#beat drum challenge

[dlstmxkakwldrlarchive]

onew_griffin: with charming #SHINee #MINHO #beatdrumchallenge

[ultrakdramamama]

240911 onew_griffin ✊🏻knock knock ✊🏻

#온유#ONEW #FLOW#ONEW_FLOW #매력#매력_beatdrum#온유_매력_beatdrum #매력챌린지#beatdrum_Challenge

[shineemoon]

NO MORE CRUMBS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 FINALLY A WHOLE JINKIBUM MEAL BEFORE THE YEAR ENDS 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[not-the-dum-e]

Beat Drum Dance Challenge with Taemin

[shawolseurope]

(240904) uk_0530 Instagram update

Caption: #블락비 매력에 빠져 보실 ?

#온유#매력

[alteredphoenix]

Thinking about that one YT video that goes in-depth about liminal spaces in video gaming by sorbino, and how people that view them fall into one of two categories: those that are endowed with nostalgia and the sense that they've been there before (regardless as to whether or not they were born in the era those spaces originated from), and those that feel the looming dread and fear and the hint of otherness, that sensation of wrongness that scrapes along the surface of your brain just looking upon them.

I guess I would fall into the first camp, although not so much with the familiarity and nostalgia; it's more like I can relax and put my guard down when I see them. It reminds me how, as silly and goofy some of these places used to look, they at least had heart to them. Not like today, how you'd look at them from your window out of the car you're in and see the buildings that once were colorful and bombastic are now just redesigned to have the same cold, sterile, corporate aesthetic.

(That's a deeper dive I can get into that sort of goes outside of the bounds of this topic, but I think you get where I'm going with it.)

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[thisisgraeme]

Discover "The Unheard Music of Eternal Concord (Apotheosis)": A New Drum & Bass Adventure from THISISGRAEME Music

The Unheard Music of Eternal Concord (Apotheosis) Greetings to all you rhythm aficionados out there! I’m excited to unveil ‘The Unheard Music of Eternal Concord (Apotheosis),’ a bold new addition to the THISISGRAEME Music portfolio. Picture this track as more than just a series of notes—it’s another landmark on my expedition to craft a collection of 20 albums in the coming 20 years. ‘The…

[jacobthewilliam]

[SPITCUPS] Old School Hip Hop Boom Bap Beat - by WOKE BOY WONDERS

[bobbedazzled]

ROCK THE BOAT

˖ ༘��˚࿆ pairing: caleb x reader

༘��˚࿆ count: 1.6k

˖ ༘��˚˖ ༘��˚࿆ content: porn no plot, fluff, tickling/playfighting AAAGRUSHS, dry humping, subtle use of evol, unprotected penetration, everytime I say boat take a shot, indecent exposure/public sex  ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚ ˖ꫂ❁˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔

˖ ༘��˚࿆ a/n: short I know I just need this out of my system. no I didn’t get the card yet shutupshutupshutup. may revise later.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ㅤ࿔‧ ֶָ֢˚ ˖ꫂ❁˖˚ֶָ֢ ‧࿔

“Lifting me to tease me is improper use of your evol, colonel.”

“Oh?” He glances over, “Will I face disciplinary action?”

Your eyes meet, something inside you simmering at the sight of his smug grin. Without a word, your hand shoots forward, cupping his face and giving him a playful shove. He stumbles back with a surprised laugh, only to recover just as quickly, hands sliding confidently to your waist. His fingertips dance over you, and your body tenses, instinctively bracing for him to dig at your sides.

But you’re quicker. Hands dart to his waist, fingers pressing into him. You feel his muscles twitch beneath your touch. He squirms, trying to twist out of your hold. A thrill runs through you at the sound of his laughter. Not long after, he catches your hand and pulls you into him, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

His fingers play at your sides until you're a mess of laughter and protests. You writhe and giggle uncontrollably, the boat rocking in response to your struggle. Water splashes gently over the edge as your pleas echo into the open air. At last he relents, lifting his hands.

“You’re so easy to break,” he teases.

You glare up at him, huffing as you drum your fists against his chest. “Coming from you?”

“Me?” He chuckles, head resting lazily in one hand. “And what do you have on me?”

You hum, lips curling into a knowing smile as you raise a brow. You’ve known Caleb for far too long to be intimidated by his arrogance. if anything, he’s just as vulnerable to your tricks. Without warning, you push his shoulder, sending him flat onto the floor of the boat. You lift a leg and snake it around his side, straddling his waist. His gloating falters, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then something darker. His gaze lingers curiously from beneath hooded lids.

“I’d say this is cheating, no?” he murmurs, a breathy laugh escaping him.

Leaning in close, you run your fingers down the front of his shirt, your touch light and deliberate as you trace the opening. “Cheating or not,” you whisper, “you still have a weakness.”

He blinks, unamused by your words. His hands return to your waist before lifting his leg, toppling you forward until you're sprawled against his chest, mere inches from his face. The boat sways beneath the sudden shift, water lapping eagerly against its sides. Before you can retaliate, he captures your hands in his and pulls you closer, reeling you in with daring eyes.

“Use it then,” he challenges, his tease does little to hide his desire.

Amused by his darkness, you indulge-- smiling against his lips as you press soft, fluttering kisses over them. His chuckles vibrate against your lips, the battle of wills slowly slipping from each other’s mind. The kiss deepens as he leans in, lips gliding between one another as his hold on your wrists slip. He places your hand against his chest, the rhythmic beating tickling your palm. Your other hand cups his face as you melt into his embrace.

His hand leaves yours, tracing your figure as he reaches down to the hem of your skirt, slowly slipping under the fabric. The skirt rides up your leg as callous fingers drag up your thigh. His hand is pressed against your back, another indents the skin of your hips as he holds you. His close embrace inches you up his frame as he chases after your lips. 

You can only break away for seconds before he’s back on you, moaning and mingling his breath with yours, intoxicated by the lack of oxygen. The warmth of him rises as your bodies brush together. Heat pools in the thin fabric of your panties, hips rolling against the rising mound under his linen. You grip his shoulder, the friction over your bud is electrifying and addicting, leaving your body begging for more.

The sun casts a burning light over you as the garden spectates your affection. His muscles twitch under your palm, fingers digging desperately from where they rest before reaching lower. His fingers tuck and trace along the edge of your panties.

“Caleb-“

“Mm-mm, don’t act shy now.” He mutters against your lips, hand firm against your back,

“It’s just us here. Need better cover?”

A shadow blankets over you as the boat drifts underneath a willow tree. Its leaves hiss in the breeze as its shadows dances across Caleb’s face. Something playful glints in the violet of his eyes. He smiles under your tentative gaze.

“Come here.”

His voice, low and inviting, its all you can hear in the space as the garden fades into the background. He slip past the fabric, rubbing long lines down your warmth. Your breath slows, hips rolling into his hand as he fondles your folds, slicking the pads of his fingers. Your eyes are closed but he mimics every head tilt-- lips pressed against yours to swallow every soft moan as your silk wraps around his fingers.

The water is disturbed as the boat rocks with every brush of your hips. You prop yourself up on his shoulders, tension swelling in your belly from the friction as his fingers pump your drooling cunt. Caleb watches in awe how you take his fingers-- how just a few digits can make you a mess. The fabric of his pants tighten while his imagination runs wild. Imagine how well you’d take his cock. Drooling just like your pussy and whining as you come undone by him, sinning in your own little Eden. He loses focus as his elbow slips, imbalanced by the boat’s unsteady rocking and the inconsistent motion of your hips. 

His fingers quickly slip out as he repositions, rolling you over and laying you on your side facing him. 

“Careful.” He laughs , embracing you as he falls back. “You’re gonna tip us over.”

His laughter warms your cheeks. Your hands stay at his shoulders and paw at the fabric of his top. He gazes for a moment, admiring how the filtering sunlight freckles your flushed skin. A soft orange hue wraps around the boat as it stills under the tree’s swaying leaves. Caleb inches closer and leans in, the tip of his nose brushing past yours. He takes his time to meet your lips once more, kissing tenderly.

“Keep going?” He whispers, the violet of his eyes darkened by his desire. 

His words lingered in the air, curling around you like a whisper-- temptation from a branch heavy with fruit. You could feel the heat of him, breath caught as if the garden around you had gone still. His hand sits at your hips as he waits, scanning your expression for permission.

You nod, leaning in as his kisses travel from your jaw down to your neck. Rough hands knead your flesh, nipping at your neck as he shifts your hips into his. You shove a hand between your bodies, cupping and stroking him through his restraints.

He grits his teeth, panties are quickly pulled aside and stretched over your ass as his clothes are undone. The heat of him quickly fills your hands as he spills out of his pants. 

The crook of your neck does very little to muffle him as you stroke his hardened cock, twitching and moaning as his fingers dig into you. His hips follow your hands, using you to quell his growing impatience as you guide him to your entrance. Chests pressed together as he fucks your palm and slips between your folds. Your fingers cling around his belt loops, encouraging his hips as he slicks his length between the lips of your cunt. He hooks your legs over his arm, holding you still as you slip him inside. His head emerges from your neck, reconnecting with your lips to taste your cries. 

The spring air does nothing to cool your flushed bodies. Sparks nip up your spine as he inches deeper into your velvet.  He struggling to continue his kisses as you clench around his length. Eyes fluttering open as he lifts your skirt to watch himself disappears inside you, how beautiful you take him.

Your warmth, your softness, your voice, it brings him closer to his release. The boat wobbles as Caleb’s hips begin to stutter. Caleb’s grip on you tightens, he refuses to come first, but god, is it hard to hold back. He grabs a hand full of your hair and forces your head up, groaning and rasping praise. He laughs breathlessly as you choke on your own incoherent cries.

“Almost there, baby?” He gasps, breath fanning against your skin. 

“Let me take you there.”

His pace quickens as your walls close around him. Your nails dig into his sleeve as your vision blurs, the knot in your belly swelling as your hips collide. His face is tucked away in the crook of your neck, promises of devotion disrupting the tranquil chorus of birds and rippling waves.

The pressure within you snaps-- your release ripples through you, leg trembling under Caleb’s hold. He smiles against your neck as you cry out, teeth bared against your throat. His release isn’t far behind, body stiffening and melting as your walls quake around him. 

Water splashes beneath you as the current clashes with the boat’s stillness. The colors embracing the boat fade. His heartbeat steadies under your palm as the boat sinks into the water, drifting lazily along the winding river. It’s path flecked with soft golden light filtering through a canopy of willow branches, their tendrils swaying in the breeze. Petals from the blossoms he had tucked around the boat’s edges fluttered loose, dancing across the current before carried away.

The scent of him mingled with the crisp green of the riverbanks and the wildflowers surrounding you. Sunlight flickered in and out, casting your faces in warm glows and cool shadows as the pearls adorning his chest glint between your fingers. The world felt hushed around you-- the rhythmic lapping of water, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the love fully blooming in the long awaited spring.

[dlstmxkakwldrlarchive]

onew_griffin: Your charm Kung fu ah striked my heart~

[mcrdvcks]

7 minutes

chapter summary: You own a small bakery in Westchester. One day, Logan comes in for an order for the X-Mansion. After that he becomes a regular—something he persistently denies.

word count: 9.5k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: i'm a sucker for baker!reader and logan. though this version of reader is a little bit more extroverted and less 'innocent' than the other baker!reader's i've seen. anyways, this is my entry for @yxtkiwiyxt and @lubdubology's valentine's writing challenge!

i'm not a valentine's girly, maybe because i just find it to be a commercial holiday with no meaning (or maybe because i'm 20 and my only valentine has been my dogs) but i hate chocolate and the holiday so...

warnings/tags: baker!reader, fluff, wrote this with x2 logan in mind, but you can imagine any logan, not proofread

Anytime the X-Mansion had a special occasion, they got baked goods from your bakery—a small shop in Westchester.

The first time Logan met you was by accident, or rather an order given to him by Jean. “It’s Rogue’s birthday. You don’t want her to miss out on havin’ a cake, do ya?”

Logan grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. He wasn’t in the mood for errands, but Jean had a way of making things sound like a guilt trip, and he wasn’t about to deal with that all day. So, here he was, pushing open the door to some small bakery he’d never been to before. The smell of sugar and vanilla hit him immediately, warm and inviting, but he didn’t care about that—he just wanted to get the cake and get out.

The place wasn’t busy, just a couple of customers sitting at tables, sipping coffee. He stepped up to the counter, glancing at the display case full of pastries, then tapped the little bell once. A moment later, you stepped out from the back, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Hey, sorry about that—oh.” Your eyes flicked up, and you did a quick once-over, taking in the broad-shouldered, grumpy-looking man standing at your counter. “You’re definitely not Jean.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’.” Logan exhaled, already regretting this. “She sent me to pick up a cake for Rogue.”

“Right. The X-Mansion order.” You nodded, disappearing into the back. “Give me a sec.”

Logan drummed his fingers against the counter, glancing around. The place was small but homey, shelves lined with small bags of cookies, muffins, and whatever else people liked to buy on impulse. It smelled good—annoyingly good.

You came back out a few moments later, balancing a cake box in your hands. “Here it is. Vanilla with chocolate frosting, right?”

“Beats me. Jean just said ‘get the damn cake.’”

You huffed a short laugh, setting it down and ringing it up. “Well, let’s hope she ordered what Rogue actually likes.” You gave him a once-over again, tilting your head slightly. “You new around here? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Logan pulled out his wallet, shaking his head. “Been stayin’ at the mansion a while now. Just don’t do bakery runs.”

“Shame. You seem like the type to appreciate a good cinnamon roll.”

He gave you a flat look. “Dunno what that means.”

“It means you’re a grumpy bastard, and grumpy bastards usually like cinnamon rolls.” You smirked, sliding the cake box toward him. “I have a self-proclaimed ability to guess what people like. You’re either cinnamon roll or an apple pie.”

Logan huffed, eyeing you like he couldn’t decide if you were messing with him or just plain strange. “That so?”

“Mm-hmm.” You leaned on the counter, clearly entertained by his skepticism. “And my guesses are usually spot-on.”

Logan crossed his arms. “What if I don’t like either?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then you’re just lying to yourself.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This what you do? Size people up based on pastries?”

“Works better than you’d think.” You tapped the counter lightly. “So, which one is it? Cinnamon roll or apple pie?”

Logan gave you a flat look, then sighed. “Pie.”

You grinned like you’d just won a bet. “Knew it.”

“Tch. Lucky guess.” He grabbed the cake box and turned toward the door, already done with this conversation.

“Uh-huh, sure.” You leaned on the counter, watching him. “Come back when you’re not on a mission, and I’ll prove it.”

He paused, just for a second, then shook his head and walked out. The bell over the door chimed behind him.

“See you later, sugar,” you called after him.

He didn’t look back, but you swore you saw the faintest twitch of amusement before the door swung shut.

---

It had been a few months since the last time Logan had been over to your bakery. Then Scott and Ororo cornered him, telling him that “it was the least he could do for Jubilee.”

“I’m not goin’ to the damn bakery again.” Logan said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Scott sighed, unimpressed. “Logan, come on. It’s just a cake.”

“You say that like it’s a quick in-and-out job,” Logan grumbled. “Last time I went, I got roped into some damn conversation about cinnamon rolls.”

Ororo raised an eyebrow. “And that was… a problem?”

“Yes.”

Scott and Ororo exchanged a look.

“Look, Jean’s busy, and we’re in the middle of planning the party,” Scott said, folding his arms. “All you have to do is pick up the order. That’s it. No small talk, no distractions.”

Logan exhaled sharply. “Fine.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Scott smirked.

Logan ignored him, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.

---

The bakery smelled just as annoyingly good as last time. Logan stepped inside, tapping the bell on the counter once, hoping you wouldn’t be as chatty this time.

You appeared from the back, wiping your hands on your apron before looking up. The second you saw him, a slow grin spread across your face.

“Well, well. Thought I scared you off for good.”

Logan sighed. “M’just here for the cake.”

“Uh-huh.” You grabbed the order slip from the counter. “Jubilee’s birthday, right?”

He gave a short nod.

You disappeared into the back, and Logan leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The place wasn’t too busy, just a few customers sitting at the tables, chatting over coffee. It was cozy, warm, the kind of place people probably lingered in for hours. Not his thing.

You came back a moment later with a cake box, setting it down in front of him. “Vanilla with strawberry filling. I think she mentioned something about pink being mandatory.”

Logan pulled out his wallet. “You keep track of all your customers’ favorite cakes?”

You shrugged, ringing him up. “Just the regulars.”

He scoffed. “I ain’t a regular.”

“Not yet.” You smirked, handing him his change. “Though, I gotta admit, I’m a little disappointed.”

Logan frowned. “What now?”

“You never came back for me to prove I was right about the pie.”

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t see a reason to.”

“Oh, there was a reason.” You leaned on the counter, tilting your head slightly. “You just didn’t wanna admit I was right. Which is why you can’t get the cake until you try a slice of pie.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “You serious?”

“As a heart attack.” You crossed your arms, matching his stare with a smirk. “One bite. That’s all I’m asking.”

Logan exhaled sharply, glancing at the cake box like it might disappear if he didn’t grab it fast enough. “I don’t got time for this.”

“Oh, but you do.” You were already turning, heading for the back. “Sit tight.”

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, but he stayed put.

A minute later, you came back with a small plate, a fork, and a slice of apple pie. You set it down in front of him like you were presenting something sacred. “Here. Try it.”

Logan glanced around, already regretting this. A couple of customers had noticed, though no one was paying too much attention. Still, he felt like he was being set up. “This ain’t poisoned, is it?”

You snorted. “Please. If I wanted to take you out, I’d do it the old-fashioned way.”

“Comfortin’.” He picked up the fork, giving you one last look before taking a bite.

Warm, just the right amount of cinnamon, flaky crust—damn it. He hated when people were right.

You leaned on the counter, waiting expectantly. “Well?”

Logan chewed, swallowed, and grunted. “S’fine.”

Your grin widened. “Fine?”

“Yeah.” He took another bite, mostly out of spite. “Nothin’ special.”

“Oh, now you’re just lying.” You tapped the counter. “Admit it. I was right.”

Logan shoved another piece into his mouth, refusing to say anything.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He pushed the plate back slightly and reached for the cake. “That enough of a taste test for ya?”

“For now.” You slid the cake toward him, clearly enjoying this way too much. “But next time? You’re trying the cinnamon roll.”

Logan grabbed the box and turned for the door. “Ain’t gonna be a next time.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

The bell chimed as he stepped outside, but he caught your voice just before the door swung shut.

“See ya, sugar.”

---

The bell over the bakery door chimed as Logan stepped inside, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was here. No one sent him this time—no guilt trips from Jean, no nagging from Scott. Just… a damn craving, apparently.

You looked up from behind the counter, eyebrows lifting in surprise before a slow smirk tugged at your lips. “Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

Logan grunted, eyes flicking to the display case. “M’just here to pick somethin’ up.”

“Oh, sure. Totally believe that.” You leaned on the counter, chin resting in your palm. “Let me guess—apple pie?”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re way too smug about this.”

“Because I was right.” You straightened up and grabbed a slice of pie from the case, sliding it onto a small plate. “But, you know, since you’re here, might as well test another theory.”

Logan eyed you warily. “What theory?”

Without answering, you turned and grabbed something else, placing it next to the pie—a cinnamon roll, warm and fresh from the oven.

You tapped the counter. “Go on.”

Logan huffed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Consider it a challenge.” You smirked. “If you don’t like it, I’ll let you walk out of here without any ‘I told you so’s.’”

He eyed you, then the cinnamon roll, then back at you. “…And if I do?”

“Then I get to gloat forever.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath, but grabbed the plate anyway. Pulling out a few bills, he slid them across the counter.

You rang him up, watching as he hesitated before finally tearing off a piece of the cinnamon roll and popping it into his mouth.

His chewing slowed. You caught the slightest flicker of something—not quite annoyance, not quite satisfaction—before he swallowed.

“Well?” You leaned forward, grinning.

Logan picked up his plate. “M’leavin’.”

You laughed. “That good, huh? You know, you could just say ‘thank you’ like a normal person.”

Logan scoffed, tearing off another piece of the cinnamon roll. “Ain’t my style.”

You smirked, resting your elbows on the counter. “Yeah, no kidding. You’re more of the grumble and disappear type.”

He didn’t argue, just kept eating like acknowledging you would give you more reason to gloat. The place wasn’t too busy, which meant you had all the time in the world to mess with him—not exactly the outcome he was hoping for when he walked in.

“So, what’s the verdict?” You tapped your fingers against the counter. “Cinnamon roll or apple pie?”

Logan chewed, swallowed, and exhaled through his nose. “Pie.”

You gasped dramatically. “Wow. Just like that? No hesitation?”

“Nope.” He took another bite.

You shook your head, grinning. “That’s crazy. ’Cause it sure looks like you’re enjoying that cinnamon roll.”

Logan grunted, not meeting your eyes. “S’fine.”

“You said that about the pie, and look where we are now.” You rested your chin in your hand, watching him. “Face it, Logan. You’ve got a sweet tooth.”

“Tch.” He picked up the plate and turned toward the door, clearly done with this conversation.

“Don’t be a stranger, sugar,” you called after him.

He didn’t look back, but you caught the way his shoulders tensed—like he was fighting the urge to respond. The bell chimed as he stepped outside.

You smirked, already looking forward to the next time he walked through that door.

---

Usually, you did just fine lugging the large bag of flour from the crate to the kitchen, but after spending all day on your feet testing new recipes you weren’t exactly at your best.

You faintly heard the bell ring above the front door, and you called out “we’re closed!” before tugging the bag of flour again.

“You’re closed, huh?” A familiar gruff voice cut through the quiet.

You groaned, still struggling with the damn bag of flour. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Heavy footsteps approached, and before you could protest, the bag was lifted right out of your grip. You turned to see Logan holding it effortlessly like it weighed nothing.

You huffed. “You know, some people ask before just stepping in and taking over.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You were losin’ that fight.”

“I had it handled.”

“Sure you did.” He carried the bag through the doorway leading to the kitchen.

You followed, arms crossed. “What are you even doing here? You already got your sugar fix for the week.”

Logan set the bag down near the counter and dusted his hands off. “Needed somethin’ to do.”

You blinked. “So, out of all the places, you came here?”

He grunted, looking vaguely annoyed with himself. “Yeah, guess I did.”

You smirked, leaning against the counter. “Startin’ to think you like it here.”

Logan exhaled sharply. “Don’t push it.”

You tapped the counter lightly, still amused. “Well, since you’re here, you want something? Or are you just here to rescue me from my tragic battle with flour?”

Logan glanced around like he was debating whether he’d regret staying longer. Then his eyes landed on a tray of freshly baked cookies on the cooling rack.

You caught his look. “Ah. Now, let me use my special talent here—” You tapped your chin in mock thought. “You seem like a peanut butter guy.”

Logan scoffed. “Now you’re just makin’ stuff up.”

“Oh, am I?” You picked up a peanut butter cookie and held it out. “Go on. Prove me wrong.”

He stared at you, then at the cookie, then back at you. “This a new thing? You testin’ psychic powers on baked goods?”

“Just take the damn cookie, Logan.”

He rolled his eyes but took it, biting off a piece. His chewing slowed just slightly, the way it always did when he didn’t want to admit something was good.

You grinned. “Called it.”

Logan muttered something under his breath but didn’t stop eating.

You leaned on the counter, watching him. “So, what’s the excuse gonna be next time?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Next time?”

“Mhm. You keep coming back, whether it’s for cake, pie, or playing the hero with fifty-pound bags of flour.”

Logan finished the cookie and dusted off his hands. “You assumin’ a lot.”

“Oh, I don’t assume.” You smirked. “I just have a talent for predicting things.”

He shook his head and turned toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

You grinned. “Bye bye, sugar bear.”

---

The next time Logan showed up, he didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and stood at the counter like he was already regretting the decision.

You looked up from the register, eyebrows raising. “Back again already?”

“Don’t start.”

You smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

Logan gave you a look that said he didn’t believe that for a second. His eyes flicked to the display case, scanning over the usual selection. You leaned on the counter, waiting.

“So, what’ll it be?” You tapped your fingers against the counter. “Pie? Cinnamon roll? Maybe a cookie? I know a guy who’s a big fan of peanut butter.”

Logan exhaled, shaking his head. “Just coffee.”

You blinked. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

You tilted your head slightly. “I just figured if you were gonna show up unprompted, you’d at least pretend you weren’t here just for the free samples.”

He gave you a flat look. “M’not here for free samples.”

“Uh-huh.” You turned, grabbing a mug. “Black?”

“Yeah.”

You poured the coffee and slid it across the counter. Logan took it without a word, lifting it to his lips.

You watched him take a sip, arms crossed. “So, what’s the excuse this time?”

He lowered the mug slightly. “What?”

“You always have an excuse for coming in. First it was Jean, then Scott, then some tragic flour-related emergency.” You smirked. “What is it today? Did someone put you on coffee duty?”

Logan didn’t answer right away, just took another sip. “No excuse.”

Your smirk faltered slightly. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” You shrugged, resting your elbows on the counter. “Just didn’t take you for the type to stop by for no reason.”

He grunted. “Maybe I just wanted coffee.”

“Maybe.” You studied him for a moment. “Or maybe you just wanted to see me.”

Logan huffed. “You’re pushin’ it.”

You grinned. “That wasn’t a no.”

He shook his head, setting the coffee down. “This place always this damn chatty?”

“Only when you’re here.”

Logan exhaled through his nose, but he didn’t argue. You took that as a win.

“Oh, I know somethin’ you can do for me.” You quickly ran into the backroom and grabbed a cooling scone—raspberry lime.

Logan eyed it with mild suspicion as you set it down in front of him. “What’s this?”

“A scone.”

He gave you a flat look. “I can see that.”

You smirked. “Then why’d you ask?”

Logan exhaled sharply, picking it up like it might bite him. “And I’m supposed to do what, exactly?”

“You’re supposed to eat it,” you said, leaning on the counter. “It’s a new recipe. Gotta make sure it’s good before I start selling them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “And you don’t got anyone else to taste-test this?”

“Not anyone who’ll give me an honest answer.” You tapped the counter lightly. “Customers are too polite, and the old ladies who come in every Sunday think everything I make is ‘just delightful.’ I need actual feedback.”

Logan looked at the scone like it was some kind of trap. “…It got any weird crap in it?”

“Weird crap?” You blinked. “It’s raspberry and lime. How is that weird?”

He grunted, still skeptical, but took a bite. His chewing slowed slightly, which you’d come to recognize as the telltale sign that he actually liked something but wasn’t about to admit it outright.

You grinned. “Well?”

Logan swallowed, then shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“Wow. High praise.”

He took another bite, shaking his head. “You want feedback or not?”

“Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

He chewed thoughtfully, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he was actually considering his words. “Not too sweet. Tart enough to keep it from bein’ boring. Texture’s good.” He paused, taking another bite. “Could use a little more lime.”

You tilted your head. “More lime?”

“Yeah.” He gestured vaguely with the scone. “You got the raspberry down, but the lime’s kinda fightin’ to be noticed.”

You pursed your lips, considering it. “Huh. Okay, I can work with that.”

Logan took another bite, looking vaguely annoyed with himself. “Didn’t expect you to actually listen.”

“I asked for feedback. What kind of baker would I be if I ignored it?” You smirked. “Besides, I already knew it was good—I just wanted to see if you’d admit it.”

He scoffed, setting the half-eaten scone down. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“And yet, here you are. Again.”

Logan grunted, picking up his coffee. “Don’t make a big deal outta it.”

You grinned, tapping the counter. “No promises, sugar.”

---

The bell above the bakery door chimed, and you barely glanced up from where you were wiping down the counter. “We’re closed,” you called automatically.

“You keep sayin’ that, and yet, here I am,” came a familiar gruff voice.

You looked up, smirking as Logan stood at the counter, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he was already regretting coming in. “Back again already? Thought you were done giving me a hard time.”

He grunted, eyes flicking toward the display case. “Just get me a coffee.”

You arched an eyebrow but didn’t question it, grabbing a mug and pouring it fresh. As you slid it across the counter, you tapped your fingers against the wood. “You know, most people would just admit they like a place instead of making up excuses to show up.”

Logan wrapped his hands around the mug, not looking at you. “Ain’t an excuse. Just needed coffee.”

“Sure.” You leaned on the counter, watching him. “So, what was it this time? Jean send you? Scott? Or did another bag of flour need rescuing?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “No reason.”

That gave you pause. You tilted your head slightly. “Huh.”

Logan frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” You smirked, clearly amused. “Just didn’t take you for the type to stop by for no reason.”

He gave you a flat look. “You got somethin’ against repeat customers?”

“Oh, no. I love my regulars.” You grinned. “Especially the grumpy ones.”

Logan shook his head, lifting the mug to his lips. He didn’t argue, which only made you more smug.

---

The next time Logan came in, it wasn’t for coffee.

The place was quiet—late enough in the evening that most customers were long gone. You were behind the counter, finishing up some inventory, when the bell chimed.

You looked up, brows lifting. “You know, I could just give you a key at this point.”

Logan ignored that, stepping up to the counter. “What’s good today?”

You gave him an exaggerated gasp. “You’re finally asking for a recommendation? I’m honored.”

He sighed. “Just tell me what’s good.”

You smirked, grabbing a plate and sliding a freshly baked hand pie onto it. “Figured I’d experiment today—blackberry and bourbon.”

Logan picked up the hand pie, giving it a brief once-over before taking a bite. He chewed, swallowed, then gave a short nod. “Not bad.”

You put a hand over your heart. “Wow. Practically a glowing review.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but something about the interaction had softened. He stayed leaning against the counter, glancing at the cooling trays behind you. “So, you always wanted to do this?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely. “The whole bakery thing.”

You shrugged. “Pretty much. Always liked baking, figured I might as well get paid for it.”

Logan hummed in acknowledgment, taking another bite. He didn’t say anything for a while, but he didn’t leave either.

After a few beats of silence, you decided to return the question. “What about you?”

He glanced up. “What about me?”

You leaned on the counter. “You always wanted to be a broody loner who shows up at small businesses unannounced?”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

You grinned. “Yeah, but I grow on people.”

“We’ll see about that.”

But he didn’t leave.

---

You had a habit of observing people. It came with the job—regulars had patterns, little quirks that gave away more than they realized.

Logan was no different.

The third or fourth time he came in, you started noticing them. The way his eyes scanned the room the second he stepped inside, like he was cataloging everything. How he never sat with his back to the door. How his shoulders only slightly relaxed after a few minutes, like he was still debating if he should be here at all.

“You’re always on guard.”

Logan, who had just taken a sip of coffee, lowered the mug slightly. “What?”

“You’re always watching everything,” you said, casually wiping down the counter. “Like you’re waiting for something to go wrong.”

Logan’s expression flickered—just for a second. “Force of habit.”

You nodded. “Figured.”

That was it. No prodding, no pushing. Just an acknowledgment.

Logan’s fingers tapped against the side of his mug. “That a problem?”

“Nope.” You smirked. “Just an observation.”

Logan held your gaze for a second longer, then shook his head. “You notice too much.”

“Perks of the job.” You leaned forward slightly. “You know what else I noticed?”

He sighed. “What now?”

“You linger.”

Logan frowned. “The hell does that mean?”

“You stick around longer each time.” You grinned. “Almost like you enjoy being here.”

Logan grunted, grabbing his coffee. “You’re annoyin’.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He didn’t argue.

---

The bell above the bakery door chimed, right on schedule. You smirked to yourself as you wiped your hands on your apron. Logan had been showing up like clockwork now—never admitting it, of course, but his routine spoke for itself.

When you turned around, you were already holding out a plate.

Logan narrowed his eyes. “What’s this?”

You set it on the counter with a flourish. “Leftover peanut butter cookies. Tragic, really. If only someone around here liked them.”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You plannin’ on feedin’ me every time I come in?”

“Would you complain if I was?” You leaned on the counter, raising an eyebrow.

He grumbled something under his breath but grabbed a cookie anyway, biting into it like he was proving a point.

You smirked. “Thought so.”

Logan chewed, swallowed, then gestured toward the plate. “These actually extra?”

You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”

His jaw flexed slightly, like he didn’t know how to respond. Instead of answering, he just grabbed another cookie.

You grinned.

---

It had been a long day. A really long day.

One of the ovens had decided to throw a tantrum, a supplier had screwed up an order, and to top it off, you still had to prep for a catering job in the morning.

You didn’t even look up when the bell chimed. “We’re closed,” you called tiredly, shoving a crate of flour toward the back.

“Yeah, yeah.”

You blinked, glancing up to see Logan standing near the counter, arms crossed.

You huffed. “Starting to think you don’t understand what closed means.”

Logan ignored that, glancing around at the half-prepped trays, the mess of ingredients still covering the counter. “You runnin’ this place by yourself?”

“Yep.” You exhaled, pushing hair out of your face. “Well, mostly. Sometimes I hire help for big orders.”

Logan grunted, then—without a word—walked past the counter, grabbed the flour bag you had been struggling with, and lifted it like it weighed nothing.

You blinked. “Uh—what are you—”

“Where’s it goin’?”

You stared at him. “You do realize you don’t work here, right?”

Logan gave you a flat look. “You askin’ me to leave?”

You hesitated, then sighed. “Corner shelf, second row.”

He carried it over like it was nothing, then turned back expectantly.

You crossed your arms. “What, you lookin’ for a job now?”

Logan snorted. “You couldn’t afford me.”

“Oh, please.” You smirked. “I’d pay you in coffee and pie. You’d be set for life.”

He shook his head but didn’t argue. Instead, he glanced around the kitchen again. “What else?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you helping?”

“Tch.” He grabbed another crate before you could protest. “You’re losin’ this fight, just let it happen.”

You watched him work for a moment, a little stunned. You weren’t used to people sticking around just to help. It wasn’t a grand gesture, wasn’t something he was making a big deal out of—it was just Logan, stepping in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned back to your work, shaking your head with a small smile.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But you’re not getting paid.”

Logan grunted. “Figures.”

---

It was late—too late. You should’ve locked up an hour ago, but you were dragging your feet, finishing up inventory while Logan sat at one of the tables with his usual coffee.

You glanced over at him. He had been coming around more, sticking around longer. He never said why, and you never asked. It was just… the way things had settled.

“You always this restless?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Logan glanced up. “What?”

“You always show up late.” You leaned against the counter. “Ever sleep?”

He scoffed. “Not much.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Because you can’t, or because you don’t want to?”

Something flickered in his expression. He looked down at his coffee, fingers tapping against the side of the mug. “Both.”

You studied him for a moment. “Bad dreams?”

Logan didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly—so quiet you almost missed it—he muttered, “Somethin’ like that.”

You didn’t push. You could’ve asked more, pried for details, but that wasn’t how this worked. Instead, you just nodded.

“I get it,” you said simply.

Logan looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… understanding.

Logan took another sip of his coffee, then exhaled. “You should lock up.”

You smirked. “You gonna tell me what to do now?”

He stood, grabbing his jacket. “Don’t need to. You’re already dead on your feet.”

You huffed. “You know, for a guy who claims he doesn’t care, you sure do act like you do.”

Logan pulled his jacket on, not looking at you. “Get some sleep, Y/N.”

You watched as he headed for the door, shaking your head with a small smile.

“Night, sugar bear,” you called after him.

He didn’t look back, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed—like he was fighting the urge to respond.

The bell chimed as the door swung shut.

---

By now, Logan had stopped making excuses for why he kept coming back. He still didn’t admit anything, but you noticed the pattern—how he always came in around closing time, how he lingered longer each visit.

Tonight was no different.

The bell chimed, and you barely looked up from wiping down the espresso machine. “Y’know, if you’re gonna keep doing this, I really should just give you a key.”

Logan grunted, stepping inside. “Don’t need one.”

You smirked. “Because you’d just break in?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

You rolled your eyes, finishing up before leaning on the counter. “So, what’ll it be? Coffee? Something sweet? Or are you just here to loiter?”

Logan didn’t answer right away. He walked over to his usual seat—the one near the window, back to the wall—and sat down with a sigh.

“No coffee,” he muttered.

That was new.

You eyed him. “Rough night?”

He exhaled sharply but didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

Without another word, you grabbed a mug, poured something fresh, and set it on the table in front of him.

“I thought I said no coffee.”

You sat across from him, propping your chin on your hand. “It’s tea.”

Logan frowned at it. “The hell do I look like, some kinda tea-drinkin’—”

“—Just drink it, Logan.”

He huffed but didn’t argue. Took a sip. Grunted.

You smirked. “Good, right?”

“...It’s fine.”

You leaned back, watching him. “You don’t have to talk, you know.”

Logan raised an eyebrow.

You shrugged. “Just saying. If you wanna sit here in broody silence for an hour, I won’t stop you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his expression. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, sipping his tea.

Neither of you said anything else for a while.

But he stayed.

---

You had dealt with rude customers before. It came with the job—some people were just assholes. But most of the time, they were harmless.

Most of the time.

Tonight, some guy had been giving you a hard time—complaining about his order, getting a little too close, sneering in that way that immediately put you on edge.

“You got a problem with your ears, sweetheart? I said extra caramel—”

“I heard you,” you said, forcing yourself to stay calm. “But that’s not what you ordered.”

The guy scoffed, leaning over the counter. “So now you’re callin’ me a liar?”

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the tension like a knife.

“She ain’t callin’ you anythin’.”

Logan was right there—sudden and solid, standing just slightly in front of you.

The guy turned, sizing Logan up. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

Logan didn’t answer. Just held his gaze, silent, still.

You had seen Logan fight before—you knew what he was capable of—but sometimes, it didn’t take claws or violence. Sometimes, it was just him, standing there, making someone realize they’d made a mistake.

The guy swallowed.

“Forget it,” he muttered, grabbing his coffee and leaving without another word.

The door shut behind him, and for a moment, the bakery was silent.

You exhaled. “Well. That was fun.”

Logan turned, looking you over like he was checking for something. “You alright?”

You smirked. “Aww, you care.”

Logan grunted. “Don’t start.”

You crossed your arms. “What, no dramatic one-liner? No ‘stay away from her’ speech?”

“Didn’t need one.”

You shook your head, still smirking. “You’re ridiculous.”

Logan didn’t answer. Just grumbled under his breath and went back to his seat, like nothing had happened.

But you noticed the way he didn’t touch his drink for a while—like he was still too on edge to relax.

---

“You’re actually serious about this.”

Logan stood at the entrance of the farmers’ market, arms crossed, looking very unamused by the whole thing.

You grinned. “Yep.”

“You dragged me here.”

“Oh, please. No one drags you anywhere. You came willingly.”

He grunted but didn’t argue.

You had invited him on a whim, half-expecting him to say no. But to your surprise, he had shown up—grumbling the whole way, sure, but still.

The market was lively—small tents, fresh produce, the smell of roasted coffee and warm pastries in the air. It was a nice change from the usual bakery setting.

Logan, however, looked wildly out of place.

“You look miserable,” you teased, nudging him.

“’Cause I am miserable.”

“You sure? ’Cause I saw you eyeing those smoked meats at the last booth.”

Logan huffed. “That don’t mean I wanna be here.”

You smirked. “Mhm. Keep telling yourself that.”

Still, he stuck close to you as you weaved through the booths. He didn’t complain when you stopped to look at pastries, didn’t roll his eyes too hard when you bought something ridiculous just because it “looked cute.”

At one point, you handed him a fresh apple cider donut.

Logan frowned. “What’s this for?”

“Because you look like you wanna kill someone, and I need you to chill.”

He gave you a look but took a bite anyway.

You grinned. “See? Was that so hard?”

Logan just grumbled around his donut.

You took that as a win.

---

Logan, for the first time in a while, came to your bakery for an order. It was for the Valentine’s Day party at the mansion and Jean and Ororo put him on pickup duty.

It was close to 3 pm when he arrived and the sign on the door was already turned to CLOSED.

He opened the door and walked in, the bell ringing above.

You were behind the counter, carefully arranging a tray of macarons into a pastry box. You glanced up at the sound, then smirked when you saw who it was.

“Ah, my favorite grump. Here for the party order?”

Logan grunted, stepping closer. “Jean and Ro made me do it.”

“Of course they did.” You shut the box and slid it across the counter. “Bunch of heart-shaped macarons, just as requested—raspberry, chocolate, vanilla bean, and peanut butter.”

Logan eyed the box, then flicked his gaze back to you. You looked… different. Dressed up. Not overly fancy, but enough to make him pause. His brows pulled together slightly.

“You got plans or somethin’?”

You tilted your head. “What?”

He gestured vaguely. “You’re dressed up.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Why, you jealous?”

Logan scoffed. “Ain’t jealous. Just askin’.”

You hummed, clearly entertained. “No date, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Logan crossed his arms. “Didn’t say nothin’ about a date.”

You grinned. “Mhm. Well, in case you were wondering, Jean invited me to the party.”

His expression flickered—something unreadable for half a second—before he exhaled sharply. “That right?”

“Yep.” You grabbed another small box from behind the counter and handed it to him. “These are yours, by the way.”

Logan frowned slightly, opening the box. Inside were four macarons, but unlike the ones in the party order, these were regular round ones.

“Didn’t think you’d want heart-shaped ones,” you said, watching his reaction.

He stared at them for a moment. “These the same flavors?”

“Yep. One of each.” You leaned on the counter, smirking. “Figured you’d appreciate the peanut butter one the most.”

Logan huffed. “You really don’t let up, huh?”

“Nope.”

He shook his head but didn’t argue. Just shut the box and grabbed the party order. “C’mon. I’ll give you a ride.”

You blinked. “What?”

Logan gestured toward the door. “Party’s at the mansion, ain’t it? You’re goin’, I’m goin’. Might as well save you the trip.”

You smirked, grabbing your coat. “And how exactly are these macarons supposed to survive on a motorcycle?”

Logan gave you a flat look. “I got it handled.”

You chuckled, stepping around the counter. “Alright, sugar bear. Let’s see what you got.”

He grumbled something under his breath but held the door open for you anyway.

You stepped outside, pulling your coat tighter as the cool air hit. Logan followed, already heading toward his bike.

You stopped short, staring at it. “Okay, I gotta ask—where exactly are these macarons supposed to go? You got some hidden pastry compartment I don’t know about?”

Logan shot you a look. “I said I got it handled.”

You crossed your arms. “That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled sharply, then crouched slightly, reaching for the saddlebag attached to the side of his bike. With practiced ease, he unlatched it, revealing a snug, padded compartment inside.

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly convenient.”

Logan shrugged. “Picked it up a while back. Good for keepin’ shit from gettin’ smashed.”

You smirked. “So, what you’re saying is, this is a dessert-safe motorcycle?”

He grunted, carefully placing the boxes inside. “Sure.”

You shook your head, amused. “You are full of surprises, sugar bear.”

Logan ignored that, straightening up before turning to you. “You ever been on a bike before?”

You hesitated. “…Define ‘been on a bike.’”

His expression flattened. “That a no?”

“Not a no. More like a… not exactly.”

Logan exhaled through his nose. “Great.” He swung a leg over and sat, steadying the bike before nodding toward you. “C’mon.”

You gave him a look. “You’re just assuming I’m gonna get on?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You got another ride?”

You huffed, stepping forward. “Fine, but if we crash, I’m haunting you.”

Logan scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Foot on the peg, swing your leg over, and don’t make a damn production out of it.”

You did as he said, slightly awkward but managing without embarrassing yourself. Once seated, you hesitated, hands hovering near his back.

“…Where am I supposed to hold?”

Logan didn’t answer right away. Then, without looking back, he reached for your wrists and pulled your arms around his waist. “Here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t argue. His body was solid under your hands, radiating warmth even through his jacket.

“This gonna be a problem?” he asked, clearly amused.

You huffed. “Not unless you do something stupid.”

Logan smirked, kicking the bike to life. “Hang on, doll.”

You rolled your eyes but tightened your grip around his waist. The engine rumbled beneath you, the vibration humming through your chest as Logan eased the bike forward. The cool night air bit at your skin, but the warmth of him under your hands made up for it.

As he pulled onto the road, you couldn’t help but squeeze your arms a little tighter. Not out of fear—just instinct. Logan didn’t say anything about it, but you could feel the shift in his posture, the slightest adjustment like he was making sure you were steady.

The ride was smooth, surprisingly so. Logan handled the bike with an ease that made you wonder just how many times he’d done this before. The streets of Westchester blurred past, streetlights casting a golden glow over the pavement.

After a few minutes, you leaned forward slightly. “So, be honest. How often do you use the whole ‘wanna ride?’ line to impress women?”

Logan snorted. “You think I need a line?”

You scoffed. “Wow. That cocky, huh?”

He smirked, though you couldn’t see it. “Ain’t about bein’ cocky, darlin’. Just statin’ facts.”

You shook your head, amused. “Uh-huh. Well, just so you know, I’m only impressed if we get there in one piece.”

Logan huffed. “You doubtin’ my drivin’?”

“I mean, I don’t want to, but I’ve also seen how you drive a car, and—”

“That was one time,” he grumbled.

“And yet, Scott still won’t let you near the X-Jet.”

“One crash, and suddenly nobody trusts ya.”

You laughed, resting your chin lightly against his back. “You’re ridiculous.”

Logan didn’t respond, but you felt his chest rise and fall with a short, quiet chuckle.

The rest of the ride was mostly silent, save for the occasional gust of wind and the steady roar of the engine. It wasn’t bad, you realized. The night air, the open road, the way Logan rode like he belonged there—it was… nice.

After a while, the looming gates of the Xavier Institute came into view. Logan slowed the bike, coasting up the long driveway before finally coming to a stop near the entrance.

As the engine cut off, you let out a breath and loosened your grip. Logan tilted his head slightly. “Not bad for your first time?”

You huffed. “I mean, I survived, so I’d call it a win.”

He smirked. “Told ya I had it handled.”

You slid off the bike, stretching your legs. “Alright, sugar bear. Let’s get these macarons inside before Jean hunts us down.”

Logan grunted but grabbed the boxes from the saddlebag, handing you yours before leading the way inside. The moment you stepped through the doors, the distant sound of music and chatter spilled into the hallway.

You smirked. “Sounds like the party’s in full swing.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Great.”

You nudged him playfully. “Oh, come on. It won’t kill you to be social for one night.”

He gave you a look. “Wanna bet?”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut in.

“There you guys are!”

Jean appeared from around the corner, arms crossed but a knowing smirk on her lips. “Was starting to think you got lost.”

Logan grunted, holding up the pastry box. “Got your damn macarons, didn’t we?”

Jean took them, amused. “And you made it in one piece. I’ll call that a success.” She glanced at you, smirk widening. “Enjoy the ride?”

You crossed your arms, smirking right back. “I mean, I was mildly impressed. Didn’t even have to cling to him for dear life.”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate both of ya.”

Jean just laughed. “Come on, you two. Let’s get to the party.”

You followed her down the hall, Logan trailing behind you like he was already regretting every life decision that led him to this moment. The music grew louder as you got closer, and when Jean pushed open the doors to the common room, the full chaos of the Valentine’s party hit you.

Streamers, heart-shaped balloons, and way too much red and pink covered every inch of the space. A long table near the wall was packed with snacks, desserts—including your macarons—and an absolutely massive punch bowl that looked suspiciously spiked.

“Oh, this is festive,” you mused, glancing around.

“Festive’s one word for it,” Logan muttered.

Jean handed off the box of macarons to Ororo, who grinned when she saw you. “Glad you made it!”

“Of course,” you said, smirking. “Wouldn’t miss an excuse to see Logan suffer through social interaction.”

Ororo chuckled. “Well, you’re in luck, because he can’t sneak out this time. Scott already said if he disappears before midnight, he’s getting put on dish duty for the next month.”

You turned to Logan. “I like this rule.”

Logan just grunted. “’S bullshit.”

Jean smirked. “Then you better stick around.”

Ororo pulled you away toward the dessert table before Logan could complain more. “Come on, you have to try some of the punch before Bobby finishes it off.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just straight-up vodka at this point,” you said, eyeing the bowl.

“Exactly.”

You laughed but let her pour you a cup. The party was already in full swing—students dancing, music blasting, people laughing over whatever nonsense was happening near the pool table. It was easy, fun, not a bad way to spend a night.

Logan, however, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. He had posted up near the bar, arms crossed, sipping a beer while occasionally glaring at anyone who got too close.

You made your way over, drink in hand. “Having fun?”

He gave you a flat look.

You grinned. “That bad, huh?”

He sighed. “Too loud.”

“Aw, poor thing,” you teased, nudging him. “Bet you’d rather be back at the bakery eating peanut butter cookies in broody silence.”

Logan took a sip of his beer. “Damn right.”

You smirked, leaning against the bar. “Well, if you survive the night, maybe I’ll consider rewarding you with some.”

His eyes flicked toward you, something unreadable in his expression. “That so?”

“Maybe.” You took a sip of your drink. “Depends on how grumpy you get.”

Logan scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he watched you over the rim of his bottle, like he was figuring something out.

Before either of you could say anything else, Rogue appeared, grinning. “Oh, good, you’re both here.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I need you two for somethin’.”

Logan immediately shook his head. “No.”

Rogue rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“Don’t need to.”

She ignored him and turned to you. “We’re playin’ Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “You’re what?”

Rogue smirked. “C’mon, it’s tradition. Just pick a name outta the hat.”

Logan was already turning to leave. “Hell no.”

You grabbed his arm before he could make an escape. “Oh, come on, sugar. Don’t be a coward.”

He shot you a look. “I ain’t playin’ some dumbass game.”

Rogue crossed her arms. “Then you gotta do dish duty for a month.”

Logan clenched his jaw.

You grinned. “I like this rule.”

Logan exhaled sharply, then snatched a name from the hat. He glanced at it, scowled, then crumpled the paper in his fist. “This is stupid.”

Rogue smirked, looking at you. “Your turn.”

You sighed, reaching into the hat. When you unfolded the paper, your eyes widened slightly.

Logan.

You looked up, meeting his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but you caught the slight twitch of his jaw.

Rogue clapped her hands together. “Welp, you know the rules. Closet’s that way.”

You turned to Logan, smirking. “Guess we’re doin’ this.”

He huffed. “Guess so.”

Rogue practically shoved you both toward the closet, grinning. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

The door shut behind you with a click.

You turned to Logan, arms crossed. “So. This is happening.”

He exhaled sharply. “Tch.”

The space wasn’t exactly roomy. You were standing close, close enough to catch the scent of cigar smoke and something warm, familiar.

You smirked. “You look like you’d rather fight Sabretooth again than be in here right now.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Ain’t far off.”

You chuckled, then leaned back slightly. “Relax, sugar. It’s just a game.”

He studied you for a moment, then shook his head. “You really don’t let up, do ya?”

“Nope.”

Silence stretched between you. There was something… different about being this close, no bar or counter between you, nothing but the dim glow of light filtering under the door.

Your gaze flicked to his lips, just for a second, before you looked back up at his eyes. His expression was unreadable, but there was something else there—something you couldn’t quite place.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’re you thinking?”

Logan exhaled slowly, then smirked. “You really wanna know?”

You tilted your head. “Yeah.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

“…Thinkin’ this is a real stupid game,” he muttered.

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “Terrible answer.”

Logan grunted, crossing his arms. “Yeah, well. Ain’t much of a game to begin with.”

You smirked, leaning back against the closet wall. “You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t give a damn about party games, you sure are committed to standing here in silence.”

Logan shot you a look. “Ain’t like I got a choice.”

“You always got a choice, sugar,” you mused, tilting your head. “Could’ve taken dish duty.”

“Rather be in here than deal with Scott’s bitchin’.”

You chuckled. “That’s fair.”

Silence stretched between you again. The closet wasn’t big, barely enough space for both of you without standing close. Logan stayed where he was, arms crossed, shoulders tense.

You tapped your fingers against the wall, glancing at him. “You ever actually played this before?”

He exhaled sharply. “What, you think I spent my younger years crammed in closets with gigglin’ teenagers?”

You grinned. “I dunno, Logan. You’ve been around a while. Gotta imagine at least one girl managed to talk you into it.”

He huffed. “Ain’t my thing.”

“Yeah, I figured.” You shifted, crossing one leg over the other. “You don’t really seem like the party type. More of a ‘drink alone in a dive bar and pretend you don’t wanna talk to anyone’ kinda guy.”

Logan shot you a dry look. “You got me all figured out, huh?”

You tapped your temple. “I’m observant.”

He didn’t answer, but you caught the slight twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

You let the silence linger for a beat before speaking again. “You know, seven minutes is a long time. You might as well entertain me.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Entertain you?”

“Yeah. Tell me something.”

He scoffed. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” you mused. “You just don’t like talking.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “You do enough of that for both of us.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “You wound me, sugar bear.”

He exhaled sharply. “Don’t call me that.”

“You never complain when I say it outside of a closet.”

“’Cause outside of a closet, I can walk away.”

You smirked. “You sure about that? ’Cause last time I checked, you keep coming back.”

Logan grunted, looking away. “This is the longest seven minutes of my goddamn life.”

“Oh, come on. You’re having fun.”

“The hell I am.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Alright, fine. If you’re not gonna talk, I’ll just have to fill the silence myself.”

Logan sighed. “Fantastic.”

You ignored his sarcasm and leaned your head back against the wall. “Alright, let’s see… Did I ever tell you about the time a guy tried to rob me with a butter knife?”

That actually got Logan’s attention. His brows pulled together slightly. “The hell?”

You grinned. “Yeah. Came in one night, all twitchy, pulls a damn butter knife from his sleeve like it was supposed to be intimidating. Told me to empty the register.”

Logan tilted his head. “What’d you do?”

You smirked. “Took the knife out of his hand and gave him a scone.”

Logan stared at you, then shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer resourceful,” you said, grinning. “Besides, guy was clearly desperate. Didn’t have the heart to kick his ass.”

Logan grunted. “Lucky for him.”

“Lucky for me, too. He actually came back a week later with a real apology. Bought a dozen muffins.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Only you.”

You shrugged, clearly pleased with yourself. “Hey, you’re the one who said I talk too much. This is what you get. I could also talk about the time my cousin carpooled with—”

Logan cut you off mid-sentence. Not with a glare, not with a grumble—no, this time, he shut you up the only way that was guaranteed to work.

By kissing you.

It was sudden, barely enough time to react before he stepped forward, backing you up until your shoulders hit the wall. His hand came up, palm pressing flat beside your head, caging you in without a single word.

Your breath caught, brain short-circuiting for half a second before instinct kicked in. You kissed him back, fingers curling slightly at your sides like you were debating grabbing onto him.

Logan didn’t rush it—didn’t press too hard, didn’t let it turn into something it wasn’t meant to be. But it was firm, deliberate, enough to make your knees feel just a little weak.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, he pulled back.

The closet felt even smaller than before.

For a few long, charged moments, neither of you said anything. You were still pressed against the wall, Logan still close, his hand still braced by your head. His eyes flicked over your face, scanning for something, though you weren’t sure what.

Your heart was pounding, but you weren’t about to be the one to break first.

So, instead, you smirked, tilting your head slightly. “So… does this mean you’re my valentine now?”

Logan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You never let up, do ya?”

“Nope.” Your grin widened. “Not even after being dramatically kissed in a broom closet.”

Logan huffed, but he didn’t move away. He stayed right there, close enough that you could still feel his warmth, still smell the faint trace of whiskey and cigar smoke clinging to his jacket.

You tapped a finger against his chest. “I mean, you did just make a pretty big statement. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually like me.”

Logan grunted. “Don’t push it.”

You grinned. “That wasn’t a no.” You reached up, tapping his bottom lip with your finger, “c’mon sugar bear. Would I really be that bad of a valentine?”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes flicking between yours. "You’re real pushy, you know that?"

You smirked. "And yet, here you are. In a closet. With me." Your finger was still resting against his lip, and you tapped it lightly, just to mess with him. "So, sugar bear, what’s the verdict?"

Logan caught your wrist before you could do it again, his grip firm but not rough. "That name’s gonna be the death of me."

"You’ll survive." You grinned. "So? Valentine or not?"

Logan didn’t answer right away. He still hadn’t let go of your wrist, his thumb brushing absently against your skin like he hadn’t noticed he was doing it. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up, his jaw tightening slightly like he was debating something.

Then, without a word, he let go, stepping back just enough to put space between you.

You arched an eyebrow. "That’s it?"

Logan crossed his arms. "What else you want, a damn serenade?"

"Well, now that you mention it—"

"Not happenin’."

You chuckled, tilting your head. "Alright, fine. No singing. But I’ll take that kiss as a yes."

Logan scoffed. "You assume too much."

"Mm. Do I?" You tapped your chin in mock thought. "You kissed me. Didn’t push me away. Didn’t tell me to shut up. And now you’re looking at me like you’re still considerin’ round two."

Logan’s jaw ticked. "You’re real smug."

"You like it," you shot back easily.

He didn’t confirm or deny it. Just exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair.

"Alright," you said, watching him. "Since you clearly can’t admit it, I’ll do it for you. Logan Howlett, the grumpiest man in Westchester, is officially my Valentine."

Logan rolled his eyes. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are," you teased, throwing his own words back at him.

Logan shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely, but you caught it. "You done yet?"

"Not even close." You smirked, reaching for the doorknob. "But I’ll give you a break… for now."

Before you could turn it, Logan caught your wrist again, stopping you.

You raised an eyebrow. "Changed your mind?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just held your gaze for a second longer than necessary before he muttered, low and gruff, "you talk too much."

Then he kissed you again.

This time, there was no hesitation. No half-measures. Just Logan pressing you back against the closet wall, one hand curling around your waist, the other braced beside your head. The kiss was slower this time, deliberate, like he wanted to make sure you wouldn’t talk your way out of it.

Not that you were planning to.

You grinned against his lips, fisting the front of his jacket and pulling him closer. "See?" you murmured. "Told you you liked me."

Logan grunted but didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even argue.

i hope this was valentine-y enough! <3

[eyivibyemi]

✧ I won’t really write descriptions for these, but see original post tags for explanation/commentary on the song snippet ✧

[ponderingmoonlight]

kny men being "forced" to kiss you

Pairings: Sanemi x reader; Rengoku x reader; Tengen x reader

Word Count: 2,4k

Warnings: here I serve you fluff and spice everyone 😇

Shinazugawa Sanemi 

You cross your arms, glaring up at Sanemi, who’s leaning against the wall with his broad frame, his expression etched with irritation. His scowl seems almost permanent, especially during your frequent arguments, and today is no exception. The two of you are bickering over something trivial - the exact details lost in the heat of the moment as usual - when Mitsuri, ever the oh so innocent meddler, decides to step in.

“Oh, come on, you two!” Mitsuri chirps, her voice light and full of enthusiasm.

“You’re always arguing! Why not make up with a kiss? That would be so romantic!”

She clasps her hands together, her cheeks glowing with excitement.

The room goes silent for a beat, tension crackling in the air like a lightning storm. Sanemi’s scowl deepens, and his sharp eyes flick to Mitsuri, then back to you.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Like hell I’m doing that,” he growls.

Mitsuri pouts, tilting her head with a playful smile. That girl…You can’t help but glare at her in sheer disbelief, only the thought of Sanemi’s lips pressed against yours sounding so ridiculous in your own mind. She might be the love hashira, but this goes way too far. After all, kissing can’t solve the fact that Sanemi’s a jerk, right?

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Sanemi! It’ll be fun! Who knows? You might even like it!”

Her teasing tone only seems to fuel the fire of his irritation. But on the other hand…Her annoying the hell out of him does seem like a pleasing opportunity you should use to get on hiss nerves.

You smirk to yourself. Yeah, let’s do this.

“What, scared you’ll like it?”

His eyes narrow dangerously, his expression a mixture of incredulity and defiance.

“You wish,” he spits, pushing himself off the wall and closing the distance between you with a few purposeful steps.

“Then prove it,” you challenge, tilting your chin up to meet his intense gaze.

Despite your audacity, your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, each beat louder than the last. You aren’t sure if this is courage or madness, but you refuse to back down now. Not when his eyes are set on you like that, not when he’s that close to you.

Sanemi’s jaw tightens, his frustration evident in the tick of his clenched teeth. With a low growl, he reaches out, his hands cupping your face. You brace yourself for something rough, something impulsive, but his touch surprises you. Despite his brash demeanor, his hands are warm and steady, cradling your face with a care you hadn’t expected.

Then, without another word, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

You forget how to exist.

The kiss isn’t gentle, but not harsh either. It’s firm, purposeful, and filled with the same fiery intensity that defines Sanemi himself. It isn’t just a kiss - it’s a challenge, a battle, a dare he’d never pass on when you provoke him like that. The world seems to fade away, the argument, Mitsuri, everything – gone in the wind as your senses narrow to the warmth of his lips and the faint, smoky scent that clings to him.

You never thought he’d feel like that. Hot but at the same time cold, rough but gentle all in once. Out of instinct, you wrap your arms around his neck while he pulls you by the waist with his free hand, deepening the kiss even further.

Are you dreaming? And if so, is this a dream or a nightmare? Since you first laid eyes on him, you hated the heck out of this man. This man, who’s now holding you with a passion you’ve never felt before. This man, who insulted you only moments ago with that mouth.

That force of a man…

Just as quickly as it begins, it ends. Sanemi pulls back, his breathing slightly heavier than before. His cheeks, usually a pale color, are now flushed with a hint of pink that makes him look uncharacteristically boyish. But still, his glare remains as fierce as ever, his hand lingering on your chin as if debating whether to let go.

“You’re insufferable,” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse, laced with annoyance.

For a moment, you can only stare at him, too stunned to form a coherent reply. Then, as the reality of what just happened sinks in, a sly grin creeps across your face.

“Admit it. That wasn’t so bad.”

His eyes darken, and his hands finally drop to his sides as if your arrogance physically revolts him.

“Shut up,” he snaps, though the lack of venom in his voice betrays him.

He turns abruptly, running a hand through his spiky hair in a frustrated motion.

“Damn meddling idiots,” he mutters under his breath, though his gaze flickers back to you for a split second before he begins walking away.

“You’re blushing,” you call after him, unable to resist the urge to poke at his pride a little more.

“I’m not blushing!” he barks, his voice louder than necessary, echoing slightly in the quiet room.

His shoulders stiffen, and he quickens his pace, his curses growing less coherent the farther he gets.

You stand there for a moment, a soft laugh escaping your lips. As infuriating as Sanemi can be, you can’t help but find his flustered retreat strangely endearing. And though he’ll never admit it, you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he disappears from view.

Rengoku Kyojuro 

The streets are unusually quiet as you and Rengoku move through the narrow alleyways, your hearts pounding in synch. The mission is straightforward: infiltrate a gathering of suspected demon sympathizers and collect information. But now, things have taken a sudden, unexpected turn.

The moonlight filters through cracks in the rooftops above, casting fleeting shadows on his determined face. Rengoku glances back at you, his golden eyes steady but tinged with urgency. There’s no doubt in the fact that this mission is dangerous enough for not one, but two hashira to complete. You feel them in every corner, in every house surrounding you. Demons as far as the eye can see, moving freely along with people who support them.

"Stay close," he whispers, his voice low but firm.

You nod, gripping the fabric of his haori tightly as he leads the way. The only good thing about this mission is definitely working together with Kyojuro.

Everything is going smoothly until a pair of guards emerges from the corner ahead, their faces sharp with suspicion. They’ve seen you. Fuck, all of them look at you with suspicion gleaming in their narrowed eyes. Panic surges in your chest as one of them calls out.

“Hey! You two, stop right there!”

Rengoku halts abruptly, pulling you into the shadows. His broad shoulders block the view of the guards for a moment as he turns to you. His expression softens, but his tone is resolute.

“We have to blend in,” he murmurs, the weight of the situation heavy in his words.

“What do we do?” you whisper back, your pulse racing.

He glances at the approaching guards, then back at you. His voice drops even lower.

“We’ll pretend to be a couple. If they think we’re just two lovers out for the night, they might let us go.”

Before you can fully process his words, he steps closer, his warmth enveloping you.

 “Forgive me for this,” he mumbles softly, his breath brushing against your cheek.

Then, without hesitation, he cups your face gently, tilting your chin up as his lips press against yours.

Time seems to freeze. His kiss is firm yet careful, his movements deliberate as if shielding you from the weight of the moment. You’re hyperaware of everything - the faint smell of ash and sandalwood clinging to him, the heat radiating from his skin, the way his hair brushes against your forehead. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst, your mind going blank.

It’s just you and him. You and the man you’ve had your eye on since joining the demon slayer corps. You and none other than Rengoku Kyojuro.

Footsteps echo closer, and you can hear the guards murmuring to each other. Rengoku deepens the kiss just slightly, his hand slipping to your waist to pull you closer. The world narrows to the two of you, every nerve in your body alight.

Then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. Rengoku pulls back, his golden eyes searching yours for a moment before he shifts his focus to the guards. His arm stays around your waist, holding you close as he addresses them.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, his voice steady and calm, though his grip on you is firm enough to keep you anchored.

The guards hesitate, glancing at each other. One of them clears his throat.

“No, no problem. Just doing our rounds.”

He gestures vaguely.

“Carry on.”

You can barely believe it when they turn and walk away. Only when their footsteps fade into the distance does Rengoku relax slightly, though his arm remains around you. He looks down at you, his expression a mix of apology and relief.

“I…” you start, but words fail you.

He offers a small, reassuring smile.

“Are you all right?”

You nod, though your heart is still racing for reasons beyond the close call.

“I… yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good. We should keep moving. We can’t afford to linger.”

Flashbacks of those big hands holding you tight haunt you down without any mercy, your mind betraying you with imagining that kiss filled with passion over and over again while Kyojuro stays focused on the mission.

You can’t believe that happened, still not able to process this. Did none other than Rengoku Kyojuro just kiss you?

“Kyojuro!”

You blurt out his name  before you’re able to stop yourself, suddenly coming to a halt in the middle of a busy street.

“Can we…Do this again?”

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly in confusion until a sudden beam of realization seems to wash over him.

“We…To be honest, I wanted to do this for a long time, (y/n). I would be honored to kiss you again!”, he beams back.

And before you fully process the meaning of his words, you find yourself devoured by his arms again.

Tengen Uzui 

The marketplace is bustling with activity as you twist through the crowd, trying to keep pace with none other than the sound hashira himself, Tengen Uzui. His flamboyant demeanor and towering height make him stand out like a lighthouse, and you’re grateful for the distraction he provides, allowing you to slip through unnoticed.

Even though this wasn’t exactly planned.

“Stay close, my dear apprentice,” he calls back to you, his voice teasing but mingled with authority.

You roll your eyes while quickening your steps, dodging a vendor carrying a precarious stack of baskets. If there’s one thing you definitely don’t need on a mission like this, it’s a partner like him. What was the rest thinking, sending him along with you?

The plan is simple enough: follow the suspect discreetly and gather information. But Tengen’s idea of “discreet” seems vastly different from yours. He beams confidently, drawing attention as if he’s the star of a show, while you try to melt into the background.

You’re lucky if you make it out of here without picking up a fight.

Suddenly, someone pushes you from behind, and you can’t help but stumble forward at full-speed. Tengen turns just in time, his reflexes sharp as ever, and reaches out to steady you. But the momentum is too strong, and before you can stop it, you crash into his chest.

“Careful now,” he jeers, smirking down at you.

You barely have time to register his words before someone in the crowd stumbles into him, pushing him further off balance.

The world tilts as you both fall, and the next thing you know, your lips collide with his in a clumsy, unexpected kiss.

Your mind goes blank. His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and for a moment, neither of you moves. The noise of the market fades into the background, replaced by the pounding of your heart. Tengen’s eyes widen slightly, his usual cocky expression replaced by genuine surprise.

Your lips are resting against his.

His. Uzui Tengen, to be exact.

Is this really happening? Are you dreaming? Why aren’t you pulling away instinctively?

He pulls back first, his hand still gripping your arm to keep you steady. For once, he seems at a loss for words, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for something to say.

You beat him to it, not able to endure the awkward silence.

“That… was an accident,” you blurt out, your cheeks burning.

He blinks, then throws his head back with a booming laugh that turns more than a few heads.

 “An accident, she says! How unflashy of us.”

His grin returns, brighter than ever, though there’s a faint flush on his cheeks that he can’t quite hide.

“Maybe next time, we shouldn’t do this by accident. Don’t you think, (y/n)?”

“You… You didn’t have to laugh that loud,” you mumble, trying to pull away from him, but he holds on, his grip firm but not unwelcome.

Fuck, you never felt this idiotic before. He’ll definitely tease the hell out of you for at least five years. And what if he tells the others about it?

“Relax,” he interferes with your train of thoughts, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.

“No harm done. Though I must say, if we’re going to make a habit of this, we should work on our form.”

He winks, his usual swagger fully restored while you stand there like a fool.

You groan, covering your face with your hands as he chuckles.

“Let’s just focus on the mission, okay?”

“As you wish,” he replies, his voice light but carrying an edge of something unreadable.

He releases your arm, but his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary before he turns back to the task at hand.

The mission continues, but you can’t shake the warmth of his lips or the way his laughter echoed in your chest. And from the way he keeps glancing back at you, you’re not sure he can either.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @vrystalius @sanemifucker @blunderland

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Mirror ceiling- P.SH

I had a dream last night...

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: smut, overstimulation

Alexa, play Pretty Please by Dutch Melrose

Somewhere in Hongdae, Seoul city

1:12 am

Seonghwa hadn’t planned on staying out this long.

He sat comfortably in the plush booth, sipping something icy and strong, the ice clinking softly against the rim of his glass. San was across from him, his head bouncing with restless energy, and Hongjoong leaned back like he owned the lounge, his fingers drumming against the side of his glass in time with the music’s heavy pulse.

They’d escaped the industry event like it was a prison break, laughing as they ducked into a cab and told the driver, “Anywhere with music but no VIPs”. That’s how they ended up there— no velvet rope, no flashing cameras. Just fog machines, pink lights, and strangers.

Seonghwa liked it, he could finally breathe. He was still catching his breath when he saw you.

It was just a flicker at first— your silhouette between flashes of soft red and fuchsia. You wore confidence like a second skin, radiant with the kind of joy that wasn’t forced for photos. You moved like you weren’t trying to impress anyone, like the music belonged to you, like your body learned rhythm before language.

His drink paused midway to his mouth.

“Earth to Hwa”, San nudged, following his gaze, “Ahhh! Got it”

“What?”, Seonghwa blinked, adjusting his rings like they were excuses not to stare.

Hongjoong smirked, “The one in black boots? Yeah. You’ve been looking for a reason to move all night”

“I don’t know…”, he started, already flustered.

“Bro”, San leaned in, eyes wide, “She’s literally dancing like she’s the main character in a movie and you’re her romantic interest. Go!”

Seonghwa hesitated.

You glanced over your shoulder, caughting. his eyes. And then— you smiled.

Something cracked open in his chest.

He stood before he could think twice, fingers twitching, blood boiling. He made his way toward you like that smile wasn’t a coincidence but an invitation.

You didn’t stop dancing when he approached. You just turned to face him and kept moving, eyes locked with his, smile growing, challenging.

He moved with you. It started small, a sway, a slow tilt of his hips that matched your rhythm. The space between you disappeared like smoke. Your fingers brushed his chest, barely there, and he exhaled like you’d taken the air right out of his lungs. He rested a hand on your waist, feather lightly, letting you guide.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Your bodies were already saying everything— each step, each turn, was a sentence written in music and heat. You pressed closer, arms curling around his shoulders, and he leaned in like he could fall into you.

Your thigh grazed his. His hand tightened slightly on your waist. You moved like liquid, like silk, like you knew he was unraveling. And he was— completely. Flushed, breathless, drunk on you.

When the music slowed, your lips brushed his ear and you whispered, “Come outside with me”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ

1:43 Am

The night air was cool against his skin. He followed you through the back door without a word, adrenaline still humming under his skin like aftershock. The alley was quiet, the wall behind you cold and damp with city fog. The world had narrowed down to this— just him, and you, and the echo of the beat fading behind closed doors.

He stood close without touching you.

You were pressed to the cement wall, arms crossed over your chest, hair messy from dancing, cheeks glowing. You looked up at him like you knew all his secrets already.

“You always dance like that with strangers?”, he asked, voice soft.

You tilted your head, “You didn’t feel like a stranger”

A breath caught in his throat. He stepped closer.

“Where are you from?”, he asked, “You don’t seem like a local”

“Yeah” you said, “I’m visiting. Trying to live a little”

“You do” he breathed, “Live. I can feel it”

The tension between you was too thick to ignore.

“Do you do this a lot?” you asked

“Do what?”

“Run from the noise?”

“Sometimes”, he said, “But I don’t usually end up finding someone like you in the quiet”

You smiled slowly, biting the inside of your cheek, “Lucky night?”

He leaned in. The wall pressed into your spine, his hand rested against the concrete beside your head, just barely caging you in.

“No”, he murmured, voice softer than usual, “Right place. Right time”

You reached for him, fingers curled on shirt.

His hands found your hips, pulling you closer as he leaned in.

The kiss started soft, tentative. Your lips brushed his once, then again, lingering a little longer. He breathed through his nose, the scent of you dizzying. The world slowed down immediately.

And then you deepened it.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers threading in his hair, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been holding it back all night. His lips opened under yours, eager, and your mouths met over and over again— tender, then desperate, then wild with need.

You kissed like you were dancing again. Bodies moving, finding rhythm, pressing closer.

His hand slid up your back, then down again, over the curve of your waist, anchoring you to him. Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, but he didn’t stop kissing you. You tilted your chin, let him taste more of you, let his tongue drag against yours in lazy, hot movements. He pulled back just once to breathe, nose brushing yours.

Your breaths mixed, your mouths almost touched again. Then, in the quietest voice, you asked

“Wanna get out of here?”

He nodded, pupils blowing wild

“Yeah”, he whispered, “Just… say where”

𔓶𑇓𝆬 ͙࿐𓈒ْ ㅤㅤ

2:18 am

You didn’t say much in the cab.

Seonghwa’s hand rested lightly on your thigh the whole ride, his fingers drawing random shapes through the fabric of your skirt like he needed to do it to stay grounded. His other hand fidgeted with the rings on his fingers. Every once in a while, your eyes met in the reflection of the car window. He looked wrecked already— lips swollen, pupils blown wide, chest rising slow and deep.

The motel you picked was tucked away down a side street, anonymous and glowing pink under its signage. Discreet entrance, hourly rates. You both knew exactly what this was.

But somehow, it didn’t feel cheap.

The room was bathed in violet and blue light. There were pink LED strips along the walls. It was clean, quiet, just a low hum of music from the touchscreen panel.

But the centerpiece— was the mirror.

Set into the ceiling directly above the bed.

You paused in the middle of the room and looked up.

“Seriously?”, you said, giggling

Seonghwa stood behind you, and his reflection met yours in the glass above. His eyes flicked between the mirror and you like he was imagining things you hadn’t even thought about yet.

“It’s kind of…” he cleared his throat, stepped closer, his chest brushing your back, “…hot?”

You turned in his arms.

“Yeah. It's”, you whispered

You kissed him again but slower this time. Not frantic like the alley, not rushed.

Like you had all night to ruin each other. And you had

His hands slid over your hips, then under your shirt, exploring the line of your spine, the heat of your skin. You pressed into him, mouths parting just slightly with each kiss, letting him feel the rhythm of your breathing.

He groaned low when you tugged off his jacket, then his shirt, leaving him bare and glowing under the violet light. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and when you reached up to drag your nails across it— he shivered.

You pushed him gently back toward the bed, and he went, eyes never leaving yours. He sat on the edge, legs spread, arms open. You stood between them and slowly pulled your top over your head.

His breath caught.

“Lie back”, you said.

He obeyed without hesitation.

And there he was— Seonghwa, stretched out against the white sheets, flushed under the neon haze, his body reflecting perfectly above him. He glanced at the ceiling once and then back at you, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, hands trailing down his chest. The mirror caught everything— the curve of your back as you leaned down to kiss along his neck, the way his hands gripped your thighs, the way he watched with curious eyes.

You leaned close to his ear, “Watch me”

And he did.

You kissed him while he stared up at the two of you moving together in the mirror— tongues slow and hot, hips beginning to roll in slow waves as your bodies started to meet.

When you sank onto him for the first time, his head fell back with a gasp. But his eyes stayed on the ceiling.

Your hands found his, laced your fingers together, and guided his palms to your waist.

You rode him slowly at first, letting every motion take to the next one. The mirror let you see everything— how your hips moved, how his abs flexed when he groaned, how your faces twisted in unfiltered pleasure.

He looked up like it was art, like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The rhythm picked up gradually.

You leaned forward, bracing your hands against his chest, angling just right

“Fuck… yes” he moaned, hips lifting into yours.

You could feel how close he was by how his fingers dug into your skin, how his brows knit together, how his thighs began to tremble under you. His mouth found your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips— messy and desperate.

But suddenly, his hands moved. Firm, with purpose.

He sat up beneath you, chest against yours, and murmured into your skin, “Turn around”

You blinked, still breathless.

“I want to see you”, he rasped, “all of you”

You whimpered, nodding, and shifted slowly off him, knees shaky. He guided you with gentle touches, helping you to get on your hands and knees at the center of the bed.

And then you felt him again, his hands on your hips, his chest brushing your back as he leaned over you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, lips against your ear.

You nodded.

He pushed back inside you slowly, filling you in one long, aching glide.

Your mouth fell open, hands gripping the sheets, the mirror catching the exact moment your head dropped forward and your jaw dropped with pleasure.

He groaned behind you, “Fuck… look at you…”

His hips began to move again, deeper. With each thrust, your bodies met with a loud slap, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your neck.

Then his hand slid up your back, fingers trailing over your shoulder blades, up your nape. He tangled them in your hair and gently pulled, not harsh, just enough to lift your face.

“Eyes on the mirror” he whispered.

Your gaze met your own— your flushed, trembling body and Seonghwa behind you, eyes burning, lips parted as he watched the way you took him. Your cheeks were red, lips parted, eyes wild with it all. It was dizzying how vulnerable, how powerful you felt, being seen like this.

His grip in your hair tightened just a little as he picked up the pace. You moaned out his name, helpless against the rhythm he set.

The way he moved felt like he was giving you everything while holding just enough back to make you beg for more. The mirror gave it all back to you— the arch of your spine, the ripple of your bodies colliding again and again, the way his jaw clenched as he watched you lose yourself.

“You feel so fucking perfect…” he rasped, voice right against your ear, “So tight… so good…”

He let go of your hair only to slide his hand down again— fingers between your thighs, stroking in time with his thrusts. You choked on a moan, body arching into his touch.

You were right on the edge, barely holding on when he moved again.

“Come here”, he murmured suddenly. He pulled out, gently but with urgency, tugging you back against his chest as he lay back against the pillows. This time, he guided you into his lap, back to chest, wrapping his arms around your waist.

Your body opened for him automatically— sensitive, overstimulated and starved.

He guided you back on his cock with an aching thrust, and you both gasped as you sank fully into him again. The angle was different, overwhelming.

His arms locked around your waist, keeping you still, close, shaking.

“Just like this”, he whispered into your neck, “Let me feel you”

You rolled your hips, and he cursed beneath his breath, pressing kisses to your jaw, one hand trailing back between your thighs.

It was too much.

His cock buried deep, his fingers stroking your clit in a maddening pace, the reflection above showing the exact way your bodies moved together.

You cried out as the orgasm hit— more intense than anything you felt before, rolling through you in waves until your legs trembled and your walls pulsed tight around him.

You collapsed back against him, completely done. That’s when he lost it— his body jerked under yours, muscles tensing, and with a strangled groan, he pulled out just in time.

His release spilled hot across your inner thigh in messy, pulsing streaks, his breath catching as he trembled behind you, both hands holding your hips like he’d fall apart otherwise.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathless, wrecked. Then, slowly, explorative, his hand slid down between your thighs.

You twitched.

“Seonghwa”, you whispered, voice weak, almost pleading.

But he only hummed, breath still uneven.

His thumb pressed lightly into the slick mess between your folds. Right where you were still sensitive, still throbbing. Just once. A soft, teasing circle.

You jolted, gasping

“Sensitive?” he murmured, smug, voice charged with exhaustion and mischief. His thumb drew another slow swirl, not enough to hurt but enough to make you whimper.

He watched in the mirror as your body arched, your face contorted with overstimulation, your hips bucking forward slightly, trying to flee the touch while also craving more.

“I just wanted to see…”, he whispered, eyes flicking between your reflection and the way your body moved beneath his hand, “...how much more you could take”

And then, he let go.

You were both panting. Silent. Ruined.

Still, you managed to laugh

“Oh my god” you said, voice hoarse, “You were holding back this whole time?”

He let out a breathless laugh

“You have no idea the self control that took”, he said, voice half gone

You laughed harder, falling sideways into the pillows as he grabbed tissues from the nightstand to clean you gently.

“I’m impressed”, you murmured.

He kissed your cheek.

“Willpower. Barely survived”, he said, playfully

You turned your face to his neck, grinning as he curled you against him.

“Right place. Right time”, he whispered again

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[arrowthrewme]

Hello! Once again, I cannot believe that my three characters have been loved by so many people (or that I've already gained 20 something followers!!!) thank you <33

WARNING: Yandere behaviour, male reader intended

Green Green Dress

Yan Jock, who you meet during his practice. You volenteered to bring water to the school's rugby team. He was the team's leader, praising the team for their hard work.

Yan Jock, who stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. He swears he felt his heart stop and start in one second. It was weird...

Yan Jock, who introduces himself soothly ("Stephen at your service, delivery boy ;)") all while his heart beats inside his heart like war drum

Yan Jock, who, from that day on, invites you to his table and sits next to you during lunch (you sadly don't share any classes). He chats to you about practice, his friends and family and whatever else he finds interesting enough

Yan Jock, who you form a friendship with! Well, at least that's how you view it. Stephen views it as a challenge and a punishment. No boy should look so attractive! So why do his eyes wander your body like he does the girls in the school...?

Yan Jock, who is just a dumb little buffed up puppy who is realising that maybe the way he looks at muscular men isn't fully platonic

Yan Jock, who, as you get closer, starts to treat you like he did the past girls he's dated. Giving you his jersey, putting his arm around your shoulders, asking for a good luck hug (it's supposed to be a kiss, but he can't :c)

Yan Jock, who really loves dancing. It's a basically fun exercise. He's not good in the professional sense, but he's still good! (100% asks you to dance when you two start dating, maybe even before)

Yan Jock, who glares dagers at anyone who approaches you with romantic intent (mind you, everything that isn't formal is considered romantic intent by him) before wrapping his arm around you and kindly (threatiningly) tells the other person to fuck off.

Yan Jock, who isn't above punching the person, but doesn't want you to be mad at him

Yan Jock, who melts when you two finally kiss. It wasn't at a big moment. No big game. No party. Just you two walking around your hometown. He leaned down to hear you better and you had enough of the dancing around he's been doing for months and kissed him. Safe to say he will be asking for kisses every day (he's not taking no for an answer)

Yan Jock, who physically holds you back from going somewhere. He's stronger than you. A lot stronger. So when he doesn't want you going somewhere, he will throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and happily skip away to cuddle under the bleachers. Stephen is the type of partner who asks to come with you to the bathroom

Yan Jock, who hates when someone yells at him or expresses their disappointment. He can't handle it. Stephen has been the "Golden boy" for so long. He can't lose that. So, if you ever want him to let go of you just use that! Don't worry, a little kiss on the lips will cheer the jock right up!

Yan Jock, who has the most perfect ass. Some of the girls at your school are jealous. And some guys question their sexualities because of it. And you? Oh, you're enjoying the whole damn bakery every day (not like Stephen minds)

Yan Jock, who, when meeting your parents, acts all anxious and worried, but that doesn't last long. 10 minutes later, he is talking with your dad about all types of sports while complimenting your mother's decor choices. He knocks it out of the park! You knew he would! (Stephen is definitely asking your dad for your hand in marriage. That's not negotiable for him.)

Yan Jock, who daydreams about having the picture-perfect family with you after school. White picket fence, a good home in a friendly neighbourhood with a huge backyard where your two kids and dog can run around in. Oh, it's the dream!

Yan Jock, who will carry you through life. He's trained all his life!...If only that emo nerd you insist on being friends with would just piss off already, then it would all be perfect...