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angellekookie · 1 day ago

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Hate it when a piece of fiction resonates deeply with ne and makes me reflect on my life and stuff 😪

Just kidding I live for that.

Now Aqua, I have thoughts- so many so that I'm not really sure how I'll put them together.

The first is that there's a friend of mine, we talk a lot about writing and how if you look deep enough at what's written, you get to see fractured bits and pieces of the author woven in. Always, it will be there- either in a small, subtle way or something bigger. More obvious, and harder to miss.

This is one of those works.

I absolutely loved the dynamic between Mc and Yoongi. Their care and their caution (but not really? Like the caution was there but less about dancing around the other and more about dancing around themselves? A lot of rambling, sorry😅) that they have for each other, how they understand each other, the barely contained lust- ok full disclosure, it doesn't feel right calling this list between them. Every touch was a conversation, even if they never understood it right away.

There was also some dialogue that I couldn't get over. You published this and honestly I can't even pretend to be casual about it.

Not to get emotional on main, but a lot of the times I get the urge to hide away when I feel like I don't really deserve the love my friends and family would give. The urge to really shut myself away is there constantly, always. But these words felt... idk the assurance? Like the literary version of things I try to remind myself of when I feel like an imposter in a space where logically, I know I don't need to earn.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

“You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

I may have sobbed a little here at this. Thank.

“You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You don't even know how much I needed these words, Aqua Glossdebut, you don't. And thank you.

Like your writing means something just by existing.

"I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.” — full disclosure that this is here becaause i fear i got too emotional on main so we're gonna deflect and say it's solely here for me to say men use to yearn like this *insert men don't yearn meme and a girl staring out the window ✨️wistfully✨️*

An edit cause i couldn't stop thinking about it: But the way MC feels shitty on a Tuesday and is essentially this meme:

But then she gets her good news on Wednesday? Aqua? AQUA?!!!!

Anyways, this was a good read. A great read. Thank you for sharing 🫂

Btw it felt like this to read and also second hug is yours. I know I say it always, but I do mean it always that I'm sending hugs. Please receive with awesomeness.

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that.

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is.

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know.

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit.

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic.

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette.

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine.

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck.

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch.

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy.

“Fuck—”

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely.

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space.

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair.

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long.

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down.

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going.

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence.

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe.

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up.

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter.

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week.

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot.

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option.

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls.

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch.

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst.

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go.

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too.

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands.

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up.

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath.

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is.

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back.

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time.

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine.

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life.

Especially if he’s in it.

✧ shoot me a reply or an ask if you enjoyed this fic! feedback is always appreciated <3 join my taglist if you want to be tagged in future fics!

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mandoalorian · 18 hours ago

Note

Hello, I loved your Ava piece, and I just wanted to request Ava Starr dating hcs with one of her teammates (gn, preferably).

operation: dating ava starr

gender neutral reader x ava starr/ghost

rating: 16+ — no smut but some spice, while keeping it gender neutral of course. <3 thunderbolts* spoilers.

authors note: i’m sorry this took so long. it’s something i kept leaving and coming back to, and worked on over the span of a few weeks. these headcanons sit somewhere between basic headcanons to mini-drabbles. i hope that’s okay. @ava-starrs-girlfriend is a great author to send any future ava requests too, if you wanted some more stuff to read (since i primarily write for bucky) <3

a stolen rooftop moment ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava loves the quality time; it’s her love language. Working together on the New Avengers team is fun, but it’s rare you get alone time with your girlfriend. Ava makes sure the little time you do get, is special, well thought out and worth remembering.

You sat on a hidden rooftop Ava had phased you through, the city’s glow sprawling below. She’d found the spot during a mission and swore it was your secret. That night, she leaned against you, her high-tech Ghost suit faintly humming, and pointed out a constellation. “Never had time to look up before you,” she murmured, her voice soft. You tucked a blanket around her shoulders, and her rare, shy smile warmed you more than the night air.

diner safe haven ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava finds joy in the little things, and you encourage this, knowing it helps her stay grounded. Sometimes, she can feel overwhelmed, but she has a habit of masking her feelings, which is easy to do when she can just disappear within seconds. However, you bring out the best in her and can always tell when the voices in her head are too loud.

You shared a booth in a 24-hour diner, Ava’s favorite after a New Avengers mission. She’d just returned from a covert job, her eyes tired but soft as you slid her a milkshake. She ranted quietly about Yelena’s chaos, then slipped her hand into yours under the table, her thumb tracing circles. “This,” she said, glancing at you, “makes all the bullshit worth it.” You squeezed her hand, heart full.

stargazing ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava has always been transfixed by space— the moon and the stars and the infinite number of galaxies. On clear nights, she takes you to the rooftop of the New Avengers Tower and teaches you a few things you didn’t know. Not just about the universe, but about her. Your universe.

You lay on a blanket on the roof, Ava’s head on your chest as you stargazed. She’d opened up about her parents’ loss, her voice raw from the weight of her past. You brushed a strand of hair from her face, promising you’d always be there. She nestled closer, whispering, “You’re my home.” The stars above felt brighter, knowing you were her safe place.

quantum keepsake ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Whilst Ava enjoys sacred quality time, she also has a habit for gift-giving. But she never gives consumables and it’s always something with a history behind it, or something she knows you’d treasure forever.

One morning, you found a small quantum-tech trinket on your nightstand, glowing softly—Ava’s subtle gift from a mission. She’d phased in while you slept, too shy to give it in person. When you thanked her later, her cheeks flushed, and she mumbled, “Thought you’d like it.” You wore it as a necklace, and her eyes softened every time she saw it against your skin.

movie night ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Bucky, Bob, Alexei, John and Yelena head out for the night, giving you and Ava the perfect excuse for a chill move night in the comfort of your home.

You curled up on the couch for a rare movie night, Ava’s arm around you. She’d been tense, so you paused the film, letting her talk, your fingers laced with hers. She leaned into you, whispering, “You make me feel safe.” You kissed her forehead, holding her until she relaxed, safe in your warmth.

On to more steamy stuff…

post-mission heat ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

After a grueling mission against O.X.E. Group, Ava phased into your apartment, her suit scuffed and hair disheveled. You barely had time to speak before she pinned you against the wall, her lips crashing into yours with a desperate edge. “Missed you,” she whispered, her phasing flickering as she pressed closer, her hands roaming your sides. The heat of her touch lingered long after she pulled back, her smirk promising more.

phased tease ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

One evening, Ava caught you off guard, phasing through your bedroom wall while you changed. Her eyes glinted mischievously as she leaned against the doorframe, suit glowing faintly. “Like what I see,” she teased, stepping closer. You tugged her by the jacket, and she let you pull her onto the bed, her kisses slow and deliberate, each one sparking heat as she phased just enough to keep you chasing her touch.

rooftop tension ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

During a New Avengers press event, Ava phased you away from the chaos to a skyscraper’s roof. Her frustration with the “hero” label boiled over, and she pulled you close, her breath hot against your neck. “You’re the only thing that makes sense,” she growled, kissing you deeply. Her phasing flickered, making your skin tingle as she pressed herself against you, the city below a distant hum.

shower love ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Ava returned from fighting Doctor Doom, adrenaline still coursing through her. She phased you both into your bathroom, steam rising from the shower. “Need you,” she breathed, tugging you under the water. Her hands slid down your back, her kisses fierce yet tender, the warmth of her stabilized body grounding you both. You melted into her, the world outside forgotten.

taste of sweetness ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

One night, Ava’s dry wit turned playful as she phased through your kitchen, stealing a bite of your dessert. You chased her, only for her to pin you against the counter, her eyes dark with intent. “Caught you,” she murmured, her lips brushing your ear before trailing down your jaw. Her hands gripped your hips, her phasing teasingly unstable, leaving you breathless and craving more.

——࣪ ִֶָ☾.——

i hope you enjoyed! <3

#ava starr #ava starr x you #ava starr x reader #thunderbolts #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #hannah john kamen #the new avengers #mcu #marvel #thunderbolts spoilers #ava starr headcanons #ghost headcanons

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wetdeadroses · 2 days ago

Text

Hearts Healed

“This’ll only get worse if you don’t let me do anything,” Law said with an exasperated sigh. “I told you, kid,” Corazon said as he placed a hand on Law’s shoulder, “I’m fine. I’ve always been like this.” His lips spread into a broad smile. “I don’t need a doctor.” Law decides to heal the injuries he found as the source of Cora's clumsiness. Corazon isn't sure how he feels about it.

wc: 2.3k

tags: corazon & trafalgar law, corazon is a heart pirate, mild hurt/comfort, chronic pain mentions, corazon's clumsiness is caused by injuries, corazon and law have just been through so much together

i wrote this piece as part of a trade for @the-red-butterfly and am so pleased to share it here as well! thank you so much for this amazing prompt. i'm so honored to have put this together for you!

read on AO3, if you prefer

Law’s concern for Corazon’s health started with something as small as a passing thought, but like a pebble tossed into a still body of water, that concern rippled and spread over time. He noticed how often Corazon would trip over the same foot, or how his wrist would ever-so-slightly buckle when he was ashing a cigarette. Corazon never complained, so Law let it be. That is, until he saw Corazon wince on his way back up from a fall one day. It was fleeting – a split-second of a furrowed brow and a twitch of his lips -- but Law saw it.

Once Law knew Corazon was in pain, there was nothing he could do to stay quiet about it. When Corazon turned down a check-up, Law tried to inquire more about any major accidents he might have had before they met, but he was met with a brick wall, which only fueled Law’s temper.

Today was no different. Law and Corazon were on the deck of the Polar Tang when he stumbled, nearly launching himself over the railing and into the sea. Law intervened in time, but Corazon landed on the deck with a tumble anyway.

Law supposed that as a doctor, he couldn’t help saying something each time it happened. He struggled to understand why Corazon wouldn’t utilize Law’s medical skills to evaluate the cause of his clumsiness.

“This’ll only get worse if you don’t let me do anything,” Law said with an exasperated sigh.

“I told you, kid,” Corazon said as he placed a hand on Law’s shoulder, “I’m fine. I’ve always been like this.” His lips spread into a broad smile. “I don’t need a doctor.”

Tired of having the same conversation after Corazon’s slips and falls, Law bit his tongue, but not before letting an annoyed tch slip out. There was no denying that Corazon was strong, but over the years, Law felt a breaking point was growing near.

Satisfied with Law’s agreement, Corazon turned away, lighting a cigarette. “Besides, I’m sharper than ever. I feel great!”

“Cora-san!” Almost instantaneously, Corazon’s sleeve caught on fire. Law didn’t miss the precise movement that caused the incident, his eyes watchful of every twitch, every ounce of stiffness.

Once Corazon had been extinguished, Law straightened, adjusting his stature to look Corazon in the eyes. “Why do you brush me off every time I bring this up? Do you not trust me?”

Corazon softened as he held Law’s stare. “Of course I trust you, kid.” He took a drag of his cigarette, which was slightly rumpled in the commotion, and shifted his gaze from Law. “It’s just not worth your time to look into. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Law, you have to let this go.”

Law would not – could not – let it go. He didn’t know how to explain to Corazon why it was so important to him that he took care of himself. His fists tightened. Law wanted to argue, to grab Corazon by the shoulders and shake him until he understood, but he wouldn’t give in.

“After everything you have done for me, you must understand why I can’t do that.”

Corazon stiffened. The slightest hint of surprise played across his features, along with another expression which Law couldn’t place.

“Please, Cora-san. Let me help,” Law pleaded. “At least let me get to a diagnosis.”

Corazon’s silence stretched over the Polar Tang toward the never-ending blue horizon. It wore so thin that Law wanted to gasp for air, but he held firm, allowing the space for Corazon to listen, to understand what Law was truly saying.

“A diagnosis,” Corazon finally drawled, tasting the idea between his lips, a tendril of smoke quivering in response. “Fine. But don’t waste too much of your time on this, kid. I don’t want you distracted from your dream.”

. . .

The sick bay was frigid and meticulously organized. Some referred to it as an extension of Law himself, although the captain believed that was a superficial statement, and that the bay was specifically designed for efficiency and safety. Cold as it was, Law felt a bead of sweat roll down his back as he explained the examinations he would perform on Corazon.

“First, I’m going to test your range of motion, and follow with an X-ray,” Law explained to Corazon, who sat awkwardly on the exam table. “I’d also like a more thorough understanding of your medical history.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You’re telling me you have no idea what kind of medical conditions you’ve had in the past? Injuries? Anything?” Law took a step toward Corazon. Corazon shifted away from him.

“I couldn’t possibly begin to list my injuries,” Corazon said, pursing his lips. “I didn’t exactly keep track of them.”

Law supposed that wasn’t entirely out of character for Corazon, considering his colorful past. “Fine.” He motioned to the open space of the sick bay. “Stand up.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, at least for this first part. I’ll have you practice a few movements on your own. If I see any signs of limitation or pain, we’ll do some assisted movements.”

Corazon’s face grew flushed as he bent and stretched as per Law’s instructions. When the exercises switched to his legs, Corazon was sweating with concentration. Before he could complete the first movement, he stumbled.

Law used his shoulder to brace Corazon, guiding him back to his feet. “That’s enough standing for now.”

Corazon shrugged Law off of him the instant he regained his balance. “I’m fine.”

Law’s brow creased, a retort crawling up his throat, but something in Corazon’s expression stopped him in his tracks. He rarely avoided looking at Law when they spoke, but Corazon had been looking in any direction except his since they started. He seemed… guarded, in a way that Law hadn’t quite seen before.

Law cleared his throat, softening, as Corazon returned to his seat on the exam bed. “You don’t have to be,” he murmured. “If you’re not.”

Some weight came off Corazon’s shoulders — ever so slightly, but he was lighter all the same — as he registered what Law was saying. “It’s that obvious, is it?” Corazon chuckled.

“That’s not what I meant,” Law argued. He wasn’t necessarily known for his bedside manner. But for Cora, he would try. “I was trying to say that if you’re nervous or if you’re in pain, then you can tell me. I’m not here to judge you.”

Corazon stared at Law, taken aback. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so he closed it again. Law’s words merely hung in the air, wrapping around Corazon in a considerate embrace.

“Just don’t hide it anymore, okay?” The words came out with more gentleness than Law planned.

Law’s surprise at his own voice must have been all over his face, because a hearty laugh poured out of Corazon, straight from his chest. He could only stand there, clenching his fists as Cora’s eyes watered with roaring howls of entertainment.

“Alright, doctor,” Corazon said as his laughter faded. “Let’s keep going.”

With minimal complaints, Corazon allowed Law to manipulate the joints in his legs, from hip to ankle. He couldn’t help but twitch a few times at the strange sensation.

“Do any of these movements hurt?” Law asked.

Corazon pondered the question as Law bent one of his knees. “It feels the same as it always does.”

Law stiffened. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes,” Cora sighed.

After gently releasing Corazon’s leg, Law turned away, considering. “Let’s move on to your X-ray.”

After giving Corazon instructions and calling upon his devil fruit ability, Law performed the X-ray, studying the bones and joints throughout his body. He nearly bit his tongue as he took in the sight of it. It was a map of every damage Cora could ever have taken - and it was… a lot.

Law’s thoughts tripped one over the other. How could Cora have ended up like this? Nothing in his imagination would have aligned with Cora's countless injuries.

His eyes fixated on one particular deformity on Rosinante’s left tibia. It was clear that the bone had broken at least twice, and the breaks had obviously healed incorrectly. There were similar cases in several areas of Cora’s body. What concerned him more was the scar tissue that seemed to have encased countless areas, especially in his joints.

Law’s hand twitched. He knew Cora had a higher threshold for withstanding pain, but this… He hadn’t the words to describe what it must be like to live in this state. Why didn’t you tell me? All these years, Law could have helped.

“Tell you what?” Cora said, his hushed voice riddled with concern.

The question hung in the room, turning the air stale as Law realized his thoughts escaped him. Law clenched a fist before releasing it with a sigh. It would do more harm than good to go after Corazon for hiding his struggle. It mattered more that they were dealing with it now.

“Nothing,” Law breathed. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

Corazon eyed Law momentarily, as if sensing the hesitation Law had worked through. He couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious after the examination, but he was more grateful for Law’s patience than anything.

He took a breath, steadying himself, before standing. “I need a smoke.”

. . .

The waters carrying the Polar Tang were choppy, each ripple and movement glistening in the afternoon sun. Corazon sat before Law as he took long drags of a cigarette, his expression unreadable.

Law figured it would be most efficient to get straight to the facts. This part, he was reasonably certain about. “Your diagnosis is straightforward. You have several fractures that did not heal in the correct alignment, which impedes your balance, gait, and other aspects of your mobility.”

Corazon merely watched the water in the distance, motionless.

“The reason I describe it as straightforward is that it is a relatively simple process to repair. Then, there will be an adjustment period in which you will need to strengthen your body to adapt to the new formation of the bones.” Having completed his summary, Law shifted his weight, assessing Corazon’s reaction.

“Doesn’t sound simple to me,” Corazon muttered on an exhale. “Sounds like you’d be spending far too much time cleaning up a mess that isn’t yours.”

“Just because it isn’t mine, doesn’t mean it isn’t worth helping. You don’t have to carry this burden alone,” Law sighed. “We’re in this together, don’t you know that?”

Corazon’s eyes shone as he considered. Yes, they’d been to the end of the world and back, and Corazon would do it again to save Law, but it felt like a different experience to receive that care in return. Selfish, even.

Before Corazon could try and wiggle his way out of Law’s care, Law smiled at him, as bright as the rays of sunshine cascading down on him. “You won’t have to live in pain anymore, Cora-san.”

Ah, that was it. The joy of Law’s peace of mind was worth a thousand times more than Cora was about to undergo. That singular missing piece fell into place as he pictured Law with one fewer worry, one less fear. Corazon couldn’t help but give whatever it took to make that happen.

“You never give up, do you, kid?” Corazon chuckled. “When do we start?”

. . .

The procedure went exactly as Law said it would - it took several hours of operation to fully mend each old fracture; and simple didn’t necessarily mean easy, but they only needed to go through this once. One procedure, and a journey through recovery, but Corazon and Law would not have to do it again.

Several months passed after Corazon’s surgery, and he could not deny the immense relief he felt. While he still struggled with his hand mobility at times, he was able to walk on inclines without the wobbly feeling in his steps, and that was a major shift in how he experienced the world.

Teaching his body to move all over again was no easy feat, and he often felt far more vulnerable than he had been in his old clumsiness. Ultimately, while there were “great” days, there were ones where the frustration of learning how to use his body got to him. Again, he was startled to find that he was met with compassion.

Today was much the same. The crew had just finished breakfast, and Law had sat with Corazon to talk while Corazon had his post-meal smoke.

“How are you feeling today?” Law had asked.

Corazon struggled with his lighter once, twice, three times, before the spark caught. “Fine,” he mumbled.

“Did you do your hand exercises this morning?”

Cora strained to avoid Law’s knowing look - the one that said don’t lie or I’ll know. “I’ll do them later.”

“That’s what you said yesterday,” Law pointed out. “And now you’re paying for it.”

Corazon groaned. “It’s not getting any easier.”

“Improvement isn’t linear,” Law grumbled. “It won’t always feel like you’re improving, but you must keep going. If you stop when you think you’ve hit the ceiling, you’ll never know if it could be better.”

“Is this how you felt when you were a kid?” The thought had just occurred to Corazon.

“What, you mean feeling like I was relentlessly pushed to work hard and get better by some crazy person, even though I didn’t always want to?” Law gave him a mirthful grin. “All the time.”

“Damn,” Corazon muttered. There was no getting out of it then - not when Law gave him the benefit of the doubt all those years ago.

Cora supposed he was lucky; luckier than he ever thought he could have been, to have taken a chance on a kid who deserved better. As it turns out, they both did.

#corazon donquixote #donquixote rosinante #corazon #cora #trafalgar law #trafalgar d water law #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law fanfiction #corazon fanfiction #one piece rosinante #op rosinante #rosinante corazon #one piece law #tor writes

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javierduffy · 4 months ago

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I have been having... a very bad day. Any spare fluffy headcanons for the boys? (and maybe some nsfw ones if you're up to it-)

ohh no my dear helena !!! its unfortunate that you’re having a rough day today :( remember that everything is temporary and that this day, like every other hard day before (and all following after), will pass in its own time.

i can absolutely spare some fluff ! that’s all i’ve got !

• javier goes to bed at about the same time that kieran is waking up every morning, right before dawn, and it’s a common occurrence that he will forget to untie his hair before laying down for bed, especially after a long night of guard duty. kieran will notice every time, and knows himself how easily long hair can get matted, so he will beckon javier over so that he can untie his bow. usually, he’ll also take the time to run his fingers through javier’s hair to detangle it as well, so that he’s even less likely to wake up to knots. javier adores it, teetering with the weight of his head and leaning hard into kieran’s legs on each side of his shoulders- sometimes kieran will even indulge himself in giving javier a head massage. javier never sleeps better, and coincidentally, he began forgetting to take his hair down a lot more after moving out to clemen’s point ….

• javier snuck kieran his first bowl of pearson’s stew after ‘making a social call’. john kicked kieran off his horse at the entrance of camp and javier watched as the latter dredged himself through the brush to what would become his usual resting place behind the rock by the horses. he looked miserable, dead on his feet, and javier knew by then he’d been weeks without a meal. he was a dirty, disloyal, unholy traitor of an o’driscoll, but something about his sunken eyes, the shake in his hand as he lit his first cigarette as a free man again- likely to quell off the hunger- it urged javier to act in a way that he’d never felt before. javier could kill a man in cold blood easier than he could stand to watch fear starve a man even after his hands are free to reach for the bowl. the study for learned helplessness in psychology will come years later, but javier understands himself now through watching kieran’s instinctual desire to survive be beat out of him by the gang javier dedicates his life to. with a healthy amount of spite to himself, he scoops a heaping amount of fresh stew into the cleanest bowl he can find, and sets out to add a fresh layer of flesh to kieran’s prominent bones.

• following this, cooking for kieran is one of javier’s favourite things to do when they get together. javier will cook for him traditional mexican dishes from home (as best he can. both with his limited skills and also with his limited accessibility to the proper ingredients. (probably for the best that he can’t get authentic chili peppers from home and has to use a less spicy chili native to this northern climate. kieran does okay with spice but it isn’t in his genetics to truly have a high tolerance.)) and not only will it be an unknown love language from javier, to feed kieran and make sure he is full, but it will also be a love language from kieran, to let javi share a piece of home with him.

• ^ also applies to modern au javieran ! javier loves cooking, and especially for kieran. they would cook together, but kieran struggles to cook with other people in the room, and javier gets so absorbed in it that he’d likely be running into kieran or otherwise being unhelpful in aiding in making sure the dish is being cooked correctly because he’s too Locked In to guide kieran LOL but they’re more happy to simply keep each other company, anyway. kieran on the counter/table/floor, watching javier sing and dance to the music he’s blasting from their speaker. cue dancing in the kitchen when the love songs come on (here’s a good one (rip javier escuella you would have loved dannylux)). the parallel play and quality time with these two is off the charts

• come mid/late clemens point, the way javieran make most of their money for the camp is by going on days-long fishing dates, laughing and laying close to one another in the grass under a tree on the riverbank in the shroud of darkness. they come back to camp flushed as all get out but with stacks of cash in their hands wadded up so thick no one dares to ask where it came from. kieran will get excited at even the smallest of fish, perking up and sharing/asking javier for tidbits on the species. they never miss a bite, either. one time one of the bells on their bobber rods rang once and they both broke out of a very hot and heavy make-out sesh so fast that javier tripped on kieran and nearly broke both of their wrists. they laughed so hard about it, javier was certain that by the time he arrived to his rod, the fish had already successfully ripped the bait off of his hook. he reeled in a boot, at the end of it all. he never lives it down.

• kieran is ambidextrous, and javier is fascinated by it. javier stumbled upon kieran writing on one rare occasion, and noticed immediately that he was writing with his left. “left handed, huh ?” kieran cocks his head at him in thought. javier wonders why on earth he would have to stop and think about a question like that. “uhh, not really ?” well, now javier is simply confused. “right, then ? is something wrong with your dominant hand ?” “um … no, that’s not it either …” and at this point, javier is demanding kieran explain what the hell he’s talking about, and why he’s pulling a prank on him. cue kieran explaining and javier making him do all kinds of silly “tests” like writing, shooting, playing guitar (as if kieran is going to any better with either when neither of them can do it right to begin with) because he finds it so cool.

• modern au kieran gets overstimulated incredibly easily, so he’s got a pair of noise canceling over-ear headphones that he often wears to dampen sensory input and ground himself when there’s a lot going on. when it’s cleaning day, generally no matter what he’s doing, he HAS to wear his headphones. javier is left to dodge him the same way he has to dodge the cats when they’re weaving in and out of between his feet. it also leaves him to dance to his own tunes when kieran suddenly swoops or sways or dips him to the music only he can hear- though just as often, javier will catch kieran dancing by himself and he will simply be unable not to join him, even though he can’t hear what it is he’s dancing to. as overwhelming as they can be, cleaning days for javieran somehow always end up feeling more like a date than anything.

• on a similar note, kieran also wears his headphones to bed, and listens to asmr/white noise to sleep. the pressure helps him feel safe, and the silence of a room makes him anxious. he also has a terrible bedhead and rbf in the morning. both of these things javier finds incredibly charming, and if he ever does wake up when/before kieran does (incredibly rare), this is his pov (right before he tries to kiss kieran’s face off and gets shoved away with a sleepy giggle that only bolsters his aggression);

nsfw under the cut !

and how could i resist a chance to finally talk about this ;3€ ?? i’ll try to keep them fluffy !

(context, i hc both of them as tguys usually (though im content with writing javier as amab too), with both of them being absolute, unabashed switches. they have little preferences anywhere in terms of bottoming/topping, though kieran has a preference for subbing, and javier has no qualms with domming more frequently.)

• as much raunchy, animalistic sex that javieran have, they have double as much slow, loving, tender sex. and most times between, they��re having raunchy, loving, animalistic sex.

• javi loves to turn kieran’s brain off, he loves more than anything to make kieran feel so overwhelmingly pleasured that he forgets everything that ever has, ever could, or ever will happen to him. nothing gets javier off quite like seeing the face of bliss kieran makes when all he can think about is javier’s mouth/hands/cock working overtime just to make him feel good.

• both of them i think are quite vocal when they’re able to be, and kieran tends to be vocal whether he’s supposed to be or not. both of them often dissolve into whimpers and “i love you”s and praise like “you feel/sound/taste so good” by the end. their love for each other has a carnal grasp on every aspect of their sex lives as well <3 so they’re always speaking so sweetly to each other, even if the way they growl it seems violent

• javier LOVES love bites. he loves to mark kieran up and he especially loves to bite and lick and suck on his neck, not only because of the primal aspect of his jugular being so close (as well as the warmth of his pulse thrumming against his mouth), but also because it arouses kieran to the point of making him shiver nearly every time. javier has permission to bite him hard, but it’s pretty rare that he ever does, and it’s only late into their relationship does javier feel like it will be more pleasure for him than it would just be pain. sometimes he can’t help it though, he’ll get so worked up that he just latches on and the way that kieran tightens around him is mind-numbing.

• unironically i think kieran is a GREAT soft dom, and that is something that javier generally had never experienced prior to getting with kieran. javi thinks it’s hot to be man-handled and roughed up, and kieran can do his very best (despite the constant guilt and fear) if javier is really feeling it, but where he really excels is soft domming. once the nerves melt off, he’s so gentle with javier that it makes the latter’s skin hot all over. constantly praising him, cooing at him, asking him nicely, rewarding him for good behavior, all the while touching him oh-so-gently, it all makes javier feel so awkward but so, so good. kieran makes him feel so loved and worshipped that the world in which he has anything to question simply just fades away, and all he has to think about is doing what meager tasks kieran asks of him.

• they find so much peace in each other’s bodies. in every rib and wrinkle and sunspot, these two will spend hours simply exploring and enjoying the body of the other in whatever the closest form of “privacy” they can manage to acquire. turns out, kieran has sunspots all over him. turns out, javier has a keloid scar on the back of his bicep. turns out, kieran has a mole on his scalp right where his part is (this is canon btw i saw it once when i was studying him in photo mode like a specimen in a petri dish), and javier has back dimples, and kieran’s ribs stutter and dance beautifully when he laughs, and the flex of javier’s thighs warps his skin like a marble statue. javier escuella and kieran duffy love like artists, and they spend hours just learning and looking and studying each other, like a painter with his muse, like a writer with his words, like the last things they want to see while they’re dying are all the hours they spent learning the beauty of the other.

i could honestly come up with more but it would never leave my drafts, so i hope u like these that i came up with as quick as i could :’) ! i hope you’re feeling better and have gotten some good rest !! thank you for the ask !!!!!

#thank you for always coming to chat with me :’) especially on a hard day. i hope you know you are appreciated no matter how you feel and #that you do good things for people’s lives every day. even if you don’t know it or notice or if they don’t tell you. your existence inherent #ly makes the world a better place #and i can say that with confidence because you do it for me every time you come to say hello or share my love for javieran :’) i do hope #you’re feeling much better today ! i apologize for this post taking so long. i struggle a lot with coming up with things without prompt and #i also had a friend over so it took me a little while to come up with anything i thought was worth reading about !#i love them :’) thank you for giving me the chance to talk about them a bit ! i need to actually write them soon …….. they are so special to #me waugh #i usually have lots to say in the tags but i truly used the entirety of my last braincell for this so that’s all i’ve got for now </3 #i love you ! be well ! make sure you’re eating and drinking lots of water !!!#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #kieran duffy #javier escuella #javieran #text #art #kinda i guess #hero draws sometimes #hero more like shakespeare #hero’s javier #hero’s kieran #hero’s javieran #ask #hero's yelling at folks again #galacta-phantasma #i think that’s it. lord. now i’m going to run on the treadmill for 10 hours ! bye !

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magicalbats · 3 months ago

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No idea if im the anon who sent the Sunday ask but either way the fic was...phew, I almost teared up from sheer need, visualising it. I feel like a perverted old man with him (im a woman). If I were to put into words everything I wanted to do to that man, i'd immediately get vaporised by some holy force.

Thank you for the meal. The characterisation is so spot on imo, like yeah that man has definitely never touched his dick due to his immense religious guilt. Also he's so cute in this I want to scream. The wings fluttering when hes shy or felt irritated by the nickname and questions... Kill me... I need to bully him so bad.

Thank you, anon, thank you … you’re so preaching to the choir (heh) as I too want nothing more than to bully him. Lovingly. Sweetly. Tenderly. There’s just something about the Catholic guilt that really elevates it to the next level imo. I want to turn this soggy little guy inside out. sndmfnxnxxnak

#I can’t get enough of him #and I’m very glad you liked the fic by the way 🫶🥹#thanks for giving it a read and sharing your thoughts with me as always I greatly appreciate it

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joelsgoldrush · 7 months ago

Text

“epiphany” | 21k

worst!logan howlett x f!reader

SUMMARY: Superheroes and mutants weren’t enough. No—the universe had to throw in soulmates who share scars. Fantastic, right? Except yours had vanished, only to mysteriously reappear with the arrival of a new face: the “Worst” Logan Howlett, fresh from another earth.

OR What happens when a hopeless romantic crosses paths with the ultimate soulmate skeptic?

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ strangers to lovers. drinking. cursing. slow burn. angst. pining. mentions of alcohol. fluff. reflecting on the art of writing/poems/books. dual POV. takes place after the events of “deadpool & wolverine”. TW: multiple descriptions of scars. worst/variant!logan. implied age gap (reader’s in her late 20s). they’re both touch starved. wade’s everyone’s friend. miscommunication/misunderstandings. oral sex (f and m receiving). fingering, grinding. some slight hair pulling. unprotected p in v, creampie. sex with feelings.

A/N: HOPELESS ROMANTICS RISE! here we go again with another long ass fic. this is a soulmates AU in which you get your soulmate’s scars. if you feel triggered by this topic, please refrain from reading. i had a lot of fun writing this even though it took me a while to get it done. thanks to @lubdubology for being my beta and allowing me to share my work with you. and also thanks to @brushworth for giving me the chance to write this. having said this, enjoy the story! i’d love to know your thoughts on it <3

Love giveth and love taketh away.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

If it weren’t for love, you wouldn’t be here. No one would, actually. Human beings are the result of billions of people who loved each other just enough—or at least long enough to bring life into the world.

But isn’t it in the name of love that people act in bad faith? Why would something so pure be used in vain?

You don’t get it, but as the years go by, you slowly come to terms with the idea that perhaps you never will. Not because there isn’t a reason, but because you’re in love with the idea of love.

How could you not be? It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up.

Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

It had always been a relentless race, your only worry being to catch it before time ran out. But with each day that passed, the finish line only stretched further and further away. Now, they all blur together, to the point where you live and breathe on autopilot.

In a Jane Austen novel, you’d be considered a lone woman. That character who’s nice, and kind, and loved by some, but not in the way she yearns for. Every time she’s mentioned, you go “Oh, the poor girl,” until the slow realization dawns.

In reality, she’s you, and it’s you who you feel sorry for, not a fictional character. You.

All in all, love giveth. And love also taketh away.

Love maketh you miserable.

Soulmates—a nine-letter word that holds so much meaning.

It’s one of those words that you learn early in your life, one you hear at home or on the TV. Your parents never fail to mention it if given the chance. The first time you’re introduced to the topic is at school when you're older, a bit more self-conscious, and no longer preoccupied with picking your nose.

“Everybody has a soulmate. And no,” your teacher had added after a pause, already anticipating the inevitable questions from any curious 10-year-old, “there isn’t such a thing as not having one. We all do. You just have to search for them.”

Back then, that had been your favorite game—always keeping an eye open, scanning the crowd more than once in new places. You knew for sure that more than one person probably thought you’d strained your neck from all the times you glanced over your shoulder.

It must be pretty obvious now, the fact that you’re—well, alone. Saying ‘without a companion’ sounds quite outdated. They can’t see through you, but something in the way you walk or speak must give it away.

Or is it the fact that you always ask for a table for one?

“Are you expecting someone else?” A waitress approaches you, her tone gentle as she makes sure you’re on your own. A small notebook dangles from her slender fingers, and your eyes catch the name stitched onto her apron: Emily.

The response you give her is on the verge of sounding automatic, robotic even, like one of those prerecorded messages busy people leave on their phones. “No. Just me.”

She nods, and you feel the sympathy in her gaze. You’ve mastered the art of recognizing that look—the one hovering between concern and pity.

Of course, people rarely voice it, but they’ll never know their eyes sometimes say more than they think.

As she jots down your order, you’re met with the ring on her left hand. Very pretty, very shiny. Very expensive as well. Your attention must linger on it a little too long, because she catches you staring, making you feel exposed.

Emily—you decide to call her that way from now on, because once you know her name, it feels odd to address her as the waitress—offers you a shy smile.

“I’m getting married next month,” she blurts out, happiness radiating from her pores. Her eyes glint like two lanterns in a starless night. She also looks younger than you, and the abrupt silence forces you to pinch your wrist, a reminder of the fact that this is a conversation, and not just something you're overhearing.

“Congratulations,” you manage to reply, returning the smile. If she saw how your expression faltered the second she walked away, you wonder if she’d still think you were so amiable.

Sometimes, your façade slips—you can’t help it. That’s what the ‘hopeless’ in ‘hopeless romantic’ stands for.

Some minutes later, she comes back with your coffee, and you catch another glimpse of the ring as it twinkles in front of you. Envy doesn’t suit you, so you shift your focus.

Taking out your laptop, you scroll through the latest headlines. This is your attempt at acting more like an adult and less like a girl in her mid-twenties who has no clue what she’s doing.

One article stands out from the rest: Hollywood Actress Divorces Loving Husband of 25 Years to Pursue Presumed Soulmate. “I saw his scars and knew he was the one.”

Interesting. You can’t help but feel sorry for the displaced husband, though.

“Good for you,” you mutter under your breath, clicking the link to read more. There’s a picture of the actress and her new boyfriend that makes you stop dead in your tracks: they’re smiling at each other, their faces close, noses almost touching, while they show off their matching scars—the unmistakable sign that they’re, in fact, soulmates.

Soulmates, superheroes, mutants. It all sounds like a whole lot, doesn’t it? Overwhelming, to say the least. One thing’s for sure—you’ll never get bored in this world.

But, hey! Don’t forget that there are multiple universes out there. Maybe in one of them, you’re not this pathetic.

Why are you being so hard on yourself? That’s not even the point. Shaking your head, you keep glancing at their scars—they’re identical, perfect mirrors of one another. The kind of scars that only two destined souls share.

Their happiness is evident, tangible. You can feel it by just eyeing the image. It’s a bitter sensation that metamorphoses into a warmth, which heavily spreads through your chest, filling up every empty space it finds.

To say you understand that feeling would be a downright lie. And you may be many things, but a pathological liar is not one of them.

As if on cue, you duck your head, rolling up the sleeves of your jacket. You do the same with your shirt, foolishly hoping to find something other than smooth, unmarked skin.

No scars. No marks. No sign of a soulmate, of a lover. In the world you inhabit—this universe full of the most inexplicable things—you’re alone.

Without a second thought, you pack your things, shoving them rapidly into your bag. The cafe feels too little and too large all at once, the walls closing on you.

The rest of the customers are looking at you. Fuck, they already noticed it—you can’t escape it.

Have they? Do you think they see you like you see yourself? The lone woman who writes poems for an addressee who will never read them?

In silence, you hand Emily the money for your coffee. You fear that if you open your mouth, a cry will come out, and that’s the last thing you need today. She gives you that look again—pity laced with sorrow, the one you despise. It burns.

At that moment, a man walks in, passing right by you. You see his face, his green eyes, and the way his lips curl into a grin as he greets Emily.

The scar on her forehead, which you'd missed before, mirrors the one on his.

They are soulmates.

It’s on the streets, on the bus, at work. Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is.

She wishes you a nice morning as you leave the cafe. Little does she know you’ll spend the rest of the day locked in your apartment, mourning someone you never even met.

Until the day you lost them, you wore your scars with pride.

They were scattered across your stomach, back, chest, and even your legs and arms. Some were shallow, others deep. It never occurred to you—the thought that they belonged in the shadows, hidden.

Everyone has them, you thought as you stood in front of the mirror, running your fingers along their jagged paths. I just seem to have more than most people.

Over the years, you might have changed your hairstyle or the way you dressed, but your scars never did—they’d always been there, and they were yours.

Partly yours, of course, since you knew they belonged to your soulmate as well.

The older you grew, the more you realized having a good memory was both a gift and a curse. You still remembered that moment so vividly—when you found out that somebody out there was meant for you and only you.

A point of no return, that’s what it’d been. From that day on, not a single one went by without you imagining the first encounter with your Prince Charming.

In the meantime, you dated. A few boyfriends came and went during and after high school, mostly as practice for the real thing, you’d told yourself.

God, you were determined to know everything. To be the best girlfriend ever, so that when you finally met him, he’d be over the moon.

At the age of seventeen, it sounded like a brilliant plan.

You never knew how, but your life became that meantime. All your friends began to find their soulmates: in the supermarket, while traveling, at the goddamn doctor’s office.

Everybody was fulfilling the purpose you’d been taught humans were made for—everyone but you.

The scars multiplied, yet he was nowhere to be seen, remaining out of reach. Your soulmate’s whereabouts were a mystery. What the hell does he do in his free time? was something you used to often ponder. Is he suffering? Does he need help?

“Be patient, give it some time. The less you seek, the more you’ll find,” your mother would say, trying to sound encouraging. Although she was trying to do her best, that phrase alone had the power to make you go nuts.

Be patient? Waiting was all you’d been doing. What was so wrong with you that he seemed to be hiding from you? You didn’t want to wait any longer, no—you wanted to find him. If it meant traveling to Italy like your cousin had to meet her husband, then so fucking be it.

Many nights, sleep eluded you. Lying wide awake, staring at the ceiling, you’d imagine what life with him would be like. What he would look like. You were certain that no matter his appearance, you’d think he was beautiful.

Wasn’t that the whole point of soulmates—that the bond you two shared transcended physical attraction?

Nevertheless, you secretly wished he’d have brown hair. He didn’t need to know, but you had a weakness for brunettes.

On the night of your twenty-second birthday, you were getting ready for the big event when every trace of your scars disappeared.

The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower’s stream, and as you wiped it clean with the palm of your hand, the image you saw reflected on the glass made your stomach do a flip.

There were no scars. No marks. Nothing. At first, you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you—it couldn’t be. Scars didn’t just vanish. It was impossible.

But as you lowered your gaze, tracing your limbs again and again, the truth hit you. The marks you knew by heart, the ones that reminded you, He’s out there, somewhere, were gone.

You felt it deep in your chest, too. Every sound seemed louder and clearer: the blood rushing through your veins, each shaky breath you took. Where are they? Your fingers dug into your flesh, intending to ground yourself.

Is he… dead? It was the only reasonable explanation, the rule you’d known all along. You’d read it countless times, memorizing the principles about scars.

The scream that tore from your throat brought your mother running upstairs, and she entered the bathroom with a horrified expression on her face.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” she asked, but your mind was already far away. Your whole body shuddered in her arms, a sob slipping past your lips as you crumbled to the floor, desperately hoping it was all a nightmare. “It must be a mistake, honey. I’m sure he’s okay.”

But he’s not, you wanted to tell her. The words, however, never formed—only a broken whimper escaped your lips. Isn’t that what we were taught? Our scars belong to our soulmates; they bind us to them in a way that simple words can’t explain.

It goes deeper than the skin. It delves into our bodies, our minds, reaching into the very essence of who we are. What was once his is also mine, but they’re gone.

He’s gone. He must be, because otherwise, how would you explain this void?

When one’s soulmate passes away, that person will notice the disappearance of their scars. The physical marks that once symbolized their connection fade, leaving no trace. This absence is accompanied by a distinct, unsettling sensation—an awareness of loss that goes beyond the physical, signaling the end of the bond.

A part of you died with him that day.

The first time you exchanged words with Wade Wilson, you thought he was a total dick.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t know him—not when he was so infamous for that mouth of his. Deadpool: the self-proclaimed superhero with a vocabulary that was 90% profanity, who made cracking jokes while fighting the bad guys look easy.

Super funny? Sure. But not exactly your cup of tea when all you wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed.

He was apparently long retired from superheroing. No one had seen that red, sex-toy-looking suit in ages, which was why you were only mildly surprised as you spotted him hauling boxes into your building on a Tuesday afternoon.

It was late, and you weren’t in the mood for small talk. He’d been there barely a week, yet somehow, he’d already managed to fuck things up.

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing the crease between your brows. “Look, Wally—”

“It’s pronounced Wade,” he corrected you, trying to edge his face further into the gap between the door and its frame, though you didn’t let your guard down. “You’re pretty rude, you know that?”

“I’ve been up for twenty-four hours, and I need to sleep,” you groaned, trying to push him away with one hand. Technically, he wasn’t even asking for something that complicated—he wanted to use your microwave to heat his dinner, since his had decided to stop working out of the blue.

The thing was that you’d had the kind of week that felt like a one-way trip to hell, an important detail he wasn’t aware of. “Go ask someone else. I can’t do charity tonight.”

“You’re the only one who answered,” he said, pressing his palms together in a pleading gesture, his lips curling into a heartbreaking pout. “Please, my lovely neighbor, whose name I don’t know. You wouldn’t want me to starve to death, would you?

“I thought you couldn’t die.” You raised an eyebrow, half-interested.

Wade’s arms dropped to his sides, his eyes drifting downward. “And I thought kindness wasn’t extinct, but here we are.” He spun on his heel, acting defeated and dragging his feet like a scolded puppy. “Can’t believe this is what the world’s come to. I’m sure the Bible says something about treating others how you’d want to be treated.”

Why. Just… why? Some cosmic, divine force from beyond might have been testing you that night.

“Wait,” you croaked just as he was about to step into his apartment—which was literally three meters from yours. His face lit up, expecting you to continue, and you moved aside slightly, signaling him in. “Five minutes and you’re out, okay? I really need to get some rest.”

The rest was history. Wade was just standing there, mesmerized by your microwave as if he’d never seen one before.

You could only hear the faint buzzing sound of the gadget, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the counter. He was humming a tune while shaking his head to the beat.

You tried to focus, replaying the guided meditation you sometimes followed to sleep in your mind.

Allow yourself to feel the stillness of this moment. Notice your breath slowing as your body begins to calm. Be the observer of your breath, flowing in and out naturally, as your lungs—

Yeah, it wasn’t working.

“Please, stop it,” you eventually told Wade, whose gaze shifted from the microwave to you, brows furrowed.

“And why’s that?”

“They say it’s bad for your eyes,” you explained, recalling a half-forgotten news report you’d heard on the TV. Whether it was a myth or not, you’d never know. “I believe it’s because of the radiation exposure.”

Leaning back on the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest. “At this point, I think I’m safe. You, on the other hand… maybe not so much,” he nearly whispered that last part, and your desire to strangle him grew stronger.

Save me, mindfulness, you thought to yourself.

He jerked his thumb toward the pile of papers and books you had on your kitchen table. “So, you’re a writer?”

“Editor, in reality,” you snapped, your eyelids twitching as you watched him leaf through your stuff. “Wade, don’t touch my things.”

“Sorry, can’t help myself. I’m very curious.” Flashing you a quick grin, he opened your notebook, squinting his eyes as he went through the pages. “But you write too, huh? I’m discovering plenty of material here.”

The bastard. “Give. It. Back,” you snarled, lunging at him and trying to snatch the notebook from his hands, but he was faster, raising it out of reach. “I hope your food explodes in that microwave, asshole.”

“Oh, right. I forgot about it,” he snorted, tossing the notebook onto the couch and retrieving his dinner instead. You stared at him in disbelief, opening your mouth to scold him, but nothing came out. Then, there he was, standing in front of you with his plate and a fork.

Wait. Was that your fork?

“It’s hot, I’ll give you that.” He blew on his food to cool it down, and as he glanced up, he was met with your murderous glare. “Whoa. Want some? You could’ve just asked me. No need to get so angry.”

Calling it a desire to kill him would’ve been an understatement. And the worst part? He couldn’t die. “You’ve got what you needed. Now, can you leave?”

“How long’s it been since you talked to another human being?”

You blinked, feeling the sudden urge to look around, half expecting a hidden camera. “Why do you always answer with another question?”

“All I’m saying is I’ve been meaning to talk to you for days now, but you’re practically living the hermit life,” he said between bites of chicken, excusing himself briefly to chew. “That robe you’re wearing? It’s had the same stain on it since I moved in. Also, your doormat’s buried under a mountain of newspapers, so either you really love trees, or you’ve been avoiding any sort of social interaction.”

If he had been wrong, you would’ve felt much better. But he… wasn’t, and it sucked.

“I feel like I should be scared,” you mumbled after a long stretch of silence, your eyes going round.

Wade did no more than laugh at your troubled expression. “Scared of me? That’s cute. I’m a nice guy, sweet pea. Persistent, sure, but I’ve got a knack for getting under people’s skin,” he said, grinning through a mouthful of food—which, for the sake of your sanity, you chose to ignore.

After he had finished eating, he let the fork fall into the sink, the metal striking against the surface with a piercing echo, making you jump. He stretched his arms with a satisfied yawn, and he seemed determined to leave you alone. “Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, following his movements as he ambled toward the door. “Are you telling me your microwave does work?”

“Oh, you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” Wade patted your head, ruffling your hair like you were a puppy who had just learned a new trick. “Good night, peanut.”

From that moment on, the two of you became inseparable. Your personalities clicked in a way you’d never experienced before with any other friend. Wade was loyal to a fault, and he treated you like the little sister he had never had.

Most importantly, he didn’t pity you—he saw you for who you were, not just someone marked by a lost soulmate. You never told him how much that meant to you, but deep down, you were grateful.

Which brings you to the present day. You’ve been friends with him for over a year, and he’s taken every chance to introduce you to his “weird but lovable” (his words, not yours) group of friends.

“Check your social anxiety at the door, thank you,” he’d tell you every time he hosted a get-together and you were invited.

Somehow, you had managed to bond with them—especially Althea, his elderly roommate, who occasionally forgets who you are despite living next door.

“Remind me of your name again, sweetie? All this disco dust must be affecting my memory,” she’d ask, leaning in close so you’d practically have to shout it into her ear. Then she’d nod, smirking knowingly. “Ah, yes. I thought so. Just making sure.”

She’s quite the character. A real sweetheart if you leave aside the number of times she’s offered you more types of drugs than you knew existed.

Tonight, you’re throwing Wade a surprise birthday party. Among all the party tasks, you’ve handled the decorations and the cake. The room’s a riot of color, with balloons floating lazily from the ceiling and a cascade of streamers draping over the furniture.

Guests start arriving, greeting you warmly, a feeling you once thought impossible. They’re Wade’s friends, sure, but on some level, you like to think they’re your friends now too: Vanessa, Dopinder, Buck, Shatterstar, Colossus, Negasonic Teenage Warhead, and Yukio.

As you hear footsteps approaching the door, Wade’s voice filters through the hallway. Panicking, you whirl around to the group. “He’s here! Everyone shut up!” you whisper urgently, turning off the lights and pressing your back flat against the wall next to the door.

Seconds later, the sound of keys jingling fills the air as both Wade and Peter step into the apartment.

You flip the lights back on just as Dopinder pops his much-anticipated party popper. “Surprise!” you all scream in unison, and Wade’s face splits into a grin, unsure of whom to hug first.

“You guys are lucky I’m not armed,” he quips, slinging an arm around Dopinder’s shoulders. “Six years ago, you’d all be dead!”

And you giggle, because… well, what else are you supposed to do?

As you expected, the night unfolds smoothly. You’re having fun, engaging in conversations despite yesterday’s emotional meltdown at the cafe. It’ll be okay—it always is. The food is amazing, the company even better. You remind yourself that romantic love isn’t the only kind that matters—that’s what friends are for, after all, to teach you that lesson.

The low hum of chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clinking of glasses, creating a lively symphony that wraps around you like a warm blanket. Yukio calls your name, waving her head in front of your eyes, trying to snap you out of your thoughts. “Everything okay?” she wonders, concern flickering in her voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reply, tightening your grip on your beer bottle. “Just thinking, that’s all.”

You all gather around the cake when Wade’s about to blow the candles. You know he’s preparing himself for a speech. “Another year of spinning around the moon, huh?”

“Sun, you dumbass,” Al corrects him, and you have to bite your lip to keep your laughter to yourself.

“Okay, flat-earther,” Wade shoots back, giving her a playful side-eye. “Anyway, where was I? Oh, right—I can’t thank you all enough for being here. These past few years have been... well, rough on me, to say the least,” he says, glancing down at the cake with a small, crooked smile. “But I’m happy now. We’ve got each other’s back, like a team!”

“Like The Avengers, you mean?” Dopinder pipes up, eyes sparkling with excitement. There’s a moment of silence in which you swear you’d be able to hear a hairpin drop.

It’s still a sensitive topic.

“Next time, give me a trigger warning before you mention them,” Wade mutters in a hushed tone, and Dopinder shrinks sheepishly. “I guess what I wanted to tell you was…” he trails off, his palm covering the place where his heart is, “that I'm glad you’re all here. Being surrounded by the people I love most is the best birthday gift ever.”

His words stir something inside you. Vanessa gently nudges his arm, smiling up at him. “Why don’t you make your wish?”

Wade dramatically drops to his knees in front of the cake, eyes fluttering shut before blowing out the candles, whistles and cheers erupting all around.

Just then, you hear the unmistakable sound of the doorbell ringing through the air. You exchange a curious glance with Wade, raising your eyebrows. “That’s weird. Want me to get it?”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, excusing himself to answer the door. He slips outside, shutting it behind him, and everything returns to normal. For a while, you assume he’s chatting with someone who dropped by to say hi—but that doesn’t really make sense.

“Don’t you think it’s weird that he’s been out there so long?” Vanessa inquires, her worry starting to creep in.

“I’ll go check on him,” you tell her, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze before heading to the door.

But when you open it, there’s no Wade in sight. Just… his toupee—or “hair system” as he insists on calling it, lying on the floor.

Kneeling down, you gingerly pick it up, a strange sensation settling in your chest.

Where the hell did he go?

After his existence went downhill, Logan turned to prayer.

Completely out of character, right? He thought so too. The number of times he'd stepped foot inside a church could be counted on one hand, so why would a man like him resort to religion?

In the past, he had been told he was part of God’s plan, but somewhere along the way, he felt like he had become God’s mistake.

After living a life plagued with loss and constantly in hiding, he wasn’t shocked that his self-worth was in the gutter.

Things only spiraled after letting everyone down, especially after that particular day when things took a turn for the worse. He had prayed, asking God to make him forget.

When that didn’t work, he just drank harder and smoked more. But not even drowning in alcohol and clouds of nicotine could put an end to his struggles—he was condemned to suffer.

In spite of everyone’s wishes, he’s still going strong, stuck with no defined purpose. It’s almost impossible not to fall into a routine that seeks to numb him, to put him under anesthesia—waking up after passing out who-knows-where, finding the nearest bar, sinking into whiskey and the haze of ashtrays.

Then he does it all over again, a never-ending cycle. His self-destructive habits don’t lead him to oblivion; instead, they intensify every sensation, making each memory and emotion painfully vivid.

Day after day, he convinces himself he’s got it under control. Logan may be tough as fuck, and he may heal faster than anyone else, but his pride is in pieces.

No amount of strength or supernatural abilities can stop the decay he feels inside, the slow rot creeping deeper within him the longer he remains trapped in this life.

He slams the empty glass onto the counter with a heavy thud, tapping two fingers against it. “Again,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The bartender looks at him like he's the reincarnation of all things vile. “I told you—you’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome anywhere. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”

Oh, yes. Music to his ears. If he had a nickel for every time he heard that, he’d be rich. “Just give me one more drink and then I’ll leave.”

“That’s not how it works,” the bartender replies, and Logan knows he’s screwed. Another public establishment he’s been banned from—fucking perfect.

Will there ever be a day where he’s not treated like garbage?

“It does now,” an unknown voice joins the conversation, and Logan glances to his side, arching a brow. The masked man doesn’t let his stare falter. “Leave the bottle.”

“Do I know you, bub?”

“You don’t, but I know you.”

This serves as evidence of how pliant he’s become. Years ago, he would’ve already wiped the floor with this guy. They didn’t call him Logan “short fuse” Howlett for nothing. But now? He just can’t bring himself to do it.

“Everybody does. I’m the—”

Here it comes, the reminder of his personal calvary.

“—Wolverine.” Once he finishes the sentence, his words taste bitter. Perhaps it’s the venom on his tongue, or maybe it’s just the alcohol from yesterday kicking him again. Either way, both hit hard.

“Yes, you are,” the stranger says, continuing to stare at him, as if Logan’s worth the effort. “And I’m going to need you to come with me. Right now.”

Logan holds his breath. The worst part of it all is that his day’s just getting started. He has no clue who this guy is or why he’s claiming to need him.

But he’s got the wrong man—Logan doesn’t know him, and he sure as hell doesn’t have anything good to offer.

Or so he believed five minutes ago. Life seems to have its own way of surprising him.

Knowing he’ll regret it later, he closes his fingers around the whiskey bottle, chugging the liquor until darkness takes over his senses.

Nighty-night, Logan.

I'm aware that you're not mine, and nor will you ever be.

I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to figure out

where this need to call you mine stems from.

You're like an antique, a rare piece displayed

in a crowded bazaar, drawing curious glances.

I’m aware that you're not mine

because I haven't bought you yet;

I hold no claim over you,

nor can I control who touches you and who doesn't.

I want you to be mine,

but no amount of money would buy your soul.

You're beyond reach—someone has already marked you.

I’m aware that you’re not mine,

and I guess maybe that’s how life is meant to be.

“Bullshit,” you mutter softly into the quiet of your apartment, where the only sound is the echo of your own voice.

Chewing the end of your pen, your eyes narrow as they skim over the poem you’d written over a month ago.

Since then, you’ve been working on refining the details, but something is missing—that you can feel. The flow is awkward, the choice of words stiff. It’s like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together.

You take a long sip from your coffee, tucking both knees up onto the chair you're sitting in. 7:30 a.m., and already, your mind is spinning, diving headfirst into a poem when countless other things are demanding your attention—like, a hundred things, really.

Right now, cracking this piece feels more important than any other task on your list.

Who do you write to? That part is easy—your soulmate. That deceased, probably buried, long-gone soulmate of yours.

It shouldn’t be funny, but there’s an absurdity to it.

Without warning, a memory slips into your thoughts—one girl you used to work with once advising you to change the subject of your writing.

“You should go for some self-love crap. People usually eat that up,” she said, not even bothering to look up from her nails, red polish smeared over the edges.

Her fingers were a mess, coated in that fiery hue, but she didn’t seem to care as she tapped your notebook with her lacquered index finger. “This is repetitive. Keep writing about the same thing, and people will get bored of you.”

“I haven’t published them yet,” you answered, your voice coming out more high-pitched than usual, betraying the doubt you intended to suppress. Her blue eyes flicked up, studying your face as you slid the now red-stained notebook back into your bag, away from her careless, messy fingers. “I thought… I thought we were supposed to write about what we feel passionate about.”

That managed to catch her attention. Passionate. She let out a laugh—sharp and cold, like something straight out of a villain’s script in a children’s movie. It grated against your ears.

“Sweetie, you call that passionate?” She waved her hand dismissively, standing up from the table.

Taller, older, and more secure—just the fact that she gave you her time should’ve made you feel grateful. “Not to be a bitch, but what you showed me is kind of depressing.”

Kind of depressing. From that moment on, you kind of hated her. Small victories, though—the agency fired her a year later. You like to think you kind of won that battle.

Still, she might’ve been right about one thing: your writing does fall into patterns. It’s predictable, to say the least—the rhythm, the themes. Even the metaphors you include can be found in several of your poems.

Are you… lazy? Has someone revealed the way to break out of it? If there is, you figure you're fine without it.

You don’t want to write the kind of articles she’d churn out about the latest trends or the five best positions to get pregnant faster. Nor do you want to pick apart celebrities' lives for a flashy headline.

What you do want is to write about love. Real love. Even if you are not the most qualified person to do it. Even if nobody wants to read the words from someone who has never experienced it in the flesh.

And you’ll get there—how? You’re still figuring that out.

As long as you live and breathe, love will remain in your thoughts, haunting you—especially with your muse being the fleeting dream of a soulmate you never got to meet in the first place.

But it’s time to start your day—the real one. The one where you have to step outside the safety of your four walls and deal with reality.

The to-do list assembles in your mind: groceries, that book you’ve been meaning to pick up, emails you need to answer.

You let your mind take over, guiding you through the motions without a second thought. As you head back to your room, you get rid of the comfortable robe you love so much.

Next, your shirt comes off, tossed carelessly onto the bed. Just as you're about to step out of your pajama pants, you notice them.

The scars.

They’re not the same, not the faded lines etched into your skin that you could see every night behind your eyelids. New marks glow against your flesh, each one a map of something you don’t yet understand, standing out like new brushstrokes on an old canvas.

You can’t help but freeze, your breath faltering for a moment, and you nearly trip over yourself. Kicking your pants to the side, you stare down at your hips, thighs, the hollow of your ribcage.

Tentatively, you press your fingers into the lines, expecting them to fade, to disappear under your touch like some peculiar illusion.

But they don’t. They remain. You can feel the raised edges, the subtle roughness, the heat beneath your touch.

These scars are different from the ones you had before. Under no circumstances are they the faint memories you once carried. No—these are fresh and vibrant. Marks that shouldn’t exist, the stories they’ve witnessed unfamiliar to you.

Within seconds, you’re sobbing, and you blink through the wetness clouding your vision, wiping your tears of disbelief (and maybe hope?) away with the back of your hand.

Nothing changes. They’re still there.

You've never heard of scars returning like this. It goes against everything in the manual on your shelf. Scars vanish when a soulmate dies, but they don’t come back. Not like this. And they certainly don’t change.

Barely able to stand without stumbling, you scramble to your phone. The first person you call is your mom, your fingers shaking as you press the buttons. She screams into the phone, and all you can do is laugh through the tears.

What doesn’t sit right with her is the change in the scars. She mentions something about reaching out to a specialist, insisting that your case is rare—one in a million.

Almost immediately, you think of Wade, knowing he’d want to hear this. God, he’d be ecstatic. Before you even realize it, you’re standing in front of his door, finger hovering over the bell.

That’s when the realization hits you: he’s been gone for nearly three days, off doing whatever it is he does.

Ringing the bell, a smile tugs at your lips. News like these are meant to be shared.

“Althea, it’s me!” you call out, hoping she’ll hear you. You press your forehead against the door, fidgeting with your fingers. “I have something to tell you.”

Logan has had better days. Days that didn’t involve escaping The Void, fighting a hundred Wades, or saving an earth that wasn’t even his to begin with.

You know, normal days—of being sneered at while drinking to forget and, fuck, how many hours has he been sober? It feels like an eternity.

When the adrenaline wears off and the heroism fades, he’s back to being just Logan again. If he had a watch, he’d probably tap the glass and fake impatience to Wade, pretending he’s got somewhere else to be.

He should leave. That’s his first impulse: to escape before it’s too late, but a question arises in his mind: does he truly want to?

Wade watches as Logan rises to his feet, planning to walk away. Pretty stupid, Logan thinks, considering he knows no one else in this universe—apart from the scarred man he’s become friends with against his will.

“Logan!” Wade yells his name, his voice light but firm enough to halt him in his tracks. Logan turns to face him, greeted by Wade’s familiar, infuriating smile.

It's a silent invitation to a new beginning.

Nothing’s holding him back, so why not accept it? The odds of being the target of hateful glares are lower here, and that’s reason enough for Logan to give a small tilt of his head and return to the bench where Wade remains seated.

“We’re gonna be roommates!” the latter exclaims, a wide grin stretching across his face as they head toward the building. “Can you imagine all the fun we’ll have?”

Logan presses his lips into a thin line. “Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, a small glimmer of sarcasm slipping into his tone, although Wade takes his words at face value.

“Me too, roomie. Me too.”

“Let’s not use that word.”

Wade holds the door open for Logan with an exaggerated bow. “Why not? It’s the truth. We can even share my bed if that’s—”

The sound of Logan’s claws succeeds in silencing him. Wade recoils and covers his crotch, no doubt remembering past close calls.

“You know what? You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch. No problem.”

Was moving in with Wade the worst idea he’s had in a while? Absolutely. The reason? Althea, the elderly woman he lives with, isn’t answering the door, and he doesn’t have his keys.

Logan covers his eyes with a hand, silently questioning all of his life choices. And it’s only been ten minutes.

“This doesn’t happen often,” Wade reassures him, rubbing his neck.

“Hard to believe,” Logan mutters, some unknown muscle in his jaw beginning to ache from how hard he’s gritting his teeth. “You just leave the house without your fucking keys?”

Wade huffs, jutting out a hip in mock offense. “Those TVA guys didn’t exactly send a ‘We’re here to ruin your day’ memo. I was ambushed, okay?” he retorts, keeping a finger glued to the doorbell, its shrill ring gnawing at Logan’s already thin patience. “Al, I swear to God, I’m replacing your blood pressure pills with laxatives if you don’t wake up!”

“How old is she?” Logan asks, searching for anything to keep him from snapping the other man’s neck. Peaceful thoughts.

“Compared to you, she’s basically a newborn,” Wade replies, rocking back and forth on his heels. He’s having the time of his life—meanwhile, Logan’s self-control is reaching its limit.

His claws twitch in his knuckles. He’s had enough, and with a jerk of his left hand, they gleam as they slide out, ready to break the damn door.

But then Wade jumps in front of him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, buddy! I’m not letting you turn my door into a strainer.”

“Move,” Logan barks, not an ounce of friendliness in his tone. His stare is flat, unfazed.

“I’d rather not. You can’t just go around breaking people’s doors, man. Not cool,” Wade blurts quickly, placing both hands on Logan’s chest, pushing him away. “How about I ask my neighbor, huh? I gave her a spare set of keys for situations like these.”

“I thought you said this didn’t happen often.”

“Well, life’s full of disappointments.”

Before Logan can answer back, Wade rushes to the door next to his, slamming his fist on it like a madman, his finger hammering the doorbell simultaneously.

The devil’s orchestra—a symphony straight from hell.

Logan grabs Wade’s wrist before he can knock again, hissing: “Have some manners, will you?”

Wade tries to shake his arm free from Logan’s tight grip. “She’s in there. I know it,” he replies in the same tone, but now he uses his other hand to ring the doorbell with greater feeling.

After a pause, he stamps his foot on the floor, throwing his head back. “Come on! Is this how you treat me after being away? Shame on you, Missy!”

This neighbor must be very patient, Logan thinks, to keep up with a guy like Wade without often seeing red.

As the door finally swings open, his grip on Wade loosens, and his hand falls limply to his side.

“What… the fuck?”

The sound of your voice—soft, slightly groggy from sleep—pulls his attention away from the door incident. His gaze is fixed entirely on you—you look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed, which makes sense since it’s still early.

Back in The Void, Wade had rambled on about all his friends, you included. Logan recalls how he had described you: a book editor who lived on her own and loved reading. You were younger—but then again, who wasn’t younger than him?

The picture Wade had shown him, with you standing in the background, hadn’t done you justice. He had found you attractive then, but seeing you in person?

You’re… far more than he expected.

More beautiful, for starters.

Fuck. Why is he even thinking about that? He must’ve been staring at you for quite a while—you glance at him like a startled lamb, clearly feeling self-conscious under his unwavering stare.

“May I know,” you start, tightening your robe, “why you were banging on my door like that? I thought I was getting robbed for a minute.” You direct your question at Wade, avoiding Logan’s presence, which makes something tighten in his chest.

He finds the way you stifle a yawn endearing, though.

Okay, that’s enough, he tells his mind. Let it go.

Wade steps in first, dropping his mask on the nearest surface. “Hello, my dear. Oh, yes, I’m fine. Just a few scratches. No, I wasn’t partying—I was kidnapped. Thanks for asking.”

You draw in a long breath, rubbing your eyes to wake up once and for all, and then you proceed to gesture for Logan to enter. Even now, you find it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. “Do you—would you like to come in?”

Not only are you pretty, but also polite. He nods, muttering a gruff: “Yeah, thank you.”

As he walks past you, your shoulders brush briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through him. A tingling sensation on the verge of being electrifying that has him knitting his brows.

His gaze finds yours, searching your expression to see if you felt it too. But you look away, closing the door to go after Wade.

Great. You must think he’s a weirdo.

“I’m always up for company, but why so early?” you ask your friend, rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. “And are you going to tell me what happened the other day? You left without saying anything.”

Wade hops onto a stool at the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child. “You know Al. When it comes to sleeping, she’s like a much older version of Sleeping Beauty,” he replies with a grin, snatching the mug you were about to use for your morning coffee. “Thanks, you’re such a doll.”

“That was—mine,” you sigh, hitting him in the thigh, and Wade winces with a fake whine. “I don’t think I’ve missed you that much. Go back to being missing in action,” you say, grabbing another mug and filling it before raising it toward Logan. “Coffee?”

Logan hesitates. You’re treating him like you’ve known him for years, not minutes. “I’m… good.”

“You sure? I made it fresh, just before you guys arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m—”

“I love the chemistry here,” Wade interrupts your conversation, drawing your attention back to him, “but you still got the keys I gave you, right?”

You roll your eyes, blowing on your steamy coffee before answering. “I do, but I want answers first. And I want them now.”

Twenty minutes and a rambling, half-coherent story later, your drink has gone cold, and Logan’s patience is wearing thin… again.

Will he survive sleeping under the same roof as Wade? Stay tuned for more.

“And then I told Paradox ‘He has risen, babygirl’—”

“I think you’re being too specific,” Logan interjects, noting how you’re staring into space with wide eyes. “She seems confused.”

“I am,” you admit, rubbing your temples. He doesn’t blame you: Wade’s a terrible storyteller. You offer him a weak smile as you turn to him. “So… you’re from another universe.”

“Last time I checked.” His back collapses against the couch, groaning softly. He sits beside you, and the way your eyes sweep over him, taking in his disheveled and sweaty appearance, doesn’t go unnoticed by him.

“And how is it? I mean, do you have—”

“I’m public enemy number one.”

Too harsh, idiot.

“Oh. That’s… good to know.”

Wade says your name, and you look to your right, lifting your brows. “Do you mind if I grab the keys myself? I need a shower. I’ve been marinating in sweat and blood for way too long.”

You grimace, pointing toward your room. “Top drawer of my nightstand.”

With that, he embarks on a quest to find them, leaving Logan alone with you. Silence stretches between you two.

He doesn’t know what to say, or if he should even say anything. Casual conversation isn’t his forte.

“You and Wade…?”

Letting out a giggle, you lean back on the couch. “God, no. We’re just friends,” you explain, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. For a fleeting moment, your eyes bore into his, and then you return to burning holes in the floor. “I’m single. Haven’t found my soulmate yet.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now—a dark, humorless sound rumbling in his chest. You chew on a cuticle, Logan’s gesture igniting a sense of curiosity in you.

“What?” you ask him, puzzled.

“Do you really believe in that? Soulmates who share scars?” If he were to think carefully, he’d watch his tone. It’s too late, anyway—you straighten your posture, your face contorting with each passing second. “I can tell you do.”

“And I can tell you don’t.”

“Why would I? Those are lies,” he retorts, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

His opinion is anything but objective, totally biased, given that every time he dove into love’s arms, he was met with the crude reality: not everyone’s meant to be loved, himself included.

The look you give him is enough to wipe the smirk off his face.

“Soulmates exist, Logan. We all have one.” There’s a certainty in your tone, marked by the subtle way in which you say his name, that he finds alluring. He shouldn’t, especially when you seem angry above all.

“And where is yours, then?”

He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your expression becomes inscrutable. You could be either disappointed, frustrated, or even exasperated—sad, perhaps?

Logan feels as though a weight has settled on his shoulders just from staring into your eyes.

You strike back with silence. Plain, pure, dreadful silence that has him wondering if he’s breathing properly.

At long last, Wade comes back from his expedition, keys dangling from his fingers. “It was quite the treasure hunt, you know? You’ve got a lot of garbage in there.” He sticks his face between Logan’s and yours when you don't answer him. “Guys, is there something wrong? Are you doing a staring contest? If so, can I join?”

“I need to start getting ready for work,” you announce, standing up from the couch. Logan mimics you, and you open the door, your fingers curling around the knob. “You should get going. And Wade,” you pause, acknowledging only him, “I need to talk to you later. In private.”

Without Logan. That’s what you wanted to say but didn’t.

“Sure, my queen. I live to serve,” Wade says in rejoinder, and he kisses your forehead briefly, which forces Logan to avert his gaze the whole time his lips are on you, feeling uncomfortable watching. “Take care, alright?”

You give Wade a small nod, waiting until he’s outside your apartment to glance at Logan.

“Goodbye,” you croak, and he knows he should say something, that he—

The door almost closes on his nose.

Had he been an asshole? He was merely expressing his thoughts. The idea of soulmates didn’t sit well with him.

Once settled into Wade’s apartment, Logan steps into the shower, water rinsing off his body. Yet he finds himself unable to stop thinking about you.

The disappointment in your eyes when he asked about your soulmate.

The coldness in your tone at the end, so different from the warmth you initially offered.

He feels drawn to you, as if some sort of invisible string is tying the two of you. Were it possible, he would use his own claws to cut it, but he can’t discern where it begins or ends. Instead, he prefers to blame his touch-starved state for this reaction.

He’s already hating this earth. So much for a man whose skin refuses to scar.

And where is yours, then?

His words shouldn’t have stung the way they did. All the charm—the gruff exterior, the mysterious personality—had vanished.

The guy from another universe, with the claws, the healing abilities, and the raspy voice, is a moron.

A ridiculously good-looking moron? Yes, but a moron nonetheless.

There is something about him you can’t quite place. A chill creeps down your spine as you replay the instant your eyes first locked. Your body had reacted in ways it never had before, drawn to him like metal to a magnet.

Why? You’d seen handsome men before, even been with some. Yet, you’ve never felt this—this gravitational pull, this inexplicable pull to invade someone’s personal space.

How would your soulmate feel if he saw you like this, lusting after another man?

You shudder at the thought. This isn’t like you. You pride yourself on loyalty—perhaps a little too much. You don’t read two books at the same time, and you’ve been buying the same brand of shampoo for the past five years.

So why now? Why him? It feels like a betrayal of your own mind, your conscience turned against you.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

That afternoon, as you take a nap on the couch, he invades your dreams. It’s not even a wet dream, but he’s there, staking a claim on a part of you he has no right to.

You wake up with your hand clutching your chest, a frustrated punch landing on the nearest cushion.

The next day, you drop by Wade’s place for a quick visit, your eyes darting around the room every few seconds, half-expecting Logan to appear out of nowhere.

“I told you, he’s sleeping. That guy’s got a fucked up sleep schedule,” Wade says, urging you to take a seat beside him at the table. “Why don’t you wanna see him?”

Because he’s messing with your sanity. Your brain cells are practically disintegrating at the mere thought of breathing the same air as him.

“I just—I need to tell you something.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Wade, no! You’ve been gone for three days—pregnancies take months.”

“I’d make an amazing uncle, though.” He grabs your hand between his, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Babies are so adorable at that—”

“My scars are back,” you cut him off, putting an end to his nonsense. Pulling the neck of your sweater to the side, you show him the thin lines etched into your collarbone. “But they are different this time.”

“Different? You mean they changed?” His disbelief is clear as he reaches for your arm, frowning while he inspects more of your scars. Wade’s jaw slackens, color draining out of his face. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“Fuck?”

“Yeah, fuck!” His strong arms envelop you, and you lean into the embrace, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Is this good news? Are we happy? Does this mean I have a shot at becoming an uncle after all?”

You laugh a little at his eagerness, rubbing gentle circles into his back. “I am happy. I just—I don’t know what these changes mean yet.”

Althea steps out of the bathroom, her cane tapping the floor in rhythmic beats. “I already told you what they mean.”

Wade pulls away from you, glaring at her. “You meddler! Haven’t we talked about not eavesdropping? Hasn’t life taught you anything after all these decades?”

“Upside of being blind: I’ve never seen this motherfucker in Crocs,” she says, pointing her cane at you, though you know her aim is Wade. “Downside of being blind: I hear everything in this apartment. And you, kid, have a new soulmate.”

“I know what we talked about the other day, but... it doesn’t make sense, Al. You only get one soulmate,” you protest, feeling the tension grow as you pace around the table. “Why can’t it just be simple? My friends are getting engaged, years are flying by, and I’m still out here chasing this… this idiot who no one can even find!”

That’s when Logan appears, emerging from his room, holding several empty beer cans. He rolls his eyes and walks straight into the kitchen. “Great. Who else is coming tonight?”

Wade smirks, clapping a hand on Logan’s shoulder as he looks at you. “Sweetie, Logan’s going through his second puberty at the ripe old age of two hundred. The pediatrician said it’s just hormones, nothing to worry about. Excuse his shitty attitude.”

With a low groan, Logan shrugs off Wade’s hand, scowling. If anything, the younger man’s grin just grows bigger. “Wolvie, I gotta admit that whole ‘Don’t fall in love with me or I’ll break your heart’ personality shouldn’t turn me on, but here we are.”

You decide to take that as your cue to leave. You grab your bag, muttering a quick goodbye to Althea as you head for the door.

But Logan calls after you. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your back to him. “How much did you hear?” you ask, not daring—not being able—to meet his gaze.

“All of it,” he admits after a beat, and you curse under your breath. “But it doesn’t—Hey!” He follows you into the hallway. “I’m talking to you!”

“No, you’re not.” You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking as you try to unlock your door. “Leave me alone.”

“I won’t,” he mumbles behind you, his voice softer now. “Come on. Don’t be so harsh.”

“I can’t believe you,” you whisper, finally finding the right key and jiggling it into the lock. The door swings open, and you step into the safety of your apartment. But when you try to close it, Logan’s foot wedges into the gap, blocking it. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “No.”

“Logan, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, me neither. But I owe you an apology.”

You wonder if he realizes the hold he has on you. No matter how hard you try to mask it, the unbearable pounding of your heart betrays you.

Scanning his features, you trace the rugged contours of his face with your eyes, lingering on the lines on his forehead—the aftermath of what it looks like a life lived through bitterness and pain.

“Can I come in?” he insists, his tone on the verge of sounding pleading.

You hesitate. The sensible part of you screams to send him away. Thinking that avoiding him would be as easy as stealing candy from a baby is a long-forgotten idea now: you’d been naïve to even consider it possible.

He’s going to find a way to sneak into your space, your home—and you’ll let him in. You’ll grant him a chance to cross a boundary that should’ve been already drawn.

It feels like you’re fifteen again, infatuated with the guy you know you shouldn’t get close to. Paul from high school wasn’t your soulmate back then—Logan isn’t now.

The smart thing would be to take a step back, accept his apology, and ask him to leave. That’s how you preserve what little remains of your sanity and protect your heart, which is already hanging by a thread.

But God, it feels so good to be near him.

You step aside. He walks in. Something tells you this won’t be the last time.

“I’m waiting.” You stay near the counter, pressing your back against it, and keeping your distance. Logan sits awkwardly on the edge of your couch, unsure of where to begin.

“Look, about what I said yesterday…I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He sounds sincere, earnest. “I didn’t know you believed in soulmates.”

“It’s not a matter of believing in them or not, Logan. My soulmate is out there—yours too.”

Your words coax a grin from him, and he shakes his head. “I guess we’ll never see eye to eye on that.” In a fluid motion, he crosses the room, and you find his unexpected proximity a bit exasperating. “Do you forgive me?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Give me a break, darlin’. I’m trying my best.”

“Well, you were an asshole.”

“Yes.”

“The first time we exchanged words.”

“Also yes.”

“And now you’re apologizing.”

“Positive. I just did.”

It’s not that you’re easy—it’s Logan’s persuasive allure that gets to you.

“What else can I do to win your forgiveness?” he wonders aloud, his syrupy voice making you tighten your grip on the counter.

An idea sparks in your mind. You move toward the pile of books next to the TV, eyeing the titles, until one catches your attention: your copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, one of the first novels you’d read when you were younger.

It’s adorned with colorful post-its, and the pages, sort of rough to the touch, are marked with handwritten notes in the margins.

“How do you feel about reading?”

“Not my strongest suit,” he answers, arching a brow as he takes in your enthusiasm. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You want me to believe you’re sorry for what you said? Then read this,” you say, wiggling the book in front of him, “and we can start over.”

“What is it about? Let me guess: love and soulmates. Did I get it right?” he asks, playfulness lacing his tone. His breath hitches as you press the book against his chest, silently urging him to take it. His pinky grazes your hand, feeling your skin and sending a jolt through you.

Logan watches you with half-lidded eyes, and it takes every ounce of willpower to tear yourself away from him and his maddening touch.

You clear your throat. “Open it to page one hundred fifty-three.”

“Do you—you remember specific pages?”

“And read what’s underlined in black,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. “Please.”

Logan must mutter something along the lines of ‘You’ve got to be kidding me’ before searching for it. It’s only then that he begins to recite the passage:

He is not to them what he is to me. He is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine; – I am sure he is – I feel akin to him – I understand the language of his countenance and movements; though rank and wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid myself to think of him in any other light than a paymaster? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must remember that he cannot care much for me. For when I say that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must, then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered: – and yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.

You’ve chosen a damn good page.

Logan looks up from the book, his mouth slightly parted, as if he’s about to speak. You interject before he can find the words.

“You’ve got a week to read it.”

“How long is it again?”

“Four hundred pages.”

He surrenders, sighing in defeat. “You’re killing me here, y’know?”

“Write an opinion essay if possible.”

Right there, Logan offers you a mock laugh. “Haha. That’s so funny.”

“It is for me,” you talk back, unable to hide your smile from him, and soon he mirrors your expression.

As Logan steps toward the door, he hesitates and glances back. “We’re all good then?”

Leaning against the doorframe, you raise your chin defiantly. “We’ll be when you finish the book.”

What he says next has your stomach turning into knots. “You’re trouble.” His tone shifts—no longer teasing, but grounded in truth. Gone are the jokes; he seems to mean every word.

For the rest of the night, one line from the book doesn’t stop echoing in your mind—the line about soulmates: I have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally to him.

You’re trouble for him, and he’s trouble for you. You hope he knows it too.

He thought that not seeing you for a week would snuff out his feelings. That by next Wednesday, every thought tied to your name, every urge to uncover the last of your secrets, would be extinguished.

That's what time usually did: it diminished dangerous desires that couldn't afford to be voiced, and buried those longings that had no place in the light of day.

Logan now figures he’s been underestimating the spell you cast on him with just a few glances and the intensity of your eyes. He’s seen you animated, angry—both defiant and vulnerable.

Each of your gestures feels like a memory he can’t quite place.

The way you laugh, the right corner of your mouth lifting just slightly higher than the left—he swears it isn’t the first time he's seen a smile brighter than the sun.

Still, he convinces himself it’s all in his head. He must be the one losing his mind, the years finally catching up to him. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the thoughts that consume his every waking moment.

He’s wrong—you’re right. He’s seeing things where there are none—you’re simply too kind.

Too kind. Too young. Too damn clever for your own good, with your books and that sharp mind of yours. He wonders how you see yourself.

Do you like the reflection in the mirror? Are you content with the way your life has turned out?

Do you, too, lie awake at night, the bed stretching endlessly, aching for a touch that never comes?

The walls in this place are paper-thin. When darkness falls, and the moon rises, the big, scary Wolverine can’t close his eyes.

Instead, he listens.

Some nights, you play the same movie on repeat—a romantic comedy that lasts exactly one hundred and twenty minutes. For two hours straight, he’s privy to your laughter, your commentary at the characters on the screen.

He hears you cry when the lead couple drifts apart after a terrible argument, but they always find their way back to each other, and you watch every second until the credits roll.

None of the other films you pick ever ends in heartbreak, he realizes. They all have happy endings—the kind you wish for yourself.

One way or another, there must be a way to get you out of his system. He knows, without a doubt, that you wouldn’t want him. He’s not your soulmate, and it’s clear that finding that person has become the center of your existence.

Logan can’t allow himself to be the moron who derails your purpose.

Sure, he’s done bad things, but he likes to believe that at least a part of him—some small fraction—hasn’t been lost yet. That there’s a piece of him that can be saved, which is the reason why he stayed here: to be a better man than the one he was in his universe.

But it’s hard. Harder still because it’s you who disrupts his quest for redemption. How is he supposed to go on with his life when every thought circles back to you? The idea of holding you, kissing you—sleeping beside you haunts him.

And so the images blur, new dreams twisting with his usual nightmares.

Which one is worse, he can no longer tell.

One afternoon, while deliberately steering clear of Jane Eyre, he reluctantly turns to Wade in search of answers. “Tell me more about her.”

Wade, lounging on the couch, stops scrolling on his phone and drops it onto his chest, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Her? Who do you mean?” His tone oozes with feigned innocence, barely containing a shit-eating grin when Logan grits out your name, his tone rough, almost pained. “Oh, Romeo. You’ve got it bad.”

Intending to maintain some semblance of control, Logan strides into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and the last bottle of whiskey. As he tips it, only a few drops fall into the glass.

“No, I don’t,” he says, extending his arm and holding the bottle up. “We’re out of whiskey.”

“You keep saying we, but you’re the only alcoholic in this apartment.” Wade kicks off his shoes, propping his feet on the coffee table. “So, why the sudden interest in the lady? She getting through that tough exterior of yours? I’ll give her points for that.”

“And you wonder why I don’t talk to you.”

“I saw the book,” the younger man replies, lacing his fingers behind his head, watching as Logan rummages through the fridge with increasing frustration. “You never told me you were into classics. If I’d known, I’d have gotten you a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who came to me, looking for the essential oil of truth?”

The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable, mood-killing.

“See what I just did there?” he adds, and Logan feels forced to shake his head from side to side, appearing conflicted. Wade lets out a low huff. “That was Virginia Woolf. Add her to your reading list.”

“Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“More times than I can count. I’m just not everyone’s cup of coffee.”

“Tea, Wade. Not everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Whatever.” Wade simpers, as though Logan’s correction is the punchline to a joke only he gets. He sets his palms flat on the table, looming closer with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So, what would you like to know about my dear friend?”

Logan hesitates, the weight of his question heavy on his tongue. “What’s the deal with her scars?”

The air shifts. Wade’s playful expression fades and he tilts his head, his tone turning serious. “I don’t think it’s my story to tell,” he begins, gaze dropping to the floor. “But she lost them years ago. She was living a normal life, and one day, they were just—gone, like they were never there. It broke her. We didn’t know each other back then, but you’ve seen her.”

Wade’s eyes flick back up, while Logan stands there, tongue-tied. “You even know the kind of books she reads—nothing can shake that belief in real love, in soulmates being destined. Imagine how she must’ve felt when she found out her presumed soulmate was dead… without a single warning.”

From what he had heard, that sense of loss was impossible to put into words. Those who’d gone through it described the experience as if half of you—your body, your soul, your very essence—was being ripped away.

The pain was excruciating, and the only way to survive it was by means of tolerating it—no remedy, just the endurance to outlast the agony.

It wasn’t just a momentary hurt. It was the kind of torment that lingered, making you question who you were and what little remained of you.

You and Logan had more in common than he’s willing to admit.

“She’s a good person,” he mutters absent-mindedly, his thumb grazing the cover of the book. He had carried it everywhere for a week now, without even cracking it open.

“Oh, you dirty pig…” Wade whispers, his eyes lighting up as if a lightbulb suddenly went off in his mind. “Now I get it. You wanna know her. Like, really know her!”

“I don’t—”

“Your sex life is none of my business. I’m all up for you putting your mutant dick to work, otherwise it’s just wasted potential. But it’s my friend we’re talking about.”

Logan’s jaw tightens, and he snaps. “Drop the speech, alright? I’m not trying to get into her pants. I just want to be nice. That’s all.”

“Nice, huh? What’s your version of nice? Starting a two-person book club?” Wade stifles a laugh, pressing a finger to Logan’s chest. “Look, if you want to sleep with her, and the feeling’s mutual, then go for it. Just tell me this—how long’s it been since you visited Pussy Village? Was it before or after the Big Bang?”

Things are never truly serious with Wade Wilson. “I’m not answering that.”

Wade raises both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “Fine, fine. But if you’re really interested, just be clear about it. She doesn’t need a half-assed situationship.”

By now, it’s like a mantra he repeats again and again, hoping that eventually both Wade and he will start to believe it. “I don’t want to have sex with her.”

As he heads back to his (now Wade’s old) room, Wade adds, “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you underlined some quotes you like.”

Much to his dismay, that’s exactly what Logan does.

His handwriting isn’t the most legible, but he tries his best, leaving notes in the margins of some pages, such as:

I hate this John kid.

Her aunt is a cunt.

This is too cheesy.

Mr. Rochester’s married?

St. John—what a prick.

He finishes the book at 7 a.m. A long-ass book—just for you. While getting ready for work, Wade calls him an unemployed fucker, and Logan knows nothing better than to shoot back a similar insult, stretching his arms as the first rays of sunlight creep through the curtains.

Wade was right about something, even if Logan himself doesn’t wish to admit it: he’s behaving like a teenager—staying up until dawn, practically chained to the bed without daring to go out. Falling for a girl he didn’t know a week ago.

Learning to control his impulses has been a hard task, especially with his temperament. Over the years, Logan thought he’d mastered the art of self-restraint, long past the point where his body moved without his mind’s permission.

As his feet carry him down the hall toward your apartment, he recognizes how wrong he is.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. And yet, his fist knocks on the wood. Three times.

Fuck.

The door opens just a crack. You peek out, your face barely visible, eyes puffy from sleep. “Logan?”

His name isn’t a fancy one. It’s pretty normal, pretty standard. There must be a thousand other guys named like him—yet it’s only when you say it, your voice turning it into something rare and unique, that it feels different, like it’s only his.

The tone you use with him isn’t the one he’s used to: Logan, you’re a disappointment. Logan, how dare you turn your back on your friends? Logan, they’re all dead. Logan, it’s your fault.

Yours is inviting, and warm, and new. He likes new.

“I just finished it,” he answers, holding up the book, mindful not to grip it too tight as not to crumple the pages.

You scratch the back of your head, blinking at him. “You just finished it… at 7 a.m.?

Yeah, it sounds stupid now that you say it out loud, but it’s true. Hoping his reaction is enough to explain what he can’t put into words, he gives you a slow nod.

This time, you don’t wait for him to say more. “Come in?”

Yes, this is what he’s been looking forward all week. This moment, this interaction.

This Come in. This Yes, thank you. You’re so kind.

His quiet acceptance of your invitation, the unpronounced thought of I don’t deserve this, but I can’t back off now, because how could I ever say no to you?

He follows you into the kitchen as you move to make tea. “Want some?” you ask, but he declines the offer. If he were to drink anything right now, it would be something much stronger, not tea, despite the early hour. “You’re here to talk about the book?”

“Well, you told me I could come back after reading it.”

“I did,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips as you hide it behind your mug. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be so punctual.”

You don’t need to know that he’s been counting down the seconds, marking each minute in his mind since the last time he saw you. That’s a detail he’ll keep to himself. “It’s a good story.”

“Tell me about it.” You smile even wider, and he takes a moment to absorb the details of your face—the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches when you’re amused. “I lent you my most precious book. Fell in love with it years ago.”

“I can see why you liked it,” he explains, flipping through the pages to find the one he marked. “All the romance and the yearning—”

“Hey, it’s also good for other reasons,” you try to defend yourself, but any other argument dies on your lips when he finds the passage he was looking for and begins to read aloud.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now,” he recites, his voice lower, almost reverent, as he looks up from the page to meet your gaze. “It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.”

You seem startled by the sharp sound of him closing the book. He’s sort of breathless, and from where he stands, he can tell you are too. “That’s one of my favorite passages.”

“I can’t blame you for believing in soulmates if this is the kind of thing you read growing up,” he teases, handing the book back to you.

Though a part of him almost wishes he didn’t have to—so that it would still be a reason, a tether, pulling him back to you again and again.

Grinning, you take it, your eyes remaining trained on his. “I happen to notice it hasn’t changed your perspective on soulmates.”

“It’ll take more than a book.”

“This is, in my opinion, one of the best love stories ever written. How else will I convince you?”

“Why do you feel like you need to convince me?” He takes a step forward—you take a step back. “Why can’t it be the other way around? I might end up being the one who convinces you.”

“You could never,” you respond, clasping your hands behind your back. “It would be like convincing me the sky is green instead of blue.”

Logan retreats slightly. “Don’t you get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of waiting. Of always being on the lookout.”

You don’t react badly to his question. You’re not even shaken, not fazed in the slightest. “When I meet him, I’ll know all the waiting was worth it.”

“And in the meantime?” Logan inquires, pressing himself further into your intimacy, edging closer as if testing the boundaries you’re willing to cross. His words are a subtle request for more, for answers. “What will you do until you find him?”

If you ever do, he thinks, but it’s left unsaid, lingering in his thoughts. He’s getting better at not saying the things that sit heavy in his chest without thinking.

“I think you misunderstand, Logan.” You study him through your lashes, and he feels he’s become the keeper of your most sacred secrets. “It’s not about waiting as if my life’s on pause. I’ve been with other people. But in the end, I want to choose him.”

That casual admission strikes him like a wave of cold water. A flicker of jealousy burns at the edges of his composure, though he tries to smother it.

I’ve been with other people, you say, your tone so nonchalant, and yet the mental images that flood his mind are anything but comfortable.

He imagines someone else standing in your kitchen. Perhaps in five minutes, there will be another man knocking on your door, here to discuss a book, and it won’t be him.

Perhaps this isn’t rare for you—all this come in, grab something to drink, let’s talk when you’re done reading.

Perhaps he’s not as important as you make him feel.

His thoughts spiral until your voice pulls him back from the brink.

“Don’t you understand how beautiful it is?” There’s a dazzling glint in your expression, a light in your eyes that makes him ache. “Outside of these four walls, there’s a person who’s waiting to meet me, in the same way I expect to meet him. I can’t grant myself the choice not to believe in something like this.”

Far from easing the martyr in his mind, this conversation only deepens his internal struggle. The questions overlap each other: what happens if you never find him? Would you ever consider settling for somebody else?

He rephrases that last one—would you ever consider being with him?

“He’s a lucky guy,” Logan murmurs, and just like that, he feels himself slipping deeper, falling into the rabbit hole with you guiding him through the madness.

For a moment, he can pretend—pretend that matching scars and bonds that defy the rules of his principles make sense.

Maybe, just for you, he’ll allow himself to believe it.

Your eyes soften with sudden emotion, glistening with the beginnings of tears. He feels the primal urge to reach out, to cup your cheek, to be there when the first tear falls. “You think so?” you ask, your voice fragile.

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you, especially when you are near me, as now.

“Of course I do,” he replies, his tone quiet but laden with a strange, undeniable truth.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your frame.

Whatever this is between you—it’s messed up. He’s messed up. And you… you’re just as tangled in this chaos for indulging it, for looking at him in that way that calls out to him.

The more time he spends with you, the less he feels like himself. Everything he’s done lately—reading that damn book, standing in your apartment at 7 a.m.—none of it feels like something he’d do.

It’s not just his mind you’re messing with: it’s his very sense of self.

Logan’s smart mouth had always been a liability, getting him into trouble either by saying too much or by choosing the wrong words. Bad things had always followed in the wake of his tongue.

Somehow, when it comes to you, he’s the most careful he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to upset you, nor does he want to be the cause of any sorrow that might affect your heart.

When the two of you stand at the threshold once more, just as you have other times before, you softly say: “I feel like I’m experiencing a déjà vu.”

He laughs, because it sounds ridiculous. “Care to explain why?”

“You come, we talk, you leave.” You lean against the wall, your hand ghosting over the handle. “But you never stay that long.”

There’s no mistaking the layered meaning in your words. You, who work with language and its peculiarities for a living, never speak by chance—every phrase, every pause, carries an assigned weight. The double meaning in your statement doesn’t escape either of you.

You’re a natural at this madness, diving headfirst into it. You must be losing it, too, because your actions don’t match what you said before.

Slowly, his fingers brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the perfect excuse to feel your skin, to close the distance without saying what he actually wants.

They say food and shelter are the basic human needs, but Logan chooses to believe they forgot to include the longing to reach out and just feel you.

“I can’t stay,” he finally responds to your earlier comment, his hand still lingering against your skin.

His strength—the only thing saving him from completely giving in—helps him pull himself away.

Before the impulse to kiss you becomes too overwhelming to resist, Logan leaves.

Some time later, you’re making lunch, music playing softly in the background at the same time the city’s distinct noise finds a way to break through your tranquility.

You rely greatly on the knowledge that you’re good at multitasking—now more than ever, with a book in one hand and the other stirring the pasta on the stove.

The warmth from the pot rises around you, but you trust yourself not to be careless. Not to be stupid enough to burn yourself with the boiling water.

This time, you miscalculate. Not only do you dip the wooden spoon into the pot, but your fingertips too.

Though it only lasts a second, and the voice in your head instantly screams Hot! Hot! Hot!, the shock makes you drop the book to the floor. You yank your hand back, racing to the sink to run it under cold water.

“Fuck,” you grumble, watching the skin redden in protest. “Lesson learned: no more multitasking.”

The funny thing is, just a door away, Logan’s watching a movie with Wade when he feels a sting in the tips of his fingers.

It’s barely there, practically faint, but he looks down, inspecting his hand like it doesn’t belong to his own body. His skin briefly flushes with irritation before returning to its normal state.

Wade notices his distraction. “Hey, you okay?”

Logan pays no mind to it. “Sure. Just felt something strange.”

Is it still called avoiding if you’re both doing it? You’d like to think so.

For the sake of clarity, let’s say you’ve been actively avoiding Logan, but truth be told—he’s been avoiding you too. That last encounter in your apartment didn’t help matters at all.

If anything, it made everything worse.

You’ve been down this road before, knowing men like him too well: they’re everywhere, until they’re not.

One day, they vanish without a trace, leaving you staring at the empty space they used to occupy, asking yourself ‘What happened to my Prince Charming in disguise?’

They disappear as though they never existed, and not even the best detective can track them down.

So far, your avoidance strategy has worked wonders. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s a distraction—an undeniably attractive one, the kind anyone would want to trip over.

Yet you miss him, which is dumb: why are you missing someone you were never supposed to care about in the first place?

You return home after a long trip to the grocery store, arms laden with bags. It’s the kind of errand that exhausts you, though you keep telling yourself it’s better than thinking about him.

As you struggle to get through the building's exit, you resign yourself to the fact that it’ll take several trips to bring everything up to your apartment.

Then the elevator doors slide open, and you drop everything to the floor.

You should’ve known better than to assume victory so soon. After days of successfully avoiding him, there he is.

And of course, it’s when you look your worst—tired from running around, weighed down by groceries, barely holding it together.

“Hey,” he greets you, standing just outside the elevator, like he’s not sure if he should step inside or stay where he is. He’s dressed in a red-and-black flannel shirt, layered over a white vest, a leather jacket tossed over his shoulders, and a pair of jeans that seem made for him.

He looks... ridiculously good.

“Hi,” you manage to answer after a beat, scrambling to collect the bags you’d dropped. “Just—give me a second.”

“Let me help you,” Logan says, ducking down to gather the groceries, but you pull them away.

“I’ve got it. Are you going out? On a date, maybe?” You nod toward his clothes, trying to keep things light, teasing even.

Glancing down at himself, a crease appears between his brows, and in one swoop, he gathers all the bags with a single hand. “I’m supposed to meet Wade at a bar, but he’ll survive without me.”

“Logan, you don’t—”

But he’s already moving, one hand tugging you out of the elevator, the other gesturing toward your apartment.

“Not up for debate,” he mutters. Then, without waiting for permission, he holds out his hand. “Keys.”

Sighing, you dig into your pocket and drop them into his open palm. He unlocks the door with practiced ease, stepping inside and placing the bags on your kitchen counter.

As he starts to unpack them, you stop him. “You really don’t need to do that.”

That seems to catch his attention. He pauses, turning toward you with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the counter.

His unrelenting stare sizes you up, and he cocks his head to the side. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He thinks he’s so discreet, so smooth. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you explain, fiddling with the frayed edge of your sweater, tugging at it like it might unravel your nerves.

You hear him click his tongue. “Been busy too.” His words hang in the air, thickening the atmosphere. Your body tenses, and you stare at his shoes, until— “Sweetheart,” he calls you softly, and your eyes snap shut for a moment, your chin almost pressing against your chest. “My eyes are up here.”

A quick flutter of your lashes brings you back to him, and your chest tightens with the effort it takes to look into his eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” you ask, praying he’ll let this go.

You watch as his mouth twitches with something halfway between a smile and a smirk. “You already want me to leave?”

“If you have plans, then yeah.”

He huffs out a laugh, inhaling a shallow breath like you’ve missed something obvious. “Wade can wait. He’ll be fine.” His expression shifts, and the playful tone in his voice falls away, replaced by something more raw. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You can’t help but snort. “Oh, please. Like you haven’t been doing the same.” You walk over to the couch, feeling your legs wobble beneath you. You collapse into one corner, hoping the distance will help you breathe.

Like a shadow, Logan follows after you, sitting far too close. His legs splay wide, so wide they’re almost grazing yours.

“At least I have a reason for it. What about you?” His hand reaches out, fingers closing around yours in a grip that’s both firm and gentle, enhancing your anxiety. Your throat tightens, the room shrinking around you. “I need you to tell me I’m not crazy,” he says, his voice rough and low. “I need you to tell me you feel it too.”

Panic flares in your chest, and you scramble for time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter, but your voice cracks, the uncertainty leaking through the cracks in your bravado.

He doesn’t buy your acting. “You do. We can’t keep playing dumb. You’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind one of these days.”

It’s not just his words—it’s the way he stands so close, heat radiating from his body, the roughness of his hand gripping yours like he’s terrified you’ll slip away.

The intensity of it all weighs on you in ways you can’t even begin to describe, leaving you breathless, caught between denial and desire.

“Logan, this isn’t—”

“What? Okay?” There’s a glimpse of mirthlessness in his tone as he speaks, his forehead furrowing. “I can’t stay away from you, don’t you see it? It feels too good to be wrong,” he utters, inching forward. You know you should take a step back, tell him to stop. Nothing good can come from this. “It takes two to feel these things. It can’t be just me.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to give in.” Blood pounds in your ears, your pulse racing as your heart hammers unpleasantly. Little shivers of ice run through your spine, and yet, your stomach burns with desire.

More than ever, you feel yourself slipping, your sanity at risk.

Logan runs his eyes up and down your face, agitated, almost going cross-eyed. “Earlier you asked if I was going on a date. Would you like that? Me being with other people? Kissing another woman?” His hot breath caresses your cheek, and you avert your gaze momentarily. “Answer me.”

Don’t do it. For the love of God, don’t. “I can’t—I don’t—”

“Come on, baby.”

“I don’t want you to be with other people,” you mumble, your lips almost grazing his, and that’s all he needs to grip your chin and pull you into a kiss.

His mouth moves hungrily over yours, pushing you back until the armrest digs into your lower back. A choked whimper gets lost in your throat, and you bring him closer by grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket, your chest pressing against his.

Logan bites down on your lip, soothing the sting with his tongue, and the moan you let out reverberates in the apartment.

“This is what you were hiding from me?” he rasps, his forehead bumping against yours. “These sweet sounds you make?”

You end up perched in his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. He’s hard beneath you, and as you shift, your center makes contact with his erection through the layers of fabric.

Both of you sigh into each other’s mouths, your hips moving on their own accord, rocking slightly against his clothed cock. He hooks one of his arms around your waist, guiding your movements.

Everything seems to fall into place. Outside your window, birds chirp. The world feels lighter, like a better place. The beast inside you quiets, and for once, your mind is blissfully blank.

Logic? Error 404—not found.

You tug at his hair, and Logan growls, breaking the kiss. “Do that again.” He jerks under your touch, bucking up into you. Encouraged, you pull his hair again, fingers wrapping around a strand at the nape of his neck, and you’re rewarded with a deep groan.

He’s dizzy for it, but you’re no better, not when he trails his kisses down your neck, his mouth latching onto your skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“I can’t control myself around you,” he murmurs, groping your tits, and you wail, the ache between your legs becoming intolerable. His hands slip under your sweater, caressing the scars on your back.

That’s when recognition settles over you.

What are you doing? And why are you doing it?

He ceases sucking your flesh when you go rigid on top of him. Pecking your lips once again, Logan’s hands cradle your face, his thumbs rubbing circles on your cheeks. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t understand how he does it, how he can remain so calm. Doesn’t he realize the gravity of this? “We have to stop.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me something you already know the answer to.”

His arms drop to his sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off him, away from the couch, putting as much distance between you as you can.

Pressing your palms to your eyes, you shake your head. “God, I’m stupid. This is stupid.”

Your reaction seems to get on his nerves, his frustration somehow increasing. Logan stands, towering over you. “Was it stupid when you were dry humping me?”

“Fuck you, Logan.”

“I’m not the bad guy here. You kissed me back.” He doesn’t let up, trailing behind you as you try to escape. “You want me as much as I want you.”

“Will you stop saying that?” you bark, throwing your arms in the air. Your chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. “Yeah, we like each other. So? Does that make it right? How can you just ignore how wrong this is?”

His expression hardens, anger flashing in his eyes. “Forget your idea of what's good and bad. You're just upset you can't control what you feel.”

“He’s closer than ever.”

Logan gawks at you, his voice bitter as he goes on with his rambling. “That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.”

“You wish you were him, don’t you?” You jab your finger into his chest, feeling his heartbeat, a flutter you choose to ignore. “You want to be my soulmate.”

“Damn right I do,” he practically spits his words, narrowing his eyes at you. “But I’m not him.”

“No. You’re not.”

Everything seems to fall out of place. Outside your window, birds don’t chirp—they scream for mercy. The world doesn’t feel lighter, but heavier. The beast inside you roars back to life, restless and louder than ever, while your mind spins in chaos.

“We shouldn’t see each other anymore.” Your voice pierces through the thick silence in the room, and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat.

“If that’s what you want,” he replies, his jaw clenched tight, irritation radiating off him in waves.

“It’s what we both need.”

“Speak for yourself. I don’t have a soulmate.” His tone is biting, but you don’t miss the undercurrent of longing in his words. “But if in any other universe I do, I hope it’s you.”

Your hand turns the knob, and then he’s halfway out the door, sparing you one last glance before he turns his back to you.

No more visits. No more books. No more bruising kisses that leave you questioning your mere existence.

Let things stay as they are—it’s safer that way. You don’t want to know the reason behind this forceful need.

After all, being his grumpy and ill-tempered self, he’ll stay holed up in Wade’s apartment, avoiding any interaction with the real world. And you? You’ll forget about him. Easy-peasy.

It didn’t go well in the end.

You remember your first heartbreak—seventeen, fresh out of high school. One of your hands clutched a million dreams, and the other, a pillow soaked with your tears.

Your mother remained by your side, caressing your back, attempting to soothe the sobs that racked your body. She murmured that it’d pass, that you wouldn’t feel like this forever. You believed her then, and trusted that things would eventually be okay.

Almost ten years later, another heartbreak shouldn’t come as a surprise. By now, you thought you would’ve developed the tools to survive it. You should be able to piece yourself back together by instinct.

But life, as it turns out, has a peculiar way of catching you off guard.

Whether it’s pent-up horniness, touch-starvation, or genuine affection—it doesn't change the fact that your pseudo-relationship with Logan fell apart.

Though you’re not the one who’s suffering the most. Neither is Logan.

Wade, the third party in this tangled mess, has somehow taken it the hardest.

“I feel like a child of divorce,” he says, his head resting on your lap, eyes distant as they fixate on the peeling wallpaper. “You need to do something about that.”

“I’ll take care of it next month.”

He’s supposed to be the one supporting you, but it feels like the roles are reversed—you’re comforting him, letting him vent.

“My two favorite people now can’t even be in the same room. What are we gonna do for Christmas? New Year's Eve?” Straightening up, he grabs the nearest cushion and buries his face into it to muffle a defeated scream. “Damn it, Cupid! You had one job!”

All in all, Wade’s emotionally unavailable at the moment, grieving your separation from Logan as if it were his own loss, too caught up in his melodrama to be of any real help.

Meanwhile, you fill your days with work, books, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You go to bed too late, you wake up too early. Sleep too little, cry too much.

One thing stays constant—you and Logan don’t talk. Stolen glances in the hallway, awkward elevator rides—those are the only remnants of whatever you once were. Back to being strangers again.

Well, not really. Strangers don’t know the route to your mouth the way he does.

The ache lingers every day. Missing him when you’re awake is a common occurrence. At night, as you toss and turn beneath the sheets, he stars in your dreams. You can’t recall the last time he wasn’t lodged in your thoughts.

Where there used to be ideas, creativity, and plots worth scribbling down, there’s now only Logan—a man destined to problematize your stay on earth.

That fucker again? Don’t you ever get tired of talking about someone who you don’t even know? Because you’re certainly wearing me out.

And yet, despite all of it, you continue to prioritize someone else. Someone who isn’t even here. Clung to the idea of a soulmate, you chose him over Logan.

What did he expect? For you to abandon your principles, your belief in destiny? It’s who you are. Nearly thirty years of life guided by one belief can’t just be discarded like trash.

You liked to separate things into categories: good and bad, right and wrong. A simple method to structure everything, to make sense of your world, and it has worked most of the time.

But now? The limits of those sacred categories look blurred. Your judgment feels unreliable, and you wonder if the choices you’ve made lately have been the correct ones.

Each of your decisions seems to be leading you further down a path you can’t recognize.

What’s the goal? Finding your soulmate, the voice in your head mockingly answers for the hundredth time, rolling its imaginary eyes. And where is he?

You’ve shut Logan out, a man who’s made it clear he has feelings for you, for this elusive person. Isn’t it time he steps into the light at long last?

This is what you fear the most: loneliness.

You don’t want to be the lone woman who sits by herself in a cafe, drawing pity from waitresses who discuss her solitude. By no means do you wish to be that friend who dispenses wise dating advice, but goes home to an empty bed. You refuse to become the godmother whose hand no one holds when her time comes.

No, this can’t be all fate has to offer to you. There must be more. If your life were a book, you’d be flipping through the pages to the last chapter, desperate to see how it ends.

Or, better yet, you’d grab a pen and rewrite it yourself. What kind of ending you’ll have—you’re not so sure about that.

It’s Sunday, one of those endless weekends where the only way to survive is by rearranging your entire apartment. You could manage it alone, but help would be nice—Wade’s help, to be more precise, would be perfect for this kind of task, and you find yourself knocking on his door.

No answer. Deciding to dial his number to see if he’s fallen asleep, you try calling him, waiting through the rings until he finally picks up. “Hey.”

Except it’s not Wade’s voice that answers. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

The door swings open, and Logan appears right behind it, holding Wade’s phone to his ear.

He narrows his eyes, leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “How sad. You don’t remember what I sound like.”

You feel foolish for still being on the call, so you lock your phone, ending it. “Where’s Wade?” you ask, frowning as you hold your breath, your voice sharper than intended.

“Out and about. Didn’t tell me where he was going,” Logan replies, glaring at you as he raises the phone to your face. “He left without this.”

Abort mission! Nodding in agreement, you begin to step back. “Great, I’ll look for him later.”

You’re close to being locked up once again in the safety of your apartment when you hear him: “You need anything?”

It’s the most he’s said to you in weeks. You hesitate, keeping your back turned. “I’m moving some heavy stuff around. Thought I could use the help.”

“I could do it.”

No. Not really. He’s doing that thing again—offering help when you know you shouldn’t accept it. You shake your head.

“It’s not necessary,” you say, forcing a casual tone.

“Doesn’t have to mean anything,” he retorts, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as they draw closer. With each passing second, your options shrink, leaving you no room for retreat. “Don’t worry. I won’t try to kiss you again if that’s what’s got you all worked up.”

“I’m not worked up,” you hiss, and he sidesteps you easily, his arm nudging yours.

The electricity is still there, undeniable, but neither of you has the courage to acknowledge it, acting as though it’s an ordinary occurrence.

His eyes roam the room, like he’s forgotten what your apartment looked like. He pauses by the bookshelf, his fingers gliding over the spine of Jane Eyre, and a low whistle escapes him as he slips it back into place.

You, frozen at the threshold, feel your irritation simmering just beneath the surface, and the urge to hide in your bedroom only becomes stronger.

After this, you’ll have to burn your favorite book. What a pity.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks, hooking his fingers into the loops of his jeans, his posture both confident and annoyingly relaxed.

There’s a challenge in his tone, and he acts as if you’re the one who pulled him into this situation—like he didn’t worm his way in here.

You gesture toward the couch. “Can you put it by the window?”

He sets to work, moving the smaller pieces of furniture aside to make space for the couch. Under no circumstances are you going to just stand there and watch him sweat.

Instead, you busy yourself with the long-forgotten glasses and cups gathering dust in one of the kitchen cabinets, each one glinting with past disappointments.

Wetting a towel, you start by wiping the rims. The air feels heavily charged with uneasiness, but you're relieved that for once, you can breathe without feeling like you’re on the brink of a heart attack.

You can already imagine Wade’s face when you tell him—

“So,” Logan’s voice cuts through the silence, startling you, “how’s the search going? Got any luck?”

His words have the desired effect on you, and the glass slips from your grasp, shattering against the floor in a crash that mirrors the jump of your heart. You curse under your breath, stepping back from the mess, taking in the shards sprawled around your shoes.

“Be careful,” he says from the other side of the room, still dragging the furniture into place, and you scrutinize him over your shoulder, your brows knitted.

“I don’t need your advice,” you murmur through gritted teeth as you crouch to pick up the larger shards. His attention returns to the couch, but you guess he’s not technically thinking how nice of a person you are.

As you kneel, your hands tremble slightly, and you wonder when that started. You fumble for a larger shard of glass, bracing your hand against the floor for balance, unaware of the smaller piece lying dangerously close to your fingers.

The sting comes fast, slicing through the skin of your pinky. You flinch, raising your hand, and Logan, hearing the faint wince, abandons his task and crosses the room to you.

"I don’t need your advice," he echoes, mocking your tone as he squats beside you, his hand closing around yours to inspect the wound. "You’re bleeding."

“Brilliant observation, Sherlock. I hadn’t noticed—” The words die in your throat, your eyes widening as you take a closer look at his hand. “Wait, why are you bleeding?”

He snorts, diverting his attention to his own hand. “What do you mean I’m—” Whatever it is he intended to shoot back remains unsaid as both of you stare down at the small cut in his pinky.

Driven by instinct, you place your hands side by side, your finger grazing his. The cuts are identical: same place, same width, same depth. The only difference is his vanishes within seconds, leaving only a few droplets of crimson blood as evidence.

Logan couldn’t have cut himself. He was nowhere near the glass. “Are you…?” You swallow thickly, trying to string together a coherent thought, dizziness making its triumphant appearance. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that—”

“I need a drink.”

“Can you stop acting like a dick for one second?” You peer into his glossy eyes, watching him try to avoid your gaze, though he can’t seem to resist. “Please, Logan. Look at me.”

When he does, his mouth parts as if to speak, then closes again. “I don’t understand. I thought I didn’t have a soulmate.” His gruff tone slows even further, like he's straining to push the words from his lungs. “I thought—I thought I was alone.”

It explains so much: how your scars had reappeared once he and Wade returned from The Void.

The instant attraction, the yearning to be near him.

The dread that washed over you each time he walked away.

The dreams that plagued your nights, and the tightness in your chest these past few weeks that made you wonder if you could ever coexist in the same space as him without breaking apart.

All those times you felt he was getting closer weren’t just a figment of your imagination—he was, in fact, right there.

But he wasn’t just anyone—it was him. Logan is your soulmate. You two are meant to be together. How long would it take for you to truly believe it? Until it no longer sounded like something too good to be true?

Without uttering a sound, Logan gazes at you, silently pleading to see them. To see your scars. You extend your arm, and with a gentle motion, he rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, revealing the marks etched into your skin.

He runs his fingers along the lines, trying to understand the bond you now share—both his and yours.

In a sense, you’re his. You carry his scars, the physical manifestation of the life he has lived. Even though he may not bear any of his own, you do, and that’s more than enough.

He belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

“There are more,” you tell him. your voice barely above a whisper. He stands, offering you his hand, and you take it, rising to your feet. Logan inches closer, his mouth hovering just above yours, his large hand coming up to cup your cheek.

The look he gives you is one reserved for those he loves, a look filled with such warmth and affection that it almost feels dreamlike.

“Do you want me to see them?” he inquires, and all he needs is a nod from you to gently tug your shirt up your chest and over your head.

He lets out a dry chuckle when you attempt to tame your hair, the effort proving to be in vain. The clock on the wall seems to pause its ticking the moment his fingers begin to trail each of the scars that captures his gaze.

You can’t even begin to fathom what thoughts might be swirling in his mind, but if the flicker of lust and desire you catch in his expression is anything to go by, you’re not so worried.

Logan’s touch carries an unexpected softness, a tenderness you never imagined a man like him could possess.

Deep down, you wish he understood that these scars don’t hurt, that they never have. “I’m okay,” you reassure him, prompting him to explore more of your skin, to claim you as his.

“Do you… like them?” he asks without meeting your eyes.

Do you like my scars? is the real question hidden underneath.

Do you like me? is the one he can’t bring himself to pronounce.

“They’re yours. I could never not like them.”

Before you stands a man you once believed was meant to be your burden, your trial. Logan had been the earthquake sent to test your endurance, to see how much you could withstand before surrendering and waving the white flag.

The same fingers that once imprinted his mark on you now linger on the strap of your bra, waiting for you to decide whether to let him go further or stop.

Desire has a limit before it overwhelms. There’s only so much need a person can contain before it spills over, uncontrollable and raw.

This game, one you never learned how to play, feels as foreign to him as it does to you—neither of you knows the rules.

“Can I see more?” He’s still talking about the scars, still fumbling with the strap, and you nod, your eyelids growing droopier as you take his free hand and direct it to the front of your jeans.

He catches the hint, undoing the button with ease, allowing you to shed the last layers of restraint.

Bare, moments away from being completely naked, standing in stark contrast to Logan, who remains fully clothed, your stomach does a flip as he rubs his thumb along the sides of your underwear.

Leaning your forehead against his shoulder, you stifle a sigh when he splays his hand across your lower back, pulling you closer.

His rough grip tightens on your ass, testing the feel of you, while your breathing becomes shallow, erratic.

“What is it, honey?” He slides his fingers your stomach, just below your belly button, brushing a small scar in there. “Want me to touch you?”

“Yes,” you croak, the plea slipping out involuntarily, throwing your arms around his neck. He buries his face against your jaw, his lips parting against your skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

You tilt your head back, exposing more of your throat to him, breathless as you whisper: “I’ve waited so long.”

He moves toward the couch, and you follow, trying to anticipate what he’s got planned for you. “I know, baby. I know. You’ve waited long enough.” Guiding your body down, he has you lying horizontally on the sofa. He unhooks your bra, kneading your breasts with both hands, eliciting a ragged gasp from you. “But I’m here now. You don’t have to wait any longer,” he huffs by your ear, rolling your nipples between his fingers, his breath mingling with yours, each exhale warm and inviting. “Gonna let me make you feel good? Show you how much I’ve been thinkin’ about you?”

Instead of answering with real words, you surge forward, crashing your lips against with his, reveling in the way he cages you with his biceps, locking you up in a prison of desire from which you never wish to break free. He tries not to settle his full weight on top of you, attentive not to crush you.

As he nips at the column of your throat, you squirm beneath him, canting your hips up to seek the friction you crave.

He presses his knee against your center and you push back, grinding against him with an animalistic urgency.

You can’t recall ever feeling this desperate, this overwhelmed by a man. But then again, he’s unlike any other you’ve encountered in your array of momentary hookups.

His kisses grow even more insistent as breathy moans roll off to your tongue, merging with the occasional creak of the couch beneath your movements.

Logan spreads your thighs wider, sinking to his knees on the floor to tug your lower half forward until your ass is almost hanging in the air. He places your thighs on his shoulders, supporting you as he leans in to pepper your soft flesh with kisses.

One can be certain that he’s marking your inner thighs with a hickey or two, the scratch of his beard feeling magnificent against your sensitive skin, and you can hardly bring yourself to think about the potential burn he’ll leave behind. Logan inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dangerously close to your cunt, and you tangle a hand in his hair as he continues to test your patience.

“Eager?” he wonders aloud, looking at you through his lashes. While maintaining eye contact, he presses a kiss to your clit through the fabric of your panties.

He does it again, and you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, his fingers deftly pulling your underwear down your legs.

The first drag of his tongue along your folds has you scrunching your eyebrows in pleasure, tightening your grip on his hair. Logan moans against you, the sound muffled as he dips the tip of his tongue into your entrance, lapping at your arousal with an insatiable hunger.

The way you purr his name—a soft caress, a pat on his back that says Yeah, you’re doing fine—only spurs him on, infusing every one of his ministrations with fervor.

His longing for you radiates in the intensity of his touch, sending shivers through you, making you writhe because of his hands alone.

Your core throbs. Your skin prickles with electricity. Your legs quake on either side of his face. He’s hungry and you’re his feast. He’s parched and you’re the last bottle of water in an arid world.

Logan eats you out like this will be the only time he’ll have the privilege—each movement calculated, pushing all the right buttons, pulling out every trick he knows to make you think No, it doesn’t get any better than this. This is as much as one can get.

Then his fingers join the symphony of pleasure, pumping in and out of you as he keeps flicking your clit with expert precision, and your back arches from the couch, following his pace with your hips. He pushes back, you push forward—he pushes forward, you push back.

Who is enjoying this more: him or you?

His pointed tongue teases your bud, matched with the persistent hammering of his fingers plunged into your wet heat. The combination has you coming on his mouth, falling over the precipice while you struggle to keep yourself together.

Your walls flutter around his digits, and your cries fuse with his groans, both overshadowed by his insatiable desire to savor until the last drop of your release.

Shockwaves ripple through your body and you prop your weight on your arms to capture his lips in a fervent kiss, your eyes rolling rolling back in ecstasy as you taste yourself, a mix of sour and sweet.

In a frenzy, he sheds his clothes, practically tearing them away, and you wrap your hand around his length, stroking him in time with your kisses. Logan pulls back, panting against you, and you steal a glance at him.

Your gaze travels down to his hard cock, the tip a furious red, and he seizes your wrist.

“Why don’t you kiss it better?” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. In this moment, you’re taken aback by his beauty, and the urge to express it rises within you.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur against his thigh, showering his skin with heated kisses. You stare in disbelief at the trail of hair leading to his girth, mouth watering at the sight.

A kiss on the tip, followed by a broad lick along a prominent vein—Logan’s grip on the armrest tightens, his knuckles turning white. “So perfect.”

“Shut up,” he retorts breathlessly, but you revel in the strangled noise that escapes him as you take him deeper, his head disappearing between your lips. His palm rests on your nape, anchoring you in place. “Goddammit. The fuckin’—mouth you have on you.”

You try to take him in further once you’re feeling more confident, while Logan fights with all his might against the need to thrust his hips up into your warmth. He can’t stay still, grunting and smothering you with lavish praise that heightens your arousal, slick pouring out of you in waves.

“Pretty thing you are. Don’t even know how to function around you. You got me all—fuck, actin’ all stupid.”

At one point, he tells you to stop, because he doesn’t want to come just yet. You know what comes next as he rubs his cock along your folds, blending your wetness with his precum.

It’s sloppy, and dirty, and messy—and God, do you love it.

He sinks into you and the world collides in a way you never expected. Everything you thought you knew falls apart, leaving you stranded in unfamiliar territory.

You can’t comprehend how you’ve spent so many years without him. Without this.

Your lips find his, and he swallows every sound he punches out of your lungs. His thrusts grow harder and faster as you adjust to his size, how big he feels inside you.

He digs his fingers into the globes of your ass, yanking you towards his shaft every time he fucks into you. You feel the brush of his balls against your skin, the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

To this day, it’s still hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that love is what humans both strive and die for.

You come to understand it fully as his eyes flicker to yours, checking for any signs of discomfort in your features.

You understand why people write books and songs about love when he breathes your name in the shell of your ear, chanting how good you’re taking him, how tight and wet you are for him.

You understand the place love occupies in your life as the sound of your bodies slapping together creates a melody which has never been played before.

You understand why you’ve searched for this your entire life, lifting every carpet in hopes of uncovering the love you’ve pined for.

In the past, it had always felt like a race—finding your soulmate before the clock struck twelve. Now that you have him, you wonder what the future holds for you, how this connection will evolve.

For now, you can allow yourself the possibility of relishing the drag of his cock in your interior. His pace doesn’t falter for a second—something about mutants and their non-stop stamina, no doubt. He shoves a hand between your sweaty bodies, rubbing circles on your already swollen bud.

Each time he fills you to the brim, you have to ground yourself, resisting the pull of an altered reality.

“So full,” you blurt out, mewling with a specially hard thrust, a chocked sob lodged in your throat. “Please, stay.”

It could mean many things: Please, keep fucking me. Please, don’t leave after this. Please, remain by my side form this moment onward, because I don’t know how to go on with my life now that I’ve experienced this closeness.

Whatever meaning he ascribes to your words is of little importance. He tightens his arms around you, kissing you deeply, tongue and teeth clashing as they compete to see who wins the battle. “Never. I’m never lettin’ you go, y’hear me?”

Heat pools in your lower back, a coiling tension radiating through your limbs. “You’re mine, princess. Can’t afford to lose you now that I found you. Gonna remind you every day.”

His rambling pushes you over the edge, your dripping cunt spasming around him as you reach your climax, moaning his name against his shoulder. You cling to him, convulsing beneath his body, and he grinds his hips into yours, his chest rumbling as he growls.

“Inside,” you mumble, extending your hand to press it to his waist. “Need you inside me. Please, I want it so bad.”

Logan stutters against you, his forehead falling against your collarbone as he finishes with one powerful thrust, his cock pulsing warm ropes of come within your cunt. You clench around him, whining as he prolongs both your pleasure and his, milking the last drop of his seed. His voice is a constant murmur, filling every space in the room until he slumps against you.

Night has fallen. The cut on your pinky no longer stings. Your scars, after all, are still there, nestled against Logan’s unmarked skin. You caress his back, sighing contentedly as a wave of peace washes over you.

You’ve never felt this relaxed.

Logan grasps your chin and tilts it up, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey,” he mutters, his gaze roaming all over your face.

You cup his cheek, his rough stubble grazing your palm. “Hey, stranger. Long time no see.”

A genuine laugh pierces through the silence. the kind he rarely allows himself. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, his brow furrowing as he glances at you with love.

Love—hadn’t you pondered its existence for so long? Your fuel for living, the muse behind your best poems, a recurring motif in your fantasies.

Love now has Logan’s name written in ink, no longer a blank canvas awaiting its unknown owner. No—it’s all his now.

You’d do it all over again if it meant ending up like this, tangled and intertwined, with the promise of a future together. He has many stories to share—about his past universe, about himself. You have secrets to unveil, too. There’s so much you both have yet to discover about each other.

But time isn’t up. This isn’t a race, you remind yourself: things are just getting started.

Everywhere you go, every place you attempt to set foot in, there it is. Love is dressed up in an expensive silk robe, a ribbon tied neatly on top of it. You reach closer, trying to unravel it, though it's pointless. The moment love sees you—truly sees your longing for it—it flees, and you struggle to keep up. Love runs faster than anyone, hiding within the bushes, counting the seconds until its next appearance.

Finally, you’ve wrapped love around your finger.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

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yourstrulyrani · 2 months ago

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roommate!simon riley x reader

a/n: can i just say thank you so much for the love yall gave on my first post ever?! i woke up to like 160 notes which is crazy i was not expecting that. thank you for even taking the time to read it, i cannot wait to grow my account even more and get to know all of you lovely people 🥲🤍 (thank you to my potato too, i love u 3000 girl)

roommate!simon riley who gives you full decorative freedom of the place. whether you want to keep it simple or go all out and decorate based on the season or whatever, he doesn't care. he's usually on deployment anyway, so he doesn't see reason in having a say since you're the one who always comes home at the end of the day. however, he thought it was sweet when he saw a ghost plushy on the couch one night he came back from deployment.

roommate!simon riley who adores it when you make food from where you're from. he loves to hear you explain the history of the food as you're cooking. you cook so good that once, he purposely forgot his lunch just so you could make something and drop it off on base. however, he has done this too many times to the point that now on base you've gotten the nickname "roommate ramsay" (mainly by soap).

roommate!simon riley who always checks in on you when he's on deployment. he texts you, asking if you've ate, if you've came back from work, or just to banter with you. he calls you just to hear your voice. you may think he's a little distant and just sees you as a person he lives with, but to him, you have grown to be much more.

roommate!simon riley when off deployment, loves to do little domestic things with you. he goes grocery shopping with you, relishing in the feeling of you walking beside him as he pushes the cart so to others, you both look like a couple. he scoffs when you try to pay and instead pulls out his card. he loves to go on walks with you after you get off from work as it helps clear your mind. you both share the blanket as you watch tv, and he can't help but to wrap the tiny ghost plushy around his huge arms. he knows you're too busy staring at his arms instead of the tv, tattoo sleeve and scars and bulging biceps included, but he doesn't mind. because after all who wouldn't want their pretty roommate staring at their body like they can be licked all over?

(i think all i need in life is a 6'4 man with a tattoo sleeve who manhandles me and then i can die happy)

~ yours truly, rani ♥︎

#ghost cod #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #roommate au #simon riley headcanons #simon riley cod #ghost simon riley #roommate simon riley #omg they were roommates #roommate x reader

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jeonginsleftcheek · 2 months ago

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Dolly VI

~ part 6 of the Dolly series

pairing: changbin x afab!reader

genre: smut, fluff, sci-fi

synopsis: Being the CEO of a big company meant you were always buried with work, staying late at the office, never having time to yourself. Your employees have a habit of giving you funny gifts to make you get out and live your life a little, as they say. Even though you expect crazy gifts from them, you never expected to get something that would change your life forever.

wc: 8.0k

warnings: unprotected sex, creampies, oral (m)

~ divider by @bunnysrph

Another sigh passed your lips as you rubbed your temples, the screen in front of you blurring for a moment and making you close your eyes tightly. You leaned back in your chair to stretch, you've been sitting in the same position for hours.

"Wow." you muttered, realizing your legs were actually numb. It was time to get up, at least for a moment, you thought and stood up. You made your way to the big glass windows behind your chair and stared at the view of the city.

Here, on the top of it all stands your dream. You've worked hard to get to where you are, dedicating your entire life only to your career. You knew nothing else but work, yet sometimes it felt as if everything was about to crumble underneath your feet.

A knock on your door snapped you out of your thoughts.

"Come in." you said after clearing your throat.

"Miss, I brought you the papers you asked for." it was your assistant, Maxine. The poor girl had to stay behind with you every time and you made sure to pay her those extra hours well, feeling bad that you had to make her stay here on a Friday night.

You turned and smiled slightly at her, nodding towards your desk.

"You can leave them there. Thank you, Maxine." you said and she nodded, putting the big stack of papers on top of the other, smaller stack you were almost done with.

"You can go home, Maxine. There's no point in you being here plus it's Friday, you must have somewhere better to be than at work." you added and her eyes widened slightly.

"Are you sure miss?" she asked and you nodded.

"Of course, have a good weekend!" you said with a smile.

"Thanks, you too boss!" she smiled back and exited the office, leaving you alone with your thoughts and papers.

You glanced at the table, calculating how long you'll be here but then you noticed a light pink envelope sticking between the papers. With furrowed brows you came closer to the table, pulling the envelope out.

'From your faithful employees, consider this an early birthday gift to the best boss ever!'

You chuckled when you read the writing on it, your fingertips running over the various signatures of your employees. What did they have up their sleeve now?

You opened up the envelope and pulled out the little card inside, reading it quietly.

Hello,

my name is Changbin and I am your strong dolly.

I love going on gym dates and after that eating some good food! I enjoy watching movies so I hope you'll share your favorites with me.

Please be tender with me, even though I seem tough, I need someone to lean on too so don't forget to give me a hug.

Hope you will come to love me as much as I love you.

"What?" you chuckled then saw someone added something on the card.

'We got him delivered to your house, enjoy!'

No way. Did your employees buy you a sex doll?

Your face warmed up instantly. Those bastards, you chuckled to yourself, the nickname more of an endearment than an insult.

Maybe the papers could wait until tomorrow.

It was raining hard when you finally parked in front of your building, rushing inside with your bag shielding your head. You almost tripped over your legs, your heels making it hard to run.

The building was completely quiet as you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button 12. You looked down at your watch, it was almost 2am. You shook your head, impatient to see what the gift looked like.

There was a huge box in front of your apartment door and you made your way there quickly.

After unlocking your door, you dragged the box inside, almost falling over a few times. After quickly closing the door and throwing your heels off of your feet, you decided to open the box immediately, no more waiting.

"Oh. Look at that." your heart skipped a beat.

This Changbin doll definitely looked like a man you'd turn your head after if you saw him in the street. At least your employees seemed to know your taste.

At the same time, you were curious, you've never seen a doll that is so humanlike. Gulping, you kneeled down next to the box and reached out to touch his face.

"Tell me your skincare routine." you chuckled, playing with his hair a little.

You noticed a piece of paper stuck between his fingers so you grabbed it gently and looked at it.

My honey!

I chose a comfy outfit for us to enjoy a movie together!

Hope you'll love our first night together as much as I will!

Honey. You blushed profusely at the nickname.

Have I been single for so long that this got me going?, you asked yourself, feeling embarrassed.

Yet, you couldn't even remember the last time someone flirted with you. And if they did, it probably went over your head because you were only thinking about work 24/7. Even now, you had brought the papers home so you can finish everything during the weekend.

Your stomach growled and you stood up, holding the manual for the dolly as you heated up some dinner. You needed to eat healthier food, you knew that. But who has time for cooking when you're working 24/7?

You read the manual carefully, flipping the pages as you ate your dinner; leftovers from yesterday. Not ideal, but you had no other options at this moment. Your face started burning suddenly when you got to the section about what the doll was made for and what it can do.

"Oh my god." you quickly closed the manual with a little giggle. You glanced at the box, deciding to take a shower and get rid of your suit first.

When you were finally refreshed, feeling like a new person, you made your way back to your new doll.

"How do I get you out?" you pursed your lips. Yes, you did some yoga but you had no idea if you could lift up an entire human sized doll.

You pushed the box to your room, putting it next to your bed. With all the strength you could gather you managed to pull Changbin out of the box and place him on top of your covers with your body giving out and plopping down on top of him.

"Oh." you were surprised by the warmth of his body. You didn't really follow the latest technology developments, only using what you needed for work and daily life, but this must be some new and advanced technology you've never come across.

You crawled under the covers, putting them over Changbin too as you grabbed your phone and checked out the site with the dolls. Their primary function was to be used for pleasure but you felt like Changbin could be more than that. Maybe a cuddle buddy? You chuckled and pressed your cheek against his chest as you laid half of your body on top of him. You could feel the muscles underneath the clothes he was dressed in and it made your heart skip a beat.

You continued scrolling through the site, seeing the other doll models, some of them sold out. They were all charming in their own way, but you were sure you'd choose Changbin if you were buying one by yourself.

"Wow, only one of each?"

You scrolled all the way to the end and in the left-hand corner you saw very small letters saying: property of BIMT.

"BIMT?" it sounded so familiar, and you couldn't remember where you had heard that before.

You shrugged, too tired to think or look at your phone anymore so you put it aside and hugged your Changbin dolly, happy to have a warm body to hold during a usually lonely night.

You had never slept this well in your life, so well that you didn't even hear your alarm clock trying to wake you up.

"Fuck!" you exclaimed once your eyes opened and you noticed it was past 10am.

Usually, during the weekend you'd still wake up earlier, around 7am so you could go for a run and do your stretching or yoga session. Plus, the weekend was the only time you could clean up your apartment thoroughly.

What surprised you even more, was that you were turned on for some reason. You must've had some interesting dreams to wake up like this.

Embarrassment seeped into you as you looked at Changbin's face. You scanned around your room as if someone was watching you, which of course no one was. But you felt so awkward using the doll.

You propped yourself on your elbow and hovered over Changbin's face.

"Hello. Good morning." you waved in front of his face but of course he didn't even blink.

"How do I do this?" you chewed on your lip. You observed him for another moment before placing your palm on his chest and tentatively sliding it down. Your hand explored slowly and gently, working yourself up as you touched his defined muscles.

"Huge..." you gasped a little when you gripped at his bicep. Your body was heating up and so was his, the doll was getting excited. You read it in the manual but seeing it happen was something else. Licking your lips, your hand slid down more as you threw your leg over him, your knee brushing against his bulge.

"Oh." your eyes widened and you stopped for a moment to catch your breath, before sliding your hand down to touch him. Your doll was definitely big.

Something inside you snapped and you forgot about being embarrassed quickly as you started moving against his thigh. You whined, finding a good position to where you could straddle his thigh and continued your ministrations. The dolly seemed somehow... happy. Your cheeks warmed up suddenly, it felt like his attention was on you, like his eyes were actually looking at you. Your knee kept brushing against his erection, making him twitch in his pants.

"It's like you're alive." you whispered, mesmerized.

You bit on your lip and decided to rid him of his pants and underwear.

"Oh my." you slapped your hand against your mouth. "Changbin." you giggled after saying his name, it felt good to feel it rolling off of your tongue.

Taken by the moment, you got rid off your clothes and his shirt too, admiring his beautiful body. You wanted to take your time with him and kiss him everywhere, explore him with your hands but that would have to wait for another time when you're not this desperate to get off.

You hovered over him before sitting down, your wet pussy pressed against his hard cock.

"Ah." a little moan escaped your lips as you started grinding on him with slow and languid movements, enjoying the way Changbin's cock kept twitching against you like he wanted in.

Your embarrassment completely disappeared, turning into pure pleasure as your clit kept dragging against him, your pussy clenching to be filled up. You lifted your hips just a little to grab his cock and slowly push it in, even though he was bigger, you took him well like he was made just for you.

You put in the work as you bounced on top of him, your hands roaming on his belly and chest, across his perky nipples as you grabbed at him. He was heating up even more, matching the heat of your body and the hot atmosphere created inside your room. You looked at Changbin's face and gasped, it seemed as if he was smirking ever so slightly. Your pussy clenched at the thought of him being alive and touching you too so you sped up, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet room.

"Binnie." you whimpered and he twitched hard. It was right there in the manual, just keep saying his name.

"Binnie." you said again, your movements becoming sloppier as you got more tired and closer to your high. "Changbin!" you groaned loudly once you exploded, riding your high on top of him as you gyrated your hips. Tears gathered in your eyes from the overstimulation you brought to yourself as you kept repeating his name until he exploded inside you, filling you up with ropes of warm cum.

"Fuck." you cursed, lifting off of him, feeling all sticky and embarrassed again.

"I must be crazy." you shook your head and ran to your bathroom to get cleaned up. Of course, you cleaned your dolly too and then looked at his face more closely, biting on your lip and trying to see if there were any changes in his expression.

"You need a hug, right?" you said before putting your arms around Changbin. It felt so comforting to be wrapped around him.

Your weekend was mostly uneventful as always, but this time you had Changbin watching over you as you cleaned around your apartment. You managed to take him everywhere by putting him on your office chair with wheels.

"You could help, you know?" you grunted before continuing to vacuum the living room.

Changbin's eyes followed you while you cleaned and while you did your yoga. He watched as you sat hunched over your computer in your home office and worked, typing quickly and going over all the papers you brought home. He watched you struggling with the groceries and cursing quietly.

He wished he could help.

Monday came around too quickly and you rolled out of bed reluctantly, not wanting to separate from Changbin's warm body.

Spring was around the corner, but it was still cold in the mornings and you wanted nothing more than to stay in bed all day. But, you had a really important meeting today and you couldn't afford to be late. You were in a frenzy, getting dressed quickly as you had almost overslept through all your alarms.

"You're making it hard for me to leave my bed." you smirked at Changbin, shaking your head slightly as you grabbed your bag.

"I'll see you later, cutie." you kissed his lips and practically skipped all the way to your car.

Was it pathetic that a doll made you feel this happy?, you thought. Maybe it did, but who cares, you weren't harming anyone plus it was a gift and you should be thankful for it.

As soon as you arrived to your office, one of your employees, Tina, smirked at you.

"Good morning, boss! Did you like our gift?" she asked and you blushed profusely immediately.

"I really did. Thank you." you said and she chuckled.

"If we land this deal, you promised to take some time off. I hope you still mean that." she said, walking with you. Everyone knew you barely took time off, they'd have to pry you off of your desk and force you to finally rest.

"When we land this deal. Not if." you smirked at her, saying hello to a few more other employees as you passed them by.

"Good morning!" Maxine greeted you cheerfully. "All the reports for the meeting are ready on your desk and I prepared the presentation room for you."

"Oh, always so fast." you chuckled.

"Just keeping up with you, boss." she winked, following you into the office. You left all your stuff there and quickly looked through the reports, having already studied them, this was going to be a piece of cake for you.

Where you were shy in your personal life, at work you were the complete opposite, your ambition and drive brought you to high places and you had no problem with biting hard and showing off your skills and knowledge.

There were at least twelve people in the room and you took a deep breath in as you stood in front of them. Maxine nodded at you with a thumbs up.

The presentation went smoothly and the partners were satisfied with your results and conclusions, the deal has been made.

"Congratulations, boss! Now you can take your vacation!" Maxine said and you laughed.

"Well, maybe I should stay a little bit more to-"

"No, no. You need some wildness in your life away from all the seriousness, suits and papers, hm?"

"Maxine is right. If anyone deserves this vacay, it's you." Tina agreed and you smiled.

"I hope you two know that I will be checking in all the time." you waved your finger and both of them laughed.

"Of course." Tina nodded and you took her to the office since she'd be taking your place while you're away. The rest of the day passed by fairly quickly, even with you staying longer as always. A zap of electricity ran through your body when you remembered someone was home, waiting for you and your undivided attention.

Changbin.

"Maxine, tell Tina I got all the reports ready for our new partners and if she needs anything she can call me any time. Same goes for you." you rushed out and she looked at you with her brows lifted.

"Of course. Have a good time on your vacay!" she said, chuckling because this was the first time you were leaving before her.

It was raining again when you ran into your building, forgetting to bring an umbrella so you used your bag as a shield from the water once more. The first thing you did after shucking your shoes off and throwing your bag aside was run to Changbin.

He was in the same position you left him, leaned on your headboard in your bed, tucked in with a blanket.

"Hey there." you smiled and grabbed his face, kissing his lips. You had missed him all day.

"We are going on a vacation." you nodded to him with a smile. You had to admit, you felt kinda excited to finally be away from work and your repetitive routine. You just wished Changbin would come to life and enjoy the break from every day stress with you.

The next day, everything was prepared, the bag you packed was in the trunk, the tank was filled up and most importantly Changbin was in the passenger seat, strapped in and ready. You were going to drive over to your old house, where your parents used to take you for vacation when you were a kid. It was a bit out of town, a little house close to the lake. It used to be different before, there were more things to do there but you heard that some rich guy bought off most of the people who lived there so he could own the land.

Your little house was away from that area, perfectly in the middle of nowhere. Just what you needed to get your mind off of work. You got into the car and put on your favorite playlist before you started driving.

The tall city buildings soon turned into seemingly never-ending fields. You felt better instantly upon seeing the nature all around you. The sun was beating down on your car and you decided to open up the windows and let the air in as you drove and sang. Your eyes kept flitting towards Changbin, his pretty face and the way the wind kept playing with his hair. He looked so soft and sweet in those moments, making your good mood become even better.

Maybe someone would call you crazy for taking your sex doll to a vacation with you but he was more than that. You had a feeling he would be.

You drove for hours, it was almost dark when you finally parked in front of the old house. It was a little worn out since no one came out here anymore, especially after your father died due to illness and your mother had moved back to her hometown, taking care of your grandma. You visited them whenever you could but you were always swamped with work, you barely had time for yourself.

You put your bag inside first but getting Changbin in was a challenge that you somehow managed to conquer with all the strength you gathered.

"Oh my god." you huffed when you finally placed him on the sofa. "Ugh." you scrunched up your nose, realizing you have to do some cleaning up before anything else.

You got to work, cleaning up the place as you listened to some music and danced around, making the annoying chore more fun. Changbin watched you from the couch, a shadow passing over his eyes before they sparkled just for a moment. Of course, you didn't see it being too into your performance.

After cleaning up and filling up the fridge with some groceries you brought in a portable one, you decided to take a shower and change.

"Binnie, are you hungry?" you asked your sweet dolly and you could swear his eyes moved for a moment.

You tilted your head and stared him for a while, finally deciding you just imagined it.

"I guess you are." you chuckled and moved to the kitchen to prepare some dinner.

It was weird spending the afternoon cooking and sipping on wine, listening to music without a care in the world, knowing you don't have to go into work tomorrow. Or bring work to your house. Which reminded you to call Tina.

"You barely even left and you're worried already?" she chuckled.

"Just making sure everything is okay."

"Of course! I got everything under control." she assured you but you still wanted a recap, the perfectionist inside you craving to know that everything was indeed going well.

"Are you having fun though?" she asked after the report and you looked around the sparkly clean house, your eyes then landing on Changbin.

"Definitely." you said.

"Well, take care boss. We need you refreshed once you come back!"

"Of course. Have a good day, Tina."

"You too!"

You hung up and sat down to eat, looking up at Changbin a few times. After your meal you made your way to the couch, you couldn't wait to cuddle up to him.

"Let's see if there's any signal here." you muttered, turning the tv on. Luckily, the signal was good, even better than it used to be before, surprising you a little. You shrugged it off and put your legs in Changbin's lap, your head on his chest. Your own personal teddy bear.

The heat of his body and the relaxed state you were in slowly brought warmness in your navel, spreading throughout you and dripping on your panties. You bit on your lip and nuzzled into his neck, kissing his skin. Your hands started roaming his chest, the muscles you admired and liked so much. Your lips traveled on his skin and you stripped his shirt so you could continue leaving gentle kisses all over him. You unbuttoned his pants, pulling the zipper down and then sliding them off of him with his underwear.

The sight of Changbin's cock all hard and leaking for you made you salivate, your heart beating hard against your chest. You wanted to taste him, feel the weight of him on your tongue so you kneeled down between his legs, sticking your tongue out and licking a stripe along his length.

"Oh." you were deliciously shocked when you realized he tasted sweet. It spurred you on to continue and you wrapped your lips around him, sucking on his tip and tasting more of his pre-cum. You struggled taking all of him in as you slid down, wrapping your hand around the base.

You knew Changbin probably wouldn't cum this way, since your dolly loved hearing his name moaned out before climaxing so you were doing this more for your own fun and enjoyment, revelling in the way he twitched inside your hot mouth.

You bobbed your head up and down for a while, making yourself gag a few times when you pushed in too far, your panties getting progressively more soaked. You released him with a pop and leaned back to look at him.

"Need you, Binnie." you whimpered before stripping and sitting on his lap. You wished he would reciprocate, you yearned to be touched by him. Closing your eyes, you adjusted and grabbed his length, slowly pushing it in and sitting down on him until he bottomed out inside you.

You wrapped your arms around Changbin so you could be as close to him as you can before you started moving on him slowly, feeling every inch of him filling you up and stretching your pussy perfectly.

"Binnie." you moaned out as you fucked on him slowly, feeling him twitch inside you immediately.

"Whoops." you giggled and sped up, chasing your high that has been building up ever since the moment you tasted him. The tip of Changbin's cock kept brushing against your spot every time you smacked your hips down, making you whimper and clench around him.

"Changbin!" with a loud whimper of his name you came all around him, making him finish inside you as you rode your high and held onto him, your sensitive nipples brushing against him deliciously.

"I'll be right back." you said as you stood up.

You cleaned yourself and your doll before getting dressed. You only had him for a few days but you already felt like you couldn't live without him. He was giving you some sort of comfort that you haven't felt in a long time.

"I wish you could go on a walk with me now." you sighed after calming down a little and drinking some water. It was dark out and you weren't really comfortable with walking around the lake and in the forest completely alone so you decided it would be smarter to do that in the morning.

That night you cuddled up with Changbin again, feeling happy that you brought him with you.

Early in the morning, you already had your coffee and quick breakfast before checking in on Tina and Maxine. You couldn't help it even though you knew that all your employees were more than capable, it was you who hired them after all.

"I'll be back soon, Binnie." you kissed your dolly, tucking him in with a blanket and leaving the tv on for him.

You walked the familiar path from your house to the lake, knowing it like the back of your hand. It almost stayed the same as it was, the only difference is that it seemed more quiet, abandoned. A few of the nearby houses were almost completely fallen apart, the wood ruined by the rain and the wind. It made you a little sad to see a place once so lively devoid of everything.

That's when you noticed something peculiar, right as you started on your way towards the forest. It was all too quiet. It seemed like there was no insect, bird or any kind of animal nearby. Usually, there were ducks in the lake, you remembered feeding them with your parents and you also remember running away screaming from all sorts of insects when you were a kid.

"Hm." you mused out loud as you continued walking. It felt a little eerie, the hairs on the back of your neck standing.

Then you heard it, a humming sound. Your brows furrowed as you followed the sound cautiously.

You didn't expect to run into a huge fence built around a building you were sure wasn't there before, because there used to be multiple houses and a children's park there. You squinted your eyes, trying to see if there was someone there but all you saw were windows with bars on them and darkness on the inside.

Then you noticed a familiar logo on the side of the building.

"Where have I seen that?" you wondered out loud.

The humming stopped suddenly, making your eyes ring as you swallowed. Fear clawed up from your stomach to your throat and you turned on your heel, something inside you telling you to run.

You didn't stop running until you got to the house, bursting in loudly, closing and locking the door quickly. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest and your eyes landed on Changbin instantly.

Making your way to him fast, you crumbled into his arms. You tried to even out your breath and calm down, all the while asking yourself who bought all the land, why was there a fence, what was the humming sound, why was that logo familiar to you?

You decided to take a relaxing bath and make some yummy lunch to forget about the weirdness of your morning.

"Oh, Binnie I am so glad you're here. Without you I'd feel so lonely." you told your dolly while you cooked. His eyes moved until they were looking directly at you, his fingers twitching against the couch, but you didn't notice, concentrated on making the food.

You spent the rest of the day inside the house and cuddled up to Changbin again that night.

You slept well until your dreams were invaded by the humming sound from earlier and it seemed as if it was louder, closer, vibrating against your body. You were confused, still on the verge of sleep, eyes still closed as your body shook.

"W-what?" you croaked out, it was as if something was shaking you. Your eyes snapped open and you realized it was Changbin, he was... vibrating?

You reached for the lamp quickly, panic rushing through your veins when suddenly he took a desperate breath in, his head turning towards you.

You shrieked, backing away and falling off the bed.

"W-what the fuck?!" you backed away until you hit the wall.

"W-water. P-please." his voice sounded raspy and you gasped, standing up and staring at him. Was this supposed to happen? There was nothing about the dolls talking and needing water in the manual.

"Please." Changbin looked at you desperately and you nodded, running downstairs before coming back up with a water bottle.

"I'm sorry." he apologized as soon as he chugged the bottle down.

"F-for what?" you asked, standing on a distance.

"Scaring you. This humming noise. It makes me tickle on the inside. It itches, it woke me up." he explained.

"You can hear that?" you asked, coming a little closer to him.

"No, I can feel it." he said. "Don't be scared of me."

"I'm- I'm not, just confused." you let out a chuckle at the absurd situation. "The manual never said anything about you coming to life."

"The manual." Changbin scoffed.

"What?" you asked and he shook his head.

"I wish I could remember who made me and who wrote the manual." he answered as you sat on the bed.

"Do you remember anything?" you asked.

"My friends? They were with me before. I don't know where they are now, all I know is I miss them." he sighed.

"Are these your friends?" you asked as you pulled up the dolly site on your phone.

"Yes! That's them." Changbin leaned in to look at the pictures. "This one." he pointed to a doll named 'Chan'. "He was the first. He took care of us after something happened. I- I can't remember what happened, but I know it was painful."

"Ugh, the humming again!" Changbin jolted, hugging himself.

"Hey, hey, calm down. We can leave right away if it's bothering you this much, don't worry." you placed your hand on his arm, trying to calm him down.

"Really?" he looked at you with sweet pitiful eyes, making your heart melt.

"Of course." you nodded and stood up, grabbing your bag and packing up immediately.

"You took all of this with a very calm attitude." Changbin scratched his head.

"I'm used to crisis, it happens at work." you said, packing up quickly. "I wouldn't be where I am if I let my emotions interfere in situations like this."

"That's what I admire, you're so dedicated to your work." Changbin said, slowly standing up, his legs wobbling a little. You paused your movements and looked up at him.

"You were aware of everything happening since you came to me?" you asked and he nodded sheepishly.

"Oh." you gulped, your face warming up. Now, that was a situation that threw you off just a little.

"I, um, I'm hungry." Changbin said and you chuckled.

"There's food downstairs, you can heat it up and eat all of it while I get everything ready for us to leave."

"Thank you." he smiled.

"No need." you answered, still feeling a little embarrassed about the fact that he was aware of everything you did to him during the last few days.

You managed to grab all your things and pack them up, turning off everything right as Changbin finished eating.

"Let's go." you said and he stopped you before you opened the door.

"Are you sure it's safe to go out? It's the middle of the night." he noted.

"I think we'd be safer in the car than staying in here?" you said and he sighed.

"Okay then, let's leave."

As soon as you walked out, you could hear the humming noise more clearly as if it had gotten louder during the night.

"I can't take it." Changbin started scratching at his body again.

"Get in the car quickly."

Luckily, you had enough gas to last to the first gas station so you buckled up and hit the pedal, getting the hell away from that creepy place.

Changbin felt better the more distance you put between the car and the lake.

A few days later, since you were still on your vacation, you were enjoying getting to know Changbin.

It was as if he was human and lived an entire life, even though he couldn't remember it at all. He could only put together bits and pieces, talking mostly about his friends and some disaster that happened, an awful feeling filling him up as he tried to remember more of it. All he could think of was Chan who tried to protect him and the other dolls. They were all alive then.

"Do you think they came to life too?" you asked that afternoon as the two of you cuddled, some movie playing in the background but you weren't paying attention to it.

"I would hope so. I wish we could find them." he sighed.

"Maybe we can. I could pull some connections."

"Really? You'd do that?" he smiled instantly, sitting up excitedly.

"Of course. Look, you probably heard me..." you grimaced but continued. "When I said I'm happy to have you, I was really lonely before and I was actually hoping you'd come to life."

"Does that mean I'm your boyfriend now?" Changbin giggled and you melted on the spot.

"Yes." you nodded and he pulled you into a bone crushing hug, making you squeal and chuckle.

You were sure he was made just for you.

Making your way from a refreshing shower, you didn't expect to be pinned to the wall by Changbin as soon as you walked into your room.

"B-Binnie!" you eyes widened, a zap of electricity running through your body instantly, making you feel aroused in the matter of milliseconds.

"I've wanted to do this from the moment I saw you." he said lowly, making you gulp as you stared into his darkened eyes. He was silently asking for your permission and you nodded ever so slightly, your heartbeart speeding up.

Changbin's lips quirked up in that cute smirk you adored on him, his hands sliding down your arms to the towel wrapped around your body. He undid the knot and let it fall to the floor, his eyes raking all over your exposed body.

You felt like your breath got caught in your throat when Changbin leaned in and pressed his lips on yours. Time stopped for a moment before he brought you back to earth with his hands on your chest, squeezing your breasts as he started moving his lips against yours. You parted your lips to let him in, he was sweet and hot at the same time, making your body yearn for his so you arched into him.

Smirking against your lips, Changbin let his hands travel lower, until they touched your thighs. You shivered as he kept kissing you, his fingertips ghosting on your inner thigh. Your moans were muffled against his lips and he kissed you harder before leaning back, letting his hand rest between your thighs as he touched your pussy.

"So wet for me." he smirked.

"B-Binnie, please." you whimpered.

"Please what, honey?" he kept smirking as you whined.

"I need to feel you." you whispered, your cheeks heating up.

"I need to feel you too." he couldn't really tease you for too long, the more he slid his fingers against your pussy, bringing the wetness up to your clit, the more it made him twitch in his pants.

You were overpowered by want and your hands flew to his shirt. It didn't take long for him to be as naked as you were. He was already hard and dripping, eager to bring you pleasure.

Changbin's arms gripped at the back of your thighs. "Jump." he smirked and you gasped, jumping up while he helped you, wrapping your legs around him. The tip of his cock rubbed against you, making you clench.

"H-here?" you whispered and he smiled.

"Why not?" Changbin whispered back and you held onto him tightly, your arms wrapped around his neck, fingertips grazing at his upper back.

"Okay." you whined as he pressed into you, his tip slipping between your folds.

"Mm, so good." he groaned, pushing in and you welcomed him, shaping around him perfectly as he bottomed out.

"Binnie." you moaned out, your nails digging into his skin.

"D-don't say my name yet." he gripped at your hips and you bit on your lip, trying to hold in your desperation. Changbin slowly started to move, his cock spreading your pussy apart deliciously.

"A-ah!" you whimpered as his tip brushed against your spot with each languid thrust. His lips found yours in a passionate kiss as you held onto him, trying to bring your hips closer to him.

"M-more." you whined.

"More?" he breathed out, his voice shaky. He was holding back.

"Please Binnie, fuck me harder, please!" you begged desperately, your pussy clenching around him and making him inhale sharply.

"As you wish, honey." he smirked a little before all hell broke loose when his hips started snapping into yours with vigor. He knocked the breath out of your lungs as you scratched at his skin, your entire body shaking from the force he fucked you with.

You couldn't help it, you were moaning so loudly, not even caring if your neighbors could hear you as Changbin kept fucking into you hard, the tip of his cock brushing against your spot every time he pushed in deep. You held onto him for dear life, you couldn't even feel your legs in that moment.

His little desperate moans filled up your ears, making you even more wet than before, adding to the high that was building up inside you.

"Are you gonna cum, honey?" he gripped your ass hard as he kept fucking you.

"Y-yes, gonna cum for you, Binnie!" you felt him twitch inside you and that was all you needed before you exploded, squirting on him and making him whine. His name kept spilling from your lips and his hips stuttered as he came, exploding inside you and filling you up.

"Wow." he breathed as he finally released you and you shook, holding onto him. Changbin lifted you up in his strong arms and placed your shivering body on the bed.

"I'll be right back, honey." he said and you nodded, still speechless.

Changbin came back to clean you up, bringing you a bottle of water.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked as you were silent.

"No, no, you were perfect Binnie." you smiled, reaching out to touch his face. "So good, that I'm just ready to sleep now." you added and he chuckled, puffing his chest out with pride.

You rolled your eyes playfully as your head hit the pillow and Changbin tucked you in much like you did to him, before he laid down next to you.

"Hey, y/n?" he whispered after a few moments of silence.

"Yes, Binnie?"

"I love you." he said and your heart skipped a beat. It was unbelieveable how quickly you came to love him too.

"I love you." you whispered back, kissing him before the two of you fell asleep in each other's arms.

Your days with Changbin were passing by like a breeze, and pretty soon you were already back to work. All your employees noted that you're glowing and that you've never looked happier, thinking it was the break that did that when in fact it was love.

Changbin had also managed to pull you out of the house more, the two of you going to the gym and enjoying active dates and you couldn't remember the last time you had so much fun with someone, let alone a boyfriend. It's like he knew exactly what you needed, sometimes even before you knew it.

He loved watching you cook, a lovesick look in his eyes as he propped his face up on his palm and just observed you.

"It'd be nice if you helped." you smirked, breaking him out of his trance.

"Yes, in a moment." he smiled then, grabbing your hand and stopping whatever you were doing as he gently pulled it towards him, pressing his lips on the top of your hand. You chuckled, goosebumps littering your skin as he stood up. Changbin stood behind you, enveloping his arms around you, his hands covering yours.

"This is not helping." you giggled when his breath tickled your neck.

"No?" he smirked, pressing himself into you.

You knew you weren't going to cook that dinner any time soon.

You felt lucky to have him, but there was one problem. You had tried getting some information through your workplace, about all the other dolls but whoever had sent them to the buyers, erased every trace of where the dolls have been sent. You couldn't track any of them and Changbin couldn't remember anything, no matter how hard he tried.

You kept thinking about the lake house, the humming noise and the weird building, the eerie quietness of the entire forest. It made the hair on the back of you neck stand, shivers running down your spine.

You tried researching it on the internet but came up with nothing.

Then one day, there was a call.

"Hello?" you answered with an unsure voice, the unknown number throwing you off. Especially because the call was on your private phone and not many people had that number. If it was business or anything of that sort they'd call you on your work cell.

Changbin looked up from the clothes he was folding and you shrugged.

"Is this miss L/n?" a monotone male voice asked.

"Yes, this is she." you answered.

"I understand you have Changbin dolly."

"Ugh. Yes." you looked at Changbin with a frown, and he came closer to listen.

"Well, we're sorry to inform you but the dolls have all malfunctioned and will need to be taken back. The money will be returned." you wondered how they knew the doll was gifted to you and how they had your number.

"What do you mean by 'malfunctioned'?" you asked suspiciously as Changbin eyed you nervously.

"We cannot discuss such matters unless you are part of the staff." the monotone voice answered.

"The staff?" your brows furrowed in confusion.

"Please, don't defy our command. We will come pick up the doll. Goodbye."

Click.

"Hello?" you stood there confused as Changbin's eyes filled with fear.

"I- I don't wanna go back there!" he panicked suddenly, grabbing at you.

"Hey, it's okay! We will find a way for you to stay. I don't want them to take you away either." you pulled Changbin into a hug and he wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you a little.

"I feel this fear inside me, I don't know why. That voice-"

"Do you recognize it?" you asked and Changbin nodded.

"I do. But I can't remember who it is. There is like... different faces in my head all coming up at the same time." he pursed his lips in thought.

"Okay, we could drive up to my mother and grandma tomorrow?" you suggested.

"How are you going to explain me to them?"

"I'll just say you're my boyfriend, none of the doll talk, okay? We met at a gym or something." you said and Changbin chuckled, caressing your face.

"How convenient." he joked.

"Hey, it's believeable!" you defended and he giggled.

"Fine, fine, it is." he agreed as the cogs inside your brain already started turning.

You had to plan out how to avoid work because you haven't told your coworkers anything about the doll they gifted you coming to life.

You just hoped you could get Changbin safely out of here.

Early in the morning you were already packing together with Changbin but a ring on your doorbell stopped you dead in your tracks.

"Who's here at 6:30am?" you frowned, walking towards the door.

After opening it and unlocking the door, Changbin trailing behind you, you gasped in shock. There were six men in suits standing on your doorway.

"We came to collect the doll." one of them said.

"You can't!" you yelled.

"Why?" the man asked.

"He is alive, he has free will and he doesn't want to go with you! Now leave, before I sue your entire company!" you tried threatening them but they just exchanged silent looks.

"Step aside. We are going to collect the doll."

"Over my dead body." you got angry but Changbin quickly interfered.

"Y/n, please be careful." he begged as the men stepped inside and you launched your body aside, grabbing the baseball bat you kept near the door.

Changbin gasped as they grabbed him, no matter how strong he was they somehow seemed stronger. He looked up and saw you swinging the bat at one of them men, his eyes wide.

The bat collided with one of the suited men's face, fear rushing through your veins when a piece of his skin came flying off, revealing wires beneath the facade of a human face.

You shrieked, stepping back and the man looked at you before pulling out a huge syringe and walking towards Changbin.

"Stop it! No!" you screamed but the other men grabbed you, throwing the bat aside and holding you back as you thrashed around, trying to escape their hold.

The syringe was plunged into Changbin's neck and he immediately slumped down. You kept yelling at them but they dragged him away, slamming your own door in your face.

You had no idea what to do in that moment. Your body slid down on the floor as you sobbed. They took away Changbin from you, the man who loves you. Anger bubbled up inside you and then you remembered.

Property of BIMT.

You scrambled to stand up and ran to your laptop, quickly typing it in.

"The logo!" you gasped, remembering the building near the house lake. You knew the exact location they'd take Changbin.

"Bang Institute of Modern Technology? Ugh, as in Helena Bang the famous scientist?" you clicked on the page.

You skimmed through the article, finding out that Helena had died five years ago from a mysterious illness, all her research and work falling into the hands of a rich man whose name was doctor Park.

"I'm coming to get you Binnie, don't you worry."

In his room, Felix heard commotion outside of the door. He rushed to it, his palms pressed against the cold metal as he peeped through the slit.

A few of the suited men were carrying Changbin towards another room, opposite of Felix's.

"Changbin! Changbin, can you hear me?!" Felix yelled desperately and one of them turned towards the sound, lifting his fist and pounding loudly against Felix's door, scaring him.

"Be quiet, number six!" the man yelled. Felix backed away with tears gathering in his eyes.

What will they do to them now?

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @moon-ttokki-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @eastjonowhere @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0 @halfwinterhalfuniverse @cooldeermagazine @delulkpopstan143 @todorokiskitten @compersian @azxulskz @stayp1eceposts @minniesverse @skzdreamer13 @0325ale @j-ji-jia @shannthewriter @mhluvie @juskz @quokkacidal @chuuyaobsessed @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @lixies-favorite-cookie @thelostprincessofasgard @linocvp1d @stayjinnie @portgasdbru @lilgothhishhh @selinia86 @felixsbabe @staytinyluva @sadroses98 @katexstay @gnabnahcsworld @hazelbazil @iwannahugchangbin @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @skzfelixlove @skzjen @syedazarintasnim @geektacularmommom-blog @cookiesnmilfx @kayleefriedchicken @stxt-bby @strykdsstanot8 @hyunjinhwang2018 @binniesbabygirl @hyunjiniretti @linavc @julciaqwerty @salemluvsmusic @diipsy

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the-ellia-west · 11 months ago

Text

HOW TO WRITE ROMANTIC ATTRACTION FOR DUMMIES

For anyone who wants to learn, (especially aro/ACE, aspec, ect.)

Requested by the lovely @darkandstormydolls

Alrighty! Welcome back or welcome to my blog! I'm dipping my toes back into the category of posts that gained me my exposure!

So if you're here, you want to know how to write romantic attraction/romance!

Strap in and let's begin!

(Pls spread this to people you think would benefit from seeing it, or anyone who requested it bc I forgot, ANY ASPECS)

Step one -

Your characters must admire one another at the beginning, Romantic feelings usually do not present themselves as obvious until you really think them through, meaning your characters may not notice they have a crush until it's too late

These are general statistics and light stereotypes. So feel free to not use this tip:

Male characters usually tend to notice physical things first, like body shape, hair, skin, clothing, the way their lover moves, ect

And Female Characters Generally tend to notice more small things and personality-based traits first, like their lover's humor, speaking mannerisms, shifts in expression, ways they fidget, emotion in their voice, ect.

And someone who is in love will generally show more interest in this particular person's movements, actions, words, and anything in general.

Step 2 -

The character will show more interest in sharing their love language with their lover/crush

Physical touch - People with physical touch love languages may want to hold hands, cuddle, hug, or just lean on their crush whenever they are close to them moreso than they want to with others

Gift giving - Gift givers will want to get more gifts more often for their crush, probably thinking of them whenever they see little trinkets or wanting to get them big gifts for special occasions or signs of appreciation

Acts of Service - Acts of service people will offer to do extra favors and a bunch of extra stuff they don't have to do twice as much as normal

Words of Affirmation - Flattery, they will generally flood their crush with kind words and compliments

Quality time - Quality time people will want to spend time with their crush at almost every turn, and when they want company, will turn to their crush first

Step 3 -

After a while, these urges while become very prominent and more noticeable to the person having them

They may find themselves fantasizing about their crush or having them show up in their thoughts more and more, feeling nicer and happier when they're around, or when they're thinking about them

Smiling when they think about them, cutsey little fluff thingies like that

A crush is essentially: I want to date that, I want to be near that always, I want to marry that, I want that to snuggle me (or other love languages)

Or in simpler terms: if that asked me out, I would say yes (or at least want to say yes if your character is in denial)

Step 4 -

The character's urges to be close to this person grows strong enough that they do smth about it, whether prompted by another character. Or they just don't know I how to not anymore (like when you wanna eat candy and you don't want to, but you do anyway bc I JUST NEED THE CHOCOLATE OKAY?)

(Or for Aro/Ace, garlic bread)

People who are in love are generally very prone to be all dreamy and poetic and VERY EXTREMELY BIASED towards their crush

Then Yada Yada they kiss & shit

You're welcome, BYEEEEEEEE 👋

Happy writing!

Love you! Thanks for reading, And Ghost Tumblr Mother says go drink some water and have a snack, you've earned it, and you are beautiful <333

Have a good day! :]

@blue-kyber @thisisntrocket @cosmolumine @i-do-anything-but-write @paeliae-occasionally

@supercimi @the-letterbox-archives @sunglasses-in-the-bentley @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @artsandstoriesandstuff

@corinneglass @wyked-ao3 @urnumber1star

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chahnniesroom · 2 months ago

Text

too close to home

pairing: none (platonic ot8 & female reader)

summary: as the only female of stray kids, you've always felt a little out of place. this comeback, the comments and criticism seem to hit a little too close to home and you start to think that maybe the group is better off without you.

word count: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 9th member au, hurt/comfort, angst, mean fans, anxious thinking, insecurities, overthinking

a/n: this is my first fic for my appreciation event! big thank you to everyone who has supported me and sorry this took so long to post.

special shoutout to @kangaracha who is basically the only reason i was able to finish this fic! she was my biggest cheerleader throughout my writing and if you would like to read an amazing 9th member fic, please please go read queenmaker.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

You had known from the start that it would be difficult being in a co-ed group. It was rare, especially in K-pop. But being outnumbered eight to one? It was unheard of.

You had been just as surprised all those years ago, when the company had pulled you into a room and offered you a position in the boy group that they were about to debut.

You had heard about the team that Chan had put together, every trainee had gossiped about how JYPE was trying something new with a self-formed team. You hadn't paid too much attention to it, you were busy enough with preparing for your own evaluations and the possibility of being included in what everybody had thought was a boys group hadn't even crossed your mind.

You had accepted the position almost immediately.

At that point, you had been a trainee for almost three years, but had only been considered for debut less than a handful of times. You knew with each line-up that hadn't worked out, you were closer to being forced to give up on the idea of becoming an idol. If you rejected the offer this time, you might not get another and you had been ready to do anything to achieve your dream.

Plus, you knew there was a high chance that they'd drop you from the group anyway. The position brought a lot of interest to the group, but you knew the company would be watching closely to determine whether it was worth the risk or not.

It had been a bit of a rocky start, but now the nine of you were close, you had to be when you spent most of your waking time together. You considered the boys to be your second family and you knew that they felt the same way.

It was just that there was clearly a difference in the dynamic when you were and weren’t with the group. It wasn’t necessarily bad just… different. The boys never excluded you or made you feel like you weren’t part of the group and you had great individual relationships with each of the members.

It was inevitable though, you had never shared a dorm with the group, especially earlier in your career when you were less familiar and it would have been entirely unacceptable. You knew that this was the main reason you didn’t feel quite as part of the group, there was just a level of closeness that was formed when you actually lived with someone.

Well, it was that and the nagging guilt because you knew that Chan had hand-picked every member of Stray Kids himself.

Every member except you.

While the members had promised that they were the ones who had the final say, you knew it wasn't quite what they had expected. All of you had been desperate to debut though and even if it wasn't ideal, nobody was going to say anything that might jeopardize this chance.

Still, you could tell that the boys did their best to include you and for the most part, they succeeded. Even early on when things had been a little bit awkward between you, they were fiercely protective. In interviews, they insisted over and over that they wanted you in the group and it had been nice to hear, even if you knew they were just saying it for the cameras.

They frequently invited you over for dinner or just to hang out, but you couldn't help feeling jealous when it was time for you to leave at the end of each night. It wasn't anything you could change though, so you just tried to appreciate their company while you had it.

So when the company brings up the idea of new dorm arrangements, you're surprised and a bit confused when they don't immediately inform you of where you'll be staying and kick you out of the meeting room. You've never participated in the discussions that the boys have regarding roommates, there has never been any reason to.

You're shocked by how easily things fall into place, even more so when Chan approaches you, asking if you'd feel comfortable living with him and Jeongin. They assure you that any of the pairings would be happy to have you stay with them though, and that they'd also understand if you preferred to live on your own.

You were hesitant at first. It had been out of the question when you had first debuted. Even if you and the boys had been comfortable with it, which you weren’t, the company would have totally rejected the idea of one girl living with eight boys.

Instead, their solution had been to force you to remain in the trainee dorm even after your debut which meant constantly listening to jealous girls criticize anything and everything about you. It had been exhausting, partly because you were getting used to balancing schedules with practice, but also because you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at them. You were all too familiar with the disappointment and frustration that came with watching the people around you succeeding.

You had briefly considered asking about sharing with the boys when the dorms had split in half because you knew you needed to get out of the toxic environment the other girls were creating, but then the company had offered you an apartment to yourself. It had been one of the easiest decisions you had ever made.

It had been too good to be true, though. The apartment had given you the privacy that you had craved, there were a multitude of issues that almost made you miss being in the trainee dorms. Whether you moved to a new apartment on your own or into one of the dorms with the boys, you knew that it would be an improvement.

You’re curious what living with the boys would be like and honestly, you’re a bit lonely in your current apartment. It only takes a day or two of thinking before you confirm that you’d like to join them.

The moving process is quick too, at least for you. The boys offered to help you move, but you adamantly refused. Your place had been so tiny that you didn't have the space to store many things and you didn't like shopping that much anyway so all of your clothes fit into the couple of large suitcases that you kept under your bed. Since most of the furniture had come with the room, you were able to bring everything over to the new dorm before the boys had even finished packing.

It's hard to settle in at first. You don't have any siblings and have never had to live with boys so it takes some getting used to. Luckily both Chan and Jeongin are quite careful about being respectful of your space.

It's also a relief that you get to divide up some of the housework that you used to have to do all on your own. Even though it's not too much, it's nice to have more time in your day for other things and the three of you have developed a system that works well and feels natural.

Chan is meticulously clean and although you don't think you're that messy, you’re more careful to keep things in the right place. The worst part is that you know Chan won't complain or nag you if you leave your things around, he just quietly cleans up your messes which makes you feel both touched and a bit guilty.

You have no regrets about moving in with them, especially when you start to get more busy. It's nice to be living with people who have the same or similar schedules to you so you don't have to worry about losing track of time and being late to things.

Not only that, but you feel like you have more support. Jeongin reminds you to eat regular meals and Chan checks in when he notices that you're up later than usual. The three of you chat more than you did before and now have a number of different inside jokes.

You're especially grateful because you can already sense that this comeback is going to be hard on you. It's not the songs that have you concerned, all the recording finished smoothly and you're more than happy with how your parts turned out. You also really like the concept that's being proposed for the cover art and all the music videos.

It's the dance that's the problem.

As a trainee, you had always excelled in dancing and had actually had been assigned the role of main dancer in some of the girl groups that you were considered for. It made it especially hard to come to terms with the fact that when you had joined Stray Kids, you weren't even included in the dance line. You knew that your singing was nice and your voice added diversity to the group, but it had never been what you were most confident in and you felt inadequate compared to Seungmin and Jeongin.

But when it comes to this title track, it's especially obvious why you're not considered as one of the lead dancers. By lunchtime, everyone has memorized the moves, you included, but the choreography is definitely more suited for male dancers. No matter how much you focus on trying to match the style of everyone else, you're sticking out like a sore thumb.

Most of the members take a short break for lunch, but you're determined to keep practicing and Minho is willing to coach you through the parts that you're struggling with the most. On a technical level, you're hitting most of the moves, but you still haven't been able to do a runthrough that doesn't elicit at least a few corrections. You can tell that Minho is running out of patience and you're even more frustrated than he is.

Luckily the rest of practice is working on the different formations and angles for filming the music video, dance practice, and future performances. The details are less important and everyone is mainly focused on not crashing into each other.

You try to sneak in as many solo practice sessions as you can, but by the time filming for the dance practice rolls around, you’re still not feeling confident. In fact, you’ve been dreading the schedule for days and you feel a little queasy every time you think about it. It's far from your first dance practice filming, but something about this one just feels more daunting.

The morning of filming, you force yourself to eat a decent breakfast, knowing that skipping it would just make dancing more difficult for yourself. Chan had woken up early to prepare a simple meal while you and Jeongin had helped set the table and clean up afterwards. You're a bit more jittery than usual and you're pretty sure both of the boys have noticed, but they don't comment which you appreciate.

Everyone goes through hair and makeup fairly quickly, there's no elaborate outfits and crazy makeup for a more casual video like this. Your bad feeling for today just worsens when you see that while the rest of the boys are in their usual loose fitting sweats and shirts, you've been given a tight fitting outfit that reveals a bit more of your midriff than you usually like to show off. Even though you can't deny that it's a flattering look, it just makes you self conscious, feeling like you stood out even more than you usually did standing beside the guys.

Determined to power through filming, you warm up as quickly as you can so that you can spend as much time as possible reviewing the moves with the rest of the boys before the crew finishes setting up.

Your stomach is a flurry of butterflies as you get in position to start filming, even though you know that usually the first try is a throwaway. Not only is this the first time filming for the day, but the group hasn't actually done a performance of your new single, only practices.

You monitor the recording carefully. There's a few things to improve with the camera angles and position, that was to be expected, but you still have the nagging feeling that something about your dancing doesn't match the rest of the group.

You try to make your movements bigger in the next run through, while still looking natural and staying in time with the music. It's not quite right though and each time you try again, there's more and more things that you're unhappy with.

You can tell the rest of the group isn't pleased with how things are going either. You've been doing this long enough that these dance practices usually only take a couple hours to record, but now it's been at least three and none of the takes have even been considered as a keeper. A few times you haven't even been able to make it to the end of the song before someone messes up.

Your choreographer is in the back of the room and although he hasn't explicitly called you out, you can feel his gaze on you the longer this takes.

“Come on guys,” Minho complains after a short break. “Focus! Let's get it done this time.” You watch as his eyes flicker towards where you're standing for the faintest of moments as he says it. It feels like a blow to the stomach.

You hate disappointing people, you're only human after all, but something feels even worse when you know it's the other members that you're letting down. Especially when it comes to dance, because you've always wanted to impress Minho and his notoriously high standards. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach as you push through your growing fatigue and take your position in front of the camera again.

As soon as both the director and choreographer announce that you're finished for the day, almost everybody collapses on the spot. One-takes are always the most exhausting and everybody has to focus on keeping their movements sharp because it's extremely obvious when you aren't in sync.

You, on the other hand, make your way to the screens where they're showing the playback. Sweat is dripping from your neck and forehead and you absent-mindedly swipe it away as you watch. Someone drapes a small towel over your head and you look over to see that Minho and Hyunjin have crowded behind you to take a look.

“It's good,” one of the managers comments.

Instead of agreeing, Minho hums noncommittally. You feel yourself tense up.

“What?” the manager asks. “Don't tell me you want to do it again.”

“No, no, it's fine.” Minho says mildly.

“We can do another take,” the director offers. From behind him, one of the camera people groans quietly. You try not to wince at the sound and only partially succeed.

“I think this is the best we're going to get,” Minho replies, before he turns and walks back to where his things are, effectively ending the discussion.

“Sorry for making everyone stay late,” you say quietly, bowing quickly before trailing after Minho. Hyunjin eyes you weirdly as he keeps pace.

“Why'd you say that?” he asks as he packs his bag.

“I felt bad that they had to stay so long,” you say, confused. “We normally tell them that if filming goes over.”

“No.” Hyunjin pauses his movement to study you. You can't help but shrink away, feeling a bit like a bug under a microscope “We normally thank them for their hard work. You made it sound like it was your fault.”

“It's just been a long morning,” you deflect. “Are you heading back to the dorms now?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his wet hair, flicking sweat everywhere. “Have to shower and I have a bit of time before my vocal lesson. Want to head back together?”

“You go ahead first,” you reassure him. “I have a couple things left to do at the company so I'll stick around for a bit longer.”

“Sure. If you're finished early, feel free to drop by. We can have dinner or something together,” Hyunjin offers.

“Sounds good! I don't know if I'll have time, but I'll definitely see I can join,” you promise.

Lying always leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, but you know there's no way you're going to sacrifice time that you could be using to improve the dance just to hang out.

You stay late in the studio that night. Your only other schedule for the day is fittings for the music video and all the music shows, which finishes pretty quickly. Since you don't have much of an appetite anyway, you choose to skip Hyunjin’s dinner offer to continue practicing more. You had asked one of the managers to send you a copy of the dance practice and each time you replay it, the pit in your stomach seems to grow.

You lose track of time, picking apart each and every move to try and figure out what you're doing wrong. It's not until Minho knocks on the door and enters, startling you in the middle of yet another runthrough, that you realise how long you've been practicing.

“You still have so much energy?” Minho calls out as he walks closer to you.

“Just had a few things I wanted to fix up before I went home,” you explain in between breaths.

“And?”

“And what?” you ask.

“Did you fix them?” he replies, raising an eyebrow as he scans your sweaty form and the empty room. “Have you been practicing this whole time? You've been here so long that even Channie-hyung went home. He asked me if you were at our place.”

“What? I-”

“It's almost 2am,” he says gently. “It's time to go home.”

“Can I do one more run through?” you ask sheepishly. “Actually, it’s good that you’re here, I just want to make sure-”

“You've been practicing long enough.” Minho's voice turns stern and he grabs your hand to lead you to the couch to sit. “Did you even eat?”

“I wasn't hungry,” you say quietly.

“Y/n-ah,” Minho scolds you. “You need to fuel your body if you're going to work it so hard, you know we've talked about this.”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to practice more,” you say, staring down at your hands. You’re not allowed to pick at your nails since you just got them done, so you settle for fidgeting with one of the rings that you’re wearing. The sharp edges of the gemstones prick at your fingers but you can’t get yourself to stop. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just couldn’t get the dance right today. We had to film it so many times.”

“What are you talking about, Y/n-ah?” Minho asks, bewildered. “We weren’t- you weren’t the reason we had to redo the dance so many times.”

You look up at him finally and don’t see any of the annoyance that you were expecting. The concern and genuine confusion that you find instead catches you off guard.

“What? But- On our fourth take during the second chorus, my legwork was so sloppy compared-”

“Hannie literally forgot which direction we were supposed to move and he almost knocked into me,” Minho interrupts. “There was no way we were going to be able to use the footage, that’s why we stopped early.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice.”

Minho taps a finger to his lips, deep in thought.

“Fifth take, well that was my fault, so we're not going to talk about that. Sixth try, Yongbokkie and Innie both missed a cue and crouched later than everybody else, that one made me want to pull out my hair.” He shakes his head.

“That’s when we took a break,” you realise.

“Yeah, we were hoping it would help us have a clean run. Jinnie had sweated through his makeup and needed touch-ups anyway.”

“I thought you guys were annoyed at me,” you say in a small voice. “You didn't seem happy with the final video.”

“It wasn't my best take,” Minho admits. “I kind of wanted to do it again, but I didn't want you guys to have to stay even later.”

“Did you even see yourself?” You reach for your phone and unlock it to show the paused dance practice video. “Look, I've been trying to copy how fluid you moved in this part. See there? I looked so stiff compared to you, it's awful.”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho says carefully.

“And look at this move,” you say, skipping ahead a couple seconds. “I couldn't quite-”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence when Minho leans forward to pluck your phone our of your hands and throw it off to the side. You don't even fight him, just stare with wide eyes, scared of what he's going to say next.

“You were fine, you did well. But even if you did mess up, it's okay. This dance is tiring, it's challenging. We all have bad days and it's okay to make mistakes.”

When you don’t say anything in response, he slowly moves closer and envelops you in a tight hug. You sniffle a little bit and when he starts to rub slow but firm circles onto your back, you can't stop the few tears that escape.

“Hey, what's going through your mind, huh?” he asks in a low voice. “Why are you being so hard on yourself?”

“I just don't want to let you guys down,” you say.

“Y/n-ah, you're not letting us down if we have to do a few more takes on a dance practice,” Minho says incredulously. “Is that all that's been worrying you?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I was just nervous about filming the dance and disappointed when it didn't go like I wanted it to.”

“Silly girl,” Minho says, ruffling your hair affectionately. “You're doing just fine. It's okay to be nervous, but you don't have to be pushing yourself so hard. Come on, it's time to go home, we have an early schedule tomorrow.”

You follow him meekly as he leads you out of the building and to where a driver is waiting to take you back to your dorm. Even though you feel a bit better knowing that you weren't the cause of the schedule overruns, you're still not satisfied with how you're dancing, but you know that it's pointless to pick a fight. Not only is Minho just as stubborn as you, he's not afraid to bring in reinforcements and you'd hate for the rest of the group to catch on to how you've been spending most of your free time. They already have enough to worry about, the last thing you want is to add to that.

Moving forward, you don't stop practicing, but you do take more care to try and pretend that it's not eating up all your free time. You stop using your favourite studio, you know the dance so well that most of the time you don't even have music playing, and you make sure not to stay out late enough that it's noticeable.

You start to feel a little silly with how much time you've devoted to this, significantly more than the rest of the members, especially when the music video filming goes by without a hitch. By the time the Studio Choom video is filmed, you're a lot more confident about the performance and even starting to enjoy yourself.

The rest of the preparations for the comeback start to fly by, especially after the album announcement goes live. There's not a day that goes by that's not filled with different photoshoots or interviews.

Before you know it, the album is released and even though your schedule is absolutely packed, you spend all your free time reading through comments and reactions. Maybe it was cliche to say, but you really did treasure hearing from Stays and comebacks were always when you felt closest to them. You especially liked being able to interact with them on a more personal level.

You were almost certain that you were the most active member on Bubble, you liked to send daily updates on what you were doing and reminders to Stay about maintaining their health. It did sting that you were also pretty certain that you had the least subscriptions and likely some of them only stuck around because you thought it was funny to send candid photos of the boys every so often.

You had always looked forward to fan signs the most though. Before you had debuted, you had loved seeing footage of the cute accessories, silly pick-up lines, and heartfelt messages from the fans. Not only that, but it was the only chance to speak to fans in person, even if it was only for a minute or two.

You were immensely grateful for everyone that supported you, but maybe it was your eager anticipation for fan signs that left you feeling so disappointed and empty. You had slowly grown used to Stays ignoring you for the boys, for always being the one that didn't receive any gifts to play with, for having the smallest stack of letters at the end of each event. But somehow you were always hopeful that the next time would be different.

Of course, it wasn't like you resented everybody else in the group. In fact, you were genuinely glad that they were enjoying themselves because they deserved it. They worked hard, were amazing performers and talented at creating music, and as a result, the fans loved them.

You, on the other hand, were just missing something, and it seemed that nothing you could do would change that. You had bounced through different positions, focused on vocals, dance, rap, music production, writing lyrics, and had enjoyed yourself thoroughly the whole time. If only the fans had liked it as much as you.

At least with fan calls, it wasn't as blatantly obvious that you were the least popular, least favourite member of the group. In fact, sometimes you were glad because you knew the boys often had crazy fans who had absurd or cringy requests while most of the time you spoke with someone who was politely feigning their interest.

It's almost funnier when the company sits you all down in the same room for the calls like they do today because you get to witness and subsequently tease the boys for the aegyo and silly poses they're forced to do. It's not like any of you can refuse anything the fans ask you to do, not with the staff breathing down your neck the whole time.

As expected, most of your calls are fairly generic and you're grateful for it. You have easy conversations about the album, which dances are your favourite, and you get to share some stories from the tour that you recently finished. You're maybe halfway through the calls when things start to take a turn for the worst.

“I even think that you would have done great as a solo artist! Are you thinking of releasing any solo music soon?” the girl that you're talking to asks excitedly.

“Oh, thank you.” You smile back even though the innocent question makes your chest ache for some reason. “I- well, solo music-” You take a deep breath to gather your thoughts. “I don't know about the future, but right now I really can't imagine releasing anything other than music as a part of Stray Kids. I love working and performing with the rest of the members and I wouldn't want to change anything.”

It's how you actually feel, but you can't help the way that your eyes dart over to check on the staff member that's supervising your call. You feel a bit better when you see their nod of approval and try to focus on the fan to finish the rest of the conversation.

Thankfully you get a quick break before the next call. You know the fan was probably trying to be encouraging, she had started off the call praising your skills and was probably just curious. Still, there's a voice in your mind that tells you that she'd prefer it if you weren't a member of Stray Kids. Or rather, she'd prefer that Stray Kids didn't have you in it.

You try to bring a positive mindset into your next call, but it's with a Stay that’s decidedly less interested in talking to you. You exchange greetings and make small talk until she seems to get an idea that makes her sit up straight all of a sudden.

“I have a question for you,” she says, eyes glinting in a way that makes you a little nervous, even though you're not sure why.

“Go ahead,” you encourage her because you're mostly feeling a bit relieved that she's finally showing some emotion other than boredom.

“Which of the boys would you say is best in bed?” she asks slyly.

You stare at her dumbly, thinking that you must have misheard her.

“Sorry,” you say, laughing uncomfortably. “I don't- I don't think I understand your question.”

“You heard me,” she scoffs. “What's the point in having you in the group if you're not sleeping with at least some, if not all of them?”

“No, I- It's not like that, I don't-” Flustered, you stare desperately at the staff, hoping they'll step in and end the call. Instead they just motion for you to continue. “I mean, we're close, but not-”

“If you want, you can just tell me your favourites,” she giggles, as if she's just asked you what songs on the album you liked. “It must be either Chan or Jeongin, if you decided to live with them.”

“No!” you exclaim.

“So it's not either of them?” she says, tapping a finger against her lip in thought.

“That's not the kind of relationship we have.”

Mortified, you find that you're tearing up a bit. You've heard the theories before, know that there's a lot of gossip and rumours because you're in a group of men, but you've never been outright accused to your face like this.

From the corner of your blurry field of vision, you see Seungmin wave bye to whoever he's talking to. He must hear the distress in your voice because he glances over, then does a double-take when he sees just how bad you're doing.

“What's going on?” he demands, stalking over. Before the staff can do anything to stop him, he leans forward and disconnects the call without a warning. “Why didn't you do anything, isn't it obvious that something’s wrong?”

“Y/n-ssi was handling it,” the staff member says. “It’s not fair to the fans if you cut a call short without reason.”

“No reason? Do you have eyes?!” Seungmin motions to where you're surreptitiously trying to blot away the tears without smudging your makeup. He's gotten the attention of everyone in the room now, even the members who are still in calls and have to pretend nothing is happening in the background. You can only hope that the phones aren't able to pick up anything being said.

“Min,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you tug on his sleeve lightly. He glances back at you, eyes softening slightly. “It's okay, I'm fine.”

You're grateful that he's stood up for you, but all the scrutiny is getting a bit overwhelming. You just want to move on and pretend nothing happened because the last thing that you want is for the company to think you're a liability who can't even handle a nosy fan.

Seungmin crouches in front of you and studies you carefully. You're still clutching onto the sleeve of his sweater. You take a deep breath to compose yourself, then give him a watery smile.

“I was just being really sensitive today, I promise,” you plead. “Just let it go.”

He starts to say something, then cuts himself off, eyes watching something happening over your shoulder.

“Let's just take a quick break from the calls,” Chan says evenly. You didn't even notice that he came up being you and is standing behind you protectively. “We'll be back in 10 minutes.”

It's a command, not a suggestion, something that the staff would normally push back against, but for some reason they stay quiet, allowing the nine of you to filter out of the room unimpeded.

Nobody says anything until you find an unoccupied dance studio. Minho is quick to lock the door after you all pile in.

“Hey,” Seungmin says softly from where he's been stuck to your side. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah, I don't know what happened. I'm fine now,” you say.

“Are you sure?” Felix asks from where he's sitting on your other side.

“Really, it was nothing,” you assure him.

“If you were upset, then it's something,” Seungmin insists. “We promise we won't think it's silly or anything. It's probably something we've all heard before anyway.”

You have to turn away from the way that he's looking at you with his huge, pleading eyes. But the rest of the group is also gathered around, concern lining their faces.

“She implied that the only reason I'm in the group is because I'm sleeping with all you,” you say stiffly, regretting it immediately when you feel both Seungmin and Felix freeze in place. “Which obviously is not true, so it's not a big deal.”

“Y/n, you know that's unacceptable, right?” Chan says slowly, through what sounds like gritted teeth. You finally tear your eyes away from where you've been staring at the patterns that you can see in the grain of the wooden flooring, to see that his jaw is clenched, neck muscles pulled tight.

“Fans say inappropriate things all the time, it's not like I haven't read things like that before. It comes with the job.” You shrug.

“That doesn't make it okay. This is serious. You shouldn't have to-” Chan cuts himself off when he notices that he's started to raise his voice and just pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, I know. I just- I don't want this to be a big commotion. It sucks, I didn't respond well, whatever, let's move on,” you say. “She's going to post about it online, but in a few days, nobody is going to remember anyway.”

“Hyung, can't we just end the call if they do anything inappropriate?” Changbin complains.

“You know that we can't,” you remind him before anybody else can say anything. “It's part of our contract.”

“I hate these stupid fan calls!” Hyunjin passionately declares from where he's sprawled out on the floor. “Channie-hyung, can we just cancel the rest of them?”

“Don't say that,” you scold him mildly. “You love fan calls the most out of all of us.”

“I love some of them,” he argues back. “But not if that's the way you're going to be treated during them. Plus, if another person asks me to call them mommy then I'm actually going to quit being an idol.”

“Ew, your fans are weird.” Jisung wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“They're your fans too!” Hyunjin shoots back.

“Okay,” Chan claps his hands together a couple times before things devolve further. “Unfortunately, we do have to continue with the rest of the calls and we can't delay things too much. It's time to head back.”

There's a bit of casual chatter as everybody heads back, but you can tell everyone is still feeling a bit tense. Seungmin only releases your hand when he absolutely has to and you squeeze a couple times before you let go to try and reassure him that you're going to be fine.

The second you sit down, a makeup artist descends on you, tutting her tongue when she sees that you've accidentally wiped away some of your eyeshadow. You obediently stay still, watching as Chan approaches your table too, stopping to lean down and say something in the ear of the staff member that has been monitoring you. The blood slowly drains from her face and she nods rapidly in agreement with whatever he tells her. He claps a hand on her shoulder and even though it's a light and friendly gesture, you can see the way she flinches slightly.

You raise an eyebrow when he looks your way and he just smiles innocently in return and makes his way back to his seat. You don't comment, not even when you notice that the staff's fingers are trembling so hard that it takes her a couple tries to connect you to the next call. You know that it's not her fault, she's just following instructions from the company after all, but you're not feeling very sympathetic at the moment.

Instead, you just try to focus and take on an upbeat persona in the hopes that nobody realises how upset you truly feel. You're hurt and a bit wary of what the fans might do next, but you don't want to take it out on the people who haven’t done anything to you yet.

Fortunately, the rest of the calls are rather uneventful and you leave the company feeling drained, but not as terrible as you had expected.

You spend the rest of the day thinking about what you could have done differently, how you could have handled the call more gracefully, what kind of answer you should give if something similar ever happens again. But no matter what, you just get stuck pitifully thinking to yourself that it's not fair, you shouldn't have to deal with these kinds of questions in the first case. You're sure the company will give you a briefing and some scripted lines tomorrow anyway, so it's probably for the best that you just try to pretend nothing happened at all.

That evening, you try your best to avoid social media, but you knew that some of the other boys had seen videos based on the stormy expression on Jeongin's usually smiley face when you got home and the way that Chan comes back from the gym with more bruises than usual from his boxing session with Minho and Changbin.

They never say anything, but they have been extra careful around you. Chan has brought home your favourite takeout without you asking and Jeongin jumps up to clean up the second that everyone has finished eating. After you decline to watch a drama with them, you can hear one of them pacing past your bedroom every few minutes, pausing right outside your door before continuing on.

You have just decided to muster up the courage to actually watch the recording of the video, it was embarrassingly easy to find one, when Seungmin video calls you. You immediately click away from where your own stupid looking shocked face is paused on screen to answer because you know Seungmin knows that you prefer to text unless it's an emergency.

“Hey,” you greet him warily. “What's up?”

“Felix is trying to kill me,” Seungmin complains.

“What now?”

“Just look!”

Seungmin changes to his back camera to reveal their kitchen, which is littered with baking supplies and seems almost hazy for some reason.

“Is that smoke?” you ask, sitting up in bed.

“I said not to film!” Felix's voice comes from somewhere outside of the frame. Seungmin pans over dizzyingly fast to show where he's crouched in front of the oven, streaks of flour smudged on his clothes and in his hair.

“I'm not filming,” Seungmin comments, unbothered by the fact that Felix is pulling out a pan of what looks like they should be cookies but look alarmingly similar to lumps of coal. “I'm on a call. Show Y/nnie what you made,” he prompts.

“What?? Noooo,” Felix whines. “Y/n don't look!”

“What are those supposed to be?” you laugh.

“I wanted to make something to cheer you up,” Felix says miserably. Seungmin cackles, moving the camera closer so that you first get a close-up of Felix's face, then a better look at the burnt baking sheet. You keel over, stomach starting to hurt from how hard you're laughing. “I was trying to clean up while they baked and didn't hear the timer go off.”

“Well I appreciate the thought,” you say, when you can finally catch a breath. “And you definitely succeeded in making me feel better. Didn't the fire alarm go off?”

“We just got it to stop,” Seungmin says, switching the camera so that you can see his face again. “It's freezing in here now, we had to open all the windows to air out the place.”

“You poor things,” you coo, leaning back onto your bed now that you aren't concerned that they're in immediate danger. “Do you want to come over to our place?”

“I want to, but someone has to make sure that sunshine over here doesn't burn anything else.” Seungmin rolls his eyes, making you laugh again. You hear Felix yell something in the background. “I just wanted a witness in case I don't make it to our schedule tomorrow. I think I gotta go.”

“Yeah, I think you'll be busy cleaning up the rest of the night. See you tomorrow!”

You end the call, plunging your room back into darkness. You lie on your bed for a few moments before unlocking your phone again.

Even though you knew that it wasn't wise, like clockwork you found yourself scrolling through social media after every comeback. It used to be worse, when you had been living alone and would spend countless hours curled up on your tiny bed, face only illuminated by your phone.

The rest of the members all know that you had private social media accounts, they all had them too even though you technically weren't allowed to. What they didn't know was how many nights you had wasted away, watching funny compilations, reaction videos, and analysis of performances. Sometimes, it even felt like you were subconsciously searching for the negative comments, wanting to understand better the mindset of the haters.

It was an old, but bad habit, so you had tried your best to stop once you moved in with Chan and Jeongin. But tonight you just couldn't sleep. After wandering into the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water, you end up getting distracted by your Youtube recommendations.

You don't know what kind of strings the company pulled, but by some miracle, there's no clips of your disastrous fan call circulating any more, although there were still a lot of people talking about it.

There had been mixed comments. Some of the clips had excluded the terrible questions and people commented on how bad your media training must have been, but a majority of people were furious on your behalf and complained about how out of bounds the comment had been.

You should be relieved that the videos have been taken down and you are to a certain extent, but just a couple days ago the dance practice that haunted you had been posted. Just one more thing to worry about. As you feared, while a majority of the comments were nice, there's already people picking apart your performance, comparing you to the boys.

You click from one comment to another, then move onto fan made videos, inevitably falling down a rabbit hole of the many edits that exist where you had been cropped out or digitally removed. It was almost mesmerizing, watching videos of how well the group worked without you, how natural it looked to see what it would have looked like if it was just the eight of them. Some nights, you could almost forget that the edits were exactly that, edits and not the reality.

“Hey,” Chan interrupts. He is obviously trying his best not to scare you, but you were startled anyway, dropping your phone on the counter. “What are you up to so late?”

“It's nothing,” you said quickly, fumbling to lock your phone so that he can’t see the video that’s playing, but Chan had scooped it up before you had the chance to pick it back up.

“What's this-” You could see the moment that he pieced things together, the way that even in the dim lighting you could tell how his brow had furrowed and his hand had tightened around your phone. “How come you're not in these videos?”

“Hm?”

“You were definitely in this performance,” Chan says, studying the paused screen. “You're supposed to be… They removed you.” He finally realises with horror. “Why are you watching garbage like this?”

“I just want to know what Stay are thinking.” You shrug. “I saw this video and couldn't help but watch. It’s not a big deal, I was just curious.”

“They're not Stay if they're not supporting the whole group!” Chan startles you with the sharpness of his voice. He catches sight of your wide eyes and softens his tone. “Sorry, I just hate akgaes and seeing these kind of posts.”

“Oh come on,” you say. “You're telling me that you've never thought about what the group would be like if you weren't being dragged down by me?”

“Dragged down- Y/n-”

“Don't lie to me, oppa. I know you've seen what people are saying about the group, about me. Have you seen some of these edits? Stray Kids looks good as eight,” you admit.

“I’m not lying! None of us would want to be making music or performing without you,” Chan insists.

“You don't have to say that just to not make me feel bad.” You shake your head.

“We’ve been together from the start, why would I have chosen you to be a part of Stray Kids if I didn't actually want you to be on the team?” Chan asks, sounding frustrated, but also genuinely curious.

“Because the company added me to the team at the last minute?” you say, as if it's obvious. Because to you, and basically everybody else, it is. “I know I wasn't part of the group that you picked. It's okay-”

“What are you talking about? You know that I chose you too, right?” he asks slowly.

“But the company-”

“They couldn’t have just added you to the group without our say.”

“No, I know that you guys agreed it to, but-”

“Y/n-ah, we didn't just agree to it. They told me they wanted us to consider adding a female member to Stray Kids. We thought about it and said yes. I was the one who wanted that member to be you.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

“What?”

“Why are you so surprised? I saw your evaluations, you were one of trainees strongest in dance, probably the only one that could keep up with us, your singing has always been stable, and I know that based on your personality and work ethic, you would get along well with the rest of us. It was the obvious choice.”

“Oh.” Is all you can say, mind racing.

“You really thought the company just added your name onto the roster and we went along with it?”

“I don't know, I guess so?” you say sheepishly. “I was just so grateful to debut, it didn't matter at the time. It felt so out of the blue.”

“You know that one of the reasons that JYP didn't have you on that many of the girl group line-ups was because he was considering making you a solo artist, right?”

“Huh? There's no way,” you immediately deny. “Nobody ever mentioned that-”

“He told me when I brought up your name to add to the group. I guess they never wanted to get your hopes up.”

“I thought they were going to drop me soon,” you admit, scratching at the back of your neck. “I uh, I thought maybe I would do at most one more year of training and then move back in with my family. I had even started filling out university applications to keep my options open.”

“Y/n, you were consistently having amazing evaluations, you were being praised so much by everyone. Why would you doubt yourself?”

“Three years as a trainee and nothing to show for it. You know what it was like, how hard it was to see people come and go. It didn't matter how great my evaluations were if I never got to debut.”

“But-”

“Don't tell me that you never thought about quitting. Oppa, I thought that you of all people would understand what it was like.” You hate the way that your voice cracks.

“I thought about it all the time,” Chan says. “Sorry, I didn't mean it like that.”

“It's fine,” you mumble.

“Y/n-ah,” Chan asks tentatively, like he's afraid to learn the answer. “All these years that we've been together, did you really think we didn't want you?”

“Yes? Well, not really. I didn't think you guys disliked having me in the group per se, I just always thought that maybe you would like it more if I wasn't? And I guess it didn't help that there are a lot of people who thought the same way.”

“I'm sorry we didn't reassure you more.” Chan runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “How did we not see that you felt this way?”

“Because I didn't want you to? It's not like it was your fault anyway, I was just overthinking.”

“You know we're going to have to make it up to you, right?” Chan says, looking a little mischievous.

“Oh please no,” you say, backing away nervously thinking of how much coddling and smothering you're about to endure. You're pretty sure you're already one of the members that's doted on the most. “Things are good as they are.”

“Nope, I refuse.” Chan approaches you, reaching out and catching your wrist so that you can't get away. “We're going to give you so much love that you're not going to doubt yourself ever again.”

“No!” you squeal, trying to tug away from his grip. “I already-”

The rest of your sentence gets cut off as Chan pulls you into an embrace and your face gets smashed against his shoulder. He squeezes you tightly and contrary to your words, you just relax into his hold.

“What are you guys doing? You're being so loud.”

Both you and Chan freeze, then turn to stare as Jeongin shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with his hair all mussed up. You turn back to Chan for a second before he replies.

“Just having a bit of a heart to heart, Innie. Come here, join us,” he invites.

“Ugh, why would I want to hug either of you?” Jeongin complains, wrinkling his nose before immediately walking over and enveloping both of you in his arms.

Even though you know you're going to have to leave for a schedule in a matter of hours, with both Chan and Jeongin's arms wrapped tight around you, you feel lighter than you have in months. You feel secure, at ease, and finally, like you've found a home in these boys.

where the heart is collection | read it on ao3 | masterlist

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lvrgurlblobbu · 23 days ago

Text

dolled up

“all dolled up just for me, my beautiful wife.”

zayne x fem!reader

⤿ part of snow angel series : )

⤿ cw: MDNI, p in v, thigh riding, cunnilingus, fingering, creampie, breeding kink, mirror sex, spanking, rough sex, sprinkle of brat tamer!zayne

⤿ word count: 5.2k

⤿ synopsis: zayne has been having a rough week due to multiple surgeries, meetings, and tons of paper works so one night, you decided to give him a little surprise : )

ao3

You were lounging in the living room, scrolling through your phone while the television murmured in the background. The house had been quiet the past few days since Hyacinth decided to join her grandparents—Zayne’s parents—on their four-day trip. A small smile tugged at your lips as her grandmother sent a photo of your five-year-old daughter beaming at the camera, cradling a tiny kitten in her arms. The caption read, “She wants to take the kitten home.”

You glanced at the calendar. They were due back in two days, and you couldn’t wait to hug her again and hear all about their little adventure.

You went through your other notifications, eyes scanning for your husband’s name. These past few weeks had been hectic for Zayne—back-to-back surgeries, endless meetings, and a mountain of paperwork waiting on his desk. The exhaustion was written all over his face, dark circles shadowing his eyes. You’d been gently urging him to take a day off, but being the workaholic he was, he always found a reason to decline. He insisted he couldn’t step away, not wanting to fall behind on his responsibilities.

You were about to take a nap when you heard the doorbell ring. You immediately sat up and padded toward the door. As you peeked through the peephole, you realized it was just a delivery. Opening the door, the delivery man gave you a polite nod and handed over an electronic pad for you to sign. You signed your name and thanked him, then took the medium-sized box into your hands. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt like something carefully packed. Closing the door behind you, you walked back into the living room and placed the box on the coffee table.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. When you checked the notification and saw it was from a clothing brand, your lips curled into a small smirk. Wasting no time, you grabbed a cutter to unbox the package that had just arrived. As you peeled back the flaps, a smile spread across your face—it was the lingerie set you’d ordered online. Without a second thought, you picked up the box and made your way to your shared bedroom, eager to try it on.

It was a pastel pink babydoll-style nightdress made from sheer, lightweight fabric.The bust area features embroidered floral lace with underwire support and satin ribbon detailing in the center. It made your cleavage pop due to its padding. Thin double shoulder straps add a dainty touch, and the skirt flows gently down about a few inches from your intimate area, ending in layered ruffled hems for a soft, romantic look. It also came with a laced pink thong that goes well with the lingerie, as well as an accessory which is a pearl choker and a simple necklace with a small pendant.

And of course, being the little tease you are, you couldn’t resist. After slipping into the delicate lingerie, you sat on the edge of the bed, angled your phone just right, and snapped a mirror selfie. With a sly smile, you sent it to Zayne—who was still at work—along with a message that read: “When are you coming home? I miss you...”

It hadn’t even been five minutes when his reply came through.

“Sweetheart, you look gorgeous. However, I’m in the middle of an important meeting right now.”

You bit your lip, amusement dancing in your eyes. Switching to the front camera, you adjusted the angle and took another photo—this time showing only from your chest down to your thighs, the sheer fabric leaving little to the imagination. With a light tap, you sent it off.

Not long after, another message lit up your screen.

“I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, setting your phone down as you settled back on the bed. Mission accomplished.

***

You heard your front door and that signaled that Zayne is already home. With a soft giggle, you stepped out of your shared bedroom then went downstairs to greet him.

“Hello, my love—“ He was suddenly taken aback and his coat dropped to the floor when he saw you standing before him, wearing the lingerie you bought. He cleared his throat before speaking. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Hm? Why would I be? I feel perfectly fine..” You answered before placing a peck on his lips, “Welcome home.”

You caught the faint flush creeping up his neck, his ears turning a telltale shade of red as his eyes roamed over your figure. His gaze faltered, locking onto the curve of your hips—specifically, the absence of that laced thong you’d been teasing him with earlier. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, trying (and failing) to keep his expression neutral.

You bit your lip, barely containing a giggle at the way his composure unraveled.

“Hungry?” you asked, your voice low and teasing, the double meaning lingering in the air.

He gave a slow, slightly dazed nod.

You reached out and laced your fingers with his, giving his hand a gentle tug. “Come on, then.”

Guiding him to the kitchen, you revealed the small dinner setup you’d prepared—candles flickering, plates warm, and everything in place. The contrast between the tension in the air and the peaceful domesticity made it all the more intimate.

You both sat down to eat, the silence between you charged but comfortable, like a storm waiting just past the horizon.

As you finished, the two of you did your usual routine— wiping the table, washing the dishes, placing the leftovers inside the fridge.. However, the way his eyes flicker to you, the clenching and unclenching of his hand, his reddened ears, and deep breaths doesn’t go unnoticed by you.

Currently, the both of you are enjoying ice cream for dessert, the quiet clink of spoons filling the cozy air between you. The soft lighting casts a gentle glow, making everything feel just a little more intimate.

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips as you tilt your head.

“So, how are you, my love?”

He looks up from his bowl, his expression calm, almost unreadable. He gives a small shrug, stirring the ice cream around absently.

“Same old,” he replies casually. “Had three surgeries, two meetings and finished the paperworks that was sitting at my desk for days. How about you?”

He scoops another spoonful without looking at you, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—like he’s trying not to let on too much.

“It was fine, just missing our little girl. Your mother sent a picture earlier, Hyacinth is cradling a tiny kitten in her arms and she wants to take it home with her..” A quiet laugh slips from your lips, fond and wistful, as you glance at him.

“I have no objections to that,” he said smoothly—but just then, you noticed a small smear of ice cream at the corner of his lips. Instead of reaching out to wipe it away, you leaned in slowly, eyes locked on his, the air thick with unspoken tension. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth as you licked the bit of ice cream off, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

When you pulled back, a playful smile tugged at your lips.

“You missed a spot,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened slightly, jaw tightening just a fraction as he stared at you, that neutral composure starting to crack.

“[Name].. Love..” He muttered, gaze locking into yours. “What?” you respond, a small smile curling on your lips.

“You’re being such a tease..”

“I am not…” you denied with mock innocence as you hopped off the stool, deliberately swaying your hips on the way to the fridge. Bending down slowly, you opened it with an exaggerated hum. “Hmm, what should we—ah!”

You yelped softly as a sudden, firm smack landed on your ass. Glancing over your shoulder with a smirk, you found him standing behind you, eyes dark with intent.

“Oh?” you teased, scooting your bare ass back until it pressed against the hard outline of his clothed crotch. You gave the slightest roll of your hips, just enough to feel the sharp breath he drew in behind you.

Before you could even process his next move, strong arms wrapped around your waist, and in one smooth motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder.

“Hey—!” you started, laughing, but his voice cut through, low and full of heat.

“I’ve had enough of this teasing, my love…” he growled as he began striding purposefully toward the stairs. “Let’s see if you can hold onto that attitude of yours.”

You gasped, heart pounding with anticipation, the fridge long forgotten as he carried you up to your shared bedroom like a man on a mission.

As you both enter your room, he strides towards your bed before gently tossing you to lie down, the mattress dipping beneath you as he looms over, eyes dark with intent. You used your arms to anchor yourself as you stared at him..

“Hm??” You teased, brow raising at him as hig gaze trails from your face, to your chest, and down to your exposed cunt. Then you felt his fingers teasing your folds which caused you to whimper..

“Z-Zayne..” you whimpered as he began to massage your wet folds..

“Yes, my love? Wouldn’t want your effort to go to waste, hm?” He whispered as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “My wife waited for me to come home dressed like this, all dolled up just for me. I am a lucky man.” He muttered before his lips met yours, melting in a passionate kiss.

His lips moved against yours with slow, deliberate tenderness, savoring every second like he’d been starved of your touch. Then, you felt him insert his finger inside your pussy which made you moan, he used it to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you fully—hungry, aching, possessive.

A soft moan escaped as he pressed closer, his body flush with yours, the weight of him grounding you in the moment. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing over yours as he whispered, “You have no idea what it does to me, seeing you like this… knowing you’re mine.” he whispered as his kisses trailed down your neck, nibbling on your sensitive skin. Hard enough to the point he’s certain that it’ll leave a mark.

Then he pulled back slightly, taking in the sight of you— face flushed with lust and desire, lips kiss-swollen and parted, chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry, as if trying to commit every detail to memory.

“God, look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, admiring the way it trembled beneath his touch. “So beautiful… and all mine.”

“Z-Zayne— ahh!” You arched your back as you felt him fasten the thrusts of his fingers in your wet heat, back arching as you gripped the sheets.

“That’s it, say my name.. My love..” He mumbled as his kisses went down your pussy, “Let me have a taste of you, wife.” He whispered before he used his tongue to lick your slit. His fingers still pumping in your pussy, while his other hand is gripping your hips to keep it from moving.

“Mmphh!” You moaned as he continued to flick his tongue against you, his fingers curling inside as he kissed and lapped on your sensitive flesh. Then, you felt the tension building in your core and you’re sure that he feels it— the way your legs tremble and pussy clenched around his digits.

However, it seems like he has other plans because just as you were about to come, he suddenly retracted his fingers and lips from your pussy, leaving it soaking wet and hole gaping.

“Zayne?!” you exclaimed, chest heaving and your pussy aching from your denied orgasm.

“What?” he said with a soft chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers worked slowly down the buttons of his polo. The fabric parted to reveal the firm lines of his chest, and your breath caught just a little at the sight.

Once the shirt was off, he moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but eyes burning with intent. He patted his thigh, gaze smoldering. “Come here,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Right where you belong.”

You moved toward him, each step feeling heavier with anticipation. The moment you settled onto his lap, his hands immediately found your hips, pulling you flush against him. The heat between your bodies was undeniable, electric.

He let out a quiet, satisfied sigh as his hands slid up your sides, fingers brushing the fabric clinging to your skin. “There we go,” he whispered against your neck, placing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below your ear. “You feel so good… so warm.”

One hand cradled the small of your back, holding you close, while the other traced slow circles along your thigh. “I could stay like this forever,” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses along your jaw. “But you’re making it very hard to be patient.”

“Zayne.. please—“ you pleaded as he trailed wet kisses on your neck.

“Please what? Use your words sweetheart..” He replied, his hands traveling down your thigh then to your ass, cupping it gently. “Do you want to come, sweetheart?” He asked in which you nodded in response.

“Only good girls deserve to come, do you think you’ve been good? Hm?”

“Y-Yes, please, my love—ah!” You yelped as his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, unexpected smack. The sound echoed in the room, followed by a rush of heat blooming beneath your skin.

“Wrong answer.” He hand lingered, soothing the sting with a gentle caress before gripping you firmly, possessively. “Do good girls send suggestive pictures of themselves? Because I don’t think so, good girls earn a reward and what happened to bratty ones, like you?”

“Mm… Sorry—ah!” you gasped as his hand connected with your ass once more, the sharp sting making your hips jolt against him. The second smack left your skin tingling, heat flaring both where he touched and deep in your core.

He grinned against your neck, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re not sorry,” he growled playfully, his voice thick with arousal. “You like it when I make you squirm. Since you wanted to come so bad, work for it.” He said as he guided your hips to grind on his clothed thigh, his hand finding its way to massage your clit while the other was cupping your breasts. Then he tugged the lingerie down, exposing your bare chest before leaning in to suck on your sensitive bud.

You clung to his shoulder for support, grinding desperately against his thigh. Your head fell back, a moan escaping you as the friction of your bare cunt dragging over the rough fabric of his pants sent lightning through your nerves. Every roll of your hips made your legs tremble, but you couldn’t stop—even if you wanted to.

He watched you, eyes dark with hunger, letting you use him, letting you fall apart. His fingers, which had been expertly circling your clit just moments before, suddenly withdrew. You whimpered at the loss, your hips stuttering, needing that contact again—but he had other plans.

His hand slid upward with deliberate slowness, trailing over your stomach, grazing your ribs, before finally cupping your breasts—firm, possessive. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, coaxing them into tight peaks. Then he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Touch yourself,” he growled, low and commanding.

Before you could even think to hesitate, his mouth closed around one aching nipple, tongue teasing, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. His free hand kneaded your other breast, palm warm, fingers rough with need as they rolled and tugged your nipple between them. You gasped, body torn between the heat building in your core and the overwhelming pleasure of his mouth on you.

You slid a shaky hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping over your soaked folds. The contrast of your own touch, slick and hot, while his tongue dragged over your skin, made you cry out. You rubbed small circles against your clit, pressure building again too fast, too strong.

"Good girl," he murmured against your breast, voice vibrating through your chest. "Don’t stop. I want to feel you fall apart on me."

“Z-Zayne... Mm, near…” you moaned, the words trembling from your lips, barely coherent through the haze of pleasure flooding your body.

He growled low in his throat at the sound of his name like that—half-whimpered, soaked in desperation. His teeth grazed your nipple, then he sucked hard, sending another jolt straight to your core. His hand tightened on your breast as he glanced up at you, eyes heavy with lust and control.

“Then come for me,” he rasped against your skin, voice thick and raw. “Don’t hold back—I want to feel it. Want to see you fall apart on me.”

His thigh tensed beneath you, giving you more pressure, and your fingers moved faster on your clit, chasing the wave that threatened to break. Every breath you took was laced with fire. The world narrowed down to him—his mouth, his voice, the way his body held you like he’d never let go.

Your moans pitched higher, body trembling as your climax surged, sharp and overwhelming. Your hips jerked against his thigh as the pleasure crested, stars exploding behind your eyes.

“Zayne—!” you cried out as you came, body locking up, then shuddering hard against him.

He didn’t let up. He kept his mouth on you, kept his hand steady, drawing out every pulse of your orgasm until you were a boneless mess in his arms, chest heaving, fingers still twitching where they’d been between your thighs. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you—flushed, wrecked, glowing with satisfaction. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “You should see yourself when you come for me.”

Then he lifted you with ease, strong arms wrapping around your waist as if you weighed nothing, and laid you back onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasted the heat still crackling in the air. The sheets felt cool against your overheated skin, but your eyes stayed locked on him, hungry, dazed.

He stood at the edge of the bed, gaze dragging over your body like a promise, dark and slow.

Without a word, he began to undress.

First, he discarded his unbuttoned polo. The fabric hit the floor somewhere behind him, forgotten. Your breath caught at the sight of him—broad chest, toned muscles, skin flushed with desire. Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Next came the belt. The soft click of the buckle sent another rush of heat through you. His fingers worked with calm precision, sliding it free, letting it hang from one hand for just a second too long—like he wanted you to imagine what else it could be used for.

Then he dropped it.

You watched as he unbuttoned his pants, the zipper dragging down with a low rasp. He let them fall, the fabric pooling around his feet. He stepped out of them, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. Now, all that remained between you and him was the tight press of his briefs—already tented with the unmistakable outline of his cock. Your mouth went dry.

His smirk deepened as he caught your stare. “Like what you see?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

But you could only nod, breathless, already aching for more.

He wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it a few slow, deliberate strokes. His eyes never left yours, watching your every reaction—the way your chest rose and fell, the way your thighs shifted, needy and slick with anticipation.

The sight of you spread out beneath him, still trembling from your last orgasm, clearly drove him wild. Then, with the grace of a predator, he crawled onto the bed—each movement controlled, powerful. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved closer, until he was hovering above you, arms braced on either side of your head.

His cock rested against your stomach, hot and heavy, pulsing with need. You could feel the heat of him, the sheer size of him, and it made your mouth go dry all over again. He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, then your neck, trailing kisses that made your skin burn.

"You’re so wet for me," he murmured against your throat, voice thick with praise and hunger. "You ready for more?"

His hips rolled ever so slightly, letting his length drag along your slick folds, teasing your entrance without giving in just yet. The sensation pulled a needy whimper from you, your hands gripping his arms, nails digging in.

"Say it," he whispered, mouth ghosting over your lips. "Tell me what you want."

“You… I need you, Zayne,” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper as your hands rose to cup his cheeks, fingers trembling slightly with need.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes softening just for a moment, grounding you in the middle of all that burning heat. He turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to the center of your palm, as if anchoring himself there—before his gaze darkened once more.Then, without another word, he shifted his hips and thrust into you in one smooth, deep stroke.

You gasped—your back arching as he filled you completely, the stretch making your whole body shudder. He slid in with effortless ease, your slick heat welcoming him, clenching around him like your body already knew exactly who he was meant to belong to.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ragged, forehead resting briefly against yours as he held still inside you, letting you feel every thick inch of him.

The air between you buzzed with heat, your breaths mingling, your bodies already molding together like puzzle pieces that had finally locked into place.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured against your lips, his voice reverent. “So tight… so perfect.”

You could only moan in response, your legs wrapping around his waist, urging him closer, deeper—already desperate for more. And then he began to move.

He didn’t ease into it.

Once he had you stretched around him, gasping and shaking beneath him, he pulled back—just enough to make you feel the loss—then slammed back in with a force that made the headboard rattle against the wall.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, but he didn’t slow down. His pace was relentless, each thrust hard and deep, driving the breath from your lungs. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with the wet, obscene sounds of your body welcoming him again and again.

“God—Zayne!” you gasped, legs tightening around him. Every time he bottomed out, you swore you saw stars. The way he filled you, stretched you, claimed you—it was almost too much.

But you didn’t want him to stop. You wanted more.

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his grip firm, dominant. His other hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and circling it with quick, rough precision.

“You wanted this?” he growled into your ear, voice dark and wicked. “Then take it. Take every fucking inch.” Your back arched off the bed, body twitching under the dual assault of his cock pounding into you and his fingers working you to the edge all over again.

“Such a good girl,” he snarled, voice breaking with lust. “So wet, so fucking tight. You were made for this—made for me.”

You were unraveling fast, the pleasure coming in crashing waves. Your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, tighter.

“Come for me,” he demanded, thrusts growing faster, rougher, slamming into your sweet spot over and over. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And with one more stroke—just right, just perfect—you shattered, your orgasm ripping through you like a storm. You screamed his name, body convulsing under him, toes curling, thighs shaking.

But he didn’t stop. He kept going—riding you through your high, chasing his own. His rhythm grew messy, desperate, and then with a strangled groan, he thrust one final time, deep and hard, before spilling inside you, his whole body trembling above yours.

Even as his body trembled, even with his release still pulsing inside you, he stayed hard—still hungry. He growled low against your throat, teeth grazing your skin as he pulled out slowly, leaving you slick and aching.

“Not done with you,” he muttered, voice thick, breath hot against your ear. “Get on all fours.”

Your body obeyed before your mind caught up—already sensitive, already spent, but somehow still needing more. You turned over, chest pressed to the sheets, ass lifted for him, trembling slightly as the cool air hit your slick heat.

Then he grabbed your hips, dragging you back until you were perfectly positioned—back arched, legs spread, completely exposed. But it wasn’t until he reached forward and tilted your chin toward the side that you realized what he wanted.

Your eyes met your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You looked wrecked—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, bite marks blooming on your neck and collarbone. Your hair was wild, sweat-slicked skin glowing, thighs streaked with your combined release. You barely recognized the desperate, cockdrunk expression staring back at you.

And it only made the heat between your legs flare up all over again.

“Look at yourself,” Zayne growled from behind you, lining himself up once more. “Look at how fucked out you are—and I’m still not finished.”

Then he slammed back into you.

You cried out, eyes flying wide at the sight of him driving into you from behind—his hips snapping against your ass, cock filling you just as deep, just as hard as before. The mirror gave you everything—his expression twisted in lust, the way your body took him like it was made for this, the obscene wet sounds of him thrusting into your still-dripping cunt.

His hands gripped your hips bruisingly tight as he pounded into you, relentless, unmerciful. Your arms gave out, collapsing you to your elbows, but you couldn’t look away from the mirror—you watched yourself come undone all over again, watched him ruin you.

“This is what you wanted right? Dressing all dolled up for me. You knew exactly what you were doing. Teasing me. Tempting me. Acting like you were so innocent.” Smack! “You’re acting like this on purpose,” he growled, voice gravel and heat as he slammed into you again, making your knees slide forward on the sheets.” Smack! “Just so I’d punish you, isn’t that right?” Smack!

You cried out, nails clawing at the bedding, body trembling as he fucked you with brutal, punishing thrusts. Your cheek pressed against the mattress, mouth open and panting—but you couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your body answered for you.

He reached down and yanked your hair back, forcing your head up—forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror again. Your eyes were glassy, your mouth swollen, tears streaking your cheeks, and your cunt was stretched wide around him, dripping and ruined.

He slammed into you again—hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

“You wanted this,” he growled. “You wanted to be bent over and fucked until you couldn’t think. That’s what you really want, isn’t it? To feel me cum so deep inside you it sticks.”

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you cried out, the words spilling out broken and raw as another orgasm coiled tight in your core, overwhelming and impossible to fight. He released your hair and grabbed both your hips, dragging you back onto him with a bruising grip as he pounded into you mercilessly.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered through gritted teeth, voice sharp with dominance.

Your hand slid beneath you, fingers finding your clit and circling fast, desperate, as the pressure started building again—faster this time, messier, your entire body already primed to snap.

“That's it,” he hissed. “Fuck yourself on my cock. Watch yourself fall apart.”

And you did.

You moaned his name, loud and broken, as another orgasm ripped through you, your body clenching around him so hard it made him curse. You trembled violently, gasping, eyes locked on your reflection—completely gone, completely his.

He fucked you through it with savage thrusts until he was right there again—grunting, swearing, then jerking inside you as he came again, spilling deep, hips grinding against your ass as if trying to get even deeper.

Then, you felt him relax, his breaths slowing, and the tension in his body eased. He pressed gentle, lingering kisses to your shoulders, as if grounding himself in the moment, in the connection between you two.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice tender, a contrast to the roughness that had just passed between you. His hand, warm and steady, moved to guide you closer, helping you adjust as he slowly slid himself out of you.

You could barely form words as you leaned into his chest, your body still trembling from the intensity. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, both of you finding comfort in the warmth of each other. The soft rhythm of his breath in your ear was grounding, making everything feel calmer, safer. He brushed a few strands of hair away from your face as he cupped your cheeks, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

“Was I too rough on you?” he asked, concern clearly etched across his face. His brows furrowed slightly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his tenderness, the way he cared for you so deeply, so intently. With a soft smile, you shook your head slightly, your fingers lightly resting on his hand where it cupped your cheek.

“No, I’m alright, my love,” you murmured, your voice soft and reassuring, the words a quiet promise.

He exhaled deeply, his lips pressing softly against your forehead in a kiss full of affection. You could feel the relief in his touch, the weight of his concern lifting as he held you even closer, just letting the silence settle around you both.

"I love you..." he mumbled, his voice warm and tender as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, holding you close against him. His arms wrapped around you like a protective shield, his heartbeat steady and comforting.

"Let’s just stay like this for a while, okay?" His words were soft, filled with a quiet yearning for peace, as if he didn’t want to let go of this moment.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your voice barely above a breath as you snuggled closer, your body melting into his. The words felt like an affirmation, a bond that only grew stronger with every passing second. You felt safe, cared for, and utterly at peace in his arms.

dividers by: @uzzmachiato @anitalenia

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