#until the point where i reached the finish line of the story

[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

[thef1diary]

Little Big Fan | Fifteen

— Little Big Aftermath [aka the end]

Series Masterlist

wc: 3k

we’ve made it to the end guys! I just have to say I never thought I’d complete this story and that too fifteen parts of it but to all those who read it and motivated me to keep writing, thank you. While it is the end of the official story, I will continue to take requests for blurbs on specific scenes you’d like to see. However, there won’t be a set posting date on these blurbs, it’ll be out whenever it’s requested and completed. Once again, thank you so much for those who were here since the first chapter, and here’s to more fic series in the future. P.S lemme know if you want to be tagged in the blurbs.

Your frown grew deeper as you turned in the direction your daughter had pointed, unfortunately spotting Tyler. Luckily, he wasn't looking at you two since he was focusing on the podium celebrations about to happen.

"I didn't know daddy was here, mama." Picking Isabella up, you shook your head, "I didn't know either, angel, but let's focus on Max for now okay?"

She gave a nod of agreement and applauded for the drivers, Oscar and Lando in particular, who finished second and third in the race. She did, however, cheer the loudest when Max, as he has done after almost every race this season, stepped onto the top step of the podium.

He was having trouble finding you and Isabella right away in the crowd, and you could see the slightest frown forming on his face until a smile emerged when he succeeded, connecting his gaze with yours.

Isabella giggled as Max held his hand up to wave at her before blowing a kiss in the air in your direction. His behaviour drew Lando and Oscar's attention to you as well, with the former driver rolling his eyes at Max jokingly and Oscar smiling at the interaction.

However, you didn't realize that someone else was also looking at you because your gaze didn't waver away from Max.

The champagne bottles were popped, and this time Isabella was awake to see it all, watching with fascination as it was the first time she was able to see it in person. "I wanna do that, mama," she pointed at the drivers spraying the alcoholic drink, soaking each other's race suits while laughing. "Maybe when you're older, Bella."

"When I'm 7?" She asked, and you chuckled, "a little more than that, sweetheart."

Once the celebrations were over, a huge part of the crowd dispersed, the teams resuming to their usual scheduled routines, preparing for post-race debriefs and other meetings. "Where's Maxy going?" Isabella asked, watching as he was led away by someone clad in a RedBull uniform.

"He's a little busy with interviews, but he told me that he'd come back as soon as he's done," you explained, knowing that Max had a post-race conference and a few other duties lined up.

Isabella huffed, "but he won the race." She rested her head on your shoulder for a moment while playing with a strand of your hair—the habit formed back when she was a few months old.

"Yeah he did, which means he's very famous right now and so many people want to talk to him," you explained and while she nodded in understanding, she still pouted, "I wanna talk to him too."

"Why don't we wait for him inside his driver's room?" You asked, turning around when she nodded.

You had almost reached Max's driver room—a place he had suggested for you and Isabella to stay to wait for him, but pausing in a secluded area as a familiar voice called out, "Isabella!" then heard your name as well. Isabella squirmed in your lap, wanting to get down after seeing Tyler walk up to you both. You sighed, knowing that you'd have to stop and chat.

"Tyler," you greeted, and awkwardness hung in the air for two seconds before Isabella decided to speak up. "Daddy, you said you were busy, what are you doing here?"

Despite her hesitance to stay at her father's place, which she still hasn't done since the day she was discharged from the hospital, she frequently spoke to him over the phone.

Unfortunately for him, Isabella rarely forgets promises. While he was busy playing the "good father" role after your ultimatum, he had make false promises, agreeing to everything she asked for without hearing her out properly. In that conversation, she asked about the promise he made of taking her to a race before she had met Max.

While you and Max had taken her once, she still wanted to experience the thrill with her father since he was the one who introduced the sport to her.

He glanced at you, silently asking if he did in fact claim that he was busy, and frowned when you nodded. "Oh Bella, sweetheart, I didn't know that I would have the time to be here, it was an unexpected decision or else I would've brought you along, but you're here anyways!" He tried to uplift her mood, but instead of hanging on to every word he spoke like she used to do, she just shrugged.

Deciding to divert the topic of conversation, Tyler asked, "did you enjoy the race?" He stepped forward, kneeling down to be closer to her but on instinct, Isabella moved away, clutching on to your hand tightly.

He frowned, once again glancing up at you after noticing her behaviour, but you didn't let an ounce of emotion show on your face. "I'm so happy Maxy won!" She exclaimed, her mood improving for a moment as she thought about him.

Standing up to his full height, Tyler looked at you, "why don't we sit and chat for a moment?" Pressing your lips together in a tight smile, you replied, "I don't think that's a good idea."

He scoffed, then shrugged, "fine, have it your way like always." You were not in the mood to indulge his stupid comments which would eventually lead to an argument, in fact you were here to enjoy the weekend with your boyfriend who you dearly missed in this moment.

His eyes widened briefly when you didn't respond to his comment, wondering how you changed so much in a matter of a few weeks that you couldn't care less about him anymore.

"Hey Bella, why don't you show daddy the caps that you got?" You prompted another topic, that Isabella quickly agreed to. Tyler's gaze remained on you for a moment, understanding that you truly had no intention on speaking to him longer than necessary. The conversations you did have were only necessary due to your daughter, but even those texts and calls started becoming less and less frequent.

Isabella took off her Red Bull cap, which had autographs from Max and Checo, to expose a Ferrari cap with two more signatures from Charles and Carlos, and then a McLaren cap that undoubtedly featured two signatures from Oscar and Lando. She caught up to Lando and Charles, who had given her their hats earlier, as well as their teammates, to obtain signatures. She then wanted to get autographs on her RedBull cap as well. When she asked Max and Checo, they chuckled with the latter claiming she had them all at her beck and call, but they nevertheless signed the cap.

Isabella ended up stacking all three caps on her head because she couldn't choose which one best matched with her outfit. She began explaining the story behind the signatures, and Tyler intently listened, asking a few questions in between as well.

"And then-" Isabella's gaze wandered off, eyes lighting up in excitement as she spotted, "-Maxy!"

Without any hesitation she ran up to him, colliding with him as she tried to wrap her arms around him, earning a low, "oof" from him.

Picking her up and settling her on his hip, holding her up with one arm, he held up his other hand that had a medal hanging from it. Max placed the medal around Isabella's neck, which he received on the podium earlier along with his trophy. "We won, princess," he commented, smiling as wide as she did.

She held both of her hands up, imitating the action Max did as he held his trophy on the podium, causing him to laugh. You watched the interaction with a smile on your face, and could hear their laughter from a few feet away.

Walking towards you as Max was initially planned on doing, he noticed a man next to you, which based on your descriptions was Tyler. He decided to overlook him for now, instead greeting you with a kiss to your cheek.

Tyler held his hand out, "great race, congratulations on the championship. I'm a huge fan by the way." Max, nodded politely, still holding Isabella in his arms but shaking his hand nonetheless. "Thank you," he prompted, waiting for the man to introduce himself to confirm his suspicions.

"Oh, so you're Tyler." Max glanced at you for a moment, watching as you tried to hide your smile behind your hands because of his antics. "Why do you say it like it's a bad thing?" He questioned, and Max was quick to retort, "well, it's not really the best thing now is it?"

"I don't understand," he trailed off, and your boyfriend shrugged, "I figured you wouldn't understand, it's okay," he patted Tyler's shoulder in faux consolation. You had to take a step back so Tyler wouldn't see your expression, placing a hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh.

Tyler was quick to catch on to the condescending tone Max spoke with, looking at you—after you composed yourself fortunately. "So what, you get invited to one race and you guys are best friends now?" He asked, a hint of jealousy you were familiar with revealed in his tone.

"More like she's my girlfriend and they're here to support me," Max clarified. Tyler looked at Max, then Isabella, finally understanding why she was always so enamoured by him.

He scoffed, "oh great, enjoy my sloppy seconds then mate, I will warn you though, it's not worth it because a few months later she'll show you a positive pregnancy test and force you to be a father."

Your jaw dropped, instantly responding, "in front of my daughter?" You glanced at Isabella who was in fact hearing all the words spoken, only frowning due to yours and Max's expressions as she didn't understand the full context of the words her father had said, just knowing that it wasn't good.

Max wiped his hand over his mouth, jaw clenching while his warm gaze turned cold within seconds. "Apologize, now," he instructed, trying to hold himself back from causing a fight.

"Now why would I do that? It's true." Max placed Isabella back on her feet who quickly shuffled over to you, standing behind your legs. "How dare you stand here claiming to be my fan yet talk shit about the person I love?" The driver placed his hand on Tyler's shoulder again, but this time you could see the fear bubbling up in his eyes as his grip tightened.

Still, Tyler managed to scoff, "love? Bold claims there. Sorry to break it to you but she's probably just with you for your mon-" he couldn't finish his sentence because he was punched square in the jaw by your boyfriend.

"Max!" You shrieked, and watching the interaction, Isabella held on to your hands tightly with tears welling up in her eyes. You picked her up again, noticing that Tyler was fuming in anger. "Gonna fucking sue you for that," he spit out some blood, but Max only shrugged, "try me."

Fortunately, you guys were stood in between the team motorhomes, which meant you were slightly hidden away from public eye due to the buildings covering the scene.

Readying himself for another punch if needed, you shook your head, "it's not worth it, Max."

"Yeah Max, listen to your girlfriend," he taunted, angering you in the process. "Will you ever shut up?" You shot back. Max glanced at Isabella who had hid her face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around you. Although he couldn't see her face, he guessed that her eyes were tightly shut.

Nodding as a silent agreement with Max, you decided to walk away from the scene as you didn't want to expose Isabella to any more of this argument than what she has already heard. Glancing at Max once more, you hoped that your expression was indicating something along the lines of, "don't do anything too bad."

However, you could hear Max's words as he began speaking to Tyler, "listen here you little shit..." but you didn't stick around to hear the entire conversation, smiling to yourself knowing that Tyler would finally be put into his place—that too by his favourite driver.

Finally entering his driver's room, you sat down on the couch sighing in relief. Isabella was still in your lap and you ran your hand up and down her back in a soothing motion because you could feel her sniffling against you. "Bella," you murmured, wanting to see her adorable face.

"I'm so sorry you had to see that, sweetheart." You kissed her head before brushing your hand through her hair. You heard her mumble but didn't catch her words, "what was that?"

She lifted her head to look at you, and you frowned seeing the tears staining her cheeks. "Why is daddy so mean? I don't like him."

"Some people are just mean for no reason, and unfortunately, your daddy is one of them," you explained, no longer covering for him knowing that after what Isabella witnessed, she wouldn't want to be near him no matter what you said.

She frowned but didn't respond, leaning her head against your shoulder again. You didn't disturb her peace, knowing that after the eventful day, she needed some quiet time.

Max entered the room a few minutes later, and he smiled to greet you but it fell flat. He pointed at Isabella, then put his thumbs up to silently ask if she was okay, but you shrugged.

"What did you say to him?" You asked, knowing that whatever conversation followed probably wasn't kind. "I told him that I'd ban him from future races if I saw him anywhere near you or Bella, and he left."

You knew that it probably wasn't that easily done, but you didn't ask for more details.

You had thought Isabella fell asleep since she hadn't moved in a while, nor could you see her face, but she lifted her head up to look at Max once she heard some shuffling about in the room.

He paused as soon as his gaze connected with hers, unsure of how to initiate a conversation because he did literally punch her father. Isabella wiggled off your lap, and both you and Max thought that she would walk away further into the room so her next action surprised you both. Running towards Max, she held her arms out, engulfing him in a hug.

"You're better than my dad, Maxy," she muttered, and he audibly sighed, the stress wrinkles on his face disappearing while wrapping his own arms around her smaller frame.

"Thank you, princess," he whispered back, and she pulled back to kiss his cheek. Isabella looked back at you, smiling when she saw you smile as well. "Thank you for taking care of my mama," your daughter told Max, and his heart warmed at her words. "Always."

The ring of your phone interrupted the beautiful sight in front of you, but your eyes widened when you saw that it was your mother calling. As soon as you pick it up, you're greeted by hearing your full name.

"Hi, mum," you stood up and walked further away just in case you were about to get a scolding although you had no idea what you could've possibly done. "Why didn't you tell me?" She asked.

"Tell you what?" You answered with a question of your own, knowing that she could be referring to anything at the moment. "That you have a boyfriend."

Your mouth dropped open, "how do you know that?" She chuckled, "because a friend of mine called me and told me that she just watched you kiss someone on live television, some racer guy."

Covering your mouth with your hand, you thought back to the moment Max kissed you in front of the huge crowd after getting out of his car, and of course there had to be cameras capturing the moment. "Max, he's a Formula 1 driver," you explained.

"Wait, the same Max that Bella talks about?" You hummed, "the same one."

"I'm glad you finally moved on from your daughter's father, but I'm also sad that you didn't tell me sooner and I looked foolish because I didn't know until my friend told me about it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't think my relationship would be broadcasted live. Plus, I think the chapter with Tyler is finally over, for both me and Isabella."

"That's good to hear, she doesn't deserve a father like him. Is Max good to you?"

"He's the best to both of us, she lights up with joy every time she sees him." Your mother hummed as she heard your response, "then me and your father have to meet him one day."

You heard some laughter in the next room where Max and Isabella were, and you smiled at your mother's words, "I hope we can come by soon, I'd love to introduce him to you and dad."

After saying goodbyes and promises to meet soon, you returned to the room Max and Isabella were in, pausing in the doorway at the sight in front of you. Just like how Isabella was sitting in your lap earlier with her head against your shoulder, she did the same to Max.

You were about to make your presence known when you heard your daughter's question. "Maxy, why do you call me princess?"

Max's gaze found yours, always finding you whether you were standing in the corner of the room or in a crowd. "Because your mama is the queen," he responded casually, as if he was stating a fact.

Isabella lifted her head, "does that make you the king?" He shrugged, "I guess it does."

She giggled, "and does that mean we get a happily ever after like the storybooks?" Max reached his hand out towards you, asking you to join them which you obliged to easily.

"Ours is better than the storybooks," he stated, placing a kiss on Isabella's forehead before pecking your lips briefly.

The End.

Taglist: @xjval @mrsmaybank13 @cherry-piee @urfavnoirette @solphin @burningcupcakefire @nessacarty1 @dreamsarebig @omgsuperstarg @wonnou @fanficweasley @redbullgirly @llando4norris @randomgirlnumber13 @dark-night-sky-99 @chanshintien @leilanixx @gisellesprettylies @peachiicherries @monsieurbacteria6 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @arian-directioner @distancedss @morenofilm @sachaa-ff @lighttsoutlewis @teamnovalak @casperlikej @sadg3 @d3kstar @lewisvinga @lpab @queenofmanydreams @honethatty12 @drunk-teens-doing-drugs @its-avalon-08 @yourbane @oconswrld @noneofyourfbusinessworld @ssrcsm @softtina @hockeyboysarehot @formulaal @namgification @tallrock35 @bloodyymaryyy @formulanni @ellouisa17 @phantomxoxo @samantha-chicago

[vivwritesfics]

Hooked On A Feeling

Chapter Twenty - Monaco Daniel

Daniel is a Formula One driver, but, more importantly, he was a single dad to a wonderful little girl. He wants her to be a normal little girl, to have a normal social life, so he sends her to daycare. That was where she met Milo, her future best friend.

Milo's mother was incredibly stressed. She worked so hard to provide a good life for her son. But then he makes a new friend, a friend who has a hot dad (ofc they fall in love)

2.7K

Single Dad!Daniel x Single Mum!Reader

Warnings: light smut, eating out, handcuffs, Daniels gorgeous nose being put to work

Series Masterlist

"I can't wait for you to meet Monaco Daniel."

He'd said it after she'd explored the entirety of the gorgeous apartment, had looked out onto the balcony and then put her bags in the room they would be sharing.

She was looking at the pictures on his walls when he walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and placed his chin on her shoulder.

"Who is Monaco Daniel?" She asked him, placing her hands on top of his.

Daniel moved his chin from her shoulder and whispered in her ear. It was enough to make her choke as she pulled away from him. "Monaco Daniel sounds..."

She had no response. Not because she didn't want Monaco Daniel. Quite the opposite. She wanted Monaco Daniel real bad. "Who are the friends who would look after the kids?" She asked.

"Max and Lando," he answered.

Y/N knew very little about Max and Lando. But Daniel trusted them, and that was enough for her. Plus, every time she had met them, they'd been friendly towards her. "Sounds brilliant," she said, turning to kiss him.

Daniel gave her a bit of time to shower, freshen up and change into something else. As soon as she was done, she walked out of the bedroom and got herself a glass of water.

"Milo, Olivia and I were thinking about going out for lunch," Daniel said to her, his arm settling around her waist.

All he wanted was to be near her. He was like a teenager in love again. Of course, he didn't notice the way that Milo refused to look at him, the way Milo looked down at his lap.

"Sounds great," said Y/N, leaning against him. "What're we thinking of getting?"

That was how the four of them found themselves walking around Monaco, looking for somewhere to eat. Daniel let the way, pointing things out of them as they went.

They sat in a café. Milo and Olivia got sandwiches and juice, and the adults got coffee's. "Hey Milo," Daniel called, wearing a grin. "Do you wanna walk the track after this?"

Milo looked up at Daniel. He'd seen the Monaco Grand Prix that year, had seen the other AlphaTauri crash into the wall. He didn't realise it wasn't Daniel, at first. It had panicked him slightly, until he saw the driver that wasn't Daniel climb out of the car, safe and sound.

Milo nodded his head, chewing on his lip. He finished his sandwich and looked towards his mother.

But it wasn't his mother who spoke to him next. "My daddy won the Monaco Grand Prix a few years ago," she said proudly.

"You did?" Y/N asked, turning her attention to Daniel.

Daniel grinned and nodded his head. "The year that Olivia was born. I had technical problems but I pushed that car over the finish line and brought home the seventh win of my career."

"That's incredible," she said, reaching for his hand under the table. "We definitely need to watch it, right Munchkin?" She asked, turning her attention to Milo.

Again, Milo just nodded.

After they had eaten, the four of them headed out of the café. Daniel let the way, walking them around the streets that made up the Monaco Grand Prix. He walked beside Milo the entire time, pointing things out and telling him facts and stories from the Grand Prix he'd taken part in.

Y/N could see what Daniel was trying to do. She just had to hope it was working. At first Milo nodded along to what Daniel was saying, not offering much in terms of conversation. But Daniel kept going, kept trying. He wasn't going to stop until Milo was talking to him.

And it worked. Soon, Milo was talking back to Daniel, asking him questions. Daniel pointed out the breaking zones and the two of them visibly slowed their steps before taking the corner. It was adorable.

"Are you excited to go to America with your dad, Olivia?" Y/N asked as she walked beside her.

Olivia nodded her head. "Yeah! Daddy said we could go to a ranch and go horse riding!"

"That's great, Livvy! Can you do me a favour and get your daddy to send me pictures? I'd love to see it," she replied.

Olivia looked up at her. "Can't you and Milo come with us?" She asked innocently.

Y/N gave her a grim smile. "I'm sorry, Liv," she said quietly, shortening her name even further. "But Milo and I need to get back home. We'll try to call you as often as we can," she promised.

"Can you guys come next time?"

"We'll try our best."

***

There was a knock on the apartment door. Daniel got up from the sofa and pulled it open, greeted with the faces of two of his best friends. He stepped to the side, letting Lando and Max walk into his apartment.

"Uncle Max!" Olivia cried, running towards her favourite uncle.

Immediately, Max picked her up. It lasted maybe two seconds before Olivia was back on the floor. "Hey Milo," Max called, waving across the room.

Lando stepped out from behind Max and opened his arms for Olivia. "You gonna come say hello to your Uncle Lando or what?" He asked, wearing a grin.

The hug Olivia gave Lando was less enthusiastic than the way she hugged Max. But she instantly broke out into giggles and gave Lando a proper greeting.

"Hey guys," Called Y/N as she walked out of the bedroom, putting in earrings.

Daniels breath caught in his throat. She was dressed in a red satin dress that fell to her knees. The material hugged her body. The neckline dropped slightly lower at her chest, but revealed nothing, and two thin straps went over her shoulders.

"Hi Y/N!" Both Max and Lando called across the room.

Her small heels clicked against the floor as she walked over to where Milo sat on the couch and crouched to his level. "Milo, munchkin," she began as she moved Rexy to one side. "Max is gonna take you and Olivia to go play with his cats. Would you like that?"

Milo picked up Rexy yet again. "Can I ask him about racing?" He asked.

"I'm sure you can, Munchkin," she said.

Taking his hand, she got Milo down from the sofa and walked him over to Max and Lando. "Hi, Mr Verstappen," he said. Milo immediately began showing off Rexy.

His mother turned to Lando. "Thanks for taking them," she said and leaned against the wall. "He's probably gonna spend the night asking you about racing."

"It's no worries, seriously," Lando replied. "He can have a go on our sim if he wants. You two just go have fun, you crazy kids," he said and grinned.

Lando and Max took the kids with them as they left Daniel's apartment. They said goodbye, Milo hugging his mother, and followed the F1 drivers away.

As soon as they were gone, Daniel turned his attention to her. His hands were on her hips, pressing her against the wall. "You look incredible," he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Tempted to skip dinner and show you Monaco Daniel right here and now."

She leaned forward and kissed him quickly. "You know I can't wait to see Monaco Daniel. But lets get food first. For stamina and all that, you know?"

Daniel grinned. He stepped away from her, holding her hand and pulling her away from the wall. She followed her into the bedroom and sat her on the bed as he began getting dressed.

As soon as he was ready, they were heading out of the apartment. Daniel held her hand as he led her down to the parking garage. He pulled open the car door and held her hand as she climbed in. "Thank you, Danny," she said. He kissed her hand before letting go of her and shutting the car door.

Throughout their dinner, it was hard to concentrate on anything but each other. For Daniel it was hard to concentrate on anything but the way she pressed her leg against his in the rounded booth they shared. For her, it was hard to concentrate on anything but the way his hand gripped her thigh.

Daniel could hardly pull himself away from her to eat. He had no idea what he ordered, wouldn't be able to tell Max and Lando if they later asked. He was far more interested in her.

After the dinner, Daniel parked up near the beach. As he walked her across the beach, the waves crashed against the stones and pebbles. "Milo would love this," she said as she leaned against Daniel, looking out across the sea. "He'd sit here and draw the view."

"Tomorrow," said Daniel. "We'll bring them here tomorrow."

And suddenly, Y/N got an idea. She pulled away from him, pulled her phone from her bag and placed it on the ground as it softly played music. "Come on," she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck and began swaying. "Just like our first date."

Daniel was more than happy to move with her. His forehead was against hers and he kissed her as they moved. Soon the dancing stopped and they were kissing beneath the stars.

She pulled away from him and rested her head against his chest. "Take me home and introduce me to Monaco Daniel," she whispered.

Before she knew it they were driving back home at such a speed. A thrilled laugh ran through her as Daniel pulled into the parking garage. He parked quickly, grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the car, up to his apartment.

"You're gonna love Monaco Daniel," he said as he rushed to unlock the apartment door. "Monaco Daniel is all about you."

As soon as he got them into the apartment, he kissed her. Her back was against the door and he kissed her as he pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders.

Monaco Daniel wasted in time and undressed her, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. It seemed unfair that he was still fully dressed as he led her into the bedroom. "Sit on the bed," he commanded, and she did just that.

Monaco Daniel stripped himself as he dug through his closet, looking for something. "Aha!" He called when he found what he was looking for, pulling a box forward from the back of the closet.

Daniel presented her with handcuffs. "Oh, so Monaco Daniel is kinky," she said, reaching forward to take the handcuffs off of him.

But Daniel held them just out of reach. "Whose wrists do you think these are going on, baby?" He asked, pocketing them. He reached back, unclipping her bra, and laid her on the bed.

He pulled her bra away from her body and dropped it to the floor. Daniel kissed her, raising her arms above her head, until her wrists were up by the headboard.

There was no protest as Daniel used his handcuffs to secure her to the bed. She tugged once, testing out the strength of the metal. She let out a satisfied hum when they held up.

Daniel kissed her again. He kissed down her body, kissing between her breasts and down her stomach, until he was where she needed him most. "Monaco Daniel is gonna eat you out until scream my name."

Monaco Daniel dove in. His hands were on her stomach as his tongue moved across her folds, pushing in.

She couldn't deny that she had thought about Daniel's nose before. At first she thought it was gorgeous. And she still did think it was gorgeous. But she couldn't wait to see it in use.

The moment his nose bumped against her clit, she let out an almost pornographic moan. "Holy shit," she cried as she tried to reach for his hair. But, fuck, the handcuffs held her back. She settled for gripping the headboard instead.

***

"Ugh, you beat me again!" Cried Lando as Olivia once again beat him in a video game. "How are you so good at this, Liv?"

"You're just really bad, uncle Lan," Olivia answered as she started another game.

In another room, Milo was asking Max any and all questions he had about being a racing driver. Max leaned against the counter as he cooked up something for the four of them to eat. He'd made the effort to go shopping to get something for Milo and Olivia to eat the minute Daniel texted him.

As Milo asked his questions, he had a piece of paper in front of him, drawing away. Max had opened his laptop in front of Milo, giving him a picture to draw.

"Do you wanna be a driver?" Max asked as he began plating things up.

Milo shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," he answered. "I don't think my momma has the money for it."

Max gave a grim smile. "Well then, I guess you'll have to just watch me and Daniel race until you can join us on track."

"Really, Mr Verstappen? That would be so cool!"

Milo grabbed his colouring pencils from his bag and began to fill in the F1 car he was drawing with colour. Dark blue, just like the car Max drove.

He put the plates on the table, calling Lando and Olivia to sit and eat with them.

"My daddy said I could start karting soon," Olivia said as she ate. "Uncle Maxy, Uncle Lando, do you think you could come to my races?"

Lando nodded. "Are you gonna go karting too, Milo?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Probably not," he said.

The look Max sent Lando told him everything he needed to know. "Well, Olivia said it's your birthday in a few months," he said. "Maybe Max and I chip in, help you pay for karting as a birthday present."

"Really, uncle Lan?!" Olivia called excitedly. "That would be so cool!"

After they ate, Lando stuck on a movie while Max cleaned up. Full up, both kids found themselves nodding off as they watched the movie. Max and Lando made a decision to take them home. They gathered their things, put them into their bags and checked their phones.

Suddenly, Max's phone began ringing. He swiped his phone across the screen, silencing it before it woke up Milo or Olivia. "We're just about to take the kids back to yours."

"Don't!" Cried Daniel, his voice panicked. "We're having a little emergency here. Y/N and I will be by to pick the kids up in a little bit. Just keep them there!"

"What the hell is going on?" Max asked, his voice hurried. "Are you guys okay?"

They were, in fact, not okay. Y/N was still stuck to the headboard, her body sweaty. She had only just stopped shaking and Daniel was desperately searching for the key.

"Maybe we should have made sure we had it before sticking me to the bed," Y/N said. It was obvious now. She desperately pulled as Daniel searched through his closet.

"Fuck," he cried, digging through his things. But it was nowhere to be seen. "Shit, babe. I think we might have to find another way to get them off."

She looked up at the handcuffs. "Do you have a bread knife we can cut them off with?"

Suddenly Daniel was out of the bedroom, running towards the kitchen. He searched through his kitchen drawers, desperately searching for the serrated bread knife.

"AHA!"

Daniel ran back into the room. "Danny! Stop running with the knife!" She cried and he slowed down. "I can't have you stabbing yourself while I'm stuck here," she said.

Placing the knife between his teeth, Daniel crawled on top of her. He took the knife from between his teeth and instantly began cutting at the leather of the handcuffs. It was a good minute before the knife went through the leather.

But Daniel kept going, until the knife went all the way through and she pulled her hands apart.

The handcuffs were still around her wrists as she and Daniel rushed to get dressed. "We'll get them off later," he said as he threw a clean shirt towards her.

Together, she and Daniel rushed to the front door. But he stopped her before she could pull it open. "I love you," he said and kissed her.

Taglist (CLOSED): @biancathecool @rewmuslupin @prettiest-at-the-party @hellowgoodbye @cassie0sstuff @spideybv28 @andydrysdalerogers @aundercover @lou-bean28 @landossainz @purplephantomwolf @ggaslyp1 @layazul @phantomxoxo @minkyungseokie @gills-lounge @hollie911 @annispamz @lily-ann-b @cixrosie @notyouraveragemochii @charli123456789 @amalialeclerc @teamnovalak @tallrock35 @teenwolf01 @chiliwhore @darleneslane @sava207 @thatsusbitch @formulaal @leptitlu @angiesw0rld @yunakynn @landosgirlxoxo @msolbesg @cherry-piee @catmouseggy @bathedinheat @chanshintien @ilove-tswizzle @woozarts @evie-119 @trouble-sistar @mysticalnightenthusiast @lewisvinga @spilled-coffee-cup @starkeyellow @fxrmuladaydreams @viennakarma @radiator101 @lightdragonrayne @angelxxrose @millinorrizz @xemiefx @ellies-world61 @the-depressed-fellow

[sturn-wrld]

🏮stop staring

pairing: chris x reader

summary: where chris loves readers ass.

genre: SMUT!!! if that makes you uncomfortable dni!

warnings: unprotected sex, ass slapping, nicknames

a/n: day 8 of smutmas. i actually finished this one early!! 😻😻 this actually has close to no storyline at all and the story line i was going to go for i kinda dropped so it's pretty much smut with no plot :)

masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------

chris loves your ass and he is not shy about it. he will constantly slap it no matter who is around. and when i say no matter who is around i mean. in the kitchen in front of his brothers, in target in front of strangers or even on youtube. he just loves the way it looks when smacks it just right and it jiggles.

it was 12:30 at night and you about ready to head off to bed after a long tiring day until you got a call from chris.

"hey baby"

"hey mamas, what are you doing right now?"

"nothing, i was about to head to bed"

"do you want to come over and sleep in my bed?"

"sure. i was probably going to ask later tonight when i couldn't sleep anyway so why not"

"alright love you ma, see you soon"

"love you too, see you soon" with that you hung up the phone and immediately knew why he actually wanted you over but have him the benefit of the doubt and believe he just wanted you to sleep in his bed with him.

as you reached his driveway, turning into it, you saw him waiting outside his front door for you. "what a gentleman, waiting outside" you said smiles at him almost giggling. "of course, anything for my beautiful lady" he said taking your hand to his mouth to kiss it. you both giggled before walking into the house to see matt and nick watching a movie on the couch.

"chris, do the two of you want to come join?" matt asked as you walked past "yeah sure. we aren't doing anything" as the two of you sat, his arms wrapped around you as you cuddled into his chest, all you noticed was his constant gaze pointed in your direction. "you may know what's happening in the movie better if you actually watch the movie and stop staring at me" i say trying to distract his look from me to the movie. he just looked at you deeper. "i'm getting a bit tired" he started towards the boys "we might head to bed now" he said in my direction with fierce eyes. "yeah we will" i said affirming his statement with suspicion that we may not only be sleeping in his room. with that we stood and started walking towards his room.

as you reached his bedroom he started making out with you and your suspicions were proved correct. "i missed you so much mamas" he said slowly kissing down your jawline to your neck leaving marks. "i missed you too" you said gasping at the pleasure he was giving you not sure how you missed him s much as you saw him two days ago. he suddenly lifted you from the wall to his bed where he started to strip the both of you, throwing your clothes in directions you were unaware of. you desperately started rubbing your legs together to cause some friction. as he stripped his own shirt and pants he held your legs still to stop any friction of your own happening. he then proceeded to take off your bra and suck on your left nipple while massaging the right. you started releasing breathy moans that just made him go crazy. he stopped working on your boobs and slowly made his way back on the bed.

"hands and knees now" he said demanding you of this action, power in his eyes. within seconds you were on your hands and knees, turned away from him, but staring back at him. he suddenly sent a pinging slap to your bare ass before running a finger through your folds. Thus caused an outlandish moan to leave your mouth that was definitely audible to his brothers just upstairs. as he placed his back to yours. he placed his hand over your mouth. "no more noise from you. don't want anyone hearing you." he whispered into your ear, sending shivers down your spine. he then started kissing light feather like kisses down your spine until your ass which he slapped again. suddenly you felt the tip of his cock playing with your folds. making its way up and down driving you insane. "please chris" you said your head dipping from the unbearable pleasure. " please, what?" he said back, attitude clear in his voice.

"please fuck me already" with the tick of approval he slipped his massive cock into your sopping hole causing your legs to almost give out. he wrapped an arm around your stomach lowering his upper body to yours as he menacingly fucked you at a pace seemingly inhumane. as he continued he pulled his arm away from your upper body up to continue and started toying with your clit. you rapidly started feeling the all too well build up towards your release. "i'm almost there baby. don't stop" you said sporadically barely able to do anything but moan under his pleasurable touch. he suddenly slapped your ass again. "that's a good girl, cum for me mamas" with that you both released your liquids mixing as you rode out to your high.

as he slowly pulled out of you, you collapsed onto your stomach, the mixture that had been created oozing out of you as he licked it up from your now sensitive pussy, making you whine in response. he then laid next to you, caressing your ass.

all you thought was, 'what a chris move.'

taglist

@frozenvegitableoil @ermdontmindthisaccount @ilovemattsturn @its-jennarose

[victoria-grimesss]

tear you apart - part IV

Shiny new Masterlist

->Pairing: König x fem!reader

->Words: 4.7k

->Warning: MDNI!, fluff, König spilling his heart out to his favorite girl, roadhead, car sex, outdoor oral, face sitting, overstimulation, pretty much porn with plot at this point. 

->A/N: A bit different that the other chapter but I wanted to do something a little sweeter.

Your dreams are luxurious and delicious these nights, a whirlwind of experiences ever since you transferred to the new base. You dream of luxuries far beyond your reach with a man who sure as hell should be out of your reach too. You dine on five star meals on the beach, sip champagne in a clawfoot tub overlooking waterfalls, have ravenous passionate love making sessions in silk sheets. 

König has rewired your brain and embedded himself within you.

You awake in his bed again as has been the same routine for a few weeks now, you’ve moved a stash of your stuff to his room at his request of course. You don't see each other too often during the day so night and early mornings are the times where you catch up and enjoy eachothers company.

Spending a few spare moments to soak in the smell of the sheets you roll out of bed and notice a flower in a tall glass of water sitting beside a note. 

Chicken scratch, yep written by König alright. You smile as you envision him scrawling it quickly before leaving for the day.

My love,

Clear your schedule this afternoon, I plan to take you somewhere very special.

-König, your one and only. (boyfriend)     :)

Boyfriend. 

Huh I guess that's really what the two of you are now. You both danced around the word for a while now. You suppose you were a couple in the grand view of it, slept in the same bed, ate dinner together, got ready for bed together, said goodmorning and goodnight to each other. You could get used to this. Off base dates are far and few too, sometimes you'll take walks around base, the views are amazing nearby and it makes you yearn for your own country-side cottage with a garden.

You ready yourself and go about your day, you’ve flowed into a nice routine as of late. Get up, sometimes with König, eat in the mess hall, workout, training, dinner with König sometimes, and usually not get a lot of sleep together because he's too busy having your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You can’t complain.

The mess hall is loud and crawling with activity this morning, you enjoy it more than you thought you would. The activity is a welcome distraction from homesickness. You eat in silence, sitting with a few others you’ve somewhat befriended. Bennet hasn't been around lately, thinking of if now you can’t remember the last time you did see him.

You clear your throat,

“Have any of you seen Bennet around?”

One of the other guys laughed.

“Yea I saw him alright. Saw him on his way out. Guy got so scared of the colonel he transferred back to his home base. Guess the two of them clashed over something. But if you ask me, I just don't think the guy was cut out for this line of work.”

“Yeah, that's weird. Strange.” 

You continue eating, your question answered to your requirements. 

König is intimidating, sure he’s nice to you but you can’t imagine being an outsider, being on his bad side, or god forbid being his enemy. The stories you’ve heard about the things he’s done on the battlefield could make anyone uneasy. 

Breakfast finishes up and you head to the gym where you’re thankfully uninterrupted during your workout. Cleaning up you hit your next stop, the shooting range. It’s mostly empty, the weather is nice today so many people are using the outdoor range. 

You take your pistol, silencer equipped and a long range sniper down to the last stall and prep your gear.

You use the sniper first and take deep breaths before firing. 

The door opens and you assume it’s just someone else using the stalls until a voice makes you jump.

“Hold it higher liebling.” 

Your hand grips your heart, putting the gun down you turn fully around, being met with König standing tall with his hands behind his back.

“König, ever heard not to sneak up on someone with a gun?” You lean against the counter.

“Am I mistaken or is that your forte in the field? I’m simply a superior observing my team members, wouldn't want you using the tools the wrong way right?”

He's so quick with his quips, you smile then turn around bringing the gun up leaning your cheek on the side as to see through the scope.

You feel his hands on your hips and he kicks your feet further apart, you look down at his feet that are standing on the outside of yours. 

He brings his head down right next to your ear,

“Hold it back harshly into your shoulder, so the kickback won’t knock you down.”

“You’re making it hard to focus.” 

“I would assume you would be able to focus even with distractions yea? But I suppose our time in bed has proven otherwise.”

You blush but regain your composure quickly until one of his hands stays on your hips and the other brushes your cheek to move your hair slightly.

You shoot once, then twice, hitting the target both times.

His voice has gotten even lower, whisper dancing the line of soundwaves.

“You read my note yea?”

“I did, plan to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

He kisses the shell of your ear then your cheek through his mask. 

“I will see you later then, you’ll meet me in the lower garage at 1500 alright?”

“Oooh, meeting my big strong colonel in a dark garage, I certainly hope he doesn't take advantage of me.” You laugh and bat your lashes at him.

He squeezes your hip and scoffs playfully, 

“Keep talking to me this way and we certainly won’t even make it to the car. Busy yourself and meet me there, don't be late.”

He releases his grasp and you miss it already.

“Shall I pack a bag?” You ask.

“Don't bother, I’ve got everything handled. 

“Yes sir.” 

He steps away from you, walking to the door ignoring all others in the range and you watch him until the door closes. 

Taking a steadying breath you focus once more unto the range, feeling his phantom touch still.

—

You stop by your room before going to the garage, the lights flicker as you shut your door and you grow more and more excited for the evening to come. 

Opting for a simple two piece set underneath plain jeans, boots, a simple black shirt. 

The walk to the garage is straightforward, taking a dimly lit stairwell downwards and the garage smells of dust and you take it the electrical in this place could use an upgrade. Probably not high on the budget list.

There are rows of military vehicles and equipment, storage and the likes. An area sectioned off from the others hold what looks like personal vehicles, some nice and some looking decrepit. 

A door slams in that area and you make your way over,

“König? That you?” 

“Y/N, yes it is me! Just finishing up, go ahead and get in the doors unlocked.”

He drives a larger SUV, like the kind you see FBI agents driving, suiting you guess you never really pictured what car he drove but you can assume he drives whatever kind of car he can fit in so style types are probably very restricted.

You enter the car, the inside smelling like leather and the cologne he wears. It’s clean, damn near pristine the same as his room. The trunk closes and he gets in, his seat all the way back, he adjusts  and looks over to you, his eyes bright and he's buzzing with excitement. 

“Comfortable?” He smiles softly at you, he's wearing a black tactical long sleeve shirt, dark jeans, boots, and his usual hood of course. He looks good in black.

“Very. Can I ask where we're going yet?”

“Nope, just sit back and relax schatz.” 

He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, informing the guard of his time away.

The tall gray walls of the base and large fences you know melt away into a wonderful countryside with creeks, tall trees, and rounding hills. König has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee, his thumb rubbing small patterns.

“This is nice.” You breathe a sigh of relief, adjusting in your seat and König’s hand on your knee slips higher. 

König looks relaxed, he deserves this. Always working so hard… he should definitely relax.

Your hand wanders from the center console to his arm, rubbing the tight muscles underneath his hoodie. He squeezes the inside of your thigh in thanks.

Trailing your hand down his arm to the outside of his thigh, holding your hand there and tipping your head to look over at him.

He laughs breathily, “What are you doing, liebling?” His eyes shift from the road, your hand, and your face. 

“I just want to show you how much I appreciate you, König.” He shutters hearing his name from your lips and your hand moves to the now hardening bulge in his pants, he readjusts his hips to get more comfortable.

“Scheiße, you’re going to get us killed, sit back down I’m serious.”

He’s not serious, there is not even one percent of serious inflection in his tone, he speaks with need, his mouth already being filled with cotton at your movements.

You’ve leaned over the center console, face next to his ear as you unbutton his pants and palm him through his briefs, he’s solid where he sits and your mouth is already watering.

He shutters and his eyes flutter for a second,

“Eyes ahead baby, I can’t do anything if you don’t keep us steady ok?”

He does not answer, the blood isn't in his head anymore anyway, well not the one on his shoulders at least.

The trees race by the window as fast as your thoughts race in your head, you lean down and kiss him over the cloth, you feel his abdomen grow tense.

“I can stop if you really want-”

“Stop right now and I'll turn the car around.” 

You grin, mumbling a yes sir before moving your hand under the band of his briefs and giving a kiss to the tip. He takes a steady, concentrated, painful breath in and the exhale is so shaky you feel him tremble.

You give small licks from top to bottom, he’s a big guy so there’s certainly more to love. 

“Scheiße, ficken, Liebling ja” 

You take him fully in your mouth and he's warm, and fits right in place. You hum and he moans in response, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of hearing him like that. You take what doesn't fit in your mouth within the grasp of your hand starting at a steady pace. The music playing in the car isn't even registering in your head, the heavy weight in your hand and mouth is all you focus on.

“Fuck my love, your mouth feels-feels spectacular, I do not deserve what you give me.” 

He groans and bucks his hips up into your mouth, one hand on the wheel and the other gently being placed onto your neck, moving to the back of your head where he gently caresses your hair.

You’re working on him until he begins to shudder and you pull away, he tries to chase you with your hips but you lean back and kiss him on his cheek. His eyes are dark and he glances from you and the road.

“You’re going to kill me, Mein Liebling. He's panting, hand now gripping your hair tighter, you’re far from dry down under and touch his hand that's in your hair and move it down your front and under your pantline. You both moan when his fingers make contact with your wetness, he draws uncoordinated shapes into you, from your clit all the way to your entrance. He presses your entrance through your panties and it’s like he’s knocking on a door asking for permission to grant you the pleasure you oh so want, no need.

“König, please. I need you, I know you need me too.”

You whine, looking down at where his cock sits exposed, leaking heavily with every swipe of his fingers on you.

“My love. liebling.” 

He grits through his teeth when you take his hand once more and more your panties to the side allowing him unrestricted access to where the flames burn the brightest.

“Scheiße, du gewinnst” He pulls the car over, sitting on the dirt shoulder of the road, heavy tree cover surrounding you and you hear his heavy breathing.

He puts the car in park, removing his seatbelt and since the seat was already set all the way back due to his size he leans back and pats his lap.

“Come take what you want.” 

Eyes dark and hungry he watches you remove your pants and move over the center console onto his lap, his cock sitting right in front of you so it brushes against your stomach, you get a visual of just how deep he will slip into you. 

You’re shaking with anticipation when you grasp him again, pumping a few times before raising yourself to tease the tip over your panties.

His eyes are focused on where you touch him, his hands on your hips gently, awaiting your move.

“Get on with it..” 

His voice is dark and shadowy, his patience growing thin as you tease and tease him again, he’s a patient man but only for so long.

You play with him until you hear him growl deep in his chest, taking your panties in his grasp and you hear them rip.

“König! You seem to have an affinity for destroying each pair of panties I own.” 

You try to quip back but your voice is so breathily and weak it holds no volume. 

“I’d rather you not wear them at all, when we have a place of our own you won’t.”

You both moan when he pushes your hips down harshly, he sits fully inside you and you feel euphoric, one because he fills you so deliciously it has your mouth watering again and two he mentioned the two of you having a place of your own. Perhaps it’s him being so drunk on lust he says things he does not mean but your head is already slipping on all sane thoughts so you file that away for later.

His head tips back when he’s fully sheathed within you savoring the warmth and wetness you provide. 

“König, fuck. You’re so big.” You whine on top of him and his eyes regain their focus on you, he’s already too sensitive from your mouth earlier you might actually kill him with how tightly you’re wrapped around him.

His grip on your hips is bruising as usual and you have no qualms with it, feeling his grip reminds you this is all real and you need to ground yourself as you begin to move up and down on him the noises amplified in the car.

“Yes, just like that darling, fuck! You’re so, so good, so tight.” 

You start to move faster, spurred on by his praises your breathing grows faster as does his. Your hands try to gain purchase on the wheel behind you as you gain more speed, knocking the horn you breathily laugh and he grabs your hands and puts them on his shoulders. You grip your nails into him and he growls, now thrusting up into you he meets you halfway and you’re moaning his name so loudly now your throat hurts. 

The windows are fogged and you’re sweaty, hair sticking to your forehead.

He moves one hand from your hip to play with your clit, moving smooth and quick circles into you and you bow inwards your hand slapping onto the cold window, leaving a handprint on the fog it slips down and you wrap both arms around his neck your legs growing shaky and weak from your approaching high.

“König, don’t stop don-don’t stop please please.” You’re whining, squirming, and writhing in his lap an utter and complete mess and he drinks you in. Your pleasure makes his throb and balls tighten as he continues rubbing your clit and thrusting up into you.

“I can feel you getting close, you want to cum yea?” 

He’s panting and sounds just as destroyed as you are.

“Yes, I can’t hold on much longer. I want it so bad.” You whine and he stops altogether.

You cry, hitting his chest and trying to move but he holds your hip still.

“König plea-.”

“Beg.”

“What?” 

“You want to cum? Beg.” He’s not joking, he’s all serious and you whine again before spewing the filthiest words that’s ever come from your mouth, begging and praising him like a God to be worshiped. 

“Please König, god please I can’t, I need it. You’re so big, I need you to make me cum, fuck.”

“Good girl, always listening and doing what I say, I think you deserve a reward.” 

Before you can say anything he begins his thrusting and rubbing ten-fold and you once again hold onto him like your life depends on it as you cum harder than ever before, your vision is spotty and he’s praising you through it. He follows you through the high seating you firmly on his lap, holding himself as deep and he can reach and flooding you thoroughly. 

You both sit together for a good while, panting growing into soft breaths and you pull away from his chest and look at him, smile on your face.

“You think you can make it the rest of the way now? Are you satisfied?” 

He cups both of your cheeks, kissing your nose through his mask.

“I think I'll be ok for a little bit. Maybe.” 

You move off of him, both of your least favorite part is when he has to leave your warmth, but he’s never gone for long. 

You put on your pants, no panties due to König but you would assume he packed you some more, although his previous words would assume he rather you never wear any.

“Ready?” He’s buckled his pants again and you can’t help but notice the sizable mess you made on his lap, the bottom of his shirt and top of his pants wet.

“König, made a bit of a mess on you, sorry.” You grow shy.

“I like it, it challenges me to make you cum harder the next time.” 

Oh God.

He turns back onto the road and you continue your trip down the road, you roll your window down, still warm from your session and the cool mountain air fills your lungs and you rest a hand out of the window. 

—

“Liebling, we’re here.”

“Huh.”

You shoot up in your seat, König standing on your right side, the passenger door open his hand gently on your shoulder as he shakes you awake.

“You passed out, I clearly tired you out.”

“Shut up, you’re full of yourself.”

He laughs, offering his hand to help you out, you take it and observe the scenery around you. It’s late afternoon now and you’re parked in the driveway of a small countryside home, it’s dark inside so you can assume you’re not staying with anyone. There’s a large field surrounding the home. Trees lining the meadow and plants that held out over the cold weather stand strong and the evening sun is even a bit warmer than it had been recently. 

“König this is beautiful, is this your place?”

“Yea, just somewhere small when I need to get away. Don’t come here often, don’t have many reasons to visit. But I wanted to share this with you.” 

He's unpacking the car, grabbing both of your bags. 

“Do you need help?”

He laughs.

“No, I do not need help.” 

The car is locked and you follow him up the path to the house, clovers dot the front path and a flower box on the window is untouched, dry soil packing the inside.

He opens the door and the ceilings are high, but it’s still cozy, lived in even if he says he doesnt come here often. Shoes are discarded at the door and you hang your jacket on the coat rack.

“This is beautiful König, didn't take you for an interior designer.”

He sets the bags down near the front door and you take in the room.

“I actually had my mother decorate it, I don’t have much of a sense for style like she does.”

“Do you see her often? Your mom.”

“Holidays, I try to call her often but when it’s busy it’s harder. She understands.”

“Well I’m sure she’s very proud to have such an accomplished son.”

He smiles, head tipping down, “I hope so.”

He claps his hands, ending the heartfelt moment.

“You look around, make yourself at home. I will start a fire and later we will go watch the sunset ok?”

“Very well.” 

Your heart is giddy and light. He’s so kind and nice and handsome and sweet and a million other words to describe him. The house is more spacious inside than it appears outside, a large archway leads to the kitchen, one bedroom and a nice bathroom. Everything is high up, the shower head is fit just for him, cabinets stacked high, large bed which looks enticingly comfortable.

“König!” You call for him as you look around.

“Yes, mein Liebling.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“Just for the night my love, couldn't get much time away approved.”

“Oh, ok. Will we come back here eventually?”

“If you wish to do so then we will.” 

You observe the view out of the window and König wraps his arms around your waist.

“Scared me.” You laugh, your hands tracing along his hands and up his arms.

“My apologies, shall we head outside to enjoy the view?” He kisses the top of your head and you melt once more.

“Lead the way.”

He brings a thick blanket with him outside and lays it down in the meadow, you lay with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, watching the multitude of colors paint the sky as the sun descends another day, bringing a sweeping array of stars and cool breezes. 

“Thank you König. You’ve been so kind to me and bringing me here means a lot.”

“All that is mine is yours, if you’d allow me I’d like to show my appreciation again.”

You shiver in his grasp and he holds you tighter.

“Yes.”

That's all he needed to hear before he lifts up his mask and takes your lips in his, he trails his lips down to your neck and leaves new bright bruises and snakes a hand up your shirt to play with your breasts, nipples hard from the combination of the cold and his touch. 

“Pants off.” He tugs at your waistband and you comply, the cool air hitting your core.

His hand moves down and caresses your body thoroughly, missing no spot.

“Sit on my face Schatz.”

You pause and look at him.

“I don’t want to suffocate you.” 

He actually laughs now, a full laugh.

“I will die a happy man.” You push him back, he’s gleeful and you laugh as well.

“No really darling, you will not ‘suffocate me’ get up here.” He uses heavy quotation marks around his words and you carefully make your way up to his face, knees placed on each side of his head.

He lifts his mask right to above the peak of his nose and he licks his lips eagerly, eyes only focused on where you sit above him.

“Take your shirt off too.” He strokes your thighs slowly leaving goosebumps in his path.

“What if someone sees?!”

“No one is coming out here trust me. I wouldn't have you expose yourself if somewhere were to see what’s all mine right?” He bites his lip as you discard you shirt and bra

Completely exposed outside as you sit above a man you care about fills you with a fire once more.

“It is like I have died and gone to heaven, you are breathtaking.” He kisses the inside of your thighs as he talks, leaving small bites.

He truly feels he's undeserving. The setting sun casts a glow on your back where it illuminates your outline in soft light, it casts on the dips and curves of your body, the swell of your breasts softly lit.

He grows hard again in his pants but wants right now to be all about you.

“Now sit darling and relax.” You sit slowly onto his awaiting mouth, hovering over him as he kisses you first and licks from entrance to your clit. He has to lift his head to reach you which frustrates him.

“I said sit.” He grips your waist and forces you to sit fully on his face, his mouth latching tightly onto your clit and you gasp and he moans, eyes rolling back into his head as he tastes you once more. He can taste the both of you from the car ride and he licks feverishly at you making your head spin. The stubble on his face scratching the inside of your thighs so nicely.

You brace your hand on his head trying to make him slow but he won't relent from his work. He’s a thorough man and once he starts a job he won’t stop until it's finished. He works on you and your chest starts rising faster and faster, he sucks licks and ravages like he’s never eaten before. 

“König, don’t stop please.” 

You moan and tip your head back, he groans as you arch backwards hands bracing on his midsection and you moan freely into the air. His mumbled words vibrate your core and it makes you reach your peak that much quicker.

König doesn't stop, not after you cum and he won’t slow down, his face is soaked and his pupils dilated.

“König it’s too much, please.”

You try to move your hips away and he growls the hands on your waist gets tighter and you’re able to lift just a bit off his lips for reprieve, he whines.

“Please darling, give me another ok? Just a few more.” 

You can’t say no to him, he’s licking his lips again, your fluid soaking his face and nose, it glistens in the sunset glow and you can’t say no to him. So you lower yourself again, he smiles as his mouth meets you halfway. 

“Fuck, König.” It isn’t long before you cum on his mouth another two times, he’s quick to draw it out of you and he knows what buttons to push and ways to move to make you unravel.

By the end he’s kissing the inside of your thighs again and you pant down at him mind turned to sand by his actions.

“You look beautiful like this, we’ll have to do this more often.” His grip is light and his thumb makes patterns on your exposed skin and you shiver from the cold now, the sun fully set and the stars in full swing. 

“Here, let's get you inside, warm up yea?” He gives you his shirt to put on and carries, much to your protest, you back inside where you both shower and sit on the couch in front of the fire.

His arms are wrapped around you and your eyelids grow heavy as you rest on him.

“König.”

“Yes schatz?”

“Did you mean it earlier when you said we’d have a place of our own?”

He smiles, you can’t see it but he hums at the thought. The two of you retire from the force and he can come home to your awaiting gaze and warm touch.

“I would love it, more than anything. You complete me, relax me and ignite fire within me all the same. To live by your side would be eternal bliss.”

“I would love that too.” 

You smile and cozy yourself closer to him, your eyes grow heavy and you feel content giving yourself to sleep in his arms.

[simjaexy]

𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙎𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩 | 𝙔.𝙅.

Pairing ⇀ Idol Bf! Yang Jungwon x Gn! Reader

Synopsis ⇀ You and Jungwon decided to have a date at the park.

Genre ⇀ Fluff

Notes ⇀ Jungwon has been bias wrecking me so I made a drabble.

Masterlist here

The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the park where you and Jungwon had decided to meet.

It was a rare evening where both of you had some free time, and you wanted to make the most of it.

As you hugged him, you noticed he had a bag with him, “What’s with the bag?” You asked.

Jungwon gave you a teasing smile, “Just for later.” He responded.

As you walked along the path lined with cherry blossom trees, Jungwon reached out and gently took your hand. His touch was warm and reassuring, and you felt a flutter in your chest.

“How has college been?” Jungwon suddenly questioned.

“It’s been nice, me and my friends planned on hanging out at the library to study.” You said. Jungwon hummed in response.

“What about you?” You said.

He looked at you with his cat like eyes, “I’ve been getting there with the members.” He responded. You giggled at his response.

You understand how hard working he’s been lately, so you don’t pressure him that often anymore.

You could tell that he’s tired, but he wanted to spend time with you as much as possible until their next comeback. You were grateful that Jungwon didn’t forget you.

The two of you strolled in comfortable silence, enjoying the beauty of the moment and each other's company.

Eventually, you found a cozy spot by the lake, where the water reflected the hues of the setting sun.

Jungwon spread out a blanket he'd brought along, and you both sat down, leaning against each other.

He pulled out a small box from his bag, revealing a selection of your favorite snacks.

"I thought we could have a little picnic," he said with a shy smile.

You couldn't help but smile back, touched by his thoughtfulness.

As you shared the snacks and talked about everything and nothing, the world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble of happiness.

As the sky darkened and stars began to appear, Jungwon wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. "I'm really glad we could spend this time together," he whispered. "It feels like everything is perfect when I'm with you."

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection. "Me too, Jungwon. This is perfect."

Under the starlit sky, you both felt an unspoken promise of many more beautiful moments to come.

The night grew cooler, and Jungwon noticed you shiver slightly. Without a word, he took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

“I don't want you to catch a cold," he said softly, his eyes filled with concern.

"Thank you," you replied, snuggling into the warmth of his jacket. "You're always so thoughtful."

Jungwon's cheeks flushed slightly, and he looked away, a small smile playing on his lips. "I just want to make sure you're comfortable and happy."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling a sense of contentment wash over you. "You always do," you murmured.

As the evening went on, you both lay back on the blanket, gazing up at the stars.

Jungwon pointed out constellations, sharing stories and myths associated with them. His voice was soothing, and you found yourself getting lost in his words.

"Did you know," Jungwon began, "that some people believe if you see a shooting star and make a wish, it will come true?"

You looked at him, intrigued. "Really? Have you ever made a wish on a shooting star?"

He nodded, a distant look in his eyes. "I have. And some of those wishes have come true."

Just as he finished speaking, a shooting star streaked across the sky.

You both gasped in unison, and without thinking, you closed your eyes and made a wish.

When you opened them, you found Jungwon looking at you intently.

"What did you wish for?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated for a moment, then decided to be honest. "I wished for more moments like this with you."

Jungwon's eyes softened, and he reached out to gently cup your cheek. "I wished for the same thing," he admitted.

In that moment, it felt as though the universe had aligned just for the two of you.

The connection you shared was deep and undeniable, and you knew that this evening was something you won’t forget.

As the night wore on, you both reluctantly decided it was time to head back. Jungwon helped you up and packed away the picnic items.

Hand in hand, you walked back through the park, the cherry blossom trees now bathed in the soft light of the moon.

When you reached your house, Jungwon walked you to your door.

He paused for a moment, looking into your eyes. "Thank you for tonight," he said sincerely. "It was perfect."

"Thank you, Jungwon," you replied. "I had an amazing time."

He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. "Goodnight," he whispered.

"Goodnight," you echoed, watching as he walked away, a smile on your lips.

As you closed the door behind you, you couldn't help but feel that same feeling of warmth across your chest.

With Jungwon by your side, you knew that many more romantic evenings awaited.

[espinosaurusrexex]

Acid Fog

Wolds Collide Collection

BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader apocalypse au

summary: You take the chance to bond with a new friend when the acid fog rolls in, inevitably trapping you with Bucky for several hours. Bucky has to learn the hard way, that he won't get rid of you that easily.

a/n: I'm not dead. I just have so much to do. But you best believe, once I finally finished my papers, I will work on all the stories that are already outlined in my drafts 💚 please bear with me until then...

not prooread - will do so soon

word count: 2.6k

warnings: grumpy/sunshine, mentions of death, dystopia, deadly fog, reader is lonely, Bucky is lonely - they're gonna be lonely together, worried CatDad!Bucky, strangers to friends (for now)

collection playlist | main masterlist | collection masterlist

May 13th 2039

Hey, Book.

I’ve decided that Bucky needs a friend, so I’m going to visit him today.

Finding the handsome not-so-anymore stranger was a challenge. But you loved challenges. It mixed up the day, made things less boring, and was a nice way to spend your time.

You had planned things perfectly. You had enough time until the next acid fog would roll through, grabbed one of the canned soups that were rarely found anymore - but you’d gladly sacrifice them for a new friend, and you had a backpack ready with some essentials in case you wouldn’t make it home in time. 

You first headed in the direction Bucky took off to the other day after falling into your trap. There wasn’t much to “detour around” where you lived and chances of him being fairly close - considering being too far from shelter was a certain death sentence - gave you confidence with that approach. 

You walked for about two hours until the tree line faded into blotchy scatters of green. There was a house - or rather ruins of one - sitting by the edge of the forest. You frowned. Bucky wasn’t stupid. At least he didn’t seem that way. He would never hide above ground. Every decent survivor that had lived up to this point knew ‘low was the go’. The chances of being killed were cut to 20% when you lived secluded and underground - the beach was good too apparently, but you were too far to see for yourself. 

Your eyes swayed to the ground. You had a feeling Bucky was here, you just needed to find out where exactly. So you approached the ruins and stepped through what was left of the doorway. Dust and dirt covered the surfaces, ripped cushioned sofas, and scratched hardwood floors. There wasn’t much left to use here. The place was looted and brittle with holes in the ceilings and missing steps. You wondered how you ever recognized it as a house in the first place - because, really, this was anything but. The bones barely held up the remains and made it seem like an oversized version of a carport. 

It wasn’t long until you had scouted the place and reached the other end of it. Now you were standing on the porch and looking out onto a wild yard that reached into the forest again. You walked down and towards it, searching the area and still feeling as though Bucky was close. He couldn’t have lived any further - it would have been crazy. 

The leaves rustled beneath your feet as you skipped vines and roots peaking from beneath. Your eyes swept the area until they landed on an odd-looking lot of ground. As if the branches were forcefully pulled to cover up a buried something, the vines stretched over a green-grayish ledge. 

Immediately you headed for it. This has got to be it, you thought until you reached an opening into the ground that revealed a heavy-looking bunker door. 

Heck yeah. You knew he wasn’t that stupid - even though he did fall into your trap...

As soon as you opened it and entered, it felt as though you had stepped several decades back. The whole interior seemed to be dipped in sepia. Old furniture crammed into odd places and neatly kept surfaces without dust made it look like an old photograph. 

You walked further, let your hand wander over the spines of the books aligned atop a lonely shelf on the wall. They were Cyril, you guessed, as you watched the golden letters shine when you passed them. Beneath the books and next to a booger green armchair was a record player, aligned with old records of people with excessively gelled hairstyles and tailored suits - ancient. 

But Bucky was nowhere to be found. 

A heavy sigh escaped you as your backpack landed on the ground and you went about scouting the bunker some more. The space wasn’t too big, and Bucky seemed to have accumulated a bunch of treasures there for some time now, so you had plenty of things to discover. Eventually, though, you just fell back into the ugly armchair and tried to start up the record player. 

Bucky’s music wasn’t particularly your go-to, but you wouldn’t complain in a world where music was as rare as a working outlet. After a while, you could even understand why Bucky resided here. It was kind of comforting - homey. Something not many people could call their own in this world.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You shot up, knocking over a couple books and earning a dark glare from the man in the doorway - Bucky. 

You hadn’t even heard him come in. “I... I just wanted to see you,” you explained with an excited smile on your face. "I brought soup!" Your hands pointed towards your backpack.

“You- you broke in!” His boots stomped over to you just as you turned to pick up the pile of paperbacks. 

“Well, it’s not so much breaking in when we’re friends.”

“We’re not friends.” Bucky reached forward and snatched the items from your grasp. He was slightly sweaty, grime covering his forehead, and settled in the harsh frown lines you could only see because he was so close. 

“Yes, we are! You fall into my trap, you are my friend.” You ticked off the points with your fingers just as Bucky threw his hands in the air. 

“You can’t just make up these ridiculous rules.” 

“Or can I?”

“No. We can’t be friends. I don’t even know your name.”

He did have a point there. For a moment you watched as he neatly stacked the Russian books back in their place and then told him your name. 

“What?” He grumbled. 

And you just reiterated the words that you hadn’t said in forever. 

He turned back to you with a poker face. “I don’t like it,” Bucky said so monotonely, it almost seemed like he wanted to tease you. 

“Excuse me?” You weren’t offended, it was hard to make friends nowadays - there was nothing unusual about a person being hesitant at first. 

“It doesn’t fit you. You should be called trouble.“ He still had that dead look on his face and you were starting to think he just didn't know anything else. You wouldn't blame him - seriously.

“See! We are friends you know me!” You chuckled but Bucky just shook his head. 

“I don’t know you,” he whispered with slumped shoulders as he lowered his bag close to yours. Then he took off his hat and ran a hand through his shoulder-long hair. 

Man, he was kind of cute. But that was probably just the loneliness talking, so you shook out of it. 

You opened your arms and sunk back into the chair. “Well lucky for you we have a bunch of time to get to know each other now.”

And Bucky’s eyes widened. “What why?”

“The acid fog is rolling in early this evening.” You looked past him and out the entrance, where a deep gray sky covered most of the view. “I thought you knew... and that’s why you’re so, well, tense.”

“What, no I was just outside it’s-” The brunette turned and you could see his shoulders stiffen when he realized you were right. “Shit.” It was a low mumble that was followed by another nervous swipe through his hair. 

For a man who seemed to be cool, calm, and collected so far, his feet were doing an awful lot of pacing right now. 

“Are you okay?” You were careful to ask. Something was wrong and you didn’t want to risk him exploding. You didn’t know how he would react and a small sadness washed over your chest when you realized that maybe you weren’t as good of friends as you wanted to be. 

“Shut up.” Yup, definitely not the talking type then. 

“Can I help you or is ther-“ You were interrupted by a soft meow sounding over the rumbling of the clouds. 

“Fuck, finally.” Bucky exhaled and knelt down, just to reveal a white fluffy cat tangling in his touch. 

“Uh...There's a cat in your bunker,” you pointed out and Bucky picked his stiffness back up ever so slightly. 

“Her name is Alpine. Touch her and you’re dead.” 

So this was what had this big, broody man’s panties in a twist. He was worried for his pet. That was super adorable, you had to admit. And it charmed you just that much more when you saw the way he cuddled her into his chest before setting her back on the ground. 

“I- Oh.”

As soon as he’d said it, Alpine had sauntered her way to you and rubbed her fluffy white face on your shin. You were just frozen in place - unsure what to do. You wanted to pet her so badly, but who knew what Bucky would do if you so much as moved now. 

“The cat has chosen. Don’t blame me.” You threw your hands in the air when Alpine started to purr and jumped only our lab. Now that she was so close to your face, you noticed that one of her eyes was missing, a darker patch of fur replacing the spot where it should have been, but it just made her that much more charming. 

Bucky glared at you for a good second and then moved to close the bunker in order to keep the deadly air out. And you took the opportunity to finally pet his cat. 

It had only been 20 minutes and Bucky was already regretting his decision not to send you out into the fog. 

First, you had broken into his home. Then you had declared you as friends, to which - for the record - he never agreed to. And then you had stolen Alpine’s attention. That was just the cherry on top of your pile of audacity. 

And though he had been told that he wasn’t a pleasant contemporary, he wouldn’t send people straight to their deaths like that. He was a grump, but he wasn’t cruel. So he settled on quietly sitting in a corner and hoping that you’d eventually grow tired of snooping through his belongings. 

But he still held a grudge. Because he hadn’t planned to spend so much time with anyone, really - except for Alpine, of course - and now he was stuck with you for at least three hours. You had basically forced yourself into his life with that agitating sunshine demeanor of yours and the annoying optimism in every single thing you did. 

You had to be broken, somehow. Nobody could be this happy at the end of the world. Because that’s what this was. The end. The time you had to wait out until you escaped the hell this world had become just to spend an eternity in the actual one. 

Yeah, Bucky believed in heaven and hell. Somebody had to be responsible for idiots like Hydra and he was sure there was an extra special lava pit reserved just for the god complex fogged imbeciles that were responsible for it all going to shit once and for all. 

Bucky huffed at your occasional ‘woahs’ and ‘oohs’ and shrugged off his jacket while you went through more of his things. There was nothing he could do anyway. Tying you up and gagging you until it was over would be incredibly awkward for both of you. So, as long as you didn’t break anything or talk to him, he deemed you safe. 

“Woahhh, that is so cool! Where’d you get that?” You suddenly said, and when he turned, Bucky saw you pointing at his metal arm. 

He looked down, turned it in the yellow gleam of the bunker lamp, and then focused on your face again. People had seen a lot these days, though none of them ever asked him about it. They either stayed silent or avoided him altogether - the latter of which he preferred. He didn't like talking about it. It wasn’t anything he was proud of for that matter.

“Nonya,” he grumbled and sat back in the chair he chose to reside in for the rest of the day. 

“What’s Nonya?” Your head cocked to the side and Bucky couldn’t help but crack a small smirk.

“Non ya business.”

And finally, you shut up. He exhaled, closed his eyes, and smiled complacently. However the silence didn’t last long. 

“Okay that was a good one but really, where did you get that arm - it’s amazing.”

“It’s not amazing and I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Now do me a favor and shut up before I set you outside”

“You wouldn’t dare. After all, I was the one that helped you out of that trap.”

Buck had already established that he wouldn’t. But the thought seemed ever so intriguing right this second. 

“That you built,” he deadpanned. “I’m done talking to you. Just be quiet for the next hour, so we both have a chance at surviving this thing.” Before I murder you or myself.  That last part only echoed in his mind before he grabbed a book and hoped deeply that you’d comply. 

You huffed and slumped in the chair next to him. Bucky only dared to glance at you once. Then he began reading, enjoying the silence you finally granted him. 

You watched Bucky read his book. Fascinated by the shapes on the page that didn't look like letters to you, you leaned over to him. Bucky was skimming the pages swiftly, turning pages before you could even look at all the lines and then starting all over again. 

When you leaned in a little too closely, he scooted back and hid the page from you with a glare. So, you stood up and sauntered over to the shelf again, tracing the printed covers with your finger. 

“They’re all in Russian,” you pointed out after you had grazed the last spine. Most of the books were bound in brown, grey, or red. 

“So?” He just shrugged, not even bothering to look at you.

“Do you know Russian?”

“The guy that lived here first was Russian.” He shut the book finally, tracing the cover with his own fingers. “So, I taught myself.”

“You know, I can get you some normal books. I can’t imagine there’s anything interesting in there.” You stared at the Russian flag on most of the books. They looked like government-issued prints. Nothing like a fun novel or romance book.

“I don’t mind them, really...” Bucky set the book down and stood next to you. Then he scratched his stubble with his flesh hand. “Though, they all have a communistic touch.”

“See!” You pointed at him. “What do you like to read? I’ve got it all. Romance, fantasy, sci-fi.”

“No sci-fi please.” Bucky rolled his eyes and you could only imagine why. You’d had enough of it in the real world, so the sci-fi book you had once acquired during one of your town walks hat sat in the corner of your little home untouched.

“So, you’re not opposed to romance?” Your eyebrows raised suggestively only for Bucky to glare at you again.

Bucky huffed and sat back down. “Forget it. I'll read my Russian books.”

You chuckled and threw your hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. Fantasy it is.” And then you settled in next to him staring at the ceiling with a small smile and a giddy feeling in your chest. 

“See..,” you whispered, “I knew we would get along eventually.”

**Bonus

“Buckstar… Starbucks… Buck-”

“What are you doing?”

“I think it's only fair that if you give me a nickname, I can have one for you, too. How does Bucky-Buck sound?”

“No”

“Buckaroo.”

“Do I need to throw you out? Cause I will.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“I thought I already had.”

"Good point… get out.”

“I can’t, the Fogg’s about to come!”

“Well, then I suggest you hurry your ass up, so it can’t kill you before I do.”

„I know you might not try to be, but you are very funny.“

*huffs in frustration*

Hey, Book,

Bucky's not that lonely anymore.

more…

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[theoddest1]

Hazbin Hotel episode 5 is a rushed mess.

May just make this a continual thing where I review the episodes from here on out.

-Right off the bat, the pacing for this episode is probably the worst out of all other episodes so far. Things just begin abruptly (Lucifer's first song with Al for instance), no build up, 5 months have passed in only 5 episodes of barely any progress or focus on Charlie as a character, a random character that didn't need to be introduced but was anyway ruined the flow further, and this stupid ass rivalry all on the basis of who's the "better dad" is legit the most random conflict of any conflict so far. That will get a point all on its own along with some of the other things mentioned. The pacing left no real breathing room aside from 2 moments: Al's rise to power and Husk n Al's convo. I wanna say the second song would be a 3rd but it just resolves an issue that was present for seemingly years and pulled a "Stolas" with having a song or sob story as an excuse for the lack of effort to reach out and be a better dad. Lazy writing and pacing overall.

-5 months....5 months have passed with barely anything revolving around helping sinners or trust built around the main cast SHOWN ON SCREEN. We are told important information opposed to witnessing the progress itself. This is not only lazy but extremely jarring cause it feels as though episodes were skipped and bonds feel unearned. They get easily resolved in what feels like seconds, and we're just supposed to....deal with it. Angel and Husk barely interact throughout this episode, which, after the crazy ride they had, with the knowledge of a SEVERAL MONTHS passing by as well, you'd think Angel would be shown to be more chatty with him....which he doesn't. Nothing crazy, just small bits of them interacting and enjoying each other's company. Nah. We get that next episode, and even THAT'S lacking. I'll tackle that in a separate post. But yeah, 5 months, and we have yet to see the other guests' views and how it has changed for the better or the process of them realizing WHY they would go for redemption. How that has affected them. Nothing of note has come about from any of these. No other sinners have joined. No other demons seem interested in Charlie's Hotel. Nothing. We are told things have been done, yet it feels like we are still at the starting line, or well, a foot away from it and miles away from the finish.

- Lucifer is a joke. I don't mind me a goofy threat, it adds a charm to them but also shows that they take so little seriously due to their immense power....not Lucifer. No, that guy just....is a joke. Dude is in his mansion making fucking toy ducks for some reason and just has depression (show said it outright, not even depression is spared from "tell don't show")

He does literally nothing, doesn't seem to WANT to do anything, and no one respects the guy. Nearly all in the Hotel lack fear, intimidation, or admiration for the guy (Pentious is the only one who seems to exhibit admiration of some kind). The closest we got is being uncomfortable. That's it. Then there's his scuffle with Alastor. Tell me why he feels the need to argue with this sucka again? Cause last I checked, Alastor is a mere overlord, and Lucifer is The Devil. Wtf is this randomass rivalry that just...S T A R T S? Why does Lucifer get intimidated or moved by Al? It makes no sense. Lucifer has been alive far longer than humanity itself, but nah this random fuck who looks like he robbed a blood bank got him weeping insecurities? I'm supposed to take this sad excuse of a character seriously? How many of these carbon copy characters will Viv make until I finally end my suffering???

-Wtf is Alastor's deal? Why is he so pressed and annoyed? One moment he is as cool and collected as a cucumber and showing only SLIGHT annoyance (Vox and His song), then he goes to meetings and speaks with people far older, far more experienced, and/or far stronger than he show no interest and he gets pissy? How insecure is he that people not caring where he's gone or thinking his ideas are wack is what leads to his eye twitching and him throwing a random ass cuss. Seriously, THAT'S what got him to swear? That his idea for the hotel's name is stupid? BFFR! You can not be serious right now, THAT'S what gets him going? You'd think with how witty and chill he was in the pilot, he would find a quick and a effective smart-ass comeback, not essentially bitch at The Devil. This makes Alastor look like a thin-skinned wannabe, too cause these minor ass comebacks are why he has lost his edge along with some randomass song number?? And at the end of the day, Al just couldn't be damned anymore to even care by the end of the episode, he doesn't speak with Lucifer or give any stank looks, doesn't speak with Charlie, does NOTHING pertaining to the issues prior, nah, he just stands there and watches after telling Mimzy to go away. Some say he did this to simply piss Lucifer off, but that doesn't make sense (not saying it ain't true, just saying if it is, it's nonsensical). First off, if that were the case, why was he annoyed even BEFORE seeing the guy?

If he only wanted to get a rise, why is HE getting angry? Trolls usually don't care enough to be this pissed. Second, wtf would he even gain from doing this? What to help push Lucifer to be a better father to Charlie, request by Lilith to Al so that Lucifer can get his act together?? If so, that's the LAZIEST shit I have ever heard. Lucifer is such a joke, he needed a SINNER to get him back on track....

Regardless, this whole father shit by Al comes out of nowhere and ruins the goddamn flow of the episode. Prior to it all, Al has shown NO interest in anyone and has done jack shit. Wtf does he even do? He's done ONE thing so far and that was help for the commercial. Alastor has shown to be completely useless as of now.

-Charlie, why is she treated as tho she isn't a grown ass woman? She's babied to hell and back and despite being the daughter of Lucifer, hasn't shown any of her abilities to help the hotel. So Lucifer can summon shit but not her? Is she that useless? Also, gotta love how she never asks her dad about the Valentino situation to help Angel out. Man...what a great ass friend. She also doesn't find it weird that Al is just suddenly...babying her? She has zero awareness of everything, I guess, which is getting annoying now. You're over 200 years of age (went to high school in the 1800s according to what her comic was about, but guess that's retconned based on what happens in the following episode).

So she doesn't use her abilities to tidy up the place, she doesn't act her damn age, she doesn't do anything to help her sexually assaulted friend. What a damn joke, just like her dad.

-Mimzy shouldn't have been in an episode about Lucifer. Plain and simple. Her character should have been introduced in one of the earlier episodes. Not during fucking this. And we got a repeat of the pilot with Alastor's backstory retold. So they're down to retell his rise to power but not to make at least a proper recap of the events that happened prior? Key word....PROPER.

-Husk caring about Mimzy bringing trouble is actually fucking stupid. Because of the lack of proper build up to him now finding more reason to like the Hotel, it feels forced that he would be worried about what danger Mimzy brought. And on top of that, yeah...ALASTOR IS RIGHT THERE. You know who else is there? LUCIFER. I get it, Lucifer stood by and watched as the Hotel was being swatted, but he also sang a song about providing what Charlie asked for, meaning if she had asked her dad, he woukd be down to help, so WHY TF IS HE WORRIED???? Also , is Charlie just INCAPABLE of fighting for herself?? "She doesn'twanna hurt sinners-" so she had no defensive abilities??? What???? Also, that's a damn lie, she fought Katie Killjoy on live Tv. Are no other damn people capable of protecting the Hotel??? Why did Al need to step in for that? They were just LOAN SHARKS.

Anyway, the scene where Husk is probing Alastor about Mimzy and treating him as a pet is decently paced and the tone was pretty neat, sucks that this feels like their way of showing that Husk is also under a leash like Angel rather than him being treated as a joke, which btw...horrid way to compare the two. Wanna know why? One is subjected to an onslaught of sexual assault whether he was pushing Val's buttons or not, and forced to be assaulted by various men around him, passed around like a thing. The other is Husk, who legit disrespected Alastor and had to push at him to get such humiliation and terror, and guess what....Al still ended up pushing Mimzy away after she did end up bringing trouble, so he did essentially listen to Husk in his own distant way. This is the ONLY TIME we see Al be downright mean to Husk and probably the only time. Angel has been subjected to nothing but horrid assault after assault no matter the situation. So I better not see anyone say, "SEE LOOK, THEY'RE BOTH ABUSED" stfu. Nothing about their situations are even remotely similar. Just cause the chains are the same doesn't mean the users are. EDIT: Ima say this before people act like I excuse this. No, I am not excusing Alastor's actions. I am pointing out what happened on screen. Husk mocked Alastor, Alastor retaliated out of anger(much like how Angel retaliated at Husk in ep 4 after Husk kept arguing and mocking him) by pulling out the chains to shut him up. He didn't even hit Husk. Again, I'm not excusing it, just pointing out how vastly different Husk and Angel's situations are and how one overlord reacts compared to the other....who is a straight-up rapist.

-Both the songs are mid/ok but pulled down by the awful storytelling....shame. I at first was not fond of Lucifer's voice.....it's ok now, I guess. Idk. I'm still not really feeling it, though.

Episode sucked ass

Pacing was all over the place

ALASTOR AND LUCIFER ARE PISS BABIES

[arxxq]

→ PROLOGUE?! : A FINE LINE...

Mornings were always a blur for Y/N, her alarm blared through the quiet dorm room. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the time—7:45 a.m.

“Crap. I’m late again.”

She stumbled out of bed, hair a mess and eyes half-open as she scrambled to get dressed. A yawn escaped her as she reached for her glasses, but she paused, stared at them for a second, and tossed them back onto her nightstand. She could manage without them. Maybe.

“Y/N, if you miss homeroom one more time, the teacher’s definitely going to notice,” Izumi called out, her voice muffled from behind a book.

“Not like she can really punish her,” Haruka chimed in, sitting cross-legged on her bed. “She’s practically untouchable with her grades. They need her to make the school look good"

"Yeah, well, straight A’s won’t stop me from getting detention if I miss homeroom again.” Y/n scrambled across the room as she fixed her hair and shoved toast into her mouth.

"Still refusing to wear those?” Izumi asked from the other side of the room, raising an eyebrow.

“They make me look like a damn nerd,” Y/N muttered after finishing the toast in her mouth.

Haruka rolled her eyes. “You’re already a nerd, glasses or not. What’s the point?”

“I’m an eccentric nerd,” Y/N corrected with a grin, grabbing her school bag. “There’s a difference.”

Izumi shook her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Eccentric? Sure. Let’s just hope your eccentricity can get you through the day without any more debates.”

“No promises,” Y/N laughed. “You know Y/n you're really burning the candle at both ends,” Izumi said, peeking over her book. “You’ve got way too much on your plate.”

“I know, I know. I’m just trying to survive the daily chaos.” Y/N pulled on her blazer and threw her bag over her shoulder. “It’s another day of random debates with Reo and listening to Nagi half-asleep in class.”

“You’re going to wear yourself out even more,” Haruka warned, “and we all know what happens when you get burnt out.”

Y/N flashed a tired smile. “Already been there.” With that, she rushed out of the room, sprinting through the hallways of the school. The familiar buzz of students surrounded her, and she ducked and weaved through the crowd, avoiding collisions.

The school halls were alive with the usual morning chaos. Y/N weaved through the crowd, narrowly avoiding a collision with some first-year students. She managed to spot Nanase and Hiori ahead, both looking unusually calm amid the bustle.

“You’re cutting it close again,” Nanase said, a teasing glint in his eye.

Y/N shot him a wink. “What can I say? I like to live dangerously.”

Hiori adjusted his backpack and gave her a look. “Debating with Reo again today?”

“Obviously,” Y/N replied. “I’m this close to convincing him that cereal is definitely not a soup and that pineapple should not be on pizzas.”

Nanase burst into laughter. “You’re relentless.”

“Someone has to keep him humble,” Y/N joked as they made their way into the classroom. “You know Reo won’t stop until everyone agrees with him.” Hiori chimes in.

“And that’ll never happen as long as I’m around.” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with playful defiance. “I’m the voice of reason in this madhouse.”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

It was currently lunch, she was with her group of friends at the moment. “Debating pizza toppings again, Reo? You must be running out of things to defend,” Y/N teased, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall of the crowded cafeteria. The group around her was buzzing, the usual lunchtime banter in full swing.

Reo Mikage raised an eyebrow, pointing his fork dramatically at her. “Pineapple belongs on pizza. End of story.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Y/N shot back. “It’s a culinary crime. Sweet doesn’t belong with savory, and I’ll die on that hill.”

Isagi Yoichi, her childhood friend, smirked from across the table. “You’re always so opinionated about the weirdest things. Didn’t you argue yesterday that cereal isn’t soup because it’s served cold?”

Y/N gasped playfully. “Because it isn’t, Yoichi! You can’t just throw anything into a bowl and call it soup!”

Nagi, half-asleep beside Reo, lazily pushed his food around his plate. “You guys argue too much. It’s exhausting.”

“It’s not arguing,” Y/N corrected, her tone light and teasing. “It’s debating. There’s an art to it.”

Bachira leaned forward, eyes glinting mischievously. “OOH I KNOW I KNOW ! Let’s settle this with a penalty shootout. Winner gets to decide the ultimate fate of pizza toppings!”

Chigiri, calmly tying back his hair, shook his head. “Please don’t drag me into this nonsense. Pizza’s best with minimal toppings, and that’s the truth.”

Y/N grinned, but behind the smile, the usual exhaustion was creeping in. Everyone knew her as the lively one—the girl who had an opinion on everything, who excelled without even trying. But nobody saw the weight of it all, the burnout lurking just beneath the surface.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

After a whirlwind day of classes and endless discussions with her friends, Y/N was finally able to retreat to her dorm room. The burnout was catching up with her again—something that had been happening more and more frequently. Everyone expected her to be brilliant, to keep acing her exams, to be the person with all the answers. But no one really saw how exhausting it all was. Haruka, one of her roommates, glanced up from her bed where she was scrolling through her phone, and Izumi, the other roommate, sat at her desk typing away. She dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto her bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Long day?” Haruka asked, not looking up from her sketch.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Y/N muttered.

“Its the same old, same old," Y/N sighed, flopping onto her bed. “Reo’s still on about pineapple pizza, Nagi’s asleep half the time, and Isagi’s convinced cereal is soup. It’s like I live in a madhouse.” *she groans, bringing the pillow to her face. "And I swear, if one more person asks me for help with their homework, I’m going to scream.”

“Maybe you should start saying no,” Haruka suggested.

“I don’t know how to do that,” Y/N admitted, sighing deeply.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time, you know. It’s okay to take a break.” Haruka asks.

Y/N smiled faintly, appreciating the concern, but deep down, she knew taking a break wasn’t so simple. “Yeah, I know. It’s just hard when people look at you like you’re supposed to pull off miracles every day.”

Izumi sighed, setting her laptop aside. “Well, if anyone can do it, it’s you. But maybe next time, instead of arguing about pizza, take a nap. It might be more productive.”

Y/N chuckled softly, a bit of the pressure easing off her shoulders. “You might be right. I'll take you up on that”

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Later that night, Most of her roomates were out at the moment. Y/N sat at her desk in the dorm, staring at her laptop deeply. The national pen pal project had kicked off weeks ago, and she still hadn’t sent her first message. It was supposed to help students improve their creative writing, but for her, it felt like an extra task on an already heavy load.

Still, the thought of communicating with someone anonymous was intriguing. It could be a way to finally say things she couldn’t tell anyone else, a way to break free from the constant expectations weighing her down.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N clicked on the email icon, the blank page staring back at her. She began typing.

Dear Pen Pal,

I’ve got to admit, writing to a stranger feels... kind of refreshing. No expectations, no filters, right? I can say whatever I want without worrying about who’s judging me on the other side of the screen.

Anyway, life’s been pretty hectic lately. Everyone thinks I've got everything together because I'm good at a lot of things which not to brag or anything...okay, maybe a little—but I’ve got a ton of interests. Art, music, sports, you name it. Except for one tiny little problem... I’m completely burnt out. Ever feel like you’re good at stuff but don’t really care anymore?, but honestly, it’s exhausting trying to meet all these expectations. It’s like I’m carrying around this giant checklist of things I’m supposed to be good at, and it’s never-ending. It's like you’re just going through the motions? Do you ever feel like that?

Anyway, sorry for the existential rant. I’m not going to say too much about who I am—keeping this anonymous sounds like fun. But let’s just say I’m trying to find a way to balance everything without completely burning out. How’s life on your end?

She reread the message and felt a wave of relief wash over her. She wasn’t sure what she expected from this anonymous exchange, but at least it was a chance to let out some of the thoughts that weighed her down. With a small smile, she hit ‘send.’

On the other side of town, Rin Itoshi sat in his quiet dorm, the faint glow of his laptop illuminating the room. The national pen pal initiative wasn’t something he cared about. Soccer and Blue Lock were his priorities, and everything else was just a nuisance to him. Rin stared at the notification on his screen. He didn’t have time for this. With Blue Lock constantly on his mind and the goal of surpassing his brother looming, some random pen pal project was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

Still, the email from his assigned pen pal caught his eye at some point so reluctantly he sighed and clicked on it, expecting a bland introduction. But as he read through it, he found himself oddly engaged.

Burnout? Yeah, that was something he could relate to.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he thought about what to write. He wasn’t great with words, but maybe this was a chance to say things he couldn’t normally say.

Dear Pen Pal,

Expectations, huh? Yeah, I know that feeling. Everyone’s got their eyes on you, waiting for you to mess up, even when you’re at your best. It’s annoying. But I guess the only thing you can do is keep moving forward.

I don’t really do small talk, so don’t expect long replies from me. I’ll just say this—don’t let them get to you. They don’t know what it’s like to be under constant pressure.

I won’t say who I am either, but let’s just keep it that way. It’s easier not knowing who’s on the other side, right?

He hit ‘send’ and shut his laptop. The quiet returned to the room, but for the first time in a while, Rin felt a strange sense of calm. Whoever this person was, they were just as fed up with the weight of expectations as he was.

Maybe this pen pal thing wouldn’t be as useless as he’d thought.

→ TWEETS (ignore the time guys !)

→ Taglist: @mizzyuu @imraespace (dm, comment or reblog to be put in)

→ Reblogs and interaction are highly appreciated <3

→ Mistakes will be fix once I take the time to reread

→ ONE/BACK TO NAVIGATION/GET TO KNOW Y/N

[squad-724]

🦋🪲 More of the Fairy au! How Phee met Tech, and soon after the rest of his family. Snippet written by @clownery-and-fuckery >:] 🪲🦋

Phee blew out a relieved breath as she landed inside the building undetected. "Great work, me." She muttered to herself, before turning to the long hallway, adjusting the mask that hid the lower half of her face. "Now, where's this score of yours, Hemlock?"

She snuck down the hall, peeking into the rooms. Most rooms were bare- some lone displays of insects scattered across tables, or hung to the wall. Some were half finished, some hadn't started yet. Phee shuddered, and kept moving. She hated those display cases.

A soft sound caught her attention. It sounded almost sad, and Phee paused, turning towards where she heard the noise from.

It didn't sound all that dangerous, and it wasn't like she was going to find this score on her own, given how fruitless her search had been until now. A detour to investigate the sound seemed harmless.

She slowly inched down a small staircase, finding a lone door. It was bolted shut, but Phee had no trouble picking the lock.

She slowly opened the door, wincing at the creak, but freezing at the stifled gasp. Crap, someone actually was inside- she quickly went to shut the door, but an oddly squeaked voice caught her by surprise.

It didn't sound young, but it- Phee frowned, and peeked inside. Better get this interaction done and over with, it wasn't like there was a place to hide out in the hall.

"Hello?" Phee called quietly. "Is someone in here?"

She froze at the door. In front of her was a long table, littered with tools and sharp scalpels. Pinned on a display case, was a bug? Poor thing must be next in line. Phee frowned, looking closer.

There was a soft glow from the bug, but the way it squirmed confused her. It didn't wriggle like a normal bug, and the way it was squeaking... if Phee listened close enough, it sounded nearly human.

"No way." Phee gasped, feeling childish for even thinking it. "You're a- fairy?"

Well, he definitely looked like one. From the stories Phee had heard, at least. She crept closer, watching him carefully. She was almost startled by his stifled sniff before he began squirming in earnest, trying to wriggle away from her before he winced in pain.

Right- the wire that pinned him were too tight, they were wrapped around his wrists, legs and throat- along with a jagged pair of pins delicately stuck through his wings, holding him down by the stomach. Every movement must hurt him.

"Oh, you poor thing-" Phee whispered, approaching faster. "–here, let me—"

The fairy stared up at her, eyes wide and terrified as he tried to squirm away from her touch. "I'm not gonna hurt you," She assured. "I'm not Hemlock. I'm actually looking to steal from him. You haven't seen any cool artefacts, have you little guy?"

The fairy stilled, eyeing her only for a moment before taking a breath. "There's a cool, uhm- in the room beside us." He told her, voice small. "I can show you, if- can you let me out please?"

Phee startled hard. "Woah," She breathed. "You can talk."

The fairy frowned. "So can you?" He pointed out, almost timidly as he eyed her carefully. He didn't seem to trust her.

Phee softened. She could understand that, if Hemlock was the human he was stuck with. "Of course," She nodded, hands gentle as she could manage as she pulled the pins from his wings. He winced, biting hard on his lip as she finally freed them.

"Thank you," He mumbled, breathless, seeming to slump into the case he was trapped against. He sounded like he was in pain, and Phee felt her heart clench.

"Come on, little guy." She decided. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

His eyes snapped open, and he stared up at her. "Really?" He squeaked. "You- you mean it?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "You don't deserve to be stuck here. Let me just–"

She reached forward, carefully untangling the fairy from the wire that held him so tight. It was cutting into his skin, leaving angry red marks along his limbs. She sighed sadly as he was finally freed.

He immediately slumped further, falling into the palms of her hands. She cupped him gently, raising him away from the horrible table.

"Poor thing," She murmured. "C'mon, let's get you out of here–"

[kingofthering]

obsessed with the bodyswap you just wrote!! sooooo insane making it would LOVE to know where you think it goes from there… are the wounds healed with the tenth under vale’s name… or is it WORSE because vale knows that He was not actually the one to win it… do they fuck nasty about it (kidding. mostly)

Also going to include @moonshynecybin's tags here because they made me pause, especially the first one. Fic in question here for additional context.

So, I thought about this a lot because I feel like this touches the Rosquez thesis a lot, and the many ways you can interpret it.

The damage to their relationship was done before they even raced in Sepang (let alone before Jorge won the championship). They were doing better before it all crumbled down in 2018. And then they once again appeared friendly before divorcing again in Misano in 2019.

All that to say that if we're being real, they were probably doomed in the long run, no matter the outcome of 2015.

In this little universe, though, I do believe that end result of the championship and Marc fighting for him can alter the perception and the understanding Valentino has of Marc, which is key to a better development of their relationship, I think.

(That and better communication but let's not ask too much of them. Anyway.)

From Marc's side, I believe that things are pretty straight forward. Contrary to what Valentino wanted to believe, Marc genuinely didn't have any reason to make Jorge win (they didn't even start looking friendly until 2019, Valentino please, anyway I diverge) and while the press conference definitely annoyed him and made him want to have Valentino pay in some way (cue him being a little more of a nuisance than usual irl), I don't think that's his final mindset in the body swap universe (which is why I wrote things the way I did with him doing his best and getting Vale the tenth, duh).

I've always tended to consider Marc has a person who doesn't hold a grudge (we have one point in common, yeah!) and to me it's always aligned with canon events and the way he's always talked about separating the on-track events from the off-track events. Of course there was some ignoring going on in the beginning of 2016 but then he was the one reaching out to him.

He's always cared about Valentino a lot and maybe he's turned a blind eye on things being a little weird in the months leading to Sepang while being just a little aware of them (like, they were still laughing together and holding hands two race weekends before Sepang, we've all seen the confused/lost expression on his face post press con, home boy did not see that one coming) but when he wakes up in Valentino's body that Sunday in Valencia? Yeah, deep down he still wants the best for Valentino. So he wins him the tenth.

On Valentino's side, though? Oh boy. He legitimately cannot understand Marc's brain process through this and it fucks him up a lot (story of his life, truly). And it's silly but his mind goes both "oh maybe he's not that evil after all" and "hm, he must have done that with an ulterior motive" (hashtag self sabotage). I don't think he believes in that second one much but it's hard to let go of it because it's also the train of thought that justifies his actions and words of the past weeks, so.

Anyway. Logistics now, because you all know I'm a very (too) practical person.

Valentino needs to be there for the celebrations of his title (watching Marc having to do the little gimmick they had prepared for the 10th after he crossed the finish line was painful enough) (I'm going to assume Marc got briefed / reminded about it by Uccio before the race, just in case) (I'm not gonna imagine what they could have prepared but it was definitely the most awkward moment of Marc's life).

If we keep going in the last scene of the first post, we can go like :

"You need to apologize for me, so we can be seen together without raising a billion questions."

"What?"

"We don't even need to organize anything because you'll have to talk to the press tomorrow after testing anyway. You can say that I got a little carried away because I'd been waiting on that title for a long time and I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. We talked and it's all fine now."

Marc's face is unreadable and it's disconcerting. Valentino has always been told that he wears all of his feelings on his sleeve and he very rarely sees himself on camera but being met with his face so guarded? It throws him off a lot.

When the silence stretches, Marc has a short laugh. "Oh you're serious? You want me to go out there and actually lie for you? Just so you can be there when all of Italy is at your feet again?"

On a corner of his mind, Valentino has to wonder if being in his body is giving Marc more confidence than usual because even Valentino can recognize that this is the most confrontational Marc has ever been with him. [which, this is just Marc fighting for himself because he's exhausted and he's in the wrong body —a stressful experience already— and he's just done the right thing and Valentino still isn't happy with him, he needs a break]

Marc's not looking at him. He's barely been doing so since they woke up that morning.

Valentino doesn't call him out on it.

"I think this would be good for you too. If you think about it."

And then Marc looks at him, murderous enough that Valentino feels uneasy and wraps his arms around himself. [How nice to finally worry about the influence of his words on the public's opinion of Marc, right?]

"No wonder you want me to do the apologizing for you considering how much you suck at it," Marc huffs. Valentino thinks he might see some tension releasing from his shoulders. [Because Marc, bless his poor 22 years-old soul, can recognize that this is actually good for him. Doesn't mean he can't give Valentino a hard time about it.] "You're sure you don't want to use my voice to make me apologize for things I didn't do? I'm sorry that my racing had an impact on the championship, I'm glad all ended as it should have."

Valentino can recognize the sarcasm dripping in Marc's voice. He still tells him to shut up but it doesn't sound mean. Not to his ears. Not to Marc's considering the half smile that pulls on his face for maybe one second.

The next day, testing happens (going relatively well considering the situation) and Marc apologizes on Valentino's behalf and he squeezes Valentino's shoulder when he passes by Valentino (while he's talking to the press) and both his words and the photo make rounds on Twitter and all over the Internet.

Then, Marc goes to Tavullia with Valentino. I don't care if that's too big and going to raise too many questions, it's happening.

Don't ask me more about that day but yes, of course they end up having sex about it. It's always sex fixing those situations, anyway. I'm not sure I can say much more about it because body swap sex fucks with my mind a little but yes to all the headcanons.

I do know that 22 years-old Marc exuding Valentino's confidence and boldness sure is a sight for sore eyes.

Okay and I just reread this original ask. I think that Valentino will forever feel a little weird about it but I don't think there is resentment, not really. Can he ever truly deconstruct the delusional thoughts he built in his head (with Uccio's help) in the second half of 2015? I don't know.

But I think he has enough clarity to know he wouldn't have achieved what needed to be achieved in Valencia without Marc's help, so there is that.

[joelsgoldrush]

hi everybody. i hope you’re doing fine 😊 i wanted to share with you the first part/prologue of “epiphany” (the soulmates au i mentioned some days ago)

i’m afraid it’ll be as long (or perhaps longer) than “never is a promise” 😭 there’s just a lot to explain okay don’t look at me like that

honestly, i have no idea when it’ll be posted. perhaps next week? who knows. i wish i did because i’ve been enjoying writing this thing these past few days. but knowing that i’ve got both uni and work stuff to take care of, i don’t want to tell you an estimated date without being a 100% sure

i hope you can read it when it’s out 💗 already looking forward to wip wednesday to show you more. good night and wishing you all the best !!!

(in case you don’t wanna read it, just letting you know it’s under the cut. no “spoilers” or anything - it just serves the purpose of setting the tone of the story)

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 both what humans 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 passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you breathe and live 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.

[fluentmoviequoter]

A day of with Deacon please

As fluffy as possible

MY FIRST DEACON REQUEST!!! I hope this is along the lines of what you wanted! You didn't specify, so I went with wife!reader, hope that's okay (and we are once again pretending Annie never existed). Thank you for the request and please let me know what you think! :)

Warnings: so much fluff, some kissing and cuddling, teasing, I mention his eyes a lot bc they're so pretty. I think that's it.

Word Count: 2.1k+ words

(This isn't a Christmas-specific fic, I just liked this gif and it fits the story.)

David 'Deacon' Kay rarely gets a day off, let alone one that aligns with a day when you have nothing planned. Last night, he came home and pulled you into his arms, content to stay that way until he had to return to work. You laughed, however, and pointed out that he’d need to eat at some point. 

Now, as his body clock attempts to wake him up far earlier than he’d like on his day off, he reaches across the bed for you. Your hand slips into his and leads him back to sleep. Once you’re sure he’s asleep again, you pull your hand away and sneak out of the bedroom. Deacon deserves breakfast in bed, but you don’t know how much time you have until he wakes up. When you finish cooking and set the plate and a cup of coffee on Deacon’s nightstand, you crawl back into bed and curl into his side, quickly joining him in slumber.

Deacon wakes up again a few minutes later, smiling when he feels you against his side. He looks down and sees your head on his shoulder, your arm across his waist, and your legs tangled with his. Brushing a hand over your hair, the smell of food distracts him as he looks over, his smile growing when he sees what you did for him. Moving so he doesn’t disturb you, he pulls the tray toward him, keeping a hand on your back.

“G’morning,” you mumble against his side, straightening your legs as you pull yourself closer to him.

Deacon tilts his head down, pressing a kiss against your temple. “Thank you,” he whispers against your skin.

You roll back slightly and sit beside him, smiling as you run your fingers through his hair, ruffled from a good night of sleep. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Deacon replies, kissing your forehead again before you insist he eat.

“It’ll get cold,” you point out when his hands stray to your waist.

“We can heat it up,” he argues, smiling against your cheek.

“That would require getting out of bed.”

Deacon sighs, feigning exasperation as he moves the tray to his lap and begins eating. He laughs when you steal a piece of your favorite from his plate, and the sound makes you fall even more in love with him, if that’s possible.

✯✯✯✯✯

As Deacon finishes eating, you leave his side and walk to the closet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Deacon quips behind you.

“To get ready,” you reply, stifling a laugh.

“No ‘Deacon’s Day in Bed’?”

You look at him over your shoulder, smiling as he laughs at his joke.

“Fine,” he grumbles, stretching as he stands.

His hands grip your waist as he lays his chin on your shoulder.

“When’s the last time we had a day off together?” he asks.

“How old are you?” you joke. “A long time.”

“Then we should make the most of it.”

“What do you call this?”

“Affection,” he answers, pressing kisses against your neck.

You turn toward him, pressing a hand against his chest as he tries to kiss you.

“Morning breath,” you argue.

“Don’t care.”

“I do.”

Deacon shakes his head and turns you by your hips, directing you to the bathroom. He points at your toothbrush as he retrieves his own.

“You get bossy on your day off. Are you like this at work?”

“I’m worse.”

You laugh as his hand lands on your lower back, smiling at you in the mirror as you both get ready. His hand stays on you as you wash your face and finish your routine. 

“Want to go for a walk? It’s beautiful out there,” Deacon asks, looking out the window as you follow him into the bedroom.

“Got the zoomies already?” you ask playfully, returning to the closet for shoes.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowed as he walks toward you.

“You’re used to working all day, it’s understandable to have zoomies,” you explain seriously.

“Aren’t 'zoomies' what you say about Street and Luca’s dog? You’re comparing me to a dog?”

“You have puppy eyes,” you say, shrugging as you wrap your arms around his waist. “And you did ask to go for a walk.”

“You’re lucky,” he mutters.

“How?”

“You know,” he answers, kissing you again.

The walk is short but enjoyable; Deacon’s hand is in yours as you go around the neighborhood. When you get home, Deacon kneels to take your shoes off, princess treatment carried into marriage.

“Do you want to watch that movie you’ve been talking about?” he asks as he stands.

You’ve been waiting to watch a new movie with him, but he’s been busy with work. When he offers, you shake your head excitedly and land several kisses across his face. He smiles under your kisses before leading you to the kitchen. He helps you prepare popcorn and your favorite movie snacks, arranging them on the coffee table as you queue the movie. Deacon sits beside you, laying an arm across your shoulders as you press play.

The first scene is nearly over when you feel Deacon rubbing your hair between his fingers. You look over at him, and he smiles innocently. Turning against him, his hand falls to your waist and begins rubbing up and down, over your ribs, and back down to your hip. Before you can catch onto the plot, Deacon distracts you completely by kissing up your neck and along your jaw. He leans back when you move, and you turn so you’re lying on his chest. With easy access, you begin painting his face with kisses as his hands hold your hips firmly. He tries to catch your lips, but you can’t risk growing distracted, so you pull backward.

An explosion sounds through the television speakers, and when you turn your head to the movie, Deacon takes the opportunity to flip you so you’re against the couch, and he’s hovering above you.

“My turn,” he claims, bending down as he begins kissing you in neat rows, up and down your face, over your cheekbones, and on your nose.

His eyes stay on yours, and you try to shy away from his affection, turning toward a cushion. He makes a ‘tsk’ noise under his breath as he turns your chin back toward him. He smiles, his puppy eyes as big and beautiful as ever, as he whispers, “I love you so much.”

“I love you more.”

Deacon shakes his head and moves you once more, letting you lay on his chest as you finish the movie; you trace shapes on his chest and down his arm as his hands explore your hair and back. The credits begin rolling, and you move your chin against the center of his chest, glad to feel the steady beat of his heart against your skin.

“What do you want to do with the rest of your day off?” you ask.

“I don’t care, as long as it’s with you,” he replies.

“Does that happen to involve lunch?” You bat your eyelashes as you ask, smiling when he laughs.

“I’m sure we can figure something out.”

He holds you against his chest as he sits up and reaches for his phone, ordering your favorite before returning his full attention to you. You take his hand, holding it in your lap as you trace his callouses.

“How was work this week?” you ask, looking at his hands.

Deacon's hands have always signified something to you, because the same hands that fight criminals and protect you day after day hold you gently and ensure you know how loved you truly are.

“It was good,” he answers quickly. Then he turns the conversation to you, asking what you’ve been up to.

“How’d you like that movie?” he teases.

“Oh, it was great. I especially liked the part that was playing while you kissed me.”

The doorbell rings, and you roll out of his lap, playfully huffing as he walks by. He laughs at your antics, distantly wishing he was around more to see them daily.

Deacon returns with the food, extending a hand to you as he leads you to the table. You sit in the chair closest to him, most of your chairs unused except for when 20 David comes over. He leans forward, gripping one of the legs of your chair to pull you closer. Laughing, you lay one of your thighs over his as you eat, sharing your food like you share everything else.

✯✯✯✯✯

“You’re touchy today,” you point out as Deacon runs his hand along your back.

“Which is different than usual?” he asks.

“I just- I feel special.”

“How so?”

“With what you do, no one would blame you if you never wanted physical contact again. But you show me that you love me with little touches, and don’t care when I do the same,” you answer, growing shy under Deacon's gaze.

“You know why? Because I do love you.”

“As I love you.”

Deacon loops both arms around your waist, swaying gently as your favorite song plays through the speaker.

“We could have done something special for your day off, you know,” you say.

“This is special. Next time I get a few days off, though, we’ll go somewhere.”

You laugh as Deacon dips you before pulling you up and spinning you. He asked you to dance as he slid your ring back on. Whenever you take it off to wash dishes, clean, or do anything that would risk breaking it, you give it to Deacon. If he’s not home, you place it in his nightstand, confident that he will guard it and return it safely to you. He invested in silicone rings for both of you, and when you have a day full of activities, you wear yours, but most of the time, you want to see your original wedding ring.

“Did you help Tan pick a ring?” you ask, remembering Deacon said he had one for his girlfriend.

“No, but rings are personal, I don’t know that I would help even if he asked.”

“You’re such a hopeless romantic… but you're my hopeless romantic.”

“‘Til death,” he adds, kissing your forehead.

The music ends, but you stay in Deacon’s arms as you ask what he wants to do next.

✯✯✯✯✯

When you express that you’re hungry again, knowing that Deacon won’t tell you if he is, he agrees to make dinner with you. Side-by-side, you work on preparing the meal, uncaring when Deacon tries to distract you. You complain but truly don’t mind, and he knows it.

“Deac,” you groan when his hands find your hips, standing behind you while you stir ingredients together.

He responds by saying your name in the same tone, smiling as he reaches around you and adds the spices.

“Thanks,” you say quietly.

After dinner, enjoyed in the same closely situated chairs you had lunch in, you clean up quickly. While Deacon puts the dishes away, you start a kettle to make your favorite hot drinks and remove the small dessert you prepared earlier from the fridge.

Deacon opens the patio door for you as he carries the dishes for the drinks and dessert. You sit in separate chairs, looking out over the yard as you talk about nothing and everything. Deacon’s hand wanders out of his chair and into yours, finding your fingers and lacing his with yours. Squeezing his hand once, you stand from your chair and move to his lap, leaning against his chest. You look up, unsurprised but disappointed that you can’t see any stars past the LA lights.

“That trip we’re taking when I’m off,” he begins, waiting for your nodded acknowledgment, “we’re going somewhere where we can see the stars again.”

“You’re the only star I need,” you reply, knowing how fluffy and cliche it sounds but not caring. It earns you a smile and a kiss, so it can't be too bad.

“It sounds amazing, though, thank you,” you whisper, shivering as a night chill blows in from the desert.

“That means it’s time to go inside,” Deacon whispers against your hairline.

He helps you carry everything inside and locks the door behind you. Once the dishes and the leftovers are put away, Deacon scoops you up in his arms, smiling at your laughter as he carries you to the bedroom.

You get ready for bed how you got ready for the day: together. When you join Deacon in bed, he pulls you close, letting you sit between his legs with your back against his chest. Your hearts beat in sync as he picks up a book from his nightstand. It’s been too long since you had the time to do this, but as he reads, you know that the long, sometimes lonely time between days off makes them worth it.

[the-music-maniac]

How fucked up would it be if Sefikura got Hanahaki? Either one of them. That ship is already toxic AF (affectionate) but imagine the HAVOC.

I'm gonna ramble a bit so I can get the brain worms out but feel free to correct me on any plot points, or character interpretations: I've absorbed all this shit from watching walkthroughs (cause I'm broke and video games are expensy) and I haven't finished watching yet. I'm also playing it fast and loose with when this occurs in canon - I have no idea tbh. My interpretations are probably influenced by fandom already cause I've been reading posts and fanfics, and I am aware that this is SO self indulgent, so again. Biased viewpoint here.

Also since I'm aware that sefikura is a controversial ship even with the ship's popularity and age, if you don't like it, that's fine, just block me or scroll on.

I can see the story being more interesting if Seph is the one to get the disease. Mostly because, while I understand his obsession with Cloud is quite complex and not really there bc of romantic reasons (Cloud has S-cells, Seph kinda just views Cloud as his to control I assume, plus Cloud is useful to him, and the fact that Sephiroth has a god complex a mile wide and Cloud was somehow able to beat him as a mere trooper, etc. etc.) I do think for an individual like Sephiroth, that level of obsession is likely the closest he's going to get to love, or at least a blurring of the lines between love and hate. I don't think he really feels that emotion much anymore, especially not after the first time he died, but whatever he DOES feel for Cloud could be strong enough and close enough in shape for something like Hanahaki to latch onto.

Sephiroth's course of action in response would be interesting to see. Hanahaki weakens the individual, which is something Seph is probably not gonna stand for, even if he has enough hubris that he doesn't think he'll die from it. Maybe similar to the degeneration Genesis was experiencing? There's a thought. I honestly think Sephiroth would find it more intolerable if he reaches a stalemate with the disease, not enough to kill him, but enough to weaken him to the point where it hurts his pride and gets in the way of his plans. That seems like it would grate on him more than the threat of death, which doesn't stick anyways.

Sephiroth's go-to in that situation (upon exhausting other avenues - the first and easiest being, y'know. Murder) would probably be to try the puppet route - force Cloud into feeling that reciprocating emotion. Which like. It doesn't work like that Sephy. And here's where it could get really dark if you were so inclined to write it that way, but I'm not in the mood for that right now so I'm gonna say this - that course of action would bring up a lot of PTSD for Cloud obviously, but a perplexing point would be if Sephiroth just y'know. Succeeded in controlling and forcing that emotion for a bit and then upon realizing Hanahaki doesn't work like that - immediately releases his control. Cloud is left there, sound of mind again and fucked up in the mental health but ultimately unharmed and very confused.

Second course of action, good old fashioned manipulation. Here is where it would probably get convoluted though, while I don't think Sephiroth would go down the full on cracky shit of trying to woo Cloud or anything like that (keep in mind up until now, I don't think the nature of Sephiroth's emotions for Cloud are necessarily romantic, so that's not where the Hanahaki is stemming from, or at least not at the beginning - since we are talking about Sefikura and I do like the romance even if I acknowledge it's a little out there in terms of canon. I'm aware he says some provocative shit, but I think that's to get a reaction - it's taunting more than flirting. So, I don't think it would necessarily occur to Sephiroth to do anything romantic here), I do think Sephiroth would be forced to do shit that's actually helpful. His world domination plans are at a standstill cause he's too weak to enact them, and he's trying to get some sort of reciprocation that's enough for the disease to be satisfied, so even if he doesn't give a shit and thinks it's stupid and a waste of time, he studies Cloud and his friends and their movements and acts accordingly to help. Probably in the most violent way possible, granted. Sending Cloud into more confusion.

What I do find interesting is if Cloud finds out what's happening. Fear in response to learning about possibly romantic feelings on Sephiroth's end is probably unavoidable with how fucked up their in game relations are (Sephiroth's attentions are not exactly kind), but once Cloud realizes the nature of those emotions are not romantic (and therefore not r*pey - while I do have a vested interest in avoiding that, I also don't think it's in character for Seph. He always struck me as someone who either didn't have interest in intercourse for its own sake or just never felt safe enough to try when he was still sane) ironically? I can see Cloud eventually feeling guilty. Because his first reaction would obviously be relief or even happiness at the fact that this is weakening Sephiroth and may potentially lead to his death, and I do believe that would be genuine relief. At the beginning there is no guilt. Just fury at the audacity and a vindictive type of happiness. And then the guilt stems from the insidiousness of a disease like this, as Sephiroth keeps being helpful, and seeing the reality of an individual who no longer acts untouchable like a God, suffering. Not beating the enemy by any honest means but by the simple fact that Cloud despises Sephiroth, and something is responding to that and doing the dirty work for him. And then, feeling guilty about feeling guilty bc he should be happy about keeping Seph contained and unable to hurt others by any means necessary, but he's not. He seems like the type of hero to spiral like that.

And then of course, as time progresses on, the hatred lessening the longer Sephiroth isn't doing any heinous shit, the worry of no longer being able to hold onto enough of that hatred to keep Sephiroth contained, because Cloud isn't stupid, he KNOWS Sephiroth isn't doing this out of anything genuine, but it's still working because humans are humans who have sympathy for those who look like they're suffering and memories that fade and get overwritten with time and new information. And so Cloud knows the second he lets go of that hatred, Sephiroth will go back to killing, but in the same breath he can't help feeling sympathetic. Knowing the manipulation and still falling for it despite yourself is probably uniquely infuriating and seems like the mindfuckery Sephiroth would enjoy.

Here's the kicker though, Cloud's response to that "not-hatred anymore, but not nearly indifferent enough to be neutral" emotion would probably be paired with him treating Sephiroth better than he was treated by any of the Shinra personnel, barring of course Angeal, Genesis and Zack, without even realizing it. Like Sephiroth was dehumanized for so long, both as a weapon to be used and feared and as a public figure to be idolized and adored - none of that was his own to control - so Cloud extending basic courtesies and concern is going to feel different. Maybe it reminds him of Angeal and Genesis, I dunno. It wouldn't be out of the left field, the disease probably already reminds him of the degeneration. So now he's reminded that he was capable of loving people, once. We don't got time to unpack Sephiroth's mile long list of issues in this post but let's say it actually makes Seph come to a couple epiphanies. If Sephiroth's feelings eventually shift to romantic love while Cloud's feelings are shifting to that not-hatred, not-quite-romantic-yet, but not-indifferent, Sephiroth is y'know. Still gonna be stuck with the disease cause it's not technically reciprocation. That would be hilarious wouldn't it. So let's say that happens and Sephy is confused and Cloudy is also confused at the fact that he's beginning to feel charitable towards Sephiroth but he's still not getting better.

On the contrary, I think he would get worse. Because NOW what the Hanahaki is latching onto is real and genuine love. Yeah, that previous weakening wasn't even the disease at full strength, have fun with that.

I can see Sephiroth getting frustrated at this point cause he doesn't seem well adjusted enough to notice his own feelings shifting and put two and two together, so upon realizing that Cloud feels some level of reciprocation and the disease is getting worse, he probably would just. Leave. And at this point in the story I think what would disturb Cloud the most is if he sees Sephiroth give up entirely. Because consistently, the man has never done that before. Sephiroth has never in all the crazy shit that he's done - given up.

Keep in mind, it's only really possible at this point cause Sephiroth has been feeling like absolute dogshit the entire time. Chronic pain wears on you, and for someone who has been inhumanly healthy and then the equivalent of a God, that constant exhaustion and weakness, the choking on your breaths and pain in your chest, and then being so sure of a solution and having hope, only for it to not work and to even get worse - also Seph doesn't have good coping mechanisms clearly - he gives up. And I think this is the push Cloud might need for his own feelings to shift.

And how fucked up would it be if the hanahaki flowers were sent by Aerith though. I don't think she would do that maliciously, but as a way to test if there's any hope for Sephiroth. She maybe didn't necessarily know it would manifest for Cloud, but just some type of reaction. A way to keep her loved ones safe from him? Weakening but not killing him because Sephiroth pollutes the lifestream if he enters it, and he also won't stay dead and everyone keeps suffering because of it and - basically they're at a stalemate. If there is no hope for Seph, then the flowers would do nothing. If there is, then the flowers may be a chance to change things. Imagine that. Whether or not it's in character for Aerith is up for debate but it would be quite interesting.

So Cloud talking to Aerith and learning that? Learning that things aren't as hopeless for Sephiroth as he had assumed? Another point that may cause Cloud's viewpoint to change. It's hard to deny the authenticity of someone's humanity when it's literally killing them.

And since my entire reason for liking Sefikura is partially because Sephiroth's backstory upsets me (most of it's because it's just an interesting dynamic, but the fact that Seph was made to be a weapon, abused throughout his entire life with little to no bodily autonomy nor freedom, thought he had been betrayed by two of the only people he loved, and then manipulated until he went insane, and is now never going to be free of Jenova or his anger and hatred because he gave into his worst demons - that makes me sad. So, admittedly I got into sefikura because of time travel fix-its where Cloud goes back and tries to fix things - which often includes people gradually realizing just how much abuse Sephiroth had suffered, and all the factors that were pushing Seph until he snapped. I mean granted, that doesn't excuse the awful shit he did by any means, but the odds were by every definition, against him from the beginning. The romance was just a large bonus of those fix-its) I'm going to give them a happy ending. Cloud stays there and tries to get Sephiroth back to how he was, and in the process with the amount of time they spend together, and the worry he's been feeling at how Sephiroth is deteriorating, helps push the feelings that are there into fruition. The Hanahaki clears, and Cloud expects to need to fight Sephiroth, expects that he would have to kill him. Sephiroth doesn't - not because he now values humanity or anything because I don't think any amount of redemption is enough for Sephiroth to reach that point, at least not that quickly, that shit would be a lifelong battle - but because he knows Cloud, and he knows he would kill him if he went back to how he was. If it really came down to it, to save the world, Cloud wouldn't hesitate. And once he crosses that line after they've had this dynamic, that's the last betrayal and there would be no going back, no returning. That would be the end, permanently. And he actually wants to stay by Cloud's side. There could be a moment where Sephiroth contemplates it, but in the end his better demons win out, if you wanna add more drama.

I have also thought about what it would be like if Cloud had Hanahaki and it would also be interesting, although the disease type wouldn't quite be the same as for Sephiroth, because Cloud does genuinely hate Seph. So, it would probably be more fucked up - if Sephiroth succeeded in keeping Cloud as a puppet, and that results in a manifestation of Hanahaki because of that forced devotion, since Sephiroth is only using Cloud as a tool. And it ironically weakens Cloud enough that he's no longer useful as a puppet and Sephiroth has to let go. Rinse repeat. Or if Sephiroth is somehow able to use his cells to induce a similar disease in Cloud. That'd be pretty damn fucked up, huh. Compels me though.

Anyways, I dunno if I'll ever use any of these ideas for anything, but it was still interesting to think about. Thank you for reading!

[ofdemonsandangels]

A Masterlist of My Favorite GriffGuts fics Part 2

Well hello again! We're coming up on two years since my last GriffGuts fic rec masterlist and so many amazing fics have come out since then! I'm really happy that the original list got so much love, I really can't wait to share more of my favorites with you all, both new or looked over from before <3

One-Shots

White Hawk Down by bishounenjump

Summary:

Sometimes Guts forgets that Griffith is just a man. A man with a body.

My comments:

A missing scene from canon that we all wish could have happened

Snowmelt by bthump

Summary:

Once again, Griffith acts impulsively when it comes to Guts. AU where Griffith doesn't find out that Guts left the Hawks until after he's gone.

My comments:

The way I was waiting for two whole years for another bthump fic after Refraction lmao. This fic is one of those fics that you pull up to cope with after you remember what happened in canon.

What would happen if the duel in the snow never happened but Griffith still chased after Guts to bring him back? Find out in 10.2k words of peak writing. In bthump we trust (￣^￣)ゞ

Late Night Reverie by bishounenjump

Summary:

"He won’t hesitate to admit that he loves being king. No blustering nobleman can take that from him.

And yet, on nights like this, when he can drink in the broad expanse of his commander — his dark brow and gentle gaze and absurdly strong physique — he knows that some dreams do occasionally obscure others."

My comments:

A very heartwarming glimpse into a future that Guts and Griffith could've had. I feel all warm inside whenever I reread this fic

we're not in love, we share no stories by Alyss_Baskerville

Summary:

Though the gash on Guts’ shoulder heals, his eyes now skip right past Griffith.

My comments:

Whereas the previous fic rec was a sweet look into a future that never was, this fic is a painful one. Holy hell did I feel like someone had carved my heart out of my chest when I had finished the final line. It reminds me a lot of the film, Atonement, so if you've seen the film, you can take a lot more away from this fic.

In the Absence of Light by Ghidorahs_Child

Summary:

Schierke aches for him, for the happiness he was denied, for the love he has lost.

My comments:

Guts and Schierke share their own Corridor of Dreams moments and it's just as bittersweet as you think it is

A Dreamless Sleep by Queenbananya

Summary:

“I’ve killed children for you,” Guts said, lying next to Griffith on a patch of grass. He peered up at the stars and remembered the kid’s face, the hand that reached out to him helplessly as the last trace of life faded from his eyes.

Or, Guts seeks comfort from Griffith, months after he's killed Adonis.

My comments:

Griffith comforting Guts as he deals with the trauma of killing Adonis is something we all desperately wanted at some point

That Dawn in the Snow by Nefastum

Summary:

He wondered now if Griffith even remembered there were others around him, or if he had completely shut them out. Casca and Judeau were staring in uncertainty, and not far back up the road it was easy to see Rickert, Corkus, and Pippin in earshot of most of their conversation. Griffith didn’t falter, though. It was like all he could see was Guts, and perhaps they’d have to find an excuse for his vulnerability later for the others. Guts could sympathize, though. The feeling was mutual.

My comments:

You can never go wrong with a duel in the snow au, and this fic is no different. The characterization of Griffith here is really great too and probably one of my favorite takes of him for this scene in particular

This Fleeting Dream by Queenbananya

Summary:

"To me... they are not friends. A friend is someone that is my equal."

Perhaps it was the way his thoughts had strayed in that direction, or simply how attuned he was to the movements of his soldiers. His eyes could always find him. Guts stood there, listening. And in his eyes, there was heartbreak.

Or, Griffith catches Guts listening in his famous fountain conversation with Charlotte and follows after him. Essentially, an exploration of his character and feelings for Guts.

My comments:

A very interesting take on a "Griffith clearing everything up with Guts after he finds out he overheard his dream speech at the fountain" au. Equal parts fluff and equal parts angst

Forever Facade by TheriOlis

Summary:

Slan has come to see what manner of flower grows atop the bones buried beneath Griffith's garden.

My comments:

The GriffGuts in this fic is mild but as the resident Slan thirster, I need you all to read this because it's really fucking good. NeoGriff being egged on by Slan for nearly 2k words? Yes, YEs, YES

Recoil and Grace by aloveleyburn

Summary:

Their fingers wind together in the darkness. Outside there is that ever-present chirping of birds and insects – the music of those dark hours, calming as cool water. Outside some car alarm goes off in the empty streets, and on the bedside table, clock reads 2:47am.

My comments:

There are so many words that I could use to describe this fic, but I think I'll just settle on 'quintessential'. I can't remember the last time I was so enthralled by a fic, so glued to my screen and absorbing every single word in front of me. The way that Ariel blends the two storylines into one in such a flawless manner reminds me of a weaver stitching together two scenes in a tapestry. Each thread is connected in a way that matters.

If there's one fic you walk away with from this list, I hope that this is the fic.

Property by starry_dynamo

Summary:

“I’ve wanted you since the moment we met, and if the reason you never returned my advances was that you felt tainted by that scum from your past, I will carve him from your memory. You are not his. You belong to me, and I want your body to never forget.”

Griffith learns why Guts has a problem with intimacy. Guts learns he has another purpose.

My comments:

BDSM to cope with trauma. That's it. It's nice and sweet and hot at the same time.

Geleotto fu il Libro by Ghidorahs_child

Summary:

"I have nightmares of you leaving me."

My comments:

GriffGuts gets ready for bed together! Featuring book talk, insecurities, and lots of domestic fluff

Steel Groove by Maplekites

Summary:

The Hawks enjoy celebrating anything they can.

My comments:

GriffGuts, my dancing queens

Completed Multi-Chapter Fics

When Night Comes Down by alovelyburn

Summary:

"If you stand far enough outside the tapestry, you can see the many threads and paths unwalked. The points of change can be so tiny they go unnoticed at the time... though the ripples travel for centuries and more, into eternity. Yet, in the end, all paths lead to one path. There may be deviations, yes, yet still we dance that same dance, with the steps assigned to us by fate. It is inevitable. One must die to resurrect. One must fall to rise."

My comments:

This fic is my Roman Empire. If Apostle!Guts is your thing, this fic is the perfect fic for you.

Ongoing Multi-Chapter Fics

our castle was always made of sand by meereens

Summary:

His life was easy to understand. Mother liked to tell him stories, wrapped up in their canopy bed with warmth crackling in her words. He was born from a real-life fairytale, everyone knew it, from a dashing knight’s love for a simple princess.

Queen Charlotte and King Griffith's young son uncovers something he was not meant to know.

My comments:

This is THEE GriffGuts kid fic (and the only one to my knowledge too haha). It's the perfect "Griffith gets guy and the throne" au and really explores what GriffGuts would look like from a child's perspective, specifically Griffith's son's perspective. I know that kid fics can be annoying with the way some people write kids but trust me, William Leopold Guts Charles Wyndham is the cutest little guy ever and I would lay down my life for him.

Fic Series

Sehnsucht by SeaDragons (SimpleNefelibata)

My comments:

GriffGuts: Hurt no Comfort the Series

[leaderpinhead]

Gidel - Lucky Ear Rubs

Prompt: Carnival I've done really well in the past year avoiding any big spoilers for the Playful Land event until it released in English, so I'm completely ignoring everything that may happen post Part 1 of the story. But I also acknowledge I prefer the names on the JPN server, so I'm sticking to Gidel and Fellow Honest for now. :P

Girls were easy targets. At least that’s what Gidel tried to tell himself when he found the girl and her direbeast playing the carnival games. Gidel smirked. While Fellow was handling the older Night Raven College students, Gidel thought he’d handle the easier guests. 

Gidel silently slid up to Yuu’s side. She didn’t look at him, concentrating on the target she soaked with a water shooter. The small whale connected to the target slowly raced across the booth, falling behind the other whales played by “invisible” competitors. Grim cheered her on, hopping across the counter and shouting above the carnival music. The game ended with a loud buzz before her whale reached the finish line. 

“Poor luck,” the marionette manning the booth hollowly lamented. Its stiff limbs woodenly swung a small stuffed fox towards Yuu. “Here’s your consolation prize.” 

Grim growled and snatched the stuffed fox from the marionette's hand. He threw it into the growing pile at his feet. “This game is rigged! How are you supposed to win the big prizes against players that don’t exist?” 

Yuu’s eyes narrowed at the large stuffed animals sitting on a high shelf at the back of the booth. She pointed at the large whale taking up most of the shelf. “You’re mine, Whalebert.” 

Gidel inched closer. He eyed Yuu’s pockets in search of something valuable. The magic of Playful Land may have changed their clothes, but that didn’t mean any of their belongings had vanished. 

“Do it again!” Grim demanded. He jumped on the counter and kicked the water shooter. “If you don’t get it this time, I’ll—Myah! Where did you come from?” 

Gidel smiled when Grim finally saw him. He nearly fell backwards off the counter in his surprise but was saved by Yuu. Gidel hoisted his hammer higher on his shoulder and smiled at Yuu. 

“Hi there,” Yuu greeted. She dropped Grim onto the ground where he huffed. “You’re just in time. Give me the sacred lucky ear rubs.” 

Before Gidel had a chance to be confused, Yuu gently grabbed his ears. Gidel stiffened, his heart thundering in his chest. Looking as earnest as Fellow performing a high-stakes scam, Yuu gently rubbed his ears. The repetitive motion slowly eased the shot of anxiety he felt. His eyes involuntarily closed. 

“Stop harassing every beastfolk with animal ears and win me that whale!” 

Gidel tensed when he realized he leaned his entire weight against Yuu. He jerked back and gripped his hammer like he was prepared to clobber her. She didn’t seem to notice his attack stance and instead turned to grab the handles of the water shooter. 

A bell dinged to signal the start of the game, and Yuu’s whale bobbed along the track after the other whales. Gidel lowered his hammer and watched her whale take the lead. It traded places with another whale for the first half of the track before it pulled ahead and stayed there until it reached the other side of the track. Upbeat carnival music blasted from the booth, and the marionette performed a little dance to announce the winner. 

Grim cheered and jumped onto the counter again to accept the large whale. Gidel knew the game was rigged—the booths in the park ensorcelled to let real players win after a few losses—but he couldn’t help smiling when Yuu turned back to him. He stiffened when she suddenly grabbed him in a hug. “The lucky ear rubs strike again!” 

“Stop harassing the kid!” 

“You’re just upset because your ears have lost all their luck.” 

Grim harrumphed and marched over to the next game booth, holding the whale high above his head. Yuu released Gidel from the hug and leaned down to grab the other toys they had won. For a moment, Gidel had the oddest yearning to lean back into the girl. He didn’t realize he was leaning closer until she looked back up at him, and their noses bonked together. Gidel ducked back and covered his nose. 

Instead of showing any anger, Yuu laughed. “Did you want to help? That’s sweet! Way sweeter than Grim.” 

“Less talking, more winning,” Grim shouted from the next booth. 

Yuu hummed and gathered the remaining toys in her arms. She dumped them on the counter of the water shooting game and moved as if to join Grim. Gidel grabbed the back of her vest and pointed at the toys. She shook her head. “We just wanted Whalebert. Those can go to any of the other visitors in the park. Or you can have one!” 

Gidel stood in frozen shock as Yuu abandoned her winnings to join Grim. He looked back and forth between the pair and the pile of toys. The marionette behind the counter woodenly invited him to play. 

Gidel slowly shuffled over to stand at Yuu’s side opposite of Grim. She smiled at him and pointed at the large donkey hanging above a pyramid of glass milk bottles. “We’ve decided Whalebert needs a friend.” 

“I said we should name it Sir Ass-ington, but Yuu says we can’t!” 

“I’m sure Ace would get a kick out of that, but Trey’s here too, so we have to keep things classy.” 

Gidel glanced between the two as they laughed and began throwing baseballs at the pyramid. He sidled closer to Yuu until their elbows brushed together. Without even looking at him, Yuu used her free hand to pet his ears. He leaned more heavily into her petting and silently cheered with them when they finally won the donkey after their fifth game. 

By the time Fellow came looking for him, Gidel had completely forgotten his original plan and was instead carrying Whalebert under one arm and Sir Donkeyton under the other while totally not taking advantage of their losses to get more “sacred lucky ear rubs.”