Hello Hello 👋🏻 I just came across your writing and I really fell in love with them. So I have a little something like how the fem reader accidentally gets caught by tentacles monster and then taken to the tentacles’ lair to be pleasured all her sensitive parts and overstimulating her. She too has always been someone who’s curious about tentacles and how they feel around her.
It’s okay to ignore this if it’s something that goes against your rules 🤗
p.s. Can I call you darling or sweetheart as a form of endearment 🥰
When curiosity leads the way
Hi love !! Thank you so much for these compliments, it really means the world for me 🥹💖. This is absolutely fine and doesn't go against any rules of mine ! Plus I added a bit more than you requested and I think you'll like it ~. And, of course, it's fine if you call me darling or sweetheart!! ✨️
You were fucked, do you? And you knew it in the moment you felt your wrists being tightly restraint.
Who was? Why was it doing it? Your head filled with questions as a slimy substance slide down your arms.
Your body shivered in fear. One time you lost your consciousness and now you were in this strange, dangerous situation. Your heartbeat jammering inside your ears, sweat running down your back and your legs trembling.
You are paralized and the worst thing is that you cannot escape.
"C'mon...c'mon" urgency in your voice as your mind kept screaming to move your feet.
But now, it was too late.
As you thought you were doing a step forward, your ankles were captured by the same thing that was holding your wrists.
You screamed, wishing someone, anyone, could hear you.
Your heart sank when you realised that no one would come for you.
You are alone. Alone and with barely any light in sight.
A squelching sound echoed in your ears. Your first impulse was to touch whatever it was but you groaned.
You can't touch it, remember?
A moan escapes your mouth. The strange thing that was on your shoulder was sucking it, marking your skin.
"Who are you?! What are you doing?!". You shout while another moan broke out from you.
No answer, just silence around you.
Your mind kept being loud, making your head ache. You wondered when this will be over.
You started to feel less and less of your energy. Your throat hurting from screaming and shouting.
But this is far from over. Another pair of those things that were making you impossible to escape went on your thighs, opening your legs.
You mewl feeling your nipples getting stimulated as - for what you could saw - two more tentacles held your boobs and in a circling motion massaged your chest.
You felt ashamed. Juices wetting your panties, your eyes rolling back from your nipples being played with.
You were especially sensitive there and you swear you could came like this. You tried to close your legs, needing some friction down to your aching core but the tentacles squeezed your thighs more, keeping them nicely open.
A rustling sound alarmed you. With barely any light you couldn't see very well.
But why would you need to see when you could feel?
Something bigger poked your shorts, putting aside your drenched panties.
You widened your eyes and moaned when the tentacle entered your warm insides. It didn't care if you were stretched enough, for it the important thing was to be in a pleasant pussy.
You were so wet, so wet that the squelching sounds reververed around you.
This bigger tentacle kept moving at an harsh peace, your hips moving with the same tempo. Pleasure flowing through your whole body as you wanted more and more.
You were feeling ecstatic, your hole clenching the tentacle, your nipples teased as you approached your first orgams. Your white cream dirtying the unstoppable thing inside you.
"W-wait, ngh, please !". Your walls fluttered, your breath heavy as now a sucked was on your clit.
"Feels so good! A-ah, mhh keep going !!"
As if the tentcles was tired of your incessant moans two small but thick of it touched your mouth. Your mind was clouded with pleasure so you gladly took them.
The bigger one still was pounding your creamy pussy and something poked at your puckered hole. Its small tip teasing it with his precum, verifying that it had enough space.
You came another time. The pleasure too intense, especially now that both your pussy and your anus were being pounded so good. Never in your entire life you felt like this.
You were completely gone. You only wanted more and more and more and more. And that's when the grand finale arrived:
The two tentacles on your mouth came, making it hard for you to swallow everything and the ones fucking your pussy and ass came it too while you squirted.
You body squirmed, moaning loudly as a puddle of cum was on the ground and your juices goes everywhere.
"Did I lost my consciousness, again?".
You pondered, your body free to move and light coming out.
"Whatever..." your voice uncertain as you walked your way to your home.
n a s t y d o g I logan howlett x fem!mutant!reader
One-shot
A/N: I've never felt this way about a fictional character before. Every gif I see of him has me gnawing and biting at the bars of my enclosure. I want to bite him. If Hugh Jackman ever discovered what thoughts lurk inside my rotted brain about him he'd get a restraining order. This isn't OKAY
Anyways...
Summary: You'd thought you'd had a good thing going with Logan. You weren't officially anything to each other, but you were getting close. You truly saw a future with him, but he made it incredibly clear he did not feel the same
18+ HATE FUCKING (MDNI)
(one chance please, just one chance with him)
“Are you sure this isn’t totally clingy girlfriend of me?”
Ororo gives you an irritated look and Jean laughs. “Not at all, Scott loves it when I surprise him like this.” You’re all huddled in your room, each of you in varying stages of getting ready. Jean is finishing off her eyeliner at your vanity, Ororo is putting on her boots, and you’re trying to decide between a skirt and a dress.
You’re not entirely sure how, or why, Logan and Scott decided to go to the bar together tonight. You suspect it has something to do with Jean. She wants them to start getting along so there’s less friction when you’re all around each other.
At Jean’s idea, Logan had muttered, “When hell freezes over,” in your ear before he had left for the night. You’d gotten a little antsy without him to entertain you and had mistakenly blurted out the idea of going to visit them. Ororo had been dying to get out of the house and Jean was a little worried about her boyfriend as well. They’d agreed to go along with you and you’ve felt a weight in your stomach ever since.
Your relationship with Logan was relatively new. Hell, a month ago you’d thought he’d hated you the same he did Scott. You’d, of course, been proven wrong when you’d had a few drinks with him and things had taken a very physical turn.
You weren’t sure if he’d just wanted a one-night stand or something serious. But when you’d tried to sneak out the next morning and he’d muttered a grumpy, “Where’re you going?” You’d gotten your answer.
You hadn’t been on any real dates, there didn’t ever seem to be time for them. But you spent most of your days together. Sometimes just silently enjoying each other’s company, other times you would be holed up in one of your rooms cuddling. The thought always brings a stupid lovesick grin to your face.
It’s one of your first real relationships and you’re worried that things are moving a little too fast. At least on your end. You can already tell that you’re falling for him. Headfirst into the deep end of love. And it’s terrifying because you truly cannot tell what he thinks about you. Clearly, he likes you. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t let you follow him around like a lost puppy.
But he’s never truly said anything to you. There’s no official label as to what you two are. You say girlfriend off-handly and you usually don’t mean it when you reference yourself. You’ve never outright said he’s your boyfriend and he’s never really claimed you. He’s made it explicitly clear he doesn’t want you sleeping with other men, and you’ve said the same to him about women. You both agreed on that, but…
You kind of drive yourself crazy trying to figure this out. He’s not vocal about his feelings and everything’s still new so you don’t like pressuring him. You also worry that if you push him too far he’ll just get tired of you and move on. It’s not fair to assume that of him, and you know everything would be better if you just talked to him. But you’re scared. You’re scared the conversation will take the wrong direction and everything will blow up in your face.
Jean calls your name and your head shoots up to see both Ororo and Jean looking at you expectantly. You flush when you realize they must have been talking to you and you’d just completely zoned out thinking about Logan.
“Huh?” You blurt out, cringing at how dumb you sound.
Jean gives you a concerned look, “I can practically taste your anxiety.” The telepath frowns and offers you a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about it, I promise, Logan won’t mind at all.”
“You’re fine,” Ororo adds, because clearly the look on your face screams, I need constant validation. They’re not wrong, but still, you hate feeling like an exposed bundle of nerves. “Think of it as girl’s night, the boys just happen to be there.”
You force a smile on your face and give your most enthusiastic nod. You change into the dress and finish up with your hair. You finally start chatting with them again, engaging so it might disguise just how nervous you feel.
There’s this clenching feeling, traveling from your stomach up to your chest. It makes you sick, makes you hurt. And it’s not because you think Logan will be upset with you for crashing. He’d be relieved, if anything. There’s something else. Premonition isn’t one of your abilities, but you’re seriously starting to doubt that now.
The bar is loud when you walk in. The soles of your shoes immediately start to stick to the floor and your nose screws up in disgust at the loud laughter coming from around the pool tables. You glance around, trying to see if you can spot Logan.
You’d say you could spot him in any crowd. But has a propensity to hunker down and try to attract as little attention as possible so people don’t bother him. “There he is,” Jean taps your shoulders and points to the two men at the end of the bar.
Like you’d thought, Logan is hunched over his whiskey, glowering down at the wood under him like it had insulted him. You almost want to laugh at the sight. Some of the earlier anxiety eases its grip on you and you feel your shoulders begin to untense.
Before you can walk over Ororo grabs Jean’s wrist. “Gotta go to the bathroom,” she tugs Jean behind her.
Jean looks over her shoulder at you and smiles encouragingly, “Go to them, we’ll catch up in a second.” You give her a tentative nod and slip through the crowd. There are more people here than you thought there would be.
You’re happy not to spot any kids in the crowd. You’ve had a few too many nights out crashed by kids who thought they were good at sneaking out.
It’s easy enough not to spot you or the other women in the crowd. Mutants have gotten good at blending in with the people around them. Makes it easier to get around. It’s probably why neither Logan nor Scott stop their conversation as you approach. “So,” Scott draws the word out, fingers tapping against the glass of his beer.
“Don’t,” Logan warns. You want to laugh at his grumpy demeanor, but someone’s accidentally elbowed you and you find yourself stumbling a few steps back. It’s taking entirely too long to get to them, the bar isn’t even that big. There’s just that many people here.
Scott ignores him and rolls his eyes. “Look, we’re stuck here for a while. Try and pull that stick out of your ass.”
“How about I put one in yours?” Logan’s claws come out slightly. But then they both share an odd look and Scott smirks. “Shut the fuck up,” Logan grouses, “not like that.”
“Right,” Scott huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. He picks up his bottle and takes a long drink. You’ve nearly reached them now. You stop, though, when you hear Scott say your name. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t. Eavesdropping now is just asking to get hurt.
You drop back into the crowd, hoping the smells of others will stop Logan from discovering you lurking behind them both. Scott continues, “How’s that going?”
You crane your neck forward, trying to hear them better over the karaoke happening behind you. Someone is butchering Britney Spears but you couldn’t care less right now. Logan shouldn’t answer. Since when has he ever shared anything with Scott?
So, imagine your surprise when his answer isn’t immediately telling him to fuck off. “Eh,” he shrugs, downing the rest of his whiskey. Your face drops in irritation. Seriously, all this skulking around for an Eh? That’s bullshit.
You keep yourself from stepping forward, forcing your feet still, and ignoring the little voice in the back of your head telling you this is a bad idea. You’ve committed this much, you’re seeing it through. Scott whistles lowly, “That bad, huh?” Oh, fuck off, Summers.
Logan shakes his head and for a moment you have a brief feeling of hope lifting you up. “Nah, not bad. It’s just, I don’t know.” Logan sits up and signals the bartender for a refill. Your snooping senses go off and you briefly see Ororo and Jean exiting the bathroom. Desperate for something to keep them at bay, you flick your wrist. The man in front of them tips his drink down Jean’s shirt, slurring out apologies. Jean huffs and Ororo brings her back into the bathroom.
Scott and Logan somehow missed the whole interaction and you promise yourself that you’ll pay for Jean’s dry cleaning. You’re definitely not going to. “Think she wants something I don’t,” Logan tells Scott, and your heart plummets to your feet. You can practically see it deflate, all the lovesickness draining out of it and onto the floor of this grimy bar.
“Like, she just wants to fuck around?”
Logan shakes his head and downs another glass of whiskey. He’s just swallowing it down like it’s water. At a certain point, the bartender gets sick of it and just leaves him with the bottle. “No, she wants something real. Like a real relationship.” Scott’s brows furrow and Logan shrugs. “Not interested.”
It’s the way he says it that really bothers you. There’s nothing wrong with wanting something different in a relationship. It happens all the time. But he says it so dismissively. He knows that you want something real with him, something secure and loving. He knows that, continues to fuck you and lead you on, and then speaks as though you’re an idiot for ever being interested in that.
Hurt hasn’t set in yet. You’re staring wide-eyed, jaw agape with shock as you stare at Logan’s back. You’d thought a conversation needed to be had. But you didn’t think that he thought of you like this. You’d thought you meant something to him.
Scott seems to share the sentiment, his lips tugged down into a frown. He leans against the bar, surveying Logan with a disbelieving look. “What?” Logan snaps.
Scott raises his hands in surrender, shaking his head and backing off. “Nothing, man, I just thought you two were serious about each other.” You miss whatever Logan says as an arm slings itself around your shoulder.
“What’re you doing?” A husky, seductive voice whispers against the shell of your ear. You jump in shock, glaring at Ororo as she grins at you. She lets her arm slide off your shoulders and glances over at Jean. “I think she was spying.”
Jean nods, nudging you forward. “Definitely spying. Hear anything good?”
You fortify your mind against her probing fingers before she can find out. “Nope,” you blurt out. You hope the racing of your heart is dismissed by your constantly frazzled nature. You hope the look on your face is explained by your earlier boredom and anxiety. You pray that none of them notice the way you lean away from Logan when the men finally turn around and notice you all.
Scott breathes out a dramatic sigh of relief and slumps onto Jean. “Thank god, I thought I was going to die trying to talk to this brick wall.” his eyes flick towards you in a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. There’s a brief pitying look before he grins. “Come to get your boyfriend?” There’s a heavy emphasis on the word that you never would have noticed had you not heard their conversations.
It’s clearly a petty dig at Logan. And you would appreciate it if you didn’t feel the sudden urge to vomit up your dinner. “Thought you might need saving from Logan.” You tell him, a chuckle hiding the slight tremor in your voice.
You’re not sure if he does, but you hope Logan notices how you avoided the word boyfriend. You hope that he hurts the same way you do. But you know, deep down, that he doesn’t care. He’s probably relieved that you didn’t use the title.
Logan gets off his stool, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, and pulls you into a brief hug. His lips press against your temple before he dips down to whisper, “Thank you,” in your ear.
Asshole, he’s not allowed to smile at you the way he is. If you weren’t in such a crowded place and already overstimulated, you’d shove him away. If your friends weren’t watching you’d take his arm and slam it down onto the bar until you hear his fucking adamantium bones break.
That might have been too far. Maybe you’re not that angry, but you’re hurt.
You place your hands against his chest, a thin smile on your lips while you hum a simple, “Mhm.” He doesn’t seem to notice the way you push away from him. It’s easily dismissed by you cheekily stealing his seat at the bar.
He comes up behind you, hands bracketing you and keeping you stuck against the bar while you order your drink. One of his hands drifts down, laying against your thigh. You know this isn’t sexual, this is him comforting you.
He shouldn’t know how horrible you feel in such busy places. He shouldn’t know that and know that his touch is grounding and then help you. Not if he doesn’t want something serious. If he didn’t want to be your boyfriend, didn’t want to be anything but a fuck, then why do this to you? Did he not think this was leading you on? Is this just him caring for you?
You’ll drown in a sea of unanswered questions before the night is over if you linger too long. You tip your head back, let your shot burn its way down your throat, and turn towards the others with a smile. You feel your worries fade and your focus loosen as you simply drift further into your mind.
You must have disassociated or something. By the time you realize you’re no longer hearing bad karaoke and your elbows aren’t sticking to the bar, you’re already home. You stare in the mirror, hand pausing as you brush your teeth before you quickly finish.
You didn’t drink much, you never do. It fucks with your abilities and causes migraines. You rinse your mouth out and glance into your bedroom. Logan groans and stretches. His back bows, muscles flexing and you rip your eyes away. You can’t let yourself be distracted by the chest you want to drape yourself across.
You need to talk to him. It’s never been more clear. You wipe your mouth and toss the towel onto the rim of the sink. You take in a deep breath, trying to get rid of the nerves plaguing you. It’s never worked before, it’s not going to suddenly cure you now.
You give up on the thought and instead, shove down the anxiety until you have enough confidence to speak. It takes a little while, Logan peaks an eye open, eyebrows quirked when he sees you just staring at him. “Something up, bub?” he flexes, on purpose, and you roll your eyes. You grab his shirt out of your hamper and toss it at him.
“Put this on. Can’t think when you look like that.”
He chuckles, “That’s the point.” at your pointed glare his smile drops and he tugs the beater on. It barely does anything to deter you. If anything you’re having more trouble paying attention. Especially now that his full attention is on you. The humor is gone from the room, a thick tension replaces it. Logan seems to feel it, sitting up straighter and glaring at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “What’s wrong?” It’s a demand more than a question.
It’s hard to look at him. But you refuse to let yourself cower now. You take in a fortifying breath and let your gaze bore into his. You put all the hurt and anger you feel into it, willing yourself to be firm. “We need to talk.”
“‘Bout what?” He’s brusque, but there’s a slight concern to his tone.
There’s no point hiding this. And maybe you had misheard, maybe there was a conversation prefacing the one you’d heard. And you’ll talk it out and everything will be okay. “I heard you and Scott talking at the bar.”
The hope you had, as minimal as it was, is dashed at your feet. He sucks in a deep breath and the look on his face has you crestfallen. You can feel your chest cave in. You feel so stupid all of a sudden. Constantly following after him, even before you started dating him. Looking at him with stars in your eyes and latching onto his every move and word.
You’d worshiped him, put him up on a pedestal he didn’t deserve. Superhuman or not, at the end of the day he was still a man. And they’ve done nothing but disappoint you. You suck your teeth, gaze dropping to your feet as you fight back the tears in your eyes. “Right,” you whisper, stepping back from him.
“Look,” he starts. You force your eyes up and watch as he rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck. He takes a step towards you and you shake your head, stepping away from him. His arms fall to his sides and he sighs. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“That’s it?” You demand, tone incredulous. You weren’t some great love or anything. But that’s seriously all he has to say.
He opens his mouth, eyes softening as he stares at you. Then he snaps it shut, something covers his face and his expression is borderline cruel as he sneers at you. “Not my fault you got in over your head, kid. Never said I wanted anything more with you.” He points at you, and you suddenly feel like a little girl getting scolded. You’ve never had a partner make you feel this small, especially not Logan. “You were just convenient.”
You rear back like he slapped you. You think it might have hurt less than that. To know you wasted so much time on such a fucking dick makes you want to throw up. Or scream, or cry. You can’t decide on one. But your powers can, the walls are shaking, knick-knacks falling off your shelves as energy pulses from you.
You’ll face the hurt, the sadness, the horrible ache of rejection later. Right now, you need him out of your face before you bring the whole mansion crumbling down around you. “Out.” You grind the word out, turning away from him and clutching your hands to your chest. You take in quick, rapid breaths, trying to think of anything other than how horrible you feel.
You haven’t lost control like this in a long time. You’re not going to give him the satisfaction of being the reason you get put on probation again. He whispers your name, coming up behind you like he’s going to touch you.
You want to lash out, want to hurt him like he’s hurt you. But you’ll only cause more damage than necessary. He’s not worth hurting the kids in the rooms around you. You shove past him, ignoring the way he shouts your name.
You dart out into the hall, grateful there are so few people milling around. Nearly everyone’s asleep, just a few stragglers finishing up their homework for tomorrow. A few of them give you odd looks that turn concerned when they see Logan chasing after you. Your bones are practically vibrating by the time you make it outside.
You rush towards the grove of trees at the back of the mansion. Your knees give out under you before you can make it very far. Energy pulses out of you in an explosive circle. You hear bark crack and turn into nothing but dust as the air around you trembles.
It’s a relief, like going to the bathroom after holding it all day. You feel it drain away from you, a plug pulled out as the energy rushes from you. It slows after a minute, feeling more like a leak than a steady stream.
Your hands shake by your sides as you lay trembling on the grass. Your eyelids flutter shut and you try and keep them open but it’s hard. All of your energy had been spent keeping yourself in check until you made it out of the mansion.
“I’ve got you,” a voice mutters near your ear. Familiar strong arms dip under your knees, lifting you up and pulling you into a sturdy chest. You recognize the body, recognize the uncomfortable warmth coming from him. But your tongue won’t work and you're passing out before you can try and push him away.
You’re in your own bed when you wake up again. You’re briefly comforted by the warm feeling of the sheets around you before you realize how cold the other side of the bed is. You’re so used to the feeling of someone being beside you that it’s jarring for no one to be there. You sit up, a spark of anxiety lighting up inside you before it’s being quelled by an outside force.
“I think it’s best if we keep that under control.” You’re not surprised to hear Charles’s voice. You can’t be, not when he’s actively keeping you calm and placid. You lean back against your headboard. You tilt your head lazily, looking at him while he looks out the window.
“That tree was a hundred years old.”
You wince, face screwing up when you remember the large oak tree you obliterated last night. “I can remake it,” you promise.
“You could,” he corrects, “but whatever happened last night between you and Logan is causing your powers to be volatile.” He finally turns towards you, the motor of his wheelchair a dull buzz as he smiles at you. There’s no resentment in his gaze at least. You’d known he wouldn’t be mad at you. He was used to accidents like this. Had you hurt another person, however, this would be an entirely different conversation.
There’s a dull ache in your chest at the mention of Logan, but it’s quickly covered by another wave of calm from Charles. He smiles and holds out two metal bracelets. They’re thick, something red inlaid into the black metal. They look like handcuffs more than anything. His lips quirk up at your thought and you frown.
“That’s what they are, right? Cuffs.”
“You’re not a criminal,” he assuages, his tone gentle as you take them from him. There’s a small silver button inside that you click and the metal springs open. You place your left wrist inside and it snaps shut, it’s a snug fit. It won’t be moving around anytime soon. You put the right one on and feel Charles’ hold on your mind ease the second it's closed. Every horrible feeling from last night crashes down on you and you nearly choke on it.
You wonder how Charles managed to keep you asleep for so long without the roof crumbling. He chuckles, the noise tired. “Jean helped me. It took a while for the cuffs to be ready.”
The way he says that causes alarms to go off in your head. “How long?” He takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head, attempting to dismiss the question. “Charles,” you snap, voice bordering on a shout.
“Two days,” he says. You gasp and slump back against your sheets. He says your name but you get to your feet and pace. You don't know what to do with yourself. There’s energy buzzing under your skin, but the cuffs are keeping it at bay. It feels wrong like your pores are being clogged with acid.
“Two days.” You look over at him, horror painting your face and you can see why he was so apprehensive to tell you. “It’s never been that bad before.”
“No,” he starts cautiously, “It hasn’t. Which makes me wonder, what transpired between you and Logan that destroyed my grandfather’s tree?”
You cringe at the mention of the tree. He’s never going to let go of that. Even when you recreate it, he’s still going to hold it over your head. His teasing eases you out of the spiral you were heading down and you glance over at him. “You’ve been in my head for two days. I’m sure both you and Jean already know.”
He smacks his lips together and shrugs, clasping his hands in front of himself. “Simply seeing if you wanted to discuss it, my dear.”
You vehemently shake your head and sit back down on your bed. “No, I don’t want to talk about him. I don't want to see him.” Charles gives you a look like he doesn’t believe you and you hate it. You truly don’t want to see Logan again. Just thinking about him makes you want to explode. He was a pig and you regret ever wasting your time on him.
There’s a shriveled part of your heart weeping somewhere, but you crush in your fist until it shuts the fuck up. “Right,” Charles nods. “I do believe it’s best for your recovery that we keep you two separated for a while.” He rolls past you and places a comforting hand on yours. “Rest, you’ll feel more like yourself soon.”
You nod and watch him leave. Exhaustion suddenly seems to drop its heavy weight on your shoulders. Two days being restrained by telepaths probably wasn’t very restful. You lay across your comforter, rolling over and hoping when you wake up your heart will be healed.
Two weeks. Two pathetic, snot-filled, and disgusting weeks of sobbing over Logan. You felt like a sixteen-year-old again, crying over the boy that didn’t like you back. It was awful, especially knowing that the entirety of the mansion knew what was wrong with you.
Your students would leave your class and you would lock your doors, hiding under your desk as you wept. Those with superhearing or telepathy would bake you cookies and leave gifts at your door. It was sweet, but honestly made you feel ten times worse. You felt like your sadness was a burden you were forcing everyone to carry.
Your mother would be so disappointed in you. She’d always told you that you mourn a relationship half the amount of time you were in it. Of course, hers never lasted more than a few weeks. And she’d had more boyfriends than you could count on three hands.
Besides, you were allowed to wallow for a while. This was someone you were starting to fall for. To be so blind going into and leaving the relationship was awful. Having the rug ripped out from under you had been cruel and needless. You’re resentful and grateful he’d been so horrifically honest with you. On one hand, if the relationship had just ended, you’d be pining after him. Wondering what you’d done to lose such an amazing guy.
But being faced with the brutal truth, knowing he was a piece of shit, it makes you hate yourself. You should have seen it. Should have known that he didn’t want you like you wanted him. But there were never any signs. You’d run it through your head a million times. Every interaction you’ve ever had with him. None of it shows you where he’d been lying to you or using you. You can’t even trust yourself anymore.
There’s a loud knock on your door and you sniffle, tossing another tissue in the trash as you go to answer it. “Hello?” You croak. You can barely see, eyes puffy and so swollen your vision is blurry.
“Holy hell,” Ororo scoffs and shakes her head. She pushes into your room and slams the door shut before anyone can see how awful you look. To be fair, you keep yourself relatively put together during the day. But it’s after hours now, you’re allowed to be a mess.
“You look like shit.”
Neither of you are prepared as you begin to blubber. Your lips tremble and your voice shakes as you begin to sob. “I know,” you wail. “I hate it.” Ororo’s eyes widen in horror and she quickly pushes you into your desk chair, grabbing a box of tissues and shoving it in your hands.
“I feel,” you stutter, having to take in a few shuddering breaths before you can get the words out. “He tore out my heart and ripped it up with his stupid fucking claws.”
“Okay, okay,” Ororo runs her hands over your arms, trying to soothe you. “I know, sh, it’s okay.” She groans, “Stop crying,” she pleads under her breath.
“I’m trying!” You snap at her, running hands over your wet cheeks and trying to swallow down the rest of your tears.
“Look,” she steps back and shakes her head. She glances down at you, disgust poorly hidden on her face. She’s really fucking bad at comforting someone. “This is awful, I can’t take it anymore. You two keep dancing around each other and you’re putting everyone on edge. You won’t stop crying and he keeps going off,” she holds her hands up and shakes her head. “I just can’t do it anymore.”
You frown, brows turning down in confusion. “What?” You didn’t think Logan would be mad. You pictured him skipping through a field of daisies, happy to finally be rid of you. It only made you hate yourself more that you were still crying over it all.
“He’s kind of losing it,” she seems reluctant to relent the information. “Look,” she kneels in front of you and snatches the tissue box from your hand. She tosses it to the side and forces you to meet her eyes. “He’s in love with you. We all know it, Jean’s confirmed it. He loves you, he needs you, he’s just terrified to admit it. He’s afraid of what's going to happen if you two become real.”
Your eyes widen with the realization. She nods enthusiastically as you connect the pieces. You can’t deny what’s so plainly laid in front of you when she assures you that even Jean knows. Jean knowing means she just did a nosy dive into his head.
You can picture what could happen. With rom-com levels of nauseating romance, you run to find him. You tell him you don’t care that he’s afraid. You don’t care he pushed you away and you do love him. He’s not going to lose you. Nothing can rip you apart. You ride off into the sunset on Scott’s bike blah blah blah.
This isn’t a fucking romance. And you’re not going to cry over a man who's too much of a pussy to admit he has feelings. You like men who have emotional depth deeper than a teaspoon. “Are you fucking kidding me?"
Ororo’s face blanches and she slowly backs away from you as you stand. “No,” she answers slowly, like she’s not sure of herself now.
“That’s what I’ve been crying over?” You feel upset for an entirely different reason. You never misread the signs. You never missed a hint that he didn’t feel what you did. He did! He was just happier letting you doubt yourself and the love you held for him than admitting he felt something. You tear off the depression hoodie you’ve been living in for the past two weeks. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
You don’t know where you’re going. Normally, you’d run into a forest to let out a blast of energy. It drained you enough that you wouldn’t have to feel anything. But with these cuffs on, you can’t do anything.
You storm out of your room and stomp down the stairs, uncaring who you wake up. You’ve wasted so much time on Logan, you refuse to stay in your room and cry for another fucking night.
“I want to see her,” Logan growls. He tries to move around Charles, but he stops him with his mind, holding him in place while Jean disappears inside your room. Logan watches her go and glares at her retreating back as the door closes behind her.
It’s been a day already, you’ve never needed to be out for more than a few hours. He doesn’t want to think that there’s anything wrong with you, that he might have permanently broken something inside you.
That talk at the bar with Scott had been stupid. He would have said anything to get him to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. He didn’t really mean what he said, he just wanted him to back off. And saying that your relationship wasn’t anything was quicker than pouring out every thought he’s had of you.
It was easier lying than it was to admit just how much he wanted you. Just how far he would go for you. But then you’d overheard, and you brought it up. And there’d been faith on your face. Like even you couldn’t believe what he had said because you could see through the bullshit.
But all Logan had seen was a way out. This was an opportunity to finally get out of the suffocating clutches of something he didn’t want to admit was love. He took the chance before he could think. It’s what he was used to. Taking the easy way out, especially when it came to shit like emotions.
He hadn’t thought you were going to explode, though. Because that’s exactly what you’d done. By the time he’d caught up to you, you’d burned a crater into the ground and had destroyed Charles’ stupid fucking tree.
Seeing you like that, laying there lifeless, it terrified him. He didn’t want to live in a world that you weren’t in. There was no fucking point. It was sobering, realizing that, and then realizing that he was the reason you were like that in the first place.
He didn’t want to live without you and he certainly would never be able to come to terms with being the reason you were dead. But it didn’t matter, whatever realizations he was coming to. Charles and Jean were completely blocking him from your room. They weren’t even giving him a chance to look at you. And he was about five seconds away from ripping the old bastard’s head off and just barrelling inside.
He didn’t care what they said, he needed to see that you were okay. “I’m afraid you’re not going to be able to see her for a very long time.”
“Stay out of my head,” Logan growls, glaring down at the man. “What are you talking about?” He presses, finally processing the rest of his sentence.
Charles sighs and rolls away from him. Logan glares at his back but ultimately follows. “You were the cause of this, yes?” Reluctantly, Logan nods, there’s no point in hiding it. He’s sure Charles already knows. “For her own safety, the two of you will need to remain separated.”
That had been it. There was no arguing about it. No fighting Charles. It was for your safety that he stayed away from you. No matter how much he wanted to explain himself, he wouldn’t risk another meltdown like that.
You didn’t deserve to get hurt because of someone like him. He wouldn’t be able to stand hurting you again.
But two weeks seemed like a lot. At a certain point, he’s sure you’re just avoiding him. He knows he can’t blame you. He’d been a fucking idiot. But that didn’t make him any happier. If anything, he was getting more and more pissed off every day.
He had less patience for mistakes. Was lashing out at the kids more often and don’t even get started on the petty fucking fights he was picking with Scott. How long did you fucking need before you talked to him again?
He knows you’re upset, your crying keeps everyone up at night. Something he’s sure you’d be mortified to learn about. Why won’t you let him comfort you? Why do you have to be so petulant, running around the corner every time you see him? Pointedly ignoring him when you’re in the same room together.
He could fix this, make this all better. But you’re just not letting him. He knows this is why he loves you. It’s why he was so drawn to you. You seem like a bundle of nerves, constantly flitting around and keeping yourself small. It had been off-putting at first. And then he’d seen you training with Scott, kicking his ass more like. A switch had been flicked in his head.
He could finally see you for what you were. He finally realized that it was your abilities you were keeping small. You were a fucking spitfire and you didn’t hesitate to tell him off, he loved it. Loved arguing with you just so he could see you get all pissed off.
But that stubborn attitude he loved was really biting him in the ass right now.
There’s a knock on his bedroom door and he doesn’t even get to pretend it’s going to be you. He smells Jean’s perfume and rolls his eyes. He puffs on his cigar and contemplates ignoring her.
“Don’t be a jackass, open the damn door.”
Fuckin’ telepaths. “What?” He snaps at her the second the door is open. Her face screws up when she smells the smoke from his cigar. He knows she wants to put it out, and can see it in the twitch of her fingers. He raises a brow, a silent challenge to try him. He’s itching for another fight and she can feel it.
She lets out a sharp breath, choosing her battles wisely and backing off. He’s almost disappointed. “We need to talk. This whole thing between the two of you is ridiculous. You’re a mess, she’s a mess…”
Her voice trails off into nothing more than the annoying pitch of a fly. Logan can’t be bothered to listen to her scold him. He’s not a fucking kid, and maybe if you were acting like an adult, they wouldn’t be having this problem.
A few doors down he can hear you shouting, then the door to your room slams open. He darts off his bed, opening his own door to see what you’re doing. He only sees the back of your head as you angrily stomp down the stairs.
Enough is fucking enough, he was finishing this now. He was sick of your side of the bed being empty and the stupid fucking glare on your face every time you saw him. He doesn’t even bother saying anything to Jean as he leaves, just chases after you.
Jean watches him go with a perturbed look. She steps out of the room and glances down the hall. Ororo steps out of your room and walks towards her. “Well?” Jean probes.
Ororor shrugs, “She’s over it.” Jean smiles but it’s quickly wiped off her face by Ororo’s expression. “Not in the way we wanted.
Jean clenches her eyes shut and takes in a deep breath. She needs you two to figure your shit out or she’s never going to be able to get a good night’s sleep again.
You find yourself in the gym. It’s not your favorite place in the world, you don’t usually get to train with the others. You’re stuck with telepaths, mainly the ones who can shut your powers down if you get too out of control. That hasn’t been a problem since you got the cuffs, but you’ve been too sad to test them out.
Now you find yourself obliterating a punching bag. You wrap the energy around your fists and let it protect the thin skin as you pummel into the bag. You don’t know what else to do. You can’t have energy meltdowns anymore. You have to try and funnel it all out physically, but it’s not working. Nothing is.
“Imagining it’s me?” You pause midswing. You glance over to the door just in time to see Logan stalking towards you. He unzips his jacket slowly. So slowly it almost seems provocative. He tugs it off and tosses it onto a nearby bench.
You scoff as you watch him. “Do you ever have a shirt on?”
He shrugs and moves towards the ring in the middle of the gym. His movements are lithe and fluid as he hops onto the ring, every bit a wild animal. You watch as the muscles in his torso ripple and force your eyes off of him. You try and focus your attention back on the bag, but all your earlier energy is gone. Your mind is completely wrapped around Logan.
Which you’re sure is exactly what he wants, or he wouldn’t be staring at you so smugly as he leans against the ropes and waits for you to acknowledge him. You suck on your teeth, irritation blooming in sporadic bursts throughout your body that has you nearly shaking. Finally, you give in.
He smirks the second your eyes meet, “I can take it, sweetheart. A lot better than that little toy of yours can.” He nods towards the punching bag but the insinuation isn’t lost on you. You and Logan had been very active in your relationship. You could barely go a day without tasting each other.
You’ve been pent up since the breakup. You’d given in a few days ago, pulled out your old vibrator, and tried to bring even a semblance of joy back into your life. But nothing could compare to Logan.
His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he waits for you to react. He’s standing there, staring down at you with all the surety in the world that you’re going to fuck him. It makes you want to dig your nails in and rip him apart, bit by bit.
You can already picture it in your mind, using your abilities to pick him apart until he’s nothing but molecules dispersed through the air. He’s lucky you have the cuffs on, without them you’re sure he’d already be dead.
You smirk and move towards the edge of the ring, your voice drops as you purr up at him, “You wanna play, Logan?”
He grins and moves off the ropes, starting towards you as you make your way onto the ring. You’re slightly less graceful than he was, but you’re too focused on wiping the smug look off his face to pay attention. “Come on kid,” he taunts, voice as low as it usually is when he’s fucking into you. “Let’s see what you got.”
You’re not stupid enough to just outright swing at him. You feint to the right and bring your knee up into his ribs. He only needs one hand to wrap around your thigh and drag you forward. His other hand goes to your hip, tugging you closer until you’re practically grinding against each other. You grit your teeth and glare up at him.
“Come on, sweetheart, that can’t be all you got for me.” Energy wraps around your head, blurring the air around you. You slam your temple against his, it provides enough of a distraction for you to yank your leg out of his grip. You throw your right fist into his ear, bouncing back with a grin as he shakes his head.
He practically growls as he reorients himself. You shrug and smirk, “What, don’t tell me that’s all you got, wolvie.”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he grumbles. You open your mouth, prepared to taunt him again. But he’s lunging towards you and you just barely have enough time to dart out of his way. You know he’s going easy on you. He could have had you just then if he really wanted this.
But he’s dragging this out. Forcing you to spend as much time with him as you can. It only pisses you off further. You plant your foot on his back and kick him forward. He barely even stumbles and it only further confirms your suspicions. “Stop fucking holding back,” you yell at him.
He turns around slowly. You almost expect there to be a sneer on his face, something angry. Instead, he looks fucking thrilled, like this is all just foreplay for him. He laughs, so low you can barely hear it, and his chest flexes as his claws come out.
“You sure?” It’s a taunt, a dare, he knows you aren’t going to take the bait. You’d be stupid to, you don’t heal like he does. Once those things get in you, you’re screwed. But right now, you’re too pissed off to try and care.
You don’t say anything, you just duck under his fist as he swings at you. You know he made it easy for you, giving you an opening to fall into. He’s treating you like you’re something fragile. And maybe you are. One wrong move in this fight and you might not make it through the night. But anger is making you blind to logic.
Him playing fair just makes you want to play dirty. You use the opening he gives you, letting energy form around your fist and pulling back just enough to slam into his ribs. He coughs, doubling over as you hear bones crack under your hit. He’ll heal in seconds, you can’t bring yourself to feel too bad for him.
Maybe if he ever took you seriously you might not be such a bitch. But he didn’t think you were good enough to be honest with and he still was treating you like a plaything. In your opinion, he deserves whatever you give him and more. He doubles over and you swing your leg around, bringing it down across his face.
You hear a crack as your socked foot connects with his face, something crunches underneath you. And when your sole hits the mat again you see the blood leaking from his nose. You almost apologize. Almost, then you see the look on his face. His pupils are swallowing the hazel of his eyes, lips parted as he pants through his teeth. He looks fucking animalistic.
You have no warning as he pounces on you. His lips smother your own, moving over you with little to no grace. There’s nothing romantic or gentle about this. His fingers are digging so hard into your shirt, you’re sure you hear the seams rip. But you can’t bring yourself to care.
One of your hands goes to his hair, tugging at the roots until he’s groaning into your mouth. You rake your nails up his back roughly. He cusses against your lips, hand traveling up to your chin so he can roughly jerk you back.
He stares down at you, a silent question on his face. You’ve barely nodded before he’s descending upon you again. Lips and teeth clash borderline painfully as he lowers you onto the mat. You’re missing all the usual love and tenderness he treats you with, but you don’t care.
You want to be rough. You want to hurt him like he hurt you, make him ache for you the way you do him. You wrap your legs around his, lifting your pelvis until you have enough leverage to flip him. Your thighs straddle his waist and you grind down against the prominent bulge in his sweatpants.
He groans into your open mouth, large palms grabbing at your ass and spreading you so he can thrust between your clothed thighs. You can’t help but moan at the friction. It’s just enough to keep you on edge, he pulls back every time you think you might be close to something real building.
You rip your mouth off his. He glares up at you as you grab his hair and yank his head back. You slam his head hard enough into the mat for it to echo through the room and he growls against your grip. You grin down at him as you slowly get off him. You make a show of stripping, enjoying the way his eyes track your movements. He looks like a dog, panting and waiting for his treat.
You’re tempted to get yourself off, making him watch, and then leave him straining against his sweatpants. But you need this bad, need him to scratch the itch you can’t reach so you can finally get him out of your head. Neither of you are patient as he jerks his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to pop out.
It’s already leaking from the tip like a faucet. You kneel, straddling his waist again. You don’t have to do much to slick him up. You pump him a few times before he’s gripping your wrist and jerking your hand away. “Get up here,” he commands, voice rough as he grips your hips. You don’t even get a chance to protest before he’s flipping you over.
He grabs your thighs and wraps them around his waist. Your ass is off the ground, hovering above his lap as he lines up with your slit. You moan when the tip rubs against your clit. “Whose teasing now?” You grit out, glaring at him.
His lips curl up, that insufferable smirk on his face before he slams into you. The attitude is practically fucked out of you as he starts pumping in and out. You groan, raking your hands down his chest. He fucking moans at the pain, blood blooming under your nails and immediately closing the further down you go.
Neither of you are giving up this fight, you don’t want to lose, not even while you’re fucking. He pulls out of you and flips you over so fast you don’t even have time to whine. He’s back in you before you can blink, hips slapping into you in a way that you know is going to leave bruises tomorrow. You’re not going to be able to sit for a week and he knows it. His hands are groping at the skin of your ass, pulling you apart and watching the skin ripple as he fucks into you.
You’re not going to last long. You’ve been too desperate, too pent up while you’ve been pissed off at him. He leans over you, draping himself across you lazily. You groan at the added weight, it only adds to the sensation, only makes you want him deeper inside you. “Thought you didn’t want me anymore, sweetheart.” He whispers in your ear and you flutter around him as his hand snakes around your waist, rubbing tight circles on your clit.
You open your mouth but all that comes out is disjointed moans. You know there’s something sarcastic in there, and he must know too because he laughs at your pathetic mumbled sentence. “I don’t know,” he leans back and watches as he makes room for himself inside you. “Seem to need me real bad now.”
Your nails dig into the mat, energy leaking through your fingertips and warming up the canvas beneath you. You can feel it fluctuating, fighting against the cuffs the closer he brings you to the edge. “Fuck you,” the words escape you at a particularly deep thrust and you struggle to keep your eyes open.
He pauses and you nearly cry at the loss of movement. “Sorry, couldn’t hear you. What’d you say? Stop?”
You glare over your shoulder at him “Don’t you fucking dare, Logan.” You let your power push up against his back, forcing his hips to move again. He chuckles at the move, fingers creating figure eights on your nub.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” he protests, voice innocent. “Ah, fuck,” his voice is nothing more than low grunts and groans in your ear the closer the both of you get to your release. You can’t speak anymore, can’t think. You can feel it cresting higher and higher inside you.
Your abilities are rising with your release. They’re pushing against the cuffs, fighting desperately against the control the foreign metal has on your powers. You can feel it, heat building up under your skin, like a tingling on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t reach. It’s Logan’s release that finally tips you over the edge.
The way his breath catches and his hips stutter in their perfect rhythm as warmth floods you from the inside out. You can feel it, him, dribbling down your thighs and staining the mat beneath you. It has you clenching around him, pushing your hips back weakly while you let the feeling overwhelm you. You nearly black out. Two weeks without him hadn’t felt long until you remembered what you were missing.
You lose your sense of time, dropping to the mat like your bones have gone liquid, dripping out of you. You can feel Logan draped over you still, his weight a comforting blanket that nearly has you drifting to sleep. Naked, in the middle of the boxing ring. He pulls out of you and you whimper at the loss.
He shushes you, rubbing a hand up your spine and pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your temple. He wraps his arms around you, laying down and pulling you back into his chest. It takes a few minutes of quiet cuddling for you to remember what exactly led you down to the gym in the first place.
You feel disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. It’s clear what his plan had been. And you’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. You’d barely even fought against him. Of course, you could reason that you needed to get the tension out. This was the perfect way to funnel out your built-up energy.
But you’re disgusted with yourself for giving in to him so easily. You just disregarded dignity and self-respect for a chance to get him between your legs. You were such a fucking idiot. No wonder this is all he wanted you for.
“Shit,” you mutter, trying to pull yourself out of his grip. Your eyes widen as his arms tighten around your waist. He tugs you back down until he’s got you in what essentially feels like a headlock. He could easily pass it off as spooning, but it feels a little more demanding than that. “Logan,” you warn, the silent peace of the moment officially shattered.
“Don’t,” he gripes. You can fight against him for as long as you want, but you’ll only tire yourself out. His arms are literally metal bands around you. “Let me talk and then you can run off.” You huff and wait, but he never speaks. Finally, you look over your shoulder and glare at him. “Well?”
You roll your eyes, “Fuck’s sake,” you mutter. “Alright, speak.”
You can feel his grin against the back of your head. If he didn’t have you in such a tight grip, you’d elbow him in the gut just to be petty. “I made a mistake,” you scoff and he keeps going. Stopping you from interrupting him with something bitchy. “You weren’t just something convenient to me, sweetheart.” he pauses and chuckles, “You’re a huge fucking pain in my ass.”
“Is this your idea of an apology?” You snap, “Because this is pathetic.”
He doesn’t say anything and you’re tempted to snark at him again. But then the world is flipped on its side as he jerks you around and forces you to face him. Your chests rub together, the sweaty skin sticking together and bordering on uncomfortable. “You ever shut up?” He asks, but there’s no heat to the words. If anything he looks fond of you, and it makes you shift around, trying not to look him in the eye. But there’s nowhere for you to hide, you’re both naked and bare before each other.
You’re as physically vulnerable as he must feel emotionally. And as much as this is a horrible way to display how he’s feeling, you’re starting to understand him a little better. You know why this conversation is so hard for him, why he can’t accept that someone truly loves him and he loves her back.
But that’s not going to get him out of it. He’s still yet to say the words. Maybe if he manned up and said something real you’d consider forgiving him. You give him an expectant look and he sighs, forehead pressed against yours as he slumps over you. You want to pretend you’re annoyed at the contact, but you’ve been craving it since you ran away two weeks ago.
You’ve been desperate for this warmth that only he can provide you. Without realizing it, you nuzzle further into his chest, hands drifting up to wrap around his bare waist. Logan feels the tightness in him ease slightly at the way you curl into him. He’s got a shot, even if you try and tell him he doesn’t.
It’s silent for a while, while you linger in the emotions of what just happened and he tries to find the right words. He leans down, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and smiling against the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he whispers.
You’d told yourself you’d only consider forgiving him if he said those words. But that’s only because you’d never thought he would actually say it. You didn’t think he was capable of admitting that to himself. It seems so out of character for him. But, maybe, you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
He pulls back, hand landing on your jaw and gently guiding your head out of his neck. He gives you an expectant look but you’re finding it hard to meet his eyes. You’ve been waiting for him to say that, but now it feels like you can’t. You’re still struggling to forgive him. He put you through so much unnecessary hurt just because he couldn’t face his own feelings.
And now you’re struggling to do the same. “I want to say it back,” you tell him. “But how am I supposed to trust that the next time things get hard, you won’t lash out again?”
He frowns, an irritated huff of breath shooting out his nose. But you know it’s frustration towards himself. For letting you both get to this point because he couldn’t just say three words. “I’ll wait,” he promises. “For as long as it takes, I’ll wait.”
You smile and nod, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck. You’re sure you’ll be saying it sooner rather than later. But what’s the harm in making him squirm a little? He deserves it.
A/N: I don’t write smut, it’s literally in my rules. I think I stared at a gif of him for too long and some horny ass demon possessed me and made me write this. Forgive me, universe, I’m no better than a man.
After graduating, you married Jade. You had been working a different job for a while, but after the company went bankrupt, you were leisurely thinking about finding a new position. Around that time, Azul invited you to work as a regular employee at his company. You weren't very keen on the idea.
After all, your husband is the Vice President. It would be awkward for the staff to have to train the Vice President's wife, and it would make work difficult for everyone. You would have preferred to work somewhere else, but you eventually gave in to Azul's tearful pleas.
Azul knew all about your skills as a "beast tamer" and how capable you are as a worker, so he wanted to keep you close. Most importantly, having you in the same workplace would make it much easier to keep Jade in a good mood. For those reasons, he was determined to scout you. And so, you ended up working at Azul's company.
As a condition, your relationship with Jade was to be kept a secret. Again, because of the awkwardness of training the VP's wife, and so on. That is why you use your maiden name at the office. However, if you let everyone believe you are completely single and available, you might get invited to group dates or have men introduced to you.
"I think I’ll let people believe I have a boyfriend."
"I see."
"If I do that, I'm sure things like 'show us a picture of your boyfriend' will come up during girl talk."
"I see."
"Jade-senpai, who do you think is better, Ace or Deuce?"
"Who do I think is better!?"
"I think Ace or Deuce would be perfect for the role of a long-distance boyfriend I've been with since my student days."
"But you have me."
"We're talking about a bluff to hide my relationship with you, Jade-senpai."
"Even if it is a bluff, I cannot bear the thought of you having another lover. Please break up with them."
"We aren't even dating," you said with a straight face.
"I can make you happier."
"I am well aware."
"If you are aware, then why won't I do?"
"That’s not the point."
"Please do not make up a boyfriend."
"It's definitely going to lead to trouble."
"For my sake, please just accept the trouble."
"…Fine. But you’re probably the one who’s going to regret this, Jade-senpai."
After having that conversation, your first six months at the company were peaceful.
However, just as you predicted, being perceived as single meant getting invited to group dates more and more often. Since rejecting every single invitation would eventually cause friction with your colleagues, you brought it up at home.
"I think I’m going to have to attend a group date eventually, just for the sake of getting along with everyone."
"Excuse me? When you have me? Are you having an affair?"
"It’s because of the setting that I’m single."
"I refuse to accept this."
"See? This is why I told you it would be easier to have a 'boyfriend' setting."
"……Fine. I shall accept a non-existent boyfriend as a formal pretext."
You couldn't help but laugh at how incredibly reluctant his voice sounded. And so, you made your "coming out" at work: "Actually, I've been a bit embarrassed to say it, but I’ve had a boyfriend for a long time."
Thanks to that, the invitations to group dates stopped, but you found yourself swept up in "girl talk" instead. Questions like "Aren't you thinking about marriage?" started coming up. You would answer with things like, "I’d like to, eventually."
Jade, having heard the rumors, approached you while you were washing dishes at home. He stood directly behind you, bracing his hands on the sink to trap you within his arms. Leaning his face close to your ear, he whispered teasingly.
"So… you're planning to marry me 'eventually'?"
Startled by his silent approach and the sudden feeling of being captured, your eyes flushed red. You let out a small, faint squeak at the low, breathy voice grazing your ear. Then, you spun around within his arms to look up at him. Deliberately turning your gaze away and covering your mouth with your hand, you pulled off a dramatic performance.
"But… I already have a husband…"
Jade burst out laughing at your full-effort "married woman" act.
"Goodness, where on earth did you learn how to do that?"
"I have an excellent role model close by."
"Is that so? You did a wonderful job."
Praised by the man who was practically a professional at that kind of graceful, domestic drama himself, you smiled with satisfaction. The two of you then headed to the bedroom together, looking quite happy.
By the way, you had sent a group message to Ace and Deuce saying, "Hey, could you send me a selfie? I want to pretend you're my long-distance boyfriend."
Ace: "Are you mad at us?"
Deuce: "Did I do something wrong?"
Their replies came back sounding like they were bracing for their impending doom.
Of course, Floyd works at Azul's company as well. His title is Executive Director, and he oversees the menu development department for the restaurants they manage. Floyd isn't the type to care about your convenience or Jade’s; he simply does as he pleases. Whenever he spots you in the office, his eyes soften with a sugary crinkle, and he wanders over with a broad, beaming smile.
"Hey, it's Little Shrimpy~"
He’ll drape himself over your back in high spirits, resting his chin on your head and walking with you like a heavy, loitering shadow. As he leaves, he often says things—loud enough for everyone to hear—like, "I’ll bring some prototypes to your place this weekend, Little Shrimpy."
Before you joined the company, there was a recurring "horror event" about once a month. On days when Floyd’s mood was so foul he couldn't work, either a smiling Vice President or a visibly annoyed President would storm into the test kitchen where Floyd had barricaded himself. After a period of thunderous crashing, growls, and roars echoed through the halls, Floyd would eventually emerge from the completely demolished kitchen looking refreshed.
Since you started working there, however, whenever Floyd is too moody to be useful, Azul simply says, "Send in the new employee." When you are dispatched, the kitchen is spared from destruction. Within an hour, Floyd strolls out saying, "Fine, I guess I'll do some work," and gets to it.
Consequently…
"I’ve heard a rumor that you and Floyd are dating and on the verge of marriage. Care to explain?" Jade asked.
"Lol, hilarious," Floyd replied.
"Ah… well…" You trailed off.
"Floyd, this sauce is excellent. Submit the recipe later," Azul interjected.
"Okaaaay."
"My wife is being snatched away by my own brother, yet you're just going to let that slide?" Jade sighed.
"Little Shrimpy, this one’s good too. Try it," Floyd said, ignoring him.
"Oh, you're right. It’s delicious."
"I'm worried about the calories, but it is indeed tasty," Azul added.
"Are any of you actually listening to me???"
This sort of tasting session often takes place at the apartment where you and Jade live.
"Whatever, right? I'm acting as Little Shrimpy’s pest repellent," Floyd pointed out.
"I appreciate that, but I still find it unsettling. Is the title of 'Executive Director’s fiancée' not just as heavy as 'Vice President’s wife'? If being rumored with Floyd is within your tolerance, please, let the rumors be about us instead."
"How about having lunch with me tomorrow?" Azul suggested to you. "If it's come to this, we might as well spark a false rumor about you being a candidate for the President’s wife."
"Azul-senpai, did something bad happen today?"
"I am simply fed up with that moray eel over there sniping at me with sarcasm all day long."
"I am terribly sorry for my moray’s behavior."
"Your moray…" Jade repeated, his mood shifting.
"Uwah, look at him. He’s happy now," Floyd teased.
"In that case, I’ll go eat something delicious with Azul-senpai on Monday."
"That’s cheating!"
"I have lunch with you almost every day," Azul snapped.
"That’s not the point! Do you want to be turned into carpaccio?"
"Would you like to go to dinner as well?" Azul asked you.
"Jade-senpai, is it okay if I have dinner with Azul-senpai too?"
"In what world would that be okay?"
Jade reached out and cupped your face with one hand, squishing your cheeks. You couldn't help but laugh.
On Monday, Azul took you to a cafe with an open terrace where you enjoyed an elegant lunch, successfully birthing the rumor that you were the future President’s wife. Later, you clung to the back of a sulking Jade, who was preoccupied with his terrariums.
"Azul-senpai’s recommended cafe was truly wonderful. We should all go together next time," you coaxed. "Actually, I bought some delicious cookies as a souvenir. I think they have the potential to be the best in the world if paired with the tea you brew. What do you think?"
"I shall consider it… if my lovely wife gives me plenty of kisses."
Jade leaned down slightly, waiting.
"Well then, your lovely wife will give her lovely moray eel lots of kisses."
You peppered his eyelids, cheeks, and forehead with kisses. Thoroughly pleased, the moray eel tucked you under his arm, carried you to the living room, and brewed the tea. The cookies were, indeed, delicious.
Rumors that you were Floyd’s girlfriend or Azul’s fiancée continued to swirl, yet you remained diligent at the office. As you bonded with your colleagues, your reputation grew; you were known as someone who was "somehow just easy to be around and genuinely interesting." People began to understand why Floyd and Azul seemed to favor you so much.
Within the office, you and Azul maintained a proper superior-subordinate dynamic. However, sightings of the two of you whispering in the shadows of stairwells or quiet corners became common.
"Azul-senpai, the dark circles under your eyes are terrible. Want to borrow my concealer?"
"Your concealer is far too dark for my skin."
"Is… is this a 'pale skin' flex…?"
"Shut up, honestly."
The two of you were clearly close. Since people occasionally overheard you calling him "senpai" in private moments, the office slowly realized you shared a history. However, since the President, Vice President, and Executive Director were all well-known alumni of Night Raven College—an all-boys school—how exactly you had established this senior-junior relationship remained a complete mystery.
Initially, you faced some jealousy from the female staff. But after they witnessed you being abruptly dragged off and "kidnapped" by Floyd, or watched Azul dump impossible tasks on you without a hint of hesitation, their assessment settled into a sympathetic: "She actually has it pretty rough."
During girls' nights out, they would often grill you. "Do President Azul and Executive Director Floyd have girlfriends?"
"Hmm… It doesn't seem like it for now. They both seem to find work more entertaining."
"Ah, that sounds like them."
As the conversation ramped up, someone eventually asked, "Come to think of it, you aren't really that close with Vice President Jade, are you?"
"That’s… not… true," you stammered, your eyes darting away instinctively.
Because of Floyd’s personality, he would meddle with you whenever he felt like it and quite enjoyed being pampered. Azul, on the other hand, tended to push himself too hard out of stubbornness, leading you to fuss over him. Consequently, you had many opportunities to speak with them at work.
But Jade had been called the "Perfect Secretary" since his days at NRC; his public persona was flawless. Because he handled everything so smoothly, he had little reason to interact with a regular employee like you.
"Out of those three, the Vice President is the only married one, right?"
"So it seems."
"Do you ever interact with his wife?"
"I heard he absolutely dotes on her. Apparently, he turns down every beautiful woman who hits on him at the office."
"I heard she’s a lady from a very prestigious family and even Vice President Jade can’t say 'no' to her. Is that true?"
"Who… who knows?" Your eyes darted around even more frantically.
You considered your "guardians" in this world—the Headmage, the dog-loving homeroom teacher, and the people who considered themselves your protectors: a desert billionaire, a famous model, the second prince of a certain kingdom, and the future king of a certain valley. In a sense, it was true that he "couldn't say no" to that lineup.
When the news of your marriage to Jade first broke, it had caused an absolute uproar. The vibe had been: "If you want her as your bride, you'll have to cut your way through all of us." Truly a Night Raven College sentiment. The security level of your social circle was practically post-apocalyptic.
Lost in the distant memory, you took a tiny, quiet sip of your low-alcohol cocktail.
The chime above the door rang with a sharp clink.
"Oh? You guys were drinking here too?"
A man, one of your male colleagues, sauntered over to your table with heavy, uninvited steps. Your friends visibly grimaced. This particular colleague had been increasingly prickly toward you lately.
When you first joined the company, he had been perfectly kind. However, his attitude soured as time went on. Perhaps it was the realization that the "new girl" he’d been trying to charm already had a long-term boyfriend. Or perhaps he simply couldn't stand seeing you grow so close to the company executives, gaining influence within the office at such a rapid pace.
Despite your appearance, you are a graduate of Night Raven College. You are well-acquainted with being harassed. Since this man only used snide remarks and never laid a finger on you, you actually considered his behavior rather "cute" compared to what you were used to. Still, ever since his attitude turned sour, you had done your best to avoid him. Encountering him now, especially while he was clearly drunk, made you pull a face of pure, unadulterated dread.
Ugh.
The man pulled up a chair without asking and joined the table. When one of your friends tried to gently shoo him away, saying it was a "girls' night," he wouldn't budge.
"A girls' night? So you’re all talking about romance, right? I want to hear it too! Let's talk about your love life! You've got that boyfriend you've been with for years, right? Man, I’m surprised he let you work at a company run by your 'buds' President Azul and Executive Director Floyd. Wouldn't that usually be a dealbreaker? Working at a guy friend's company? I couldn't do it. I mean, who knows what’s going on behind your back?"
"That’s rude. Knock it off," your friend interjected.
"Maybe he’s just incredibly open-minded, or maybe he just doesn't have the guts to pick a fight with the President or the Executive Director? Well, I get it. I wouldn't want to go up against those guys either. In that sense, I really feel sorry for your boyfriend. He must constantly be compared to those high-spec guy friends of yours!"
"That isn't really the case," you replied in a calm voice.
You were careful not to provoke him, but a wry smile tugged at your lips as you pictured a certain moray eel in your mind—a man who definitely wasn't "open-minded" and wouldn't hesitate for a second to pick a fight with Azul or Floyd.
"Actually… does this boyfriend even exist? Show me a picture. Come on, a picture."
"He… isn't very good with photos."
A total lie.
To ensure no one at the office accidentally saw anything, every photo you had of the two of you was tucked away in a locked, hidden folder. Suddenly, the man's hand shot out, snatching your phone from where it sat on the table.
"Ugh, it's locked. Open it up. You must have at least one picture of him."
"I don't."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
After all, your besties had flatly refused to provide any "boyfriend" selfies for your cover story.
"Wait a sec…" The man sneered, a nasty glint in his eyes.
"Does this boyfriend of yours even exist? I mean, I get it. Surrounded by high-spec guy friends like that, you’d probably want to lie about having a boyfriend just to save face. It’s gotta be pathetic having all those successful guys around you when none of them actually see you as a woman, right? Lol."
"You're going too far. Are you drunk? Go drink some water. I’m so sorry, are you okay?"
"I’m fine. Please, give me my phone back."
"If you have a boyfriend, call him right here, right now. If he’s real, you can do that, can’t you? Better yet, why don't you invite him over? I’d love to meet this guy. I want to see just how pathetic he really is!"
"—I am the 'pathetic man' in question. Does that satisfy you?"
A soft, chillingly sweet baritone whispered through the air. A towering figure leaned over the man from behind, looming over him with overwhelming presence, and deftly snatched the phone from his hand.
"Here you are," he said, handing the device back to you. You could only make a face that said, Well, here we go.
Startled by the sudden appearance of the Vice President, the man jumped so violently he lost his balance and fell right off his chair. He slammed onto the floor, but despite the pain, he managed to gasp out in sheer panic, "J-Jade?! Vice President?!"
Jade offered him a perfectly poised, radiant smile. "Yes, I am Jade."
"W-W-Why are you here, Vice President…?"
"I became worried when I didn't hear from Prefect by the time she said she’d be home, so I came to see if anything had happened. After all, while I may be open-minded, I am a cowardly, pathetic man who wouldn't dare stand up to the likes of Floyd or Azul."
"Jade-senpai, exactly how much of this were you listening to?"
"From the very beginning. ♡"
"You look like you're having way too much fun."
"Ufufu."
Jade pressed a hand to his mouth, laughing with a graceful, modest elegance. It was the original "married woman" move.
"Though, it is true that I came to check on you because you were late. I saw you were being hassled, so I thought I would offer my assistance."
"You were also thinking you might as well spill the beans while you're at it, weren't you?"
"It is unfair that only Floyd and Azul get to have rumors with you."
"That’s because with you, Jade-senpai, it wouldn't stop at being just a rumor."
"Yes, I am well aware. After all, we really are a married couple, aren't we?"
At his pleasant, smiling confession, you could only give him a deadpan, half-lidded stare.
Jade, on the other hand, wore a bright, satisfied smile—as if he had been dying to let the secret out. A true "Niko-Leach" grin.
"Please don't be angry, my darling. I didn't intend to make you look like that. It’s just… not being able to shout from the rooftops that you are mine was more painful than I anticipated."
"Sigh. Alright, what's your real motive?"
"Jealousy."
"Honestly!"
"But now we won't have to hide it anymore, will we?"
You cast a fleeting glance toward your female colleagues.
"Um… could you possibly keep this a secret?"
"O-Of course!"
"I’m afraid that won't do," Jade interjected. "I need you all to go forth and spread the word—like little minnows—that Prefect and I are a devoted, married couple."
"Jade-senpai!"
"Is that a 'no'?"
He lowered the corners of his brows, putting on a pitiful, heartbroken expression. Even though you knew you were being played, you were still weak to that face. You swallowed hard. You knew all too well that for over six months since you joined Azul’s company, Jade had been holding back his own desires to respect your wishes.
"Over the past six months, despite the interference from Floyd and Azul, you have earned your place in this company by your own merit. I am confident that none of our employees are foolish enough to change their attitude toward you now, simply because they know you are my wife. Isn't that right, everyone?"
His heterochromatic eyes flickered slowly across the room.
Struck by that gaze—one that clearly signaled they should know exactly how to respond—your colleagues nodded their heads in frantic, silent unison. Satisfied, Jade tilted his head cutely.
"See?"
"Don't 'see' me. Really… everyone is only saying that because you're forcing them to. You’re going to get reported for power harassment."
Muttering your complaints, you began to pack up your things. It was already late, and the atmosphere for a "girls' night" had completely vanished. Suddenly, Jade’s gaze dropped to the man who was still crumpled on the floor.
"Speaking of power harassment, that reminds me."
"Yes?"
"If I were to… handle him, do you think that would qualify as power harassment?"
"It would. So please, don't 'handle' him."
"However, as a company executive, I believe it is only natural to reprimand a subordinate who meddles with a fragile woman's personal property while intoxicated. And—"
Jade’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. A cold pressure, one he made no effort to hide, caused the surrounding noise to vanish.
"As a merman, I cannot simply remain silent when someone makes unwanted advances toward my mate. Furthermore, I seem to have been labeled with some rather dishonorable titles myself. What was it? A coward?"
His low voice sang with a terrifying sweetness. The man on the floor began to tremble violently.
The lethal possessiveness of a merman toward their chosen mate is common knowledge. When incidents occur, they are often met with a sense of resignation; people simply accept it, thinking, "That's what happens when you mess with a merman's partner." It is an unchangeable trait of their species.
"Tell me, sir… do you like the sea?"
At Jade’s question, the man let out a faint, strangled sound that didn't even reach the level of a scream. Everyone around them stood frozen, realizing that Jade had already made up his mind. It was all too easy to imagine that any attempt to intervene would result in being invited to join the man in whatever fate awaited him.
In the midst of that suffocating silence, you were the only one to let out a long, heavy sigh.
"You can't, Jade-senpai."
Jade shifted his gaze toward you. You didn't flinch, even under his expressionless, crushing stare.
"Are you telling me to stay silent and forgive him for making a fool of me?"
"You aren't so 'cheap' that someone like him could ever truly make a fool of you."
You stepped closer to him. "Come on, let’s go home. I'm in the mood for some of your tea. I’m a little tipsy, so I want to drink some tea to sober up and then have a good night's sleep."
At your words, a smile finally returned to Jade’s lips. His eyes softened, melting into an expression of genuine affection. He took your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
"Yes, yes… as you wish. After all, I am your lovely, devoted moray eel. I shall do exactly as you say."
You turned back to your shell-shocked friends. "Well, I'm heading home now. I'm so sorry. Here, this is for my share—"
"No, I will take care of it," Jade interrupted, stopping you as you reached for your wallet. "I did, after all, throw a damper on your pleasant evening. I’ll settle the bill for everyone."
He quickly paid for the entire group, cutting off any further protests.
Then, the two of you left the bar, leaning into each other affectionately. Behind you, your colleagues remained wide-eyed and speechless.
"Is this a dream?"
"It can't be a dream, right?"
"That was insane."
"Beyond insane."
After exchanging these frantic glances, they finally remembered how to breathe, their lungs filling with air that had felt frozen in their chests until the moment the door closed behind you.
Meanwhile, on the way home, the Leech couple continued their conversation.
"Jade-senpai, you deliberately let me stop you back there, didn't you?"
"Oh? You caught on?"
"Of course I did."
"If I did that, everyone would understand that you aren't the kind of woman who uses my power to force your way through things, wouldn't they?"
"……Thank you."
In his own way, he was looking out for you, making sure the workplace remained a comfortable environment for you. You gave the hand you were holding a firm squeeze. Jade narrowed his eyes into a gentle, smiling arc.
"Well, it would have been fine if you hadn't stopped me, too. It would have saved me the trouble of holding back," he said nonchalantly. As expected, he remained a dangerous moray eel.
The following day and onward:
Whenever you encountered him in the office hallways, Jade would approach without mercy, chirping "My dear Prefect ♡" while pulling you into tight, squishing hugs. If you weren't out on business, he showed up faithfully every single time to invite you to lunch. According to Azul, "For him, he actually held back for a surprisingly long time."
By the way, you officially filed your paperwork again, explaining, "Crowley was my maiden name; my name is actually Leech…" The middle-aged administrative lady at the desk smiled and said, "Oh, my! You finally tied the knot with Executive Director Floyd! Congratulations!"
Behind you, Jade—who had been standing there with a beaming face—looked genuinely bewildered for once in his life.
When Floyd heard about it, he burst into a fit of laughter. Since then, he has taken to introducing himself by saying, "I'm the Leech who supposedly married Little Shrimpy recently," only to get smacked by Jade every single time.
Obligatory disclaimer that mocking Charlie Kirk is both fun and harmless, but I am getting a little sick of the repetitive assertions that there's no reason to avoid giving ammunition to the regime because "they're just going to do what they'd do anyway." It's a disturbingly full-throated rejection of realist political analysis that we really cannot do with at this point. It's not that I don't get the impulse — we need a win, and this might feel like one! — but if you look with clear and rational eyes, this assassination is not good news for the left.
I know it doesn't feel like it, but the U.S. government really is affected by public opinion to some degree. Authoritarian regimes are not easy to run and widespread support makes the process much simpler. It's unsustainable for ICE to deal with angry crowds whenever they try to snatch people off the street. Protests are expensive and politically sharp. Ideological allies worried about their image will readily change their stance when the wind starts blowing a different direction.
All that is to say that when a political activist is murdered, the average person on the ground wants to distance themselves from that. Many people, likely most, don't know who Charlie Kirk is! All they're seeing is a young right-wing speaker being assassinated, and that will tilt their modes of thinking towards "conservatives are victims." It doesn't matter that they're wrong, what matters is that it happens, and to some unquantifiable degree it changes people's minds.
Likewise, there's a rally-round-the-flag effect for politically powerful conservatives. Suddenly there's a flash of danger, and they huddle closer together. We see less pushback, less friction, within the Republican party. Disgruntlement over, for instance, bombing a boat lessens in the face of a shared tragedy. These things do, in fact, make it easier for further repressive measures to be passed. There's less debate, more resolve.
Thinking it's all meaningless, that the administration would take the same actions no matter what, betrays a lack of understanding of political pressures and calculus. If they're going to make things worse anyway, why aren't they doing it right now? They have to wait, find the right time, gather support, make excuses. We want that process to be as difficult as possible for them. We want their gears jammed, not greased.
This assassination was almost certainly not a good thing on net. Your schadenfreude, gratifying though it may be, is not worth the real political consequences. The death of a single individual, who did not make policy, has negligible positive results. By all means, laugh — he's not getting any deader! — but don't make the mistake of thinking that assassinations are a mechanism to actually, efficaciously combat American fascism. Don't fall into the trap of equating "something must be done" with "anything must be done." Counterproductivity is real and dangerous.
SYNOPSIS: Before there was a sixth name, there was a decision. The three days that changed six lives—and the eleven minutes that taught them how easily silence can become a misunderstanding.
TAGS/WARNING: y/n is yona short for yo(ur) na(me), female mc, made up names because why not, fictional anyways, k-idol industry, corporate manipulation, emotional distress, grief maybe but not really, miscommunication, angst or not who knows, mentions of online backlash, they don't gaf probably, i also hate hybe, this was post chapter one, also chapter three but in a different angle
w.c: 5613
the sixth name prologue · the room where it was decided
Lee Hyunwoo had sat through enough of these to know the shape of a decision before anyone in the room admitted one was being made.
You could tell by the coffee. A meeting that was actually a discussion ran on the good stuff someone's assistant walked down for; a meeting that was a decision wearing a discussion's clothes ran on whatever was left in the carafe from the session before. On the fourteenth floor that October afternoon the carafe had been sitting since morning, and nobody had asked for a fresh one, and by the third day of it the room had taken on the flat brown smell of coffee that had gone cold and been reheated on principle rather than for taste.
Outside the window the city had gone the particular grey of early autumn, the kind of light that made every glass tower look like it was thinking about something. Lee wrote the date at the top of a fresh page—the eighth of October, though it would be another eight days before anyone in this room said the word announcement out loud—and waited for someone to begin.
Director Cho began. She always did, and she was good at it, which was the part people outside these rooms never understood—that the decisions that flatten someone's life are almost never made badly. They are made well, by competent people with clean slides, and the competence is what makes them impossible to stop.
"Seven weeks post-debut," she said. "The numbers are good. Not the problem." She advanced the slide, and the room looked at a chart that climbed sharply through August, held through most of September, and then, in the last two weeks, stopped climbing and simply widened—the way a river does when it hits flat ground and has nowhere left uphill to go.
"Here's the problem," she went on. "We're at saturation on the current premise. Five self-producing boys, all of them likeable, none of them in conflict with each other, a debut single that did exactly what it was built to do. There's no story left to tell that we haven't already told, and we told all of it in seven weeks."
"They just got back from the fan meet," someone said. "The engagement's still strong."
"Engagement isn't the same as growth," Cho said. "What You Want did what a debut single is supposed to do. It introduced them. It cannot introduce them twice."
She let that sit a second before continuing. "An audience doesn't stay for people who are fine. It stays for a question. Right now we don't have one."
Lee wrote stays for a question and underlined it, because it was true, and because it was the kind of true thing that got used later to justify something ugly.
Cho advanced again. Two case studies from rival companies, both member additions, both landing eight to twelve months post-debut, both charted against a control group of comparable acts that hadn't made the change. One had gone badly in the first quarter and recovered by the second. The other had gone badly and never recovered, its numbers still depressed a full two years out, and she left that chart on the screen a beat longer than the first, which Lee noted, because it was honest, and because putting the failure up on purpose was how you made a room feel it had been shown everything.
"The upside isn't the member," Cho said. "It's the disruption. Weeks of every conversation about this group being about this. You can't buy that. You can't schedule it into a comeback plan, and God knows we don't have a comeback plan ready—the earliest slot on the production calendar is February."
"And the downside is the same thing," Lee said.
"Yes." She didn't flinch from it. "The downside is the same thing."
The objection came from the far end of the table, from a man named Ryu in artist development who had been with the company for years and had, Lee happened to know, two daughters, one of them the same age as the group's youngest member.
"I want it in the minutes that I said this," Ryu said. "The five didn't ask for this. Seven weeks ago we put them on a stage and told the country who they were, and now, seven weeks later, we're telling them we lied about the headcount."
"Noted," Cho said.
"I'm not finished. We sold them as a crew. Not a lineup—a crew, five specific people who trained together for months, a year or two, anything, built a thing together, and that was the entire promise. It's on every piece of collateral we produced for the debut, down to the tour merchandise they're still selling out of a warehouse right now." He turned a pen over in his fingers.
"We're not just adding a member. We're breaking a promise and adding a member, and only one of those is going to be forgiven."
"Also noted."
"And whoever she is," Ryu said, "she's going to pay for all of it. Not us. Not the five. Her. She'll walk into a building where nobody wanted her, seven weeks after a debut she had no part in, on behalf of a decision she didn't make, and the entire internet will hold her personally responsible for a memo written on this floor in October."
The room let that sit for exactly as long as courtesy required.
"That's correct," Cho said. "It's also true of every debut we've ever done, at a smaller scale. We're arguing about degree."
"We're arguing about a person."
"We're always arguing about a person." She said it with honesty, which was worse. "The question in front of us is whether the person is better served being the sixth member of a group with this much momentum seven weeks in, or the four hundredth trainee in a building that will let her file go cold in eighteen months."
Lee wrote degree and then, under it, nobody said no. Because that was the truth of the three days: nobody said no. Ryu said not like this, and for the record, and I want it minuted, and all of it was heard, and all of it was written down. An objection in the minutes is not a wall. It's a receipt.
——
The third day was the timing, which was also the worst, because by then the decision was made and everyone in the room was free to be practical about it.
Marketing wanted the standard rollout. A week of profile drops, a scored teaser, the whole slow apparatus designed to let an audience fall a little in love before anyone gave them the chance to be angry. It was the way that worked, and it required something they no longer had, which was time.
"The subcontractor invoice for the choreography adjustments went out with six names on it," someone said. "Nine days ago. Payroll flagged it, we caught it before it left the building, but it means at least one vendor has already seen the number."
"And there's a trainee account that got within about ninety seconds of posting a practice-room clip with an extra silhouette in the mirror. We caught that one too. We won't catch the next one."
So it stopped being a choice between doing it well and doing it badly. It became a choice between announcing it themselves and reading about it on someone else's timeline by noon, which is not a choice, and everyone in the room recognized the moment the argument died.
"Three in the morning," Cho said. "Low traffic, our own channel, our own words, no visuals we haven't controlled. It burns hotter but it burns faster, and we'd rather own the first hour than lose it."
"Photo?"
"We don't have a shoot scheduled and there's no time to put six of them in a room before this leaks further."
Nobody said the other thing, which was that even if there had been time, no one was confident a first photo would have gone well. Lee looked around the table and watched five people decline, simultaneously and without coordination, to say it out loud.
"Composite," Cho said. "Use the rehearsal capture from the summer promo block for the five, shoot her alone this week in matching light, drop her into the empty position in post."
"That'll read as a composite to anyone who looks closely."
"It'll read as six people in a room to everyone who isn't looking for it." She was already moving to the next item, the legal team's contract amendment, the revised choreography delivery date, the schedule for the studio session that would put the girl's voice on the two songs the fandom would end up fighting hardest over. "Approved. Next."
It ran another forty minutes after that, and the forty minutes were logistics—legal, the schedule, the amendment, who signed what by when—and Lee wrote all of it down and none of it stayed with him.
What stayed with him was what didn't get raised.
Nobody asked how the five would be told. It appeared on the schedule as a line item, member notification, slotted for the morning after the announcement, which meant they had decided—without anyone actually deciding—that the five would find out the same way the public did, from a phone, in the dark, alone. And nobody asked how she would be told either; only who would tell her and how long it would take, as though she were a package requiring a signature on delivery.
He looked at the member notification line for a while. Then he wrote, in his own notebook, off the record: We are going to make six people learn this at the same time as two hundred thousand strangers, and then we are going to put them in a van the next morning and ask them to be a group by lunch.
Cho closed her laptop. "Anything else?"
Ryu didn't look up from his own notes. "Just what I said on Monday."
"It's minuted," Cho said, and it was, and that was the end of the conversation.
At the door, she stopped and turned back, and Lee understood a half-second before she spoke that this was what she'd been holding.
"Lee. You'll take them."
"Take them."
"You'll manage the group through the transition. Somebody's going to be in the van with all six of them the day after this lands." She had the tired accuracy of a person who had made a hard call and was now making the small decent one available inside it. "I'd rather it was someone who wrote down what Ryu said instead of someone who didn't think it was worth writing down."
He should have said something. He thought about it for eleven days afterward, at three in the morning mostly, and never arrived at what it would have been.
"Okay," he said.
The announcement went up eight days later, at 03:07, and by the time Lee's alarm went off that same morning the country had already decided how it felt about a sentence none of the people in that meeting room had written down as anything more than a line item.
——
The dorm was quiet at 8:40, which was itself the tell, because on an ordinary morning it never was.
James was up first. He'd already reworked the harmony chart twice before anyone else's door had opened—not because anyone had asked him to, but because a blank page at six in the morning was easier to hold. Juhoon had made rice nobody was going to eat and set it out anyway. He stood at the counter for a long moment with his hand flat on the warm rice cooker before he made himself stop touching it and go get dressed.
Seonghyeon lay on his back for ten extra minutes with his phone above his face—two grey ticks still sitting under a message he'd sent the night before and would never mention sending. He got up and did his hair with more care than the morning warranted. Keonho was already dressed before his alarm went off. He was sitting on the edge of his bed with his earphones in and no music playing, running through the morning in his head the way he used to run through a race before the gun.
Martin was the last one dressed and the first one downstairs, and he talked the whole way to the van about nothing—the weather, whether the coffee machine at the practice building was fixed yet, a joke about James's harmony chart that James didn't laugh at—because talking about nothing meant not yet having to talk about the only thing.
The van was silent from the dorm to the building, and the silence was the first thing that frightened Lee about the whole assignment.
He had ridden with a lot of groups. He knew the ordinary morning quiet of teenagers who hadn't slept, which had a texture to it—a shifting, a phone screen, somebody's leg going. This was not that. Five people sat in a vehicle built for eight and every one of them had chosen a seat that touched nobody, and not one of them had said a word since the door slid shut on the last block of the ride.
They had not, he realized, been in a room together since it happened. Thirty-one hours. Whatever each of them had decided alone in the dark had had thirty-one hours to set, and none of them had tested it against anyone else's.
In the third row James had his phone out and wasn't looking at it. He'd built the list overnight—the formations that would need rebuilding, the choreography that was now wrong for a five-count instead of six, the harmony arrangements that assumed five parts and would need a whole register moved to make room—because the list was a thing he could hold, and because a person who arrived with a plan didn't have to arrive with feelings.
He'd also done a smaller, uglier piece of reckoning somewhere around four in the morning and put it away without finishing it, which was this: I have been here before. Not the same shape. But he knew what it was to be in a group whose future got decided in a room he wasn't invited to, and he knew what that did to five people over time, and he had spent three years learning not to say so out loud to anyone.
Beside him Juhoon was watching the window. He'd looked at the leaked photo maybe forty times overnight and always at the same thing—not the composition, not the obvious seam of it, but her hands. She was holding them in front of her, one wrist inside the other, the way a person holds her hands when she's been told to stand naturally and has no idea what they're supposed to do with that instruction.
She didn't pick this either. He'd arrived at that in the first hour and hadn't been able to get past it since. It was, he was aware, a useless thing to have concluded. It didn't tell him what to do this morning. It only meant that whatever the others turned out to feel, he'd already given away his ability to feel it cleanly.
Seonghyeon sat in the second row with his phone face-down on his knee. He'd checked the unanswered message eleven times since sending it and had stopped checking around six a.m., not out of pride but because he'd worked out that checking was for him and not for her. He hadn't told the others he'd sent it. He wasn't sure why. Some instinct said that the moment it became a thing the group knew about, it would stop being a thing he'd done quietly and start being a position he'd taken in front of everyone.
And Keonho, by the far window, was doing what he'd been doing for thirty-one hours, which was nothing.
He'd made the decision at four a.m. and had held it since with the discipline of a person who had spent years learning to keep still on a starting block with his heart going: nothing I feel in the middle of this is reliable. He would not form an opinion while the ground was still moving under him. He watched the industrial stretch of road go past the window and refused to want anything about the morning, and from the outside it looked like a sixteen-year-old who didn't care, and inside it was the most work anyone in the van was doing.
Only Martin kept talking, in short bursts, to no one—a comment about the traffic on the overpass, a comment about whether the ten a.m. call time would slip, each one dying in the recycled air of the van. Lee watched him do it in the rearview mirror and recognized it for what it was. The leader trying to find out, without asking directly, whether the group was still a group.
Nobody answered him, because nobody trusted their own voice not to give something away. And Martin read the silence as the answer, and stopped, and by the time they reached the building he had concluded—wrongly, completely—that the other four had already agreed on something in his absence.
——
The briefing room had a table too large for six people, glass-topped, the kind that showed every fingerprint by ten in the morning, and Lee ran through the agenda the way he'd been told to: the schedule, the rehearsal block starting at eleven, the adjusted formations, the fact that a revised choreography package would be delivered Thursday and a revised vocal arrangement by Friday. He kept his voice flat and moved quickly, because he had learned that when you cannot give people the thing they want, you can at least not waste their time pretending you might.
Martin let him get four minutes in.
"When was it decided?"
Lee had known it was coming. He had also known, from the moment Cho handed him the assignment, exactly what he was and was not permitted to say, and had spent part of the previous night deciding which of those he was going to be when the question landed.
"The final approval was last week," he said.
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
Martin's jaw moved. "How long were people in rooms about this?"
"Longer than a week."
"How much longer?"
And here was the moment. Lee could feel the four others in his peripheral vision, all of them very still, all of them pretending to be less invested in the answer than they were.
"I'm not able to tell you that," he said. "I'm telling you that I'm not able to, instead of telling you it was last week and leaving it there to sit as a lie. That's the most I've got this morning."
It was, he thought, the most honest thing anybody in the company had said to Martin in a month. It also landed like a slap, because I'm not allowed to tell you is only a kindness to a person who isn't seventeen and doesn't have his name printed first on the group's contract page.
Martin sat back. "Okay," he said, and it was the flattest syllable Lee had ever heard out of him.
Across the table, James registered the exchange and said nothing, because he had already assumed the answer was months and had already decided that being proven right about it was worth nothing to anyone. Juhoon said nothing because he was watching Martin's hands, which had gone still on the table in a way his hands never did. Seonghyeon said nothing because he was sixteen and the room had just gotten dangerous in a way he didn't have a tool for yet. Keonho said nothing because he had promised himself, at four in the morning, that he wouldn't.
And Martin—who had asked the question in front of everyone specifically so that everyone would see him ask it, so the group would know he hadn't been one of the people in those rooms—looked around the table at four faces that had absorbed the answer without a flicker, and concluded, again wrongly, that he was the only one it had cost anything.
He went out into the corridor at 9:40 to get water and did not go to get water.
He had known where she was since they arrived; someone had said holding room, second corridor in the general noise of the morning and it had gone into him like a splinter, and he had spent the whole briefing aware of it under the numbers and the schedule, and the second the meeting broke he was moving before he'd assembled a reason.
The reason, such as it was: he was the leader. Whatever happened this morning, whatever tone the next year took, somebody was going to set it in the first thirty seconds of contact, and it should be him. Not out of generosity, entirely. Out of the same instinct that made him rewrite a bridge at two in the morning—that if a thing was going to be built, he wanted his hands on it while it was still soft enough to shape.
The corridor was longer than he remembered it being on any other morning, fluorescent-lit, a vending machine humming somewhere off to the left, a cleaning cart parked against the wall with nobody attending it. He got most of the way down it before he understood he had nothing to say.
That was something that he hadn't planned for. He'd been so occupied with the should that he'd skipped the what. Every sentence he tried arrived pre-broken. Hi, I'm Martin was absurd; she knew who he was, everyone knew who he was, and saying it would sound like he thought she might not.
This isn't your fault presumed a verdict he hadn't decided on yet. Are you okay was Seonghyeon's sentence, though he didn't know that yet, and it would have sounded false coming out of his own mouth. And underneath all of them sat the true sentence, the one he could not possibly say out loud to a stranger in a hallway on the worst morning of both their lives: I found out when you did and I'm humiliated and I don't know what I am to this group anymore, and none of that is about you, and I'm about to make it about you anyway.
The door had a small window in it, reinforced glass with a wire grid through the middle. He was going to look through it and keep walking; somehow a compromise he made with himself in the last three steps.
She was sitting with her back very straight and her hands flat on her knees, alone, in a room with a water dispenser and a set of half-open blinds letting in a long grey bar of window light, looking at nothing in particular.
He'd expected—he wasn't proud of this—someone who looked like she'd won something, the way the internet was already narrating it. What he got instead was a girl composed to the exact degree of a person who has decided that being seen to feel anything is a risk she can't afford this morning, and he recognized it instantly, because it was the same face he'd been wearing since the briefing room, and he had precisely no idea what to do with the fact that they had arrived at the same expression from opposite sides of the same decision.
He kept walking.
It took four steps to become unforgivable. By the sixth he was already assembling the repair—I'll do it in the room, properly, in front of everyone, it'll mean more that way—and the repair had the weightlessness of a lie you can feel not holding even as you tell it to yourself.
He got water he didn't want from the machine on the far side of the floor and stood there drinking it too fast, and told himself he'd fix it in ten minutes, and did not fix it in ten minutes, or in the room, or for two more months.
——
They were held eight minutes outside the rehearsal room, which was seven minutes longer than anyone needed for a staffer to find a key, and the eight minutes did more damage than anything that happened afterward.
Nobody talked. James stood square to the door and ran the room in his head like a set list—who speaks, in what order, what has to be established in the first two minutes so the rest of the week has a floor to stand on. Juhoon shifted his weight and looked at the door handle like it might move on its own.
Seonghyeon had gone pale the way a person goes pale on realizing that a thing he'd done privately at four in the morning was about to be in the same room as the person he'd done it for. Keonho stood the way he used to stand behind the blocks before a race, breathing low and even, holding a decision he had already made and was not going to unmake no matter what the next hour did to him.
Martin stood slightly apart from all four of them and understood, with total clarity and no ability to act on it, that he was about to say nothing.
Then the staffer got the door open, and the five of them went in.
——
What happened in the room lasted eleven minutes and Lee, watching from the wall, would describe it in his report that evening as introductions completed, tone constructive.
Here is what he actually saw.
He saw James go first because somebody had to, and because James had already worked it out in the corridor and concluded that the fastest route to a functional week was to establish the facts and close. He watched the eldest give his name and a question and a nod, all of it clipped down to the load-bearing minimum, and he watched the girl receive it the way you receive a receipt.
What Lee could not see, and what James would not have said aloud to anyone, was that the economy wasn't coldness. It was the only register James had that he trusted not to make things worse—if I say the minimum, I cannot say the wrong thing—and he'd spent the corridor deciding that any real warmth from him would read as a promise the group might not be able to keep.
He saw Juhoon reach.
It definitely was the moment Lee thought about afterward, more than the silence in the corridor, more than the eight minutes outside the door. Juhoon stepped past the line the room had drawn without anyone naming it and said something ordinary and human and slightly too long, the way you do when you're seventeen and trying to make a stranger feel less like a stranger—and then he glanced sideways for someone to pick it up, the way it always worked in a group, the way it had always worked with these five since the trainee years.
Nobody picked it up.
James had already closed his part and gone still. Seonghyeon opened his mouth and lost his nerve halfway through a breath. Keonho held his position without so much as a blink. And Martin, at the edge of it, said nothing so deliberately that the nothing had a shape you could have traced with a finger.
Lee watched a seventeen-year-old realize, mid-sentence, that he was out past the group alone. He watched the sentence get finished anyway, because Juhoon was the kind of person who finished them regardless of what it cost. And he watched something go quiet in the boy's face that did not fully come back for the rest of the morning—not humiliation, exactly. The specific loneliness of finding out that a thing you'd always assumed was a we had turned out, on this one particular morning, to be a you.
He saw Seonghyeon watch her hands, and then her face, and then the way she'd angled her whole body so she was not the visual center of the room even standing dead in the middle of it, and he saw the sixteen-year-old file every degree of it with an attention that was almost clinical. What Lee read from the wall as shyness was in fact a boy quietly cataloguing, and what the boy was actually thinking—she hasn't eaten today, and she's not going to say so if anyone asks—went into him and stayed there and would still be sitting there, unmentioned, weeks later.
He saw Keonho hold his line perfectly, and hold it, and hold it, and then break it exactly once.
It was nothing, on the surface. She answered something in a low even voice, and something in the sound of it snagged on the maknae—a half-second of I know that from somewhere with no attachment behind it yet, the way a word surfaces briefly in the wrong language before your mind decides it must have imagined it. He turned it over once, found nothing to hang it on, and set it down.
And he saw Martin say nothing.
Not the absence of a thing—a held nothing, worked at, maintained on purpose the way you hold a plank position past the point it stops being comfortable. Martin stood at the edge of the room with his arms at his sides and his whole body organized around not speaking, because the moment he spoke first he would become the person who had welcomed her, and he had not decided yet whether he was willing to be that in front of a company that had cut him out of the room where it mattered. It was the only leverage he had left that morning. He was seventeen, and it was a leverage that cost him nothing to hold and everything to use, and he used it, without quite meaning to, on a girl who had nothing to do with any of it.
Eleven minutes. Introductions completed, tone constructive.
——
They dispersed afterward the way water goes off a table, straight off five different edges.
Lee had expected them to cluster—that was his assumption walking in, that whatever this had done to them, it had done to them together, and they'd want to compare notes the second the door opened. Instead James went to find the choreographer before he'd even set his bag down, because there was a rebuilt formation to negotiate and a plan was a place to put yourself when there was nowhere else to stand. Juhoon went the other direction with his hands in his pockets, toward the vending machines nobody needed anything from. Seonghyeon vanished toward the practice rooms without a word to anyone. Keonho put an earphone in before he was fully out of the corridor.
Martin stood in the hallway a moment longer than the rest, and Lee watched him look back at the closed door of the room with an expression that was not far off grief, and then turn and walk away from it in the opposite direction from everyone else.
None of them asked each other how it had gone. Not that day. Not that week, not really—not until a night on a hospital corridor floor weeks later forced five separate accountings into one room at once, and by then each of them had spent so long believing his own version that comparing them felt less like relief than like being told a story he'd lived through had happened differently than he remembered.
Lee carried that out of the building that evening, past the front desk and out into the ordinary October traffic, and it stayed with him longer than the three days of cold coffee ever did: that five people had walked into a room that morning believing they were walking in together, and had walked out five separate ways, each of them privately certain that the other four had felt exactly what he had felt.
James thought the group had silently agreed to be professional. Juhoon thought the group had agreed to be careful, and that he alone had broken ranks by reaching. Seonghyeon thought the group had agreed to wait and watch, and that the message he'd sent the night before had been a small private betrayal of that agreement. Keonho thought the group had agreed to nothing at all, which was the closest anyone came to correct, and said so to no one. And Martin thought the group had agreed, somewhere in that terrible silent van ride, to be cold—and that his own silence in the room had simply been the correct execution of a decision nobody had actually made.
Not one of them was right and all five of them might even spend the next two months operating as though they were.
And Lee, who had watched the whole thing from the wall and understood most of it as it happened, wrote introductions completed, tone constructive into the record that would sit in a file cabinet for years, and drove home through the grey autumn evening—because he had already learned, in a room that smelled of cold coffee, that being the person who saw a thing clearly and wrote it down honestly was not the same thing as being the person who could stop it from happening.
Yesterday in between work meetings I was pontificating what could have possibly led to the reply we saw from Hudson Tuesday night. There was just so much cognitive dissonance in the span of one evening that it’s taken me a day to process.
Cognitive Dissonance is the mental discomfort experienced when holding two or more contradictory beliefs, values, or attitudes, often triggered by actions inconsistent with those beliefs. Hudson is often the biggest proponent of Hudcon, and yet he was also the one to say "rpfing gotta stop y'all"...
First Things First: I still do not think this comment from Hudson indicates any major shift from how he and Connor were already planning to carry on post-Met Gala. K was already not going to go away any time soon, and any breakup seeding would be very slow and steady. Therefore, I don't think we've seen enough to say conclusively that this was done to kickoff a different strategy, especially since Hudson "hard launched" his bf in the same evening.
My thoughts on the circumstances at play here are below the cut.
What Hudson replied to on Threads:
In my opinion, what we saw from Hudson was a poor decision and not well thought out comment, born both from exhaustion and a few external factors bubbling up which I will discuss below.
Pressure From His Team
Hudson and Connor are fully into buffering now. There’s no denying that. K’s presence (literally or figuratively) is there and used to allow Hudson and Connor to be much louder than they could be otherwise. However, there is a boundary there. Hudson and Connor cannot be too too loud or the buffer is easily drowned out, which we have seen start to happen.
I don't think his team was directly responsible for Hudson's comment either, this was so poorly executed that I can't imagine a PR team would do this. My thought here is that Hudson was given a warning by his team that he needs to be mindful of how open he is about Connor because of the fragility of their buffering situation. Additionally, as I stated last night, it’s likely Hudson was told he has to mention K a certain amount of times to keep up the illusion of H/K. That’s a lot of pressure, he has to be so mindful of his behavior and his words, even more than he already is.
Loss of Control.
All this planning takes a lot of control. Control of the narrative, control of his words, and control of his actions at all times. As we’ve seen this weekend, and heard from Hudson’s own mouth, Hudson was very tired. He came straight from shooting and didn’t get much rest the entire weekend. I could see Hudson seeing the post and the discourse in the comments, and being pushed over the edge. There is so much pressure for them to control as much as possible around this whole thing, because this buffering/open industry secret situation is so delicate.
His comment read to me like he was pressing a button which said “STOP! Work with me here people!” This is a big reason we talk about not pushing them too hard by speculating a ton where they are online. There is a lot of nuance that both Hudson and Connor have to navigate in regards to be open but not too open. We want to provide support for them and have fun in our space, but not make it harder for them.
Fame Newbies
A cardinal rule of celebrity is that everything you say can and will be used against you. Which is why we often see the “best” celebrities be some of the least heard from. Of course this is not a hard and fast rule, but often we see friction start to occur when celebrities try to clarify and get too in the weeds with fandom culture.
I've seen a few of my mutuals discuss (I think @smesr did a post most recently) the trauma one experiences when their life changes overnight. Yes, it's very exciting to suddenly gain the career you've been working towards and the recognition of those you've admired your whole life. But there's also a lot of loss within that too - loss of privacy and the loss of your old life, something you will likely never get back and didn't plan on having to let go of so quickly. You can't do everything you used to do and now everyone has an opinion on you and your actions, they are all paying very close attention. Hudson and Connor both are feeling very overwhelmed at this rapid transition and have talked about it many times (e.g. Hudson stating they learned in 30 days what most learn over 5 years).
It’s very possible (even likely I'd say) the song Hudson used in his post had nothing to do with anything. The issue is when you communicate things via songs sometimes, people are always going to look for it. Even if there’s nothing there. And Hudson cannot control that. This is a particularly hard concept I imagine for a new (and young) celebrity to come to terms with. People will say all sorts of stuff about you and yet you can't even begin to correct it all or you will go insane.
In Conclusion
Let's be real here - that threads post was a nothing burger and the comments, while doing way too much, are far from the worst Hudson's seen I'm sure. Yet he reacted in a way that was quite confusing given his "hard launch" of Connor only a few hours before. Hudson has been running on empty for a while it seems. That type of bone-deep exhaustion (combined with the feelings of pressure, loss of control, and overwhelm outlined above) is a lot for anyone, and would catch up to us all eventually. When you get to that level, emotions run hot and forethought runs low. And things like his reply on Tuesday start to happen.
Finally, another big indicator of the circumstances laid out here being a large factor was Hudson's response to a fan yesterday. His comment (to a good natured comment he would have normally bantered with) read as unusually defensive. Almost as if he was self-conscious about his voice and potentially what people might speculate from it, speculation he normally would have laughed off or even joked about. I've seen this type of "random" shift in people I've worked with before and it's usually indicative of someone being at the end of their rope, likely for a variety of reasons.
We will have to continue to wait and see what else comes out for Hudson and Connor and their future plans. In the meantime, I am leaning towards this being an uncharacteristic lapse in judgment for Hudson, one that unfortunately had some large consequences for all of us.
Whats better then ending off a snowy day with some dry humping?
requested by anon
▶︎ ၊၊||၊ Bed chem, sabrina carpenter
You've been bestfriends with the triplets for a while, mostly chris.
You and chris just get eachother, you cant begin to count how many times hes been there for you holding you while you sobbed in his arms and you for him.
But sometimes.. you cannot help yourself, its the fact that he knows hes attractive. The way he fiddles with the ends of his hair, flexes his biceps extra, it turns you on.
and you cant help but wonder what hes packing, you've seen the bulge in his sweats often, you always ask yourself.
'is he hard? .. or is he just big"
you've been friends for a while, but recently hes been acting closer. clingier in a way, his hand staying low on you're back at events, hugging you more and such. and i mean, you weren't complaining.
you're currently sat on the sofa curled up with a blanket, chris next to you, matt n nick on the other end, the windows showing the snow falling outside and it was about one am.
you and chris focused on what was playing on the television, it was sorta cute actually. As nick and matt talk about issues they find in the film. "Why would they kill her off." nick whined sarcastically mocking the 'annoying' fans that comment these things.
"like shut up, the reason why she was killed off is because shes fucking annoying?" nick continued, rambling on.
matt replied, "can you maybe shut up so i can watch dummy?"
he let out an exhale crossing his arms, focusing back on the tv.
"relax buddy." nick said, standing up and going to his room. scrolling on his phone while.
As time went on matt got a call, walking into his room to answer it.
it was comfortably silent now, except for obviously tv playing. You're eyes trail to his lap, he was wearing a camoflauge hoodie, his fresh love necklace peeking out, and some black sweatpants.
you're eyes catch the bulge in his sweats, as you're mind starts racing. Why does he have to make this so difficult?
he slowly catches on to you're silence, looking at you're eyes which were locked in on his lap, he grinned. "u good?"
"m'so good." you muttered without thinking, you cover ur mouth, eyes widened. "i mean yeah im good."
his eyebrow raises, "then why're y'looking at my dick?"
"i- i wasn't looking at ur dick stupid." you say, u tried so hard to cover up your lie, a weirded out look on your face.
"mhm" he hummed turning to you "y' gonna do sumthin about it?" he muttered bluntly.
you're face softens "what.?" you were caught off guard " y'heard me didn't you?" he said coldly
his eyes flickering from you're eyes to your lips. You're breath was caught in you're throat not expecting this. "you're brothers, we cant?"
"y'trust me?" he says, removing your blanket away, and when you nod he continues. "then get on me baby." He said, his hands moving to each side of him.
you gulp, before sitting up, straddling him carefully. You feel the same bulge you we're staring at earlier right up you're to clothed pussy, his hands grip you're hips.
he starts moving ur hips against his zipped up cock, you let out a whine, he exhaled before letting you're hips go "come on baby try doing it y'self." you whine again, soaking already.
As you attempt to do it yourself like he said, rubbing yourself on his crotch, moaning quietly. and when you try to go faster, you mess up the friction.
he groans, giving up and grabbing your hips again, moving you fast on his clothed cock, you moan loud, and he immidietly slams his palm on you're mouth. "shhhh you want fuck, you want us to get caught?"
you shake you're head fast, you're half lidded eyes roaming over his eyes. "god you're so beautiful like this.." he mutters, rubbing you faster. "chris, chris i cant, fuck." you're stomach coils tightly.
"yeah? y'gonna come n im barely touching you ma?" he tries to hide how turned on he is right now, one more moan from you and he'd be creaming his pants.
you nodded fast, letting him move you faster, you grab his hand placing it over your mouth as you give one last moan.
letting go as u shake, coming all over her panties.
you're one moan making him groan gruffly, making an unexpecting noise. You open you're eyes smiling "did you just cream y'rpants?"
"no.." he muttered looking down holding in a laugh.
when he hears you're burst of laughter, he joined in too.
a/n: please do give me tips, this is my first smut so request more so I can be better 💕
