#I don’t have a problem I just like to talk

[arrenjo]

Summary: Your apartment floods and you do your best to make it on your own, but when Robby finds out he takes matters into his own hands.

Notes: I’m a slut for a one bed trope, whoopsie. These can probably be stand alone but I like having somewhat of a series going. Obviously inspired by Whitaker’s whole living-inside-the-hospital deal. Also omfg I’ve looked at this draft for so long I might die.

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“Shit shit shit!!” You jumped at your alarm from a dead sleep and threw on your scrubs. Resting in this hospital was fucking impossible and you had finally gone to sleep— and subsequently overslept.

You ran a brush through your hair and brushed your teeth in the bathroom in a matter of about a minute before you threw on your shoes, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and raced out the door. Thankfully you only had a couple of flights of stairs to go down.

Your apartment had flooded earlier in the week and everything was a total loss. You had the things you had in your work bag and a bag you kept in your car, and that was it. You weren’t really sure how your apartment complex got away with not offering you another place to stay that wasn’t triple your rent, but you were fucked. You went to Gloria in a desperate time of need and she was kind enough to let you use a spare hospital room for the week and promise her discretion, but you were running out of time to find something else and there were no options.

Dana, Donnie, and the rest of the ED nurses would absolutely have your ass if they knew you refused to ask them for help, but it wasn’t their problem. You ran into the nurses station, out of breath, and got report on your patients. After a bit of running around to play catch up, Dana caught you at your workstation charting.

“Hey kid, you alright?” She asked, placing a cup of coffee in front of you.

“My angel,” you said, taking a sip and giving her a grateful smile. “Yeah, you know how I struggle with being on time for dayshift sometimes. Your girl is not a morning person.” You lied with just a little too much enthusiasm. It was partially true, dayshift really did turn your world upside down. You and mornings did not particularly get along.

“Yeah, uh-huh, okay,” Dana said and rolled her eyes. She patted you on the shoulder and walked away. You’ve got to find a place. Your exhaustion was starting to show and people were starting to notice.

__

“Hey,” Dana’s voice snapped Robby’s attention to her face as she pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. Oh shit, he thought, whatever Dana was about to talk to him about, she was serious.

“What do you think’s going on with our girl?” She nodded in your direction. Your back was to them, your head in your hands. It was clear that something was up, but Robby hadn’t put his finger on exactly what yet. He had been watching you, observing your every move. The casual touches had stayed casual, but he could feel the increased tension in your body when he first made contact. When the touch lingered for more than a second, he could feel you relax into his touch. He didn’t say anything to you. To tell the truth, he liked it, but he didn’t like that you were so tense to begin with.

“I don’t know,” He muttered, his eyes still on you, looking over the rim of his glasses. He paused for a moment to wonder if he should play it cool or lay his cards on the table for Dana.

“Abbott’s got a big mouth you know. Heard he and Princess had a bet going on and that Princess won.” Dana interrupted his thought process with a knowing smirk. Robby sighed and took his glasses off, reaching to rub the side of his head in the same motion, his eyes searching to find you across the nurses station again. You ran your hands through your hair and got up, starting towards the med room.

“Abbott doesn’t know half of what he thinks he does,” Robby countered, glancing at Dana after the med room door had closed behind you.

“I’m just sayin’, you watch her every move. I’ve seen how you look at her when you think no one’s paying attention.” Dana said with a shrug.

“Dana!” Whitaker appeared out of a room, beckoning the charge nurse to him. He looked bewildered and a little scared, but Robby had come to realize that was his normal facial expression.

“Saved by the bell,” Robby said with a chuckle.

“This conversation isn’t over, but check in with her, will ya?” Dana said, already starting towards Dennis, mentally preparing herself for whatever was behind the curtain that he had just popped out of.

__

An exhausting twelve and a half hours later, you feel disgusting. You had blood, sweat, and bodily fluids— none of which were yours— what felt like everywhere. After you gave report to the night shift nurse, you slung your backpack over your shoulder and headed for the stairwell. All you wanted was a long, hot shower and the one good thing about the hospital was that the hot water never ran out. You had one more pair of clean scrubs for the week and then you had to figure out what the hell to do about laundry. Your thoughts preoccupied you as you walked, never noticing Robby several paces behind you. He had called your name once, but when you started up the stairs instead of outside, he made the decision to follow you.

You entered the hallway on the 4th floor and ducked into the first room to the left. The hallway was empty except for you, no nurses working upstairs meant that there were no patients and the entire 4th floor was shut down. You pushed the door closed behind you with your foot, leaving the door just slightly ajar. The tunnel vision had really set in on that shower. The small crack between the door and door frame spilled just enough light into the dark hallway for Robby to find where you had gone. He pushed the door open and opted to stand in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. It only took him seconds to assess the scene and figure out what was happening. There were half dried out pictures laying on a few surfaces, your duffel bag sat on the chair with a towel draped over the back on the opposite side of the room. You had dropped your backpack just inside the door with your shoes. The cot in the middle of the room looked tiny and uncomfortable, no wonder you were exhausted.

In the bathroom, you had just taken your hair down and were just about to start the water for your shower when you realized you had left your towel draped over the chair in the next room.

“Shit,” You muttered and stepped out of the bathroom, looking down to untie the waistband of your scrubs as you did. The stupid fucking knot wouldn’t come out and-

“Ahem,” Your head snapped up to the sound of someone clearing their throat. Robby stood in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest, leaning cooly on the doorframe. Oh fuck. You pressed your lips into a tight line and closed your eyes for a brief second.

“Robby,” You breathed, opening your eyes to look at him. He was silent as he took you in, his eyes catching for just a split second at your exposed skin. Your cheeks immediately heated and you knew your face was red.

Fuck, how do I explain this?

“My apartment flooded,” You began as you grew uncomfortable in the silence. He had been staring at you for a solid ten seconds, never offering a word. “The only places they offered me were triple my rent and I can’t afford that,” You met his eyes from across the room.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” He asked, taking a step towards you. His hands moved from across his chest to inside the pockets of his hoodie again.

“I’m not your problem,” You said with a snort, shaking your head.

Robby groaned your name and ran a hand through his hair, resting his hand at the back of his neck before he dropped it to his side.

“Let me help you. You tell me that I have to take care of myself, but you have to take care of yourself too.” Robby’s eyes were set, determined.

“Let me spot you the cash and-“

“No, Robby, I can’t-“ You stopped short, feeling the hot tears threatening to spill. The embarrassment made your chest tight.

“Okay no, bad suggestion, I’m sorry,” He immediately apologized. You took a steadying breath, opting to come clean.

“I can’t afford it, and I don’t want to be a burden or a freeloader. It makes me feel weak when I can’t just do everything myself, y’know?,” You told him, avoiding eye contact, desperately trying to regain your composure. The tears were threatening to spill again. Robby gingerly walked towards you and stopped just in front of you. He took your face in his hands and tilted your chin up to him.

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden. Sometimes you gotta have help.” He said, you felt your muscles relax into his touch.

“I have an apartment,” He started slowly.

“No, Robby. They said it could take months,” You said softly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do but I can’t ask you to do that.” You put your hands on top of his, he searched your eyes for a moment before continuing.

“You’re not asking, I am, please stay with me. I won’t be able to sleep knowing that you’re here, and then both of us will be exhausted and cranky.” He gave you a small smile, his thumb gently stroking your chin. Your cheeks burned at the contact, your gaze dropped to his mouth. It seemed like he was having the same thought, because when your eyes found his again, he was staring at your mouth. His eyes snapped back up to yours, waiting for an answer.

“Why do you care where I sleep?” You asked softly. He grinned and shook his head

“You want to stay with me or not?” He asked rhetorically.

“Okay,” You started “-But just until I figure something else out.” You said. You already had feelings for him and this was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated if you acted on them. You dropped your hands to your sides with a small sigh. His hands lingered on your cheeks for another second, then he ran his hands down either side of your neck and across your shoulders, he stopped at your biceps and gave your arms a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on, we gotta be back early tomorrow.” He said casually, dipping his head to look at you. The trail that his hands had made felt like your skin was on fire, and him using the word ‘We’ made your stomach turn flips. Your eyes widened. He was asking you to come home with him now.

“You mean… tonight?”

“Yeah, you have to sleep, and just looking at you being so exhausted makes me tired.” He feigned a yawn and a stretch that made the corners of your mouth twitch.

“And just how hard have you been looking, Doctor Robinavitch?” You teased, turning back towards the bathroom. He rolled his eyes at you and pulled a box from the closet.

“You coming or not?”

“So impatient,” you shot back, but then quickly started gathering your things. Fuck it, might as well go all in. Robby snorted and started helping you gather your clothes and the few personal belongings you had left into the box. You worked together in silence until Robby picked up the box and slung your bag across his frame. You reached for the box and he shook his head.

“I got it, it’s a little bit of a walk.” He said, you held your hands out for it again, making a ‘gimme’ motion.“I said I got it.” He insisted, pulling the box out of your reach to the other side of him.

Most of your walk with him was quiet, you were deep in thought about how in the hell you were going to live in the same house as this man and not embarrass yourself. Your skin still ached for more of his touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” You said suddenly as he took his keys out to unlock the door to his apartment. He glanced up at you before turning his attention back towards his keys.

“I know.” He said simply and unlocked the door. “But I want to,” he said and held the door open for you. You felt your cheeks flush as he turned on the lights. His apartment was clean and simple, the most decorations he had were books on shelves and a blanket folded on the end of the couch. He had the basics: a couch, TV, a kitchen that looked functional, coffee table. You didn’t get red flag vibes from being here, but you could tell that this was a place that he didn’t spend a ton of time. Robby walked through the apartment and you trailed behind him. You walked past the kitchen and into a hallway, and into what looked like a bedroom. He turned the lights on and you could quickly tell it was Robby’s bedroom.

“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ you started but he cut you off.

“No, this is where you’re going to sleep. I have other rooms but there’s not another bed.” He placed the box on the bed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Never really had the need for one.” He admitted sheepishly.

“No, Robby I’m not coming into your house and taking your bed,”

“I’m not asking.” He said simply, locking eyes with you. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He said matter-of-factly, like there was absolutely no question to it.

“Shower is off the bedroom, it’s the only one.” He pointed to the door in the corner of the room. “I changed the sheets on the bed this morning. There are towels in the cabinet, and the laundry room is through there if you need to wash anything.” You nodded, giving up on fighting him about the bed for the moment.

“Is it okay if I shower?”

“You don’t have to ask, make yourself at home, I’ll be in the living room.”

By the time you hopped out of the shower half an hour later, you found Robby sitting on the couch, reading. He had a pillow and blanket folded up beside him. You stopped to take him in, he was sitting with his legs crossed, glasses perched on his nose. He didn’t even make a move when you walked in the room, hair still wet and falling down your shoulders. Robby patted the seat next to him without looking up from his book. You sat down next to him and pulled out your phone, scrolling while nervously chewing on your lip. When you looked back at him, his book was closed on his lap and he was studying your features.

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly. You turned your phone so it was face down on your lap.

“I don’t want to fight with you about the bed, but I don’t want to sleep in your bed, Robby. You’re doing enough by letting me be here.” He chuckled at the response and took his glasses off.

“Here I am thinking that you’re in some emotional distress and you’re upset about sleeping in my bed?”

“Robby,” You sighed, running a hand through your hair.

God, no. I’m not upset about sleeping in your bed, I’m upset that you won’t be sleeping in your bed with me. You decided that confession would be a little too honest.

“I just don’t want to overstep,” you settled on that response and he gave you a grin.

“I promise it’s fine, couch is comfy.” He shifted back into the couch and spread his arms. One settled behind you and the comfortableness of the gesture made your stomach flip.

“I am going to go shower though,” He said and started to stand. You nodded and pulled out your phone again, but as he turned you looked up from the screen, watching him walk to the bedroom. You let your mind wander for a split second and a heat rushed across your chest and down your abdomen.

A hot shower with Robby was probably the best thought you had had in a while. You lingered in that thought for a moment and then shook your head to clear it, pulling your phone back out and settling into the couch to scroll. You must have been more tired than you realized, because the next thing you felt was warm hands sliding up under your back and your legs and lifting you in the air. You started to scramble and were immediately comforted by Robby’s voice.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, “I’ve got you.” You felt him making his way towards the bedroom and your heart rate picked up. The way he picked you up with such ease made your stomach flutter.

“Please don’t drop me,” you mumbled with a half hearted giggle into his chest, clinging to his shirt tightly. Robby snorted.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. He continued walking down the hallway, carrying you with ease. When you got to the bedroom, he eased you down on the bed, gently laying your head on the pillow. He hovered above you for just a moment and he started to pull away. You shook your head, your mouth just inches from his.

“Don’t go,” You whispered. He stopped in his tracks, his breath warm across your lips. He searched your eyes, lingering for just a second, almost as if he wanted to say something, and you swore you saw him open his mouth.

“Please,” You said softly, you weren’t sure if it was the sleepiness clouding your judgment or the fact that he cared enough to carry you to bed, but you wanted him close more than you ever had.

“Okay,” He said simply, you weren’t sure but you thought you may have heard some relief in his voice. He crawled in the bed beside you and you scooted closer to him. The smell of cedar shampoo made your mouth water, you were desperate for his touch. Both of you knew that you were blurring lines between the two of you, but neither of you seemed to care. He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you from behind. You settled into him, he buried his face in your hair, his breath on your neck.

“Thank you… for this. For everything,” You said quietly, relaxing further into him.

“I might be a little bit selfish,” He admitted, you could hear the defeat in his tone. “I wanted you here. I mean, here,” he gestured vaguely to the room with the arm that was draped around your waist. “But here too,” he said and wrapped his arm back around your waist, pulling you closer. You smiled and ran your hand down his arm, interlacing your fingers with his.

“I wanted to be here too.”

[dumbbitchgalore]

When john is home for a few weeks and has to go on a mission again he has a morning wood for the first few days of the mission because he got used to having his love next to him when he wakes up. His team totally found out and won't stop joking about it.

Back when he slept alone, missions were cold, routine, and numb.

But now that he's had a few solid weeks at home with you waking up to your warm body, your sleepy kisses, your thighs brushing against his under the sheets. His body has learned what comfort feels like.

And the second he’s away again? It rebels.

By the third morning in the field, he wakes up in his tent with a stubborn, insistent hard-on that won’t go down no matter how much he curses under his breath.

Gaz, unfortunately, catches him ducking behind the gear truck with his fists clenched and his jaw tight.

"Problem, Captain?" It spirals fast. Soap finds out and can’t stop grinning about it.

"She’s got you properly domesticated, mate. Can’t even go a day without waking up tentin’ your kit like a bloody teenager."

Price, mortified but too proud to argue, just mutters, "Least I’ve got someone worth missing."

The jokes don’t stop. But secretly, he doesn’t mind. Because every annoying boner is a reminder of how good he has it waiting back home.

I am a firm believer that John cums in his pants the first night that he is able to talk to you on the phone and it's not like it was a sexual call. All you had to do is say 'hi sweetie' and he's busting a nut no matter the setting.

[mcrdvcks]

heyy i have a request for logan and reader where they get in an argument which results in either reader gives him the silent treatment or they both do and just ignore each other until logan does something about it!!

how you get the girl

summary: After an argument with Logan, you both stop talking to each other. word count: 7.6k+ pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader notes: this somehow became much longer than i thought it would, lol. also, i wrote in emma frost, but i based her characterization off of her in marvel rivals (so what if it's a videogame? she's hot asf-) also, i wrote something similar a while back with old man logan! check it out here: things i wish you said warnings/tags: angst, angst, angst (like... so much), happy ending, asshole!logan, bamf!reader, don't settle for less than you deserve y'all, silent treatment

You sighed as you stepped through the mansion doors, exhaustion settling heavy in your shoulders. Your day had been long—endlessly long—and teaching mutant teenagers about control and responsibility had felt particularly draining today.

You glanced around, hoping for Logan. Seeing him always eased the tightness in your chest after a bad day. But as your eyes scanned the foyer, there was no sign of him.

“Hey, Ororo,” you greeted softly as you saw her passing by. “Seen Logan?”

Ororo paused, offering you a gentle smile. “I believe he’s outside. He seemed a bit… restless today.”

You nodded, feeling unease curl slightly in your stomach. “Thanks.”

Outside, you found him sitting on the steps of the mansion’s back porch, cigar in hand, expression dark and contemplative as he stared into the distance.

“Hey,” you called gently, stepping up beside him.

He barely glanced at you. “Hey.”

His voice was flat, the usual warmth gone. You frowned, hesitating only a second before sitting next to him. “Rough day?”

“Something like that,” he muttered, taking a slow drag and releasing the smoke into the chilly air.

You studied his profile carefully. Logan was closed off more often than not, but this felt different—like he’d already decided to shut you out.

“Logan,” you prompted softly. “Talk to me.”

He sighed, frustration evident in the way his jaw tightened. “Nothing to talk about. Leave it.”

“Clearly, there’s something. You don’t have to pretend—”

“I said leave it,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

You recoiled slightly, hurt flickering across your face. “I’m just trying to help—”

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t,” Logan said abruptly, his eyes finally flicking to yours, harsh and defensive. “Maybe you shouldn’t try so hard, Y/N.”

Anger twisted tightly in your chest, clashing against your exhaustion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what it sounds like,” he growled, flicking his cigar onto the grass. “You’re always pushin’, always tryin’ to fix somethin’ you got no damn business fixin’. Maybe you’d be better off not carin’ so damn much.”

“You think I enjoy pushing you?” You stood abruptly, disbelief turning quickly into hurt. “Logan, all I’ve ever done is care about you.”

“Yeah, and look how well that's goin', sweetheart,” he shot back bitterly, rising to his feet. “Maybe you'd save yourself some trouble if you didn't count on me so damn much.”

Your heart sank, pain sharp and immediate. You swallowed, feeling your throat tighten painfully. “So that's it, huh? Caring about you is the problem?”

He didn’t respond, jaw clenched, gaze hard and distant.

You shook your head, stepping back. “Fine. Message received, loud and clear.”

Turning quickly, you walked back toward the mansion without another word, refusing to let him see the tears already threatening to spill. Logan remained rooted to the spot, fists clenched at his sides, the angry words he'd hurled at you already burning bitterly in his throat.

He watched you leave, regret creeping in even as he stubbornly refused to call you back.

And just like that, silence fell between you both—thick, heavy, and painfully loud.

---

You always had a hard time sleeping. Before dating Logan you would just pop some sleeping pills—a little more than the recommended dose—and hope for the best. But when you started dating, and sharing a bed, you found it a little easier to fall asleep.

The warmth of being held, him rubbing your back, murmuring sweet nothings. But tonight, you popped those sleeping pills and curled up in bed long before Logan got there.

You were awake, eyes closed, breaths slow and careful when you heard the bedroom door open softly. Logan’s footsteps were quiet, almost hesitant as he paused at the edge of the bed, lingering for a long moment. You could feel his gaze heavy on your back, the mattress dipping slightly as he sat down carefully on his side.

Neither of you spoke, and the tension filled every silent second. You focused intently on keeping your breathing steady, even as your chest felt unbearably tight.

"Y/N?" Logan’s voice was quiet, almost tentative. A careful prod in the silence.

You didn’t answer, pretending instead that sleep had already claimed you.

Logan exhaled softly—frustration, regret, maybe both. He shifted beside you, and for a brief moment you thought he’d reach out, rest his hand on your shoulder, try to make things right. But instead, he settled down, turning his back to yours, the heavy sigh that slipped from him enough proof that he was just as stubborn as you.

Sleep came eventually, but it was restless and filled with vague, half-formed dreams that left you tired when morning came. Logan’s side of the bed was empty and cold, no lingering warmth to suggest he’d stayed beside you long.

The silence persisted.

You dressed quickly and quietly, making your way down to breakfast where the usual bustle of the X-Mansion filled the room with chatter. Logan was already there, hunched over his coffee and glaring down at the newspaper like it had personally offended him. You pointedly avoided looking at him as you poured yourself coffee and quietly moved toward an empty seat by Jean and Scott.

"Morning, Y/N," Jean greeted softly, her eyes flicking to Logan briefly before landing back on you. Her expression shifted subtly, perceptive as always. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," you answered shortly, sipping your coffee and focusing on the table.

Across the room, Logan shifted slightly in his chair, clearly listening.

Jean glanced at Scott, who wisely decided to stay out of it, turning back to his breakfast without comment. Jean lowered her voice, leaning closer. "If you need to talk—"

"I said it's fine," you snapped, sharper than you intended. You sighed immediately after, guilt tugging at your chest as you glanced at her apologetically. "Sorry. I didn't sleep well."

Jean squeezed your arm gently. "Understood."

You didn’t look over, but you felt Logan’s eyes on you from across the room, heavy and intent. Ignoring him took effort—every fiber of your being wanted to turn, snap something sarcastic, or glare at him—but instead, you deliberately kept your attention on your coffee and Jean's quiet, sympathetic presence beside you.

It went similarly during dinner. You sat in your regular spot, except you were the first one at the table. No Jean across from you, no Ororo on your left, and certainly no Logan to your right.

You felt a presence sit down next to you, but you kept your eyes down on your plate, not looking over.

"I take it this seat isn't usually vacant?" a smooth voice drawled softly beside you.

You stiffened immediately at the sound of Emma Frost's unmistakably confident tone, the way she seemed to relish the tension. Slowly, you forced yourself to glance over, keeping your expression carefully neutral.

"Usually isn't," you replied evenly, offering nothing more.

Emma tilted her head slightly, regarding you with a cool, appraising gaze. "Trouble in paradise?"

You exhaled slowly through your nose, irritation flaring sharply beneath your forced calm. "Is there something I can do for you, Emma?"

She smiled faintly, picking up her glass and sipping elegantly before placing it down again with an almost deliberate precision. "Not particularly. But seeing as how Logan's sulking on the other side of the room like a wounded puppy, I figured I'd make use of the empty seat. You know how much I enjoy shaking things up."

You frowned, unable to resist the quick glance over your shoulder. Logan sat by himself at the far end of the table, a plate barely touched in front of him. His jaw was tight, eyes glaring daggers into Emma's back. When your eyes met his briefly, he quickly looked away, annoyance clear in every stiff movement.

"You picked the wrong day, Emma," you said shortly, picking at your food with renewed agitation. "I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, darling, that's precisely why I picked today," Emma replied smoothly, completely unfazed by your sharpness. "It's hardly ever interesting around here when things are peaceful."

"You could just leave," you pointed out flatly. "Then you wouldn't have to worry about boredom."

Emma laughed softly, the sound like expensive silk—cold and smooth and utterly unbothered. "And miss moments like this? Please. Watching Logan stew is just icing on the cake."

You didn't answer, instead focusing pointedly on your food. Despite your best efforts to ignore her, Emma seemed thoroughly content to remain, sipping her drink and occasionally casting you sidelong glances.

Finally, you broke the silence, irritation fraying your voice. "Did you need something specific, Emma?"

"Actually, yes." She leaned forward slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. "I'm genuinely curious—how long are you going to keep up this little silent-treatment game? You two are rather notorious for being nauseatingly affectionate."

"None of your business," you muttered stiffly.

"Oh, come now, Y/N." Emma's lips curved slowly, eyes glittering with something sharp and dangerous. "Everyone in this mansion can feel the tension rolling off both of you. Honestly, you're both exhausting."

You pushed your plate away abruptly, your appetite utterly gone. "Emma, whatever game you're playing, go play it somewhere else. I've had a long day."

She arched a delicate brow, unfazed. "Believe it or not, I'm doing you a favor."

"How exactly is this a favor?"

She glanced pointedly across the room, eyes briefly landing on Logan before returning to you, perfectly composed. "He's stubborn and prideful. If you expect him to break first, you may be waiting quite some time."

You refused to look over, despite the overwhelming urge. "Again, none of your business."

Emma shrugged lightly, leaning back in Logan's chair, legs crossed elegantly beneath the table. "Suit yourself. But in my experience—and believe me, I've dealt with men like Logan—these standoffs rarely end with dignity intact."

You narrowed your eyes, finally turning your head fully to face her, your tone sharp. "And just what are you suggesting, exactly? That I go apologize when he's the one who—"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Emma interrupted calmly, her eyes cool but surprisingly sincere. "I simply dislike the tedious atmosphere your stubbornness creates. Handle it or don't, I honestly don't care. But this silence is exhausting for everyone."

She stood gracefully, smoothing her clothes as she cast a last amused glance toward Logan, whose expression was now practically murderous. Emma smiled faintly, clearly pleased by the reaction she'd provoked. "Good luck, Y/N. For your sake, I hope this resolves sooner rather than later."

You watched her go, jaw clenched tightly, a swirl of anger and embarrassment twisting uneasily in your gut. Before you could even consider Emma's words further, footsteps approached again. You glanced up sharply, expecting Emma to have returned to further antagonize you.

Instead, it was Ororo. Her gentle expression was cautious but kind, a stark contrast to Emma's calculating smirk.

"Do I even want to ask what that was about?" Ororo asked softly, taking the seat Emma had just vacated.

You sighed, rubbing a tired hand over your face. "Emma being Emma."

Ororo hummed softly, eyes drifting briefly across the room. "Logan looks particularly irritable tonight."

"Yeah," you said shortly, biting the inside of your cheek as you stabbed at your food half-heartedly. "He's made it very clear he wants space."

Ororo studied you quietly for a moment, thoughtful. "Perhaps it's less about wanting space and more about needing it."

You looked at her sharply, frustration bubbling up. "What does that even mean?"

Ororo's eyes were sympathetic but firm. "You know Logan better than most. He isn't good at asking for help or accepting comfort. It's easier for him to push people away."

"And I'm supposed to just accept that?" you asked, the anger in your voice giving way slightly to hurt. "He said things, Ororo—things he can't just take back."

"No," she agreed softly, "but he can apologize. If given the chance."

You shook your head slightly, swallowing down a lump of emotion you didn't want to deal with. "I don't think he plans to."

Ororo reached over, squeezing your arm gently. "Just because he's stubborn doesn't mean he isn't sorry. Give him some time."

You nodded stiffly, blinking quickly to chase away the prickling tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes. "Maybe. I just... I don't know."

She smiled gently, leaning in and speaking softly enough for only you to hear. "He misses you. Anyone can see that."

You didn't answer immediately, the ache in your chest twisting tighter at her words. Your eyes betrayed you, drifting across the dining hall despite yourself, and finding Logan's gaze already locked onto yours. For a long moment, neither of you looked away, stubbornness and hurt caught between you, tangled and raw.

Eventually, Logan broke first, his jaw working tightly as he pushed away from the table roughly, leaving the dining room without another glance your way. You swallowed down the tight lump in your throat, staring blankly at the empty doorway he'd disappeared through.

Ororo sighed softly, understanding in her eyes. "He'll come around, Y/N. Logan always does."

You managed a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head slowly. "I wouldn't be so sure this time."

She squeezed your hand softly, sympathy in her voice. "I am."

You didn't answer, your mind stuck replaying the fight, Logan’s harsh words still echoing painfully in your chest. And as much as you wished it didn't bother you, Emma's smug voice kept slipping back in too—reminding you that waiting him out could be a long, miserable ordeal.

So you resolved to do just that—to wait. Logan was stubborn, but you could be stubborn too. If he wanted silence, you’d give him all the silence he could handle.

It was Logan's move now.

---

Sometimes the mall was relaxing. You could walk around, buy new candles, find a few nice shirts, and even get a pretzel and a coffee.

Today, it felt like an escape—somewhere to be without Logan’s heavy presence lingering in every corner of the mansion. It was the third day of your stalemate. No conversations, no hellos, no goodnights, nothing. Just tense silence and carefully avoided eye contact.

So you wandered slowly, idly browsing a display of candles labeled with names like "Lavender Fields," "Cozy Cottage," and "Stormy Nights." You lifted one of them to your nose, inhaling deeply before setting it back down with a sigh.

"That good, huh?"

You turned, startled, to see Jean standing behind you, a small smile on her face.

"Oh. Hey, Jean," you said, setting the candle down gently. "Didn't see you there."

"Clearly," Jean teased softly. She glanced around the shop. "Retail therapy?"

"More like avoidance therapy," you admitted dryly.

Jean hummed knowingly, falling into step beside you as you moved toward another shelf. "Still not speaking to Logan?"

You sighed, reaching for another candle absently. "He started it."

She chuckled softly, glancing over the label on the candle you'd picked up. "I'm sure he did. But are you going to let him end it, too?"

You groaned lightly. "Please, I had this conversation twice already. Once with Ororo, once with Emma—of all people—and I really don't need another lecture."

Jean laughed quietly, picking up her own candle. "Fair enough. No lectures, just friendly observation."

You shot her a wary look. "Which is?"

She smiled gently. "Logan doesn't know how to fix it."

"Logan hasn't even tried," you said stiffly, placing the candle back down with unnecessary force. "He made it pretty clear I'm the problem."

Jean shook her head slowly. "That's not true, and you know it. He's hurting too. He's just too stubborn to admit it."

"Stubborn is an understatement," you muttered, wandering toward the clothing racks. Jean followed easily, letting the silence sit between you for a moment.

She fingered through some shirts, pausing to look at you seriously. "Would it really kill you to reach out first?"

You glanced at her sharply. "Why do I have to be the one?"

"Because you're the emotionally mature one," Jean teased gently. "And because Logan is—"

"Emotionally constipated?" you supplied flatly.

Jean laughed brightly, nodding. "Yes, exactly."

You smiled slightly despite yourself, turning back to the shirts. "If I do it, then it becomes a pattern. It’ll only ever be me running to him for a mistake he made. I don’t want to be the kind of girl who has no self-worth.”

Jean exhaled softly, setting the shirt she’d been looking at back on the rack. "I get that, Y/N. But I don’t think Logan sees it that way. He’s… complicated."

You snorted lightly, shaking your head. "That’s the understatement of the century."

Jean nudged you playfully, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Okay, more than complicated. He's stubborn, prideful, emotionally closed-off—"

"Are you trying to help or convince me to leave him?" you interrupted dryly, earning a small laugh from Jean.

"Listen," Jean said softly, turning serious again. "You and Logan are good together. He’s better when he’s with you—softer, happier. And you’re more grounded, more confident. The two of you… you balance each other out."

You chewed your lip thoughtfully, avoiding her eyes. "Maybe. But I don’t know how many times I can do this. How many times I can put my heart out there, only for him to stomp all over it when he's having a bad day."

Jean was quiet a moment, her voice gentle when she finally spoke. "That's valid, Y/N. Completely valid. But ask yourself honestly—is it really worth this much misery just to prove a point?"

You stayed silent, unable to answer right away. You didn’t want to lose your pride, your self-respect—but you missed Logan terribly. The stubborn silence that filled every space between you was becoming unbearable.

Jean sighed, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. "Just… think about it. Okay?"

"Yeah," you murmured softly, giving her a small nod. "I'll think about it."

---

Returning to the mansion was like stepping back into the cold tension you'd managed to briefly escape. You half-expected to see Logan brooding somewhere, cigar smoke trailing behind him like a dark cloud—but he wasn't in the common room, wasn't lingering around the halls, wasn't out back.

Instead, you found Scott, grading papers at the kitchen island, glasses sliding low on his nose. He looked up when he heard you come in, giving you an awkward, sympathetic smile.

"Hey, Y/N," he greeted softly. "You doing okay?"

"Fine," you replied automatically, grabbing a glass to fill with water.

Scott raised an eyebrow, putting down his pen. "You don’t have to pretend. Logan’s been a moody nightmare, so I can’t imagine things are fine."

You chuckled humorlessly. "You don’t have to deal with it. I'm pretty sure he's avoiding me at all costs."

Scott shrugged, leaning back on his stool. "Maybe. Or maybe he doesn’t know how to approach you after… you know."

You turned, leaning your hip against the counter as you faced him. "What did he say to you?"

Scott hesitated, clearly uncomfortable being in the middle. "He didn’t say much. Just snapped at pretty much everyone who asked him about it. You know how he is."

"Yeah, unfortunately, I do," you sighed tiredly, sipping your water slowly.

"He’s miserable though," Scott added quietly. "Whatever happened… it’s eating him up."

You shook your head slowly. "Then he should be the one doing something about it."

Scott gave you a faint, sympathetic smile. "I'm not arguing with you there."

You pushed away from the counter, moving towards the hall. "Thanks for caring, Scott. But I'm tired of everyone making excuses for him."

"Hey, I'm not," Scott called after you softly. "Just stating facts."

You waved a dismissive hand, offering him a tired smile as you left the kitchen.

---

The next morning, you were in the kitchen making tea for your thermos when Logan walked in. Despite every part of you wanting to just rush out, you didn’t. You stayed calm and continued making your tea, adding a little bit of milk and sugar.

Logan came next to you, grabbing a mug and pouring himself some coffee from the pot. “You doin’ okay?” He asked.

You let out a quiet breath, “yeah, fine.”

Taking Jean’s advice, you stayed, waiting—hoping—that Logan would say something, anything else. But nothing came. He stood there, silent, sipping his coffee.

You let the silence stretch on, hoping against hope he’d speak first, that he’d find something, anything to say.

But Logan remained quiet, his gaze firmly fixed on the countertop, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. Finally, the realization settled heavy in your chest—he wasn't going to say anything.

He wasn't going to apologize.

You sighed quietly, feeling something crack inside your chest as disappointment seeped through your veins. Without another word, you closed your thermos, deliberately not looking at him as you turned to leave the kitchen.

"Y/N," Logan called suddenly, his voice rough, hesitant, stopping you mid-step.

You paused at the threshold of the kitchen, not turning to face him. Instead, you stared straight ahead, waiting.

Logan hesitated again, and you could practically feel the frustration radiating off him. "Nevermind," he finally muttered.

You clenched your jaw tightly, disappointment turning quickly into quiet, simmering anger. "Right," you said softly, barely louder than a whisper. "That's what I thought."

Then you walked out, leaving him standing there, the silence heavy in your wake.

The rest of your day passed in a numb blur of classes and grading assignments, Logan's stubbornness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts, distracting you in ways you wished it wouldn't. You'd hoped—maybe foolishly—that he'd at least have tried to talk to you again by dinner.

But he didn't.

In fact, when dinner came around, Logan was nowhere in sight. His absence, though annoying, felt intentional. Like he was deliberately trying to avoid even the slightest possibility of confrontation.

You sat quietly at your usual spot, ignoring the sympathetic looks Jean shot your way, ignoring Emma's knowing smirk from across the room. You kept your head down and finished dinner quickly, the silence between you and Logan stretching unbearably through the meal.

Later, as you curled up alone in bed, your mind was restless. You glanced at the clock—nearly midnight—and Logan still hadn't come upstairs. His avoidance was clear, and it hurt more than you'd care to admit. Sleep felt impossible, your heart and mind racing despite the exhaustion settling deep in your bones.

When the bedroom door finally opened an hour later, your heart skipped a beat, eyes shut tight as you pretended to sleep.

Logan hesitated in the doorway, lingering silently for what felt like forever. Finally, he moved into the room, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed.

You kept your breathing steady, your back to him, waiting anxiously to see if he'd finally break. If he'd finally say what you desperately wanted—needed—to hear.

Instead, after several tense, silent moments, Logan stood up again, footsteps soft and cautious as he left the room. The door clicked quietly shut behind him, leaving you alone once more, the ache in your chest growing sharper by the minute.

The next day dragged, each class feeling longer and more draining than the last. You tried your best to act unaffected, smiling tightly at the students and nodding absently at your colleagues. But beneath the carefully maintained facade, your mind kept returning to Logan, replaying every cold, tense moment since your fight.

"You look exhausted," Ororo observed gently later that afternoon, finding you alone in your classroom, leaning heavily against your desk.

You sighed, rubbing your temples tiredly. "Understatement of the century."

"Still not resolved?" she asked softly, stepping further into the room.

You shook your head. "He's not speaking, I'm not speaking. It's just... silence."

Ororo sat beside you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Maybe someone has to be brave enough to break it."

You laughed quietly, without humor. "Why does that someone always have to be me?"

"Because you have patience," Ororo said gently. "Because you love him enough to push through the stubbornness."

"And he doesn't?" you challenged bitterly.

Ororo gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, understanding shining in her eyes. "Logan loves you deeply. He just... struggles. You know that."

You sighed deeply, exhaustion creeping into your bones. "I know. I just... don't know if I can keep doing this. I don't know how many more times I can be the one who bends."

She smiled softly, her voice kind. "I understand, Y/N. I just don't think either of you want to lose each other. You need to decide if being right is worth more than being happy."

Ororo's words lingered heavily with you throughout the evening, your thoughts swirling restlessly as you climbed into bed again—alone, once more. Logan hadn't returned, and you wondered bitterly where he'd chosen to spend the night instead.

You lay awake, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, tension knotting your stomach until sleep finally, mercifully, claimed you.

When morning came, you felt groggy and unrested, each movement heavy with fatigue. You went through your morning routine numbly, showering and dressing without enthusiasm. Eventually, you made your way downstairs to the kitchen, dreading another quiet standoff.

Instead, you found Logan already there, leaning against the counter, staring into his mug as steam rose softly around his face. You paused in the doorway, debating whether you should just turn around and walk out again.

But Logan looked up, his eyes meeting yours and holding your gaze firmly.

"Morning," he greeted quietly, voice rough and cautious.

"Morning," you returned carefully, stepping further into the kitchen and deliberately looking away as you moved to fill your thermos.

For a long, tense moment, Logan said nothing else, merely watching you with that unreadable expression that frustrated you endlessly.

"Y/N," he finally started, voice uncertain, hesitant.

You turned slowly, lifting an eyebrow expectantly. "Yeah?"

He paused, visibly struggling, eyes dropping to his coffee again. "About... about the other night—"

"What about it, Logan?" you interrupted, heart thudding painfully in your chest.

He clenched his jaw briefly, frustration flickering in his gaze. "I didn't mean it the way it came out."

You scoffed softly, shaking your head as disappointment settled bitterly in your throat. "That's your apology? 'I didn't mean it'?"

Logan sighed, annoyance flashing in his eyes. "Dammit, Y/N, I'm tryin' here."

"Are you?" you challenged sharply, voice low and fierce. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're doing everything you possibly can to avoid actually apologizing."

He stared at you, jaw tight, irritation radiating off him in waves. "Maybe I ain't good at sayin' I'm sorry."

"No kidding," you muttered bitterly, turning away again, angrily twisting the lid onto your thermos.

Silence settled thickly around you both, tension coiled and ready to snap at any moment.

"You know what, Logan?" you finally said quietly, voice shaking slightly. "I’m not asking for much. I’m just asking for you to say you're sorry and for you to mean it.”

He stood there, mug clenched tightly in his fist, jaw set and eyes stormy. He opened his mouth briefly, then shut it again sharply, frustration clear on his face.

"I’m not askin' you to pretend it didn’t happen," Logan muttered roughly, voice tense. "I messed up. Ain’t denyin' it."

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to remain steady despite your shaking hands. "Then say it. Tell me you're sorry."

He glared at the countertop, stubborn pride still holding his words back. "It ain’t as simple as that."

"Actually, Logan, it really is," you snapped quietly, hurt and anger intertwining. "It's two words. Two simple words."

"Yeah, well," he muttered, voice low and defensive, "I told ya I'm not good at this."

"Logan," you began sharply, your patience fraying quickly, "it's not about you being 'good' at it. It's about you acknowledging you hurt me."

He ran a hand through his hair roughly, frustration evident in every line of his posture. "You think I don't know I hurt you? You think I ain't been kickin' myself every damn minute since?"

You shook your head slowly, feeling exhausted down to your bones. "I don't know, Logan. You've barely looked at me, you don't speak to me, and when you finally do—it's this. Defensive and angry and completely closed off."

"I'm tryin' to tell you—"

"No," you interrupted sharply, voice shaking with emotion, "you're trying to get out of apologizing. You’re trying to get me to move past it without ever having to actually deal with it."

He slammed his mug down hard enough to make you jump, coffee sloshing onto the counter. "Dammit, Y/N! What do you want from me? Blood?"

"I want an apology, Logan," you snapped, voice breaking slightly, eyes stinging with angry, frustrated tears. "That's it. I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me you regret what you said."

His jaw clenched tightly, eyes blazing. "Yeah, well maybe words don't come easy for me. Maybe you ain't figured that out yet."

You turned fully to face him, swallowing past the tight lump in your throat. "Oh, I figured it out a long time ago. I just hoped—maybe stupidly—that I was worth the effort."

His expression faltered briefly, a flicker of guilt and uncertainty crossing his features. "You are, dammit," he ground out roughly, frustration clear. "I ain't sayin' you're not worth it—"

"Then prove it," you challenged fiercely, stepping closer, your eyes locked onto his. "Stop telling me all the reasons you can't and start giving me a reason to believe you actually care."

He stared back, stubborn silence heavy between you both. You waited, chest aching, heart pounding—but Logan said nothing.

"Right," you finally whispered, disappointment bitter on your tongue. "I get it."

Turning away abruptly, you grabbed your thermos from the counter and left the kitchen without another word. You refused to look back, refused to see whatever expression might have flickered across Logan’s face, refused to let yourself feel hope or guilt or anything except the quiet, simmering hurt that had taken root deep inside your chest.

The rest of your day passed in miserable quiet. Teaching felt exhausting, conversations draining. You avoided common areas, avoided the dining hall, avoided anywhere Logan might be. Every interaction felt superficial and forced, every smile brittle.

When night finally fell, you stayed in your classroom far later than necessary, grading papers until your eyes blurred and your head ached. Eventually, though, you couldn't put it off any longer. Slowly, reluctantly, you headed back toward your shared room, heart heavy with dread.

Logan was already there, standing by the window, staring out into the dark grounds. He glanced your way when you walked in, eyes guarded, jaw tight.

"You're back late," he muttered, tone carefully neutral.

"Needed to finish grading," you replied stiffly, moving around him to grab pajamas from the dresser.

Logan hesitated, shifting slightly, tension clear in the set of his shoulders. "You eat yet?"

"Not hungry," you said flatly, refusing to look at him.

He sighed quietly, frustration evident. "Y/N—"

"I'm tired, Logan," you interrupted shortly, your voice quiet but firm. "I really don't want to do this right now."

He turned sharply, glaring your way. "Don't wanna do what, exactly?"

"This," you said bitterly, finally meeting his gaze head-on. "The tense small-talk. The pretending we're fine when we're obviously not. If you're not ready to apologize, fine. But don't expect me to act like everything's normal."

Logan’s eyes darkened, irritation flashing clearly. "So what, then? We just stay quiet forever? Act like strangers?"

"Until you figure out how to apologize?" you challenged quietly, frustration and exhaustion clear. "Maybe we should."

Logan's jaw twitched, eyes narrowing, fists clenched at his sides. "You really wanna play it that way?"

"No," you whispered tiredly, turning away to hide the sudden tears blurring your vision. "I don't want this at all."

He said nothing else, and neither did you. Instead, you grabbed your pajamas and disappeared into the bathroom, changing slowly, your heart heavy and aching. When you finally emerged, Logan had already climbed into bed, his back facing your side of the mattress.

You hesitated briefly, exhaustion warring with stubbornness. Eventually, your tiredness won out, and you climbed into bed beside him, careful to keep distance between your bodies. The mattress felt miles wide, the silence deafening.

You lay awake, staring at the wall, frustration and hurt twisting tightly in your chest. Beside you, Logan's breathing was heavy and uneven, clearly awake, clearly as restless as you were.

Neither of you spoke.

The next morning was no better. You dressed in tense silence, moved around each other stiffly, carefully avoiding any sort of interaction.

At breakfast, you sat alone, barely eating, gaze locked firmly onto your plate. Logan sat across the room, sipping coffee and glaring at nothing. Jean, Scott, and Ororo glanced between you both warily, clearly uncomfortable with the heavy tension filling the room.

Emma sat down by you, her nails clinking against her mug.

“You’re not gonna tell me to apologize to him, are you? Because I’ve already heard that, and I’m not doing it.”

Emma’s perfectly manicured eyebrow arched upward, an amused smirk pulling at her lips. “Oh, darling, trust me. I'm the last person who'd encourage you to do that.”

You blinked, slightly taken aback by her quick and confident reply. “Really?”

“Please,” Emma scoffed lightly, elegantly stirring sugar into her tea. “Logan may have the emotional range of a teaspoon, but that’s his problem, not yours. Frankly, I’m impressed you've put up with his nonsense this long.”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help a small, humorless laugh. “At least someone’s on my side.”

Emma shrugged gracefully, sipping her tea calmly. “You’ve gotten far too comfortable letting Logan off the hook simply because he finds genuine emotional expression inconvenient. You're right to hold your ground. He's an adult, Y/N. It's long past time he acted like one.”

You sighed deeply, stabbing your fork into your untouched breakfast. “It's exhausting. Everyone else keeps making excuses for him. 'Oh, it's just Logan.' 'He doesn't mean it.' 'He's trying.' At what point do those excuses stop being enough?”

Emma watched you thoughtfully, her voice softening just a fraction. “They stopped being enough the moment you had to start justifying basic decency and accountability.”

You looked up, surprise flickering briefly through your eyes. Emma wasn’t exactly known for her empathy, yet here she was—making more sense than anyone else had so far.

“So, you agree? I'm not asking for too much?”

She leaned back slightly, lips curving into a knowing smile. “You’re barely asking for the bare minimum, darling. Logan may find this terribly challenging, but that's his burden. Not yours. If he can't manage a simple apology when he's clearly in the wrong, he's got no business being in a relationship.”

The bluntness of her words stung, but there was something comforting in her honesty.

“Harsh,” you murmured softly, your gaze drifting across the dining hall toward Logan, who was doing a poor job of pretending not to glance your way every few moments.

“But true,” Emma insisted firmly. “You've spent enough time apologizing for both of you. If he wants you back, he can bloody well put in some effort. And if not—well, perhaps he's doing you a favor.”

Your chest tightened painfully at the thought, but you nodded slowly, considering her words. “I guess I never looked at it that way.”

She placed a delicate hand over yours, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I know it hurts, Y/N. But remember, you’re worth far more than constantly bending to accommodate his pride.”

A soft sigh slipped from your lips, exhaustion and resignation heavy in the sound. “It would just be easier if he’d meet me halfway. Hell, I'd even settle for a quarter of the way at this point.”

Emma squeezed your hand lightly, an uncharacteristically supportive gesture. “Don’t lower your expectations just to make it easy for him. Logan’s been coddled for too long. If he genuinely cares, he’ll figure it out.”

You glanced up sharply, meeting her cool, unyielding gaze. “And if he doesn't?”

“Then at least you'll know exactly where you stand,” Emma said calmly, sipping her tea once more. “Uncertainty, darling, is far worse than a painful truth.”

You looked down at your plate again, pushing your food around absently. “I just—I've never been good at giving up.”

Emma laughed softly, leaning back in her seat. “Then don’t. You're not giving up—you're giving him an opportunity. The choice is his. Stop trying to make it easier.”

The dining hall doors opened, breaking the tense moment as a group of students bustled in, chatting loudly. Emma rose elegantly, gathering her empty cup.

“I have to go terrify my next class into submission,” she said lightly, flashing you a smirk. “But think about what I said.”

You nodded, offering her a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Emma.”

“Don't thank me yet,” she teased dryly, her eyes flicking briefly toward Logan's brooding figure across the room. “Save it for when he finally manages to scrape together a coherent apology.”

She turned on her heel, exiting the hall gracefully, leaving you alone again. You sighed softly, considering her words carefully. Emma's perspective was harsh, blunt—but undeniably fair. It was refreshing, even comforting, compared to the gentle yet endlessly patient suggestions from Jean and Ororo.

---

That night, the cycle continued. You would be in bed, wide awake, when Logan walked in and finally stayed, getting into bed, facing away from you.

Except this time, you couldn’t take it any longer. Couldn’t take the fact that you had to try and fall asleep like a wooden plank, or the fact that you missed curling up to Logan.

Perhaps, above all, it was the fact that you felt like you were trapped in bed, a place you were supposed to relax.

You slowly sat up, legs dangling off the side of the bed as you grabbed your two pillows and moved to your desk to grab your throw blanket.

Behind you, you felt the mattress shift. Logan stirred slightly, but you refused to glance over your shoulder. Silently, you picked up your phone and charger, determined to move somewhere else—anywhere else—that felt less suffocating.

“What’re you doin’?” Logan’s voice was gruff, thick with sleep, but you could hear the alertness beneath.

You paused for a moment, gathering your resolve before speaking. “Going to sleep somewhere else.”

Logan sat up, the rustle of blankets loud in the quiet room. “It’s past midnight. Where the hell else are you gonna sleep?”

“The couch,” you answered flatly, still not looking at him as you bundled your things together. “Or maybe my classroom. It doesn’t really matter.”

He exhaled heavily, frustration evident in the rough sound. “Y/N, c’mon. Don’t do that.”

“Why not?” you snapped bitterly, finally turning to face him. “We’re already practically strangers. Might as well make it official.”

Logan clenched his jaw, clearly struggling with what to say. He ran a rough hand through his hair, eyes dark and unreadable in the dim moonlight. “You don’t gotta do that. Just come back to bed.”

“Why?” you challenged, anger simmering beneath the quiet hurt in your voice. “So we can lay here in angry silence? Pretend this isn’t happening? I’m exhausted, Logan. I’m tired of pretending.”

“You think I ain’t tired too?” Logan growled softly, frustration deepening in his voice. “You think this is easy for me?”

You sighed heavily, gripping your pillow tighter. “No, Logan, I don’t think it’s easy. But I also don’t think it’s fair that I’m always the one trying to make things right. I shouldn’t have to beg you for an apology. I deserve better than that.”

He swallowed visibly, his eyes narrowing slightly in the shadows, jaw working. “I know.”

Those two simple words caught you off guard, your anger faltering momentarily. You stared at him, unsure how to respond.

“You know?” you repeated carefully, guardedly.

“Yeah,” he muttered roughly, dropping his gaze. “I know. You deserve a hell of a lot better than me.”

Your heart twisted painfully at the defeat in his voice. “Logan—”

He shook his head sharply, cutting you off. “Don’t try and argue that. It’s the truth. I ain’t good at this. I ain’t good at talkin’ things through, I ain’t good at apologizin’ when I screw up. And I know I screw up—a lot. So, yeah. You do deserve better.”

Your grip loosened slightly on the pillow, uncertainty creeping in. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

“I ain’t makin’ decisions,” Logan said flatly, frustration flickering back into his voice. “Just statin’ facts.”

You stepped closer, setting your blanket and pillow down on the chair. “Then try, Logan. Just try. You think I don’t know you’re bad at this? I do. But I also know you’re capable of more. And if I didn’t think that, we wouldn’t still be here.”

He looked up at you sharply, his gaze intense, searching yours carefully. For a long, tense moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.

Finally, Logan exhaled slowly, his voice gruff but softer than before. “I didn’t mean what I said that night. ‘Bout you carin’ too much.”

You nodded slightly, crossing your arms protectively. “It sure felt like you did.”

Logan’s jaw tightened briefly, frustration evident, but he didn’t look away. “I lashed out. It was a rough day. Lotta old memories comin’ back—things I thought I put behind me. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“Then why did you?” you asked softly, your anger fading slowly, replaced by the ache of exhaustion. “You’re supposed to trust me, Logan. To lean on me. Instead, you pushed me away.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper when he spoke. “I got scared.”

Your chest tightened, surprised by the raw honesty in his voice. Logan wasn’t someone who admitted fear lightly—if ever. You moved even closer, your tone gentle now. “Scared of what?”

“Losin’ you,” he admitted quietly, the words tumbling out with obvious difficulty. “Eventually, you’ll realize you can do better than some stubborn, broken-down asshole like me. It’s just a matter of time.”

Your breath caught slightly, heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. “Logan,” you whispered softly, “do you really think I’d still be here if I didn’t want to be?”

He shrugged slightly, not meeting your eyes. “Sometimes, I dunno.”

Slowly, you moved back to sit beside him on the bed, careful to keep a cautious distance, but close enough to show you weren’t running. “Well, you should know by now. I’m here because I want to be. But you have to let me in, Logan. You have to give me something to work with. I can’t be the only one putting in the effort.”

Logan’s hand twitched slightly, hesitantly reaching out until it brushed yours, fingers tentative. “I know. I ain’t makin’ excuses, just… tellin’ you the truth. I’m not good at apologies. Never have been.”

You watched him for a long moment, the careful honesty in his eyes slowly chipping away at your anger. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be a perfect apology,” you said gently. “Maybe it just needs to be real.”

He nodded slightly, throat working as he forced the words out. “I’m sorry, Y/N. For what I said, for pushin’ you away, for makin’ you feel like I didn’t care. I do. More than you know.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders relaxing a little as the words sank in. “That’s all I needed, Logan. Just that.”

He sighed softly, relief evident in the slump of his shoulders. His fingers tightened around yours, more confident now. “So, you stayin’?”

You hesitated, looking down at your entwined fingers, the comfort and warmth of his touch grounding you in a way you’d desperately missed. “Only if you promise we’re done with the silent treatment. I can’t keep living like that. If we fight, we talk it out. Even if it’s hard.”

He gave a low, rough chuckle, a faint smile flickering briefly across his face. “Deal. Even if I’m terrible at it.”

“I’ll take terrible over nothing,” you murmured, smiling softly despite yourself. “At least it’s a start.”

Slowly, Logan reached out, carefully wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you gently against him. You sighed, relaxing into his familiar warmth, exhaustion and relief mingling together until you felt tears stinging your eyes.

“I really am sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, lips brushing gently against your temple. “I ain’t ever meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered back quietly, your voice soft but firm. “But you did. And that means you have to make it right.”

“I will,” he promised quietly, his voice rough with sincerity. “Whatever it takes.”

You nodded against his chest, allowing yourself to finally relax fully into his embrace. It wouldn’t fix everything—not immediately, at least—but it was a start. And right now, that was enough.

For the first time in days, the silence that fell between you was comfortable. The tension was still there, buried beneath careful apologies and cautious promises, but finally, you felt hope beginning to thread its way back into your heart.

And tonight, as you allowed Logan to hold you close again, you knew with quiet certainty that no matter how frustrating he could be, no matter how stubborn and closed-off he seemed, he was worth the effort.

And finally, finally, you were sure—without a shadow of a doubt—that Logan believed you were worth the effort too.

[brunhielda]

Understanding the differences between

A) the plot suggesting they are going to get together

B) How they are placed/filmed/body language suggesting they will get together

C) How body language implies passion/chemistry

D) How they interact in moments without plot/minor discussion/just looking at each other implies AFFECTION

This break down has helped me stage high school and community theater productions with romantic subplots without anyone ever haveing to do anything physically that they are uncomfortable with.

If you place him so that he is always looking at her, and she looks at him everytime he leaves the stage? They never have to kiss.

If every time they touch it is a comforting hand on arm to distract from big emotion, with 5 second eye contact? They never have to kiss.

If they can picture the other character as someone in thier life that they just think is the best and would do anything for? (Which is usually a parent/bestie/sibling- I rarely hear them using a romantic relationship to get to that emotion) You KNOW, in one scene, they are in love, before they even get within 3 feet of each other.

And that’s before I get to staging them in ways that makes the audience unconsciously think of them as together even before they act on anything.

Like- I get really really tired of stories chickening out and giving me nothing but a couple suggestive camera angles, then a sex scene, then they are the one thing the other values most in life with ZERO chemistry build up. I don’t need another sex scene. I need to see the love in his eyes when she laughs for the first time on screen, and I need her to smile and lean against a doorway as he helps someone else out with a problem, or is enthralled by a horse, or is doing something he’s really passionate about.

Give me actual LOVE please- not just Lust.

(fun way to talk to kids about healthy boundaries and lust versus love by the way- teach them on stage romance 🥰)

this tweet is new but it is actually a fundamental text for me

[chuxmy]

Can u advice 2 it was bomb💣💣maybe continue👉👈

Advice.. II

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re alone. And this time, he doesn’t just walk away.

Warnings: Implied stalking/following

☜︎ Prev Next ☞︎

The week had been quiet, too quiet. You hadn’t told the guys about your strange run-in with Seongje outside the corner store. Not because you were scared, but because… you didn’t even know how to explain it.

What would you say?

Hey, that guy who threatened to break our noses? Yeah, he cornered me the next day and said he liked my mouth.

You could already hear Juntae freaking out, Gotak offering to fight him, and Sieun staring blankly like he already knew something you didn’t.

So you kept it to yourself.

It was late.

The city had gone soft at the edges, lights glowing warm through hazy windows, the sharp daytime noise replaced by a low murmur of cars and the occasional clink of bottles from a convenience store down the block. Your footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement as you made your way home, a takeout bag swinging loosely from one hand. You weren’t in a rush.

You liked walking at night. It was the only time the streets felt like they belonged to you.

Then quiet, so quiet you almost missed it, footsteps behind you. Not hurried. Measured.

You didn’t turn around immediately.

Not until you heard that voice.

“You always walk this slow, or is that just for me?”

You stopped in your tracks. Your pulse jumped, but you kept your voice steady. “You again?”

Geum Seongje strolled into view from behind you, hands in his pockets, hood pulled low over his brow. The streetlight caught the curve of his smirk, the glint in his eyes as he looked at you.

“You sound surprised,” he said, casual.

You tilted your head. “I shouldn’t be, should I?”

He chuckled. “Probably not. You’re not exactly forgettable.”

You stared at him for a moment, then turned and started walking again. You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to because a second later, you heard his footsteps fall in beside yours.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked with you in silence for a few steps. You could feel his presence like heat beside you.. tall, confident, cocky, but not entirely unkind. The kind of boy you were supposed to avoid. The kind of boy who could ruin your life with one look if you weren’t careful.

“I didn’t see you around the last few days,” he finally said. “Thought you were playing hard to get.”

“Or maybe I was just avoiding trouble.”

“And yet, here we are.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He wasn’t looking at the street, or his phone, or anything else.

Just you.

“Why are you even here?” you asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smirked. “Maybe I was in the area. Maybe I hoped I’d run into you again.”

Your brow lifted. “Why?”

He stopped walking, and you did too because the weight of his stare was too heavy to ignore now. There was something under the surface of that smirk. Something he wasn’t saying.

“You really don’t get it?” he asked, voice lower now.

“No. I don’t.”

Seongje took a slow step closer. Then another.

You didn’t move.

“Because,” he said, “you don’t flinch. You don’t shrink away. You don’t act like I’m some ticking bomb. Everyone else does.”

“I don’t see a bomb.”

He laughed softly at that. “No? You sure you’re not just blind?”

“I think I see you more clearly than most.”

That made him pause. The grin faded just slightly enough for you to see something else flicker behind his eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even vulnerability. But it vanished quickly, buried beneath layers of armor he wore like second skin.

“I don’t do this shit,” he said after a second. “Following people. Talking twice.”

“Then why now?”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, slowly. “I told you already. You make it hard to ignore you.”

Your heart kicked harder against your ribs.

The way he said it, it wasn’t a compliment. It was a confession.

A problem he hadn’t planned on having.

You were both quiet for a beat. The air between you buzzed with tension, like the seconds before lightning strikes.

Then he leaned in. Slow. Careful, for once.

His hand lifted, fingers grazing your jaw gently, thumb resting just below your chin. His eyes searched yours, waiting for permission, maybe, or warning.

You didn’t stop him.

And that was all it took.

He kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed. It was deliberate warm and deep, his other hand finding your waist, grounding you. Like he was trying to memorize how you tasted, how you breathed, how still you went in his arms. You could feel the danger in it the sharp edge beneath the softness but you leaned in anyway.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“That mouth of yours,” he muttered, voice hoarse now. “Even better when it’s not giving me attitude.”

You smiled slightly, dazed. “You want me quiet?”

“Hell no,” he said immediately. “I like it when you talk back. Gives me a reason to keep chasing.”

You bit your lip. “Then maybe I should keep running.”

He grinned, all wolfish charm. “Good. I’d hate if this got boring.”

You stood there a moment longer, your bodies close, the city around you a blur.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and sighed.

“Shit. I’ve got somewhere to be.” His tone changed slightly colder. “Union meeting.”

You frowned. “Should I be worried about that?”

He hesitated. Just for a second.

Then “Not yet.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

Whatever the Union had on him, it wasn’t light.

“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” you said softly.

He met your eyes again. “So are you. If you keep getting closer.”

Then he stepped back. And like before, he walked away.

But this time, you knew he wouldn’t stay away for long.

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know – this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

��That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.

[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter nine

teach me to walk

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4.6k

a/n: this chapter dragged me through three different circles of hell. also, if you've been waiting for smut......... keep waiting!!! also, see this great ask about this chapter if you’re curious

content: fluff and angst and yearning as usual

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

steam curls against the mirror, softening the edges of your reflection into something unfamiliar. the house is quiet—blurred, somehow. like the hush that settles over a church after everyone’s gone home.

you move automatically. lotion over your skin, loose clothes pulled on with distracted hands.

the sleepiness from the car is gone now. stripped away the moment you were alone. why can’t he be here?

it feels ridiculous—childish, even—after everything. after all that time spent holding each other at arm’s length. but it doesn’t matter. the ache’s still there.

he was warm beside you. brushing his lips against your knuckles. teasing you, gentle and shameless, like the kamo gardens were yours alone. like he hadn’t nearly made a scene at dinner.

you could almost believe him, you think. you could almost believe he means it—the warmth, the constant ease—if it weren’t for the questions still echoing in your head.

you sit at the edge of your bed and the silence presses in—insistent, expectant. waiting for you to admit it to yourself.

he’s not coming to you.

you know it the way you know the shape of your own hands. instinctive. not because he doesn’t care—never that. you remember how he looked at you when you broke. the way he held you even though he didn’t know how to fix it.

i’ll be here when you’re ready, he’d said. he meant it. still does.

and that’s the problem.

you have to be the one to break the silence because he won’t bring it up. won’t pry, won’t ask why you said the things you said—i’m failing you, you didn’t want me, i’m not what you need. he won’t ask what it meant that you asked for answers when neither of you were ready to give or receive them.

and until then, you’re stuck circling the same questions over and over, too afraid to ask them out loud in case he confirms your worst fears.

why did he say no?

why, even now, won’t he touch you?

and the one that you can’t acknowledge without shame burning hot behind your ribs:

are you allowed to want something from him?

you know the answer. it’s always been no. wanting is selfish. wanting is dangerous. it means asking for something you haven’t earned and don’t deserve. wanting is sinful.

but wanting sneaks in anyway. it settles in your stomach when he’s close. it curls in your chest when he reaches for you. steals your breath when he’s warm and laughing and looking at you like he did tonight.

and you have no idea what to do with it.

because if wanting isn’t shameful—if it’s allowed, like he wants you to think it is—then it has to be named. spoken out loud and handed over.

it’s terrifying.

not just because the words are too big in your mouth, but because you’ve never said them before. never been allowed to say i want this, or i want you, or i want to understand why you don’t want me back.

but the longer you sit here, the more unbearable the quiet becomes. it’s not cold anymore, and it was never really punishment. it’s waiting.

he’s waiting.

you felt it in the way his face went soft when you made his favorite dessert. in the kiss he left on your hand and in the space he made for you at the table. in the way he said nothing in the days after your parents left—not because he didn’t care, but because he promised to follow your lead.

so if you want answers, you have to ask. you have to reach for them. for him.

but what if asking ruins everything?

and what if not asking leaves you stuck like this forever?

you stand before you can talk yourself out of it.

you pad through the house, one hand trailing the wall as you pass. the wood is strong under your fingers, solid in a way you’re not. you press your palm into it a little harder, needing the anchor.

the front door is half-open. the night breathes through it, cool and silver and smelling faintly like earth. you drift closer, hovering in the doorway.

satoru sits on the veranda, loose-limbed and still. his head tips back against a post, sweatpants and a t-shirt replacing the robes from earlier. he looks… relaxed. content, even.

maybe you’re imagining the gap between you. maybe if you stay quiet, it’ll shrink on its own.

you can’t see his entire face from here, but you can see the patience. the way he knows you’re standing there, and he’s trying not to reach for you first.

maybe he’s been waiting.

maybe you’re about to ruin everything.

you stand frozen. the night hums between you, quiet and watchful.

and then—before you lose your nerve—you step outside.

you don’t sit. you wrap your arms around yourself instead, a few paces away, the air brushing cool against your skin.

“satoru?”

your voice is quieter than you meant it to be.

he turns his head slightly, enough to show you he’s listening. he stays where he is otherwise, giving you all the space in the world to turn back and pretend you were just passing through.

“can i ask you something?”

his answer is immediate. “anything.”

your fingers tighten against your sleeves. you keep your eyes on the edge of the veranda, too afraid to meet his.

“what are you waiting for?” you ask.

he doesn’t speak right away.

not because he doesn’t know—you’re starting to understand that now—but because he’s not willing to rush your words. won’t knock them out of the air before they land.

and that might be worse.

it might be easier if he got confused, or defensive, or told you that you’re wrong about everything. but he just sits there and waits.

so you keep speaking.

“i mean…” you shift your weight, the thought still forming. “i keep waiting for you to take something.”

you glance down, fixing your eyes on the floorboards like you might sink into them.

“that’s what was supposed to come next, right?” your voice cracks despite your best efforts. “i thought if i just… let you have me, things might make sense. you were supposed to—”

you stop. you can’t say it. own me. use me. make me belong to you. the more you learn about satoru, the more the words seem unfathomable connected to him anyway.

he doesn’t rush to soothe it. doesn’t offer you anything yet—not comfort, not contradiction. and that’s the most terrifying part. that he’s really listening.

you press on, because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“i don’t know if i’m your wife,” you say. “or a guest, or someone you just feel responsible for now.”

you pause. swallow. the words taste off, but they’re the only ones you have.

“i don’t know what i’m supposed to be to you,” you continue.

“i keep thinking maybe it’s just me. maybe i’m not something you want.”

you wince at the sound of it. it feels naive and humiliating, like you’re confessing to something selfish. but it’s out now, and you can’t take it back.

you raise your eyes, finally.

not because you’re brave, but because you have to. you need to see what this all sounds like to him. whether it’ll be written across his face.

it’s not.

he’s just watching you. silent and very still. like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“am i not something you want?” you ask.

the quiet that follows is awful. thick and endless. your heart slams against your ribs, and your arms tighten around yourself like you might be able to keep the ache from spilling out.

for one terrible moment, you wonder if you’ve broken something you can’t fix.

but then satoru exhales. shaky, like you cracked something open inside him.

“come here.”

you freeze, heart pounding. part of you wants to run. part of you wants to fold yourself down, apologize for asking at all.

but the bigger part—the one he’s been coaxing out of hiding since the day you met—wants to believe him.

“please?” he says. “just for a second.”

when you move, it’s slow. one step, then another.

he waits.

he waits until you’re standing right in front of him, until you’re within reach because you chose to be, and only then do his hands rise, carefully uncrossing your arms from your chest like he’s untying a knot.

he pulls you down gently, letting you kneel to his level, and wraps you into his chest, his arms folding around you like a shelter.

his chin rests lightly on the crown of your head. the warmth of him seeps in immediately, steady and grounding. you breathe him in—cotton and soap and something stubbornly, stupidly sweet.

he holds you like he’s scared you’ll vanish. one hand draws slow, absent circles along your back, soothing something nameless.

it’s a long time before he speaks.

then, carefully—

“i’ve wanted you this whole time.”

the words fall so simply, so unguarded, that for a moment they don’t make sense. like you’ve misheard him.

you blink.

that can’t be true.

you almost say it out loud. he’s already looking at you like he heard it anyway.

“but you—” he stops, his voice catching. “you were bracing for me to hurt you.”

it hits something deep inside you. it’s not an accusation. it’s an ache. a terrible, tender thing he’s been carrying alone.

you hadn’t even realized it showed.

you go still against him. completely still. and he knows—he knows—you’re remembering it now.

your wedding night. his voice, quiet. you look like you’re waiting for an execution.

“i couldn’t—” he breaks off, the hand moving across your back going still. he exhales unevenly. “i couldn’t make that your first memory of us.”

the words settle between you like something sacred. something terrible.

you lean your forehead into his shoulder and squeeze your eyes shut. the weight of everything you’ve been carrying—what you were taught, what you tried to be, what you should be—presses down harder.

your hands twitch against his chest. you pull back, curling into yourself on instinct. your knees draw up, arms wrapping tight around them. you feel small, stupid, unfinished.

it’s easier not to look at him. easier to let the words fall into the space between your knees and his feet, where you can pretend he won’t catch them.

“i don’t—” you start, but you cut yourself off. the shame hits too fast, too hot. you’re not supposed to say it out loud. it’s not supposed to matter.

you close your eyes, steadying yourself, and try again. “i don’t even know what this is supposed to be like.”

you curl tighter around yourself, pressing your forehead to your knees.

“it’s something you give,” you whisper. “something you endure. not… something you want.”

the words taste like old iron. like reciting someone else’s prayer. they don’t belong to you—not really—but you don’t have anything else.

“i don’t think i’d even know how to want.”

silence settles again. the breeze moves through the trees, the sound of his breathing stays steady.

then, light as a feather, his hand brushes against yours. a tether, if you want it.

“do you want to know?” he asks.

the question is so soft it almost doesn’t hurt. almost.

and he’s watching you like absolutely nothing depends on your answer.

you hesitate. fear still claws at your throat, whispering that you’ll get it wrong, that you’ll ruin whatever this fragile thing between you is becoming.

you don’t know how to say yes.

you don’t know if you’re allowed to say yes.

but the thought of saying no feels worse. like slamming a door you barely had the courage to crack open.

so you nod, small and uncertain, while your voice catches up. and then, quietly: “i think so.”

his face softens immediately, so much that you have to look away because there’s warmth rushing up to your cheeks at the sight.

you reach for him slowly, your fingers curling lightly around his—just enough to ask him to stay.

“i can show you,” he says carefully. “if you let me. if you want to.”

your throat tightens. “what does that mean?” you ask. “to learn. with you.”

you hate how stupid the question sounds, but it’s the only one you can ask.

he swipes his thumb over your knuckles and nods like he understands.

“just that we’ll figure it out together,” he says. “and that you don’t have to know anything. and you’re allowed to change your mind.”

that doesn’t sound like learning. not the way you were taught.

learning, for you, meant silence. it meant getting it right the first time, or not at all. it meant eyes on you, waiting to catch your mistakes. correction before praise, and obedience before comfort.

“what if i don’t know what to do?” you ask. “or i get it wrong?”

his mouth curves. not into a smirk—something more exposed. something a little sad.

“then you say so,” he says. “and we pause. and we try again later. or differently, or not at all.”

he lets that settle before adding, quieter, “you can ask me anything you want. no more guessing.”

you’re staring at him. the edges of you feel frayed—like you’re unraveling in slow motion.

“and you won’t…” you trail off, unsure how to finish.

he finishes the thought for you anyway. “i won’t be disappointed. i won’t be mad, i won’t push.”

“but if i get it wrong—” you start, but your throat closes. he squeezes your hand, steady and light.

“you can’t get it wrong,” he says. “there’s nothing to get right.”

you don’t understand that.

not really. learning has always been rigid. merciless and swift. you were supposed to answer before the question was even asked. to be flawless—or you were failing.

this feels… alien.

and maybe that’s the point.

“you’re allowed to stop and think.” satoru says. his voice threads even softer now. “you’re allowed to feel good, and to not know what you want.”

your chest aches.

he says it so simply. like it’s always been true. like it’s never been something you had to earn.

“you just have to work with me, angel. if that’s something you want.”

your breath wavers, but you squeeze his hand back. a small, scared movement.

and he smiles—so bright and careful it makes your ribs hurt.

“what if i’m bad at it?” you whisper.

his smile tips. “then we’ll be bad at it together.”

a small sound slips out of you. a puff of laughter, maybe, except it trembles too close to tears. you press your face to your knee, hiding the way your mouth wobbles.

“what if…” you trail off, biting the inside of your lip. “what if i don’t like it?”

shame rises hard again, thick and familiar, trying to choke the words down before they can be heard.

“we stop,” he says without missing a beat.

“you tell me,” he adds. “every time. if you like something, if you don’t. if you’re scared. if you want to stop.”

his thumb draws slow lines over your hand, like he’s trying to teach your body the rhythm of safety. like he’s building a language between you with nothing but patience and touch.

you exhale shakily. the tightness in your chest loosens by a fraction. for the first time in your life, maybe, you think you could learn to want something just because it’s yours to want.

he pulls you back into his chest and you stay that way for a while. the night buzzes around you, easy now, and satoru can feel the shift. the ache hasn’t gone away, but it’s muted by something new.

you move first. slowly, carefully, like standing might undo whatever’s been holding the two of you together out here.

he watches you stretch your arms overhead with a quiet sigh, and he wants to reach for you again.

“tired?” he asks.

you shake your head. “not really.”

he smiles at that. it makes sense. the night’s still thick with everything said, everything unsaid—everything that’s barely beginning. of course you’re not sleepy.

“me neither,” he says.

you don’t say anything else as you turn and walk inside. he gives it a second, then two, then follows casually, like he was headed that way anyway.

you’re already leaning against the counter when he steps into the kitchen—bathed in low light, a little flushed from the evening, one hand digging through a tin of cookies.

this is what he wanted, he thinks. not just the conversation, but this. you. here, in his space. barefoot and hunting for snacks like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“not gonna share?” he asks, voice low and mock-serious.

you blink up at him like you’re surprised to see him there.

“…do you want a cookie?”

he tilts his head, smiling. “i want that cookie.”

you glance down at the one in your hand and hesitate, not sure if he’s teasing. then you take a small, defiant bite, eyes flicking back up like a challenge you don’t entirely mean.

satoru laughs. airy, delighted. his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

it’s so easy to fall into this with you. easier that it should be, probably.

he pushes off the doorway and steps closer before he really decides to. he moves in close, then closer, until he’s right in front of you, one hand bracing against the counter next to your hip.

you tilt your head, trying to read him. figuring out whether this is still part of the game. your hand tightens slightly on the tin.

but you don’t pull away from him, and you don’t drop your gaze.

he leans in, smiling but grounded underneath. “what if i said please?”

you look up at him—really look—and something flickers across your face that he almost misses. softer than fear, more open than hesitation. something want-shaped.

and it hits him all at once: you’re here because you want to be, letting him be this close to you because you want him there.

his heart stumbles. he wants to kiss you. wants to press a hand to your waist and not let go.

he doesn’t. he exhales instead. slow and careful, with the kind of control that costs something. then—just to make you smile—

“what about pretty please?”

your eyes flick up to his, startled. but the smile he was looking for is tugging at your mouth—small and shy and impossible to miss. it makes his stomach turn over.

you hold the cookie out to him, tentative, like he might be joking.

he doesn’t take it from you.

instead, he dips his head slightly and brings his mouth to it. he takes a bite—slow and clean. his eyes stay on you, lips brushing your fingers on the way up.

your breath catches. your hand stays frozen in the air, like you’ve forgotten how to lower it.

he straightens like nothing happened. chews, swallows, flashes you that easy grin.

“good cookie,” he says. “thanks for sharing.”

you’re still staring at him.

and now—now he sees it clearly. not fear, not confusion. desire. new, tender, barely formed. but there.

his chest feels too tight for how casual he’s trying to be.

you lower your hand at last, blinking down at the tin in your other arm. he watches you go quiet, watches something shift behind your eyes—like you’re sorting yourself out in real time.

you’re cute. so fucking cute.

you set the tin on the counter—a little clumsy, like you don’t know what to do with your hands anymore.

he reaches over and closes the lid for you. “you picked the best kind,” he says as he steps away slightly.

“they were on top,” you mumble.

he smiles. you’re flustered.

he turns toward the cabinet, tucking the tin back into place.

you stay where you are, watching him move, watching him wipe his thumb on a napkin like nothing about any of this feels unusual.

then—

“how do you know when you want something?”

you sound curious. like you’re asking why clouds float. or how ovens work.

he freezes. his brain short-circuits before the question can settle.

because he knew it.

he saw it on your face. it in the way you didn’t flinch when he leaned in. and now his stomach is doing something stupid and warm and helpless.

he leans against the counter opposite you. “what kind of something?” he asks, casual. letting you decide how far to take it.

you glance at him, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“…just in general,” you say. like that makes it less obvious.

he huffs a laugh. god. you’re killing him.

he lets the silence stretch for a beat longer than he needs to. not to make you squirm (well, maybe a little), but mostly to buy himself time. to get his brain to restart.

“hm,” he says at last, tilting his head like he’s giving it real academic consideration. “usually i get really annoying about it.”

you blink at him. “that’s… how you know?”

“yeah,” he nods, like it’s obvious. “if i start talking too much or showing off or following someone around the house for cookies, it’s probably a sign.”

you stare at him. he grins.

“…so like now,” you say slowly.

“exactly like now,” he says, shameless.

you make a sound between a scoff and a laugh, eyes dropping back to the floor. but you’re smiling, and it lights something up in him.

he watches you for a moment longer before shifting. his voice dips slightly, still playful but with something quieter underneath it now.

“sometimes it just… sneaks up on you.”

you look at him again.

“you don’t always know what it is at first,” he says, more careful now. “but it feels a little like gravity. like you’re being pulled toward something.”

he softens. “and even if you don’t know what you’ll do when you get there… you still want to move.”

he meets your gaze and shrugs—casual again, like his heart’s not sitting all the way up in his throat.

“or, you know,” he adds a beat later, “sometimes it’s just about cookies.”

you smile, small and shy, still looking down. “it does feel like that. the gravity thing.”

“yeah?” he breathes.

you nod. “i think… i didn’t know what it was. but now i sort of do.”

his stomach does a backflip. fuck.

he stays quiet, leaning a little farther back into the counter like he needs it to hold him steady.

“is that dumb?” you ask.

he shakes his head immediately. “not at all.”

he lets out a breath—slow and careful—like if he exhales too fast, he’ll say something stupid. something like you’re all i want. something like stay with me.

the silence that follows is tender in a way he’s not quite sure how to hold.

he could stay in it forever. you and him in this warm, sleepy kitchen where you’re looking at him like he didn’t ruin anything, like he might even be something you want.

but you yawn—small and unguarded—and blink a little slower than before, like the weight of the day is finally catching up to you.

his smile tugs sideways. “that gravity thing wearing you out?”

you huff a quiet laugh, rubbing your eye with the back of your hand. “a little.”

he chuckles under his breath. he can’t help it. you’re so fucking adorable like this—sleepy-eyed, mumbling, rubbing at your face like it’s been the longest day.

and it has. he knows that. it’s been everything packed into twenty-four hours.

he offers you his hand. “come.”

your gaze flicks up, surprised by the offer, but you don’t hesitate. your fingers slip into his, grip easy and trusting.

satoru feels it all the way down to his toes.

he walks a little slower than usual. not because you’re following, but because he’s not really ready for this part to end.

you reach your door too soon. both of you stop, him turning to face you, and you don’t let go of his hand. you look up at him, eyes soft and a little unfocused.

he wants to say something. he should say something.

you beat him to it.

“…can i kiss you goodnight?” you ask, sweet and tiny, like you don’t know if the words will come out right.

he thinks his heart stops. fuck yes.

he’s not sure what he was expecting—maybe nothing. maybe just your hand slipping away, a quiet goodnight and the dull click of the door.

but not this. not you asking. not so gently.

“yeah,” he says. “please.”

you rise on your toes and press a kiss to his mouth. light and short. almost playful. almost like you’re teasing something.

he blinks when you pull back. “that it?” he teases, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

you look at him, blinking once, then smile—slow and sleepy and a little coy.

god, he’s done for.

he steps in closer. his hands rise to either side of your face, light and steady.

“let me,” he murmurs.

you tilt your head up. he leans in again, and this time, the kiss lingers.

your hand curls into his shirt without thinking as your lips part for him, warm and unsure. he meets you like he’s been waiting all night. it’s exactly how he told you—like gravity—slow and inevitable.

it lasts longer than either of you expected. long enough for your breath to stutter out against his mouth in a quiet, helpless exhale.

and he smiles into it. barely, just enough for you to feel it.

when you part, it’s reluctant. your lips hover close, neither of you really wanting to let go.

your eyes flutter open, dazed and a little dreamy.

“goodnight, satoru,” you whisper.

“night, angel.”

you turn the handle and disappear into your room.

he stays there in the hallway a while, smiling to himself like an idiot.

[calebslittlecrow]

How To Assume

(stop being an overly anxious potato over manifesting)

Sometimes I see shifters asking “Oh, what should I do? Nothing is working :(“ and they get hit with the good ol “just assume” stamp and send on their way. And then, barely 10 steps later, they turn around and whisper “... the fuck do I even assume?”. Before I chew your ear off: assuming isn’t hard. Well, not really, but people tend to make it hard. We as humans just love acting like we need to turn ourselves into a pretzel every time we want something “big”. We actually assume every day - when we decide we suck, when we tell ourselves we’ll never shift anyway, when we confidently declare we are stuck in our 3D and shifting is just too good to be true and all those people in the reddit community saying it’s just astral projecting or deep lucid dreaming are right (what is even going on over there atm?). Guess what your 3D is doing with those assumptions? It grabs them, says “bet!” and starts running like it’s a race. Congrats ^-^ But hey, the good news: if you can assume all of that shit, you can also assume that you have shifted. Yeay! In the spirit of keeping it simple, I turned the way I see assuming into a neat little list. Enjoy, or not: 1. Just Decide That’s it. Thanks for coming to my TED talk, exit is to the right. Okay, it sounds suspiciously simple and I know some brains will twitch a bit right now with “That can’t be it”. But it is. You sit down, breathe and say “I have shifted”. No begging, no pleading, no howling at the moon. You just decide, and that is where a lot of people crumble already by pleading for it to happen instead of deciding it has happened. You don’t need an approval stamp, you are the CEO of your own reality, not the intern grabbing coffee. Act like it. Deciding isn’t hoping or praying, it’s simply knowing. No matter if shit catches up immediately, tomorrow or next week. Doesn’t matter, let go of the need for it to happen right now. 2. Stop checking You said you shifted and now you are still checking your reality every 2 seconds like a teenager waiting for a message from their crush. Stop it. You’re rereading your script, watching shifting TikTok like the answer to all your problems will jump at you, poking your subconscious like “are we there yet?”. That’s not assuming, that is panic dressed up as productivity (or something like that). You are basically saying “I don’t actually believe this is done and decided”. Cut it out. Just go live your life. Play some games, touch grass with two hands and one face (beware of bees), breathe some fresh air. Your desire won’t implode because you stopped choking it out and stopped micromanaging everything. Obsessing doesn’t equal manifesting. Just let it cook. 3. You commit or you quit Assuming means you have to kinda commit to it. You’re not almost there, or halfway shifted. You are there. You have shifted, no more ifs and whens and buts and any other kind of spiraling. Take five minutes out of your day, relax into that knowing (or deciding). Feel your DR bed, hear your DR friends be loud as fuck for no reason, smell the DR air. Let your imagination drown out this reality like unwanted background noise. Similar to the fake arguments you rehearsed in the shower. You never needed help with those, did ya? 4. Yell at your doubts Maybe do this one internally, unless you are really feeling bold today. Every time your doubts creep in and whisper “What if it is not real?”, you turn around, embrace your inner main character energy and yell back “Shut the fuck up Brenda (sorry to all the Brendas out there), get back into the backseat. You’re not driving, I am.” Your doubts don’t get a say in what you want. They are not invited. You think your DR self is out there wondering if they are real or not? No, they are living the life you are telling yourself is unreachable.

5. Feeling ready is overrated, just do it Stop waiting to feel ready and questioning if your script is perfect or not. Your brain will rarely send you the green light you think you need to go ahead. You will feel silly, you will feel delusional. And you might feel like a clown. Embrace it, be the clown. Insist on what you decided until your 3D gets nervous and bends over in existential fear. You don’t wait to feel certain, you decide you are certain. And then go and act like it’s done.

TL;DR (how dare you, but fine T-T) Assuming you have shifted is like assuming the sun will rise tomorrow. You don’t argue with your friend about it. You don’t beg the sun to rise again. You just know and walk with the confidence that it’s happened, and with shifting you do so because you said so. That’s it. Stop overthinking. Assume and now go, I need to do some drawing stuff.

[fxstpace]

the accidental kiss

summary: one night, when kwon soonyoung is piss-drunk and needs to be rescued by his friends, he accidentally kisses you. now that he’s sober, he can’t stop thinking about doing it again. the problem? he has no idea who you are—but kwon soonyoung is a persistent man, and he is determined to find you.

⇢ pairing: kwon soonyoung x fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, comedy, strangers to lovers au, college au, idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 3.7k ⇢ note: happy birthday @etherealyoungk! i love you so much & i hope you like this little fic i wrote for you. i love talking to you and making plans to meet up with you (we will do it. someday) & i hope you have the most wonderful year ahead 💌 thank you to @melonppang for beta reading. set in the same universe as the accidental one-night stand.

The music is way too loud.

It’s the kind that makes your ribs thump and your ears buzz. Someone’s playing DJ in the living room, and judging by the way the bass shakes the floor, they’ve never once heard of volume control. You’re clutching a plastic cup of something vaguely lemon-flavoured—probably spiked, probably a mistake—and trying to figure out how long you need to stay here before leaving wouldn’t be considered rude.

You don’t even know whose house this is.

The only reason you’re here is because Sejeong begged you to come. “Just for a little while,” she’d said, grabbing your arm and giving you those puppy-dog eyes. “I swear it won’t be boring.”

She lied. The moment the two of you walked in, she vanished into the crowd with some guy who complimented her earrings. That was forty minutes ago. You haven’t seen her since.

Now you’re standing at the corner of a too-warm kitchen, next to a sticky counter and a bowl of tortilla chips that someone accidentally spilled beer into. You check your phone, pretending like you have someplace better to be. You don’t. But it’s a nice fantasy.

That’s when, you’ll tell your friends later, someone kissed you.

Out of nowhere, someone barrels into you from the side. Not aggressively—more like a very determined, very wobbly puppy. A slosh of your drink nearly spills onto your shoes. You suck in a sharp breath and look up, ready to mutter a half-hearted It’s fine, but—

“Oh,” he says, blinking down at you.

He’s taller than you. Kind of soft-looking. Flushed cheeks, dark eyes, disheveled hair curling a little at the ends. His lips are parted like he wasn’t expecting you to be there, which is funny, because you’re not exactly trying to hide.

“Hi,” he breathes. “You’re really pretty.”

You stare at him. He smells like peach soju and mint. “Thanks?” you say, cautious.

“I’m Soonyoung,” he tells you, and then leans in like he’s letting you in on a secret. “I was just telling my friend that I saw a UFO earlier. But it could’ve been a drone. I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

Your brain stalls. “That’s… cool?”

“Are you an alien?” Soonyoung asks seriously.

“What?”

“Because I think you abducted my heart.”

You make a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Oh, my God.”

“I just said that,” he says proudly, lips stretching into a smile so wide, it makes his eyes crinkle. “And I meant it. I think I love you.”

“You’re definitely drunk.” You blink.

He nods solemnly. “So drunk.”

You don’t know why you’re still talking to him. Maybe because he looks at you like you’re something soft. Like even in his alcohol-hazed brain, he’s trying his best to be gentle. Maybe because he’s clearly harmless and just the right amount of charmingly pathetic. Or maybe because, despite yourself, you’re a little curious to see what he does next.

He sways slightly. You instinctively reach out to steady him, your hand brushing his arm.

Then—without thinking, without warning—he kisses you.

It’s not the best kiss of your life. Not even close. He smells like soju and sweat, and he’s a little off-center. But it’s surprisingly soft. Warm. Hesitant, like he’s afraid you might disappear.

It lasts maybe two seconds.

Soonyoung pulls back, blinking, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. “Whoa,” he says, kind of dazed. “You taste like… gummy bears. Or maybe that’s me.”

 Your heart thuds. You open your mouth to speak, but—

“Soonyoung!” 

Someone else’s voice cuts in, and a tall guy—broad-shouldered and exasperated—grabs him by the shoulder. 

“Dude,” the newcomer says, dragging Soonyoung backward. “We talked about this. Stop kissing strangers.” He turns to look at you, an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m really sorry about that. When Soonyoung is drunk, he’s—”

“I wasn’t!” Soonyoung protests, eyes still on you. “We had a moment. Right?” He squints at you. “Tell him.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what to say.

“Alright, loverboy. Time to go,” his friend says, hauling him toward the door. You hear him mutter under his breath, “Where the fuck is Wonwoo? Minghao said he’d sent him over an hour ago.”

Soonyoung doesn’t resist his friend’s grip, but as he’s pulled away, he twists to look at you one last time. 

“I’m gonna find you again!” he calls out, grinning like a total idiot. “Don’t fall in love with anyone else!”

He’s gone after that. You stand there, staring at the space he left behind, slightly dazed, slightly amused, and still not entirely sure what just happened.

Someone nudges you with an elbow. “Was that Kwon Soonyoung?”

You turn. It’s a girl you vaguely recognise from a class you had last semester. She’s holding a cup and watching the door like it might burst open again.

“Uh,” you say. “I think so.”

She snorts. “Typical. I’m not even surprised.”

You glance down at your drink. It’s lukewarm now, all the ice cubes that were floating at the top having finally melted. You should probably leave, you think. But you can’t stop replaying it in your head—the way he looked at you, a little glassy-eyed, like you were the only person in the room.

You shake it off and make your way towards the door. It was just a kiss. That’s all it was.

Right?

After Kwon Soonyoung finishes chewing out his best friends—Jeon Wonwoo and his new girlfriend, since they’d conveniently decided to forget to pick him up after they realised their suppressed feelings for each other—all he can think of is you.

But after that, when Wonwoo’s girlfriend leaves, and Soonyoung is sprawled sideways on his couch, legs dangling over the armrest, he brings up The Girl.

“I kissed someone,” he says.

Wonwoo pulls out his laptop and starts working on some assignment. “That’s not exactly new for you.”

“No, but like—I kissed someone. And I think…” Soonyoung trails off, frowning. “I think it meant something.”

“You were drunk.”

“At least I didn’t end up naked in bed with my best friend,” Soonyoung points out and notes, with vicious satisfaction, that Wonwoo’s cheeks turn pink. “But so what if I was drunk?” he continues. “I still remember her. Like, really clearly. She was standing in the kitchen, and there was this lemony drink, and—God, she looked so annoyed at being there, it was kind of hilarious. But then she looked at me, and…”

And what?

You looked at him like you weren’t expecting anything from him. Not even that stupid pick-up line. Not even the kiss. You just let it happen. Let him happen. And then held onto his arm when he almost tripped like he was someone worth steadying.

“I said the alien line,” Soonyoung mumbles.

Wonwoo makes a pained sound. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did. And I told her I loved her.”

“Oh, my God.”

“But it wasn’t that bad,” Soonyoung insists, even though he’s visibly shrinking into his hoodie like a mortified turtle. “She didn’t slap me or anything. She was just… there. And then I kissed her. And she didn’t pull away.”

“Do you even know her name?” his friend asks.

“No,” Soonyoung says, “but she was drinking from a yellow cup. The lemon one. I think it was hers.”

“That’s not a name.”

“I know.” He sighs. “But I’m gonna find her again. I told her not to fall in love with anyone else.”

Wonwoo snorts. “Romantic. And delusional.”

“Maybe,” Soonyoung agrees, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. A smile tugs at his lips. “But if I see her again, I’m gonna ask her out properly. With flowers or something. Maybe apologise for the alien joke. Maybe not. She kinda laughed.”

He sits up straight, a Plan forming in his mind. It’s haphazard, and sort of all over the place, but Kwon Soonyoung is a determined man. Persistence is both a curse and a blessing—and right now, for Soonyoung, it is the latter.

Somewhere between a hum and a sigh, he murmurs, “She tasted like gummy bears,” and walks out of Wonwoo’s apartment.

You hear it first in passing. Something about a guy. A party. A yellow cup.

You’re not even listening at first. You’re sitting under the overhang by the arts building, sipping your drink and pretending to study. The two girls beside you whisper loud enough for you to overhear, because gossip is gossip, after all, and college is the best time for it.

“—like, actually going around asking people. Told Jisoo she had the wrong yellow cup. Can you imagine?”

The other one snorts. “Imagine being that crazy over someone you met one time.”

Your pen stills. It could be anyone. That’s what you tell yourself. Campus is big; parties are crowded. Yellow cups are practically default. This is nothing.

But then, later that same day, you hear it again—this time in the student union, right outside the coffee shop where you’re waiting for your order. 

“He said she had this look like she was ready to bolt the second someone tried to talk to her,” a guy tells his friend. “Apparently she was drinking some lemon vodka thing.”

You freeze. Fully freeze—because you remember that drink. That sickly sweet vodka thing someone had poured into your cup without asking, and you’d taken one sip, grimaced, and then kept drinking it out of spite. You’d been annoyed about coming to the party, annoyed about your shoes, annoyed about the whole social experiment of pretending to have fun.

That’s when Alien Boy showed up, with the hoodie and the sleepy smile and the godawful pick-up line. The boy you kissed by accident.

You shake the thought out of your head. It’s probably a coincidence. You’re not that girl. You don’t kiss strangers at parties and leave them wandering about campus with nothing but adjectives and a citrus beverage to go by… Do you?

The final straw is the flyer taped to the bulletin board outside the student recreation centre, flapping in the breeze beside a lost water bottle notice and a poster for an improv show.

It reads, in sloppy black marker:

LOOKING FOR A GIRL yellow cup. lemon drink. looks unimpressed by everything. may or may not believe in aliens. if it’s you, please call/text: **********

You stare at it for a full minute. 

It’s handwritten, slanted slightly to the right. There’s no name, just the description. Just the memory of a moment you barely allowed yourself to think about because it felt too much like a glitch in the matrix. A night out of time.

You don’t realise you’ve been holding your breath until someone walks by and bumps into your shoulder.

“Sorry,” they mumble, and keep walking.

You step back from the board like it might burn you. You could take it down, ball it up and pretend you never saw it. Delete the memory of his lips and the way he said, Don’t fall in love with anyone else! like he meant it. But you don’t.

You just stand there for a while, staring at the letters, heart tapping out a strange, staccato rhythm in your chest.

Kwon Soonyoung. You never expected to see him again. You especially didn’t expect him to come looking.

Three days. 

It’s been three whole days since Soonyoung put up the flyer.

He hadn’t expected it to go viral. Or for the music department group chat to roast him in real time for his Sharpie scrawl and poor sense of anonymity. He also didn’t expect his Creative Writing TA to stick a Post-It on his latest assignment that read: Nice character work. This wouldn’t happen to be autobiographical, would it?

But the worst part—the worst part—is the university’s student-run Instagram account posting a story this morning with a picture of his flyer, a crying emoji, and a poll underneath that said:

Would you text him back? 🍋 Yes, lemon soulmate ❌ No, he seems unwell

The “unwell” option is currently winning by 63%.

Soonyoung’s sitting at the quad with a bucket hat pulled down halfway over his face, sunglasses he doesn’t need, and the last bite of a cold bagel in his mouth, when Minghao drops down beside him on the grass.

“You’re trending on all the campus meme pages,” Minghao says, taking a slurp from his iced coffee. “They’ve started calling you The Yellow Cup Guy.”

Soonyoung groans, smacking his forehead against his knees. “I didn’t ask for this attention.”

Minghao raises an eyebrow. “You printed out twenty-six flyers.”

“Yeah, but I used recycled paper!”

“You also went into the psych building and asked if anyone there believed in aliens.”

“I was being thorough!”

Minghao slurps on his coffee again, then pulls out his phone. “Do you want to see the Reddit thread where someone theorised you’re part of a sociology experiment?”

Soonyoung makes a wounded sound, somewhere between a yelp and a squeak. “I’m trying to find her,” he says miserably. “I thought the flyers would be sweet.”

“They are,” Minghao admits. “If you squint and ignore the serial killer vibes.”

Soonyoung flops backward onto the grass, sunglasses falling off his face. “She tasted like gummy bears,” he says to the sky.

“And now you’re known across campus as the alien guy with a gummy bear fetish.”

“Okay, that’s not—” Soonyoung sits up straight. “Wait, is that what they’re saying now?”

Minghao nods solemnly. “Also something about lemon girl being a metaphor for delusion. It’s very literary.”

Soonyoung groans again, tugging his bucket hat lower. But underneath all the embarrassment, all the very justified mockery, he can’t help it—he’s still smiling. A little. Just enough to make Minghao roll his eyes and stand up. “You’re not going to stop, are you?” he asks, dusting grass off his jeans.

“Not a chance,” Soonyoung says, flopping back again. “I told her not to fall in love with anyone else.”

“Very healthy,” Minghao deadpans. “Text me when she inevitably sues you for defamation.”

As Minghao walks away, Soonyoung stares up at the clouds and wonders, not for the first time, if maybe he is just a little bit unwell. But then he thinks of you—of the way you stood there in the corner next to the beer-soaked tortilla chips, looking like you would rather swallow a whole lemon than be there—and closes his eyes and smiles. He places his bucket hat on top of his face to block the sun, and, a little bit tired, decides to take a nap.

You weren’t supposed to take the flyer. 

You meant to just look at it again. Maybe make fun of it in your head a little. Maybe wonder—again—if it was really about you. You were definitely not supposed to peel it off the bulletin board next to the library printers and fold it into your tote bag like it’s a love letter that you’re too embarrassed to keep in plain sight.

Yet. There it is. In your hands. Crumpled and slightly coffee-stained because your lid was loose and life is cruel.

You cross the quad, dodging longboarders and lazy sunbathers, reading the flyer for the twentieth time like the words might rearrange themselves and tell you what to do. Your friends think it’s a campus prank. Sejeong said it’s giving “Wattpad energy.” But your gut—annoyingly, inconveniently—feels otherwise.

“Don’t fall in love with anyone else,” he’d said.

Stupid. Supid and corny and weirdly sincere.

You shake your head, about to shove the flyer deeper into your bag, when a sharp gust of wind launches it straight out of your hands.

“Wait—shit—no—!”

The paper flips and flutters in the air like it’s taunting you. It skates over the grass, dodging a pair of bare feet and a discarded frisbee. You sprint after it, arms flailing, nearly trip over someone’s backpack, and shout a panicked “Sorry!” as you hurtle across the quad.

The flyer lands on someone.

You don’t notice right away—your hair’s in your face, and you’re winded, and someone just yelled “Go long!” too close to your ear—but when you finally spot it, it’s fluttering gently against a stranger’s chest. He’s lying on the grass, bucket hat over his face, like the very image of college student apathy. He’s fast asleep. Or pretending to be. You can’t tell.

You slow down, sheepish now, and hover awkwardly over him.

The flyer is right there, on his chest. One of its corners is tangled in the strap of his messenger bag. Do you… wake him up? Ask him to move? Slink away and pretend none of this ever happened?

You lean down slowly, trying to snag it without disturbing him, but the paper crinkles. He shifts slightly. Breathes out. Doesn’t wake. You stare at him—at the bucket hat, at the sunglasses tucked into his shirt, at the soft curve of his mouth. He looks vaguely familiar, but it’s college; everyone looks vaguely familiar.

Your fingers brush against the edge of the flyer and you ease it free from where it rests on his chest, fold it carefully into your hand, and step back. You don’t look at him again. But the tips of your ears are warm, and your heart won’t stop thudding, and you swear—just as you walk away—he murmurs something in his sleep.

You can’t make out what it is.

TELLING KWON SOONYOUNG THAT YOU’RE THE GIRL HE’S LOOKING FOR

Pros:

Closure

A great story for your grandkids

Directness

He might be just as weirded out

Cons:

Awkwardness overload

Instant regret

He might not remember (please let him remember)

He finds you… and then what?

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. The tiny, blinking cursor mocks you, like it’s daring you to just type something, anything, already.

Your heart is racing, hammering against your ribs in a way that feels almost theatrical. You try to picture it: telling him. The words are clumsy in your head, and even worse when you imagine saying them out loud. You could just leave it, pretend none of this ever happened. You could bury the memory deep, like a time capsule labeled Do Not Open — Ever.

But the thought of it nags at you. Itches under your skin.

You think about the flyer, still tucked into the back pocket of your journal, creased from all the times you’ve taken it out to look at it. You think about the way he smiled—a little lopsided, a little sleepy—right before he kissed you. You think about how ridiculous this all is, how the normal thing would’ve been to move on with your life and let it fade into some fuzzy, alcohol-tinted memory.

Instead, here you are, conducting a pros and cons list like you're weighing a major life decision instead of deciding whether to text a boy you kissed once.

Screw it.

You take a breath, shallow and shaky, and let your fingers fly across the screen before you can talk yourself out of it.

hey, this is going to sound completely insane, but i’m the girl from the flyer. the one you kissed while you were probably drunk off of peach soju. so. hi, i guess?

You stare at the message. Your thumb hovers over the send button. You can practically feel the moment tightening around you, like pulling a slingshot back to its breaking point.

Before you can lose your nerve, you hit send.

The message whooshes away, disappearing into the void of cyberspace where you can no longer yank it back. Your stomach flips violently, your palms suddenly clammy.

You sit there, blinking at the screen, watching the tiny status under your text change from “Sending…” to “Delivered.”

You’re digging through your bag, muttering under your breath about your missing dorm key, when you round the corner of your building at full speed — and slam right into something solid.

Or rather, someone solid.

“Oof—!” The impact sends you sprawling backward, but a pair of hands catches you before you hit the ground. Unfortunately, momentum isn’t on your side, and the next thing you know, you’re both tumbling down in a very ungraceful heap.

There’s a split second where everything feels suspended—the breath knocked clean out of you, your palms splayed against someone’s chest, your face ridiculously close to—

Soonyoung blinks up at you, wide-eyed and startled, and in your panic, you lurch forward—

—and accidentally kiss him.

It's not even a real kiss, more like a clumsy brush of your mouth against his, but it’s enough to freeze time. You jerk back immediately, horror clawing its way up your spine.

“Hi,” Soonyoung says, dazed, still lying on the pavement like you’ve just knocked the soul out of him.

“Hi. What the fuck?” you blurt, scrambling upright.

He sits up slowly, grinning like a lunatic, utterly unbothered. “You’re the girl I’ve been searching for,” he says, almost reverent.

“Um,” you stammer, cheeks flaming. Of course he knows. You were the one who texted him—after forty-seven minutes of pacing your room, after three deleted drafts, after practically giving yourself a heart attack.

“Can I kiss you? Properly, this time?” Soonyoung asks, his voice soft but eager. “I’m not drunk, and we’re not at a party.”

Your brain short-circuits. “How did you even find me?” you manage to say.

He beams, like he’s been dying for you to ask. “Well, I asked my friend Seokmin, because he knows a lot of people, and he asked his girlfriend Jihyo, who asked her roommate Miyeon, who asked her best friend Sana, who asked her boyfriend Jihoon, who told my best friend Wonwoo, and then Wonwoo’s girlfriend told me you might be my best bet.” He shrugs, like this is a perfectly normal chain of events. “She follows you on Instagram.”

You stare at him, completely overwhelmed. It's either adorable or terrifying. Possibly both.

“I—” you begin, but he’s already leaning in closer, his smile turning softer, more tentative.

“So can I?” he asks again, quieter now, a nervous energy buzzing just beneath his words.

You nod helplessly.

This time, when he cups your face in his hands and kisses you, it’s deliberate—not accidental, not hurried—just slow and sure. His mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting, like he wants to savor it, and the warmth of it floods through you, all the way down to your fingertips.

You kiss him back without thinking, your hands fisting in the front of his hoodie, and he laughs a little into your mouth, giddy and weightless.

When you finally break apart, forehead resting against his, he whispers, “Hi,” again, grinning like an idiot.

You can’t help but laugh. “Hi.”

[ayukas]

CREAM PUFFS AND OTHER CONFESSIONS

it starts with a cream puff, a hoodie that isn’t yours, and a silence that feels suspiciously like something unspoken. haechan does everything a boyfriend would do—except ask.

pairing lee haechan x fem!reader genre fluff, friends to lovers au but not really, comedy warnings one death joke, cute miscommunication word count 1.5k notes clearing out my draftsss i think i wrote this in... march? lolz happy reading! ૮ ᴖﻌᴖა

THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF SILENCES BETWEEN YOU AND HAECHAN.

the first kind is easy—almost like second nature. it slips in during walks home after class, when your bodies sway in quiet rhythm and your shoulders brush as if your bones remember each other.

that silence has a soundtrack, soft laughter, the scuff of your sneakers, the muffled hum of the shared earbud he always gives you the left side of. you never have to ask. he just hands it to you like it belongs to you more than it does to him.

the second kind of silence is this one. the kind you’re in now.

it crept in sometime between the walk from your last class and the stoplight near your dorm building. it’s not loud, but it’s sharp. you hear it in the way he talks to you—still sweet, still teasing—but you can’t unhear the question blooming underneath your ribs. you can’t ignore the ache that’s been growing roots inside you for weeks.

you’ve run out of excuses to try and keep it in.

he’s walking beside you, holding a box of cream puffs he insisted on buying, even though he didn’t have enough hands to carry everything else. he gave you his sweater to wear—again—and wordlessly balanced your books in the crook of his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. it always is, with him. that’s the problem.

“haech—,” you stop, clearing your throating before trying again. quieter now. “haechan.”

he glances sideways, a smile already tugging at his mouth like it’s on autopilot. “yeah?”

your fingers twitch inside the sleeves of his sweater. it smells like his cologne—cedarwood and jasmine—with a faint trace of detergent. you don’t want to ask this here, not in the middle of the sidewalk, not with your heart stretched so thin. but it’s been waiting for far too long.

“what are we?”

he slows to a stop, the wind pulling at his hair. his brow furrows slightly—not in confusion, but in a sort of gentle, cautious surprise.

“...what do you mean?” he asks, tilting his head.

you lift your chin, trying to be brave. “i mean… you do all these things. you take care of me. you wait for me after class. you give me your sweaters even when you’re cold too. you tie my shoelaces for me. you—” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, heart racing. “you kiss my hands like they’re made of glass, hyuck.”

he’s quiet, eyes searching yours.

you look down. the words are slipping now, loose and frantic. “but you’ve never asked me to be your girlfriend. not even once. so i… i don’t know what this is. i don’t know if i’m just someone you’re being sweet to or if i’ve been reading too much into everything, or—”

“wait.” he steps in, gently but firmly. his voice isn’t shocked—just… surprised. “hold on. you’re not?”

your heart stutters. “not what?”

he runs a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath in a way that makes it clear that he’s just realised something ridiculous and painfully obvious at the same time. “i thought we were already dating.”

the world stills.

your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“i thought we were… together,” he says, wide-eyed and sincere in a way that makes you want to cry. “i mean... i told you i liked you. i thought that counted.”

“that was months ago!” you exclaim, stunned.

“exactly! so haven’t we been dating for months now?”

you gape at him.

“haechan,” you say slowly, like you’re trying to explain algebra to a potted plant, “you never asked.”

he blinks, his expression genuinely, hilariously baffled. “i didn’t think i needed to! i thought we were—i mean—come on.”

he shifts the cream puff box in one arm and gestures between the two of you with the other, like that alone should explain everything. a little blob of custard escapes and lands on his hoodie sleeve. he doesn’t notice.

“what do you mean, come on?” you demand, even though it’s getting harder and harder to stay upset when he’s looking at you like a golden retriever who just realised he’s been sitting on the wrong side of the door this whole time. “you never said anything! no ‘do you wanna be my girlfriend,’ no ‘hey! let’s make this official,’ no nothing! i thought we were in a romantic grey area!”

“grey area?” he repeats, scandalised. “baby, i’ve been carrying your bag, tying your shoelaces, and memorising your coffee order with alarming accuracy. i’ve given you, like, three of my best sweaters. i met your friends—who, by the way, are even louder than i am. does that scream grey area to you?!”

you’re trying to hold onto your indignation. truly, you are. but his voice is climbing in pitch and he’s gesturing with so much intensity that the cream puff box wobbles dangerously again. you eye it nervously.

“you also once gave me a banana peel and said, ‘for composting your feelings.’”

“a romantic gesture!”

“you tripped me with it after.”

“in a flirtatious way!”

you snort. and that’s it. the last of your frustration peels away like old wallpaper. it’s ridiculous. he’s ridiculous. but the thing is—he means it. every chaotic, confused, sugar-coated sentence spilling out of his mouth is the most haechan way of saying—i thought you were mine this whole time.

he exhales, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake the dust off his brain. “i told you i liked you, like, multiple times! remember our dumpling date two months ago? the one where you tried to steal my last piece? i said, ‘you can’t steal my food unless you’re my girlfriend,’ and then you took it anyway, and i thought, ‘wow. she wants me.’ that was, like, the beginning of our love story.”

you gape at him, again. “you thought confessing was the end?”

he frowns, squinting. “isn’t that how everyone does it?”

you give him a look.

haechan scratches the back of his neck, the box of cream puffs still dangling from one arm like it’s an afterthought. “okay, maybe my dating perspective is... flawed. but i really thought it was clear! i mean, i’ve been calling you my girl in my head for months.”

“haechan,” you deadpan, “your head doesn’t count as public record.”

he lets out a dramatic sigh, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide, but it’s a lost cause. the grin’s already blooming, like something inevitable. he’s just too cute.

“you seriously thought we were dating this whole time?”

“yes!” he says, flinging his free hand out so emphatically that the box wobbles again. “i was so sure of it.”

you cross your arms—not because you’re mad or confused anymore, but because it’s fun to watch him squirm. “okay. so what would’ve happened if i started dating someone else during this time?”

he stares at you, horrified, like you just told him gravity is optional now. “i would’ve recorded me killing myself and sent it to that someone else.”

you laugh so hard and suddenly that it startles a pigeon nearby, to which haechan grins, triumphant.

“there she is,” he murmurs. “my girl.”

the words hit you sideways. soft. certain. said like they’ve always been true.

you exhale, watching the mist of your breath curl into the cold air between you.

“okay,” you say quietly. “but… i still would’ve liked if you asked.”

he nods, the weight of that finally settling into his shoulders. “yeah. you’re right. i should’ve made it clear. should’ve done the whole thing. flowers, playlist, dumb question with even dumber handwriting.”

a pause.

“can i ask now?”

you glance at him, feigning skepticism. “you’re going to ask me out officially with custard on your sleeve?”

he looks down and shrugs. “you’ve seen worse.”

you consider this. “yeah, okay.”

he shifts his grip so he’s holding everything in one arm now, freeing up his hand. it’s a little clumsy, the angle’s awkward, but he still reaches for your wrist, gently turning your hand over to press a warm kiss to your palm. the same way he always does. like it’s a promise he doesn’t know how not to keep.

then he looks up at you, gaze steady. “please be my girlfriend.”

the world doesn’t go still—not like in the movies. a dog barks in the distance. someone shouts about being locked out of their dorm. a bike bell rings.

but here, with him, it’s quiet in the good way again.

you pretend to think about it, tapping your chin.

then you reach for the box of cream puffs, pluck one out, and hold it up between you. “okay, boyfriend.”

he beams.

you each take a bite from opposite ends of the pastry at the same time, like it’s some sugar-dusted peace treaty. there’s custard on your lip and powdered sugar on his nose—and somehow, that feels exactly right.

and as he threads his fingers through yours—still sticky, still warm—you realise maybe you were never in a grey area to begin with.

just... a really weirdly drawn, very haechan-shaped heart.

perm. taglist ♡ @dreaminabtrj @ddolbyong @f6llsun @egojo1st @sungbites @nonverdolly @strwberie @blondemrk @chenlezip @markkiatocafe @stqrgr7 @jisungji @taroddori @haeriaes @kukkurookkoo @polarisjisung @dudekiss3r @dejundesign @uncasings @sweetpinkblueberry @spacejip @yushiela @insbread @t-102 @haelvrty @pl4netx1a @haeivie @natakgae @fae-renjun @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemcaffe

[cheolieji]

when you’re the 14th girl member of svt but you’re especially close with scoups and you’ve liked him forever but you didn’t do anything about it but he found out (by overhearing you talk to one of the members about it) but then u guys got into a huge fight one day and the members try to comfort u and scoups feels super bad cuz he said a lot of hurtful things and he’s trynna apologize and get with you to tell you how he truly feels but u ignore him PLS WAH also please add lots of angst PLEASE (you can add smut or whatever as you please)

unspoken pt 1 - choi seungcheol

wc: 2,257

Idol au

14th member fic

angstttt

guide for requesting on my page [17] check it out before requesting please

I will make a part 2 but lmk how you guys want it to be like!!

You’ve been in this group for years, and Seungcheol has always been the person you felt closest to. Not just because he’s the leader, not just because he’s good at holding the team together, but because he sees people. He saw you when you were struggling during pre-debut. When you thought you didn’t belong. When you thought no one noticed how hard you were trying. He always noticed.

And of course you fell for him. Slowly at first, then all at once. But you never said a word. You told yourself it wasn’t worth ruining everything over a stupid crush. Told yourself you could live with just being close to him. You learned to ignore the way your heart clenched when he smiled at you. You learned to bury it.

Until yesterday.

You didn’t even mean to say it. You and Jeonghan were up on the rooftop after practice, your head full of exhaustion and your heart heavier than usual.

“I’ve liked him for years,” you admitted, voice so low you were barely sure it even counted as speaking. “I’ve tried to stop. I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t. And it doesn’t matter anyway. He’d never feel the same.”

Jeonghan just looked at you with that sad kind of knowing in his eyes. He didn’t try to argue. He just let you feel it.

Neither of you realized Seungcheol had followed you up there. He turned around and left before you could say anything.

The next day, you expected him to say something. Anything. But he didn’t even look at you. He was cold. Distant. And tense during practice.

It started when you missed a move. Small mistake. You were distracted. Tired.

“Again,” Seungcheol said. “From the top.”

You reset your position without arguing. But the second time, you hesitated for half a beat.

“For god’s sake, can you just focus?” he snapped.

Your head shot up. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You felt everyone’s eyes on you.

“I made a mistake,” you said, forcing your voice to stay calm. “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

“Maybe if you actually tried instead of moping around like a kicked puppy, we wouldn’t be wasting time.”

You blinked, stunned. You felt the words hit harder than they should have.

Jeonghan stepped in. “Come on, that’s enough.”

Seungcheol turned on him. “Don’t start.”

“You’re overreacting,” Joshua said from the side, voice low but steady. “You know you are.”

“I’m the leader,” Seungcheol shot back. “I’m allowed to be frustrated when people stop pulling their weight.”

That was when you laughed. Just once. Quiet and bitter.

“Pulling my weight?” you said. “I’ve done nothing but try. I’ve been here just as long as you have. I’ve bled for this group too.”

“You’re always making everything about you,” he snapped. “You think we don’t see it? You think we don’t notice how you sulk every time something doesn’t go your way?”

“Stop it,” Jihoon said, stepping forward.

“No,” Seungcheol said. “I’m sick of pretending this isn’t a problem. We’re walking on eggshells around someone who clearly doesn’t care anymore.”

Your stomach turned. “You think I don’t care? Are you serious?”

“You’re selfish.”

No one spoke after that.

You grabbed your bag and walked out.

No one stopped you.

You spent the whole day locked in your room. You didn’t answer your phone. You didn’t respond when Seungkwan knocked softly and asked if you were okay. You didn’t open the door when Jeonghan came back later and whispered your name like he was afraid you'd break just from hearing it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. But your chest felt hollow.

When night came, the dorm was quiet. Everyone tiptoed around the tension in the air. No one played games. No one turned on the TV. No one dared to speak too loud. Like they were scared something fragile was already hanging by a thread.

And then Seungcheol knocked once before pushing your door open.

You didn’t look at him.

He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him like that would soften anything. It didn’t.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he said. His voice was low. Unsteady. “But please. Just let me talk.”

You sat on the edge of your bed, facing the window. Completely still.

He took a breath. Then another. And then he started talking.

“I messed everything up. I know that. I know what I said today was... it was unforgivable. I was angry. I was confused. And I took it all out on you because I didn’t know what else to do. I thought if I made you hate me, maybe it’d be easier. For you. For me. For everyone.”

You didn’t move.

“I heard you yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t follow you on purpose. I just... I was going to ask you something. I don’t even remember what now. But I heard what you said to Jeonghan. About me. About how long you’ve felt this way.”

His voice cracked then, and he swallowed hard.

“I wanted to say something. I should’ve said something. But I froze. Because the truth is I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t feel the same. I’ve spent so long trying to lead this group the right way, trying to keep everything balanced. And I told myself it was safer if I stayed away from anything that could shake that.”

He stepped closer, slowly, like you were something fragile. Like he was scared to breathe wrong and shatter you completely.

“But I like you. God, I like you so much it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t control. And that scared me. Because you matter to me. Not just as a member. Not just as a friend. You matter in a way I don’t even know how to explain.”

Still, you didn’t turn around.

“I never thought I’d be the one to hurt you like this,” he said. “I hate myself for what I said. I keep hearing it play over in my head, the way your face looked when I said you were selfish. You’re the least selfish person I know. You’ve carried so much on your own, and I saw it. I’ve always seen it. And I still tore you apart.”

He crouched down in front of you now, trying to meet your eyes. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ll do anything to fix this. I’ll wait as long as you want. I’ll say sorry every day until you believe me. Until you can look at me again and not feel disgusted. I’ll earn your forgiveness even if it takes the rest of my life.”

You blinked, but still didn’t look at him. The ache in your chest was too loud. His voice couldn’t reach through it.

“I know I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. “But I want you. I want to try. Not just to fix what I broke. I want to be by your side. I want to hold your hand and not have to hide it. I want you to know that I’ve been yours longer than I ever realized.”

He waited.

You gave him nothing.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a breath that told him you’d listened.

So he stood. Slowly. Like gravity was heavier around him now.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “And the next day. And the next. Until you don’t flinch when I say your name. Until you believe that I mean every word.”

Then he left.

And you let him.

Again.

[russo-woso]

Ugh can I request anything with Steph catley?! I’m down bad, maybe some jealous angst, and ending with happy fluff

She’s just a friend || Steph Catley x reader

A/N sorry this took a while to get to you and sorry it’s a bit short :)

Summary Steph gets jealous when you meet up for coffee with an old friend

You’d never seen Steph as jealous as she was today.

In fact, you’d never seen Steph jealous at all.

Your relationship with Steph was built with love, respect and trust.

Which is why when you bumped into an old friend who was in the local area unexpectedly, you hadn’t told Steph.

Steph was training and you were out doing some shopping and had bumped into an old friend who suggested you had some coffee together.

It was a harmless get together between friends.

You didn’t see the problem.

Steph however… she saw a big problem.

Unbeknownst to you, training had finished early and a few girls had planned to go to a local coffee shop - ironically the coffee shop being the one you were in.

You were deep in conversation with Melissa - your friend - when you saw Beth walk in, followed by Alessia, Kyra, Emily then Steph.

Steph hadn’t seen you at first, none of them had.

Although you had only been dating six months, you’d met her teammates plenty of times and were friends with them now too.

“Y/N?” Beth questioned, looking your way as she waved happily - realising it was you.

That had caught stephs attention, her head whipping round to your direction.

She had a confused look on her face to begin with before her eyes settled on the woman opposite you.

From that moment, her face reddened, anger consuming her.

“Hiya, Beth.” You smiled, getting up to hug her.

Steph didn’t even walk over to you, instead storming out the coffee shop.

“What’s wrong with my Stephy?” You asked Beth, who shrugged, just as confused as you were.

“She’s been perfectly fine till now.”

“Hang on Melissa, I won’t be long.” You said, excusing yourself as you followed Steph out the door. “Steph? Hey, babe. What’s wrong?”

You settled on the chair next to Steph who sat with her arms crossed.

“Who is that?” She mumbled

“Who’s who?”

“That woman you’re with. You weren’t meeting up with anyone today. Who is she?”

“That’s Melissa. She’s an old friend. We went to college together and was in the same class as me. It was funny, I bumped into her in that health store getting that protein drink you liked - I thought it would be a nice surprise for you when you got back from training. Anyway, she suggested we went and got a coffee and I said yes.” You explained, taking Steph’s hand in yours.

“So she’s not some secret girlfriend?”

“Steph, I love you, baby. Only you. Melissa’s just a friend.”

Steph nodded slowly but surely, allowing you to press a kiss to her cheek.

“My jealous girl.” You teased, rubbing your thumb over her cheek.

“I was not jealous!” Steph protested, her mouth widening in shock at the accusation.

“Yes you were! Don’t even try and deny it.” You continued to tease her

“Fine, maybe I was a little jealous.” Steph admitted, hiding her face in embarrassment.

“It’s cute when you get flustered. Do you want to come and meet her?”

Steph nodded again, this time a small smile on her face as you began to walk inside, hand in hand.

“Melissa, meet my girlfriend, Steph. Steph, meet Melissa, an old friend. What do you want to drink, darling?”

Steph told you her order as she sat down opposite Melissa, both of them making small talk.

“Did we have a jealous Steph?” Beth asked

“We did indeed.”

[whitechocolate355]

time out

oneshot

pairing - paige bueckers x azzi fudd

word count - 2k

warnings - language

synopsis: after a heated argument during a scrimmage, Paige and Azzi are both benched for “unsportsmanlike behaviour.” Forced to sit in silence while their teammates play, the tension between them begins boils over — and neither of them can hold back what they really want to say (or do).

one shot request from a lovely anon!! getting around to everyone’s requests so bear w/ me… also chap 5 for full court press will be uploaded tmr morning

The gym was blisteringly loud. Sneakers screeched. Whistles pierced. Coaches yelled in a flurry of clipped commands and clipboard slaps.

And Paige was about two seconds from completely losing her shit.

“I SAID SWITCH!” she yelled, throwing her arms up as Azzi jogged past her, completely ignoring the rotation.

Azzi didn’t even spare her a glance. Just caught the rebound like it was hers by divine right and launched the ball effortlessly into the net.

Swish.

Paige’s blood boiled. “You’re seriously not gonna talk to me now?”

Azzi brushed past her again, the faint scent of musky vanilla clinging to her skin, her face stoic, as if carved in stone. “I didn’t realise I had anything left to say.”

“Oh, cut the cold act,” Paige hissed, stepping into her space. “You’re playing selfish. This is a team scrimmage, not your personal Steph Curry highlight reel.”

Azzi stopped. Turned. Her hair whipping around like a blade.

“You want to talk about selfish?” she snapped. “Maybe look in a mirror before you start throwing around words you don’t understand.”

And that was it. All it took. Paige shoved her shoulder into Azzi’s, and Azzi shoved right back.

“HEY!” Coach blew the whistle like it was a goddamn siren. “You two—BENCH. NOW. You wanna act like children? You’ll sit like them too.”

Paige stormed to the bench, jaw clenched, heart clawing at her ribs. Azzi followed, expression unreadable.

But this had been building for weeks.

Paige could feel it in the way Azzi always passed to someone else when she was open. In the glances they shared that lingered too long. In the breathless moments after every scrimmage where she half expected Azzi to say something—anything—that might make sense of the way her heart pounded after every brush of their hands.

And now, with them both benched and pissed and sitting shoulder to shoulder, Paige couldn’t take it anymore.

They sat on opposite ends of the same metal seat, separated by maybe three feet and about a mile of heat.

The game continued. Shouts echoed. The scoreboard buzzed. But in their corner, time held its breath.

Paige bounced her knee. She could feel Azzi’s presence like a gravity field.

Neither of them spoke.

Not until the fourth whistle of the quarter blew and the gym momentarily dulled into ambient chatter.

"You always do this," she muttered without turning her head.

Azzi’s brow ticked. “Do what?”

“You push until I snap, and then you act like I’m the problem.”

Azzi finally turned to face her, eyes sharp. “Maybe you are.”

Paige laughed bitterly. “God, you’re exhausting.”

“Right back at you.”

Their teammates were across the court, deep in the scrimmage, too far to hear. Too far to care. Paige felt something inside her break loose—something reckless.

“You don’t have to hate me, you know.”

Azzi’s expression flickered. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” Paige turned now, fully. “Then what is this, Azzi? Why is it that every time I try to talk to you, it turns into a fight?”

Azzi exhaled slowly, then said, “Because if I don’t fight you, Paige, I might actually—”

But she didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. Paige felt the unspoken words hang in the air between them like a thread about to snap.

Might actually what?

Their breath tangled somewhere in the air between them. The game raged on, but the court felt impossibly small now, the air between them thick with tension.

Flashback: The First Game

The first time Paige had seen Azzi play, it was more than just basketball. That girl was a display of effortless grace, precision, and an undeniable swagger that drew Paige’s eye from the beginning. 

They had met at a youth basketball camp, and Paige hadn’t been able to forget the way Azzi dominated the court, effortlessly gliding from one play to the next. Paige had never felt the need to be jealous, or scared for her spot on the team. But for the very first time, she was. And the culprit: Azzi fucking Fudd. It wasn’t just the way she played—it was the way she carried herself. Confidence radiated from her every movement. It pissed Paige off.

But at the same time, she was drawn to it. The two were the first off the court. 

Azzi wasn’t like anyone Paige had met before, which made her feel unsettled. It was as if she could read Paige’s movements, and every one of her thoughts because before Azzi even knew where she was, Paige had kicked it to her in the corner in one, smooth movement. And unlike her other previous teammates that would’ve just fumbled the ball in surprise, Azzi caught it mid-pass with ease — as if she intercepted her own ball — to fire the quickest release the crowd had ever seen. And with that, Paige held her fingers out in celebration, because as soon as that ball graced Azzi’s hands, Paige knew that shot was cash. 

—-----------

“I don’t get you,” Paige growled, slamming her water bottle to the ground. “You show up like you’ve got nothing to prove, and then you play like your whole damn career depends on it. What is it? What do you need to prove?”

Azzi took a breath, her face a mask of calm, but Paige could see the tension in her jaw, the way her muscles were coiled, ready to spring.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Azzi said, her voice lower than usual, laced with frustration. “Not everything is about what you want, Paige.”

“Then stop pretending like you’ve got it all figured out!” Paige shot back, her voice trembling with anger and something else she didn’t want to acknowledge. “It’s like I can’t even look at you without feeling like you’re hiding something.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, just for a second, like she was about to say something but thought better of it. The silence that followed stretched out between them, thick with unsaid words.

They were sitting inches apart. But emotionally? Miles.

Azzi finally turned toward her, eyes softer now. “You think I’m hiding something? Paige, you have no idea.”

Paige swallowed, heat rising in her chest. Her heart beat erratically in her ears.

“Oh, I think I know,” she said, voice low and dangerously soft. “You don’t let anyone close. You keep everyone at arm’s length. But I’m done with that. If you’re hiding something, then I want to know. Because I’m not gonna keep playing this game with you.”

Azzi stood up suddenly, the motion sharp and filled with frustration. “I’m not hiding anything,” she said, her voice a growl. “I’m not the one here pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m the one who shows up every single day, working my ass off, and all you can do is act like I’m the problem.”

Paige stood up too, the two of them facing each other, inches apart. “Maybe I’m not pretending,” she shot back, her voice hard, eyes burning with a fire she couldn’t suppress anymore. “Maybe I’m tired of you acting like I’m just another player you can push around. I’m done with that, Azzi.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, and for a second, Paige thought she saw something flicker in her eyes. But before she could analyze it further, Azzi was stepping back. Her hand went to the back of her neck, rubbing the tension there.

“I think we both need a timeout,” Azzi muttered, more to herself than to Paige.

“Yeah, we do.” Paige replied under her breath.

.

.

.

Benched and bitter and burning from the inside out, Paige knew she needed to get away. Before she did something she shouldn't do. Watching Azzi glance over at her every so often as their chests rose and fell in sync with each other was driving her crazy. And before she could stop her thoughts, Paige stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Azzi asked.

“Out back. Before I say something I can’t take back.”

Azzi hesitated, then stood too, following closely behind. “Say it.”

Paige turned, inches away from the gym door. “What?”

Azzi stepped in, closer now than she had any right to be. “Say what you want to say. I’m right here. And besides, I’m done following you.”

“Fine.” Paige grunted. It was time to get real. The blonde couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t get you,” she began. “One second you’re giving me eyes like you wanna ruin me, and the next you’re pretending I don’t exist. What the hell is your game, Azzi?”

Fuck. Did she really just air herself out to Azzi?

Azzi stepped toward her slowly, closing the distance. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but there was something else there too—something raw.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Azzi said, her voice barely a whisper. “This isn’t a game. You think you know me, Paige. You think you understand me. But you don’t. You’ve only seen the parts of me I’ve allowed you to.”

Azzi stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending.”

And just like that, Paige couldn’t take it anymore. 

Grabbing onto Azzi’s jersey, she pulled her into her chest —not hard, not violent, just… desperate, while her free hand pushed the door back. 

[Outside]

Azzi’s breath caught as Paige leaned in. It was slow at first, hesitant, like a dare. Azzi’s heart pounded in her chest, and before she could stop herself, she was leaning into Paige too, their mouths meeting in a frantic collision of teeth and heat.

Paige slammed her palm against the building wall, caging Azzi between her broad shoulders all while forbidding herself to tear away from Azzi’s lips. Her fingers curled around the metal grate, trying to stay grounded — as if this moment wasn’t what she was fantasising about since she met Azzi. 

It was a kiss that held everything—frustration, longing, pain. All the words neither of them had said but both of them had wanted to for so long. There were no zone defences anymore. No hesitation. Just the messy, overwhelming need to feel something, anything, between them.

Azzi’s hands slid to Paige’s back, pulling her closer. Paige’s hands found the hem of Azzi’s shirt, fingers pressing against the soft skin there, memorizing the feel of her. The kiss deepened, becoming frantic, like they were trying to devour each other whole.

Why the hell did she look at Paige like that when we first met?

Why does she keep pushing Paige on the court, then staring at Paige like she’s hers?

Why does this feel better than any win?

Paige shot away her thoughts with her mouth, biting softly on Azzi’s bottom lip, as if that was where she held the answers. Azzi pressed against the wall as Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi’s waist, her muscles tensing —which sent a jolting sensation to Azzi’s spine.  Paige’s hands gripped the back of her neck, pulling her impossibly closer.

Azzi gasped into her mouth, and Paige took that gasp like a win, like a possession. She leaned back, admiring her view with a smug smirk on her face —as if she had manifested this moment— before she tilted her head, deepening the kiss, her body flush against Azzi’s now — muscle to muscle, sweat to sweat.

Azzi moaned before she could stop herself…

And Paige kissed her harder for it.

They didn’t pull away. They couldn’t. Not until a water bottle dropped somewhere in the locker room, echoing just loud enough to remind them where they were.

Paige’s hands were still bunched in Azzi’s jersey. Azzi’s fingers were threaded through Paige’s hair.

Neither of them moved. Their foreheads touched.

Paige’s voice was hoarse. “I hate you.”

Azzi’s breath fanned her lips. “No, you don’t.”

Silence.

Then Azzi kissed her again — slower this time. Like a statement. Like a fuck-you and a promise in one.

The buzzer rang again. Timeout was over.

They pulled apart, barely. Lips swollen. Chests rising and falling.

Paige glanced down, cheeks red but jaw still set. “We have five minutes.”

Azzi smirked, voice low. “Then you better move fast...”, leading her to the locker room by the jersey.

[toraona]

gif by @apparently-artless

THE LOVE LANGUAGES OF:

— Trafalgar Law

Acts of Service

Law’s love is quiet. He doesn’t show off, brag, or even tells you he loves you—because he doesn’t need to. You already know and so does he.

Instead of saying it, he’d show it through simple actions, such as organizing your files and folders without being asked, bringing you tea on ordinary afternoons, or massage your tense muscles.

At first, it felt strange to experience love like this. Law focused more on his actions than words. But as time passed, you learned that he did it with a soft look—his facial features were less tense, a look he only saved for you. His voice was firm, yet carried a gentleness when it was just the two of you.

“Your back sore? Turn around, show me where it’s tender.”

“I cleaned your desk again. You’re welcome.”

Gift Giving

Law isn’t a gifting type of person. The most he’d do was buy you your favorite snack from a vendor in a village or buy you a set of quills and ink or a pouch of pens to keep up with your writing. He doesn’t bother wrapping it or keeping it as a surprise for later. Once he buys it, he automatically gives it to you when he sees you next.

Quality Time

Being a captain, managing the crew, alliances, missions, and training left Law with a limited time to spend time with you. But despite that, he always blocked out a couple hours just for you.

You’re the main person in the crew able to ground him when chaos overpowered calm. You became one of his favorite comforts, and when he needed to unwind he didn’t need words or distractions. He just needed you close.

Quiet moments with you are his favorite ones. You two exist for each other, and that’s all that matters.

Touch

Law isn’t a fan of public displays of affection. It isn’t that he’s shy, he simply doesn’t see the point of flaunting his feelings for you. What matters to him are your feelings for each other and because of that you two have nothing to prove.

Still, when he wants to offer you reassurance or senses tension in your body, he finds quiet ways to reach out: brushing his fingers against yours, or subtly linking your pinky with his.

Behind closed doors is where you’re the only one who gets to see the captain of the Heart Pirates unravel.

Law’s touches in bed are slow, sensual, and intentional. He is a gentle lover, and takes in every moment with you as if it’s your last.

“Let me take my time with you.”

“Kiss me.”

“Let me touch you the way no one else can.”

And every time you say yes, it is unraveled him even more.

Words of Affirmation

Law doesn’t speak much, only unless what he says is practical, helpful, and important. So when he started complimenting you, or praising you for a job well done, you were thrilled.

“You did great out there. Keep it up.”

“Your onigiri is my favorite.”

“Don’t burn yourself out. I need you.”

You felt seen and valued.

What he hasn’t told you yet was how much you mean to him, how much you’ve helped him grow into a man who knows he’s allowed to be cared for and loved.

He’ll tell you eventually, just not now.

BONUS ✨

Keeping You Warm

On cold days and nights, Law would wordlessly give you his coat, or wraps it around you when he sees you shivering.

“You can’t get sick.”

“Next time bring a thicker jacket.”

“This is an excuse to use mine.”

However, in private, that’s when he’d pull you into a warm embrace and wrap his arms around you, his head either resting on yours or if you’re in bed sleeping he’d hold you close, your back against his chest while he had his arms around you as he quietly whispers in your ear:

“I love you.”

Venting to You

When Law started talking to you about his problems, feelings, and concerns, that’s when you knew it was serious between you two.

He had always kept everyone at arm’s length, unwilling to let anyone in. But hearing him speak to you with no filter, with no fear of judgment made you feel closer to him than ever before.

You were someone he trusted with his thoughts and concerns, someone who took the time to truly hear him out which was something he hadn’t experienced for a long time.

“Thank you for listening.”

“Sorry if I said too much.”

To you, there was no such thing as Law telling you too much. Everything he shared mattered. If it was important to him, you always promised him it’s important to you.

[chuxmy]

Advice..

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You play with the guys at the arcade but Geum Seongje got in the way.

Warnings: mild threatening language

Next ☞︎

The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the run-down arcade at the edge of the neighborhood, casting streaks of gold over the worn floor tiles. You were standing by the claw machine, half-listening to Juntae and Gotak arguing about snacks while Sieun watched the others with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his. Baku had just dropped a coin into the air hockey table and was challenging you to a match.

“I’m not going easy on you,” he grinned.

You smirked. “Neither am I.”

It was light. Chill. The kind of rare downtime that never lasted long in this city.

Then the door opened.

The energy in the room changed instantly.

He walked in like he owned the air around him tall, loose-limbed, with that arrogant, slow swagger that told you he’d been in more fights than anyone here had seen. His eyes swept the room, lazy and uninterested until they landed on you.

And then they stayed.

Geum Seongje.

You’d heard the name. Everyone had. No one said it lightly. Some said he didn’t care about anything, that he only fought for the thrill of it. Others said if you were on his radar, it was already too late.

He cracked a grin as he strolled in, hands deep in his pockets.

“Well, well,” he said, gaze still locked on you. “Didn’t expect to find the nerd squad out in the open.”

Gotak stepped up fast, jaw clenched. “Got a problem?”

Seongje laughed. “Relax. I’m not here to mop the floor with all of you. Not today.”

Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Unless one of you wanna make things interesting?”

Gotak rolled his eyes. “Back off, Seongje.”

But Seongje wasn’t listening to him. Not really. His attention had never left you.

“You with them?” he asked you directly, voice low, smooth.

You blinked, thrown off by how direct he was. “Yeah. Why?”

He took a step closer, grin widening. “No reason. Just wondering if I’ll have to break your nose too if things get ugly.”

He said it like a joke.

But his voice was soft. Dangerous.

You raised an eyebrow, unflinching. “You could try.”

The smirk on his face shifted still smug, but something more interested flickered underneath.

Baku spoke then. “Seongje. Leave it.”

He waved a hand lazily. “Chill, Baku. I’m not starting anything.” His eyes flicked back to you. “Not unless they want me to.”

Then, just like that, he turned and walked out without a word to anyone else.

But you could feel it.

That his attention hadn’t been casual.

The next day, you took the long way home. You told yourself it was just because the sun was nice, or because you didn’t want to deal with the usual traffic near the school. You didn’t want to admit that part of you hoped you’d see him again.

And you did.

He was leaning against the wall of the corner store like he had nothing better to do, one foot resting against the brick, head tilted back, earbuds in, eyes closed. The moment you passed by, he opened his eyes.

“Hey.”

You paused, then turned to him slowly. “Do you just hang out in random places and wait to be creepy?”

He grinned. “Only when someone interesting walks through.”

You crossed your arms. “Is this where you threaten me again?”

Seongje straightened up and stretched lazily, pulling one earbud out. “Nah. If I wanted to scare you, I’d do more than talk.”

“That supposed to impress me?”

His smirk deepened. “You tell me.”

You studied him for a moment. His energy was different now. Still smug, still unreadable but there was no audience. No noise. Just him, and you.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said finally.

“Oh?” he stepped closer. “What’d you expect?”

“I don’t know. Less staring. Fewer death threats.”

He laughed. It was low, warm, and not nearly as cold as he pretended to be. “You’re sharp. Most people get quiet around me.”

“I’m not most people.”

He stepped even closer now, close enough to smell his cologne sharp, clean, like steel and something faintly herbal.

“I noticed that yesterday,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your lips. “Couldn’t stop looking at you.”

You swallowed.

This time, your heartbeat picked up.

Seongje caught it. You knew he did.

But instead of teasing you, his voice lowered.

“You should be careful who you hang around. Some of them? They make enemies they don’t even see coming.”

You frowned. “You trying to warn me?”

He shrugged. “Call it… advice. You seem too smart to get dragged down by other people’s problems.”

You stared at him for a moment. “You don’t seem like the type to give advice.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But I like your mouth. And I’d be annoyed if someone busted it before I got the chance to do it myself.”

You blinked. “You really have no filter, do you?”

“Nope.” He took a step back, that lazy grin still dancing on his lips. “But I’ll see you around. Probably sooner than you think.”

And just like yesterday, he turned and left you standing there.

But this time, your stomach twisted in a way you couldn’t explain.

And you knew whatever this was it wasn’t over.

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Thirteen

NSFW

“You want to listen to it while we fuck?”

“Ah, no, honestly I’ve jerked off to that song so many times now I’ve Pavloved myself and I’ll come in three minutes and twenty four seconds exactly.”

Eddie laughs. He can’t help it, which is silly really, considering he has his hands down the back of Steve’s pants. He can’t stop laughing, face pressed against Steve's solid chest, shoulders shaking with laughter. Steve’s ass is meaty and solid in Eddie’s hands, and Steve just wraps his arms around Eddie and waits for him to get it out of his system.

Eddie thinks he’s done laughing, but when he finally looks up and sees how serious Steve’s face is, he cracks all over again. Steve’s laughing with him now though, finally losing it, his chest moving against Eddie’s cheek.

It finally tails off, Eddie sighing, letting himself relax into Steve’s arms. He gives Steve’s ass a little jiggle. It’s a good ass. He can feel Steve scenting at the top of his head, that’s followed by a very firm chin rub, right across the top of Eddie’s head, Steve’s throat rubbing across Eddie’s face.

If Steve was an Alpha, it would be a definite declaration. If Steve were an Alpha, Eddie might have even reflexively tried to stop it from happening. Steve’s not though, so it just leaves Eddie with his soft Beta scent in his nose, and a sense of loose calm spreading all the way to his fingertips.

It’s different, that scent. Completely sets itself apart from every experience Eddie’s ever had. There’s no cross over, nothing from sense memory to send him back anywhere unpleasant. Just a fresh start, right under his nose, literally and figuratively. It’s a sobering thought though, and it’s not anything they’ve ever spoken about before; suddenly it feels relevant, “I’ve been with a lot of people, you know that, right?”

“Can we not discuss it when you’ve got your hands down my pants?” Steve answers, but he’s smiling, light and unbothered.

“Actually, I feel like every single conversation we have from this point on should be conducted with my hands down your pants.”

Steve snorts a laugh, looking away for a second to gather himself, Eddie gives Steve’s ass a jiggle, and Steve sighs, but it’s mock put upon and Steve's still smiling, “I know you’ve been with a lot of people, but the past is the past...it doesn’t change anything now. We both have a past, and we’ve both done things we’re not proud of...but I don’t see why it should hurt either of us now. Not when we’ve both come so far, you know?”

“Yeah but...you’re not the one out of us that’s fucked, like, a thousand people. I’d understand if...that was a problem.”

Steve sniggers, “pretty sure you haven't fucked a thousand people...but. Since we’re talking about it,” Steve suddenly tilts his head, looking proud of himself, “you’re probably fondling the guy with the highest body count in his high school and college.”

Eddie can only shake his head fondly, “so you’re okay with it?”

“Yeah, I’m okay with it. It’ll be different because it’s us.”

“Pretty sure there’s a finite number of ways to fuck and I’ve already hit ‘em all, sorry.”

Steve huffs, “firstly, I didn’t mean that literally, and you know it...and secondly…” Steve leans forward, takes Eddie’s mouth slow, soft. Gentle touches of tongue until Eddie opens up and lets Steve in. Steve pulls back, leaving soft, pecking kisses on Eddie’s lips, he uses the waist of Eddie’s pants to pull Eddie closer, both of them hard and pressing together. He whispers against Eddie’s mouth, “so you’ve had someone hold your hand and look into your eyes the whole time while they fuck you deep and slow?”

Steve follows it with a harsh, dirty grind, pressing them together. Eddie makes a breathy noise that he will deny for the rest of his life, “no?” he finally manages, weak and whispery. No ones fucked Eddie, not ever. It’s probably the one thing he’s never done.

“It’ll be different then, won’t it?” Steve whispers.

“Jesus,” Eddie looks away. Can’t possibly keep looking at Steve or he might explode or something. He chooses to scent Steve instead, chooses to try and retake a little control by letting his Alpha out for a minute, being a little territorial. He rubs his scent thoroughly across Steve’s neck and shoulder. Steve just takes it, letting Eddie work it out of his system before he settles into Steve’s hold again. Just, standing there, holding one another.

“I kind of imagined this differently,” Eddie admits quietly. They’re rocking together now, no music, just swaying slowly in each others arms in the middle of the room.

“Yeah?”

“Uh hu...I, uhm, imagined making it really special.” When Steve wasn’t in the picture, Eddie just liked to imagine simple things. Liked to comfort himself with sad but easy imaginings of Steve kissing him goodnight. Now, since they’ve been together, Eddie’s been imagining much more explicit scenarios very regularly. It doesn’t help that Steve has made them ‘take it slow’ and Eddie could die of blue balls at literally any moment.

Steve grins down at him, “so eating our weight in snacks at Gareth’s isn’t your idea of romancing me? Honestly I’m glad, I was at least expecting dinner-”

Eddie huffs at him. They’ve had a nice day. Steve clicked with the guys straight away, and Eddie can’t really express how glad he is that they all get on. Eddie was pretty sure they would; the guys are easy going and Steve is...well, Steve about everything.

But still, even though Eddie got teased pretty relentlessly, he’s calling today a win. The guys knew who Steve was, kind of. Even with Eddie’s recovery going strong, they knew something was up. Something other than the whole dealing with alcoholism and drug addiction and figuring out how to move on with his life despite all of that. The guys still knew.

They knew Eddie was pining. And Eddie didn’t know really, how to explain that he’d kind of fallen in love with some guy he spent less than two weeks with. Some guy who, actually, was a total professional through the whole thing and just...shouldn’t have attracted that kind of attention.

Completely Eddie’s fault that he caught feelings.

A guy who had to distance himself from Eddie because of Eddie’s own stupid choices. And, if Eddie’s being honest, for Eddie’s own good.

Gareth and Jeff seemed to get it though, when Eddie explained. Even though Steve was a guy, and Steve was a Beta, Steve was still just...Steve. And Chrissy still didn’t seem to believe that Eddie’s feelings were really real, not for a while, at least. But months later, when Eddie was still missing Steve and ended up, one really, really fucking tough and lonely night, writing Boy Scout...she seemed to get it after that.

They all got it, once they heard Eddie sing it, playing his acoustic for the recording. Eddie had struggled through tears for the recording, made his voice sound even more rough, harsh and undeniably brimming with emotion. That's the recording that made it to the album though. That's the one they used.

They all knew then, how Eddie felt. And if record sales are anything to go by, a truly considerable number of people also know how Eddie feels about Steve. Even if they don’t know who Steve is.

Eddie’s going to do his best to keep it that way; but they know they can’t keep it a secret forever.

These things have a way of coming out.

He didn’t need the guys spending all day teasing him for mooning over Steve, though. Steve had absently linked their fingers together at one point. Steve had been mid conversation, and Eddie happened to be standing next to him..and Steve just, took his hand. Like a totally normal, affectionate boyfriend would. Eddie hadn’t known what to do with himself, not really, he’s still getting used to being treated this way, and for it to happen in front of the guys...well, Eddie’s sure he’d been blushing like a virgin.

And then Steve had lifted their joined hands, and pressed a soft kiss Eddie’s knuckles.

Again, no thought to it whatsoever, just easy affection. The guys had all clocked it, staring at them. Eddie’s pretty sure he’d gone red as a tomato, but, thankfully, despite all the knowing looks they’d thrown his way, the guys had been merciful and not said anything.

Probably because they all seemed to like Steve so much.

“No...when I was daydreaming about this I wanted to whisk you away to Italy.”

Steve goes still, holding Eddie tight but leaning back, a hand in Eddie’s hair pulling Eddie around to look at him, “tell me about it.”

Eddie immediately pulls free and goes back to hiding, resting on Steve’s shoulder now, “you know, usual daydream stuff. Private jet. Roses. Strawberries and champagne, that kind of thing. Well, not the champagne but you get the idea. Rent a villa for a week, somewhere really nice. Take you to see all the places you want. Naturally I’d let you do all the talking, and I’d be incredibly impressed.”

“Well I do my best for the green owl...and I am absolutely terrible at taking my PTO, and the gym is pretty kind with it’s time off, I’ve probably got loads.”

Eddie pulls back, “wait...you’d let me take you?”

Steve smiles, kissing Eddie’s nose, “just this once. I’m not waiting until we’re in Europe to have sex though, just to be clear.”

It’s not really the done thing, when there’s a Beta in the mix, and it’s selfish to ask. Steve isn’t built the same as Alpha and Omega, when Steve bites Eddie, Eddie’s going to feel mated. He’s going to feel good; he’s going to be so flooded with endorphins he’s probably going to have one of the best orgasms of his life.

All Steve is going to feel is pain.

But Eddie is selfish, and he can’t resist, and so when the need suddenly rises up inside him, he asks anyway, leaning back in so his nose is practically pressed to Steve’s barely there scent gland, “you going to bite me, one day? Let me...bite you?”

“Only if you let me put a ring on it.”

Eddie doesn’t even need to think, “deal.”

“I want to get married outside,” Steve tells him, bending down and dislodging Eddie’s hands, hooking him under the thighs and lifting.

Eddie is an Alpha, he should not get off on being manhandled. He finds himself getting off on being manhandled, since it’s Steve, “that doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.”

Steve walks them over to the bed, throwing Eddie bodily into the middle somewhere, Eddie bouncing a little on the mattress, “late spring? Early summer?”

“Just as long as it’s not too hot, I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”

“Robin will be my best man,” Steve says, pulling his shirt off over his head.

Eddie stares at Steve’s bare chest, “I don’t want to talk abut your best friend right this second, funnily enough,” but Steve’s grinning, stripping off, then crawling nude up the bed, grabbing Eddie’s pants and boxers and peeling everything off in one smooth move.

Eddie pulls his shirt off, and then he’s naked. And Steve’s naked, kneeling at the bottom of the bed. And...they’re staring at each other. Steve is like...a golden fucking Adonis. He’s toned in the way you only really get when you have an active job. His chest is hairy, his skin is golden, and he’s got more moles than Eddie could have predicted but Eddie wants to find and take note of every single one of them.

Eddie’s still a little on the skinny side, he’s pale and his muscle is ropy rather than strong like Steve but...he doesn’t look ill any more. Doesn’t look sickly like he did at his lowest point.

Steve seems to like what he sees, if his cock standing to attention is anything to go by.

“Lube? Condoms?”

“Yeah,” Eddie points vaguely at the bedside table.

Steve crawls over there, rummaging, and Eddie felt like he was aiming too high when he bought supplies. Kind of felt like he was tempting fate, that the moment they got delivered Eddie would somehow be immediately punished for wanting this.

Steve grins when he sees what’s in the drawer, pulling out both boxes. They’re both brand new and sealed, and Steve peels the cellophane off both, one box of Alpha condoms, one box of regular. “You want to try?” Steve asks, holding up the regular kind.

“We could.” Eddie’s thought about it a fair bit, since the very first time Steve mentioned it, and he figures if there’s one person he’d be willing to try this with, it’s Steve.

“We don’t have to, we don’t ever have to.”

“Do you like it?”

“I...do. But I could live without it,” Steve answers honestly, or at least, Eddie hopes it’s honest. He’s got no idea how this will go. But it’s best they give it a try...Eddie can’t imagine that Steve is the kind of guy who would end a relationship over it...but he doesn’t really want to risk Steve becoming unsatisfied because Eddie won’t ever let him top. It feels like a small sacrifice to make.

“Then lets try, I’m about as far from my rut as I can be, my cycle’s leveled out...so it’s probably the best time to try for the first time.”

Steve nods, crawling back over, leaving a single condom and the lube next to them, “you should probably be on top though, for this first one, just in case.”

“Okay,” Eddie might be familiar enough now with Steve and his scent that he’s fine with being pinned by him sometimes, but being pinned with a dick in him? Eddie has no idea how his Alpha will react.

“Plus I’m not up to much for a little while once I’ve taken a knot, so if you want round two later then I’d better go first.”

Eddie wants to focus on the ‘round two’ part of the statement, because honestly, that sounds awesome. What actually happens is Eddie’s instincts become concerned with Steve taking someone else’s knot, and he rumbles out a little warning growl instead.

Steve settles next to him, all beautiful and naked and unbroken lines of muscled perfection, and he’s grinning, “what was that?”

“Apparently I don’t like the idea of you taking someone else's knot.”

“Ooooh, possessive huh? That’s nice. Well, don’t worry, it was a long time ago when I was young and dumb and willing to do anything to get what I wanted.”

Well that...that is a lot. Another small part of Steve’s past that Eddie didn’t expect. They don’t talk about their past much, neither of them do, and Eddie doesn't know about Steve’s motivations for that but...he just hasn’t felt the need to volunteer anything. It’s done now. That’s not who he is any more, not really.

“Hey,” Steve thumbs away Eddie’s frown, “don’t do that, it’s fine. I was still enjoying myself, even if I wish I could go back and give myself a talking to. Nothing bad happened to me Eddie, not like that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Steve smiles, “good,” and then he leans in for a kiss.

They have made out a lot over the last few weeks. Like, a lot a lot. Like horny teenagers with their first beau kind of a lot. But...this is the same but different. Still soft, still nice, still...a little bitey sometimes. But still Steve. Except now Eddie can roll Steve onto his back and slide a sweeping hand across Steve’s stomach and over a naked hip and thigh. The head of Steve's cock brushes Eddie’s forearm as he does it, leaving a hint of stickiness there.

“You want me to open you up?”

“Yeah,�� Eddie answers, “never...you know.”

“I know,” but Steve's grinning like he’s won something. “Come on.”

Steve rearranges them both, sitting himself up a little on a comfy pile of Eddie’s collected bedding, pulling Eddie after him to straddle his thighs. Eddie goes where Steve sits him, watching avidly as Steve cracks the seal on the new lube and pumping a fair amount out onto his fingers. He rubs his fingers together, spreading it a little, before he seems to be satisfied and slips his hand down between Eddie’s thighs.

Steve’s fingers are warm enough, and slick, but still the first touch makes Eddie yip and lean away reflexively, gripping at Steve’s shoulders, “sorry. Ready this time.”

“Just tell me anytime you want to stop, okay?”

“I ain’t a quitter,” Eddie replies confidently.

Steve raises an eyebrow, and then Eddie realizes what he just said. It’s not funny, it isn’t, but they both laugh anyway. “Okay,” Steve goes in again, and this time, knowing what to expect, Eddie lets him touch softly, rubbing at Eddie asshole for a second before pressing in with one finger. Which goes pretty easily, actually. It goes all the way in, right until Steve’s hand is pressing against Eddie’s body, “okay?”

“Yeah, yeah that’s good,” doesn’t feel like much, just a weird wet little intrusion. The second finger should just feel like twice as much, but it definitely doesn’t. Eddie is suddenly very, very aware that he has Steve's fingers in his ass, and he breathes out slowly.

“Still good?”

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” Eddie’s found himself staring at Steve’s chest hair, but Steve’s angling his head down, seeking eye contact. Eddie makes himself give it, he didn’t realize just how hard he’d been concentrating.

“Kiss me then?”

Eddie does. He has to keep hold of Steve's shoulders and lean down, but he does, kissing Steve slow while Steve gently fucks him on two fingers. The palm of Steve’s hand is pressing up tight behind Eddie’s balls, and it feels so good that when Steve pulls his fingers out, Eddie whines a little and tries to chase it.

He has to watch while Steve pumps more lube onto his fingers, and Eddie knows three fingers is coming. He braces a little, but there’s no need. The pressure is slow and even, and Steve’s used enough lube that there's no sting, just a little burn as things stretch to accommodate Steve.

Feels good, even, and Eddie’s panting a little into Steve's mouth when he goes back for more kisses. Steve eventually speaks against Eddie’s mouth, “put the condom on me?” he asks quietly, slowly and carefully pulling his fingers free of Eddie’s body.

“Yeah,” Eddie knows what it can be like opening one of these things with slippy fingers, so he’s happy to do it for Steve, holding his cock upright with one hand as he carefully rests the condom on the exposed head of Steve’s cock, like a little hat. Eddie deftly squeezes the air out of the end before sliding his hand down, unrolling the condom with it.

Steve’s pumping more lube onto his fingers while Eddie works, and without either of them needing to speak, Eddie keeps hold of Steve’s cock, keeping it upright so that Steve can slick himself up.

It’s suddenly very real, what they’re about to do, now that Steve isn’t distracting Eddie with his hungry kisses. Eddie’s scent must signal something, because Steve’s eyes flick up to Eddie even as he’s still working slick over his cock. It’s a little obscene to watch, really.

Maybe Steve will jerk off sometime for Eddie. Put on a show.

“Come here baby,” Steve guides Eddie’s face to rest in the crook of his neck, where the scent is strongest. It’s soothing; relaxing. Comfort. It has changed a little; subtle. Eddie probably wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been scenting Steve a lot for weeks now but...this must be what horny Steve scents like. A little brighter, something in the organic parts that give it a little zing, almost citrussy but too subtle to really identify as anything. It’s just...a little sharp. A little fresh.

Still nothing at all like an Alpha or an Omega. Totally different, new, fresh, safe.

Eddie’s gone a little soft through this, kind of sporting a half chub now, but Steve’s scent helps, the wet head leaving a sticky trail on Steve’s skin. The drag feels good.

Eddie takes a greedy lungful as Steve notches the head of his cock at Eddie’s hole. He stills then, nothing happening for long enough that Eddie’s gearing up to say anything, but then he realizes; Steve’s waiting on Eddie. Eddie has the control here, Steve’s giving Eddie the power.

Eddie just has to take the first step. It’s up to Eddie to choose to act. It’s so quintessentially Steve...Eddie gives a gentle nip to the side of Steve’s neck, and then sinks down just enough that the head of Steve’s cock pops inside him.

It feels...big. Like, it’s a lot. Eddie has to wait, just after that, to let himself acclimatize a little bit, “Jesus,” he breathes out low, “did your cock get ten times bigger while I wasn’t looking?”

Steve snorts, “you just got a tight little hole baby, that’s all.”

“Yeah because it ain’t designed for this,” Eddie replies grumpily.

Steve bites his lips together, holding in a laugh, but he doesn’t say anything. Probably the smart move, and Eddie shifts a little, Steve keeps rubbing comfortingly along Eddie’s thighs as Eddie lets himself sink down a little.

He’s not going to say how big Steve is again, he’s not. There’ll be no living with the smug fucker if he says it again.

Eddie breathes out slow, it’s a terrible moment to be reminded of all the stupid yoga breathing Steve’s been doing with him, but, hell, if it works it works. Steve’s cock feels like a fucking tree branch by the time Eddie is seated in Steve’s lap, and he’s dragging Steve’s scent across his tongue like his life depends on it but...he’s done it.

He lets himself have a moment to settle, Steve’s hands roving across Eddie’s back now, “you good?”

“Yeah. Yeah, just a couple of minutes.”

Steve kisses Eddie’s hair, and waits. It feels like it’s in Eddie’s lungs, and Eddie is...still kind of skeptical about this. But...he’s tried a lot of shit, and this isn’t any different. Plus he kind of loves Steve, so he’s going to give this a fair try.

The knowledge that Eddie’s never going to have sex with another person, all being well, ever again, prickles along Eddie’s skin. One final deep breath of Steve’s scent, and a tiny, possessive rumble on the exhale, and Eddie lifts himself up. Steve’s hands move with Eddie, sliding down to cup his ass. Not holding, not guiding, just following the movement.

Eddie slides down again and...oh. There’s a little zing of something, where Steve must have brushed against his prostate. Eddie lifts again, sitting up now so he can watch Steve’s face. He suddenly regrets hiding in the crook of Steve’s neck, because Steve looks wrecked. Eyes are totally blown, lips red and shiny like he’s been biting at them, mouth open a little, skin flushed and the hint of a prickle of sweat at his hair line.

Well if that isn’t going to encourage Eddie, nothing’s gonna’.

He sits down again sharply, and Steve can’t hold it in any more, he moans, eye’s sliding shut and then popping open again, like he doesn’t want to miss the show. And, well, if there’s one thing Eddie knows, it’s how to put on a show.

He shifts again, more confident now, tucking his shins closer to Steve’s thighs so he can move more comfortably, he rests one hand at the back of Steve’s neck, leaning in for the kiss and he lifts himself back up. There’s that zing again, that little pop of pleasure that has Eddie huffing a noise into Steve’s mouth.

Eddie’s rhythm is probably pretty slow, and he’s maybe working the end two thirds of Steve’s dick, but it’s just the right place to touch on his prostate on every pass. It’s just the right amount of slippy drag on his hole. The condom is smooth, but Eddie finds himself wanting it gone, he pulls back a tiny bit, watches as Steve licks his lips, Steve’s fingers tightening briefly on Eddie’s hips, “we're going to loose the condoms at some point, right?”

“Yup. Yeah. Lets do that. Get tested.”

Eddie hasn’t been with anyone since he was at the center, he hasn’t been with anyone since he was last tested for everything. But he doesn’t know about Steve, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to ask if Steve’s been with anyone in that time.

It’s not his business, and it feels like the answers going to hurt either way. Eddie puts it out of his mind.

Eddie just crashes his mouth back against Steve’s instead. Steve’s fingers slip to Eddie’s dick; he’s grown hard again at some point, probably those little touches of pleasure he’s been feeling. Steve’s fingers go straight for the base, following the rise and fall of Eddie’s body easily, he massages at the sensitive skin Eddie’s knot will pop from, Steve’s sure fingers encouraging it.

Eddie might be exercising more, but the burn in his thighs is getting pretty real. He doesn’t stop though, taking panting breaths against Steve’s mouth since he doesn’t have the air for real kisses any more. The pleasure helps, gives him something to work for, the feeling of being full of Steve, that little wave of pleasure every time Eddie moves, Steve’s two fingers and thumb, gripping Eddie tight now at the base of his dick, pulsing pressure there right on Eddie’s growing knot.

Eddie looks down; the head of his cock is red, leaking precome all over Steve’s skin. Another fat drop pools in his slit for a second, before a squeeze from Steve’s fingers has his cock twitching and it slides off the end to splat on Steve’s stomach.

“I’m gonna’ come,” Eddie breathes, Steve just makes a noise in answer, and then keeps making it, huffing little noises of pleasure. His head is thrown back, long line of his throat completely exposed to Eddie as Eddie rides his pulsing cock. It’s different, there’s no intense wash of scent with a beta orgasm, no splash of slick or knot to go on. Just Steve, huffing through his orgasm.

Eddie’s knot pops in the tight band of Steve’s fingers and Eddie bites softly at Steve’s shoulder, because god he fucking needs something in his mouth. Needs the feel of Steve between his teeth, and it takes all of his control to keep it light.

Well, it might bruise a little.

Eddie’s orgasm is a pulsing, live thing, his body squeezing and clutching at Steve’s cock desperately. Steve hasn’t even touched the head of his dick, just keeps firm pressure on Eddie’s knot until the final, weak spurts of come drip off the head of his dick.

Eddie sighs, lapping at Steve’s shoulder, relaxing a little.

And then Steve squeezes. Eddie cries out, mouthful of Steve’s flesh, body clenching so hard it pushes Steve’s now softening cock out of his body, making him whine and wriggle on nothing. Another thick spurt of come splatters Steve’s already messy stomach, and Eddie’s left a panting mess in Steve's lap.

“Jesus,” he finally croaks out, body still twitching with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his cock resting in it’s own mess against Steve. It must be a little awkward, but Steve still hasn’t let up the even pressure on his knot, and Eddie settles into the feeling of connection, Steve’s salty sweat addictive on his tongue.

The nice thing about this having sex and being a couple and all that good stuff, is that now Steve is in the bath with Eddie while he washes his hair. Eddie’s glad he went for the silly sized bath really, Steve can comfortably sit behind him, Eddie cradled between Steve’s thick thighs.

Once he’s all washed and rinsed, he lies back, both of them spread out, Steve’s soft cock pressing against the small of Eddie’s back, “how did you know?”

Steve makes an inquiring noise. He sounds sleepy, and Eddie almost feels bad for disturbing him, but it feels important.

“How did you decide I was ready now?”

Steve yawns, “told you, I saw the interview.”

Eddie turns in the water, repositioning so he’s laid out on top of Steve, facing each other. Can’t really resist giving their cocks a little rub together while he’s there, making Steve huff, “yeah, but what about the interview?”

“Oh. Oh, you were helping people. That was...it was kind of the last conclusion I came to, when I was...you know, recovering. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to stay okay if I didn’t...have purpose. If I didn’t do something that felt important. Helping people was...it got me through everything, at the end. Kept me...once I started helping, I knew I’d never go back. Not ever. I knew you’d released the album, and what it was for...obviously I bought a copy, so I was...thinking about it a lot then. Listened to the album a bunch of times...and then I saw you talking about it...and I just knew. I knew it would be okay if I tried.”

“What if I hadn’t called?”

Steve shrugs, “then you didn’t. I’d have...been sad about it, you know but...we’ve got to do the best thing for ourselves, and I had to trust you to know what that was. So I would have taken your answer, no matter what that was,” Steve kisses Eddie’s forehead, “I was just happy for you.”

Eddie nods. Pressing his cheek against the damp hair of Steve’s chest, Eddie rests.