[ SUM ] — choso works at the dying seaside movie theater, permanently high and painfully untouched. you’re the new regular that gives him mean glares, then cute smiles? he tries to blame the summer heat… but really? he’s just one shift away from snapping—and you’re the only one he’s got his eye on.
[ A/N ] — i actually don’t read a lot of choso fics, but this idea was not leaving my head, so enjoy!!!
choso was many things. but caring about his job was not one of them.
and that’s how you find the movie theater worker. sitting behind the counter scrolling mindlessly on his phone, loose baggy jeans and an oversized band tee, hitting his vape. and with just as much boredom, if not more, you step up to the counter and with the least amount of enthusiasm in your voice, and ask.
“can I get one blue raspberry slushy.”
choso practically jumps ten feet in the air. dropping his vape and phone the second he sees you standing there. the theater was completely empty, considering it was a monday afternoon, but it looked like you appeared out of thin air—
“jesus christ,” he heaves, catching his breath. “yeah sure.”
he shoots you one glance, eyeing your casual outfit, before moving to grab you a cup in their only available size. you stand quietly, hand briefly coming up to suppress a yawn. it’s silent. just the quiet actions of the worker.
he places the drink in front of you, turning the small screen for you to pay. but you just pull out a twenty, before pointing to one of the posters they’re showing in their three theaters. “and one ticket.”
choso hums, rubbing his eye as he includes that in the total, printing out your ticket.
“anything else?”
you shake your head for half a second, grabbing your drink and ticket, then heading to theater two.
he muttered a good night once the film ended and you were leaving. you barely offered him a polite wave in return.
that was the first time you met choso, but you didn’t know that was his name until the third week you came. you point to your chest.
“shouldn’t you guys have name tags?” you ask as he fills your cup with your usual blue raspberry slushy.
“lost mine,” he mutters, placing the drink on the counter, eyes clearly bloodshot and lidded. “my name’s choso if ya need anything,” he rings your drink and ticket up, turning the screen.
then his brows crease briefly, eyes snapping up to you, almost like he finally processed your question again before he starts sputtering, “don’t report me though, if that’s why you wanted to know my name. I don’t even smoke in the theater, it’s just a vape.”
and that was the first time he saw you smile.
your eyes gleam with a little mischief and amusement, taking your drink and ticket without uttering a single word.
choso worked at the small local movie theater every summer and winter break. primarily to get away from his nagging dad asking him about his future, as if he’s convinced choso actually attends all his classes and isn’t moving around pot for extra cash. and also to get away from his uncle who’s doing god knows what with megumi’s dad.
either way, the theater job was chill. the owner was his gramps and he let’s choso handle practically everything, and lately choso’s found himself looking forward to seeing you come in multiple times a week so he’s taken up more shifts.
sometimes he would casually stand at the front of the theater when it was empty, which it usually was, and smoke a joint. his dark bloodshot eyes shining when he’d see you cross the street.
the hot summer sun was beating down on you, your cropped top was stuck to your body like a second skin, hips swaying in your jeans.
“fuck,” he exhales lowly. your chest gleaming from the sweat.
you wipe your forehead, slightly out of breath as you shoot him one single glance, smiling to yourself once he follows you inside like a lost puppy.
“were you running?” choso coughs, putting out his joint, and picking up his pace as you reach the counter.
you nod, “yeah, was at the old diner a few blocks away with my friends,” your shirt was pretty low cut, desperately controlling his eyes from wandering as he grabbed a cup and went to the slushy machine.
“friends?”
“yeah from high school and stuff. we usually jus’ hangout in the summer since we all go to different schools now,” your tone is so easy and light, choso always feels like he’s floating when you speak. or it could be because of the weed he just smoked. either way, every time you come in now, he feels it’s less and less awkward talking to you.
“so why’d you rush here?” he casually asks, placing the slushy in front of you, hands leaning over the counter. you were shorter than him, but you still carried yourself high which had lately started to make him fantasize about things.
you glance between his sunken eyes, chest still coming down from the light jog you had. “I always come around this time,” was the explanation you’d give him. but deep down, choso was praying you’d say it was because of him. still, you point to another old movie that’s playing and finally disappear into the theater.
it wasn’t until a few weeks later, and the fourth of july rolled around.
surprisingly, the owner kept the theater open, and choso would rather smoke on the job, than get caught by his dad or uncle back home so he took the shift. however, the last thing choso was expecting when he was walking absentmindedly in the theater as fireworks went off outside, was for someone to walk in.
and that someone being you.
“you guys really stay open,” you smile, something you’ve started doing more with him. choso’s red eyes widen, heart palpating at the sight.
you were fucking breathtaking.
his mind was so high in the clouds he couldn’t control it anymore, his eyes immediately wandering down. his ears burn red, eyeing the short short skirt you’re wearing, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. even the half-zipped sweater you’re wearing barely covered your top which was a red bikini top that hugged your breasts as they bounced lightly. “choso?”
his eyes quickly snap to your face, cheeks aflame as he stutters out a reply, “yeah, uh—you wanna watch something?”
choso swallows thickly glancing down at your chest again as you walk up to him, fingers at the hem of your sweater, fixing up the zipper before slowly pulling it up. “someone told me,” you stop in front of him, big seductive eyes batting up at the stoner, “that there’s a better view of the fireworks, from this roof.” your finger points up.
it takes a moment for choso to register your words, his eyes now glancing at your glossy lips, beyond tempted to brush his thumb across it. “someone told you?” he repeats, brain still processing as you hum. suddenly his eyes snap to yours, wide and alert, “wait I said that!”
your lip tugs up, laughing softly, and it feels like a shot of dopamine was just injected into his veins. “you said I should come to see the fireworks here. did you forget?”
choso gulps, remembering now, how could he forget. maybe because he thought there was no way you’d ever come. which is ridiculous considering you’ve been coming every week since the start of summer. but it was the fourth of july you had to have been doing something before this to be dressed like that.
“choso?”
the stoner blinks, electing a light giggle from you which sends him into orbit, but he manages to push his hair back, biceps flexing in his old tee shirt, catching you by surprise.
“shit, yeah—here follow me.”
choso felt like he was floating the second his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you further into the theater all the way into the back. the marijuana in his system easing his nerves as he led you up to the second floor. completely unaware how flustered you’d suddenly gotten.
your heart was racing at the sudden contact, his hand warm, cheeks hot as you glanced at it wrapped around your smaller wrist. your chest heats up as you notice the veins that run up his forearm. the tee he was wearing was much more firm fitted than his usual oversized ones, which extenuated his broad back.
“woah,” you exhale.
“huh?” choso glances over his shoulder, catching you by surprise. “did ya say something?”
you swallow thickly, shaking your head. his lips part before closing into a tight lipped awkward smile, turning. you’re so hot. you watch him reach the ladder in the back room on the second floor.
“lemme just unlock the hatch first,” he says, letting go of your hand to climb the latter. your fingers loosely wrap around one of the bottom steps as he reaches the top. he digs his hand in his pocket grabbing the set of keys.
maybe this wasn’t the best spot to stand because now your entire body feels like it’s on fire as you watch the, once, chill slightly dorky movie theater worker reach both arms over his head, his shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of skin, along with the few hairs that peak out of his black Calvin Klein boxers and loose jeans. oh fuck, you can see his defined v-line—
“there we go!” choso smiles, pushing the hatch up hearing it bang and the lights shine in the night sky in the distance. choso hooks the keys back on his belt loop as he climbs to the top, hand stretched out for you.
damn, your heart is thudding against your chest as you reach the top. his shockingly muscular arm flexes once your small one falls in his palm feeling a second wave of heat flood your body. you were so consumed by how flustered you’re suddenly getting that you miss a ladder step and slip—
“woah! careful,” his arm catches the edge of the latch, holding your bicep with his other hand. “grab the ladder,” but before you could even find your footing again, he’s lifting you higher. your body weight seemed like nothing to him. you’re halfway out of the hatch when you’re finally able to stand on the final step. “you okay?” he’s heaving lightly, hand falling from your bicep to your waist, brows creased and eyes still bloodshot.
this is bad.
your name leaves his soft voice again, a tinge of concern in his eyes when he notices you staring off. “a-are you high too?” he cuts again, finally able to shake you back to reality.
“no, I’m fine. thanks,” you gently pat his shoulder as a thank you, the action filled with timid awkwardness, nothing like how you usually were.
his brow raises, glancing at your sudden attitude change. are you acting differently?
you wet your lips, crossing your arms feeling slightly more self conscious as you walk further away from the hatch you came out of. choso is not far behind, dusting his jeans and stepping up beside you, hand digging in his pockets for another joint.
“wait,” he puts the joint in his mouth, then stands behind you. both his hands come up to your arms as he walks backwards. completely unaware of the shock his touch sends throughout your body, even over the sweater! your heart hammers louder, mouth dry as you try to look over your shoulder. “yeah, here. now look up.” he unconsciously squeezes your arms, nodding his chin up, hands sliding off you to grab his lighter.
your face burns, mouth going dry as you watch the theater worker casually light his joint, jaw flexing at the action as he inhales.
his dark black lashes flutter as the smoke fills his lungs and dulls his senses. he looks so effortlessly pretty….it felt like this is the first time you were seeing him. like you hadn’t realized the first fifty times you came to the theater that he was actually pretty attractive. or that his lips were a pretty pink as he exhaled the smoke. or that he was taller than you, of course you knew that, but your body didn’t fully sink that fact in until now.
“you sure you’re not high?” choso cuts, glancing down at you seeing you still staring at him.
your eyes widen, glancing away. “no, not high.” choso’s hums, shoving one hand in his pocket as he stands beside you, both of you silently waiting. as for choso, the joint from earlier had loosely dulled his anxious heart, but he could still feel the heat creeping up his neck. your body heat so close to his arm, occasionally glancing down at you. eyes flicking over your breasts, then face, then back down.
“where were you before this?” choso breaks the silence.
you glance down at yourself then up at him. “there was a fourth of july party at my friends beach house.”
choso hums, “sounds fun.”
you nod, “yeah. it was fun.”
another sound leaves the man’s lips, rocking on his heels, keeping the conversation going as best as he can. “how come you never bring one of your friends to the movies with you?”
a silent beat passes.
choso looks back at you, your smile no longer playing on your glossy kissable lips. the joint slowly burns between his fingers, heart picking up at your silence.
“was that tmi?” he quickly cuts, salvaging the moment, no filter whatsoever.
your fingers lazily play with the zipper on your sweater, shaking your head. “no…I just like watching movies alone,” you shrug, “all my friends talk through the whole thing anyways.”
“ahhh yeah, that’s like super annoying,” choso nods in agreement, earning a soft giggle from you. “watching movies alone is such a vibe.” you hum again, smiling.
another beat of silence follows, but luckily the second round of fireworks begin. you and choso simultaneously tilt your heads up, faces illuminated by the lights.
“woah,” you both exhale. choso snorts, taking another hit before passing it over to you. you glance at the joint, leaning forward. “oh,” choso blushes, bringing the joint up to your pretty lips, watching you closely as you wrap your lips where his once were, and inhaling.
you can still hear your heart racing behind your ears.
your fingers lightly brush his wrist, before pulling back. you do your best to hold in the smoke, then exhaling, onto for a throaty cough to come out.
“shit,” choso bursts out laughing, softly patting your back. you flush deeply, still coughing as you hear the man laugh a little louder at how flustered you are.
to think you were this nonchalant regular that would give him attitude, and finding out you’re just as awkward as him. well maybe he’s still the weird one, but it was cute seeing you struggle to take another hit to prove some stupid thing to him. so he holds the joint for you again, letting you hit and you do better this time. eyeing him down as if you really showed him.
“cute,” he mutters.
flustered by his comment, you distract yourself, and move a step forward before squatting carefully to sit on the roof. however, when you start to lean backwards—
“what’re you doing!” choso suddenly lurches forward, stopping you from laying down with a hand on your head.
your brows fly up, “I’m just laying down??”
“this roof is dirty as shit!” choso scrambles, looking around for god knows what. you’re still looking at him, even more confused. why is he suddenly freaking out? “here!” he resolves the problem the only way he knows how.
his arm comes over his head, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking the material off.
“what the—“ your cheeks sting, eyes bulging wide at the sight of choso completely shirtless. what the fuck! your brain short circuits. he was built! his abs were defined, and his arms are huge. he’s literally the definition of sleeper build. and is that a “tattoo?”
choso was bent down, laying his shirt behind you, catching a glimpse at the large tattoo on his back. “huh—“ he glances up catching your eye as he looks over his shoulder, almost like he forgot he had a giant tattoo on his sculpted back. “oh yeah, cool right?” he smiles widely.
how can he be so hot and dorky at the same time?! you internally scream, because now you’re just nodding, too flustered to respond.
“my dad fucking killed me when he found out. here lay down,” he pats his shirt, then crawls beside you and lays down.
now the two of you, side by side, stare up the flashing lights, and distant laughs and cheers from the town, everyone’s eyes were up. and then you realize…
“I was gonna put my hood on, you know…so like…you didn’t have to take your shirt off, dude.”
a beat.
choso’s ears are a bright red, then you feel him turn his head to you.
you do the same.
and the deadpan look on the man’s face had you sucking in your lips, holding back a horrible laugh.
“well…” was all he could respond with.
your lips curve into a smile as the sound of your laugh bursts out and fills his ears. your eyes close laughing harder when he tries to keep that deadpan look, especially with how bloodshot his eyes were, he was not fully present.
but eventually, he gives in. laughing with a touch of embarrassment, grumbling under his breath, before nudging you with his muscular arm. “it’s summer so it’s not that crazy,” he huffs.
you laugh again, but make him feel better with an encouraging nod. “for sure. I’m wearing a bikini under here so I can’t really say anything,” but you still laugh at him.
“yeah whatever,” choso sarcastically snorts, but then his eyes fall to your bent knees, your beach skirt exposing more flesh as it rests on your waist. you couldn’t stop laughing, hand on your stomach as you lean towards him, leg touching his waist.
“sorry sorry,” you wave, “just the face you pulled was crazy.” you slowly come down, stomach hurting from how much you’d been laughing. unaware of the warm palm resting on your thigh now, until you feel the light caresses of a foreign touch.
“my bad for tryna be a gentleman,” he mutters, tone laced with amusement, but his eyes were slightly lidded. gaze locked on your face, brushing his calloused palm over the surface of your thigh.
your heart skips a beat. skin breaking out into goosebumps. how did we get here?
the bursts of fireworks fall quiet, senses focused on him and his heavy breathing. his dark orbs glance over your lips. face inching closer. you couldn’t stop your heart from beating louder, not when you feel his warm breath fanning across your face now. is going to kiss you? please please let him kiss you.
similar to you, choso couldn’t not keep his heart from pounding in his ears. palms turning clammy, the sudden confidence, slowly sinking now that he’s so close. fuck—
“is it—“
his words are cut by your lips. his gasp eaten by your hungry mouth as you swallow another whimper from him. your hand gently cups his jaw, lips molding against his, parting them to swipe your tongue across his.
“open,” your soft command, had a pathetic groan escaping the man’s throat.
your confidence was souring at his response. his hand squeezes your thigh, letting you hook your leg across his lap. sliding closer to him as the kiss deepens. neither of you could focus on anything else other than the touch and taste of each other.
you pull away, catching your breath as he pants, hand squeezing your waist under your sweater. “you’re so pretty,” he husks, cupping your head and pulling you back to his lips, taking control. the shift in dominance has a wave of heat pooling between your legs. pressing yourself against him, just to feel a hard tent.
choso swears under his breath as your leg shifts on his bulge. your name leaves his lips, jaw straining. “I needa sec…”
his breath is hot, swallowing another moan when you purposely shift again. blushing at the moan like whimper that leaves his mouth. your nails slide across his pecs, sending shivers down his spine, and blood to his crotch.
“seriously,” he squeezes your waist, groaning as you press your thigh firmly on the bulge, smiling at the twist in his expression.
your lips brush his lightly, smirk tugging at the corners, “is it okay if we keep going?”
choso freezes. his eyes are wide, completely out of his element, unable to react as he watches you climb on top of him. cheeks flushed as you settle back on the large bulge that tent his jeans up. your pretty hands fall on his warm chest, lashes fluttering down at him.
he must be dreaming right now.
the fireworks go off above you. the lights beaming in the night sky and illuminating your seductive silhouette. now this was the same girl that gave him teasing banter for the last month.
“choso?” you softly coo, hips slowly grinding down on his bulge, the friction of his jeans against your thin swim suit bottom had your stomach twisting in pleasure. “you still with me?”
an embarrassing noise leaves the stoner’s lips. his face turns a darker shade of red.
your lips part again, a gentle sigh of pleasure escaping. “do you like me, choso?”
the man finally is able to nod, followed by his hands on your thighs and waist again. you smile, leaning forward, lips hovering over his as you whisper softly, “I think I’m starting to like you too.”
all sanity flys out the window. his lips crash into yours, swallowing a gasp as your bodies mold perfectly. it was amusing to anyone else, the way two young adults, both playing at the timid confidence and flirting, making out heavily on the roof of a struggling movie theaters. desperately dry humping like your life depends on it.
“ngh fuck,” choso grunts, hips bucking as he pulls the zipper of your sweater off. his hand easily falls on your breast, groping the flesh. “this okay?” he asks, nibbling on your bottom lip. however, he doesn’t wait for a response before pulling your bikini top down exposing your tits to the warm summer air.
“choso,” you whine, jaw slacking as he wraps his lips around your nipple, sucking like he’s been deprived of water. he moans around the bud, hand falling to grab your ass, rocking you more.
the air grew thicker around you. his bare chest was burning under your palm, his heart racing as you continued grinding your clothed pussy on his jeans, unaware that the material has been sliding to the side, allowing your arousal to stain his pants. the two of you were possessed. his teeth tugged on your nipple, eyes flicking up to catch your pretty face twist in pleasure, jaw going slack as you began shivering.
“y’ look like you’re gonna cum?” he mutters, tongue swirling around your nipple like a lollipop.
an incoherent whine leaves your lips, unable to speak when you’re so close.
“fuck, you’re gonna cum now. yeah—haah gonna cum just from humping me?” he’s both amused and so unbelievably turned on. his cock was leaking desperately in his boxers, jaw clenched when your humping grew sloppier, pretty lashes fluttering. “shit…” choso groans as he watches you come undone. your luminous eyes are glossed over, jaw slack with a silent oh escaping your lips.
your thighs tremble around his waist, back curving forward, cumming from just a measly dry hump session.
you bury your face in the man’s neck, completely embarrassed. did you seriously just cum? the heat spreads up your neck, to the tips of your ears. however, a deep voice suddenly breaks your anxious heart.
“that was really fucking…hot.”
your heart clenches.
“you feel good?” choso is completely unaware of your reserved reaction to what had just happened. his words just spew from his lips without a second thought. it was usually how he spoke to you before, but in this setting, it brought you more comfort than you were willing to admit you needed.
your lips turn to the shell of his ear, arms wrapped around his neck, and lowly replying, “yeah.”
the slight rasp in your tone sent shivers down the man’s spine, his cock twitching in its confines, hips pushing up. his hand slides to your ass, biting his lip as he grabs a handful of your cheek. the other brushed along your spine under your sweater.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” he starts, face turning to nudge you up, a lopsided grin plays on his lips as you hover close to him. “but I’m really fuckin’ hard.”
you swallow thickly, cheeks burning hot, his lips brush yours again, kissing your bottom lip. his sudden switch between submission and soft dominance left you spinning. now you’re wondering how big he is. especially when you start to sit up, shuffling further down his lap so you’re straddling his thighs.
“I’m gonna….” you trail off, wetting your lips as you start to unbuckle his belt, heart racing as you eye the light hairs that grow darker the lower you go.
choso is in a similar position, possibly worse since he’s rethinking you taking his cock out. his heart is racing, praying the moment you wrap your hand around him he doesn’t cum.
choso doesn’t sleep around — he has slept with the occasional clients back in university, but he definitely doesn’t compare to the fuck boys in the frats. but to say, even with those experiences, watching you unzip his jeans, still two layers over his bare cock, was the most exhilarating feeling ever.
you flush as you thumb his boxers, hooking your fingers around them before—
“what the fuck are you doing on the roof!”
a loud yelp escapes your mouth as you duck to the side of choso, covering yourself from the stranger’s head popping out of the hatch.
choso immediately sits up, turning around in fury, hands coming to his pants.
the low whistle sends even more heat bursting through you and choso, followed by the stranger’s boisterous laugh. “ah ya took her to the spot. told ya this always gets em in.”
your heart stops.
“shut up,” choso snaps. fully sat and reaching to help you fix yourself. however, you immediately brush his hands off, zipping your sweater on your own.
what did that guy mean by this always gets them?
“can you give us a sec?” choso huffs, the stranger was now standing on the roof beside the hatch, hands in his pockets and lit cigarette in his mouth.
“ya left the theater unlocked, you’re lucky it was me and not the old man that came around,” the man tilts his chin to the fireworks still in the sky. “plus i wanted to see the view,” he smirks, sharp crimson eyes skimming your figure.
you brush your skirt off, skeptically glancing at the man as you and choso stand.
“yeah whatever,” choso huffs, cheeks burning red as he faces you, away from the man as he tries to hide his obvious boner.
“who is that?” you glance over choso’s shoulder, the man was still smiling wickedly.
choso tsks at the question. he does his best with his bulge before turning around.
“that’s my uncle ryo.”
uncle? your heart speeds up, so it definitely wasn’t some joke then. why would he say this always gets them?? your mind starts spiraling, hands getting clammy as you glance at his uncle again, his smile doesn’t reach his eyes as you follow choso to the hatch.
“sorry to breakup the lovemaking,” his uncle adds.
you reach the latch when choso is suddenly stopped by the older man, his hand catching his shoulder, turning choso to face him.
“dude,” choso tilts his face away, knowing exactly what’s about to happen, but his uncle holds him still either way.
“how fucked up are you?”
choso’s tsks, jaw clenching, “jus’ smoked like two joints, I’m fine.”
sukuna eye’s narrow at his nephew, letting go. “I won’t tell ye’r dad—“
“yeah, I know. you owe me—“
“cut the shit,” his uncle snaps, pointing at him, “walk home. leave the car.”
choso waves him off in disinterest, turning back towards the hatch when—you’re gone.
his sweat turns cold, quickly racing down the ladder, sharp eyes catching a familiar raven haired man at the bottom. of course his uncle and toji are about to do some shady ass shit now. choso brushes it off and quickly jogs down to the lobby catching your pretty skirt exiting the front doors.
“wait!—“ choso calls your name, sprinting out and catching your wrist with a firm, gentle grasp.
your heart lurches in your throat, stomach twisting into an uncomfortable knot. he’s panting beside you, dirty t-shirt thrown over his shoulder. the fireworks were still going off, and the streets were filled with teenagers and young adults running around with sparklers and making bad decisions.
“I’m really sorry about my uncle. i didn’t know he’d come by—“
“s’ fine,” you cut in, unable to stomach a second thought about what his uncle had hinted at. “I’m gonna head home.”
choso can’t help the sudden jump in anxiety he’s feeling. did his uncle really mess things up with you for good? he treated you nicely though, does that not mean anything. choso swallows the lump in his throat, nodding his head, but instead of letting go of your wrist, you’re suddenly being pulled to his broad chest.
his muscular arms carefully wrap around your smaller form, hugging you close, eyes shut tight. “I’ll see you later…?”
choso’s question hangs in the humid summer air. his heart thumps louder the longer you’re silent, biceps twitching with nerves.
it was an unfamiliar experience. your skin was sticky with sweat, insides hollow and unsure, but your body moved before you can think too much. “yeah,” you quietly mutter, giving him a gentle hug back, allowing him to finally pull away from you.
the booms and cracks of the fireworks echoed through the alleys and streets, quietly rattling store windows as choso watched you disappear into the crowd. and the moment you left his sight, he definitely knew something was wrong.
his anxiety was only proven correct once the following week came around…
choso was sat at the counter, heart thumping loudly as he waited for your usual intimidating aroma to walk through the doors, monday afternoon. you’d be stoic, but the moment you asked for your blue raspberry slushy and he’d make some lazy comment, you’d grace him with your smile.
but you never came.
not monday, or tuesday, or wednesday, or that entire week. and with every passing day, choso grew more and more heartbroken and bitter. was it really because he tried to fuck you on the first night? you kissed him first!
“nah man, girls are just weird,” his close friend ino drags, the usual beanie still covering his light brown hair even in the summer heat. his arms were covered in grease stains, gloves resting on his lap.
choso frowns, joint still between his fingers as the two sit outside toji’s beachside car shop. “that’s not an explanation,” he huffs.
“well,” ino thinks some more, “did you say something wrong?”
“no,” choso’s leaning on his knees, fingers scratching his sharp jaw. “i said sorry because my uncle interrupted.”
“so she’s mad at sukuna?”
choso’s shakes his head, “but that doesn’t make any sense? why would she ignore me?”
suddenly a deep voice cuts behind them, “she looked heartbroken when i saw her running out.”
the two young adults turn their heads, toji was standing a few feet away clearly eavesdropping on the conversation. his white wife beater was covered in grease stains and sweat that trickles down his back and chest. the older man swiped his forehead with his arm.
“what’re you talking about?” choso’s brows pinch.
toji shrugs, wiping his hands with a rag, “the cutie on the roof with you last week. saw her climb down the ladder lookin’ devastated as shit.”
choso’s jaw clenches, “how do you know she was upset?”
the older man scoffs, wicked smirk on his lips, “i know when a woman is heartbroken.”
ino holds stifles a laugh, glancing at choso who doesn’t bother to question toji, he’s known him long enough to trust his instincts with women. however, this leave choso even more confused.
“so was she upset at uncle? or maybe that i made her vulnerable and he saw?”
“vuLnErable,” ino chuckles, just for choso to kick his friend.
toji shrugs, walking over, “could be.”
“or she’s a virgin!” ino shouts, solving mystery.
choso’s eyes widen, “a virgin?!!”
toji deadpans at the young men, “don’t listen to him,” he tosses his dirty rag at ino. “from what y’ said, i fuckin’ doubt she’s a virgin—“
“she’s not a slut!” choso defensively cuts.
toji rolls his eyes,” I didn’t say she was slut.” choso’s eyes are still aflame, standing his ground. toji sighs, “ino’s right.”
“for real?” the twenty-two year old smiles.
“women are confusin’, ya gotta talk to her and ask,” toji shrugs, like it’s that simple.
choso’s head falls forward, “she hasn’t been around the last week. that’s the whole point man!” he groans into his hands. “I thought you know women.”
toji snorts, leaning down to snatch the joint from choso, taking a drag. “I do if I’m with ‘em. I read body language, kid,” he winks.
ino laughs, while choso frowns, “her body language was that she came from dry humping me.”
toji exhales from his nose, laughing, “not just sex. general body language, facial expression, eye contact.”
“oh…”
toji takes one last drag before dropping the joint on the ground and putting it out.
“dude!”
“y’er dad’s comin’ to pick up his car,” toji nods towards ino, the kid sighs dabbing up choso before jogging back to the shop. “she’ll come.”
the week following your absence was worse than the one before. all choso could do was wait. wait until you finally come to theater so he can clear whatever miscommunication managed to happen without him even realizing. all of it was infuriating, especially because he didn’t have your number or any of your socials so it was impossible to contact you—
“one blue raspberry slushy.”
choso jumps so violently and inhaling like someone just unplugged him from the universe and plugged him back in at full voltage.
the vape he was twirling between his fingers clatters onto the counter. he hadn’t even seen you walk up, he was too busy having an out-of-body experience staring at the theater’s carpet pattern, convinced the swirls were breathing back at him.
but then you speak. and suddenly you’re there. right in front of him.
his soul launches into the astral plane for the second time tonight. “oh—” he chokes, jerking back so hard his elbows smack the slushy machine. his eyes shoot to you, wide and slightly bloodshot, like a startled cat who just saw god.
and god, apparently, looks like you.
after ten dry, agonizing, notification-less days, there you stand glowing in the neon reflection of the concessions menu like an angel descending from the heavens with a halo.
you’re an angel. a terrifying, sudden, beautiful angel who kissed and dry humped him days ago then vanished like a fucking heart stabbing tragedy. and then you just fucking walked in holding exact change.
“you scared the shit outta me,” he whispers, voice shaking, but there’s no real accusation in it, just awe. the kind that sounds a little like heartbreak and a lot like love.
you don’t grace him with a smile. your eyes don’t even meet his fully, only flick over his face briefly, then glancing at the three films playing, pointing to one.
choso’s heart beats erratically. palms clammy as he grabs your drink. you were wearing the same sweater you wore that night, but this time it was a cute spaghetti strap sundress that reached mid thigh underneath….are you gonna say anything? maybe something happened to you that’s why you didn’t show up…fuck no, toji already confirmed you were upset with him, or uncle ryo. fuck!
“can we talk about—“
you turn on your heel once he placed your drink and ticket down. disappearing into the theater.
“what the fuck?” choso’s insides twist into a fighting pit of anger and confusion. so you’re not even going to talk to him now? acting the same fucking way you did the first time you met??
his heart hammers against his chest with every passing minute. knee bouncing on the floor glancing at the theater door.
“fuck me—“
the stool slams back into the counter as choso rises. the adrenaline quietly pumps through his veins as he enters the theater, eyes scanning the room, before landing on your form two rows from the back.
it was the first time he left his position to see you. not counting the fourth of july.
“if you tell me what’s wrong or whatever, I’ll leave you alone,” choso whispers, not caring one bit that you’re trying to watch chungking express.
his jaw clenches at your silence, your legs crossed and hands holding your blue raspberry slushy, sucking the straw with a frown tugging at your brows. you’re definitely upset.
“is it about my uncle? I’m really sorry he walked in. for real, I had no idea he was coming,” choso whispers, heart beating quickly, desperately trying to remember the other things he wanted to say. “and I should’ve taken you on a date first, o-or just asked you out first. so I’m sorry for being douche and tryna fuck you—“
your head suddenly snaps to him, your lips blue. his breath catches, and his heart immediately sinks to his stomach at the sight of your glassy eyes glaring at him.
“I’m not mad that you wanted to fuck me, choso,” you whisper, chest rising in anger. “I’m mad that this how you fuck me.”
huh? choso shakes his head. “what’re you talking about??”
your jaw clenches, eyes narrowing at him, “how many times have you done this with other girls? it’s—“ your face contorts, “it’s disgusting.“
choso is even more lost than he was before.
your heart beats erratically in your chest, eyes wavering as you glance between his. the large theater screen the only source of light, as choso shifts closer to see your face.
“honestly, I’m sorry, but i have zero clue what the hell you’re talking about right now. what trick? I didn’t trick you?? and other girls. I’ve been bumming my whole summer in this theater??”
you frown, “I don’t need an explanation seriously,” you mutter turning back to the screen. “we’re not even a thing.”
“I want an explanation because I’m really lost here,” choso’s agitated voice irks you, throat drying as your eyes flick to him.
“your uncle said some bs about, this always gets them in, how else am I supposed to interpret that?”
your words suddenly clear the fog in chose’s mind. breaking the surface as he blinks with absolute annoyance.
“are you kidding me?” he whispers, voice low sending chills down your spine. you frown. “so you assumed he meant me?”
your eyes flick between his, “well…yeah.”
choso’s face is suddenly inches from you, his hot breath fanning over yours. “my uncle used to work here when he was in school. i’d mentioned you once to him and he told me about how he brought girls up here to watch the fireworks,” choso’s lips brush your ear, deep husky voice laced with inconvenience. “there were no list of girls. I already knew the view was good from there and invited you just for that.” your heart suddenly starts beating with anxiety, throat growing dry as he continues. “there was no master plan…my uncle’s jus’ a narcissistic dick and thinks he deserves credit for everything.”
choso’s lips brush the shell of your ear, his hand hesitantly touching your wrist. “I never took any girls up there. and you would’ve known all that if you just asked me to clarify.”
with a blink of an eye, you’re pushing his chest back, pretty eyes glowing up at him.
“really?”
choso immediately flushes, heart pounding out of his chest as his ears turn pink.
how are you able to go from zero to a hundred in seconds?
he’s left speechless by you’re shining orbs, nodding wordlessly.
then, straight out of his prayers, you finally grace his humble self with your warm, infectious smile.
“i—“ your words don’t come fast enough as you embrace the stoner. arms wrapped around his shoulder hugging him close. “I’m sorry.” your apology doesn’t even attempt to ease his racing heart. “I don’t know. I was being dramatic, but like we also don’t know each other that well anyways, so you can’t blame me for just yeah—“
“I wanna know you,” choso suddenly cuts, his arms wrapped around your waist.
“me too,” you smile bashfully, relieved he can’t see your face. “but you know what I mean…right, choso?”
his hands squeeze your torso, humming against your shoulder as he inhales your ocean-coconut scent. “so were you mad about what happened on the roof?” he can’t help but question, especially when your lips are ghosting over his ear now, sighing softly with a slight shake of your head.
“I wasn’t mad about that. it was all perfect until your uncle came,” you exhale, sending shivers down his spine.
the creaking and hushed whispers in the back barely concealed the truth behind what was unfolding.
his body is unable to stop himself from guiding you to his lap, lips ghosting over one another.
“so you wanted to have sex with me?” choso whispers, smile playing on your glossy lips.
“mmm…felt bad about leaving you unsatisfied like that,” your lips part along with his, your tongues connecting, just as his hand squeeze your waist with a pathetic whimper. he’s so quick to whine, it sends a flood of heat between your legs.
“you’re hard now,” you mutter, settling on his bulge for the second time.
choso swallows a moan, “can’t be surprised. got an angel devil on top of me.”
you’re heart skips a beat, lips crashing onto his. neither of you care that you’re in an empty theater, and the risk of anyone walking in was still high. your actions remained hushed, intimate.
choso was melting the second he had his hands on you. tongue tasting you the blue raspberry slushy on your tongue, unashamed by your smirk. “cho?” your fingers move between you, unbuckling his belt.
heat breaks out across his face, heart speeding. “you wanna?”
you nod, mischief gleaming under your lashes.
choso silently swears under his breath, biting his lip as he quietly helps you shimmy his jeans down, breath catching once you place your palm on his bulge. “feels big,” you mutter against his lips. his cheeks sting, cock twitching in his boxers. you continue groping and feeling him, smile playing on your lips as he whimpers.
“s-stop teasing,” his grip tightens on your waist, your sweater slipped off your shoulder.
“jus’ wanted to feel,” you coo lowly, licking his bottom lip like a seductress. you then gingerly thumb his waistband, slowly pulling it back and slipping your small cold hand inside. his entire body locks up once you grip his base, pulling him out. “oh.” you’re pleasantly surprised by the size in your hand. “it’s big.”
choso let’s out a shaky exhale, hips rising briefly once his cock touches the cool air. his pretty eyes flick up to you watching you spit in your hand, and slowly start working his cock.
“you’re not gonna cum in my hand, right?” you coo against his lips, back arches over him as you press your pretty breasts agaisnt his chest.
choso swallows a whine, shaking his head. “n-not even you don’t want me too.”
you smile adorably, like you didn’t have this man in the palm of your hand, “good boy.”
fuck.
choso’s head falls back, jaw slack with quiet moans as you jerk his thick cock. his abs clench every time your thumb swipes his tip. tapping the crown like a devil. “d-don’t,” he whimpers.
“but it looks so pretty, cho,” you whisper, kissing his lips. he only whines in reply, kissing you back with more fever. jaw slacking and tongue pushing into your mouth desperate for the taste of the blue raspberry that’s stained your tongue.
it was easy for choso to get drunk of you, and he realizes that when he’s feeling his tip brush a wet soft flesh.
“oh fuck—“ he chokes, he pulls away briefly, gaze dropping to his lap to see his flushed cock rubbing your bare pussy. “wait,” his head snaps up to you, brows furrowed in worry. “is it not to big, I can stretch you out first?”
your fingers brush his jaw, tilting his head up as you kiss the corner of his mouth. your voices hushed, “s’ fine, I can take it.”
choso swallows thickly, hand finding purchase under your dress to grip your waist, and the other holding your ass as you slowly nudge his tip against your entrance.
“okay,” you exhale coolly, slowly sinking down.
“shit,” choso swears between clenched teeth. grip unforgiving as you gasp against him. your cute whimpers were the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. it felt like honey being dripped into his ear as you did your best to swallow his thick pulsing inches. “y’er squeezin me, r-relax baby.”
you whine quietly, gently moving up, just to push down again and take a few more inches. “bigger than I thought cho,” you pant.
his head tilts, capturing your lips, “sorry,” he apologizes, and it actually sounds like he’s sorry for how big he is, especially when you let out another adorable whimper.
but still, he kisses you like it’s the first time he’s ever been intimate with someone. and after a few more shallow bounces, you finally settle every big chubby inch of him inside your gummy walls.
“fuh—you feel so good,” he mutters, “feel so good wrapped around my cock,” your tongues collide as you start grinding against him. hips rocking slowly, as you adjust to his impressive size.
your hearts beat together. breaths colliding as the world slowly disappears, likes it just you two quietly moaning and whining on a theater seat. the creaking and quiet squelches that left your pussy with every bounce didn’t register in your ears. instead your focus remained on one another.
on his voice. your gasps. his curses. your coos.
“I feel so full, choso haah,” you babble, lips glossy from his spit. “d-do you feel me to anh too?”
choso whimpers as you clamp around him as you sink down again. his fingers dig into your ass the other fully wrapped around your waist, biceps flexing around your back. “course I do,” he grunts, bitting your bottom lip. moaning once you drool into his mouth.
nothing else mattered now.
his thick thighs part. his hips angle up, and his firmly plant themselves on the ground. “c’mon, keep riding my cock princess,” choso moans agaisnt your lips. his hips snap up getting you to pick up the speed.
you gasp in surprise, cheeks flushed, sweater falling at your elbows, and the straps of your dress starting to slip of your shoulders as you fix your feet to rest over his knees for better balance. “o-okay choso,” you hold his shoulders as you start picking up the speed.
neither of you could think about the sounds of your ass clapping against his thighs, or the whines that left both your pathetic mouths.
choso kept your pace, helping you bounce your pretty ass up n down his cock like one of his toys. and with every bounce, your pretty breasts followed, until one strap fell low enough for it to expose you to him.
“haah fuck,” choso groans, lips wrapping around your nipple sucking immediately.
“ahh,” you clamp around him, whining. he only moans around you, humming as your nails comb through his hair.
you were lucky you were the only one in the theater, because now it was obvious what was happening. the creaking, the clapping, the moans. it was beyond lewd, and obscene.
“m gonna cum cho,” you whine, bouncing quicker as you chase that coil twisting in your tummy. his flushed tip continues hitting your sweet spot, dragging against your gummy walls with each bounce.
“fuhck—fuck I’m close, keep movin’” he huffs, drooling against your chest as he kisses up your sternum to your neck, panting harshly as he bucks his hips as you start to grow sloppy. “don’t sto—ah-p—“
“I can’t—angh—“ your vision turns white, drool escaping your lips as you fall apart, creaming around the stoner.
choso swears, arms holding you desperately to his chest as he starts pumping his messy cock into your weeping hole. “fuck—tight pussy, melting inside ya—haah—“ his thighs start trembling, muscles flexing underneath you as his head falls on your shoulder.
“so good baaby…ngh haah god—“ his own climax hits him like a truck. the words fall off his tongue and pull out flashes in his mind, but the searing white that blinds him leaves him frozen inside your deep warmth.
“chosoo,” you whine into his neck as the thick ropes of white cum fill your insides.
the stoner pathetically whimpers, hips still bucking as he milks every last drop, emptying his balls, hand wrapped around your nape as the other squeezes around your waist under your dress.
“fhuck,” choso pants, chest heaving as he slowly comes down, lips parting as he leaves open mouthed kisses along your exposed shoulder. trailing them up your neck. “beautiful,” kiss, “so sweet.” his hums and sighs left shivers down your spine as you stroke his long hair. scratching his nape as your lashes flutter.
that’s when a loud whistle cuts the air.
you freeze hugging the man desperately as he lifts your strap up. neither of you realizing the movie had ended.
“y’er shameless, kid. your daddy would be disappointed ya turned out like me.”
a vein pops from choso’s neck.
“dude, what the fuck?” choso groans, hand coming up to fix your sweater on your shoulders again at sukuna laughs beside the door.
“I’m not the one fucking in a public space—“
“fuck off,” choso swears under his breath, choking quietly as he pulls out, electing the softest whimper from your lips. “sorry,” he mutters.
“why is he still here?” you whisper, fixing your dress as you stand up, glancing at his uncle still beside the door, choso quickly tucks himself ignoring the stickiness of your mixed juices.
“because he’s a dick,” choso tsks, leading the way out.
sukuna smirks, eyeing his nephew, “all good?”
“you need the space again” choso holds your hand this time, glaring at his uncle,
sukuna exits first, revealing another man standing beside the door. “something like that. don’t tell your gramps.”
choso hums digging for the theaters keys in his pocket, “don’t tell him about today then,” he tosses the set,
“I don’t talk to that old man anyways,” sukuna catches them. “take the girl out for dinner, can’t just keep fucking her here.”
“dude!”
you glare at the uncle making him smirk wider, shooting you a wink.
choso leads you to the exit as you hold his arm, “your uncle is weird,” you grumble.
“yeah, sorry ‘bout him,” choso catches toji, accepting the wink he gives the kid before exiting the theater. “but uh—you down for dinner—on me?”
you smile, lips still stained blue, “yup. and we needa get plan-b.”
“oh shit!”
a/n: sorry ending if the ending felt rushed! but I hope u guys enjoyed the fic, i just couldn’t get movie theater worker choso out of my head!! (divider by @/strangergraphics)
its me the local writing fraud back at it again on my yearly heat induced shinanigans.
apologies for those waiting for h&s pt 2... i tried i really did LMAO for like 2 months I was trying to figure out how to continue the story but my brain kept turning to mush... so i been hiding in a cave to avoid it.
i've been itching to write again, alas its not for Lo unfortunatly, another prime ribeye has captured my gaze so if you're here for him (which lets be honest is all of you) I will be sorry to disappoint. ill probably write for him again at some point when I get inspiration for him again.
this is gonna be the first of a few mini's relating to H&S both prior and during their relationship!
content//warnings: implied relationship (they're taking it slow y'all) R is a glasses haver, Lo’s a big softy, lots of fluff, sleeping together literally, mentions of Logan's nightmares, Logan is a great blanket!!
wc: 1.2k
Logan was against sleeping in the same room as you let alone the same bed when you brought it up one evening, you didn’t push, you knew why, had heard him shouting some nights overwhelmed with nightmares of his time under the lake, that and how sometimes when you were close there would be flickers in his eyes that looked just like the animal he wanted to leave behind. It left you a little deflated and he could obviously tell, you just thought it would be nice, you’d been wrapped up in each other on the couch a few times and it left you craving the warm touch at night when you looked at the other side of your empty bed, the cold sheets almost mocking you it felt like.
The first time he spent the night in your bed it happened by accident. You were both on the couch, he was watching some late night rerun of a show with a beer in hand, the other holding you to him where you sat backwards leaning into him with a book you had been meaning to finish. The night went on and you began to doze, your reading glasses sliding down your nose when your head began to lull forward, which was when Logan finally noticed how tired you were and decided the day was over and it was time for bed.
It felt cruel to wake you up again fully just to get you up the stairs so he chose to carry you, gently maneuvering into a position you were easier to pick up. Moving your book to the side, dog earring the page you were last on and slipping your glasses off to put on top, before sliding you across his lap to drape your legs over one arm and the other behind your back. The josling woke you up slightly, one of your arms coming up to grab his shirt at the shoulder, rubbing your face against the cotton of his t-shirt. Leaning forward slightly before pushing up on his knees to stand upright, Logan carried you out of the living room, up the stairs and into your room where he intended to tuck you in and leave back downstairs to finish up his beer before making his own way to bed. But you had other plans it seemed, hand still gripping his clothes after he gently placed you onto your bed, reluctant to release him even with his hand trying to untangle your fingers from him, it only made you grip his shirt tighter.
Logan knew it might have been a bad idea, scratch that -a terrible idea- but he reasoned with himself that his nightmares haven't been as frequent or as violent as they usually can be, surely just the one time wouldn't hurt? Letting out a shaky breath, he winds an arm around your waist, before lifting you up off the bed slightly so he can properly open up the sheets, using his knee for leverage on the bed to slide you to the other side before climbing onto the bed properly himself and lowering you both into the soft plushness of it.
He feels the way you begin shifting against him trying to get comfy, scooching closer to the newly installed human furnace in your bed, he opens an arm out for you to slot yourself up against him, your arm wrapping around his waist and your face smooshing into the side of his chest, tired mumbles and grunts muffled into his t-shirt as you plaster yourself to him. It's cute he thinks, how your sleeping brain seeks him out for heat or comfort, he doesn't mind either way, thinks about all the nights he could have had this but wouldn't let himself, more so for your own safety. Maybe this can be an occasional thing, on nights where he's more confident in his ability to sleep through the night. He’d forgotten what it had felt like to sleep next to someone else, how good it felt to hold someone and be held in turn.
He pulls you closer, both his arms curling around the softness of your body, he can feel every plush dip and curve of you, can feel the way you inhale and exhale. There’s still a tension in his body, something that just won’t let him go to sleep, the underlying fear that he’ll have another episode. He pushes away those thoughts as best as he can, instead focusing on you; the thump of your heartbeat; each breath you exhale; every small fidget as your body continues to try and burrow deeper into his warmth. He closes his eyes and dips his head down into your hair, even though the bend is awkward on his neck, taking a deep breath in through his nose, taking in the scent of you. It has a more calming effect on him now more than anything, sweet notes of honeysuckle and the earthy undertones of sage, causing a ripple effect on him, his muscles finally relaxing, leaning back up Logan rests his head onto your pillow, keeping his eyes closed and finally lets himself drift off, content.
You change positions throughout the night, when you turn over to face away from him, Logan turns with you onto his side and pulls you back into him, resting his head in the curve between your neck and shoulder, his arm coiling under your chest. Later you twist back around and push your head into the space beneath his neck, an arm coming up to drape over his shoulder, the other stuck between you both, as his arms pull you closer at the waist, your legs tangling together. Eventually Logan rolls onto his back again bringing you with him, your body laying half way over his, your head slipping down onto the wide planes of his chest. You stayed glued to each other for the entire night, never letting go, no nightmares to ruin the peacefulness.
When you wake up, the winter sun is just barely peeking through the curtains, dust floating about in the small rays. You try to lift an arm up to rub at your eyes but find you can't move it, which is then when you notice the weight on top of you, which should have been the first thing you noticed really. You look down and find Logan, asleep on your stomach, one arm trapped under him, the other being held in the firm grip of his hand, a couple of fingers overlapping, a soft expression taking over your face in your sleepy haze. You try to twist your other arm from under him without waking him, the movements making him grunt and tighten his grip on you. You run your fingers through his hair, nails gently scraping against his scalp, soft snores coming from him that you feel rumble in his chest almost like a purr, you smile softly, leaning your head back and closing your eyes again, you feel way he nuzzles against you, puffs of air leaving goosebumps as they glide across your skin where your sweaters risen in your sleep. You think about how nice it is having a bed that’s warm all over for a change as you drift back asleep.
Soooo pt.II of Honey & Sage is taking me so much longer than I anticipated… I didn't think I was going to struggle with it so much, I'm currently just trying to draft it and map out how I want the chapter to go in detail (which I should have done in the first place lmao) so in the meantime I'm just gonna post a few little moments from Honey and Lo both prior and during their relationship that would not have been included in the main body. (hoping these mini’s help the writers block I've been experiencingggggg) the first one should be out later todayy (its 4AM rn)
There’s already a throb in his cock when his fist twists the doorknob. Some sort of conditioning. The unspoken way that he knows that you’re his.
Plucking at this deep, possessive streak that he never knew he had, until he started losing everything. Everyone.
Or maybe it just feels good to admit that he wants something. To allow himself to take something that’s offered so freely. To finally feel something, after months - years - of tamping everything down.
(Or - you and Logan have a certain, unspoken arrangement.)
There’s a certain sense of relief knowing that you’re waiting for him.
An outlet for the frustration that simmers inside. A prickle under his skin, teeth gritting a little too hard. Another night of playing nice. A chauffeur for dickheads that he would’ve threatened to stab through, a lifetime ago.
Back when things didn’t matter, the way they did now. Before the weight he carries. When a brawl at a bar would an inconvenience at best - that ache of pain that healed with a breath - instead of something that would have him down for days.
Never liked killing, deep down. Just never had to worry about it like this before.
Achingly aware of how he’s slowed. The groan of his joints, the pull of his muscles. Knuckles swollen, as he grips the steering wheel, pulling up in front of the smelting plant.
It’s still early. Still needing his headlights to navigate the backroads, eyes narrowed in the pale, rising sun.
The crunch of his steps against gravel is the only sound, as he heads inside.
There’s already a throb in his cock when his fist twists the doorknob. Some sort of conditioning. The unspoken way that he knows that you’re his.
Plucking at this deep, possessive streak that he never knew he had, until he started losing everything. Everyone.
Or maybe it just feels good to admit that he wants something. To allow himself to take something that’s offered so freely. To finally feel something, after months - years - of tamping everything down.
Putting Charles first. Grieving silently. Keeping secrets.
It’s familiar, how he finds you. Even as the days grow shorter, the desert heat lingers. The thin sheets twisted around your legs.
An invitation, in the way you’re already stripped bare - a glint of silver between your breasts.
He always looks for it.
That silent sign you’ve come up with. An encouragement to take what he wants, when he wants it.
Only once had you taken his dog tags off, since he gifted them to you. He can still remember your glare as you ripped them from your throat, slamming them down on the bedside table.
He had pissed you off. Said something shitty. Leaving you to fume.
But you had still come back to him, in the night. Letting him write out apologies between your thighs. Murmured in your ear, as he ground himself into you.
Forgetting by morning. You always were forgiving. Knows you deserve better, but he’s been an old dog for a long time now.
Hard to change, even though he tries.
He lingers now in the doorway, for just a second.
Should eat something, can’t remember the last time he did. Something packaged, taste secondary to the fuel that he needs more than ever, as he slowly knits himself back together.
Used to taking whatever he could find, before you.
There’s leftovers in the fridge, but all he can think about is how he bent you over the counter as you waited for the timer to wind down.
How you laughed and squirmed as his chest pressed to your back, when he surprised you. Slipping into stifled moans, as his fingers dipped beneath your waistband. His mouth against your throat, lips pressed against the flutter of your pulse.
The food tastes better when he remembers the way you had cried out his name, his cock halted inside of you. Almost burnt dinner, with Joe distracted you were.
But that will have to wait, now that he’s seen you.
Would love to wake you up. Hear the morning-early rasp of his name. The scratch of your nails against his shoulders - ones that might linger for hours instead of seconds.
Finds that he doesn’t mind getting a little marked to, as long as it’s you that’s doing it.
But you look so sweet, sleeping on your side, and he loves the little moans you make as he tries not to wake you up. Tongue fitting between the cleft of your thigh as he hikes your leg a little higher. Bending himself down to the mattress - ignoring the dull ache in his back - so he can fit his mouth fully against you.
He’s become greedy, over time. Resource-guarding affection, teeth bared in a snarl.
Needing that proof that you want him. Still so focused on all your little signs, even if you’re his to take.
Another lick, feather-light. Resisting the urge to press himself flush. Work his tongue into your pussy, until he can taste himself from last night.
Knows he has your sleep schedule fucked up. Finding moments in the liminal space at dusk and dawn. His edges softened with sleep.
Heavy-limbed, as your ass pressed against his front, earlier. Squirming, teasing, until he had pulled you astride him. Looking every bit an angel with the way the setting sun haloed around you, his eyes half-lidded as his morning dawned.
“Go on, sweetheart,” He had rasped, voice low, “If you need it that bad, then ‘m sure you can put in a little work.”
His salvation glinting between your tits with each bounce - your moans pitching high as your nails bit into his chest.
It’s returned, now. Palms curving where your thigh meets your ass. Cupping and squeezing, angling you until he can taste your dampness against his mouth.
Always so fucking responsive. Your hips flexing in their sleep, when he dips down to tease at your clit.
Letting your dreams swirl in and out, winding with pleasure as the taste of you swells against his tongue. Skin turning slick beneath the spit that he lets drop from parted lips.
Making sure you can take him. You always can, always do. But his cock throbs at the thought of slipping so easily into you, the wet and warm heat that awaits him.
Another bitten-back groan as his mouth covers you again, and it’s then that you stir.
He meant to give you a little more time. Let you come from just his mouth, wake from your dreams with a shout as you pulse against his tongue.
Hands squeezing your thighs, keeping you in place for a little longer. The sleepy cadence of your breath turning short, sharp, as you’re brought back out.
His name mumbled out in your sleep, and it’s enough that he’s tugging at his belt, loosening the buttons.
Layers peeled off and kicked down at the edge of the bed, leaving them to them crumple on the floor.
Hand rough as he fists his cock, another drop of spit smeared across before his thighs nudge yours wider. You shift easily, belly-down, with the guidance of a rough palm against your hip.
And for a moment, he just looks.
Admires.
A hand coming down heavily against your ass. His palm molding to flesh, soft skin giving as he tugs you open.
Pretty little holes that he can’t get enough of stuffing full. A rough groan in his chest as his other hand works faster, squeezing at the leaking head. A thumb shifting down to press at your folds, until he can see you clench in your sleep.
Empty. He can fix that.
Angling himself down, until he’s nudging at your hole. Smearing himself against spit and slick, watching how the tip just eases inside you. How you clench instinctually around him.
A soft sound pulls from you then, as he sinks a little deeper. Watching how you stretch tight around him, as he disappears into your wet warmth.
Pulled from sleep by the time he’s pressed flush, your fingers digging into the sheets as your back arches.
Awoken from a pretty dream, only to find it true. Already you’re trying to take more. Eyes heavy-lidded as your head turns, trying to see him in the golden blush of dawn.
“Feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”
Fingers splay out against your waist. Dimpling your curves as he squeezes - a reminder that you are only flesh and bone, beneath him.
Heat and warmth and rushing blood in your veins, as he inches out, only to drive deep.
“Logan.” You squirm, each rock of his hips dragging you out of your haze.
Your ass sways, as he sets the pace. The syrupy-slowness gone, when you use your leverage to meet his thrusts. Face buried in a shared pillow as you muffle your sounds.
"Lemme hear ‘em." He husks, pitching forward - a low rumble as he keeps you pressed flat against the mattress, “Come on baby, wanna hear what I’m doing to you.”
Another rut of his hips, as his forearms settle on either side of your ribs. A hand slipping beneath, cupping a soft breast as his nose skims up the base of your neck.
Inhaling you, how his own scent clings to your skin. Melding with the sweet musk of your arousal - he’d bottle it up, if he could.
You moan, at the squeeze of his hand. At the heavy slap of his balls against your clit, sticky from the arousal that drips from you.
Calloused fingers pinching at your nipple, as the beast inside him growls, whines, then goes silent. That anger ebbing, with the way you clench down each time he slips from you, as if trying to keep him inside.
Another whine, when his elbow plants by your arm, his hand spanning loosely beneath your jaw. The ball chain cool against his skin, where the silver hooks around his thumb.
An urge to taste you again, and he does - a groan at the way your lips part so quickly for him as he angles your face to his.
The moan he swallows when his tongue brushes yours, how he knows you’re close with the way you string tight beneath him.
“Fuck, I missed you.” It’s breathed out against his lips, your fingers mapping his. Encouraging his hold to tighten around your throat, until you’re fully anchored in his grasp.
Almost an embrace. Could be, if he let himself soften. Instead, his hips snap harder against the soft flesh of your ass, and he hears the whine it pulls from you.
“Just like that. Don’t stop.” Your nails prick the back of his hand, your voice strained, “Oh my god, I’m so close-“
Doesn’t think there’s anything that could drag him away. Spearing himself again and again, the head of his cock grinding against a spot that makes your eyes roll.
A spot that has you panting, murmured pleas that turn into broken moans.
Doesn’t know when you got him so wrapped around your finger, but he’s curled firmly around each knuckle. A growl in his throat, his own release nipping at his heels.
Holds back just long enough to feel you tremble beneath him. The way you arch into his weight, loosening the moan you held back before. Brought over the edge by the rocking weight of his cock, the pinch of his fingers.
Pride washes over him, as you leak around his cock. The tight pulse thrumming as he fucks you through the waves of pleasure, soaking in your pitched-high cries. His life went to shit years ago, but even in the throes of exhaustion he’s never grown tired of pulling them from you.
He can do this, at least.
“Fuckin’ choking me, sweetheart.” He grunts, that tell-tale tightness in his belly. An urge to pin you down, hips pounding until he’s finally spilling inside you.
Letting the fire in his veins burn off the last of the thorns that sank into his skin throughout the day.
You let him.
He lets himself - face buried in your neck ask he finds that rough pace again. The slick slap of his hips as you pant beneath him.
“Please, Logan.” Your voice buzzes against his palm, “Wanna help you. Use me-”
Been using you a long time. Dependent now on the reassurance. On the way you look at him, touch him - so fucking soft. Soft beneath him now, as his groan pitches low.
“Gonna fucking come, baby.”
It’s gravel-rough, teeth gritting as you tighten around him, “Gonna keep it inside, yeah?”
“Yes.” You beg. Tugging at his palm until it loosens, until you press your lips to his skin. Across his knuckles, tongue dipping between - slipping against sensitive skin.
It’s dangerous, being that close.
It makes him come - hand wrenching away just as his claw threaten to prick through. Just able to hold them back, as his hips drive flush against yours.
A ragged moan muffled against your skin as Logan holds himself deep - letting your walls milk his orgasm from him. Fingers pinching into skin, as he keeps you in place, still enough that you can feel each throbbing pulse as he fills you.
He missed you too.
Always does.
The hours away are spent going over memories like snapshots. Ones that cling to him, his limo.
The echo of you on top of him, in the backseat. A payment you didn’t have to make - he’d take you anywhere - but you were all too willing to.
Eager to prove to him you could take it, as your nails bit into his suit. Still dripping out of you, pooling against soft fabric, when your face nuzzled into his lap as he drove you back home.
Knuckles pinched white around the steering wheel, as you kept him warm in your mouth.
Didn’t have time to take you a second time before he had to leave, but it didn’t stop him from fitting those fingers inside you - making you squeal as he fucked himself deeper, just before his evening began.
Stroking himself to the thought, each and every night he was away. Never could get enough.
It all leads back to this.
His arm bands around your stomach. Still nudged flush, as he eases you both onto your sides.
He’ll eat, later. Fingers drifting, as they dip. Not ready to go again just yet - he’s slowed, in his old years.
But his fingers can still fit against you. Swirling against slick skin as you moan, until he can feel you clenching down around him again.
Drifting off after, with his cock still buried deep. With his cheek cradled against the top of your head, an arm slung across to keep you close.
Never had enjoyed sleeping. A means to an end, everything he pushes down loosening - flashing vividly behind closed eyes.
Not until you. Not until this.
The nightmares going hazy, then quiet, when he wrapped in you the way exhaustion curls around him. A day, finally ending.
I promise y’all the next instalment is coming 🧎🏻♀️ this turned into so much more than just a horny post like it originally was (LOL)
so I’m just trying to make sure the delicate situation of Honey and Lo is properly explored rather than kind of romanticising the situation bc the both of them are in a sense victims of WX going on a horny rampage.
rewatched x-men: apocalypse the other day and been getting lots of foresty content on main… started having some thoughts about feral!weaponx!Logan chasing me through the forest and fucking on the floorrr
(this took far longer than expected i went on a spiral (among other things…) reading weapon x lore for 3 hours and googling many things about north dakota… Anyways, here it is.)
MDNI 18+ dark fic
content/warnings undercut
content//warnings: noncon-ish (readers kinda into it (but that might just be Logans spit talking)), POV switches (badly), reader is mid twenties, p-in-v, rough sex, biting, stalking (he just really likes you :( okay), some weapon x lore (just a little), masturbation (Logan just cant help himself), Logan is very conflicted, imagined dick sucking (Lo’s a freak), (forced?) breeding, Big(ger)!Logan, Feral!Logan, WeaponX!Logan, raw meat consumption (its canon apparently), manhandling, Knotting (headcanoning that weapon x made him a little more animal than he is naturally despite his healing factor), pheromones (he smells), scenting/marking, minor hair pulling, dirty talk (if you can call it that), clit slap , primal play, predator/prey, cunnilingus (Logan eats it from the back hnnngh), little tiny bit of ass play (hes gross), horror themes(?), reader is very cold (Logan warms you up), blood mentions, smattering of light fluff at the end (all the fucking finally begins to clear his head), more plot than intended… got very carried away it seems.
Readers description is kept as neutral as possible - only things are they have a pussy and wear a skirt to work. should hopefully be POC friendly, i tried to avoid mentioning hair and certain descriptors as best i could
wk: 9.2k
The dark has already set in by the time you’re ready to leave your evening shift, at the local late night cafe. The roads are quiet and the street lamps are turning on one by one. It’s a Friday so everyone's either already home or at the local pub warming themselves into an alcoholic glow.
While it's only mid October, the frost has already begun to set in, sheathing everything in a faint white glow.
Your house is a little out of the way compared to everyone else, having been left it by your late grandmother and rather than sell up you kept the cosy little home near the edge of the tiny town. While you love it, on nights like this you wish you lived closer to the centre. the walk home wouldn't have bothered you as much if not for your uniform, the little black skirt and thin tights not doing much to save you from the frigid cold seeping deep into your skin and the wind from ruddying your cheeks and nose, shoving your hands deeper into the pockets of your jacket feeling the tremors making their way through your fingers and pushing your face further into the woven scarf around your neck trying to saver any bit of warmth you can.
You think back to work, while not happy to be walking home in these conditions, you’re glad that you don't have to deal with any of the couple difficult customers you deal with every so often. For the most part the locals are friendly, always happy to share about their day and tell stories while you serve them. But there are those who just seem to always have something to complain about, usually the coffee, sending their orders back at least three times before they decide its right. You make it the same every time.
Speaking of work, you’ve felt off these past few weeks on your walk there and back, always looking over your shoulder expecting something to be there. There never is. It’s strange, you can't quite put your finger on it.
Continuing down the road, careful not to slip on any icy patches, you come across an entrance into a pathway that takes you through a small woodland area into a larger forest. It's your usual shortcut home during the summer when you have later shifts, the detour shaving around twenty minutes off your walk. You generally avoid it during the colder seasons, the dark making everything creepier.
Standing there for a moment, considering the path. creepy forest or not, the feeling of your teeth clattering and knees knocking and a chill that makes your bones ache is causing you to second guess yourself.
You end up taking the path, feeling a little apprehensive, but wanting to get home and hunker down in warmer clothes with a hot chocolate and blanket in front of the fireplace as soon as possible.
The forest really isn't all that bad during the day, especially during the warmer months, it's quite the relaxing walk actually, but the tall shadows and creaking of the trees, the snapping of twigs, the crackling of leaves, and the crunch of gravel and snow under your worn down mary janes echoing in the night only put you on edge with the moon as your only guiding light through the darkness. The dark has a funny way of making things seem worse than they actually are.
During the trek you remember hearing of recent animal attacks in the outer forest surrounding the town, sightings of trees with large claw marks through them, bigger than any of the local bears could make, and howls unlike any wolf or coyote, described as deep and rough almost human like, but that's silly, humans don't howl. A shiver runs down your spine, brushing it off as just the cold. There’s nothing in these parts of the woods, except for maybe squirrels and other small creatures, definitely no wolves or bears and certainly not whatever the creature living outside town is. If there even is one and it’s not just Bill, a regular at your job, making things up again, embellishing his hunting stories to try and impress any unfortunate folk who find themselves in conversation with him.
He came in just last week actually, raving about something attacking him in the forest. Talked about how big it was, covered in fur with the longest claws he’d ever seen. But you brushed him off with a smile, gave him his usual order of Knoephla soup with a side of sausage and black coffee, and went back to serving other customers.
He’s harmless really, just lonely you think, he offers to give you rides home sometimes on nights like these, being a bit old fashioned and wanting to make sure you get home safe, though you suspect he just wants someone to listen to him talk. You wonder where he is tonight as you feel the numbness of your fingers and toes begin to seep up into your limbs causing you to move slower trying to push through the stiffness of your joints, you think your a little over half way home now, far from any of the surrounding houses or people in the area, it’s much quieter, none of the noise pollution of the town gets to you out here.
If you had been paying attention to your surroundings instead of letting your mind wonder, between the sound of the wind howling against your ears, you may have noticed the soft padding in the snow behind you off to the side in the thick foliage, the well calculated steps through the frost, getting closer and closer to you.
It’s only when you hear a loud snap echo from behind do you stop, frozen in place, your shoulders coming up hunched by your ears in response, you want to ignore it, but then you hear it. You didn't before too busy musing to yourself about the trash horror romance you started reading, something about a werewolf, but now in between the noise of the wind rushing by your ears you hear it. Deep uneven breaths not too far from you, and you know you shouldn't turn around (you really shouldn't). But to convince yourself it’s just your paranoid imagination trying to scare you, you turn, slowly shuffling your feet in a circle and it when you see it or rather its eyes, dark and shining through the bushes, the moving blackness they’re attached to, a warbled shape in the shadows of the trees. You don't know what it is but its big, it steps forward and that’s all it takes for you to forget about the rigidity of your body and you flee, off down the path as fast as you can, you cant feel your legs, they’re on autopilot as you stumble down the trail, your little rabbit heart beating in your ears, tears gathering and sliding back off of your cheeks. You dare take a look behind you only to regret it immediately, whatever you saw was sprinting on all fours down the path hopping over the same branches and roots that almost tripped you up with an agileness you wouldn't have attributed to something its size, and it was gaining on you.
With a cry you turn your eyes forward and away from the beast growling and huffing behind you. Running in which direction you don’t know.
You realise you’ve made a wrong turn when you notice an opening ahead, you're going towards a pond you frequent during the summer months to relax.
You keep going in an attempt to escape, only to finally trip and tumble over, your head smashing into the floor. You try to get up only to slip on the frozen ground once more. With a groan you turn over onto your back and up on your elbows, your eyes out of focus and your head throbbing. You freeze when you see it. The hulking mass of flesh and fur stooped where the opening met the path. You try scrambling away, pushing yourself back on tired arms and legs, when it begins shifting forward. Sliding against the cold wet floor, your limbs struggling to move fast enough, only to find your back hitting a tree, the bark echoing with a low thunk, worsening your headache. It continues its slow creep forward, the shape rippling at the movement.
You somehow find your voice however meek it is “wha… What do you want?” Tremors shift throughout your body reflecting in your trembling speech. It answers with the tilt of their head, the world gone silent except for the wind whistling through the trees, the sound of your own laboured breaths and the crunch of leaves and gravel under the slow crawl of the creature who seemed to be sizing you up like their next meal.
Now your eyes have begun to refocus you can see more clearly what kind of wild beast chased you out here, unsure of whether it was more animal or… man, you realise. Whatever it -he? Was, it was huge. Crouched close to the ground with impossibly wide shoulders that lead into the broad expanse of its chest, you took notice of the dog tags dangling from its trunk like neck, the rippling of its torso and solid, muscled arms tapering off into large thick fingered hands. Your eyes ventured further down to the thickness of his thighs, the tensing of his powerful legs coiled like springs ready to pounce at a moment's notice, covered in thick thatches of ragged, jet black hairs all over. You finally lift your head to meet its eyes, they were the prettiest shade of hazel from what you could see around its blown out pupils, gazing directly back into yours, you almost got lost in them unable to look away from the feral look in its glassy eyes. Beautiful though they were, you were frozen, terrified of the stranger before you.
What you didn't know was that this wasn't the first time this behemoth had followed you home.
A few months ago after breaking free from his restraints and going on a full rampage in the facility he was being caged in under Alkali lake, forcibly experimented on having to endure months of agony constantly being ripped apart and pulled back together again. He left only blood and destruction in his wake, cutting down anyone who even dared try to prevent him from escaping, he fled out into the wilderness trekking for days. Eventually he was able to remove the brainwashing helmet that had been fitted onto him, the tight metal and jumbled wires trying to pull him back to that jail under the earth. Thankfully it had been damaged during the hysteria, but the ruination of his mind was already done, he was a mess, his memories either missing or mixed up. Relying solely on his instincts being as they were the only thing he could trust at the time, that and that his name was Logan or the Wolverine, that's what the dog tags hanging round his neck said anyways. Confused and so full of rage he was in a constant battle between the man he was and the animal he’d become, losing days or even weeks at a time to the beast within, waking up in places he didn't recognise, disorientated and exhausted mentally.
He woke up one morning, once again somewhere he couldn't place, the soft sound of dew falling into a body of water rousing his weary mind, the air was cool against his skin, he’d come a long way from the northern territories, how far he didn't know. Laying there for a moment in the open, he takes in the the soft crash of leaves falling onto the blanket of their fallen brethren, the groaning of trees swaying in the wind, the sound of animals scuttling about preparing for the long winter ahead, the sharp tang of grass and the deep earthy scent of the hard, compact earth beneath him and something else, something… Something sweet, like fresh honeysuckle or sage, made his nose twitch, and his body began to warm for some strange reason.
But it smelt off, abnormal even. It wasn't the naturally occurring smell those plants would give off, there was something more to it.
Deciding to explore the surrounding area, while his mind was clear of the animal inside him, there must be a landmark or sign that would give him a hint as to where he was. Moving his stiff joints, slowly shifting into a seated position before pushing himself up off the ground. Logan felt dizzy at first, his head still a jumble of old or new memories he couldn’t discern or quite piece together. After the fog of his mind settled he started towards a small clearing he could see, treading softly he let the saccharine aroma be his guide.
Sticking close to the tree line, it was later in the day the sun had already begun to set, soft oranges and deep reds smelting into night dimming the world around him, but he was still cautious, following the path through the forest, keeping his steps light, his nose inhaling the sweet fragrance as it became stronger, wrapping around him like corded rope and tightening itself against his senses.
That's when he saw you for the first time. Sweet, unaware you.
He realised now that what he thought was an artificial scent was just your natural smell, like incense gliding over to him from under the soft knit of your winter scarf, tingling in his nose, making his body hum, and his eyes unfocused. He could feel it. The untamed beast he tried to keep at bay, he needed to get out of here, get away from the sweet perfume you gave off. But he couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't look away from you.
You just smelled so good, and you were just so pretty.
He could only see you from behind, the gentle flutter of your hair in the breeze, the subtle bounce of your thighs as you walked, off to your home maybe? little hums you let free, soft lulls to whatever song you must have been listening to from the headphones clinging to your ears. You were so cute.
He could feel his senses heightening, his mouth filling with saliva the longer he stayed, he was losing himself. He needed to leave before he did something he would regret. Managing to shut his eyes, scrunching them closed, focusing on the blackness, shaking his head to get you and your smell out of his mind. He forced himself to turn around and with shaky steps he took himself back to the pond. Collapsing to his knees at the bank side, his skin felt itchy from how hot he’d become, the smell of you just wouldn't go. He throws himself forward into the pond, to try and quell the stifling heat of his rising temperature. But it doesn't work and he feels himself harden in the ripped up remnants of his trousers, all he can think about is you. You. You.
Logan pulled himself out of the water, exerting himself more than usual, feeling a slight strain lifting himself up, the newly acquired adamantium fused onto his bones made him heavier. falling forward on his stomach, the uncomfortable stiffness becoming unbearable as he squashes it beneath him. He rolls over, back to the ground, the cool grass soft beneath him like a balm against his hot hot skin.
All but ripping the left over tatters covering himself, his new claws making light work of it. His engorged cock slapped against his torso, hissing at the sensation of his dick meeting the cold hair. He was so hard. Thoughts of you came back, this time his imagination running off down a dark path, he thought back to those little hums… what other sounds could you make? Were they all just as sweet? Would you sigh and moan if he touched you? Beginning to fantasize about the rest of you now, he didn't realise his hand was drifting down to cup himself, the sweat of his hand slickening him up. Closing his eyes he thought of soft skin and how it would feel under his hands, would you shy away from the touch? Or push yourself into him? Would you let him see all of you?
He tugs himself to the perverse images he conjured up, growls and soft pants slipping through clenched teeth, sharp canines cutting into his bottom lip, willing himself to keep the human part of him conscious, maybe getting out his frustrations would keep him in control.
His drifted mind went back to you. Your scent. Your body… god he hadn't even begun to think about your pussy. Bringing his other hand to join, he cupped his balls feeling the heavy weight of them, taking his other hand off his dick to spit in it before going back to the furious jerking and twisting of his cock. Now that was a thought. What was your pussy like? Was it just as sweet as you? Were you clean shaven or not? All he could think about was holding you open and devouring you. Nosing at your clit and sucking on the petals of your blossoming flower. He was drooling now just at the thought, his mouth becoming thick and sticky with it. The tightening of his balls, and stomach muscles contracting, dangling himself over the precipice. The question that threw him over the edge though, it almost drove himself mad just to think about it. Would you let him inside? Would you let him cum inside? Thinking about your filling your pretty little pussy, thinking about the squeeze of you, it made him light headed, almost nauseous. Choking on his breath as ecstasy washed over him, ropes of cum pulsing out of his overworked cock, his hips bucking up off the ground, fucking himself into his hand.
The fog that clouded him began to dissipate, his overstimulated shaft and balls empty, he could breathe again now that the lust had left his body. Letting himself sink back into the soft greenery beneath him. The sweat dripping off of him, cooled his heated physique. He felt awful, like some sort of perverted monster, he’d used you for his own pleasure without a second thought and it made him feel dirty. He reasoned it wasn't really him, but the creature lurking inside that made him do it, that was the only way to stave off any the overwhelming guilt he felt.
Exhaustion took over him, a headache forming on the sides of his face, the sensation of something tight around his head, he felt like the helmet he was once fitted with was back. Scrunching his eyes and shaking his head out, he let out a shaky breath as flashes of his time in the facility came back to him. Turning on his side and curling up near the pond side, trying his best to force the memories out, he eventually fell into a fitful sleep, nightmares that he could not escape.
The great thing about having a healing factor is that you never really get tired, not for long anyways, Logan woke up feeling more refreshed than usual, despite still feeling haunted by the events of the evening before. Thankfully he was where he fell asleep meaning the other him hadn't come back, he hoped it would stay that way.
He spent the next couple of days looking around, he found a sign near the entrance to the town letting him know he was somewhere in North Dakota. It made him feel a little lighter knowing there was a good distance between him and the lake, but it still wasn't enough he had to keep moving.
Keeping to the outskirts of the town and staying far, far away from where he saw you, logan stole a random shirt and jeans he found, both from different gardens, they were tight considering his stature, but they would do, the soft cotton and denim almost stretched over at the expanse of his thighs, chest and arms. he’d managed to find a pair of boots that just about fit him as well, who knew he’d find a pair of size 12 shoes just laying about, their loss. Now all he had to do was find a way out of here and he’d be on his way, always running.
He moved closer into the town now that he was clothed, he could probably do with a wash still, sweat and grime clinging to him from weeks of travel. He kept to himself, trying to seem like any other person just passing through, he garnered a few odd looks, probably from his scraggly appearance, however he did notice a few women running their eyes over him. He ignored them fearing an episode similar to the one he’d had over you, though nothing about these women enticed him, not their looks, their bodies, or their smell. Nothing could compare to those feelings you brought on. He shook his head out, pushing the thoughts of you away, he found himself doing that a lot lately, it was the only thing that seemed to work.
Strolling down the street he noticed a few pick up trucks and a couple lorries parked out near a cafe, maybe he could hitch a ride out of town from someone, or even steal one of the vehicles if he had too. That seemed like the better option, the less interaction with other people, the better.
He was about to walk through the door, when that scent came back, your scent. He took a step back covering his nose with the back of his hand, that light headed feeling making him stumble slightly. Where were you? He took a step round the front of the building, unable to see through the frosted window of the glass door. That’s when he saw you for the first time.
Not from the back like before, bundled up in an oversized winter jacket, hiding the shape of you beneath. He was right though, you were pretty, very pretty. A little floral scarf tied around your head keeps the hair out of your face, little flyaways and baby hairs sticking out. You had a soft look on your face as you served the customers the coffee at their tables, your plump cheeks and the tips of your ears warming when they said something funny. your hand coming up to cover the pretty smile on your face. The plush petals of your lips peeling back to reveal the off whites of your teeth, slightly crooked in an endearing way and a little yellowed from the coffee you’d obviously indulged in, a perk of the job he mused. He noticed the way your work shirt sat loose on your torso, how it shifted from the stuttering of your chest brought on by your giggles, he could hear it through the glass, like little bells tinkling. Your apron cinched in your waist, the soft skin underneath gathering either side of the ties, he thought about how you would feel between the grip of his fingers. He couldn't see the rest of you, your legs unfortunately covered by the patrons sitting at the tall table. He ventured back to your face, taking in the soft slope of your neck now uncovered by your scarf, he imagined bruises left by his sharp teeth.
Would you let him bite you? Mark you up and claim you for himself?
He was losing himself, Again.
your eyes having un-scrunched now you had ceased laughing, that lovely smile of yours remaining. It was an honest smile he noted, not one of those fake customer service ones, but a real genuine smile you must care a lot about your customers. They were probably regulars, not many tourists probably passed through a small place in the middle of nowhere like this often. Your eyes conveyed a softness he couldn’t describe, clearly fond of these particular patrons, twinkling in the soft overhead lights that casted a golden halo over the breadth of you. You were captivating, he couldn't look away. A feeling of jealousy ran down his spine, he wanted you to look at him like that too, not that he deserved it.
It was then he realised how tight his trousers felt, that hardness coming back again. Pushing himself back from the window before he was seen, taking himself round the side of the cafe, a narrow alley between this building and the next filled with large empty delivery boxes, bags of trash and cigarette ends scattered on the floor. It was secluded, perfect for what was about to occur, he just hoped nobody would come out the back for break. The cafe didn't look particularly staffed, not that he really noticed anyone else but you in there, so it was pretty unlikely.
He leaned his forehead against the cool bricks of the wall, his nostrils flaring when that familiar fragrance came back, where was it coming from? It was stronger now. He tilted his head to the side, peaking over the boxes that covered his location, and saw a small open window above the larger one just past where the alley began. He inhaled as it sailed through the window like a summer breeze, those same notes of honeysuckle and sage, suffocating him. He took a shaky breath, a tremoring hand coming down to unbutton his trousers, taking care not to rip them he couldn't afford to lose another pair to his insatiable cravings again. He needed to prove to himself that he was still in control, even if it meant giving in to the lust from it.
Spitting into his hand before shoving it down his trousers, he wasted no time wrapping a fist around his heated length, using his saliva to stroke it in a twisted motion up and down. It was awkward but he couldn't be picky, not with the public a few feet away, and certainly not with you so close. He was playing a very dangerous game. Biting his lip, a small line of blood formed from his dagger like canines, keeping his pathetic groans as quiet as possible. He kept his eyes shut, still listening out in case of any changes to the environment around him, and he started thinking about you again. Thought about you on your knees, your plush lips wrapped around his monstrous cock, the garbled noises that would come from your stuffed mouth, you would definitely choke on him. Thought about you gagging on him, how tight your throat would feel constricting around him, it nearly drove him over the edge. Just thinking about how the tears would gather in your pretty eyes, looking up at him helplessly while he battered your throat, how messy you would look covered in his cum and your own saliva. Ripping his cock from the confines of his jeans to get a better grip, almost strangling his dick now. He was close; he could feel it, his body burning, cock twitching and the familiar sensation of tightening in his balls. He imagined finishing down your throat, how it would bulge from the thick of him, you struggling to take his load choking on the creamy ropes shot down your little throat. He growled when he came, a low rumbling in his chest, his stomach constricting and hips bucking.
He opened his eyes, blinking to refocus them, seeing his cum all over the floor made him feel wretched. He’d done it again, he’d given in, he tried to reason that it wasn't his fault you made him so crazy. But it wasn’t, he couldn't blame you, the only thing you were guilty of was smelling too good and being too pretty. He felt every bit like the beast he tried so hard to keep at bay.
Slumping against the wall, trying to gather himself and shake off the haze taking over his mind, stuffing himself back into the tight jeans and buttoning them up. It was closer now, blurring the lines between where he ended and the weapon started, like it was trying to fuse them both together. He’s startled out of his turmoil when he hears the bell above the front door to the cafe open.
“I’ll see you later Bill, hope your truck stops giving you trouble soon” the speaker's voice, sounding like pure honey, soft and warm. Whoever it was didn't have the typical accent of the region, though he couldn’t quite place it. Pressing his back close to the wall, he dares peek over the boxes. It was you, of course it was you, who else would it be. He saw you giving an older man a hug at the door, why were you letting him touch you like that? Who was he to you?
Where did that come from? It sounded like him, in his head, but it was too possessive over someone he didn’t even know.
There was no question about it now, he had to leave before something worse happened, before something he couldn’t stop happened. He listens to the man, Bill, in a thick North Dakotan drawl give you his regards, the sound of feet departing in opposite directions and the door closing. Waiting for a moment before slinking his way out of the passage, and instead of taking off in the direction he’d originally walked, away from the cafe, away from you like he should have. He takes one more look into the cafe, but that was all it took, one last glance at you. That pretty smile on your face again serving the other customers. Whatever wall he’d stacked up between him and the snarling, feral beast inside, crumbled into dust.
There was no him and it. Just one being, one hungry, wild animal. And it wanted to consume you.
With a new goal in mind, that ended with his teeth in your neck and cum filling your pussy. He set off back to where he first awoke, where he first saw you, where he first came to the thought of you. He sets himself up in the outer woods where the pond was, concealed in the tree line. He made a perimeter, one that said fuck off, don't come here.
He waited, in those same bushes where he first found you, listening out for any sign that you would be making the same trek though those woods. He realised that you were wearing the same clothes at work that he’d seen you in previously, you must live near. It took a few hours, he didn’t leave his spot, not wanting to miss you. Footsteps sounded further off, coming in his direction, that same flowery scent with them. You were back.
There was no way you’d see him, concealed in his hiding spot. You looked tired, unsurprisingly it was later in the day and the journey was easily an hour and a half at the least. You must live close, this being your usual route home. Perfect. He could watch you come and go everyday, learn your schedule, where you live. Making sure to keep his distance, he followed you, your scent gliding over like a fresh pie left out on a windowsill, god was it intoxicating. He could feel his cock hardening coming up in a slap against his stomach, he’d ditched the clothes a while back deciding he wasn't going to be venturing back into town anytime soon, he couldn’t risk you seeing him before he was ready.
You were just so oblivious, you had no idea he was tracking you like a wolf hunting a deer. It was a good thing he was here, who knows what could have happened to you if he wasn't, you needed someone to look after you clearly. He would make sure nothing would ever happen to you, not if he could stop it, and of course he could.
He stopped near the end of where the tree line began, there was an open field surrounded by thick forest, at the centre a modest two story farmhouse with a porch, garden full of wild flowers and herbs, and a low fence around its boundary. There was a worn down track coming from what looked like a modest garage, it must lead out onto the road, he’d keep a note of that. This must be your home, it suited you, soft and inviting.
He watched you unlatch the gate, and turn to close it. You stopped for a second, staring out at the path you’d just come from. He watched you scan around and then pause. You were looking straight at him. The eye contact went straight to his cock, it made his heart stop and his stomach clench. You had set those pretty, pretty eyes on him. The more present animalistic side of him wanting nothing more than to just take you there, shove you down onto the beds of flowers, lift up your skirt and fuck you till you cried. The spell broke when you turned and walked up along the footpath to your front door, locking it behind you. You didn't look spooked or anything so you must not have seen him, good.
Waiting until it was dark, before daring to creep closer to the house. He’d seen lights turn on and off, heard faucets run and stop, smelt fresh vegetables and meat cooked on a stove. He peeked through a window, just enough for his eyes to see over. You were nowhere to be seen in the dim lighting of the house, he could hear the creak of stairs, you must be going to bed for the night. A pity, he was hoping to catch one last glimpse of you before prowling back to his camp for the night. He didn’t want to leave, but he needed to eat, having not since he first woke.
He’d be back soon anyway.
There were plenty of white tails in the woods, he caught them with ease, eating the soft flesh raw. leaving whatever was left over for nature to take care of.
He was devolving, he could feel it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. His hair grew thicker, nails turning into sharp claws, fangs large enough that it made it hard to close his mouth. He’d grown too, dwarfing the nature around him, he’d need to be more cautious about being seen. He was becoming an animal, shifting into more baser, primal instincts.
It happened over a few weeks, losing the last sane human pieces of his mind. Only the urge to breed you left. In Between stalking you to and from work, growing frustrated when you began taking the road home instead, as the nights grew darker and colder. He did little else but hunt, fuck his fist to the thought of finally having you, and making sure to scare off a couple of men out deer hunting before it was too cold.
He saw that man, the one you were touching and acting friendly with. He made sure to frighten him the most.
It was another week before he saw you again down that forest path. On the night of a full moon no less. The darkest and coldest night yet, the frost beginning to set in, it had been snowing earlier. You were shivering, he could hear the fast palpitations of your heart, the blood pumping in your veins in an attempt at keeping you warm. He wanted badly to leave his location hunched over in the thicket and wrap you up, he knew the perfect remedy to raise your temperature. But you were much too close to the roads for this, he would have to wait.
You looked frightened as you made your way through the forest, flinching at the little noises and shadows in the dark, but there was no reason for you to be scared it was just you and him out there.
You were so close now, he could almost taste you, it made him froth at the mouth.
He picked up his pace, making sure to stay quiet, shortening the distance between you. He made a mistake, too caught up with gaining on you. The crack in the silence of the dark was loud. It made you freeze in place. He could hear the way your breathing picked up, virtually hyperventilating now. He expected you to carry on, like it was nothing, like you imagined it.
But you turned around, slowly, carefully.
Just like last time, after observing the space around you, your eyes connected. Only this time you were definitely looking at him. He could see it in the way your eyes widened, the way your brows furrowed in disbelief, the way your smell slightly soured. He stayed completely still. That familiar twitching in his cock back. As if in a slight haze he shifted, and suddenly you were gone. That was all it took for him to dash after you on all fours, the chase was on.
He could hear the violent thuds of your heart beats, taste the salt of your sweat and smell the fear in your scent. The pursuit was sending him feral, stalking down his prey in the night, the sounds of your scared cries spurring him on. Seeing you run from him, only made him want to catch you more, the powerful muscles of his arms and legs driving himself forward at an almost inhuman rate. The frozen ground breaking apart under the pounding of his clawed extremities, bounding over fallen branches and the coiled roots of trees with the ease of a feline. He couldn't stop. His heart racing from the exhilarating game he was playing with you, growls and grunts escaping from between gritted teeth.
It seemed as though you were lost, instead of running toward the safety of your home, not that it would actually be able to save you from him. Going toward that clearing, the place where it all started.
He watched as you slipped in the snow, your head bouncing off the ground, whimpering at the sensation. Watched as you tried to get up, grunting from over exertion only to stumble again on trembling limbs back onto the floor.
Slowing down, he creeped up to you slowly. You rolled over onto your back, pushing yourself up onto your elbows and saw him, you looked like you wanted to scream but nothing would come out. so sweet, all tired and scared on the floor. Exactly where he wanted you. Crawling closer, he watched how you tried to scramble away, your back hitting a tree with a dull thud. You had nowhere to go now. He skulked closer, your body pressed further back into the tree, trying to keep your distance but he wouldn’t let you.
Pretty lips parting to squeak out “wha… what do you want?”
Moving closer to trap you in place, you were face to face now. He growled, your scarf was in the way. Lifting his hand slowly, sharp nails running under where it sat against your skin, you squealed when he brought his hand up in an arc shredding it off of you. Moving even closer now he could get a batter look at you, nearly nose to nose. Could see how the temperature affected your skin, how the air fogged from the puffs of air let loose between your chapped lips, how tears gathered thickly on your lash line framing your eyes so alluringly.
And the smell. It was so much stronger without the knitted material in the way to smother it. It made his mouth water, thick globs of spit gathering between his gums. He needed to taste you.
Surging forward the heaving beast before you shoved his face into your clavicle. Wet stings pouring from his mouth made you cringe in disgust, as he opened his gaping maw to lick a thick trail up your neck to your ear.
“stop! Wha-what are you doing? Get off me… please!” you squealed in protest, trapped under the hulking body of the monster. hands coming up to try and push him away, it was useless, the solid mass of muscle and hair wouldn't budge.
It was all over you, warm drool dripping into your work shirt and down your chest, it was disgusting. It made you feel weird, like a fog rolling in or the haze from a hot summer sun. made you feel flushed and your pupils dilate. What was happening to you?
He laved over your skin, grunting and sniffing at you, moving to the other side of your neck to administer the same treatment. The musky scent of his body only aiding in that fuzzy feeling, you could feel yourself getting hotter and hotter.
It pulls back, and you let out a small gasp, suddenly able to breathe better now you have a little more room. It leans back on its haunches, the muscles of its hairy thighs bulging. Then you noticed it. Thick and erect where it stood against its torso, it was big, bigger than any you’d ever seen -which wasn't many, the local bachelors leaving much to be desired. Leaking like a faucet, bobbing in tandem with the beast’s heaving breaths. Its balls hanging heavy, from the thick wiry pubes at it’s crotch
Those huge claws were coming closer to you again, to paw at your legs, rubbing the covered skin in an almost soothing motion. Moving them higher and higher, squeezing at the skin of your thighs, before pushing under your skirt. You wanted to stop it, but you couldn’t, the light headedness making you feel like you were floating. All you could do was whimper and mewl at the feeling of his huge hands massaging at your legs. Thumbs brushed against the seam of your tights, pushing harder into the plush skin of your pussy, it was only then did you notice how wet you’d become. making you clench unconsciously, thighs trying to close themselves.
But the animal wouldn’t have any of that. With little effort, he flipped you over onto your stomach, your face smooshing into the snow, bits of dirt and twigs getting caught in your hair and clothes. It made your head spin as your centre of gravity was shifted abruptly. You turned your head to look at the beast like man, your quivering hips held tightly between his massive clawed hands, small tears forming in your skirt. Turning your eyes to his face to see his mouth open, a thick wet tongue coming out to swipe at his lips, his nostrils flaring and his eyes glazed over with hunger as he stared down at the space between your thighs.
He pulled you up to meet him, as he dove face first into your crotch, inhaling the musky scent of you coming from beneath your clothes, soaking the material with his mouth. It made you squirm and try to twist yourself away from him, little dazed moans slipping out in embarrassment of how good it felt, when it shouldn't. His claws making another appearance to shred your tights out of the way, you yelled at the motion, tears pooling in your eyes as he got closer and closer to your covered centre. Poking and prodding at your pussy beneath your little cotton panties, absolutely ruining the fabric. Before finally ripping them away, mewling at the sensation of the cold air hitting your pussy. He held you open with his thumbs, nails creating little nicks in the skin, while he watched it clench around nothing and your arousal drip out wetting the coarse hair framing your pussy. Your face was on fire, trying again to close your legs to protect the vulnerable opening, finding it was no use against his strength. Once again diving straight in, only this time no barrier could stop him from sealing his mouth around you.
You lay there, squirming and whining, while he slurped at the sensitive folds, grunting as he did so. You smelled so damn good from here, tasted even better and you were so responsive. Using his tongue to swipe at you from your clit all the way to the puckered hole of your behind, screeching when he circled it a few times. Before leaning back down to pull your engorged clit into his mouth and suckling on it. It made you feel dizzy, hands trying desperately to grip on to something, feeling yourself getting hotter and hotter. It felt so good, the way this brute made out with your pussy. Rocking your hips back on to him, as he pulled away to spit on your clenching hole and then shoving his tongue as deeply as he could.
Lapping at your squishy insides, grunting when you clamped down on the appendage. He gripped you closer, grinding his face into your wet pussy, while you squealed and tried to pull away. Your back arching overwhelmed at the sensation. High keens and mewls pushing from between your lips, unable to stop them. You just felt. So Good. A rough pad coming up to trace tight circles on your nub, that felt like shocks to your pussy, you were so close to cumming and he could tell. Could smell the heady scent of arousal leaking from your skin, feel how you throbbed around his tongue, the way your breath stuttered, spilling choked out moans.
You felt him speed up, pushing his impossibly long tongue deeper, his mouth sealing around your trembling pussy. And with a cracked scream you came, gushing all over his face. And he kept going. Kept sucking and lapping at you, drinking up everything you gave, gripping at the skin of your thighs and ass. the long nails biting at your sensitive skin.
In your post orgasm haze you felt him turn you over again, your head was swimming. Whatever cold you were suffering from earlier was gone, replaced with an inescapable heat. One that clouded your judgement and made your pussy throb. As you stared up at the man, beast, animal - whatever he was, you could feel an intense need for him. For his cock. You don't know where it came from but it was all you could think about now. The fear long gone.
He must have sensed the lust radiating from you, the neediness in your eyes and pouting lips setting him off into a frenzy. A distinct snikt cutting through the air, one long blade protruding from the knuckle on his right hand, cutting through the fabric of your coat and work shirt making quick work of your skirt too. He pushed the fabric down off of your body. Snarling when your hands came up to cover your chest, your sensitive nipples hardening in the frosty air.
With a deep growl he gripped both wrists pinning them down either side of your head, before letting go, expecting you to keep them there. He worked his way down from your face to your hips, biting and licking, covering you in that thick slobber that made your skin burn and your pussy flutter. Leaving blooms of red as he sucked at the soft skin of your chest, his mouth suctioning around your tender nipples, before moving on to the plush flesh at your tummy and hips.
Eventually leaning back, after marking your sore body, he shoved your legs up and out over his thighs. Thick fur like hair rubbing against you, as he inched forward on his knees till his cock was almost kissing your pussy. He was so big, in every way. The almost purple tip bushing against the belly button of his massive frame, the veins of his cock pulsing with every movement. You start squirming again, intimidated by the size of him, his hand coming down in a smack to your clit that has you wailing beneath him, tears dripping from your eyes. All the while he gripped his cock, directing it towards you. Almost sighing when it glides through your wetness. He grabs your waist, pulling you against him harder squeezing at your plush flesh, grinding the length of him along you. Your hands fall to his biceps, feeling the firm muscles beneath his skin, pressing your nails in when he bumps over your clit again.
You see the way his shoulders rise and fall as his breathing becomes ragged, how his eyes clenched shut and brows furrow, the way his teeth grit.
He tilts his hips back, aiming his pulsating cock at your winking hole. It nudges against you trying to force its way inside, but you're just too tight, trying to push in in in and getting nowhere.
Growing frustrated, he snaps, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. Pulling your ass cheeks apart to get a clear view of your glistening hole, and without warning he pushes into you harder this time, with a greater sense of urgency. And for the first time you hear him speak.
It's rough, like a rumbling in the ground before a volcano explodes. ‘Let. me. In.’ He bites out.
Grunting when he leans over you, feeling of his sweaty, hairy skin grazing along your back, powerful arms caging you in he hisses and grunts in your ear as he tries to fuck you. The fat tip finally pops inside, and he forces the rest in, ending in a thunderous smack against your hips. A piercing cry ripped from you at the jolt, he starts hammering into you, bullying your soft squishy insides apart to make room for him.
Its rough and hard, he fucks you like an animal in heat. Your arms become like jelly, dropping your top half to the floor. The hard craggy ground, unearthed where the heat of your body had melted the snow away; your nipples scraping along it from the force of his thrusts.
All you could do was lay there and take it, squirming and screaming out cries. You try and push yourself back up onto your hands, but the snapping of his hips, furry thighs clapping against the back of yours in a loud plap plap plap. You cum quickly, unable to endure much of the abuse to your pussy for long. With a loud yelp, you feel yourself gush around the huge cock that had moulded your insides to its shape. The man on top of you, grunting at the feel of your pussy pulsing and flexing around him. It makes him harder, if that's even possible.
He pulls out abruptly, cock leaving your pussy with a mwah like it was kissing it goodbye. Flipping you onto your back again. It was beginning to make you feel a bit sick at the constant repositioning, but something about how he manhandled you made you all the more aroused, a fresh wave of slick pouring from your already messy pussy.
He bent over for another lick of your plump pussy, unable to hold back, his nose nuzzling at your clit. You hissed, sore from overuse.
Leaning back up, he gripped your legs behind the knee hoisting them up and out, angling his hips down to once again thrust home. He felt deeper somehow, battering against your cervix. Little uh uh uh’s punching out in tandem with his rough thrusts. Looking down at your sorry state only made him want to fuck you harder; puckered lips from biting them, a flush that flowered all the way down onto your chest, how your body twisted and writhed against the force of his pounding. Your little pussy was squeezing him so hard, you could feel every bump and vein, how it pulsated inside of you. He was so long and thick, it was like he was all the way up in your throat, it made it hard to breathe, hard to think. Your face scrunched up in pleasurable pain, mewling out garbled moans at the sting of him pummelling into your cervix.
He slows down, not much, and all but collapses on top of you. Your legs dangle over his broad shoulders, as he crushes you into the ground. Speeding his thrusts up again after changing position, the delicious grind of his cock inside of you, the zaps of ecstasy when his wiry pubes grated against your clit. His face finds your neck again, sucking and bruising the delicate skin, his teeth leaving scrapes where they pass over. Sending you into your third orgasm of the night. It hits you like a boulder falling from the cliff, a brief moment of flying before slamming down. Hard. you find your hands threading into the tangled mess on his head tugging on the strands as you shatter around his cock, your cum leaking from you like syrup.
Your tongue feels thick and heavy in your mouth, drool pooling in your mouth, your head still swimming. He doesn't let up, sliding your legs from his impossibly wide shoulders, and gathering you up into his arms as he leans back bringing you up right with him. Picking up the pace again. Your head lolls forward onto his massive shoulder, you start mouthing at the skin there. Loud obscene squelches coming from where you're connected. You can feel the sticky strings snapping when he jackhammers up into you. His hips falter for a moment, loud growls and gnarls exhaled into your ears.
Pressing you flatter, he slows to a hard grind again, hips swivelling in circles against you, trying to push in as far as possible. Squishing you into his sweaty hairy body, hips mashing together. You hear him grit his teeth before opening wide and biting down into the skin of your shoulder. You scream, it's like nothing you've ever felt, like daggers tearing into your skin, blood rolling down your chest. You feel his cum burst out of him, like fireworks, hot sticky ropes flooding you. you feel your pussy start stretching, wider and wider. The base of his cock puffing up, almost tearing your aching pussy trying to work the bulging base into you all the way. It has you writhing and bleating on him like a small animal trapped in the jaws of a great beast, which, you suppose you were.
He tongues and nuzzles at your face and neck while you cry in his arms, slurping up the trails of your tears. Wriggling at the uncomfortable sensation of being stuffed and plugged up by his huge cock and knot, you begin feeling tired. Your exhausted body needs you to rest. Nestling back into him, finding comfort in the beast who had chased you down this night.
Then his arms are gone, you find yourself splayed out on the floor, your pelvis’ still connected at the root.
Your bleary eyes try to stay open, sleep working it's damndest to pull you under.
You take a last look at him, he’s staring down at you. A haunted look on his face.
His brows furrowed, mouth agape in disbelief, eyes bulging and there's something different.
oh my fucking GOD where do i even start with this?? gonna add a keep reading bar bc i don't trust myself to keep this short
i love the way you set the scene at the very beginning, i was able to picture the town scenery so easily and you did such a fantastic job at conveying such an erie vibe
"what you didn't know was that this wasn't the first time this behemoth had followed you home" CHILLS
the paragraphs about logan smelling and seeing her for the first time 🤌🏻😙
something is seriously wrong with me. i should not be this turned on by the thought of him stalking me. holy fuck
i love that you showed him gradually becoming more and more animalistic, it added so much, it really showed his internal struggle of what they turned him into, who he still is underneath all of the trauma, and how she brings out that side of him that he wants to keep pushed down
omg not him intentionally scaring off bill LOLLL
i love the pov switches, i think you did a great job with them!!! getting to read both of their thoughts and feelings made it so much hotter than if it had just been one or the other
i could write an entire essay on the smut alone. to keep this a reasonable length, i love how straight up dirty and feral it was. everything about this was so so hot than it should have been.
loved it, need more of it, 10000/10, fantastic job
Ahh tysm!! I really wanted to make sure that there was a clear divide mentally between Logan and WX and then the break down of that wall! So I’m glad that worked out well!
And I know poor bill 😭 that won’t be the last time Logan terrorises him.
2. Piercing // Double Penetration // Voyeurism (Wade Wilson x Reader x Logan Howlett)
“Wade, I don’t know if it’s gonna fit…”
“Honey, when have I ever been wrong?”
“Well, just this morning you said there was OJ left in the carton but when I got it from the fridge—”
“Okay, yes, fine. Wrong about my asshole specifically then.”
Logan grunts from beneath Wade, impatient. This is why he doesn’t like to have the merc as the filling in your little sandwich unless it’s to be spitroasted, which keeps his goddamn mouth shut.
“Make up your minds one way or the other,” he sighs, ragged, torn from his lungs.
“See? Honey badger wants you to shove it in. Listen to his manly growl and grab the lube again.”
Your hands cupping Wade’s asscheeks, you spread him a little and look at where Logan is filling him up. Honestly, he seems pretty stuffed and as you press the head of your silicone cock against his hole the noise he makes is equal parts enthusiastic and apprehensive.
“Alright, I don’t think I can—”
“Please.” Wade’s hand darts out to grab your wrist, his beautiful brown eyes two pretty pools of desperation. “C’mon, it’s my birthday.”
“Your birthday is in November,” Logan sighs from beneath him.
“I have two of them per year, like the queen of England. Oh, oops, shit. Not any more I guess… is the talk about the old dead lady conducive to the mood, or—”
As he blabbers you’ve actually done as he’s bid, grabbing the Astroglide and giving a generous squirt onto your strap. When you press the head of it into his hole alongside Logan Wade’s words are strangled into a euphoric little babble.
“Fuck yes fuck yes ohh shitohshitohshit—”
You sink deeper, grabbing his hands and threading your fingers through his as an anchor. Logan’s palm skates Wade’s bicep, a gentle and tender reassurance.
“You’re okay, Red. Breathe through it.”
Wade’s chest hitches until you nock yourself all the way inside him. He’s stuffed full of you both, looking a little dazed at it all. He’s a real cutie sometimes - it’s a shame your phone is out of reach or you’d snap a pic. Instead you caress his cheek.
“You alright down there, sweetheart?”
“Just trying not to cum quicker than a furry clicking onto DeviantArt for the first time,” he confesses through gritted teeth. You grin and drop a kiss to his sternum.
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 know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates, in 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.
I should be definitely be cracking on with the second instalment of Honey&Sage but... i just saw a poster someone made of Logan as 'a Canadian mutant in London' and im thinking thoughts of him like moving to 18th century England in a small town and people keep talking about some weird hairy creature who's been stalking around the woods...
I'm glad y'all enjoyed Honey & Sage so much!! it was my first time writing fiction since high school and I was vvvv nervous to post it.
I will be expanding on the story! I was thinking about making it a series of moments between them, might take a while, I had a very stressful weekend and I'm still brainstorming ideas.
(its now that time of the month, so it will be focusing more on soft!Lo and Honey (sry horny posters... feral!Logan will still make appearances!!)
