Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.
Word Count: 9.6k
Warnings: mentions of death, betrayal, fire, knives, dead parents; farewell; feels; tension
Author’s Note: This is not the end, no worries. Wouldn’t leave you guys hanging like that. Hope you enjoy! ♡
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
It stands tall in the distance.
Rising above the emerald treetops, like a melancholic monarch draped in shadows and light.
The grey stone battlements jut against the hazy sky. Turrets - clearly emboldened by the hues of the background - spiral toward the horizon, austere and elegant, crowned by banners that flutter limpidly in the distance.
The very stones seem steeped in centuries of command, and each mark of weather bears testimony of its history and storms - the memories of which, it seems, they still hold with great dignity.
The castle seems at peace, standing upon its cliff, hanging suspended from the rocky outcrop, as though it grew from the very rock, planted there, eternal. A sentinel of this kingdom. The kingdom that belonged to your father.
Craggy towers break the swell of pallid sky, their dark slate roofs glimmering under the wan light filtering through clouds.
The sight of this castle holds a strange pull on your senses - a magnetic foreboding that you can’t seem to shake.
It looms powerful but sinister, an observer too heavy with secrets for history to bear. Around it, trees keep dancing in and out of shifting hues of green and gold, branches stirring to a wind barely in existence, each gust swaying leaves like a restless audience to your arrival.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There is more here than just the daunting architecture pressing on your psyche. Something personal smolders in the shadow of that place.
You try to put your finger on it but only grasp fleeting impressions - the way your father spoke in clipped tones about duty and appearances, the pack of expectations, the noose he metaphorically kept around your neck.
Beside you, Bucky’s presence shifts. He seems to slip into a hesitating step. The muscles of his shoulders tense against the still slightly stained fabric of his armor.
He does not take his eyes off the castle. The blue steel of his gaze sharpens. You can feel the tension emanating from him, a tangible energy that snakes through the air between you. There is a hostility in the way he looks at that castle. A hardness that knots his jaw. A tautness that frames his mouth.
Somehow he wears apprehension with discomfort.
And it shakes your heart with an inexplicable dread.
He always moves like a man accustomed to balancing control with instinct. But his breathing pattern changes slightly. You ignore the fact that you know his normal breathing pattern in the first place. But there really is a slight strain in his breath.
Your gaze snaps back to the castle, peering through the branches framing its silhouette. Even from this distance, you can feel something lingering around the fortress - energies unvoiced, but undeniably ancient, as if the very stones remember.
A strange chill skitters down your spine. But you can’t really say why. The path underneath your boots is softened with fallen leaves, giving off a musty, earthy scent. You want to hang onto the smell, with its cool air gliding across your skin and the tranquil solitude of the forest. But your gaze keeps wandering back to the castle looming still so far off. It is magnetic. Impossible to ignore.
A realization comes with a blow to your heart.
This might be your destination.
Perhaps this castle is where he's meant to bring you.
A bittersweet and aching pang lodges beneath your ribs. You can’t imagine the journey that has momentarily intertwined your paths is perhaps going to be coming to a close.
You steal a glance at Bucky’s profile. If this is where he is meant to take you, then why does he seem so tense at finally getting here?
Trying to interpret the small frown tugging at his lips, the rigid line in his jaw, you let your eyes sweep. There is a weight of something hanging from his brows, drawing them down.
The wind around you changes direction, ruffling branches and making leaves hop around as if to note the abrupt transition occasioned by you.
The entire atmosphere between Bucky and you seems to stiffen.
The twitch of his fingers at his sides almost betray a gesture of need - to make a fist. He controls his breathing too deliberately for your taste.
Your gaze drags back to the castle ahead. To Bucky. To the castle. And back to Bucky. And back to the castle.
Here stands the proud fortress, untouched by the ravages of time, like one who has never been forced to bow before the wickedness of mankind. Never had to bend to the world’s cruelty. But perhaps, this too, is an illusion. Perhaps it became something wicked, something cruel itself.
The thought strikes you, brief and sharp.
Clouds sweep across the sun and the light dims. Shadows weave itself through the forest. You take in the now cooling air.
No words pass between Bucky and you, but with every step, the mounting tension between you both gets stronger.
It feels flimsy, like glass waiting to shatter.
You want to ask him. Want to ask if this castle is where you are going to part ways as soon as you reach it. It will take some time still. Maybe a day. Maybe less. Maybe more.
But it feels so dwindling and you can’t grasp the time you want to keep.
The sight of the castle only clutches your heart with hands showing not an ounce of mercy, squeezing your breath thin and shallow.
You always knew this journey would come to an end. Even had hoped so for some time. Had complained about relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, sleeping on the hard ground of the forest, not being able to bathe in the warmest water. You have complained about practically everything in this godforsaken forest. But you don’t want this journey to end so soon. Maybe because it’s not the forest at all you want to keep yourself surrounded with.
It’s Bucky.
And admitting that to yourself only tells you that your fear is rising. That this travel with him might really be over soon.
Some part of you grew accustomed to naively believing the road would go on forever. With firelight embers in the dark after making camp for the day. Quiet conversations held in the dark. The endearing way his lips would twitch when he tries to suppress his amusement with you. The way he keeps you afloat even when your world is crumbling into itself. Giggling at his gruffness when he doesn’t like the small ration of food you eat just so he can have some more - him calling you stubborn despite the fact that he mostly won the argument in the end. Walking beside him in the forest and listening to both of your crunching footsteps on the ground. Lying awake at night and listening to his breaths. Exchanging fleeting glances, that linger longer than they should.
You try and swallow the prickling pain at the back of your mouth, but it remains raw and bubbling.
You’re not even thinking about what might await you at the castle. The only thing you can’t get out of your mind is the realization that Bucky will leave you here, will vanish back into the woods, and whatever shadows formed him before both your paths crossed.
And for some reason, just the idea of his absence is a wound that would bleed more than anything your father’s kingdom could ever conjure.
You want to rip through the wall built between the two of you since the castle came into view - but words are pulled between hesitation and instinct. You almost feel lost in whether that silence needs filling or should just remain untouched.
And yet, there is something that settles the attraction to walk beside him. An anchor, if you will, though the world feels like it could collapse at any second due to the weirdness surrounding him.
You cast him another furtive glance, feeling suddenly breathless at the faint tinge of something slashing in his gaze.
He must have felt your eyes on him because he moves his head slightly, the hardness of his expression mellowing just a fraction as he glances down at you.
And for that small moment, you feel light again.
The path turns deeper into the woods, trees obscuring the vision of the castle again.
And once more, you keep walking.
The sun is barely setting when you settle down for the night, cloaked in the golden haze of a waning afternoon.
Shadows grow long and thin across the forest floor, folding themselves beneath the reach of the branches above.
Bucky moves with specifically calculated slowness, like he’s trying to keep control of something.
He collects a small amount of dry wood and then kneels beside the fire, striking flint against steel with sharp and quick movements. You always liked watching him do it. But now it hurts.
A spark breaks, catching on brittle wood and setting it alight.
Instead of observing Bucky, you keep your eyes on the meager lights ascending, tiny glints that illuminate the sky momentarily before they are absorbed into the gathering darkness. Just about like this fleeting moment, which you already feel slip away.
Bucky didn’t give you any reasons as to why you stopped to rest earlier than usual. But you know. The heaviness in his gait, the reluctance in his silence, the way he can’t meet your eyes for longer than a few seconds. It’s clear enough.
This is your final night with him.
The thought penetrates you profoundly, like a punch to your already bruised ribs.
You have expected it since seeing the castle rise among the trees, but it only gets more real the more time passes. It’s a present hollowness in your chest and all you can focus on is the fire crackling angrily, filling the empty space of your chest with everything but the things you want.
Slumping down in front of the fire, you tuck your legs beneath you and let the heat slightly brush against your face.
There is still a chill nipping at your back, but it’s not what makes you shiver.
Wordlessly, Bucky lowers himself onto a fallen log near the fire, letting out a sigh as he drags a hand across his face. He looks tired. Not just physically that is, but in a way that suggests of something deeper.
He stares into the fire, eyes distant, the flames reflected in his eyes like fragments of something burning far deeper than the wood.
The tension is continuously buzzing between you, caressing your skin in a manner that suggests it doesn’t even know how to handle itself.
It’s in the way he doesn’t quite look at you, though you can feel his gaze every time you aren’t the one watching. It feels somewhere between heat and static. You wonder what he is thinking, but are too scared to ask.
Instead, you engage yourself in preparing a simple meal for Bucky and you, hands moving almost mechanically through the familiar motions. The aroma of dried herbs and roasted meat mixes with the smoke from the fire, but the food tastes like ash in your mouth when you finally take a bite.
The silence weighs down, carrying words neither of you knows how to say.
A distant call of a night bird is the only thing talking.
Every now and then, your eyes stray to him - just brief stolen glances exchanged across the flames. His gazes ignite a spark on your skin. He sits with his elbows braced on his knees, shadows throwing across his face, making the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones even more defined and painfully enticing.
His lips are pressed into a thin, unreadable, line and you wonder if he is fighting to find the right words to break the silence as well.
Your heart aches to think that this will, in all likelihood, be the last night spent together, surrounded by nothing but trees and stars and the comforting crackle of the warm fire. Whatever flimsy bond you’ve built with Bucky will be severed by duty and distance.
When your eyes go back to their favorite sight, you find Bucky already watching you. His gaze holds yours for a moment and even the fire seems to have stopped burning for a second. Leaving Bucky and you alone in this situation.
There is something sore in his eyes. Something he couldn’t have prepared for or you would not be able to spot it that easily. It staggers your breath.
Then, he breaks your gaze and only leans further toward the ground.
The silence is getting stern. Unsparing. It enclaves you.
The sputtering fire only gets louder, and something tells you that whatever slips away into the curling smoke fading into the night, it will be something you can never hold onto again.
You shift slightly, adjusting your body on the rough texture of the wood you’re sitting on.
Bucky’s gaze flickers towards you again. Brief but piercing enough. It lingers just a second longer before he looks back at the fire. Shadows play with the lines of his features.
Leaves brush against each other in whispery sounds above you. The wilderness seems reluctant to let go of daylight, its golden glow retreating with a hushed farewell, until only a few pale shades of the dusk remain.
The light of the fire causes shifting patterns to sweep over the forest floor. The night feels delicate, almost. And you can’t shake the sense that this is your last evening spent like this, the very last tranquility you will have with the tamed nature and the stars just starting to blink awake overhead. And of course, Bucky sitting just a few feet away, so close that you could touch, but also so far that loneliness can’t be avoided today.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, the noise deepening into a long, low sound and it makes your chest hurt at the same time.
The silence holds until it can no longer.
It breaks with a clear of his throat. The sound is low and rough, scraping against the quiet.
It makes your head snap up. You blink at him.
“There’s an outer gate,” he starts, working the words out slowly, hoarse, as if he is dragging them from some reluctant place inside him.
His gaze remains fixed on the fire as soon as he’s confident you are listening to him. The orange brightness flickers in the pale blue depths of his eyes.
“That’s where I'm s’pposed to take you.”
You don’t need him to explain to you what place he’s talking about. He knows you know. The castle looms as graphically as it has the first time you saw it between the trees. A place carved from stones and shadows. Of course, that’s what he’s talking about. But hearing it from him - hearing it made real - cracks something open inside you.
“You will probably be expected by now,” he continues, the notes softening in his voice as though the words hold an unfathomable weight. “Can’t take you through the front gates. Don’t wanna attract too much attention.” He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the muscles in his forearm taut. A vein stands out. “Guess only the important people’ll know 'bout your arrival.”
Important people. The words land sharp between your ribs. Reminding you of where you come from and where he does not belong - or maybe does but refuses to.
You swallow thickly and taste the bitterness of knowing that your father and his web of control likely extends even here, even after his death.
Bucky still does not voice that he means that castle. But he doesn’t have to. There is an implicit understanding in the way his voice falters, in the way he watches the fire like it holds answers neither of you are ready to hear. He seems to have drawn the conclusion that you know your destination is near.
But truly knowing for real only hardens the pang that tears through your chest. It’s a violent and splintering thing, as if something solid inside you is crumbling, breaking down into fine, snaggy crumbs that settle into the hollow spaces in your chest. They make a sound with every inhalation, scraping against your insides and stabbing at the tender places that have already endured enough.
You look down at your hands, curled loosely in your lap, fingers trembling slightly despite your effort to still them.
The thought of this being the end - of stepping through that gate alone, of watching Bucky turn and disappear into the forest without you - makes your breath hitch painfully in your throat.
You’ve known this was coming from the beginning. You hoped this was coming at the beginning. You’ve known it since the moment you agreed to leave behind everything you knew and put your fate in the hands of a man who wanted nothing to do with you. It hardly helps to think about it.
The fire isn’t the only heat between you. Something else is crackling there. In the air. But you can’t tell what exactly.
Bucky’s jaw is clenched tightly as he stares at the ground. There is something edgy about the way he sits, as if he might be somewhere between wishful thinking and physical presence.
And maybe that’s what makes this all the more unbearable - the fact that he doesn’t seem unaffected by this either. The slumping of his shoulders, the hesitation in his words that speak to something more than mere obligation.
Still, he doesn’t really look at you. And maybe that’s for the best. Because you’re not sure you could hold his gaze without breaking entirely.
And the world just keeps turning, ignorant of the slow destruction lying half-lit between you and Bucky.
Everything feels tremendous. Monumental. Every breath, every sigh, every thought you nearly speak out loud, every glance that never quite meets its mark.
And when it sinks in how very heavily all of that rests in the pit of your stomach, you wonder how you’re supposed to survive stepping through that gate alone.
“What do you know about this place?” you ask hesitantly, voice small.
Bucky’s gaze lifts briefly to meet your own. His forearms rest on his thighs, fingers flexing. He exhales through his nose, a faint shake of his head following. “Not much.” His voice is low and tinged with weariness. “Just that it’s where I’m s’pposed to take you.”
Supposed to. Like some invisible hand has mapped out your fates long before you ever had a say in them.
Something cold and gnarling twists in your chest. His answer tells you nothing - no assurances, no comfort.
It’s unsettlingly simple.
You stare into the fire, its embers glowing brighter as your thoughts turn darker. That castle you know is not too far away anymore. The one who stood so proudly at the edge of the cliffs - beautiful, imposing, and so wholly foreign - takes a larger shape in your mind.
Your heart grows heavy with apprehension. What might await you there? Your mother, even in death, has always held a protective influence over your fate. The instructions for your journey to this castle may have been hers. After all, that’s why Bucky is here. Because he promised your mother.
But maybe this destination does not come from your mother at all. Sure, Bucky and this journey is her doing but maybe not where you end up going to. Maybe she didn’t have a say in it. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she had something else in mind for you as a final safeguard in case everything crumbles.
You can’t know. You also can’t know if she perhaps was the first to die. And that last order for you to be sent away did not come from her at all.
A chill of fear blooms at the base of your spine, unfurling upward in wavy patterns.
Maybe this is your father’s doing.
He was not the man who made decisions for your happiness or peace of mind. His schemes were calculated, self-serving, often cruel beneath their polished veneer. You can’t shake the unabating thought that this place might have been his command, not your mother’s - a contingency for his ambitions even beyond the grave.
Maybe they even both ordered for you to be sent here. Just out of different intentions.
Your fear is awfully gripping. And you won’t know whose will is being carried out until you step through those gates.
Your muscles twitch as an unbidden tremor rattles through you.
“Do you believe it might have been my father who ordered it?” you ask Bucky with a slightly shaking voice. Heavy with doubt.
Bucky has been watching you dealing with your inner struggles. His eyes are deep pools of alertness. They search you. His voice is even. Slow. “Could be.” There is a reluctant pause, tension rolling through his shoulders. “Banner told me to take you there. It’s where you’ll have to go he said. Never talked to your mother or father ‘bout this. Only ever through Banner. And he didn’t give me much. He said your mother would want you protected, but I’ve got no clue if that’s what she meant.” He lowers his head for a moment, a little guilty. “Never bothered to ask.”
You don’t blame him.
Though it doesn’t make this easier.
Sir Banner has always been a kind man, one of the few in your father's court who treated you with genuine warmth. You remember his thoughtful smile, the way he spoke to you as though your opinions matter even when the rest of the court dismissed you.
But even Sir Banner - loyal and true - has ultimately served your father first and foremost.
Has he known? Has he seen your father’s real face?
A swift and aching slash tears through your chest.
Maybe Sir Banner has genuinely believed he was acting on orders meant to protect you. Or maybe he just hasn’t known the full extent of your father’s motives. The thought makes your throat prick and tingle. The man you held dearly in your heart might have been complicit, unwitting or not.
It doesn’t matter that your parents are gone. Their commands will still echo through the kingdom, shaping the path you are walking on even now. Your father’s words carry the weight of stone. And even from beyond the grave, it could crush you.
Bucky’s jaw has tensed immensely. His eyes find you and stay. You might believe he is thinking the same thing. Cool air brushes against your back, igniting a shiver that lingers.
If it was your father’s order then the motives could be far more insidious than you dared to imagine - isolation, subjugation, control, banishment, your own lonely prison.
“Do you believe Sir Banner knew everything my father did?”
You just can’t seem to stop asking for his input.
Bucky’s mouth is a flat line. He swallows and grimaces lightly as if the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Don’t know,” he admits, voice sounding throaty. His body shifts before answering. But he looks at you. Keeping his eyes on you in a way that has you feeling he tries to make this easier for you. “But he seemed sure this is the right place for you.”
You take in a deep and wavering breath and nod at him slightly. Thanking him for his honesty without being able to get the words out. Your fingers fidget in your lap and you look down at them for a while.
You want to trust that whatever awaits you in that castle is a place of safety, not another, even worse gilded cage built from your father’s manipulation.
But you will be walking into the unknown. You might as well be blindfolded. And the man sitting across from you, who has fought and bled for truths buried by men like your father seems just as wary.
Being out in the woods and always in the presence of Bucky has become a strange kind of sanctuary - a place where you learned to breathe freely and hope again despite the dangers lurking in the shadows. But it’s coming to an end. And it feels so abrupt. So frightening.
Your fingers clench around the fabric of your cloak and you fight to steady your breathing.
You glance at Bucky again. His profile glows starkly against the fire, his silhouette strong against the dark woods and you feel your gaze soften at the way his own does. Not enough to give everything away but enough to offer something without words. Reassurance. A promise.
It makes your breath hitch.
The air seems to take on a softer quality itself. Hushed by things never spoken of, he holds something precious in his eyes.
But there is also a sudden sadness glinting within those blue babies. Something you’re not sure isn’t reflected in your own eyes. It seems to be such a rare thing for him.
His presence is a gift.
You’re aware of that now. Though it might be too late.
He became your only tether in a world that has violently spiraled off its axis.
He moves protectively without being overbearing. He never crowded you but always seemed within reach.
It’s the tiny gestures - a glance to check your footing on bumpy ground, a steadying hand when you stumbled, him shifting so he would block you from the cold wind, the way he always ensures you have the warmer side of the fire without ever making a fuss of it, the way he made sure you weren’t going to sleep hungry.
And it’s not just about keeping you alive.
Bucky has done far more than fulfill some vague promise of protection.
He has been tasked with keeping you alive but he has done so much more than that.
He kept you sane when everything around you came crashing down. He became the grounding force you never got your whole life.
When sleep eluded you at night, haunted by shadows of loss, it was the sound of his breathing mere feet away that lulled you into rest.
He became the reminder that no matter the odds, you have him just right there.
He warmed you in every way that fire and shelter could never. Comforted you without needing to say a word.
And what makes it all the more profound is that he didn’t have to. This journey, this promise - none of it required him to care beyond the basics of survival. Yet he did. He does. Bucky cared about more than keeping you physically safe, he cared about you.
He didn’t have to watch out for you in those small, thoughtful ways. He went beyond duty, quietly and without fanfare.
Bucky Barnes is good.
And not just competent or capable, but good in a way that runs deep.
You blink back the stinging in your eyes as if to ward off that very realization. Even despite the burdens and the scars and the doubts he carries, he is a good man. He might not necessarily believe it himself - you heard it in his voice and saw it in his eyes - but you do.
You saw it firsthand, felt it in the moments he stood between you and the chaos of the world, protecting you from the ruins.
But what makes your heart bleed red crimson is the fact that you don’t have the time to make him believe.
Because this journey is ending the very next day.
Your heart feels like it’s being pulled in two different directions - toward the promised safety that lay ahead unknown and the comfort of what you have unexpectedly found.
And after this, what will happen?
Once the castle is in clear sight and his task is completed, what then?
Will he leave just like that, fading back into the forest this time without you?
Will you be left with the ache of his absence, suffering in the understanding that you’ve known something so rare and special, only to lose it?
You don’t know.
He was meant to take you somewhere safe and see you through to the other side. And you are nearly there.
What comes after is up to you.
You’re not even sure what you want - what you could even ask for - but the idea of stepping into that castle alone, without him at your side, fills you with trepidation.
Your heart stutters, unsure whether to face forward or shrink back. A needling chill spreads beneath your skin, making it itchy.
Your body seems to brace itself against the time ahead but there is no way to wrestle it into place.
The fire pops, showering sparks into the night.
Bucky moves a fraction, adjusting himself on the log, gaze pinned to the flames again. His broad shoulders are bowed slightly forward, his head tilted lightly. The grim set of his mouth is shadowed as the orange light is rather flashing on the stubble along his jaw.
You are drawn by him, by something beyond logic or necessity.
It almost even feels unnecessary to acknowledge that the weeks spent together have forged a little something between you two.
And though this travel is coming to its end, the hope remains within you, that perhaps it does not also have to be the end of whatever it is.
“Princess.”
Your head snaps up at the husky sound of his voice. He tries for a smile. It looks sad.
“You’re gonna be okay.”
No. Not without you.
Maybe in another life, you’d be able to say that out loud.
****
You basically spent the night searing him to your memories.
Not even the creaking branches or the swaying leaves were able to catch your attention anymore. Only him.
You committed everything you found out about him to memory.
He didn’t seem to sleep all that much as well so you couldn’t exactly stare at him too long. But you worked with what you already picked up, tracing his features in your mind.
That would be the endearing spray of freckles along the side of his face, scattered like stars in a constellation. It’s an unforgettable map etched into his skin.
The strong and proud slope of his nose, that sometimes moves with his mouth when he speaks.
You followed it down to the fullness of his lips, plump in a way that almost makes them look gentle despite the hard set they often carry.
Then there is his smile. So mesmerizing. It starts with a tug at the corners of his lips like it is something he doesn’t want to show but can’t quite suppress. And when it breaks free, it’s devastatingly beautiful.
And his eyebrows, able to relax when he sleeps or even when a fleeting peace washes over him that oftentimes has something to do with a glance your way.
His voice is clear in your mind, gruff but low and warm when he speaks those little nicknames. He no longer laces them with mockery and hearing them always makes a light rise in your chest that heats your skin.
And his eyes. God, those eyes. You tried to name their exact shade of blue, scouring your memory for the right hue. Could it be the light blue of forget-me-nots, those little blooms always so delicate in your hand when you went to seek them out at the palace gardens? Or maybe a more cornflower deep blue, looking so alive between other shades. No, probably more a nice soft, thick, tranquil velvety blue of hydrangeas, looking royal but still so brittle. Or freesia, with their delightfully tender beauty.
None seem quite right. Yet you search anyway. Desperate to pin down something so elusive.
And the way those blue eyes would search your own. Like he is always trying to figure you out, always trying to look deeper than you are sometimes comfortable with.
Your fingers flex slightly at the memory of his touch. The rough callouses and textures of his palm were stark against your soft skin, but his touch has always been gentle. The way he would hold your cheeks, sweep his thumbs over your skin, and tend to your wound, as if you are somehow a precious thing he wants to handle with care. A choice made rather than an obligation fulfilled.
And his hair - chestnut brown, but catching glimmers of gold in the firelight. You liked to watch those wild tendrils whip around his face in the wind. You remember how it looked when dampened by sweat, still unruly, sticking to the sides of his face.
His stubble - the rugged frame along his jawline that heightens his intensity. The one he would scratch at, or run his hand along once in a while. Especially in moments of thought.
You want to remember all of it.
Getting it all in memory locked away inside your mind to access whenever you need him.
Every laugh, every glance, the smallest change in his expression.
The night tried to propel you into the inevitable future, but you put up a fight as best as you could. You lingered, documenting every detail of him, making a mental capture of his perfection. Because he’d be gone.
So you took the time of the last night with him to memorize him, wishing the memory would be forever bright behind your eyelids. Never to fade. Never to leave you alone. That somehow against the odds, he would be there with you long after this journey reaches its conclusion. If not in flesh, then in your heart forever.
But for all the silent preparations you made under the shroud of the night - fixing Bucky Barnes into the tender folds of your memory, knowing you would have to let him slip away into the corners of a life without you - nothing could have braced you for the reality of the gate that enters your vision in the distance.
It stands looming and gnarly, iron bars reaching for the sky like the black ribs of some primeval creature intent on eating you alive. It’s menacing and grating in all its ridges. Almost like Bucky himself.
The path narrows as you tread forward. And with every step, your feet grow more heavy. The earth beneath your boots will be the last reminder of this journey you are so reluctant to leave behind.
The wilderness - the forest - has become such a peculiar place of comfort, full of campfire smoke, marked with whispers, and Bucky’s omnipresence - the stable wall just half a pace in front of you right now.
He scans the terrain, letting his eyes sweep across the landscape in his animalistic way. He surveys every tree, every shadow, looking for anything threat-like that might lurk here in the bushes around you.
There is no part of him that looks unsure. But you know better now. You’ve learned to read the subtle language of his body - his silence, his pauses, the set of his jaw when he’s holding back more than he is willing to share.
Wind brushes around the silence between you.
His earlier instructions echo in your head, just before you took off again this morning. His tone was clear and clipped and detached in a way. So practical. Too practical. You’ll approach the gate together to a certain point. Guards will be waiting on the other side. They will know who you are. They will take you in.
And you will go alone.
You remember his jaw clenching, teeth-gritting with each distinct word as though it caused him actual physical pain to say it, to try and shape this farewell into something more tolerable.
But the gate is in your sight already, far off, and nothing feels tolerable about that. It feels cold even from a distance.
Your breath hitches at the hope your body is already beginning to abandon.
You will have to walk the rest of the way alone. One breath of air in, and one breath of air out for every step. A deep gulf opens within you as the grim truth of that tries to settle. Bucky will stop walking any second and watch you take your first steps through those iron bars, leaving you to the kingdom waiting beyond.
Guards will be placed there. Waiting.
For the princess.
You have to remind yourself that that’s you.
The title no longer fits, awkwardly belonging to the body that has outgrown it much like a gown delicately torn at the seams.
The girl who once danced in marble halls bedecked in jewels that sparkled like shards of stars no longer exists anymore. What is left is the stark truth of exposure - physically and mentally - and survival driven by fear and fire through and with the unforeseen solace of companionship. Perhaps even friendship if you might.
And yet, here they are, waiting for a princess.
They're prepared to welcome back their princess like you’re something valuable to be retrieved. But god, you don’t feel like it.
You feel fractured, worn down by grief and guilt and the truths you’ve come to uncover along the way. The title is a relic from your old life that people now expect you to slip into again. Like a pair of shoes. As if it would be that easy.
You briefly look over at the back of Bucky’s built, broad frame, gripped with tension. His discipline surrounds him, the protective air he wears like his brown armor. But there is something more uneasy in the way his shoulders move.
You don’t know what might await you. What fate that castle will write for you. Bucky doesn’t either. And he almost seems to hate that fact considering the way he keeps his eyes on the gate ahead.
It isn’t just a passage. It’s a threshold. Crossing it will sever something irrevocable. Leave behind everything you’ve come to rely on, everything that’s kept you steady through the burn of your ruins.
Bucky.
You don’t know how to do this without him.
Your steps falter, but Bucky’s don’t.
He presses forward almost fiercely, determined. But still so stiff. You wonder if it is easier for him this way - to keep moving, to treat this as another mission, another battle won.
But he’s no soldier anymore and this is not a mission.
He is simply a man who keeps his promises.
And it hurts.
It hurts so much.
Each step brings you nearer to the end of something special, something you haven’t even fully understood before it began to elude you.
And then Bucky stops.
Your heart might as well have stopped along with him.
He turns his gaze toward you, indecisively, slowly, as if he is unsure whether he wants you to see what waits in his eyes.
But you do see. Oh, you see. And it hits you with a force that tears the breath from your lungs.
There is a rawness there, sharp like frost - something jumbled and aching underneath all that grit and stoicism he acknowledges as a part of himself.
You thought you knew those many different shades of Bucky Barnes by now. The gruff protector, the silent watcher, the man who said more with a tilt of his head or a blink of his eyes than with words.
But this is new.
This stripped-down, unguarded version of him - brimming with something that makes your heart stutter. The pattern it's been following for weeks not making sense anymore.
Your breath stumbles in your throat, rough and halting, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Chilled fingers clench uselessly at your sides, wanting to clutch something, wanting an anchor.
There is no relief. Only him. And that is worse, since even he feels far away now, like a shoreline that seems to slip ever so farther from your reach.
Even Bucky’s stance is off. Unfamiliar. He’s always stood like bracing for a blow, feet planted firm and shoulders squared in resolution to receive whatever blow came his way. Now he stands as though bracing for something else entirely - something no less brutal, something no less punishing.
Something like heartbreak. Or at least something dangerously close to it.
The tension between you is electric with a tingling spiral that tightens with every breath neither of you seems to take.
Words hang unspoken. They force themselves against the back of your throat, refusing to be formed into that simple goodbye you both know is coming.
You drop your gaze, unable to withstand those searching eyes any longer. They fall back to the road leading through the woods into what has become a strange sort of home for you.
The trees loom big and indifferent, the breeze swishing their leaves and whooshing against your cloak.
“I have to thank you.” A shaky breath leaves you, an attempt to steady the tremor in your chest. You try to look at him. “For everything you did for me.” It comes out weak but sincere, each word trembles in its truth.
True. How heart-wrenchingly true. He has done so much more than he was ever bound to. He kept you safe. He kept you whole. And there aren’t enough words in the world to say what that means to you.
You hear the sharp intake of his breath. His head shakes. Almost quick. Almost desperate. As though trying to wave your words away before they take root.
One hand scrubs across his troubled face, ruffling his hair more aggressively than probably intended. The brown strands fall haphazardly back against his temples. Wild and beautiful.
“You don’t gotta thank me,” he rasps out finally, his voice thick.
Of course, he would think that. After all, he merely kept a promise, hadn’t he? Delivered you to safety and nothing more, like some grim knight. That’s how he would see it.
But it’s not how you see it.
“I do,” you insist, voice slightly steadier now though your heart is anything but. “In earnest. I mean it.”
You are drowning in your appreciation for this man.
You do not want him walking away from here thinking he was just a means to your own survival, that this was nothing more than duty completed.
He has been more. So much more. And he deserves to know that.
The tendons in Bucky’s neck strain as his jaw stiffens further. Muscles in his face jump.
But he doesn’t look away. His blue eyes - blue like forget-me-nots and cornflowers and every flower you’ve ever tried to compare them to - flit between yours, looking for cracks, for lies. But there are none.
Silence crashes back in again. And something appears to be shifting in it. It’s not goodbye yet, not quite - but it’s close. So close you can feel it brushing against your skin so frigidly final.
You wonder if he feels it too.
Remembering, you shrug off the dark cloak around your shoulders. He bought it for you at that market so long ago - or perhaps not so long. Time has become rather vague on this journey, but that day stands crystalline in your memory. The warmth of his unexpected gesture. The protection it symbolized. The way he did it without a blink.
But you can’t keep it. It’s no longer yours. And he can use it far better if he continues on his journey to wherever it will take him next.
But before the fabric can fully slip off your shoulders, Bucky’s hands tighten it back around. Making sure it sits properly. His hands linger on your shoulders.
“No,” he says firmly, gritting his teeth slightly. He shakes his head once.
“You should take it back.”
“No,” he repeats, still sternly but quieter. “It’s yours.”
You snap your mouth back shut at the insistent way he stares at you. Letting your hands drop from the fabric, Bucky adjusts it another time before slowly moving his arms back to his side.
His eyes sweep over you. Meticulous. Unhurried. It makes your heart stutter painfully.
He seems to be doing what you have been trying to do - committing you to memory. Tracing every line of your face, every shot of emotion that passes through your eyes, and tucking it away where it will be safe.
The moment feels suspended. Infinite. But fond.
This was never meant to last.
But it hurts like hell that it’s ending.
And so you linger. Just a second longer, you tell yourself. Unsure how to step away from the place you’ve both come to, where the boundary between protector and protected has long since blurred into something softer, more human.
You’ve tried to brace yourself for this moment in a hundred quiet ways - attaching him to a place in your mind, memorizing the cadence of his breaths and the rough edges of his voice - none of it has prepared you for how impossible it feels now that it’s there.
You don’t want to say goodbye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
You can’t let this moment pass by without trying to hold onto it for just a little longer. Even if it doesn’t make the ache go away.
“What will you do now?” Your voice is bordering on tipping over but you try to keep it even enough. “Where will you go?”
You do want to know. Even if curiosity isn’t the whole of it. Maybe knowing will help make sense of losing him. Maybe if you can picture him somewhere - walking new roads, finding new places - you won’t have to carry your carved-out heart around all the time.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks past you, his face fixed somewhere in the distance. There is a crease in his brow. His fingers flex absently like he is working something through. For a moment, it seems he won’t answer at all.
“I’ve got a place to go, darlin',” he utters finally, the term slipping out as naturally as breath. “Don’t you worry about me.”
But there is something strange about the way he says it. Something weighted. An odd note in his voice that catches on the corners of your heart and refuses to let go. His voice is too quiet, the syllables too thick with meaning he doesn’t name. There is an implacable sadness around the words. So much thought. Something mournful lingers there, as if he might be grieving something. A thought he never dared to say out loud. A question he never dared to ask. And now never will.
It makes the ache in your chest fester and rip at the same time, urging you forward even though you don’t know where this conversation will lead. “You could stay here,” you offer. “Maybe for a while.”
You approached the suggestion timidly, like a leaf teetering on falling. You’ve made it sound careful, hesitant, afraid of disturbing whatever delicacy remains between you.
Bucky stands frozen. Head slightly bowed. His breath catches, a sound that is more of a sharp exhale than a laugh. Breathless, lacking any real mirth. Disbelieving. His head tilts lower toward the ground, perhaps searching for something there, something grounding. His shoulders shake subtly, as if he needs a second to pull himself back together.
When he lifts his head again, there is a tightness in his throat you can see in the effort it takes him to swallow.
“You know that won’t be possible, your Highness.”
Well, that hurt.
There’s a punch to your gut. There’s a stab to your heart. There’s a blow to your head.
All at the same time.
It leaves you bleeding so deeply, you don’t know how you’re still standing.
It leaves you gaping. With your heart in your hands. With your blood dripping to the dirty and leaves-covered floor.
His words don’t slice you open because they are mocking. God, that would be easier to dismiss.
No. His words pain you because there is no mockery at all.
None of his usual teasing lilt. No wry amusement or humor curling around his voice.
It’s gone. Everything stripped away until nothing is left but the sincere intent. He didn’t even call you princess. He called you what he was expected to call you. And he meant it.
He addressed you as a princess. As the most important person to your father's kingdom now that the king and queen are dead.
The persona you have distanced yourself from.
The persona you’ll have to step back into.
You’re so hurt you can’t breathe.
Because in that one utterance, he’s already bid you goodbye. Made it real in a way that spins you around, gutted and rootless.
In your ears, your heart beats to the thunder of a title that expects too much of you. It drums against your skin, as if in revulsion to your existence or perhaps the existence you are expected to have now.
And just like that, the freedom you hoped to have found in this forest - the warmth of the fire, the shared moments, passing glances - cracks apart and slips further from reach.
You want to protest, to tell him titles shouldn’t matter, not after everything you’ve experienced together. But his voice has been so pained.
And that’s the most heartbreaking part of it all. Because you know Bucky Barnes is a man who will carry this goodbye quietly, tucked deep into the hollow places of himself where no one will ever see it.
And you’re afraid that’s exactly what you’ll have to do too.
Because he is not meant to walk that path with you.
You try to hide and swallow the sting his words have caused.
But the pain that crossed your features has already been detected by Bucky.
And before you can step back, he leans toward you, closing the small space.
His hands lift without hesitation, large palms brushing against your skin as he cups your face between them. The hard lines of his fingers are familiar. So is the tenderness in which he holds you. He smells of pine and ash and Bucky. He is so close. Almost pressed up against you.
And your breath catches at the warmth seeping from him, at the fierce storm in his eyes. Remorse and sorrow bleed into the blue, shimmering with a kind of sympathy that nearly makes your knees buckle.
You can’t look away. He won’t let you.
And god, you wish he would, because this moment is everything and nothing you were ready for.
“You listen to me, darlin',” Bucky rumbles out, voice low and rough, with a gentleness that has you floating around his orbit. There is determination in his gaze. Not for himself, but for you. “You’re not your father. You’re not even like your mother. And that’s good. That’s good, because you’re better. Better than all the fools that’ll try to tell you otherwise.”
Your breath shudders against your lips. He leans in even further. Forget-me-nots actually do capture his eye color pretty well. You will have to find those flowers in your new gardens.
“You show 'em that,” he urges, though he still takes his time with telling you. Making his conviction come across. His thumbs brush ever so lightly against your cheekbones. “Make 'em believe it. I know you will.”
His belief wraps around your shattering heart, holding it together even as cracks threaten to tear open.
“You’re gonna be okay.” There was a slight waver in his voice but he caught it. “You are what these people need. Keep that in mind, yeah?”
His words are so achingly earnest. They have you teetering on the verge of tears.
“Yes,” you breathe out, giving him a nod. Just in case that whisper did not even reach him.
You feel something bloom inside you. Wildflowers perhaps, the color of all those you have spotted throughout your travel with this man. They push through cracks in stone and fill some of those spaces you had thought were left to be hollow forever.
The muscles in your jaw are trembling. They want to spill out a sob or a laugh or something else. But you hold firm.
Still, your breaths are released in shivers.
He believes you to be strong. He believes you to be your own powerful person without being shadowed by the ghosts of your parents.
And yet, there is something you spot in his eyes that you don’t want to see there. It’s a flicker of doubt. A tiny glimmer of self-deprecation that tells you he is convinced he is not part of that strength. And that he will never be.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, aching to reach for him, but you don’t dare move.
His eyes are still rooting you to the spot.
His breaths are mingling with yours.
The unrelenting blue of his eyes is so intently drawn to your own gaze.
There is nothing but him.
His touch sets every nerve in your body ablaze, buzzing with a tension so fierce it’s impossible to overcome.
You feel it thrumming between you. A crackling pull.
His eyes flicker down to your lips. And before you know it, your own eyes betray you as well. You trace his plump red mouth. Like poppy flowers. You would have to find those too.
He feels closer. The space between your faces is shrinking. So tentatively.
Your heart races wildly and you feel the rise and fall of his chest against your own.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly against your skin, seemingly torn between letting go and pulling you closer.
You want to close the distance.
You want him to close the distance.
A wave of sensation sweeps through your spine, leaving your skin tingling.
It would be so easy. Just lean up a tiny bit and press yourself against his lips. You already seem to be standing on your tippy toes anyway.
You could let this moment become something even more tangible and real, something you could carry with you in the spaces of your heart reserved just for him.
His lips hover just a breath away from yours, and you can feel the warmth of him. Everywhere. You feel him everywhere. His breath fans over your face so sweetly.
You both know where this is leading.
And unfortunately, you both know why this can’t happen.
Before your lips get the chance to fully touch, he pulls back. Slowly at first. Only an inch, studying your reaction, flipping his eyes between yours so rapidly you can’t keep up.
But then, reluctantly, he lets you go and takes a step back. His hands fall to his sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.
This is the end of the road.
If you fall into his arms now, it will only make the parting more difficult.
But it’s still not even nearly easy.
With a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and pull the cloak tighter around yourself. Just so you have something to do.
A gust of chilly wind hits you and you miss his touch in an instant. You feel removed. Cold.
You’ll carry this hurt, just as you will carry him. Just not behind the same door.
The space between you seems haunted now.
Like something has been stolen from the both of you.
You feel like you’re about to be pressed into the earth.
You know this is the part where you have to go. Where fate and duty carve their lines through your shared path, splitting it in two directions. He takes one half of your heart along with him.
Bucky’s eyes remain steadfast on you. Shadows are turning in and out of his gaze. He watches everything - the wind pulling at your cloak, the slight tremble of your lips, the desperate defiance in your gaze as though willing this not to be the last time.
Breath quivering, you force yourself to stand taller, chin lifted, although you don’t feel like it.
You don’t want to walk away. You don’t want this to end. But it has to. It always had to.
Your voice is thin and brittle like the last leave holding onto a winter branch. “Goodbye, Bucky,” you breathe.
And it still tastes inadequate on your tongue. It doesn’t hold even a fraction of what you truly feel, of what he’s come to mean to you.
Bucky’s movement is a slow gesture of a nod, almost seeming to store this moment away in a secure place deep within him. “Goodbye, darlin'.”
You take a step back, each inch widening a chasm between you. The pain is an entity that breathes inside your chest. Your legs are stiff, the earth not wanting to let you leave itself.
When you are about to turn, your throat clogs and his voice catches you in your tracks.
“Do me one favor, will you?”
You pivot cautiously, meeting his gaze. “Anything.”Fracture lines your voice. But you make it sound resolute. You’ll hold whatever he gives you tightly in your heart where it will live forever.
The corners of his mouth lift into a ghost of a smile. It’s feeble and laden with sorrow. It holds his final goodbye. The sight takes the wind right out of you.
Summary : You finally found your intellectual match in Bucky Barnes.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x rare book dealer!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : You and Bucky are nerds (affectionate), mentions of his past. Sexual tension-filled philosophical debate. DC comics exist in the MCU as literature as per the guardians Christmas special lol. Cursing? Steamy not smut. Fluff!!!!
Word count : 5.7k
Note : This fic was inspired by that one scene in FATWS where Bucky said he read the hobbit. I just really like the idea that Bucky really really likes to read. Enjoy!
Rare books were not just a job to you, but a vocation. You spent your days seeking out treasures, preserving them, and connecting them with people who could truly appreciate their worth. Your little shop was a haven of creaking wooden floors and shelves brimming with the worn spines of countless literary works, sunlight streaming through the tall windows.
It was your home.
On a quiet Tuesday, the bell over the door jingled.
At first, you assumed the man who walked in was lost or killing time— maybe a tourist who thought your shop was an antique or souvenir shop (you’ve gotten a lot of those over the years).
He didn’t fit your usual profile of a customer—no tweed jackets or scholarly glasses. No suit and tie, no clean white blouse. This one was confident, albeit rough on the edges. His leather jacket and heavy boots belonged in a biker gang, his long hair brushing beautifully against his shoulders. But it was his left arm that drew your gaze—a sleek, black metal hand peeking out of his sleeve, rippling slightly when he moved.
You recognized him instantly: James Buchanan Barnes.
The former Winter Soldier.
A man who belonged to history books and legends. Seeing him in person was... surreal. No article had prepared you for the magnetism he carried, no photo did him justice.
Still, you weren’t one to swoon. And you definitely weren’t about to let him see you staring a little too long into his steely blue eyes.
“Can I help you?” you asked, keeping your voice calm and professional.
For a second, he seemed to weigh whether or not to answer. “I’m looking for a first edition of The Hobbit.”
You blinked.
That wasn’t what you’d expected.
“It’s in the case over here,” you replied, recovering quickly. You led him to the glass display where one of your most cherished possessions lay nestled, secure and pristine.
He muttered something like ‘just like I remember’ as he gazed at the book, his voice close to reverence.
“Big fan?” you ventured, curious.
His lips curved up, into a faint smile. He nodded. “Always admired how he built entire worlds. The languages, the histories.” He hesitated, his voice growing quieter. “He lived through hell in the trenches, too. And from that, he wrote something… hopeful.”
You hadn’t expected that depth of understanding, and your surprise must have been obvious. “What?” he asked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think I’d be the type?”
This was going to be fun, you thought.
You shrugged, trying to suppress a grin, “you’re not exactly my usual Tolkien collector.”
That earned you a sweet, gentle chuckle. “I didn’t think I’d be either, but I’ve always loved books,” he admitted, “They were one of the only constants after...” His voice faltered, remnants of his past briefly flashing behind his eyes.
You didn’t press. Instead, you followed his lead, steering the conversation back to Tolkien. “You're right about the worldbuilding. He wrote a full mythology— linguistic and cultural foundations and all. It’s like he created an alternate history.”
“Exactly.” Bucky’s smile returned, brighter this time. It had been ages since Bucky had an engaging, meaningful conversation that wasn’t about mission planning, let alone about a book. The heated, faceless debates with internet strangers—each convinced they were ultimately correct—definitely didn’t count. “It’s that attention to detail— You don’t see that much anymore.”
After that, the two of you fell into a rhythm, talking easily for nearly an hour. About Tolkien’s works, his love for language, and the way war had shaped his narratives. You even mentioned how Tolkien’s own experiences in World War I echoed the camaraderie and loss found in his stories. Bucky nodded along, sharing personal observations that surprised you—not just because of their insight, but because of how much he genuinely cared.
Back in the day, everyone saw Bucky as the classic jock, and to be fair, he was. But beneath the effortless charm, he was a nerd at heart—fascinated by books, obsessed with science, and captivated by innovation. It was Bucky who had dragged Steve along to the World Exposition of Tomorrow, it was Bucky who was eager to see Howard Stark’s presentation on flying cars. Back then, the future had been his fixation. It had been out of reach— a world of endless possibilities.
Now, he was drawn to the past.
He’d fallen in love with reading again. After all, he had a century of literature to catch up on. And with the internet at his fingertips, he had access to more knowledge and stories than he could have dreamed of.
40s Bucky would’ve had a heart attack from the sheer volume of information he could consume. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just chasing a vision of what might be—he was immersing himself in what already was.
Eventually, the conversation drifted to The Lord of the Rings.
“Did you read the trilogy?” you asked.
He nodded. “Only a couple of years ago. I didn’t even realize it was published after… everything.” He paused, frowning slightly, as if reaching into the murky depths of his memory.
Right. You did a quick mental tally based on the books you’ve read about him. The Hobbit was published in 1937, and The Fellowship of the Ring in 1954. Bucky was presumed killed in action in 1945 and captured by a terrorist organization. So, yeah—he’d missed it.
“Hydra,” you said the thought allowed before you could stop yourself.
You winced, bracing for impact. Oh no, you thought, have I crossed a line?
“You read about me?” he asked to your surprise, likely catching you deep in thought.
You shrugged, trying to play it cool, though your heart still beat out your chest. “Superheroes are a popular topic for peer-reviewed journals and doctoral theses. There’s a whole academic subfield about the Winter Soldier— a lot about your role in the war, too.”
His expression was unreadable, but you thought you saw a flicker of something— amusement? Whatever it was, it eased the tension you had accidentally created, and the conversation resumed.
You’ve read plenty about Bucky Barnes—the sharpshooter of the Howling Commandos, Captain America’s trusted sniper. You’ve probably read more about him in the modern age: scholars debating the pardon of the Winter Soldier, professors discussing the Sokovia Accords— a conflict in which he’d been a major player in. You’d disagreed with the Accords, of course, but that’s a story for another time.
Right now, your focus was on the man in front of you, talking about Tolkien and his wonderful languages. See, the peer-reviewed articles about him had painted a stark picture: a kind soul turned into a cold, unfeeling weapon. But they neglected to mention that even after everything, he was still a kind soul. In person, it was hard to reconcile the man before you with the image of a killer.
The paper also failed to mention a pleasant surprise: his mind. You realised now that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a soldier; he was sharp, curious, a man who loved literature and sought out conversations that challenged him. It was something the world overlooked.
Yet it was there, just beneath the surface.
“Have you read the Silmarillion?” you ventured.
“I tried,” He grimaced. “Felt like reading a textbook. Not sure I even made it halfway.”
“That’s fair,” you admitted with a laugh. “It’s not the easiest read. But it’s worth it, I promise.”
Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t shut the idea down, either.
You made a snap decision. Reaching behind the counter, you pulled out your personal copy of The Silmarillion. It wasn’t a rare edition, but it was filled with your notes in the margins, a map you’d sketched for reference, and little Post-its marking key passages. “Take this,” you offered, holding it out to him.
He hesitated, not used to kindness from beautiful strangers. “You sure?”
“Absolutely. Hopefully the notes will make it easier. And don’t even worry about returning it,” you nodded, “It’s probably for the best. I obsess over it too much.”
He took the book, his metal fingers brushing against yours as he did, making your stomach flutter. “Thanks.”
“And if you’re curious about all those papers written about you...” You looked through bookmarks on your laptop, typing ‘James Barnes’ into the search bar. You jotted down a list of academic articles you’d read— some about his time in WWII, others about his unique role as a postwar icon. “Here. If you want to see what people are saying.”
He smiled that kind smile again, folding the paper carefully and tucked it into his jacket. “I appreciate it.”
When he left with the first edition of The Hobbit, your annotated Silmarillion, and your list of articles about him, you found yourself staring at the door long after it had closed, hoping it wasn’t the last time he’d visit your shop.
—
Bucky started coming in more frequently, always buying another rare book— Hemingway, Orwell, Lovecraft. The pretense was paper-thin, though, and you both knew it.
Sure, he enjoyed books, but by that point he knew he could’ve gotten cheaper copies on a bid online (rent in a big city was expensive)— and the books he bought weren't even that rare.
Each visit turned into a lengthy discussion that carried you through the night, far past the shop’s usual closing time.
One afternoon, he returned something unexpected: your well-worn copy of The Silmarillion. Admittedly, you’d missed it— its once-pristine pages now brimming with additional notations—his handwriting mixing with yours.
“I had to,” he said, an almost sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Your notes made me see it differently. It felt like a conversation.”
You opened it, thumbing through the pages, your eyes catching his commentary. He had sharp, incisive thoughts: challenging some of your interpretations, expanding on others, and sometimes adding playful jabs in the margins when he disagreed with your analysis.
“This is dangerous,” you said, glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Do you really want a debate about Tolkienian theology?”
“I’ve got time, doll,” he said with a grin, settling onto the stool by the counter. Your cheeks flushed at the nickname, hearts doing backflips in your ribcage.
And so, that evening, you indulged in the mind of James Buchanan Barnes, exploring his thoughts and musings about Middle-earth. For the next two hours, the two of you argued about the nature of Ilúvatar’s creation, the Fëanor tragic story, and whether or not Morgoth represented a failure of divine providence.
“I’ll admit,” he said at one point, leaning back and crossing his arms, “I wasn’t expecting it to feel so... biblical.”
“It’s a way to think about creation through the lens of fantasy,” you replied, your voice softening as you traced your fingers over the book’s cover. “There’s a reason people get lost in it.”
He watched you for a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile fading into something softer.
It wasn’t the only time your conversations would take a turn like this. A week later, gothic monsters were your battlefield.
Bucky leaned against the counter, an old edition of Dracula he had just purchased in his hands, the worn leather squeaking as he shifted. His brow furrowed in that way that always made you wonder what he was thinking— though you had a feeling he was about to pick a fight, again.
“You’re out of your mind if you think Frankenstein beats Dracula,” he said, glancing up, his blue eyes gleaming with mischief.
“I’m not saying they’re even comparable,” you countered, crossing your arms as you leaned against the opposite side of the counter. “They’re completely different genres. It’s not a fair fight. But if it were... Frankenstein wins. Hands down.”
Bucky chuckled, a low, warm sound that made it impossible not to smile. “You think that because you’re obsessed with sci-fi. If it’s got a fake scientist and a lot of regret, you’re sold.”
“And you think Dracula is better because it’s all dark and broody,” you shot back, arching an eyebrow, “sound familiar?” You smirked, mirroring his stance against the opposite side of the counter. “Besides, Frankenstein is a masterpiece—philosophy, morality, hubris—it’s got layers. What’s Dracula got? Melodrama?”
“Hey! Dracula has layers!” Bucky chuckled low in his throat, setting the book down. “It’s about primal fear, wrapped in ancient powers, wrapped again in the clash between tradition and modernity.”
“It is enjoyable, I must admit, but it’s just a glorified soap opera.” You groaned, though your lips twitched in spite of yourself. “Shelley’s work makes you think, you know? It’s art.”
“Art?!” he repeated, stepping closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “It’s a guy making bad decisions and spending the rest of the book dodging the consequences.”
You straightened, eyes narrowing. “It’s about responsibility! The monster is a reflection of Victor’s failure. He’s abandoned and searching for connection—”
“And whining about it,” Bucky interrupted with a smirk, folding his arms. “Dracula doesn’t whine.”
The playful sparring faded when it hit you.
Frankenstein’s monster was created without consent, shaped into something he never chose to be. He was cast out, left to navigate a world that saw him as a mistake. The monster was isolated— burdened by guilt—the question of whether he was defined by the harm he’d done.
“Does he…” you started, gulping, unsure of how he’d react to an outright observation. “Does Frankenstein’s monster make you uncomfortable?”
As you stepped closer, his expression faltered, his eyes dropping to the book in his hands. Slowly, he set it aside, the movement deliberate. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold surface of his metal arm before resting there gently. “Does it hit too close to home?” you asked.
He didn’t deny it. A quiet laugh escaped him instead. He shook his head. “You’re too damn perceptive for your own good,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a longing for something you couldn’t quite place.
Your fingers moved in slow circles against his metal hand, and when it twitched beneath your touch, you knew he felt it—knew he felt you.
“The monster was never the villain,” you said, a fragile offering meant to soothe him. “He just needed someone to see him. He can be kind, too.”
His gaze lifted, locking onto yours, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes stole the air from your lungs. For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Then Bucky’s smirk returned, smaller this time, as he leaned into your touch as if he craved it. “Nice try,” he said, voice lighter but still soft. “You’re not winning this one. Dracula’s better.”
You laughed, the tension breaking just enough to let you breathe again. “You’re impossible, Barnes.”
—
You were afraid you had scared him off after that, but to your surprise, he returned a week later, albeit a bit bruised from a mission.
You’d been reshelving old graphic novels that day (First Edition Hergé that you were quite excited by), the quiet hum of the shop wrapping you in comfortable silence, when you caught sight of him out of the corner of your eye. His dark leather jacket hung slightly open, revealing a plain gray shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to draw your eyes. There was a faint cut near his jaw, still healing.
“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary. “You look beautiful today. Is that a new dress?”
Your breath caught, and a warmth crept up your neck as you glanced down at the simple, flowy dress you’d chosen that morning. “It is,” you admitted, looking back up at him with a shy smile. “Thanks for noticing.”
“Hard not to,” he murmured, his lips curving into a small, almost teasing smile before he turned toward the shelves.
You busied yourself with reshelving more books behind the counter, but you couldn’t help watching him out of the corner of your eye. His human hand traced idly along the spines, careful not to inflict damage. When he stopped, he plucked a rare-ish pocket 6th edition of Thus Spake Zarathustra from the shelf, his metal fingers glinting faintly in the light of the shop.
“You actually like this guy?” he asked quietly, lifting the book like he was sharing a secret.
“Like is a strong word,” you said, stepping out from behind the ladder. His gaze caught yours, and there was a flicker of something playful in those blue eyes. Your pulse quickened, beckoning him to the counter. “He was no saint, but hardly anyone is. I… appreciate his contribution. It’s not his fault people misuse his work.”
Bucky had witnessed it firsthand: fascists distorting Nietzsche's philosophy, disregarding its complexities, and twisting his ideas into a justification for genocide.
His lips turned upward, a lopsided grin that softened the sharpness of his jaw. His stance shifted, leaning against the counter with a practiced ease. His eyes flickered, taking you in, and when you crossed your arms, his gaze lingered briefly, enough to spark a bubbling heat beneath your skin.
“You don’t think Nietzsche was a proto-fascist, do you?” you asked, tilting your head.
“God, no,” he said quickly, amusement softening his voice. His grin spread, revealing the faintest cute dimple in his cheek. “I’ve read enough to know better. But I don’t exactly buy the Übermensch thing either. It’s too... self-centered for my taste. The whole idea of being ‘beyond good and evil’ feels dangerous.”
“That’s fair,” you said, closing the distance between you as you reached for the book in his hand. Your fingers brushed his as you slipped it from his grasp, his touch warm, steady, almost deliberate. His eyes flickered down to where your hands had met. “There are many flaws in his thinking, but I don’t think the concept is inherently bad,” you continued, the air between you charged with tension. You tilted the book toward him, as though showing him something, though you both knew you weren’t really focused on the pages. “It’s about striving for a better version of yourself. I think he wanted people to create their own meaning, not follow blindly.”
“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted closer, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet room. His metal hand rested at his side, the vibranium gleaming faintly as his other hand inched forward, almost brushing yours.
His breath fanned your cheek as he leaned in, close enough now that you could see the stubble along his jaw, the way his lashes framed those blue eyes. “But there’s something so… wrong about thinking you’re the one who gets to decide what’s right,” he whispered, his voice like a secret meant only for you.
He was close, dangerously so— that you could feel his breath on your nose.
The bell above the door chimed suddenly, breaking the moment like shattered glass. Dr. Hart, a lecturer from the local university, stepped inside, a bundle of papers tucked under her arm, and smiled in greeting.
She was a returning customer, here to pick up a special edition of Conversation on Botany that you had tracked down for her.
“That’s $40, Mr. Barnes,” You took a small, steadying breath and waved at Hart with a thumbs up that said I’ve got your book.
His lips twitched into a knowing smile. Hr reached for his wallet, pulling out a few bills. As he handed them to you, his fingers brushed yours again.
“I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his voice soft, almost teasing.
—
The tipping point came late one evening.
You’d spent the last few hours catalouging a shipment of rare books, the shop’s air thick with the comforting scent of old leather, yellowing paper, and the faint hint of dust that always seemed to cling to ancient texts. The shop was silent save for the scratch of your pen against paper as you logged the latest arrival.
The peace shattered with the familiar jingle of the bell above the door.
“Shop’s closed,” you said without looking up, your voice automatic, your focus still on the fragile spine of a sixteenth-century text.
“Good thing I’m not here to shop,” came the deep, unmistakable voice of Bucky Barnes.
Your hand froze, an involuntary smile tugging at your lips. You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe with that trademark blend of casual confidence and smoldering intensity. His black Henley stretched across his chest, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms—a sight you tried not to dwell on for too long.
“What are you here for, then?” you asked, arching an eyebrow as you tried to sound indifferent.
“Conversation,” he said simply, stepping further inside.
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you returned to your work. “You came all the way here just to talk?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he teased, his lips turning into a sly smile as he perched on the edge of your desk. “I was in the neighborhood.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t bother responding. Bucky always had a way of pulling your attention, and tonight was no different. You tried to focus on the delicate bindings in front of you, but his overwhelming presence was impossible to ignore.
When he reached for a book from the nearby stack—a copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius—you finally gave in.
“Stoicism?” you asked, your tone light with playful mockery.
He flipped the book open, his fingers grazing the thin pages. “You’re really surprised? I thought you’d figure that about me,” he said, glancing up at you with a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Marcus Aurelius had a lot to say about self-control.”
“And yet here you are…” you replied, gesturing to where he was leaning across your workspace, a soft furrow of amusement on your eyebrows. You decided you could be flirty— eyeing the undone button of his Henley, showing a hint of his skin underneath. “...testing mine.”
The corners of his mouth curved. “Guess I’m doing my part to help you practice.”
You shook your head, half-smiling. “It’s not just about self-control, now is it? It’s about accepting what you can’t change.”
He tilted his head, agreeing with you. “Or a way to stop drowning in things you can’t fix.”
From there, the conversation unfurled like a thread you couldn’t stop pulling. Philosophy, morality, the nature of good and evil—it didn’t take long before you were fully engrossed, debating with a ferocity that surprised even you. Bucky was sharp, quick-witted, and maddeningly good at challenging your points. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he’d counter with something so precise, so well-argued, that you couldn’t help but admire his mind.
As the debate shifted, you sat on your desk, its surface cluttered with books that were hard to find, but not rare enough to be put in a glass case. Your focus was solely on Bucky, who was pacing the room with measured steps, his hands brushing against the edges of shelves every so often as though grounding himself.
“Alright,” you said, leaning forward, crossing your legs. “Here’s a question for you: Should Batman kill the Joker?”
Slowly, he turned and walked closer to you, his shoes thudding softly against the floor. He stopped just short of your legs, leaning forward slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, making your pulse quicken.
Oh, that piqued his interest.
“I should’ve known you’d bring up Batman.” Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, eyeing up the first print of 90s DC comics in the corner of the room that hadn’t been there two days ago— a fresh delivery, perhaps? You were always very topical, and the recent restocks somehow always made their way into conversation.
“It’s a valid moral dilemma,” you said, straightening, your chin lifting slightly.
He tilted his head, his expression a blend of amusement and challenge. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Of course he should,” You didn’t hesitate, the answer rolling off your tongue with absolute conviction. “The Joker is a mass murderer. Every time Batman spares him, more people die. His refusal to act is just as bad as pulling the trigger himself.”
Bucky’s smile lingered, but his gaze grew darker, ever so slightly. “So you’re saying Batman’s refusal to kill makes him complicit?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, leaning in slightly, the heat of the argument pulling you closer. “Batman’s morality is Kantian—rigid rules and all. But if he were more… utilitarian, he’d save more lives. The greatest good for the greatest number. One life to save countless others.”
“That kind of math doesn’t scare you?” Bucky asked, leaning back as though to put some distance between you, though his eyes stayed locked on yours. “Once you start deciding whose lives matter more, where do you stop?”
“It’s not about worth,” you argued, the intensity rippling from him unnerving but impossible to look away from. “It’s about outcomes. If you can prevent suffering, don’t you have a responsibility to do it?”
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve. His jaw clicked a bit, tightening as he considered your words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, shyer.
“If that’s your stance, then maybe someone should’ve killed the Winter Soldier years ago.”
His words hit you like a punch in the gut, your breath catching. The implication of his statement filled the room, coiling tight around your chest.
“Bucky,” you said quickly, panic creeping into your voice, your fingers twitching toward him but freezing halfway. “That’s not—”
The corner of his mouth curved into a small, fragile smile. “Relax,” he said, holding up a hand, his voice dipping into something gentler. “I’m not offended. This is just a debate, right?”
“It’s not the same,” you insisted, your voice gentler, almost pleading. You stood from your desk, hesitation in your chest as you reached out— you were scared he might pull away, “you were brainwashed.” Slowly, you pressed your hand to his cheek, his stubble rough beneath your palm. It was a wordless apology—a pathetic attempt to comfort, to reach him where words had failed.
To your surprise, he didn’t stop you. Instead, he leaned into your touch.
Bucky, slid his arm around your waist, testing the waters. His eyes flicked to yours, searching for any sign of rejection, any hint that he’d crossed a line. But there were none. Instead, the subtle hitch in your breath and the way you leaned into him told him everything he needed to know.
He shook his head, rubbing soft circles on your hip as if to say you’re okay. This conversation is more than okay. “But in the grand scheme of utilitarianism, it shouldn’t matter, right? My life was a liability. More people would’ve been saved if I hadn’t been around to hurt them.”
His words settled over you like a storm cloud. The silence stretched, your carefully crafted argument unraveling in the face of his lived experience.
He leaned forward then, bridging the space between you, his arm pinning you in place. “Maybe I understand Batman better than most,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “Killing someone doesn’t always fix what’s broken. It just leaves you with blood on your hands.”
Your throat tightened, the words sticking. He was too close now, the tension between you buzzing like a static current.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but he heard it.
“Don’t be.” His words were soft as he pulled you closer. There was always a hint of warmth in his eyes, an unspoken kindness you admired.
The room felt smaller now, more heated. You opened your mouth to respond, but his words had stolen all the air from your lungs.
He leaned in, his voice dropping. “It’s easy to talk about morality in the abstract. But when you’re staring someone in the face—when it’s a real person, and not just an idea—it gets a lot harder to play God.”
Shit.
He was right.
Maybe utilitarianism wasn’t a steadfast rule. Maybe it couldn’t be, not when you factored in the messy, unpredictable depths of human existence. Lives weren’t just numbers to balance on a scale—they were stories, choices, pain, hope. And Bucky… Bucky was proof of that.
Your thoughts churned as you looked at him.
You felt your conviction unravel. It wasn’t just that his argument was sound—though it was (infuriatingly so)—it was the way he’d delivered it, the personal truth lending it undeniable power. And that’s when it hit you. That’s why you found him so damn attractive.
Sure, he was gorgeous. The sharp lines of his jawline, the piercing blue of his eyes, the way his Henley stretched over his shoulders like it had been designed with him in mind. But that wasn’t it. Not entirely.
It was him. His humanity. His thoughtfulness. The kindness that softened the edges, the depth that came from wrestling with his own darkness and coming out better on the other side.
And he was brilliant. For the first time, you felt like you’d met your match. Someone who met you on your turf and stood his ground, someone who didn’t just nod along or agree to avoid conflict. Someone who could challenge you, who could look you in the eye and make you see the world differently.
You thought you’d built your worldview on unshakable foundations, but he’d cracked it wide open, and now all you could do was stare at him with the dawning realisation that this wasn’t just attraction. It was something deeper, something that terrified and thrilled you in equal measure.
He wasn’t just a match for you physically; he was your intellectual equal—a rare kind of connection that made your pulse race and left your thoughts spinning.
Before you could stop yourself, before you could think it through, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It was impulsive—a collision of lips born from the fiery tension that had simmered between you for weeks. It was everything unsaid, every glance, every near touch that had lingered just a fraction too long, all boiling over in one moment. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, but then something in him snapped. His hands found you, pulling you closer, his grip possessive, almost desperate. Your hands made their way through the soft strands of his hair, landing comfortably around his neck.
The kiss, slow at first, quickly became frantic. Neither of you could get enough. The only thing that mattered was him—his lips on yours, his touch, the way his body pressed against you like a promise.
When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead rested against yours, his lips curled into a breathless smile. For a second, he could forget about everything that has happened to him. For a second, he was truly, utterly safe in your arms.
“I didn’t think you were the type to kiss someone in the middle of a moral argument about Batman,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips grazing yours with every word, sending shivers down your spine.
“And I didn’t think you’d let me,” you replied, your voice laced with a mischievous edge.
His eyes darkened, his smile widening just enough to make your heart race before he closed the distance again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. This time, it wasn’t careful or calculated—it was raw, fervent, consuming. Your back hit the desk behind you, his hands sliding around your waist and around the curve of your bum, firm and deliberate, setting every nerve in your body on fire.
“The books,” he mumbled against your lips, glancing at the teetering stack beside you, the volumes threatening to topple.
“I don’t care,” you said breathlessly, and to prove your point, you swiped the entire stack to the floor with a crash. The sound echoed, but you barely heard it over the roaring thump of your heartbeat in your ears.
They weren’t too rare. You’ll just put them on the discount aisle tomorrow.
His response was a low, guttural groan, his lips finding yours again, His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your head tilt back, exposing the sensitive curve of your neck. He didn’t waste the opportunity, his lips and teeth trailing along your skin, finding the spot just below your ear that made you gasp.
“Did I manage to change your mind this time?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brushed against your jaw, then lower, tracing a heated path along your collarbone.
You managed a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping under his shirt to trace the veins under his skin, his muscles tensing under your touch. “Okay, so maybe ‘the greatest good for the greatest number’ isn’t always the best approach when you’re the one holding the short end of the categorical imperative,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.
His laugh was husky, his hands lower to grip your thighs, pushing himself flush against you. “God, you’re something else,” he said, his lips finding yours again, this time slower, deeper, as though savoring you. When he finally pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “Do you want to go on a date?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “You’re seriously asking me that now?” you asked, breathless. With your hands trailing over the planes of his chest, his breath mingling with yours, it seemed a bit out of order, but you weren’t about to complain.
“Yes,” he said, his words dead serious despite the way his hands clutched at your shirt, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He kissed the spot slowly, firmly, making your legs feel numb. “I mean it,” he added, his voice softer, yet no less insistent.
You let out a breathless laugh, tugging him into another kiss, the kind that left no room for doubt about your answer. “Then yes,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing as you pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “We’re going to have a lot to talk about.”
And boy, were you excited to talk to this man— a man who could turn the simplest circumstances into a philosophical debate, someone who wasn’t afraid to dispute your ideals.
Someone who was your match.
“Later,” he rasped, his voice gravelly with need, his hands trailing up to tug his henley over his head in one fluid motion. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs, but you didn’t have time to appreciate it before he was kissing you again, his bare skin pressed against you as he lifted your shirt off. “We can talk later.”
Synopsis: When Bucky returns home after a mission, his unexpected transformation leaves you speechless and you can’t help but tease him about it. As playful banter shifts to deep, tender moments, your desire and frustration collide in an encounter that leaves you breathless, unable to resist the pull of a love that refuses to age.
Word Count: 2.5k
Author’s note: I was thinking about young Bucky... and the rest is history. Please enjoy and let me know what you think!
Not even the whirlwind of your day could dull the thrill bubbling inside you as you climbed the familiar steps of your Brooklyn walk-up. Your work bag weighed down one shoulder, while a bag of takeout swung from your arm, its tantalizing aroma teasing the air. But nothing—not the ache in your feet or the crisp evening chill—could wipe the grin from your face.
Bucky was home.
His message had come hours earlier, a simple text letting you know he’d made it back safely from yet another mission. Those few words had lit a fire under you, making the final half hour of your workday feel like an eternity. As soon as the clock struck, you bolted out the door, barely able to contain your excitement.
On your way, you stopped at his favorite Asian spot, ordering all his go-to dishes and even treating him (and yourself) to dessert. He’d been gone for days, and the quiet ache of his absence had settled over your apartment like a fog. The empty space on his side of the bed had taunted you every night, making sleep a struggle. You’d missed stumbling over his boots by the door, the way he’d tinker in the kitchen each morning, and even the playful bickering over who’d do the dishes.
As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder—or in your case, makes the longing unbearable.
Your body hummed with anticipation as you thought about seeing him again. You missed everything about him—his lips, the way his hands cradled your face during a kiss, one warm, one cold, grounding you in the moment. You missed the feel of his body against yours, his solid frame pressing you into the mattress like a warm, protective shield. His scent—intoxicating and uniquely his—lingered in your memory, a comforting haze that made your head spin.
But above all else, you missed the rough scratch of his stubble trailing along your inner thighs, leaving behind a heat that set your nerves ablaze and made your toes curl. Only Bucky could make you feel this alive, this cherished, this utterly undone.
And tonight, he was waiting for you.
The apartment was quiet when you walked in, a serene kind of stillness that usually meant Bucky was absorbed in a book or tinkering with something in a corner. You tossed your bag onto the couch, set the takeout on the counter, and kicked off your shoes with a sigh of relief.
“Buck? Bucky? You here?” you called, your voice tinged with excitement, even to your own ears.
“In the bathroom, doll!” came his deep, muffled reply.
Your heart did a little leap at the sound of his voice. You followed it, padding softly through the apartment. The soft glow of light spilled into the hallway from the slightly ajar bathroom door, accompanied by wisps of steam and the familiar scent of his shampoo and body wash. The combination of cedarwood and something uniquely him wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating, stirring something warm and heavy low in your belly.
He’d clearly just come out of the shower. If luck was on your side, he’d still be in just a towel.
You pushed the door open, anticipation buzzing in your chest—and froze mid-step.
There he was.
Bucky stood in front of the mirror, shirtless, the towel slung low on his hips. Another towel was in his hands, his movements slow as he rubbed it over his damp hair. His broad chest glistened, droplets tracing maddening paths over his defined muscles. But it wasn’t the sight of his near nudity that made you gasp.
No, it was his face.
“Bucky?” you managed, your voice a mix of disbelief and confusion as you stepped closer.
He turned to you, one eyebrow raised, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the smile he reserved only for you. “Hey, doll. Missed me?”
Your jaw dropped as you took another step forward, your fingers almost instinctively reaching out to brush against his cheek.
“What the hell happened to your face?”
Bucky blinked, his brows furrowing as he shrugged, dropping the towel onto the counter. “What? You don’t like it?”
It wasn’t that you didn’t like it. It was just… shocking.
For as long as you’d known him, Bucky had always been the epitome of rugged charm. The dark stubble along his jawline gave him that scruffy, brooding look, paired perfectly with his perpetual grumpiness, giving him the ‘don’t mess with me’ air you had come to appreciate. It suited him—manly, intimidating, and impossibly handsome.
But now…
Now his face was clean-shaven, the sharp lines of his jaw fully exposed, his features startlingly sharp and defined.
And suddenly, it hit you like a freight train.
Oh.
Oh, no.
Your stomach flipped, and before you could react, Bucky grabbed your hand and pulled you closer, trapping you between his body and the sink. You could feel the cool marble pressing into your back, but the heat radiating off of him was all-consuming.
Your eyes flitted over him helplessly. You could have stared at the way the water still clung to his broad shoulders or how the dampness made the vibranium of his left arm glint faintly in the light, but you couldn’t look away from his face.
It was like looking at a ghost of the past. The sharp, clean lines of his jaw, the bright, arresting blue of his eyes, the way his hair was swept back—he looked just like those hauntingly beautiful photographs from the 1940s.
Fresh-faced. Bright-eyed. Devastatingly handsome.
“Holy shit,” you whispered, barely able to breathe.
Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk, his hands settling on your waist, trying to pull you closer, but you could only press him back. His smirk twisted quickly into a frown at your resistance. “Holy shit good or holy shit bad?”
Your words faltered. All you could do was reach out again, fingers brushing over the impossibly smooth skin of his neck and jaw. The change was jarring, but somehow, it only made him more captivating.
Gently, your hands guided his face from one side to the other, your fingertips trailing over the smooth planes of his cheeks as if searching for any trace of the familiar stubble. His jawline looked impossibly sharp under the soft bathroom light, and every angle you examined only deepened your astonishment.
“You…” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper as you tried to steady yourself. Swallowing hard, you finally met his eyes—those piercing blue eyes that somehow looked even brighter without the shadow of his beard.
“You look like you stepped straight out of one of those old army photos.”
The corners of his mouth quirked in amusement and he tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening as he watched your reaction. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, though there was a flicker of self-consciousness beneath the playfulness.
Your hand lingered on his cheek, your thumb brushing along the now-unfamiliar smoothness. “Yeah,” you murmured, half-dazed. “Like... time travel in the flesh.”
When he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours in a slow, tentative kiss, you couldn’t even bring yourself to close your eyes. The proximity had your vision blurring, leaving you cross-eyed and stunned. Your mind was too consumed with the sheer wonder of him—the way he looked so much like his younger self, it was almost as if time had rewound.
“Doll…” he murmured, his voice low and velvety as his nose brushed against yours. His lips hovered just shy of meeting yours again, the faintest touch sending sparks down your spine. He nudged you gently, almost like a cat seeking affection, his patience tinged with uncertainty. “Gotta tell me what you’re thinking… Do you hate it?”
You blinked, snapping out of your daze, and shook your head fervently. Without a word, your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer as you tilted your head to claim his lips in a deeper, hungrier kiss. The soft groan that escaped him sent butterflies racing in your stomach, and in one fluid motion, he lifted you with ease, setting you down on the cool edge of the sink.
From this angle, the height difference vanished, leaving his devastatingly perfect face fully in your view. His freshly shaven jaw, sharp and clean, was almost too much to handle.
“God, you really don’t age, do you?” you blurted, your voice catching as his hands pressed firmly on your thighs, spreading them just enough for him to step between. His towel, barely clinging to his hips, threatened to slip, and the sight alone made heat pool low in your belly.
Bucky’s brows lifted in surprise, though a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Pretty sure I’ve aged a lot—”
“No,” you cut him off, your hand capturing his chin while the other tangled into the damp strands at the back of his neck. “You look exactly like those army pictures. It’s unfair.”
“Unfair, huh?” His tone was rich with amusement, his blue eyes sparkling as he leaned closer. “How so?”
Your breath hitched as you pressed your lips to his again, trailing kisses down to his chin. “How am I supposed to stay sane when you look like this?” you cried, your voice filled with dramatic exasperation. “How am I supposed to date you, marry you, grow old with you when you don’t even age? I’ll look like a dried-up raisin, and you—”
“You’re breaking up with me because I don’t age?” His mock outrage should’ve been obvious in his voice, but you were too preoccupied to notice.
Your lips continued their path down his jaw, pressing soft kisses along the smooth skin of his neck. “It’s like you don’t even care…”
Bucky let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his vibranium hand settled on your waist. His other hand tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to his. The maddeningly smug grin tugging at his lips was matched only by the tenderness in his eyes.
“So, you do like it,” he teased, his voice rich with amusement.
“Like it?” You scoffed, your palm sliding down to rest on the firm planes of his bare stomach. “Bucky, you look… there aren’t even words.”
“Got you that speechless, huh?” He stepped closer, his playful glint unmistakable. “That’s a first.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you. “Tell me something…”
His hands wandered, finding the hem of your skirt. His thumbs slid beneath the fabric, tracing slow, deliberate circles along the inside of your thighs. The motion sent a shiver up your spine, making you instinctively shift, your legs tightening around him to pull him even closer.
“Anything you want, doll,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise.
You bit your bottom lip, suddenly bashful under his intent gaze. “Introduce yourself,” you said softly, your cheeks flushing deeper.
Bucky’s brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “Introduce myself? Doll, you know my name—”
“I do know your name, James,” you sighed, your heart pounding as embarrassment crept under your skin. But it wasn’t enough to stop you. “I just… I want to hear it. Like you did back in the ‘40s.”
His expression shifted, amusement dancing in his eyes as he rolled them in exaggerated exasperation. “Oh, come on—” He made a half-hearted attempt to step back, but your legs were locked tight around his waist, holding him in place.
“Please,” you pressed, your tone softening as your hands slid up his chest, fingers brushing lightly over his collarbone. “I wanna hear it. Name and rank, soldier”, you demanded.
He groaned, the sound a mix of reluctance and humor, but you could see the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. Finally, he straightened his posture, his shoulders squaring, his hand possessive on your waist, and when he spoke, his voice dipped into that familiar cadence, sharp and commanding.
“Sergeant James Barnes, the 107th” he said, his tone steady and strong, though his lips twitched with barely contained laughter. “Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow.”
Your chest tightened at the words, even in jest, the weight of history lingering in them. You leaned in, your voice a suggestive whisper against his ear. “Well, Sergeant Barnes… if you’re leaving tomorrow, then we better make the most of tonight.”
His grin widened, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of the young soldier he once was—not the man burdened by the weight of the world, not the Winter Soldier, nor the man who had lived countless lives without truly living his own. No, this was James Buchanan Barnes, hopeful and unguarded, and the sight made your heart skip a beat.
Bucky’s sharp eyes studied you, and it felt as though he could see every thought running through your mind. His grin softened, playfulness giving way to something deeper. He leaned in, closing the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that made your knees weak.
His flesh hand cupped your jaw, holding you close as his thumb brushed over your cheek. The kiss deepened, your lips parting to taste him, the pent-up yearning from his absence spilling over in a flood of need. The push and pull of your bodies, your hips rolling into his as his hand found your ass, sent his towel loosening. You gasped when he pulled back, your gaze following the damp fabric as it threatened to drop.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his thumb pressing lightly against your bottom lip. “You keep talking like that, and I might have to keep this look for a while.”
“Please, don’t,” you begged, lips closing around the pad of his thumb, his calm expression faltering at the sight. “I need you to look intimidating. Keep the others away.”
“Others?” Bucky frowned, breathless, tilting your chin up as his other hand captured your wrist mid-reach, stopping you from undoing the towel entirely. “What others?”
You arched a brow, the playful facade cracking just enough for a hint of jealousy to slip through. “All the other bitches who’d come crawling to you if you went out looking like this.” You twisted your arm, and he let you go easily, his grin only growing wider. “In fact…” You placed your hands on the spot under his belly button, your fingers tracing the lines of muscle. “... I might have to trap you in this apartment until you’ve got a full beard again.”
Bucky’s smugness was palpable now, his amusement glimmering in his eyes as he began quietly undoing the buttons of your blouse. “Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, your fingers finally gripping the damp cloth of his towel, undoing the loose knot with deliberate slowness. “Can’t risk it. You’re way too good-looking to let out into the world like this.”
His laugh was deep and warm, reverberating through your chest as he dipped his head, his lips grazing your jawline. “Guess I’ve got no choice but to stay here then,” he murmured against your skin. “Your orders, doll.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear”, you nod approvingly. When his towel finally fell to the floor, neither of you had any intention of leaving the bathroom anytime soon.
obviously this isn’t actually being published anywhere bc disney/marvel would sue the fuck out of my ass
BUT bc this was such a passion project for me that I spent nearly 2 years on, and bc i’ve always dreamed of being an author, I thought it would be fun to print a copy just for me bc this is a huge accomplishment for me personally. i’ve never written anything quite this big, I never thought I could write a full length novel (this thing is literally a goddamn brick), but bc of each and every one of you lovely people, I am officially a self published author
I know it sounds cliche but I truly could not have done it without y’all. the bodyguard would not be what it is without each and every one of you. I may never be a real published author with my book in a store, I may never write a full length book again, but I have this and it is something I can look at on my bookshelf and be proud of and I just love it and y’all so much
this was a really rough year for me and so to end it with a tangible reminder of what I can do when I don’t doubt myself so much, all the fun I had discussing each chapter with y’all when they dropped, and all the lovely friends I made along the way over the last two years, is incredibly special to me and a perfect way to end this year
thank y’all for reading & loving & re-reading & still loving the bodyguard. to those of you who were here from the beginning, found it along the way, or are just now discovering it, from the bottom of my heart, thank you 🖤
PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader
WARNINGS: the prank, no use of y/n
GENRE: ANGST.
SONG INSPIRATION: youth by daughter
WORD COUNT: 9.1k
REQUESTED: yes
NOTE: who's ready to cry?
navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist
no one truly understood how much his sister's disappearance had shattered him.
they tried to be there for him, to console him in those rare moments when he couldn’t mask the pain that cut him so deeply.
they wanted to help, but no amount of support could bridge the pain left behind.
but you, you didn’t need to see the cracks to understand how broken he was.
you were the only one he ever truly let in.
his brokenness became yours. the faraway look in his eyes, the way he’d drift off into silence, the dark circles that painted the story of sleepless nights. it all tore at you. he needed you more than ever, and in truth, you needed him just as much.
you started showing up at his place late at night, no matter the hour. just to hold him. to check on him. to sit beside him when the silence became unbearable.
there were no words that could mend what he had lost, no comfort you could offer to fix the pieces of his shattered heart. and yet, your presence was enough. he never said it out loud, but you saw it in the way his breathing slowed, the way he relaxed when you were near.
you made it a little easier for him to sleep, to eat, to simply exist.
you’d do anything for him, and you had proven that countless times.
so when he brought up the idea of going back to the lodge a year after his sister’s disappearance, your heart sank. you knew it would be agonising for him, and the thought of reliving those memories made you hesitate.
but when he asked you to come along, because you hadn’t been able to go the prior year, you couldn’t refuse.
you’d never let him face something like this alone.
you were the first ones to arrive at the lodge, the mountain air crisp as you stepped out of the car and took in the familiar, yet bittersweet surroundings. once you stepped in front of the lodge josh grabbed your bags before you could protest, flashing you a small, tired smile as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips.
“i’ve got these,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with a warmth that hadn’t been there in a long time. then he headed up the stairs, leaving you alone in the spacious but eerily quiet cabin.
you took a moment, inhaling deeply, letting the nostalgia and tension settle in your bones. with a contented sigh, you stretched your arms out and decided to get to work. the place needed a little life breathed back into it.
you started in the living room, uncovering the dust covered furniture. the old couch creaked as you lifted the heavy cloth, revealing its worn, familiar fabric. you busied yourself with small tasks: arranging the cushions, stacking wood, and kindling the fireplace until the room started to glow with a warm, flickering light.
it felt good, in a way. a distraction, a chance to bring some comfort back into this space that had held so much grief.
but after a while, you realised you hadn’t seen josh. it wasn’t like him to disappear without a word, so you set down the last piece of kindling and wiped your hands on your jeans, calling out as you made your way to the bedroom.
“baby?” you called, peeking inside. the room was empty, the bags still packed, and there was no sign of him in the ensuite bathroom either.
frowning slightly, you turned back and started wandering the halls, your footsteps light on the wooden floors as you searched for him. just as you rounded the corner towards the front door, it flew open with a loud thud.
you jumped, letting out a squeal as your hand flew to your chest. there was josh, grinning looking extremely proud of himself, his laughter filling the cabin.
“oh my god, you scared me!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-annoyed as he stepped closer and pulled you into his arms.
“sorry, sorry!” he chuckled, his voice softer now, brushing a kiss against your temple. “couldn’t resist. you should’ve seen your face.”
you playfully slapped his chest, but the sound of his laughter, genuine and unburdened, was something you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. it melted away any irritation you felt, leaving behind a warmth that spread through your chest.
“you’re terrible,” you muttered, smiling despite yourself.
“yeah, but you love me,” he teased, his smile faltering just a bit as he looked at you, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. for a moment, the playfulness faded, replaced by something deeper, more vulnerable.
“i do,” you whispered, your hand sliding up to rest over his heart. you felt the steady beat beneath your palm, a silent promise that you were here, together, no matter what memories this place held.
josh’s eyes softened, he pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes.
“thank you for coming,” he murmured. “i know it’s not easy. being here.”
you squeezed him tighter. “you don’t have to thank me. i’d follow you anywhere, you know that.”
he nodded, his grip tightening around you before he pulled back, a lighter smile on his face now. “c’mon, let’s finish setting up before the others get here. i want it to feel...normal. at least for a little while.”
it didn’t take long for everyone to show up, the lodge filling with a familiar mix of voices and laughter. the chill from the outside seemed to melt away as your friends settled in, dropping their bags and unwinding in the main room.
the fire you started was crackling, casting a warm glow over the space. you could feel the tension start to ease, though the air still held an undercurrent of unease.
you made your way over to josh, slipping under his arm. he pulled you closer, his hand rubbing soothing circles against your back. you rested your head on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as the others chatted and joked around. for a moment, it almost felt normal.
then the front door swung open with a sharp gust of wind, and in walked emily and matt. emily’s face was set in a familiar look of annoyance, her eyes rolling as she stepped inside. matt followed close behind, his jaw clenched, clearly frustrated. you could sense the tension between them before they even spoke.
“well, look who finally decided to show up,” sam drawled from across the room, leaning against the couch with a smirk. mike's eyes flicked briefly to emily, lingering a moment too long.
emily scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “yeah, well, some of us had to deal with a little drama on the way up here,” she snapped, shooting a glare at matt, who looked like he was biting back a retort.
“drama? what kind of drama?” jessica chimed in, her voice dripping with curiosity and something sharper. she stepped closer to mike, wrapping her arm possessively around his waist. the look she shot emily was a thinly veiled challenge.
“oh, you know, the usual,” emily said with a sarcastic smile. “matt getting all worked up over nothing.”
matt’s face reddened, and he stepped forward. “over nothing? you were practically hanging off mike’s arm, em!”
mike’s smirk widened, clearly enjoying the show. “hey, don’t drag me into this, man,” he said, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “i can’t help it if people like being around me.”
“oh please,” jessica interjected, rolling her eyes. “it’s not like she hasn’t moved on, right, em? or maybe you just can’t let go of the fact that i’m with him now.”
emily’s eyes narrowed, her voice icy. “oh, trust me, jess, you’re welcome to him. i’ve moved on to bigger and better things.”
“bigger and better?” jessica repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “you think you’re better than me?”
the room went silent, the playful banter tipping quickly into hostility. matt stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides, while mike watched with a smug grin. you felt josh tense beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulders. he had that look in his eyes, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let the drama play out.
“alright, alright, everyone, let’s just cool it, okay?” josh finally intervened, stepping between them with a broad, disarming smile. “we’re here to have a good time, remember? no need to fight over ancient history. how about you and jess go to the other cabin that i told you about and you let this go?”
he shot a pointed look at mike and then at matt, his tone light but firm. mike shrugged, backing off with a chuckle, while matt reluctantly stepped away, muttering under his breath. emily and jessica exchanged one last glare before turning away from each other, both visibly annoyed but unwilling to push it further.
the hours drifted by slowly as you lay in bed, your head pounding with the dull throb of an oncoming migraine. you closed your eyes, trying to block out the flickering shadows cast by the firelight, wishing for some rest.
the lodge had fallen into an almost eerie silence. everyone had split off, doing their own thing, giving the place a stillness that felt almost unnatural.
then you heard it. a loud, frantic banging on a door downstairs, followed by a sound that made your blood run cold.
chris’s voice desperate.
“ash! oh my god, ashley!”
you bolted upright, the pain in your head forgotten as adrenaline coursed through your veins. throwing on your shoes, running out of the room and down the stairs, heart pounding in your chest.
you found chris frantically pushing against the kitchen door.
“hey, chris!” you yelled, grabbing his arm, trying to get his attention. “what’s going on? what happened?”
he turned to you, eyes wide and wild, barely able to get the words out. “it’s ashley,” he stammered, his voice breaking. “something– something took her! we were looking for clues and then... i don’t know, it grabbed her! we’ve got to get her out of there, now!”
the sheer panic in his voice left no room for questions. you nodded, bracing yourself and shoving against the door with him, putting every ounce of strength you had into it. the wood groaned under your combined weight, the hinges straining.
with a sudden, violent crack, the door flew open, and the two of you were thrown forward, hitting the carpet hard. you scrambled to your feet, the room dimly lit and filled with shadows. it was hard to see, but as your eyes adjusted, you spotted her.
ashley was sprawled on the floor, unconscious, her body limp and unmoving.
“oh my god, ashley!” you gasped, rushing to her side. you knelt down, hands shaking as you checked her pulse. relief flooded through you when you felt it. faint, but steady. she was breathing.
you turned back to chris, ready to tell him she was okay, but the words died in your throat as a shadow moved behind him. before you could shout a warning, a masked figure stepped out of the darkness and swung a fist, landing a brutal punch squarely across chris’s face.
“chris!” you screamed as he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
instinct took over. you had no time to think, only react. you sprinted to the kitchen, grabbing the first thing you could find, a small knife. it wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.
you held the knife out in front of you, your hands trembling as you backed towards them, trying to protect her and chris.
“stay back!” you shouted, your voice cracking with fear. “i swear i’ll use this!”
but before you could make another move, you felt it. a strong arm snaking around your waist, yanking you back against his chest. the sudden pressure of a cloth was pressed over your mouth and nose, the sickly sweet smell of chloroform invading your senses.
you thrashed wildly, kicking and clawing, refusing to go down without a fight. the knife was still in your hand, and you swung it blindly behind you. you felt the blade connect, slicing into flesh, and a distorted scream of pain ripped through the air. the grip on you loosened for a moment, using the last of your strength to try and break free.
but it was too late. the world around you started to blur, the room spinning as your vision darkened. your body went limp as the chloroform took hold, the knife slipping from your fingers.
the last thing you heard before you blacked out was the masked figure’s laboured, angry breathing and the sound of ashley’s soft, uneven breaths, still unconscious on the floor beside you.
that's when everything went dark.
you stirred awake, groaning as the pounding in your head reminded you of the events before you blacked out.
beside you, chris let out a low grunt, shifting as he groggily sat up. the air was cold and heavy, the lights still off, and nothing around you seemed to have changed.
but as you blinked, clearing the haze from your vision, unease curled in your gut. something was different.
ashley was gone.
“shit,” you muttered, your voice breaking the silence. panic surged through you as you scrambled to your feet. turning to chris, you shook his shoulder, forcing him to focus. “chris. ashley’s gone.”
chris blinked hard, his face paling as realisation dawned. “what? where– what the hell happened?”
you didn’t answer, instead yanking him to his feet. “we’ve got to find her. she can’t be far.”
switching on the flashlight of your phone, you searched your surroundings. the beam caught every shadow, every corner, as you searched for any sign of where she might have gone.
finally, your light hit something, a purse lying on the ground.
“it’s hers,” you said under your breath, crouching down to pick it up. it wasn’t much, but it was something. you clutched it tightly as you moved around the house toward the front door.
the door creaked as you pushed it open, the cold night air cutting through you. but what you saw next made your stomach twist into knots.
blood.
it smeared the wall outside the door in messy streaks, glistening faintly under the pale moonlight.
“holy shit,” chris whispered, his voice shaking as he stepped closer. “is that–?”
you didn’t let him finish. your flashlight followed the trail of blood, which led away from the house, cutting through the snow.
“we have to follow it,” you said, barely able to keep the fear out of your voice.
chris nodded, sticking close to you as you both ventured into the freezing darkness. each step crunched beneath your boots, the sound unnervingly loud against the eerie silence of the night.
the blood left a faint trail to the shed in the backyard.
it was there that you heard it. a voice, cracked and trembling, carried by the wind.
“chris!”
ashley.
her sobs were unmistakable. exchanging a panicked glance with chris, both of you breaking into a run.
you burst into the shed, your flashlight sweeping over the scene inside. the sight made your blood run cold.
ashley hands tied above her to a wooden board, tears streaming down her face as she struggled against the ropes holding her in place.
she wasn’t alone.
beside her was josh, also bound, his wide eyes locking onto you the moment you entered.
“oh my god,” you breathed.
“help me! please, help!” his voice cracked.
ashley was sobbing harder now, her pleas barely coherent as she begged for you and chris to save them.
their cries grew louder, filling the small shed with tension, until they didn’t.
the sound of a voice, deep and distorted, crackled through hidden speakers, silencing them both.
“hello, and thank you all for joining me..”
the voice was chillingly calm, it’s tone laced with malice. it was the one you’d heard before you passed out.
you and chris froze, every muscle in your body tense as the words echoed around you.
your flashlight flickered slightly. josh’s voice cut through the deafening silence, quieter this time, trembling with nothing but anguish.
“please,” he whispered, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glistening with unshed tears.
“don’t let whoever it is hurt us.”
before you could respond, the crackling static of the speakers filled the shed once again, followed by the same deep, sinister voice.
“tonight, we’re going to conduct a little experiment.”
“what the fuck is going on?” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.
the voice continued, unfazed by the panic rising in the room.
“for this experiment, we’ll need the cooperation of two of our test subjects… joshua and ashley.”
“what?” ashley’s voice broke into a sharp shout, her cries mixed with a choked sob.
josh froze, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his panic evident even as he tried to keep himself from breaking completely.
“oh my god,” you whispered, dread settling deep in your chest.
“but,” the voice drawled, almost casually, “we’re going to need one more brave participant to help decide… which subject will live, and which will die.”
“no,” you gasped, your voice cracking as the weight of the words slammed into you. tears burned in your eyes, now spilling over as you covered your mouth with your hand. “no, no, no!”
ashley’s screams became louder. “this can’t be real! this can’t be happening!”
josh pulled against his restraints again, pleading. “don’t listen to him! please, get us out of here!”
their cries overlapped, filling the room with desperate pleas and frantic sobs. you couldn’t breathe; the room felt like it was closing in, the walls pressing tighter and tighter around you.
chris stood frozen beside you, his face pale, his hands trembling.
“please, please,” the voice interrupted smoothly, it’s calm tone a stark contrast to the chaos you all shared.
“everyone calm down. it’s all very simple.”
simple?
“you will find a lever placed directly in front of you. all you have to do… is choose who you will save.”
your head snapped toward the lever.
“what the fuck? they can’t be serious!” your sadness morphed into something hot and volatile. rage bubbling beneath your skin as you stormed toward the door between you and them.
“no!” you growled, slamming your hands against the handle. “this isn’t happening! this can’t be happening!”
you pushed, pulled, slammed your shoulder into the door, anything to force it open. the wood creaked under your assault, but it held firm.
the sound of metal grinding against metal filled the air, sharp and shrill. the saw had started.
the noise sent a chill down your spine, you pulled harder on the door handle, your breaths coming in ragged gasps.
“oh no,” ashley sobbed, her voice rising in pitch. “please, this can’t be happening! this isn’t right!”
the saw’s steady whirring was like a countdown, each second ticking closer to an unthinkable end.
josh’s voice broke through the noise, full of pure terror. “don’t do this! please, you don’t have to do this!”
ashley’s cries grew louder, more frantic. “save me! please, oh my god, i can’t die!”
you could feel your sanity slipping as you turned back to face the room. the lever stood there, mocking you, as if daring you. chris was pacing now, running his hands through his hair, his movements jerky and panicked.
“w-what do we do?” he stammered, his voice cracking as he looked to you for answers you didn’t have.
the saw’s hum grew louder, as the reality of the situation bore down on you. time was running out, and you were trapped in a nightmare with no way out.
the grinding sound of the saw grew louder. your hands trembled as you clutched the door handle, pulling with everything you had, screaming for it to give way.
"come on!" you cried, voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. "come on, you son of a bitch, open!"
but it was no use. the door wouldn’t budge.
behind you, the pleas grew more frantic, more agonised. ashley was sobbing uncontrollably, her words tumbling over each other as she begged for her life. josh was screaming now, his voice hoarse and cracking, calling your name, calling chris’s, calling anyone who might listen.
“please!” josh shouted, his eyes wild and terrified as they locked on yours. “you can't let me die!”
your vision blurred as you turned your back to them, the image of josh tied up, eyes red, face swollen burned into your mind. the person who made you laugh when no one else could. the one who saw you when you felt invisible. the one you loved more than anything.
"chris," you sobbed, clutching at his arm. "we can’t do this! we have to find another way!"
but chris wasn’t looking at you. he wasn’t looking at anything but the lever.
he was trembling, his eyes darting between josh and ashley, both of them screaming, both of them begging, their voices a mix of anguish and fear.
"chris!" you yelled, shaking him hard. "don’t! we’ll figure something out! just–just don’t!"
his breathing was shallow, his face pale and wet with tears. “i– i don’t know what to do,” he choked out, his voice broken. “i can’t–, i can’t–”
but even as he said it, his hand was moving. slowly, shakily, he reached for the lever.
"no!" you screamed, lunging for him, grabbing at his arm. "chris, don’t!"
it was too late.
with a guttural cry, chris yanked the lever.
time slowed to a crawl, the world around you dissolving into a haze of sound and motion. the saw roared to life, screaming as it moved toward it’s victim.
“no!” you shrieked, your voice tore through the air as you clung helplessly on the gated wall for josh.
his wide, terrified eyes met yours, full of pain and betrayal. “no, no, no! please!” he screamed, struggling against the restraints with everything he had.
and then the saw reached him.
the sound was sickening, the kind that burrowed into your ears and stayed there, haunting. blood sprayed across the room, splattering the walls, the floor, and even you as you stood frozen, paralyzed by the horror before you.
josh’s screams cut off abruptly, his body going limp as the saw finished it's grim work.
the room fell deathly silent, except for the faint hum of the machinery winding down.
the door clicked, the lock releasing with an almost casual sound. it swung open.
chris stumbled forward, rushing to ashley’s side. she was sobbing uncontrollably as he worked to untie her. “it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice shaking. “you’re okay. i’ve got you. don’t look.”
but you didn’t move.
you couldn’t.
your knees buckled, and you crumpled to the floor, your body wracked with silent sobs.
josh. your josh, was gone. the one person who mattered most to you, the only source of true comfort that you had, was gone.
your eyes stayed fixed on the blood-soaked floor, on the mangled remains of the person you loved.
he was gone.
cut in half.
gone.
you hugged yourself tightly, rocking back and forth as grief consumed you, an unbearable weight that left you hollow and broken.
chris turned to you, his face pale and etched with guilt. he opened his mouth, but whatever words he tried to speak were drowned out by the sound of your own sobs, tearing through into the cold, unforgiving night.
it echoed around you, a resonance that mocked the void where he used to be.
you could still hear him, josh's voice screaming for you in those final moments. still feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear when you used to lie close to him. it was nothing but a ghost now. a cruel reminder of what was gone. he wasn’t there anymore. he would never be there again.
your thoughts spiralled. chris. it was all chris's fault. he had made the choice. not josh. chris. he chose ashley. he chose her over him. his crush over his childhood best friend, your love, your person. the realisation hit.
before you knew it, you were moving, your grief boiling over into something darker. you snapped to your feet, crossing the space between you and chris in an instant. your trembling hands hit his chest, his shoulders. whatever you could reach, your fists weak but desperate.
“why?” you choked out, your voice breaking as you struck him again. and again. “why? we could’ve found another way! how could you do this? how could you do this to me?”
chris didn’t stop you. he stood there, letting you vent your anguish, his own tears carving silent trails down his face. he didn’t try to defend himself, didn’t make excuses. ashley stood nearby, distraught and useless, her sobs muffled behind her hands as she watched the scene unfold.
your blows slowed, turning into open palms pressed against him, you collapsed against his chest. the grief overtook you, the strength to hold it all inside shattered. you cried into him, the rawness of your pain spilling out in broken gasps and incoherent words.
for a moment, chris tried to hold you. his arms moved hesitantly, afraid to make things worse. but the second you felt him, your anger surged again, and you ripped yourself away. “don’t touch me,” you hissed, your voice shaking. you stumbled back, wiping at your face, dragging air into your lungs that felt too thin.
you couldn’t stay here. not in this place. not with these people who used to be your friends. you turned away from them and staggered outside into the night. the cold air bit into your skin, but it didn’t matter. nothing mattered anymore. not without him.
the lodge loomed behind you like a reminder of everything you’d once loved.
deep down, you knew it didn’t matter who had been chosen. losing either of them would have been devastating, a blow from which you would never truly recover. but that logic was lost in the haze of your grief. it didn’t matter that the decision had been impossible. all you knew, all you could feel, was that chris had made it.
he had chosen not to save josh.
you stumbled a few steps further, every breath was agony. the grief, the disbelief, the rage. it all swirled inside you, drowning you in it’s weight.
it felt as though someone had reached into your chest and ripped out your heart, leaving you to feel nothing but also everything at the same time. you stared at the distant treetops, the stars blurred by tears, and tried to feel something other than the nothingness threatening to consume you.
your chest heaved as you bent forward, hands braced on your knees, gasping for air that seemed almost impossible to catch. the night’s chill clawed at your skin, but it did nothing to numb what burned inside you.
the crunch of footsteps on snow made you look up, your tear blurred vision settling on emily and matt as they approached cautiously. their faces twisted with confusion and fear as they took in the sight of the three of you. shaking, pale, and splattered with blood.
emily was the first to speak, "what happened?" her voice was sharp but laced with unease. matt hovered beside her, his wide eyes darting between you, the blood, and sounds of the sobs that you shared.
you straightened slowly, forcing yourself to meet their stares. your voice trembled as you tried to speak, every word catching in your throat like broken glass.
“it’s josh,” you rasped. “he… he’s gone.”
emily’s lips parted in disbelief, she faltered as she tried to process the words. matt stiffened, his jaw clenching as his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“what do you mean, gone?” emily asked, her voice wobbling. her eyes darted between you and the shed, expecting josh to emerge at any moment, laughing this off as a cruel joke.
you opened your mouth, but the words refused to come. instead, fragments of the moment flashed in your mind. the split second choice, the screams, the sound of your own heart breaking. you winced, flinching at the memory, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“chris… he had to choose,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible over the wind. “it was him or ashley.”
the weight of the admission crushed you all over again, and for a moment, the only sound was the muffled sniffling from you and the distant howl of the wind. emily stared at you, her face draining of colour, while matt swore under his breath and looked away.
“that doesn’t make any sense,” emily whispered, her tone brittle. “how could something like that even happen? why–why was there a choice at all?”
her words struck a nerve, but you didn’t have the strength to argue. you couldn’t. the truth of it was unbearable, but it was all you had.
“i didn’t… i didn’t even get to say goodbye,” you choked out, your voice breaking. tears welled up again, blurring your vision. you turned away, clutching your arms tightly, trying to breathe through the pain.
you hear them talking. quietly at first, but the words soon cut through the air. they’re discussing the psycho on the mountain, piecing together what had happened. the conversation ends with emily and matt deciding to head to the fire tower to try and contact someone on the radio, and chris suggests you and ashley go with him to find sam, still hopefully holed up in the lodge.
you say nothing. you just follow them, keeping your distance but staying close enough to hear the whispers. the words between them are too loud for their own good, a mix of fear and regret, constantly circling back to josh.
ashley’s voice cracks as she speaks to him, her apologies tumbling over each other. “i know how close you were to him,” she says, her voice low. “i– i just... i never meant–”
she stops herself. the realisation hits her. she turns to you, eyes wide with guilt, as if suddenly aware of the weight of her words.
her face is full of remorse, her lips parting to offer an apology, but you can already feel the anger bubbling up inside you.
you clench your jaw, your fists tightening at your sides. she doesn’t get it.
“don’t. you don’t get to talk about him,” you bite out, the words sharp. “you don’t get to. not after what happened.”
the air between you is heavy with tension. ashley opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. she knows. she knows there’s no fixing this. you didn’t want her to. how could she?
you charge upstairs, your legs trembling with every step, but the adrenaline doesn’t let you stop. it fuels you, because you can’t stop. not now. not with sam missing. not with everything spiraling further and further out of control.
you don’t even bother hiding the tears streaming down your face anymore. you just need to find her and get out of this godforsaken place. this needs to end.
you’re done with the fear. you want to go home, to a place where things made sense. you want to feel safe again, slip into your bed where his scent still lingers, and just… cry. to finally feel the pain and let it break you.
the hallway stretches out before you, quiet and eerie, the air heavy with the silence that feels so much worse than any scream. your breathing is ragged as you throw open door after door.
"sam!" you call, but there’s no answer. just empty rooms. no sign of her. each door you open makes your stomach twist tighter with dread, like a rope being pulled too taut.
you jog back down stairs, walking to the entrance of a room you haven't checked yet.
the movie room is where it all comes crashing down. her bracelet. you spot it immediately on the floor, lying there as if it’s mocking you. you freeze, staring at it. she never takes it off. never. your heart drops, she was here. and she’s not anymore.
you stumble forward, picking it up with shaking hands. it’s so small in your palm, so simple, but it’s hers. it’s hers, and it’s the only sign of her that you’ve found. and then you see it. the video.
it’s looping on the projector, a grotesque, grainy replay of josh’s death. over and over. the sound of his screams fills the room, echoing in your ears, drowning out your own sobs. chris is already on it, slamming his fist into the projector, but it’s no use. the damn thing won’t stop playing. he kicks it, hard enough to send it skidding across the room, but it keeps playing.
you double over, clutching your stomach as if it’ll stop the nausea rising in your throat. it’s too much. all of it. the weight of what you’ve lost, the guilt, the fear, it’s suffocating. the bracelet in your hand feels like a cruel reminder that sam could be next. or maybe she already is. and what the hell can you do about it?
“we have to keep moving,” chris says. you know he’s right, even if you can’t bring yourself to say it. you wipe your face with the back of your sleeve and force your legs to move, one step at a time, until you’re following him down to the basement.
the air is colder down here, and not just in temperature. it feels… wrong. like something is watching. waiting. ashley’s hand brushes yours at one point, a trembling, silent plea for some kind of comfort, and you squeeze it instinctively. you don’t say anything, though. what is there to say?
then, it appears. the ghost. at first, it’s just a pale blur in the corner of your eye, but then it comes again. clearer this time. the faint outline of a figure, there and then gone before your brain can catch up.
ashley screams, stumbling back into chris, who immediately snaps into denial. “there’s no way–” he starts, but then it happens again, and the words die in his throat.
your pulse is nothing but a hammer in your chest. you can’t even feel your hands anymore; they’re ice, like the rest of you. you scan the room, every dark corner, every shadow, but it’s the dollhouse that pulls your attention. it sits there, perfectly positioned, it’s tiny rooms lit by some unseen source.
the dolls inside. each one carefully placed, are positioned just like that night. like the prank. like what happened to hannah.
you couldn't even touch it at first. your fingers hover over the tiny furniture, shaking too much to do anything else. you open it and you see her diary.
the pages are worn, the ink smudged in places like she’d cried over it while writing. you skim the entries, your chest tightening with each one. her excitement about mike. her insecurities. the little hopes she’d held onto, even when things were rough. you can see her in the words, hear her voice, and it breaks you all over again.
she trusted you. she trusted all of you. and what happened? she was pushed too far, and now she’s gone. her warmth, her kindness, her life, gone.
the tears come harder now, but you don’t stop reading. you owe her this.
you don’t realise how long you’ve been standing there until chris nudges your shoulder. “hey,” he says, softly this time. “we… we should go.”
the basement hallway stretches out further than you thought it would, the shadows growing deeper with each step. then you see it. a figure. sam’s clothes, and for one awful, heart stopping moment, you think it’s her. you freeze, the air ripped from your lungs, until chris steps closer and pulls the chair into the light. it’s not her.
relief floods through you, but it’s short lived. she’s still missing, and the nightmare is still far from over. you glance at ashley, whose eyes are wide with panic, and then at chris.
chris looks just as distraught as you, his face pale, his hands trembling as he struggles to stay composed. you want to say something, anything, but the words won’t come. that’s when you notice it. a shadow shifts behind him, barely noticeable at first. it moves closer, and your heart leaps into your throat.
your mouth opens to scream, to warn him, but it’s too late. a figure lunges out of the darkness, fist connecting with chris’s face in a brutal, sickening thud. his head snaps to the side, he crumples to the floor, out cold.
“chris!” you gasp, but there’s no time to check if he’s okay. the flashlight he was holding clatters to the floor, spinning wildly before it’s beam settles on the attacker. he turns toward you and ashley, his movements deliberate, methodical.
ashley is quicker than you expect. before you can react, she rushes forward, gripping the scissors. she drives them into his shoulder with a desperate cry, the blade sinking in deep. the attacker stumbles back, a low, pained grunt escaping him, but it’s not enough to stop him.
he moves with startling speed, grabbing ashley by the wrist. she struggles, kicking and thrashing, but his free hand rises, before she can break free, his fist connects with her face in a brutal blow. the impact sends her crumpling to the floor in a heap on the floor, her body still.
“no!” the word tears from your throat. helpless, as the reality sets in. you’re on your own, and your only weapon is still lodged in his shoulder.
you turn to run, your legs screaming at you to move, before you can take more than a step, something sharp pierces your neck. it’s small, almost subtle, but the effect is immediate. your hand flies to the spot, fingers trembling as they brush against the tiny dart embedded in your skin.
a whine escapes your lips as your knees buckle. the world tilts violently, the edges of your vision blurring. panic claws at your chest as you try to stay upright, your body refuses to listen. your legs give out completely, you fall, the ground rushing up to meet you.
before you hit the floor, strong arms catch you, pulling you against a broad chest. you’re too weak to fight, your limbs heavy and useless.
“i’m sorry,” a voice murmurs, low and distorted, the words muffled by the mask obscuring his face. “i’m so sorry.”
you try to focus, to make sense of what’s happening, the world is fading fast. the last thing you see before the darkness takes you is the mask staring back at you, it’s blank, soulless eyes the final image burned into your mind.
you wake slowly, your eyelids feel weighted, your thoughts sluggish and out of sync. something isn’t right. your instincts scream it before your senses can confirm. when your eyes finally flutter open, the world above you sharpens into focus. two massive saw blades hang ominously overhead, their jagged teeth gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights.
it’s the next sensation that sends a chill crawling up your spine, your wrists. they’re bound tightly, the rough rope digging into your skin with every small movement. you yank at them, testing the restraint, but it holds firm, the fibres biting deeper.
panic sparks, your breath becoming faster as you look around, desperate to understand where you are, what’s happening. the room is cold and industrial, its concrete walls bare except for the shadows cast by flickering lights. your gaze snaps to the figure directly in front of you, chris.
he’s slumped in a chair, his head hanging slightly, his face pale and tight with fear. one of his hands is bound to the armrest, but his other arm hangs free. between you, perched cruelly sits a gun.
your chest tightens as you try to move your legs, only to realise they’re tied too. the ropes around your ankles bite just as viciously as the ones on your wrists. you twist and pull, but your body feels sluggish. the injection, that stranger. you’re still under it’s influence, your limbs betraying your desperation to escape.
“chris?” your voice is hoarse, trembling, thick with fear. “what’s going on? where are we?”
he lifts his head slightly, meeting your eyes with a look that chills you to your core. his face is a mix of confusion and terror, his lips parting to speak. “i don’t know.”
your mind reels, memories flooding in, the shed, the others, the horrific choices.
the weight of what’s coming feels unbearable.
“we’ve gotta get out of here,” you whisper, your voice trembling, barely audible over the relentless pounding of your heartbeat.
that’s when you hear it. the saws.
the metallic whine cuts through the air as the blades begin to descend, slow but deliberate. the sound, growing louder with each passing second. your head snaps upward, and the sight of the spinning teeth edging closer sends a fresh wave of panic through you.
“no!” you scream, thrashing against the restraints, your wrists burning as the ropes cut deeper into your skin. the effort is frantic, wild, but useless. the ropes don’t budge. you feel like you’re suffocating, the walls of the room closing in.
and then they stop.
the saws are still whirring, still spinning inches above your head, but their descent halts. the silence that follows is almost worse than the noise.
that’s when you hear it.
that voice again.
“hello there, my special little subjects.”
your stomach twists as the sound crawls over your skin. chris freezes across from you, his head snapping up toward the speakers embedded in the walls.
“aw, shit,” he mutters, his free hand darting for the gun on the table between you. he grips it tightly, holding it up defensively as though the steel in his hands could somehow protect you both from the nightmare unfolding around you.
the voice continues.
“chris has made one fatal choice already today, and now he must make another.”
you and chris lock eyes, the horror in his matching your own. your breaths come faster, you shake your head desperately, trying to deny the inevitable.
the voice pauses, as if savoring the moment, before delivering the final blow.
“chris, you can take the gun in front of you and shoot her, or you can shoot yourself. whoever is left gets to live. the choice is yours.”
your stomach churns, your chest tightening so much it hurts.
“no,” you whisper, shaking your head, your voice trembling. “no, this can’t–this can’t be real.”
chris’s hand shakes as he lifts the gun, his knuckles white around the handle. his gaze flickers to the saws above you, still spinning mercilessly, then to you, and then back to the gun.
“don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice barely steady. “there’s gotta be a way out. this… this doesn’t make sense.”
he turns the gun toward the machinery and fires. the deafening crack of the shot echoes in the room, but it does nothing. the saws keep spinning. the gun’s recoil jerks his arm, and he mutters a curse under his breath, lowering it slightly as the futility of the situation sinks in.
“no, no, no,” you mutter, panic clawing at your chest. you thrash against the restraints again, harder this time, your vision blurring with tears.
“chris,” you rasp, your voice breaking. “you have to do it.”
“what?” his head snaps toward you, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“shoot me.” the words come out stronger than you expected, but the tremor in your voice betrays your fear. “you have to. you can’t–” your voice falters, and you swallow hard before continuing. “you can’t kill yourself. you have ashley. you can live. you can make it out of this. i–i can’t.”
“what the hell are you talking about?” chris’s voice rises, desperation thick in every syllable.
“i’m not doing that! we’ll figure something out– together.”
“there’s nothing to figure out!” you cry, your voice raw. tears spill down your cheeks, but you keep going, words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “chris, i can’t live without josh. don’t you get it? i’m already gone. he was everything to me, and now he’s dead. i don’t have anyone to go back to. but you– you have ashley. she loves you. you can still have a life.”
chris shakes his head violently, his grip on the gun trembling. “no. don’t– don’t say that. don’t you dare say that. you think this is what i want? to kill you? how the hell am i supposed to live with that?”
“by being alive!” you scream, your voice cracking. “chris, please. i can’t– i can’t do this anymore. just end it. end it for me. you don’t deserve to die here. not for me. not like this.”
tears streak his face now, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. the gun in his hand wavers, the barrel swinging between you and himself.
“i can’t,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “i can’t do it.”
“you have to,” you plead, your voice softer now, almost broken. “please, chris. you have to make it out of here. you have to live. for ashley. for yourself. for me, don’t let this place take you too.”
the saws above you screech, jolting both of you. the voice returns, colder now, more impatient.
“time is running out, chris. make your decision.”
chris’s face crumples as he stares at you, the weight of the choice pressing down on him. his hand tightens around the gun, shaking harder now.
you hold his gaze, tears streaming down your face. “it’s okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. “it’s okay. just do it. i’m ready.”
the gun rises.
the room feels impossibly still, the only sound the relentless whir of the saws above. your chest heaves with shallow breaths as you close your eyes, waiting for the end.
BANG.
the sound reverberates through the room, deafening and final. you jolt, your body stiffening in anticipation of pain, but... nothing. you’re still here. alive. untouched.
your chest heaves as you slowly open your eyes, your breath caught in your throat. chris is staring at you, his face pale and drawn, his expression one of shock and bewilderment. he’s just as confused as you are.
the saws above you screech to a halt, the room plunging into a sudden, eerie silence.
you blink, trying to process what just happened. “chris?” you whisper, your voice trembling.
before he can answer, the overhead lights blaze to life, harsh and unforgiving. the sudden brightness makes you wince, and when your eyes adjust, you see him.
the psycho.
he steps out of the shadows, his mask gleaming under the fluorescent lights. he moves with a slow, deliberate confidence, as though savoring your fear. your heart pounds wildly in your chest, the sight of him terrifying you.
“no,” you stammer, your voice rising in panic. “no, no, no! get away from us!”
chris, snapping out of his stupor, raises the gun without hesitation and fires.
bang!
bang!
bang!
three shots. each one echoes through the room, but the psycho doesn’t even flinch. he doesn’t stumble, doesn’t react. it’s like the bullets didn’t touch him.
“oh, chris...” the voice is mocking now, dripping with condescension. the psycho moves closer, his head tilting as if amused. “oh, chris, chris, chris, chris, chris.”
chris’s grip tightens on the gun, his knuckles white. “what the fuck?!” he shouts, his voice cracking with frustration and fear.
the psycho chuckles, a low, sinister sound that sends chills down your spine. he circles the table slowly.
“you’ve heard of blanks before, haven’t you?” he says, his tone smug and condescending. “i mean, really?”
chris freezes, the gun lowering slightly as the psycho’s words sink in. blanks.
you feel your stomach drop. the tension in the room grows unbearable as the psycho stops beside you, his presence radiating menace. he tilts his head, examining you for a moment before turning his attention back to chris.
“i mean, come on,” he says with a smirk in his voice. “you really thought i’d make it that easy?”
his hands move to the edges of the mask, and your breath catches in your throat. the anticipation is unbearable as he lifts it, slowly revealing his face.
your eyes widen in disbelief, shock and horror flooding through you as the truth clicks into place.
it was him all along.
the sound of the door screeching open echoes through the space, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from him.
your entire body feels like it’s been hollowed out, like every breath has been violently torn from your lungs. your mouth is open, but no words come out, no sound—just the sharp, jagged edges of disbelief slicing through you.
josh.
josh, your josh. the one you saw ripped in half, his blood pooling across the floor in a scene so horrific it seared itself into your memory. the man you mourned, grieved for so deeply it felt like the world might never make sense again.
and yet here he is, standing before you.
“josh?” mike’s voice cuts through the silence, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself of what he’s seeing.
you can’t think, can’t move. it’s like the pieces of reality are crumbling apart and leaving you suspended in this unbearable moment. how is this possible? how is he alive? and more terrifyingly– why?
a tidal wave of emotions crashes over you. confusion, relief, anger, betrayal. all churning into a storm so violent you don’t even know which way is up anymore. your head drops, the tears come, shaking you to your core. but the sobs are silent, strangled by the sheer weight of it all.
you cry so hard your entire body trembles, the kind of crying that leaves you gasping for air but never getting enough.
sam rushes over, her hands working to untie the ropes binding your wrists. “it’s okay,” she murmurs, though her voice shakes as much as your hands do. “we’ll figure this out. you’re okay. i’ve got you.”
but even as she says it, you can hear her unspoken doubt. she doesn’t understand what’s happening any more than you do.
and then josh laughs.
it starts low, a chuckle that grows louder, sharper, until it fills the room. the sound is manic, cruel, cutting through your grief.
“oh, very good! every one of you! got my name right!” he says, his voice dripping with mockery, arms flung wide as if he’s addressing an audience. “and after everything you’ve been through– wow!”
your stomach twists painfully as his words sink in, each one laced with something venomous. he paces the room, looking at each of you in turn, his grin widening as he feeds off your reactions.
“good, good, good. i mean, how does that feel?” his eyes flick to you, it feels like the winds been knocked out of you. “huh? do you enjoy feeling terrorized? humiliated? panicked?”
his voice rises with every word, his arms flailing dramatically.
“all those emotions my sisters got to feel one year ago! only guess what? they didn’t get to laugh it off! no, no, no! they’re gone!” he stops, his face twisting into something wild and unhinged.
mike steps forward, his expression dark, his body tense. “i don’t know if you’ve noticed, josh, but none of us are laughing.”
chris then speaks up, there’s a venom in his voice you’ve never heard before. “you want to talk about humiliation? about terror?” he jabs a finger in josh’s direction, his voice rising with every word.
“do you have any idea what you’ve done to her? to all of us? you died, josh. we thought you were dead! she—” he gestures toward you, his voice cracking. “she begged me to shoot her because of what you did! she wanted to die, josh! because of you!”
josh’s manic energy falters, his expression slipping into something more subdued. his mouth opens like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out.
chris steps closer, his face inches from josh’s now. “you think this is justice for your sisters? you think this is what they’d want? or are you just too wrapped up in your own goddamn head to see the difference?”
josh stares at chris, his lips trembling, his confidence visibly cracking.
but you’re not watching them anymore. you’re staring at the ground, your vision blurred by tears. his voice, his face, his laugh. it’s too much. it’s all too much.
“hey,” josh says softly, steps toward you, his voice lacking the bravado it held moments before.
you feel his arms around you, warm and familiar, and for a fleeting second, you almost give in. almost let yourself believe that this is the josh you knew, the josh you loved.
but then reality slams into you like a freight train.
“no!” you cry, shoving him away with every ounce of strength you have left. he stumbles back, his face a mask of shock and hurt.
you take a step back, your chest heaving, your voice trembling with betrayal. “how could you do this to me? to us?”
josh’s hands rise defensively, his eyes wide. “i– i didn’t mean–”
“don’t you dare,” you snap, you point at him. “don’t you dare act like this was some accident. you planned this, josh. you planned it, and you knew what it would do to me!”
your voice shatters into a sob as you turn away from him, collapsing into sam’s arms. she catches you, holding you tightly as you bury your face in her shoulder.
“it’s okay,” she whispers, her hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. her voice is steady, but the anger in her eyes as she glares at josh is unmistakable. “i’ve got you. it’s okay.”
josh takes a step toward you, his hands reaching out. “please, i–”
Know One Knows the Trouble, Honey, That We've Been Through 2/3
Logan Howlett/ Wolverine x Mutant!FemReader
Chapter Rating: Mature
Word Count: 5.6k
Summary: Your emotions start to settle and you get to know Logan a little more
Warnings: Hangover? Negative self-talk, SEXUAL TENSION, pg-13 dirty talk, talk of past trauma/abuse
Series Masterlist
Part 1 Part 3
AO3 if you prefer to read there
_______
You always found it wasn’t the hangover that was the worst part after a night of drinking— it was the shame. A heavy groan rolls out of your lips, your achy shoulders leaning over the third cup of coffee that was forced on you. You’re still surprised you had the courage to leave your room at all. This isn’t the first time the X-men nursed you back to the land of living after a night of less-than-savory decisions, but you do hope it’s the last.
Thankfully, you hadn’t seen Logan all morning.
He drove you both home. He carried you to bed. You called him a fucking calendar boy. God, you had to be here for at least another week. How on earth are you going to get through this? Could you possibly avoid him for days? With enough dedication… Maybe.
“You and Logan seem to have made up then?” Storm muses, taking a seat next to you at the kitchen counter.
“We… went to Stevie’s,” You grumble into your coffee.
“Of course you did,” She tries and fails to hide her smile. You’d drug Storm there plenty of times back in the day.
“I thought I’d be nice. Be The bigger person, ya know. Make peace. It was supposed to be one drink, Ororo,” You slump down to the counter, burying your face in your arms, “He carried me to my goddamn bed.”
“Did he now?” You hear the intrigue in her voice.
“I called him a lumberjack. Or a firefighter or something. Scream-sang half the way home too I think.”
“Mmm,” she hums into her mug before taking a generous sip of coffee, “And did… anything else happen last night?”
You immediately shoot up, cheeks heating in an instant. Storm always loved the juicier gossip.
“Nope!” you blurt just a little too loudly, “Just shamefully being tucked in, unfortunately.”
“Shame. I think he likes you.”
“Yeah… right,” You wheeze, “The professor made him my chaperone to the greenhouse yesterday, I got drunk on his dime, and on top of that I think I scratched up his bike when I knocked it over… with him on it.”
“Details, darling. Details.” She gets up to round the kitchen island, pulling out a cereal box and two bowls. “More importantly, what do you think of him?”
“Well, he wrecked the flowers you got me.” you bluntly point out.
“A fact that I’m sure Jean is scolding him for this very moment,” she pours two bowls of Honeycombs, one heftier than the other, “He’s a difficult person, yes, but he’s trying to get better too. It took a lot of convincing from all of us when he first came here.”
Sounds like someone else that used to come here. You want to say it but the double meaning in her tone is clear.
You recall trying to run away at least twice when you first came to the X Mansion. It was scary, and you’d been in fight or flight mode for so long that you didn’t know how to react. Everything was always a matter of time at that point in your life. It seemed like everyone became an enemy, eventually. Every home was abandoned, eventually. You would have run out of time eventually— if it wasn’t for Charles.
“He’s not so bad on the eyes either though, is he?” Storm slides a near overflowing bowl to you, milk splashing over the sides.
“Ro,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to hide your smile more than anything. She was always so forward, “I think I said he could be in a calendar last night. Like the sexy calendars.”
“Ah, so the drunken confessions have gotten the ball rolling,” Storm slides back in next to you, “Other than his leg buckling good looks, what else do you think of him?”
It’s still too early in this relationship to form a concrete opinion about him. He ruined your flowers and you got drunk with him. It’s not the best start to a friendship— but you’ve had worse.
You think back to the hastily taken-off shoes next to your bed. An untouched glass of water on your nightstand you immediately downed. The crinkles around his eyes that deepened when he laughed at whatever you were rambling about back at the bar. An abandoned red flannel left around your shoulders when you woke up this morning…
He didn’t talk much, but he listened. He cared in his own tough guy way.
“I think… he’s nice.”
______________
You choose to work on the tunnels today, not ready to face the blinding sunlight outside. The max dose of ibuprofen and a steady supply of Gatorade were working overtime as you blast further into the rock. There was still at least half a mile to clear out and Hank wanted to get started on the wiring for the lights and ventilation as soon as possible.
Ideally, you wouldn't be doing anything today. Drinking always took it out of you, but you couldn’t just loaf around the mansion nursing a hangover when you were hired to do a job. You didn’t even get in the tunnel until noon and after an hour of punching through bedrock, you’re already exhausted.
You emerge from the tunnel back into the basement for a small break, soot already covering you despite your less-than-enthusiastic work effort. For once you didn’t want to bury yourself in your work— metaphorically at least. For the first time since you got here, you give yourself a chance to breathe.
The sleek lower halls of the X-men haven’t changed. It looks the same, but it feels completely different— just like fucking everything lately. Nothing changed here, but you have. A place you were once so proud to be. Now… now you don’t know.
But maybe you’re starting to come to terms with it— feeling comfortable, even. It’s okay that things change, literally everything does. That’s what moving forward is all about.
Is that what you were doing? Moving forward?
You come to the display cases, everyone’s suits standing proudly on faceless mannequins. Suits of the current X-Men and the past. They still had yours, of course. A plaque that read ‘(Bull)Dozer’ rested at its feet. You wonder if it would still fit you.
“Always wondered who wore that one.” A now familiar gruff voice pulls you out of your reminiscing. You turn and there he is, leaning against the adjacent wall, that blasted smirk on his face.
He’s suited up, a fresh sheen of sweat marking his forehead and a faint smell of smoke lingering around him. He must have just come from the danger room.
You give your own smirk and give him a quick once-over, taking in the garish yellow that covered him from head to toe, “I didn’t expect yours to be so… Bright.”
“Goes with my eyes,” He teases, coming to stand next to you. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of how filthy you surely must be. You resist the urge to dust yourself off. There was no use, you were covered in dirt. “How you feeling today, darlin’?”
The pet name shoots butterflies straight to your stomach. Either from embarrassment or… something else.
“Just fine.” You say as confidently as you can.
“Didn’t expect you to be so… productive today.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“Oh, I’ve been around the block a few times. I’m tough.”
“I’m sure you are.”
The air is suddenly suffocating and you’re not sure how much of it is in your head. You don’t dare bring up whatever you could have possibly said last night. You couldn’t just ignore it either.
“I wanted to say… thanks… for last night,” you break the silence, “But also I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“Sorry you had to play babysitter.”
“Ya know you’ve got a nasty habit of apologizing for things you shouldn’t be apologizing for.”
“Logan–”
“I had a good time last night,” He cuts you off, going from a teasing tone to a more serious one. He means it. He wants you to know he means it, “Wasn’t the first time I had to carry someone to bed and it won’t be the last. I didn’t mind. You were pretty fun before that too. Play a mean game of pool.”
You’re not sure but you swear you see him wink.
You feel the rush to your cheeks again. Since when did you get so shy around shit like this? Maybe it was just him. Something about him had this effect on you.
You goddamn teenager.
“Doing the Danger Room solo, huh?” you quickly change the subject.
“Not a very good team player,” he shrugs, “Not that anyone here would be much of a challenge if they wanted to join.”
“Cocky prick,” you scoff, “I bet I could take you.”
Something in his demeanor changes. His eyes darken and a playful grin pulls at his lips. All the pet names, sneaking up on you, making you blush. He’s been flirting… might as well flirt back.
“That so, princess?”
You want to backstep. You should backstep— but damn, playing with fire never seemed so fun.
“Yeah, I do think so.” You cross your arms, a playful challenge.
“And what makes you say that?” He steps closer, you don’t back down.
“I’ve met a lot of men that think they’re hot shit. Men that need to be knocked down a peg. I don’t mind being the one to do it. They always walk away with their tail between their legs.”
Something in his eyes darkens as he crowds you against the wall. You can feel the heat radiating off of him. He leans down.
“Sounds like a lot of boys to me.” he nearly growls. “You’ve put a lot of boys in their place, princess?”
“Only when they deserve it.”
A deep hum of approval rumbles in his throat. The feralness of his tone awakens something inside of you. It stirs in your belly and shoots between your legs.
You’re playing a very dangerous game but can’t seem to help yourself— not with Logan.
Suddenly, he pulls away, all of the air you were holding in your lungs going with him.
“Hank.” He grumbles under his breath as he steps away.
Sure enough, the big blue man himself rounds the corner, several scattered papers and blueprints in hand.
“My dear, there you are!” Beast walks directly between you and Logan, completely unaware of the tension he’s breaking. “I wanted to discuss some foundational plans with you for the new win,” he places a hand on your back and gently starts guiding you down the hallway. “If you’ll excuse us, Logan.”
“Sure, bub,” you catch a glimpse of Logan scowling over your shoulder, “Do whatcha gotta do.”
________________
Days. It’s been days since you’ve seen him. It’s been days since you’ve seen much of anyone, really.
Scott had everyone on high alert since the evening of your hangover. More activity was detected around the Trask extremist's now not-so-hidden hideout. Charles has been on the phone with any government official he can and the rest of the gang has been on around-the-clock reconnaissance. Thank god the only thing the US government hates more than mutants is domestic terrorism. If they can solve this amicably and quietly, they will.
And you just keep digging your holes in the ground.
You finished the tunnels yesterday, both far longer than the previous ones were. One exiting over half a mile to the West and another to the East. All that was left were the gardens now.
It was the work that would take the longest anyway. They had to be sculpted meticulously, level, and somewhat aesthetic looking. Much harder than just boring a hole into the ground. Things that looked beautiful required more focus and time, that’s true with anything. You had a little less than a week to finish the job. Then… you’re not sure. Just go back to your regular life, you suppose.
Do you really want to go back?
The question continuously repeats in your head as you try your best to focus on leveling the dirt beneath your palms. This job back at your school did not go as planned— at all. You thought you could do this quickly without drawing in the guilt. Quick in and out then back to your mediocre career and lackluster social life. In hindsight, you feel like a fool for thinking you could do this without old feelings stirring up. Feelings that weren’t nearly as bitter as you thought they were. Charles mentioned in passing how he’d like to start a new environmental science course, they’re just having trouble finding someone who has time. A trap, surely. Jean did say your thoughts are very loud lately, the professor’s no doubt overheard your inner conflict.
This thing with Logan wasn’t helping either.
Nothing more than lust, you think. Carnal desires stirring for someone mysterious. A bad boy. A rogue. If you were younger you would have already found him late one night and jumped his bones. For some reason that felt… trashy. That and Scott’s had the man on call constantly. Even though he’s made it clear the feeling is mutual, you don’t want to necessarily piss where you lay. But that would only matter if you stayed.
You want him. You want him bad and you're being skittish about it because you don’t want to fuck up the dynamics of the team… because you want to stay.
You want to stay.
The roar of the Blackbird coming into land sends your ears ringing. They’re back from their latest reconnaissance mission. The sun was going to set within the hour. Your work would be done for the day and everyone would be home—everyone including him.
You have no idea what you’ll do but… something. Tell Charles and Scott you want to stay? Finally pounce on Logan? Or just hide away in your room— that seems most likely.
Unfortunately, the choice is made for you.
“Still no flowers planted yet?” the sweet rumble of Logan’s voice pricks the hairs on the back of your neck.
“Tomorrow maybe. Almost done with the beds,” you say as casually as possible. He comes to stand at the top tier of the garden several feet above you. He’s changed out of his uniform and you’re still in your 2 day old work clothes. Why does he keep finding you when you’re completely covered in dirt?
“Nice shirt,” he nods towards you.
You look down at your grime-covered torso. You’d put on his flannel this morning. Why in God's name did you do that?
“Yeah some fella from the bar left it in my room,” you joke as you make your way up to him. “Sorry, musta just grabbed it without thinking.”
“I don’t mind. Suits you,” he reaches out, helping you up the final step. He pauses, just for a moment. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
And there’s that awkward little silence brewing again you're both so good at. He’s desperately the person you want to see and the last person you want to talk to at the same time. Still, he sought you out first— and that meant something.
You both decide to break the silence at once.
“I’m sorry I’ve been—”
“Would you wanna get you another—”
Were you always this bad at this or is it just him?
He chuckles, scratching the back of his head, “Got a little break in the action. Was wondering if I… could get you another drink?”
Your entire body screams no but your stupid heart is pounding yes. Maybe if you take it easy this time you’ll be fine. You actually remembered to eat today so that’s working in your favor.
“I’m not sure I can show my face at Stevie’s again.” You joke.
“Nah, not that dump. " He turns and starts walking back to the mansion, “somewhere much more local this time.”
_______________
The sun is just starting to kiss the treeline when you settle into your seat. You promised to start a fire in the pit and Logan promised to bring the beer. It at least gave you a little time to get rid of all the dirt that was caking you head to toe. Sharing a drink while watching the sunset on the back porch with a bonfire. You don’t think he intended for it to be as romantic as it was, but you can’t say you really mind.
Logan comes through the sliding door, six-pack in hand. You don’t even get a word out before he’s already offering an opened bottle.
“Maybe take it easy this time,” he smirks.
“Mm, maybe you should have got me a juice box instead if you’re so worried.”
“Oh, and here I thought you were a tough girl.”
Jesus fucking christ.
You accept the beer and dare not make eye contact.
“Cheeky ass,” you attempt to shoot back, taking a heavy swig from the bottle.
He takes a seat next to you on the bench with a heavy groan. “I’ve been called worse.”
You don’t doubt it. You were calling him worse barely a week ago. Now you’re sharing a drink at sunset with him? Well, another drink.
“How was the mission?”
He just grunts in response, leaning over his knees to peer into the fire, “Fucking annoying.”
“The bad guys or Scott?”
“Both,” He huffed a laugh, taking a swig from his bottle. “Just gettin’ impatient is all. Summers has us all waitin’ for the right moment. Can’t let them know we’re watching. Probably the right call with guys like these. Don’t tell him I said that though.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, tough guy.”
Your heart isn’t racing as much now. The air between you is getting lighter by the second. This wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t so bad. Not entirely the gruff and tough guy you made him out to be.
He could have marched right up to you and asked you to come up to his room, and you would have said yes. You could have come banging on his door one night for a quick fuck, but you didn’t. There was that desire here, but there was something else building too. You wanted to know him. He seemed to want to know you too.
You want to stay.
“You miss it?”
“What?” the question catches you off guard.
“The X-Men. Being an X-man.” Logan clarifies, “Do you miss it?”
It's a loaded question, one you might have answered differently a few weeks ago.
“Yes.”
He’s just as surprised by your bluntness as you are.
“Why leave then?” he prods a little further.
You want to know him, he wants to know you.
“I wanted to see if I could do it. Just… be a person. Free to just exist in the world, ya know?” you instinctively curl your legs into your chest. “And I guess I did it, in a way. I’m not struggling, a business owner with steady work, but that doesn’t change the way they look at me. They want what I can do. I’m a one-man construction crew. Cheaper and faster, but still just a mutant, someone you pay under the table. I guess I forgot I couldn’t really change anyone's mind either.”
He lets your little confession linger for a moment before speaking again.
“Fuck ‘em.”
You raise a brow.
“Fuck ‘em. Never thought it was much worth being part of anyway.”
Guess you’re not the only blunt one here.
You unfurl your legs, stretching your feet out to the edge of the fire. You wish you’d kicked off your work boots earlier.
“What about you, Wolverine? Do you like being an X-man?”
“Tch, now ain’t that a big question.” He raises the bottle to his lips.
“So you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.” the bottle lowers.
“You don’t seem to say much about yourself.” You’re baiting him, just a little.
“Fair enough,” he concedes with a sigh, “I do. I like bein’ here, bein’ part of something, but it's got its own challenges. I’ve got my own challenges. Demons like everyone else. Guess that’s how we all ended up here, isn’t it? Fucked up as that is.”
He’s a man of few words, but each of them is spot on. You’re only here because you were running, just like everyone else.
“So is that a yes—” you tease.
His knee knocks against yours with a chuckle, “Yeah, I suppose it is.”
His thigh doesn’t move away, resting lazily against yours. You swear you can feel his body heat radiating up your whole leg.
“Would you come back?” He turns the conversation back to you again.
“I… I don’t know yet,” you admit.
“Yet?”
“I don’t know if they’d take me. If Charles would—I’ve been—”
“They would.” his blunt candor cuts through your insecurity like a knife. Logan is a man who only seems to say what he means, and that’s comforting, strangely enough. “I don’t know much about it, but family is family. All you gotta do is ask with this crowd.”
A reassuring heat creeps into your cheeks at his words. You know he’s right. The only one you need to convince is yourself now.
“Yeah,” you thumb at the neck of your beer, long forgotten and surely completely warmed through by now. You set it on the ground, “I might…I might just ask.”
You feel him shift, leaning in closer to you. You finally turn your eyes from the dancing fire and face him. His normally hardened face is so… soft.
“I wouldn’t mind keepin’ you around if you did.”
The kiss is gentle at first, to your surprise. Both of you lean into it almost nervously, as if asking permission. When neither of you pulls away he’s the first to go deeper, cradling your head in his freehand. You melt into him. His mouth opens against yours, tongue seeking your own. You let him in gladly. The sensation of his stubble against your cheeks makes your hair stand on end. A deep moan growls up from his throat and sends shockwaves through your whole body. Your thighs clench together almost on instinct.
He’s the first to pull away, but still hovering close enough for your noses to brush.
“Come to my room tonight.” You find yourself asking through heated breath.
“Why not right now?” his hand roams down from your neck to your hip. You want this, god you really want this. But…
“Please grant me the decency of a shower, Logan,” You worry for a split second your stupid mouth has ruined the moment, but he huffs out a small laugh with that unmistakable smirk.
“Me or you?” he leans to the side, nose grazing your neck.
“B-both.”
“Smell pretty good to me, darlin’.” You feel his breath dancing on your skin, a few small pecks left along your shoulder.
“Logan…”
“I like that,” He comes back up to face you, eyes blown wide with desire, “I like the way you say my name.”
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” You can’t help but rake your free hand through his hair. It’s softer than you expected.
“Can’t have that. Not when you just decided to come back,” He gives your hip a final squeeze and steals another quick kiss before leaning back. “You wanna wait, we’ll wait.”
Suddenly you regret your shower request.
You sigh, dropping your head to his shoulder “It’s been a long day… few days.”
“I can relate,” his hand rakes over your back. “Probably gonna be called out again in 10 minutes anyway.”
“Any progress?”
“We’re close, whatever that means,” you can hear the irritation in his voice. You can’t blame him, the whole team was constantly coming and going the last week.
They’d have a lead and it’d fizzle out. Even Ceribro was having trouble tracking them. You overheard Jean and Charles discussing the possibility of them possessing physic-blocking technology. Enemies had gotten their hands on weirder things.
“What was it like… when you were on the team?” he asks. Well, if you weren’t going to jump into each other’s pants right away, might as well keep up with the fireside pleasantries— not that you minded.
“Smaller. Much smaller.” You snort, “We didn’t have a direct line to the president, that’s for sure. Mostly breaking up small-time mutant-related gang violence. Saving kids. Erik would show up every once in a while with some new lackeys. Nothing like what he tried on Liberty Island.”
“You heard about Liberty Island?”
“Jean told me,” It was all over the news too, some important details left out, of course. “She told me it was your first mission with the team too.”
“Hell of a first mission.” he takes a heavy swig of his mostly untouched beer. “What was yours?”
“Child rescue,” You don’t even have to think about it, the night is still imprinted on your mind, “A dozen mutant kids were being held in some dirty warehouse in Long Island. They were gonna be sold off to some private warlords or some shit, I don’t like to think about what could have happened. We got them out, that’s what matters.”
You pull away from him, your previously warm mood now soured by no fault of your own. Thankfully, Logan doesn’t seem offended.
“Why do I feel like that’s not the whole story?” He takes a cautious sip, raising his brow.
He’s right.
“Do you actually wanna hear it?” You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He nods.
“I told you I was an angry kid. I was an angry X-Man too,” you remember the close calls that night, “Seeing those kids like that… it reminded me of… it was too much. If I get too mad, buildings fall down. Foundations crack. We got the kids out while the roof was coming down.”
You thought you were so ready for the field. What a mistake that was. Charles and the team never shamed you but there was always this look in their eyes. Like they were waiting for you to go off again. You kept a tighter hold on it after that night. You let yourself lose control before, you don’t want to do it again. Keeping it in keeps people safe.
“You don’t seem so angry to me, sweetheart.”
“Years of practice.” you give a faux smile, a pit of regret forming in your stomach for oversharing— again.
“You’ll have to give me lessons sometime,” he nudges at your shoulder. Despite it all, he’s still smiling at you.
“You’re a good listener, Logan.” you smile back.
“Gotta be when you don’t have much of your own story to tell.” he shrugs off the small compliment.
“What happens in your story, bub?” you joke, praying he might share just a little.
He leans forward over his knees. His deep brown eyes stare blankly into the fire like he’s searching for something. He said there’s missing parts. He said he doesn’t remember much.
“I don’t know it all yet.” is his disappointing answer, “It was… taken from me. Charles is helping me find the missing pieces. I want to tell you, I do, but I want all the pieces back first.”
You desperately want to ask him to elaborate. Memories taken from him? Missing time the Professor was helping him get back. That had to be part of the reason he stayed here. To get back who he was.
Still, you won’t push.
“All good stories are worth waiting for, I hear,” you give him an assuring smile. He thankfully smiles back, placing a warm hand on your thigh. Something about him, something about Logan just made this all so… easy.
“You could tell me yours while we wait?” He asks, orange lights dancing over his soft expression. “How did Dozer become an X-Man?”
“It’s… not a happy story.” You bite your lip.
“Neither is mine.”
You look back at the fire, his warm eyes suddenly too much to bear looking at. Were you really going to do this? You barely know him.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”
But you do want to, and that’s the surprising part. You don’t know why, but you want to tell him about the darkest part of your life. It’s been so long since you’ve said any of it out loud, maybe you need to get it out. Maybe he’d understand. Maybe you’ll scare him away. Maybe you just want him to know what the fuck he’s getting into.
You take a deep breath.
“My powers manifested when I was ten. Was playing in the backyard with my brothers and suddenly we had a new sinkhole. Broke one of their ankles. I don’t think they ever stopped being afraid of me after that. My father was afraid at first too. Tried to cover it up, told me not to make any new friends, to keep to myself in school. It went on like that for a few months until… until everything changed.”
You’ve tried so hard to forget these few years of your life. At the same time, they seem to be all you can think of late at night. It’s what you’ve been running away from your whole life.
You’ve told so few people this story, and now you’re telling Logan. He sits there quietly, a supportive heavy hand on your thigh and kindness in his stern eyes.
He wanted to know you.
“Like I said before, my father was a career army man. I think he loved it more than us. I know he loved it more than me. I don’t know how he heard about it but the military wanted mutants. Secret programs within secret programs. A once in a lifetime opportunity for him. I was his ticket in.”
You feel Logan’s grip tighten.
“He didn’t give me to them completely at first. Made me do tryouts I guess. Took me to some base and made me show a bunch of old men in nice suits what I could do. Did that a few times. It was slow at first. Taken out of school. Brothers stopped talking to me. Told to practice more. At first, it was once a week, then it was more, then he just left me there.
“I was scared the first night. I was only twelve but I was smart enough to know where this would all lead. I knew my father didn’t love me anymore. I knew they’d do horrible things to me. I broke out. They caught me within 24 hours and scrambled to find a prison I couldn’t break out of again. Where do you keep a child that can move bricks and concrete like toys? One day, I just woke up in a room of metal. They hid me away in some deployed battleship. Never learned where or what the name was. There were others there too I think, but I can’t be sure. They couldn’t trust me, but maybe they thought they could train me. Make me a soldier. Break me.”
Funny how these words come out so easily. You recite them in an almost sterile way. Maybe you needed to say them again. Needed someone else to know. You feel Logan’s eyes boring into you, but you don’t dare meet his gaze. Not while there’s more to say.
“I think I was on that ship for almost a year. When they started talking about taking me to another facility ‘with the others’ I knew I had to get out somehow. I played along, became docile, whatever they wanted so long as they would let their guard down. I’d be shipped out to the mountains in Canada, they said. When we docked I could finally feel earth again for the first time in months. Even from inside my little cell, I was close enough to summon something… anything.
“I put a hole in the ship with a few bricks from the pier. One hole became dozens. I didn’t stop until the hull was more air than metal. The boat sank at port and I was able to escape in the commotion. We were in New Jersey. In 6 months I got to Chicago and that’s where Charles found me.”
The sun has completely set but for a few stray ribbons of orange in the sky. The crackling of the dying fire was deafening between you two. You finally look back to Logan. You can’t read his face. It’s not blank or shocked like most people were after your sad story.
His next words shock you.
“The Weapon X program,” it comes out so quietly, “You were… oh my God, you were in the Weapon X program.”
It’d been so long since you’d heard that goddamn name.
You draw away from him immediately, betrayal muting over all of your other feelings. He knew.
“Charles told you, didn’t he? You let me drone on while—.”
“No! No, he—” Logan bites out, hands closing into fists. The knuckles whiten instantly. “Chuck never told me.”
“Then how do you know that name? How do you know what Weapon X is?” You spit the words with venom, your defenses are immediately put back into place. He knew something. He knew something about you this whole damn time.
Yet, he looks so small. Shoulders slouched down, defenseless. Eyes wide with what almost felt like compassion.
“Logan… were you… were you in Weapon X?”
He looks down at his hands resting on his lap, squeezing his fists one last time before releasing them. As his fingers unfurl his claws slowly unsheath, lazily crossing over each other on his lap. It could almost be perceived as a threat, but that’s not what he’s doing. It’s like he’s showing you something.
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: smut mdni 18+ strangers to lovers, drinking, cursing, slow burn, angst, pining, fluff, reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books, change of 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 story. 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 never fail to 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 tell 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. Everyone 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 that,” 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,” Blind 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—but 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 this.”
“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. Your hair is mussed, and you run your fingers through the tangled strands when you spot him.
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 turning white 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 closed 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. You scan his features, tracing 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 an asshole.
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 ran her fingers through your hair, 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 thinking 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 fucking—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, acting 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.
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