#this is the reason why we keep misunderstanding each other

[lovelytayforce]

I agree with this comment here so hard, I remember getting blasted for calling readers who don't comment "leeches" on R/Fanfiction and I'm glad people are seeing that for what it is even if it's four years late

So, I'm gonna share my own little story here because discord has actively ruined communities for fanfic (and art too I'm not gonna leave y'all out cause my bestie @zoetiger-1106 is an artist who deserves way more praise than she gets!!) The reason why authors and myself see the "I'm shy" shit as an excuse is because the same people will type long ass tirades on Discord without a single thought. YOU CAN EDIT AO3 COMMENTS PEOPLE! If you make a mistake, read it back over and edit it. I've watched it happen in real-time with one of my favorite commenters on my one-shot where they left a short gushing comment and then came back and wrote more, you have no excuse much less reason to go "Man fandom keeps telling me to not critique and I might make a mistake so I will say nothing and consume like the average TV and Streaming consumer who thinks there doing something!" YOU have a lot of power with comments and even those bookmark tags hell just copy-paste what you put into those bookmark tags as a comment I DON'T CARE AT THIS POINT USE THAT LIL BOX TO VOICE SOMETHING!!!! God this is all over the place idc but I read back at those bookmarks, and saw people call my works the best and super cool and I APPRECIATE THAT but tell me! Stop taking the easy route, I been blasted for misunderstandings over comments multiple times cause people take my "tone" terribly cause it sucks being black and emotive online yay and for some reason people think !!!! Is bad? yes, I've been hit with that but I keep on trucking cause fuck whatever some weirdo thinks about exclamation points! Anyways back to discord and why I hate it now, I was in a small fandom, KFP got invited to a discord cause ONE person commented on my works and saw they talked about my fic, and at first, I was happy and people TALKED about my chapters at length in the fanfic channel. I basically was the ONLY ONE posting consistently in that channel and it was great but also I wanted that on my fic to show I improved so guess what I did? I went all in trying to one-up myself to be noticed, to have the acclaim my peers did so it would evolve outside of discord channels but it never happened. And Imma tell y'all now; it never will. Readers prefer convenience over your hard work, they are not gonna take time for you no matter how much you improve. People told me over and over while I looked for solutions for this; "We can't make commenting look like an obligation." "Add more prose, space these paragraphs better" all this just for no one to take the initiative and say something SINCERE towards a work they love on it. I've had to tell my own ex-friends now to go leave comments on works they called Masterpieces while ignoring me. Despite the fact they wanted Gen content in which I WROTE. Or met people who have very weird "I don't review" rules for themselves despite getting motivated by reviews themselves!! We're in a shitty time for creatives much less community cause we don't see each other as humans much less want to treat each others as we desire to be treated. Fanfic readers want to treat authors like showrunners and I hate it. But then your peers will tell you 'not to worry about engagement" and no I am because why is my hit count going up every day but ain't no one saying shit? Make it make sense!! I sat in that community commenting as much as I could, especially on long fics; it wasn't all perfect but I TRIED. I didn't expect shit back but hey it would have been nice but it never happened and again I learned; it never would. That's the real issue, no one wants to give no more; just take and take and take til you're sucked dry of passion worse than any corpo out right now. It's why I thankfully switched fandoms. I got ONE consistent commenter and they are better than that ENTIRE SMALL CLOSED COMMUNITY!! So, to any discord reactor for fanfic you better skip on to that message you made and copy and paste it in this box right here and never utter "I'm shy" ever again cause we see you, our friends tell us about you. You are not as anonymous as you think! 🫵🏽

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[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

[hycinthrt]

i love how a big part of elizabeth bennet’s character is that she is obviously very smart, she is very observant, but she can easily be led astray by her preconceived notions, by things that she already has convinced herself of believing. and this is most obvious by her not seeing mr. darcy’s proposal coming at all, because girl that man was openly flirting with her. i don’t think this is shown a lot in the movie or the tv series, but he keeps teasing her, answering her witty remarks with a smile, the whole “i am not afraid of you” thing. like, charlotte saw it coming, colonel fitzwilliam definitely saw it coming, the gardiners knew as soon as they saw them together later in the book, mr darcy was not as subtle as he thought he was being

seriously, god bless you jane austen for giving us this romance of two fucking idiots constantly misunderstanding each other’s actions and intentions. god bless you for giving us mr “aha so like what do you think of your friend’s marriage? you wouldn’t mind living away from your family when you marry right? oh, no reason, no reason, just a random thought. and what do you think of rosings, you know if hypothetically you were ever a guest there, no, no reason hehe”, and miss “i wonder why i keep coming across mr darcy during my walks, i even made sure to tell him that this is where i usually take my walks so he can avoid me but we are still??? running into each other???? and he keeps asking me all these strange questions too, what a weirdo”

just, two idiots that were made for each other

[tradgedyinwaves]

First Choice - Part 10

Part ten of this Poly141! x fat!reader tw: reader hurts her own feelings for a bit, Price is the tiniest bit toxic (like you gotta squint real fucking hard)

You were determined not to think of the four men who, at least for a weekend, made you feel like the center of their universe. It wasn’t like every little thing reminded you of one of them. How they had ingrained themselves so solidly into your head over the span of two days, you would never know. But it was a gnawing feeling. 

You’d wanted to listen to them explain it away, explain why they showed up to the gala you just happened to be at with these pretty little things on their arms. Or why only Johnny seemed to fight for you. 

But you were tired of excuses, tired of reasons why you weren’t good enough. It was just easier to be alone. It didn’t matter that your phone had been blowing up since you’d closed the door on them that night. It didn’t matter when your phone suddenly stopped vibrating against the couch one evening, a week out from that dreadful gala. 

Another week and there were no new messages. You supposed they finally got the idea that you didn’t want to see them (even if you were lying to yourself). 

Somewhere in the rainforest of South America, Task Force 141 sat around a small fire, each one grumbly and grumpy. They’d been sent out for a reconnaissance mission, gathering intel on some sex trafficker and now they were currently waiting for evac, one that wouldn’t come for another few hours with the way the storm above them was raging. 

“I just hope she read the messages. I’d hate for her to think we gave up,” Soap sighed, exasperated from not knowing if you had read them.

“When we get back, we’ll get her to listen. Explain everything,” Price drawled, making a grumbling sound in his chest as he adjusted in his seat against the bottom of a tree. 

“It’s not like we gave her any reason to listen to us,” Gaz reasoned, eating through his MRE for the night. Ghost stayed silent, whittling away at a piece of wood and tossing the scraps into the fire. “We spent a single weekend with her, only talked to her through texts for the rest of the week and then showed up with other women to a gala. It doesn’t matter if we knew what was going on, she didn’t because we didn’t explain.” 

They all sighed and nodded, each thinking on their own part in the misunderstanding. 

After three weeks, you had convinced yourself that you had forgotten them, left them in the past. After your phone had been quiet for a few days, you read through them all, letting yourself feel the pain of not listening to them before deleting them. The last message had come from John. 

“We’re going to be out of town for a few weeks and when we come back, you will let us explain.” 

It was very forward, blunt, like you had no choice in whether or not you would listen to them. You didn’t like that, being told what to do, but at this point, if they were still fighting for your attention when they came back…well, who were you to keep denying them? 

Which was why you found yourself at the same table you’d spent the first night with them at, nursing your second glass of whiskey as you waited for them to show. You’d arrived much too early, but had wanted to get a drink in you before you were forced into the impending conversation. 

They arrived five minutes before the set meeting time, each stopping by the bar to order their drinks before sliding into the booth. You sat at the back of the round booth, John directly to your left with Kyle on his other side and Ghost to your right, with Johnny on his other side (mainly in an effort to keep the more excitable man from crawling into your lap and begging you to forgive them). 

Looking up from your glass, your gaze turned to John as you raised a brow. It was a silent invitation for them to get on with it. The thing was, now that they sat there in front of you, they didn’t know how to say what they needed to. Except Ghost, apparently.

“We’re military, luv. We were deployed for a few weeks, hence the silence. But I - we know that isn’t why you’re upset. That gala…” You flinched slightly, not enjoying the reminder of the night. “We were undercover. Those women you saw with us, they’re other soldiers trained for those types of missions.” 

Your gaze had settled on the man, noting the lack of balaclava that was replaced with a black medical mask. It was the most of his face that you’d ever seen, silver and pink scars littering his face that you could see under the hood of his jacket. 

“We can’t say much more than that. But we do want you to know that our interest is genuine,” John continued for Ghost, finally finding his words. “We’d like to spend more time with you while we’re around. We will leave for deployments, sometimes they last months, and we know it isn’t fair to ask that of you. But if you’re willing to have us, we’d put in the effort and you’d never want for anything else.” 

They all were staring at you now. Ghost with a look of understanding, but also a sort of defeat already filtering in. John and Kyle managed to keep their faces neutral but they couldn’t stop the hopeful look in their eyes. Johnny had amazingly managed to stay quiet, but the look on his face was like an expectant dog, begging for a treat. 

You sighed, taking a long drink from your glass before setting it down on the coaster.

Next part is the last one. This took on a life of it's own and while I loved writing this little series, I think I'm going to focus on pairings of 3 or less people for a bit.

<- Part 9 Part 11 ->

[katerinaaqu]

One can argue that modernity is by definition the absence of form and that everything can change but either way again I completely disagree with the notion that there is no other way it could be successful. And many fans even got disappointed at the changes and all. Again we have so much connected the idea of "retelling" with "forget the plot" sometimes and it shows to all the "modern retellings" how they miss the point of the material they ellegedly adapt by a mile. Is your opinion and good for you to have it but again I disagree big time. It is a matter of marketing sometimes and like I said many people got disappointed at the changes as well. Many even said "we ignored the changes because music was good" and again i disagree. You might claim that and I can counter we shall never know again I disagree that you cannot be lore accurate. That is my opinion that's all.

I never meant to say over 3 hours although i see why it comes out this way. I meant 3 hours is a length that one expects a performance to have. And again I said many times over that he doesn't need to adapt every single moment of the Odyssey and turn it into a 5 hour thing. I said it would be better to be lore accurate. I literally said nothing of speeding up. Where on earth did that come from? On the contrary. In fact the last saga WAS sped up and it showed to the narrative.

Actually they were not to the Odyssey but to epic cycle and AGAIN that is exactly what I said. I said the first two sagas proved that you can have a LOOSE ADAPTATION (not 100% acurate) and STILL be lore-acurate. Astyanax incident was spoken in just one line in the Iliou Persis. It was given a reason in the musical. THAT is what I expect to see in an adaptation; liberties that work WITH the plot and fill in some gaps. Not something that says "fuck the plot I'll do whatever" that is not an adaptation in my mind or at least not a good one but it also depends on the media.

And I never said you did?! 🤷‍♀️ I said that is the feeling I got from some people who loved the musical who couldn't understand my dislike for it. Where did I say you said that? I said that they state their opinion on THAT matter like you express your opinion on THIS matter. And again why can't you accept that someone has a different idea on what a retelling is? You can say it is. I say it isn't because I do not agree in this method and a story that ignores the most basic parts of a plot does not count as a retelling in my book. It is an original story inspired by a material.

I put the emoji for a reason my friend. I was only half serious on that answer. I am honored you enjoyed my posts which is why also I engage with you and I express my opinion sincerely and directly because I believe we can be honest with each other. And when I said "don't expect me to change my mind" I meant that as an emphasis that I respect your opinion but I would continue to express the same thought and say that I disagree. If that offended you in any way that was not my intention. I see that you are passionate on your subject and I am on mine so I only "warned you" that my answer will still be the same. I NEVER said you are trying to push your opinion on me now I believe YOU shouldn't misunderstand me. I only mention that my opinion will continue to be the same.

And I said a hundred times already that I do not say you try to do the same and I also said that I didn't feel like that with most of fans either. You keep insisting on that but again all I said was that I disagree with you. Why do you feel attacked? If my previous reply seemed harsh I am sorry but again I didn't say you tried to push your opinion I only state what I do with mine.

Okay right back at you. I feel that you are not listening what I say. I again said I do not consider it a retelling because it literally respects nothing of the plot. It is not re-telling the story it is a writing of a new one (again that is my opinion). You disagreed and I disagree. Why do you keep saying that I accuse you of something? Also I said a million times you do not need a word for word thing to have a loyal adaptation. I also stated it a hundred times. Cutting is inevitable. THIS amount of change was optional.

I see. You definitely are free to do so. Honestly it is sad that it comes this way but you absolutely can and you have the right to do so. I am sorry you felt this way perhaps that is because I express my opinion too passionately the same as you. It happens. I am sorry that it comes this way. No I do not block people. If others wish to block me is up to them. It wouldn't be the first time. It is up to you. You do not need to earn Mr for it and I do not live for followers or people who block me

I know I am not a pleasant person and never claimed to be. I am who I am. If that is so unpleasant to you that you wish nothing to do with me is up to you really. No need to warn me about it.

You realize that a fandom has gone off the rails or that it has REALLY taken over when you see "Epic the Musical" tagged under images of Achilles and Patroclus! Like...how are two characters who were both dead by the taking of Troy, yet alone by Odyssey who do not appear not even as a mention for the Underworld as they were in the Odyssey, relatable to this?!

Sorry! XD

[the-music-maniac]

I get a little annoyed when people's complaints about zosan stray into the "Sanji would never fall for Zoro because of personal hygiene issues" territory. Mostly because I feel like it involves a fundamental misunderstanding about their dynamic and also Sanji as a character.

First of all, Sanji smokes cigarettes and cooks seafood and shit. Even if he does shower daily, there is no way he smells like a rose garden. So there's that.

Second of all, Sanji is a COOK. You literally cannot be a cook if you're afraid of getting your hands dirty, if you're afraid of working up a sweat. He knows the value of hard work in that regard. For his craft, Sanji gets all up in some fish guts, he hunts, he cleans, de-feathers, skins, butchers whatever creature they've managed to hunt - come on y'all. That is not a man that would be a germaphobe. He keeps his workspace and himself clean cause that's the mark of a good cook, but the man would have no qualms about getting dirty. He ain't squeamish.

Third, Sanji's entire thing is that he ACTS like a refined gentleman, but he's a little bit batshit crazy in the same way all the strawhats are. He's one of the monster trio for a reason! They're all freaking unhinged, Sanji's first reaction to seeing sea monsters is to yell that he wants to cook it. He's fought so many battles, I've no doubt that there's blood soaked into the soles of his fancy loafers, caked into some of the hems of his suit pants. My point being that while him acting like he's a gentleman with "refined tastes" is no means deception (he probably has excellent taste when it comes to dining) he also doesn't fit that description entirely. He strives for it, in order to maintain an image, and it also plays into his whole "ladies man" thing as well. But he's not actually a refined gentleman in our traditional interpretation of the word. He's down to slum it if needed, and will kick a person's ass for not finishing a soup that has a bug in it because it would mean wasting food. Also the man has worn orange crocs. Refined my ass.

Fourth, you can deny it all you want, but Zoro and Sanji have always been and will likely always be, two people that match each other's freak. And by that I mean that all it takes is Zoro muttering one little disparaging comment, and Sanji is immediately there, ready to throw down, dirt and sweat be damned. If he were to complain about Zoro's supposed bathing habits and shit, while I don't doubt some of it would be genuine complaint, it probably would mostly be because it would annoy Zoro. But when it comes down to stuff Sanji actually gives a shit about, hygiene would probably not be high up on that list. He is 100% that motherfucker that would get heart eyes over Zoro eating sugar onigiri out of the mud to spare a little girl's feelings.

I get annoyed by people using that argument as if it's a legitimate reasoning for why Zoro and Sanji wouldn't get together. Like what impression of Sanji do you have in your head? You think the dude that constantly knocks foreheads with Zoro during their antagonistic (gay) posturing would get squeamish about Zoro being a little sweaty? Sanji can be your babygirl if you want, but we gotta stop acting like he's the type to get squeamish over stuff like that - there's no way that out of ALL the issues Sanji has yet to work through locked up in that pretty noggin of his, that personal hygiene would be the hold up on a relationship between these two. The zosan dynamic is Sanji complains loudly about Zoro being a disgusting brute and then will turn around and roundhouse kick a man's head off. Like yes, Sanji. That's not the pot calling the kettle black at all.

None of this is a complaint btw. That's literally my favourite part about Sanji, and Zosan as a whole. Sanji wouldn't be nearly as interesting if he was just a gentleman. Zosan wouldn't be as compelling if they weren't two lil peas in a pod, equally as unhinged. The only difference is Zoro puts literally no effort into trying to hide his level of derangement. Which is also very in character for him, btw.

[oscillation-onthe-brain]

Theory that Blitzø has a type...

He falls in love with the authentic good-hearted/good-natured type.

Couldn't help but notice the similarities between Stolas and Fizz! They both oddly–in hells case-stand out for being empathetic. I would categorize them as empaths (think of it in the sense that they take after Charlie instead of Lucifer).

They are genuine in their acts of kindness and don't harbor ill will for others even when they have been severely hurt by them. In Lucifers hell, this is unspeakable. But it's definitely an attractor to Blitz. I think they help keep his demons in check. As he is by nature prone to violence and all things bloody.

I can see why he swoons! It's like meeting angels in hell!

All this, makes me really curious to see how Verosika is like outside of the context of being an ex who is hurt. What went wrong? From the look of things, they met after the tragic fire incident. Probably when Blitzø was at his lowest.

We know for certain that Blitz manipulated Verosika. Which he is not above doing even when he likes someone. This in turn makes me believe that the gravity of what he did to Verosika (stealing from her, not reciprocating, breaking her heart) was due to 2 reasons:

1. He had hit rock bottom and Verosika offered temporary comfort he took advantage of.

2. The damage that was done is likely due to him never being in love with her like he was with Fizz and is with Stolas.

Verosika doesn't strike me as the wide-eyed type like the boys. No offense to Fizz and Stolas! But Verosika has her head on straight. She meets Blitzø head on and challenges him.

It's possible they didn't work out because they were too similar, thereby too toxic for each other.

Eitherway, it would make Verosika the only one that Blitz has hurt on purpose. No accident. No misunderstandings. Just a straight knife to the back! And if so I think he needs to answer for it.

[hatsukeii]

hiii congrats on ur 1000 followers 🌟🌟

i will like to have a cup of latte and boba pls, on side note i’m allergy free ✨✨ and so is that guy over there. the tall guy with chocolate brown hair sitting at the corner of the store, he’s name is suna rintarou. do you mind passing the drinks to him? its on me 🫶🏻🫶🏻

hey, good to see you around! your order's up!

feeling like a drink yourself? order one here!

do you like girls? / suna rintarou x reader

ingredient(s): fluff + crack!! pre-timeskip! misunderstanding trope but in a good way, reader is a bassist because it works LOL

disclaimer(s): implied fem! reader but gn pronouns, suggestive but not like extended it's just the punchline

wc: ~1.0k

drink profile: lesbian panic, lesbian misunderstandings, lesbian confusion

"Really, Suna? Of all people, that one?"

"Don't call them that, asshole."

Forgetting that Miya Osamu, at the end of the day, is still Miya Atsumu's twin brother, was the biggest mistake of Suna Rintarou's life. He should have known that the two would share gossip amongst each other, but it had slipped his mind when he absentmindedly confided in Osamu about his recent infatuation. Now, the two of them peek through the square window of the Inarizaki music room, fighting and clawing at each other for a view of the person behind the door. Suna watches, leaned against the wall on the other side of the hallway, glancing away from the twins as students and teachers alike pass by. Suna does not know who the twins are. He is not sure why they are fighting in front of the music room door. That is what he pretends to believe.

"...'Samu, are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Osamu grunts, shoving Atsumu to the side and taking his spot. He pokes his head just high enough for his eyes to float above the window frame, but low enough to stay unnoticed. When he catches a glimpse of the person in the room, his head turns toward Suna, agonisingly slow.

"Suna, I think you're in love with a lesbian."

"Fuck you mean I'm in love with a lesbian? I would've known by now if they were, I see them in every other class."

"Oh, we mean they're into GIRLS kind of lesbian. What else do you think we mean dumbass?" Atsumu chimes in, taking another glance through the window. What a sight, Suna's infatuation is a manifestation of exactly what he cannot have. They manspread on their chair, wear clear nail polish on cleanly trimmed nails, silver rings on every finger, and most importantly of all, wink and click their tongue at another girl, who turns away giggling. If only Suna could see this, he would be shattered. Atsumu chooses to keep his silence this time.

Suna Rintarou is a great pretender, at least in front of the Miya twins, who just so happen to be awfully dense. He crosses his arms, and hugs them a little tighter against his chest, hooking one leg over the other as he leans further into the wall. He doesn't mind, of course not. After all, his infatuation could be fleeting, but your queerness is forever, at least you have an actual reason to be disinterested. That is what he wants the twins to think. But for the first time in his life, Suna Rintarou is punching the air for being born with a dick. Talk about fleeting attraction, this is all but that.

"Well, ain't that unfortunate then." That comes out more dejected that Suna intended for it to, and the twins swing around to face him, pity painted across their faces.

"Awwww Suna! Are you upset? Are you sad? It's okay, everyone ends up liking someone gay once in a whi- ow!" Osamu sends a chop into Atsumu's piss blonde hair, and receives a jab in the chest in return. "Cut it out 'Samu! Stop being a bitch!"

Neither of them notice the door swing open until it hits them in the side, and nearly knocks them over. When they regain their balance, they turn to see you halfway out the door, silver-clad fingers gripping at the handle. Suna's eyes dart towards the twins, and it's reminiscent of the time they ruined his new volleyball shoes during a petty catfight. A look of disdain. Contempt, even. Atsumu eyes Osamu, who nods frantically in return. Together, they run away.

"Is everything all good? Oh, hey Suna!" You chirp, watching the twins dash through the hall and up the stairs. "What's up? You need somethi-"

"Do you like women?" Suna blurts out, before slapping a hand on his mouth. Your eyes widen in disbelief. His face reddens in disbelief.

"Sorry?"

Clearing his throat, Suna hugs his arms around his waist, wiping his hand discretely on the fabric of his shirt that lies above his waist. There has to be a way out of this, he just isn't sure of what it is yet, or so he wants to think.

"...The twins wanted to know." Good segue! Suna pats himself on the back, until he sees the look on your face. Your eyes are squinted, head tilted ever so slightly and lips frowning in confusion.

"I'm not lesbian, if that's what you're asking. I would be open to any gender though..." You eye Suna up and down, and he isn't sure if it's a good sign, until you grin and shrug your shoulders at him. "...if I weren't already finding someone in particular attractive these days."

Something crashes behind you in the music room, and your head snaps to look back. The girl from before clumsily dismantles a drum set, and drops one of the cymbals on the floor. She's trying to be helpful, and you smile, but you're responsible for pack-up today.

"Oh well, I get why they'd think that though. Bass player, so I gotta keep the nails short." You turn back to see Suna, whose hands are beginning to get clammy on his shirt, and who hopes to god you don't question the blood that rushes to his face. Unfortunately for him, you take notice anyways. Fortunately for him, though, you choose not to push on.

"Ah. Got it." His feet shuffle, and he stands up straight again, finally separating from the wall.

"Cool? Cool. Okay, I'm gonna go and deal with that. I'll catch you later for lunch, Rin?" Suna swallows, nodding quietly. He isn't sure where the nickname came from, but he thinks he'd like to get used to it.

You retreat into the room, but not without shooting a wink and a click of your tongue in his direction, and Suna swears he can die right there. But not before he tracks Osamu and Atsumu Miya down, and forces them to apologise on their knees.

barista's note:

hope you liked it!! i had this idea because i saw a prompt about an osu player but i was like mmm no im not into osu player how about BASS LOLOL but i hope this was enough of both crack and fluff for you, dear customer! on the side i need loser suna because i just know he's a SLEAZE idc

tags: @chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @catsoupki @akaakeis @hiraethwa @wyrcan @laughingfcx @bakery-anon @bailey-reeds @kongkhoi @kuroppiii

ok love u all bye bye i need my rest after english paper 1 and 2

[mallowjiccesyt]

Neither because I've always read it as the letters G-I-F. It's an acronym for Graphic Interchange Format so why pronounce gif like gift or jif?

I am today years old when I learned about these weird ways to read gif lmao

[molsno]

do you know how it feels to be thrown away? to be made aware that dozens, hundreds of people hate you and want you dead?

that's the daily reality of trans women, and it's inescapable.

everyone keeps asking us why we're so angry, why we overreact to everything. how would you feel if day after day after day, everyone around you reacted to everything you say with utter malice, told you you were dangerous, demanded everyone stay away from you, twisted your words to make you look like the worst person who's ever lived? would you be content with that? you really wouldn't get angry? that wouldn't put you on edge? I find that hard to believe.

it's actually normal to make mistakes, or so I've heard. people say that if you say something insensitive, or you talk too much, or your voice is too loud, or you accidentally hurt someone, it's not the end of the world. people might roll their eyes, or there might be an uncomfortable silence, or the person you hurt might not talk to you for a while, but they'll move on, or forget about it, or ask you to apologize. you can be forgiven.

is that really true? I've always been made aware that if I slip up even once, make one tiny mistake, I'll be treated like I'm the scum of the earth. I'll be viciously ostracized at the drop of a hat without warning for one little faux-pas. for some reason, if I'm not perfect, people tell me to kill myself. sometimes I wonder if they have a point.

what is it like to be taken in good faith, I wonder? I wouldn't know. I always want to assume other people have good intentions, so I often take people in good faith, even when they disagree with me, or they have a problem with what I said. even if they're being hostile to me, even if they're ineloquent, even if they willfully misunderstand what I'm saying, I try to see things from their perspective and forge a human connection with them. after all, how are we supposed to build a better world together if we can't look past each other's shortcomings and try to come to a mutual conclusion, person-to-person? whenever I try to do this with someone, I almost always become painfully aware that they don't see me as a person.

does it surprise you that most of us are walking bundles of nerves, fueled by trauma inflicted by people who regularly try to kill us? are we supposed to be calm and rational when someone hates us and decides to make it our problem?

would you be?

[kiwi-but-the-bird-not-the-fruit]

This one request is for Nefero/ femReader.

For the past week, Nefero has been seeing his girlfriend less and less. His girlfriend has been having out with genderbent!Manny (I'll call her Manuella) a lot lately. At first, he doesn't mind that his darling has new friend. He likes that she's happy. However, He gets jealous. Between class the girls quickly go to the restroom and come out all smiles and giggling. When lunch rolls around, femReader is sitting with Manuella when she and Nefero usually sit together. And when Nefero goes to see Reader, Manuella is by her side talking up a storm. Thinking they're going through to a rough patch Nefero invites femReader on a date on Saturday to smooth things over. But surprisingly Reader rejects his offer and tells him she's busy. Nefero has a lot of pride, he can't bring himself to tell Reader that he's worried about their relationship. On the Saturday, Nefero goes to the mall for some retail therapy. While shopping, he sees Reader and Manuella hand in hand going into a shop. Hurt and crushed, Nefero goes home in tears. Later on, he gets a message from Reader saying she's coming over and she wants to tell him something. Because Nefero ain't no punk, dries his tears, fixes his makeup and meets Reader outside to confront her. But instead of a new girlfriend with her, Reader has a new septum piercing in his favorite color. Wha??? Turns out Reader had wanted the new piercing for some time now so she's been asking Manuella about hers (Side note: Manny from Monster High OG has a ring through his nose or a septum piercing). Manuella been giving her tips on how to care for it and showing cool ring designs. Despite being excited, Reader was a bit nervous so Manuella went with her with for support her to get the piercing on Saturday. She was shaking a bit. so Manuella held her hand to keep her still and steady. The reason why Reader didn't tell Nefero about it was because she wanted it to be a surprise to show off her cool and new accessory. Happy that is was all an misunderstanding. Nefero embraces his girlfriend.

My apologies for this being so long. Thank you for your time.

This is just amazing love this prompt and don't worry I enjoyed reading it your really creative and makes my writing go so much smoothly, so I really appreciate it!

I definitely like the idea of a more vulnerable side of Nefero so I'll make it cannon for their relationship and honestly I was gonna add some vulnerability when it's just the two of them alone

(Also I do remember Many having the septum piercing he rocked it.)

Alright here we go!

__________________________________________

Prompt-The reader hasn't been as active in the relationship for about a week she's hanging out more with Manuella (genderbent! Many) and Nefero is very desperate for readers attention /jealous and oh so secretly vulnerable.

Established relationship

Will be suing [Name] as substitute for (y/n)

Readers Nickname, my jewel/my queen

h/c)= hair color

(h/s) =hair style

(h/t)= hair type

(N/n)= Nickname

(E/c)=eye color

Angts with happy ending

________________________________________

Monster high is seen in plain view, the sky is a fangtastic shade of gray with the big stormy clouds covering for miles

Mansters and ghouls are seen entering the school with chitter chatter all around

In comes a limousine, the door swings open to reveal the De Nile Brothers fighting with each other

"You knew I was gonna use those earnings and you took them!" Cleon yells at his older brother who seemed unbothered by his younger brothers tantrum, he ignores him and walks up the stairs as Cleon keeps on yelling his undead heart about the stylish earing he took from grandmother's tomb.

Nefero walks in and searches around with an almost hopeful stare, yet to the untrained eye that wasn't his girlfriend he looked forever resting bitch face.

He glances side to side but doesn't see a sliver of (h/c) hair around the crowd of onlookers but he doesn't find her, there was pit forming deep in him but he simply moved on with long strides, making every Monster and ghoul to make way his majesty Nefero De Nile

Nefero walks to his locker and finds his girlfriend, he becomes ready excited he walks a little more faster and as he approaches he sees her new friend, her name was Manuella

Normally he wouldn't mind her friends but recently it made him mad how much time the two were having, like somehow he didn't exist in her ethereal world that sometimes he'd look at himself and think he wasn't the one to be in such a presence.

Now he truly felt it, making his skin crawl with frustration and oh so well known jealousy.

It wasn't a good color of him; he'd prefer his signature dark green with ofcourse the fiery red he saw [Name] as.

She wore a apple red skirt and black crop top with a gold skull design, she had on platform heels with red bottoms and her (h/c) (h/t) hair was in (h/s) that had green clips on the side of her head,her face was done softly but with bold red and black eyeshadow.

As he walked towards the two he adjusted his earring which he thought would get her attention for at least a minute.

"Hello my queen" he grabbed her waist leand down a bit to her neck and kissed it softly. [Name] looked at him and smiled sheepishly "oh! Hey Nefie, whats up" she turns which makes his hand leave her waist as well making his body just be in front of [Name] not letting him be as close as he wanted.

"Oh nothing, just wanted to walk to class with you is all my jewel" he took her hand and gave it a kiss. [Name] nodded her head smiling then took back her hand and grabbed his hand, then continued talking to Manuella as they walked to class.

At the very least she was holding his hand so he was happy for the meantime.

_______________________________________

In class it seemed that the only thing that was important to [Name] was talking to Manuella and sometimes he could have cursed that they were whispering at times but he let it go because it could be a personal ghoul problem and he didn't want to but into something that he wasn't needed for.

As time went by Nefero resorted to at least paying some attention to class he twirls his hair around on his finger but his mind still swirled with thoughts of his dearest, who was just inches away from him.

Oh how he craved for her to hold his bicep or caressing his face as she took notes while he looked at her. He keeps twirling his dark teal and gold hair as the class goes on.

*Ring Ring Ring*

The bell announced the end of the class, Nefero got up and was going to get [Name]'s chair and pull it out for her to then be created by an empty seat, he quickly scans the classroom then sees her and Manuella rushing out of the leaving an empty seat with the confused manster.

He looked very dumbfounded for a few seconds to then change up his attitude and continue like nothing happened at all

Nefero is seen walking the hall looking to each of his side with his eyes,he makes sure no one can tell he's getting desperate or that he's actively looking or someone, normally he would announce proudly that he is looking for his girlfriend but he had been feeling unsure on where he stood at the moment

'Does my jewel not love me anymore?! Did she find someone else! She must be bored of me! Is that why?!' The manster is beginning to hyperventilate, be it camouflage by his smirk but his un-dead heart was filled with pressure deep within his chest.

He looks to the side to finally see his darling [Name],walking out the bathroom laughing along side Manuella, Nefero becomes once again jealous on the inside, he was about to approach them but the bell rings for their next class separately since he couldn't bribe bloodgood to have then take all the classes together but she said no but still gave a fair amount he was pleased with that but not fully.

As he watches [Name] and Manuella laugh all the way down the hall till they disappear he feels...neglected? He's not sure but it could be for all he knew, he was not used to this treatment, and as the tall prince stood there in the middle of the hallway almost every Monster was in their class while he just stood there...for a while.

As lunch time rolled around we can see [Name] with Manuella who is talking really enthusiastically to the ghoul next to her, Nefero walks into the cafeteria in hopes to at least be sitting with [Name] and ask her on a shopping date.

'Maybe if we go on a date shopping around will fix what's going on' he thinks as he approaches their usual table to be created by Manuella talking quickly with a bright smile, looking at [Name] making the poor guy frustrated that she was still taking his personal time with his girlfriend.

He shrugs himself up, smooths out his hair back and proceeds to walk up to [Name] with confident strides.

When he gets to her free side he starts to say "hello my queen,are you free this Saturday? I'd like to go with you to the mall, maybe buy you a matching new wardrobe for me and you" he looks at her smiling, expectancy in his purple bright eyes.

[Name]'s smile falters into a sympathetic one "oh Nefie I'm so sorry I can't this Saturday I'm busy that day" she looks down sheepishly and ashamed that she had to let him down on his kind offer.

[Name] felt extremely guilty to do this to her wonderful boyfriend but she would make it up with the surprise she had planed just for him and only him, she just loved Nefero so much,more than words can say,so it really did hurt her to leaving him like this for the past week to plan her surprise with Manuella.

Nefero looked away as he shook his head and walked away quickly out of the cafeteria he would just not eat for now, maybe later, just when he's not distraught and sad.

[Name] watched as her boyfriend walked out in a haste, she turns to her friend "I feel awful, I hope he'll like the surprise but this is killing me Manuella" Manuella reassures her "don't worry (n/n) I'm sure he'll love the surprise and understand why you've been hanging out so much with me this week" [name] nods and gives a small smile "yeah hope so"

_______________________________________

Saturday rolls around and Nefero gets out of the limo that sits in front of the large mall, this was the next best thing he could do for his paranoid brain,he had previously spent the whole night worrying.

But that thought was so silly she wouldn't do that, not after the countless times they shared their most intimate secrets to each other, especially not when they had touched skin with skin in the most close/intimate of positions.

He walks along the endless hallway in the mall, his teal and gold hair sways behind him, the heels on his knee high boots click on the floor.

'No she wouldn't' he told himself over and over as if he said it as many times as he could it would eventually become a secret spell to possibly prevent his worst fear.

[Name] leaving him without a second thought.

Nefero walked along the mall with his servants. He hadn't gone into any store so far but eventually he probably just not as quickly as usual.

He turns a corner and as his eyes redirect landing on a well known figure, it was his girlfriend walking hand in hand with Manuella going into a store

"..." Nefero stopped in his tracks stunned, he stared in shock and disbelief at what he was seeing, there wasn't a good explanation for this, right?!

She couldn't do this to him could she?!!

He quickly turns the other way and starts to run back to the entrance where he frantically looks around "where is the limo! Get it here now!" He yelled at his servants " get it here this instant!"

After several minutes the limo gets there and Nefero practically leaps into the backseat and starts barking others "TAKE ME BACK HOME THIS INSTANT" tears start to quickly run down to his cheek and chin, his usual elegant composure gone and stripped.

____________________________________

In his room we see Nefero sobbing into his velvet pillow he wears a green robe his hair is all messy and stuck to any exposed skin with sweat and tears, there's used napkins surrounded him, an empty bucket of chocolate ice-cream on his nightstand

"*sob**snif*Nefero tries to keep his sobs to a minimum but the intense feeling of betrayal was just too strong so he wept hard not caring anymore, how could he? The only ghoul he truly loved was with another for what it seemed to him, so might as well cry his un dead heart all he pleased.

Nefero looked to the side at his night stand that held the discarded carton of ice-cream and next to it the photo of him and [Name] he'd have to pack it away later, he stared into those (e/c) eyes and felt his own eyes sting from the endless river of tears.

*Buzz* *Buzz*

The sound of his eyecoffin getting a notification made him stop for a brief moment, he reluctantly gets up from his laying position and goes to grab it, he takes in a sharp breath when he sees who had texted him, it was [Name] it read

'Hey! Im coming over, i want to tell you something'

Nefero frowns but decides to at least confront her, he gets up takes off his robe to reveal that he still had his outfit from the mall, he goes to his vanity and quickly reduces his makeup to at least look decent and not like a pathetic mess.

After 20 minutes getting ready (which was shorter than the usual time) he walks down to the front of the house and as he gets to the front door the bell rings meaning [Name] arrived

Nefero walks up, opening the door with a cold expression; he expects to see [Name] and Manuella together but it was just her he raises an eyebrow.

[Name] covers her nose but a grin is still seen from underneath "Nefie look!" She takes down her hand to reveal a green septum piercing.

Nefero stares in confusion "wait what?" [Name] sees he's confused so she goes to explain herself "I know I haven't been as present in our relationship, it was because I've been wanting to get this septum piercing but since I didn't know much I asked Manuella to educate me and help me pick!" She quickly explains

"and so when I told you I couldn't go with you to the mall today it was because I was going to get it but I needed some moral support so Manuella came with me even helped me relax holding my hand since im kinda bad with piercings, remember my belly button piercing and how you held my hand? I need that but i couldn't spoil the surprise" her wide smile as she told the story.

"You.. wanted to surprise me with a new piercing of my favorite color" he gets up close to her face reaching a hand to the side of her face moving her head side to side looking at it clearly "it's beautiful" he smiles relief going through his body that it was just a misunderstanding on his part

"I love it" his darling smiles at him ecstatic "Really!" She holds his hand that was on her face and squeezes it as she jumps up and down "Haha yes my jewel!" Nefero picks her up and swings her around, he sets her down and hugs her tight her chest pressing against his "I guess I need to stop over exaggerating things in my head" he whispers in her hair "what do you mean Nefie?" She asks still being pressed into his chest

"I sort of thought you got bored of me and were cheating on me with Manuella" [Name] gasps "Nefie! I'd never do that!!" She huffs backing away and crossing her arms.

Nefero laughed at her cuteness "yes yes I know I was just...*sigh* very confused and hurt when you started to pull away and be around Manuella, you could say I was jealous she took all your attention" he admitted looking down at his shoes in shame, [Name] gets up close and cups his cheek making him look at her "my darling Nefie I'm truly sorry I made you think that I got bored of you or that I didn't love you,and for what it's worth-" she took a deep breath looking deep into his eyes with a smile.

"I will never stop loving the Manster I fell so deeply for since the first day we met,you are my world you are my sun and i your moon without you my existence would be meaningless without your beams of light I'd be left in the unseen,unnoticed but YOU can see my cracks and uneven edges only you can see up close unlike any other." She leans in and kisses him sweetly on his lips, happy tears start to flow down from Nefero's eyes as he uses his hands to close the gap between them once more and kisses back with just as much love.

The sweet close connection of their lips danced the same tune they've known, tongue's intertwined as passion mixed itself with desire, they stop for air gasping hot heavy pants "thank you my jewel, you are truly my goddess sent from the heavens and to think you would chose me" he steals another kiss.

"I'll always chose you in any life...in any universe" she grabs his hand smiling "Let's go inside Nefie I've missed you~" She purred making Nefero blushed yet smiled at her "lead the way my queen~”

____________________________________________

Hi hi! hope you all liked this one and hope I did it justice, I may edit later maybe change a few things,but for now I'm quite happy with how it turned out thanks for the request!!

@myjerseygirlblog

Hope it's up to your standards and I honestly love your request their so creative and they push my brain to think so if you have any more at any point in time please request away!!

And any other person who wishes to see their request/promt written of any monster high or ever after high character x reader one-shot, please request away as well!

And I feel like I'm getting better in suggestive sensual insinuations? Idk I'm trying my best

Hope ya'll have an awesome day/night

byeeeee ♡♡♡♡

[writers-potion]

Suggestions for a body swap story? They seem harder to write

Body-Swapping Stories: I Understand You In A Particular Way

The high-concept of a body swap story is versatile, with endless possibilities. The main factors of a body-swapping plot would typically be comprised of:

Two people whose souls are being interchanged (the catalyst)

Awkward/funny/dangerous things they encounter by living the life of the other person (main premise of the story) 

A resolution brought about through insight gained by the protagonist about the other person’s perspective/secrets, with a promise to act differently once they’re returned to their original body. (the moral of the story)

Why are body-swapping stories appealing? Among many reasons, the central premise of such a story is to address the theme of: how much do we really know about others? 

As souls living in one body only, we encounter problems due to our lack of understanding about others around us, including external conflict, jealousy, misunderstanding, etc. It is a universal human experience to be curious about what’s in another person’s head and want to be somebody else sometimes.

By forcing the protagonist to experience “thinking inside another person’s shoes” in the literal sense, body-swapping stories tend to be versions of the characters growing up by breaking out of their old worldview to widen their intellectual horizons. 

Here is a list of common story components and patterns for a body-swapping story.

A Body Swapping Mechanism 

The body swap happens out of the blue as a one-time occurrence: a lightning strike, electric shock, supermoon, weird potion, etc. In this case, not much justification is required as there is no magical system or follow-up about why this happens.

A higher power conducts the body swap: a fairy, a disgruntled God trying to teach a lesson, a reputable couple therapist, etc. The rationale here is that this higher power is trying to redeem/punish the protagonists. 

One character actively wishes to have their body swapped: the school nerd who envies the prom queen, a daughter who wants to be a grown-up, a poor man wanting to be the rich man next door, etc. 

A character has the ability to “infiltrate” other people’s bodies. They use this ability in an attempt to solve a mystery, espionage, disguise a murder, etc. 

Only “destined pairs” can swap bodies. In this case, a bit of justification/worldbuilding would be good to convince the readers how these people are paired (bloodline, soulmates?).

Body swaps are conducted through a specific ritual or potion. This can be a candles-and-pentagon type, a magical notebook, a specific dance, etc. 

Body swaps are common in the story world, and everybody (with certification/practice/of age) can use this ability. 

The character(s) do something wrong which sets the swap in motion.

The Relationship Between Two (or more) People Getting Swapped

Relationships with long-standing misunderstanding: busy parent & unhappen child; couples on the brink of breakup; siblings with beef; strict teacher & irresponsible student, etc. 

In a romantic arc, a potential couple who are now going to fall in love as a result of this body swap

A human and an animal/supernatural creature 

Enemy relationships: the head of rival companies; a murderer and his victim, etc. 

If you have a magic system, your choice of people would depend on what the magic system dictates. Ask the question: is this someone my protagonist must learn about? 

Things to Explore

Protagonist(s) exploring each other’s bodies

Them arguing over how the other person should/shouldn’t use their bodies

Them trying to keep secrets from each other.

Them teaching the other person about how they should/shouldn’t act so that the body swap goes unnoticed by others around them. 

Them snooping around each other’s lives and secrets without the other knowing.

Them trying crazy stuff they’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t due to physical constraints.

The Purpose of the Body Swap

Providing the entrance into a new (fantasy) world. Ex) Human swapping bodies with a witch, forcing them to learn about the secret society of magicians.

Teaching the protagonist a hard-earned lesson. Ex) An ungrateful child gets to live a day in the life of her mother which humbles her. 

To resolve a long-standing (romantic) conflict. 

To provide a tool for crime, with unexpected consequences. 

Interesting Ideas

Writing these here just because I can. 

The Living Realm and the Dead Realm are like parallel universes. When someone meets an untimely death, their body gets swapped with their doppelganger in the parallel universe.

The protagonists are living in two separate story worlds. The author who’s in charge of writing stories for them is highly indecisive and keeps switching protagonists mid-story. 

The protagonist and her friend swapped bodies to cheat in an exam. But the protagonist’s friend dies – in the protagonist’s body. 

A magical agency offering to swap bodies for trans people who wish to have the body of the opposite sex. But their services come with a huge price tag…

Hope this helps <3 Let me know if you guys have more questions/ other ideas/ helpful resources below in the comments!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

💎If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! Also, join my Tumblr writing community for some more fun.

💎Before you ask, check out my masterpost part 1 and part 2 

[thelazyhermits]

Because I had so much fun with my last Skully drabble, I decided to make another one, although this one doesn't take place during the TWST 2024 JPN Halloween event, so the only spoilers here are Skully himself and how he feels about the person he's based on.

Rather than write a scene from the event, I decided to have this drabble take place in an AU where Skully becomes a member of Ramshackle Dorm after the event since I thought that'd be fun. Also, while it's not outright stated, Skully is wearing normal glasses here since I like that popular fan theory, and I want his pretty eyes to be visible.

Lastly, although my Yuu is female, her gender isn't mentioned in this drabble, so Reader is technically G/N here.

“Yuu-san!”

Much to your surprise, just after you come downstairs and enter your dorm’s lounge, you hear Skully, who sounds both excited and incredibly relieved for some reason, call out to you.

Seconds later, Skully, who had dashed from his seat on the closest couch over to your current position, throws his arms around you and pulls you into a tight embrace. “It’s so good to see you!”

Once you overcome your surprise, you chuckle as you return his embrace. “Silly boy, you act like it’s been a while since we last saw each other, even though it was only a few hours ago that I saw off you and everyone else who had wanted to play some after school Spelldrive.”

When you look up at the much taller boy’s face, he pouts, “While that is technically true, I hardly saw you today due to us having different classes, and the few times we were together were far too short.”

His pout deepens. “And the last several days were much the same, because you’ve been sequestering yourself inside your room every day during your free time. That’s why it feels like it has been a while since I last got to enjoy your wonderful company.”

“Skully…” You murmur as you stare at him in surprise, not expecting to see such a lonely expression on your friend’s face.

As his grip on you tightens, Skully sadly frowns, “As of late, Grim-san and the others have been frequently inviting me to join in various types of activities, and while I am most delighted to spend time with my new friends, I can’t help but wonder if perhaps one of the reasons they’ve been extending so many invitations to me these last several days is to keep me away from you.”

“Could it be that I've unintentionally upset you in some way?” He asks, “Or perhaps my lack of popularity with the majority of my new schoolmates has resulted in a large amount of undue stress being put on your shoulders?”

“If I’ve upset you, I sincerely apologize, and I also apologize for being such a burden while I’ve been acclimating to my new life here at NRC.” Skully continues, “I swear, I will do whatever is necessary to make amends, so please…”

“Please don’t distance yourself from me.” He quietly pleads, “Being apart from you, my very first friend, is most agonizing, and I do not want to return to the life I lived prior to meeting you…”

Your chest painfully clenches when you hear those heartbreaking words. “Oh, Skully…”

Catching him by surprise, you gently cup his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Skully. If I had known you would misunderstand my actions to this degree, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to surprise you with your welcome gift.”

His earlier pained expression immediately disappears as surprise dawns his features. “Welcome gift?”

Nodding, you smile as you gently stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. “Since you’re the first student to join Ramshackle Dorm since me and Grim started living here, I wanted to prepare a special present to welcome you to our dorm.”

“Grim and the others all know what I’ve been doing, and they agreed to keep you preoccupied, so my surprise for you wouldn’t get spoiled.” You continue, “I also wanted to make sure you weren’t neglected while I was so busy since I know you’re still getting used to life here, and I didn’t want my absence to cause you any stress.”

Your smile fades as your expression becomes guilty. “But I obviously completely failed with that endeavor. I’m sorry for making you lonely, Skully, and for making you think you did something wrong when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

Once he overcomes his surprise, Skully emphatically shakes his head as he gently rests a hand over one of your hands that’s still cupping his face. “You have no reason to apologize, Yuu-san! I should be the one apologizing for my horrible misunderstanding!”

After gently removing your hand from his face, Skully tenderly kisses your knuckles. “Even though you were working so hard for my sake, I let myself foolishly believe you were like my past schoolmates and selfishly complained like a spoiled child. I’m ashamed of myself. Please forgive me.”

Just as you’re about to tell him that the only one at fault here is you, you stop yourself, because, if you say something like that, you know the two of you will just continue apologizing and blaming yourselves since that’s just the kind of people you and Skully are.

Since you really want to avoid that and you’re sure Skully feels similarly, you instead say, “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me. Deal?”

A broad, relieved smile rises to his lips as the tension in his frame eases. “Deal.”

His smile unfortunately doesn’t last for long, however, due to his gaze focusing on the bags underneath your eyes, which he is seeing for the first time thanks to you having removed the makeup you had previously been wearing to hide them.

Upon seeing Skully’s worried expression, you immediately find yourself regretting your decision to remove your makeup, so you could wash your face with cold water in order to rid yourself of some of the drowsiness that had been plaguing you all day since you put that makeup on in the first place to avoid worrying him like this.

After releasing his hold on your hand, Skully moves to gently cup your cheek and softly strokes the area underneath your right eye, frowning all the while. “Have you been forgoing sleep on my account, Yuu-san? I can’t say I approve, no matter how grateful I am for you being willing to go to such great lengths for my sake.”

“Nothing should ever be more important than your own well-being, which is far more precious to me than any kind of physical gift you could possibly give me.” He quietly adds.

With a guilty wince, you wrap your arms around him to give him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry, Skully. You’re right.”

As you lean into his touch, you continue, “Honestly, I really didn’t mean to give up sleep to work on your present. I just got so absorbed in my work that I ended up losing track of time, which is a bad habit of mine.”

You kiss his hand that’s still cupping your face before giving him a smile. “But I’m all done now with your present. I finished making the final touches right before I came downstairs, so you don’t need to worry anymore. I promise I’ll go to bed early tonight to make up for the sleep I lost.”

Appearing noticeably relieved, Skully brings his face closer to yours, so he can tenderly kiss the bags underneath your eyes. “I pray that you have nothing but the sweetest of dreams tonight, my beloved.”

A pleasant warmth envelops your chest in response to his affection-filled words and actions, which do a perfect job of showcasing just how much your friend cares about you.

Unable to help yourself, you take advantage of his close proximity and kiss his cheek. “I have no doubt I’ll have nothing but great dreams thanks to you. Thank you, Skully.”

As always, despite him always being so quick to kiss others, Skully becomes visibly flustered when on the receiving end of your kisses, although you can tell he’s also really happy since he loves these types of exchanges just as much as you do.

After taking a moment to admire his adorable, flustered face, you grin, “Since I’m all done with your welcome gift, how about you go take a seat while I go get it for you? I’m eager to see your reaction to what I put together for you.”

In an instant, Skully’s previous embarrassment disappears as he becomes noticeably excited. “I would love that! I am positively brimming with excitement since I know a gift from you is sure to be just as wonderful as yourself!”

Your grin grows. “You always say such sweet things, Skully. I love that about you.”

Once that’s decided, you and Skully finally pull apart, so you can head back upstairs to retrieve his gift.

Before you leave the lounge, however, you curiously ask, “By the way, where’s Grim? Did you get tired of playing Spelldrive with him and the others and come back on your own?”

Skully winces, “Ah, about that…You see…”

When you raise an eyebrow at him, your friend hesitates before finally explaining, “While we were playing, Grim-san accidentally threw the Spelldrive disk at a window and broke it, and when Ace-san and Deuce-san tried to fix the damage that was done with their magic, they unfortunately ended up exacerbating the damage.”

You face-palm. “In other words, you’re here now ‘cause those three are currently getting lectured by Riddle-senpai, who found out what happened before they could fix the mess they made.”

He nods. “Yes, exactly. As if somehow sensing that trouble was afoot, Riddle-san hurried onto the scene while Grim-san and the others were panicking and promptly made them all lose their heads.”

“Fortunately, I was spared because I had briefly left the scene to fetch a broom since I had wanted to take care of the glass before someone accidentally hurt themselves, and I currently don’t have any cleaning spells in my repertoire.” Skully adds.

All you can do is sigh. “If only my knucklehead sons could act more maturely like you, Skully, then I wouldn’t have to worry about them so much. Those three are such a handful…”

With a shake of your head, you head for the stairs. “Oh well, at least I don’t have to worry about dealing with them right now since I can just leave those knuckleheads in Riddle-senpai’s capable hands.”

While Skully chuckles, you hurry back to your room to collect the box that contains what you’ve been working on these last several days.

After setting the bow-covered lid on top of the previously open box, you head back downstairs with the present and meet back up with Skully, who’s once again sitting on one of the lounge couches.

Much to your amusement, Skully is practically vibrating, proving just how excited he is about the special surprise you put together for him.

Grinning, you set the box you had been holding down onto his lap. “Once again, welcome to Ramshackle Dorm, Skully. I hope you enjoy your welcome gift.”

He beams, “I have no doubt that I will since it’s a gift from you! Thank you very much, Yuu-san!”

Wanting a good view of his face when he sees what’s inside the box, you remain standing as you eagerly watch Skully remove the box’s lid.

And, of course, his reaction upon seeing the contents of the box does not disappoint.

Skully releases a loud, dramatic gasp. “Jack-sama?!”

All you can do is grin upon witnessing his excited, almost theatrical reaction. “There it is. The reaction I’ve been so eagerly anticipating these last several days. I’m glad it was just as cute as I had hoped it'd be.”

The elated boy, who now has actual tears of joy in his eyes, reverently holds up the Jack Skellington plushie that had previously been inside the box. “This is stunning! Absolutely spectacular! I’m overcome with emotion just by staring at Jack-sama’s splendid figure! Your sewing skills are unparalleled, Yuu-san!”

You giggle, “Thank you. I’m happy you feel that way. I worked really hard to make a plushie that looked as much like Jack Skellington as possible since I knew I couldn’t do him a disservice when making this plushie for his number one fan.”

“Because I know how much you love Jack Skellington, I decided the best gift I could give you was your very own Jack Skellington merch.” You continue, “That’s why I decided to make that plushie and a pillow that looks like his face.”

“Regarding the t-shirt that’s also inside the box, I didn’t make the whole thing from scratch.” You add, “I just bought a plain, black shirt and then decorated it all over with Jack-san’s face. I added in Zero as well ‘cause he’s just so cute, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Smiling, you reach over to gently stroke the top of Jack’s head. “Considering your room right now looks a little bare and doesn’t have much of your personal touch yet, I thought it’d be nice to give you some things that you could decorate your room with since I want you to be as comfortable as possible while you’re here.”

Faster than you can react, Skully sets the box in his lap to the side after setting down the Jack Skellington plushie and proceeds to pull you into his lap, catching you by surprise.

Your surprise only grows when, after pulling you into an incredibly tight hug, Skully gives your cheek the kind of fervorous kiss that would surely bring many people to their knees almost instantaneously.

“Ah~ Whatever shall I do?” Skully affectionately nuzzles the cheek he just kissed. “No matter how much gratitude and adoration I pour into a kiss, it simply isn’t enough to express how overjoyed and thankful I am for this spectacular gift.”

A pleasant warmth envelops your chest as you wrap your arms around him. “Don’t worry, your feelings are getting through to me just fine. You’ve made it loud and clear that my special surprise was a total success.”

“While I am pleased to hear that, I am still not satisfied.” Skully replies as he gently cups your face and begins tenderly stroking your cheek with his thumb. “A lovely angel such as yourself deserves far more for all of the kindness you have so graciously bestowed upon me.”

The warmth inside your chest intensifies when you see his incredibly tender expression and the pure adoration in his eyes. “Skully…”

Before you can tell him that he really doesn’t need to do anything else when the loving look he’s currently giving you is more than enough of a reward for all your efforts, Skully beams, “That is why I intend to completely shower you with my love and gratitude for the rest of the day!”

He quickly shakes his head. “No, for the next week at the very least! Only then will I come close to properly conveying all of these passionate emotions that are currently overwhelming me to the point I feel as if I could erupt at any given moment!”

You blink in surprise before your expression becomes incredibly fond. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I guess I can’t stop you since you obviously need an outlet for those powerful emotions, and I need to take responsibility for being the cause of them.”

Grinning, you loop your arms around Skully’s neck before kissing his cheek. “Let’s make up for all the time we couldn’t hang out these last several days, shall we? After all, you’re not the only one who missed spending time together.”

His expression becomes a mixture of flustered and elated. “That sounds like a most wonderful idea!”

Your grin grows. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

Because there's nothing you love more than getting to spend quality time with the people whom you love most. Nothing else could ever compare.

And that's a fact.

[dykeulous]

1.) for the love of science, please, please stop using the theory of gendered socialization as some “gotcha” against all female people. stop trying to constitute that just because a person who happens to be female is only empathic because they’re female. stop making us all look bad, stop proving the dumbasses who say we’re trying to claim all women have some universal spiritual bond that connects them & that we’re using the theory to constitute & declare all women as inherently this and all men as inherently that, right. stop misunderstanding the theory. yes, socialization has impacts on how someone turns out as a person. yes, socialization does influence personality, and yes, the reason why women are more likely to be empathic is because of socialization, not because of some inherent biological magic; however, this doesn’t mean that having basic human decency & choosing not to be a piece of shit is somehow alien to male people. this doesn’t mean that women should throw away all their learned personality traits & tendencies. just because empathy is more forced & pushed onto women, doesn’t mean women need to get rid of that. instead, women should work on unlearning passiveness & unhealthy self-consciousness– female people should unlearn the process of female socialization that taught them to think low of themselves, that taught them to constantly feel like a burden, that taught them not to have any boundaries & to stay quiet and meek– empathy & human decency are not something to be thrown away. those are valuable & natural human traits.

2.) the trans movement is not inherently anti-feminist. the commodification, commercialization, and pinkwashing of it is. if we look very closely, trans people a lot of the time agree with the core elements of radical feminism; they just phrase their beliefs differently. there are gaps within ideologies, and both sides can be obtuse as fuck. both sides can be annoying & unwilling to learn. both sides can do legitimate harm in the real world. both sides need to learn from each other & stop vilifying & caricaturing the other as some pesty inherent danger that should be hidden from the rest of the world. gender critical women and trans rights activists need not always be “at odds”. we can, and we will, bridge the gap; no matter how many times annoying people like you fly around our ears like & whine. buzz all you want. there are people out there working on bridging the gap & are efficiently doing so. if you want to lock yourself up in an echo-chamber while also insisting trans people are doing that very same thing, then well done. have your hypocrisy cake and eat it 🤷🏻. me personally, i’ll keep having meaningful discussions with people who don’t necessarily share the same worldview as i do. nevertheless, radical feminism does wonders for trans people, and there are so many radical feminists out there insistent on proving that. if you’re going to sit back and whine about “men in dresses”, “those disgusting tranzes invading women’s spaces” and “moid xys fetishizing women”, while not doing anything whatsoever to improve the conditions of your local women– then don’t bother calling yourself a feminist of any sorts, yet alone a radical feminist. gncphobia does not look good on a person claiming to be pro-feminist. seriously.

3.) “no one is arguing that we should make trans-identified people’s lives worse” this is just, like, blatantly untrue. bans & limits on self-expression, bodily automony & self-determination, do in fact, harm trans people, a deeply vulnerable & targeted group in many societies. the same societies that tend to be extremely intolerant of trans people are also extremely intolerant of women. this is not a coincidence. it’s not a coincidence that the worst misogynists are also very often transphobic. it’s not a coincidence that conservatives, the people working to tangibly oppress trans people, are also anti-abortion, anti-divorce, pro-nuclear family, and anti-lgb. it’s almost like, hey– trans people are oppressed on the gender axis! and if you’re going to say that you said this in regards to radfems; you’d also be wrong. i will agree that tras often unrealistically portray radfems as fashies capable of systemically oppressing trans people, and that they very often create conspiracy theories on how “terfs are running the world” & “terfs control the governments”, exaggerating the “power” radfems may have– but this does not mean that there are no transphobic radfems. i’ve seen many deny dysphoria being a thing, many are unnecessarily & inhumanely cruel to dysphoric people & constantly try to purposely trigger someone’s dysphoria, many are exceptionally cruel to trans men (which is funny because they like to claim we are their “lost sisters” or whatever), many straight up mock surgeries & call people “mutilated” which extends to the hatred & bigotry against detrans folk. you cannot complain how trans people refuse to excommunicate genuinely awful people in their community if you yourself are going to ignore the genuinely awful people in your own community. you just cannot.

4.) “we are pro gender abolition and they are pro gender”– i mean, making a wild claim like this just proves you’ve locked yourself up in an echo-chamber. you sound exactly💯 how those tras who portray radfems as The Incarnation of Devil Himself sound like. you believe you know everything about a group & the group’s beliefs without conversating with anyone from said group. that’s exactly how many tras behave, making up wild claims & false caricatures of radfem beliefs, exaggerating them up to the point of nonsense. like, i’m sorry– but i’ll call bullshit on the “they are pro gender” stuff. i just cannot bring myself to believe that a group uniquely oppressed by gender is capable of meaningfully supporting the existence of it. sure, there are trans people who will vocally say they are against the abolition of gender because they personally feel it helps them because want to assimilate/it helps them express & understand themselves or whatever– but this doesn’t erase the reality of gender inherently repressing & oppressing trans individuals. certain, individual trans people can do & say wacky shit, they can hold horrible and stupid beliefs– but this does not reflect the universal reality of trans existence. trans people deviate from the gender binary. trans people do not fit into the system of gender, and as such, they can only benefit from the abolition of gender. gender hurts us in a very specific way, and we are going against the very existence of it, just by existing. this isn’t to say some trans people aren’t genuinely dumb & misogynistic/bio-essentialist/neurosexist/assimilationist/homophobic/awful/whatever– i’m simply saying that we as a group do not fit into the gender system– obviously, we still have to prove that we truly are against it, but we defy traditionalist way of thought merely by existing. of course, we still have to do actual work to be considered activists, and we aren’t immediately some punk blood-pumping political figures simply on the basis of not fitting in.

5.) any person who sends rape & death threats to anyone is despicable. the phenomenon of this specifically happening to radfems is real, but we cannot base our moral beliefs & opinions on an entire group off of this. oftentimes, it’s not even actual trans people sending the threats, it’s cis people [particularly cis men to be clear] who want to speak over us. calling out homophobia & misogyny in the trans community is a worthy endeavor & definitely, desperately needs to be done. being hateful and assuming all trans people are this disgusting caricature in your head, is not. again, we will bridge the gap, and there’s nothing you can do about it. activists of all kinds will come together & reshape the world from the roots of it. they will pull out all the toxicity & take down all the oppressive structures & institutions, stomp on them violently & mercilessly– they will rebuild the world from its’ roots, all over again.

[allpiesforourown]

Okay, okay, permanent-pregnancy for Shizun anon back again. I have read the worries people have, but have been too sick meanwhile to answer, but here it goes! Like, there is no reason to worry about the potential child, because you just have to decide what is your goal when making Shizun pregnant??? Children don't have to be involved at all!

Like, we know Shizuns love of the monstrous right?? What if he had a little accident when finding a new plant and after he is saved he finds it left a little something behind? And of course this plant is extremely rare so he couldn't possibly just let it's offspring die, no the only option is to carry it to term and then safely release it back into nature! He would be so cute and excited about learning about it, but also sooooooo shy, why did it have to be like this, oh, but he can't show that to the other lord's if they then decide to remove it, he is way too protective for that! So as his disciples it is of course our responsibility to make sure Shizuns is cared for and all his needs met while the little baby plant grows inside him!! (And if afterwards Shizuns realised this is the only way to keep the plant from dying out... Shizun is so kind and sometimes sacrifices have to be made)

But what if it is us breeding him that is the point? Well, I imagine Binghe and Shizun having shameless sex doing dual cultivation and as Binghe *AHEM* in Sizhun their cultivation mix and a new spirit is created. Something between demonic cultivation and human cultivation, something never seen before! Something only they could make together and now have to foster and grow! Since this isn't a normal pregnancy who knows how long it will last, just how it will affect sweet kind Shizun? Certainly, it is up to dear Binghe to make certain all Shizuns needs are met no matter what!!! (And if suddenly other cultivators want that new cultivation core and tries to kidnap Shizun? Well, then it is ours Binghes responsibility to save him each time which means Shizun would gladly reward us in any way we wanted!)

Okay, but what about some darker drama?? Shizun stuck in the Water Prison and Binghe can't have him running, what do he do? He finds an artifact that keeps Shizun pregnant and vulnerable (Not with actual child, it is just a curse), because how can he run when his feet hurt and stomach grows? How could he show himself to the rest of the world when he is like this? No, now he has to stay with Binghe and hopefully this will give Binghe time to prove himself for Shizun! And once they finally talk and clear the misunderstandings, then Binghe of course undoes the curse and they live happily ever after! (And if they keep the artifact for some... More adventurous evenings, that is between Binghe and Shizun)

And of course, what if you want to go full horror? Shizun becomes cursed without his knowledge and nothing we do can find the source or undo it! As he gets morning sickness, slowly grows larger, has all these weird cravings, there is no doubt what it is! But how could it be possible? Shizun knows he is a virgin, never even thought about the deed, how could this have happened? And he is a man, this shouldn't even be possible! He would be so scared and lost and we would be there to hold his hand and for him to have a shoulder to cry on as he shared all his worries and we would stay by his side during it all, so he never felt alone. Who knows what will happen, but we do know we will never leave Shizun! (And as long as he is like this... Then I suppose Shizun could never leave us...)

The point is, you need to ask yourself, what is the goal with the preggers Shizun kink?? None of these examples require an actual child to be involved, like we don't need to consider ethical dilemmas here! Do we want Shizun protecting the rare life growing inside of him? To we want to see him fill out with something we Binghe gave him, something created together? Do we want the drama of using the vulnerability against him until we finally understand each other? Or do we love the horror and a scared Shizun who can only go to us for support? So many different directions to go and each of them delicious in their own way! The wonders of fiction mean there are no limits of what we can put Shizun through OR how we save him <3

Sorry about my ramblings, just wanted to share my thoughts <3 Hopefully one or more of these scenarios will be written out soon, just have to write a few more chapters for my fic first!

Have a great day!

Op I am genuinely flabbergasted. I don't think anyone has ever out-horny'd me like this when it comes to shizun. I am listening and learning. Pondering all these mpreg alternatives. Thank you

[ddejavvu]

eddie x reader

wayne & her r gonna meet but they already know each other so they prank eddie that he doesn’t like her

You've got your game face on, Eddie just misunderstands why. He thinks you've squared your shoulders and furrowed your brow to remind yourself that you're tough, that you're awesome, and that it doesn't matter what his uncle thinks of you (even though he knows he'll love you). Really, it's because you're about to rage against the man currently opening the door.

"Wayne," Eddie grins, holding up your joined hands, "This is-"

"You," Wayne seethes, glare sharp enough to fool his nephew, "What the hell are you doing bringin' 'round a criminal, son?"

"A- A what?"

"Oh, not you," You scoff, dropping Eddie's hand to cross your arms over your chest, "Eddie, you didn't tell me your uncle was a psychopath."

"Psycho- What? You're the one that keyed my car!"

"You hit me with it," You seethe, spitting mad, "And then you just drove away! You laughed, you're fucking insane!"

"You- you what? Wayne!" Eddie looks aghast at his uncle, "The first time I get a girlfriend you run her over?"

"She was in my way," The old man gripes, "Tell her to stop jaywalking."

"Jaywalking? And- and baby," He turns to you, eyes wide and afraid, "You slashed his tires? I- I mean, that's fucked up that he did that but- but did you really do that?"

"She called me a coot, too," Wayne insists, but after punctuating his sentence, his frown falters, and his jaw nearly snaps from how hard he's clenching it, trying to keep his laughter in."

"You are a coot," You huff, but his concealed laughter only makes your own bubble up, "And- and another thing, old man..."

"Yeah? Gimme a reason," Wayne raises a fist, all bark and no bite, "Just- just gimme a reason to, and I'll- I'm sorry, I can't."

His chest puffs with laughter, and the way Eddie's standing fear-stricken makes you dissolve as well. He's perhaps more afraid of the two of you when you break down laughing together, leaning on the doorframe or folded over at the waist. He almost wishes you'd start shouting again.

"Okay, guys," He calls warily, "What's going on?"

"She works at the gas station I stop by for cigarettes." Wayne waves a hand at Eddie, "I knew you two were together when I saw that ring on her hand." He points to a particularly gaudy one of Eddie's that he'd given you as a token of his admiration."

"Sorry, Eddie," Your sentence begins with a giggle and ends with a sigh as you butt your head against his chest, "We just wanted to freak you out."

"You did," He shakes his head, eyes closed, "i thought you were gonna knock her lights out, Wayne. And- wait! You said you quit smoking!"

This time it's Eddie with fire in his eyes, and you give Wayne a teasingly panicked look from over Eddie's shoulder.

"Yeah, I told you that 'cause I wanted you to think it," Wayne drawls, "I buy a pack after work every week."

"You're not allowed to sell him any more," Eddie whirls on you, and you drop the face, "Understand?"

"Yes, sir." You fake-salute, "Now can we get inside? I want to hang out with your uncle."

"I've been meanin' t'ask you," Wayne welcomes you into the trailer with an arm out that wraps around your shoulders as you cross the threshold, leaving Eddie alone on the front steps, "Did you ever get that car radio of yours workin' again? 'Cause a buddy of mine just totaled his car, the stereo's workin' fine. I figured I could swap it out for you."

As you get into a discussion of car radios and junkyard ethics, Eddie stands with furrowed brows in the doorway. He's watching his girlfriend and his uncle chat like college friends, and he can barely shake off the bewilderment enough to step inside his own home.

"You two are crazy," He cuts you off, frowning at the both of you, "I- God, I need a beer."