding.
With a flick of his wrist, the vines around you tightened, pulling you closer. Your breath caught in your throat, and you struggled against the pull, but it was useless. He had you now, and there was no escape.
"Why do you resist?" he asked, his tone almost pitiful, but there was no warmth in it. "I have given you everything. All you need is to accept me."
Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was filled with defiance. “I don’t want this. I don’t want you.”
He tilted his head, his sharp eyes studying you, intrigued. The corners of his mouth twitched upward, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.
“I see,” he said, his voice dripping with something almost too sweet. "Then perhaps, you just need a little more...persuasion."
Before you could react, his magic gushed through, sending threads of energy through the air. The world around you suddenly dissipated, putting you through a whole new world. When the sensation faded, you were back at the castle, standing in the middle of a grand hall, surrounded by towering stone walls.
You were trapped again.
#yandere malleus x reader#yandere malleus draconia#malleus draconia#malleus x reader#yandere twst x reader#yandere twisted wonderland#yandere twst
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𝔹𝕃 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟜 ✦ 𝕎ℝ𝔸ℙ-𝕌ℙ
happy new year!! ✨ °˖✧��✧˖° ✨
I enjoyed so much BL this year ⸜(。˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝ thank you to all of the authors, artists, & creators for your hard work and dedication. I promise every little detail you include we see and appreciate ♡♡
For all of the BL stories I’ve read this past year, I have a winner in 13 categories and 5 overall 2024 winners.
Enjoy!
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✰ FUNNIEST
And the nominees are…
Punch Drunk Love (2023 winner)
Killer Crush (2022 winner)
Sekai-ichi Hatsukoi / The World's Greatest First Love: The Case of Ritsu Onodera
Lucky Paradise
Happy Crappy Life
And the winner is…
LUCKY PARADISE
I re-read this one this year and despite some emotional moments in the series, I laugh out loud every single chapter!! This one has ~layers~ to it, it hits so many different types of humor for me. Ho-in and Woojin are absolute clowns (bffs ♡) and Chunwoo is always so deadpan... I love them so much ٩( ᗒᗨᗕ )۶ Idc how many side chapters there are, I'll be reading them all ♡
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✰ MOST INTRIGUING
And the nominees are…
Night Fragments
Gig of the Day
Liveta
Dawn of the Dragon
Scent and Sensibility
And the winner is…
LIVETA
Ahhhhhh ♡ I love Liveta ♡ Despite this one being ongoing since 2021 and being on hiatus a lot of this year, when it comes back -and honestly every single chapter- I'm pulled into this unique world all over again.
I'll definitely be re-reading this series before it ends. I feel like it's one of those where we don't register certain information the first time or understand the meaning of things, like the side characters, characters' history or traumas, context as to what happened when. I've already re-read it twice? three times? and I feel like there's more I missed! I love the complex characters, the inner & outer conflicts, I love the overall tone and balance of soft and dark scenes. This author can do it all!
We're on chapter 76 and I want to see so much more of their world and their stories. I can't wait to keep reading and I hope we still have a long way to go ♡
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✰ BEST SEX SCENES
And the nominees are…
Coyote (2023 winner)
Honey Bear
4 Week Lovers
Pearl Boy
The Ghost's Nocturne
And the winner is…
HONEY BEAR
A very difficult choice... but this year specifically I was drooling over the spicy scenes in Honey Bear ʕ >ᴥ<ʔ
After that amazing author's note at the end of season 1, I knew. (If you haven't read the author's note, please do! These creators are hilarious, I love them so much ♡♡) They teased us a bit in the beginning and then fed us so well!! We got the BAKERY scene! And then they topped that ;) with the dom/sub scene - THE FREAKING BREATHE PLAY!!!! The hot springs scene... literally every single sex scene \(0_0)/
I love when the bottom is so horny, enthusiastic, and desperate for their (future) bf!! And what makes it even better is that they're so cute together and so sweet to each other ♡♡ I love them so much ♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE FLUFF
And the nominees are…
Our Sunny Days
Boyfriends
To the Stars and Back
Sasaki and Miyano
Hirano and Kagiura
And the winner is…
SASASKI AND MIYANO
THE SLOW BURN IS KILLING ME!! I really just melt reading about these two ♡ they're so soft and sweet to each other ♡ I'm obsessed ♡
I want to see them continue to grow on their own and together, I want to see them bond over more BL (specifially I want Sasaki fudanshi moments haha), I want to see more of them happy and in love, and seeing each other's family & friends. I want them to go on a double date with Hirano and Kagiura hahaha ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و
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✰ FAVORITE BOTTOM
And the nominees are…
Park Seon-Woo | Punch Drunk Love (2023 winner)
Victor Luna | Liveta (2021 winner)
Shin | Shutline
Yeomin | Gig of the Day
Dohu | Between the Lines
And the winner is…
YEOMIN | GIG OF THE DAY
Yeomin!! Oh my god, he's so cute!!
The thing I love about Yeomin is that his character is set up as a stereotypical bottom we see often where he's poor, in debt, has no family/the family he does have is awful and takes advantage of him, and he must work hard just to survive. But unlike other characters, Yeomin is outgoing, cheerful, and surprisingly positive. Even after scary moments, he bounces back pretty fast. We see him smiling a lot with friends, and of course, with Tae-seo.
One of my favorite parts in the beginning of the story that made me fall for this little cutie was when Tae-seo took him out to eat for the first time and Yeomin talked his ear off about school, and other random things in his life (,,>﹏<,,) he's so precious we must protect him (งᓀ‸ᓂ)ง Tae-seo, you better step up and be nice. (I trust this author to do him right ♡)
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✰ FAVORITE TOP
And the nominees are…
Juwon | High Clear
Minwoo | Topsy Turvy
Dooshik | Pearl Boy
Kahyeok | Killer Crush
Jae-hee | 4 Week Lovers
And the winner is…
DOOSHIK | PEARL BOY
I love Dooshik so much ♡ always have, always will. This year he's been suffering... as have I while reading Pearl Boy... but I hope he gets his happy ending ♡
I want to see him carefree dancing in the club again ♡ I want to see him being silly and dorky and singing in the car with Jooha ♡ I want to see him being submissive (haha, just me? I liked seeing him cry tho)
The way this man hasn't wavered one bit and tried to be so strong for Jooha ♡o(╥﹏╥)o♡ he deserves all of the happiness.
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✰ FAVORITE COUPLE
And the nominees are…
Dooshik & Jooha | Pearl Boy (2021, 2022, & 2023 winner)
Skylar & Cirrus | Lost in the Cloud
Sasaki & Miyano | Sasaki and Miyano
Taeman & Kahyeok | Killer Crush
Suyong & Jaehyun | Topsy Turvy
And the winner is…
DOOSHIK & JOOHA | PEARL BOY
4th year in a row ♡♡ I JUST LOVE THEM YOUR HONOR!!!
。゜゜(´O`) ゜゜。I love them both so much - as individual characters and especially together ♡♡ The way they've both had their own and intertwined character development that continues even now, the way they're so ride-or-die serious about each other but also silly stupid in love. They really saw each other at their lowest rock-bottom moment in life and said... 'yup, he's mine'
I don't know how much longer we have left of their story but I hope we get to see them going about their new life together ♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE SIDE COUPLE
And the nominees are…
Sys & Randolph | King's Maker: Triple Crown
Ichikawa & Kikuchihara | Twilight Out of Focus
Minwoo & Norman | Topsy Turvy
Seolho & Hyunshik/boss | Killer Crush
Mi-Rye & Kyungbin | Merry Marbling
And the winner is…
MI-RYE & KYUNBIN | MERRY MARBLING
I don't even know where to start with these two... this author really fleshes out their characters and these two are no exception. It's so interesting to see them from their first interactions together up until now. They're so high school shy silly cute!! The time when Mi-Rye secretly followed Kyungbin to his away practice camp thing (˃ ▿ ˂) Mi-Rye is a fool for him HAHA
One thing I'm dying to know even though we may never find out... is who's top and who's the bottom!! I can't figure these two out. If it was up to me, I would definitely make them vers, pretty equally. That's how I see them right now anyway.
Looking forward to reading more of their story ♡♡
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✰ COUPLE I MOST WANT TO BE IN A THROUPLE WITH
And the nominees are…
Karlyle & Ash | Define the Relationship (2023 winner)
Ye-gyum & Jooin | Lovesick Dog
Taeman & Kahyeok | Killer Crush
Deisel & Ein | Wolf in the House: Nightfall
Joowon & Aiden | Bend over Backwards
And the winner is…
YE-GYUM & JOOIN | LOVESICK DOG
Them ゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜♡
First, they're so cute and domestic ♡♡ can't beat being lazy at home together. Another couple who are so sweet to each other and care about each other so much ♡♡
Second, the switch vibes are immaculate. They don't actually switch :/ sadly, because I know this author has done that in their past work, but there are side chapters coming out! So maybe there's hope?
Regardless, I've loved these two from the beginning and I would be so happy in this relationship ♡
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✰ FAVORITE MAIN CHARACTER
And the nominees are…
Taeman | Killers Crush (2023 winner)
Park Seon-Woo | Punch Drunk Love
Shin | Shutline
Juwon | High Clear
Yeomin | Gig of the Day
And the winner is…
SHIN | SHUTLINE
I love all of these characters so much (>ω<) but Shin... he just cracks me up. Tough-guy mechanic, smarter than he looks, vers king, self-proclaimed lowlife, and in too deep... I mean, he recognized Jake from his -footsteps- alone. He's so funny without even trying. And these overalls (●//▽//●) finally we get to see him in sexy overalls!!
I love Shin's smile ♡ I hope we get to see more of him smiling ♡
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✰ FAVORITE SIDE CHARACTER
And the nominees are…
Sys | King's Maker: Triple Crown (2023 winner)
Seolho | Killer Crush
Woojin | Lucky Paradise
"the kid" | Our Sunny Days
Kyungbin | Merry Marbling
And the winner is…
SYS | KING'S MAKER: TRIPLE CROWN
I didn't even read any of Kings Maker this year (/ω\) (I'm waiting for the mature version to be complete and then I plan to re-read the entire series) but Sys is such an icon ♡ I haven't read any of season 3 yet but I'm so freaking excited!!!! I want to see him and Randolph, I want to see more of him and his two guards ♡♡ and just Sys being his badass fashionable self ♡♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE BOY
And the nominees are…
Juwon | High Clear (2023 winner)
Sasaki | Sasaki and Miyano
Cirrus | Lost in the Cloud
Yeomin | Gig of the Day
Minwoo | Topsy Turvy
And the winner is…
CIRRUS | LOST IN THE CLOUD
Oh my god Cirrus... I don't know what to say. Honestly, I love how messy this boy is. I love his regular high schooler side, his flirty side, when he was begging for Skylar's attention and was pouty when he didn't get it. I love his silly and innocent side. I love his dark side and his anger. I love everything about him ♡♡
This poor boy has gone through so much. He really went through hell as a child and -then- had to deal with psychological warfare in his own home for years :( I want to see him living on his own with Candy (his dog) again. I want to see him happy and silly with Skylar ♡♡
Despite everything lol I think they're so good for each other.
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✰ FAVORITE TOXIC BL
And the nominees are…
Twittering Birds Never Fly (2023 winner)
Lost in the Cloud
Boss Bitch Baby
Gig of the Day
Jinx
And the winner is…
GIG OF THE DAY
Yay!! Even though Gig of the Day doesn't have a very unique plot, I loved this one from the very first chapter!! It felt refreshing, I think because of Yeomin's character but also because of the overall tone.
When I first started it, I thought that it was going in a slightly different direction... I thought Tae-seo would basically be one of those 'I'm an asshole to everyone but you' characters and Yeomin wouldn't know about his other side as a director (or as an asshole lol) until much later. I thought Tae-seo would fall for him and get swept up in his feelings - even if he didn't realize them yet - and not be able to treat him poorly. Like, he would want to because that's typically what he does, but he would just give in to whatever Yeomin wanted. I got that vibe (just like Yeomin lol) when he stayed the night, took him out for food, etc. in the beginning. But despite doing those things that could be seen as caring, he didn't treat Yeomin the best... haha (although he was honest & upfront about what he wanted so it wasn't completely awful).
Even though it didn't go like how I was imagining, I trust this author with the redemption arc and turning him into a simp (ㅅ´ ˘ `) we're seeing glimpses of that already haha I love it. Plus, I LOVE how Tae-seo is always there at the right moment for Yeomin and is his protector. Idc about practicality, I love all of those scenes.
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✰ SUING FOR EMOTIONAL DAMAGE
And the winner is…
PEARL BOY
... again. I'll stop choosing Pearl Boy when it stops giving me anxiety!! Even though I didn't sob like last year, I'm always on edge reading this one because when they're happy I think something bad is coming and we're already on the side chapters so I don't know how much longer we have until the end! One chapter? Thirty?? They're still crying it can't end yet!! (つ﹏⊂)
Some lucky bastards will discover this a year or two from now and have a whole completed work to enjoy while we suffered and stressed since 2021!!
Worth it tho ♡♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE NEW BL
And the winner is…
A FIRST OF SUMMERS
Oh my god, y'all, I just started this like last month and it's so freaking cute (●//▽//●)
The art is amazing & original, these two are adorable!! An age gap where they both question the age gap?? Unheard of. Younger top x older bottom, younger guitar teacher x older guitar student ♡♡♡ fluffy & smutty (˵ᵕ̴᷄ ˶̫ ˶ᵕ̴᷅˵) my heart is so full ♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE ONGOING BL
And the winner is…
TOPSY-TURVY
AHHHHHHHHH!!!! Okay, if you're not reading Topsy-Turvy or you tried it and you didn't like it in the first few chapters, I'd give it another try if I were you!!!
Starting this, I didn't take it too seriously and thought it was just going to be another little goofy college story. BUT NO. It's a glorious mess of love triangles that I can't get enough of!!! I've already read it twice!!
First, the main couple is FREAKING ADORABLE!!! They're hilarious frenemies? in the beginning and then super sweet ♡♡ switch energy but don't switch (yet. I swear the author is teasing us) I love their dynamic so much ♡♡
One love triangle turns into another ~ it's driving me crazy!!! I ship Minwoo & Norman but I don't know if they're endgame (☍﹏⁰)。 Norman's friend/fwb gives off creepy vibes to me (not in a good way) and now this new guy from the past just showed up in season 3!?! :/
I'm open to the author changing my mind. Whatever they give us I'm thankful for ♡♡ We're getting at least 50 more chapters from here (the korean is at ch. 152 and ongoing, we're currently at ch. 103). I'm happy we still have a long way to go (≧◡≦)
I've had so much fun reading this one so far!! ♡♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE BL THAT ENDED THIS YEAR
And the winner is…
UNDER THE GREEN LIGHT
I'm sad to see this one end, but it was time for them to get their happy ending ♡ Under the Green Light has been consistently amazing since the very beginning and I've had such a great time reading it over the years.
The ending was amazing in my opinion ♡ I would have liked to see a bit more of them happy & living together & obsessed with each other... but that's how I always feel lol
The REVEAL at the end... got me so emotional and when I inevitably re-read it again, it'll make the story even better ♡♡
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✰ FAVORITE BL OF 2024
And the winner is��
CHERRY MAGIC! THIRTY YEARS OF VIRGINITY CAN MAKE YOU A WIZARD?!
I can't stop looking at this volume 11 cover art (⊃//˶̫ //⊂)
Okay, I've loved Cherry Magic for a few years now but this year we got three volumes of them being newlyweds & living their happy life together ♡♡♡
We got the anime series!!! (loved it!!)
And we got the thai live action series (I'm currently watching and will be posting my thoughts later)
♡:.。ღ˘◡˘ற.。.:♡
Watching their story in all of these adaptations just makes me love them more ♡♡ and honestly makes me want to re-read the manga again. We get so many more small insights and moments in the original that I want to see again... one of my favorites is Kurosawa remembering that he wrote 30 songs about Adachi before they got together when he was crushing on him HAHAHA (✿>ꇴ<) omg I will never get over that.
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Thank you for reading!
#wrapped#bl manhwa#bl manga#liveta#honey bear#sasaki and miyano#gig of the day#pearl boy#shutline#merry marbling#king's maker#king's maker triple crown#lost in the cloud#topsy-turvy#under the green light#cherry magic#cherry magic 30 years of virginity can make you a wizard
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Dangerous cakes and killing a kid, what a lovely start!
A/N: MAGICAL BAKER IS HERE EVERYONE!! Thanks for the patience. It’s 1835 words long and was supposed to be longer 💀. Anyways, hope you enjoy :D
TW: kinda drowning
The first 30 minutes on Earthbread were amazing. Eating candies, the cute candy animals, trying eating trees. Until it wasn’t amazing anymore.
──── 𓌉◯𓇋 ────
Why you had to eat those jellies?
In a world made entirely of candies, you had to eat those who were suspiciously hidden under a bush and they didn’t even taste sweet more like a combination of strawberry jam and barbecue sauce.
You walked through the forest, carefully of not making any sound. Were they still behind you?
Looking back, it seemed that they lost track of you. Thanks the Swa-
“Gh-“
A rock.
A stupid rock made you find yourself crashing face-first onto the ground.
And you didn’t get up, your legs were to tired for that, how long have you been running anyways?
Maybe if you didn’t move a inch, those monster would just go away and you could finally re-
“Bark! Bark!”
Okay, the adrenaline rush was enough to make you get up.
One of the cake things comes out of the bushes.
They would look cute (and delicious), with the sugar icing that made the fur and the two strawberries that made the ears, if it wasn’t for those scary teeth icing.
Would that hurt even if it is icing? Better not found out.
You take a few steps back, gradually, keeping your eyes on them. We don’t want an angrier cake wolf.
“Hi there…”
Talking to it would not work but at least you were buying some time.
A few steps more.
“If you let me escape, I promise that I never eat your jellies again.”
As you mentioned the jellies, the cake wolf growled (Did it understood you?) and called the rest of their friends.
Shit.
And so you start running again, trying once again to chase them off.
Never in your life would imagine to be scared of pieces of cakes wolves things.
If you stopped for a second they would jump on you. Maybe your meat body would save you but again, they had to bite first.
Your school backpack is just giving you extra-weight, but with all the important things inside it would be a waist to throw it.
But in the back of your mind you still curse it.
The cakes wolves’s steps were getting extremely near you, growling.
Then something strange happened.
Two of them starting splitting from the main group, going in your left and right sides.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no.
You won’t let them surround you.
It would be over.
Your legs weren’t cooperating though.
You were slowing down.
But you could not surrender yet, after all you went through!
But maybe was better this way, dying in another dimension from literally pieces of cakes was ironic considering your position, reading it in a text book would certainly make you laugh.
As your hope was living your body, you noticed a change in the environment.
The forest was brighter and the trees were less and less.
This could mean that a lake is near!
If those cake-wolves were made of well cake, that would mean that with water they would…
It wasn’t a perfect plan but it was your only one.
The cake wolves were getting in front of you, your opportunity slipping your hands.
Now you could see the lake.
In a last moment of strength, you sprint, surpassing the two cakes wolves.
It was your only chance.
You jumped.
──── 𓌉◯𓇋 ────
There were you two things you realised shortly after you jumped in the lake.
Your theory was in fact correct and the cake wolves didn’t follow you in the water.
It wasn’t water, it was soda.
And now your eyes burned.
Another funny thing? More you swan in the soda more fizzy it got.
Making the rest of your body burn.
You try to reach the other side as soon as possible but breathing was getting more difficult by the second and your already tired legs weren’t any help.
Ten strokes.
Why this little lake had to be so deep?
Now eight.
The fizzy sensation was aggravating.
Just six.
Every muscle of your body was heavier, your eyes were heavier.
Swan, how good sleeping would be-
Only four.
Vision was blurry. The air wasn’t enough.
Two.
Your head almost underwater.
Gathering all your energy, you used the rest of your body to get out of the lake but when you reached the ground, you just lied down again, putting your backpack by your side.
Too exhausted to move or do anything. At least now there weren’t any monsters going after you.
Luckily, the fizzy sensation was gone.
Unluckily, you were soggy and worst of all the sugar made you sticky, no doubt there was candy stuck in your hair.
By the Swan, what the heck happened?
Before the Witches send (most likely forced) you the portal, everyone kept saying that:
“Earthbread isn’t that dangerous, they should have chosen a better punishment.”
“Baker, It’s a world made of dessert. Even a toddler wouldn’t messed up.”
“The scariest experience, you could have is to choke on candies.”
Oh, when you’ll come back, they’ll see.
Actually you had to find a way back first.
That night, the Great Witches only told you to “…Solve the magic’s problem in two weeks or you’ll get…”
You close your eyes, while using your arm to shield them from the sun’s annoying rays. Your skin now dry but your clothes still not.
Honestly, the best decision is to their own destiny.
Honestly, why don’t leave them to their own destiny?
Watching them fail their spells or the cauldron just exploding in their faces, was nothing but funny and deserved.
But if you don’t help them, it also meant you couldn’t do magic.
You get up in a sitting position and take a breath.
Another one.
And another one.
Feeling the air enter your body, the grass under you, the birds chirping…
Where to start?
The only help they gave you was… the wand!
You rush to open your backpack, still soggy from your swim: books, snacks, wet papers and, it didn’t broke.
Carefully pulling out the, Oh Great Magic Wand, you thanked the Swan under your breath.
For being one of the wizards and witches’ most important and ancient relic, it looked like a normal baking whisk except for the five gems, four forming a clover shape with one in the middle.
The legend said that the wand changes depending on its owner, imagine all the things you could with it.
From now on you would keep it wherever you go.
Well, you got enough rest, better get moving. Staying in this forest any longer could be dangerous.
The sun was still high, maybe you could find a city or more probably village. Maybe you could meet a-
“-always disturbing me… keeping me from reaching my true potential!…”
Cookie.
Oh, Swan.
Oh, Swan, it’s really happening.
You couldn’t point exactly where the voice was coming from but the footsteps were getting closer.
What should you? You weren’t mentally ready to see a living, talking cookie.
Should you talk to them, ask for help? Trying to be nice it would be definitely a nice idea.
Would they even comprehend you? They seem to talk english.
Trying to be nice it would be definitely a nice idea.
You fully stand up, your clothes less wet but it had a big jam stain on it, hope they wouldn’t notice.
The footsteps stopped.
“W-who are you?”
The voice was coming from behind you, whoever was talking sounded scared?
You turned around,
“Hii…!”
While making sure to show the biggest smile you could do, it was a bit awkward but still a smile, everyone loves smiles!
“Ehm, nice to meet you! Can you help me? I ain’t from around here…”
Everyone expects cookies, apparently.
As you turned around, the grip on their staff tightened, getting in a fighting position and they looked almost scared.
The cookie had blue eye, the type that seems to look in your soul,
It matched well with the dark navy robe.
The other one was covered by his white hair? Icing?, their scarf was the same colour.
Oh, and they were short but like really short.
As you turned around, the grip on their staff tightened, getting in a fighting position and they looked almost scared.
Did you have something on your teeth?
“You! How did you found us… Doesn’t matter I won’t let you hurt my friends!”
What?
“Ehm Sorry, I think you confused me with someone els- Ouch!”
From their staff come out a literally lighting strike! It didn’t hurt that bad but still hurt.
“I won’t fail at your lies, you Witch!”
They prepare to strike again,
And you dodged.
Not that was hard, it was pretty predictable.
And they strike again.
And again.
“Did you do this to everyone you meet?, tiny”
The cookie’s face gets angrier,
“Calling me ‘Tiny’ would be your last mistake!”
Now, the strikes were more faster.
You really couldn’t catch a break, could you?
Wait, blue robe, staff and a pointy hat!
A wizard, a prideful and short wizard
What a lucky combination.
Your thoughts made you almost get hit.
“Hey wizard! It’s all that you got? Well I should have aspect it from
someone like you.”
Now was their time to get confused.
“Wha-… I-… M-my knowledge it’s bigger than you imagine. I can all sort of spells, like-“
“Like small lightning strike and slightly bigger lightning strike?”
“No,” they put down the candy staff, “I also can do-“
“Oh, yeah I forgot! A wizard’s favourite spell,” you shift your weight.
“Fireball!”
“What?! No, I-“
Mimicking what you saw so many time at the academy,
With your new wand you point at their hat.
“How was it, again? Oh yes ‘I cAsT FiReBalL’”
Of course for do this type of spell required a lot of studying and training, you just wanted to make fun of him.
That’s why when a giant flaming meat ball comes out of the wand, you deadpan.
The meatball barely misses the wizard cookie and flies towards the sky.
Thus the wizard cookie fall to the ground.
You killed them.
You for sure killed them.
…
No, okay they were still breathing.
As you rush for checking them, other footsteps were coming at your direction.
“-Cookie, We are sorry!…”
“Please come back, Wizard Cookie!”
Wizard Cookie? So it’s actually their name.
Wait,
THEY HAD FRIENDS?!
If they saw you they would think you kill them, which is not exactly wrong but still.
The cookie seems to recognise that you were different right away, a witch.
Could they have some sort of vendetta? It would make sense.
If so better run away, you didn’t want to find out what they would do to you.
Yeah, you had the wand but: you didn’t know how control it yet and by the voice’s number it seems it would be two against one.
It’s wiser to run away.
But,
If you stayed, you could explain the upcoming misunderstanding and maybe make you friends?
So,
What do you choose?
[Stay]
or
[Go]
Don’t worry guys, he isn’t dead. I had so much fun with this, I already created half of the world building. If you have any questions my inbox is open :3
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"this guy ain't half bad"
#i love their slow burn but i just LOVE a ''oh no'' moment#also looking at some guy bloody and bruised and THAT'S when you start to develop feelings is so fucking relatable#hazbin hotel#huskerdust#angelhusk#angel dusk#husker#comics#my art
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an afternoon by the black lake🫶🫶🫶
#here is the fluff after my angst drawing of yesterdat😙💓😙💓#maybe you recognize some of these this is just a series of cute fast sketches of these two sweeties#I just like thinking about them spending time together🥹#I keep passing out all day and then waking up to scribble a bit and then passing out again#so sorry these are messy#but I still enjoy them🫶🫶#(ofc I do…I’m Eloise’s number one fan💓💓💓)#sorry I’ve been bad at responding to messages lately hopefully tomorrow I can get back to them🫶🫶🫶#im just so😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫😵💫#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts legacy fanart#hphl#hogwarts legacy oc#hogwarts legacy mc#eloise babbit#sebastian sallow#sebastian sallow x mc#sebastian sallow fanart#I also want to draw/write a SUPER CUTE SCENE#that will probably not happen in my fic but be part of their sweet AU#well I don’t want to spoil it but these illustrations are part of my au🥹🫶#oh also in this au they’ve been friends for a few years but the second picture#is the moment Sebastian looks at her and is like😳😳 omg…I’m in love with her…#(it’s a sweet friends to lovers slow burn🥰🥰)
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discovery of the day
#im sorry i do Not see what everyone sees in this movie. although from the years of browsing the internet ive began to realize#that i actually dont know if people actually like the movie or not#why is everything so rushed#their romance felt like nothing to me because i dont KNOW what they see in eachother#listen you dont have to tell me straight up into the camera why they love eachother#but the aggressive kissing and cut sex scenes arent telling me much#i get that it came out in 2005 but cutting mostly every gay sex scene? even the kissing for the most part?#but oh we NEED to see this happy husband and wife doing it. yes im bitter#a german movie by the name of summer storm came out the year before this one and actually shows something that feels like actual passion#i sound like i need to see people doing it in these movies all the time I promise thats not it#but even the kissing? the thing i Actually like the most? the thing that makes me feel things? felt like nothing at all#and oh i forgot that this is a tragic gay movie where one of them dies. Oh yeah. forgot.#mentioning summer storm again: it actually has a relatively happy ending. feels good that i dont need to be reminded of how gay people are#doomed 24/7.#the romance started good. with jack telling the guy whos name i already forgot to get his ass in the tent already.#the Pulling his arm over my body thing. it was going great#THEN IT WENT SO FAST! WHY WAS HE SUDDENLY SO INTO IT! WHY WERE THEY BOTH SUDDENLY DOING IT#im sorry i expected a slighter slow burn than this!!! calm down cowboys i have no idea why you two like eachother all of the sudden!#i seriously thought they would show these little moments of tension#and it just growing bigger and bigger#until they couldnt take it anymore#that would explain the aggressiveness of it! why they were so desperate! but it literally just HAPPENED!!!!!!!!!#im sorry i. I expected more of this movie that i hear so much about.#the most it made me feel was at that moment that turned into a meme where i thought “Hop on fortnite”#chuckled. that was it. did i cry? did my heart race at any moment? was i worried about what was gonna happen? not Once#im so. Disappointed.#after this i wanted to watch summer storm but netflix removed it. Its a german only movie no one knows from 2004. where the hell am i gonna#🏴☠️ that#AAAGHHHH!!!!!!!#not being able to watch summer storm made me cry more than this movie did What the hell
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JACOB KNOWS JACOB KNOWS JACOB KNOWS JACOB KNOWS JACOB KNOWS
#AAAHHHHHHHH#y'all this is gonna have to go on that slowest slow burns list xD#anyway I loved jacob all around this episode lol#plus zach mention 😚#yk I love my guy zach 🥰#anywayyyy#also 'stop or I'll scream' SDLGJSHLK M O O D#and the cat storyline xD#but seriously poor gregory this episode lol#man was going through it XD#I was dying though slfhdjlfgs#oh and ava going OFF at the end#iconic#sometimes the serious moments just slap you in the face and it's like DANG. that's good. xD#abbott elementary#ae#oasis's ae chatter#I love this show <3
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tbh it is looking like bellum x linebeck confession chapter is gonna be around chapter 40
#like somewhere between 40 and 45 at least for this draft#i miiiight shorten things- try to merge some chapters bc yeah its slow burn but christ#bellum x linebeck fic#i might as well own rhat tag tbh. in hindsight kinda sucks that im tagging every fic post with it#might be worthwhile to change the tag at some point#anyways#salty talks#in other news edited some summaries today and i thiiiink#ive got a decent idea of how they figure out feelings?#in that bellum doesn’t necessarily have a romantic revelation its more of an oh shit i really like this guy#and linebeck is just yknow. a lil dense. doesnt realize for a bit that he think of bellum romantically bc it kinda just happens#he has a realization moment and spends like an hour thinking abt it and coming to that realization and then wait a bit to admit it#thats personally my experience with romantic love? i dont really notice that its happened and its kinda just a smooth like#transition into ‘hey do you wanna date?’#bc like. the feelings in this case are mutual and after fuckin. abt 40 chapters theyre pretty comfortable with each other
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toji realizes he’s in love with you when he lets you shave his face for the first time,
he’s got the biggest grump of a scowl plastered on his naturally crooked lips. as he’s glowering, he’s also trying to prevent himself from smiling because you looked so cute. your touch with him was gentle—like it always was. after you wiped his face with a dampened face towel, you rub your hands against the lower part of his jaw. “soooo,” you utter, breaking the dead silence as he’s just peering down at you. “tell me ‘bout your day, toji.”
with the palms of your hands tenderly caressing against his chiseled jawline—you smear every part of his chin and cheekbones with shaving cream. even the secluded areas underneath his nose. as you do so, toji tchs. “day was fine, baby. ‘n i told ya i can shave myself.”
“i know i know,” you hum, creating a circular motion with your hands before gently making sure every sector near the lower part of his face was lathered with nice frothy amounts of shaving cream. “wowww, you’ve got such soft skin. skin routine when?”
“ugh, y’er insufferable,” he rolls his eyes. although, his skin was surprisingly clear. toji only had a bit of a stubble, hardly any facial hair but it was growing the more he aged. you took it upon yourself to ask to help him shave and he said yes, not realizing how much he’d soon grow to like it. the feeling of your delicate, warm hands rubbing against his face was somewhat . . soothing. with a deep, heaving sigh, toji’s hooded jade eyes meet yours. he spots your pout and his shoulders lower. “alright fine, i’ll teach you one day. only if ya stop poutin'..”
with a cheeky grin, your little pout falters and you smile. “okay,” and you wait for about a good three minutes to allow the spumous cream to souse everywhere on his pores. it takes a while—and as you wait, you take a moment to stare at his features. toji was definitely easy on the eyes up close. naturally long black lashes of his flicker as he returns your loving gaze, and he avoids eye contact for a moment. perhaps you were making him a bit . . nervous. darkened eyebrows of his arch into an almost sheepish raise while he watches your adorable curious simper stretch further. “don’t be so stiff, what are you, nervous?”
“not nervous. jus’ don’t want ya to cut my face off.” he grumbles in a hoarse tone, ogling intently at you opening the bathroom cabinet for his razor. “you know what y’er doin’ right? i’d like ‘ta keep my face.”
“oh, don’t be dramatic,” and now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. toji’s got a growing smirk tugging against his lips as he gawks you carefully start to shave in the exact sectors of where his facial hair resides. you did lots and lots of research—he knew this because he caught you reading various wikiHow articles on how to shave a guy’s face correctly. toji would never in a million years tell you, but he found that fact entirely adorable. you made sure you knew how to avoid burns and razor bumps. as you’re fixated on his chin, you mumble, “you’ll keep your pretty face, don’t cry.”
“aw, think ‘m pretty?” toji says, and you see the playful glint in his eyes. he’s easing up a bit, and he acknowledges that you were right. right about his stiffness, he was a bit tense. shoulders raised and all, but now—as of late, he’s starting to calm down a bit the more you talk to him. “i’d prefer the term 'handsome' but that works too, i guess.”
you deadpan, continuing your trail against his face—the razor sings out a shrieking tiiiing the more you gingerly shave with soft, gentle strokes.
it’s somewhat relaxing with the way the edges of the instrument adapts to the chiseled contours on his face. the foam starts to come off within each downward stroke and you’re very slow and precise. “okay, don’t be cocky,” you titter, and he feels his heart flutter a bit at how you’re just so dedicated. you’re so focused that your tongue briefly sticks out of your mouth, trying to make sure you do it perfectly. you tried your hardest not to cut him—you were so careful and that simple detail alone could have been enough for him to propose. “you should let me do this more. ‘s kinda fun.”
“eh. maybe,” toji shrugs, his voice coming out in a rough rasp. he doesn’t even realize it but his expressions significantly soften. he was only this way around you. to him, the thought of that was kind of scary. after you start to edge with the precision trimmer and reach underneath his nose and chin, you wrap it up. successfully discarding all of the foamy cream from his face, spotting his now clean jawline, you break away to rinse off the now grubby blades in the sink. “all done?”
“wait— don’t look yet,” you gasp, preventing him from gazing at himself in the mirror. “i still have to do the uh . . what’s it called again?”
toji snickers. “aftershave, baby.”
“aftershave,” you repeat. “right right,” and you’re so cute, kneeling down towards the wooden cabinet directly underneath the sink. you take out the mini bottle, pouring a nice goopy amount into your palm. you let toji wash his face with cold water first, patting it dry, and then you start to bedaub the facial balm in all the sensitive areas against his skin. he adores the mushy texture of your hands making contact with his face as each second passes. toji’s eyeing you, an almost grunt leaving his lips as a thumb of yours gently tickles against his infamous scar. the scar that slants itself near the right side of his lip. “thereee we go,” you give him a soft smile, the aromatic scent of tea tree oil setting against your nostrils. up close, his pores were now all so clear and you stare in awe for a bit at just how charming he was. the moisture that lays against his skin feels a lot more smooth. you grow silent for a moment before your own face softens. “okayyy, ‘m done.”
toji finally glances into the mirror, seeing his freshly new spotless face and he sees your proud toothy grin in the mirror’s reflection behind him. he cranes his neck to the side, feeling the once rough texture of his jawline now soft. he then lets off a tiny exhale. “looks good. y’er a natural,” and he turns to face you, he’s pondering on what to say. oh, your eyes sparkled with such admiration from his praise that it was just adorable. “thank you, sweetheart. for y’know . . takin’ care of me. y’er really . . sweet.”
and with that, his lips inch down to press a warm kiss against the crown of your head. your heart immediately swarms up with a frantic school of butterflies and so does his. toji prepares speak again and it’s an almost inaudible mumble. you could barely even register what he said at first because it was so hushed, but toji gruffs in a low tone. “i … love you..”
“h- huh?”
scoffing, he hides the burning embarrassed flush against his face by pulling you into his broad chest. you giggle at how he just abruptly snatches you close into his warm body before he slings a beefy arm around you. “i said, let’s uh.. do our skin care together later t’night.”
“awww i love you too toj—”
“oh my god, s-shut up..”
#★vegasbaby.#toji x reader#toji fluff#toji fushiguro x reader#toji x you#toji x y/n#jjk fluff#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk x y/n#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujustsu kaisen x reader#jjk drabbles#jjk fic#jjk imagines
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“epiphany” | 21k
worst!logan howlett x f!reader
SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.
OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?
WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.
A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3
Love giveth and love taketh away.
To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.
If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.
But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?
You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.
How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.
Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.
It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot.
In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.
In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.
All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away.
Love maketh you miserable.
Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.
It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.
“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”
Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.
It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away.
Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?
“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.
The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”
She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.
Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.
As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.
Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.
“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.
“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.
Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.
Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.
Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.
One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”
Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.
“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.
Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.
But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.
Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.
Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds.
To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.
As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.
No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone.
Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.
The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.
Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?
In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.
At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.
The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.
They are soulmates.
It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.
She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.
Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.
They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.
Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.
Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.
Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.
The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.
A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming.
In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.
God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.
At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.
You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.
Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.
The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?
“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.
Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.
Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.
Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?
Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.
On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.
The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.
There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.
But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.
You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.
Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.
The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”
But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.
It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.
He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?
When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.
A part of you died with him that day.
The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.
It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.
Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.
He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.
It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up.
You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”
“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”
“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.
The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”
“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?
“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.
Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”
Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.
“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”
The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.
You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.
You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.
Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—
Yeah, it wasn’t working.
“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.
“And why’s that?”
“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”
Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.
Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.
He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?”
“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”
“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”
The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”
“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.
Wait. Was that your fork?
“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”
Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”
“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”
You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”
“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”
If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.
“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.
Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.
After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”
“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”
“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”
From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had.
Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.
Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.
“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.
Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.
“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”
She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.
Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.
Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.
As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.
Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.
You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.
“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”
And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?
As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.
The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”
You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”
“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.
“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”
“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.
It’s still a sensitive topic.
“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”
His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”
Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.
Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”
“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.
“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.
“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.
But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.
Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.
Where the hell did he go?
After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.
Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?
In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.
After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.
Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.
When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.
In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.
Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid.
Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.
No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.
He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.
The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”
Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”
“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.
Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?
“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”
“Do I know you, bub?”
“You don’t, but I know you.”
This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.
“Everybody does. I’m the—”
Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.
“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.
“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”
Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.
But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.
Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.
Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.
Nighty-night, Logan.
I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.
I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out
where this need to call you mine stems from.
You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed
in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.
I’m aware that you're not mine
because I haven't bought you yet;
I hold no claim over you,
nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.
I want you to be mine,
but no amount of money would buy your soul.
You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.
I’m aware that you’re not mine,
and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.
“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.
Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.
Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together.
You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.
Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.
Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.
It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.
Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.
“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.
Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”
“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”
That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.
“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.
Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.”
Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.
Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.
Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.
You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.
What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.
And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.
As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.
But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.
The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.
You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.
Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.
The scars.
They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.
You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage.
Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.
But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.
These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.
Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.
Nothing changes. They’re still there.
You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change.
Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.
What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.
Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.
That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.
Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.
“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”
Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.
You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.
When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.
He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?
Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.
“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.
It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.
Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.
“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”
Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.
“Me too, roomie. Me too.”
“Let’s not use that word.”
Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”
The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.
“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”
Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.
Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.
“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.
“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”
Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”
“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.
“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.
His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door.
But then Wade jumps in front of him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”
“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.
“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”
“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”
“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”
Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.
The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.
Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?”
Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.
After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”
This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.
As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.
“What… the fuck?”
The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.
Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?
The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?
You’re… far more than he expected.
More beautiful, for starters.
Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.
“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.
He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.
Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.
Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”
You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”
Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”
As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.
His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.
Great. You must think he’s a weirdo.
“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”
Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”
“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”
Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”
“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”
“Don’t worry, I’m—”
“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”
You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”
Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.
Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.
“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”
“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”
“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”
“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.
“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”
“I’m public enemy number one.”
Too harsh, idiot.
“Oh. That’s… good to know.”
Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”
You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”
With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.
He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.
“You and Wade…?”
Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”
It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.
“What?” you ask him, puzzled.
“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”
“And I can tell you don’t.”
“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.
His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.
The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face.
“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all.
“And where is yours, then?”
He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?
Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.
You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.
At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”
“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”
Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.
“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?”
You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.
“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—
The door almost closes on his nose.
Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.
Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.
The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.
The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.
He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction.
He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.
And where is yours, then?
His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.
The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.
A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.
There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.
Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.
How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?
You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.
So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.
Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.
After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.
That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.
You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.
The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.
“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”
Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.
“I just—I need to tell you something.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”
“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”
“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”
“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”
“Fuck?”
“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”
You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”
Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”
Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”
“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”
“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”
That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”
Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”
With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”
You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.
But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”
You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.
“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”
“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”
“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”
“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”
He doesn’t budge. “No.”
“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”
“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”
You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.
Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.
“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.
You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.
He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.
It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.
The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.
But God, it feels so good to be near him.
You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.
“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.
“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”
“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”
Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”
“Well, you were an asshole.”
“Yes.”
“The first time we exchanged words.”
“Also yes.”
“And now you’re apologizing.”
“Positive. I just did.”
It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.
“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.
An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.
It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.
“How do you feel about reading?”
“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”
“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.
Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.
You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”
“Do you—you remember specific pages?”
“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”
Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:
He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.
You’ve chosen a damn good page.
Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.
“You’ve got a week to read it.”
“How long is it again?”
“Four hundred pages.”
He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”
“Write an opinion essay if possible.”
Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”
“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression.
As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”
Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”
What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.
For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.
You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.
He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.
That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.
Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.
Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.
The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.
Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.
He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.
Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.
Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?
Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?
The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.
Instead, he listens.
Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.
He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.
None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.
One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.
Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.
Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.
But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.
And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.
Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.
One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”
Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.
“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”
Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.
“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”
“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”
“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”
“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”
The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.
“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”
“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”
“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”
“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”
“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”
Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”
The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”
Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”
From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.
The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.
It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.
You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.
“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.
“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”
“I don’t—”
“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”
Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”
“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”
Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”
Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”
By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”
As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”
Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.
His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:
I hate this John kid.
Her aunt is a cunt.
This is too cheesy.
Mr. Rochester’s married?
St. John—what a prick.
He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.
Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.
Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.
As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.
This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.
Fuck.
The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”
His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.
The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.
Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.
“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.
You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?
Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.
This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”
Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.
This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.
His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?
He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”
“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”
“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”
You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”
“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”
“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”
“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.
“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”
You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”
“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.
Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.
Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”
“It’ll take more than a book.”
“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”
“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”
“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”
Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”
“Of what?”
“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”
You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”
“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”
If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.
“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”
That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.
I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.
He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.
Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.
Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.
His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.
“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”
Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?
He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?
“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.
For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.
Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.
Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.
I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.
“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.
It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.
Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.
The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.
It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.
Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.
Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.
When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”
He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”
“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”
There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.
You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.
Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.
They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.
“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.
His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.
Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.
Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.
You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.
The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.
This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.
Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.
“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”
The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.
It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.
Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”
Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”
Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.
For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.
If anything, it made everything worse.
You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.
One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’
They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.
So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.
Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?
You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.
As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.
Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.
You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.
And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.
“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.
He looks... ridiculously good.
“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”
“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.
“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.
Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”
“Logan, you don’t—”
But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.
“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”
Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.
As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”
That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.
His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.
You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”
A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.
You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”
“If you have plans, then yeah.”
He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.
Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.
“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”
Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.
He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”
It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.
The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.
“Logan, this isn’t—”
“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.
More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.
Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”
Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”
“Come on, baby.”
“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.
His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.
Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.
“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”
You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.
Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.
Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.
Logic? Error 404—not found.
You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.
He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.
“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.
That’s when recognition settles over you.
What are you doing? And why are you doing it?
He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”
You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”
His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.
Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”
Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”
“Fuck you, Logan.”
“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”
“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”
His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”
“He’s closer than ever.”
Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”
“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”
“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”
“No. You’re not.”
Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.
“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.
“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.
“It’s what we both need.”
“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”
Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.
No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.
Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.
After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.
It didn’t go well in the end.
You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.
Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.
Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.
But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.
Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.
Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.
Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.
“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”
“I’ll take care of it next month.”
He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.
“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”
All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.
Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.
You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.
One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again.
Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.
The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts.
Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.
That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.
And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.
What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.
You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.
But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.
Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize.
What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?
You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?
This is what you fear the most: loneliness.
You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.
No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.
Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.
It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door.
No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”
Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”
The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.
He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”
You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.
“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”
Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”
You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”
It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”
“I could do it.”
No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.
“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.
“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”
“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.
The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.
His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place.
You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.
After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.
There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.
You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”
He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.
Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.
Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.
You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—
“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”
His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.
“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.
“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.
As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.
The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.
"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."
“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”
He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.
Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.
Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yes.”
“And what is that—”
“I need a drink.”
“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”
When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”
It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void.
The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.
The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.
The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.
All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.
But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?
Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.
He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.
In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.
He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.
“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.
The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.
“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.
He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.
You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.
Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.
Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.
“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.
Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.
Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.
“They’re yours. I could never not like them.”
Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.
The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.
Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.
This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.
“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.
He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.
Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.
Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.
His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.
“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”
“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.
You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”
He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”
Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.
As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.
He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.
You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.
His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.
Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.
One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.
“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.
He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.
The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.
The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.
His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.
Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.
Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.
Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.
Who is enjoying this more: him or you?
His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.
Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.
Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.
In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.
Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.
“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.
“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.
A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”
“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”
You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.
“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”
At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.
It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.
He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.
You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.
Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.
He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.
To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.
You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.
You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.
You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.
You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.
In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.
For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.
Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.
“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”
It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.
Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”
Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”
His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.
“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”
Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.
Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.
You’ve never felt this relaxed.
Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.
You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”
A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.
Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.
Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.
You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.
But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.
Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.
Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.
dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3
#logan howlett#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x you#wolverine#wolverine x you#wolverine x reader#logan howlett x fem!reader#logan howlett xmen#logan howlett fic#logan howlett smut#logan howlett fanfiction#logan james howlett#james howlett#wolverine angst#wolverine fic#wolverine fanfiction#deadpool and wolverine#wade wilson#logan x reader#logan x you#logan xmen#wolverine xmen#wolverine x y/n#the worst logan x reader#the worst wolverine#worst wolverine#logan howlett x f!reader#james logan howlett#deadpool 3#the wolverine x reader
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Being a camgirl comes with its fair share of ups and downs, but you never expected one of the downs to be one of your unboxings from a fan going horribly wrong during a live stream—the proof of it still buzzing between your thighs beyond your finger's reach.
A rush of embarrassment comes with knocking on your roommate’s bedroom door and asking him for help because you’re nearing the brink of overstimulation and can’t think straight enough to get the words out. It’s worse when he stands there and says nothing—all imposing with two tattooed arms crossed over his chest—while you try to get through a sentence without moaning.
Simon looks at you with a cocked brow and something akin to amusement as he watches you squirm in his doorway.
Then he finally says, “Get on the bed,” in a steady and low voice, opening his bedroom door wider.
You fidget under his scrutinizing gaze as you settle back against his pillows, biting back whimpers with a too-hot face and sweat dripping down your back.
Him settling a knee on the bed makes you jump, “Let’s take a look, love.”
Simon crawls up the bed, forcing your knees open, and you’re suddenly very aware of how broad and big he looks, towering over you—every part of you laid bare for him to see. A large hand presses right below your belly button, jostling the toy inside you, and this time, you can’t hold back the squeal that rips from your chest.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice imperceptibly deeper, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “Okay, you’re going to feel a slight stretch.”
You bite your lip. “A-alright—”
Slight doesn’t even come close to the fingers sliding into you, spearing your sensitive walls open and pressing into a spot where you’ve never been able to reach with startling precision. You remind yourself that he has to do this, that he’s just being…friendly, or whatever makes the lines less blurred.
None of this stops the fact your lower stomach burns with the promise of another orgasm when his fingers brush against the egg vibrator before accidentally pressing it deeper inside.
“Ah, there it is.”
At the sight of your scrunched nose, he asks if it hurts. You shake your head; eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to hold back the stinging pleasure racing up your spine. “N-no,” you whimper.
“Relax, okay?”
Simon doesn’t comment on how you’re implying that it feels good. So good, you think, his thumb just barely touching your clit as he twists his hand to try a different angle. Then he pushes down on your belly again, and his long fingers finally grip the vibrator.
“Oh!” you moan at the feel of it dragging down your front wall, your fingers gripping the sheets.
He has to tell you to relax again, his voice cracking, but you hardly hear it over your heart beating loudly in your ears. His fingers drag the toy out slowly, almost too slow that you can feel it bumping against every slippery ridge inside you.
“Ah, sorry,” he says when you twitch—unapologetic—using his thumb to rub soothing circles into your stomach. “You’re so wet. I need to make sure I don’t lose it again.”
You nod, cunt clenching down at his words.
And then Simon’s fingers curl up: your thighs start quivering, breath caught in your throat, and your jaw locks up until your orgasm ripples through you. It’s unending, the strongest one yet, and just when you think it’s over, you feel the press of his palm against your clit.
“W-wait! Simon,” you moan, pushing at his hand. “No more, I‘m sensitive!”
He gets you to fall over the edge one more time before finally slipping the vibrator out of you, letting it hum softly on the bed, and your exhausted body sinks into the mattress once again. Simon gathers you into his lap, rocking you back and forth.
You swallow lungfuls of air against his chest, head still spinning and walls spasming from the aftershocks.
He murmurs in your ear about how good you are, kisses your temple, and rubs your sides, and it’s… enlightening. Moments pass before you finally return to yourself, and when he pulls back, his brows furrow at your pout.
“All good?”
You shake your head and go with honesty. “I didn’t think you’d cuddle me afterward.”
He smiles, thumb flicking your bottom lip. “You wanted me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open. “N-no—”
Then he leans down, lips brushing against your ear: “Don’t worry, love. Good girls get fucked hard.”
#simon riley smut#simon riley imagine#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost x you#ghost x reader#ghost imagine#ghost smut#cod smut#cod x reader#cod fic#cod imagine#mw2 smut#mw2 x reader#mw2 imagine#.things i write
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All of You, All of Me [Logan Howlett]
Summary: In a world of black and white, the only person who could bring colour to your life is the last one who'd want to.
Warnings: au where everything is black and white until you meet your soulmate, fem!reader, slow burn, angst, running away from feelings, pining, grovelinggg WC: 14.2k - MASTERLIST - A/N: help i'm sorry i didn't mean for it to get this long, but this fic is my baby
----
You've always cherished the idea of having a soulmate—someone who would love you unconditionally, waiting just for you as you them. The thought of finding that perfect match, the one who complements you in every way, is something you’ve always dreamed of.
But as you get older, the hope you carry seems to dwindle more and more each year. Everyone around you has found their other half, reveling in the newfound ability to see colours in all their glory, and soaking up every moment of shared affection.
Everyone, except for you.
Your world remains a stark, colourless void, as if the universe is deliberately withholding the one thing you desire most.
And to make matters worse, despite not finding your soulmate, you are unequivocally, irrevocably in love with someone who has.
Logan Howlett.
You can’t remember a time where you didn’t feel anything toward him. His rugged, lone-wolf demeanor snuck its way deep into the crevices of your heart, and made itself a home there.
You and him formed an unlikely friendship, formed through the desire to fight back against all the people who’ve wronged mutants. Over the years, you had accepted the fact that while he wasn’t yours, at least you were alone together. Well, until she came.
Jean Grey.
She was strong, charming, and everything you felt you weren’t. It was no wonder her and Logan were meant to be together—the stoic, brooding mutant and his graceful, strong-willed counterpart.
You remember the day it happened so vividly, it’s almost like you were the one who found their life partner. You and him had been walking around the mansion, when Charles had called you into his office to meet someone new. One look at their faces when they made eye contact and you knew you’d lost him.
It pained you to see them all over each other, all the time. Your once-regular walks in the garden became rare, then vanished entirely. On missions, he no longer looked out for you; his attention was consumed by protecting her. And as much as it hurt, you couldn’t deny they seemed perfect for each other—just as soulmates should be. You had no right to feel jealous.
Then, just as quickly as she had entered his life, she left it.
The Pheonix was too strong, ripping her apart from the inside out. The pained scream he let out as not only his heart died, but as the world around him faded back into black and white, was forever ingrained into your memory.
Logan was never the same after that.
—
You trudge down the familiar halls of the mansion, your feet heavy with the weight of the day. It’s been long, filled with training sessions, team meetings, and a lot of paperwork. All you want to do is retreat to your room, lose yourself in a book, or maybe just sleep until the ache in your chest dulls.
As you walk, you hear faint commotion down the hallway—a low murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of something being moved. But you pay it no mind, too lost in your thoughts to care. Another mission, another discussion, another moment where you aren’t needed. It’s all so routine now.
Lost in your reverie, you don’t notice the figure walking toward you until it’s too late. You collide with a solid chest, the impact jolting you back to reality.
“Oh, sorry—” you begin, stepping back, but the words die on your lips as you look up.
It’s Logan.
Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at him, shock rippling through your body as you process his presence. And for a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, taking him in—the man who was once your closest friend, the man who was torn apart by grief and loss. His clothes are rumpled, his skin rougher than you remember, like he’s been through hell and back.
You hadn’t seem him in a long time. After the devastation, he stopped talking to everyone. He holed himself up in his room for days at a time, only coming out in the dead of night to eat. Either that, or he was away on a mission–anything to stay distracted.
But now, looking at him, there’s something different off. Something you can’t quite place your finger on. Did he always look like that? Maybe it’s the way the light above is reflecting off of him. Or maybe it’s—oh.
Looking around in surprise, you watch as the usually dark, stoic walls explode into a deep, rich shade. The carpet below you—no longer a mural of grey—radiates colors you can’t name. Your hands, his eyes, his hair-
You want to open your mouth and say something, anything, to the man who has caused your world to shift on its axis, but he’s already turned, walking away from you.
“Give me a fuckin’ break.”
----
Brown. Logan’s hair is brown.
After Logan leaves you paralyzed in the hallway, you run to your room, find the book on colors you had stashed in your bedside table, and throw open the cover. In it is a diagram that displays every known colour and their names. You learn that your favorite pair of pants are maroon, your bedsheets are navy green, and the X-Men suits are bright yellow and blue.
You stare at the page, each word blurring as your mind tries to process the impossible. Logan’s hair is brown. The thought keeps repeating in your head like a mantra, over and over again, until it becomes a steady thrum, drowning out everything else.
Brown.
You sit back on your bed, letting the book slip from your hands, the pages crumpling as it hits the floor.
Why him? Why me? Why now?
You begin to fidget, the adrenaline of the prior moment causing your heart to flail in your chest like crazy. You can’t stay here, you think to yourself. The idea of locked in your room with only your thoughts for company does not sound appealing. You need air, something to ground you, something to clear the haze clouding your head. Without thinking, you jump out of bed and find yourself heading up to the roof, the one place where you can breathe without feeling like the walls of the mansion closing in on you.
The trip up the stairs feels longer than ever before, each step heavy under the weight of your mind. It’s like every thought adds ten pounds. When you open the door, the cool night air hits you like a welcomed slap to the face, and you exhale deeply.
Walking to the edge, you lean against the railing. You’re in a daze - wondering if you made up the entire thing in your head. The only proof that you haven't, and that Logan being your soulmate is real, is the colours that coat the mansion’s grounds. The moonlight bathes everything in what you now know as a soft, silver glow, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking out into the distance.
It doesn’t make sense, and the more you try to wrap your head around it, the more tangled your thoughts become. You don’t want to face the possibility of what it could mean, but you can’t just brush it aside either. It has quite literally changed your entire life.
You close your eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to quiet your racing mind. But when you open them again, you freeze.
Logan is standing at the other end of the roof, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the sky. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and for a split second, you consider turning back, retreating before he sees you. It would be a wise idea - he didn’t want to talk to you then, and he probably doesn’t want to talk to you now. But, it an act that can only be seen as your own body betraying you, you take a step forward.
The sudden movement catches his attention, and his head snaps in your direction, his eyes locking onto yours.
“Why are you here?” he asks accusingly.
You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. Seeing him out here was the last thing you had expected, and now that he’s in front of you, you are at a loss of words.
Logan’s eyes narrow, and he pushes off the wall, walking toward you. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I needed air,” you manage to say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I just needed to clear my head.”
“Well, find somewhere else to do it,” he snaps, “I don’t want company.”
“Logan, I—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, not even bothering to hear you out. “Don’t start. I know what you’re gonna say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
You blink, taken aback, and hurt at his coldness. “What are you talking about?”
He lets out a low, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? God, I… this is all so fucking stupid.”
Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a flush of embarrassment rise to your cheeks. “I wasn’t—”
“Enough!” he barks, his voice echoing in the night. “I’m not interested, alright? Whatever it is you think is happening between us, it’s not real. It’s just some stupid trick of the universe, and I’m not playing along.”
His words hit you like a physical blow - like you’ve just been shot at right in the heart - and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I don’t understand. I didn’t mean for any of this—”
“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snaps at you, “And I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like there’s something here,” he gestures between you two, “when there isn’t. You’re not mine, and I’m sure as hell not yours.”
The finality in his tone leaves you breathless, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. You have nothing to say back, he’s not giving you any slack. The reality of his rejection sinks in with a brutal, crushing weight, you have to put in effort to not stumble over.
After a long moment, you finally collect yourself. Then, “Okay,” you whisper. “I understand.”
Logan’s expression doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows colder, more distant.
“Good. Then stay away from me.”
You nod, eyes filling with tears. You quickly turn your face away, not wanting him to see just how much he’s hurt you.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to make things worse for you.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even acknowledge your apology. He just turns away, his back to you, effectively shutting you out.
You stand there for a long moment, watching him walk away for the second time that night. The colours that seemed so vibrant, so full of life just a moment ago, now feel like a cruel reminder of everything you could never have.
—
When you eventually return to your room, all you can do is lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling as your encounter with Logan on the roof replays in your mind on an endless loop, each harsh word he’d thrown at you cutting deeper than the last. It’s causes pain unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, pain that seems to have no end, no respite.
If he doesn’t want you in his life, you’ll accept that. You have to - it’s not like you have a choice. Soulmates are a two-way street.
You can’t force him to feel something he doesn’t, can’t make him see you in a way he clearly never will. And you understand, don’t you? You can’t even imagine how difficult this would be for him. Losing your soulmate, and then the universe saying Fuck You and giving you another?
You’ll never ever forget how wrecked he was when Jean died. How her death shattered him into pieces so small you weren’t–no–you’re still not sure he’ll ever be whole again.
And you—where do you stand in the grand scheme of things? Just as the unfortunate recipient of a bond that neither of you asked for? Are you even allowed to be upset about this?
—
Waking up the next morning, you honestly wish you hadn’t. You knew you weren’t on good terms with Logan after his little rooftop showcase of emotions, but nothing could have prepared you for the way he starts to treat you.
His face is stuck in a perpetual scowl when you’re in his vicinity. He’s leaving every room the moment you enter, refusing to look at you, speak to you, or acknowledge your presence in any way. It’s as if you’ve become invisible, a ghost haunting the same halls you once shared with him. There’s only one thing you two seem to wordlessly agree on: don’t tell anyone.
Each day following becomes a struggle, an unbearable test of your strength as you try to make it through without breaking. You begin to avoid Logan as much as he avoids you, but the mansion is only so big, and there are always moments when you catch sight of him in the distance, his broad shoulders hunched, his brooding face glaring daggers in your direction.
It hurts you every time, an unending torture that leaves you stumbling. Still, you bite your tongue and keep moving, pretending you don’t care.
But you do care. You care more than you want to admit, more than you think is possible. Because despite everything—despite the rejection, the coldness, the anger—you still love him.
And that’s the cruelest twist of all.
So you endure it, day after day, week after week, month after month. Letting it tear you apart piece by piece, because what else can you do? You carry this burden alone, just as you’ve carried your feelings for him all these years. And maybe one day, the pain will fade, the bond will weaken, and you’ll be able to move on.
—
The only person you tell is Charles.
“What’s on your mind, my child?” he asks one day, while you’re sweeping the dust in his office.
You hesitate, your gaze dropping to your hands as you focus on cleaning. You know he’s just asking out of courtesy, and that he could easily crawl into your mind and figure it out himself. He probably wouldn’t even need to put in that much effort, given how loud your thoughts are. But still, you don’t yield to his probing.
“Nothing, really,” you mutter, forcing a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just… tired, I guess.”
Charles watches you carefully, his eyes full of the warmth and compassion he always has, but this time, it makes you feel uncomfortable. Like he can see right through the facade you’re trying so hard to maintain, which you have no doubt, he does.
“I’m here to help, whatever the burden.”
You want to groan. It’s not like he’s doing it on purpose but damn does it feel like he’s trying to guilt you into confessing that you just recently had your heart shattered.
“I know, Professor. But… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“You forget, I worry about all of you,” he replies gently. “It’s in my nature.”
The chuckle that crawls out your throat is nothing short of bitter. “It’s just… complicated.”
“Complicated doesn’t mean you have to face it alone.”
You bite your lip, trying to keep the emotions at bay. Do you really want to explain to him the insurmountable suffering you’re in, the rejection you faced from the one person who is supposed to be your soulmate? How can you tell him that the bond the universe forged is the very thing tearing you apart?
“It’s just… I don’t know how to make sense of it, Professor,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s so… wrong.”
He leans forward slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “Wrong how?”
Knowing that you’re teetering into confession territory, you hesitate, needing time to collect your thoughts.
“Logan… he… we… It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?” you eventually get out. Not your best work, but you know he’d get the gist.
Understanding dawns in Charles’s eyes, and you can see the sympathy there, the quiet acceptance of the truth you’re struggling to voice. “The bond you share… it’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”
You nod, feeling the tears well up again. “But he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me.”
The professor sighs softly, and he looks at you like you’re a lost puppy. “Logan has been through so much, more than most could bear. His heart has been wounded in ways that are difficult to heal, and it’s not surprising that he would resist this new connection.”
“So why me?” you ask. “Why bind me to someone who will never love me?”
Leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled thoughtfully, he says, “I wish I had an answer for you, my dear. The universe works in mysterious ways, ways that often defy our understanding. But I do know this: the bond you share is there for a reason. Whether it’s meant to bring you closer or to teach you something important… that remains to be seen.”
“It feels like a punishment,” you whisper, the tears finally spilling over. As much as you hate being put on the hot seat, you can admit that it feels good talking to someone about it. “Every day, it hurts more. And he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“The heartache you’re feeling is profound, but you must understand that it’s not your fault. Logan’s reaction isn’t a reflection of your worth, but of his own pain and fear.”
He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your own before continuing.
“To love, even when it’s not returned, takes incredible courage. But you must also take care of yourself. Give Logan the space he needs, and in the meantime, allow yourself the grace to heal.”
So you do. In the days that follow your conversation with Charles, you make a promise to yourself—to try, really try, to focus on your own life, to reclaim the parts of yourself that have been overshadowed by the pain of this unrequited love.
The colours are still there, vivid and vibrant, and though they sometimes feel like a bittersweet reminder of what could never be, you find moments where they bring you joy. You marvel at the deep blue of the sky, the rich greens of the trees, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves and paints the world in golden hues. It’s like seeing the world anew, and in those moments, you allow yourself to feel happiness.
Moreover, you busy yourself, volunteering for every assignment that comes your way. The adrenaline, the focus, the purpose—they all help to drown out the pain, even if only temporarily. And when you return from each mission, tired but satisfied, you feel a little more like yourself again.
The mansion, too, becomes less of a prison and more of a home once more. You start spending more time with the others, rejoining them for meals, for training sessions, for movie nights.
You laugh with Rogue, spar with Scott, and even find yourself engaging in playful banter with Remy. It’s not perfect, and there are still moments where you catch yourself faltering, when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under, but those moments are becoming fewer and farther between.
You’re healing, slowly but surely, and with each passing day, you feel a little stronger, a little more in control of your life—of your emotions.
But then there are the times when you cross paths with Logan, and those moments are the hardest.
One evening, after returning from a particularly grueling mission, you find yourself heading toward the kitchen, your mind on the sandwich you plan to make. The place is quiet, most of the team out on various assignments, or finishing up on some work, and you relish the peace as you walk down the corridor.
However, just as you reach the kitchen door and push it open, you find Logan standing there, preparing to exit the room at the exact same moment. Your heart lurches, and you stop dead in your tracks, almost like a deer caught in headlights.
His gaze meets yours, and all you can see is his impassive, stoic expression. He steps back, giving you space to enter, but the tension between you is palpable.
“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping to the side, trying to make yourself as small as possible.
Logan doesn’t say anything, barely nodding—if you could even it that— before brushing past you, his shoulder grazing yours. The brief contact sends a jolt through your system, and you have to force yourself to stay still and not physically react.
Once he leaves, you let out a shaky breath, your heart still racing from the encounter. It’s been so long since you’ve been this close to him—so long since you’ve seen the deep brown of his hair that you love so much. You hate this.
Why does he have no reaction to at all? Why is it only you who seems to care?
Because you are the only one who does care.
You move into the kitchen, still intent on eating, but it’s a challenge. Your hands are trembling.
—
It all comes to a head one night during dinner. In this rare occasion, both you and Logan are in the same room. You’re supposed to be celebrating Rogue and Gambit’s anniversary, and even though you insisted that they share this special moment together alone, they didn’t take no for an answer.
That’s how you find yourself, sitting at the grand dining table with all your friends, and Logan.
He’s across from you. Just your luck.
He refuses to spare you a single glance, his eyes staying busy the whole night. And while it’s been months and months of this, you have never gotten used to it. Still, you can’t help but sneak a few looks at that chocolate-coloured hair. Brown.
Everything seems to be going smoothly, the food is delicious and the dessert even better, but when Gambit presents Rogue with a giant painting, that’s when you slip up.
“I love how you blended the red with the blue!” You compliment, loving the way he managed to create the perfect contrast between shades. You’re too caught up in staring at the artwork to realize the table as gone deathly quiet, all eyes on you.
Rogue's expression is one of gentle confusion, her head tilted slightly as she tries to make sense of your words. “Darling, I thought you couldn’t see colour?”
In any other situation, you’re sure the team would have laughed at how comically large your eyes got, and how all the blood draining from your face makes you look like a gaping fish, but in this moment, nothing is funny. You can feel Logan’s eyes on you, and when you finally muster the courage to glance at him, you see that his all-too familiar glare you’ve been subject to for the last half-year. It makes your heart thud painfully in your chest
“I…” you begin, but you falter. Your mind is going through a thousand thoughts per minute, searching for an excuse you can use to deflect, to pretend it was just a mistake, but the silence is too heavy, too demanding.
Rogue’s confusion deepens, her gaze flickering between you and Logan, who is now staring at you with an expression that’s impossible to read. She starts to say something, but Remy gently places a hand on her arm, shaking his head slightly as if to tell her to let you speak.
Logan’s gaze stays locked on you for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushes his chair back, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. The sound echoes in the silence, and before you can react, he stands up and walks out of the room, his movements stiff, almost mechanical.
The door closes behind him with a quiet click, and the tension in the room thickens. You feel a rush of embarrassment flood through you, your heart sinking as the reality of what just happened crashes over you.
You lower your head, your eyes stinging with tears that you fight desperately to hold back. But it’s no use. The emotions you’ve been trying to keep buried for so long bubble to the surface, and before you can stop yourself, the tears start to fall.
“I think I need a moment,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling as you stand up from the table. Without waiting for a response, you hastily excuse yourself and head for the door, not before mumbling a quick apology to the couple in which you were there for.
Soon you find yourself outside in the gardens, the nightly breeze hitting your face as you make your way to a secluded bench. You can’t even appreciate the beauty in what you see, because all you feel is the overwhelming sense of failure and sadness that threatens to swallow you whole.
Sitting down heavily on the bench, you bury your face in your hands and let go. The sobs come hard and fast, each one ripping through you with a force that leaves you breathless. You’re heartbroken and angry and absolutely over it, but at the same time you feel like a massive asshole because who are you to be upset with a man who’s mourning the loss of a soulmate?
It’s not fair.
You don’t know how long you sit there, lost in your grief, but eventually, you hear the sound of footsteps approaching. You look up, wiping at your eyes, and see Scott walking toward you.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks gently.
You shake your head, unable to find your voice, and Scott sits down beside you on the bench.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, “I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”
Scott clicks his tongue in disagreement, his gaze focused on the gardens ahead. “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s clear you’ve been carrying this burden for a long time. It’s no wonder it slipped out tonight.”
“So everyone knows now?” you ask. He nods.
“It wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” he concludes, and you groan, bringing your hands to your face.
“I just… I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want to be pitied.”
“Pity isn’t what anyone feels right now,” Scott says softly. “We’re worried about you. You’ve been hurting, and we didn’t see it. That’s on us.”
“It’s not your fault,” you bring your hands down from your face. “I’ve been trying to deal with it on my own. I thought I could handle it, but… clearly I was wrong”
With a serious expression, Scott turns to look at you. “I know what you’re going through, more than you might realize.”
You glance at him, surprised by his words. “You do?”
He nods, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was in love with Jean, remember? When her and Logan found out they were soulmates… it tore me apart. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, and for a long time, I couldn’t.”
The mention of Jean’s name brings a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, but there’s also a strange comfort in knowing that Scott understands your pain. “How did you… how did you get through it?”
He sighs, “It wasn’t easy. It took a long time, and I had to accept it.”
You wipe at your eyes again, sniffling as you try to compose yourself. “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Taking a longer mission, just to get away for a bit. Maybe then I can figure out how to move on.”
He is quiet for a moment, considering your words. “If that’s what you need to do, I understand,” he says, “sometimes, a change of scenery can help. Though I think you should try to talk to Logan again.”
Letting out a bitter laugh, you shake your head. “I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me. He’s made it pretty clear how he feels.”
“He’s hurting too,” He decides, “He’s not handling it well, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. You both need closure, and running away won’t give you that.”
“What if it just makes things worse?”
“It might.” Scott places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “But it might also give you both the chance to start healing. You deserve that chance.”
You nod slowly, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”
“Take the time you need,” he says. “We’re all here for you.”
“Thanks, Scott. That means a lot.” You offer him a small, grateful smile.
With a final nod, he turns and walks back toward the mansion, leaving you once again alone in the quiet of the gardens. You take a deep breath, the idea of leaving still tugs at you, but now, there’s also the thought of confronting Logan—of finding some kind of closure, whatever that might mean.
You really don’t want to do it, and you’re pretty sure it’s just going to end the same way it did last time - with him shutting you out. But Scott’s words echo in your mind, reminding you that healing often requires confrontation, not avoidance.
Goddamn it.
You huff as you stand up from where you’re seated. You can’t keep running from this, can’t keep letting him run from this. You need to talk to Logan, to lay everything out on the table, even if it tears you apart in the process.
Your anxiety builds with each step as you approach his room, and you pause outside his door, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he could hear it if he was listening. This is it. There’s no turning back now. With a shaky breath, you finally raise your hand and knock.
There’s a long, agonizing pause, making you strain to hear any movement on the other side. For a second, the silence causes you think he might not answer, that he might just ignore you like he’s done so many times before. But then, you hear the faint sound of footsteps approaching the door. Your heart catches in your throat as it slowly opens, revealing Logan standing there, his expression hard and unreadable.
The moment he realizes it’s you, his eyes darken, and he immediately moves to close the door, shutting you out yet again. However, you’re not letting him get away that easily. Before the door can fully close, you stick your foot out, blocking it with more force than you intended.
“C’mon, Logan,” you press. “You know we need to talk.”
He freezes, his grip on the door tightening until his knuckles turn white. His jaw clenches and unclenches, nostrils flaring. He still doesn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on some distant point as if he can will you away if he tries hard enough. But he doesn’t push the door shut either. The room is thick with suspense, both of you standing there in a silent standoff.
Finally, with a low growl of frustration, Logan steps back, opening the door just a smidge wider, barely enough for you to squeeze through. It’s a reluctant invitation, but it’s all you need.
“Fine,” he mutters, his voice rough, edged with irritation. “Talk.”
You step into the room, and he closes the door behind you, lingering close to it, as if he’s ready to bolt at any second. You feel vulnerable and exposed. It’s suddenly hard to gather your thoughts when he’s standing so close, when the heat of his presence and the distance he’s placed between is right in your face.
“Why did you come?” Logan questions. He still refuses to look directly at you, his gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“Because we can’t keep pretending this isn’t happening,” you reply, “We need to talk about what’s going on between us.”
His jaw tightens further, and his teeth grind with barely contained frustration. He finally looks at you, his eyes hard and defensive. “There’s nothing to say,” he says bitterly. “I told you how I feel. I thought that was enough.”
“It’s not enough!” you shoot back, your own frustration bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just push me away, pretend like this bond doesn’t exist, and that’s supposed to solve everything? It doesn’t work like that, Logan.”
He flinches slightly at your words, but his keeps his expression hard. “Well what do you want me to say?” he demands, his voice rising. “That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to hurt you? Because I am, and I didn’t. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t be what you want me to be.”
His words hurt.
“I know you told me how you feel,” you start, “but you’ve never let me tell you how I feel. You’ve never given me the chance to say that it’s been tearing me apart.”
A flash of guilt. “I didn’t think… I didn’t think you needed to say it. I already knew.”
“That isn’t fair,” you argue.
“You don’t understand,” he counters, “I lost Jean. I loved her, and when she died, it broke something in me. And now… now I’m supposed to just… move on? With you? It’s not that simple.”
“I never asked you to love me, Logan,” you say, your voice trembling with the intensity of your emotions. “I never pushed for anything more than friendship—it’s not like you gave me the chance! You’ve been shutting me out, ignoring me, making me feel like I’m nothing more than a burden, like I don’t even matter!”
You can see that the pain in your voice hitting him hard, but he doesn’t apologize. Instead, he looks away, his expression conflicted. “I’m trying to protect you,” he mutters, the words sounding hollow even to him
“Protect me?” you echo incredulously. “All you’re doing is make me feel like shit. Like I’m worthless. I can’t even be your friend, to help you through this.”
You pause. “You expect us all to know how you’re feeling, but you can’t even communicate it.”
Logan winces, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, filled with a torment you’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get caught in his throat. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he breaks the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I can’t be what you want me to be,” he admits, his tone filled with a deep, aching sadness. “I don’t know how to let you in. Without her, I feel like… I can’t let anyone in.”
Your eyes soften a fraction his confession, but there’s also a deep frustration that burns inside you, a frustration born of months of pain and rejection.
“You haven’t even tried,” you say softly with a quiet resignation, “You haven’t even tried to let me in, to see what we could have been, even if it was just as friends.”
What follows is a long, nagging silence. You let it linger, giving Logan the chance he needs to think of something to say. But there’s no answer, no promise that things will change, and then you realize, with a sinking feeling, that he’s not going to take that step, too broken to try.
That’s when it really hits you.
Whatever you were fighting for, was a losing battle from the start.
You give up.
This time, it is you who turns your back on him.
“Goodbye, Logan. Take care of yourself.”
You don’t wait for a response. You don’t glance back. You walk out of the room, the door closing softly behind you, and with it, the last remnants of hope you had for something more.
—
You decide to go on the mission.
It’s nothing complicated. Your task is to survey different regions of Europe, ensuring that there are no burgeoning anti-mutant operations threatening the safety of anyone. The primary goal is gathering information, and quiet observation. No violence, Charles told you in the debrief.
The lack of immediate danger doesn’t make leaving any easier, though. This is as much about finding yourself as it is about fulfilling your duty.
Rogue and Kitty are with you during your final preparations, helping you pack the essentials and offering support in their own ways. They don’t ask many questions, probably sensing that this decision was not just made on a whim. And for that, you’re grateful.
“I still think you’re crazy for going solo,” Rogue says with a half-smile as she zips up your bag. “But if anyone can handle it, it’s you.”
You manage a small smile in return. “Thanks, Rogue. I just need some time…”
Kitty, who’s been quietly folding clothes and tucking them into your bag, looks up, seriousness clouding her gaze. “We get it. Just promise you’ll keep in touch, okay? And don’t hesitate to call if you need backup.”
“I promise,” you assure.
She hesitates for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small device—the X-Men communicator gadget. She holds it out to you, and you reach your hand out.
“Here,” she says softly, pressing the device into your hand. “This is so you can update us on your whereabouts, your status, or any important mission details. Even if you don’t need anything, just… let us know you’re okay, alright?”
You look down at the communicator in your hand, and close your fingers around it, nodding as you meet Kitty’s gaze.
“Alright, I’ll check in regularly. I won’t leave you guys in the dark.”
Rogue finishes the last bit of organization. “You’ve got this,” she says, “And we’ve got your back, even from a distance.” You nod, appreciating their support more than you can express.
It almost feels like a walk of shame—leaving the mansion. Everyone knows why too, and that makes it a thousand times worse. But you won’t let it get to you. With one last look, you get in your car and begin on the windy path to the airport.
—
When you arrive in Europe, the first thing that strikes you is the sheer beauty of the landscape. Each city, each town, has its own unique charm, its own story to tell. The bustling uphill streets of Porto, the serene canals of Venice, the ancient ruins of Athens—they all offer a distraction from the turmoil inside you.
The only good part about this whole mess is that you can see colour, and truly appreciate the sights before you.
You move from one place to the next, blending in with the crowds, quietly observing, gathering information, and sending brief updates to the team through the communicator Kitty gave you. Every message is short, to the point, just enough to let them know you’re safe and on track. You don’t share much beyond the essentials, not wanting to burden them with your personal struggles.
Then, in a small café in Rome, you meet a man named Marco. He’s a traveler like you, exploring Europe with a curiosity that matches your own. He’s warm, easygoing, and before long, the two of you strike up a conversation over coffee.
He is charming in a way that makes you feel at ease, his laughter infectious as he shares stories of his travels. You don’t tell him much about yourself, keeping the details of your mission and your mutant abilities hidden. To him, you’re just another traveler, searching for something—though he doesn’t pry into what that something is.
As the days pass, you and Marco continue to cross paths, and it’s nice to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn’t know about your past, about the things you’re running from. With him, you can be anyone, and for the first time in a long while, you start to feel a little lighter. You find yourself laughing more, the weight on your chest lifting a little each day. You don’t talk about the mission, and you certainly don’t talk about Logan.
One evening, as you’re both sitting on the steps of the Spanish Steps in Rome, watching the sunset, he turns to you with a grin. “So, where are you off to next?”
You hesitate, not wanting to reveal too much, but then you smile. “I’m heading to Florence. There are some places I need to check out.”
His eyes light up. “Florence? I’ve been meaning to re-visit. Mind if I tag along?”
A part of you wants to say no, to keep the distance you’ve carefully maintained, but another part—the part that’s been lonely for so long—nods in agreement. “Sure, why not?”
—
Back at the mansion, things haven’t been as positive. The once lively atmosphere has dimmed, replaced by an uneasy tension that lingers in the halls. The X-Men carry on with their duties, but there’s a noticeable shift—a missing piece that everyone feels but no one talks about. Logan, in particular, has become even more withdrawn, if that’s possible. The man who was once brooding and distant now seems even more so, his mood volatile and unpredictable.
His behavior has become a source of concern for the team. He’s always been rough around the edges, but now, it’s like the slightest thing can set him off. He snaps at everyone, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. On missions, he’s reckless, throwing himself into danger without a second thought, as if he’s trying to outrun something—or someone.
In many evenings, Logan finds himself in the mansion’s gym, trying to work off the restless energy that’s been plaguing him for months. The room is always empty, save for him, the steady rhythm of his fists pounding against the punching bag being the only sound. Sweat drips down his face, his muscles straining as he channels all his frustration and anger into each punch. Yet, no matter how hard he hits, he can’t seem to shake the thoughts of you that have been haunting him.
This night, door to the gym creaks open, and Logan doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. He can sense the other man’s presence, feel the weight of his gaze as he steps inside. He doesn’t slow his punches, doesn’t acknowledge Scott’s presence, but he knows why he’s here. They’ve had this conversation before—or something like it—but nothing’s changed. Nothing’s gotten better.
Scott watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. He’s been watching Logan spiral for weeks now, but he’s kept his distance, knowing that he’d only be pushed away. But this can’t go on—Logan can’t keep doing this, can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he refuses to confront.
“She wouldn’t want this,” he finally says, voice cutting through the steady thud of Logan’s fists against the bag.
Logan’s movements falter for just a second before he resumes, his jaw tightening. “Who?” he growls, not bothering to turn around. “Her or Jean?”
Scott doesn’t flinch at the harshness in the other man’s tone. He steps closer, his eyes steady on their target as he answers, “Both.”
Finally, Logan stops. His fists still as he leans against the bag, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His shoulders are tense, the weight of Scott’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to be reminded of what he’s lost—of who he’s lost.
Taking a step closer, Scott’s voice is firm. “Look, I’m not a spiritual person. But I also don’t think the universe messed up with this.”
Clenching, his fists, Logan knows what the other man is getting at, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Doesn’t want to think about what could have been, what he’s been too scared to even consider.
“I know you know how I felt about Jean,” Scott says quietly, knowing he’s breaching a sensitive subject. “Losing her… it killed me too. And if I had been given a chance—a real chance to be with her, to make things right—I would have taken it. No hesitation.”
Logan’s breath hitches at that. The truth is, he’s been running—running from you, from the bond you share, from the possibility of something real.
“I’m not saying you should chase after her,” he continues. “But I am saying that you need to stop running from her. The universe doesn’t just throw things like this at us for no reason. And you know that.”
The weight of Scott’s words settle over Logan like a shroud. He knows the other man is right—deep down, he’s always known. But that doesn’t make it any easier. The fear, the guilt, the pain of losing Jean—it’s all still there, gnawing at him, holding him back.
There’s something else too, something he’s been trying to ignore but can’t any longer: the way he feels about you, the way he’s always felt, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. One of the first thought’s that ran through his head when his world re-erupted into colour was that, had this happened before Jean, maybe it could have worked. Maybe he could have been what you wanted, felt something real.
Scott takes a step back, giving Logan the space he needs. “Just think about it,” he says softly. “Think about what you really want. And don’t wait until it’s too late to figure it out.”
Logan doesn’t respond, but Scott doesn’t need him to. He’s said what he needed to say, and now it’s up to him to decide what comes next. With a final look, Scott turns and leaves the gym, the door closing softly behind him.
The clawed mutant stands there for a long time, his fists still clenched, his mind racing. He knows he can’t keep doing this—can’t keep tearing himself apart over something he can’t change, something he’s too afraid to confront.
But change is terrifying, especially when it means facing the truth. The truth that maybe, just maybe, the bond he shares with you is something worth fighting for. Something that Jean wouldn’t want him to throw away.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Logan finally lets his fists unclench, the tension in his body slowly ebbing away. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he barely knows where to start—but he knows one thing for sure: he's can’t run away anymore. Not from this, not from you.
—
You’ve now spent days in Florence, wandering through the Uffizi Gallery, marveling at the works of the Renaissance masters, and evenings enjoying the quiet serenity of the Arno River. With you, Marco. You’ve grown to trust him. He’s never made you uncomfortable, never had any intentions to take advantage of you, and knows all the best restaurants.
But there’s always been a small, nagging doubt that you’ve pushed aside—a feeling that something isn’t quite right. You’ve ignored it, convincing yourself that you’re just being paranoid after everything you’ve been through. After all, he has been nothing but kind, always knowing the right thing to say, always showing up just when you need someone.
It isn’t until the two of you are exploring a quieter part of Florence, that the doubt flares into something more. You’re walking through an old, narrow alleyway, the kind that tourists rarely venture into, when Marco suggests you take a shortcut through a small, unmarked door in the side of a building.
“I found this place the last time I was here,” Marco says, his smile as easy as ever. “It’s a hidden gem, leads right to a beautiful courtyard. You’ll love it.”
You hesitate, something in his tone—or maybe it’s the way his eyes gleam just a little too brightly—sets off alarm bells in your mind. You’ve come to trust him though, haven’t you? You’ve traveled together for weeks, shared countless stories and laughs. Surely, he wouldn’t lead you into danger.
Still, as you step through the door, the darkened space beyond immediately feels wrong. The air is colder, damp, and the walls are lined with strange, unidentifiable equipment. You glance back at Marco, and that’s when you see it—the change in his expression. The warmth is gone, replaced by something cold and calculating.
Before you can react, you feel a sharp prick in your arm. Your vision blurs, and your body goes numb almost instantly. You stumble back, trying to push away, but your legs give out, and you collapse to the floor.
Marco looms over you, the smile gone from his face, replaced by a look of triumph. “Did you really think I didn’t know?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a mutant, and you thought you could hide it from me?”
The world around you spins as the drug takes full effect, but you force your mind to stay focused. “What… why?” you manage to whisper, the betrayal cutting deep.
“Why?” He laughs, the sound harsh and devoid of any warmth. “Because mutants like you are worth a fortune. My clients pay top dollar for… research subjects. And you, my dear, are about to make me very, very rich.”
You try to move, to fight back, but your body refuses to respond. Panic rises in your chest as he kneels beside you, pulling out a small device that looks like a portable scanner. He runs it over you, and it emits a low hum as it registers your vital signs, confirming what he already knows. You’re weak.
“You won’t get away with this,” you say.
“Oh, but I already have,” he replies with cruel satisfaction. “No one knows where you are. And even if they did, it’ll be too late by the time they find you.”
With the last bit of strength you can muster, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you fumble with the X-Men communicator that Kitty gave you. His attention is momentarily distracted as he prepares a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and you seize the opportunity. You manage to pull out the communicator, your fingers barely able to grip it. Then, with a deep breath, you press the SOS button, the screen flashing to life.
You type in the message as quickly as you can, your vision blurring even more as the drug takes hold.
Location: Florence.
Message: Help.
Just as you hit send, Marco notices what you’re doing. His eyes widen in anger, and he grabs your wrist, yanking the communicator out of your hand. “You little—!” he snarls, but it’s too late. The message has already been sent.
His face contorts in rage as he slams the gadget against the ground, smashing it to pieces. He glares down at you, his hand tightening painfully around your wrist. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But it doesn’t matter. They’ll never get here in time.”
Your strength is nearly gone, the drug pulling you into unconsciousness, but you manage one last defiant look. “You won’t win,” you whisper with the last of your energy.
Marco releases your wrist with a sneer, standing up and looking down at you with contempt again. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters before turning away, leaving you on the cold, hard floor as darkness overtakes you.
You can only hope they—that Logan—will reach you in time.
—
The signal comes through during a meeting. A sudden, loud beep cuts through the room, and everyone freezes, their attention immediately drawn to the source of the sound. To Kitty’s pocket. It’s the X-Men communicator, the one linked to your device.
Logan’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as he recognizes the tone. He’s on his feet before anyone else can react, his heart pounding in his chest. “What the hell was that?” he demands, his voice tense with urgency.
Kitty quickly pulls it out of her pocket, her eyes widening as she reads the message that’s flashed across the screen. Her face pales, and she looks up at the others, her voice trembling as she speaks. “It’s from her… Florence… Help.”
There’s a brief pause, maybe a second long in length, and then the room erupts into a flurry of movement.
Chairs scrape against the floor as the team rises to their feet, already preparing for action. But Logan is the first to react, his face a mask of fury and determination. “I’m going,” he growls, already heading for the door.
“Logan, wait!” Scott steps forward, blocking Logan’s path with a firm hand on his chest.
“Get out of my way, Summers,” He snarls, his voice filled with barely controlled rage. “I’m not waiting around while she’s in danger.”
“We can’t just rush in without a plan,” Scott insists, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “We need to know what we’re dealing with.”
Logan shoves the other mutant’s hand away, his eyes blazing with anger. “She sent an SOS, Scott! She needs help, and we’re wasting time standing here talking about it!”
The rest of the team watches the confrontation with anxious eyes, knowing that things could easily escalate. Logan’s been on edge for weeks, and the urgency of the situation—of you— has pushed him to the brink.
“Logan,” Ororo interjects, “We understand how you feel, but we need to think this through. If this is a trap—”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s a trap!” He snaps, his voice rising. “She’s part of our team! We can’t just leave her there!”
“That’s not what we’re saying,” Scott tries to reason, but Logan isn’t having it.
“Then what the hell are you sayin’?” He demands, his frustration boiling over. “Why are we wasting time when we should be getting her out of there?”
There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then it’s Rogue who steps forward, conflicted. “Logan… what if… what if she doesn’t want to see you?”
He freezes, the words hitting him harder than any physical blow could. He stares at Rogue, disbelief and anger warring in his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he growls.
Rogue swallows, her eyes filled with worry. “She left because she needed time, Logan. Because things between you two… they weren’t good. Maybe she—maybe she doesn’t want you to be the one to save her.”
Clenching his hands into fists, his body is taut with tension. “Fuck that!” he roars with a fierce, protective rage. “She’s part of our team! She sent that message to us, to the X-Men, because she needs our help. I don’t care what’s happened between us, I’m not leavin’ her there!”
The room falls silent, the weight of Logan’s words settling over everyone. They know Logan is right—she’s part of the team, and they can’t leave her behind. But they also know that the situation is more complicated than that.
Scott takes a deep breath, his gaze steady as he looks at Logan. “We’re not saying we shouldn’t go after her, Logan. We’re saying that you need to be prepared for whatever we might find when we get there. She might be in a bad place, and she might not be ready to face you.”
“I don’t care,” he says after a brief pause, his voice quieter now, but no less determined. “I’m going to get her out of there. Whether she wants to see me or not, I’m not lettin’ her go through this alone.”
Scott studies Logan for a long moment, then finally nods. “Alright. But we do this together, as a team.”
Logan nods, his jaw set in a grim line. “Fine. Let’s go.”
—
Your eyes snap open, the dim light of the room piercing your vision. You’re in a large, abandoned warehouse. Your head feels heavy, like it’s filled with cotton, and there’s a dull, throbbing pain at the base of your skull. As you try to move, you realize with a jolt of fear that you’re restrained, your arms and legs strapped tightly to a chair. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the bonds, but they don’t budge.
And then you see him—Marco, standing a few feet away, watching you with a smirk that sends a chill down your spine. His eyes gleam with satisfaction, and you realize with horror that you’ve been caught, trapped in whatever twisted game he’s been playing.
“Ah, you’re awake,” he says, voice dripping with mock concern. “I was starting to wonder if I’d given you too much of the sedative. But it seems you’re tougher than I thought.”
You try to respond, but a gag in your mouth muffles your words, turning them into incoherent sounds. You glare at him your eyes burning with fury.
He only chuckles, clearly amused by your resistance. “Oh, don’t bother trying to speak. We wouldn’t want you calling for help, now would we? Though, I must say, I’m impressed you managed to send that little SOS before I caught on. Clever, but ultimately futile.”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he looks you over, his expression turning cold. “You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of mutants in my time, but there’s something special about you. Something… unique.” He reaches out and grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Too bad your powers won’t do you any good here. The drug I gave you should keep you nice and powerless for the foreseeable future.”
Straining against the bonds, you continue to try to break free, but he drug in your system dulls your abilities, leaving you feeling weak and vulnerable. All you can do is stare at him with hatred as he continues to taunt you.
“Such fire in your eyes,” Marco murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s a shame you’ll never see the light of day again. But don’t worry—I’ll make sure your abilities are put to good use.”
He lets go of your chin, his hand trailing down to your shoulder in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to make you a little more… compliant.”
Just as he reaches into his coat pocket, presumably for another syringe, a sudden, loud crash echoes through the warehouse. The sound of splintering wood and shattering glass fills the air, followed by the unmistakable hum of energy blasts and the heavy thud of boots on the concrete floor.
The X-Men have arrived.
Marco’s eyes widen in surprise and then narrow in anger. He spins around, barking orders at the security guards scattered throughout the warehouse. “Stop them! Don’t let them get near her!”
The guards rush forward, weapons drawn, but they’re no match for your friends. The familiar sounds of battle flood your ears—Rogue’s powerful punches, Scott’s optic blasts, and Storm’s lightning crackling through the air. You struggle against your restraints again, desperate to free yourself, but it’s no use.
Then, you catch a glimpse of Logan. He’s fighting his way toward you, his claws out, slicing through anyone who gets in his way. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, your eyes meet his, and you can see the raw determination in his gaze. He’s coming for you.
But just as he takes a step forward, something changes. He hesitates. You can’t hear what he’s thinking, but you can see the conflict on his face—the way he seems to second-guess himself, the way his steps falter. Your heart sinks as you realize he’s unsure, almost as if he's torn between wanting to save you and fearing that you don’t want him to.
In that split second of hesitation, Rogue swoops in, landing beside you with a determined look on her face. She doesn’t waste any time, using her strength to tear through the restraints that bind you. “We’ve got you, sugah,” she says, her voice steady and reassuring as she pulls the gag from your mouth. “You’re safe now.”
You nod, your throat too dry and your body too weak to speak. Your muscles scream in protest as you try to stand, but she quickly wraps an arm around you, helping you to your feet. You’re shaky, your body still reeling from the effects of the drug, but you’re free. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan still standing there, his eyes locked on you, his expression unreadable. He wanted to save you. He wanted to be the one to pull you out of that nightmare, but something held him back.
Rogue helps you toward the exit as the rest of the team continues to subdue the guards and Marco. You lean heavily on her, your legs barely able to support your weight, but you force yourself to keep moving.
And when everyone else has back in the jet, hugging you and comforting you, you look over to Logan, who sits far away, on the opposite side, refusing to meet your gaze.
—
Returning to the mansion feels like stepping back into a familiar, comforting embrace. You missed the soft, warm bed in your room, the quiet serenity of the gardens, and the comforting presence of your friends. It's been a few days since the whole ordeal in Florence, and the drug has finally worked its way out of your system. Your strength has returned, and physically, you feel like yourself again. The mansion, too, seems unchanged—still the safe haven you’ve always known.
But as the days pass, you begin to notice that while many things have returned to normal, some things have not. You’ve seen most of your friends, their faces lighting up when they see you, their hugs tight and full of relief. There have been quiet conversations and laughter, shared meals in the kitchen, and moments that remind you why this place is home.
Except, there’s one person you haven’t seen. Logan.
His absence is like a shadow that follows you wherever you go. You’ve felt his presence in the mansion—heard his voice in the halls, the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards—but he’s kept his distance. He hasn’t sought you out, hasn’t tried to talk to you, and that stings more than you want to admit.
You’ve tried to stay strong, to remind yourself of the resilience you found during your time away. You’ve reminded yourself over and over that you don’t need anyone else to validate your worth, that you can stand on your own. Yet the longer Logan avoids you, the harder it is to hold on to that strength. The old wounds, the ones you thought had begun to heal, start to ache again, and you can’t help but wonder if anything has really changed at all.
More often than not, you find yourself retreating to the front lawn. The sun is warm on your skin as you lie down in the grass, a book in hand. The soft rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of life inside the mansion create a peaceful background, and for a moment, you manage to lose yourself in the pages of your book.
Still, even here, in the sanctuary of the garden, the thoughts you’ve been trying to push aside keep creeping back in. The memory of Florence, of Logan’s hesitation, lingers like a bitter aftertaste. You replay the moment over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of it, trying to understand why he stopped, why he didn’t come for you.
You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shadow that falls across your page until a deep, familiar voice breaks the silence.
“I’m glad you’re alright.”
The voice startles you, and you jerk slightly, looking up to see Logan standing above you. His expression is guarded, as if he’s not sure how you’ll react to his presence. There’s a tautness to his posture, a stiffness that you recognize all too well.
For a moment, you just stare at him, caught off guard by the suddenness of his appearance. He’s as rugged and intimidating as ever, but there’s something different in his eyes—something a tad bit softer. You close your book, sitting up slowly as you meet his gaze. The question that’s been gnawing at you since Florence rises to the surface, and you know you can’t keep it inside any longer.
“What happened?” you ask, your voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. “In Florence?”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, his gaze shifting to the trees in the distance. He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches out between you, thick with unspoken words.
You just watch him, waiting for an explanation, but there’s a part of you that’s already bracing for disappointment. You’ve been here before, waiting for Logan to decide what happens next, to take the lead. And you’re tired of it. You’re tired of being the one left in the dark, of being the one who has to wait for him to be ready.
Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the world is pressing down on him. “I… I hesitated,” he admits huskily, almost in a growl. “I wanted to save you. Hell, I was going to. But then… I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
His confession hangs in the air, and you feel a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, and sadness. You hadn’t expected this, hadn’t realized that his hesitation was rooted in something so painfully human.
“Why wouldn’t I want you to?” you ask softly, searching his face for answers.
Logan finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the raw emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. “Because of everything that’s happened between us. Because I pushed you away. I hurt you, and I thought… maybe you’d be better off if it wasn’t me.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of his reasoning. “Logan, this can’t keep being about what you think is best,” you begin. “And it’s not about who saves who. It’s about being there when it counts. You were there. You came for me.”
He doesn’t have a response to that, at least not right away. He looks down at the ground, his fists unclenching, his shoulders slumping even further. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of everything he’s done, everything he’s failed to do, and it’s crushing him.
“I’m sorry,” he finally manages to get out. “For everything.”
You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest.
“I know I’ve messed up,” he continues. “I know I haven’t been there for you like I should’ve. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to try to make things right.”
You know you should be happy—this is everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for so long. But it’s also too much, too late. The doubt, the pain, it can’t just disappear with a snap of your fingers.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” you admit.
There’s pain on his face. “I get it,” he says, his voice rough but steady. “I know I’ve got a lot to make up for. And I know it’s not going to happen overnight. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes, if it means I can earn your trust back.”
“I need time. I need time to figure out where I stand, and where you stand with me.”
He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the ground again. “Take all the time you need,” he says quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I appreciate that,” With a small nod, you stand up, brushing the grass off your clothes. “I need time,” you repeat, more for your own benefit than his.
“And you’ve got it,” Logan replies. “As much as you need.”
—
Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. You focus on yourself, on healing the wounds that were reopened during your conversation with Logan. It feels strange, being the one who needs space, but you know it’s necessary. You find things to take your mind off him: you train more, read more, spend more time with Rogue, Kitty, or Remy. It’s nice.
But Logan… Logan doesn’t give up. He knows you need time, and he respects that. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pressure you to make a decision, but he makes it clear through his actions that he hasn’t forgotten about you, and more importantly, that he isn’t going anywhere.
It starts with the small things—things so subtle that you almost don’t notice at first. You probably wouldn’t have suspected anything if you hadn’t known the kind of person he is. He’s nothing if not persistent. He knows you better than you realize—the rift he created after Jean’s death muddling with your memory—and he uses that knowledge to quietly, almost imperceptibly, work his way back into your life.
In the mornings, you wake up to find your favorite snacks waiting for you in the kitchen, carefully placed where you’d be sure to see them. He never mentions it, never takes credit, but you know it’s him. It’s in the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye as you take a bite, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never makes a big deal out of it—just a quiet, unspoken gesture that says, I’m thinking of you.
Then there are the late-night training sessions. You go down to the Danger Room or the gym, hoping to clear your mind with a bit of solitary exercise, only to find Logan already there. At first, you’re tempted to leave, to find somewhere else to work out, but something in his demeanor stops you. He doesn’t approach you, doesn’t speak unless you initiate it. Instead, he just… exists beside you, his presence steady and reassuring, like a rock in the storm.
It’s in these moments that you begin to see a different side of Logan—one that’s patient, understanding, and perhaps a little unsure of himself. He follows your lead, mirroring your exercises or silently spotting you during weightlifting, always attentive to your needs without ever making you feel pressured or overwhelmed. He’s just there, offering his support in the quietest, most understated way possible.
And then there are the little surprises in your room—small, thoughtful gestures that you can’t help but notice. A favorite book you’d mentioned in passing suddenly appears on your nightstand, its pages pristine and waiting for you to dive into. The time-worn leather straps on your gear are suddenly replaced with new ones that fit perfectly, the stitching unmistakably done by Logan’s hand. Even your plants, the ones you’d worried would wither away while you were on a mission, seem to thrive in your absence, the soil freshly watered and the leaves turned toward the sun.
He never asks for thanks, never draws attention to what he’s doing. It’s all done quietly, behind the scenes, as if he’s afraid that if you notice too much, you might push him away. But you do notice. How could you not?
At first, you try to ignore it, telling yourself that these gestures don’t change anything, that they’re just a way for Logan to assuage his guilt. You tell yourself that he’s just doing this because he feels bad, because he wants to make up for the past, not because he actually cares. You’ve built walls around your heart for a reason, and you’re not ready to let them down just because he’s being nice.
But over time, those small gestures begin to chip away at those walls, brick by brick. You start to realize that Logan isn’t just going through the motions—he’s really paying attention, noticing the little things that make you who you are. It isn’t just about the snacks or the books or the plants—it’s about the way he remembers the details of your life, the things that matter to you, the things that make you feel seen and understood.
After a particularly long and stressful day, you return to your room exhausted, and all you want is to collapse into bed and forget the world for a while. But when you walk in, you find a small bouquet of wildflowers sitting on your nightstand, the beautiful colors a stark contrast to the dark thoughts that have been swirling in your mind all day. There’s no note, no explanation—there never is—but you know who left them.
You just stand there, staring at the flowers, your heart squeezing in your chest. It’s such a simple gesture, and yet it means so much. You’d forgotten that Logan knew how much you love wildflowers—you’d mentioned it once, years ago. The way they’re resilient, thriving even in the harshest conditions, blooming where others wouldn’t. It’s as if he’s telling you that he sees that strength in you, that he admires it.
And it’s then, in the quiet of your room, surrounded by the small, thoughtful gestures that Logan has left behind, that you realize something. This isn’t just about making up for the past. Logan is showing you, in the only way he knows how, that he wants this. Wants you.
He's finally picked up the pieces of him that fell apart after Jean’s death, and he is willing to pick up the pieces of you that fell apart after his rejection.
So, one evening, months after that fateful conversation on the lawn, you find yourself standing in the common room, staring at the fireplace, lost in thought. The mansion is quiet, the rest of the team either out on a mission or asleep. It’s just you and the flickering flames, the soft crackling of the fire the only sound in the room.
But when you hear footsteps behind you, heavy and deliberate, you know instantly who it is. Without turning, you can sense his presence, the way he moves with that quiet confidence, the way the air seems to shift when he is near. Logan has always had a way of grounding you, even when you don’t want him to.
He walks up beside you, stopping just short of touching you, his warmth radiating in the small space between your bodies. He doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t ask why you’re here or try to force a conversation. He just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets, waiting patiently, giving you the time you need. It’s something you’ve come to appreciate about him in recent months—his newfound ability to just be, without pushing or demanding more than you’re ready to give.
"I’ve been thinking," you say finally, your voice soft, as you continue to gaze into the flames.
"Yeah?" Logan asks, his tone careful, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing.
You turn to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. "You’ve been… different. Doing all these little things… I see them, you know."
Logan’s eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long time, you see hope there. "I just wanted you to know that I care. That I’m sorry," he says, with so much emotion. “You were never a burden to me.”
You swallow hard. "It’s hard for me, Logan," you admit, "I’ve been hurt before, and I’m scared. Scared that if I let myself love you again, you’ll just… break me."
He steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek. "I’d never hurt you again," he says, "I’d rather cut off my own damn hand than hurt you. The past is the past, and you are my future."
That’s enough to make your walls crumble completely. You know, deep down, that Logan is telling the truth. That he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust again.
And in that moment, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to let him.
You don’t say anything. Instead, you let your actions speak for you. You close the distance between you, standing on your toes as you press your lips to his in a gentle, tentative kiss. Logan freezes for a split second, as if he can’t believe this is really happening, but then he kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, holding you as if he never wants to let go.
The kiss is slow, tender, full of everything that has been building between you for so long. It isn’t just a kiss—it’s a promise, a commitment to try again, to rebuild what has been broken. When you finally pull back, your breath mingling with his, you rest your head on his shoulder. "I’m still scared," you whisper.
"I know," Logan replies, his arms tightening around you. "But I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll take this slow, darlin’. Whatever you need."
You nod. "Okay."
Logan smiles then, a real, genuine smile that makes your heart flutter in a way it hasn’t in years. It’s a smile full of relief, of gratitude, of love—a smile that tells you that he understands just how much this moment means, just how much you’re giving him by letting him back into your heart.
—
The time that follows is a slow, steady journey of rebuilding trust. Logan is true to his word—he is patient, understanding, and surprisingly tender in ways you hadn’t expected. The small gestures continue—coffee waiting for you in the morning, a gentle hand on your back during missions, quiet moments of companionship where no words are needed.
You can feel the doubts you’ve been holding onto slowly begin to fade. Each time Logan shows up for you, each time he puts your needs above his own, it chips away at the fear that has kept you guarded for so long. It’s in the way he listens when you talk, truly listens, as if every word you say matters. It’s in the way he looks at you—not with the same fury he once had, but with a steady, enduring affection that speaks of something deeper.
With Jean, he loved her because she was his soulmate, she was who the universe destined him to be with. He loved her because that’s what he thought he had to do.
With you, he has a choice. He doesn’t need to acknowledge the bond, but he chooses to. He chooses to everyday and he’ll never stop. He loves you because he wants to, not because he has to.
One evening, you find yourself sitting on the mansion’s porch watching the sunset. Logan joins you without a word, sitting close enough that your shoulders brush.
“You’ve been quiet today,” he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
“I’ve just been thinking,” you reply, leaning your head on his shoulder. It’s a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes about how far you’ve come in trusting him again.
“’Bout what?” he asks, his voice gentle.
“About us,” you say, your voice steady. “About how things have changed. How… how good they’ve been.”
Logan’s hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels so natural, so right. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you echo, squeezing his hand. “I’m not scared anymore, Logan. Not like I was.”
He turns to face you, his eyes searching yours. “You sure?”
You nod, smiling softly. “I’m sure. You’ve shown me that this bond means something to you, that you’re not going to hurt me. And… I want this. I want us.”
Logan’s face lights up with so much love, that it takes your breath away. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad, darlin’. Because I want us too. More than anything.”
—
It isn’t long before the rest of the X-Men begin to notice the change in Logan as well. At first, it’s subtle—small things like the way he looks at you during briefings, or the way he seems to be more patient, more relaxed when you’re around. But over time, it becomes impossible to ignore.
During a training session in the Danger Room, you’re paired with Logan for a simulated mission. The others watch as Logan moves with you in perfect sync, his focus not just on the mission but on you—making sure you’re safe, supporting you when needed, and trusting you completely. It’s a far cry from the Logan they had seen when he was in mourning, where his moves were rash and careless.
After the session, as you and Logan leave the Danger Room, you catch sight of Ororo and Scott exchanging a look, the kind of look that speaks volumes, full of surprise and a touch of amusement.
“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you approach them.
Ororo smiles warmly, a knowing glint in her eyes. “Nothing, just… noticing how good you two are together.”
Scott nods in agreement, his expression softening as he glances at Logan. “Yeah, it’s… different, finally seeing him like this. In a good way.”
Logan shrugs, but there’s no hiding the small smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’re you guys talking about?”
“Just that it’s nice to see you happy, Logan,” Ororo says gently. “Really happy.”
Logan looks at you then, his smile growing as he meets your gaze. “Yeah. It is.”
More members of the team begin to notice the change in Logan as time goes on. Rogue, who has always had a soft spot for him, comments on how he seems more at ease, less burdened by the weight of his past. Hank, ever the observer, points out how Logan’s demeanor has shifted—less brooding, more open. Even Charles, who has seen Logan through his darkest times, pulls you aside one day to express his approval.
“I must say,” Charles says, his tone warm and approving, “I haven’t seen Logan like this in a very long time. Whatever you two have managed to sort out, it’s working.”
And it is. Slowly but surely, the wounds that had once held you back have healed. The doubts that had kept you from fully embracing your relationship with Logan have faded, replaced by a deep, abiding love. It isn’t just the little gestures anymore—it’s the way Logan makes you feel seen, heard, and cherished in a way that no one else ever has.
—
“I never thought we’d get here,” you admit one night whilst looking up at the stars.
Logan looks at you, his expression tender. “Neither did I,” he says, his voice full of sincerity. “But I’m damn glad we did.”
You smile, leaning into him as he wraps his arm around your shoulders. “I love you, Logan. And I trust you. Completely.”
His grip tightens slightly, as if to hold onto the moment, to hold onto you. “I love you too, darlin’. I never thought I’d feel this way about someone.”
You know what he’s trying to say. So without thinking, you reach up and cup his face, drawing him closer until your lips are just a breath away from his. “Show me,” you whisper, your voice low and filled with desire.
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He closes the small gap between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that is soft at first, almost tentative, as if he’s savoring the feel of you.
You can feel the heat between you building, the kiss growing more fervent as your hands roam over his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt, then into his hair. Brown.
His hands slide up your back, one hand tangling in your hair as he angles your head, deepening the kiss further until you’re both breathless.
When you finally pull back, your foreheads resting against each other’s, you’re both panting, your hearts racing in sync. His eyes are dark with desire, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he holds you close.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs. “I never thought I’d get my happy ending, but here you are… and I’m never lettin’ you go.”
You smile, feeling the last remnants of pain melt away, replaced by a certainty that this is where you’re meant to be. “And I’m never leaving,” you whisper back, sealing your words with another kiss that quickly reignites the fire between you.
This kiss is hungrier, more urgent, as if you both need to make up for lost time. Logan’s hands roam your body with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine, his touch igniting a fire in your core.
That night, you lose yourself in him, in the way he tastes, in the way he makes love to you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. Because this time, you’re not just in love—you’re in love with a man who loves you back, fully and completely.
And that makes all the difference.
----
a/n: i love you if you made it this far. please check out my new series The Feeling's Mutual
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