#oh one where the conscious is the soulmate but not THEM them

[ezlebe]

What are the premises for your other soulmate AUs, if you don’t mind sharing

Greg drags his hands down his face, leaning back in his chair with a creak. He swallows hard, peering at the drop tiles between his fingers, then lets one of his hands fall to rub hard at his collarbone.

“Fuck,” he whispers, slumping deeper into the chair. He has to sign, at this point, right? It would be sort of fucked up if he didn’t do it. Or he could bring Tom into the… No, that wouldn’t work.

He looks down at the pastry basket, Tom’s half-eaten leftover muffin crumbling and squished, and curves forward until his forehead hits the desk. The worst part is like how unsurprised he is about it; like, he is pretty shocked, but it doesn’t feel like he is enough. He’s heard so much come out of Tom in the time he’s known him that him declaring himself some vague embodiment of Greg’s tat halfway through a breakdown is sort of… baseline? He didn’t throw anything, really –

Oh, except the coatrack.

Greg peeks at the coatrack over his arm, then feels his nose scrunch, and shoves himself up from the chair. He picks it up and straightens his coat, tugging it to hang even, and stares at it, until eventually he’s leaning hard into the wall next to the door.

Okay, so it just took it a few minutes to fully hit him.

He stares at the floor next to the coat rack for a while, until he blinks finally and it burns, then stands back up while awkwardly smoothing his hands down his shirt. He swallows thickly, as he takes a step back, then another, and reaches for his phone at his desk.

He isn’t really sure what to say, or what he does eventually say, but Kerry seems to understand it. He nods, almost forgetting to answer aloud, when she offers an approval of the decision, a confirmation of where to courier documents, then drops the phone while it clicks to hang up. He realizes blankly that they really, truly don’t seem to realize that he was who got Kendall the papers. He wonders, consequently, if maybe anyone thinks it was Tom, or something, since he knows that would have to be the next assumption after seeing the hearings; after the way he seems to have resigned to prison.

He doesn’t want Tom to go to prison. He kind of doeswant to stick him in like another mail room, maybe, which feels a bit like a cell, but that’s pretty much the end of it. He definitely doesn’t want him any sort of gone, not now, even though he can’t like know for sure that Tom is really the reason why he’s got a tat of the name of an emperor slash Star Trek villain slash Italian word for black across his collarbone.

It is sort of nice to know what it actually is supposed to mean, if he is? Greg’s mom thought it meant his soulmate was going to be some full-of-himself tyrant, which isn’t… totally wrong, really, but it’s also not that abstract, because Tom said he was Nero, so Greg didn’t have to figure it out. And Tom just mostly wants to be a tyrant.

He doesn’t manage see Tom the rest of the day, though he does try peeking in the office and even lingers around Shiv from a distance, but it’s maybe for the best; he might say the wrong thing, when he isn’t even sure he wants to say anything at all. It’s not an ideal circumstance – Tom is married, is his boss, and already like has a lot on his plate. He doesn’t want to be like the final straw that breaks Tom. He can’t really handle crying very well and Tom already got way too close.

He picks up pizza on his way home, a few hours later, then stares mindlessly at a television that he realizes is muted some twenty minutes after he turns it on. He winces, then turns it back off, deciding it might just be simpler to go to bed early; he’ll feel less heavy in the morning.

He stares at the mark on his chest, after he takes off his undershirt, shower already spitting water behind him. He wonders what Tom’s must be, as he forces himself to turn around, if it’s just Sporus, or if it’s something else he might associate with Greg; hopefully, it’s just Sporus. He’s sort of wary of what Tom might think of him, even if it’s fond to Tom, it might not be all that great, like a silhouette of a sasquatch, or a paper shredder, or like… who knows, not something great to recreate for a vow ceremony.

Not that they will do that.

Or have one.

Tom is pretty married.

He nearly falls against the edge of the drain when his phone starts to buzz at a familiar tempo, and is thankful he’s mostly rinsed off, as he rushes out from under the water. He hurriedly turns off the spray, as he reaches for his phone, thumb slipping and slipping across the screen until it finally opens under the damp wet.

“Hey,” Greg answers, fumbling the phone, then setting it down and tapping speaker, while reaching out for a towel hanging on the bar; fuck, it’s damp – he really needs to do laundry. “This is Greg.”

“Obviously,” Tom says, sharply, then falls quiet, breathing in and out loudly into the speaker. He clears his throat, low and rough, “Just wondering what part of my humiliation convinced you to sign?”

“Oh, uh,” Greg fumbles, staring at his bare chest in the mirror with a nervous laugh. He touches at the letters, slowly tracing what he once thought was just messy handwriting, but turned out to be some kind of Roman. “Just… all of it?”

Tom breathes loudly into the receiver for a long while, then croaks out an unhappy laugh. “Great.”

“I-I, like meant –” Greg stutters into silence.

“Fuck off,” Tom snaps, then abruptly hangs up.

Greg sighs quietly through his nose, then rolls his eyes upward, as he taps at Tom’s name to call him back.

“What?” Tom demands, pitchy and defensive, but he did pick up, so can’t be that upset.

“I’m just like kind of bored, now… ” Greg says, glancing from his bed inviting him through the door. “Are you doing something?”

“I’m trying to choose the fed camp I want to be sent to.”

Greg runs a hand up his forehead, briefly staring up at the ceiling. He exhales a sigh, as quietly as he can, and drops his head. “Do you even choose it, not like… the jury, or whatever?”

“Judge, Gregory,” Tom says, followed by a low, harsh, unintelligible mutter, then a shallow clear of his throat. “No, I’m not doing anything, but I’m making myself available; apparently, Kendall nearly killed Logan.”

“What? But, I – I like just saw him?” Greg says, pulling his shirt on and trying not to be too annoyed that no one called him. “Unless you mean in some… business sense?”

“Nope, definitely the ol’ classic sense. They went on a hike and your dear uncle is old.”

Greg blinks rapidly down at the phone. “Uh. My grandpa goes on like a lot of hikes?” He says, though he wonders if it counts as a hike or just transportation, on those instances Ewan just won’t drive. “Kendall went on a hike?”

Tom offers a short, raspy laugh. “I do assume it was a pristinely groomed trail, Greg.”

“I could like come over,” Greg says, “Is Shiv there?”

“Have you looked at the time, lately?” Tom says, low and snide, and it almost feels like a jab at the watch thing, though Greg hasn’t yet managed to tell him the specifics about it. He’s run through it in his head, because Tom would get it fixed, if just to make himself look good, but he’d be a dick about it and Kendall the whole time. “She’s in her room.”

Greg blinks twice and furrows his brow, as he looks down at the phone.

Tom sighs a loud wash of static into the receiver. “You really want to come laugh to my face?”

“I’m not laughing at you, Tom,” Greg says, injecting a spare bit of hurt into his voice, as subtle as he can manage, though he’s really just sort of tired.

“I wish you would,” Tom mutters, not picking up on it, seemingly firmly stuck in his determined self-pity.

“I’m like not,” Greg insists, slowly, relaxing his voice with a low sigh. “So?”

Tom is quiet for a few beats. “Whatever, if you insist.”

~

Greg uneasily stands by, close but not quite embroiled, as Tom digs new depths for his prison problem; he talks about this guy who’s probably scamming him about preparing for it, and even takes Greg’s suggestion about shouldering all the responsibility, which is nice but not really like him, at least not to even joke about it. It’s not like he should even be a Christmas tree, really; the only bauble he should have is the one that like he technically gave Greg to begin with, not any from some slippery jerk in Sales.

He does kiss Greg out of nowhere, though, after sweeping through his office like a storm when the dam breaks, so maybe Greg just isn’t on the right wavelength to understand the plan. He isn’t really sure he wants to be? But he can tell it’s moving in some direction. He just has to watch and wait for the right time to pull out the tat, once Tom has evened out a little more steady, and… Yeah, after Greg has handled this thing with Kendall turning into a jerk about him going back to Waystar.

Like, Greg needs his job? It’s not like Kendall was offering to pay him.

~

Greg ends up asking out Comfry because it is hopefully, maybe a good position to appear extra gentlemanly, so she might not put out some exposé on him. He’s not exactly sure what that would entail, but he suspects his before-Waystar life, and while that’s mostly a lot of doing nothing with his mom, it perhaps includes like him shotgunning with shirtless guys and a YouTube video where he pretends to review a coke bottle bong. He doesn’t technically have a reputation to ruin, but he also doesn’t want to start one up that he has to improve.

The whole angle also, in a way that probably shouldn’t feel good, makes Tom this total mopey jerk that Greg can’t help poking at every chance. He spends combined days and kilometers across an ocean looking up at Greg like he wants to stick him in another mailroom, only it’s a windowless closet in his penthouse, and that’s not like great, but some sick part of Greg is ready to sign up. He’s been preparing how to lift his chin the right way, if Tom tries to kiss him another time.

Either way… It can’t be any worse than whatever is going on with this wedding. He actually suspects the guy is Caroline’s soulmate, but that she hasn’t told him, or anyone else, and he can empathize with it; he’s just not in a position where he can entice an unknowing Tom and spring it later in a similar way, not when Tom’s other option is Shiv. It would take a lot of finessing for Greg to get Tom any kind of anything, talking to the right people, propping him up with some light to heavy fibbing, and a lot of time, too, but Shiv… She just asks her dad.

He doesn’t have any castles, either, which he suspects would equally attract Tom.

He idly switches tracks halfway through the trip to courting the Contessa, who does have castles, and while he knows it won’t like actually go anywhere, it’s sort of nice to pretend that he could get one in a divorce. He manages to even shift Comfry to the Contessa, since he knows she hates working for Kendall, so that’s technically two birds, and then, as the night winds down, tries for a third by embellishing his affections a bit to Tom, who listens to it all with an expression like he’s legitimately contemplating a murder.

It’s a pretty good look on his face, somehow, stern and square, and Greg finds himself absently reaching up and scratching against the tat under his shirt.

“Greg, listen,” Tom says, an odd tone to his voice, as he jerks a chair from behind Greg in a pointed gesture. It’s easy to sit without thinking at all.

Tom asks him to make a deal with the devil, which could be Logan or Kendall, at this point, but Greg knows for sure that it’s Tom, so he does; it’s not really that hard, after Tom tries to guess what Greg could want most in the world, and it’s just Greg, as if that’s how he feels about it. It makes him feel fluttery and off-balance, getting another acknowledgement of the tat, and ends up eagerly grasping back at Tom for a hug.

It’s less ideal when Tom walks away, leaving Greg standing awkward. Greg looks around, contemplating if he should follow, but he ends up sitting back down while rubbing into the back of his neck, then jumping when a nearby server asks if he’d like a drink. He would… Yeah, but he really just wants something cheap and familiar? And it’s pretty unlikely Molsons exists in Italy.

He ends up with something called a Peroni, which isn’t really hitting the home feel he’s suddenly looking for, but it’s close enough. He’s mostly just holding an empty bottle by the time he gets the fortitude to wander up the stairs that Tom had disappeared up, darkness settled comfortably around the castle, and he stumbles into an evident aftermath in a room off the courtyard.

He peeks in and sees his cousins and Tom, Gerri, and Karl working in something, and no one especially looking at each other. He thinks Roman might be sort of crying, while Kendall is staring hard at a window, and Shiv… is the one now who looks murderous, but it’s not at all the same sort of murderous as Tom had looked earlier, because it’s directed like a laser at Tom. Tom, who is pretending not to notice, who’s posture is smug and self-satisfied, who’s talking mostly at a visibly annoyed Gerri.

The devil was probably Logan, then…

“Are you drinking fucking beer?” Roman asks, wetly, sour expression daring Greg to mention it.

“I was?” Greg says, looking down at the bottle, then shaking it to show its emptiness. “What happened?”

“Dad killed us,” Shiv says, tightly, hands wrapped tightly at her elbows where she stands at the edge of the room. “He… He somehow knew we were coming up here.”

Greg does his best wide blink, nodding and looking down at the papers at the table. “Huh. You could sue him, right?” He asks, peeking down, as Kendall flexes his hands to fists. “I’m doing that with my Grandpa.”

Roman practically growls beneath a sneer. “I’m not suing my fucking Dad.”

“He like would you,” Greg says, rolling the bottle in his hands. “Turnabout, you know? I mean, if he doesn’t act like he loves you, why, like… act like you do him?”

Kendall grimaces with a bite at his cheek, eyes sweeping down, as he lifts a hand to rub at his head.

Shiv suddenly looks like she’s not breathing at all, paling and maybe more furious, but her face is half turned away.

“What the fuck does love have to do with it?” Roman demands, stumbling up from the floor, then sinking into a nearby chair.

Greg straightens but manages to smother an impulse to step back. “Isn’t that why you wouldn’t?”

“Fuck off,” Roman snaps, expression twisting with a sullen scowl, while he voice gets worryingly throaty. “He loves us, assface; it’s the business.”

“…Right?” Greg says, looking away from Roman, before the reflexive urge to ask it he’s okay gets him like tackled. “So li-like do the business thing?”

Roman exhales an angry wheeze. “Shut up, you don’t know shit, Cousin Cuck.”

“Where’d you get that beer, bud?” Tom interjects, voice oddly soft, then sharply clearing his throat with a swift cough. “That wasn’t at the ceremony.”

“Oh, uh?” Greg lifts it to look down at the label with a low grunt, then he shrugs and peeks back up to Tom. “I asked and someone like found it… in the kitchen?”

“Let’s go get a couple more,” Tom says, stepping around the squat table in the center of the room. He walks past Greg to the door, plainly expecting him to follow. “Could use them, huh?”

Greg exhales a pitching hum, then looks around, for a trash can, hurrying toward one to drop in the empty bottle. He turns to catch up with Tom, seeing he’s disappeared around the corner in the courtyard, but he might be waiting just beyond it to scare him.

“Sporus,” Shiv says, all of a sudden and barely above a breath.

Greg looks over his shoulder with a blink, reacting to the name before he can really think about it, and incidentally makes eye contact across the room. He sees her face somehow pale further, turning her particularly corpse-like, minusing a pair of high spots of color against her cheeks.

“Is that a code word?” Roman demands, after a horribly tense few seconds, looking between them with sweeps of his red-rimmed eyes.

Shiv drops her head with a shake. Her voice is some weak attempt at snide, trembling at the back in a way Greg has never heard. “Shut up, Roman.”

Greg nearly trips over his own feet in haste to leave the room, as his pulse grows to a thud between his ears. He nearly runs into Tom, who was definitely waiting to scare him, but now looks at his face and immediately just seems comically resigned.

“You’re not taking their side already, are you?”

“Oh, uh – what?” Greg says, rubbing at the back of his neck with a glance over his shoulder. “No.”

“Ever the champion at playing dumb,” Tom tuts, eyes rolling plainly, even in the dark, and his shoulders spread while an elbow angles out almost wide enough to dig in Greg’s side. “You know, part of me appreciates your instinct to play both sides, as small as it is compared to the part that just hates it.”

“I’m really not,” Greg insists, then drops his voice, mostly joking, as he mutters under his breath: “This time.”

Tom huffs out an angry sort of snort, as his hand making solid contact with Greg’s shoulder in a shove.

The server is oddly eager about taking them to the kitchen and showing off the beer. They speak in low Italian blended with choppy English, and gesture until Tom and Greg both have a number of bottles in grasp, then laugh loud and escort them straight back to the courtyard, smiles wide and abundant, and Greg assumes they think it’s celebration for the wedding.

Tom sticks a bottle in his jacket, as he covers the neck of the bottle with his other hand and pops the cap.

By magic, or something.

Did he do that with his ring?

Greg stares for another beat, then offers his own bottle.

“How’d you open the other one?” Tom says, pretending to be put upon, even as a wry smirk sweeps his lips while he takes the bottle.

“They did it for me,” Greg says, watching as Tom, again, opens the a bottle like it’s nothing with the ring. “How do you – Were you married before?”

“You don’t need to be married to wear rings,”  Tom says, dismissive, holding the bottle out with a wag. “You can even wear one just to open beer.”

“Oh,” Greg says, taking the bottle back, as Tom seems to palm the cap in a similarly practiced manner into the pocket with the other bottle. “How much did you drink?”

Tom opens his mouth, like he’s thinking about snapping something, then simply shrugs while lifting the bottle to his mouth. He pulls back after a beat, looking at the label. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s like…” Greg looks at his own bottle with a sigh. “Italian?”

Tom shakes his head and lifts the bottle again for another drink.

“You’re not, like – we’re not actually going back, right?”

“Would rather not, no,” Tom says, scratching at the edge of his chin with the back of a knuckle.

“Cool, uh – ” Greg nods, scratching up his hairline, as he scratches the lip of the bottle with his thumb. “My, like – my accommodation isn’t that far?”

Tom turns to look with a wide eye roll. “Your accommodation? Someone’s been watching travel vlogs.”

Greg shrugs and scratches at the bridge of his nose. “It has a pool?”

Tom mutters something under his breath, then lifts the bottle while tipping his head. He follows Greg without further argument, as he turns toward the stairs down toward the waiting cars.

Greg is relieved when no one else is at the little villa, when they pull up, probably all still back at the reception. It means he can slip into trunks and a less scratchy shirt, slump onto a lounger to finish beers that he halfway is drinking just to watch Tom do the ring trick, and suffer no witnesses when he stares after Tom decides boxers are good enough for swimming. He is not super into swimming, not like in the doing laps way, but Tom really seems to be, moving back and forth under the water and the dark sky. It’s mesmerizing in some kind of way, and he sets an empty bottle aside, lifting his head when Tom pulls himself out of water, then opens his mouth, not quite thinking, while Tom shakes water out of his hair.

“Did you like – uh, did you tell Shiv about the Sporus thing?” Greg asks, and realizes all at once that maybe he wasn’t really waiting for Tom to be ready, but that he was, perhaps, scared it was only him. He wishes he could swallow the words back into his throat.

Tom looks up with a start, markedly stepping wrong over the edge of the pool. He winces, as he looks down, halfway laughing in a pitch with no humor. “Wha-Why?”

Greg feels his mouth twitch, looking away from Tom, dripping with pool water and boxers plastered to his… thighs. “She like maybe called me that?”

Tom is quiet for a solid beat, then croaks out another laugh. “Oh. She… Well, she must have seen me watching the documentary?”

“Okay, sure – ” Greg says, nodding with a drop of his chin, remembering though that Tom sure had said book. “I-I was wondering if maybe it was…” He leans up and starts to yank at his shirt, movements jerky, until his shirt is gone and his tat is plain across his collarbone. “Uh, maybe?”

Tom openly gawks, lifting a hand and swiping it down his face. He stumbles forward and reaches out, then yanks his hand back, staring wide down at Greg like he’s waiting for a punchline.

Greg finds himself hunching, breathing out a tight, stuttered laugh. “If-if it’s not –”

“Shi-fuck,” Tom says, as he pulls down the band of his boxers with tetchy fingers.

Greg scrambles at the lounger, then feels heat flare in his face and satisfaction bloom against the back of his mind at Sporus scrawled against Tom’s hip. It’s in a similar writing as Greg’s, messy and with funny letters, and inarguably matching him.

“How did you like know?” Greg asks, dragging his eyes up from the tat. The light from the pool and the deck casts Tom in two shades, and he lets his eyes drop, staring at the dark writing peeking on his hip, where the waistband has half curled up. “About how mine said Nero?”

Tom wets his lips, as his eyes dart away, keeping that way for a pair of seconds before they sweep back. He exhales a weak croak, “I didn’t, I really didn’t, bud. I just…” He gestures widely with a jerk of both hands. “I wanted it to be.”

Greg feels a brief tightening behind his sternum, shifting his jaw with a swallow. “You did… Really?”

Tom blinks and a brow quirks up, dropping his hands to his hips. “Yes? Should I fucking apologize – did I trap you in some – ?”

“No, Tom,” Greg interrupts, shifting on the lounger and wondering if he should like maybe get up, or something, but Tom might push him in the pool. “It’s just… like, flattering?”

Tom stares for a solid beat. “Oh,” he intones, blinking a few times, then glancing away toward the lit hill beyond the pool in front of them.

“Like, I never… thought of that as an option, you know,” Greg says, jumping slightly and heat flushing his body, as Tom abruptly drops to sit on the edge of lounger and stare down at him. “Cart before the horse, or however that might go.”

Tom narrows an eye with a sharp turn of his head. “You didn’t think your soulmate would like you before you were their soulmate, Greg; is that how you felt about me?”

“Oh, no? I mean, I never thought about the soulmate angle, no, but not, um…” Greg tightly shrugs with a turn of his head into his shoulder, crown rubbing the coarse weave of the chair. “You’re not like exactly an unattractive individual, really.”

Tom slowly turns his head, brow climbing his forehead, as a smirk plays around his mouth. “Did you want to fuck me, Greg?”

“It could be, perhaps, put that way,” Greg mutters, heat flooding further up his neck.

Tom hums lowly, tilting his head with a markedly considering look. “More or less than either of your vapid courtiers?”

“Yeah, I don’t, uh – ” Greg wets his lower lip, breath hitching, as Tom suddenly, lightly touches against his tat. “That was a – I thought of that as a business-type match, more than a bed-type –”

“Hold on, you tricked those poor nice ladies, Gregory?” Tom interrupts, shifting his hand and his thumb presses hard and warm to Greg’s lower lip, along the damp spot where his tongue just peeked through. “Absolutely unconscionable, courting yourself an ignorant beard.”

“I don’t think they, like…” Greg swallows shallowly, craning his neck up, as Tom leans further in and over the lounger, practically on top of him. “Re-really expected otherwise?”

“I do,” Tom says, as his lashes drop with a plain glance down Greg’s body, then the pressure of a familiar hand in an unfamiliar place – settling low on Greg’s stomach. “Which is rude as fuck to say, but you are also hard as iron, buddy. I didn’t know you were so easy.”

“Yeah,” Greg agrees, weakly, as his dick jerks in some attempt to reach the foreign pressure against his waistband.

He wants to blame the soulmate thing but he’s just as sure that it’s really mostly Tom. He looks at him sometimes and sees something in his eyes, not quite harsh, in a way, but definitely in that vicinity, and just… He’s wondered at limits, somewhat, and is accidentally stumbling into his own.

Tom looks up, just briefly, toward the doors into the villa, and Greg would swear he feels the sweep of eyes like a physical thing, but that could just be the thumb along his cheek. “You done peacocking out here, you big turkey – we could solve this problem inside?”

“Could ju-just stay out here?” Greg counters, wondering if there’s any way he could roll his hips in a subtle, non-desperate way.

“I don’t think so,” Tom says, his tone some odd blend of steel and amusement. He does drop his hand another few centimeter or so, plainly taunting, while his smirk gets wide. “I’m not going to risk sharing you.”

~

“Do you think it’s like reincarnation?”

Tom rasps out a wheezy laugh into a bottle of mini fridge Perrier. “God, I hope not. Nero was not a nice fucking guy, to put it mildly.”

“Well, like,” Greg says, looking across the pillow with a turn of his head and a rub of his chin into the seam. “No one really, you know, knows anyway since the only records left about him were written like way after he died.”

“I cannot believe,” Tom snaps, tone lilting with familiar, amused ire, as he rolls over to set a hand against Greg’s sternum, pressing him into the mattress while he angles up in a loom. “You lied to me about – What did you say, the IP?”

“Yeah, um…” Greg says, dragging his teeth along his lip while he feels his cheek twitch against a smile. “You like really… romanticized it, it seemed like.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Tom says, abruptly slumping, bare chest smacking against Greg’s and halfway knocking the air from him. “You try growing up with a mutilated sex slave on your hip.”

“People, uh – ” Greg stutters, as Tom stretches out against him, elbows and knees settling against his in crooked, unyielding positions. “People think Nero was the devil?”

“Nero is not the devil,” Tom says, as he digs up through Greg’s hair with curling, scratching fingers. “He just works for him. Big difference.”

Greg huffs out a laugh, quickly smothered by Tom’s own smirk.

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Love giveth and love taketh away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love maketh you miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are soulmates. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A part of you died with him that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

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

“And why’s that?”

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

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

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. Was that your fork?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still a sensitive topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

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

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nighty-night, Logan.

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

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

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

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

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

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

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

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

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

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

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

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

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

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

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… the fuck?”

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

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

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

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

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

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

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

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

“You and Wade…?”

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

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

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

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

“And I can tell you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“And where is yours, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door almost closes on his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where is yours, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you pregnant?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

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

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel about reading?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

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

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

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

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

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

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

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

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll take more than a book.”

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If anything, it made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks... ridiculously good.

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

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

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

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

“Logan, you don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, this isn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic? Error 404—not found.

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

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

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

That’s when recognition settles over you.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, Logan.”

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

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

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

“He’s closer than ever.”

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

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

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

“No. You’re not.”

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

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

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

“It’s what we both need.”

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t go well in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

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

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

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

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

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

[st7rnsangels]

— rumours put to rest. chris sturniolo | versus tour

sypnosis. with all the girls flirting and complimenting with y/n’s famous boyfriend, chris sturniolo, she begins to feel self conscious of if she actually deserves this mini-celebrity she caught herself, especially with their relationship being a secret. bf!chris realized this and decided to put the rumours to rest once and for all.

warnings. flangst? self-consciousness, crying / comfort, fem!reader, that’s really all.

a/n. not sure where this inspiration came from but i’m feeling sappy today. also first post!!!!! like and reblog to support your favourite writers<3333

“ the need to be the best before the need to rest .. “

this was it; the versus tour was finally here, and my boyfriend was going on stage in front of hundreds of people.

a lot of girls found him attractive, that i knew was inevitable. but i could never get rid of this sickly feeling.

while he was out there, being admired by all these pre-teen girls, i was sat inside the trailer watching through a live-camera.

i wanted to be out there. i wanted to be the one admiring him.. he is my boyfriend of six months, after all.

and don’t get me wrong — chris is an amazing boyfriend, and i couldn’t have asked for a better soulmate to be paired with, but i was sick of being a secret.

i knew staying secret was the better choice, both for him and for me. i didn’t like the spotlight, and i didn’t want to deal with the rude comments by jealous girls, and he simply wasn’t ready to reveal our relationship yet.

i understood it, all of it.

yet, i couldn’t help but feel horrible about the situation i put myself in.

i watched as the girl brought on stage to be on his team was a little overly touchy, grabbing his arm, talking to him.

it was all in good-heart, i knew that, yet.. i still felt that twinge of my heart at every touch or glance or words spoken between them, telling me that it should be me on that stage making him laugh under his breath.

it hurt. my heart hurt from the guilt and sadness of being remained a secret, and i didn’t like it. at all.

i quickly wiped the tear from my cheek as i tried to remain positive seeing my boyfriend happy, and smiling, but it was hard with the constant flow of tears from my eyes that just didn’t seem to stop.

shit. why am i crying?

a voice is spoken from my phone, “alright, guys, we have to get going, but thank you so much for coming, it was a blast tonight!” nick said in the mic, turning to his brothers to signify it was time to go.

“awwww!” the crowd erupts.

“thank you guys!” matt’s distant voice says to the mic as he grabs his jacket and moves toward the exit.

chris waves goodbye to his parter that was brought onto the stage, giving her a quick smile and waving to the crowd as he followed his brother.

fuck. why did that hurt so bad? it shouldn’t, really.

i shut my phone off, tossing it across the tiny tour bed, and curled into myself. i brushed my tears away, running fingers through my hair.

it was all lighthearted, that’s what i should be thinking.

but the girl he was with was so beautiful. the kind of beautiful that makes your breath stop and your head feel dizzy.

looking at myself in the mirror across from the bed, i sigh.

chris should be with that kind of girl: effortlessly pretty, good smile, bubbly personality.. yet, i was the opposite. he clicked with her, because that was his match — the same loudness, eagerness, excitement and energy, she should be his type of match.

before i can spiral into my thoughts any longer, the door to the tour bus opens.

“oh my god, i’m spent.” nick huffs, placing his wallet and phone on the small table and falling against the couch.

“tell me about it, all day travelling and then a three hour show? i’m exhausted.” matt says, dropping his keys and jacket against the kitchen counter.

realizing they had already made their way to the bus, i quickly wipe my tears.

“hey, y/n.” nick waves, and i peek my head out, flashing the best smile i could.

“hi, nick.” i say back, huffing at the small croack in my voice.

and then, there was chris.

i watch as he walks over to me, smile on his face as he grabs my cheeks and kisses my forehead. “hi, baby.” he says, pulling away to look at my face.

and when his eyes land on my puffy eyes, tear stained cheeks, his brows furrow.

“are you.. okay?” he whispers, quickly glancing to nick and matt who shrug their shoulders. he lets go of my face, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

“yeah, um, i’m — i’m fine.” i sniff, wiping my tears, “just missing home.”

his eyes run over my face, almost as if inspecting me.

he leans closer, whispering. “do you wanna go outside? so we can talk.”

i glance toward nick and matt, pretending not to be listening, yet they were horrible at hiding their curiosity.

looking back to chris, i nod. he gives me a smile, lending out his hand which i take. the warmth of his hand seeps into my palm, giving me almost instant comfort he seems to always be able to give me.

he leads me toward the door, making a silent, quick gesture and muttering for matt to move his ass, which he does.

and as soon as that door opens, and i take a step outside, i feel instantly calmed down. i realized now that i had spent basically the last twelve hours inside that trailer.

chris squeezes my hand as we walk down the road, listening to the soft sounds of the forest and buzzing streets of the city ahead of us.

and as we found a place against a wall, he sighs and stops, leaning against it.

“so.. what’s wrong?” he says, letting go of my hand, wiping a small tear that i hadn’t realized ran down my cheek.

“i dunno, i just —.. i think i’m overreacting, it’s nothing to really—“

“baby.” chris cuts my off, resting a hand on my cheek, “it’s just me,” he tucks my hair behind my ear, “talk to me.”

i bite my lip. ponder his words.

“that girl you were partnered with today on stage?” i offer.

“what about her?” he asks.

“it’s just.. i dunno.” i look to my hands, picking at my nails, “she was so beautiful. and funny, and outgoing..”

his brows furrow, “where are you going with this?”

my teeth sink back into my lip, “do you ever.. think about how different our lives are?

“i mean, i’m this college student, becoming a teacher, and you’re a celebrity.” i shrug my shoulders, “do you ever think about being with.. with someone more compatible?”

“wait, just—“

“that girl in there, she was just like you.” i chuckle, before sniffing, “loud, funny, all bubbly and smiley like that..”

“y/n—“

“and i’m just.. some book nerd.”

“Y/N.” chris says, placing two hands on my shoulders. “please, let me talk.

my lips form a tight line, my throat aching from a sob wanting to come from my throat.

“i love you.” he says in a breathy tone, “only you. i don’t care about how different our lives are; you’re the only girl i want.”

“you.. you love me?” i whisper.

a smile forms on his lips as he brushes a thumb across my cheek.

“of course i do, dummy.” he says, pulling me closer by a hand on my back clothed by his hoodie — his favourite hoodie.

“now, can you stop crying so i can kiss you?” he says, licking his lips, “‘been thinking about you the whole show.”

i giggle. “you’re such a loser.”

“only for you, baby.”

[unknownperson246]

Do you think you can do a Izzy Stradlin one shot (smut) where the reader and Izzy just had a baby and is feeling self conscious about her body? Thank you🙏🏽

Spilled Milk

words: 660

warnings: *smut* *fluff* *body image* *insecure reader* *daddy kink* *p in v* *giving birth* *praise kink*

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You were still in the hospital after you and Izzy just had your son. He was 7 pounds and 2 ounces. You both decided not to have sex while you were pregnant because you were exhausted every time you made one move. You would always fall asleep after climbing the stairs. When you both wanted it you would always fall asleep before making the first move. Overall you were tired and felt like a burden on Izzy. After a couple of days, you left the hospital with Izzy and your son whose name was Jeff and the doctor told you to wait to have sex for at least 6 weeks. You put your son in his crib in the nursery. You arrive home and lay in bed. Your son was sound asleep. He barely ever cried and was easy to handle so when you got home he was asleep after being fed. You and Izzy lay down in your bed. You take your clothes off and show Izzy your imperfections.

“I look so fucking hideous man. I mean look at me look at all these stretch marks. Izzy, would you ever want to sleep with me again?.” You go on a rant about how ugly you feel.

“Babe we just had a baby and I would sleep with you over and over again no matter how ugly you are in my eyes you are the most perfect woman I've ever seen. You're amazing for how brave you are in every situation. I love you. You're my soulmate.” Izzy coos in your ear.

“But look at all of this. My boobs are going to go to a size zero after a while. Look at all these stretch marks and look at how much weight I've gained. I’m just a fucking burden.” You say to Izzy feeling bad that he has to take care of you. Izzy knows you can't be satisfied with just words and he can please you with actions.

Izzy cups your face. He kisses your chest bare. He pins you on the bed. His arms press yours on the bed. “I love how amazing these tits feel” Izzy purrs as he squeezes them with his free hand. 

You spill a little bit of milk.

“Be careful Izzy we need that milk for Jeff” You smirk.

Izzy cleans the milk off with a napkin and he starts to kiss down your body. 

“I love how you feel.” You feel Izzy's breath tracing down your body.

“Don't you dare say you feel like a burden because you're not? Do you understand me, baby girl?” Izzy says in an authoritative tone.

Izzy undoes his belt while he is on top of you. He takes his pants off

“Yes, Daddy please just don't get me pregnant again.”  You smile at Izzy as his cock slips inside of you.

“I'll try not to baby girl” He groans as his hips collide with yours over and over again.

His hands are gripping on your tits. Surprisingly they weren't sensitive. You liked the way they felt against his hands. Your pussy also didn't hurt as much as you thought it would after pushing out a whole human.

“Oh, Daddy.” You moan.

“Your body is perfect. Your pussy is irresistible.” Izzy moans as he shoves himself in you over and over again.

“Daddy” You moan as you scratch Izzy’s back. 

“Good girl, keep calling me that. I love when I fuck you.” He moans as his cock is doing its work.

“You're so hot” You cry while scratching his back harder.

Izzy withdrawals and the come gets on your leg.

“Did it hurt?” Izzy asks you.

“If it did I would have told you to stop honey” You kiss Izzy on the tip of his nose. 

You both get dressed up and go check on your son in the nursery. He is sound asleep. You and Izzy head back to bed and take a nap together. 

[mayullla]

Hello! Loved your other events nd would like to join this one too!

My req is: 🥀 🦋with yandere! al haitham

Hope your day goes great!!

Title: The Akasha's choosing

Character(s): Al Haitham (Genshin Impact) Summary: The Akasha introduced Sumeru to soulmates, many believed it and even you... yet you can't help but wonder if you and the scribe of the Academia, Al Haitham, were meant for each other. Warnings/tags: Yandere themes, Fem!reader, manipulation of information, soulmate au

Part 2 is now here!: Learning to love [ - A little present~! Event - Closed - ]

It was shocking when the information about soulmates where given by the Akasha. 

When you heard the news of what a soulmate was from the device on your ear you stared at your tea, unable to move as you wondered how the Akasha would match you to your soulmate.

Almost everybody looked happy when they found their soulmates, when their personalities match that it was almost like a click. Like they found a puzzle piece.

Yet you weren't so sure of yourself as you were reminded of the man who was supposed to be your soulmate. The scribe of the Academia, Al Haitham.

You meet the man a few times, when he was researching something out of the city you bumped into him in your travels to collect herbs and plants a few times. He was a straightforward man and in your mind, cold. You guys just didn't match. Not in your personalities nor your professions, when you worked hard but just enough money to feed yourself and keep a roof above your head while he was a man who had a high rank in the Academia.

You never liked him much, never really understood him. His stares felt like they were drilling holes into you, judging you and your worth.

You tried to avoid him whenever you could.

You thought that he wouldn't care about such things as soulmates, that something like that would be a shackle to him. That he would ignore the whole thing together. You thought that was the end of your soulmate experience and you weren't sad really you were relieved that was the case.

You didn't think you would see him as you head out of your home to tend to your small farm. Sitting outside your home reading a book just as you opened the door. You were quick to muffle your voice unable to hold your surprise shout yet somehow conscious enough to realize that it was still early in the morning to cause a ruckus.

He looked at you with an eyebrow raised oddly looking at you as if wondering if you were okay in the head.

"Why are you here?"

"Am I not allowed to meet the lady that I am soul bound to? While I don't necessarily care for such things I am curious to meet the lady that the Akasha had deemed my equal."

".... oh..."

It was awkward for you really when he explained why he was here. You thought he would not care as much yet it seems that you were wrong.

It was really weird at first, while you didn't want to meet him much he seemed to be interested in where this was going. Whenever he had free time he was often near you as you go about your day. While you wanted everything to end he kept the conversation going asking you questions and thoughts while you looked away… anywhere but him. It was not that you hate him but…

It was not like you can push him away when word somehow spread like wildfire that you were soul bound to him everyone seemed so happy for you. That you were lucky.. fortunate that you were about to be soul bound by the academia's scribe. Even when you told them that you and he didn't really fit each other or that he wasn't the one you hoped for everybody pushed your feelings aside stating that the Akasha was always right.

"Are you taking a break?" The deep voice surprised almost making you jump from your hiding spot. Looking up from your seat at the grass floor you saw Al Haitham standing near you right beside the tree you were leaning on.

You went deeper into the forest very early in the morning before the time he would usually visit you you wanted to get away and have time for yourself but it seems you were so soon caught by the man. Leaning on the tree you thought that went far enough that maybe he would have given up searching for you.

Really while you continued to find Al Haitham awkward to be around it seems that he became rather fond of you.

Al Haitham took a seat right beside you asking what you were planning to eat. You looked anywhere but him and while he was pretty miffed about it he couldn't help but also be amused by your actions as you handed him part of your lunch that you had made for yourself after awkwardly asking if he ate or not. You were too polite.

You were a sweet girl fearful of hurting other hearts and at the same time so caring. Even when you didn't want to be with him the person you were supposed soul bound to you still smile when he visits trying to hide your true feelings. You couldn't say no directly to his face even when it was so obvious that you find him uncomfortable, instead opting to run away with an excuse at hand when you were caught.

You would come around eventually, Al Haitham knew you would. You just need a little more time really. And you would see that you and he match well with each other.

You don't need to know that Al Haitham knows almost everything about you at this point. That he was able to gain access to all your information. You didn't need to know that he was the one who placed this theory of soul-bound in front of the eyes of the upper-ups. You didn't need to know that later he tweaked it a bit linking you and him together. That he did all that just so that he could have you in his grasp.

[loveandmurders]

Finally found you (part II)

Hello everyone, I'm so happy you seemed to have enjoyed the first part of this soulmate AU with Bo Sinclair x female reader x Vincent Sinclair. You can find the first part here.

Hope you'll enjoy the second part! <3

For the moment, a third part isn't planned, but please let me know if you want more!

Warnings: a few strong words, the boys arguing and lying to you about Ambrose.

You slowly opened your eyes. You were feeling a lot better, just thirsty and a little bit hungry. But you were alright. Your head even stopped hurting. You wondered how long you had been out though. And more importantly, where were you?

When you fully went back to reality, you realised that two men seemed to argue in front of you. Well at least, one of them was angrily talking to the other one. After a few seconds your eyes were able to focus enough for you to make out that the man who wasn’t talking was actually answering back with sign language. His gestures were quick and aggressive, so you guessed he wasn’t happy either. 

You softly groaned as you tried to sit up and both the men stopped arguing to help you out, making sure you weren’t going to fall.

“Ya good?” Bo asked you and you nodded. You recognised his presence from earlier and you guessed he was the one who carried you inside this house.

“Can I have water please?” you whispered and he was quick to go grab you a glass from the kitchen. 

You turned your attention toward the other man. He was wearing a mask, and he seemed to be trying to hide it with his hair, a little bit self conscious. At the same time, he was staring at you with great intensity. But strangely enough, it wasn’t scaring you or bothering you. You even found it weirdly attractive. Probably because you could read strong desire for you in the way he gazed at you. You were quite curious about what was going on. You even wanted to ask why they were arguing, but you stopped yourself from doing so. You didn’t know them and you were grateful they took care of you when you fainted.

You thanked Bo when he gave you the glass of fresh water and you happily hummed as you sipped it, before leaning back against the couch. The drink helped you fully focus back as both the men never stopped looking at you.

“Thank you for having brought me here” you finally said because you didn’t really know how to handle such a heavy and tense silence otherwise “I think I collapsed… Is it Ambrose?” you asked, trying to recall what happened before you lost consciousness.

The masked man nodded. 

“Yeah. Saw ya fallin’ on the ground like an angel reachin’ Earth” the other one said and it sounded a lot like flirting. The masked one seemed to roll his eye and then he crossed his arms on his chest. You nervously chuckled.

“Ain’t an angel unfortunately, or I wouldn’t have gotten lost” you replied

“Ya ain’t lost” the man shook his head with a little smile but you didn’t understand.

“Well I was supposed to go to Mexico, so it does look like I’m lost to me” you replied with a little frown even though you kept politely smiling at the man. 

There was something about them… you could feel how dark and dangerous they were. It was as if you could read their minds and their desires. But you weren’t afraid, as if you knew that their rage and violence couldn't be used against you. You still thought you should be nice to them, just in case.

The twins exchanged a look before showing you their soulmate marks on their arms. You leaned forward to have a better look at them. At first, you didn’t understand, because they weren’t the same as yours. But then your grandmother’s words resonated inside your mind and you started to imagine the two marks overlapped. 

Fuck, it would look exactly like yours.

And fuck, she was right: you seemed to have two soulmates.

“Oh” was all you could say, completely taken aback. You hadn’t imagined you would find your soulmates in the middle of nowhere, or like that. You had also hoped for a more romantic meeting than you fainting in front of them. You probably weren’t looking your best either. Not like the man in suit in front of you, or the one wearing a mask. You hoped they were thinking you were as hot as you thought they were. 

Before your silence could worry them you added: “You should thank my bad luck, you know. That’s how I ended here” you hummed “oh shit, my car” you groaned as you suddenly recalled why you had to walk under the burning sun of this part of the country.

“Your car?” Bo asked

“Yeah, it’s in the middle of the road, the engine decided to go have a nap on me” you rolled your eyes

“I’ll take care of it, don’t worry ‘bout anythin’, love” he reassuringly said. He took his phone out of his pocket to send a message to Lester about the car, so his kid brother wouldn’t worry about it either.

Another moment of silence passed between the three of you. It seemed that the boys didn’t really know how to handle the situation either. It was as if they didn’t believe you would ever appear in their existences, and they were wondering if you were really theirs. Something else was obviously bothering them, but you couldn’t guess what it was for the moment.

“So we’re all soulmates” you nibbled on your bottom lips, trying to hide a little smile. You were happy to have found them in all honesty.

“Well at least you’re ours” Bo nodded as his eyes went back to you. He put his phone back in his pocket as well.

“What?” you frowned, not certain what he meant by that.

“I’m Bo Sinclair and this’ my twin Vincent.” Bo introduced the two of you and your eyes widened

“Oh shit” you let out “That’s why you were arguing when I woke up?” you asked and the men exchanged another look before Vincent nodded at you once again.

“I’m Y/N L/N by the way” you told them “And I’m sure we’ll find a way, right? I mean your twins, it must be usual for you to… hmm… share? I was really really impatient to meet you, guys, so if you could do that without killing each other I’d be very grateful too” you told them with big doe eyes.

They quickly knew they couldn’t deny you anything so they simply nodded. In a way, it made a lot of sense that they were sharing the same soulmate. They used to sort of share the same body when they were in their mother’s womb, and they both thought more than once that they even shared the same soul. It seemed they were right about it.

“Do you usually get along?” you asked and they both nodded but without great enthusiasm, which worried you a little. You nervously nibbled on your lips once again. “That’s not a very comforting answer,” you admitted.

“Sorry, love. It’s just… Yeah, we do get along. We live in the same house after all” Bo replied as he gestured around him. “But we never thought about sharing the same soulmate. And we can both be…” Bo trailed off as he was looking for the right word. Vincent signed a word and Bo sent an impressed look to his twin. He didn’t want to say something like that in front of you.

“What did Vincent say?” you asked, annoyed that you couldn’t understand sign language. Vincent softly shivered at the sound of his name coming from your mouth. It was the most delicious thing he ever heard.

“He said… possessive” Bo finally answered because it felt too difficult to lie to you. You felt yourself blushing and you had to look away.

“It’s… fine. We’ll find a way.” you reassuringly smiled. “I was supposed to go to Mexico for the holidays… But I can call my hotel and cancel it, if you want. I could stay my week off here. But after that, I’ll have to go back to work. And you are quite away from me. I saw you have phones though?” you softly babbled.

The twins exchanged a look. They really didn’t plan on letting you go that easily and you could still feel something dark around the three of you.

“Answer, please. I’m not a telepath” you called them out and they quickly looked back at you.

“Sorry, love. Of course we’d love to have ya here for a little while… Forever actually” Bo smoothly replied and you couldn’t stop yourself from giggling. The boys instantly melted for that sound.

“Well forever sounds nice but it won’t happen right away. Are there any jobs around here?” you asked “I mean, I don’t mind moving in Ambrose, but there is no way I’m playing the housewife for you two guys, and I really mean it.” You told them and they both raised their hands in defence in front of them.

“Never asked for this, love.”

“We’re in Louisiana, you never know.” You gently teased which made them smile. They enjoyed your playful demeanour.

They couldn’t deny that your determination and the way you knew what you wanted was very attractive to the two men. They knew you were going to challenge them and they really needed that.

But they were worried about how you were going to react when you would learn what they were doing in Ambrose. They could always try to hide the truth from you during one small week, but they wouldn’t be able to do that forever. In addition, you would quickly realise you were living in a ghost town. They were going to agree with Lester on what to tell you so it would satisfy your curiosity without making you realise your soulmates were sadistic killers. Unlike them, you sounded like such a good and bright person. You didn’t seem surrounded by darkness.

They didn’t want you to be afraid of them.

You could tell something was wrong.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, and you worried that they weren’t liking you that much or that they were disappointed in you already.

“O’course, love. We just never thought we’d find ya” Bo replied and you tried to smile

“If you weren’t hiding somewhere even maps don’t know about, it would’ve been easier though.” You hummed and you saw the twins exchanging a look so you understood you touched something there. “What are you doing here, anyways? And you didn’t answer me about jobs” you added. You looked at the window and you realised how quiet it seemed outside. “What’s going on here?” You insisted.

“Nothin’ ya have to worry ‘bout, love. We’re your soulmates, remember, ya can trust us.” He smiled at you and you shivered.

Those boys were up to no good but you already loved them.

[sage-green-matcha]

WORLD IN COLOR - ETHAN LANDRY 🌸

In a world where in order to see color you must meet your soulmate!

Content includes: fluff! Mentions of sickness? light smut at the end! y/e/c = your eye color!

<3

<3

<3

"It's such a pretty color! Cute isn't it?" You shook your head as Tara held up her new top, Chad watching her with excitement. "You know I can't see it, Tara" You smiled with a small scoff. "Oh, right...sorry" you brushed it off, holding back a frown.

Out of all of your friends, you were the only one who still couldn't see color. It had been something you wanted since you were a little kid. The idea around it fascinated you.Your whole life was in black and white. Only till you found your "soulmate" you could finally see color.

You were happy for all your friends, but you couldn't help but get jealous when they talked about the sunset or anything else in color. "Hey! By the way, I got my boy Ethan to come over" Chad mentioned excitedly, setting up what he called the "mini-bar"

You weren't sure if you were just crazy but you felt sick all of a sudden. You didn't wanna say anything in case you were, but your stomach felt weird. The pain increased with every second, now you were sure you were going insane. Or maybe you just had a stomach bug. "I feel sick" you had had plenty of stomach aches before but none of them included the symptom of blurry vision.

Chad and Tara looked at each other with confusion. That's exactly how they felt when they were minutes away from meeting each other. "Ethan is your soulmate!" Tara got up excitedly, helping you settle down on the couch. "Huh?" You couldn't think straight, feeling yourself fall numb against the couch.

"I think I'm gonna vomit" you grumbled, head in your hands as you heard the door open. "Hey...guys" You couldn't look up but Ethan was limping as he walked in, Chad quickly grabbing him before plopping him down next to you. "Hey, Etha..." You had never met him before, but you already felt a strange connection with him.

"Guys, look into each other's eyes" Tara forced your head to the side, watching with anticipation. You felt much better already, eyes squinted as you looked at Ethan. The both of you wanted to compliment each other, but with what was going on, you couldn't speak.

It was like everything around you was slowly sucking back in its color, a tingling sensation running down your back. "What the fuck?" Your whisper was barely heard, Tara and Chad holding back a laugh with how silly the both of you looked. "Your eyes, pretty y/e/c" Ethan took a look at your face, your eyes wandering. "What does that look like?" "She doesn't know the colors, dude"

Ethan had made a special code with charts to figure out what color was which, but on the other hand you had no idea what was what. Your body ran with emotions, now all 5 of your senses tingling uncontrollably. You were insanely conscious, watching as everything around you finished brightening up.

The light from the room no longer hurt your eyes, feeling yourself adjusting to your new but usual surroundings. "We'll leave you two at it!" Tara pulled Chad into her bedroom, leaving the two of you alone with your new eyesight. "How do I know which  color is which...?" Your words were mumbled, Ethan zoned out as he stared at all the colors on your face. "Ethan..." You waved your hand in front of his face, asking your question again.

"Oh well, I've always kinda known I guess? I just looked up the colors on the internet and made a chart, like that couch" he looked over, making you turn your head. "It's blue, and that painting over there is pink" "My mom's favorite color is blue" you smiled to yourself, remembering the darkish hue the color had when it was all black and white.

"What's yours?" You scanned around the room, trying to find the color that appealed to you the most. "Pink..." Your eyes stayed on his lips, the pretty color of them hypnotized you. "And yours?" "Y/e/c" You recognized the pink color that was appearing on his cheeks, blush is what it was called. "You're blushing, it's pink" you smiled, holding back a laugh. "Yea, it is pink"

You brought your thumb up to his face, your thumb rubbing against his cheek. He watched with anticipation, making eye contact as he pulled you closer. Ethan was the shy dorky guy no one paid attention to, he wouldn't have dared to look anybody in the eyes, let alone someone as beautiful as you.

When you closed your eyes it was dark, but you felt a burst of color explode throughout your body when your lips met. They fit together so perfectly, it felt electrifying. The feeling of his large hands on your waist had you going insane, butterflies going wild in your stomach. The sound of light breaths and skin made you shiver. The smell of his cologne filled your nose, the taste of sugar on his lips making you reach even deeper into him.

All your senses were going off, putting all of them to use. He worked hard to get a noise out of you, finally letting one slip when his nails dug into your hips. "I never thought you'd be a masochist" "am not" you mumbled, squirming and holding back another moan while his nails dug deeper into your skin, his lips invading your neck. "Your eyes say otherwise"

[doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou]

What Does It Mean?

> lady lesso x fem!reader

> requested? yes! by @1ntr0v3rt3dsna1l

> content/warnings: nothing, this is just the start so it's probs boring 🤷🏻‍♀️ anw,

> a/n: i'll write more dw, i just need my badly needed vacation lol, i'll probably turn this into a mini series anw

request prompt: Y/N is an Ever (and, of course, a reader) from the modern world (where we live, baby!). Y/N had already read the books of School for Good and Evil and is well aware of everything about it in general. Lady Lesso slowly harbored a crush on Y/N, and despite being opposites, they became close friends. Lady Lesso found out that Y/N is her soulmate, but Lesso keeps denying it. Y/N knew Lady Lesso so well, so she wasn't shocked or surprised (because, after all, the books). Then, Y/N eventually gave up on trying to bridge their relationship... And left after the Rafal thing?

“Will you ever stop reading these nonsense books?”

Rolling your eyes, you huffed and slammed the book you were reading down your lap. “They are not nonsense.”

You gave your sister a glare and picked up the book you were reading. “And please, do not touch those if you do not want to read them. Go and do anything else. Maybe dance to those Tik Tak things whatever the hell those are.”

Setting the book, School for Good and Evil, back with a thump, your sister sneered at you and left without another word.

“How can such a pretty face be a menace to my peace?" you muttered as you continued reading.

-

“Good morning, Evers! Do have a pleasant day today!”

Groaning and stretching, you opened your eyes and observed your surroundings. After a minute of listening to the birds, you let your eyes widen and let out a scream.

"Oh, shut it, Reader!”

“It's too early for this, Y/N.”

Closing your mouth, you gazed at the owners of the voices that told you to shut up. Glaring at them, you huffed and went to the washroom.

“Why do I always have pissy princesses as dorm mates? Ugh.” You splashed your face with cold water and scrubbed it hard. Glancing at your un-reddened face, you groaned and huffed.

“Why is everything so perfect in these stories?!”

Deciding to let it be, you stripped down and started washing yourself. You didn't even hear your ‘roommates’ tell you that they were off to the hall to get breakfast. For half an hour, you hummed and washed yourself peacefully, without anyone bothering you about towels and tampons.

As you finished your wash, you saw a fairy waiting outside the door for you. It started to whine and pull you by the strands of your hair to get ready. “Ow! Ow! Ow! It hurts!”

Swatting the fairy away from you, you rolled your eyes and picked a gown that matched your interest. Because who would even want to wear a gown that doesn't compliment their own style, right?

“Do you do this with every teacher here?” You asked the fairy that kept on pulling you towards the hall. You knew it didn't do anything, yet you felt conscious enough to say it out loud. You knew how hard these fairies worked all day. After all, you've read this book a thousand times.

-

“Lesso! Are you even listening?” Dovey gave her counterpart a glare.

Siding with her friend, Anemone egged on the argument. “Of course she's not. Look at her. She's been caressing her scalp for the last ten minutes.”

Lesso caressed her scalp one more time before hissing at Anemone. “Excuse me for feeling my soulmate's pain.”

With that word, Anemone and Dovey forgot the topic they were going to bother Lesso about. "Oh, really? It means they must have come!”

Frowning, Lesso raised an eyebrow at Dovey. “What did you say?”

Widening her eyes, Dovey glanced at Anemone and let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, haha! It's nothing, right, Emma?”

Anemone finished her meal and, after feigning ignorance, glanced at Dovey and Lesso. “Oh! Yes, yes. It's nothing, Lady Lesso.” Dovey huffed and kicked Emma’s shin before continuing her own meal.

That was close.

Oh, please, do you honestly think that Lesso would see through my lie?

Dovey and Emma started having their own conversation in their minds to try and prevent Lesso from hearing what they had planned.

Actually, I did catch on to your lie, Emma. I just didn’t want to hear your voice anymore.

Choking on their teas, Emma and Dovey glanced at each other before giving Lesso a horrified look. She can hear us?! They asked each other telepathically.

I thought we had already established this. Yes, I can both hear you.

And while Emma and Dovey had to endure the embarrassment that came with Lesso hearing their conversation, you had your own problem with the numerous fairies ‘prepping’ your hair outside the dining hall.

“Please, it already appears to be fine.” You laughed angrily, trying not to knock any of the fairies away from you. "Just stop."

Irritated, the fairies stopped smothering you and flew away. “Finally!” You let out a huff and grabbed your gown before opening the hall door.

And as usual, your late venture towards the dining hall caught the attention of, if not all, of the people already there. Feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks, you cleared your throat before striding down the path towards the teachers’ table. Given that you had already read the books, you knew who Professor Dovey was and what would catch her attention. Pink. So you opted to wear a pale pink dress to ‘get on’ the dean's good side.

“Professor Dovey.” The blonde woman stood up and gave you a grin that could match a child’s smile when they see sweets.

“Oh, Y/N, you are here! Thank you for adhering to my request.” Dovey took your hands in hers and gave it a loving squeeze.

Letting out a chuckle, you glanced around and said, “It was hardly a request, Professor. My mentor didn’t even let me see your letter before firing me from my job.”

Your statement garnered you two audiences, Emma and Lesso. Emma shook her head at the situation you were put through because of her friend’s plan. Lesso, on the other hand, let out a hum before smirking in your direction.

“Not even here for an hour, and you already have yourself an Ever dressed in sheep’s clothing, Clarissa.” Lesso stood up and stole your hands from Clarissa’s before giving it a kiss. “Welcome to the School for Good and Evil, Y/N.”

Watching her counterpart leave without saying a word to her, Clarissa rolled her eyes and turned to you. “Don’t pay attention to her words, dear. I’m sure you're as pure as you seem to be.”

She pulled you to sit on the chair that Lesso had occupied moments before and snapped her fingers to get rid of the dirty dish. “Do help yourself, Y/N. You need it.”

You didn’t know what those words were meant for. Were they to reassure you or to threaten you with what you had agreed to do?

[lostintransist]

Alright a phase two maybe? Of the soulmate tattoo ideas? I was thinking for this batch,

Horangi

König

Nikto

Graves

I dunno much about multiplayer but I know these dorks XD

Hmmmm what a delcious meal you have presented me with.

I bet Horangi has his tattoo situated between his shoulder blades with a dragon tattoo eating it. He isn't often without a shirt that covers it but the tattoo artist who designed and placed his dragon with an eye toward highlighting instead of hiding the soulmate mark.

Expanded Horagni Thought: HERE

König...hmmm where would his tattoo appear... OH! What if it is on the top of his right butt cheek? Mans is so shy and body-conscious no one has ever seen it before. They don't even know the color of it.

Nikto this man has a name tattooed across his Achilles heel and it was torn away with the torture he experienced. When the tattoo forces its way back to the surface it is distorted and a mockery of what it once was.

Graves (SMARMY) his face pisses me off so I will have to work hard to give him a happy story his tattoo is across the back of his right hand. The first thing anyone notices when he offers them a handshake. He hates the vulnerability of the placement, how prone it is to injuries.

Now I must simmer on these men...

[natalie668]

Chapter 2 - Lost Girl

Warnings: will contain smut in future chapters, MFM, FM, sometimes more than 3 people lol. Violence (hello they’re vampires), mentions of drugs. (Paul smoking weed)

This story is going to be at least 30+ chapters. It’s still in its planning stages for the future but I love Lost boys (have since I was little) i need to let you all know that I’m a mother to 2 autistic children and a lot of my time is spent looking after them, but I will try and post at least weekly. Hope that’s ok with you all ❤️❤️ please feel free to post comments I’ll reply to every single one 🖤🖤

As we make our way through the crowds lingering across the boardwalk i can't help but to follow like a lost sheep. I have no clue where we're going but, but surely my soulmate can't be leading me to danger? That's why my legs willingly follow him as he makes his way towards a motorbike.

He gets on, and holds his hand out to me to take hold of, "come on, jump on." He says his eyes baring into my own.

I take a deep breath and pulling my pencil skirt upwards feeling rather self conscious, I get my leg over and secure my arms around his waist. This is my first time on a motorbike and my heart is in my throat. We begin to take off, he goes at a careful speed, we'd been driving for around 15 minutes before we came to a wooden looking house. We pull up the dirt path leading to the front of the home.

He kicks out the stand and slides off, his arms help me get off the bike, a smile now taking over his beautiful features. "This is my home, come on," he says as he leads me through the front door. "My mum should be home soon."

We make our way into what looks like a living room, there's a teenage boy sat on the sofa reading a Batman comic. I can't help but smile seeing a youngster reading.

He looks up from his comic, a frown marring his features, "why have you bought a girl home Mikey, moms not going to be happy." He practically finishes in sing song with a grin on his face.

He pushes his little brother by the shoulder, "Mom will be happy for me. Sammy; meet my soulmate - y/n."

Who i now know as Sam, his mouth opens wide like a gawping fish. He stutters, "Oh my god! Mikeys found his soulmate!?" He says practically vibrating on the spot with excitement. I can't help but to grin and smile at the kid. He seems so happy bless him.

I lean forward extending my hand, "it's nice to meet you Sammy,". We shake hands both of us grinning.

Michael wraps an arm around my shoulders, "well, I'm going to go get to know y/n some more, shout us when mums home." He says as we make our way up the stairs to what I can only assume is his bedroom.

We step into his bedroom and I take in the posters around jotted around on the walls. A single bed is the only thing to sit on in there. He sits himself down making himself comfy, I make my way over slipping my shoes off before climbing onto the bed.

We look at each other taking one another in, “So, what were you doing at the Board walk, you looked a bit lost. And I know I’ve never seen you there.” He says to me as I press my fingers to my lips, I can’t get over how good looking my soulmate is, he’s so handsome.

I look down at my hands, trying to think of what to say, whether to risk telling the truth and scaring my soulmate away or risking him getting me sent to a nut house. Oh sod it, what’s the worst that can happen.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” i say as i look up to him, “This morning I was in the year 2024, and I was on my way home from work, and I got hit by lightning and woke up on the sand in 1987.”

I peer up at, him waiting to see his reaction, peering up at him he seems shocked, obviously what else would you expect. “I promise I’m telling the truth, I know it sounds absolutely bonkers but it’s true.” I say as I look into his eyes, they seem to be taking in what I just said.

He leans forward, his fingers pressing to my cheek, he leans in and kisses my forehead, pulling me towards him. "I believe you, why would you lie about something like that." his chin is resting on the top of my head.

I lean in taking in his scent, I can't help but to feel safe in his embrace, snuggling against his chest. He smells me, I can hear his intake of breath breathing me in.

"You'll be ok love, I promise I'll take care of you forever." he says to me, nuzzling his face against me.

"Forever is a long time Michael, are you sure you can promise forever." i say to him grinning against his chest. I feel his chest vibrate with laughter.

"You'll find, we'll all be able to promise you forever, sweetheart." his fingers caress my hair, his fingers running through it.

I pull away from him, confused. "What do you mean we?," i say to him, does he know my other soulmates?

Michael is just about to speak when theres a knock against his bedroom door, "Come in," he says to the person at the door.

A beautiful blonde lady walks in, you hazard a guess that this woman is his mother. "Hi sweetie, it's lovely to finally meet my Michaels soulmate." she says as she rushes over and pulls me into a loving embrace. her warmness and nurturing nature reminds you of your own mother, a mother who would be in her 20s like yourself in 1987, the thought makes your head spin.

I lean into her hug, "Its lovely to meet you too," i say as she pulls back a huge loving smile on her face.

chapter 3

[emileeknow]

Finally | Joshua Au

Pairing: Joshua X Reader

Genre: Soulmate!au, fluff

Words: 2.1K

Summary: You see your soulmate’s face in your dreams but can never interact with them.

The8 |  Jeonghan  |  Mingyu  |  Hoshi |  S.Coups |  Jun  | Woozi  | Wonwoo | Dino  | Vernon  |  Seungkwan  | DK

Joshua was having one of the dreams again. They were a regular occurrence, he found them strange at first, but he didn’t think much of it anymore.

He wasn't sure when they started, but he first took notice of them when he was 19.

It was said that the faces you saw in dreams were real people you had encountered in your lifetime. A combination of people you recognise and an array background faces you had caught a glimpse of when going about daily life.

Aside from the people he knew and the random background faces, there was one face that kept showing up in his dreams. Yours. 

He didn’t notice it at first, so wasn’t quite sure when you started appearing. 

It was after a few weeks of seeing your face that he started to recognise you. He didn’t know where he had seen you before, but you were appearing far too frequently to be some random passer-by he’d seen on the street one day. 

He thought about it a lot.

Who are you?

Why did you keep appearing?

Was he going crazy?

You were never a main character and he’d never had an interaction with you in his dreams. You were just always in the background somewhere. Always present in the scene but not always noticeable. It became a game he would play with himself to find you in his dream that night, like a game of hide and seek.

Once he found you, he always tried to interact with you. Fate never let him though. You always disappeared, wisping away into nothingness before he could get close enough to utter even a greeting.

He thought about you a lot, both in his dreams and in his conscious mind. But no matter how much he mulled it over, he still couldn’t place your existence in his everyday life. You were just a mysterious constant in his dreamworld. 

-

You on the other hand were completely indifferent to the man that was always in your dreams. You were aware of him, but instead of pondering the significance of the man’s existence, you just shrugged it off as meaningless.

When you saw his familiar face in the crowd you would think, ‘oh it's that guy again’ and continue on with the dream as if nothing had happened. 

You assumed it was someone you always saw on your daily commute. Just another face at a bus stop, or someone in the coffee shop that you regularly saw in the background when you went to get your morning dose of caffeine.

You didn't really remember what happened in your dreams after you woke up, once the drowsiness had worn off, the night’s events just phased out of your memory, it wasn’t unless you focused on it that you could really process what had happened in your dream. Therefore you didn’t really think much of the man that was always there. 

You didn’t give much thought to the fact that it probably had some kind of deeper meaning. It’s not like the world you lived in, revolved around strange inexplicable connections to other people…

You went about your daily life as usual. You’d recently started a new job so were still settling into the new office. There were so many new names and faces to remember and it meant you had to go through all the general get to know your co-worker questions all over again. 

What’s your name?... Y/N

Have you met your soulmate yet?... No

What’s your connection?... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You had already had the same conversation with around 5 people this morning and to be honest you were getting a little tired of it. Whenever you would respond that you didn’t know what the connection was, the other person would either nod politely and give you some words of encouragement, ‘Oh I’m sure you’ll find out eventually’, or they would try to shake your hand to check the tingles. 

It was reasonably well known that when soulmates touched they would feel the connection. This had resulted in a culture whereby people who were unaware of their connections would try to make physical contact with others upon meeting them. 

The idea you didn’t mind, it was logical and many did find their soulmates this way. However, the past three people you had met had done exactly that and then promptly left the conversation. Any interest in getting to know you dissipating the moment they found out that you did not mean anything to them. 

Since you were new to the company, you just had to accept it, although it did make you uncomfortable. 

Luckily for you, there was a girl chatting with someone at a nearby desk that noticed your discomfort. She quickly stood up and shooed away the small crowd of people. You silently thanked her and she smiled brightly at you. 

She introduced herself, and to your delight didn’t ask any of the usual questions. 

Turns out her desk was next to yours, and you were so glad that your new desk buddy was a nice person. It only took a couple of days of working together for the two of you to become friends. 

-

You and your new workplace bff, were sat eating lunch in the office cafeteria one day, when the conversation drifted to soulmates. 

“How come you never asked me about soulmates?” you ask curiously.

“I figured if you wanted to talk about it you would, I also had a hidden connection, so I know how annoying it is when people try to get you to talk about it. Especially the ones that made it seem like I didn’t have one, you know when they say. Oh I’m sure there is someone out there for you.” 

“Or, You probably aren’t one of the 0.01%.” you continued. 

“Or my personal favourite, I know most people have found theirs' by your age, but don’t lose hope”

“Are you sure you already found your soulmate? Are you sure you aren’t mine?” you smiled sweetly at her.

The both of you chuckled.

“I didn’t know what my connection was until I met him”

“How did that work?” you ask curiously. 

“Well our connection was dreams, we had been meeting each other in our dreams for years before we actually met.”

“So you both communicated in your dreams? How did you not know that that was your connection then?”

“We wouldn't remember anything when we woke up, it was like we were living a separate life in our sleep. It wasn’t until we touched for the first time that all of the memories from our dreams came back to us.” She was smiling fondly, looking off into the distance as she thought about her soulmate. 

“I didn’t realise connections like that existed” you ponder. 

“Neither did I, until it happened. Who knows, you may have a similar one, one that you are not consciously aware of.”

“Maybe…” you wondered.

“Talking of soulmates, Jeonghan and I are going for dinner tonight, so do you want to come with us?” She asks.

“I’m alright, I don’t want to third wheel you and your soulmate”

“Jeonghan’s friend is also coming, if anything I’m the third wheel, please save me” she pleads with an adorable pouting expression.

“Fine” you relent.

You were curious to meet your new best friend’s soulmate. The way she would gush about the cute dates they went on made you curious about what he was like. 

-

That evening, Joshua and Jeonghan were on their way to the restaurant.

“Why do I need to come to dinner with your soulmate?” Joshua asked, not appreciating the last minute invitation. What if he’d had other plans? He didn’t of course, but he could have.

“Because otherwise her friend will be uncomfortable.” Jeonghan stated in response.

“Huh?”

“Y/N Won’t come if they think they’re going to be the third wheel, so you my friend need to be the fourth” he clarified with a smile and a pat on the back.

“Is it that important that Y/N comes?”

“Apparently yes. Anyway it’s not like you're paying so...”

“Why didn't you say that earlier?” Joshua smiles, patting Jeonghan on the back, as he starts to walk with a bit more of a spring in his step.

“Unbelievable” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. 

Joshua had no idea why it was so important that this Y/N person came out for dinner with Jeonghan and his soulmate, but Joshua was not about to turn down a free meal. 

Additionally, he knew the discomfort of being the third wheel all too well. Over the past couple of years his group mates had all been meeting their soulmates. Whether he liked it or not, he was being bombarded by loved up couples left right and centre.

He’d waited patiently for it to finally be his turn but Seokmin had met his soulmate several months ago, yet there was still no sign of his own.

It was disheartening. He never let it show since he didn’t want the pity that came with being the only single one left. Everyone always invited him to join their outings, in an effort to not make him feel left out.

He appreciated the thought, he really did. But no matter how inclusive everyone tried to be, there came times where it felt like he was sat alone at the back of a roller coaster filled with twelve happy couples in front of him.

He’d inadvertently become the ultimate third wheel of the group, so if he could help some complete stranger not feel the same awkwardness, and get a free meal out of his friend in the process, then he would happily come out to dinner.

-

Jeonghan and Joshua entered the restaurant. The two immediately started scanning the tables to locate the one they were looking for. 

Joshua froze as his eyes landed on you. The rest of the room became irrelevant as his eyes scanned your face.

You were looking intently at the menu but he recognised you immediately. 

Was he dreaming? He didn’t feel like he was.

Was this real? He could smell the mouth-watering scents from the kitchen, so it definitely felt real.

Were you really there in front of him?...

Before he knew it, he was snapped out of his daze as his impatient friend dragged him over to a table in the far corner. The one you were sat at.

Jeonghan greeted his soulmate warmly before sitting down opposite her. Joshua just stood there, staring at you in disbelief since for once he was right beside you and you hadn’t disappeared into thin air. 

-

Jeonghan introduced himself to you before gesturing to his friend, which you thought he’d lost along the way, as there was no one taking the seat next to him. 

You looked around, your eyes trained on the man looming nearby, he stood frozen by the side of the table.

Your first impression was that his lurking presence at your side should have been unnerving. But for some reason it wasn’t. You tilted your head in thought. He looked familiar but couldn’t quite place where you’d seen him before. 

“Y/N, this is Joshua,” Jeonghan announces, breaking the silence that had settled as the two of you continued to stare at each other. 

“It’s you….” Joshua finally speaks, finally shuffling himself into the seat opposite you without breaking eye contact.

“You know each other?” Jeonghan asks, leaning forward onto the table and resting his head on his hands, slightly intrigued. 

“I don’t think so, but I feel like I’ve seen him before.” You mumble, deep in thought as you try to place him in your mind.

A small smile appears on Joshua’s face, which for some reason had your own lips naturally curling upwards in response. 

“Have you perhaps seen me in your dreams every night and wondered who I was, or why I kept appearing?” he asks softly.

You nodded slowly, eyes widening as realisation dawns on your face.

“Hold on a second…” your friend looks at you in utter disbelief, swatting your arm to grab your attention away from the stunning man in front of you. “You mean to say you’ve been seeing a man you’ve never met before in your dreams every night, and you didn’t think that it could have some kind of relation to your soulmate”

“....Yes?” you mutter.

Your friend shakes her head judgementally. 

“Why didn’t you say you were having dreams like that?” an equally puzzled Jeonghan turns to Joshua. 

He simply shrugs, “I didn’t realise that could be a connection.” 

“Even after I told you about my bizarre connection, you didn’t think that maybe those dreams probably meant something?” Jeonghan said incredulously.

Joshua doesn’t respond, he was too busy looking at you, now that you were actually sitting in front of him. It didn’t feel real, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“Even on my day off, I’m surrounded by idiots,” Jeonghan sighed to himself.

Minghao  |  Jeonghan  |  Mingyu  |  Soonyoung |  Seungcheol  |  Junhui  | Jihoon |  Wonwoo |  Hansol  | Seungkwan  |  Seokmin

A/N: 

… So I finally finished this. Truth is I wrote the draft of this part two years ago but never got round to finishing it. Somehow I’ve managed to write 300k words of VegasPete fics in the past year, but couldn’t get my ass in gear to finish and post this one tiny one shot. Over the past few months I’ve had loads of tumblr notifications come through from people binge reading the series and liking all the parts. So the guilt of leaving Shua out has finally caught up with me. Thanks to everyone for the support over the course of this series, even if it did take nearly 6 years to complete <3

Taglist (I know it’s been two years since the last part, so sorry if you no longer wanted to be tagged) : @ohmygyaaah @btsarmy7-2013andrandomthings​

[valley-of-headcanons]

i love love LOVE the way u write!!! so i have a request :3 (headcanons)

it's very specific, BUT my request is: how would the bachelorettes react to finding out that the farmer used to be a very popular singer/musician before going to Pelican Town, but eventually moved into the valley to hide from their previous life and find more peace for themselves? (totally not based on my own SDV OC lmao)

if the request it's too long for u, u can choose between Haley and Abigail (my comfort characters!!)

thank u for the attention!!! have a good day and take care :3

bachelorettes reacting to your ex-stardom || headcanons

being in the limelight was fun for a while, but settling down is definitely what you needed. but how would your partner react to your past?

warning: pretty fluffy, no real warnings that i can think of <3

requested by: anon, thank you so much for the request! hyper-specific requests are my favorite, and your oc sounds so cute, you should tell me about them sometime!! anyway, i hope you liked this request, it was really fun to write!

abigail

• You and Abigail were playing video games in her room, she had bought some game about being a popstar. She was rambling on about how cool this life looks, being an artist on a big stage. You couldn't help but think about your own past, and how you haven't exactly mentioned it. You should probably tell her ... and this would be a good opportunity.

• You let out a soft laugh as she continued rambling, before casually mentioning that you used to be a popstar. “Uh huh, I bet it was suuuuper fun and you were so rich and famous, what was your popstar name? ... oh shit you're not kidding- REALLY??”

• As you explained your past, she looked on eagerly. You could see the excitement in her eyes. “Wow, that sounds so freakin' cool! Could you tell me about those experiences? I bet you had so many cool adventures, you better tell me about every. Single. One of them!”

• Abigail is a very inquisitive person, and finding out something interesting about her partner? You know she's going to be so interested, listening to every part and every story, showing a giant grin as you do so. She is so invested, you can see how much she loves you.

• Her music taste certainly did not align with yours, but she supported you as much as possible. You soon saw all of your albums and records and CDs accumulate in her bookcase, and more often than not she was humming your music. It was so sweet and endearing, she is so supportive of you.

emily

• You and Emily were sitting in her room, sitting with her pet bird and hearing it squawk. Soft conversations between you two eventually were interrupted by the tune the bird was singing. It was yours. You looked over at Emily, asking her where he heard that tune before. She said something about how he had always squawked that tune, even before Emily got him.

• You laughed softly, thinking for a moment before deciding to share this part of your past. She grinned happily, not even questioning it. “My tarot reading on my soulmate did say something about fame! The universe obviously had a plan in place for us,” she giggled softly.

• Emily honestly had no clue who you were. She didn't keep up with that sort of stuff, so she was a bit clueless. However, she was invested. “What was your life like? How was being a popstar? What kind of concerts did you perform?” she asked eccentrically.

• She was invested in your past, she always had some sort of interest in the unknown. She wanted to know you on a deep, conscious and subconscious level. Knowing this part of you only brought you two closer, and she loved it. She could feel your energies alligning.

• Emily was indifferent when it came to your past, she would've loved you regardless. She supported you in every way possible, she even dabbled in your music! She wasn't usually a big fan of this sort of stuff, but it was ... nice. It was like hearing your thoughts vocalized, it helped her understand your energy easier.

haley

• You and Haley were hanging out in her room, she was reorganizing her record shelf. You were surprised to see your own record, sitting there along with ... every single other record you've ever put out. Wow, Haley must be a big fan of your stuff ... you were really scared for how she would react.

• When you shyly mentioned your past, she looked over at you, jaw practically hitting the floor. “Wait- you're kidding! ... that makes sense timewise, they did go into hiding shortly before you arrived ... and you two do look similar ... oh my gosh, I'm dating my idol! I never would've guessed you'd move to some stupid, small town like this.”

• Although very enthusiastic about asking questions, she reeled them in for a moment. “... I admire you, I really really looked up to you, please don't look at me any differently because I'm your fan. I'll try to kind of separate that, but you're such an interesting person, before and after I found out about your past. Now please, tell me everything!” she giggled softly, taking your hands in her own as she happily listened.

• She revealed a secret of her own. She took her camera to one of your concerts on your last tour, taking so many gorgeous pictures. Her photography was beautiful and flattering, and you couldn't help but say thank you. She was embarrassed that she hadn't made the connection between you and the popstar she always admired, but she was just glad she was here with you.

• Haley was so interested, everytime you looked into her eyes it was like she was connecting the dots. She must've been a dedicated fan back then, and now she's your dedicated girlfriend. You could tell she adored all aspects of you, not just your past stardom. She also made sure to tell you each of her favorite tour and red carpet outfits you've ever worn.

leah

• Leah was working on a sculpture, however she was stuck. She was struggling for inspiration, sighing as she looked over at you. She asked what you did for inspiration, to which you thought for a moment before answering. She was curious as to what you needed inspiration for. Well ... you've gotta answer now.

• She was expecting a fun hobby, not a full blown past career. “Wow, that's really cool, hon! It sounds pretty stressful though, I agree that having a career relying on creativity is rough ... I bet that plus all the struggles of being famous didn't help,” she said, focusing every bit of her attention on you.

• “Your work must've been incredible, gaining that much popularity. Would you like to share some of it with me? I want to see what you wrote about, and your past passion. Even if you don't want to be famous anymore, if you'd like to write, I would love to listen. You can bounce ideas off of me, anything you'd like. And if you'd rather not talk about it, I understand.”

• Leah was more than intrigued by your work, and how you did it. Music was such an interesting craft in her eyes, and she loved it. She was so interested in your stories and your history. She didn't overstep your boundaries though, making sure she didn't ask too many questions. She just listened to you talk, and she enjoyed every second of it. It's her favorite hobby.

• She found her inspiration soon after, eventually ending up sculpting a peace based on your music. You were always her greatest source of inspiration, she mentioned it often. She was so in love with you, every aspect of you is so beautiful and art worthy. Even aspects of your life that you've left behind were gorgeous in her eyes, and she can't wait to see your future by your side.

maru

• Maru was sitting in the floor, working on her newest robotic creation, when you walked in. She was humming a familiar tune, but then it hit you. It was familiar because you wrote it. You let out a gentle laugh, to which she looked a bit confused. She asked you what was funny, and you thought for a moment. Well, she's gonna find out eventually. Might as well tell her.

• You sat down next to her on the floor, casually mentioning that you wrote it. She laughed, smiling over at you. “Ha ha, very funny. That song is just something I heard on the radio, I highly doubt that you wrote it, unless you're some popstar in disguise or something ... wait what?”

• As you told her about your past career, she looked on with a smile. “Wow hon, I never knew you had this side of you. Your career sounds so stressful, no wonder you wanted to come out here. Do you need to vent about anything? You know that I'm here for you, right?”

• She didn't really listen to the music you put out, it wasn't exactly her style, but she would listen to it if you asked. She enjoys listening to you talk about your past career, and likes hearing things that you've learned from the experience. She's especially interested in the technical aspect, what goes on behind the scenes of tours. Lights, sound, mics, all of the backstage stuff.

• However, she wanted to make you feel comfortable and normal, not like some celebrity. She tried her best to treat it as something normal, just another everyday career. Maru cared about you above anything, and was entirely focused on keeping you physically and mentally healthy. She would listen to you vent any day.

penny

• You and Penny were sitting in the forest, watching Vincent and Jas play, having soft conversation. You had asked Penny what her taste in music was, when she started talking about her favorite artists. Most of them were on the less popular, indie music side. However, she bashfully mentioned that she did have one relatively popular artist she listened to. You were not expecting her to mention your name.

• You weren't exactly sure how to bring this to her attention, so with a nervous laugh, you said that it was you. She tilted her head to the side, a little confused. “... Hold on, could you elaborate on that, please? I'm a little confused ...” As you told her your story, how you wanted to get away from the limelight for a little while.

• “Your music has always interested me, I've honestly been following you since the beginning of your career. I know that you probably don't want to talk about that part of your life, since you moved out here to escape it, but I'd love to talk about some of your songs with you. Your lyrics really speak to me,” she would say with a soft smile, warm and welcoming.

• She loves to analyze the lyrics of songs she enjoys, she's certainly a more lyric oriented person. So, when you agreed to sit down with her and explain the stories behind some of her favorite songs, she was enamored. She listened to every word, paying close attention and loving every second of it. She reciprocated with some stories as well, you two had a deep bonding experience through your music.

• You didn't know how much of a fan Penny was, but it was so sweet watching her learn more about you. Seeing how much she cared about your life, every part of it, made you smile. She's the sweetest, and you can't wait to learn just as much about her.

[hornyfor-redacted-onmain]

Jeongin - Taste

In Your Past - Chapter 3

Stray Kids OT8 x reader, Soulmate AU

Living in a world where soulmates are real, and everyone deals with it differently. Prequel to 'Pieces of My Heart'; how each member dealt with their soul marks, and first meetings.

Masterlist | Pieces Of My Heart

Jeongin always had a deep appreciation for food. Even before he turned 18, he liked to savor the food he ate, enjoyed the taste of his favorite foods and the comfort they brought him. He was always so conscious of the food that he was eating that he realized immediately the day after his 18th birthday when he started tasting things he didn’t eat. His mouth would suddenly explode in flavors, and he knew immediately that it was his soulmate.

The others were very excited to hear about his revelation.

“Our little maknae is all grown up!” Changbin had exclaimed.

“What are they eating right now? Wait, no. Are they eating something right now?” Han questioned.

Jeongin laughed. “They’re not eating anything right now, but I think they had something sweet earlier. It tasted like chocolate.”

They thought it was the coolest thing ever. They would randomly ask him about it, wondering what his soulmate was up to, and he found himself offhandedly mentioning the random tastes that he would experience when it happened.

“Oh, they’re eating peanut butter.”

“Hmmm, meat? Might be a hamburger.”

He remembers the particularly bad timing of one of his soulmate’s meals. They had just eaten a nasty combo of food, right in the middle of filming, and he had to resist the urge to gag for the next 20 minutes until the taste finally wore off. Channie-hyung and Lee Know-hyung then teased him after the shoot.

He was embarrassed, worried that he had ruined the entire thing (and also worried about the sanity of his soulmate to eat something so disgusting), and the company ended up editing out most of his faces for fear of someone finding out what soulmark he had. His manager told him it wasn’t his fault, but he still felt guilty for the extra time the editors had to put in to work around it. Still, he understood the necessity.

While soulmarks were so common that it was almost expected for celebrities to have them, but for idols it was expected to maintain the illusion of accessibility. To reveal a soulmark would essentially isolate a group of people from delusional believing they were made for their bias, and to ruin that illusion would ruin the popularity of a group.

It was disgusting that neither he nor the rest of the boys could talk about something so integral to their entire personality - his soulmark was the reason he always carried gum on him, and Felix’s soulmark made it impossible for him to utilize color schemes without the help of another.

Sometimes he found himself wishing he could talk about it. His soulmark was so odd, one of the most uncommon sensed based soulmarks, and he knew it would be next to impossible for him to find his soulmate based on it alone. He worried about it sometimes, whether he would ever meet them. He knew it was stupid, but he often found himself scrolling through forums, reading through posts made by other people with rare or ‘useless’ soulmarks.

‘I have a smell based soulmark … but my soulmate has the worst sense of smell! It took us nearly 30 years to finally meet, and that only because he had my first words. Can you imagine if he had initials, or taste, or something else equally vague? We never would have found each other!’ ‘I’m 58 and have yet to find my soulmate. I have initials, and despite my best efforts to get to know the names of everyone I’ve ever met, I simply have yet to find them. I’m convinced that my soulmate has to have a bad soulmark as well, otherwise they would have come looking for me by now, right?’ ‘Don’t worry too badly, I was 75 when I met my soulmate. Already happily married and with children, but they became one of my closest friends in such a short amount of time. When my wife died a year later, it was their support and friendship that kept me going. They showed up in my life right when I needed them, and I can’t imagine what I would do without them.’

He knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t imagine having to wait 30 years, let only 70 to meet his soulmate. There was this longing that felt like it had dug a permanent hole in his chest and left him with a gaping hole, pulsing with need strong enough that it consumed his every waking thought.

Would his soulmate like this?

What would his soulmate think about that performance?

What’s his soulmate doing now?

He wanted them. He wanted them so badly that when someone came running up to him on the street claiming to be his soulmate, he only hesitated long enough to make sure they were telling the truth before he finally let that deeply held longing consume him.

Pulling them into his arms felt like healing, and suddenly he was whole again.

He couldn’t hold his excitement when Channie-hyung called him, so eager to share the news. He wanted the members to meet you, wanted to show you off to them, to his parents, to the world. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops. He was unable to stop smiling, fingers laced firmly around his own the whole walk back to the hotel, practically vibrating.

He felt a lump grow in his throat when you told him that you had other soulmates. It made his stomach feel fluttery when he had the same realization as you, watching as you walked towards Hyunjin and Seungmin’s shared room without a thought, eyes firmly on something he couldn’t see.

He wasn’t sure why he hated the thought of sharing you so much.

You were his, sure, but you didn’t belong to him. He wasn’t even sure your soulmate bond would ever be anything more than platonic, and it would be selfish of him to keep you all to himself. But even as he plastered on a fake smile, he was secretly hoping you would agree to wait to meet the others.

He just wanted you to be his, only his, just a little longer.

But then you looked up at him with a dazed look, eyes darting across his face with childlike wonder, and he felt something melt inside him.

“I’ll always be yours, Jeongin.” You whispered.

And suddenly he wasn’t so afraid of losing you anymore. The lump disappeared, the butterflies settling down in his stomach, and he gave you a genuine smile. It was only later as he watched the rest of the members surround you, watched as everyone’s faces became dazed with happiness, and saw the way your eyes held the stars as you looked at each and every one of them, that he realized maybe it would be so bad to have someone to share this feeling with.

And who better than his members to make sure that his soulmate would never have to be alone, never have to deal with the longing he himself had felt? For the first time in a long time, Jeongin wasn’t worried about what the future held. He was happy.

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

I’ve been reading through you J+P analysis and love it! I hope you don’t mind but I wanted to add my two cents on the idea that Paul’s statements and mentions about John have potentially gotten over effusive to please the press and have fed into him over romanticising his relationship with John. I think this is somewhat true but I believe the reality is a lot more complicated and symbiotic.

 It's undeniable that Paul is on a bit of a bizarre post-mortem honeymoon with John at the minute due to nostalgia and the pro-lennon/mccartney stuff coming out. There’s no way that isn’t colouring his thinking and you’re right, there’s a discrepancy between Pauls more contradictory statements closer to John’s death vs now. People pleasing does have something to do with it, but it goes both ways. In that 1987(?) interview with John’s sister Julia, Paul says that he tried to downplay his relationship with John as people didn’t want to hear it, which partially explains his scrambled ‘oh we were the best of mates but you don’t get close to mates’ 1980s interviews. That interview is also important as Julia allows him to voice the belief that he skirted round in other interviews, which is that he was the person who knew John best. That’s a bold statement to make, and puts his tentative ‘one of the closest people to him. I can’t claim to be the closest, although it’s possible …  but I wouldn’t… I don’t need that credit.’ in a different light. Linda was also talking about the intensity and depth of their relationship early on (deeper than any of us will ever know, like the mirror image of each other etc) and pre-breakup Paul was casually describing he and John’s extreme closeness to a friend and their telepathy. So some of Paul's more effusive stuff he’s coming out with in interviews in the last decade or so is probably partly to do with the shift in narrative validating all of these feelings that he always had about John but felt unable to say/reckon with at the time of his death. It could be a bit like a pressure valve releasing slightly and all of it just flooding out.

Like the soulmate thing, it could be Paul rambling and getting to an extreme point but also he would never have been able to say that in the 80s/90s without backlash (I do find it telling that Paul’s PR guy also openly called John a soulmate to Paul, sure its good for brand image but also he would be more conscious than anyone of what Paul is okay with being put out there. Also the Howard Stern one where he reacted badly to the LOML question was likely due to the romantic connotations/Howard’s lack of boundaries). We also shouldn’t caricature-ise Paul’s people pleasing tendencies when it comes to his feelings and emotions. Sure he leaves harder stuff out and likes to focus on the positive, but he’s also Fort Knox possessive/private about his feelings and downplays them or shuts off (he’s done this recently like when he refused to tell Colbert about his dreams about John in detail). He fully owns to the press that the situation was complicated and his feelings aren’t straightforward. That he tends to downplay intensity as a general rule DESPITE greater intensity feeding better to the press should throw starker light on the strength of his feeling rather than doubt.

The more extreme statements also match what he’s saying in his personal life to friends and family (multiple people have said he constantly brings up the Beatles even when they themselves are asked not to and Julian mentioned that when he discusses John he talks about it as if it was a great love) and his personality. Paul was never getting over John because he loves profoundly and its not in his nature to let go. He’s the man who spent £70,000 in the 70s doing up a car that had fallen into a lake for ‘sentimental’ reasons, the man who bought the railings from Please Please Me to install in his studio and the man who, according to some reports, turned his whole house into a Linda shrine after she died. He’s also the man shattered by his mother’s death to the point he’s still agonised over laughing at her over something silly.  The press have exacerbated the situation and his uncertainty over their relationship to the point that he has to prove it to himself which is horrible, but in all likelihood he was always going to fill his houses and studios with John’s items and over 40 years later privately mull over if hugging John more would have helped, especially given how John died.

 Paul is not creating a narrative that didn't exist but zooming in on an aspect that was already there and choosing to focus on that. It’s become a bit of a feedback loop, ie Paul watches Mclennon videos on youtube then sends them to producers as inspiration as to how they should present their relationship in a documentary which again pushes a narrative onto fans which they embrace and so on. Ironically, I see the interviews and press as not just a perpetuator but also an outlet for Paul’s grief and trauma that was going to exist regardless of media involvement. Media is the thing that tore them apart and kept them apart initially but now its the medium where again Paul gets validation for his relationship with John as well as an outlet to speak about it in a way which he would normally be too repressed to do. Is his view on John different now than when he was alive? Sure! Is it romanticised? Probably? But likewise, was the petty bullshit that clouded his judgement during their worst period the true snapshot of their relationship either? It’s a whole messy question of whether there is ever one true version of something as shifting as a volatile relationship and if our relationship with the dead ever really ends/our views on the dead become more or less valid with paradoxical clarity/obscurity of distance.

Essentially what I’m trying to say is that Paul romanticises and creates narrative through omission, not exaggeration and that his more extreme statements are likely true to him. Love is a conversation and sometimes becomes an echo when the other person isn’t there yada yada yada.

Thank you for taking the time to write all of this out :)

I agree with a lot of this actually! Though I do also think that we shouldn't ignore the fact that Paul still regularly reveals his feelings towards John to be kind of mixed at times when he talks about the breakup specifically. But on the whole, your thoughts really align with mine and if I at times seem more cynical, it's probably because I find the specific way people talk about Paul on here can get very reductive.

You summarized the nuance of it very well here:

It’s a whole messy question of whether there is ever one true version of something as shifting as a volatile relationship and if our relationship with the dead ever really ends/our views on the dead become more or less valid with paradoxical clarity/obscurity of distance. Essentially what I’m trying to say is that Paul romanticises and creates narrative through omission, not exaggeration and that his more extreme statements are likely true to him. Love is a conversation and sometimes becomes an echo when the other person isn’t there yada yada yada.

[oh-surprise-its-me]

So I'm writing of chris not remembering Ron, but!! The opposite.

Maybe an accident during a mission, or perhaps when he's home. Bad enough that Ron forgets pretty much everything.

He sees Chris and Tom (maybe Jake too, or everyone, depending on when it happens), he says Tom's name and they're like well, It makes sense, he knew him the most, before realizing the name is on the tag of his uniform, and that was why. He read it.

They try to be hopeful, he will remember, at one point or another, but damn-- it's painful to have your boyfriend/husband (in Tom's case his platonic, once upon a time not so much, soulmate) not remembering you.

Omg I can’t wait to read your version. I love how we hurt them <3

It’s like 1995 when this happens so Jake is 7ish.

He hits his head again. That’s the first thing Tom knows when they eject. Ron is conscious this time when they fall into the water. He throws up as soon as they stop rocking. “Tired Tommy. Head hurts gonna sleep for a while.” Tom starts screaming. He can’t help it.

-

When Chris gets the call he drops a glass in the middle of the kitchen. Jake comes running from the other room. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Sorry baby. We’re gonna clean this up and then drive to the base okay? Your dad just got back with Uncle Tom.”

Jake let’s out a cheer. “Baby.” Jake turns. “Your dad got a bit hurt this last time okay? We need to see how he is before tackling him.” Jake’s eyes go wide. He nods. “Go back a bag hon.” He takes off.

Chris doesn’t want to lie to Jake but he can’t help it.

Ron had been surrounded by people. The tiny brown haired one kicked them all out with a promise of coming back eventually. He knows the tall blond is the one he was in a plane with. Knows his name is Tom and he got excited when Ron said his name and then crushed when he pointed at the name tag. Tom’s been crying a lot. Ron also knows he has a wedding ring on, he doesn’t know who he’s married to.

He doesn’t know a whole lot right now. A small blond child sticks their head into the room. “Dad?” Oh Tom must have a kid. God that had to of been terrifying for Tom to leave his kid. He’s proven right when Tom picks the kid up with a kiss to the head.

“Who’s this Tommy?” Ron watches as Tom flinched at the name. Odd. “This here is Jake Seresin. Isn’t he adorable.”

Ron nods, he’s a cute kid. Small. But cute. He waves.

Ron doesn’t know why but there’s a sensation of joy when he looks at Jake. He must be happy for Tom.

A smaller blond man walks into the room. Ron gets that tug of joy again. But he has no clue who the man is. Clearly he’s been crying. “Are you okay?” The man blinks at him. “Tommy take Jake down to get a cookie please.” Tom looks around for a second and this kisses the blond’s head. “You got it Chris.”

Oh. Oh.

Now the feeling in Ron’s chest is pain. He can’t place why. He definitely likes Tom, he seems like a great guy. He should be happy for him that he’s able to have a family.

The man, who’s name is apparently Chris, sits on the chair closest to the bed. “You remember me at all?”

Ron shakes his head. “No. But you caused the heart monitor to beep faster so I think I should.”

Chris laughs. God this is insane. “You know who Jake is?” Another head shake no. “My kid. Your kid. Fuck. Our kid.”

Ron blinks. “You’re lying. I could never score someone like you and have a kid.”

Chris opens and closes his hands. “Frankly I’m not sure you’re allowed to have opinions about what you think right now considering you didn’t even remember Tommy.”

Ron guesses that’s a fair point if he knew what it meant. “Docs say you can come home in a week. You might remember by then or you won’t. It will be fine either way. I’ll take care of you.”

Ron smiles. He trusts Chris. Can’t place why but knows he can.

Jake comes back into the room with Tom trailing behind him. Jake stands next to the bed looking at Ron. He has a weird sense of déjà vu where he thinks this isn’t the first time Jake’s stood there like that.

He picks him up and tucks him under his arm. Jake lights up. Chris has a cute kid.

They have a cute kid.

God Ron has a kid.

“Wanna color my Spider-Man book?” Ron come out of his panic. “Absolutely kiddo.” Jake smiles up at him. Chris has slid over and is whispering with Tom.

They color almost all the pages until Jake stars to crash. Ron lays down more. Jake crawls onto him. He’s fully laying on Ron’s chest tiny as hell. Ron smiles and kisses his head. “Sleep chickie.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. He just knows it’s right. He drifts off listening to Jake breathe.

He misses Chris’s gasp in the corner and how Tom has to catch him from collapsing.

————

Six weeks after the crash it’s all mostly back to him. He can’t believe he forgot Chris and Jake. Fuck, and Tom.

He’s foggy on names still but the doctors said that’s to be expected. He can remember names of things in polish and not English. Jake has to play translator at the store some times, Ron’s suddenly thankful they live in a smaller town. Most people know what happened. They all try to help him if he struggles for too long.

Chris sobbed when Ron kissed him and said he loved him. To be fair that was in the first two weeks. Ron didn’t totally remember him but he knew how much he loved this man.

Fortunately Jake is very go with the flow. He helps around and likes to tell stories if Ron forgets things.

The doctors say he’ll be fine eventually. He knows he might never get everything back but he’ll have what’s most important.

[gayandfullofdismay]

MDZS soulmate AU where a cultivator’s spiritual weapon’s name is written on their soulmate’s skin.

Most people only have one primary spiritual weapon in their lives so most people are able to tell as soon as they meet them. This also affects the culture around spiritual weapons where they’re considered even more important and personal than canon (which is saying a lot), and people find Suibian even more ridiculous/disrespectful because of that.

This AU can go two ways though.

Option 1: LWJ never finds out that WWXs spiritual weapon is named Suibian. WWX doesn’t give the name out too much or LWJ just didn’t ask. Either way, in this AU the spiritual weapon that you have the name of is the other’s first spiritual weapon or current spiritual weapon. LWJ forms his golden core, looks for his soulmate mark and sees “whatever”. Everyone he knows has a beautiful name done in pretty, trained calligraphy (yeah let’s make this a handwriting soulmate AU too) while his is just “whatever” in chicken scratch like even the universe couldn’t care less about him.

He learns about Suibian in the Xuanwu of Slaughter cave at the Wen camp when WWX mentions that he “wishes he had Suibian with him” and by the time they’re both fully conscious again and in the same room, it’s in war meetings happening post-burial mounds and post-WC murder. Every time he gets him alone his first priority is his health and cultivation and there are less and less chances as the war goes on, and then, well, then WWX is dead and nothing matters for 13 years.

Meanwhile, Option 2: Soulmate spiritual weapon names can vary a lot, sometimes it’s the weapon they first use, sometimes it’s the weapon they last use, their most powerful one, their most true one, the one they’ll use the longest, etc. It can vary/no one knows the exact rule bc most ppl only keep one or two spiritual weapons throughout their entire lives and never lose/break them. WWX spends 3 months pestering his soulmate before he finds out that LWJ doesn’t have a “Suibian” on him (he doesn’t hear what name he does have but he knows it’s not his swords name) and was not in fact just shy, so his “Bichen” belongs to someone else and LWJ really just thought he was being annoying (he didn’t, he also had a huge gay crush for the first time in his life, he was just much worse about handling it as is canon lmao).

Either way, WWX is stuck with a crush on a guy who isn’t his soulmate and maybe his first baby broken heart too before it’s Wen indoctrination time and he has much bigger things to worry about, because the Jiang Sect is gone, JFM is dead, his brothers core is gone, and oh well now his core is gone while he’s stuck in the BM. Lovely.

Three months later he comes back with Chenqing on his hip and LWJ on his tail who’s suddenly desperate to speak to him and staring at him when he thinks WWX isn’t looking.

Good angst either way, maybe I’ll find a fic of it one day, if y’all do PLS drop the link lol