#this poem took me out when i first read it

[thedepressedjuggalette]

Arcane is a GOTHIC Show.

No, not Goth like Goth music, I mean GOTHIC as in Gothic Literature like Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, or literally anything written by Edgar Allen Poe.

I am dead ass serious. Or maybe I'm just insane.(Spoilers ahead!!!)

Now it is okay if you didn't pick up on this, I am just one of those extremely weird kids that grew up reading Gothic Literature so much that it was almost an unhealthy obsession so I kind of spotted this within the first 6 episodes of the first season.

Now if you don't believe me when I say that Arcane is Gothic in nature I need to ask you this:

Did Arcane ask these simple questions:

What does it mean to be human?

What defines humanity?

When is a person too far gone?

Can grief ruin a person?

Can trying to help others turn to destroying others?

And can obsession turn to madness?

These specific questions are the very questions I've noticed pop up a LOT in OLD SCHOOL Gothic literature.

For instance Viktor is a lot like Viktor Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll (more so Dr. Jekyll) in the sense that he slowly loses his humanity the further he pushes his research before finally falling to a destructive path. He quite literally loses himself to his own research and by his own research subject.

Singed (Dr. Ravick) is more Viktor Frankenstein than anything else. So obsessed with bringing the dead back to life. But whereas Frankenstein was obsessed with the idea of it that he never thought if he should. Singed found it merely to be nothing more than an illness needing to be cured because he couldn't stand the idea of losing his daughter.

Gothic Literature came out after the Romantic Literature Era, however in the Romantic Literature Era a lot of writers were protesting workplace mistreatment such as forcing children into working in coal mines and cleaning chimneys, along with the obsession of nature, Gothic Literature focused on the morality of Humanity, what it meant to be human and what defines us and how quickly a person can fall into insanity (aka mental health issues).

The first to start this was Mary Shelley over a small bet with her husband and several other authors. Her work was mortifying in comparison to the others because of what it forced the reader to think about.

Her work took place during the Enlightened Era where scientists were obsessed with Progress (Riot I fucking saw this shit coming, fuck you guys), and how if as a species can we become like god and make something from our own deaths and if we even should?

Shelley doesn't directly answer this but we actively see through her writing the death of a god -- Viktor Frankenstein -- because Adam (the monster) views his creator with contempt and disgust and thus demands his Eve despite Frankenstein's reluctance.

Can you imagine what Vander would've thought of Singed?

Can we really say that Vander would not view Singed as both his Savior and Destroyer. Can we even call Vander human? Or is he something else entirely? We can't call him a werewolf in the traditional sense, so what truly is he? He is the Adam of a species not meant to exist. Is he even Vander anymore or is he truly Warwick?

A lot of Poe's writing is very much about madness and grief. Well... To me anyways, it could just be my obsession with his poem The Raven (it reminds me of my great grandmother).

And I've personally in my own life seen how grief can destroy a person physically -- their despair destroying their physical health because that person feels their life died with that person. And I fear every day for my grandma to head down the same path that her sisters are when they pass.

But it's the mentality that the more subtle and at the same time the most extravagant thing to be destroyed through grief.

We see this repeatedly with Jinx and Vi.

They lost their stability the moment that their brothers and Vander died, and when Jinx thought Vi was dead.

They had already lost their bio parents, so this was another nail in their coffins. However Vi had no idea if Jinx was alive or dead and thus had that to hold onto despite being beaten bloody in an unstable environment that is prison.

Jinx however had her grief and trauma constantly lectured into her and had to form her personality around it. She even comments on it in episode 9 of season 1. Silco didn't know how to be a dad, but he was trying his best but he was a grown ass man when he had his personality reformation unlike Jinx who was like 10.

Her grief was haunting her and ruining her mental health.

I had recently learned that psychotic depression is a thing.

With her guilt and grief and PTSD eating her alive she was bound to go the road she went down. But what truly killed Jinx was the death of Isha.

I want to make it clear that I don't view Jinx and Isha's relationship as sisterly. I view it as maternal due to the comparisons between her and Silco and Isha to Powder.

However the point still stands.

She, like Silco, could not stand the mere idea of their child being in any sort of life threatening situation -- especially dealing with enforcers -- and thus would jump to protect them. But they both fail at the end in many ways.

Vi literally stopping Jinx from getting Isha out of there, and Silco being unable to stop Vi from triggering Jinx's PTSD.

And there's one more thing about Jinx we need to address...

If there is one thing I know about bullying and brainwashing is that if you keep telling someone they're worthless etc. one day they're going to believe you, and you cannot be surprised they do and when they act accordingly. Especially when the victim is a child. This is why suicide in children and teens is so devastating and cannot be fixed with religion or weird as hell wrestlers or stupid manosphere podcasts.

We don't know how long Powder had to put up with Mylo's bullying of her, but telling by her reaction to and how the loudest and most negative voice she hears from her hallucinations is his voice... I'd have to say that it started from the moment they met up to his death and it was sealed when Vi hit her and called her a Jinx.

"Who truly made Jinx?" is a question that has been brought up by everyone and their mother by this point. Some agree with the character herself when she said that it was Vi. Others agree with Silco when Jinx stated that Silco thinks he made Jinx.

Some reading this might say "Oh my god was it Mylo???"

I disagree on all fronts.

There is one video essay I keep coming back to because anyone with any sense of media literacy will outright point this same shit out but not as... Artfully as the essay itself.

It is called "Arcane, a Monster Factory" and it starts out with a single statement:

"Piltover breaks people."

And ends with a terrifying statement:

"Sometimes when I can't sleep at night, I start to think that maybe Piltover is more realistic than I'd like to think..."

It wasn't a single person that made Jinx. It was the entire city.

I want to point to Episode 7 to show you what I mean.

Without the death of Grayson but instead the death of Vi and without the creation of Hextech and Silco choosing to forgive Vander, Powder herself changed for the better and never needed to become Jinx. Rather she focused her energy on helping everyone around her -- and not taking time for herself in the process but we've always seen this even in Jinx. She focused on helping Silco then jumped to just trying to destroy for the sake of destroying only to end up helping the under city without meaning to, only to help Isha, and never really helping herself.

No matter what she'd have liked to think, she could've done wonders. Viktor even said so himself. She could do a lot to help his commune with her talents.

Even said it when he was looking at her bomb for the first time, calling her work "inspired".

She is talented but her talents never got the chance to truly shine.

Imagine what she and Ekko could've done if they were able to attend Piltover's academy.

But as stated before, Piltover breaks people.

Piltover made Jinx.

And in a cruel twist of fate it made the two people who cared about her the most hold the blame for the city's actions.

The ending of Arcane was fumbled when it came to Jayce's speech to Viktor and I'll stand by that because it was the fault of Piltover for Viktor having a preventable disease and thus leading to his obsession with avoiding death and avoiding needless suffering.

But in this ending these two science husbands did ask the one question that truly defines Gothic Literature.

What does it mean to be human?

And it's answer is one that I am unsure about because no one can truly define the human experience. The experience of life. The grief. The pain. The love. The joy. All of it.

In my own fanfic for a completely different fandom I had two characters talk about emotions. One couldn't truly feel emotions while another could. It took me a long while to try to figure out how to answer the question of "What is it like to feel emotions?"

It's hard to answer, isn't it?

I did figure it out though, having to take a page out of Kindred's playbook. But it was one I was very satisfied with.

It is questions like these be them asked through subtle writing cues, or blatantly asked by the characters themselves, they define Gothic Literature to me.

Arcane is the beautiful marriage of Greek Tragedy and Gothic Literature.

[razorsadness]

"Poetry is the supreme killjoy"

Translated from the Spanish

Poetry is the supreme killjoy The awkward guest sitting in the corner Observing others, the one who can't get into it, who bores easily, thinks she'd rather be home The one who'll take a drink right from your hand and always bums smokes The first one to dance and then end up crying The one who steals kisses from boys and girls, the one who slurs her words and can't walk straight, the one who's spun Who gets kicked out and comes back Happy, more excited now The last to leave when the party's over The first to arrive when the party's over The broken cup, the puddled floor, the vomit on the leather sofa, the cigarette burn on the tablecloth and on arms, the one-night stand, the hangover, the hickey, the regret, the new love, the morning-after pill, your three kids, the mortgaged apartment, the hustle, the bank debt, the used car, the stability, the confidence in growing older, the midlife crisis, the end of love, the chill old age, your burial. Poetry is all the parties.

—Tilsa Otta, translated from the Spanish by Farid Matuk (Poetry Magazine, December 2023)

[skid-the-mighty-poet]

[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

[inkskinned]

yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."

i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.

the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.

mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.

later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.

sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.

but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.

i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.

every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.

wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?

the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:

he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.

every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.

mahler's fifth still makes me sick.

give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.

give me back what you took from me.

[selenitesdawn]

Temperance (1/3)

pairing: wanda maximoff x female!reader plot: Your best friend Kate convinced you to do charity work in Sokovia with some of your old classmates, including your former bully Vision and his girlfriend Wanda Maximoff, who you inconveniently took too much of a liking in. warnings: 18+ !! minors dni. wanda is with vision... also, suggestive content I guess word count: 1115

Patience is a virtue. Patience is the solution. These have been your only thoughts for days now. From a self-imposed affirmation to a recurring echo in your head, this reminder is all you had to get through the situation at hand. What else could you do? Keep trying to ignore your desire? The craving that has kept you awake for days and nights?

The thing is, you may be able to trick your brain for a while. Convince yourself that the way her nose wrinkles when she grins doesn't do anything to you. That the way her middle and ring finger draw the same patterns over and over again on the pages of her book whenever she is deep in thought, doesn't stir something inside of you. That the muffled moans coming from her and Vision's room at night don't bother you. Your brain has managed to lie to itself for a long time, but you can no longer ignore what Wanda is doing to you. So instead of denying your feelings, you decided that you have to sit through them. Until you can finally leave this place.

You weren't planning on pining after your old classmate's girlfriend, but here you were. Miles away from home, locked up with the constant reminder that you can never be with Wanda the way you want to. Originally, the three months in Sokovia were supposed to fulfill you. You just wanted to take care of the local street dogs with your best friend Kate. Do something good. That was it.

“Come on y/n, you've always had a heart for street animals,” your best friend said to you at the time. Back then she turned up at your door without a warning and told you about this great trip Vision had planned.

“Kate, I barely got anything done last semester. I can't waste another one. Besides, my boss never gives me that long of a vacation.”

You knew Kate wouldn't leave your apartment until you said yes. You could tell by the way her eyes were gleaming. How she slightly bend over the table you were sitting at, her gaze not leaving you for one second. Of course, the whole thing is much easier for Kate. Her mother is filthy rich. Kate can basically do whatever she wants. She could disappear for one year, travel the world with money she didn't earn and wouldn't have to worry about her life back home for one moment. You don't have that luxury.

“Think about it. First of all, you do something that fulfills you. Besides, I know you y/n. You haven't wanted to work in that rancid bakery for months. We'll find something new for you afterwards. Not to mention that volunteering to help street dogs for three months looks great on your CV. Plus: I heard Vision rented a mansion”

Vision. The name alone triggered something in you. Vision is not only the son of the famous billionaire Tony Stark, but also a giant asshole. Before Vision knew you were friends with Kate, he took every opportunity to trigger you in some way. Like standing in front of your locker with his group of followers for no reason, just so you couldn't get to it. The worst thing he ever did was probably when he stole your notebook and read out loud in class what you had written about your former classmate Natasha. Some cheesy and cringe poem you managed to suppress from your memories. From that day on, it wasn't just the whole school that knew you liked women. You also were never able to look Natasha in the eye again. But Vision somehow always managed to come out of it okay. His reputation was disgustingly squeaky clean.

“It's so weird imagining Vision doing something voluntarily that doesn't serve only himself. Are you sure he isn't just joking?,” you had asked back then.

“I think he has really changed since high school. Besides, his girlfriend is originally from Sokovia and I think it was her idea? I don't know for sure. But please, y/n, join me. I'd do anything to spend more than an hour a week with my best friend. And this is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Vision specifically asked if you want to join.”

You've never been able to deny Kate a wish. But also, it's never led you into such a miserable situation before. So this is where you were. In a villa far too grand for it to feel like a prison. Besides Vision, Wanda and Kate, there were two other old classmates; Steve and Bucky. Living together turned out to be easier than you thought, especially considering the fact that Vision was there. But your feelings for Wanda kept causing you problems. Whenever the redhead came near you, you started to stumble over your words. One long look alone could throw you completely off balance. But it was even worse when she smiled at you. When she listened to you and her head slightly tilted at the same time. Or when you were cooking and she suddenly appeared behind you, her hand softly placed around your waist and her head set down on your shoulder.

“What are you blessing us with this evening?,” she inquired with an almost teasing tone in her voice.

Before you were able to even articulate anything, she took her free hand, slid it along your arm and took the wooden spoon out of your hand.

“May I?,” her voice dangerously low, as she already moved the spoon towards her mouth, looking straight at you. You just gulped and managed a small nod as Wanda put the spoon in her mouth, her gaze never leaving you as she sucked it clean. Her green eyes were barely visible as her dilated pupils covered them almost completely. A soft moan escaped from her lips as she handed the spoon back to you.

“You're so good at this y/n,” Wanda groans, her hand which still holds onto your waist making its way to your lower back, smoothly slipping under your loose t-shirt. The cold rings on her fingers on your warm skin immediately sent shivers down your spine. Her pinky slightly slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants before she left you standing alone in the kitchen.

She must do this on purpose. There is no other way.

You thought to yourself. But what was the use? Either you are right and she does it on purpose or you are wrong and project your fantasies onto her. In both cases, it is best to simply stay away from Wanda. Because there is no way you don't end up completely fucked. Right?

: Part 2

[jeankluv]

loml - Gojo Satoru

summary: You read the letter that Satoru left behind, his last words to you, with all the love he had.

tags: heavy angst, character death, no happy ending, canon universe, manga spoilers (I guess)

note: sorry… but I got emotional with Gojo writing letters for his students and this came to me. Sorry again 🩶

Jujutsu Kaisen materialist

You are the love of my life

That’s what Satoru would say on a spring day when you were 20.

You are the love of my life

He would say whenever he kissed you before sleeping.

You are the love of my life 

He would whisper while embracing you, after a long day of missions.

You are the love of my life 

He would say whenever he had the opportunity, it didn't matter if it was just the two of you or in front of the whole world.

You are the love of my life

He said before leaving you to fight Sukuna on that cold Christmas Eve.

To the loml

That was the first thing your eyes saw on the letter that Shoko handed you. The loml You read again. And again.

You smiled a bit, “loml” why not write love of my life instead?

Your hands were cold, you blamed the cold winter, but the reality was that you were frozen staring at that envelope, your hands unable to tear the paper to read what was inside. Your chest hurt, the cold air stabbed your lungs like daggers, and you could barely breathe.

You made a small opening with your nails and pulled out the paper, which was neatly folded. With your eyes already stinging, you unfolded it.

“To the love of my life,

I don’t know how to start this, I don’t even know how to put down everything I want to tell you. But god, I pray you never have to read this silly and embarrassing letter.

But if you do… I’m sorry, I didn’t get to keep my promise, I’m really sorry.

You crying? Please don’t do it, you look beautiful too when you cry, but thinking about how much pain I’m probably causing you breaks my heart.

I will try to make you smile with this letter, is that alright? I hope you said yes. 

Remember when we met? It was the first day of our first year, you looked so beautiful, your red cheeks and shy smile. I don’t believe in love at first sight but I think that what I fell for you right after seeing you was love, light. You were mesmerizing. 

You still are.

Now, you remember how Suguru used to look like a complete emo boy during that time, with all his hair down and everything? You know, I used to be so jealous when you were combing his hair. I wanted to be him so badly, but my hair was too short. Thank god he learned how to do it himself.

But honestly, I told him to, he was getting on my nerves.”

A chuckle escaped your lips as you read that, you knew that at some point Satoru felt a bit jealous of Suguru, because you used to spend more time together. 

But the truth is that Suguru was always trying to help you with Satoru, he was his best friend and he knew him better than anyone. You regret never telling Satoru about that, about the fact you were both crushing each other since the very beginning. 

Looking up to the sky you tried to make your tears disappear, but they didn’t. You sniffed your nose and kept on reading the letters that were already covered with tears from your eyes.

“Remember when I took Tsumiki and Megumi in? We had been dating for what? 4 months? Your face was a poem when I showed up at your apartment with two kids and presented them to you. 

You were an excellent mother to them, they loved you so much. 

I remember the birthdays, how we would prepare their cakes or in Christmas, how we used to sneak out of bed to leave the presents for them. I would always thought; oh god, I want to marry her. I want to spend the rest of my days with her. Have a family with her.

But you know, reality always hit me the second after. What our jobs are, the risks, everything… And I always wondered. Do I want to put you through that? What if I leave one day? I didn’t  want my children to grow up without their father or mother. 

I hated it, but I loved it. I loved fighting curses and strong opponents but I hated not knowing what it was to have a normal life, a normal relationship. 

I know you used to hate how I used to spy on you whenever you had a solo mission, but every time you went on a solo mission I was scared, terrified. I was afraid that the phone would ring and Shoko would tell me that you were no longer there. It scared me so much.

But now the one who must have been truly scared was you… I just hope you didn’t see the fight, but I know how stubborn you are and you were probably there, without blinking. I’m sorry I made you suffer, I don’t know what happened, but I’m sorry you’re crying for me. 

I’ll say it again, I hope you never read this letter, because it was never necessary… 

In the end I didn’t make you laugh with the letter, right? 

Forgive me, sweetheart. 

I love you, more than anything in this life. You are and always will be the love of my life. But if I leave and I’m not with you anymore, please, don’t close yourself off, don’t isolate yourself.

Live, be happy, smile, because that smile of yours is the warmest thing in this world.

Light up everyone else's world, just like you did with mine when we were 15 and you gave me that smile at our first meeting.

I love you forever 

— The love of your life, Satoru.”

A sob escaped your lips and you pressed the letter to your chest. Your face was completely soaked by your tears and your breathing was ragged, you could barely breathe. 

“Why Satoru? Why you?” You said between sobs.

You wanted that life he was talking about, you wanted to have him with you again, why couldn't it be like that?

He was gone and you were there, holding a piece of paper he left behind, with his last words, his last thoughts. 

You didn’t want to let it go, you couldn’t. If you let him go… You would start to forget things, moments you lived, his smell, his laugh, his voice, his look, you couldn't let him go. You couldn't let go of the love of your life. You didn't want to.

The minutes started to pass and the sun, which was once shining on the sky, was now gone. 

Your name was called. “You have to enter or you will catch a cold…”

“Just a bit more…” You said and you heard the sigh. 

“C’mon.” You felt how they took your arm and pulled you in. “You need to take your medicine, remember?” You nodded. “That letter is really special to you, right? You always read it.” 

“Yeah…” You whispered. 

“From someone special in your life?” 

Yeah… from someone you already could only remember from pictures, from someone whose voice was a distant memory, from someone whose smell was long gone, whose laugh wasn’t around anymore. 

And it hadn’t been around for the last 60 years… 

“Yeah… from the love of my life…” You paused. “The loss of my life...” You whispered. 

The room felt silent for an instant. “Your son and grandkids are here…” The nurse whispered.

And a faint smile appeared on your face as you looked at the door. “Hi my sweet babies…” The kids ran towards you and jumped to your bed.

“Granny! Could you tell us the stories about you and your friends fighting those monsters?”

“Again?” You smiled.

“Yeah, please!” 

“Alright, alright…” You chuckled. “So long time ago…” 

[impactedfates]

Detective Oblivious - Various Genshin Characters x GN! Reader

★ Summary: Your best friend lately has been acting strange. Could they have a crush on someone?! You have to get to the bottom of it…though perhaps you can start by noticing how they look at you

☆ Characters Included (Separate): Alhaitham, Ayato, Kazuha, Xiao, Yelan, Ningguang

★ Genre/Trope: Romantic + Fluff + Maybe a bit of Crack

☆ Warnings: None

★ Extra: HSR Ver Here // Semi-Proof Read

Honestly I don't blame you for not noticing Alhaitham likes you. He's very hard to read. But at the same time, it doesn't take a detective to notice how he's more careful with his words when talking to you. He doesn't necessarily care what you think of him, even if he likes you, however he does wish for you to see him in a more positive light.

So even though you've been friends for so long, his sudden change in how he talks to you is so you can hopefully see how he feels about you as he believes you'd be able to notice but well...much to his dismay and annoyance, you don't.

You got the part that he likes someone, but not that those feelings are directed towards you. Have you not seen the longing stares he gives you when you're doing anything? How he's more lenient in what you're doing?? How when he was The Acting Grand Sage, how he always looked over anything you wrote to him first???

Clearly not as, as when he enters his home he can see you talking to Kaveh to see if he knows anything about who he likes. Kaveh, noticing him behind you, simply smiled. Although Alhaitham wants to confess to you, he'd rather him telling you directly or you finding out yourself without the need of help from others. And Kaveh knew this...

"Oh, he likes yo-"

A book was suddenly thrown at Kaveh as the Scribe quickly took you away.

"Wh- hey! He was going to tell me something"

"Didn't want him to say something I should be saying...I should be the one telling you I like you"

Many people caught on to the way Ayato treated you differently towards others, in fact. Both Ayaka and Thoma knew he liked you before he himself knew. Yet, why was it that everyone but you knew how much he held you dear to his heart?

Ayato never had much free time to be frank, however unlike his other friends and even family. He would never send anyone as many gifts as he did to you. Anytime you liked something you'd have it delivered to your house right away. You always thanked him for it, beaming as you looked at it. Although you did slightly feel bad as some of the things you off handily mention wanting are quite expensive. But the Commissioner doesn't care. Seeing that smile is enough for him.

What he does care about however, is how dense you are towards his acts of affection. As stated, he gives you more gifts than anyone else he knows. But another thing he does that he's surprised doesn't get you to catch on, is him "jokingly" calling your Mx Kamisato (he's half joking, he does want to marry you)

What surprises him more is that you somehow think it's directed to someone else?? You question him on who he's referring to even though he was looking directly at you.

Eventually he gently backs you into a corner and makes you face him, turning your chin towards him.

"My dear...I've tried everything but you don't get the hint. So I'll say it here...I love you~"

You found some poems that Kazuha had written, and it's about someone. In fact, it's about someone romantically. This caused you to quickly search for who said love poem is about.

One of the kids witnessed you ranting to yourself about who could've taken the samurai's heart and told Beidou, who then found it amusing enough to tell Kazuha who at first laughs it off before realising you've likely read the poems he wrote. He is thankful you haven't found out it's about you, but at the same time. He doesn't think you've met anyone that's like you, and the love poem does describe you near perfectly. Still...at least you haven't found out?

He watches from a small distance as you glance at him before looking away. This happens a lot, especially when he's talking to a friend who questions your behaviour. In fact, you've done this so much that people assume you're Kazuha's partner and want his attention. They even comment about it to which you both politely explain that you're just friends.

Eventually though, he makes no comment when someone assumes the two of you are dating, which makes you question him which leads to you finally figuring out who the love poem is about.

"Wait so...the love poems..."

"Is about you yes, I like you"

I can see him being quite confused himself when he realises he likes someone and might even tell you about how he's feeling. He won't directly say who it is but he tells enough to let you know he's fallen DEEP in love with someone.

Now the two of you are trying to figure out just who's the one making his heart beat faster and clouding his mind. In truth, Xiao quickly realizes it's you that's causing it. But he can't tell you, he's a bit too flustered to tell you, especially with how cute you look trying to figure it out yourself.

So he lets the search go on, he allows you to drag him to meet various people and see if he feels his heart beating faster. And while it does, that's only because you're beside him. Nothing else. He was happy enough to let you guess till you gave up, he didn't think you'd like him back anyways.

However Hu Tao would beg to differ, she's been listening to you rant about how you loved Xiao and all that stuff. In fact, she's even heard from Zhongli that Xiao likes you. So when you come along with the Adeptus in tow and ask him if he feels any different towards her. She has a feeling she knows what's going on. And why not play matchmaker?

"You don't feel anything at all?"

"No..."

The funeral directly quickly piped up, gently pushing you into Xiao's arms and watching his face burst into shades of crimson.

"What about now? Having the love of your life in your arms is bound to make you feel something right?"

She...out right flirts with you. And not in a way to get info from you, just...actual flirting. Yelan knows what she wants and tends to get what she wants. More so in terms of information, but she also wants you and will try anything to make you realize her feelings for you.

She probably knows you like her as well, so this should be easy right? Just flirt with you and you'll get the picture right?...Yeah...

"I would love to spend the future with you y'know darling~ Especially in the same house"

"Oh that would be great"

"Exa-"

"Rent would be so much cheaper if we were roommates"

She...finds your obliviousness cute...in a weird way though. She finds it even more cute that you do in fact recognize her flirting eventually...but think she's using you as practice. Now she spots you trying to figure out who it is so you can help her more. And "act" like her crush. She does need to eventually tell you so you can stop searching, I mean. The answer is clear if you look in a mirror.

"C'mon Lanlan, you need to tell who you actually like"

"Hm? Oh but I am sweetie~"

Ningguang is obviously highly respected and of course has her own set of admirers. You used to see her reading each letter with care and consideration before laughing. Not in a hateful way, truly she's grateful people like her that much. But recently she seems to read them a bit faster, seemingly searching for one name in particular.

It's clear to you she wants a certain person to be in her pile of confession letters. And you'll figure out who. I mean, what better way to help your friend then finding out who she likes and seeing if they like her back right :D

Well...word got to her that you've been searching through some of her things, nothing personal but just around her office. Not to mention observing her more closely lately which she plays off as you being interested in what she has to say. But when she hears that you've apparently scared a poor soul with some of your questioning she goes to confront you.

To which you weakly explain you want to help her find out if her crush likes her back or not. She simply laughs a bit, surprised. She's been giving you special treatment ever since she found out her feelings for you. You've been given bigger discounts because she just cannot let her "darling" pay so much. Alongside other things she thought were obvious hints in the hopes you'll write her a confession letter.

"Well...if you want to help me find out if they like me back, answer me this"

"Yeah?"

"Do you like me?"

Anyone else find it hard to know when someone likes them? Cuz I do, hence this idea sprang forth. Not all the characters included are ones I simp for but I thought it would be interesting to add them (I literally only simp for Alhaitham and Ayato out of the characters included tbh nsoaorgr)

[matan4il]

Holocaust survivor Theodor Adorno never said that it's impossible to write poetry after Auschwitz, but he's often misquoted as if he did. I think it's because those of us who care about the Shoah, struggle with the idea of poetry after Auschwitz. The symbol of culture vs the epitome of violent cruel barbarism. Both connected to a nation considered highly civilized. The art dedicated to describing vs an absolute hell that is indescribable.

For me, the poetry that was written about the Holocaust is at its most authentic expression when the sentences break down, like in Dan Pagis' poem Written with a Pencil in the Sealed Train Car, whose one sentence never ends. Most of all, I feel it when I read Paul Celan's poem Death Fugue, where the sentences run on, and into, and away from each other. In such poems, the meaning is what survives the breaking down of this rather basic verbal structure.

It's October 7th again, which is weird because it marks an entire year of it being October 7th for Israelis and Jews.

On that October 7th, I wrote, I wrote facts because I had no words to describe all the things I was thinking and feeling, running on, and into, and away from each other inside me. A year later, I have even less words. And my sentences don't break down, to reflect what broke down for me, as I observed too many horrors perpetrated by terrorists, and too many out there celebrating the brutal rape, abuse and massacre of my people, and justifying it, and victim blaming civilian men, women, children and Holocaust survivors, and peddling antisemitic libels like their lives depended on how dehumanizing they can be to the Jews and the civilians of the Jewish state. My sentences don't break down, but a part of my heart and soul is forever broken.

And now, on top of everything else, the antisemitic mob is also appropriating October 7th, the day when we were massacred, making it all about another group. Despite the fact that the only Palestinians killed on Oct 7, 2023 were terrorists and not-innocent civilians who invaded Israel in order to loot, rape, maim, burn, torture and kill. Many Palestinians and antisemites were celebrating and spewing hate and falsely accusing the Jewish state of genocide on Oct 7, 2023 already (and for years before that. Their destruction of what that word means started way before Hamas' massacre). And on Oct 7, 2024 they won't even let us quietly break down, and run out of words, and try to find what meaning survives these atrocities and continued antisemitic global abuse, and remember our victims, the people butchered in the biggest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, and those who died trying to defend us from that in this war which we did not start, and the victims targeted or raped or murdered in the many anti-Israel, antisemitic terrorist attacks and hate crimes that took place over the last year.

That's before we get into how on Oct 7, 2023 Jews were targeted and victimized, and for some reason, that translated into the horrific reality that on Oct 7, 2024 Jews are being warned to be careful, because we're going to be targeted today, too.

And I want to say something. I want to say so many somethings. With all the feelings and thoughts inside me. With the generational trauma that's had to witness 'Never Again' appropriated and weaponized against the people who first gave birth to this phrase out of the depths of the indescribable hell they survived.

But I just don't have enough - because there are not enough - words.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[dontfearrr]

Heard it through the grapevine

sorry guys i been so mia i literally have been in a weird funk but here’s a longer fic for u thrandy lovers and lmk if u want a part 2 maybe???

kisses to everyone, enjoy my elf sluts💋💋💋

Pairing: Thranduil x human!reader

Summary: reader keeps receiving gifts at her balcony, she has no idea where or who they’re coming from, she’s determined to find out…

Warnings: mild spicy content nothing crazy though

Category: fuck idk, fluff/hot n steamy?

Word Count: 2.1k

—————————

“strawberries and grapes this time!”

You shouted out to Tauriel who sat on your bed. She was just as intrigued with these series of gifts you’d been receiving. You both have been trying to narrow it down to who it could be, there was very few elves in this realm who spoke to you but the few that did, didn’t seem interested in you. So they were kind of at a dead end, yet the gifts never stopped.

You lifted the white basket off the floor of the balcony where they always were delivered, somehow unnoticed. You sighed and set the basket on the bed next to Tauriel as you both opened the note together. The thought of having a secret admirer was quite endearing, however it seemed a bit childish almost..but very intriguing nonetheless.

“read it out loud! i can’t do it!” you giggled as you handed Tauriel the note and she laughed with you, sharing the excitement. She cleared her throat dramatically and gave you a slight smirk before looking down at the note and she began to read.

“the grapes of the finest wine, the strawberries of the finest vine. for a woman oh so devine.”

She spoke out in a teasing tone. Your face heated up in embarrassment, these poems were always so corny, but who could be so brave enough to share them with you! “oh my, Tauriel..that is absurd” you laughed and shook your head.

You took the note from her and examined the hand writing, trying to get some kind of idea of who it could be! You thought for a moment, the gears in your brain turning ferociously until you tilted your head and looked at Tauriel.

“grapes from the finest wine…finest vine…Tauriel, arent these fruits from the private garden??” you spoke, picking up one of the grapes, it was bright purple, these were the grapes used to make the town wine. Tauriels eyes widened and nodded, they were in fact from the private garden! well this is something at least. “yes those grapes specifically are kept in the furthest corner, only very few people are allowed in that area” she told you, picking up the strawberries. “these are also from the same area. finest fruit indeed” she sent you a teasing wink and you just rolled your eyes at the elf’s childishness.

“are you able to get me a list of the people who are allowed to enter this area of the garden?” you asked her hopefully and she chuckled a bit, causing you to tilt your head in confusion.

“when i say very few people, i mean very few. grab something to write with.” Tauriel told you and you wasted no time scurrying off to find a quill and paper. Once you returned, you handed it to her and she began writing. you were nervous to see who was on that list, hands fidgeting eagerly as you hovered over her shoulder.

Six names were written on the list, this was amazing news. You snatched the paper from her hand and scanned your eyes over the list, it read:

Thranduil

Legolas

Lesysus

Elrond

Haldir

Aman

You were beyond perplexed. This list only made things even more difficult. The first thing you did was process of elimination. Elrond, he was in rivendell currently. Haldir, who was also with Elrond in rivendell….and that was it.. okay so six to four, not bad. But these were royal figures of the realm! There is no way any of these elves were even close to possible..

You looked at Tauriel who gave you a sympathetic look, she could tell you were stressing yourself out over this.

“do not dwell on it, my friend” she spoke gently, and you sighed deeply, setting the paper on your table and looked out the arched window of your chambers. “this was fun until now” you grumbled to yourself and looked down at the paper once more. “I think i’m just going to give it a rest, it’s clear whoever is doing this doesn’t want to be discovered so i suppose i’ll respect that” you told Tauriel and she quite literally laughed in your face, in a friendly way of course.

“i really love your optimism but we both know you’re not giving it a rest. just sleep on it, maybe you’ll get an idea soon.” she stood from your bed and gently rubbed your arm in reassurance before taking her leave.

You on the other hand, had a plan. A very determined one at that. You were going to do a steak out, spying over the royal garden! How incredibly stupid of you, but if the elf who was doing this was allowed in there, you saw no problem with taking a peek…for the entire night.

It was late now, nearly one in the morning, you decided it was a good time to go and spy on the garden. Tauriel had showed you a way to climb up into the trees to look down upon mirkwood, you figured this was perfect, that’s if you don’t get caught and probably executed. You chuckled to yourself at the thought as you threw on an elven cloak, putting the hood up and dressing yourself in your darkest garments to blend in with the night.

You may have been human but you had lived with the elves long enough to pick up on their gracefulness and swift movements. you swung from branch to branch, getting high enough in the twisting tree, maneuvering until you had a good view of the garden. You were crouched on a branch, quite high enough to go unnoticed hopefully. You hadn’t really thought through how long this would take but there was no going back now.

Three hours had passed by and your legs were beginning to ache so you moved to a simple sitting position, legs dangling off of the tree branch you sat upon. Your head snapped in the direction of the garden after hearing some noise, then you saw a shadow of a figure enter the garden. God damned elven sight, that was the one thing you didn’t have. It was simply too dark to see who had entered the garden, you were squinting and squinti-

“i know you are there, young one.”

A deep voice boomed through your ears and your eyes widened. They could see you? They knew you were there? This is ridiculous! Your mind raced but kept quiet until you heard the voice again.

“there’s really no use in hiding if i’m fully aware of your presence. come down. don’t be rude now.” the voice spoke again, you stared at the dark figure and sighed. Carefully jumping down the tree, landing on the top of the brick wall that separated the garden from the forrest then hopped down to the garden, standing slightly behind the very..tall figure. “i apologize, i was- i was…” you couldn’t even make up an excuse, you just accepted your fate at this point.

“you were spying on my garden? for a very obvious reason that is..” his voice was now VERY familiar to you, your face went white and your blood went cold. You’d just been caught red handed by the king. You watched him lift his arms and pull his hood down and slowly turn around to face you. He wasn’t wearing any kind of crown, not even a circlet. His white hair fell down his shoulders along with his hood and he stared down at you intensely.

“m-my lord.” You began to bow but he held up a hand, halting your movements. You obeyed and stood straight, looking at him.

“i see you’ve been receiving my gifts well. a curious one you are..” he said, a bit of amusement laced in his words. If he was being honest, he was quite impressed with your little idea, however he assumed it was only a matter of time.

“and please, call me by my name” he asked, stepping closer to you.

Your heart had fell all the way to your stomach, Thranduil was your secret admirer? this cannot be. you didn’t believe it for a second. That was until his hands reached up to pull your hood down, revealing you to him. “you are quite breathtaking, even in the darkness.” you could feel his index finger ghost over your cheek, the blood immediately rushing to your face causing you to blush deeply at his simple actions. The presence of the king was usually a lot more intimidating, but this felt almost..intimate?

“why me?” you asked quietly, looking him in his eyes despite it being quite dark, you were still able to make him out clearly.

He let out a low chuckle and dropped his hand back down, clasping his two hands at his front elegantly. “you think because you are mortal, that i cannot pursue you? i’ll have you know, i’ll pursue who ever i see fit..” he told her truthfully. He’s had a fascination for the girl for quite a while, though she had no idea of it.

He brought a hand up to your chin, gently lifting your face up so you can look at him properly, and so he can admire his sweet human. your face was warm and beet red, you were beyond flustered and truly had no idea what to say. “you wish to pursue me?” you asked him with a little bit of disbelief behind it and he simply nodded. God Tauriel would lose her mind if she seen what was happening! Your heart was beating rapidly, his touch felt like a dozen swans on a sweet pond. His thumb swiped over your jawline tenderly, causing you to take a step closer to him. He was more than pleased by this.

“i’ve desired you the moment i laid my eyes upon you” his hand was now cupping your cheek, his fingers threading through the hair behind your ear. “Thranduil..” was all you could muster up. He had you weak in the knees from a simple touch, it was quite cruel really. He absolutely loved the way his name sounded on your tongue, causing him to take a deep breath the calm himself down before he did something he regretted.

“will you have me?”

You placed a hand upon his chest, feeling his breath hitch in his throat as you did so. You slid your hand up, never breaking eye contact, feeling the porcelain skin of his neck as your hand continued higher, allowing it to rest on the back of his neck, your fingers nearly tangling in his perfect tresses. “i don’t want anyone else..” you told him and his caused his grip on you to tighten only ever so slightly. His thumb ran over your cheekbone before he dropped his hand, you were almost disappointed until his hand was now on your waist, pulling you against his own body.

Your body was on fire in this intimate moment, you were crumbling at his hand. He could tell you to jump off of the highest cliff and you’d comply without question. His head lowered down to your ear, his lips barely ghosting over your earlobe. “you keep me up at night, young one..” he purred, you could feel his warm breath against the skin of your neck.

You gasped at this and leaned your head to the side absentmindedly at his action, he took this as a delicious invitation as his head fit perfectly in the nook of your collarbone and neck. His lips connected with your skin, leaving open mouthed kisses to your neck, then unclasped your cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground. his free hand pulled at the material of your tunic, exposing your shoulder as he hungrily continued his sweet kisses to your skin.

“Thranduil please..” you breathed out, the torture was far too much. Your legs were trembling and you gripped onto his cloak as if he was going to disappear. “please what, my love? use your words with your king..” his voice was like smooth honey, melting into your ears delightfully. You wanted to cry out in agony, but refrained from doing so as his lips connected with your collarbone this time.

You couldn’t take it any longer, you gently ran your fingers through his hair and cupped his face, pulling his head back to face you, his eyes were half lidded and filled with lust. Your mouth parted slightly as your breath slowed and you leaned your forehead against his, closing your eyes for a moment. You could feel his breath against your lips, you felt this was too much and decided to take matters into your own hands and you closed the gap, his lips molding perfectly with yours. he gripped your waist a little harder, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you with hunger and passion. You tugged his hair, earning a groan from him and backed him up against the brick wall.

The king had fallen completely under your spell at this point, he was yours…

[leovaldezluvr]

"my honeybee, come and get this pollen!"

synopsis : hc's of leo valdez and his gf !!

pairing : leo valdez x daughter of apollo!reader

warnings : swearing / cursing, intentional lower case writing, kissing, nothing crazy tho!

requested ? yes! by the amazing @sunnitheapollokid 😚

masterlist : coming soon!

nai yapps : HI BABIES 🤭 first time writing hcs, hope ya like!! it turned out longer than expected so yeah haha, not proofread so please don't mind the grammatical errors 😭

on the radio . . . "espresso" by sabrina carpenter

in my opinion, leo is kinda insecure (just like percy) so it took him a while to realize that you liked him back !!

in the meanwhile, he would fangirl about you to his friends

oh and trust me, they were SICK AND TIRED of that boy

"guys, did you see the way she looked at me at dinner??"

(which he told them like for the 1293858th time that week)

#delusionalking

and don't act like you didn't do the same thing as well, because we all know damn well you did

yapping about leo to annabeth, silena and piper at the cabin 10 sleepovers is a weekly (almost daily) occurrence

like i've mentioned in the beginning, leo's probably really insecure, so he uses his flirty and cheeky personality to cover it up!

which has you giggling and kicking your feet

because that boy flirts with you more than anyone else

oh and when he found out that you work at the infirmary with will solace?

it was his most visited place other than bunker 9

leo is naturally a really clumy person (me too lmao) so he injures himself on accident quite often when working on something in bunker 9, but one way or another he'll find an excuse to come visit you there (even if he's not hurt) and say shit like

"you come here often?" or "can you kiss it better?"

with a shit-eating grin as you heal one of his injuries

since you're a child of the music god, you have AMAZING taste in music

so every once in a while you'd come over at bunker 9 and play some of your music while leo works on his projects

you'd be on his bed, painting away or even working on poems

speaking of poems!

you once wrote a poem about leo and after building up courage (with the help of your girlfriends) you read it out to leo!!

and let me tell you, that boy turned as red as a tomato

and he couldn't stop thinking about that poem FOR DAYS.

like girl you had that boy wrapped around your finger 😭 (hence the song i choose for this blog)

after that, he decided it's time to ask you to be his gf!! (screaming)

him and his friends (percy, jason and frank) have been planning and scheming on the best way leo can ask you out

since percy has a big mouth, he told the news to his girlfriend, annabeth.

your and leo's friends were pretty much one big friend group, so you guys hung out quite often

soon enough, piper and silena found out about leo's plan too

SOO HERE'S HOW I IMAGINE HOW'D LEO WOULD ASK YOU TO BE HIS GF!!

basically, the group decided to hang out at the beach is Montauk

"LAST ONE IN THE SEA IS A ROTTEN EGG!"

percy yelled, all the boys racing to the sea, except for leo.

"boys." annabeth muttered, rolling her eyes, causing piper, silena and you to giggle.

you had your beach towel spread out onto the sand, your tote bag to your left and a book in your hands.

leo sat at your right hand side, applying sunscreen onto his arms and upper body as he watched the boys splash and attempt to drown each other.

"could you please apply sunscreen on my back, y/n?"

you look up from your book you're reading and place your bookmark between the pages. a smile grew on your face as you nod, signaling leo to turn so his back faces you. he obliged and did as you said, he pulled his knees closer to his chest leaned his head onto his arms. (kinda like this I'm bad at explaining haha 😭)

hours pass by, the group has all been at the sea having a splash fight, then also played volleyball. now they wanted to have some snacks and drinks

and of course the group decided to pick you and leo to go get the snacks

you, oblivious to their intentions, started putting your flip flops on. as you weren't looking, leo shot a look at the smirking teenagers he calls his friends. piper and frank were showing thumbs up for support. while jason and percy gave him a knowing look. leo saw annabeth mouthing "now or never" to him.

"lee, you ready to go?"

he put his attention back on to you and nodded, heading to the corner shop with you next to him. he glanced back to his friends one last time, seeing them look at the pair walking off and cheering for leo, but silently of course, so you wouldn't suspect anything.

after you two have bought the snacks and drinks the friendgroup wanted, you head back to the beach.

leo noticed the group playing volleyball again, and used to opportunity to confess now. He stopped walking, standing at this area.

"hey, y/n. could we talk for a sec?"

you didn't think much of it and nodded, walking closer to where leo was standing.

then, his nervousness got the best of him and that boy just started rambling.

"so i just wanted to say that Iive liked you for REALLY long time. like a i like you A LOT and I really want to be together with you but i'm not sure if you feel the same and i really don't want to ruin this friendship. but i've never felt this way about anyone and–"

then he got interrupted with kiss!! (by you of course)

he froze, definitely not expecting that. but quickly kissed you back. his hands on your waist, pulling you closer as your hands wrapped behind his neck.

you soon pulled away, both of you catching your breaths.

"i like you too, leo."

a bright smile appeared on leo's face, him leaning his forehead onto yours.

"can i be your boyfriend, y/n?"

you act like you're thinking about, rubbing your chin jokingly, but ultimately day yes.

he kisses you again, but pulled away quickly as you two heard screaming and cheering from the back.

the pair turn around to see their friendgroup being the cause of this loud noise.

piper, annabeth and silena were the ones screaming, holding each other's hands as they jump up and down like little girls. While the boys were cheering and clapping, Percy even started jumping up and down with the girls. (LMFOAOA DON'T TELL ME HE WOULDN'T DO THAT)

anyhow! that's how i imagine it'd happen

leo and you are both you clingy mfs, even before dating. but now you two are glued to the hip.

he definitely calls you cute nicknames in spanish (#latinoking)

"mi amor" , "cariño" , "mi vida" , "hermosa" , "mi corazón" , "mi sol", "mami/mamas"

he loves, and i mean LOVES when you help him with his projects (cough this fic cough)

whenever a piece of your jewelry (earrings, necklaces, ect..) breaks, you already know your boyfriend is there to fix it for you.

despite being the daughter of the sun god, your hands were always FREEZING. that's why you had your fire boy to warm you up

that boy is basically your human heater. while you two would cuddle in the summer, you would get so hot while being in his embrace, but you just suffered, because his grip is strong as steel.

your guys' dynamic is sunshine x sunshine protecter!! (the protecter being you because leo doesn't do shit to stand up for himself)

#1 princess treatment giver!!

"baby, i can get out of the car myself–"

"shh, don't worry about it mami."

wow this is getting way too long woopsie

in conclusion, leo valdez is the best boyfriend ever and you two are the power couple of chb!!!

THE END!!

— 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, 𝐍𝐀𝐈.

taglist (pls tell me if I should remove / add you!!) : @thesnshinee @graceslcver @gentlehue @ssparksflyy @coolestgirlintheworld112 @ghostlyloversworld @percyslcver @lovely-calypso @woodlandwrites @brainsofseaweed @mershellscape @hopelesslyromanticshark @canonfeminine

[holdinbacksecrets]

uninhibited (and drunk) voicemails from seventeen

forever sending gratitude and love to j @un-love for helping assign these

seungcheol: “i watched you tonight with another man. he held your hand and kissed your forehead. he drank your tea first to check the temperature. he made you laugh. for real. i know because you covered your mouth, still feeling insecure about how far it opens when the reaction can’t be avoided—when the something said was so funny it surprised you. you’re wearing red. your arms were exposed for a while, and i felt my eyes prick with tears at the sight of more tattoos on your skin. ones i didn’t know about. maybe ones you mentioned when they were still just possibilities in your head. not once did i think i wouldn’t see them actualized. not once did i imagine another man’s fingers brushing the ink through the motion of draping his jacket around your shoulders.”

jeonghan: “i’m at home and alone, and it’s wrong to call you. it’s so unfair to call you. i didn’t know how to tell you that the wanting is scary. that the way we love each other is impossible—not for a second do i believe it’s possible to have again, and i’m fucking afraid, probably because i know how much you’ve grown. the thought of letting you down leaves a sour taste, and i’m trying not to be so fucking afraid.”

joshua: “i’m sobering up now, sitting on my mom’s back porch. earlier, i was trying to describe the color of your hair. the best i could come up with was blue frosting like the cupcakes she made for my 10th birthday party. isn’t that outrageous? embarrassing? in my head was a poem, but the alcohol released the silliest set of words i could’ve possibly used to describe a part of you.”

jun: “everything is weird. everyone is strange to me today except for you. i’m drunk. i lost my shoes at some point in the night i think. i can’t recognize anyone around me. their voices don’t sound familiar. i wish you were here. i wish you’d tell me this is miserable for you too; it’s not worth it anymore. would you tell me the truth if i asked? sorry. what a stupid question. i don’t know anyone more honest.”

soonyoung: “i should’ve watched you all day more often. i dream about that. i wanted to, but something always had my attention or interrupted its focus on you. i’m laying here with my eyes closed, imagining all the moments i did watch and wondering if every single one pieced together could consume an entire day.”

wonwoo: “is it ok that i still have your spare key? i’d like to believe it’s something you’d ask to get back, but i wonder if that call isn’t worth making. if the idea of seeing me makes you anxious. but you trust me. out of everyone to still have access to your home, it’s ok that it’s me. i feel sad thinking about it.”

jihoon: “you baked cookies. i froze half of them. there’s one left, and i’m debating whether or not to eat it today. it’s freezing outside, and any view through my window is ruined by the snow. it feels like the perfect night for a cookie with what’s left of my second americano like i can risk losing sleep, but what will be left from you if i give in? everything else feels lifeless—it’s been so long since you’ve touch the clothes and read the books.”

seokmin: “i’m going to a wedding tomorrow. your old neighbor is getting married, and i thought about so many things when he sent me the invitation. i thought he was in love with you for the longest time. remember that? it took me months to admit. then he told me he’s just protective, and i realized there are so many people who see us and care without us ever knowing. so i wondered about a what if between us… what if our paths crossing was shallow and they never intertwined? what if you were just a woman in the grocery store who i’d see once in a while if the timing was right? how long would i think about you before forgetting your face, before forgetting i ever saw you? unless i never would and end up talking about you in my old age to adult children who only know i loved their mother.”

mingyu: “is it ok to call you in the middle of the night? you told me i could. years have passed since that conversation. *laughs* is it strange to think about us back then? how we started on a park bench, basically dated for two years on a park bench. i still think about how your approach to reach me gave away your feelings. you started poised, avoiding eye contact. then it became goofy looks and confident strides before calling my name and skipping to singing the song stuck in your head while you ran to me. i can’t help but wonder what would it look like now?”

minghao: “if you listen to this voicemail, can you tell me what you want? whatever comes to mind after hearing the question. from something small to something weird and the the thing you believe is better left unsaid as if i’d judge the answer, but i won’t. i have no reason to judge you. all i have is curiosity and love and hope for your every day, every want, every touch, every song you sing, every picture you hang, and every night spent barefoot on the balcony- i want to marry you.”

seungkwan: “there’s something on my mind. i’ve wanted to tell you all day. i thought about it at breakfast and started texting you before my manager called and interrupted. so here it is: i used to not understand how tired you’d be with me around. i thought i was boring you for the longest time until i visited my sisters. they exchanged a knowing smile before telling me you’re completely comfortable, that you feel safe enough to slip into the kind of vulnerability that only sleepiness and sleep allow, with your guard lowered, and your heart open. i appreciate how much of you i’ve seen, how deeply i know you—knew you… know you? hmm…”

hansol: “are you traveling? i hope you’re traveling. i know it’s something you promised to do at the start of your 26th year. where did you go? … are you taking lots of pictures? … how does the moon look? that’s your souvenir: the moon in the sky a thousand miles away from home. when you told me the moon thing, i realized i knew nothing about you, and i wanted to know everything.”

chan: “you were in the audience tonight? i didn’t… i wasn’t… thank you for coming. i mailed a ticket, but it was returned to sender. *clears throat* you’re the only person i couldn’t shake wanting to be there. do you know what i mean? people from our pasts we wish could still be present, especially for things they witnessed in early stages. i could shake off all the other absences… old friends, a mentor, but you… *sigh* no way.”

[michelle-is-writing]

Tired, Spencer Reid

Word Count: 800~

A case that takes more than a week to solve usually tires Spencer out to the point that he's zoning in and out of sleep as he enters the apartment. This case was no different. In fact, he was so tired out from everything that the first thing he did was plop down on the couch after dropping his bags by the door. Usually, he'll take them to the bedroom and unpack, and usually, he won't start falling asleep two seconds after pushing his face into my lap either.

Moving the book in my hands over to the side, I peer down at him and smile with an eyebrow raised. "Tired much?" I joke with him, taking a hand away from my book and placing it on top of Spencer's fluffy hair. He tiredly groans in response to my words before turning his face up to greet mine, only to be blocked by the book in my hands.

"I see you've begun reading from my side of the bookshelf," He notes with an exhausted smile. My smile brightens as I look back at the printed words of the many poets and writers during the transcendentalism era. "It fell when I was dusting earlier, and I've always enjoyed poems and short stories, so I decided I would read it," I explain, placing a finger in the book so I don't lose my place.

Planting his face back into my lap, Spencer speaks up. "How far have you gotten?" He asks, his voice muffled by my legs. I look back at the unread page in my hands and look for my previous spot.

"Currently, I'm in the middle of The Birthmark by Nathanael Hawthorne," I answer. "Do you want me to read it to you?" I question him, smiling as I comb my fingers through his hair.

"I would love that," He tells me, his eyes closing soon after. As soon as I see him do this, I just know he's going to fall asleep within a few seconds. Nonetheless, I still begin reading it to him, trying to make him stay awake for just a bit longer by keeping my voice slightly raised.

"Such a union took place and was attended with truly remark- Spencer?" Not even ten seconds pass after I begin reading that Spencer's snores start overriding my voice. Looking down at him, I hold back a laugh before nudging his shoulder. "Spencer?" I say his name. "Spencer...?" I repeat myself, drawing on his name until I see him lightly jolt and wake up.

"Did you already finish?" He asks, his voice already groggy. This time, I don't hold back my amused laughter and watch as the messy-haired goofball stares at me, confused.

"Baby," I begin. "I barely even started before you fell asleep," I inform him, his eyebrows furrowing in even more confusion. Upon realizing it's the truth, he sighs before replanting his head back onto my lap.

"I'm sorry..." he apologizes, reaching a hand up to rest on my knee. He runs his thumb against the soft material of my pajama pants before eventually stopping, growing tired even with that.

"It's okay, sweetie," I assure Spencer, placing his book beside me on the couch before moving to stand up. Taking his hands into mine, I pull him up with me, causing his sluggish body to slump against me. However, Spencer quickly takes this chance to wrap his arms around me and hold me closer to him as he gently sways us in his hold. For a few moments, I savor his touch until the thought occurs to me that if he falls asleep and goes down, I'm going down with him.

"Spencer, honey, let's get you to bed," I murmur to him, receiving a small nod against my neck in response. Still, it takes a few seconds for Spencer to pull his face away from my neck and part from my embrace, showing me Spencer was probably enjoying our embrace like me as well.

After walking to our shared room with Spencer nearly stumbling behind me, I help him change out of his work clothes and into just his boxers before turning to grab him his pajamas. However, before I can grab anything, I feel Spencer wrap his arms around me from behind. "Honey, let me grab your pajamas," I tell him with a small laugh as he almost whines.

"I'm okay, baby," He murmurs as he nuzzles his face into my neck like earlier. "Let's just get to bed," he adds. I can't help but simply nod at his words before turning and walking us over to our bed. As I pull the bed covers over, I feel Spencer begin to place light kisses down my neck. "I'll make it up to you for coming home so late~"

Shaking my head at his sudden mood change, I smirk at him before helping him lie down on our beige sheets and pulling the comforter over him despite his weak protests. "Tomorrow," I promise him, moving over to my side of the bed where I lie next to him. Without a second to spare, I feel myself become trapped in Spencer's arms just as he succumbs to a deep slumber. Spencer's soft snores from earlier return within seconds, making me slightly laugh to myself. He's so tired, it's like he's drunk - hence the sudden want for intimacy. I think I'll have a talk with Hotch tomorrow; he needs to stop sending my boyfriend home half-asleep and unsupervised.

[thefandomthings]

𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Middle Brothers (Separate) x Gn!Reader

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Suggestive in both (🤭), fluff,

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: I am so sorry this took so long, and I apologize is Asmo is ooc, I'm not good at writing him lol

Tags: @veethewriter @demon-master-zero

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 Part 2

I believe Satan is a sucker for old school romance, you can't tell me otherwise.

He loves the idea of sending each other love letters and poems.

He often writes about you, by often I mean everytime he writes, it's about you.

Satan even uses an ink pen and paper, his penmanship is extraordinary.

He isn't really into romance novels, but in some of his mystery/murder-mysterys there is romance

You've read a handful of Satan's books, plus your own collection.

You've recently started reading an older Novel, it's written very poetic, the main characters have started exchanging small love notes to one another.

That gave you the most brilliant idea, you'd start writing notes to Satan, leaving them on his book marks and on the inside cover of his new novels.

Satan is very witty, it takes a lot to make him get flustered, but the first note he received from you, he blushed.

You've never been one to openly talk about how you are feeling, you express yourself in different ways, such as gift giving or quality time. You've also noticed Satan has a hard time expressing himself, instead resorts to poetry and writing love letters to you.

You are currently sitting in the HoL library, your current novel sitting on your lap. You messed with the spoon in your luke warm tea while reading the poetic lines. You smiled as the main characters declared their love for each other, a warm feeling flooding in your chest.

You are desperately waiting for Satan to come back from his meeting with Diavolo and his brothers, wanting to see his face when the little folded piece of paper slips out from his new book.

It took you quite a long time to think of this note, it's a poem. It probably sounds lame next to Satan's poetry, you've read famous poets work and they are nothing compared to The Avatar of Wraths'.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Library door opens. Satan gave a small smile, his teeth aren't showing it's just a small curve of his lips.

"Hello Kitten"

He leans down and kisses your forehead rather gently before grabbing his book and sitting next to you. You instinctively stretch your legs out into his lap, his slender fingers brushing against the skin of your ankle and shin.

Satan uses his other hand to open his book, and just as you planned the small piece of paper slowly falls into his lap against your legs. You shyly hide behind your book, pretending to read. You could feel his chest and torso rumble while he read the poem to himself.

It's hard to remember what you wrote, the adrenaline making you loose your memory and only focus on now.

You do remember how hard you thought about all the write words, and what kind of poem it would be. To make his heart flutter the way he makes yours leap and soar. To make him feel the tingling sensation that spreads into your finger tips when you feel yourself falling in love more and more.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin, his hands gliding further up your legs before gripping under your knees and bringing you into his lap.

Your nose was pressed to headband of your book, the delightful smell of the old paper pages filling your nose. Your cheeks are on fire, you could feel the tingling of the blush spreading down your neck and to your ears.

Satan could only chuckle and remove the book from your face and set it on the sofa beside him. His hands set themselves on your hips, his glowing green eyes shining like brightest star in a dark night.

He gently kissed you, his hands moving to cup your face and rub your cheek bones. The kiss was full of love and passion, slow and steady. Both of your hearts pounding in your chest, skin on fire from each others touch.

He pulled away and hugged you, his head rested against your neck and shoulder. Your chest fluttered, your heart was in your throat as Satan's lips brushed against your pulse then he spoke.

"I love you"

I strongly think Asmo designs clothes, and you are his muse and model.

He absolutely loves when you agree to be his inspiration.

And he also loves when you let him take your measurements. He likes how your body feels in his hands.

Asmo is very observant, it doesn't seem like it cause he's utterly obsessed with himself. But he knows everything about everyone. (Gossip King)

He especially knows every detail about you, you decide if that's creepy or sweet.

He absolutely loves when you tease him when working, it gives him excitement!

"MC, My darling muse I need your beauty." Asmo falls against his bed next to you, his delicate skin pressed against his silk pillowcase. You hum setting your phone down and moving his hair away from his eyes the way he likes. He smiled looking at you with stars in his eyes.

"What are you thinking and what was your inspiration?" You asked leaning on your arm. Asmo was quiet, his eyes scanning your face and down your body.

"You are always inspiration Darling." He smiled before hoping out of his bed and opening his fabric closet. You giggled and stood next to your boyfriend admiring the hundreds of fabrics.

"Stand over here." He points to the large wood box coated in glitter and pink paint. You nodded slipping off your clothes, leaving only your undergarments.

"MC, you devious human." Asmo giggled, suddenly appearing behind you. His slim hands glided around your body adjusting the measuring tape at your hip. "Always so beautiful..".

Your skin erupted with goosebumps, your shoulders shaking with a slight shiver at his touch. He giggles, he nails running over you rub cage.

"Hold still MC, or my measurements will be wrong." He pressed gently kisses along your skin, your face was rosy staring down at his thick, pink hair.

"Asmo, the tape is loose." You teased watching him adjust the tape.

"You little Minx.." He bit the soft flesh of your hip making you yelp. He giggled loudly before walking over to his sowing machine and writing your measurements on his note pad.

You reached down for your clothes but his voice stopped you, "Keep them off Love, I still need more measurements." His smile was sweet, but devilish.

God, he loved looking at you. So comfortable in his presence, just helping him gives him joy he hasn't had since the fall. You help him in more ways then one. And he loves you more than anything, including himself. And he never lets your forget that.

[bedoballoons]

Hello!

I really love your writing! This is my first time making a request :^)

Can I request kaveh, tighnari and whoever else you want to include reacting to the reader (preferably m or gn) showing them a guestroom in their house/teapot that they decorated just for them? I'm imagining alot of blushing pre-relationship vibes but established relationship would also be very sweet so it's up to you ^^

No worries if u dont like the prompt and would rather not do it. I'm excited to read more of your work regardless!

AHHHH THIS IDEA IS JUST CHEFS KISS!! This is your first request and it's literally incredible!! Thank you thank you! It's a honour to write your first one so I hope you enjoy it!!

─⊰⁠⊹ฺ❄️𝔾𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤⊰⁠⊹ฺ❄️

{༻~A safe place~༺}

CW: Fluffy! GN! Reader! Pre-relationship blushing and cuteness!!

(Includes: Tighnari, Kaveh, and Kazuha!)

𑁍༄Tighnari:

"Alright, now!" You stepped aside as Tighnari moved his tail, uncovering his eyes so he could finally see the surprise you had waiting for him...you'd been decorating and placing everything for days now, even making some of the furniture by hand just for him to have a perfect room in your teapot. Now you'd know if he liked it or not...and your heart was racing with anticipation!

"You did all of this...for me? I don't even...I don't even have a sarcastic remark to make. This is perfect.." He walked inside the room, examining everything even closer, you'd managed to find books on herbology he didn't even know existed and there was a incense burning on his new desk that smelled calmly of flowers...even a small picture of him with you and Collei. No one had ever put so much effort into a place for him or thought of everything like you had.

His cheeks suddenly blushed at the realisation of how much he'd be here now, never wanting to leave a place so perfect for him...a place with you, "I don't know how I could ever thank you enough."

You felt your heart skip a beat, "Just stay around for awhile...?"

"I absolutely will."

𑁍༄Kaveh:

"You really didn't have to make me anything. I was just kidding about the whole giving me a gift makes me sleep better thing, I promise. It's something Alhaitham said and I...well it doesn't really matter but-"

"Kaveh, this has nothing to do with that. This is a gift that I wanted to give you because I like you alot and I think this will make you really happy...or at least I hope it will." You opened the door for him before he could answer you, hoping to distract him from your almost confession about liking him alot...you still didn't know if he liked you back, though maybe this gift would make it clear?

It took him a second to adjust to the new sight, to realise just how big of a gift this truly was.."I- did you decorate this room...just for me?" His mouth hung open in shock as his eyes scanned the beautiful place you'd made for him. Every inch of it decorated to his like, no even better then his liking and he didn't think that was possible. He could cry in happiness, "I am in such awe right now, I don't even have words"

"I definitely understand that feeling, especially when I'm with you." You looked away, your cheeks on fire...you'd never been so bold about your feelings before and this could be coming on stronger then needed, but you couldn't back out now.

"How so?"

"I-...Kaveh..."

"Yes?"

"I like you.."

𑁍༄Kazuha:

"And we are here!" You removed the blindfold from his eyes, ready to show him his new room, the place you'd made just for him whenever he needed it...which you silently hoped was alot. It had everything he could need, sword racks and empty books for his poems, a cozy fireplace for when he returned from a cold rainy adventure and a vase of flowers that made the whole place have a soft floral scent.

His cheeks were dusted with a light blush and he almost appeared to be in a trance...maybe he didn't like it? "Kazu? If you don't like it I could always change it-"

"It's been a long time since I had a place I could truly call home, yes many of my adventures have lead to places with the feeling of home...but to truly have a place I can return to any time I'd like... I'd forgotten how it felt. Please know I love it all, you've done a wonderful job and I thank you for this...for giving me a home." He turned to you, his eyes almost dazed and his smile sweet and sincere...you could have kissed him right then..

Your cheeks went bright red, that thought aching to become a reality, "No need to thank me, having you here is enough thanks in itself. I hope you will use this room often, I would...love to spend more time together."

"As would I with you."

ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚~Have a nice day~*⁠.⁠✧

[zvdvdlvr]

— Leaning to Live Again.

— 🪻. Synopsis. It’s been four and a half months since your fall. You’re starting physical therapy, and the team (and your husband) is there for you every step of the way- as Aaron gets started on filing a product liability lawsuit.

— 🪻. Warnings. Foul language. Frustrated reader. Female reader. Welder reader. Husband Spencer. Physical therapy. 1.6k fic. Mildly rushed ending. Not mych dialogue. I have no physical therapy experience, so I apologize for any incorrect terms/activities/phrases. Pet names.

— 🪻. Extra. Welder!Reader is getting a lot of love :))) Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

— 🪻. Other Welder!Reader fics. Lunch Break. Alive and Breathing.

You spent five weeks in the ICU, four of them in a medically induced coma. The doctor said that it was so you actually gave your body time to recover; the first few weeks after surgery was always the rockiest stage of any major injury.

Spencer spent every waking hour with you, if you were conscious or not. He read to you, had conversations with you, and told you anything that came to mind because he knows you love his voice. After three nights straight at the hospital, the nurses practically begged Spencer to go home, rest, recuperate, and get cleaned up. And Spencer admits, he felt a lot better after going back to your shared home.

When the doctors decided it was time to wake you up, Spencer was all but shoved out of the room. Something abour “not overwhelming her” or something. Spencer wasn’t listening anyway. After texting JJ, she told Spencer she’d let everyone know the news as they were currently in South Dakota catching a serial rapist and killer. And then Spencer resolved to pacing, reciting each song lyric you told Spencer reminded you of him. He repeated the few poems he had gotten you to read, voice softening as you read the words. And Spencer repeated the vows you and him had written for each other, remembering your face and your voice, the way you stood and how you smelled. He relived it as you were being pulled out of the darkness of your unconscious.

“Dr. Reid?” The nurse asked, pausing Spencer mid-step. He watched a few other nurses file out, and Spencer felt his heart beat a little faster in his chest.

“Yes?” He answered, breath held.

“Mrs. Reid is awake. You are more than welcome to go in there, but don’t put her on any additional stress.”

Spencer had barely said ‘thank you’ before he was hightailing it to the side of your bed. He felt the wind rush out of his lunge when he saw you blinking harshly, eyes trying to adjust to the light.

“Hey sweetheart,” Spencer whispered, tears trailing down his cheeks. He sat down and carefully took your callused hands in his.

You cleared your throat. “Hi,” you said finally, voice gravely from disuse. “You okay?”

A watery laugh bubbled out of Spencer. “You fall off a building and you ask me if okay. Baby, I love you so much.”

“Takes more than a fall to take me away from you, husband,” you murmured, letting your hand trace Spencer’s cheek. “But… how is everyone doing? I heard some of the things you guys said when I was… out, but I want to hear from you.”

The genius looked away, salty tears dampening his beautiful eyelashes. “Hotch is planning to prosecute the guys who made the safety harness that you wore because we all know you never would have worn something that was unsafe or had been recalled. We’ve just…” Spencer sniffled, turning his head to look back at you, “I guess we’ve just kept busy.”

You hummed. “How long will I be out of the showbusiness?”

Spencer looked at you, your eyes tired despite all the sleep you had been getting. He knew your world would shatter when he told you that you’d be in recovery for at least another year and a half. Your lipped twitched- an attempt to get the man you loved to smile. Yet again Spencer felt his heart crack: this was going to break you. “Doc says… about two years.”

The pointer finger still tracing Spencer’s face stilled. Your face blanked and Spencer felt the ari leave his lungs at how you looked at him. “What did you say?”

Spencer took your hand in his, kissing your knuckles as his tears fell onto your own and then slid down down down to the cold hospital floor. “Two years, baby.”

“Years. Tw-Two years,” you repeated in a whisper. “Two years.”

Spencer’s eyes shut. Your head fell back on the pillow, eyes boring holes into the ceiling as your own tears welled in your eyes.

“I know, baby, I know,” Spencer cried as you wept silently.

“You got this, wife,” Spencer whispered, pecking the crown of your head before going to stand across you, metal bars on either side of the wheelchair you carefully stood from.

It was your twenty third day of physical therapy, and boy was it hell. Your entire bottom half hurt, feeling as if fire consumed your muscles as you shakily got used to being on your feet again. Your back hurt the worst, though. You tried to play it off the best you could, but when the shooting pain took hold of the sensitive nerves of your spine, you couldn’t do more than screw your eyes shut andprace your head for the inevitable fall.

It had been getting better, you thought. Taking your first six steps was getting easier. Getting out of the pool was easier, and you could stand up without yelping in pain. But still, as you pushed through eveey PT session, you couldn’t help but feel disgusted at yourself for not being able to do basic human activities.

Spencer really atuck to his vows, remaining steadfast at your side through everything. He was at your every beck and call, updating you on your coworkers and all the other people you’d grown close to as a welder and as a woman. Spence took pride being able to help you, being your rock as you always are for him.

Aaron was actively prosecuting the company that produced the faulty equipment. As requested by Spencer, Aaron didn’t tell you much. It was better in both of their minds that you focused on recovery and not having Hotch dumb down the details of legal stuff- not that you were dumb, you just weren’t as educated as Spencer and Aaron. Obviously.

Penelope made a point to bring you food every other day. With her she brought a big hug, warm smile, and hot tea. You listened closely to the gossip she had to share, grateful that she didn’t try overly hard to comfort you- she was just like a sister in that way.

Emily stopped by when she could, but understandably had other plans for her time off; i.e.: napping. When she came Emily brought a book or two she had seen and thought of you about or a magazine.

J.J. tried as hard as Penny did, bringing Henry and Will whenever possible. You appreciated the family, feeling fully accepted as J.J.’s soul sister, despite only knowing Spencer’s coworkers for almost a year. Henry had clicked with you right away and told you stories as he snuggled up to you in the hospital bed. When he fell asleep, Will and J would make conversation with you.

Derek had dinner with you and Spencer every weekend. He brought something new every time and always shut sown your protests at how expensive it must have been, aspecially since the three of you combined could eat $300 worth of food- having fast metabolism and being an athletic person was worth bragging about while shoving half pound birgers into your mouth. Despite just the good food, Derek made sure to talk with just you, offering a deep conversation or a lightheard bickering session, letting you know you weren’t alone.

Rossi visited every time he had time. David had grown fond of you and your personality. You were a hardworking, sincere, and (painfully) honest person. All admirable traits, Rossi thought. He always brought flowers, chocolate, and a milkshake/smoothie for you. Though his visits were shorter in comparison to Derek’s or Penny’s, David visited more frequently. He filled you in on details of the lawsuit Aaron was working on, staff drama, and other fatherly conversation.

Slowly, the months passed.

60 more days passed before the hospital finally brought up your discharge.

Through all that time you had managed to re-gain the ability to walk, run, swim 2 laps uninterrupted, and were improving daily.

You were proud of your progress, but especially thankful of all the people that had stood by your side the entire way. Your eyes burned just thinking about the love Spencer’s family your family had for you.

When one of the nurses you had grown close to finally brought up your discharge, you threw your arms around her and practically cried tears of joy. Spencer kept his composure better, but you could see the shine in his eyes as he discussed the details as you pulled yourseld away from the nurse.

The team was on a case when you reported back to them, but J.J. and Derek immediately set up a quick video call to voice their happiness. Even Aaron stepped in frame, a warm smile on his face as he spoke of how happy he was for you. David showed up right at the end. You swear you saw a tear roll down his cheek as he told you how proud he was of you, how strong you are, and how thankful he is that you’re okay.

Beside you, Spencer ran his hands through your hair with a shaking hand. He, too, cried.

It was two weeks later when you shoved your bags in the back of your truck (you insisted it be the vehicle Spencer drove home) and left the hospital.

“I love you Spencer Walter Reid.”

The two of you stood, leaning against each other, in front of your home. The feeling of Spencer’s warm body under your touch made you feel alive- electric, even. You felt like you could do anything as you carried your own bags into your own home with your own husband.

With Spencer by your side, you were finally learning how to live again.