#thank you logan for sharing this poem with me <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[river-ocean]

Piarles + 21 ❤

hi anon <3 this got out of hand but i need to stop pretending my piarles ficlets won't get out of hand. so.

enjoy this uni/roommates AU for piarles + love confessions :)

Every year, the English department held their annual Valentine’s Day carnation sale. And every year, Charles and Pierre’s dorm filled with carnations with anonymous messages. Most of them were addressed to Charles, but Pierre was more than satisfied with the amount of flowers he received - especially since Charles always seemed overwhelmed by his mountain.

“I do not understand what the point of sending it anonymously is. How am I supposed to know who is in love with me if they don’t even sign it?” Charles asked each year, exasperation and bewilderment clear on his face. Pierre would be lying if he said that he didn’t find it adorable.

Pierre would also be lying if he said that he hadn’t been sending Charles a carnation each year, adding one more to the massive bouquet his roommate amassed.

It had started as a joke their first year. Pierre stopped by the table on his way to class, typed out a line from a poem he enjoyed, and went about his day. 

“I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world”

He thought it would be funny for his roommate to receive a carnation from an anonymous suitor. Pierre would pretend to help him figure out who it was, and then eventually he’d admit to sending it as a joke. 

He didn’t know that his roommate would receive so many that it was pointless to try to hunt down the sender.

He also didn’t expect that somewhere along the way, he’d start to actually develop a crush on his roommate.

Their second year, he sent another carnation, with another line from the same poem. 

“the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism”

Charles wasn’t much of a poetry reader. Pierre figured he wouldn’t catch on.

Their third year, he sent another carnation, another line from the poem. 

“what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank”

Pierre watched as his roommate read each of the carnation messages. Charles’ expression remained neutral as he read through them, and Pierre felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Their fourth and final year, Pierre decided that he needed to be brave. He was going to sign the message this year. 

Their plans weren’t solidified for post graduation yet, and this could be his final chance to tell Charles how he felt. Four years of living together had given him plenty of opportunities to be honest with Charles, but he had never been brave enough to take that leap.

He typed out one last line from the poem, and below it, 

“it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it

I love you

-Pierre”

The carnations and messages were always delivered on Valentine’s Day.

Pierre saw the two stacks of flowers sitting outside his dorm room when he got back from class, which meant that Charles wasn’t back yet. They had an agreement not to read any of their messages until they were both home, celebrating the holiday with their carnations and the candy that Charles’ mom sent them every year.

Pierre placed the flowers on the table, pleased that the piles were pretty equal this year. 

Charles arrived home shortly after and rolled his eyes with a laugh when he saw the piles of flowers. Pierre suddenly felt nervous — the weight of his confession feeling real now that his message was on the table amongst the rest.

Pierre grew even more nervous as Charles expression remained neutral as it did every year. Had he seen Pierre’s message and ignored it? Had his flower not been delivered?

They were each down to one flower, one last anonymous message. Pierre pulled the tag off his carnation and read the message.

“Would you like to have a Coke with me?

I love you

-Charles”

He looked across the table, making silent eye contact with his roommate.

Charles was smiling, his eyes shimmering. He grabbed his backpack off the floor, unzipped the small pocket at the front, and pulled out three slips of paper. He slid them across the table to Pierre.

Pierre looked down at the papers. They had obviously been handled a lot — creased with folds and slightly tattered at the edges, like Charles had been carrying these slips with him for a while.

He picked up one of the slips and saw the message he had sent Charles a year ago. He picked up each of the other slips, and found that they were his messages from the first and second year. He looked back at Charles with wide eyes.

“I looked up the poem and I saw you had one of Frank O’Hara’s books on your bookshelf. I wasn’t sure if it was you, but I…figured it was worth a shot anyway,” Charles said softly, tentatively. “But now,” he added, sliding the final slip of paper over to Pierre with a smile.

————————————

Five years later, the officiant read Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara during their wedding ceremony.

[joelsgoldrush]

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Love giveth and love taketh away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love maketh you miserable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They are soulmates. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A part of you died with him that day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

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

“And why’s that?”

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

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

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

Wait. Was that your fork?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still a sensitive topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I know you, bub?” 

“You don’t, but I know you.”

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

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nighty-night, Logan.

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

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from. 

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

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

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

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

I’m aware that you’re not mine, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The scars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

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

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

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

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

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

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

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

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

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What… the fuck?”

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

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

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

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

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

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

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

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

“You and Wade…?”

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

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

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

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

“And I can tell you don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“And where is yours, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door almost closes on his nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where is yours, then?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you pregnant?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll think about it.”

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

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

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

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

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

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

“How do you feel about reading?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

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

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

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

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

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

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

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

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut your mouth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’ll take more than a book.”

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

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

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

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

“Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If anything, it made everything worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks... ridiculously good.

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

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

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

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

“Logan, you don’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Logan, this isn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Logic? Error 404—not found.

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

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

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

That’s when recognition settles over you.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you, Logan.”

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

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

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

“He’s closer than ever.”

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

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

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

“No. You’re not.”

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

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

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

“It’s what we both need.”

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t go well in the end.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I could do it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

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

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

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

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

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

[rome-writes]

11 Questions

Rules:

Always post the rules, answer the questions of the person who tagged you and don’t forget to thank them, write 11 new questions, make your own banner, and tag 11 people. (Sorry guys i really am lazy so i won’t be putting a banner here, i’ll also be apologizing for my late response to the question. hehehe)

(I’ll also be following ate @louisgaslitt‘s amended rules)

AMENDED RULES:

You can choose which questions to answer. You don't have to tag anyone else after you answer unless you want to.

Louis’ Questions:

1. Is there an icon you aspire to be like?

I don’t think there is anyone i aspire to be, but rather i want to become an icon or a prominent person that is an advocate for progressive change, LGBTQ, good governance, and journalism ethics. 

2. What is the cheesiest/most romantic stunt you've ever pulled up on someone?

I once ripped a receipt to write my number and give it to a girl who smiled at me at a bookstore (cringe fest)

3. Which house do you belong to in Hogwarts?

I’m either a Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. I know i have the intelligence and courage to do good and better for the world while at the same time i know my heart is noble and courageous too on facing adversaries and difficulties, maybe sometimes facing head first so that no one else will be in danger. So its really hard for me to pick a between the two house. 

4. If you end up in jail, what would be your crime?

Reality check, maybe for writing a honest article about a corrupt person, maybe it would be for my activism, or maybe its my criticism that cuts down fascists and oppressors.

5. If you had to name yourself now, what would it be?

I used to be hate my name as my parents put both their names and made it mine, now i’m thankful because there isn’t much Rome Rex in the world right? I don’t have any plans on changing it. (I might do it to my last name though.)

6. What tv show or book do you want to be in?

Definitely for the TV show i’d either be in How I Met Your Mother or Community, like i’d be hanging in Mclaren’s pub with Ted talking about life and love, then pulling pranks with barney. In Community i’d be hanging in the study area and literally be studying with Annie, while i do fun shenanigans with Troy and Abed.

For the book i think i would pick Percy Jackson & The Olympians, i definitely see myself in the apollo cabin. Maybe i’ll be making poems or haiku’s there.

 7. Who would play you in a movie about your life?

Please let it be Logan Lerman, if he isn’t available bring out Ezra Miller or Grant Gustin.

8. What would you like to be known for?

For my journalism that brings changes to society or maybe one day as an author that inspires children and young adults.

9. What is the first thing people notice about you?

Its definitely the hair, i really love dyeing bright colors and expressing myself through my hair.

10. What's the quickest way to your heart?

Mcdonald’s or books. Well you can give both and i’d be happy to accept those.

11. Do you collect anything?

Fountain Pens

Books

Notebooks

Fountain Pen Inks

My Questions: 1. If you are given the chance to live in an era, what era would you want to live in? 2. What would you like to say to your younger self? 3. Which Cabin do you belong to in Camp Half-Blood? 4. What’s the first thing people notice about you? 5. What movie, tv show, and book could you repeatedly watch or read and still feel enthusiastic about it? 6. If you have a long term plan, goal or bucket list, what are some of the things listed in there? Could you share some? 7. Is there any secret skill that you have? 8. What are your advocacy or things that you are deeply vocal about? 9. If you were a beverage what kind of drink would you be? 10. In the perspective of your close friends and family, how would the describe you to someone else? 11. Thoughts or message for the person who tagged you. Definitely interested to hear you answer this questions! I hope you are all doing well as we face the challenges of the world. @beatingheartof-stone, @windlurks, @puccachuu, @fayefuriosa, @caaaaaarrl, @prtvlz, @cheskaaaaaa, @bungisngislordes, @ztahcsslaskcihcsregnalsnebel, @kwekwentuhankokayo, @anjxiousbeing, @lunarlionesss

[mothmanhamlet]

A Few Angsty Haikus

Analogical, 2584 words, high school au, fluffffffff, I don’t think there are any warnings to speak of.

Roman gets Virgil to use his services to ask out his crush. Bad poetry ensues.

Roman Prince was many things. He was a jock, a self proclaimed “Matchmaking God”, and the biggest theater nerd Virgil had ever known. Most importantly, Roman would be dead if he didn’t stop begging Virgil in the next 30 seconds.

“Come onnnnnn, please,” Roman begged. They were pinning flyers for Roman’s new “business” idea to the corkboard outside of their math class. Or rather, Roman was pinning flyers, Virgil was just there for moral support. Moral support apparently included attempts at making him Roman’s first customer.

“No,” Virgil said, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall.

“Listen, it benefits both of us! I need my services to get out into the world and you happen to be the perfect candidate!” Roman reasoned, moving his hands a concerning amount for someone who was holding sharp objects.

The services in question were a complicated list of steps Roman called a “confession session”. The idea was that someone filled out the application and Roman would plan out an elaborate display of something that he promised would be spectacularly romantic.  

“No. Absolutely not.” Virgil didn’t even bother looking at Roman, his eyes were too busy scanning around the hallway. School ended not even two minutes ago, so there were still people there. He looked to see who could see him, who could see the poster. Pitifully, Logan was still there, Virgil’s super-genius crush. If Logan saw that poster, his opinion of Virgil would immediately drop. He was too good for that kind of thing.

Roman, sadly, caught Virgil looking just a little too long at Logan and got a brilliant idea. “Well I say you should get a second opinion. Oh Lo-”

Virgil’s hand practically flew to Roman’s mouth, nearly tackling him in the process. Logan, thankfully, didn’t move an inch.

“Do it and you’re dead,” Virgil whispered through gritted teeth. Against his palm, Virgil heard a muffled noise that sounded something like “But can you stop me?”. He looked back at Logan, who was still trying to fit three books and a globe into his already full backpack, and then at Roman, who was looking at Virgil with his eyebrows raised as if to say, “Your move”. At least if he let Roman do this, the embarrassment would be delayed.

“I’ll say yes if you don’t yell when I remove my hand.” Roman nodded and Virgil released his grip on his face, slight red marks where he had pressed rather aggressively. Roman pulled out his phone and started typing.

“I’m emailing you a link to the website. Fill out the form so I can make it spectacular!” Roman said, all too cheery for someone who had to blackmail him into doing it. Virgil just rolled his eyes and started walking down the hallway, trying to shake the small bits of attention that their (rather loud) conversation had gained.

****

Virgil sat down on the purple bean bag chair in his cluttered room and reached for his computer. It was a light grey color and covered in various stickers, his headphones a permanent fixture in its side. He clicked on the link and was immediately redirected to a flashy red and gold website that used hearts like they were commas and used clip art that probably hadn’t seen the light of day since the 90’s. Roman was creative, but sometimes his execution was subpar and unfortunately this was one of those times. Virgil leaned back and read over the questions.  

          1. What is your prospective boyfriend/girlfriend/datemate’s favorite love song?

          2. What type of flower best encapsulates their personality?

          3. Balloons, streamers, confetti, or all?

The rest of the questions followed suit in a similar fashion, and there were a lot. Maybe 30 or so until Virgil got to the end of the application.  

“Who the hell has a favorite kind of sprinkle?” Virgil muttered to himself, trying to work through the questions. Even more surprising than how specific the questions were, was that Virgil actually knew most of the answers. He had never really bought into the whole pining-after-someone-he’d-never-met thing (pretending he even had a choice in the matter), so obviously he had to fall for his lab partner/project partner/person he sat next to in every class. Apparently the teachers thought it was funny to pair up the kid named “Sanders” and the one named “Saunders”. It was that, or just some alphabetization. Either way, it meant they had spent a lot of time together in their first three years of high school. Logan was distant at first, but after a while they opened up to each other. Which was a little weird because Virgil was pretty much the world’s worst lab partner, always assuming so strongly what would happen and planning to mess up, which in turn tended to mess them up. Now they seemed to talk about anything and everything, Virgil’s speaking ability permitted. Logan loved tea and Sherlock and classic literature (Victorianism not Romanticism) and jam and being right and debates and space. He really loved space. Whenever anyone brought up space his eyes lit up and it practically made Virgil’s heart do backflips. He was just glad one of the questions wasn’t “what do you like about them?” because Virgil could have written an essay. What was there, however, was far worse. 

          27. Write 10-20 poems about them.

Now Virgil was an emo nightmare of a person, but he did deviate from the trend in one key factor: He couldn’t write poems. No angsty sonnets for him, no haikus about suffering, no half-baked attempts to write his own songs. Nothing.

Virgil got up from his comfortable chair and started sifting through boxes on the floor, looking for something he’d rather forget. Underneath one particularly dusty pile of biology notes, he found what he’d been looking for, a beat up composition notebook that had served as his 6th grade English notebook. He flipped through the pages, stopping when he finally found the page labeled “poetry rules”. How he remembered this page, he had no idea, but was at least partially thankful for it.  

Haikus: 3 lines. 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables. Doesn’t have to rhyme. ��

Well that seemed easy enough.

****

Your eyes look really nice  

Magnified by your glasses  

Blue as the ocean   

Your hair looks fluffy  

I want to touch it sometimes  

So soft and shiny  

****  

Logan anticipated a lot of things. He anticipated his AP World History teacher to say something dull or ignorant during class. He anticipated the way his earl grey would taste every morning, bitter with hints of citrus. He even, on occasion, anticipated the perpetrator in his mystery novels, attempting to figure it out before the detective did. What Logan did not anticipate was two of his friends running towards him before he could enter school for the day.

“Logan, something absolutely delightful happened inside,” Dolos said, dressed in a peculiar combination of a suit and rubber gloves. Remus nodded vigorously next to him, munching on what seemed to be frosting in an empty deodorant bottle.

“There’s something inside your locker Nerdy Wolverine!” Remus said, making an attempt at teasing out his own curiosity while simultaneously applying a neon green fake mustache to his upper lip.

“Remus, if it is rats again, I am really not interested, especially after last time-” Logan began, thinking back to the year they had decided to share a locker.

“Of course. Because we totally put it in there,” Dolos interrupted, rolling his eyes.

“I personally think it’s a jar full of angry hornets that’s set to break when you open your locker, releasing into the school and stinging everyone but Dolos says that’s “unrealistic” because he’s no fun,” Remus said, waving his hands around to simulate a hornet infestation.

“But if you didn’t put anything there, how do you know there is something in there to begin with?” Logan asked.  

“There was a sign on your locker,” Dolos said, gesturing to the door, “But don’t worry, it’s super tasteful.” With that, the two walked off, snickering. Despite the fact that school started in 20 minutes, they walked away from school.

Logan arrived at his locker, not knowing what exactly to prepare for. What he found, was his locker covered in dark blue paper hearts, “There’s a surprise inside” written on them. It was more distinctive    than he would have liked, but it certainly wasn’t the worst thing he could have come across. The hearts managed not to cover his lock, so he could easily open his locker, however what was on the inside proved the hearts correct, for it was definitely a surprise.

His locker was covered along the walls, flowers, candy, and streamers occupying any blank space along the sides. In the back of his locker, there was blue poster paper with words Logan didn’t bother to read. On the small shelf he had in his locker, he found sugar cookies in the pattern of the Microsoft logo, littered with little blue sprinkles.  

The most interesting thing however, was on the side of the door. Around twenty pieces of paper folded into little red paper hearts stuck with string onto the inside of his locker door. What was even more intriguing was the fact that there seemed to be words written on them. Carefully, he plucked one of them and unfolded it.

You smile so bright  

Your laugh makes me want to cry  

But in a good way  

Ok, so it wasn’t a great poem, but nevertheless Logan thought it had a particular quaint authenticity to it. He pulled them off, one by one, careful not to rip them. In every heart, he found a haiku of similar quality and theme. Virgil would probably enjoy them, and for a moment Logan considered giving him something like this. Virgil seemed to have a certain affection for particularly bad poetry, and Logan had an affection for Virgil. Besides, it seemed that some of the poems were just lyrics from some of Virgil’s favorite songs, something about falling boys and chemistry.  

When he had finished reading through the poems, Logan decided to have a better look at the poster in the back of his locker. Looking at the giant words on the paper answered some of his questions, but caused even more. Logan, I like you a lot. Go out with me? - Virgil.

 It made sense, that this whole display was a confession of sorts, however what didn’t make sense was the fact that it wasn’t, well, Virgil. Virgil was a little bit extra sometimes, but from what Logan knew of him, he was far too nervous to do something like this. And if it was Virgil, then where was he? Unless he had run off somewhere-

Virgil had definitely run off somewhere. He looked at his watch. He had fifteen minutes till class started, which was probably enough time to find him.

****

Virgil was, for lack of a better phrase, freaking the hell out. He got to school really early, early enough to intercept Logan, who got to school like half an hour before he really needed to. The night before, he realized he couldn’t go through with the showy confession. Logan would probably hate it and then maybe hate him, which would of course happen after Logan rejected him so then Logan would stop talking to him because Virgil embarrassed him with it and then Roman would hate him because it didn’t work and then his life would fall apart. So instead he decided to get to school early enough to intercept Logan and confess to him before he could see the giant confession, then explain what had happened when he got rejected and got it so Logan was never surprised with whatever Roman planned. He would wait in the empty classroom Logan spent study hall in (he worked out an arrangement with the science teachers) and wait for Logan, who usually came there before his locker. He felt like such a stalker knowing that, when in reality he just asked Logan’s friend Dolos.

Which would have worked out great, except Virgil couldn’t stop freaking out. He was just staring at the clock, anxiously waiting for him to come in, all the while mentally running through every worst case scenario. He had around 13 minutes before school started, which meant Logan had to be there. It would be any minute before-

“Hello?”

Logan was there, dressed formally as always, hair slicked back with a polo shirt and tie. Virgil was there too, but he was sitting on a table, staring at the clock above the door.

“Hi Logan,” Virgil said as calmly as he could, which happened to be not calmly at all. “I have, uh, something for you.”

Virgil reached behind him for the card he had made. He painted a swirly blue sky with Logan’s favorite constellation on it. Hopefully he would like it more than the giant display.

“It’s very nice looking,” Logan commented, looking at the front. “It even has Vega on it, my favorite.”

Logan probably didn’t even know what was going on. Virgil thought he was amazing, but even he had to admit Logan was clinically oblivious. Logan opened up the card, looking a little confused and surprised. But not angry or disappointed. So that was a step in the right direction.

Logan flipped around the card to show him the inside. Logan, would you like to maybe go out with me?  “Yes? Assuming you are asking what it seems you are asking, I would love to go out with you.”

What?

Virgil wasn’t sure if he was happy or confused or surprised, the emotions blending in the pit of his stomach. But he said yes. Logan said yes.  

“Y-yes? Are you sure?”

“Yes Virgil, I’m certain.”

Virgil let out a breath. He was in a calmer place and honestly a little light-headed. Logan sat next to him on the table, looking like he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Ok. In that case, be careful when you visit your locker. There’s something in there that’s a little, uh, extra,” Virgil said, trying to be as vague as possible. Logan’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“If you’re talking about the confession you made, I have already seen it. I apologize if I ruined any surprises.”

“You- But- You saw it? And you don’t hate me now?” Virgil asked, it a bit of a frenzy.

“No, not at all. I particularly liked the poems.”

Virgil was surprised. Flabbergasted. Betrayed. He could no longer tell if he wanted to punch or hug Roman. Maybe both.

“It was actually Roman’s idea, but I’m glad you don’t hate me,” Virgil said, wringing his hands and looking at Logan. “I also don’t have too much planned for the actual, um, date. I kind of assumed you’d say no.”

“You do like jumping to conclusions. Fortunately, I am prepared. There’s a new documentary on one of Jupiter’s moons, Callisto, and it will be playing Friday at seven thirty. Does that sound enjoyable?”

Virgil simply nodded with a smile.

“Perfect, I will pick you up at seven. It is, as they say, a date.” Logan said, surprisingly well prepared for someone who didn’t know he would be asked out. Both of them slid off the table, standing back on the ground. Just as Logan began to leave, Virgil reached out and tentatively caught his hand. Logan’s eyebrows raised for a moment, then turned more relaxed.

Slowly and happily, the two walked out together, hand in hand.

[demonsdarling]

lover first listen thoughts

some things about me: i love words. i write my feelings and my thoughts as much as possible. i’ve never been in love. i’m in love with the idea of love. i’ve been obsessed with miss swift since i was seven. i’m eighteen. this album has reinforced those incredibly strong feelings. i have fallen in love with even more of taylor’s words, and i hope my words help express my feelings about this wondrous album. it fills my heart and breaks it and makes me jump up and down and makes me wanna laugh and scream and dance. please enjoy my brain words.

i forgot you existed- relatable bop, love the lil spoken word bits. really enjoy miss swift’s voice, singing and speaking.

cruel summer - lyrically is so gooooood. HE LOOKS SO PRETTY LIKE A DEVIL. i think this might end up being a fav. so so catchy, please put this on the radio. i wanna scream to this at a party or with my friends.

lover - you already know i love this song soooo much. i am a sucker for love songs, and this is quite possibly my favorite one ever. definitely a contender for all time favorite song. might be my favorite taylor song.

THE MAN. - goes HARD !!! holy shit!!! taylor!!! wowie. miss swift SNAPPED!! sonically amazing! brooo im loving this. also little detail i love the way she says “i’m” in the chorus. love the bridge too!! snapped. went off. no one else could ever.

the archer - when it comes to track 5, this might be my favorite. actually the only other track 5 that compares in my heart is ayhtdws (sorry guys i just have taste. sad upbeat bops and loving slow songs are everything to me!!)

i think he knows - when the snaps started i was surprised! i thought it’d be slow. this is sexy. i relate to this one but he does not know actually. this is so hot. OH THE BRIDGE! OH! i wanna be in love, wanna be touched.

miss americana & the heartbreak prince - the verse like a poem. it’s full metaphor and i love it. sounds just like i expected. the chorus reminds me of rep! i love the high school vibes, it’s my first night at college. sounds like a mix between king of my heart and i did something bad. i really love this. i’ll be saying that for the whole album i think. i really enjoy the cheering in this it really emphasizes the high school vibes (go! fight! win! miss swift left the bleachers and is now cheer captain).

paper rings - AHH!! i love thèse vibes. this is so me. so so me. it sounds like the early 2000s. oh god i want this i want this so bad. this is love this is FUN HAPPY LOVE. this is dancing and laughing. sliding around on the floor in fuzzy socks. gently laughing kisses. definitely a favorite. i’m so in love. i feel this pulling at my heartstrings.

cornelia street - this is the second time she’s said drunk in the backseat. i will think about that later, for now i like the story this is telling me. i feel the fear of losing someone. i feel the pain that comes with that fear. to me, the beat attempts to mask those feelings but they shine through with her words. i can hear the worries of the biggest heartbreak ever. it’s terrifying to feel you’ve found true love and to be scared of losing it. the bridge sounds like another song i can’t place rn because i am too busy listening to this one. i feel like i heard her voice crack around 3:40. this holds the strongest emotions so far.

death by a thousand cuts - i wasn’t thinking this could be about love but of course it is!! the sounds in this are so unique and lovely. i love the chimes and the cowbell sound. one is in each ear right now. wow second verse wow. hey i like the guitar and vocals being on their own. i want to share this one with everyone i meet.

london boy - hey wow. i feel like this is worldwide love. DARLING I FANCY YOU. wow. she just keeps mentioning british things i’m smiling so much. someone take me to dance around london please. worldwide i love you taylor swift. i guess all the rumors (but probably spelled with a “u”) are true.

soon you’ll get better - i think i am not prepared. we will see. oh no oh god. i’m scared. this is a mom song. oh i can’t handle those they make me cry so much. oh my god i am crying. i love my mommy so much she is my best friend. i can’t imagine what it’s like for taylor. “you’ll get better soon, cause you have to” is the most important thing i ever have heard. i will take that and make it my own. “i hate to make this all about me...” hurt me hard. i love my mom. oh her deep breath about 30 seconds to the end.

false god - maam i cant switch that QUICKLY. it’s good as heck though. i got distracted at the beginning, thinking about should i send soon you’ll get better to my mom. OH LO-O-O-O-OVE. OH THATS GOOD. OH!! this album is showing really the trials and tribulations that exist even in true love, and i think that’s so important.

you need to calm down - this is a forever bop. i don’t have many new words for this one, but i love it oh so much! people don’t appreciate her as much as they should.

afterglow - one of my already fav songs is called afterglow, so i’m biased toward it already. this is really nice. i love the sound of this, and the emotions that shine through with the words. “meet me in the afterglow” is a beautiful line. i love it oh so much. i want to say it to a certain someone.

me! - i think i’m one of the few who genuinely enjoys this song. it will forever remind me of driving with my friends, all of us yelling “me hee hee hoo hoo hoo”. i have one specific memory, in the backseat, it’s sunset and i’m with two of my best friends and another i’m so grateful to have found this past year. three people i love singing along to a fun song by another person i love. i will cherish that forever. HEY KIDS SPELLING IS FUN IS GONE?? i was confused by that but okay.

it’s nice to have a friend - this is so very different from everything we’ve ever heard from taylor before. i’m really feeling this actually because i love and miss my friends so freaking much!! they mean so much to me. and i have this one new friend, my first college friend, who i’m so grateful to have and so glad she wants me to be her friend. i know that’s not the point of the song, i won’t be marrying her, but it is what i’m thinking about right now. now to the real words in it. the love in it is really warm. it was a really short song but i think it works. this feels like mary’s song. love you logan.

daylight- STEP INTO THE MF DAYLIGHT AND LET IT GO!!!!! love this so so much already. oh this is pulling my heart. oh wow. it’s golden. you are golden. we are golden together miss taylor. thank you oh so so much. she said step into the daylight and let it go. omg the voice memo- oh i love that. you are what you love. wow. the most beautiful way to end an album.

[shxtxpp]

Patton Giving Love

This was talked about in discord by @crystals-and-cream , and I really wanted to write this idea

Warnings: Child Abuse, Mention of Abusive Relationship, Mention of Family Death, Child Abandonment, Abandonment Issues, Trust Issues, Some Caps, Nightmare mention, Lying, Deceit (but Sympathetic), Mention of PTSD, Mention of Depression, Mention of Bipolar, let me know if I missed any

This is a summary so far, I might write this out

Summary:

Patton was abused as a child by his father

Emotionally, verbally and physically

Ran away at the age of 16, not being able to handle it anymore

He lived out of his car all through high school, glad his father didn’t look for him

Patton made sure to work hard for his grades, getting a full ride to college

Graduated at the top of his class

Went to college with a full ride, majoring in Criminal Justice Juvenile and having a minor in psychology

Graduated again top of his class

Throughout college, he was in an abusive relationship and found it hard to escape but was able to thanks to his friend Emile

Once he graduated, he found an apartment that was in his price zone (how? idk) and went job hunting to find a job, and was able to work with at-risk youths in the local juvie and used his psychology minor for good

Years later, he had four adopted son

His past catches up with him when his father comes for a visit one day

He keeps him away from the kids, and I’ll explain more later

Recovery is hard, but he fights to at least try to get better in a way (PTSD, Depression, Bipolar Disorder)

At the end of the day, Patton and his sons are in a happy home, and he gives them all the love they deserve and more than that. No matter what, he will protect and love these boys

The boys love him as well, and they make sure to tell him everyday. Sure they misbehave, and Patton’s outbursts are unexpected, but they always help him through it (but Patton feels guilty and doesn’t want it to bother them), and no matter what, will defend him

Sure they’re all broken in a way, but they help each other out in a way that many don’t understand

Patton getting Logan

Adopted him first when he was age 9

Had decided to start a family after he settled down (3 years later)

Saw how reclusive and independent Logan was

Wanted to show him that it’s okay to have fun

Logan was hesitant at first, mostly because he was scared to be abandoned

Was put in the system after his parents died in a car crash

That’s when he became reclusive

Took months (the process) and more months for Logan to bond with Patton

When they went home, Patton decided to bake cookies for him (sugar cookies)

Had asked Logan how he wanted it to be decorated

Logan wanted stars and started to ramble about stars and how they looked

Patton listened the whole time while decorating

Once nighttime came, Patton decided to order a telescope for Logan

When it came (2 day shipping dudes) Logan was ecstatic and pretty much bouncing around and waiting for nighttime to come

That’s when Logan knew that Patton would love him

Patton getting Roman

Roman is the second to come to the family

How he was adopted was different than Logan

He was age eleven when Patton found him in the streets

Roman was about to pickpocket him when Logan (now 12) saw him and yelled at him

Patton turned around and saw a frozen child, his hand near his pocket

Patton took pity on him and asked where his parents were, shocked when Roman said his parents abandoned him

He didn’t know what to do, and he didn’t want to turn him into the police so he said to come home with, showing him his badge (as he worked for the police [idk how it works hang on with me please])

Roman followed, not wanting to go to jail, and was ready to run if this guy was false

They arrived home and Patton had him sit down while he had Logan go to his room and wait

They talked and Patton felt his heartbreak as he heard why he was abandoned (will tell later on)

Patton decides to take him in there and starts the process (also to have his parents arrested) and about a certain amount of time later, Roman is legally his

Roman takes his time to feel at home, scared to be abandoned again (has abandonment issues) but slowly feels at home

Takes time to get used to Logan, but they soon share a passion of poems and stars (which is what wins Logan over)

Roman gets too rambunctious and Logan is there to give him some logic and help balance out his creativity

Roman vows to protect them no matter what

Patton is happy his home is growing and that his boys get along

Patton getting Deceit (Name?)

Deceit is a trip

Patton gets assigned to a case, this is a difficult child

He is homeless, and has a pretty extensive record already

“HE IS ONLY 14?!” “Yeah, but they start off early” (Logan is 14, Roman is 13)

Patton discovers he only talks by lies after a few sessions, and soon starts understanding him

Deceit is shocked when someone finally understands his words, and he doesn’t know what to do with that information

After a few months, he slowly opens up to Patton and Patton is excited at the progress but makes sure not to startle Deceit

Deceit gets scared at the warm feeling he feels when Patton comes to his cell everyday for their daily talk, and cries when Patton doesn’t for one day (Due to being at Roman’s school for show and tell) (He forgot to tell Deceit) (When he comes back, Deceit is yelling at him and crying at the same time for leaving him alone)

Deceit ran away from his home as he was being abused (verbally/emotionally) and only used as a donor baby for his older brother and has lived on the streets or with other people for a year

Patton knows that Deceit has to serve a year in juvie, and he makes sure that Deceit is getting his education

He decides to become a foster parent for him once he gets out, knowing by now he needs a bigger place

“Patton! You can’t adopt every child you see!” “But he needs a family” “Yeah, but you’re going to end up adopting the whole place!” “Then so be it!”

He was able to become a foster parent for Deceit, and would wait to adopt him in case Deceit didn’t want him to be his father

Deceit was not happy to finally be out (again, he talks by lies) and was not excited to meet what would be his ‘brothers’

Patton smiles and had explained to the boys how Deceit talks and to make him feel at home

Once home, Roman bombards him with questions about Disney and what he likes while Logan takes it slow

He is not startled and does not cling onto Patton at Roman

Patton chuckles and tells the Roman to take it slow

Once Deceit is settled, it is revealed he hates Disney, in specific the villains

Roman is happy to finally have someone to sing along with him

Patton smiles and loves his growing family

Deceit and Roman get along the most, as they had similar pasts

(Deceit is adopted 5 months later as he never wants to leave this family [the first time he says the truth])

Patton getting Virgil

Virgil is the last and the youngest to come into the home (which by now Patton has gotten a big home)

He is 13 (Logan and Deceit are 16, Roman is 15)

He is been through too much that is a miracle he is alive

His parents died when he was 1, his uncle took him in and then died when Virgil was 3, and his aunt took him in then dropped him off at the orphanage when he was only 5

He has huge trust issues

He jumps through foster homes, and since the orphanage know Patton, they ask him if he wants to foster Virgil

He accepts and goes through his file and cries at what this poor boy has gone through

When Virgil arrives, he makes the boys are quiet and don’t startle him at all as he’ll be spooked

Virgil glares at Patton when he tries to take his bag to help him in, thinking Patton is like his other foster parents

He is shocked though when Patton tells him his room is upstairs instead of saying it’s the couch or in the basement

He ignores the boys and follows Patton to his room, not getting comfortable at first

He locks himself in once Patton leaves

Patton knows it’ll take time, but he goes to bake him some welcome treats and make a welcome dinner

Virgil doesn’t like how happy everyone is, thinking it is all false and soon they would turn on him

He just sleeps in the whole day

Wakes up in the middle of the night from a nightmare and opens the door, finding a plate of dinner on the floor with a bottle water and a plate of cookies

He takes it in quickly and eats it slowly, savoring it

Maybe this family isn’t bad

Months passed and he has yet to open up, doing his routine of going to school, coming home, locking himself in, eating during dinner time, then locks himself

However, after one particular nightmare, he wakes up screaming and crying

Everything feels off and he feels suffocated, throwing off his blankets and taking off his shirt

Patton runs in at the sudden scream (light sleeper) and careful with Virgil, he kneels next to his bed and doesn’t touch him and talks to him slowly

Virgil looks at him and follows whatever technique he is doing with his hands and after a while, he is able to breathe and slow his heartbeat

He hugs Patton immediately, and Patton stays still, asking for permission to touch him and when Virgil says yes, he hugs him gently

This is when Virgil feels that he could trust him

Everything goes by slow, and after a year of fostering him, Virgil exclusively asks Patton to adopt him

(During that time, he slightly gets along with Deceit, appreciates how Logan is grounded to earth and that relaxes him, scared by how eccentric Roman is but they both have an appreciation for Disney and Musicals)

-

Patton loves his sons, and gives them all the best love he can

The boys love Patton, and they remind him everyday in their own way

Father’s Day is an emotional day for Patton, as the boys get him separate gifts

Virgil makes him a card he made, along with a drawing of all of them

Deceit gives him a charm bracelet that has dogs, snakes and hearts

Roman makes him a mug saying “An Amazing King and Father”

Logan gives a necklace that has a crescent moon and starts

Patton cries and he hugs them all (somehow)

The boys smile and just hug him back

tag: @pattonly-gay

[marshmallowatheart]

To All The Boys I've Loved Before (Part 30)

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29)

Dear Veronica,

Kissing you feels like the start of a new season, the sun in the early morning, and moonlight reflecting on the ocean. There is never a moment that I don’t think about your lips and how they make me feel when they are on mine.

I wish I were kissing you instead of just writing about it.

- L

P.S. You look beautiful today. You always do.

Veronica’s grin breaks through her face as she reads the note again and again. She bites her lip, grinning and embraces the feeling of being the absolute giddy teenage girl that she's come to be.

She’d fallen asleep with a smile the night they'd admitted to wanting them to be real and she'd been falling asleep smiling ever since with memories of his lips on hers and his confession of love playing in her mind. Logan Echolls really should come with a warning label and a list of side-effects; it's barely been a week and she feels addicted.

They’re in Journalism class when he slips her his note, he’s talking to Dick – hands wild and grin blazing as he talks about the upcoming surf competition they’re both sure to participate in when she reads the little poem he’s found for her. She softly smiles as he chatters on and she decidingly puts pen to paper.

Dear Logan,

things that fall

petals

tear drops

snowflakes

rain

stars

tides

eyelids

time

shadows

leaves

the sun

and I,

for you.

She’d seen this little snippet at a time when she'd thought her love unrequited. Ever since Logan had come back into her life and re-familiarised himself with her heart every little love poem, sappy quote, meaningful lyric became about him.

She’d never thought she’d actually share them with him but she hasn't responded to his notes before and she finds herself wanting to know if he'll smile at her note like she does at his.

She glances at his note, biting down on her lip and continues to write.

I love the way I feel when your lips are on mine.

- V

P.S. I wish you were kissing me too.

She folds it up, inks his name on the outside like he does with hers and lets it sit beneath her book as she waits for him to return to his seat beside her.

She hasn't actually given anyone a love note before. She's written her letters but those were just for her and she hadn't been the one to send them out - she didn't get the chance to feel the anticipation brim up inside her as the letters ventured out into the hands of the objects of her once affections.

She thinks that she could slip the note into his book and wait for him to open it but he's Logan and chances are he'll snark his way through class until the bell rings without opening his book. She could slip it into his pocket like he's done before but she doesn't think she can pull it off in the sauve way that he can. She could let it sit in his locker but she wants him to see it as soon as possible because her nerves are building as the note sleeps under her hardcover book.

He spins himself into his seat as Ms Dent begins to talk about layouts and interviews and things that Veronica should be listening to but can't seem to care about; she's got her on-going assignment and she knows she's not going to be asked to submit anything else along with it.

Her eyes find his brown ones between the chaos of their classmates negotiating on their assigned pieces. They're next to each other but not close enough to be touching

It's become devastatingly difficult to not touch him because she wants to feel his skin under the tips of her fingers and she wants to let herself fall in a spell of his fingers against her skin. Her body aches with the memory of his fingers on her neck and his lips on her jaw and it wants more.

She bites on her bottom lip and his eyes are immediately drawn south to her coloured lips that's peach, glossy and sweet - she thinks of his note and how he wishes he were kissing her - she finds herself looking at his lips too.

He looks like he wants to say something, whisper something to her, let his fingers touch her skin but he stays silent and tries to refocus, taking deep breaths and she knows that he's thinking about the four minute heated make out session they had in his car before they had to enter school this morning.

She sucks in a breath and leans closer to him. He moves forward, meeting her half way and she holds out her note for him between two fingers like it's something she's casually doing and she hopes it hides how much thought she's put into the simple act of passing him a little note - an act he's able to do everyday without a second thought.

She doesn't feel too confident about how she gave him the note, her body is jittery and she needs to turn away because his eyes are smouldery and his lips are looking as kissable as ever.

He looks surprised and soft and gentle and happy and she doesn't understand how his name sprawled on a folded side of the piece of paper incites so much of feeling into his brown eyes.

She looks away as he opens her note because as much as she wants to see his reaction to her words, her heart is beating a bit too fast and she's not sure if she can handle seeing his smouldering eyes without kissing him right here in the middle of class.

The minutes drag on to what seems like forever and the moment class is over he pulls her into the girls bathroom, slapping her out of order sign on the door - once again making use of the little red warning sign she initially only used for investigative purposes.

She's propped up on the bathroom counter, legs wrapped around his waist and his mouth on hers - hard, long, needy kisses.

Their hands are tangled around one another, grasping for closeness as they squeeze in their need for each other in the five very short minutes they have until their next class.

They haven't had time to be alone since their confession of wanting their relationship to be real. She's had soccer practice and Heather shaped obligations she's taken on while he's getting ready for surf competitions and accompanying his mother to formal events she'd rather not be alone at. The only time she's gotten to see him when he picks her and Heather up for school, at school and when he drops them home.

All they've had this week were stolen kisses between hours, brushing of hands as they go their separate ways coupled with heated glances from across the hallway. And Logan's little notes. Notes that flame the fires within her and make her feel the ache of not having him to herself now when he's finally hers to have.

They're late to their next class and Veronica's grateful for the tardy slips she's kept from months ago.

--vm--

It's Friday night and there's parties being thrown and appearances needed to be made but Veronica's home baking last minute cookies for Heather and her friends because she's written sleepover on Meg's to-do board that's hung on the side of the fridge and her dad is still working the night shift so she's got supervision duties.

She's working fast, shaping up cookies and baking them as quick as she possibly can. Her hair is a mess, the kitchen is a mess and the once neatly organised planner board is a mess. She remembers Heather swooning about Nutella filled crepes and fruit filled crepes and dozens of other homemade options that she'd had at her last slumber party because Lauren's mother is a perfectionist. Meg's never let them feel disappointment over not having something other kids had, she worked hard at cultivating fancy dishes and napkins and organising entertainment. Veronica wasn't about to be the one that damaged her sister's childhood.

"Ronica? Are you done yet?" Heather asks, tilting her head as she throws her bag on the side of the couch. "I need to be at Ophelia's in like thirty minutes so we have a bit of time before the sleepover."

Veronica's brows furrow, still working on the cookies, trying to be fast and diligent at the same time. "Why doesn't she come over here? I mean wouldn't that be easier?"

Her sister shoots her a quizzical look, plopping on a bar stole and stealing a bit of cookie dough. "Uhm no, we're staying over at her place, I told you this last week."

"Wait," Veronica stops, hands resting on the counter top as she looks at her sister in her eyes. "The sleepover isn't here?"

"No," Heather shakes her head, oblivious to her sister's incredulous expression as she licks her fingers. "Why would you think that?"

"Because," the older Mars blows out. "The board. Sleepover," she says and wants to hit her head for not being specific enough. She sighs. "Let's wait for this batch to be done, it'll take ten minutes more to bake and you can take it with you to Ophelia's."

Heather beams, bright eyes and toothy grin. "Thanks, Ronica."

She gives her sister a soft smile before she asks, "So are you and Ophelia good? I mean, did you talk to her?"

"I didn't have to," the little girl starts her story. "I saw Ophelia give Ryan her red balloon. She loves balloons. She wouldn't even let me have a balloon and I'm her best friend."

Veronica's brows furrow as she continues to stare at her little sister. "Because you always pop your balloons. It's like you're a human cactus."

Heather shoots her a glare. "Whatever. You don't understand how it looked under the sunset sky and the two of them smiling at each other. And she told him that she likes him."

"Were you spying on them?" Veronica asks, brow arched and tries to put on a disapproving face - she either fails or Heather doesn't take notice.

"I was observing my friends from a distance," the little blonde reasons.

"Uh-huh. Heather -"

Her sister doesn't let her finish as she continues with her story, "It's only after we went on the Ferris Wheel and Ryan gave me the red balloon that I realized that Ophelia was only trying to help him because she liked him as a friend."

"He gave it to you? I didn't see you with a balloon."

"Because it got popped," Heather tells her, sighing loudly like she misses the balloon. "Ophelia knew it would too. She thought it might break the ice between us, give us something to laugh at because I get nervous around him," she explains everything so quickly that Veronica almost doesn't catch the end bit but thankfully she's trained herself to be an attentive listener.

"Heather Mars, nervous?" Veronica clunks her tongue with the roof of her mouth. She looks at her sister nostalgically and says, "You're growing up way too fast."

--vm--

She texts Logan about her change of plans when she gets home from dropping Heather off. He doesn't ask her to come to the party with him, she doesn't really want to go but she feels disappointed that he doesn't offer because she does want to spend time with him even if it means sharing him with his friends.

She turns on her music, puts her apron back on, starts to finish off making the cookies and tries to let go of her woes for the night.

It's when she's cleaning up the mess she's made in the kitchen that she hears the unexpected chime of the door bell. Grinning before her, clad in a green shirt and blue jeans is her brown eyed, snarky and hot mouthed boyfriend.

"Hey," he lets out, soft and needy and she honestly wasn't expecting him to be here at her doorstep tonight.

"Hey," she breaths out, head tilted slightly, curious eyes and appreciative smile because she's happy that he's here. She missed him.

"Kiss the Baker," he reads, trademark smirk on his lips, looking at her with twinkling eyes as he comes in.

She closes the door behind him and gives him a curious look, he pointedly gestures to her apron with his brows and she chuckles, rolling her eyes.

He moves in closer to her, eyes set on hers as his arms come to wrap around her waist. "Who am I to deny the embedded command of the apron makers?"

She chuckles, teasing grin falling on her lips as she stares up at him with equal playfulness. Her arms snake up his sides and she adds, "You wouldn't want to upset them."

"Mm," he bops her nose with his before leaning in and whispering, "I wouldn't want that."

She sucks in slightly when his warm breath lingers on her lips before he closes the gap between them, capturing her lips with his in a sweet, sensual kiss.

He smiles, breaking from her before it got too deep. "Is that cookies I smell?"

She doesn't answer him, instead she moves her hands to his neck and pulls him back down to her, kissing him deeper and longer than their initial kiss. He has no qualms taking her into his arms and falling into the their kiss or the kisses that follow.

It feels good to not be in a race against time, they're on her couch when Veronica finds herself glancing at the clock. She knows that Casey Gant's party has already started so she asks Logan about it and all he does is inaudibly mumble against her skin and she can't help but chuckle in response. "I thought you wanted to go to the party?"

He nuzzles his nose into her hair and murmurs into her skin, "Not tonight. It's been too long since I've hand my Veronica full. I want to be selfish with you for a little bit longer."

He kisses her neck, lightly sucking careful to not leave a mark - not that he doesn't want to but he knows it'll be awkward for her and he doesn't want to put her in that position.

She aches into him at his words, lightly nods, his lips now pepping shoulder kisses as she airs out, "I didn't want to go to the party anyway."

He smiles against her neck, his nose pressing hard against her and she doesn't know why his nose of all parts of his body but it does.

She pulls back slightly, nudging his head up with her hands and kissing him senselessly. She's so filled with want and need and uncharted desire that she doesn't really know what to do with it. She just knows that she wants to kiss him until their lips are swollen and numb to the point where they can't kiss anymore.

Her lips find his neck, she peps kisses like he had done for her and he moves his neck easily to accommodate her. Her kisses line up to his jaw before she finds her way back to the crook of his neck and lightly sucks and bites. He groans, his neck leaning into her with force she hasn't felt before and she likes it. She wants him to do that more, make noises and press his body tighter against her.

He pulls away, capturing her face with his hands, he brings her mouth to his, kissing her fully and pouring his need into her. Their eyes are closed as they lean into each other, gasping silently for air between their long drawn kisses.

Her throat feels dry and the house is quiet reminding her of how alone they are. "Do you wanna go upstairs?" She means to be suggestive but she doesn't really know how to be especially not when he's pressed against her like this and she's melting into his touch. She thinks that the suggestion is obvious enough given the context of their position.

He leans in harder into her before bowing out. "I don't think that's a good idea," he breaths out.

"Oh," she lets out, disappointing breaking through the silence.

He tightens his hold on her, silently begging for her to not misunderstand him. "I don't want us to move too fast," he tries to explain, he's never had to have this particular conversation before but he often finds himself getting lost in the taste of Veronica and it takes everything in him to break away. They're alone in this house but he knows the sanctity of the couch will preserve him some limitations that her bedroom doesn't offer. He doesn't want her to regret him.

She nods her head against him, insecurity rattling it's way up her spine and he wants to assure her but his methods come in ways that he doesn't think she's ready for so he takes a minute and tries to gather his words. He holds onto her, letting his touch assure her until his words can. "I want you so much, Veronica," he finally whispers against the silence. "I don't want to ruin us by being too selfish."

"How is it selfish if I want you too?" She whimpers out against him. She doesn't know what she's promising. She wants his skin against hers. She wants him in her arms and she wants his mouth on her lips, her neck and everywhere his hands touch. He makes her want more but she's not sure what exactly more is yet.

He whispers his love against her skin and she revels in the glory that it brings. He doesn't move them to her room and she's silently relieved because she finds herself wanting more than she's ready for and she's not sure how he knows but she's thankful that he does.

They switch on a movie, wrapped in each other, fingers caressing skin and kisses in between snarky remarks. It's calmer than before and it feels good to just be in his arms.

[rainbowplaidvirgil]

Cinnamon Cookies - chapter Two

Read me on AO3

Warnings: Mentions of pas trauma and abuse, anxiety, being a dick to foster kids

Logan led Virgil to creative writing, and they ended sitting in the back of the class together, because that’s where the empty seats were, and because Logan was the only person that Virgil knew. Apparently, the class was working on poetry for their current unit. Virgil could deal with that. He… had dabbled in it before. Dr. Picani had told him to try it, because it “might be a good way to get your feeling down on paper without that journaling that you seem to be so vehemently against.”

The teacher in the front of the class, whom Logan informed him was a man named Mr. Remy, began the class.

“Now, y’all,” he took a sip of the starbucks that he had in his hand, “I want you to really put some effort into this first project. I know, I know, poetry can be painful but I think this will be good for you guys. Get some feeling down on that paper.”

Right. Because Virgil was totally going to “get some feeling” down on a paper that he was going to hand in to a teacher he didn't know. He’d take the F on this project, thanks.

“There is one thing, though. You aren’t writing about yourself. You will be writing an ode to an object. It can be anything. A book, a trash can, cup of coffee,” he paused to gaze longingly at his Starbucks cup, sending a ripple of laughter through the class, “but seriously, it could be anything. Before we get started on that, we’re going to be reading an example of this called ‘Ode to My Socks’ by Pablo Neruda.”

Mr. Remy handed out the poems, and they read. Virgil supposed he liked the poem. It was a little odd, he guessed. They spent the rest of the class brainstorming and writing. Virgil decided that would write about Cinnamon cookies.

The rest of his classes until lunch were uneventful and nerve wracking. He didn't have anyone he knew. He guessed Dee, Thomas, and Logan all had different classes. When lunch came, he walked to the cafeteria nervously, shoulders drawn in, head looking at his own scuffed combat boots. He didn’t get a lunch, he wasn’t hungry, really. He looked around the cafeteria for a face he recognized.

“Hello Virgil. I see we have the same lunch,” he turned around and- yup, it was Logan, “would you like to sit with me. You do not have to, but I figured I would offer.”

“Oh, uh,” Virgil glanced around one more time for Thomas and Dee, but when he failed to find them, he nodded, “sure, why not.”

The two wandered to a quieter corner of the cafeteria, pretty much away from anyone else, and sat.

“How come you did not get lunch?” Logan inquired.

“Wasn’t hungry,” he shrugged.

“It is still beneficial to eat during mealtimes, even when one is not currently hungry. It helps to maintain a more consistent eating, and also sleeping, schedule.”

“... Right, Whatever you say, dude.”

“I say this only because I have noticed that you seem fatigued. While this fatigue may be unusual for you, I have no way of knowing., it is still troublesome. A lack of sleep ca-” Logan then got cut off, much to his annoyance.

“Virgil! There you are!” It was Thomas, with Dee and… someone Virgil didn't recognize in tow.

He exchanged an uncomfortable grimace with Logan as the three others sat down. Too many people already. He was fine if Dee and maybe Thomas sat there, but not anyone else. It seemed Logan shared his discomfort with unknown people.

“Sup,” he mumbled, playing with the zippers of his hoodie anxiously. He kept glancing at the other person whom had joined their midst anxiously, being careful not to stare. Didn’t want to repeat of this morning.He felt Logan’s eyes on him, but he decided not to make a big deal out of it.

“Virgil, this is Joan, my bestest friend! Joan, this is Virgil, my other new foster brother, and Dee’s twin,” Thomas introduced.

Joan stuck out their hand to greet Virgil properly. He hesitated momentarily before doing the same, and they shook hands briefly, but not briefly enough for Virgil’s tastes.

“It’s nice to meet you Virgil!”

“Oh, uh, yeah, likewise,” Virgil shrugged.

The rest of lunch passed, with Virgil curling in on himself and occasionally contributing to the dreaded smalltalk that had settled over the group. He made it through the rest of classes without incident, mercifully. Finally, it was time to go home.

Once he was out of the school building, Virgil could breathe a little easier. The three foster siblings spent a few moments looking for Patton’s car, before Thomas spotted it and directed them through the bustling traffic that plagued the school at 3:15 PM each week day.

As they approached the car, Virgil felt another pang of panic. There was an adult he didn’t recognize. He was dressed rather formally, in white and red and gold. There was an air of authority about him that left a bitter taste on Virgil’s tongue. He immediately did not trust this man.

“Hey kids!” Patton leaned forward a bit so they could see eachother past “the bad man,” as Virgil decided to label him in his head until he had a more suitable one. Seeing Patton calmed Virgil’s nerves little bit, but only just.

“This is Roman, my boyfriend,” Patton introduced cheerfully.

Roman gave the kids a small wave, a polished smile spreading on his face, “Hello, I am to assume you are the new foster children that my darling Patton had told me so much about?”

Virgil was reminded eerily of the wicked stepmother from Cinderella. He hoped he was wrong, and he was just misjudging (as Dr. Picani so often insisted he did,) but, he knew from experience, a lot of the times, he wasn’t wrong.

His anxiety only increased as he stepped into the back seat of the Jeep with Thomas and Dee. He looked over at Thomas and muttered, “have you met this guy before? I’m suspicious.”

“Once, he seems pretty okay, though,” Thomas mumbled back.

“Your fear is completely rational and you’re totally not overreacting,” Dee hissed.

“Have I been wrong before?” He sent a glare Dee’s way.

“You were right about Patton,” Dee countered triumphantly

“That’s one time and besides, it’s still too early to tell-”

“What are you kids whispering about back there?” Patton raised an eyebrow at them from the rearview mirror.

“Nothing!” thomas squeaked a little too quickly. Virgil appreciated the effort to cover for them, but… Thomas was not good at lying.

Roman hummed suspiciously, “they’re probably plotting against us, dearest. You know how foster kids are.”

Virgil growled. What had this guy just said about them? He understood when people said that about him, he was most definitely probably plotting against people all the time, but about Dee and Thomas? Who did this guy think he was. He opened his mouth to go off on this absolute bastard, but surprisingly, Patton beat him too it.

“Excuse me Roman,” Patton’s grip on the steering wheel tightened infinitesimally, “but I would really appreciate it if you didn’t generalize an entire group of people. All three of these kids are very sweet, and would never, ever hurt us. And need I remind you that that group of people you just insulted includes myself as well.”

Virgil blinked. Patton had been in foster care? That made Virgil trust him a little more. He had been in their situation. He knew how they must feel.

“You know I didn’t mean you, my lo-”

“Roman, please apologize to my three absolute angels, or you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

The other man sighed. “Fine, I’m sorry, you three, I’m sure you’re great kids. It’s just that you give me the heebie-jeebies. Especially the two dressed in black.”

“Thanks,” Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Well aren’t you sweet,” Dee grumbled.

“Roman, please, be nice,” Patton ground out through gritted teeth, before perking back up and changing the subject, “Anyway, we’re having fried chicken for dinner! WIth mac and cheese and corn!”

Patton’s demeanor change kind of concerned Virgil. There was no way he changed moods that quickly. But, he supposed, he would wait to say something. No use bringing it up when trapped in the care. Instead, he opted to pet Dee’s hair comfortingly, as his twin brother had laid his head on Virgil’s shoulder anyway.

[lincolnbrendt]

self para || mad world

Day 1:

“It’s only the first day, Linc, it’s totally normal for her to stay out.” Daisy’s voice was always so well controlled that he didn’t know if she believed the words she was saying. She probably didn’t, he told himself. “You know she’s been through a lot. She just needs a break.”

Lincoln nodded silently as he watched the redheads fingers move nimbly through Mallory’s blonde hair, twirling them into two plaits. He must have zoned out when they’d cleaned the blood out of it. That made it easier for him to breathe every time he looked at her.

Daisy left, not trying to say anything further to Lincoln. A gesture he appreciated because he didn’t know if he remembered how to speak anymore. Lucy came out from behind the curtain as Adam’s mother’s voice was heard in the distance. His sister might have said something to him, but he couldn’t tell. The woman he’d come to know as Nicole held out a black coffee from the machine for Lincoln.

“You seem to need it,” she spoke in a gentle voice, smiling at Lucy who thanked her on Lincoln’s behalf. Lincoln wondered wryly how much the woman would smile if she knew she was in the same room as her future grandchild with absolutely no clue. “And Ms. Brendt, dear, I do hope you and your baby are doing well. I can’t imagine what you went through.”

If he’d had any energy, he would have nearly scoffed.

The woman and her husband disappeared to talk to their son and his jaw tightened as he heard Adam’s voice. It was a selfish thought of him to have, but he thought he might have swapped Mallory’s place with his in a heartbeat. After the idea passed his mind he began tugging at his own hair, hating himself for being so selfish but he couldn’t help it he couldn’t help it he didn’t mean to think that.

“Hey, Lincoln, hey come on stop, hey stop doing that.” It was Lucy’s voice that broke through the waves of guilt he felt, bringing him back to reality.

“No no no no I thought something bad I thought a bad thing.”

“What bad thing Lincoln? Lincoln what bad thing?”

And just like that, he snapped out of it, making himself take a deep breath.

“Never mind. I just… I d-do-d-don’t r-r-rem-member.” A lie, but one that was for the best. The concern on Lucy’s face became more prevalent than before, and Lincoln forced a smile. “I-I’m go-g-gonna go get s-some foo-f-food. I’ll be back soon.”

Day 3:

It had been far too long since Lincoln had shaved or showered or done anything to take care of himself. He couldn’t do anything but sit there, wasting away in the chair as he watched the line on Mallory’s heart monitor go up and down. Empty coffee cups sat on the desk behind him, broken poems scribbled on the side as he’d always done for Mallory before.

It was only day 3.

People were still telling him to hold onto hope. That this was nothing out of the ordinary.

He wondered if they understood that the only reason he survived the weeks without her before was by knowing she was a phone call away and knowing that once he was brave enough to face her and his mistake they would be fine.

He wondered if they understood that the labyrinth his mind had become over the years was unnavigable without the light she provided with her heartbeat.

He wondered if they understood that every day she stayed asleep, his sanity fled deeper and deeper into that labyrinth.

Day 5:

Sleep was no longer a concept Lincoln really remembered. He was downing a large coffee at least four times a day and even if he hadn’t been chugging so much espresso his mind wouldn’t have shut off long enough to allow him a rest more than the occasional hour long naps when he found himself bogged down by a vivid nightmare over and over again. Mallory, bloody and dead in his arms.

His knees were tucked up against his chest as he sat near her bed now. He was trying to read aloud from the book of his poetry he’d roughly constructed but the words and letters were floating around on the page as he tried.

In the distance - or perhaps right next to him he no longer cared enough to tell - he heard a nurse discussing his own health with someone who sounded like Logan. Then again it could have been Lucy or Daisy or anyone who wasn’t Mallory because Mallory couldn’t speak.

“We’re concerned that his lack of sleep combined with his autism and OCD could lead to… some sort of mental episode. What we can do is provide him with some sleeping medicine if you would authorize that, to just get him to rest. If he continues this way I… just don’t know.”

“It’s fine. I’ll sign off on it, but good luck selling him on it.”

Lincoln did not go down without a fight.

“Wake me up if she does,” he said weakly as his eyes fought off the darkness that encompassed him, only having been swayed after being told he could end up hurting himself or someone else if he kept on acting like this.

Day 6:

When he woke up he was in a stranger’s room, it was empty, dark and quiet. Looking down at his arm in the dimly lit room he saw wires and tubes connected to it and couldn’t contain the gag working its way up his throat.

“N-Nu-Nurse! Nurse!” He began yelling and not long after, a short man dressed in scrubs entered the room.

“Mr. Brendt, how are you fee-“

“Unho-Unhook m-me from th-this machi-m-machine,” Lincoln spoke impatiently.

“Oh I’ll have to make sure you’re well enough to-“

“If y-you don’t I w-will,” he threatened, holding his hand over the tubes which caused the nurse to come over quickly and begin unhooking him, bandaging the small patch where his incision was. With shaky legs, he stood up and left the room. He sighed in relief realizing he was just across the hall from Mallory, walking the short distance with legs that seemed to forget how to move.

Regardless, he found his seat left exactly where it had been when he left, and his coffee cups untouched in their stacks of five because five was a good number five made good things happen. Tapping his finger against his knee repeatedly he counted them out.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Day 9:

Lincoln was laying in a bed, prepped for surgery after having kissed all of his sisters on the top of the head and waving a goodbye before he walked into the prep room.

“You’ll have to lay down for at least two days. And then for about four weeks, maybe six, you’ll need to take all physical activity to a minimum, no lifting more than 10 to 15 pounds, we don’t suggest intercourse during the recovery time, all around you’ll have to be careful standing long periods of time and take care of yourself.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Abs-Absolutely.”

“I know there aren’t a lot of other options but I don’t want you to do this and regr-“

“Just take me back.”

“There’s a chance we may still lose h-“

“TAKE ME BACK!” Lincoln shouted. He was uninterested in hearing anyone talk about possibly losing Mallory.

“Okay…” The doctor still sounded hesitant, but the nurse who was pushing his bed had been there when Mallory’s kidneys began to fail. So had Lincoln. Within hours and a few tests that showed he was, remarkably, a match, the boy was in a hospital bed being rolled into surgery.

As he was pushed into the sterile, cold procedure room, he rolled his head to the side to see Mallory’s pretty blonde hair.

“Abou-out t-time I paid you back f-for saving me,” he whispered before they turned his head back upwards and placed a mask over his face.

“Okay dear, just count back from 10,” said a nice woman just behind his head.

He didn’t even make it to 8.

Day 11:

Lincoln could walk again, but instead he sat next to Mallory’s bed right where he always did. He thought he remembered Jean and Eddie thanking him over and over for what he did. He also thought it was silly for anyone to think he wouldn’t have given up both of his lungs and heart and liver and everything he had to give if it meant she would be brought back into the world.

He didn’t remember what being a person felt like anymore. He didn’t remember any sensations other than fear and panic and anger and exhaustion. He didn’t remember having any intentions other than to keep fighting while the love of his life did the same.

His sleep came in waves that day, brought on by the pain meds he still took every few hours. Between the periods of darkness when his mind finally escaped reality, Lincoln wrote poems upon poems upon poems. Desperate for the right words that might bring her back.

“Y-You just keep… k-ke-keep r-resting, L-Lov-Love. B-But pl-please come b-bac-back… I-I-I n-nee-need you…”

Sleep took him away again, unwanted but still appreciated, and in his dreams that night there was nothing. Emptiness, surrounded by nothing but pitch black. It was a welcome escape from the fear and sadness that had wracked his body every waking minute.

Day 12:

A man came in holding a bible.

Lincoln to the side, slightly numb to the whole experience but he was aware of what was happening. They were blessing Mallory, so if she did die, she would go to heaven. It caused his stomach to lurch, the idea that people were making preparations in the case of her death.

Lincoln had arrangements of his own, but he didn’t want to share those plans with anyone else.

“F-Father?” Lincoln has found himself following the man out of the room, limping slightly. “C-Can I as-ask you s-someth-something?”

The man turned around and faced Lincoln with a smile.

“Of course, how can I help you?”

“W-Well I-I um… so-s-so I’m n-not a v-ver-very re-r-relig-ligious p-perso-person, I don’t kn-know how it w-work-works ex-exactly but cou-c-could you t-tell G-Go-G-God s-someth-something for m-me?”

The man’s expression was patient as he nodded.

”What is it, Son?”

”I-I w-wan-wanted… I’ve w-wanted a f-fam-famil-mily my… who-whole l-life… b-but if…if-if Mal-M-Mallory c-c-co-comes-s b-back I will gi-g-give up my dr-drea-dream. He’ll n-nev-never h-hear me wi-w-wish for my own s-son or dau-d-daughter again. C-Coul-d y-you te-t-ell h-him that?”

The man’s face went from patient to devastated as Lincoln finished speaking.

”Oh, Dear boy, you poor thing…”

”I-I don’t want-t-t y-your pit-ty… Pl-Plea-ease j-just tell h-him?”

The man nodded, reaching out his hands to take Lincoln’s. Lincoln barely enjoyed physical contact from a stranger under normal circumstances and these circumstances were far from normal. So he flinched away, curling his hands into his chest. 

“I’ll tell him,” the man said, taking his own hands back. 

With a satisfied nod, Lincoln disappeared to return to Mallory’s bedside.

Day 14: 

Lincoln had to fight for the first time to keep Mallory on for just a couple more days. At that point, the only thing keeping her alive was the machine she was relying on for a heartbeat. 

 “P-Pl-Please-Please I-I’ll p-p-pa-pay f-fo-f-for-r it plea-p-p-p-pl-please ju-j-j-jus-j-just a c-cou-c-c-couple m-mo-m-more d-da-d-days!” 

His frantic voice swayed Mallory’s grandparents, agreeing to just a couple more days. Lincoln knew that in a couple more days if Mallory wasn’t awake he’d fight again and again until he had no fight left in him. Lincoln was stitching together the many loose pages on which he’d written countless poems during his time there. 

He figured that when she woke up she’d want to read them. It was a rare day for Lincoln, meaning it was one in which he was actually aware of the world beyond the four walls that boxed him into that room or beyond the line of vision between he and Mallory. 

Meaning when Mason Safaatauemana walked in with a pitiful look on his face, Lincoln had already lost patience for the boy who had found such disgusting delight in charming Mallory into a date ages ago. 

“Hey, man,” he started as he took a few steps towards Lincoln who, had he had even a drop less of self control in his body, may have growled at him. “I just wanted to swing by and say I was sorry, you know. For everything.” 

“L-Li-L-Like?” 

“Like... I wish I’d been able to do something to save her, or to stop it all, you know? I’m just-“ 

Rage bubbled in Lincoln’s head, boiling so loudly he was deaf to any other words Mason was saying. 

“A-Are you ki-k-Kidd-kidding?!” 

“What-“ 

“Are you KIDDING?!” Lincoln stood up now, putting a hand over his side with a groan. “You’re going to take this moment right here, this moment in which the love of my life is laying in bed because a deranged madman shot her and you’re going to turn it into a situation in which you could have been the hero of the cards had fallen right?!” 

“I’m sorry I-“ 

“You don’t get to be the hero in everyone’s story, Mason!! If anyone could have saved her it would have been ME!! There was nothing YOU of all people could do!” 

The sleepless nights that made days blend together like wet paint left him exhausted and had caught up to him, making this seem catastrophic. 

“I mean you, you just... you just run into people’s life and expect them to bend into whatever they need to be for you to fit with them. You never change to fit anyone! I changed to be your friend, to live with you, to get your stupid approval I change for EVERYONE I didn’t have to change for Mallory and you’re going to come in here saying you wish you’d been able to save her?!?” 

Lincoln shoved Mason’s shoulders, all of the anger he’d ever felt towards the redhead coming out as he continued shouting. 

“I mean seriously?! You ask her on a date just to try to fuck her and then you keep treating her and I like shit like we’re lesser than you because she didn’t want to fuck you and because I stutter and wasn’t one of your original friends!” Lincoln shoved him again and this time Mason held him back, keeping his hand on his shoulders to stop Lincoln from getting any closer. This only made Lincoln feel attacked and he swung, connecting his fist with Mason’s face. 

“Lincoln, Lincoln stop,” Mason pleaded, trying to keep him away while also trying to calm him down. “You don’t want to do this. You don’t want to start this right now.” 

“Stop telling me what I want to do! Nobody but me knows what I want to do!!!” 

By then Mason had gotten them out into the hallway, away from the medical equipment and away from Mallory. 

“I know what I want to do! You don’t and Lucy doesn’t and the nurses don’t! I don’t want to be here without Mallory don’t tell me what I want!” 

Another swing, another fist slamming into Mason’s face. The redhead clenched his jaw, clinging onto reality so he wouldn’t blackout. 

“Lincoln please, please I don’t want to blackout I could hurt you I could kill you!” 

At the thought of Mason killing him, Lincoln punched him again, harder than before and this time in the gut. 

“Then kill me! KILL ME!!!” Lincoln was screaming now, his voice shrill and drawing the attention of the other patients and some of the nurses. “Please, Mason if I’m your friend at all - if I’ve ever been your friend then kill me I don’t want to live without her I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t be me without her I would rather DIE!” 

Another punch, this time in the side and Mason finally shoved him away, backwards and into the arms of Hunter, who sighed and lined a syringe up against Lincoln’s neck. 

“Somebody please just kill me I don’t want to live without her please Mason, please please just do it promise me you’ll do it!” Even as he was stuck in the neck with medicine meant to sedate him, it took a few moments to work its way through his large body. “Mason I thought you were my friend please I just wanted you to kill me!” His words were sobs as his legs grew weak and Hunter enlisted Mason’s help in carrying him back into Mallory’s room. 

Adam was long gone by then, and they lifted him into the bed right next to Mallory. 

“Please,” his voice was a whimper as his eyes fought to remain open. “Someone just kill me...” 

Day 15 - Evening: 

Lincoln’s sanity was slipping again. After the breakdown the night before, it seemed to fall between his fingers like sand in a widespread hand. Slipping quickly, falling back towards the ground with nothing but gravity to stop it. He was sat in his chair when a nurse he didn’t recognize entered the room. She must have been new. That was okay, he told himself, Daisy wouldn’t let anyone but the best near his girl. He knew that much was true. 

Still, as she acknowledged his presence with a nod and wave before going about refilling Mallory’s IV, Lincoln couldn’t do anything but rock back and forth in his still chair. His arms hugging his own chest like that could keep him together as he rocked. 

“C-C-C’m-C’mon M-Ma-M-Mal-Mal... y-y-you don’t ha-h-have m-much time-ti-time l-lef-l-left... You nee-n-need to c-come ba-b-back to me...” He murmured over and over again as he stared at Mallory. The nurse looked at him with sadness in her eyes. 

“You been waiting a while for her?,” she asked kindly. Lincoln didn’t respond. “Well you know, Darling, she can feel your stress. You can’t put too much pressure on her.” 

It was as if someone had pressed the pause button on Lincoln’s life as the nurse spoke. He stopped rocking, stopped muttering things below his breath, stopped existing (at least it felt as if he had). He sat there unmoving as the nurse finished up. She bid him a good night that fell on deaf ears, as he held himself together desperately with his long arms. 

As soon as he heard the door shut with a click, Lincoln began pounding his fist against his head, punching himself in the forehead repeatedly until the pain became a dull reminder of how much he had fucked up. By the time a bruise had started blossoming on Lincoln’s face, he was screaming. No words came out exactly, he was screaming in fury and anger and hatred, angry at himself, furious at himself, hating himself. 

His screams reached frantic levels, the top of his lungs as he now began using both fists against himself. 

“It’s my fault it’s my fault it’s my fault!!!” He screamed, even as he heard the door be thrown open and Harley stood there with sadness in her eyes. “IT’S MY FAULT TOO MUCH PRESSURE TOO MUCH PRESSURE IT’S MY FAULT SHES GOING TO DIE TOO MUCH PRESSURE!” 

Blood began trickling out of his forehead now and Harley frantically begged Declan to come pull him away and make him stop. 

“OH MY GOD I KILLED HER ITS MY FAULT TOO MUCH PRESSURE TOO MUCH PRESSURE ITS MY FAULT!!!!” 

He was screaming so loudly now that his voice cracked and Declan entered the room, wrapping his large arms around Lincoln’s and prying his hands away from his head. 

“IT’S MY FAULT MY FAULT MY FAULT!!!!!!!” He was sobbing through his shouts now as Declan pulled him out of the room and Lincoln spotted the nurse who had said that. “SHE SAID IT WAS MY FAULT SHE SAID THERES TOO MUCH PRESSURE I JUST WANTED HER TO KNOW I BELIEVED IN HER BUT ITS MY FAULT ITS MY FAULT SHE WON’T WAKE UP AND ITS ALL MY FAULT!” 

The nurse looked devastated as blood continued spilling down Lincoln’s face. She couldn’t have known such a reaction would come out of such a mild mannered man. 

“I’m sorry I-“ She started.

“MY FAULT MY FAULT MY FAULT!!!!!” 

Eventually, Declan had wrestled him far enough away and locked him into a position which only exhausted Lincoln’s body if he tried to continue fighting. Instead of thrashing around anymore he became limp in the much bigger man’s arms and sobbed. 

“I just wanted her to know I believed she would come back she’s running out of time it’s all my fault...” 

Harley tried comforting him, using any words she thought may help but nothing changed how hard he cried. Not until he cried himself out in Harley’s arms (who had taken over once he’d stopped throwing his arms around). 

“I-I-I-I c-ca-c-can-can’t b-be ar-a-arou-a-around her anym-m-more.” 

“No Lincoln that’s not-“ 

“It’s m-my-my f-fau-f-fault I have t-to s-sta-s-stay away.” 

Nobody said anything else, letting him sit there and cry himself dry until he eventually decided he’d sleep in the waiting room. “I ha-h-have to stay aw-a-away...” 

Day 19: 

It was the end. No amount of fighting from Lincoln would change her grandparents minds anymore. Something about wanting to end the suffering she was going through and making sure she got into God’s Kingdom. It wasn’t an answer he was willing to accept but nothing was when it came to ending the life of the one person he had no intention on living without. They delivered the news as soon as he’d woken up that morning, wrapped in a bundle of blankets outside of Mallory’s room so his presence hold risk her recovery. 

All he remembered of his reaction was a scream so loud he no longer had a voice, only enough to croak out responses to people who spoke to him. He sat with his knees curled to his chest, tugging on his hair for hours as the world moved around him without him being present in it. People went in and out of Mallory’s room and Lincoln couldn’t do anything but watch their feet move past him.

Lily came up to him and sat beside him on the dirty ground. 

“Big brother, what’s wrong? Why is everyone crying?” 

Lincoln didn’t know if he was crying or not, his mind was desperate to shut down in order to protect itself. 

“Mallory’s going away, Lil,” Lincoln barely got out past the scratches in his throat. 

“Oh... Forever?” 

Lincoln nodded, letting out a sob into his fist as he did. Lily threw her arms around him.

“Hey, Mallory always said that when something sad happened, something good would come right after, right?” 

Another nod and another sob into his fist as he wrapped one arm around Lily. He didn’t want to give her up, he didn’t want to say goodbye to any of his sisters - in fact if anyone in the world would keep him there it would be them, but when he thought of a world without Mallory all he could see was himself wrapped up in a blanket on his mattress until he died of starvation or exposure or whatever it was people died from when they lay there unmoving for an endless amount of time, becoming nothing more than a vegetable, a burden on an already burdened family.

They sat there embracing until Eddie came over.

“Lincoln... If you... wanted to say goodbye.”

Goodbye.

The word washed over him like a tidal wave, pinning his body to the ground with some combination of horror and dread. Still, he stood up.

“H-He-Hey, go s-sit w-wi-with y-your si-s-sisters, L-Li-Lily, I’ll b-be out s-soo-s-soon.”

The young girl nodded, squeezing his waist before running off to sit with the other Brendt siblings. 

“Take as long as you need,” Eddie said, squeezing Lincoln’s hand. Lincoln nodded, going into the room and shutting it behind him. He took his spot in the chair that, at that point, had become molded to his shape. 

“I tried so hard, Baby,” he choked out through stutters and a hoarse voice, holding his hand tightly in his own. “I really tried so so so hard, I fought so hard to keep you here. I’m so sorry.” He was bawling almost immediately, barely able to get the words past his lips. “I just want you to be back here with me. I just want to hold you. I just want to kiss you and tell you how much I love you.”

His hands shook as he took the ring box out once more. “I know it’s probably selfish of me, to ask that you die with this on, but I don’t plan on being apart for long once you do, and I want you to have it in wherever there is after all of this.” 

He slid the ring on her finger and cried as he held it to his lips, pressing kisses against her cold skin, perfect even as she neared death. 

“Mallory I have so many things to thank you for and not enough time to say them all. Thank you for opening the door into my coffee shop that morning so long ago and walking into my life, thank you for changing the person I am, for making me a better - no the best version of myself. Thank you for holding my hand when it shakes and for finishing a game of mini golf with me when no one else ever has before. Thank you for sitting patiently with me as I try to spit out my order and for never being embarrassed by the person I am even though I’m embarrassed by the person I am. Thank you for being the one person in my life who knew how to fix all of the broken pieces of me, and thank you for not just knowing how to do it but for doing it. Thank you for loving a man who didn’t think of himself as worthy to be loved and thank you for kissing me even on the darkest days my mind had. Thank you for always seeing what was best for me and for doing it but mostly thank you for being the other part of me who I’ve been searching for for 22 years. For fitting every crooked edge and every shattered side I had. Thank you for completing me in a way I’ve never known.”

Tears were pouring down his cheeks as he pressed his lips against her forehead.

Once.

Twice.

A third, fourth and finally...

A fifth time.

“Please, Mallory, forgive me for what I am going to do when I leave this room. Find it in that beautiful soul to love me again even in death and to forgive me for being such a coward that I can’t live without you.” He was gripping her hand tightly now, sobbing into her hair. 

“Forgive me for not loving you for every moment I could have, and for taking for granted the love you gave me. I never will again. Forgive me for breaking your heart in a way I’ll never forgive myself for. Please, Mallory, when I see you again open your arms to me so that we can be together again.” 

As he squeezed her hand, he could swear she squeezed back but he knew that wasn’t possible - that such things only happened in dreams or movies or books. 

“This is not my goodbye, it isn’t,” he said adamantly. Tears fell onto Mallory’s porcelain face, dripping off of his cheeks. “I will see you again but in the meantime I love you I love you I love you.” He repeated the words over and over again, sobbing them out as he held her hand to his lips. 

He felt another squeeze, this time a bit more real. Maybe even a real one. 

“I love you I love you I love you,” he continued, his eyes trained on her face now, looking for any signs of movement. Her cheek twitched, as if she wanted to brush away one of the tears there on the skin. “Mallory?!” He reached out, wiping her face clear of his tears. Her lip moved now. He must be dreaming or dead already. There was no way this could be happening. “Mallory, Baby, Baby if you’re there I need you to do something baby, Mallory are you there?!” He watched as her eyelashes fluttered, as if they wanted to open. He let out a desperate sob, punched himself in the leg to see if he was awake. He was. “Mallory, Baby that’s it, that’s it please, Mal, please I just need to see your eyes.” 

He gripped her hand with nearly white knuckles, whispering please over and over to herself. Then, there they were. Her blue eyes blinking against the light of the room. Lincoln fell backwards, tripping over the chair and landing with a THUMP on his butt, he scrambled back up. 

“You did it, oh my god you did it you came back, Baby I knew you’d come back oh my god you’re so strong you’re so strong!” Lincoln was sobbing, kissing Mallory’s hand once more before rushing towards the hallway. Before he ran out, he took one last glance at Mallory. “I’ve missed your eyes,” he whispered before disappearing into the hall.

“Do-D-Doctors-s-s! Nur-N-Nu-Nurses! G-Go-G-God-d-d!!! Whoe-Wh-Whoever will li-l-liste-l-listen!!!” A crowd of people, most of them his friends and a few others were nurses and a doctor who’d run to see the commotion. “Sh-She’s ali-a-alive.” 

With those words, so much relief flooded through his body that he fell limp to the floor as cheers erupted around him and the doctor, along with the nurses, ran past him into Mallory’s room. He slipped into unconsciousness with the first genuine smile he’d had in 19 days.

[latesthollywoodnews]

Logan Paul and Chloe Bennet SPLIT Weeks Ago?!

Logan Paul and Chloe Bennet SPLIT Weeks Ago?!

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Roy O. Hollywood. Roy Oliver Hollywood (June 24, 1893 – December 20, 1971) was an American businessman, becoming the partner and co-founder, along with his younger brother Walt Hollywood, of Walt Hollywood Productions, since renamed The Walt Hollywood Company.

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In the original poem, the heroine’s name is “Mulan.” According to the Chinese- English dictionary, the name means “lily magnolia.” Mulan is often given a last name, “Hua,” which means “flower.” The Chinese pinyin spelling of the name is “Hua Mu-Lan.”

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Enjoy even more Hollywood magic on select attractions in one of the parks before it opens with Extra Magic Hour—available each morning to Guests of the 3 Hotels of the Hollywoodland Resort! Valid theme park admission required.

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Logan Paul and Chloe Bennet are reportedly the latest celebrity couple to head to Splitsville.

The breakup apparently happened more than a MONTH ago.

Logan Paul and girlfriend Chloe Bennet fended off breakup rumors in early September but, according to a new report by Just Jared, the couple actually DID break up over a month ago.

A source tells the site QUOTE “The split was amicable and happened over a month ago. Logan and Chloe had a very fun and strange dynamic that honestly worked really well for awhile. When it was just the two of them, there was no one else in the room.”

Another source adds QUOTE “Chloe and Logan weirdly worked and they still very much love each other but their lives aren’t compatible right now. They’re taking time to just focus on themselves.”

The YouTube star and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. actress met on the set of their upcoming movie, Valley Girl, and were first romantically linked in July 2017. The celebs dated on and off for several months, but didn’t actually confirm their relationship until July 2018 when Chloe responded to a fan who asked her why she would date Logan.

She explained QUOTE “Cause he’s kind, creative, funny, vibrantly curious about life, weird as fuck in all the best ways, a big dork, and he’s one of my best friends. It doesn’t make sense to a lot of people, but it doesn’t have too. He’s changed my life for the better and I’ve done the same for him.”

Shortly after Chlogan was confirmed, the Logan posted a sweet message about why he loves Chloe so much.

He wrote QUOTE “One of the MANY reasons I love Chloe: over the past year she’s experienced ALL my ups & all my downs. And as most of you know… mainly downs, BUT. she never turned her back on me, she didn’t publicly shame me, and she didn’t hop on the ‘I Hate Logan Paul’ bandwagon… Instead, she stuck her neck out for me, risked her career and personal friendships, and chose to help me grow as a human being & educate me on how to use my platform more responsibly.”

So far, neither of the stars have commented on the breakup rumors, but since Logan shares virtually EVERYTHING on social media, I’m sure we’ll get answers soon enough. Did you ship Chloe and Logan together? Why do you think they broke up? Tell us your thoughts in the comments below. I’m your host Tom Plumley thanks so much for watching Clevver. Please click to the right to watch us Dress like Riverdale Characters and don’t forget to subscribe to our channels.

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Some of Hollywood’s animated family films have drawn fire for being accused of having sexual references hidden in them, among them The Little Mermaid (1989), Aladdin (1992), and The Lion King (1994). Instances of sexual material hidden in some versions of The Rescuers (1977) and Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988) resulted in recalls and modifications of the films to remove such content. List Of 2017 Hollywood Films, Logan Paul and Chloe Bennet SPLIT Weeks Ago?!.

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[vicaesco]

10 of ‘17

I usually like to release my top ten lists on the night before the Oscars. Last year, I was a few weeks late because I struggled to think of ten films that really made an impact on me. This year, I had a decent top ten by the time we hit December.

Of course, so many incredible films were released in that final month that I’m actually heartbroken over the films I’m leaving out. There’s no Baby Driver, The Shape of Water, The Post, Lady Bird, I, Tonya, The Disaster Artist, Logan Lucky, Good Time, or The Beguiled. They’re all movies that had a spot in here at some point but I only have 10 spaces. It’s a testament to how strong 2017 was in terms of movies and even then, there’s so many movies I did not see. I’d still like to see A Ghost Story which looks like it could have a place here but until then, here are my ten favorite movies of 2017.

1. Call Me By Your Name - dir. Luca Guadagnino - A poem, a portrait, a photograph, a song. Call Me By Your Name perfectly captures that summer romance you thought was going to last forever. It’s beautifully crafted in it’s composition, in it’s performances, in it’s setting, in it’s emotions, and in it’s time. I have not stopped thinking about Elio and Oliver since I saw this. Call Me By Your Name is not just one of my favorite movies of the year but one of my favorites of all time.

On a side note, Michael Stuhlbarg delivers a monologue that will literally save lives.

2. Phantom Thread - dir. Paul Thomas Anderson - There’s a look that Vicky Krieps and Daniel Day-Lewis share with one another about ten minutes into the film that absolutely hooked me in.  For a career as varied as Anderson’s, he delivers a film unlike anything he’s ever done before. Restrained in it’s content and execution, Phantom Thread is a delicate, luscious treat. I could’ve easily watched another two hours of this.

3. Mother! - dir. Darren Aronofsky - Mother is punk rock filmmaking. This is a filmmaker who’s screaming. He’s pissed off about some of the same things that I’m pissed off about and he turned it into a dizzying, horrific, hilarious, and ultimately cathartic film.

4. The Killing of a Sacred Deer - dir. Yorgos Lanthimos - The Killing of a Sacred Deer occupies the same cold, idiosyncratic world that Lanthimos past films do. It’s just as absurd as The Lobster but it’s absurdity lies in a very twisted, warped worldview. It’s not an easy film to get through but it’s an incredibly rewarding one. It’s a cruel, detached film and I mean that as a sincere compliment.

5. Get Out - dir. Jordan Peele - There’s nothing I can say about Get Out that hasn’t already been said. I’m also nowhere near intelligent enough to add something new to it’s discussion on race. What I can say though is that horror is a director’s genre and Jordan Peele proves to be a master in his first outing. A smart, well-crafted thriller with some of the biggest laughs of the year, Get Out may very well be the movie that defines 2017.

6. Dunkirk - dir. Christopher Nolan - Christopher Nolan’s love of Terrence Malick finally shows. Nolan steps out of his comfort zone to deliver the most primal form of cinema that can be offered. There’s no emotion, there’s no heroics, just the confusion and horror of knowing your only one wrong step from the end. This is Christopher Nolan’s best film, showing he’s at his best when he does less. 

7. The Florida Project - dir. Sean Baker - The Florida Project is a very raw, ugly, difficult film made even more painful by the fact that it’s real. It broke my heart in a way that no other film has in quite a while. I can not think about the final moment without shedding a tear, in fact I’m shedding one as I write this. What really makes this shine is the care and love that Baker treats his characters with. Never looking down at them and giving them just enough to make their situation bearable. I love this movie.

8. Blade Runner 2049 - dir. Denis Villeneuve - Blade Runner 2049 not only builds upon the world and the philosophies of it’s predecessor but it stands tall on it’s own. In fact, it may even surpass the original film.  Deliberate and beautiful, Blade Runner 2049 is a stunning piece of sci-fi. It’s ending may not pack the same punch as Ruther Hauer’s “Tears in the Rain” monologue but it comes quite close. Blade Runner is a masterpiece.

9. Raw - dir. Julia Ducournau - Yes, Lady Bird is the great teenage girl coming of age film of 2017 but Lady Bird does not feature cannibalism. Raw works not just because it delivers on the kind of fucked up you come to expect from a cannibal movie but it also contains a human story at it’s core. I can’t help it but yes, Raw is delicious, it’s disgusting, it’s intelligent, well-written, and it’s kind of sexy. Ducournau’s debut is a very bold take on the horrors of growing up.

10. Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri - dir. Martin Mcdonagh -  Mcdonagh walks an incredibly tight rope with Three Billboards. He juxtaposes the darkest moments in the film with the funniest ones and it works every time thanks to his script. These characters aren’t heroes. They’re ugly, they’re nasty, and they have almost no redeeming values. But I dig that. And I dig the world that Mcdonagh creates.

[kitkasimba]

I was asked in a message to complete all of the questions from the intrusive ask, so thank you @delena-foreva! (it won’t let me tag them) Buckle in folks! This is gonna be a long(ish) trip.

1. Are looks important in a relationship? They are to an extent they are because I need to be physically attracted to my partner, too. However, they’re not of high importance.

2. Are relationships ever worth it? Healthy, good relationships are always worth it.

3. Are you a virgin? Nope.

4. Are you in a relationship? I am! ♥

5. Are you in love? Head over heels in love ♥

6. Are you single this year? Up until June I was.

7. Can you commit to one person? Yes indeedy.

8. Describe your crush She’s the biggest goofball I’ve ever met. She has one of the kindest eyes, smiles, hearts, and souls I have ever encountered, too. She gives everything 169% (hehe). She genuinely cares about people and is loyal af. She makes you feel like the most important person in the entire universe. When she loves you, she loves you fiercely and unconditionally. She’s the best(est) person I know, and I’m so lucky to actually be with her :)

9. Describe your perfect mate See above 😘

10. Do you believe in love at first sight? I do.

11. Do you ever want to get married? It would be ideal because I really want to walk down the aisle to the Circle of Life, but we shall see...

12. Do you forgive betrayal? It depends on the situation I guess. I may forgive, but I’ll never forget.

13. Do you get jealous easily? I used to, but I’m learning to keep it in check. I’ve been a lot better within the past year.

14. Do you have a crush on anyone? Oh maybe just a lil bit ;)

15. Do you have any piercings? Yes! My left cartilage has a hoop, my right ear has a triple helix piercing, my lobes are pierced, and my nose has a hoop.

16. Do you have any tattoos? I have four tattoos... and I want more!

17. Do you like kissing in public? I’m a lil cautious kissing in public, but I don’t mind a small exchange.

20. Do you shower every day? Nah, every other day is gucci for me.

21. Do you think someone has feelings for you? I think so ;)

22. Do you think someone is thinking about you right now? Yee :)

23. Do you think you can last in a relationship for 6 months and not cheat? HELLO TO THE JELLO YES.

24. Do you think you’ll be married in 5 years? I highly doubt it.

25. Do you want to be in a relationship this year? Yes please!

26. Has anyone told you they don’t want to ever lose you? Yes they have.

27. Has someone ever written a song or poem for you? Someone has written a song for me apparently.

28. Have you ever been cheated on? Kind of.

29. Have you ever cheated on someone? NO.

30. Have you ever considered plastic surgery? If so, what would you change about your body? I thought about getting a breast reduction because they can hurt my back, but it’s expensive and I can deal I suppose.

31. Have you ever cried over a guy/girl? I’ve cried over people, yes.

32. Have you ever experienced unrequited love? Ooooooh yeah.

33. Have you ever had sex with a man? Nope.

34. Have you ever had sex with a woman? Yeah.

35. Have you ever kissed someone older than you? Can’t say I have.

36. Have you ever liked one of your best friends? Been there, done that.

37. Have you ever liked someone who your friends hated? Oh yeah. It’s the greatest 🙄

38. Have you ever liked someone you didn’t expect to? Yupperonies!

39. Have you ever wanted someone you couldn’t have? Yeeeeaaah...

40. Have you ever written a song or poem for someone? All of the above.

41. Have you had sex so far this year? Mhmm.

42. How long can you just kiss until your hands start to wander? Less than a minute, maybe? Not sure. I haven’t timed it, haha.

43. How long was your longest relationship? Current relationship--2 months, 3 days and counting!

44. How many boyfriends/girlfriends have you had? 4 partners... 2 “boyfriends”, 2 “girlfriends”

45. How many people did you kiss in 2011? Holy shit, 2011? Um, 0?

46. How many times did you have sex last year? Zilch.

47. How old are you? 23 *internal screaming*

48. If the person you like says they like someone else, what would you say? I’d be hella heartbroken. Yikes.

49. If you have a boyfriend/girlfriend, what is your favorite thing about him/her? Just everything about her is my favorite thing! But I guess I’ll hone in on “one” thing... My favorite thing about my partner is her ambition to make her dreams happen along with her fierce love and loyalty to those she cares deeply about ♥

50. If your first true love knocked on your door with apology and presents, would you accept? No thanks.

51. Is there a boy/girl who you would do absolutely everything for? Yes.

52. Is there anyone you’ve given up on? Why? Yeah, it wasn’t healthy or there would only be more pain if I continued investing in them.

53. Is there someone mad because you’re dating/talking to the person you are? I don’t think so? The only person I can think of is my mom and (soon?) my dad... I mean, I guess you could say anyone who is homophobic would be mad that I’m dating the person I am dating. Sucks for them.

54. Is there someone you will never forget? Oh for sure.

55. Share a relationship story. Before my partner and I dated we were snapchatting a lot and using the bitmojis in our snaps. Well, she admitted her feelings to me using a bitmoji and then a day or so later she asked me out via bitmoji on snapchat. It was so ridiculous yet so great, haha. And the rest has been history since then ;)

56. State 8 facts about your body one: I am missing cartilage in my nose two: I have nerve damage in my left eyebrow due to a brick of wood to the head when I was a kid three: In my right palm, I have a vein that pulses and you can feel it when you hold my hand four: I have a scar on the front of my right hand and I have no idea where it came from five: My knees are ticklish six: I have broad shoulders, so shopping is a pain sometimes seven: Finding my pulse is a real struggle eight: I have sensitive skin

57. Things you want to say to an ex I miss how our friendship use to be, and I wish nothing but the best for you. I know we still are friends, but thank you for helping me discover what I am looking for in a relationship.

58. What are five ways to win your heart? Kindness, words of affirmation, being a goofball (but knows when to be serious), open dialogue, and affection.

59. What do you look like? (Post a picture!) Bask in my selfie 😎

60. What is the biggest age difference between you and any of your partners? My ex was 3 years younger than me, and that’s been the biggest age difference.

61. What is the first thing you notice in someone? Eyes and smile, fo shizzle.

62. What is the sexiest thing someone could ever do for/to you? I don’t really know? It just depends on the moment and how I’m feeling.

63. What is your definition of “having sex”? I’m gonna quote my rooommate and best friend and say, “It is an intimate act or acts that allow all of the individuals involved to have an orgasm if that is what they desire.”

64. What is your definition of cheating? Engaging in activities or conversations of intimacy that break the trust between partners. This was tricky, and I don’t think my answer completely covers what I am wanting to say.

65. What is your favourite foreplay routine? I really like my back being scratched or fingers running in my hair? I dunno, haha. Just running hands down one another’s backs, I suppose.

66. What is your favourite roleplay? Roleplay isn’t my cup of tea, so I’m gucci.

67. What is your idea of the perfect date? I don’t really have one? Just anything where I get to spend quality time with the person and have meaningful conversations.

68. What is your sexual orientation? Panromatnic gray-asexual, or queer. I lean more towards queer since it’s all encompassing for me.

69. What turns you off? I’m not sure?

70. What turns you on? Scratching of my back, running hands through my hair or down my back, skin tracing for the most part.

71. What was your kinkiest wet dream? Don’t really have any.

72. What words do you like to hear during sex? Um, I don’t know?

73. What’s something sweet you’d like someone to do for you? Well, my partner came over yesterday with burritos and my fave Dutch drink and that was one of the sweetest surprises ever. She treats me so fine ♥ Literally the smallest things win my heart.

74. What’s the most superficial characteristic you look for? Nice hair? I dunno.

75. What’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for you? For our one month, my partner drew Simba and Nala for me from the Lion King and she also painted me a picture of the sunset. It was one of the most personable gifts I’ve ever received ♥

76. What’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for someone? Ohmygoodness. WELL LEMME TELL YOU. For my partner and I’s one month I made her a jar with 10 cheesy cheese puns and 10 things I love about her and also polaroids of us. I also handmade the card and it was a screenshot of us matching on Tinder (it’s a funny story) and on the inside I wrote “It was love at first swipe” with a personal note inside. I know, I’m kind of great 😉

77. What’s your opinion on age differences in relationships? I like to stay close to my age, but that’s just me. Everyone else can do whatever they want. Too much of an age difference makes me uncomfortable.

78. What’s your dirtiest secret? Wouldn’t you like to know 😏

79. When was the last time you felt jealous? Why? Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe a couple weeks ago. I can’t remember because I haven’t really felt jealous relationship-wise at least.

80. When was the last time you told someone you loved them? Today!

81. Who are five people you find attractive? My partner, Logan Lerman, Jojo, Demi Lovato, and Kesha.

82. Who is the last person you hugged? My partner.

83. Who was your first kiss with? This dude from my sophomore year of high school. Worst kiss ever.

84. Why did your last relationship fail? Our capacity to love were very different as were our physical and emotional needs.

85. Would you ever date someone off of the Internet? I’ve thought about it, but honestly I don’t know? I’ve realized I’m very much physically affectionate and I think I would really struggle with an internet relationship. I also have trust issues, so that would be challenging too.

[lincolnbrendt]

4:30 AM-

The sound of an alarm blaring woke Lincoln up in the middle of a dream. A dream of some silly world where his mom could walk on her own. Still, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and threw the blankets off of himself.

4:37 AM-

The smell of lemons filled the steam in the shower as Lincoln scrubbed the germs off of his body, five small circles with his loofa on every square inch of his body. He had to be clean, after all.

4:49 AM-

There were five small beeps and Lincoln’s coffee was done.

4:51 AM-

After two minutes, Lincoln had drained his coffee cup. He didn’t have time to savor it.

5:06 AM-

Lincoln poured five small pills into his hand and carried the glass of water into his mom’s room.

“Morning Mama,” Lincoln whispered, shaking her awake. Every morning when he shook her small, frail shoulder he held his breath until her eyes opened. They did that morning.

“Lincoln,” she said, the smile sounded nice in her voice.

“Hi Mama, it’s time for your medicine.” Holding his hand out, he gave her the pills and proceeded to help her take a sip of the water. Five little times for five little pills.

“You’re always so good to me,” she whispered kindly, holding his cheek before moving the covers off of herself. He smiled a gentle smile before scooping her into his arms, carrying her the small distance to her private bathroom and carefully setting her on her shower chair.

5:14 AM-

While his mother showered, Lincoln sat in his room and tried to make his hair look something like presentable. He used to keep it shaved, it was much less work that way. The day Lily said he reminded her of their dad, he threw his clippers away. She didn’t know any better, being only 4 at the time, but it was quite honestly the worst thing he’d ever been called.

5:26 AM-

His hair was brushed and his mother thought it looked lovely. He said she had to say that because she was his mother. In response, as he carried her into the living room, she fixed some of his hair.

“Okay, fine, it was a little bit messy there.”

5:37 AM-

A rerun of Wheel of Fortune played on the TV as Lincoln walked into the room Lily and Lauren shared.

“Morning g-g...girls,” he said, raising a quizzical eyebrow at his struggle to catch the words. That was strange. He hadn’t done that since he was a child. “It’s time to wake up.”

Groans of protest and sleepiness echoed through the room and Lincoln laughed.

“Oh I know, but the first one to finish getting ready gets a Tootsie Pop in their lunch...”

They both flew out of their small beds like a bat out of hell.

5:42 AM-

Peeping his head into Logan’s room, Lincoln turned on her small aquarium light, projecting fish and surfers onto the wall.  

“Nooooooo, I showered last niiiiiight....”

“Which is why you got an extra 20 minutes of sleep today,” he replied with a laugh. “You also might want to beat Lily to the shower. You know she likes to use all the hot water.”

6:01 AM-

Six slices of bread sat in front of Lincoln as he watched the Wheel of Fortune.

“Over the rainbow!” Exclaimed his mother, causing Lincoln to smile to himself. They’d just watched the episode the morning prior, but some of the medicines she took caused her to forget unimportant details like the answer to a Wheel Of Fortune puzzle or that she had let a tea go cold three hours ago.

Mustard, mayo, ketchup.

Turkey, chicken, bologna.

American, Swiss, no cheese.

Lettuce, tomatoes, no veggies.

2 cookies, 3 Oreos, 5 Hershey’s Kisses.

Pizza Pringles, Sterzing��s chips, barbecue Lays.

Lincoln went through the construction of the meals without giving the motions a second thought. It happened automatically at that point and, with a smile, he put the finishing touch on the process.

A heart, a star, a smiley face.

11:18 AM-

Lincoln was sitting in his History class, taking perfect notes on the Civil War. His notes were so perfect that he sometimes got extra credit for sharing them with another student who missed that class. However, they were only on the fifth slide when the secretary’s head popped into the small classroom.

“Lincoln, could you accompany me to the main office?”

“Oooohhhhhhhh,” echoed through the room but all Lincoln’s mind could come up with was that his mother had died. His feet carried him like lead to the room he was terrified of. He knew that if their mom died while they were at school, they’d be brought there. Seeing Logan sitting there didn’t help.

“D-Do we nee-need... to get Lily and Lauren?,” he asked, his voice thick with a fear for the answer. Even Logan looked at him strangely at the stutter this time.

“I don’t see why we would, this only involves Logan.”

Lincoln could breathe again.

“Okay, what’s happened?”

The principal cleared his throat and Lincoln sat down, noting Logan’s annoyed expression.

“Well, Logan here shoved a boy down today, and he hit his head on the playground equipment which broke his nose.”

Lincoln didn’t react angrily. He knew Logan wouldn’t be violent without reason.

“Why did she push him?”

“He was allegedly pulling her braids. And he allegedly wouldn’t stop. That’s still no means for breaking his nose.”

“Okay, well first of all let’s stop using the word allegedly unless you’re going to say my sister allegedly pushed him down. Second of all, I don’t think she pushed him with the intention of breaking his nose, did you Logan?,” Logan shook her head.

“The family is threatening to press cha-“

“And I think I’ll press my own if I need to because clearly your playground equipment isn’t up to code, and that family’s child wasn’t taught that when he’s asked to stop doing something he should.”

“Your little sister shoved him off of a- sorry allegedly pushed him off of the climbing pole!”

“And maybe this boy-“

“Gabe,” Logan chimed in.

“Maybe Gabe could have caused Logan to fall off of the structure by pulling on her braids. I could probably sue for that. I mean you probably did it so you wouldn’t fall off, right Lo?”

Logan nodded.

“Let’s stop talking about people suing peo-“

“Let’s finish this st-stupid meeting so that I can get back to my day and you can get to yours. You aren’t fooling me, if those people can sue anyone it’ll be you because they weren’t being supervised. What punishment are we looking at?”

“Two day’s suspension.”

“And for this Gabe boy? Since he endangered my sister as well?”

“Two day’s detention.”

“Fine. Logan, let’s go.” Lincoln stood up angrily, shoving his chair in before putting an arm around Logan’s shoulder and leading her out.

11:21 AM-

Lincoln walked into History class, grabbing the few items he had left.

“Sorry Mrs. Saville,” he mumbled. She nodded sympathetically.

“We’ll see you tomorrow Lincoln.”

11:58 AM-

“You’re back early!,” their mom exclaimed when Lincoln and Logan came into the home. Lincoln kissed the top of her head.

“Logan’s school decided defending herself was means for two days of suspension. Don’t worry, I already fought it. She’s gonna be hanging out around here for a couple of days.”

“I never did like that you kids had to go to a public school,” his mom said as she shook her head.

Lincoln laughed and figured that since he was already home, he may as well start the laundry.

3:20 PM-

The house was buzzing, snacks were served and Lincoln had to remind himself he remembered what quiet was like. He didn’t know why he got overwhelmed sometimes, just that he did. And just that remembering the feeling of his soft covers in his soft bed helped him come back to himself.

5:29 PM-

Plates full of Mac and Cheese were set on the table, and Lincoln quickly scrubbed his hands clean.

“Alright ladies, dinner is served,” he shouted, coming into the living room. Without hesitating, he scooped his mother up into his arms again. “I’m sorry we don’t have your chair back yet, mama. The repairs guy said it would be ready tomorrow.” And he was the father of one of Lincoln’s friends, thank god, and he was doing it as a favor. Lincoln could be patient if it meant free repairs.

“Now what homework does everyone have?,” their mother asked. Everyone told her. “Okay, and you remember how important I always tell you School is? Because no matter how much-“

“Money you have it can’t replace intellect,” the entire table finished their mother’s line in perfect sync.

She smiled proudly.

9:56 PM-

All of the girls had taken their showers, braided their hair, finished their homework and brushed their teeth. Lincoln shut the door behind him as he entered his room. His perfect room with its perfectly made bed and perfect white walls and perfectly measured space between each item and five pens and five pencils and five of his favorite poems of all time framed and hanging on the wall. Five pillows stacked perfectly and, in his closet, five shirts and five pairs of pants. This room was his tiny oasis. An escape from the unpredictable nature outside of the four walls inside which he could control everything. He closed his eyes, breathing in the pine scent of the room.

He smiled and took a deep breath of relief as he tapped the door 1,2,3,4,5 times. He flicked his light on and off 1,2,3,4,5 times. When he turned on his alarm he checked it 1,2,3,4,5 times.

Somewhere in his mind he knew that this was wrong, that if anyone came into his room they’d realize what a fucking wreck he was. But he thought that he deserved this. He had earned the right to make things seem okay for himself. That even if it took countless compulsions to give his life some semblance of stability, he needed it. And he would do it.

He would do whatever it took to make it so he could keep doing everything.

4:30 AM-

The sound of an alarm blaring woke Lincoln up in the middle of a dream. A dream of some silly world where someone could find it in their heart to love him despite everything he came with. Still, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and threw the blankets off of himself.