#stranger to all these people and I go home. and I have no one here. by this point I’m just… existing day to day to day and I don’t even know | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

literaryvein-reblogs · 21 hours ago

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Hello! i apologize if this a strange question to get but i hope you can shed some light with this! (but its totally alright if not).

speaking as a person in the aro-ace spectrum, i have stumbled on this roadblock in my latest project, romance is a element in multiple character's story, however i have realized i have absolutely no idea how to even begin to to portray it in deep and grounded in reality way.

but i guss the simplest thing to answer would be, how do i figure out what one of my characters would find attractive in a romantic partner? how do i make their slow transition into a romantic relationship not feel out of place or jarring?

again i apologize for this strange question, and how long this question is, hope you have a good day!.

Writing Notes: Romantic Relationships

Stages of Relationship Development. In this study, 10 stages of interaction were found that can help us understand how relationships come together and come apart (Knapp & Vangelisti, 2009).

We should keep the following things in mind about this model of relationship development:

relational partners do not always go through the stages sequentially,

some relationships do not experience all the stages,

we do not always consciously move between stages, and

coming together and coming apart are not inherently good or bad.

Relationships are always changing—they are dynamic.

Although this model has been applied most often to romantic relationships, most relationships follow a similar pattern that may be adapted to a particular context.

COMING TOGETHER PHASE

Stage 1: Initiating

In this stage, when we are attracted to someone, we may signal or invite them to interact with us.

For example, you can do this by asking them to dinner, to dance at a club, or even, “I really liked that movie. What did you think?”

The significance here is in the relational level (how the people feel about each other) rather than the content level (the topic) of the message.

As the poet, Maya Angelou, explains, “Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.”

The ‘shades of deeper meaning’ are the relational level messages that invite others to continue exploring a possible romantic relationship.

Quite often, we strategize how we might go about inviting people into communication with us so we can explore potential romantic development.

Initiating is influenced by several factors:

If you encounter a stranger, you may say, “Hi, my name’s Rich.”

If you encounter a person you already know, you’ve already gone through this before, so you may just say, “What’s up?”

Time constraints also affect initiation. A quick passing calls for a quick hello, while a scheduled meeting may entail a more formal start.

If you already know the person, the length of time that’s passed since your last encounter will affect your initiation. For example, if you see a friend from high school while home for winter break, you may set aside a long block of time to catch up; however, if you see someone at work that you just spoke to ten minutes earlier, you may skip initiating communication.

The setting also affects how we initiate conversations, as we communicate differently at a crowded bar than we do on an airplane.

Culture can also impact the interaction. Some cultures have different expectations for interactions between people of different ages, sexes, or other situations while some cultures do not have as many expectations.

Even with all this variation, people typically follow their culture’s social scripts or interaction at this stage.

Stage 2: Experimenting

In this stage, we are getting to know the other person to identify compatibility beyond physical attraction.

We share information about ourselves while looking for mutual interests, shared political or religious views, and similarities in family background.

Common dating activities in this stage: going to parties or other publicly structured events, like movies or a concert, that foster interaction and small talk.

Small talk, a hallmark of the experimenting stage, is common among young adults just beginning to explore a new relationship by staying on polite, uncontroversial topics.

Small talk can be annoying sometimes, especially if you feel like you have to do it out of politeness but it serves important functions: creating a communicative entry point that can lead people to uncover topics of conversation that go beyond the surface level, helping us audition someone to see if we’d like to talk to them further, and generally creating a sense of ease and community with others.

If your attempts at information exchange with another person during the experimenting stage are met with silence or hesitation, you may interpret their lack of communication as a sign that you shouldn’t pursue future interaction.

Even though small talk isn’t viewed as very substantive, the authors of this model of relationships point out that most of our relationships do not progress far beyond this point (Knapp & Vangelisti, 2009).

Stage 3: Intensifying

In this stage, we continue to be attracted (mentally, emotionally, and physically) to one another, we begin engaging in intensifying communication.

This is the happy stage (the “relationship high”) where we cannot bear to be away from the other person. It is here that you might plan all of your free time together, and begin to create a private relational culture.

Going out to parties and socializing with friends takes a back seat to more private activities (e.g., cooking together at home or taking long walks on the beach).

Self-disclosure continues to increase as each person has a strong desire to know and understand the other. In this stage, we tend to idealize one another in that we downplay faults (or don’t see them at all), seeing only the positive qualities of the other person.

Other signs of the intensifying stage can include:

creation of nicknames or inside jokes

increased use of we and our

increased sharing emotionally (e.g., saying “I love you”.)

increased physical intimacy

increased communication about each other’s identities

increased sharing of possessions and personal space (e.g., you have a key to your partner’s apartment)

Stage 4: Integrating

In this stage, identities and personalities are merged, and a sense of interdependence (dependence on each other) develops.

Verbal and nonverbal signals of the integrating stage are when the social networks of two people merge; those outside the relationship begin to refer to or treat the relationship partners as if they were one person (e.g., always referring to them together—“Let’s invite Olaf and Bettina”); or the relational partners present themselves as one unit (e.g., both signing and sending one holiday card or opening a joint bank account).

Even as two people integrate, they likely maintain some sense of self by spending time with friends and family separately, which helps balance their needs for independence and connection.

They are looking to measure how well their new partner fits into their lives and how other significant relationships (friends and family members) rate or respond to their new love interests.

When the “relational high” begins to wear off, couples begin to have a more realistic perspective of one another and the relationship as a whole.

Here, people may recognize the faults of the other person that they so idealized in the previous stage.

Also, couples must again make decisions about where to go with the relationship—do they stay together and work toward long-term goals, or define it as a short-term relationship?

A couple may be deeply in love and also make the decision to break off the relationship for a multitude of reasons.

Perhaps one person wants to join the Peace Corps after graduation and plans to travel the world, while the other wants to settle down in their hometown.

Their individual needs and goals may not be compatible to sustain a long-term commitment.

Stage 5: Bonding

In this stage, a couple makes the decision to make the relationship a permanent part of their lives.

In this stage, the participants assume they will be in each other’s lives forever and make joint decisions about the future.

While marriage is an obvious sign of commitment it is not the only signifier of this stage. Some may mark their intention of staying together in a commitment ceremony, by registering as domestic partners, or by becoming Facebook official.

Likewise, not all couples planning a future together legally marry. Some may lose economic benefits if they marry, such as the loss of Social Security for seniors or others may oppose the institution (and its inequality) of marriage.

Not only do romantic couples progress through a series of stages of growth, they also experience stages of deterioration.

Deterioration does not necessarily mean that a couple’s relationship will end.

Instead, couples may move back and forth from deterioration stages to growth stages throughout the course of their relationship.

COMING APART PHASE

Stage 6: Differentiating

Individual differences can present a challenge at any given stage in the relational interaction model; however, in the differentiating stage, each partner in the relationship is reasserting their sense of self and trying to discover who they are as part of a couple.

Communicating differences becomes a primary focus.

Differentiating is the reverse of integrating, as we and our reverts back to I and my.

People may try to re-establish some of their life prior to the integrating of the current relationship, including other relationships, hobbies, and interests, or possessions.

For example, Carrie may reclaim friends who became “shared” as she got closer to her partner and their social networks merged by saying, “I’m having my friends over to the apartment and would like to have privacy for the evening.”

Or, she may have liked playing golf on Sundays and abandoned it for Sunday dinners with her new partner and her new family.

Now, she will want to return to what makes her happy.

Individuals in the couple will want to have a sense of self that is independent and not necessarily tied to their partner.

Stage 7: Circumscribing

In this stage, communication decreases and certain areas or subjects become restricted as individuals verbally close themselves off from each other.

Circumscribe means to draw a line around something or put a boundary around it (Oxford English Dictionary Online, 2011).

They may say things like “I don’t want to talk about that anymore” or “You mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”

If one person was more interested in differentiating in the previous stage, or the desire to end the relationship is one-sided, verbal expressions of commitment may go unechoed—for example, when one person’s statement, “I know we’ve had some problems lately, but I still like being with you,” is met with silence.

Passive-aggressive behavior and the demand-withdrawal conflict pattern may occur more frequently at this stage.

Couples often engage in more outward conflict.

Stage 8: Stagnating

During this stage, romantic partners begin to neglect the small details that have always bound them together and their relationship becomes routine.

For example, they may stop cuddling on the couch when they rent a movie and instead sit in opposite chairs.

Taken in isolation, this example does not mean a relationship is in trouble.

However, when intimacy continues to decrease, and the partners feel dissatisfied, this dissatisfaction can lead to worrying about the relationship.

The partners may worry that they do not connect with one another in ways they used to, or that they no longer do fun things together.

When this happens they may begin to imagine their life without the relationship.

Rather than seeing the relationship as a given, the couple may begin to wonder what life would be like not being in the partnership.

They begin to assume that they know their partner and are dissatisfied with them.

Instead of communicating, a person may think, “There’s no need to bring this up again because I know exactly how he’ll react!”

Because of this kind of thinking, communication comes to a standstill.

This stage can be prolonged in some relationships.

Parents and children who are estranged, couples who are separated and awaiting a divorce, or friends who want to end a relationship but don’t know how to do it may have extended periods of stagnation.

Although most people don’t like to linger in this unpleasant stage, some try to avoid potential pain from termination, some hope to rekindle the spark that started the relationship, or even some enjoy leading their relational partner on.

Stage 9: Avoiding

Moving to this stage may be a way to end the awkwardness that comes with stagnation, as people signal that they want to close down the lines of communication.

Communication in the avoiding stage can be very direct—“I don’t want to talk to you anymore”—or more indirect—“I have to meet someone in a little while, so I can’t talk long.”

While physical avoidance such as leaving a room or requesting a schedule change at work may help clearly communicate the desire to terminate the relationship, we don’t always have that option.

In a parent-child relationship, where the child is still dependent on the parent, or in a roommate situation, where a lease agreement prevents leaving, people may engage in cognitive dissociation, which means they mentally shut down and ignore the other person even though they are still physically present.

Stage 10: Terminating

This stage of a relationship is when the relationship is ended.

Termination can occur at any point in the relational development model or follow through the phases of coming together and coming apart.

Termination can result from outside circumstances such as geographic separation or internal factors such as changing values or personalities that lead to a weakening of the bond.

When terminating a relationship, people will often follow a pattern that is typical of their culture.

In mainstream American culture, for example, it is typical for someone to start the formal termination of a relationship with a summary message that recaps the relationship and provides a reason for the termination (e.g., “We’ve had some ups and downs over our three years together, but I’m getting ready to go to college, and I either want to be with someone who is willing to support me, or I want to be free to explore who I am.”).

The summary message may be followed by a distance message that further communicates the relational drift that has occurred (e.g., “We’ve really grown apart over the past year”), which may be followed by a disassociation message that prepares people to be apart by projecting what happens after the relationship ends (e.g., “I know you’ll do fine without me. You can use this time to explore your options and figure out if you want to go to college too, or not.”).

Finally, there is often a message regarding the possibility for future communication in the relationship (e.g., “I think it would be best if we don’t see each other for the first few months, but text me if you want to.”) (Knapp & Vangelisti, 2009).

Love Styles. An individual’s love style is considered to be an attitude and describes how love is perceived (Hendrick & Hendrick, 1988).

Attitudes toward love and perceptions of love may change throughout an individual’s life.

College students may perceive love very differently from their parents or guardians because college students are in a very different stage of life.

College students are living among people their age who are more than likely single or unmarried.

These 2 factors mean that there are more prospects for dating, and this may lead the college student to conclude that dating any number of these prospects is necessary or even perceive that “hooking up” with multiple prospects is acceptable.

In contrast, individuals with children who are financially tied may view romantic relationships as partnerships in which goal achievement (pay off the house, send kids to college, pay off debt, etc.) is as important as romance.

These differences in perceptions of love can be explored through John Lee’s love typology in which he discusses 6 love styles (Lee, 1977):

Eros. Eros is romance and emphasizes love and physical beauty, immediate attraction, emotional intensity, and strong commitment. Eros love involves the early initiation of sexual intimacy and consecutive monogamous relationships.

Storge. Storge love develops slowly out of friendship where stability and psychological closeness are valued along with commitment, which leads to enduring love. Passion and intense emotions are not valued as they are in the eros love style. One of the author’s uncles was in his 60s and had never been married. However, he employed a woman who cooked and cleaned for him for over 20 years. His family was very surprised to receive an announcement that he was marrying the individual who took care of him for so long. The formation of their love is a great example of love that arises slowly out of friendship.

Ludic. Ludic lovers view love as a game, and playing this game with multiple partners is perceived to be acceptable by individuals with this love style. As such, this type of lover believes that deception and manipulation are acceptable. Individuals with this love style have a low tolerance for commitment, jealousy, and strong emotional attachment.

Agape. In contrast, agape love involves altruism, giving, and other-centered love. This love style approaches relationships in a non-demanding style with gentle caring and tolerance for others.

Pragma. Pragma love is known as practical love involving logic and reason. Arranged marriages were often arranged for functional purposes. Kings and Queens of different countries often married to form alliances. This love style may seek out a romantic partner for financial stability, ability to parent, or simple companionship.

Mania. Mania is the final love style characterized by dependence, uncertainty, jealousy, and emotional upheaval. This type of love is insecure and needs constant reassurance.

These love styles should not be considered to be mutually independent.

An individual may approach love from a pragmatic stance and have found love that provides financial stability.

However, they still feel insecure (representative of mania) about whether their romantic partner will remain with them, thus ensuring continued financial stability.

It is important to remember that individuals engage in each of these love styles, and it is simply a matter of how much of each love style a person possesses.

The 5 C's of Healthy Relationships. According to Dan Heller (2020), there are a few clues into what might make a relationship work.

In a research project Heller tackled in 1983 as an undergraduate at UC-Santa Cruz, he found 5 components present in successful relationships.

Heller found that the happiest individuals in his research were those who could identify all 5 of these elements in their romantic relationships.

Communication: Effective communication is vital in any relationship. It involves actively listening to each other, expressing thoughts and feelings honestly and respectfully, and resolving conflicts in a healthy way.

Compatibility: The shared values, interests, and goals that bring people together. While differences can be enriching, having fundamental compatibility in important areas can strengthen a relationship's foundation.

Commitment: A willingness to invest time, effort, and energy into the relationship. It means prioritizing the partnership and working together to overcome challenges. Both partners should be dedicated to making the relationship work and be willing to make compromises when necessary.

Care: Care in a relationship involves showing love, affection, and support for your partner. This can manifest through small gestures of kindness, empathy, and consideration for each other's well-being. It's about being there for your partner in good times and bad.

Compromise: Relationships require compromise from both persons involved. This means finding common ground and making sacrifices to meet each other's needs and desires. Healthy compromise is a collaborative effort that ensures both individuals feel valued and respected.

Elements of Healthy Relationships

Communication. The way you talk with friends or partners is an important part of a relationship. Everyone involved should be able to communicate feelings, opinions, and beliefs. When communicating, consider tone and phrasing. Miscommunication often occurs when individuals choose to text versus talking in person or a phone call. Figuring out the best ways to express your feelings together will help eliminate miscommunication.

Boundaries. Boundaries are physical, emotional, and mental limits or guidelines a person sets for themselves which others need to respect. You and your partners or friends should feel comfortable in the activities you are doing together. All individuals involved should be respectful of boundaries. Whether it’s romantic, sexual, or platonic, consider what you want the relationship to look like and discuss it with the other(s).

Consent. Consent is important in all relationships. Consent is uncoerced permission to interact with the body or the life of another person. Coercion can look like pressure to do something, physical force, bargaining, or someone holding power over another to get what they want. Consent can look like asking about boundaries in relationships, actively listening to responses, and always respecting those boundaries.

Trust. Each person in the relationship should have confidence in one another. If you are questioning whether to trust someone, it may be important to communicate your feelings to them. Consider what makes you not trust someone. Is it something they did, or is it something you’ve experienced in other relationships?

Honesty. Honesty is important for communication. Each person within the relationship or friendship should have the opportunity to express their feelings and concerns. If you don’t feel comfortable being honest with someone, consider why and seek support if needed.

Independence. It’s important to have time to yourself in any relationship. Having opportunities to hang with others or time for self-care is important to maintain a healthy relationship. If you live with your partner(s) or friend(s), set up designated areas within your place where you can spend time alone.

Equality. Each person in the relationship should have an equal say in what’s going on. Listen to each other and respect boundaries.

Support. Each person in the relationship should feel supported. It’s important to have compassion and empathy for one another. In addition to supporting one another, it’s important to recognize your own needs and communicate boundaries around support.

Responsibility. Some days you may find you said something hurtful or made a mistake. Make sure to take responsibility for your actions and do not place the blame on your partner(s) or friend(s). Taking responsibility for your actions will further trust and honesty.

Healthy conflict. You may think conflict is a sign of an unhealthy relationship, but talking about issues or disagreements is normal. You won’t find a person that has the exact same interests, opinions, and beliefs as you; thus, at times disagreements may occur. Communicating your feelings and opinions while being respectful and kind is part of a healthy relationship.

Safety. Safety is the foundation of connection in a relationship. In order to set boundaries, communicate, and have fun, everyone must feel safe. If you do not feel safe to express your feelings, have independence, or anything else on this list, seek support using the resources below.

Fun. In addition to all these components, you should be enjoying the time you spend with others. Again, it’s important that your relationships promote your well-being and do not diminish it.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, I don't think this is a strange question, no apologies necessary! There were so many ways I wanted to answer this. For the first question on how to "figure out what one of [your] characters would find attractive in a romantic partner", you may base some of it on Love Styles (+ relevant information in the other studies discussed above).

As for making "their slow transition into a romantic relationship not feel out of place or jarring", the Stages of Relationship Development is one model you can consider for inspiration. Also added some findings on "elements" of romantic/healthy relationships that I thought you may find helpful to incorporate in your story as well. Choose which ones make sense for your characters.

Another way I wanted to answer this was on common love/romance tropes in literature and other media. I find it helpful to learn about different tropes used by other authors when there are topics we want to cover as fiction writers, but have limited knowledge/experience on. But then you could always deviate or subvert those tropes/ideas once your story starts to flow naturally (+ considering your own story angle etc.). As such, here are some links to tropes related to romance that might give you some ideas: 1 2 3 4 5 6 (+ study these tropes in your favourite books/shows etc. to know more how you could also use them in your own writing).

More references:

The Physiology of Love ⚜ The 4 Kinds of Love

Love (according to literature) ⚜ Triangular Theory of Love

John Steinbeck: On Falling in Love

#anonymous #love #relationship #character development #writeblr #literature #writing inspiration #writing ideas #light academia #writers on tumblr #writing reference #character building #writing notes #spilled ink #dark academia #writing prompt #creative writing #writing resources

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embbarnes · 2 days ago

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giggling and kicking my feet 💕 I loved how this was written, such a fluffy and sweet fic! I don't see very many that are majorly fluffy like this, and it's always so sweet to read!

Ofc my thoughts as I read below the cut ~ I got a little thirsty at the end LMAO

Of all the ways you had been hoping to spend the last few hours of Valentine’s Day, over 30,000 feet in the air next to a snoring man who has never heard of deodorant was at the bottom of your list.

I literally hate flying for this specific reason. I'd buy an entire aisle to avoid this. I don't like being on planes in general, but the people and dealing with the public when everyone is already cranky and irritable is not fun.

Today is your first Valentine’s Day as a couple, and instead of spending it with him, you’re spending it on a commercial flight with dozens of strangers. You can’t help but wonder how many of them are missing their significant other, too.

You know that's true. I've flown around holidays and had flights cancelled, and I wondered how many people would be missing Christmas with their families because of the flight. It's a better perspective to have, instead of just focusing on the negatives, realizing other people are in the same boat you are.

If you’d had it your way, you would have woken up to his face this morning. The two of you would have slept in as late as you desired, and had a slow, lazy morning before cooking him brunch. Waffles, sausage and bacon, scrambled eggs with extra cheese and hot sauce – all of his favorites. You would have taken a stroll through the park before stopping at the bakery that you frequent for doughnuts and coffee, and maybe visited the botanical gardens before your dinner reservations this evening.

Stop this is literally the most perfect day 😭

Valentine’s Day aside, you simply miss him. You’ve been missing him since the moment you left for Nebraska, and you’re more than ready to be back in his arms. This is not the first time you’ve been apart due to work related trips, but this is by far the longest – a whopping seven days.

Nebraska 😭 I will never go back.

You miss the way he wants to keep at least one hand on you throughout the night, the way he talks to Alpine as if she will actually respond, and the way that he hums without even noticing that he’s doing it. All of the seemingly little things that you don’t think much of on a day to day basis, but when you’re apart, make you miss him all the more.

Alpineeee my shaylaaaa 😭💕

Plus, if he had picked you up, it would have ruined your plan to surprise him by stopping by his favorite pizza parlor down the block from your apartment on your way home. Sal’s Pizzeria is always open until midnight, and every year they run specials the entire week of Valentine’s Day on heart-shaped pizzas.

My hometown had a Sal's that just shut down, that's insane. But some places here have heart-shaped pizzas around valentines! I've never had one, but I want to try to this year!

At first, you assume that Bucky is already asleep. But as you walk down the short hallway, you realize there’s soft music playing from somewhere in the apartment. You don't think much of it, since you know that Bucky prefers playing music as opposed to the television for background noise.

What are you up to buck buck...

You stop dead in your tracks when you step into the kitchen. Dozens of tea light candles illuminate the room, placed strategically on the island in the middle of the room. And on the countertops, and the shelves – basically any flat surface twinkles with the delicate flames. You stand frozen as a statue with your mouth agape as you take in the scene before you. In addition to the candles, there’s a spread of food across the island. Plates of delicious smelling pasta, small bowls of soup and glasses of red wine. Tied to the backs of the barstools are red and pink heart-shaped balloons. It looks straight out of a romance movie.

This would make me cry fr. He is so sweet omg.

“Pizza pairs well with pasta, I think,” Bucky's voice breaks you out of your trance. “Can never have too many carbs.” Your gaze snaps over to where he emerges from the den. He wears a bashful smile, and even in the low glow of the candlelight, you can see the faint hint of blush blooming across the apples of his cheeks. He has his hands behind his back, as if trying to conceal something from you. “You did all of this?” You ask lamely. Your voice is barely a whisper and contains a noticeable quiver. “For me?” You can’t wrap your brain around it. No one has ever done anything quite like this for you. All of your ex boyfriends always shrugged off Valentine’s Day, leaving you feeling lucky if you got so much as a card. You’d long ago learned not to expect much of anything. Definitely not anything as intimate and thoughtful as this.

Crying omg. This entire bit is absolutely precious. I love the dynamic and his demeanor sm.

“Who else would it be for? Alpine?” He teases, extending the jar to you. You plop the box onto the counter so that your hands are free to accept the flowers. Upon closer inspection, you realize the bouquet of flowers are not real flowers. Well, yes and no – they’re wildflowers, made of out Legos. You can’t help but giggle, remembering how you had mentioned how cute you think the Lego set is when you saw it while buying some groceries at Target a few weeks ago. You giggle even harder when you picture Bucky assembling all of the tiny pieces of the bouquet with his large, vibranium fingers.

I'm tryinggg to not reblog the entire fic again but it's so hard to contain my thoughts! It's just so thoughtful and special, not plainly and mindlessly picked like roses would be. Which those are fine too, of course, but I like more personalized gifts, ones with thought and meaning behind them like this.

“All I got you is a lousy heart-shaped meat lovers pizza,” you sniffle against his t-shirt and you feel his chest vibrate with laughter. You know that you have the reasonable excuse of being on an assignment in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere Nebraska for the last week, but you still feel bad. “Hey,” he murmurs, using his index finger to tilt your face to look up at him. He grins down at you for a moment before tenderly pressing his lips against yours. You melt into him right away, having missed the feeling of his lips on yours in the week that you’ve been apart. His hands travel to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Your own hands cradle his face, your thumbs caressing the light dusting of stubble that adorns his cheeks. You can already feel the outline of an erection forming through the thin material of his pajama pants when he pulls away, much to your disappointment. “I love meat lovers pizza,” he assures you with a smirk. “And I love you. The best present you could give me is coming home to me.”

I got something else for you too - AHEM. I want to kiss him so bad, it's not even funny. The gentleness, how he presses his lips against the reader is sooo good. I can feel how tender he is. And y'know...I can only imagine how his tent feels too~

You eat together in the glow of the candlelight, with soft music playing in the background and heavy rain beating down against the windows of your apartment. You talk about everything from the details of your mission to what he did while you were away. The food is delicious, the wine he picked out pairs perfectly, it’s cozy and peaceful and romantic – and you realize that you’re enjoying this so much more than you ever would have enjoyed an upscale steakhouse in downtown Brooklyn.

I love how domestic this feels. Something as simple as sharing a meal and talking, but it's so hard to imagine and see Bucky in a calm, loving setting with his life and whatnot. I always really like it when it's included in fics because it's what he deserves.

He opens the shower door, a cheeky grin spreading across his face as soon as his eyes trail up and down your body. The way he looks at you never fails to make you feel like he’s seeing you naked for the very first time, every time. His hands immediately come to rest on your hips, easing you back against the cool tiling of the shower wall. “God, I missed you,” he sighs as he massages his fingers into the meat of your hips. The contrast of his warm flesh hand and cold vibranium hand on your waist has you arching into his touch.

God you really know how to set a scene. You write things out so well, I can vividly see this happening and I want it 😭

He nudges your legs apart with his knee, inserting one of his large thighs in-between your own. You sink your bare pussy onto the expanse of his muscular thigh, dragging your center across him for friction. He kisses you until you’re breathless, and only pulls away to instead latch his mouth over one of your nipples. He rolls it between his lips and tongue, using his hold on your waist to help move you up and down his thigh. He alternates between each nipple, kissing and sucking on each until they’re pert and pebbled.

YEAH SO, EATING GOOD HERE

He presses a final kiss to the side of your neck before pulling away and smirking down at you. He reaches over to one of the shelves in the shower, grabbing a loofah and your bottle of body wash.

I always forget loofah is spelled that way and it catches me off guard anytime I see the word written out 😂

“I’ll have you know that I showered before you got home,” he says as he squirts a dollop of the gel onto the sponge. “I’m just here for your entertainment – and your convenience, of course. Now turn around.”

He's so cheeky I love it

“You’re really going to tease me like that? On Valentine’s Day, of all days?” “Pretty sure it’s after midnight now,” he quips with a smirk.

Still being a brat but I love him for it

You turn so that you’re out of the direct line of the water, and lower yourself to the shower floor. His cock bobs inches in front of your face. You grasp him in your hand, languidly stroking his length as you stare up at him. “Then I guess you’re lucky that I missed you so much.” He opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut with a sharp intake of breath when you wrap your lips around his tip. You swirl your tongue around him, lapping up the beads of pearlescent white that had gathered around his slit. You begin to bob your head, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat.

That thing is gonna imprint itself in my throat istg.

Above you, he throws his head back and hisses at the sensation. His metal hand cradles the back of your head, guiding your movements. You gag at the overwhelming fullness, pulling away from him for air. You ease him back into your mouth, setting a steady pace. He rocks his hips forward, meeting your movements with his own. In one hand, you cup his balls, gently massaging the sack. With your free hand, you attempt to relieve the growing ache between your own thighs by rubbing quick circles over your clit. The thrusts of his hips start to grow erratic, and you feel him twitch against your tongue when he suddenly pulls away from you.

This is so hot but I also love his he cups her head like that. I get tired of the grabbing and jerking you around I see constantly. This is much better and sweeter, and I love it.

He wastes no more time, diving into your pussy. His tongue swirls over your clit as he brings one long, metal finger to tease your hole. He nudges it inside as his lips suction around the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your folds. Your body goes relaxed, your back sliding down the wet tiling of the shower wall. Bucky helps support you from down below as he sinks his vibranium digit deeper inside you. The coil in your lower belly tightens quickly, pent up from a whole week without his touch. He can always tell when you’re close by the little noises that you make and the way that you tug on the short brown locks of his hair with your fingers. He groans as he licks a thick strip up your slit, sending you over the edge.

Good GOD, girl. I know that metal hand feels soo good up there. His tongue movements and focus are perfect. I love the detail that he knows when she's close, it shows their bond and how tight it is by how familiar Bucky is with her.

Alpine is snoring softly at the foot of your king sized bed, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re even home. Everything is exactly as you left it, from the stack of half finished books on your nightstand to the orange Himalayan salt rock lamp that hasn’t been turned off a single time since the two of you moved into the apartment together. The comfort and familiarity of everything makes you feel all the more grateful to be back home.

Again, another thing I love that you add. These little details that paint the scene are wonderful and it makes the fic feel warm.

“Catch!” He warns before gently tossing it across the bed to you. You catch it, a smile blooming across your face as you sooth your thumb over the velvet material encasing the small box. He walks over to your side of the bed to stand beside you. You raise the lid to box, revealing a dainty gold chain with a capital letter B dangling in the center. You think it’s perfect. It’s isn’t overly ostentatious – it’s the perfect size, and so very you. “Do you like it?” Bucky asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I love it,” you assure him, overwhelmed by how sweet and thoughtful he is. “Help me put it on?”

I want one RN.

“Thank you, baby,” you whisper as you raise up on your feet to press your lips to his. The light flavor of your slick lingers on his lips, sending a fresh wave of arousal through your gut. “So much.” “Of course,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Now lay down. Wanna see how it looks on ya without the towel.”

Move aside...I got this one 😈

Fr such a beautiful, fluffy fic. I loved this one, perfectly soft and tender while being hot with the smutty scenes. Still so, so Bucky. You characterize him so perfectly I am addicted to your writing. Descriptions are always perfect, you add all those little details that I adore, and you know just how to make words feel like home. 💕💕

all's well that ends well to end up with you

bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

word count: 3.8k

warnings/tags: SMUT, 18+ only mdni, oral (m&f receiving), fingering, nipple play, reader is afab, established relationship, no use of y/n, reader is described as being shorter than bucky, fluffy as hell, sweet domesticity

wrote this for my bb @embbarnes 💕 happy (very early) valentine's day, everyone!

You should have seen it coming from the moment that your two day mission was extended to a three day mission, but you naively held out hope that you’d be able to make it back home in time to salvage the second half of the day.

Getting back early enough to keep the seven o’clock dinner reservations that you’d made for a new, upscale steakhouse in Brooklyn would have been possible if a last minute thunderstorm hadn’t delayed your flight back to New York.

Now it’s already half past seven, and you’ll be lucky if you make it back home before midnight.

Truthfully, you don’t care about the dinner reservations. Sure, you’d heard great things about the food and you had been excited to go, but you could easily reschedule the reservations for another time. The only thing that you were truly bummed about was not getting to spend the day with Bucky.

Bucky had assured you that it wasn’t a big deal and that the two of you would make up for it when you were back home. He patiently reminded you that life doesn’t take holidays and special occasions into consideration when dishing out things such as extended work trips and inclement weather conditions.

By the time your flight lands in New York and you catch an Uber back to your apartment, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Bucky, of course, had offered to pick you up from the airport, but you had insisted that you were okay with getting an Uber, not wanting him to get out so late at night in the heavy rain.

Knowing Bucky, he’s likely been living off of instant Ramen since you left for your trip, so you figure he’ll be ecstatic over a late night pizza. Not to mention, you’re famished yourself – all you’ve eaten since lunch being the pack of Biscoff cookies you’d been given on the plane.

Lugging your suitcase, a backpack, and the large pizza box, you fumble with your keys before unlocking the door and stepping inside.

It’s almost completely dark, minus low orange lighting that trickles into the hallway from the kitchen.

“I’m home, baby,” you call softly as you approach the kitchen’s entryway. “I know it’s late, but I brought you some pizza, if you're hun—”

You stand frozen as a statue with your mouth agape as you take in the scene before you. In addition to the candles, there’s a spread of food across the island. Plates of delicious smelling pasta, small bowls of soup and glasses of red wine. Tied to the backs of the barstools are red and pink heart-shaped balloons.

It looks straight out of a romance movie.

“Pizza pairs well with pasta, I think,” Bucky's voice breaks you out of your trance. “Can never have too many carbs.”

Your gaze snaps over to where he emerges from the den. He wears a bashful smile, and even in the low glow of the candlelight, you can see the faint hint of blush blooming across the apples of his cheeks. He has his hands behind his back, as if trying to conceal something from you.

“You did all of this?” You ask lamely. Your voice is barely a whisper and contains a noticeable quiver. “For me?”

You can’t wrap your brain around it. No one has ever done anything quite like this for you. All of your ex boyfriends always shrugged off Valentine’s Day, leaving you feeling lucky if you got so much as a card. You’d long ago learned not to expect much of anything. Definitely not anything as intimate and thoughtful as this.

“Of course for you,” he murmurs with a low chuckle. He saunters over to where you’re still standing with the pizza box clutched in your hands, and pulls what appears to be a bouquet of flowers in a large mason jar out from behind his back.

“Who else would it be for? Alpine?” He teases, extending the jar to you. You plop the box onto the counter so that your hands are free to accept the flowers.

Upon closer inspection, you realize the bouquet of flowers are not real flowers.

Well, yes and no – they’re wildflowers, made of out Legos. You can’t help but giggle, remembering how you had mentioned how cute you think the Lego set is when you saw it while buying some groceries at Target a few weeks ago. You giggle even harder when you picture Bucky assembling all of the tiny pieces of the bouquet with his large, vibranium fingers.

Your eyes begin to well with tears that threaten to spill over. You quickly blink them back, not wanting to show just how emotional the ornate, colorful arrangement of plastic flowers is making you.

Not just the bouquet – all of it. The food and the wine, the balloons, the candles, the forties music playing lowly from the record player in the living room – the sheer amount of time and attention that he put into creating such a romantic display, and all from the comfort of your home.

“They’re perfect,” you murmur, wiping away a stray tear with sleeve of your sweater. You place the mason jar of the plastic flowers in the midst of the spread of food in front of you, making the scene complete.

“It’s all perfect.” He opens his arms to you, and you happily melt into his embrace. He smells of his familiar earthy cologne, and you can’t help but inhale deeply, relishing in the comfort of his scent and warmth.

Even if you’d come home to him passed out in bed, you would’ve been ecstatic to just crawl under the covers beside him. All of this is more than you ever would have hoped for.

“Hey,” he murmurs, using his index finger to tilt your face to look up at him. He grins down at you for a moment before tenderly pressing his lips against yours. You melt into him right away, having missed the feeling of his lips on yours in the week that you’ve been apart.

His hands travel to your lower back, pulling you flush against him. Your own hands cradle his face, your thumbs caressing the light dusting of stubble that adorns his cheeks. You can already feel the outline of an erection forming through the thin material of his pajama pants when he pulls away, much to your disappointment.

“I love meat lovers pizza,” he assures you with a smirk. “And I love you. The best present you could give me is coming home to me.”

“Still. I’m going to make it up to you,” you promise with a feather light kiss to his lips. “I promise. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to—”

You’re cut off by a low rumbling noise that sounds from between your bodies – a reminder that you haven’t eaten a substantial meal in twelve hours now. You glance over to the plates of food on the island beside you, inhaling the delicious aroma of the dishes.

“I made an educated guess that you’d be hungry,” Bucky chuckles. He reluctantly drops his hold on your waist and moves to pull the barstool out for you. You hop up, taking your seat in front of a heaping plate of pasta and a bowl of French onion soup. Your stomach growls again at the sight.

“Did you make all of this?” You ask, unable to hide the surprise in your voice. It’s not that Bucky is a bad cook – he has a few go-to meals that are always excellent, but he normally doesn’t stray too far out of his comfort zone.

“I did not,” he admits with a sigh. He takes a seat directly across from you. “I ordered takeout from the bistro down the street before they closed earlier. Heated it all back up when you texted me that you were almost home.”

“Well, it’s fucking delicious,” you mumble through a mouthful of the creamy pasta.

You both end up being too full of pasta and soup to eat any of the pizza that you’d brought home, but you’re happy that you’ve got a whole pizza to look forward to having for lunch tomorrow.

“Thank you, baby,” you tell him after swallowing the last sip of your wine. “For all of this. It was more than I could’ve hoped for today.”

He reaches across the counter, grabbing your hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. “Of course,” he murmurs against your skin, eliciting goosebumps down your arm. “As much as I wish we could’ve spent the day together, I still wanted to make the last hour of it as special as possible.”

He stands, releasing your hand as he begins to collect the empty plates and glasses. “You go on and get ready for bed, yeah? I’ll clean up in here.”

“Nonsense. It's almost midnight. These dishes can wait until the morning. Just stick them in the sink and come shower with me.”

You don’t even care if the whole apartment still smells of garlic and French onion soup in the morning – you’ve been showering and sleeping without him for the last week, and it’s still technically Valentine’s Day, so you’ll allow the dirty dishes to sit for the next eight hours.

To your pleasant surprise, he needs no further convincing. He piles the dirty dishes into the kitchen sink and puts the uneaten pizza in the fridge while you get the shower water up to temperature. By the time his pajamas fall to the bathroom floor, you’re already standing under the hot stream of water.

His hands immediately come to rest on your hips, easing you back against the cool tiling of the shower wall. “God, I missed you,” he sighs as he massages his fingers into the meat of your hips. The contrast of his warm flesh hand and cold vibranium hand on your waist has you arching into his touch.

“I can tell,” you giggle, pulling his face down to yours by the back of his neck. His mouth slates over yours, his tongue sweeping along your bottom lip. You part your lips for him right away, more than ready to feel and taste him after all of your time away.

His erection gains your attention as it juts against your belly. You reach between your bodies, taking his length in your hand and stroking him with ease, the water from the shower making his skin slick.

You whimper above him, desperate for some release. He laughs, peppering kisses across your breasts and up your neck. You feel him smiling into the column of your throat.

“I think you missed me, too,” he murmurs against your pulse point.

“Maybe,” you admit, your voice etched with impatience. “Why don’t we hurry and get out this shower so I can show you just how much I missed you?”

He presses a final kiss to the side of your neck before pulling away and smirking down at you. He reaches over to one of the shelves in the shower, grabbing a loofah and your bottle of body wash.

You do as he says, turning around to face the shower wall. You brace yourself against the tiles with your forearms, relaxing as he begins to massage the soap across the tops of your shoulders and down your back.

He takes his time, lazily rubbing the skin of the backs of your thighs before reaching around and doing the same to your stomach and chest. As good as it feels, all you can focus on is the head of his cock nudging against the curve of your ass.

“Bucky.”

The word comes out somewhere between a moan and a warning – a warning that if he doesn’t finish lathering your body in the next two seconds so you can rinse the fuck off, you’re going to take matters into your own hands.

“What is it, baby?” he asks innocently, stepping forward ever so slightly so that his cock inches between the space where your thighs meet your ass.

You turn back to face him, grabbing the loofah out of his hand and tossing it to the opposite end of the shower. The stream of water that beats down against your bodies washes the suds down the drain.

“You’re really going to tease me like that? On Valentine’s Day, of all days?”

“Pretty sure it’s after midnight now,” he quips with a smirk.

“Then I guess you’re lucky that I missed you so much.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but snaps it shut with a sharp intake of breath when you wrap your lips around his tip. You swirl your tongue around him, lapping up the beads of pearlescent white that had gathered around his slit. You begin to bob your head, taking more and more of him into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat.

In one hand, you cup his balls, gently massaging the sack. With your free hand, you attempt to relieve the growing ache between your own thighs by rubbing quick circles over your clit. The thrusts of his hips start to grow erratic, and you feel him twitch against your tongue when he suddenly pulls away from you.

“Not gonna cum in your mouth,” he answers when he looks down to see your questioning stare. “Not tonight. Missed you too much.”

He pulls you up by the tops of your arms and eases you back against the shower wall once more. He then takes your place on the floor, kneeling in front of you. He trails kisses along the wet skin of your thighs as he hooks one over his shoulder. He wastes no more time, diving into your pussy. His tongue swirls over your clit as he brings one long, metal finger to tease your hole. He nudges it inside as his lips suction around the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top of your folds.

Your body goes relaxed, your back sliding down the wet tiling of the shower wall. Bucky helps support you from down below as he sinks his vibranium digit deeper inside you.

The coil in your lower belly tightens quickly, pent up from a whole week without his touch. He can always tell when you’re close by the little noises that you make and the way that you tug on the short brown locks of his hair with your fingers.

He groans as he licks a thick strip up your slit, sending you over the edge. Your orgasm washes over you, your cunt clenching around his thick vibranium finger as he sucks your clit until you go still above him.

It's then that it hits you that the water from the shower has started to run cold.

“Come on,” Bucky says, rising as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns the faucet off and grabs the two towels that hang over the glass wall of the shower, handing you one before wrapping his around his waist. “Let's get out of here. I’ve got one more gift to give you before we continue this.”

“Another gift? You’ve already done so much. I didn’t even get—”

He gently shushes you with a sly grin, exiting the shower before you can protest any further. You pat your skin dry before securing the towel around your chest and then follow him into your shared bedroom.

You grab a bottle of lotion off of your bedside table and begin lathering it onto the skin of your legs as you watch Bucky rummage through the drawer of his own nightstand. After a moment, he pulls out a small, dark red colored box.

You raise the lid to box, revealing a dainty gold chain with a capital letter B dangling in the center.

You think it’s perfect. It’s isn’t overly ostentatious – it’s the perfect size, and so very you.

“Do you like it?” Bucky asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

“I love it,” you assure him, overwhelmed by how sweet and thoughtful he is. “Help me put it on?”

You don’t care that it’s the middle of the night, you want it on you right now.

Bucky takes the box from you, carefully removing the necklace. You turn away from him, letting him drape the delicate chain around your neck. The charm lands just below your clavicle.

“There,” he murmurs as he clasps the chain together. You turn back to face him, letting him see his initial displayed across your chest. “Perfect.”

“Of course,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Now lay down. Wanna see how it looks on ya without the towel.”

#fic recs

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magnificentmiraclenacho · 21 hours ago

Text

The sister of the winner

Part 6= The scary stranger

Summary: When gi hun wants to take down the games he faces a lot of problems. But one problem he also has is his relationship with his sister minji ( reader ). Gi hun dosent want to tell her about the games do to her innocent. But what happends when the salesman lores her into the games, and the siblings finds them self fighting for their lifes

-------

The dormitory was heavy with people talking and planning on how they want to survive this nightmare. Y/N sat cross-legged on her bunk, her legs still trembling from the adrenaline of the six-legged pentathlon.

Gi-hun sat beside her, leaning back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Next to him, Jung-bae and young il laid sprawled out, and Player 222 just walking away with player 333 to talk about something.

The four of them let out simultaneous sighs, a mix of relief and exhaustion, as they reflected on their narrow escape from elimination.

“I can’t believe we made it,” Jung-bae said, his voice breaking the silence.

“Barely,” Y/N replied, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I thought we were done for when we almost tripped at the end.”

“It’s a miracle,” young il muttered, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

The air was tense, but there was a flicker of gratitude between them. They were still alive.

“I just want to go home,” yn whispered “I can’t keep doing this.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Gi-hun said, his voice soft but firm. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make it out of here, one way or another.”

Before anyone could respond, Kang Dae-ho, the man who had given up his spot on their team during the last game, approached. His face lit up when he saw them, relief evident in his expression.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low but warm. “You guys made it.”

“Barely,” Jung-bae said with a weak laugh.

Dae-ho nodded, his eyes scanning the group. “its so good to see you.”

“Thanks to you,” Y/N said, offering him a small smile. “If you hadn’t let 222 take your spot…”

She glanced at Player 222, who was holding her belly just infront of the beds.

Dae-ho waved her off. “I’m just glad your all okay.”

They talked for a few more minutes, the conversation circling back to the games and their growing desperation to escape.

“They have to give us another vote soon,” jung beo said. “Don’t they?”

“They will,” Gi-hun replied, his voice heavy.

“But you know how it’ll go. Most of them won’t vote to leave. Not now. Not when they’ve seen how much money is at stake.”

Before anyone could respond, the dormitory door slammed open. Two guards entered, their presence commanding silence.

“Attention, players,” one of them announced. “The current prize money stands at 10 billion won.”

A gasp rippled through the room. Heads turned to the glowing piggy bank hanging above them, filled half way with cash. The guards continued.

“There are 140 players remaining.”

The reality of the announcement hit hard. Over half the players were already gone. The room felt colder, the weight of survival pressing down on everyone like a lead blanket.

Gi-hun let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And they’re all still blinded by it,” he said, gesturing to the money. “They see that, and suddenly nothing else matters.”

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one dared to speak.

“The next vote will now begin,” the guard announced. “Each player will step forward and cast their decision. A simple choice: to stay, or to go.”

The guards gestured to the large board on the wall, showing two glowing buttons—X to leave, and O to stay. As the players began lining up, Gi-hun stood and glanced down to his team.

“Vote for X,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something Y/N couldn’t quite place. “If we don’t leave now… none of us will.”

Yn stared at him as he turned to join the line. The sound of footsteps echoed in the room as players moved one by one toward the buttons, their faces tense and unreadable.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched Gi-hun step forward the first one voting. He pressed the X button without hesitation, his jaw tight and his eyes distant.

The vote continued, but the air was thick with dread. No matter how many pressed X, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t be enough. The pull of the money, the desperation to win, was stronger than fear.

And as the line moved forward, the weight of Gi-hun’s words lingered in her mind: “If we don’t leave now… none of us will". She would vote X. She would go home. She thought to herself.

Gi-hun stood beside her, watching the line grow shorter. His hand was still resting on her shoulder, grounding her in the moment. His expression was unreadable, but Y/N could feel the tension radiating off him. He was exhausted, just like everyone else, but there was a flicker of hope in his eyes—hope that enough people would see reason.

Jung-bae sighed, his head tilted back against a bed frame. “You think people will vote to leave?” he muttered, glancing at Gi-hun.

“No,” Gi-hun replied bitterly. “Most of them won’t. They’re too blinded.”

Il Young standing next to yn scoffed. “Blinded or desperate. What’s the difference?” Gi hun clancing at him strangery.

Across the room, Player 222 stood quietly next to player 333, her hands protectively cradling her stomach. Y/N couldn’t imagine what the woman was going through—carrying a child in this hellhole. It was unbearable to think about.

Y/N’s heart pounded as she watched the line shrink. One by one, players stepped forward, pressing their buttons with trembling hands. Some looked resolute, others terrified, but the room remained eerily silent except for the soft hum of the voting machine.

It was now her turn. She stepped forward. Her palms were sweaty, and her breath came in shallow gasps, but she didn’t hesitate. Her eyes locked onto the X button. “This is the way out” she whispered to herself.

Her hand came down on the button, and the red light flared to life. A robotic voice confirmed her vote, and she stepped aside.

Jung-bae voted next, followed by young il and Player 222. The group reconvened near the corner beds, watching as the line continued to dwindle.

“Do you think it’ll be enough?” Y/N asked quietly, her voice barely audible.

Gi-hun didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on the voting platform, his expression grim. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But at least we tried.”

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the last players cast their votes. Finally, the guards stepped forward, and the screen on the wall lit up, displaying the results.

X: 62 votes

O: 68 votes

The room erupted into murmurs, cries, and gasps. Y/N felt the air leave her lungs as she stared at the screen. It wasn’t enough.

Gi-hun clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “I told you,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. “They are all stupid, every single one of them.”

Y/N sank onto one of the bed, her head in her hands. She had done everything she could. They all had. But it wasn’t enough. They were trapped here forever, and the games would continue.

The guards began filing out, leaving the players to their despair. The glowing piggy bank above them seemed to mock their suffering, the pile of money growing larger with every death.

Gi-hun sat down beside Y/N, his hand resting on her shoulder again. “We’ll figure something out,” he said softly. “We have to." " we aren't going to be here till the end, okey" he said as he put his hand on her shoulder.

Y/N didn’t reply. She couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the floor, her mind racing with the knowledge that no matter what they did, survival was never guaranteed becouse people are naive and selfish.

Gi-hun sat deeper down on the bed, his voice serious as he looked at the group. "We need to stick together tonight. No one sleeps alone. People are desperate, and if anyone’s looking to thin the numbers, they’ll target groups like ours."

Jung-bae nodded grimly. “Makes sense. Safety in numbers.”

Young il stretched his arms, his face tense. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We stay here,” Gi-hun replied. “Build a secure area with the bunks and sleep in shifts. That way, we’ll know if anyone’s coming close.”

Player 222 shifted “You really think someone would attack us? Just to keep the games going?” Gi-hun gave her a sharp look. “Do you think they wouldn’t?”

The group fell silent, the reality of his words settling over them. Slowly, everyone began gathering supplies—pushing bunks together to create a barrier, arranging blankets and pillows in the center to form a communal sleeping area.

Y/N stood for a moment, watching the others before stepping away.

“Where are you going?” Gi-hun asked very sharply and protectivly.

She turned back, her tone calm. “I’m just going to get my pillow and blanket from my bed. It’s on the other side of the room.”

Gi-hun frowned, his expression uncertain. “You sure? I don’t like you walking over there alone. I can come with you.” dropping the sheets in his hands on the floor.

Y/N shook her head with a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a quick trip. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He hesitated, glancing toward the dimly lit expanse of the dorm. The shadows seemed to shift and move, and the other players loomed like ghosts in the distance. After a moment, he exhaled sharply. “Alright. Just... be quick, okay? And don’t talk to anyone.”

“I won’t,” she promised, her voice steady.

As Y/N turned and walked toward the far side of the room, her footsteps light but purposeful, Gi-hun wasn’t the only one watching.

Young il, who had been adjusting the makeshift barrier, paused and looked up, his gaze following her as she moved further away. His sharp eyes narrowed slightly, studying her retreating figure as she weaved through the maze of bunks.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but his lips pressed into a thin line. His expression was hard to read—calm, calculating, and perhaps a touch wary. He glanced briefly at Gi-hun, who was still watching her intently, before returning his attention to the barricade.

“Hope she’s fast,” young il muttered under his breath, almost to himself, as he adjusted the frame of a bunk. Though the words were quiet, they carried a weight of unspoken tension.

The further you moved from the safety of your team, the more you felt the tension in the air. Every shadow seemed to loom larger, every sound seemed sharper.

Reaching your bed, you crouched down and grabbed your pillow, tucking it under one arm as you reached for the blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. But as your fingers brushed the fabric, you froze.

Muttering. Low and conspiratorial, coming from the far corner of the room.

You turned your head slightly, peering through the dimly lit maze of beds. At first, you couldn’t see anyone, but then your eyes landed on them—Player 230, the man with purple hair who had stirred up trouble on the very first day, and Player 124, a wiry man with shifty eyes. They were sitting close together on one of the beds, heads bowed as they whispered hurriedly.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you crept closer, keeping low and moving as quietly as possible. You ducked behind a bedframe a few feet away, straining to catch snippets of their conversation.

“…the next game… can’t risk it,” Player 124 was saying, his voice barely above a whisper.

Player 230 leaned in closer, his hands fidgeting with something around his neck. “That’s why we need to—” He stopped abruptly and looked around, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

You held your breath, pressing yourself against the cold metal of the bedframe, praying he wouldn’t see you. After a tense moment, he relaxed and continued.

“Look, I’ve got this,” he said, holding up what looked like a necklace. But as the light hit it, you realized it wasn’t just jewelry. Tiny capsules were embedded within the chain—capsules that looked suspiciously like drugs.

Your heart raced. Drugs? In here?

As you slowly began to back away, your foot scraped against the edge of a bedframe. The sound, though quiet, seemed deafening in the tense silence.

Player 230��s head snapped up, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he shot to his feet, pointing a finger at you. “HEY, YOU!”

Your breath hitched, and adrenaline surged through your veins.

Your instincts screamed at you to run, so you turned on your heel and started walking quickly toward the safety of your team. Panic surged through your veins as your footsteps quickened, but you knew better than to break into a full sprint—it would only draw more attention. Your mind raced with thoughts of what you had just seen, your heart pounding in your chest.

You were just a few beds away from the main area where others might see you when a hand suddenly grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking you backward with a force that sent you tumbling to the ground. The shock of pain shot through your scalp as you gasped, but before you could let out a scream, a heavy hand clamped over your mouth.

Player 230 loomed over you, his purple hair falling messily over his forehead, his expression twisted with fury. “You shouldn’t have been snooping,” he hissed, his voice venomous.

He straddled you in one swift motion, pinning your body to the cold, hard floor. His hand stayed firmly over your mouth, muffling your panicked cries, while his other hand wrapped around your throat. His grip tightened, cutting off your air, and your vision started to blur around the edges.

You clawed at his arms desperately, your nails digging into his skin as you tried to pry him off. Your mind was a whirlwind of terror and disbelief. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not like this. You shoud't have come to your bed, not atleast alone.

You kicked your legs frantically, but he pressed his weight harder against you, making it almost impossible to move. His furious eyes bore into yours, and the malicious grin curling at the corners of his lips only made your fear worse.

“Stay quiet,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “If you make a sound, you’ll regret it.”

The pressure on your throat intensified, and you could feel the air slipping away. Your body screamed for oxygen, and your head spun as you tried to think of a way out.

I need to do something. I can’t die like this. All the things ypu havent told gi hun yet rushing true your mind.

our lungs burned as you struggled beneath his weight, but Player 230 was far stronger than you. Every frantic attempt to escape his grasp was met with even more pressure, his hand like iron around your throat. Your nails scratched at his arm, but he didn’t even flinch.

The room seemed to fade around you, your world narrowing to his sneering face and the suffocating grip cutting off your air. Then he did something unexpected—he stopped choking you just long enough to let you take a shaky, gasping breath, his hand still covering your mouth.

And then he laughed.

A low, cruel chuckle rumbled from his chest, his head tilting slightly as he stared down at you like a predator toying with its prey. “Oh, this is perfect,” he said, his voice laced with mockery. His grip on your throat relaxed slightly, but the weight of his body still pinned you in place. “We’ve got the winner’s little princess.”

Your eyes widened, your heart hammering in your chest. That pet name shivering down your spine.

He smirked as he leaned back a little, still keeping you firmly beneath him. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. Everyone’s seen how that old man dotes on you. Gi-Hun, the big hero, doing whatever he can to keep you safe. It’s pathetic.” His grin widened, sharp and full of malice. “I wonder how he’d feel if he knew you were in a situation like this. Screaming and crying under the mighty thanos."

Your stomach twisted in horror as his words sank in. He wasn’t just toying with you—he was threatening to use you as leverage against Gi-Hun.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” he continued, tilting his head to the side as if he were considering something. Then he bent down, his face so close that you could feel his breath against your ear. His next words were barely more than a whisper, but they sent a even more cold shiver down your spine.

“Wouldn’t that be sweet, pumpkin?”

The sickeningly sweet tone of his voice made your skin crawl, and you felt a wave of nausea rise in your chest. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to fight, to escape, but he had you completely trapped. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your mind raced, desperately searching for a way out of this nightmare. But was there even a one....

-----

Ps: i had to stop it there before this chapter became too long.

IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED: say it in the comments

Masterlist:

Tag list:

@ashtrosstuff

@sorilyae

@space1crow

@marsyay78

#gi hun x reader #gihunxsisterreader #squid game x reader #squidgame #inho x reader #thanos x reader #thanos squid game

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offsidetracked · 2 days ago

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I've been thinking about how I'd go about byler in S5.

When I got hooked on byler it was the same way I got hooked on every other ship; it's heavily supported by subtext, regardless of if it's confirmed by the text later on or not. Sasunaru, reylo, bkdk... all are ships that have intricate and beautifully woven subtext that made us fans speculate for years. In some cases discourse is still ongoing. That's a hallmark of some great writing as far as I'm concerned (all of these ships crashed and burned in different ways but until they did the writing was truly stellar).

Stranger Things and byler are in the same league. I just believe that this time the outcome will be a lot more satisfying. So how do we get the GA to root for it when it happens? I'm not the Duffers but I know some things I would do to help it along:

Dial up the homophobia. When byler becomes canon there can be absolutely no question; the bad guys of this show are the bigoted close-minded homophobes. It must be explicitly shown how mindlessly cruel this specific type of hate is and that it's incompatible with viewing yourself as a hero or good guy. I'd continue to spin the thread from last season and have the town blame pretty much all that goes wrong in Hawkins on your resident nerds, outcasts and misfits. Mix that with the aids crisis and the Reagan administration and next season is gonna be brutal. But it needs to be to drive home that in Stranger Things, if you're a homophobic bully, you're the monster.

Make the subtext hornier. One of the things I adore about Rian Johnson and Masashi Kishimoto is how they do subtext, particularly sexual subtext. Funnily enough dudebros in both the Star Wars and Naruto fandom, just like a lot of Milevens, didn't pick up on any of it. The Last Jedi is filled with Freudian sexual imagery. From Rey falling onto a hairy seaweed-filled cave hole to Kylo's light sabre design, yoni-shapped doorways and their joint fight towards the end—all sexually loaded and masterfully tongue-in-cheek. Naruto had a much longer run and was consequently more parsed out with it's subtexual imagery. Still it's not hard to find if you know how to look (there are some really excellent accounts on here if you wanna dive into that rabbit hole). Stranger Things has the beautiful benefit of being a horror; a genre that excels at showing our suppressed desires in grotesque and weirdly relatable ways. Phallic monsters, fluids everywhere, exposed scratched up and damaged skin, tending to wounds in intense and intimate ways, grime and dirt, panting, moaning, grunting through pain... It's up to the Duffers how in the face they wanna be about it. But it would be a missed opportunity if they don't crank up this type of imagery at least a little. Also, I want to see Mike suffer. Let him sweat and have a nervous breakdown over allegory.

Show that repression = impotence + harm. Freud, no matter what you think of the guy, is all over horror. This quote from Men, Women and Chainsaws sums it up pretty neatly; "Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways". Well bitches, now is later and it's time for the subconscious to come out of the closet and ruin everyone's day. Will is gonna be stuck in the victim part of the Final Girl trope until he fully embraces his queerness by having his feelings reciprocated by Mike. Mike, on the other hand, will probably actively find himself and the people closest to him in dangerous and harmful situations as a direct consequence of all the shame, fear and desire he's bottled up. Until he too, embraces his queer self by confessing his feelings to Will. Poetic cinema. However the Duffers go about it, the lesson everyone watching S5 needs to leave with is that forced conformity is harmful to you and everyone around you, and that there is no greater horror than the horror we subject ourselves to when we deny and repress the truth of who we are.

Well there you have it, this is what I would do to promote byler, get the GA on board and tie together this wild, wonderful, nerve-wracking ride we've been on for the last ten years. Godspeed to all of you, however it goes.

#byler #byler endgame #mike wheeler #will byers

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bitch-for-a-rainbow · 2 days ago

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Day 11: Convenience Store/Emerald

The ice cream drops into Kara’s basket with a rattling thud that jars her frazzled nerves even more than the humming of the flickering convenience store lights. Alex’s words echo in her ears. Words like “reckless” and “unnecessary risk” and “I should send you to the medbay. I didn’t realize that fight with Corben had melted your BRAIN.”

Kara felt that last one was a bit much. It wasn’t like she’d been hurt or anything. And all those people in the L-Corp lab had been saved! As far as she’s concerned, that’s an absolute success! Kara drops another pint into her basket. It hits her already tall stack and rolls off. Should she get a fourth basket? No. The plastic grocery bags might rip on her flight home. She puts the pint back with a resigned sigh.

And you know what? Her plan had been solid. Sure, it was risky to go straight through the kryptonite powered robots without waiting for backup but she’d been on a time crunch! And maybe Alex should think about issuing less dumb orders if she wanted Kara to follow them. “Wait while we identify the bomb” what kind of stupid idea was that? It was already ticking!

She’s just turning the corner, still thinking about Alex and the fact that she’d actually seemed a little disappointed when Kara had told her Lena survived when she nearly slams into someone coming the opposite way. It’s only her superspeed that averts the collision as she jerks to the side just in time. In her distracted state, however, it is not enough to prevent one of her baskets from clipping the stranger’s arm, sending both her ice cream and their groceries tumbling to the floor.

“Oh— Oh my gosh I am so sorry! I can help you clean this up. I— Lena?”

And it is. Tied hair mostly covered by a junky black hoodie Kara hadn’t even imagined she owned, Lena stares back at her with equal surprise behind a a pair of sunglasses. She smells faintly of burned plastic. And alcohol.

“Hi… Kara. Nice… seeing you here?”

Kara doesn’t think it’s intended to be a question, but she answers anyway. “It is! I would’ve thought you had people to do your midnight shopping though.”

Lena says nothing. Probably would have been nicer if Kara hadn’t thrown her stuff all over the floor. “Oh! Here, let me help you with your… rope…and bleach.”

Both of them pause, surveying the unique collection of bottles of lighter fluid, rope, bleach, and cartons of boxed wine.

“Well. Lovely seeing you.” Lena says, and then she has her things shoved into her basket and is power walking down the aisle as briskly as possible without breaking into a run.

“Lena— Lena, wait!” Kara calls after her, scooping up her ice creams. Lena pays (in cash) and by the time Kara has paid and caught up with her she is opening the door of her car. “Lena!”

Lena pauses and looks back.

“Are you sure you should be driving?” Kara asks, “You seem a little. Uhh—” Sloshed? Tipsy? Buzzed? “…Tired.”

“I’m fine Kara. I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”

“Oh, I’m sure, I just— I saw the news today.” Kara says.

Lena stiffens at her car door. “What about it? Not like it’s the first time.” She says. Her flippant tone is somewhat undercut by the force with which she throws her bag into the back seat.

“You almost died today. I— I heard Supergirl was cutting it pretty close with that bomb.” Kara says. It’s an understatement. After the robots and decoy bombs Kara only had arrived as it went off. It was a miracle Lena hadn’t been badly burned from the heat of the blast before Kara had gotten her cape around her.

Lena shrugs. “Yeah, well. Another gift from Lex.”

“Lena, that’s worse!” Kara says, harsher than she’d intended.

Lena stops, and Kara gets the impression that Lena is truly looking at her for the first time since they met in the store. She pulls down her sunglasses, and blinks in the sudden light. Tipsy or no, her gaze is as sharp as ever. Then she sighs.

“Tell you what. You tell me what drove you to buy 37 pints of ice cream, and I tell you what the lighter fluid is for.”

_______________

“It’s really not a big deal,” Kara is saying, as they enter the elevator to Lena’s office, her hands finally relaxing from the white knuckled fists they’d been in for most of the drive. If Lena crashes the car, Kara should be fast enough to keep everyone safe if she’s paying attention. I mean. If anything made drunk driving safe it’s having Supergirl in the passenger’s seat, right? “It’s not like I almost got blown up.”

Kara cringes at her own words— sweet rao why did she SAY that— but Lena only shrugs. “Seems like it matters to you.”

Kara doesn’t have much of a rebuttal to that. “Yeah. It does, I guess.”

“Kara?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Oh! Right. Alex and I argued.” It seems such a silly complaint now, standing next to Lena.

“What about?” Lena asks, pressing a fob to the elevator key.

Kara pauses, searching for the right words. “I… did something… risky. At work.” Lena meets her eyes with a smile.

“Kara Danvers? Do something risky in the pursuit of journalistic truth? Never.”

Kara laughs, but the laughter fades quickly. “Alex was investigating the same thing I was. And she… uhh. Didn’t like my methods.”

“Didn’t like you putting yourself at risk?”

“No. And today— today maybe came a little bit closer than I would have liked. But my plan worked! And nobody was hurt!”

“But you scared Alex.”

Kara sighed. “But I scared Alex.” The doors of the elevator open, and Lena pulls the bleach out of her shopping bag. “Sometimes I just feel like— I don’t know. Like she won’t let me be my own person. Like she’s so scared I’m going to get myself hurt that she won’t let me take a step on my own. Like she doesn’t trust me to. She’s always looked after me ever since I arrived. To the Danvers, I mean.”

Lena blinks. “You’re adopted?”

_______________

The smell of wine grows stronger when Lena opens her office door, and Kara tracks it to the large purple stain that has spread across the white rug by the desk. Kara looks at Lena in question and Lena lifts the bottle of bleach with a guilty smile.

_______________

“Have you ever bleached a rug before?”

��No, but it can’t be that hard. You just. Like. Soak it, right?”

“I guess? Don’t you need to dilute it?”

“Please. This isn’t even lab grade. It can’t be that bad.”

_______________

Ten minutes later, once they have thrown the now faintly smoking rug down the incinerator chute (Of course, I have an incinerator in my office. I run experiments, Kara), Kara finally asks, “So, you were going to tell me about the lighter fluid?”

“Ah! Yes. Would you grab the rope? We need to bind these papers.”

Lena doesn’t elaborate further until they’ve taken the old bags and stacks of papers and journals downstairs and out to the little park across the street from L-Corp. Or, well, Kara carries most of it as Lena struggles with her single bag. When Lena has her breath back she pants, “You’ve been holding out on me Danvers. What else do you have hiding under those cardigans of yours?”

“Me?” Kara feels her face heat as she chokes out, “Nothing! Nothing hiding. I mean. My shirt.”

Lena laughs like Kara’s said the funniest joke in the world and Kara relaxes. She should be more careful about lifting things. Alex would kill her if Lena found out she was Supergirl. Come to think of it Alex would kill her if she heard that Kara was alone in the park, at night, with Lena Luthor. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you have some compulsion that drags you to the nearest near-death opportunity?”

Kara hefts the papers. Alex can suck it.

“So, umm. What are all these?” She asks, depositing her stacks by Lena’s bag.

“My brother’s things form the L-Corp office. Apparently, he left behind some items last time he was here. Notes, Photos, and the like. Nobody claimed them after Metropolis, so they just sat in the office cabinet. The ones the police didn’t confiscate anyway.”

“Oh,” Kara says, eloquently. “And you wanted to do a… midnight de-clutter?”

“Yeah.” Lena says, with a satisfied nod. “I’m gonna set it on fire.”

“Wait, what?”

But Lena is already grabbing rocks and arranging them in a tight ring, dropping a few journals at the center. “Would you pass me the lighter fluid?” She asks, before taking a large chug from a carton of boxed wine Kara had not realized Lena brought with her. She passes over the lighter fluid anyway.

Lena sets about appropriately drenching the journals, takes another large gulp of wine (Kara scoots forward, hiding the other cartons behind the pile of paper.) then reaches into the bag. She freezes, then pats her pockets. “Damn!” She says, “I forgot to get matches.” She casts an eye across the park. “I suppose I’ll just have to make a spark.”

Kara doesn’t know much about fire-starting technique, and the practiced way Lena moves suggests she does, so Kara doesn’t really move while Lena spins a small twig into a log. She succeeds in creating a small flame… which promptly goes out as Lena attempts to bring it closer to the soaked journal kindling. After several more attempts with the stick and a string of curses Kara isn’t sure are entirely in English, Kara bends over a pair of rocks and pretends to start sparking them. After a moment the campfire goes up in a roaring flame and Kara pretends to blink away the smoke while her eyes stop glowing.

Lena beams at her. “You get more interesting by the moment, Kara Danvers. A veritable outdoorswoman.”

Ears burning, Kara says, “Alex taught me.” And then, unfortunately, opens her mouth again. “She really likes explosives.” Dear god WHY— But Lena just nods like that’s a perfectly normal thing to say. Maybe it is in the Luthor house. Or maybe Lena’s just too drunk to know the difference.

She tosses in a small paper pouch and the flames flash a brilliant, rippling green. Lena smiles. Her eyes reflect the fire like shining emeralds.

Kara feels a little dizzy. She’s hot again and she begins to sweat. She looks at the fading green flames again. Kryptonite? Lex is the kind of guy who would just have little baggies of powdered kryptonite in storage. What does she do now? Is this what Alex had been worried about? Kara begins to panic, before Lena picks up another paper sachet and whips it into the flames. Which promptly spark blue.

“Copper.” Lena says when she catches Kara’s eye, a twinkling smile. “We used to mix up chemicals for homemade fireworks. Lillian would get so angry. Apparently smelling like sulfer and smoke is unbefitting of a Luthor.” She bends over the pile of packets and Kara hears, “Ooh! Potassium Chloride!” before the flames turn purple.

And because Kara can never leave well enough alone, she says, “I am sorry, you know, about Lex.”

Lena stills with her back to Kara.

“Why? Nothing changed for me today. He’s a homicidal madman. That isn’t new. I feel more sympathy for all the people caught up in that attack at the foundry across town.”

“He was still your brother,” Kara says. “I’m sorry.”

“I guess that’s just how it is with siblings.” Lena replies. “You let them in close, they teach you everything you need to know, and then, when you least expect it, they stab you in the back.” She throws the last of the sachets into the fire. “Or blow you up.”

And then, to Kara’s horror, Lena begins to cry. She turns away from the fire, hurriedly wiping away the tears from her face. She sniffs loudly, and laughs.

“And, you know, I know it’s silly,” Lena says, voice trembling.“But I really thought he loved me.”

“That’s not silly, Lena.”

“Isn’t it? He’s done all these terrible things. This is— what? His fourth time trying to kill me? And even here, now, I look at these old notes and the only thing I can think about is when we used to sit in the treehouse and he’d tell me all about his latest projects.”

Kara picks up a photo from the pile. It’s old. Lena is probably around ten here. Lex still has his hair, a floppy early 2000s hairdo that looks almost comical knowing the man now. They’re playing chess. Lena is staring at the board, chewing on her lip with rapt focus, but Lex is looking at Lena. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. It almost looks like pride.

“My family— My birth family were complicated people. And some of them did things that I could never understand.” Kara thinks of Astra’s wild eyes, of Non standing proud and cold before Ft. Rozz, her mother’s hologram. “I could spend the rest of my life trying to find what I could have done, what I should have said to change their mind.” Kara flicks the photo into the fire. “Sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. Sometimes they go places you can’t follow.”

“Humans are just pathetic creatures I suppose. All of us chasing after useless things.” Lena says, and she tosses a pile of papers into the fire. Old calculations, landscape sketches, and notes fizzle as they hit the flames, sending sparks out across the grass.

“There’s nothing pathetic about loving someone, Lena. Even if it does nothing but hurt.”

Lena doesn’t respond, busying herself untying papers to burn. Kara stares at her a moment, a hundred somethings on her tongue, and then she hears something whistling in the distance.

“Are those sirens?”

“Run!” ___________

They sprint around the last alley corner and stop, panting. (Both of them, this time. Kara’s getting really good at this fake exercising thing!)

“I can’t hear them anymore,” Kara says. “I think we’re good.” Kara can actually still hear them, but they’re going the opposite direction, so that should be good enough. She and Lena stand in silence for a moment, both breathing heavily. They make eye contact. And burst out laughing.

“Oh my god!” Lena giggles, “Oh, I haven’t done this since boarding school.”

“What kind of boarding school did you go to?” Kara asks in alarm.

“The expensive kind.” Lena says, slyly. And was she always standing so close?

“It’s late.” Kara hears herself saying. “You should probably get yourself home.”

“Probably,” Lena agrees.

They stand there frozen, nose to nose in the alley, and Kara has that feeling again. Like there’s something there on the tip of her tongue. Like she should say something. Do something. And then two cats flings themselves out of the dumpster next to them with an awful yowling and they spring apart.

Lena clears her throat, straightening her dress. “Well, it’s very late. We should probably get back to the office. I need to drive you back home after all.”

Kara does convince Lena to call a cab this time, but they don’t speak for the rest of the car ride.

Lena pauses at Kara’s door.

“Thank you, for coming with me tonight. Not many people would help a Luthor with an unsanctioned nighttime bonfire.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No. No, I don’t get the impression you are,” Lena says with a wry laugh. “And don’t think I’m going to forget about you carrying down all those papers. Best be on your guard Ms. Danvers, or I’ll start calling you to help bring in all of the legal documents I have to wade through.”

“You could, you know.” What is she saying? Why can’t she ever just shut her mouth— “Call me, I mean.”

Lena smiles. “I might just take you up on that.”

When Lena has gone and Kara has shut the door behind her, Kara slumps down onto the floor.

Oh. Oh, Alex is going to hate this.

#supergirl #kara danvers #supercorp #lena luthor #kara zor-el #kara zor el #whumptober2024 #october prompts 2024 #supercorptober2024

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fizzyapplecandy · 17 hours ago

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The one with the shy tiger

Ateez Siberian Tiger Hybrid Mingi x Fem Reader au

Genre: hybrid au, strangers to lovers, fluff, mild smut, mature language, a touch of angst, happy ending

Word count: 7k

In a world where hybrids started integrating with humans, Mingi is left without a home to call his own. He's been in and out of shelters, getting adopted and returned because of his nature. People loved bragging about owning a tiger, a Siberian one at that, but they didn't like taking care of him. He accepted his fate, and slowly grown into an introvert.

Until a new face showed up at his shelter, her eyes going straight to him in the packed yard. His heartbeat sped up, and he couldn't help the pull he felt towards her. It was his lucky day, because the sweet woman took him home, giving him hope again.

Mingi has always been a bit reclusive. He liked to keep to himself in order to stay out of trouble. His nature scared away most of his fellow hybrid residents. The shelter did a good job at making him feel a part of the community, but they couldn't protect him from humans.

He's been a part of many families. The first time they took him back was because he swiped at someone with his claws. What they didn't know was that the boy tried to cut his ears with scissors. Yeah, kids can be evil sometimes. The second time was after he ate a whole beef brisket made for a dinner party. They called him greedy, and he was back at the shelter the next day. What they failed to mention was how they left him starving for days, so he had to break into the locked kitchen just to survive. Another time he was brought back because he was deemed unstable. However, the woman forgot to mention how she kept making advances at him, and he refused all the time.

Maybe it was his fault, maybe he could have been better, but in the end it didn't matter. He was back in his little room, safe from bad people. If it weren't for Wooyoung and Yunho, he would stay in his bed all day, content in his loneliness.

"Mingi, buddy, it's time for lunch."

Yunho was a persisten fellow, but his kindness showed Mingi he could be trustworthy. He was the only human who was allowed into Mingi's room. The other caretakers went up to his door before he hissed at them.

"I don't feel like eating." The tiger didn't even try to get up and out of his bed. Yunho sighed and pulled back the curtains to let the light in.

"Come on now, up you go. Today is a special day, you know that. We are hosting an open door event to try to find a home for you guys."

"This is my home." Yunho sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on the covers Mingi held above his head.

"Mingi, stop that. You've got to think positive."

"Don't want to."

"Okay, be like that. You know I would gladly take you to my house, but the caretakers aren't allowed to adopt from the shelter they work at."

Mingi pulled down his sheet to look at his friend. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he knew he was giving him a hard time.

"I know. I'm not mad, you don't have to explain it every time something goes wrong in my life. I'd be long gone if you weren't here."

Yunho pinched his arm. "Don't say stuff like that!"

He stood up and put his hands on his hips. "At the end of the day, it's your decision. It wouldn't hurt to go out in the sun for a bit, you don't have to interact with anyone."

With that, he left the room, and Mingi suddenly felt bad. He knew Yunho was looking out for him, and he didn't want to be this difficult to deal with. He was a tiger for god's sake, he had to act tougher.

He reluctantly got out of bed and put on his nicer clothes. It wouldn't matter if he wore a suit, his tail and ears were a dead giveaway of his kind. He got lucky with his eyes, they only turned golden when he was in heat. Now that he thought about it, he hasn't experienced a heat in so long, opting for suppressants. The thought of mating made him uncomfortable, because humans usually looked at him as a prize, not a true lover.

He glanced out of his window, and to his surprise, the little backyard they had was pretty full. Looking through the crowd he spotted a woman talking to Wooyoung. He was enthusiastic, waving around, his big mouth yapping about something. The woman smiled, her eyes crinkling. She looked... Soft.

As if she felt his eyes on her, she turned and looked up at his window. Mingi ducked, knocking his head on the window seal. Great. Now he had to go out with a bump on his forehead.

"God damn it. Can I have one day of peace?"

He stood up and glanced outside again. The woman wasn't with Wooyoung anymore. Maybe he creeped her out. Shame, he kind of wanted to get a closer look at her.

His feet took him downstairs, out of the door, to the backyard. He could feel the stares, people moving out of his way, whispering about his ears and tail. Mingi was the only predatory breed currently residing in this shelter. It was full of bunnies, dogs, domestic cats, with him being the outcast. Why did he listen to Yunho? He should have stayed in the damn room.

"Hey there Mingles, out and about I see?"

"Hi Woo. Yeah, I... I'm probably gonna head back up." Wooyoung smiled. "Oh no, you're not. Come on, let's take a walk." Mingi didn't have time to protest before Wooyoung took him by the hand and started walking further into the yard.

"Gosh, can you believe how many people showed up? It seems like they hit it off with many of our cat hybrids. It might be your lucky day."

"I'm not a cat, I'm a tiger."

Wooyoung shrugged. "Same thing, different packaging." Before he could argue with the statement, Wooyoung's face lit up and he speed walked towards the willow tree. There, on the bench under the swaying leaves, sat the woman he saw earlier. Mingi panicked, trying to free himself from his friend's grip.

"What are you doing? Come on Woo, let me go."

"Not today buddy." They stopped a few feet away from the girl, and she looked up in surprise.

"Hey there Y/N, meet Mingi. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Bye now!" With that, Wooyoung ran back before they had time to stop him.

"Oh... Hi there Mingi."

The tiger blushed. Nobody has ever said his name so sweetly before. Not only did she look soft, she was also soft-spoken.

"H-Hi. I'm Mingi." Way to go, dumbass.

The girl chuckled and patted the spot next to her.

"I know that. Come on, sit."

His feet had a mind of his own, and it was almost comical how fast he sat down. She smiled again and turned her body towards him. The sunlight made it look like there was a halo over her, and she looked angelic. Mingi never believed in angels, but seeing one in front of him made him change his mind.

"So, tell me about yourself Mingi. What kind of tiger are you?"

Mingi sighed, prepared for the worst. "A Siberian one." He closed his eyes, expecting her to walk away with an excuse, but to his surprise she only chuckled and let out a gasp.

"Wow. That's so cool. I think tigers are beautiful creatures. It fits you. I've never seen someone so tall and broad like you."

Mingi blinked. "You think I'm cool?"

"Of course I do. Compared to me, you are quite awesome. There's nothing special about me."

He straightened his back, almost shouting at her. "That's not true! You're really pretty! I'm sure there's lots about you that is interesting."

She could feel her cheeks heating up. "Thank you, Mingi. I appreciate it. Say... Are you looking for a home?"

He deflated a bit after her question. "Well, I... I'm not sure. I've been to a couple before, but it never turned out the way I'd hoped. I'm not exactly excited about it, I don't want to get disappointed again."

She nodded, slowly reaching over to pat his hand. It kind of felt like a bolt of electricity ran through him. The touch was barely there, but it felt different.

"If I said I was thinking about adopting someone, would you be interested? I'm... Quite lonely at home. I work a lot, so I don't have time for much else. I need a friend, and I know you guys need a home. What do you say?"

Mingi felt odd all of the sudden. He wouldn't like it if she left here with anyone else. Not that he wanted to take that chance away from the hybrids here, but it brought him unease. Was he ready to believe in another human after everything?

"I... I haven't had the best time so far, to be honest. Would you really consider taking me with you? I am a tiger, you know. I'm not a fluffy bunny, or an interactive fox. I'm... Different."

She smiled and reached over to take his hand in hers. His heartbeat sped up, and he couldn't believe how soft her hand felt.

"I don't think you're much different from me. In the end, it doesn't matter. You have your own quirks, I'm sure of it, and I'd love to see them." She let go of his hand too early for his liking and stood up.

"So what do you say Mingi? Want to go home with me today?"

His mouth opened and closed, and before he could embarrass himself further, he nodded. She reached for him, palm outstretched.

"Come on Stripes, let's go."

"So, this is the main floor, as you can see it's an open space, and I love it for that. The paintings on the walls were some of my first works, and I take pride in them. They may look a bit silly, but hey, I've gotten better over the years."

They did look silly, Mingi thought, but they also gave the room a fresh appearance. Most of the paintings were of landscapes, flowers, and animals. He quite enjoyed them.

"Over there we have the kitchen. It's a bit of a mess, I baked this morning before I left to get you, and I hate cleaning up. We can do it together, you know, as your initiation." She smiled, and Mingi thought he would probably be up to do anything as long as she looked at him like that.

"I'm joking, you know. I'll clean up later. Now, upstairs we have three more rooms, and a bathroom. We have to share it, but don't worry. I don't take too much time, and I like cold showers more. Come on, let me show you your room!"

His room? Before he only got the closet space, or he had to sleep on a mat in the children's room. They told him it was to keep them safe, when in reality he had to deal with the rowdy kids if they woke up in the middle of the night.

They stopped in front of a door on the far left, and when Y/N opened it, he thought he was dreaming for a second.

"I didn't have time to get you decorations, only the bare necessities for now. We can go shopping tomorrow so you can personalize it. For now, there is the bed, a closet, you have more stuff in the cup-"

"Thank you."

They looked at each other and Y/N's eyes softened. Mingi's were brimming with tears, and it broke her heart thinking about his previous living situations.

"No need to thank me. Go on, take a look around. My bedroom is down the hall, just knock on the door if you ever need me. I'm huge on respecting privacy, so I won't go into your room unless I ask beforehand or you tell me. I expect the same from you. I hope that's okay?"

He nodded, stepping inside his own space. "Yeah, I understand. Don't worry, I always follow rules."

"It's not a rule. It's an understanding between us." She cleared her throat.

"But... I do have one request. Please do not enter the room opposite mine. It's my studio space, and there are many paintings and materials inside. I do commission work, and I have a small gallery in town, so that is my main source of income." She gestured around the room.

"I make a good living, and my paintings are my priority. That's how we can stay in this beautiful house. Is that alright with you?"

He nodded. "I understand. Work room - off limits."

Y/N smiled, taking his hands in hers. He'll never get enough of her touch.

"Thank you. Now, would you like to unpack while I go and warm up lunch?"

"There's not much, I'll be done in 10 minutes. And... I'd like it if you stayed with me if you can. I don't like staying in unfamiliar spaces on my own."

He held his hands up, shaking his head as if he just now realized he was asking for too much maybe.

"But you don't have to! I'll tough it out. I'm tough!"

There was a bear of silence before she started laughing.

"Oh Stripes... I'll stay with you, you big, tough guy."

He could feel his cheeks heating up. He'll never get used to the nickname. Terms of endearment weren't something people used when talking to him, or about him. It came almost naturally for Y/N, and it made him all jittery.

They sorted our Mingi's belongings, and Y/N felt a bit sad with how little he had. It seemed like he was too afraid of owning anything because he never stayed in the same place for too long. He couldn't bring everything back to the shelter, so he brought only the things he already owned. His most prized possession was a children's book. Mingi grabbed it out of his bag and touched the cover. The edges were frilled, the picture almost gone. It was one of the things his mother left him before she died.

"What's that you got there?" Y/N reached over, but it was as if something switched in Mingi.

He growled at her, eyes flashing gold, before rushing to the corner of the room.

"No!"

The atmosphere changed. Y/N held her hands up and shook her head.

"I'm not going to take it from you. I'm sorry. Here, you're as good as done. I'll go down and set the table."

She was too afraid to turn her back, so she walked backwards to the door, leaving it open as she ran out.

Mingi snapped out of it, realising what he had done. It was his first day in a new home, a home he felt comfortable in, and he already screwed up. He slid down the wall, hugging the book to his chest.

"Oh mom, what have I done?"

He closed his eyes and frowned. He had a heart time controlling his emotions, and Y/N was on the receiving end of his frustration.

Mingi didn't know how long he was lost in his thoughts. It wasn't until the light dimmed in the room, he realised it had gone dark outside. Didn't she say she was warming up... Lunch? Oh god, she was too afraid to come and get him, and he didn't even bother to go downstairs. Another mistake.

He reluctantly stood up, tucking his book under the soft pillow Y/N gave him. It was all messed up, and it was only the first day. With a sigh, he left his new room and made his way downstairs. The house was quiet, except for the TV playing some random movie on low volume. He then saw a little lump on the couch, breathing steadily. She was asleep, curled in on herself. When he got closer, he could see dried tears on her face. His heart clenched. He managed to make her cry. What an idiot. Carefully, he took the blanket thrown over the couch and draped it over her.

Mingi stood over her, admiring her beauty. Long lashes, luscious hair, puffy eyes. The redness around them was his doing, but even with that, she was like a literal angel. Slowly, he moved towards the kitchen. The table was set for one person, a little note placed on the plate.

"Lunch is in the fridge, hear it up whenever you want. Browse through the cabinets for snacks."

Even when he hurt her, she thought about him. He wished there was a hole he could crawl in and disappear. His stomach, however, thought otherwise. The hunger overtook his mind, and he slowly opened the fridge. He found a covered dish, and when he looked inside, there was a big steak along with vegetables inside. She even made him his favorite food without even knowing it. Eating stake was a luxury, and he only had it for his birthday when Yunho and Wooyoung bought it for him. The other families payed no mind that he was a hybrid with a primarily meaty diet. The vegetables on the plate meant she thought about his health as well.

Without heating it up, he grabbed the stake with his fingers and bit into it. Even though cold, it was delicious. She made it just how he liked it, on the rare side with no major spices. The groan of pleasure was unstoppable at this point.

"You know, I have lots of forks and knives, they are free to use."

Mingi almost choked on the piece he was chewing. He was so imersed in the taste, he never even herd her footsteps.

"I...Um...It's... It's delicious."

She crossed her arms, nodding. "Thank you. I asked Wooyoung about your food preferences, he said stake was your favourite." She leaned on the kitchen door. "I thought this was a special occasion, so I... You know."

He put the plate on the counter, clearing his throat.

"I can't even begin to explain how sorry I am about earlier. My instinct took over, and I lost control. If you want to send me back I..."

"Send you back?!" Mingi's eyes widened at her shout.

"Why would I send you back? I obviously did something that upset you. I guess the book is special to you. If anything, I'm sorry."

Mingi rushed towards her, and he could see her apprehensive expression. His hands held onto hers.

"You did nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. It was as normal as it gets. The book... It was my mom's gift to me, it's the only thing I have of hers now. I'm... Protective over it."

Y/N nodded, squeezing his hands in response.

"Okay, I get it. Sorry Stripes, I won't try to touch it again. It's like my art studio, right? You respect my wishes, I respect yours."

Mingi never felt this accepted before. Anyone else would throw him out, but Y/N accepted him. He will make it his life's mission to make her happy.

"Now, do you want to continue eating with your hands, or do you want some silverware? I can make you some tea while you finish the meal."

He nodded, going back to his plate.

"That would be nice, thank you."

"Stripes, I get what you're saying, but you can't stay in the tub for the whole day."

"But it's so hot out, I'm burning up."

Y/N sighed on the other side of the bathroom door. She knew Mingi would have a tough time in the summer, but he's been in the bathroom for over three hours.

"Mingi, I beg you, get out of the bathroom!"

"Fine! Let me suffer! I knew you had it out for me!" He's gotten so used to his nickname, he knew he was in trouble if she addressed him as 'Mingi'.

Over a month has passed since he came to live with Y/N. It's been rather eventful. He hasn't had anymore outbursts, and his room was now painted green, with a gaming chair and computer. Y/N went all out on him, wanting to make it known he was there to stay. Good thing her art shop made money, otherwise Mingi's new gaming hobby would've drained her dry.

"Oh stop it. I'm going to my studio, but if you aren't done in the next ten minutes, I'm breaking in and pulling you out by your ears! Both sets!"

Mingi gasped, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He knew she was bluffing by now, always giving out empty threats. They were almost comical, because he knew she would never do that to him.

This time, for some odd reason, he wanted her to break in and see him in all of his glory. He was well built, his muscles being a part of his nature. Not to mention he was well endowed, if he had to say so himself. Maybe she would run away from embarrassment, or maybe...

He closed his eyes, imagining her wide eyes raking over his body. Would she want to touch him? He felt his cock jump at the thought. He's had problems in the past week, his cock doing all the thinking instead of him. That was part of the reason he spent locked away in the bathroom. It was the only way for him to cool down enough to be in the same room as Y/N.

The only other problem was Y/N's need for affection. She loved scratching his ears, raking her fingers through his hair, and giving him back rubs whenever he laid his head in her lap. And he always laid his head in her lap, especially if they were watching a movie in the living room. This week, he avoided the couch as much as he could, giving the lame excuse of needing to beat his opponents in a game, using language Y/N didn't understand. She dismissed him, but he could tell she was getting suspicious.

There was banging on the door just as he tried to reach for his aching length to relieve himself.

"That's it! Out, now! I'm going to pee myself!"

"Okay, okay, I'm getting out, calm down."

He managed to grab a towel in his hurry, securing it over his hips.

"Mingi, I'm serious! Get-" The door opened in a swing.

"Okay, okay. I'm out."

Y/N couldn't move. She couldn't tear her eyes from his broad chest as he leaned one arm on the doorframe. When she managed to look up, his eyes were half closed, lips red, neck flushed. Didn't he take a cold shower?

"I...Um... Move!" She pushed him away, ducking under his arm and slamming the door shut.

"O-Okay? I'm gonna be in my room, you know, gaming."

"Yeah, yeah, you do that."

Y/N looked into the mirror, reaching for her red cheeks. She didn't know when it began, but she started admiring Mingi more and more. He was handsome, and he loved cuddling with her. It gave her a chance to enjoy his sturdy body wrapped around hers.

"Snap out of it, idiot. He's your friend."

She decided from day one that they would be friends, not owner and hybrid. Yes, on paper Mingi was hers, but she didn't want that to determine their relationship. She was able to give him a comfortable life, and in return, she got a housemate and bestie. Seemed like a good deal to her, and Mingi never complained. They haven't had any incidents since the first day, and they respected each other's boundaries.

Now, she thought she was crossing those boundaries with her filthy imagination. What would Mingi think if he knew?

He couldn't take it anymore.

What would Y/N think if she knew?

Mingi kept beating himself up about it while lying in his bed that night. His cock kept stirring in his pants, not letting up. Her soft hair, her delicate body... His head was filled with images of her.

Slowly, he reached into his pants, having forgone underwear, he grasped his length in his big hand. He imagined her much smaller palm instead, and he just knew it would feel better. Well, this is all he could do now, so he had to make it work.

He imagined her lips, always pink and glossy, kissing his neck, cheeks, his cock... She seemed like someone who would enjoy being kissed. He'd savour every moment, chasing after her. His hand went faster, his whole body on fire.

With the image of her mouth planted around his cock, he came. His body jerked around on the bed, eyes shut tightly. He tried to keep his sounds at bay, but a soft moan left his lips. It was over too soon, and he didn't feel any better. With cum stained pants, he looked at the ceiling.

"I'm doomed."

The atmosphere in the house changed after that night. The days were filled with secret stares, light touches, and shy smiles.

Mingi couldn't keep his hands to himself, he would always find a way to be close to her. He sprawled himself across her lap, whining every time she paused scratching his ears. It was a big contrast, and he didn't know why his mood changed so much. It was like he couldn't get enough of her.

At night, he touched himself at the thought of her, the embarrassment leaving his mind quickly.

Y/N wasn't doing any better. Although she kept her desires at bay, she enjoyed his neediness. It gave her a chance to touch him for how long she wanted. With the tension dimmed, she could later focus on her paintings, and she drew inspiration from her passion.

Everything seemed close to normal, until the doorbell rang one day. They were sprawled out on the couch as usual, and Mingi frowned as he picked up the male scent standing on the other side of the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Y/N shrugged, standing up to see who it was.

"Not that I remember. Wait here."

Mingi nodded but stayed put. A second later he heard her scream. He was up and at the door in a second, ready to pounce.

He halted his movements when he saw Y/N wrapped around a blonde man.

"Oh my god! I can't believe it! Hongjoong, what on earth are you doing here?"

The blonde, Hongjoong it seemed, chuckled and tightened his grip around her waist.

"I came to visit my favourite little artist of course. You know I always come to you when I'm in town."

Realising there was another person with them, Hongjoong glanced at Mingi. That's when he saw the tightly shut jaw, almost golden eyes, and the angry stance he was in.

"Oh, is this your boyfriend?" Y/N detached herself from him before shaking her head.

"No, that's my Mingi. I mean... That's my hybrid Mingi. He's been with me for two months now."

She turned around and Mingi's eyes softened when they met hers. She took a step towards him, gesturing towards the blonde man.

"Mingi, this is my friend Hongjoong. He's a designer, so he travels a lot. He likes to surprise me when he's in town, as you see."

"Only because I know how much you like surprises." They laughed together, and Mingi felt like throwing up.

Y/M flapped her hands around, gesturing towards the living room. Their living room.

"Come on now Joong, make yourself at home. I'll go make us some tea. Mingi, keep him company, please."

She rushed to the kitchen, leaving the two men alone. Mingi glanced at Hongjoong again, turning around and heading towards the living room.

"Follow me." He heard him chuckle before making himself comfortable on the couch next to Mingi. Their couch.

"So, Mingi. How is it living with Y/N? Is she still covered in paint everyday?" Mingi frowned.

"How would you know?"

"Well, we lived together briefly when we studied at the same college. I was a design major, while she went for art. We had a blast living together, and our living room was always covered in paint and fabric patches."

Mingi didn't like that information one bit. Even though he knew his thoughts were irrational, he couldn't help them.

"She has her art room now. Y/N is always clean, but her clothes have stains." Hongjoong chuckled, nodding his head.

"I bet she still wears the same band shirts from back then. She didn't want to buy more clothes, only to destroy them, so I often gave her my old ones. Silly girl."

Mingi's eyes widened. She was wearing another man's clothes? While they cuddled nonetheless? That didn't sit right with him. Before he could get too lost in his thoughts, Y/N entered the room with their tea. She put down Mingi's favorite blue cup in front of him, placing the red one in front of Hongjoong.

"Three spoons of sugar for Mingi, honey and milk for Joong." The blonde idiot chuckled.

"I'm glad you still know how I like my tea."

"How can I forget? You gave me a migraine the first time I put sugar in it." They both laughed now, and Mingi felt sick.

"Come one buttercup, sit with us." Buttercup? Oh what an asshole. Mingi couldn't help but frown again.

"Buttercup?" he asked.

Y/N smiled and sat between them. A little closer to Hongjoong, Mingi noticed.

"Oh it's a stupid nickname. I was too into the Powerpuff girls, they were my comfort show throughout college. I dresses up as Buttercup for Halloween once, and he's been at it since."

"What can I say, you looked too good in your costume." She slapped him on the chest.

"Oh Joong, you flatter me too much."

Their evening went on like that, the two friends catching up, while the big bad tiger sat silently. Y/N tried to include him in the conversation, but she noticed his reluctance, so she didn't push it.

When Hongjoong finally announced he had to go, Mingi was estatic.

"Are you sure you can't stay longer? You're leaving again tomorrow, who knows when I'll see you again." They were in a tight embrace, and it didn't seem they would let go anytime soon.

"I'm sorry Buttercup, I wish I could. The fashion world needs me, and when duty calls I follow." They laughed and finally, fucking finally, they let go of eachother.

"I get it, I guess. But call me! I know we text a lot, but I want to hear your voice, you know?" Hongjoong kissed her on the cheek, and Mingi had to summon all his willpower not to pounce on him.

"I promise, I'll call more. I'm off now, before I become sentimental."

"Oh, and tell Seonghwa I said hi, and to come with you next time. I want to know how my favorite model is doing." Hongjoong smiled, waving at them from his car.

"Sure thing! He misses you, too. Bye now, love you lots!"

"Love you too!"

As soon as she closed the door and turned around, she could see a very angry Mingi.

"Who the fuck is Seonghwa now? Should I expect any other men poping around unannounced?"

Y/N's eyes widened.

"Woah, Mingi, calm down. Hongjoong is my best friend. And Seonghwa..."

"I though I was your best friend? Are you saying you're a liar?" Now she grew angry as well.

"Hey, call me anything you want, but a liar is not okay. To settle your curiosity, Hongjoong is the only person I could rely on in college and the years after that, beacuse my parents frowned upon my choice of carer. I couldn't prove to them how successful I've grown because they died along the way. So yes, he's my best friend because of that. It doesn't mean I can't have other friends."

Mingi felt like shit. He never once thought to ask her about her life, they always focused on his. She pushed past him to go up the stairs, but stopped and turned around.

"And Seonghwa is Hongjoongs boyfriend. They met when Seonghwa modeled for one of my pieces three years ago. Do you have any more questions?"

Mingi could only manage to shake his head.

"Good. I'm going to bed now, all this negativity is making my head ache. Goodnight."

She was gone before he could give any kind of response. Way to go Mingi, you nipped that right in the bud.

With a sigh, he cleaned up the living room before heading to bed. His idiotic self, and his jealousy were the only things to blame for their fight. She was so happy before he ruined it.

Mingi tried getting comfortable, but it proved impossible. He kept tossing, and turning, huffing every time he changed sides.

The worst part?

His cock was up and aching, again.

He couldn't bring himself to touch it, ashamed of himself and his actions today.

But, boy, did he want to. Her angry expression almost turned him on then and there. Maybe she was aggressive like that in bed?

He knows it's wishful thinking, but a hybrid can dream, right?

Another half an hour passed, and Mingi's had enough. He couldn't go to sleep like this, so he made up his mind. Quickly, he got out of bed and hurried down the hallway. His bare feet stopped in front of her door, and he used his keen hearing to check if she was asleep. To his surprise, there was music silently playing, and she was humming along.

He cleared his throat, gave himself a pep talk, and knocked.

Y/N opened, and his cheeks grew hot. She was in one of those band T-shirts Hongjoong mentioned, legs and feet bare. It was short, almost too short.

"Mingi?" She brought him back to reality.

"Yes?"

"Mingi, you came to me. What do you want?"

"Ah, yes." He cleared his throat again.

"I want to... You see..."

"Spit it out!"

"I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me today. I mean, I kind of do, but... I'm sorry."

He hung his head, arms flat against his sides. He looked like a wet cat, not a scary tiger. Y/N crossed her arms and sighed.

"Come on in." She sat on her bed and patted the spot next to her. Mingi never went into her room. He didn't have any reason to. It was all soft, pastel, covered in pictures and books. It fit her perfectly. He stepped in, feeling almost out of place, and slowly sat next to her.

"So, do you want to explain your behaviour today? Or your behaviour in general? You've been acting all weird lately, and I never know what to do. You push me away, then you won't let me go, now you cause a scene... Are you... Not happy here anymore?"

Mingi's mood changed instantly, eyes wide, ears pin straight on his head.

"No! Why would you think that? I'm incredibly happy here. I love being here. I've never felt more at home."

"Then what? Because I'm clueless." She reached for his hand, and their fingers automatically interlocked.

Mingi knew he had to say something now, it was time. Even if it ruined everything, he could not keep silent anymore.

"I... I've been having some trouble with my feelings... Towards you. I... I think I feel for you more than a friend would. You know, tigers are pretty serious about their... Mate. And, well, I think, no, I'm sure I feel like that towards you." He took a breath before continuing.

"I know it's probably gross to you. With my ears and tail, and my mood swings. I know my eyes sometimes freak you out. I get it if you want to send me back. But I have to say I never felt like this before. You're the one Y/N. You'll always be the one."

Mingi looked at his lap, glancing at their interlocked hands. She never let go.

"Mingi... You were never gross to me. I love your fluffy ears, especially when you let me scratch them. They're as soft as your tail. And your tail always sways when you're happy. I know I did something good when I see it moving around you. Your eyes... They never freak me out, I'm just fascinated with the color. It's unique." She placed her palm on his cheek, turning him towards her.

"I feel the same as you Mingi. It's common for hybrids and humans to fall for each other. It's happened lots of times. Believe me, I've done my research as soon as I started feeling something for you." Mingi's eyes widened.

"So, we're normal? You're not kidding me? You know how sensitive I am." She chuckled.

"I wouldn't say normal, but we're okay. And no, I'm not kidding Stripes, I wouldn't do that to you."

"Then... Sorry, but I can't contain myself any longer."

She was confused. "What are you talki-"

He cut her off by pressing his lips onto hers.

Best way to shut her up, indeed.

She threw her arms around his neck, and he lifted her onto his lap. He couldn't keep his hands at bay, gripping all over her smooth tights. She let out a soft moan as he reached her ass and squeezed.

Their kiss only grew more passionate, their tongues finding each other, beginning a dance of their own. Mingi's ears were pressed flat to his head, almost signaling he was at her mercy. His tail soon wrapped around her thigh, giving her another squeeze.

She pulled away, raking her nails through his hair.

"Oh my, you're quite eager."

"So what? You'd be too if you knew the hell I've experienced these past weeks."

He stood up, her legs wrapped around him, and laid her down onto the soft mattress. She could feel his massive bulge pressing onto her pantie covered core, and she got nervous. Was it going to fit?

"Whatever do you mean, Stripes?"

He chuckled and sat up between her legs, pulling his shirt over his head. She could definitely see his cock now, and if she guessed, he didn't have any underwear on.

"You know what I mean. I haven't touched my cock this much in my whole life. The past week has been a torture."

He then pulled off her shirt, his eyes glazing over, the golden colour emerging.

"I think you have to make it up to me." She reached for his pants, slowly pulling at the strings to untie them.

"Oh, that shouldn't be a problem"

"Okay, I think you've had enough. Hey, that tickles!"

Mingi kept on pressing kisses to her neck, his hands wrapped tightly around her waist. After too many rounds to count, Mingi was finally satisfied. Or so she thought, because his fingers slowly travelled down her naked body.

"Hey now, what did I say? I'm tired, I'm not a hybrid like you."

"But Y/N, I just can't stop now that I've had you. Your pussy is deli-" "Okay! I got it. Let me sleep for at least an hour, I'm about to crash anyways."

He groaned, but he brought his hands back up her waist.

Mingi felt like he was in heaven. The girl of his dreams is finally in his arms, he has a warm bed to sleep in, food is made according to his preferences. All because she made it possible.

"Y/N."

"I said an hour Mingi."

"It's not that. Can you turn around please?" She slowly moved around, turning towards him, placing a hand on his sturdy chest.

"What is it?" He looked at her so lovingly, she could almost cry.

"I love you. I really, really love you." Her expression softened, and she placed a kiss on his lips.

"I really, really love you, too."

They smiled, their noses touching. A second later, Mingi was flat on his back with his favorite person straddling hip hips.

"I'll sleep later." She said.

He smirked.

She sure was the perfect woman.

"Oh Yunho! How nice to run into you!"

"Hey Y/N! How are you doing? How's Mingi? We wanted to let you settle in before we asked for a visit."

She smiled as she held onto her shopping basket.

"We're great actually. These past couple of months have been... Eventful, to say the least. Actually, he's right around the corner, looking at snacks of course, come say hi."

They went to another row, spotting Mingi holding two types of chips. He turned around and his eyes widened when he saw Yunho.

"Hey! Where have you been all this time?"

The boys hugged, and Yunho chuckled.

"As I've told Y/N, we wanted to let you get settled in. Wooyoung and I want to visit the two of you, catch up together." Mingi looked at Y/N and she gave him a nod.

"You're welcome anytime. Listen, we have to hurry now, Y/N friend and his boyfriend are coming to dinner, but we'll keep in touch. I'll text you."

Yunho nodded, and suddenly something came to his mind. Before he could say it, Y/N grabbed Mingi by the hand after reading a text.

"The boys are in front of the store, we should head out. It was nice seeing you Yunho, we'll set up dinner plans. Say hi to Wooyoung, he was a good match maker." Yunho watched them exchange a look, both smiling.

"Come on babe, let's go. See you soon Yunho!"

The tall boy stood and watched them go out of the aisle, hand in hand.

"Did he just call her 'babe'?

He was about to remind Mingi that he hadn't taken his heat suppressants with him, and that he might experience more intense symptoms.

However, he could tell all was taken care of, and that put a smile on his face.

Young love does that to you, he supposes.

Hey people! I'm thinking about making a part two of this imagine, just because I feel I could explore some other moments with them.

Comment if you would want to see a continuation of their story :)

Lots of love, X

#ateez #ateez fanfic #imagine #ateez au #fluffy #mild smut #suggestive #angst #angst with a happy ending #ateez mingi #song mingi #hybrid #ateez hybrid au

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godblooded · 1 month ago

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i honest to god wonder when i can get a fucking break. i don’t know shit about my car. the fucking asshole who hit me won’t even give me his insurance shit. it looks like i’ll be alone on christmas because my uncle probably won’t be doing christmas eve. my aunt was completely wrong and i am in fact vastly and incredibly alone. i haven’t even had the chance to put up a christmas tree because it’s an incredible amount to do by myself and no one can come help me. the wreath on my front door? won’t stay up so there goes that i guess. at least i put down grave blankets. i feel like i’m the most irritating fucking person on the face of the earth. i wish with such incredible intensity i could just disappear but i have to go to work to a job that i can’t even take a week off from.

#ooc. o kaptain.#negativity /#[I’ve absolutely hit breaking point and I’m genuinely sorry to everyone. idk anymore. writing doesn’t make me feel better because I can’t #ever seem to do it consistently for a plethora of reasons. video games barely help. I love my job but at the end of the day I am just some #stranger to all these people and I go home. and I have no one here. by this point I’m just… existing day to day to day and I don’t even know #why anymore. and absolutely no one gives a real fuck when it comes down to it because I am just an insignificant part of their life. which #is no fault of anyone’s I’ve just been…. idk incredibly unlucky. I don’t know. I’m quiet unless I do replies I guess. it’s taking everything #in me not to just delete this but genuinely…. I feel so fucking empty and all I want to do is grieve but no one will let me.]

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shmowder · 6 months ago

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just need to vent about the Olympics

#Saw the shittiest take saying “on top of the emotional distress on imane imagine how much in danger she is back home”#are you stupid? no seriously. are you stupid?#You think the entire goddamn country who sent here to the Olympics and the mena singing her praises didn't already know about the yx thing?#“oh i meant like bc of the trans allegations and yk”#literally go fuck yourself #don't make the cost of yout activism the demeaning of arab countries and painting us as savages #some of you are too comfortable showing your racism and ignorance under the guise of supporting queer identities #surprise surprise! us in those “barbaric uncivilised” countries don't go throwing people over roofs bc of trans allegations #Yes women can dress as manly as they want and hijab is never forced. Do you ever think before you speak??#Women like imane are welcomed and common in arab countries #the transphobes we have here are the same fucking ones you have in the west! how come yours is special and civilised terfs???#And stop calling her khalif for fucks sake. learn how arabic names work before butchering them with your ignorant self centered naming systm #Imane is her first name. Khalif is her FATHER'S first name. You're calling her by her father's first name NOT her last name #arabic names go with your first name first. father's first name second. grandpa firstname third then great grandpa THEN last name #call her imane and stop embarrassing yourself bc you're just calling her by a man's name. her father's #“trans allegations” as if our people take the west media seriously rather than a circus show at best. You're repeating old news.#And even if there were. People here are actually a community nurtured on kindness. even the most conservatives mind their business #We're raised on being a community. strangers are your brothers and sisters. Live and let live #But your goddamn media takes stories of religion extremist and paints ALL of us like that. and your tiny brain actually believes it #Hey! you know those gay stories on my blog you've been reading? They were written by a savage arab oh no!#They were written by someone who lives in those dangerous arabic countries! oh no!#You don't know our culture. You don't know our beliefs. You will never grasp our ideals bc they were weaved from kindness and helping others #So don't fucking talk shit about things you know NOTHING about. You don't know the queer arab struggles #the same bad apples you have there we have here. shitty people are shitty regardless of nationality #But actually we do have some etiquette and considerations for others here. We don't go throwing bricks at queen tourists do we?#So why would we do it to our own people you sad excuse of a human

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icewindandboringhorror · 10 months ago

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Hrmm... put together a roommates quiz finally after years of thinking it would be an interesting idea lol.. Though obviously not meant to be taken super seriously, I just like thinking about this aspect of personality compatibility. Like yeah, maybe you could get along with someone just chatting with them, but living together is such a different thing. .. curiouse...

#Not that I think that many people would really care since I barely know anyone on tumblr in real life and would never live with random #internet strangers lol but... idk.. I made this to give to friends from time to time and thought... why not post it here too #just out of sheer curiosity if anyone takes it what the most common results would be and etc.#My initial assumption is that most people would probably fall into the 'maybe' category and that either extreme of 'best roomates'#and 'worst roomates' would be the least common #very long also since I like to be thorough I guess #THOUGH... upon second thought... tumblr is home of the like Weird Introverts Who Sit Inside All The Time.. so maybe it's more #likely to come across compatible poeple on here. given that many of the questions are about how meticulous #people are with their scehdules or how often they invite friends over or if they like to mostly stay inside etc.#(since personally I think having a roommate coming and going and bringing random people over all the time would be too chaotic #lol... I need a peaceful quiet household)#Also I kind of don't like the way uquiz seems to do results. I was hoping it would be a number tally? I used some sort of quiz making site #before where you weight the question responses with a number (so the 'Best' response is worth a 0 #The worst is worth like 5 points. and all the in between are like 1 - 4 points or something). So then it is actually possible to have a #''perfect score'' category (someone who gets a literal 0 points). and also you could weight some EXTREMELY bad answers #to add like +10 to the score instead of just +5. And someone who got the MAX possible points would be the WORST compatibility. etc.#But uquiz seems to just be like ''which category did you score towards the MOST'. So someone can give some pretty bad answers #that are VERY non compatible. but as long as MOST of their answers landed in a 'compatible' category #then they would still be listed as compatible despite still actually having some dealbreakers in there. Which is also possible with the #'every answer is a number amount' ranking system too. but I feel like that one does allow for a little more customization #and accuracy (like making the dealbreakers add like...+40 to the score or something so that #there's basically NO way that someone could answer with one of those and still get a good score. Or the ability to have a literal #'perfect score' (getting a zero) etc.#BUt anyway lol... inchresting.. inchresting... curious to consider maybe making a uquiz #for the characters in the gameI'm making like.. which npc are you type quiz or something #now that I've made one and seen how it works.. hrmm hrmm....#(< game will not even be done for like another year but still thinking about nonsense like this lol)

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b0ngwater69 · 7 months ago

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When the social battery hit 0% 3 hours ago and 4 people walk into the apartment (':

#wheh #personal bitching #one is a stranger and another is someone incapable of not just. constantly speaking #i am just cranky and burnt out and honestly not up to spending my day off in a tiny apartment with 5 other people #i want to clean and shit and honestly it's so impossible for me to be productive with so many people around #so much shit ive been putting off doing because any time i have a day off i either have social obligations or i have people in my home #and i think i am going just a little bananas from the lack of personal space and time yet again #wowwww ok and the talker literally immediately came in and blew up our toilet in the time i wrote all this cool cool #not me saying to my gf i wanted to immediately go brush my teeth and lay down for bed bc ive been up since 5am and now this #sorry i need to be a little mean and angy here so i dont freak out irl i am just so not here for this moment i want to fucking scream

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pondscummy · 9 months ago

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the "also sick" comment isn't like "btw I'm SICK, how dare you not know" it's me saying I'm sick like how 2/3 of my roommates are

but like I'm so;;;; it feels so rich that L is like wtf do you want from me about me not replying for 45 minutes when I had to beg his gf over hours and hours of texts every so often to not force me to sit in unwiped shit after my surgery bc she had openly told me she just didn't rly feel like setting up the attachable bidet after telling me for weeks she would, and I never ever got a reply from her or L ever acknowledging that they were wide awake hanging out and laughing while I was like stuck in bed barely able to move begging for follow through on a commitment they made in advance and i eventually had to spend over $100 to hire someone to come out the next day and do it for me and I had to hold my shit for hours lmfao

like L is sooooo great at couching things in flawless tumblr wellness speak but only to talk about how valid they are for not showing up for you and how fucked up it is that you MIGHT ever have a moment where you can't be 100% there w them. like idk what to tell you I've been laying in bed with a sore throat and cough and fever passing out and waking up to roll over in buckets of sweat like the rest of the house. I do genuinely get being annoyed by a lack of response but it's also right back to this whole thing about Always assuming I'm mad at them which is legit one of the only things that actually makes me mad fjdkddhk like bro I do not THINK about you when you're not acting like I'm a bomb about to blow (also, as an aside -- we all take turns buying TP and it's usually me who does it like it's not out of pocket for me to say hey you are the One person who is out of the house already rn, can you get this on your way bc None of the bathrooms have back up rolls and one is totally out and I had to text our sickest roommate telling her to use the bidet and drip dry like.... "am I the first person you asked" yes bc you are the person who makes the most sense dumbfuck. I'm not being "overly needy" toward you or whatever jfc)

they literally told me at one point that the reason they're so scared of me is that my face is "triggering" for them when I'm angry or not feeling good and puts them "back in a really bad place" they have seen my face angry literally 3 times and each time it was on my way back to my room to decompress and each time I said nothing to them other than that I was in a bad mood and I was going to go to my room. I didn't yell either I just said it normal. like I genuinely feel gaslit here like I'm this horrifying monster of a man when it's like dude sometimes people are mad I don't know what YOU want from ME!! I do all my venting here where they can't ever see it even tho we've blocked each other, I censor their name like anyone even knows who they are, I isolate to chill out and it's literally been less than a handful of times like should I fling myself from the roof??????? would that fix it???

I literally know it's bc I'm a man too. none of this was like this until my facial hair came in more and it got crazy worse after I got top surgery and they're so so vocal about how much they despise men and think men should all fuck off and die and there's only a handful of acceptable men that they've personally vetted. despite them pretty clearly having a trans woman fetish bc they only date or look at porn of trans women and they do the whole step on me mommy thing about it even tho their gf has complained like. lmfao you're just a baby te//rf even tho you ID as trans masc yourself. like that's all this even is. I'm a big (5'3") scary (spent the whole weekend w my coworkers asking if I was 12) man who's obviously going to snap and kill you all bc sometimes I *checks writing on hand* get frustrated and go lay down about it

#pond.txt #and again i'm not EVEN mad rn (well. obviously i am *now*) i was SLEEPING like fhekdjdkddjl bro let me live i'm SORRY #should i whip myself should i kiss your feet my lord and savior jc. should i fall upon my sword for you.#is my t dick too big and scary to live together does it cast shadows in the hallways that frighten you HDKSDHKDDHDK #all the time i wish wish wish there was some way for me to move out early without me fucking myself financially #but i'd be on the hook for $11.400 and i do NOT have that to drop dhskddhhfj and i would need to pay that PLUS buy a car #it was so night and day the difference in my mood when i was on my work trip tho. even when i had moments of like feeling down on that trip #it was so fleeting and so like. well I'll do what i need to so i can care for myself #whether that was staying in my room and getting some sleep or rallying and being like hey @ self you're making shit up about no one liking #with no proof so let's get back downstairs and hang out w someone new and prove ourselves wrong.#life felt so bright and happy and it was so easy to talk to strangers and laugh and just let loose and like myself #even on a 13 hr travel day i was like taking notes on mental health things in my journal and reflecting and feeling so positive about makin #changes like not letting excuses stop me from going out and living my life even in this interim period between moves #and then i got back home and was like oh right. this place that makes me miserable with people who openly dislike me. great lmao #my plan is still to try to not let myself get in my own way of living life bc if i can get out & meet people it'll keep me away from here.#ANYWAY!!! *eats cough drops like candy*

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arolesbianism · 2 months ago

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I've been thinking abt new game+ friend quests and it's just me going ah yes and they have all these issues and talk abt these things and oh oops this is all accidental foreshadowing

#rat rambles #stars posting #new game+#its a fun mix of stuff that will make for tasty chou breakdown material in due time #and stuff that is fun to imagine chou responding to because its smth that the sifs would respond to Very differently #but yeah I can basically hear the evolution of chou's inner dialogue overtime as I play out these scenes in my mind #the shopkeepers friendquest is mostly abt her low key freaking out abt realizing chou sees her as a friend and admitting she has a rly hard #time being honest with people about basically anything abt herself along with some extra stuff abt her having never rly had any long term #friends due to her having been constantly traveling since she was a kid #so theres like. several layers of stuff for chou's timeloop tumbled brain to chew on there lol.#the kid is mostly abt them realizing they cant remember basically anything abt their home and family at this point and freaking out #the leader is her admitting hes always been kind of jealous of chou (mostly due to chou having very loving parents)#and Im going to be honest Im still working out the tracker's friendquest #probably going to have smth to do with her mom? maybe her admitting that she's always wanted to go traveling but has been feeling trapped #under obligation to stay by her mom's side and her feeling like a bad daughter for leaving even in these circumstances #or smth like that. idk Ive had a headache all day I dont have the brainpower to make shit up good rn #I just took a shower a few minutes ago and its cleared the brain fog enough for me to type out some of my thoughts #so yeah idk beams visions at you of chou slowly forgetting more and more abt things outside the loops and freaking out over it #chou vc I think the moments the loops truly broke me was when I forgot my parents faces and names #the sifs .|#the real secret abt chou is that they are the normie of the three they just got timeloop tumbled real hard #they do still have hashtag issues ofc just different ones than the other two #but their loops definitely did a lot of the heavy lifting in fucking them up so hard #repeatedly becoming a stranger to the people you love isn't fun and neither is not having tears for easy looping #they can technically loop using the light's curse but that requires being able to see the light and even then its usually a slow burn #process to get fully cursed not smth you can just quickly do if you get stuck #anyways I need to go to bed gn gamers #hopefully loop plush will be here tomorrow if they're not I'll cry rly hard and throw up

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joelsgoldrush · 4 months ago

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“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Love giveth and love taketh away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love maketh you miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are soulmates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A part of you died with him that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

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

“And why’s that?”

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

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

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. Was that your fork?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still a sensitive topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I know you, bub?”

“You don’t, but I know you.”

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

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nighty-night, Logan.

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

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from.

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

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

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

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

I’m aware that you’re not mine,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

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

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

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

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

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

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

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

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

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… the fuck?”

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

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

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

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

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

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

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

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

“You and Wade…?”

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

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

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

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

“And I can tell you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“And where is yours, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door almost closes on his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where is yours, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you pregnant?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

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

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel about reading?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

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

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

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

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

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

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

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

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll take more than a book.”

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If anything, it made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks... ridiculously good.

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

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

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

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

“Logan, you don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, this isn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic? Error 404—not found.

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

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

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

That’s when recognition settles over you.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, Logan.”

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

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

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

“He’s closer than ever.”

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

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

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

“No. You’re not.”

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

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

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

“It’s what we both need.”

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t go well in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

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

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

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

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

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

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