#Life of Concrete Anchors

[fixdex-fastening-technology]

Do you know the chemical anchor service life? 20 years? 50years?

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[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐈'𝐦 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬, 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐞

virgin!sukuna x virgin!reader, modern delinquent au

request: can you write modern au!sukuna and fem reader taking each others virginity with a established relationship tags: fluff, fingering, penetration, petnames (princess, baby, babygirl), sukuna is a delinquent; @mangiswig notes: minors dni, sukuna is lowkey ooc wc: 2.0k

Despite spending a significant portion of his formative years behind bars, the weight of consequence failed to curb the rebellious spirit of Sukuna. Emerging from the confines of incarceration with a hardened demeanor and a penchant for defiance, he returned to the streets that had once ensnared him with a renewed sense of determination. To Sukuna, the rules of society were nothing more than shackles, constraining him from the freedom he craved and the life he believed he deserved.

Fuelled by a potent cocktail of resentment and bravado, Sukuna navigated the urban landscape with the swagger of someone who had stared into the abyss and refused to blink. From petty theft to brazen acts of vandalism, he left a trail of chaos in his wake, a testament to the indelible mark of his troubled past. For Sukuna, the cycle of delinquency was a familiar refrain, a symphony of defiance that echoed through the corridors of his consciousness, a reminder of the streets that had shaped him and the choices that had defined him.

Yet Sukuna found an unexpected beacon of light in the form of you, a college student whose innocence and sweetness stood in stark contrast to his own turbulent world. Your love was a fragile bloom in the midst of concrete, delicate yet resilient, defying the odds with each passing day. Drawn to your gentle spirit and unwavering kindness,Sukuna found himself navigating unfamiliar territory, his rough edges softened by the warmth of your affection.

For almost a year now, you have been the anchor in Sukuna's stormy sea, a steady presence amidst the chaos of his life. With your unwavering belief in his capacity for change and your steadfast support, you became his guiding star, illuminating the darkest corners of his soul with the light of your love. Despite the whispers of doubt that lingered in the recesses of his mind, Sukuna couldn't deny the profound impact you had on his life, your presence a balm to his weary heart.

Your love for Sukuna knew no bounds, transcending the boundaries of societal norms and expectations. Despite the whispers of caution that echoed through the halls of your mind, you refused to turn away from the tumultuous storm that raged within him. To you, Sukuna was more than just the sum of his mistakes; he was a complex tapestry of darkness and light, a flawed masterpiece in need of redemption.

While others cowered in fear at the mere mention of his name, you stood unwavering by his side, your love a shield against the slings and arrows of judgment. You understood the depths of his anger, the ferocity of his defiance, yet you chose to love him all the same. For you, love was not about changing someone into who they should be, but rather embracing them for who they were, scars and all.

The decision weighed heavily on your heart, a tender offering you longed to bestow upon Sukuna, a symbol of your unwavering commitment to your love. With trembling hands and a courage born of devotion, you found yourself standing before him, your heart laid bare in the flickering light of your shared intimacy. “I want you to take my virginity tonight, Sukuna. I’m yours, fully.”

As your words pierced the air, a surge of conflicting emotions washed over Sukuna. His heart quickened with excitement, the prospect of possessing you in such an intimate way igniting a primal fire within him. Yet, beneath the surface, a flicker of nervousness danced in the depths of his eyes, betraying the weight of responsibility he felt in this moment. There was something he never told you. Sukuna, the known and feared criminal, was a virgin himself. He didn’t have the chance to lose it since most of his teen years were spent in jail and he met you shortly after his release. Yet, Sukuna was sure that he would manage to not have to confess to his virginity. 

Yet his dominant nature surged forth, a primal instinct asserting its dominance over his senses. With a predatory gleam in his eyes, Sukunas demeanor shifted, his posture becoming more assertive, more commanding. He saw this as an opportunity to claim you, to mark you as his own in the most intimate way possible. “Get on the bed, baby”, and you followed his command.

With a magnetic pull, Sukuna led you to his bed, your eyes locked in a heated exchange of desire and anticipation. The air was charged with electricity, every touch igniting a wildfire of longing between you. As you sank into the soft embrace of the mattress, a primal hunger consumed you, driving you to explore each other with an urgency born of passion.

With a possessive grip, Sukuna claimed your lips in a searing kiss, his dominance asserting itself with every fervent movement. His hands traced the curves of your body with a possessive intensity, his touch igniting a feverish need within you. You yielded to him willingly, your own desire mingling with his in a potent cocktail of longing and surrender.

“You’re so pretty, baby. I love you so much.”

Your clothes became mere obstacles, discarded in a frenzy of desire as you bared yourselves to each other without reservation. With each caress, each whispered promise, you delved deeper into the depths of your desire, your bodies becoming one in a dance of carnal pleasure and primal need.

“You belong to me, baby. All of you. Only to me. I’ll be your first and your last.”

As your passion reached its zenith, you lost yourselves in each other, your moans of ecstasy filling the air as you surrendered to the intoxicating rhythm of your desire. In that moment, on Sukuna's bed, you were consumed by the flames of your passion, your love, a blazing inferno that burned brighter with every touch, every kiss, every whispered promise of forever.

With a possessive hunger burning in his eyes, Sukuna trailed his fingers along your trembling form, tracing the contours of your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. As he settled between your parted thighs, he felt your pulse quicken beneath his touch, your breath hitching in anticipation of the ecstasy to come.

“You’re already soaked, princess. Been waiting for this, huh?”

With a predatory grace, he teased you with feather-light caresses, his fingers dancing over your skin in a tantalizing rhythm. Your soft gasps filled the room as he explored your most intimate depths, his touch sending shivers of pleasure cascading through your body.

With each stroke, he felt you surrendering to him, your barriers crumbling in the face of his relentless desire. He relished in the power he held over you, reveling in the way you arched into his touch, your cries of pleasure music to his ears, the way your wet pussy clenched and pulsated around his slender fingers. With a primal hunger driving him forward, Sukuna delved deeper into you, his fingers becoming an extension of his own desire as he brought you to the brink of ecstasy again and again.

“Don’t cum yet, babygirl. You wanted something else inside you, remember? Do you still want it?”

“Y–yes…ahh…f–fuck, yes, please, Sukuna.”

As Sukuna's touch grew bolder, you surrendered completely to the sensations coursing through your body. With each deliberate stroke of his fingers, you melted further into submission, your moans filling the air as you abandoned yourself to the overwhelming pleasure he bestowed upon you.

Your body quivered with every skilled movement, each sensation amplified by the electric tension that crackled between you. Your  breath hitched with every caress, your heart racing as you surrendered to the blissful torment of his dominance.

With a possessive hunger burning in his eyes, Sukuna reveled in the sight of you laid bare before him, your submissive surrender stoking the flames of his desire to new heights. Your moans of pure lust were like a siren's song, drawing him deeper into the abyss of his own primal urges.

Driven by an insatiable hunger, Sukuna's touch grew more demanding, more possessive, his own arousal building with each intoxicating sound that escaped your lips. With each whimper of pleasure, he felt the intoxicating rush of power surging through his veins, his dominance asserting itself with an almost feral intensity.

“I think you’re ready, baby.”

Sukuna positioned himself above you, your submissive form trembling with anticipation beneath him. With a possessive grip, he guided himself to your entrance, the throbbing heat of his arousal pressing against your quivering flesh. As he poised himself at the threshold of your innocence, a fierce determination coursed through him, driving him forward with an urgency born of primal desire. With a forceful thrust, he pushed himself inside your pussy, the sensation of your tight warmth enveloping him like a velvet vice.

“Oh– Fuck…fuck, it’s tight. You feel so fucking good, baby.”

You gasped at the intrusion, your body tensing with a mixture of pleasure and pain. With each powerful thrust, Sukuna claimed you as his own, his dominant nature asserting itself with every primal movement. As you moved together in a primal dance of passion and possession, Sukuna felt a surge of ecstasy and lust coursing through him. You felt so good stretching around him, he could feel your heartbeat through your wet, tight cunt.

As your bodies intertwined in the fervor of your passion, Sukuna's arousal reached a crescendo, the intensity of the moment threatening to overwhelm him entirely. With each hard, deep thrust, he felt himself teetering on the edge of ecstasy, his primal instincts driving him ever closer to the brink. He pounded into you like a wild animal, feeling the undying urge to not only claim your soul as his but also your body.

“Oh fuck…oh fuck no.”

But then, in a sudden and unexpected rush, Sukuna's control slipped away, his body betraying him in the most primal of ways. With a gasp of disbelief, he felt his release wash over him, his climax crashing over him with a force that left him trembling in its wake.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Sukuna grappled with the intensity of his own pleasure, his body pulsing with the aftershocks of his release. And as he collapsed against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he realized with a sinking feeling that he had cum far sooner than he had anticipated.

“…’kuna?”, your eyes shot wide, feeling him release his hot cum inside you. Usually it takes you far longer to get him to finish with your mouth. 

In the hazy aftermath of their passion, Sukuna's heart raced with a mixture of embarrassment and shame, his mind reeling with the realization that he had revealed his virginity in the most humiliating of ways. And as he looked into your eyes, he saw the confusion and concern reflected in your gaze, knowing that he would have to find a way to explain himself, even as his own insecurities threatened to consume him. Slowly he pulled out and grabbed the box of tissues next to his bed to clean you up.

With a heavy heart, he knew that he couldn't keep his secret any longer, not from you, not from the woman he loved more than life itself.

Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, Sukuna steeled himself for the confession that weighed heavily upon his soul. With slightly trembling hands and a voice thick with emotion, he reached out to you, his eyes searching yours for understanding and acceptance.

"Baby," he began, his words coming out in a rush as he struggled to find the right ones. "I need to tell you something...something I should have told you before."

As he spoke, Sukuna felt the weight of his secret lifting from his shoulders, replaced by a sense of vulnerability unlike anything he had ever known. With each word, he bared his soul to you, revealing the truth of his inexperience, his virginity laid bare for you to see.

To his surprise, your reaction was not one of judgment or scorn, but of compassion and understanding. With a gentle touch, you reached out to him, your eyes filled with love and acceptance.

"Sukuna," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper. "It doesn't matter to me. What matters is us, and the love we share. I’m yours and you’re mine."

[fangdokja]

🔞"I trusted you, wife, and now I'll teach you what betrayal feels like."

❤︎ Synopsis. Caught in a web of lies, a spy's double life unravels when her mafia husband discovers her betrayal—turning their love into a merciless game of dominance, vengeance, and obsession. She was his wife, his possession, and now, his prisoner.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Russian! Mafia Boss x Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 -The Enemy in His Bed

♡ Word Count. 8,853

♡ TW. non-con, rape, blood play, forced oral, fear play, knife play, needle play, heavy bodily injury, slut shaming, objectification, psychological torment, actual torture methods, mature language, humiliation, degradation, forced orgasms, sadism, BDSM, groping, biting, bondage, nudity, fire play, gagging, physical assault and violence, choking / breath play

You are in a room that reeks of blood and mildew, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your lungs. The faint hum of a fluorescent bulb flickering above casts the space in a sickly yellow light, illuminating the cold, concrete walls streaked with rust-colored stains. You’re tied to a chair—no, anchored. The ropes around your wrists and ankles are so tight you can feel the pulse of your blood struggling beneath them, the fibers cutting deep into your flesh. Your breathing is shallow, ragged, your chest rising and falling as if every breath might be your last.

He stands in front of you, a towering figure cloaked in shadow. His silhouette is broad and unyielding, the kind of presence that fills every corner of the room with an oppressive weight. This man—the man who used to call you lyubov moya—is no longer the husband you once knew. The ruthless Russian mafia boss whose name is whispered like a curse. His eyes, dark as pitch, are fixed on you with a predator’s focus, glinting with something primal, something vile. He’s not here to forgive. He’s here to destroy.

“Do you feel it?” His voice is low, gravelly, but it carries the force of an earthquake. He steps closer, the sound of his boots hitting the floor like a countdown. “That crawling under your skin? That’s fear. That’s regret. And yet, you still sit there,” he hisses, his tone sharp enough to flay skin, “with that fucking look in your eyes.”

His hand shoots out, grabbing your chin with bruising force. His thumb digs into the soft flesh just below your cheekbone, forcing your face upward. The light catches his features, and for a moment, you see the rage carved into every hard line of his face. But it’s his eyes that terrify you most. They’re dead things, black holes where love once flickered.

“You betrayed me,” he snarls, the words laced with venom. His grip tightens, and you hear the faint crackle of cartilage in your jaw. “My wife. My fucking wife. And all this time, you were a spy. An actress in my bed, a liar in my world.” He releases you with a violent shove, and your head snaps back, the base of your skull colliding with the chair’s hard frame. Pain blooms, hot and electric, as blood trickles from your nose, the metallic tang filling your mouth.

The room is silent except for the sound of his breathing, heavy and deliberate, like a beast stalking its prey. He circles you now, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he asks, his voice quieter but infinitely more dangerous. He crouches down beside you, the leather of his gloves creaking as he pulls a blade from his belt. It’s thin, surgical, the kind of tool meant for precision rather than brute force. “Did you think I wouldn’t break you?”

The blade glides along your collarbone, its edge so sharp it almost feels cold. He presses just enough for the skin to part, a shallow cut that wells with blood and sends a sharp sting radiating through your nerves. “This is just the beginning,” he whispers, his lips so close to your ear you can feel the heat of his breath. “You don’t get to die yet. Not until I’ve carved every secret out of you. Not until you understand what betrayal costs.”

Your pulse is erratic, hammering in your chest as he stands again, looming over you like some ancient lord of vengeance. His fist connects with your cheek, and the world spins, your vision blurring as pain explodes across your face. Blood spatters across the floor in a violent arc, warm and sticky as it drips from the corner of your mouth.

“Where’s your defiance now?” he growls, his voice shaking with fury. He grabs a fistful of your hair, wrenching your head back so your gaze meets his. “You want to look brave, milaya, but I know better. I can see it in your eyes. You’re already breaking.”

His lips curl into a cruel smile as he lets go, letting your head drop forward. The room seems to tilt, the edges of your vision darkening, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of your surrender. Not yet. Not while there’s still air in your lungs.

But he’s not done. He won’t be until every inch of you is stripped raw, every nerve exposed and screaming. He reaches for a switch on the wall, and with a flick, the room is bathed in red light. It casts his shadow on the walls, grotesque and distorted, like a demon looming over the damned.

────────────

The door creaks open, and a figure, one of his subordinates, enters the room, dragging a metal tray laden with an assortment of cruel instruments. Your heart races as the cold steel glints under the flickering lights, each tool designed for a specific kind of torment.

The Russian mafia boss nods curtly, his eyes never leaving yours as the man sets the tray down with a clatter. "You're going to tell me everything," he says, his voice low and deadly.

"And then, I'm going to show you what it means to betray the one who gave you everything." He leans in, his hot breath on your neck, his grip on your chin painful.

"But first, I want you to remember what you used to be to me," he murmurs, the words a dark caress that sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand travels down, cupping your bruised cheek before sliding down to grasp your throat. You swallow hard, the fear rising like bile in your throat, but you refuse to show it. He squeezes, the pressure increasing until your eyes water, but you don't make a sound, not even a whimper.

His eyes narrow in frustration before he releases you, the hand moving to grip your jaw instead, forcing your mouth open.

With a sneer, he brings his face closer, his stubble scraping against your skin as he whispers, "You were once my sweet little bird, singing only for me. Now, you're a caged whore for the highest bidder." He slams his mouth down on yours, his kiss bruising and possessive.

You taste the rage and desperation in him, and for a fleeting moment, you feel a pang of pity.

But it's quickly replaced with a fiery resolve to survive, to somehow escape his clutches.

His tongue forces its way into your mouth, and you bite down, hard. He pulls back with a growl of annoyance, but instead of releasing you, he laughs, a dark, chilling sound. "Good girl," he says, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

"You still have some fight left in you." His eyes scan the tray, and he selects a pair of pliers. "Let's see how much you can take."

He reaches for your shirt, his fingers deftly unbuttoning it despite your struggling. The fabric tears away from your body, exposing your bruised and bound breasts. He squeezes them, watching the pain flicker in your eyes with a twisted pleasure. "These used to be mine," he says, his voice filled with a sadistic glee. He leans in again, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "But now, I'll make sure no one else ever touches them again."

The air in the dimly lit room reeked of sweat and copper, a metallic tang that coated your tongue as you gasped for breath. His shadow loomed large, an oppressive specter that seemed to drink in your pain. The pliers in his hand gleamed under the flickering light—a surgeon’s precision wrapped in a sadist’s grip.

His voice slithered through the silence, low and venomous. “Tell me,” he hissed, his words thick with cruelty, “whose touch you’ve dared to crave besides mine.”

Your chest rose and fell, trembling under his gaze. You held your tongue, the taste of defiance as bitter as bile. His jaw tightened. Then, without hesitation, he snapped the cold steel jaws of the pliers onto your right nipple.

The first twist came like lightning, sharp and blinding, a searing current that jolted through your body. The delicate tissues twisted under the unyielding bite of the metal, the nerve endings igniting like fireworks. You clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached, your scream lodged in your throat like a jagged stone.

He leaned in closer, his breath an unwanted warmth against your cheek. “Still stubborn, aren’t we?” he murmured, his tone laced with mockery and dark amusement. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The second twist was slower, deliberate—a calculated cruelty that made your skin crawl. He pulled, the pliers dragging the sensitive flesh in directions it was never meant to go. You could feel the tissue straining, tearing, fibers unraveling like the threads of a fragile tapestry.

Your vision swam, black spots blooming like ink blots against the edges of your sight. He laughed softly, the sound of a predator savoring its kill. “Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Even in pain, you’re mine. Always mine.”

The climax of his sadistic art came with a grotesque pop, the sound of tissue surrendering to force. The pain was an inferno, all-consuming, burning through every nerve as he wrenched the nipple free from your body. Warm blood spilled in rivulets, pooling on the filthy floor beneath you. The ruined flesh hung like a torn petal before he carelessly tossed it aside, letting it hit the ground with a wet slap.

He stepped back, his gaze fixed on your bloodied chest—a grotesque canvas of raw meat and trembling sinew. The shredded skin wept crimson tears, each droplet sliding down to trace the curve of your ribs. The room tilted; your body screamed for reprieve, but there was none to be had.

“You’re breathtaking like this,” he said softly, running a gloved hand over your mutilated breast. His touch was clinical, detached, as if admiring the precision of his own handiwork. “But we’re far from finished.”

The metal tray clattered as he reached for his next tool—a scalpel, gleaming with sterile menace. But before he could wield it, he paused, considering. With a dark smile, he reached instead for the salt.

The coarse grains glittered like tiny shards of glass as he grabbed a fistful. “Let’s ensure you remember this moment,” he whispered, and then he scattered the salt into the gaping wound.

It was as if the salt detonated on contact, each granule a fresh explosion of agony. Your body bucked involuntarily, the ropes digging into your wrists as you thrashed against your bindings. The scream that tore from your throat was raw and primal, reverberating off the walls like a wounded animal’s last cry.

His smile widened, a cruel crescent etched into his face. “Much better,” he said, almost soothingly. “Now we’re making progress.”

The pliers returned, their jaws still slick with blood as they moved to your remaining nipple. This time, you could see the shadow of his intent, the cold malice in his eyes as he clamped down. The pain came like a tidal wave, drowning you in its depths as he twisted, pulled, and twisted again.

The nipple tore loose with a sickening crunch, cartilage snapping, blood spurting in a violent arc. Your chest was no longer your own—it was a ravaged landscape of gore, a grotesque testament to his control. The raw, exposed tissue oozed and quivered, a mockery of what it once was.

He stepped back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes drinking in the destruction he’d wrought. “You’re exquisite when you break,” he murmured, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t worry, little wife. There’s so much more of you left to ruin.”

You hung limp in the chair, your body trembling, every nerve ablaze. Your silence persisted, but his words lingered, curling around you like smoke, a promise of horrors yet to come.

────────────

The mafia boss steps back, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes never leaving the destruction he's wrought upon your body. His hand reaches down to adjust his crotch, where a noticeable bulge has formed.

He's enjoying this, the sadist, getting off on your suffering.

"You're going to scream for me," he says, his voice low and filled with a primal hunger. "You're going to beg for me to stop. And when you do, I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He moves to stand in front of you, his pants tenting obscenely. He unbuckles his belt, the leather making a harsh sound as it's pulled from the loops, the anticipation in the air thick and suffocating. He unbuttons his pants, and his cock springs free, hard and angry. He strokes it, the motion taunting you, a silent challenge to see how much more you can endure.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a whip crack that slices through the pain.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction, keeping your eyes cast down, focusing on the puddle of blood forming around your chair.

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. "Look at what you've done to me," he snarls. "You've turned me into a monster."

He steps closer, pressing his cock against your bruised and bleeding chest, the heat from his arousal a stark contrast to the cold steel of the pliers still digging into your skin. He grinds against you, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a mix of anger and lust. "You're going to take every inch of me until you remember who you are."

With a brutal yank, he twists the pliers on your nipples even more so, and you feel your body convulse in a silent scream.

He takes the opportunity to force himself inside your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. "Suck it," he orders, his hand fisted in your hair, pushing your face closer to his crotch.

With a burst of defiance, you clamp down on his cock with your teeth, biting as hard as you can, feeling the warm flesh between your teeth, the taste of his pre-cum mixing with the coppery tang of your own blood.

He roars in a mix of pain and pleasure, his grip on your hair tightening as he thrusts deeper into your mouth.

The mafia boss’s eyes widen in shock, but the arousal in them doesn't waver. Instead, it seems to intensify, his pupils dilating with a dark excitement.

"Fuck, you little bitch," he growls, his voice a mix of anger and desire. "You're going to regret that." His hand moves from your hair to the back of your head, pushing down harder, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a sickening rhythm.

You refuse to give in, biting down again, the pain in your breasts and the metallic taste of blood only fueling your resolve to fight back.

He responds by slamming your head into the chair, stars exploding across your vision, but you don't let go. The pain radiates through your skull, but you hold on, biting even harder.

The Russian's hand trembles with a mix of rage and arousal as he pours an unmerciful amount of salt into the gaping wounds on your chest.

The agony is instant and overwhelming, your body arching off the chair as the salt sears into your flesh, setting every nerve ending alight with pain.

The scream that rips from your throat is muffled by his thick cock, still lodged in your mouth. His grip on the back of your head tightens even more, his hips jerking as your teeth graze his shaft, the scream vibrating along his length.

He watches your face contort in torment, his own expression a twisted blend of love and hatred. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Scream for me."

He pours more salt, the grains falling like a sadistic rain upon your ravaged breasts. Your teeth clench around his cock as you fight back the urge to pass out from the pain. Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears stream down your face, mixing with the blood and saliva that coats your chin. He seems to revel in your suffering, his thrusts becoming more erratic, his breaths more ragged.

The henchman, his eyes wide and slightly horrified, watches from the corner, unsure of what to do. The Russian mafia boss, noticing his employee's discomfort, turns to him with a wicked smile. "You want a taste?" he asks, his voice a dark promise.

The man shakes his head, unable to tear his gaze away from the macabre scene unfolding before him. The mafia boss laughs, a low, chilling sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Then get the fuck out," he snaps. "I'll handle this one."

The henchman nods hastily, retreating from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You're alone with the monster you once called your husband.

The salt has stopped falling, but the pain remains, a constant reminder of your betrayal and his wrath.

He pulls back a bit, panting heavily, his cock still hard and slick with your saliva. He looks at your destroyed breasts with a twisted kind of fascination, the blood and salt creating a gruesome tableau. "You're so beautiful when you scream," he murmurs, his voice almost tender.

His hand reaches out to trace the edge of one of the wounds, his touch surprisingly gentle amidst the chaos.

You flinch away, the slightest of movements, but it's enough to snap him out of his daze.

The mafia boss’s hand clamps down on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him again. His eyes are dark with lust and anger, a storm brewing in their depths. "You're going to pay for every lie," he says, his voice a promise of unspeakable torment.

He then pulls his cock from your mouth with a wet pop, the sound echoing through the room. You gasp for air, your throat raw from his rough treatment. He steps back, his gaze traveling down your body, taking in every bruise and tear. "But not before I make you feel everything I felt when I found out you were whoring around."

He grabs you by the hair, yanking you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles making you stumble. He pulls you to the tray of instruments, his eyes lingering on a long, thin knife.

The blade glitters in the light, a silent threat of the pain to come. He picks it up, his hand steady, his movements deliberate. "You're going to tell me who else has had you," he says, the knife hovering just above your skin. "Every name, every touch, every time you spread your legs for someone who wasn't me."

His grip tightens, his thumb tracing a line along your jaw. "And for every lie, I'll make sure you feel it here," he says, pressing the knife against your throat, the cold steel a stark reminder of the power he holds over you.

You stand before him, your body shaking with pain and fear, but you refuse to speak.

The Russian's eyes narrow, and he presses the knife harder, a thin line of blood welling up. "Tell me," he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

But you remain silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes locked on his.

He sighs, a sound filled with disappointment and resentment. "Very well," he says, moving the knife to your chest.

He slices through your shredded shirt, the fabric giving way easily to reveal your bruised and bloodied skin. "If you won't tell me willingly, I'll make you confess."

He starts to cut, the blade digging into your flesh, tracing patterns of agony across your stomach and ribs. You bite your lip, the pain a living entity consuming you, but you refuse to break.

He pauses, looking up at you with a mix of admiration and anger. "You're so stubborn," he murmurs, almost to himself. "I used to love that about you."

His hand moves lower, the knife grazing your navel, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. You can feel your body responding despite the pain, a traitorous arousal building within you. He notices and smirks, the knife moving lower, hovering just above the fabric of your pants. "But now, it's just another reason to make you suffer."

With a quick movement, he slices through the fabric, exposing your nakedness to the cold room. He traces the edge of the knife along the line of your underwear, the threat of what's to come clear in his eyes. "You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a seductive whisper. "Or I'll start peeling you like a damn orange."

You force yourself to remain still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flinch.

He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he presses the knife against your inner thigh, the tip just barely breaking the surface. "Who else has been here?" he asks, his voice a dark caress.

You bite down on your tongue, tasting blood, but still you don't speak. The mafia boss’s eyes flash with anger, and he presses harder, the blade cutting through your skin. You grit your teeth, willing yourself not to scream, not to give in.

With a snarl of frustration, he slices through your underwear, the fabric falling away to reveal your most vulnerable areas. His hand moves to cup your pussy, his grip bruising. "So wet," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

"Do you get off on the pain I give you?" He strokes you roughly, the knife still pressing against your thigh, a constant reminder of the power he holds. "Or is it the fear?"

His thumb brushes against your clit, and despite the horror of the situation, you feel yourself respond. It's a traitorous betrayal of your own body, but you can't help it; his touch has always had this effect on you.

"You're mine," he says, his voice a low growl. "You'll always be mine." His hand moves from your pussy to your throat, squeezing tightly. You gasp for air, your eyes watering as he forces you to look at him.

"Say it," he demands. "Say you're mine."

You refuse, the word 'no' lodged in your throat, unspoken but clear.

His grip tightens, your vision swimming, but you stand firm, your resolve unbroken. He laughs, the sound a chilling echo in the room. "Fine," he says, his voice a harsh whisper. "We'll do this the hard way."

The mafias boss’s patience is at an end, his rage and lust boiling over. He yanks the knife away from your throat, the sharp tip of the blade leaving a trail of fire across your skin as he moves it downward.

With a quick, violent thrust, he pushes the knife into your pussy, the cold steel parting your wet folds with ease.

You scream, the sound a mix of agony and despair, your body trembling as he uses the knife to fuck you.

He's merciless, his strokes deep and hard, the blade sliding in and out of your tight hole, the edges scraping against your inner walls with each brutal thrust. You can feel the warmth of your blood mingling with your arousal, the sensation making you want to gag.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispers, his breath hot on your ear. "You like it when I hurt you. Fucking masochist." His free hand snakes around your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you on the edge of consciousness.

"You're such a good little slut, taking it all." He continues to use the knife, his knife thrusts growing more erratic as he gets closer to climax.

"Tell me," he grunts, his voice strained. "Tell me who you've been fucking." But you remain silent, your teeth clenched in a silent snarl of defiance.

The room spins around you, the pain in your breasts and the invasion of the knife in your pussy making it difficult to think straight.

Yet, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

The Russian's grip on the knife tightens, his strokes growing faster, harder. "I'll make you talk," he says, his voice a dark promise. "You can't hide from me forever."

The knife twists, hitting a particularly sensitive spot, and you can't help the scream that tears from your throat. He smiles, the sight of your pain seemingly pushing him closer to the edge.

As you feel the world fading around you, the older man’s grip on your throat tightens, his eyes wild with a mix of anger and arousal.

He slams the knife into your pussy one final time, the pain so intense you think you might actually pass out.

But just as the darkness begins to claim you, he pulls the knife out, the absence of the cold steel leaving you feeling violated and empty.

He throws the knife aside, his own breaths ragged and desperate, his cock pulsing with need.

"Fine," he snarls, his voice a harsh rasp. "We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

With a quick movement, he unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. He grabs your hips, spinning you around so that you face the chair, your destroyed breasts pressed against the cold metal. He kicks your legs apart, and you feel the tip of his cock nudge against your bruised and bloodied entrance.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his breath hot against your neck. "You're going to tell me every name, every face, every cock that's been inside you."

His hand moves to the back of your head, pushing down until you're bent over the chair, your ass in the air. "And when you do, I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget them all."

His cock slams into you without warning, the pain so intense you can't help but cry out.

He's rough, his movements punishing, his anger and pain manifesting in every thrust. You can feel him stretching you, filling you completely, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see stars.

The Russian's cock slams into you with the force of a battering ram, the pain so intense it steals your breath away. He's not gentle; every thrust is a declaration of his dominance, a punishment for your silence.

Your body shakes with the impact, your bruised breasts smacking against the cold metal chair, the pain from the fresh wounds sending jolts of agony through your system. His hands are like iron bars, holding your hips in place as he uses you, his grip bruising your skin.

Each time he pulls out, you feel the warm gush of your blood and arousal, mixing with the sticky mess he's creating inside you.

"Who else?" he snarls, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain is a white-hot brand, but you refuse to give him what he wants.

Instead, you spit in his face, the saliva mixing with the sweat and blood that coats his skin.

He rears back, his eyes flashing with fury, and then he slams into you again, his hips moving like pistons, his cock a weapon of torment. "You think you can resist me?" he growls, his voice a dark whisper that sends shivers down your spine. "I'll make you beg for mercy, cunt."

You bite back a scream as he hits your g-spot, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses your body for his own sadistic pleasure. You can feel him thickening inside you, his orgasm building with every punishing thrust. "Tell me!" he roars, his hand reaching around to squeeze your throat again, cutting off your air supply.

"Tell me who you've been fucking, and maybe I'll let you live." Your eyes bulge, your nails clawing at the chair as you fight the urge to pass out.

After a particularly brutal thrust, the mafia boss releases your throat, and you gasp for air, your lungs burning. "You're going to tell me," he whispers, his voice a promise of more pain to come. "You're going to tell me, or I'll make sure you never feel anything but pain again."

His grip on your hips tightens, and he starts to move faster, his cock pistoning in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound. You feel your body betraying you, your walls clenching around his shaft despite the pain, the traitorous orgasm building within you.

"Never," you croak out, your voice barely a whisper.

It's all you can manage, but it's enough to fuel his rage. He slams into you again, his cock hitting a spot that makes you see white. "You're mine," he says, his voice a harsh rasp. "You've always been mine."

His hand moves from your hip to your clit, and he starts to rub it roughly, the friction sending sparks of pain through your body. "You're going to come for me," he says, his voice a dark command. "And then you're going to tell me everything."

Your body is pushed to its limits as the Russian's relentless assault continues. Each thrust feels like a hot iron rod being driven into your soul, the pain unbearable as your body is stretched and filled with his monstrous cock.

The sound of your flesh slapping against his is like a grim symphony of agony, echoing through the cold, sterile room. You can feel your insides tearing, the warmth of your blood mixing with his seed, a grim reminder of his ownership over you. His hand on your clit is a sadistic maestro's touch, forcing pleasure from your bruised and abused body despite the pain.

"Tell me!" he roars, his grip on your hips like vice. "Tell me who's been inside you, and maybe I'll stop." His voice is desperate now, a mix of anger and love warring within him, his need for control overshadowing any shred of humanity he might have once had.

But you remain silent, your eyes squeezed shut, your mind a haze of torment. The only sound in the room is the harsh grunts of his exertion and your muffled whimpers.

The mafia boss’s sadistic stroking of your clit reaches a crescendo, and despite the agony of your injuries, your body responds to his command. You cum around his cock, your muscles clenching tightly, trying to push him out even as they pull him deeper.

He groans in victory, feeling your pussy pulse and spasm around him, his own orgasm building. He fucks you harder, his hand moving faster, his thumb pressing down mercilessly on your clit, forcing wave after wave of unwanted pleasure through your trembling form. You scream, the sound a mix of pain and climax, your body shaking as you cum for the second time, blood and fluids painting the chair beneath you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking beautiful when you're in pain."

He doesn't stop, his thrusts growing more frantic as he chases his own release. You feel his cock thicken, his grip on your hips tightening until it's almost painful. "Again," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "Cum for me again." And despite yourself, you do, your body responding to the twisted game he's playing with your emotions and your pain.

The mafia man’s orgasm hits like a freight train, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with his seed. You feel the warmth of his cum mixing with your blood, the sensation making you want to retch.

But you stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing your despair.

He pulls out, his cock slick with your blood and his cum, and you collapse onto the chair, your legs giving out beneath you. You're sobbing now, the pain and humiliation too much to hold in.

He stands over you, his chest heaving, his cock still hard and glistening. "Look at what you've done to yourself," he says, his voice a mix of anger and pity.

"This is what happens when you betray me." He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head up so you have to meet his gaze.

His eyes are wild, the love and hurt swirling together in a toxic brew. "But I can fix you," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"I can make you mine again." He releases you, and you slump back down, your head hanging limply.

The mafia boss stares down at you, his chest heaving with his own release. The rage in his eyes hasn't dimmed, but there's something else there now. Something that looks almost like hope.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration. "You're still fighting." He steps closer, his hand reaching out to trace the line of your jaw, his touch gentle despite the bruises he's left there.

"But you can't win, my love."

You spit in his face again, the defiance burning in your eyes like a dying ember.

It's all you have left, and you cling to it with everything you have.

He wipes the spit away with the back of his hand, his smile twisted. "Oh, how I've missed your fire," he says, his voice a low growl. He grabs you by the shoulders, spinning you around to face him. "But it's time to put it out."

With a swift movement, he pulls you to your feet, the ropes around your ankles cutting into your skin as you stand. He yanks your torn shirt up, the fabric sticking to your blood-covered breasts.

His eyes travel over your body, a mix of hunger and disgust. "You're a mess," he says, his voice filled with contempt. "But I'll make you clean again."

He pulls you closer, his cock still hard against your stomach. "You're going to tell me," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "And when you do, I'll make you forget all about them."

The Russian's eyes gleam with a dark excitement as he takes in your bruised and bloodied form. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat.

His free hand reaches down to a specific part of his belt, unbuckling it with a sharp click that echoes through the room. He then pulls out a set of keys from it and unlocks a drawer in the desk, revealing an assortment of whips, chains, and other tools of torture. His hand lingers over them, a sadistic smile playing on his lips as he selects a particularly vicious-looking whip.

The mafia boss selects the spiked whip, the leather crackling with anticipation. He takes a moment to appreciate the gleaming metal spikes, the sight of them making your stomach churn. He grabs a bottle of vodka from the same drawer, the clear liquid sloshing in the bottle as he brings it to your blood-soaked crotch.

You try to jerk away, but his grip on your hair is unyielding. With a cruel smirk, he pours the alcohol over your wounds, the stinging pain making your vision swim.

You scream as the liquid seeps into your freshly torn flesh, the coldness of the vodka a stark contrast to the heat of your blood.

He doesn't give you a chance to recover, instead bringing the whip down in a vicious arc that connects with your bruised and abused pussy with a wet slap.

The pain is a white-hot brand, searing through you as the spikes tear into your sensitive flesh.

You can feel the alcohol burning into your wounds, a fresh agony added to the symphony of pain already playing in your body.

He doesn't stop there, though; he brings the whip down again and again, each strike more precise and brutal than the last.

You thrash in his grip, trying to escape the torment, but he's too strong, too determined to break you. His strikes are methodical, a twisted dance of pain and power, the whip's spikes digging deeper with every hit.

The mafia boss then wraps the end of the whip around your throat, the spikes biting into your tender flesh as he squeezes, cutting off your air supply. You claw at his wrist, your nails leaving bloody furrows in his skin, but he only tightens his grip.

Your eyes bulge, your chest heaving for air that won't come, your vision swimming with stars.

He leans in, his breath hot against your face, his eyes gleaming with a sick satisfaction as he watches the life drain from you. "Tell me," he whispers, his voice a dark promise of more pain if you don't.

But you refuse to give in, even as your lungs burn and your chest feels like it's going to explode.

Your hands fall to your sides, your body going limp in his grip, the only sound in the room the wet, gurgling noise of your struggles. He holds you there for a moment longer, watching you with a twisted fascination before finally letting go.

You gasp for air, your throat raw and burning, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth. He smiles, a twisted parody of affection, and pulls out another tool from the drawer.

It's a metal rod, the end shaped into a cruel hook.

"This," he says, his voice a dark purr, "Is for when you decide to be more… cooperative."

He steps closer, the rod in his hand glinting in the harsh light of the room.

You can see your reflection in the gleaming surface, a broken doll covered in blood and sweat. He runs the hook over your skin, tracing the curves of your body with a featherlight touch that's somehow more terrifying than the pain of the whip.

"You're going to tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that's more unsettling than his previous roars. "And when you do, I'll make it all better."

You spit blood in his face again, your voice a harsh whisper. "Never."

The word is a declaration of war, a challenge he seems to relish.

He laughs, a sound devoid of humor, and brings the hook closer to your pussy.

"We'll see about that," he murmurs, the hook pressing against your bruised and swollen flesh.

You tense, expecting the worst, but he surprises you by sliding it along your slit, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of your pain. The mafia boss uses the hook to spread your labia, exposing the raw, bloody mess he's made of your most intimate parts.

"Look at this," he says, his voice filled with a twisted admiration. "You're so beautiful when you're broken."

He leans in, his breath hot against your skin as he runs the tip of the hook along your clit. The sensation is so intense, you almost pass out from the pain.

"But you're going to be even more beautiful when you're mine again."

He pushes the hook inside you, the spikes scraping along the inside of your pussy, and you scream hysterically, your body arching in agony.

The mafia boss’s smile widens as he watches you writhe in pain, the hook still embedded in your pussy. He takes a step back, admiring his handiwork, and then reaches for a small, black case on the desk.

Inside, you see a collection of needles, glinting in the cold light of the room.

His eyes never leave yours as he selects one, long and thin, with a wicked curve at the end. You can feel your body tightening around the hook, your muscles spasming in a futile attempt to push it out.

"This is for when you're feeling particularly uncooperative," he says, his voice a dark purr. He takes the needle between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently.

"But I suspect you're going to be feeling quite cooperative very soon." He brings the needle closer to your pussy, the curve lining up with your clit.

You can feel the sharpness of the tip against your swollen flesh, and you fight the urge to beg him to stop.

But you won't give him that power.

With a swift, precise movement, he inserts the needle, the point piercing your clit and sliding deep into your pussy.

The pain is like nothing you've ever felt before, a searing agony that makes you want to pass out.

You scream, your body jerking against the chair, but he holds you steady, his grip unyielding. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal.

"Take it like the good little whore you are." He starts to move the needle, twisting it inside you, the curve scraping along your inner walls.

Each twist sends a fresh wave of pain through you, making you want to vomit.

The mafia boss steps back, admiring his work, as you sob and whimper in pain. "You see," he says, his voice almost gentle, "It doesn't have to be this way. Tell me what I want to know, and I can make this all stop."

But you stay silent, your teeth clenched, your eyes squeezed shut.

He sighs, the sound filled with disappointment. "Very well," he says, his voice cold again. "But you're going to wish you had talked sooner."

He selects another needle from the case, his eyes never leaving yours.

He brings it to your pussy, the tip hovering just above your clit. "I'll give you one more chance," he says, his voice a deadly whisper. "Tell me who's been fucking you, and maybe I'll go easy on you."

You remain silent, your chest heaving with the effort of holding back your screams.

With a shrug, he pushes the second needle in alongside the first, the sensation of the sharp points tearing through your tender flesh making you want to pass out.

The Russian's eyes darken as he watches your silent defiance.

He starts to play with the needles, twisting and moving them with a precision that speaks of practice and skill. You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing your pain.

"So stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a mix of admiration and anger. "But you'll break eventually." He grabs another handful of needles, his eyes traveling over your body, considering where to insert them next. You can feel the cold sweat trickling down your back, the pain making your vision blur.

The mafia boss’s hand moves with the precision of a surgeon, inserting needle after needle into your pussy. Each one sinks into your flesh with a sickening pop, the pain so intense you feel like you're being torn apart from the inside.

You're a pincushion of pain, each movement sending a fresh wave of agony through your body.

The needles are inserted at different angles, some going deep while others skim the surface, the varying depths creating a tapestry of torment that makes you want to scream.

Then the Russian's hand moves with a newfound fervor, the needles sliding into your flesh with an eerie grace.

The hook remains lodged deep inside you, the spikes scraping along your swollen walls as he twists it in a sickening rhythm that matches the insertion of the needles.

The pain is so intense, it feels like your entire body is on fire, your pussy a focal point of agony that threatens to consume you.

You feel the wetness of your blood mixing with the lubricant he's used, creating a macabre dance of red and clear fluids that dribble down your thighs.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispers, his voice a dark promise. "You've always been mine, and you always will be."

His words are a knife, twisting in the wound of your soul, as he adds another needle, the metal scraping against the hook with an almost musical sound. You can feel the sharp points digging in deeper, the pain an almost tangible presence in the room. "Tell me," he says, his voice a gentle coaxing that makes your skin crawl. "Tell me who's been fucking my wife."

The mafia boss slightly smirks, stepping back from you, as his eyes gleaming with a twisted excitement.

He reaches for a small, red canister on the desk, the label written in a language you don't recognize.

You know what it is, though; you've seen it used in interrogations before. It's a can of lighter fluid, and you know what he's planning.

He douses the needles and the hook with the fluid, the harsh smell of the gasoline-like substance filling the room.

Your heart races, fear mixing with the pain as he takes a step back and flicks open a lighter.

The flame dances in the air, the light flickering over the needles embedded in your pussy, making the metal glint ominously.

"This is your last chance," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me, and I'll make it quick."

The flame hovers near the needles, the heat making your skin crawl. You clench your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the unimaginable agony that's about to come. "Who have you been fucking?" he demands again.

But you stay silent, your resolve unbroken despite the hell you're enduring.

With a snarl of frustration, he brings the flame closer, the heat growing more intense until it's almost unbearable.

You can feel your skin blistering around the base of the needles, the smell of burning flesh making you gag.

The mafia boss’s hand hovers over the needles, the flame reflecting in his eyes. "Fine," he says, his voice cold. "You want to play the martyr, I'll give you a performance to remember."

In one swift motion, he presses the lighter to the needles.

The fluid catches fire, the heat searing through your pussy in an explosion of agony that makes you arch off the chair.

You scream, the sound echoing through the room as the flames dance along the metal, the heat spreading through your insides like molten lava. The mafia boss watches you burn, his expression a twisted mix of anger and fascination.

The needles glow red-hot, the heat so intense it feels like your soul is being torn from your body. You can feel the flesh around the hook contracting, the spikes and needles digging deeper with each spasm of pain.

The flames lick at your tender flesh, the pain so intense that it's all you can focus on.

Your screams fill the room, a cacophony of agony and despair that seems to echo off the walls.

The mafia boss watches, his eyes alight with a perverse excitement as he sees you finally break.

Your body jerks and spasms against the chair, the ropes cutting into your skin as you struggle to escape the fire.

The needles are embedded so deeply now, the metal searing your insides as the flames dance around them.

The smell of your burning flesh fills the room, a sickeningly sweet aroma that makes your stomach churn.

────────────

The flames from the needles flicker and die out, leaving behind smoking metal embedded in your burnt flesh. The hook remains lodged deep inside you, a constant reminder of his dominance.

Your body is a wreck, a canvas of bruises, cuts, and burns, a testament to the extreme lengths he's willing to go to break you. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, each inhale a battle against the pain that threatens to swallow you whole.

The mafia boss’s smile fades as he watches you slip into unconsciousness, your body a broken doll in the chair.

He sighs, his frustration clear as he puts out the last of the flames with a damp cloth. He's impressed by your endurance, by the sheer force of your will to survive and not give him what he wants.

But he's not done with you yet.

He can't be.

You're his, and he won't let you die until you're his again.

The mafia boss leans in, his breath warm against your cheek, as he presses a soft, almost tender kiss to your bruised and bloody lips.

The contrast between his gentle touch and the agony of your burnt flesh sends a shiver down your spine.

His hand moves to the hook, gripping it firmly as he slowly pulls it out of you, the spikes tearing through your raw, swollen pussy with a wet, squelching sound that makes you whimper despite being unconscious.

The hook comes out with a final, sickening pop, leaving a gaping wound in its place.

"You're so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice a soft caress that seems to mock the pain he's inflicted on you. He carefully removes the needles one by one, his movements efficient and precise despite the anger that still lingers in his eyes.

Each removal sends a fresh wave of pain through your body, making you jerk and gasp even in your unconscious state. "But that's what I love about you," he says, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration.

The mafia boss sets aside the bloody needles and hook, reaching for a first aid kit that seems out of place in the room of torture.

He cleans your wounds with a gentle touch, his fingers deftly applying ointment and bandages to the burns and cuts. You can feel the coolness of the medical supplies against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the flames that had just been there.

He seems almost disappointed that you're not awake to see his 'care' for you, his eyes lingering on your bruised and broken form with a disturbing mix of love and anger.

"You're going to be okay," he whispers, his voice a strange blend of sweetness and malice. "I'll make sure of it."

He tapes the last bandage into place, his eyes lingering on the gaping hole where the hook had been. His thumb traces the edge of the wound, the pad of his finger coming away sticky with your blood.

He brings it to his lips, tasting you, his eyes closing for a brief moment before he opens them again, the anger in them burning like the embers of a dying fire.

You're vaguely aware of the pain as he tends to you, the fog of unconsciousness lifting slightly.

Each touch feels like a brand, a reminder of your submission to his will.

He wraps you in a blanket, lifting you with surprising gentleness from the chair, and carries you to a cot in the corner of the room.

He lays you down, his hand brushing through your hair, his touch surprisingly tender. "Rest," he says, his voice a command wrapped in a velvet glove. "You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

The mafia boss locks the door behind him with a final click, leaving you alone in the cold, sterile room.

The cot is hard and uncomfortable, but it's the closest thing to relief you've felt in what seems like an eternity.

Your eyes fully drift shut, the darkness behind your lids offering a temporary reprieve from the horrors you've endured.

But sleep doesn't come easy.

The pain keeps you on the edge of consciousness, a constant reminder of the hell you're in.

[pedge-page]

Joel Dealing with Fam: Pool Days

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: baby Ellie remembers how to swim.

- - - -

Ellie knows how to swim. She went to all the infant swim lessons and survival trainings just like Sarah did. You have no fear of Ellie's swimming capabilities.

But at some point over the winter, she forgot she knew, and developed a fear of water. The four of you took a trip to the local pool, where Sarah and Joel jumped right in. Even as Sarah was determined to take Joel down with all her might (to absolutely no sucess) Joel still had his arms stretched out ready to catch Ellie to jump in.

Ellie--bless her bitty chubby soul-- had no interest to jump in. She was almost two at this point. Bucket hat and fat floaties on her shoulders, she twirled her fingers anxiously, looking away from daddy with drawn browns.

"Its okay, baby, daddy is gonna catch you!" He encourages, curling his hands towards himself in come hither motion "You don't even have to swim!"

But she shakes her head, running back to you and clutching your legs for dear life.

"That's okay Ellie. We don't have to swim today. Do you wanna sit with me?"

She nods, her head buried between your knees.

So you and Ellie sat on the hot concrete and watches curiously ad ants lined up, grabbed crumbs of discarded food, and filed away to their cracks in the sidewalk. She pointed to them curiously, only occasionally glancing at the pool before shifting away and dedicating all her focus on the very dry ground.

The next day, you sat on the shallow edge of the stairs into the pool. It took some coaxing, but Ellie sat on the dry edge, and only managed to dip her large toes in at a time. Sarah continued to climb atop Joel like a tree, grunting and trying to pull his chest down knock him under water, but he just kept grabbing her and yeeting her 6 feet in the air to splash back into the pool.

Next day, Ellie's ankles kicked in the water, but she was still too afriad to get in any further.

"I dont get it. She knows how to swim," Joel complained. His biggest gripe is why he has to bring all these floaties day after day if neither Sarah nor Ellie were using them. He was also feeling a big dejected. You could tell he wanted Ellie to trust him with this. He was a great dad.

"Its a mental thing..." it really was. You didnt have any other explanation for it. You weren't gonna traumatize her by pushing her in and forcing her to fight or flight.

The four of you got close to the edge. Ellie saw the water and immediately retreated back towards the furthest fence, more content with swimming in the artificial grass.

"I figured she'd want to get in with me," he pouts. Joel saw it all going differently. That Ellie would feel more comfortable being around Joel, even if he carried her all day in the water. He'd swear never to let a drop get on her. But not even her favorite man was enough to sway her.

Joel miller is a great father. A great husband.

You....

You glances at Joel, who's walking closer to the edge of the pool than you.

The thought breezes through your mind, and you come to the conclusion that you are not as great a wife.

using all your strength, you shove him off balance and send him flying into the pool without warning.

He has no chance to get his anchor as he goes crashing into the water, elbow and head first.

On cue, Ellie screams and immediately forced her fat legs to run as fast as they can, straight to the water. Eithout a seconds hesitation that she's had all week, she launches herself at full speed, scrunches her legs in the air and cannon balls into the pool butt first.

You must be a really bad mom too because You didn't expect her to just jump in by herself!!!

But to your immediately relief, she bobs her head up and starts frantically kicking and paddling doggy style to reach Joel.

Joel resurfaces, standing tall as the water was only deep to his waist, and shakes his head annoyingly. He frowns at you before realizing there's a very fast moving worm coming towards him-

"daDDY!" She shouts concerningly. Even though everyone else can clearly tell Joel is in no harm whatsoever, she still pants hard as she pettles her way to him like his life depends on it.

Joel blinks away the chlorine in his eyes, in disbelief at her sudden determination. "ELLIE! You did it!"

He reaches out and grasps her into his arms.

"I save DADDY!" She exclaims.

"Ahh.. I mean you didn't really..."

He glances up at you with eyes that signal to him to shut the fuck up.

"you DID! You saved me from drowning."

"All by myself!" She coos excitedly. "Daddy I swim!"

After that Ellie was completely comfortable in the pool, with Joel remaining a 4 foot radius at all times (knowing he could drown at any moment again).

"I wanna push him in next!" Sarah protested.

Ellie screeches "NO!" And defensively clutched Joel's whole head as she sat atop his shoulders.

- - - -

Taglist

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[luveline]

𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel does everything he can to make you feel better after a civilian casualty steals your ‘sunshine’. —a fic featuring reluctantly adoring miguel and his sad spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested here. fem!reader, 4k

cw character death, violence, reactive depression

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Miguel," you say, your voice grained by the communicator in his ear, "this universe is almost the same as mine, right?" 

Miguel stares down at a Doc Ock variant you're staking out, lying in wait for the anomalistic antagonist to make his first move. He's trying desperately to maintain his focus but you have a nice voice, and you ask him with a confidence that betrays your total faith in him. You haven't considered that he might not know. 

Well, Miguel does know. He's not sure he should start this discussion and distract you, but he has trouble saying no to you in any capacity, so he does. 

"I don't know every difference, but yeah, they're the same. Same geography, world leaders, roughly the same fast food chains." He bites his lip. He's at work, more than work —you're attempting to save an entire dimension, here— and he shouldn't feed the conversation anymore. But he knows you'll be interested in this. "Donuts aren't a thing, here."

"What?" 

"They have donuts, but they aren't called donuts, and they're nowhere near as popular." 

"This is a very strange way to flirt," Lyla says, her flickering hazed by a golden aura as she changes rapidly between laying on her front, legs kicking, and her back, as though she's in a therapist's daybed. She floats across his vision lazily.

"That's because I'm not," Miguel says. 

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing. Talking to Lyla." 

"How come Lyla doesn't talk to me?" you ask sweetly.

Miguel can see you in the distance, your simple black suit like an ink splodge against the blue grey glass of the skyscraper you're standing on. Anchored with a web and your body tensed, you're perfectly parallel to the ground below, as though you're standing on the windows. 

"It's not that I don't want to," Lyla promises. "Miggy won't let me." 

"That is not true." 

Projections cover Miguel's vision, powered by his favourite lying intelligence. Movements are mapped in a bright marigold yellow, though the net turns red to signify potential danger, chance percentages bouncing up and down. Doc Ock raises an arm and it turns an eye-straining red. He sits down on a park bench and his body turns yellow again. It's a smart program, but it can't account for everything. 

"Something isn't right." 

You hum appreciatively. "It feels weird, how he's acting. Like he's two separate people." 

Doc Ock glitches hard, the air around him fractured by colours in varying depths, like a tangible, physical screen tone. They've been coming faster. He doesn't have much time before he begins to tear apart, and that tearing will prompt panic. Panic will prompt anger. 

"What should we do?" you ask. 

Miguel doesn't know. He regrets asking you to come with him, not that you aren't capable. When you first joined the Spider Society you'd hadn't been Spider-Girl in your own universe for very long, and you weren't particularly proactive. You were kind-hearted but lackadaisical, and after worming your way into his life, a flower budding between concrete slabs it shouldn't have the power to crack, (he seriously doesn't know how it happened, only that you'd been bringing him things, carefully wrapped foods and trinkets you'd made, your bad conversation, and suddenly you were worrying about him and doting on him in the strange way that you do, suddenly, he was doing the same), you decided you wanted to help. You've trained hard on Spider-led courses at the Society, improving your overall fitness, your stamina, your technique, to become the fighter you are now. You can hold your own well. 

Miguel knows what motivated you. You want to look after him. You'd all but admitted to it. And that's why Miguel wishes he asked someone else to come with him, because you'll put yourself in harm's way as he would for you, to protect. 

"Why did you want to know if this universe was the same?" he asks, the nano of his suit morphing over his hands, claws growing long and minaciously sharp.

"Oh! Because, I used to have these favourite cookies called Butter Leaves, but they stopped making them in my dimension 'cos of the Whey disease. Even when it was better, loads of companies couldn't come back…" 

You give him the entire history. He already knows it. He tries to listen to you with the attention you deserve anyway, only he's weighed the options, and taking down Doc Ock feels much more important than listening to your cravings. 

"They were really thin and they had this sweet coating brushed over the top. You'd like them, I think." Miguel drops the last hundred feet to the ground, ignoring the jarring heat in his ankles at such a landing without having rolled into it. "If they were a little softer and had some sugar they'd taste just like polvorones, Miguel."

"You could say that about lots of things," Miguel argues, tone measured as not to alert bystanders nearby of his presence. 

"This doesn't feel like a good idea," Lyla says. Standing now, alert. 

Miguel toggles the communicator so you can't hear him. 

He wonders if you'd even notice him speaking over the intensity of your excitement, "I know it's not professional but maybe we could go and look? After we beat the bad guy. They're more than worth it, I swear," you say hopefully. 

"It's fine," he says to Lyla, throwing out a hand, shins braced and ready to burst into a tackle. 

"It feels off, you both said it." 

"It always feels off. He's in the wrong dimension, his presence caused a shift. The wrongness is unavoidable, like the body–" 

"Rejecting an organ transplant," Lyla says. "I know. You say it constantly." 

"If you know, why are you asking?" he asks, deadpan. 

"Good to know your girlfriend can ask questions and I can't. You're a trailblazer for equality, O'Hara."

Not my girlfriend, he thinks, but he isn't sure how true that is. Miguel realigns his eyesight, the holographic netting that pinpoints anomalistic stress a menacing red where it maps Doc Ock's limbs. The colours are abrasive against the yellow-green leaves fluttering in the breeze to the grass below, trees like arms stretched toward one another standing behind the simple brown bench where Doc Ock murmurs drunken-sounding ravings. 

Miguel's fangs slice through gum and lock into place. He tries not to salivate. The paralysing agent produced gives him a numb tongue. 

Miguel attempts to work quickly. Approach the target. Lock the target in. Incapacitate. He rears back and takes a deep breath. 

"Wait! Behind! Behind you, Miguel, there's something behind you!" 

He twists backward without hesitation and swings his arm around a cold neck. He squeezes hard, hears a metallic crunch similar to a mortar and pestle, but the person in his chokehold isn't a person, it's a robot. 

"Octobots!" Lyla shouts. 

"HELPFUL!" Miguel shouts back, grunting as a robotic arm curves around his back, and then a second, a third. 

The hills of his muscles strain against white-lacquered steel, a sweat breaking at the back of his neck as he groans, desperate to stop the octobot from crushing his arms to a powder. He can practically hear the creaking of his humerus. 

Around him, civilians scatter, screaming for their lives as a small horde of octobots descends on the park. Doc Ock doesn't react to the chaos. He sits there muttering to himself as people run past him and his octobots play cat and mouse. Miguel finally snaps the arms off the robot holding him with a pissed grunt, punching the carcass of machinery away from him while you tuck and roll from a dive to the ground. In an impressive show of your improvement and coordination, you throw out a web as you roll and hit Doc Ock square in the face, a second binding his chest to the bench. You spring to your feet, shooting at bots one after another. You must take down six by the time he's gathered his bearings. 

"On your left," Lyla says. Miguel smashes a bot at the apex of its white body and she laughs. "Nice. Behind." 

Miguel falls into the fight as though it's a well-practised dance. With the stress maps locked on, quick-thinking, and Lyla's pointed direction, Miguel can decapitate or incapacitate each bot swiftly as long as they don't get a hold on him like the first one managed. 

You're like Lyla in that a good skirmish seems to set you off —you're giggling, cheering, enjoying yourself much more than you should be. "This is just like that video game," you say, leaping onto a moving octobot and shooting webbing at the joints, gumming them up until they can't move. "With the girl and her super powered puppy, you know that one?" 

"Of course I don't know that one." Miguel brings his claws down into the aluminium shell of an octobot as it swipes your legs from under you and tears it in two. It cracks like a halved apple, the gore of its inside sparking and smoking as it hits the ground in tandem with you. Your head whacks hard into the concrete pathing beneath. He doesn't have time to help you. 

The arm of a bot races forward like a stinger. This one must be the head of the hive, the Queen bee so to speak, far more complicated than the others in the plating of her ivory bodice and chain-mail like shielding on her arms.

Miguel swears under his breath and vaults at it. 

He pulls your droid feed up in his display, watches you writhe from one side and the other as your pained moans play in his ear. You clamber onto wobbly footing as Miguel descends, the screeching cry of metal while it's shorn apart beneath his hands not half as loud as your useless gasping —you're winded, likely concussed. 

"Civilian entering range," Lyla says. 

"What? Where?" 

Lyla has your drone's camera spin on the spot to show Miguel the civilian stupid enough to enter an active fight zone. They aren't stupid at all, it figures, but unaware. A man in activewear jogs the beaten path with headphones in, eyes to the ground. He stops for a moment to look at his sports watch, and like the octobot can tell, it shakes Miguel like a bothersome flea and surges for him. 

You're closest. 

"Y/N!" Miguel shouts, knowing it's too late before he so much as closes his mouth. You turn, your head braced in your hand, breathing hard with pain. Miguel would take it back if he could. 

You can't save the civilian, but you can watch him die. 

—

People look at him like he's a ghost, sometimes. Wide-eyed, horrified, they move aside in the halls. They treat him how he feels on his worst days, like someone who should've died a long time ago. Today, things are different. 

No less than three Peter Parker' have stopped to stare at him unabashedly. Nearly all make the same jokes, Late for a date?

He'd honestly prefer feeling like a ghost. He can't deal with their derision and he doesn't want to, ignoring their looks and their judgement as he treks to the elevator that's gonna drop him outside of the medbay. The only person he wouldn't mind poking fun at him is you. 

You aren't in the mood. 

Miguel doesn't acknowledge your prone form at first. He walks to your bedside table to deposit the bouquet he'd chosen, peonies for good health and strength, swapping old for new, changing the water in your small shared sink. He may orchestrate the Spider Society, but Miguel's special privileges can't reduce the extreme turnover rate of the medbay. You have curtains to partition the room for privacy, and you got the bed by the window, and that's as much as he could get you. You deserve better. 

Miguel opens the window to drown out the smell of antiseptic. He stands in front of it, his shadow stretching over your twisted hip. You're not sleeping, you're resting. Doctor's orders.

Miguel wishes you'd deign to rest in your own bed, or his, but you're a little too catatonic for a safe discharge either way. 

He sighs quietly. You likely hear it with your enhanced senses and still you remain an impassive lump under your blue hospital blanket. 

"Good morning," he says, instead of the thousand other things he wants to say, that he's too much of a coward to ask. "Let's get up." 

He doesn't give you any choice about it. Starting slow, Miguel rounds the bed to meet your eyes through your sluggish blinking. Perhaps you'd been more asleep than he thought. 

Gentle, Miguel peels down your blankets enough to push his hands under your armpits. He pulls you up into a sitting position, and it —it breaks his heart. He's a monolith, he's hurting, he has years and years of loss and grief behind him and it doesn't matter, it finds him again. His heart breaks at your limblessness and your willingness to be positioned like a paper doll. 

Miguel arranges the sad pillow behind you and puts the remote for the adjustable bed frame in your hand. The last time you'd been here in the medbay after a training exercise fractured your ulna, you'd spent pretty much the entire time messing around with your bed, even as they crafted your cast. It made for messy work. Miguel must've told you to quit it fifty times. 

Your fingers curl around the remote. 

Miguel perches on the mattress on one knee to fix the protective style your hair is in. Nothing serious, just smoothing the tiniest of stray hairs and making sure it's still comfortable. He strokes your temple absentmindedly, checking you over one feature at a time. Tired eyes, nose tip looking parched, your lips chapped. Frowning, he sits properly, and he pulls your big hospital bag from the bedside table, his hand falling to your wrist to say, Hey, I'm here, and I'm not going far.

He finds your smaller bag of toiletries and necessities and unzips it. He tries not to think about the last time he had to take care of someone like this as he cleans your face with a wet wipe, two fingers wrapped in the wipe and petting at your skin carefully. He notices the life returning to you inchingly, his touch a tether you're pulling on, so he prolongs his actions. He smooths moisturiser over your face extra slowly. If you asked why, he could say it's cold, but you don't ask.

Your face shiny in the sunshine filtering in through the wide windows, you almost look like yourself again. 

"Are you hungry?" 

You shake your head. An almost imperceptible gesture. 

"This is why you don't feel well," he says. "You're not eating enough." 

"That's not why," you say.

He aches to hear your voice. I know, he thinks, but doesn't say. 

"Eat something," he says. 

You shake your head again. He managed to bring you back and squash you back down in less than a minute. He really doesn't like himself, at that moment. Often, but especially now. He's failing you. He failed you with the octobots and he's failing you now. 

Miguel refuses to fail someone he cares about again. 

He takes the remote for your bed and lifts the top section so you can sit back comfortably. He shakes the blankets out over you, and he puts away your things. Hopeful, Miguel places new pyjamas and underwear with your shower caddy at the end of the bed and pulls a strict pose, hands crossed over his chest. 

"I need to go. Shower, eat breakfast when it comes. Please." 

You give him a look that might mean Yes but probably doesn't mean anything, laying down as much as the bed allows and turning your face from him toward the flowers. Miguel leaves, stopping a ways away to look back, and watches through the gap of your curtains as you reach out to touch the flowers he'd brought. Your pinky finger is less than an inch from the petals when your movement stutters, your hand falling back to your chest with a soft thud. You close your eyes. 

When Miguel returns, he's thankful to find you've done as he told you. Showered, changed, a discarded breakfast tray at your feet. You've attempted the oatmeal and left the toast to go cold, congealed butter white against golden yellow. 

Miguel swaps the tray for his bags. He's hoping you might be tempted to look while he's gone. He knows before you would've known the entire contents of the open bag by the time he'd left the room, but he returns having taken your tray to the rack and is sorely disappointed. 

That's fine, he decides. You don't have to look. He doesn't mind laying things out for you. 

First port of call: extra pillows. He pulls the plastic wrapped 'hotel pillows' up onto your sheet and tears the plastic. They pop out. He didn't think for pillow cases, so he slides them behind your hospital pillow and pushes you down by the shoulders, not cruel but not particularly gentle —you actually laugh at his handling. He bites back a smile. 

"What, you got me presents?" you ask as he dumps a blanket onto your lap. It's one of those soft, shiny fleece ones patterned with those characters you love so much, the girl and her super powered puppy. 

You rub your hands over it appreciatively and spread it out over your legs. "What's that mean?" he asks, pointing at the Chinese characters, '超級汪汪!'. 

"Chāojí wāngwāng!" you cheer, an impression missing the majority of your usual pep. "Super woof. It's his level five power up. He yaps and Joyce gets her HP back." 

Miguel pretends to know, like he'd forgotten, and you're reminding him. "Ah."

You're watching now, interested. He puts his back between you and the bag and you whine weakly, "Miguel." 

"What? You think these are for you?" 

"Please, I want to see." 

He gives in like a cheap tent, passing you a packet of pearly beads for your bracelet making, skeins of variegated thread that change colours, a packet of pencils with frogs on the lids, a plushie. You don't know how to react and Miguel doesn't know what to say. He honestly doesn't want to say anything, vulnerability stopped being his thing a while ago, but he clears his throat. "Do you know what I look like in the middle of Miniso? Picture it."

Miniso being a Chinese home goods store lined floor to ceiling with plushies.

You laugh weirdly. Miguel knows it's guilt holding you back. 

"One last thing." He sits down on the bed next to you, hands big enough to cover the box in its entirety. "You were wrong, by the way. Extremely wrong, these don't taste a thing like polvorones." 

He passes you the box. You take it into steady hands, smiling widely, your thumb brushing up against the black cursive font. A box of butter leaves from one of your sister dimensions.

"I don't know if they'll taste like they did. Are they the same ones?" 

You nod, loosing a breath between parted lips. "Same ones." 

"If you don't eat them all, I won't get them for you again." 

"That's so mean," you murmur. Miguel would apologise if he thought you meant it. 

"That's how it is. Eat your cookies. I'll come back later to make sure you actually ate dinner." 

He stands. You immediately grab him, cookies dropped in favour of braceleting his wrist in your warm fingers. 

You look up at him through your lashes, a frown dampening your pretty features. At least, in his eyes. 

"Please don't go," you say. Your eyebrows pinch together. It's even more heartbreaking than your catatonia, this pleading loneliness, like you think he won't stay. 

"You have to talk to me," Miguel says. He softens at your chastised wince, sitting back down again. "Did you want a hug?" he asks. 

It's an apology to offer it, though he should've asked you this morning, or yesterday, even the day before. You'd been inconsolable when it happened. Miguel's never seen you that way. Your sunshine shattered, your shoulders shaking under his hands as he led you away from the scene, he didn't hug you like he wanted to. It wouldn't have made a difference at the time. You couldn't speak. You could barely walk. 

Seeing something like that happen leaves a mark, even if you've seen it before. 

You sweep aside your gifts and twist your legs to climb onto your knees. Miguel hadn't realised how much you wanted to be close to him until you're bordering his lap, your arms sliding over his shoulders, your pyjamas soft and smelling of antiseptic under his nose. A switch flicks at your nearness. He pulls you into his lap and sandwiches you there, chest to chest, thankful for his stature because it means he can encapsulate you effortlessly. He can hide you from the world for a short while. 

You choke him half to death. 

"It's okay," he says, your back curved into the length of his forearm, leaning forward so you can take the weight off. "You're okay." 

"I don't– it's not me. I'm not worried about me." 

"It's over," he says. "What's done is done." Which isn't to say it isn't tragic, or that it didn't leave a permanent mark on the world. But you're punishing yourself for a crime you didn't commit.

"It's all my fault," you whisper, your cheek pressing to his shoulder, face hidden in the juncture of his neck.

He tilts his head toward you. "It's my fault. I jumped in. I wanted it to be quick."

"I let him…" 

"You had a grade ii concussion, you didn't let anyone do anything. I'm lucky you didn't pass out right there. I'm lucky you had the ability to defend yourself, because I left you defenceless." 

"No, you didn't, it–" You rub your cheek against his shoulder. "It happened really fast, you were making sure that bot didn't get me because I was stupid enough to leave myself open–" 

"Stop it."

It's harsh enough to stop you in your tracks. Miguel sighs hard, hair blowing away from his face. 

He lays down backward, skewiff on your bed, and pulls you with him in a secure but gentle hold. You make a quiet 'oof' as you go down. Apologetic yet again, Miguel rubs a line up and down your back, fingertips between your shoulders, palm flattening as he reaches the small of your back, your shirt inching up. He's sure you look foolish to anyone watching, but for once, he's past embarrassment. 

"I don't want to hear you blaming yourself. It's not your fault." 

You've twisted on your side on the mattress rather than crush his pelvis, though your chest remains pressed to his. You twist a strand of his dark hair around your finger. "Why did you bring me all this stuff?" you ask softly. 

"To make you feel better." 

"But why… do you… want that? Why does it matter that much, that you'd waste time going to get me things?" 

"Why do you think?" he asks. 

Your lips ghost the column of his throat. "Mm… 'cos you're nicer than you let on." 

"Wrong." 

You laugh again. He's more grateful than he'd ever say aloud. 

"Because you care about me too much." 

Too much is right. He feels like he's at the stern of the universe's most important ship. The universes, plural. That ship is heading square for an iceberg, for the precipice of a gargantuan whirlpool, and there's nothing Miguel can do but hand out buckets and veer sharply to the left, hoping it will be enough, knowing deep down that it won't be if something doesn't give soon. And he's lived a life, two lives, before he even met you. He's tired. He doesn't want to lose anyone else, and he hoped he could do that by never caring again. 

What a stupid hope. 

"I just want you to feel like yourself again," he admits. 

"I really wanted to save him." 

"You can't save everyone." 

He knows better than most. 

"I know," you say, no tears left to cry, voice impossibly small. 

Miguel wraps his arms around you and doesn't let go for a long, long time. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you so much for reading, I really really hope you enjoyed! please think about reblogging if you liked it, I appreciate it <3

[springsmile]

the way it is || 2

tw: nsfw, fingering, dubcon that turns into noncon, victim blaming, mentions of self h*rm

[part 1]

whenever he touches you, you focus on the sensation of shredded flesh and that metallic scent entering your windpipe. you inhale it complacently.

heavy petting and apologies, gruff at that, are the new normal. you wonder if they’re sincere, or if they’re ones of remorse. you wouldn’t accept them, either way.

you prefer the basement. the concrete (frigid—leaving you curled into yourself, teeth rattling, arms in a bruising wind around your shins), when your bones would creak with any brisk jerk, eyelids leaden, wondering if keloids would befall the columns on your arms.

instead, beneath you is his arm. and across your torso is another. each chiseled with same strength afforded to your wrists and ankles and throat. they’re heavy. they anchor you to the soft silk of the bedspread, balmy with your sweat. katsuki is impossibly close, breath gliding across your face in gentle huffs. it’s the picture of domesticity. only you know it’s something more uncanny.

sometimes, you long for his brutality. for his unparalleled thew, for the rage so palpable you could taste it, and for the anticipatory furling of your gut. the duality of anxiety was hardly distinguishable anymore. you relish in it, now.

katsuki rouses moments later, his fingers card through your hair, which he took to washing regularly (you couldn’t be trusted to do it alone), and a hum reverberates through his chest and throat.

“how’d you sleep?” he mumbles.

“i didn’t.” you say honestly.

his lips fall into a frown, and you’re unwittingly slotted his chest.

“i’m sorry.” he breathes, and by god, you detest his breath. there’s no odor, but you loathe inhaling it. his fragment of his being lives inside you, even if just for a moment. “nightmares?”

“no. you just fucking disgust me.”

he still has the gall to look crestfallen. he snares his bottom lip in between his teeth.

“besides that. do you need those meds again?”

the ones he would crush in his fist into a fine dust put into your water. and when you caught on, and refused to drink, he’d apply an ungodly amount of pressure on your jaw with one hand, and with the other, pressed it down your throat.

you suppress a visceral shiver. “it’s up to you, katsuki. it always is.”

he’s grown tired of your resignation— but he’s more so afraid of your fragility. are you gone for good? did he decimate you into jagged little remnants? now, he could only gather you in his hands and hold your chest his ear. waiting for the rhythmic thumps.

“it’s not.” he says firmly, and when his hand begins to make way for your face, you brace for contact. his hand falters, and eventually thumbs the unevenness of your skin. “do you want to start taking them again?”

you didn’t want to do this anymore.

was breaking better than being broken?

you enjoyed being thorny, if anything. you liked inflicting pain, however minuscule, with your tongue. but you subconsciously longed to feel something. the hearth of life.

for whatever reason unbeknownst to you, your lips part, and acquiescence follows.

“okay.”

he startles at your agreeableness. a smile succeeds the aforementioned frown. and it almost makes you fucking sick.

he untangles himself from you, and relief overcomes you, stemming from the pit of your stomach.

“want breakfast?”

“yes.”

you’re still startled by the sound of your own voice. what was once ragged and frayed around the edges is now subdued, free of any rasp.

you descend downstairs with a hunch, shoulders skimming the lobes of your ears. you’re now more privy to sound and any movement that invades your peripherals. you can creakily yet effectively maneuver if you deem necessary. though, it’s unlikely you require this astuteness any longer, as katsuki has been rendered to pliancy.

he places precisely two pieces of toast and a banana before you. it’s all you can stomach, having transitioned from soups in the basement to agreeable solids upstairs.

katsuki drags his chair out, and falls onto it. he watches you through half lidded eyes, and despite this apparent lethargy, you’re well acquainted with the fact that he could spring into action at a moment’s notice.

you stand.

there’s not a single thought in your head— not a coherent one, anyway. not one that isn’t incessant. rampant.

you approach katsuki, and gradually, his eyelids sink back. swinging a leg over his lap, you begin to straddle him. his shock encourages you to continue. what, you couldn’t say.

“(y-y/n)?” he chokes weakly.

you say nothing. and from your sides, your hands tremble as they lift, and hold the sides of his face how one would handle china. then, without a second thought, you dive down and kiss him, eyes wide open.

you wanted to feel something. anything. anything would do. you skin could crawl to where you would take anything with a sharp edge to your skin and peel it all off. that was okay. you could handle it. you could handle it.

you could pretend. evoke that pool of desire that would once brew and bubble in your belly.

katsuki makes a sound of shock. and for all of what you’d known of him, you had expected him to reciprocate. after all, before he wanted so badly to be a father. he was ready, he assured. he could get all the diapers and crap.

with newfound dread at the forefront of your senses, you begin to draw back, when hands anchor you in place and his lips finally work against yours.

twitching, your hand surges for his cock, which had sprung into rigidity. thanks to you, he’d suffered a dry period, after all.

“you want my cock, (y/n)?” he husks around your lips. “huh? was all that just you being a brat? were you faking?”

it was refreshing— how his remorse had morphed the second you put out.

“you wanted attention, didn’t you?” he growls, a hand inches up the shirt that hung on your body. it’s his, of course. he kneads your breast. “s’that why you hurt yourself?”

no, no, no, nononononononononoNONONONO.

you don’t speak, your vocal chords had melted together within the buzzing summery heat that emanated from inside of you. sound was dulled into nothing.

seconds later, calloused digits invade the warmth of your dry cunt. katsuki is undeterred. his palm gyrates atop your clit. your lungs inflate instantly.

he starts with a single finger, which he neglected to lubricate, and pumps it steadily. coupled with the motions on your sensitive nub, your pussy leaks hot, glinting juices in no time.

katsuki gives that notorious crooked grin. the one where his eyes narrow, and all his teeth are on display.

“fuuuck, (y/n). look how wet your perfect pussy is getting for me.” he snarls. “you could’ve just asked, baby. i would’ve gladly delivered. didn’t need to be all coy and fuckin’ gloomy.”

tears follow the ring of cream that gathers around his knuckles. the wet squelching, and the curling of his fingers (when he added a second one, you didn’t know) have your chest heaving, mind in overdrive with words flitting around the walls of your brain with the ferocity of atoms in a gaseous state.

do you want to? don’t you want to?

“i love you, (y/n).” katsuki says into your ear. “i’m so glad you realized this is how we’re supposed to be. this is your place.”

bile rises in your throat.

[spookyspecterino]

I'd love to see an Eric x Reader where they share a first kiss together.

Love this ask. Thank you for requesting it! It went longer than I originally planned because I have a flair for the dramatics.

Focus on Me

Eric x GN! Reader

CW: Panic attacks, fear, fear of death, mentions of blood, some language.

Three days. Three days since New York became an unrecognizable, empty shell. Three days of maddening silence. Three days of existing in absolute total fear.

The helicopters have stopped flying overhead. There’s nothing in the sky anymore. Everything has just stopped.

The silence is unbearable. At least now the ambient sound of the storm—the torrential rain and howling wind—fills that awful, strange void.

Every sound, every movement, even the water dripping from your clothes, has you and Eric pausing in step. The creak in the floorboards, the way the crumbling building shifts against the outside wind, it’s nerve wracking and makes forward progress slow.

This building wouldn’t have been your first choice, but you and Eric needed to get out of the storm. The giant holes in the side of the complex were blissfully ignored until you were both inside and the strong wind whipped through them. You counted your blessings that the concrete stairs were even intact.

Eric’s hand is on your shoulder as you get further into the building. It eases your nerves, as you know it comforts him as well. It’s the only source of warmth you can feel through the ice-cold adrenaline and the chill of your damp clothes. A warm spot of hope.

You’re positive he can feel you trembling. Scared shitless. Expecting to die at any moment.

It’s so dark in that hallway, the only source of light is from the night sky, through the shattered windows. The storm wind howls through the glass cracks creating an eerie whistling. The rain pounds, lightning flashes give you quick snapshots of the apartments around you. There’s an open door to your left, which seems like a good option.

Lightning flashes again and illuminates the dark red stain leading through the door. Never mind.

The clap of thunder moments later startles you so bad you flinch and duck. Eric’s hand squeezes your shoulder, reassuringly. Without thinking, you grab his hand and hold it in place. An anchor to keep you calm, to keep you sane. A reminder that you’re not alone.

You pass the red stain with careful steps. Part of that apartment must have a hole in it because the sound of rain is clearer, every pounding raindrop echoes off the walls.

The last door to your right is wide open.

Lightning flashes again. Another snapshot. Coast is clear, no trail of blood this time.

Every muscle tenses up, bracing for the thunder to follow. Push on. You repeat this in your mind as the noise rolls above, gentler this time. You can’t afford to lose your nerve.

Eric’s hand moves from your shoulder to your lower back as he shifts to stand next to you. His other arm wrapped around your waist. He’s taking more of a lead as you pass through the doorway together. His breath comes out trembling and slow in your ear.

This apartment has more windows, letting in enough light to see around the room. In the context of everything, it looks strange. It’s still neat and undisturbed—the couch has a blanket and cute pillows, the coffee table has a tv remote on it, the living room floor is covered in a long, plush carpet. It’s a time capsule, back to the last hours of normal life within the city.

Eric points to the couch and back to you.

Shaking your head ‘no,’ you grab the blanket from the back of the couch and lay it down on the carpet. Somehow, sleeping on the ground feels better—what if the springs in the couch make noise? The idea of shifting in your sleep and creating noise has become a constant fear every night.

There’s been so many new fears in the last couple of days.

Eric watches you, then begins sitting on the ground too. He takes his suit jacket off and hangs it off the coffee table to dry. He’s busy setting up his spot to sleep, smoothing out his side of the blanket and taking one of the couch pillows. He hands the other to you. It feels like a really strange sleepover.

Lightning flashes again and you get a clear view of Eric. His tie is still on.

Your fingers find their way to his shoulders first as you reach out blindly in the dark. They’re broad, well defined, and you’re surprised at first. Eric freezes, thinking something is wrong, but you continue on your way to his tie, gently pulling it loose and unwrapping it from around his neck. He watches you, sitting up a little so you can reach better.

So distracted by your task, the following clap of thunder above barely registers. Neither of you flinch.

“My mum taught me how to fix my ties.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it mixes in the space between you with your own breath.

In the dark you’re only inches apart.

You pull the tie off and lay it down on the coffee table next to his suit jacket.

“What’s she like?” You ask with a matching whisper.

God, the sound of your own voice is strange to you now. Raspy, raw, unused. And Eric’s…you almost forgot he was English.

“My mum?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s kind…” He swallows back the rising emotion in his voice. “Always so kind. She didn’t want me to—to go.” He takes a ragged breath; the harsh noise is enough to make you tense and pull him closer to you. It’s an action of panic at first, but it quickly turns into a hug as he presses his face into the crook of your neck.

At least now his choked sobs are muffled.

Running a hand through his hair, you try to calm him. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

There’s a sniffle and he pulls back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Here, lay down.”

You lay down too, guiding his head to the pillow. His nose nudges yours in the close space—you can feel his breath on your cheek. His hand grips the side of your shirt. He might still be crying; his eyes are shiny in the dark.

Your palm rests against the side of his neck, cupping his jaw—it stays there. “Tell me what England is like.”

Another flash of lightning. His face is so strikingly handsome in the light. Droplets of water fall from his brown curls onto his forehead.

“Um…well…” He begins unsteadily. “It’s very tight.”

“Tight?”

He nods, nose brushing against yours again. “The roads don’t get wider than two lanes. One going each way. All the houses are linked in long rows—almost like the neighborhoods here.”

“Is there traffic?”

Eric laughs once, a quiet laugh that comes out more like a long breath. It’s enough of a laugh to hear the humor in his voice. “There’s nothing but traffic.”

“Why’d they make the roads like that?”

“Not enough space.”

“Oh.” You ponder. “That makes sense actually—being that it’s pretty much an island."

“An island, yeah.”

“An island full of traffic.”

He laughs again, breath mixing with yours. “The U.S.—it’s quite big, so you can make your roads wider. More lanes and the like.”

“Ah…”

There’s a moment of silence where just the rain pounds overhead. Silence, that dreadful thing forced upon you now. Eric’s laugh, however small and subdued, was a wonderful sound.

“What made you want to be a lawyer?”

“I dunno. I… my dad said it was a good profession to do and—and it seemed very grown up.”

“You must be very smart to get into Law School around here.”

You win another laugh out of him. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, I’m serious. They’re extremely competitive.”

“It was expensive to get in.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“What about you, are you going…” he pauses, his voice deflates a little, “…Were you going to school?”

You remain undeterred, you have to. “No, too expensive. Just working and trying to figure things out.”

“You didn’t have any plans?”

“I had plans, short-term stuff, but I’m not really a ‘plan your life out’ kinda person.”

“That actually sounds nice.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Another bout of silence. Eric is no longer sniffling; he watches you curiously.

“And your soccer teams—"

“—Football—”

Maybe he can see your teasing face in the dark, maybe he can’t. “Mm. Tomatoe, tomato. So, your soccer teams—”

“Hm, no. Football.”

“I’m not calling it football—you’re going to get me all confused.”

Eric laughs again and leans his forehead against yours. “It’s really not hard to separate them out—you’re doing this on purpose to get a rise out of me.”

“A rise? Jesus, you’re so British. Are you going to let me finish my question?”

“I’ll let you finish your question if you call them football teams.”

“You are a stubborn one. I feel like most people would have moved on by now.”

“Does that surprise you?”

You make a noise. “No, actually I like it. But anyway, Football—”

“—Thank you, darling—”

“—Hm. It’s a big deal, right?”

“Oh, huge. Did you even need to ask?”

“I guess I could have figured it out when you forced me to call it football in my own country.”

Eric’s grip on your shirt has relaxed now, his hand rests on your hip. “Is football a big deal here?”

“Football—football, or soccer—football?”

“Ah, well played. I see what you’re doing now.”

“I will make you say the word soccer.”

Somehow, he leans even closer.

“Not a chance.”

“Ha. Well, football tickets are sold out months in advance, sometimes before the season even starts, so that might answer your question.”

“They’re sold-out like that in England too.”

“But which football am I talking about, Eric?”

He snickers. “The one where they throw and kick the ball.”

“Oh, that’s very funny. Very clever.”

“I do know—”

From back in the room something creaks. Pressure on a floorboard, something moving, something big. Eric freezes. Your body goes cold.

Click-click-click.

Another couple of pounds on the ground. These are closer, you can feel the vibrations through the floor.

In the back of the apartment, leading to a bedroom, a door slowly creaks open. The rain sounds much closer now and the clicks continue, vivid and clear.

This apartment has a hole in it to the outside.

Eric is back to gripping you like his life depends on it. Your hand trembles against his skin.

Pound. Click-click-click.

The indifferent storm above sends lightning down again, as if it’s saying 'Hey, look at this'. The rapid succession of flashes gives you a view of the doorframe and the monstrous creature slinking through it.

Its body contorts and bends, long legs folding in as it fits itself into the room without disturbing anything. Scales and plates shift and move fluidly along its back. You didn’t think it was possible for it to be this nimble.

Click-click-click.

Eric, watching your tearful eyes track something over his shoulder, very carefully and very slowly starts to turn and try to get a glimpse of it. Your hand on his cheek tightens and stops him, turning him back to look at you. The message is clear as his breathing starts to quicken.

Look at me.

He purses his lips in an effort to keep from breathing through his mouth. He’s shaking as much as you are now.

The creature swings its head around in the dark, opening its face plates and clicking out. The way it opens up, the sound it makes is almost enough to make you shudder. Who knows why, but it moves toward you and Eric. Its massive silhouette stands out against the apartment’s lighter walls. You keep watching it, trembling and on the verge of tears.

The thing’s leg bumps the coffee table, and your mouth drops open at the sudden startlingly loud shriek of wood scraping against wood. Eric is quick to cover your mouth with a hand, holding you in place, keeping you quiet. He presses his mouth up against the back of his hand, trying to keep himself quiet too. Tears spill over onto your cheeks; they mix with his. Your faces are pressed together. Even though he’s terrified, he’s still gentle.

Click-click-click. Pound.

It’s so close now that those alien noises vibrate through your body. It’s so heavy that when it steps on the floorboards it almost bounces you.

And the thing smells.

It smells like death, decay, and rot. You’re never going to forget that smell as it wafts over you and permeates your clothes.

More tears fall, it’s impossible to rip your eyes away from the creature’s silhouette, it towers nearly to the ceiling in one long, thin body.

You wish more than anything that the lightning would stop. You don’t need to see it in clear detail. You don’t need to see the bits of viscera hanging from it or the dark red stains leading up its grotesque arms.

Eric’s hand moves a fraction out of the way to hold your cheek. Your eyes flash to him just as he replaces his hand with his mouth.

It’s reckless beyond measure, but the action makes you instinctually close your eyes. There’s no movement, there’s no bloom of passion, but the warmth spreads through your face. It’s an act of desperation in what may be your last moments together.

The creature’s feet pound on the floorboards again. Are they getting further away? You don’t dare open your eyes. You focus on the feeling of Eric’s mouth against yours. If this is when and how you’re going to die, you want to think about how soft his lips feel. You want to think about the way his curly hair looks as it dries into a tangled mess. How his shoulders felt under your touch and the breath of his laugh and the way his words sounded when he smiled.

It works, you almost feel at peace. It's just the feeling, the idea of it all ending any moment that keep you trembling.

But the footsteps are getting further away. The hinges of the door leading out into the complex’s hallway creak as the door is pushed open.

It’s leaving. It’s leaving.

After you can no longer feel the pounding footsteps or hear it anymore, you open your eyes again. The apartment is empty. It’s gone.

Eric is also looking around. He pulls back a little, separating your lips. The absence of warmth sends shivers down your body. And then you start trembling again, left to deal with the struggle of survival. The adrenaline, the short supply you had left, is used up—your body is suffering.

Shell shock is the first thing you think of, but Eric’s eyes catch yours and you snap back to the task at hand. Fortification. Leaving and following in that thing's footsteps would just mean a grisly death in the dark. You'd have to make due and close off all the exits.

It takes ages to sit up. There are moments when you think you hear something, only for it to be your imagination. There are moments when you question if you’re still alive.

Eric gently takes your hand; he helps you to your feet. Moving so, so slowly and carefully. It’s Eric that guides you through the next few minutes, directing you to help him move furniture in front of the door. Picking it up slowly and delicately. Closing the back door, which does indeed lead to a hole in the wall. He always stands near you; his hand guides you either by your shoulder, your hand, or your lower back.

Eric, the man you found shaking and traumatized in the rain, helps you and leads you.

Once the furniture has been moved, the apartment no longer looks like a time capsule of normality. It matches the rest of the city—disorderly and inherently wrong.

With your task complete, you lean against one of the walls, holding your mouth shut. The shaking in your legs becomes more pronounced now that you’re no longer moving. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. The dark room spins around you. Through your fingers you take small gasps of breath.

Eric knows what a panic attack looks like. What it feels like. How it cripples a person.

“It’s alright.” He breathes, as he comes over to hold the sides of your face. “We’re alright.”

Your hands reach out and cling to him, pulling him closer. His body flattens against you on the wall. His forehead leans down to yours.

“Eric…”

He lifts your face up, smoothing out your cheeks, trying to calm you down. “I’m here. Right here.”

You do the only thing you can think of. The only method true method that can dispel the thoughts of your near death. Closing the short distance between your faces, you kiss him.

This time, he moves. This time it’s not a kiss with your imminent death looming right over you; it’s relived, it’s desperate, it’s a plea to wake up your body and revive yourself.

We’re alive.

The kiss is wet, you can taste the tears on his lips as he sloppily molds them to yours. The light stubble on his face scratches you, but it hardly registers. The kiss gets increasingly desperate—you both needed this, you both wanted this. You could have died and never experienced this and now you’re making up for that.

Your fingers tangle in his still wet hair. They grab the back of his neck; they grab his shoulders as he flexes and runs his hands up and down your sides. If you pull away to take in another gasp, Eric is quick to close the distance again, forcing you to take in air through your nose.

But you’re tired beyond measure, running off nothing but pure fear and adrenaline for days and nights on end. How Eric keeps himself together after being through the same things you have is something you’d like to learn one day, but tonight—fuck, tonight you need to sit down before your legs give out.

You pull away again, trying to gasp out something. Eric’s lips chase yours, but your body has had enough finally, and you give in, sliding down the wall before he catches you. By the way your head lolls back, and your arms fall to your sides, he understands.

Always so gentle, always so caring, Eric leads you back to the blanket and lays you down in his arms. Pressing your face into his collar, you feel just safe enough that you might be able to sleep. Exhaustion pulls at your consciousness, but images of the hideous alien are vividly playing out in your mind’s eye.

Only Eric’s voice, barely above a breath, but warm in your ear is enough to soothe you. He murmurs about how you’ll both be on the boats tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’ll be safe. Everything will be ok tomorrow. He peppers your forehead with light kisses in between words.

Before your world fades into nothingness, you stretch up to kiss him under his jaw. The last thing you hear is his quiet sigh.

Eric didn’t sleep much that night, too busy making a plan in his head to get you both to the south st. seaport. If he had to carry you, he would. He would do anything for you. And if this all somehow turned into a happy ending, then he would be right next to you to share it, to see you smile again, to hear you tease him.

If it doesn’t, then he has to find a way to kiss you one more time before the end.

[cas-kingdom]

Something Borrowed, Something Blue

A/N: Just a little something.

Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue

Summary: Ten is back, and by God are you going to hold his hand so he never leaves again.

Words: 1220

He had registered it when it happened, of course. The feeling of warm, human skin—your warm, human skin—against his own, that familiar rapid pulse beneath his fingertips, was not something he could ever forget. And when it was this specific hand you were holding onto, attached to this specific arm leading to this specific face, he truly couldn’t blame you.

He guessed it had been a good hour. An hour since he’d regenerated, since you’d recognised his new-but-not-at-all-new face and your own face had lit up, utterly devoid of the dread you’d had before. And you’d hugged him, and he’d hugged you, and you’d latched onto his hand and hadn’t yet let go. Running around the TARDIS, landing her, holding Donna’s box, riding in the taxi, sneaking through the crash zone…your hands had been wrapped tightly around the other, each a constant, solid presence.

So, though he had registered it, the conscious recognition didn’t come until he yanked you towards him when he instinctively reached with that hand for the screwdriver. Balancing on your haunches beneath him, you stumbled a bit. An apology was on his lips until he glanced down and saw the white knuckles wrapped around his.

He looked up. Recovered from your little topple, you were staring straight at him.

“Y/N.” He said it softly, eyebrows raising, and you blinked. There was a deep concern in your bright eyes. Not visible on the surface, only he could see it, because he could always see through you.

He lifted his hand, the one attached to you, and the corner of his lips lifted slightly. “I need my hand back for a minute,” he said.

Your face seemed to visibly pale. You sat properly on the ground and slowly released your death grip, your fingers returning to their pinkness. You didn’t quite let go though, your gaze seeming anchored to your hands as though…as though it was the one thing keeping him there with you.

The Doctor hummed. “Hey, you.” You caught your bottom lip between your teeth and looked at him. He stretched out his free hand and tapped your nose. “It’s alright,” he promised you, offering a smile.

You nodded, hesitant at first, but more assured as you quickly dropped his hand and drew it back to your chest, holding it there with the other. “I know.”

The Doctor reached into his pocket for the screwdriver, eyes never once leaving you. You were distracting yourself from not physically feeling him, scratching at your head, twirling hair around your fingers, that leg shake you did whenever you felt restless. He couldn’t quite remember you being so anxious when he’d been him all those years ago. An inquisitive child, you’d followed him absolutely everywhere, but you hadn’t needed the assurance of his hand in yours to know he wasn’t going to leave you. But then, times had changed, and so had the both of you. He’d regenerated and regenerated and regenerated since, each one sucking a tiny bit more life from you than the one before. No wonder you’d grabbed the first hint of familiarity you’d received in fifteen years and not let go.

The Doctor stretched his legs out and rested his crossed ankles on a concrete block. He drew a box in the air with his sonic, a map of sorts, hoping to figure out what exactly the spaceship was and how he was expected to save little old Earth this time. Without looking down, he jerked his head a little to the side. “Space next to me,” he said.

A moment later you were beside him, crossing your legs beneath you, hands on your lap as though you had no clue what else to do with them. You watched as he fiddled with the sonic and sat in silence for a good ten seconds. Until he stopped. And he turned to look at you. And when your eyes met, his brows furrowed, and a smile, full of nostalgia and sadness, slowly spread across his face. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing the skin. Tears sprung to your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I know. Come here.”

He stretched his arm out, allowing you to move closer and all but bury yourself in his side. His arm wrapped around your back and the other went instinctively to your head, holding you close to his chest.

Your gentle sniffles weren’t hard to miss. He kissed the top of your head, lingering there for a bit, shutting his eyes. “I’m here now, Y/N. I’m here.”

“But for how long?”

He couldn’t answer that. Something was niggling in the back of his mind. This face was being borrowed for an undetermined amount of time, some cruel trick from the universe that by God he couldn’t help but be thankful for.

“Let’s not worry about that now,” he said. He removed the hand from your head and put it between you, feeling you grasp it. You held it tightly, that little hand, that hand he had watched grow, that sweet girl he had raised, and sent a silent prayer to whoever would bloody listen that he’d have longer than he dreaded this time.

“You look different, you know,” you spoke softly a moment later. You turned your head to rest your cheek against him.

The Doctor rose a brow, running his tongue along his teeth. “That so?”

“Still the same, but different.”

“Ah. You look different too, you know. From when this face last saw you, that is.”

 “I grew up.”

The Doctor frowned, subconsciously holding you that bit tighter. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, you did. Can you stop that, by the way? Growing up? I’m not the biggest fan, you know.”

You pretended to think about it wiping at your eyes with your free hand. “Don’t think so.”

“Big shame, that. Massive shame. Probably the biggest shame of all. I remember when you were little little, when I had to tie your shoelaces for you and peel your oranges.” The latter was still true now, come to think of it. “But you’re still that same little girl, aren’t you, hm?” He lifted his head a little to peer down at you, trying to catch your gaze. “Aren’t you, Y/N?” There was a point hidden in those words. A point he’d had to reiterate so many times before on so many different levels. No matter his face, no matter his personality, no matter anything, he was still the same. The same Doctor. The same alien. The same being who loved you with all of his hearts. And he needed to remind you of that, to prepare you, because if what he feared would happen happened, he wanted—he needed it to be easy. For your sake. As easy as it could be. In whatever way helped you. In whatever way gave you back that life he’d inadvertently had a hand in destroying.

You drew away from him to look him in the eyes. Your own eyes were glistening, but you sniffed and held them back. You smiled lightly, then rose on your knees to wrap your arms around his neck in a tight hug. The Doctor returned it without hesitation, shutting his eyes.

“‘Course I am,” you said quietly. “Just like you.”

“Just like me.”

Doctor Who Masterpost

[whereforarthur]

It's Been Way Too Long

Request: id love a george smut, perhaps one of us have been rlly busy like all summer and barely had any time to see each other so when it gets to september time (ish) we havent realised how much we miss each other

Pairing: George Clarke x Reader

Category: Smut

Word Count: 2.2k

*****

“I think I'd miss you even if we never met.” — The Wedding Date

The London skies were a canvas of soft grays and muted blues, hinting at the promise of rain. The bustling streets below were a blur of umbrellas and rushing footsteps. Amidst the thrum of the city, a solitary figure sat on a bench in a small, overlooked park, a patch of green nestled between concrete giants. George Clarke, known to the internet as "The Clarke Cut", was a man of sharp contrasts. His online persona was vibrant, full of life and humor, but in this quiet moment, he was lost in thought, his eyes reflecting the weight of the world.

For months, George had thrown himself into his work, leaving little room for anything else. His YouTube channel had grown exponentially, the demands of content creation an ever-hungry beast that consumed his days and nights. The price of success had been steep, and he felt the cost keenly as he stared at the empty space next to him, where you, or y/n as he liked to call you, should have been. The vividness of your laughter and the warmth of your smile had been replaced by the cold metal of the bench, and the echoes of the city's cacophony.

The first leaves of autumn began to dance around him, a sad ballet of nature's end and rebirth. The chill in the air seemed to mirror the chill in his heart, a stark reminder of the seasons passing and the time lost. You had been his anchor, a steady presence that kept him grounded amidst the chaos. Without you, the city felt like an alien landscape, one he was navigating for the first time without a map.

George pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. The urge to hear your voice washed over him like a wave, but fear held him back. Would you be upset? Would you even have time to talk? With a sigh, he sent a text, keeping it light, hoping it didn't betray the tumult in his soul. "Missing you," it read, with a simple heart emoji. It was all he could manage.

Minutes ticked by, the silence stretching into a symphony of unspoken words. His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. It was you. "Miss you too, George," it said, followed by a smiling face with a tear. His heart clenched at the sight. You had felt it too, the distance that had grown between them like an invisible wall.

The rain finally made its appearance, lightly kissing the leaves before turning into a steady rhythm against the pavement. George didn't bother moving, the cool drops a soothing balm on his heated skin. The scent of wet earth and the faint smell of rain-soaked flowers filled the air, a familiar comfort that only heightened his longing for your presence.

As the drops grew heavier, his thoughts grew clearer. He knew what he had to do. Success meant nothing if he couldn't share it with the one who truly mattered. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the path ahead. He had to make time for you, to prioritize what truly made him happy. The rain grew into a crescendo, each drop a beat in the rhythm of his newfound resolve.

Standing up, George tucked his phone away and took a deep breath, the rain soaking his clothes and hair. He'd rearrange his schedule, make the calls, and do whatever it took to bridge the gap that had formed. With a renewed sense of purpose, he stepped into the storm, the cold water mixing with the warmth of his determination. The city around him blurred as he set off in the direction of your flat, eager to feel the warmth of your embrace and to apologize for his neglect. The rain washed away the dust of the summer, leaving behind the promise of a fresh start, a chance to rekindle the flame that had been smoldering between them.

By the time he arrived, the rain had become a downpour, turning the streets into rivers and the air into a thick mist. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart racing in anticipation. The door to your flat stood before him, a symbol of the comfort and love that waited within. He took a moment to compose himself, wiping the rain from his face before knocking softly, his breath hitching in his chest.

When the door opened, the sight of you took his breath away. You looked tired, your eyes a bit sad, but the moment they met his, a spark ignited, lighting up the room. The silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken words of regret and longing. Without a word, George stepped inside, closing the door behind him, the sound echoing through the small space like a declaration of intent.

You stood before him, rain-soaked and beautiful, your hair clinging to your face like a veil. The air was charged with tension, the kind that comes from months of missed moments and unspoken truths. He reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek, the touch sending a jolt through both of you. Your eyes searched his, looking for reassurance, for a sign that he truly meant it. And in that moment, George knew that he had made the right choice. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both desperate and gentle, a silent promise to never let you go again.

The kiss grew in intensity, a conflagration of passion that had been smoldering for too long. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer, as if trying to erase the space that had grown between you. The world outside the flat disappeared, leaving only the two of you, entwined in a dance of love and apology. The rain outside was now a mere backdrop to the symphony of your hearts beating in unison, a testament to the fact that no matter how busy life got, you two were destined to find your way back to each other.

Breaking the kiss, George whispered, "I'm sorry. I've been so caught up in work, I forgot what's truly important."

You looked up at him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's okay," you murmured, your voice a soft melody that soothed his soul. "I understand. But I missed you. So much."

He cupped your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the stray teardrops. "I missed you too. And I promise, from now on, I'll make more time for us."

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'd like that."

With the storm outside mirroring the tumult in their hearts, George took your hand and led you to the couch. You sat down together, the fabric warm and welcoming against your cold, wet clothes. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and you rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.

The sound of the rain grew softer as you talked, sharing stories of the summer's escapades and the moments you'd wished you could have shared. Each word was a thread weaving the fabric of your relationship back together, stronger than before. The warmth of the room began to seep into your bones, chasing away the chill of the rain and the months of separation.

As the conversation lulled, George reached over to the coffee table, picking up a notebook and a pen. He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the words and doodles that chronicled your life together. "Look," he said, pointing to a page filled with sketches of the two of you in various stages of laughter and love. "I want to fill this book with more memories. Starting now."

A blush crept up your cheeks as you took the notebook from him. The promise in his eyes was more than you could have hoped for. With a shaky hand, you wrote, "September 15th - The day George realized what truly matters."

Underneath, he scribbled, "And the day I came home to you."

*****

The moment was filled with the quiet understanding that sometimes life gets in the way, but true love always finds a path back. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle patter, as if it too knew that the storm had passed and that now was the time for growth and renewal.

George's hand slid down from your cheek to your neck, his touch sending shivers down your spine. He kissed you again, this time with a hunger that had been building for months. Your bodies pressed closer, the warmth of your skin a stark contrast to the cold fabric that separated you. The rain had made the air thick with desire, and you could feel the heat radiating from George's body, his need for you palpable.

Your hands found their way under his shirt, feeling the dampness of his skin and the tautness of his muscles. The sensation sent waves of electricity through you, and you realized just how much you'd missed the simple act of touching him, of feeling his heart race in response to your touch. His hands roamed your body, exploring the curves and valleys that he knew so well, yet somehow felt new and exciting. The rain outside had become a soft, rhythmic backdrop to your reunion, a natural metronome setting the pace of your passion.

As you kissed, you both began to peel away the layers of clothing that had kept you apart, revealing the warmth and desire that had been trapped beneath. Your skin met with a sigh of relief, like two long-lost friends finally reunited. The couch cushions grew soggy with rainwater, but you didn't care. All that mattered was the connection that surged between you, a current more powerful than any storm.

The smell of damp fabric and the gentle scent of your perfume mixed with the musk of passion as you became lost in each other. The storm outside had brought you back together, and now, you were determined to make the most of every moment. The sound of the rain grew fainter as you became more attuned to the sound of your breaths mingling, the beat of your hearts syncing up as one.

George lifted you effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours. The floorboards creaked underfoot, a gentle reminder of the history you shared in this space. You knew every inch of this room, every crevice and corner, but it had never felt more intimate than it did in that moment.

Laying you down on the bed, he hovered over you, his gaze intense and filled with love. The soft light from the streetlamp painted shadows on the wall, playing across your bodies as you moved together in a dance of passion. The thunder outside rumbled in the distance, punctuating the silent promises made between kisses and caresses.

Your bodies intertwined, the coldness of the rain forgotten in the warmth of your love. The room was filled with the sound of the rain, the sighs of pleasure, and the whispers of sweet nothings that meant everything. The storm outside mirrored the intensity of your reunion, each flash of lightning illuminating the passion in your eyes, as if the very sky was celebrating your reconciliation.

The rain grew softer, the thunder a gentle reminder of the tempest you had weathered. As your bodies found their rhythm, the storm outside seemed to mimic your own, building to a crescendo before subsiding into a gentle lull. You lay there, tangled in the warmth of each other's arms, the city of London a silent witness to your love.

In the aftermath of your passion, you both lay still, listening to the fading patter of rain and the steady thrum of each other's hearts. The world outside had continued to turn, but for a brief moment, it had stopped for you both. You knew that from now on, no matter how busy life got, you would always find time for each other, because you had just survived the storm, and the calm that followed was more beautiful than any summer's day.

You leaned up to kiss him softly, tasting the salt of the rain and the sweetness of your shared love. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice a mere breath against his skin.

George smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "For what?"

"For reminding me what's important," you said, your eyes searching his. "For coming back to me."

He kissed you again, his arms tightening around you. "Always," he murmured, his voice a solemn vow. "I'll always come back to you."

The room was a cocoon of warmth and love, the storm outside a gentle lullaby, as you both drifted off to sleep, the sound of the rain a soothing serenade. Hours passed, the city's heartbeat growing quieter as the night deepened. When you awoke, the rain had stopped, leaving a freshness in the air that seemed to cleanse the very essence of the world. The scent of wet earth and the faint sound of distant cars washed over you, bringing with it a sense of peace.

******

@gvf23

@xxkatxgracexx

[heizenka]

𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

♖ Spencer Reid x f!reader

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

— content warnings: usual criminal minds violence, murder, death

— word count: 1.5k

inspired by: loml by Taylor Swift

The BAU team had seen their fair share of gruesome crime scenes, but this one was particularly chilling. Y/N had been abducted three days ago, and now they found her body dumped in a remote warehouse on the outskirts of Quantico. Spencer Reid's heart sank as he approached the scene, his mind racing with a mix of dread and desperate hope.

Derek Morgan, his closest friend and confidant on the team, gripped Spencer's arm firmly as they neared the body. "Reid, stay focused," Derek murmured, his voice tinged with concern. "You can't go rushing in there. We have to assess the situation first."

Spencer nodded mechanically, his eyes fixed on Y/N's lifeless form lying amidst the cold concrete floor. Her face was pale, eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep, but the evidence of violence was stark—bruises on her wrists, a single gunshot wound to the chest. The scene was a tableau of horror, the silence broken only by the distant hum of police radios and the muffled voices of forensic technicians.

Hotch approached them with a grim expression. "We need to process the scene carefully," he stated, his tone clipped and professional. "Garcia is running the last known communications and surveillance footage. We might still catch a break."

Spencer nodded again, his mind racing with a flurry of thoughts and calculations. He was known for his intellect, his ability to piece together intricate patterns and profiles, but now all he could think about was Y/N—her smile, her laughter, the warmth of her presence that had become a constant anchor in his turbulent life.

Emily Prentiss, usually composed and stoic, placed a hand on Spencer's shoulder, her voice wavering soft with sympathy. "We're going to find who did this, Reid," she assured him, her own eyes betraying the weight of their collective grief. "And we'll make sure they pay for what they've done."

But Spencer was barely listening. His attention was fixed on Y/N, kneeling beside her as if in a trance. He reached out hesitantly, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. "No," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "No, no, no. We can save her! We can save her! I can save her, please!"

Tears streamed down Spencer's face as he clutched Y/N's cold hand, his fingers trembling against her lifeless skin. The reality of her death crashed over him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and suffocating. He was supposed to be the one who solved puzzles, who found answers where others saw only chaos. But now, faced with the ultimate mystery—the senseless loss of someone he loved—he felt utterly helpless.

Derek knelt beside Spencer, pulling him gently away from Y/N's body. "Spence, she's gone," he said quietly, his voice filled with sorrow. "There's nothing more we can do here."

"No!" Spencer protested, his voice rising in desperation. "There has to be something! I can figure this out, I can find who did this!"

Hotch approached them, his expression grave. "Reid, we need you to focus," he said firmly. "We have a case to solve, and we need your mind clear."

But Spencer couldn't tear his gaze away from Y/N. Her face haunted him—her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about a new book she was reading, the warmth of her touch. They had shared late-night conversations, quiet moments of understanding in the chaos of their work. She had become his anchor, his reason for hope amidst the darkness they faced every day.

As the hours passed and the investigation progressed, Spencer retreated into himself. He answered questions mechanically, analyzed evidence with detached precision, but his mind kept returning to Y/N. The images of her lifeless body flashed before him, tormenting him with their finality.

That night, back at the BAU headquarters, Spencer found himself standing alone in Y/N's empty office. Her desk was cluttered with books and case files, a half-finished cup of coffee still sitting beside her computer. The room felt achingly silent, a stark reminder of her absence.

Derek found Spencer there, staring blankly at Y/N's desk. He approached cautiously, knowing that words alone couldn't ease his friend's grief. "Reid," Derek began gently, "I know this is hard. But blaming yourself won't bring her back."

Spencer turned to him, his eyes hollow with pain. "I should have been faster," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I should have figured it out sooner. Maybe... maybe she'd still be alive."

Derek shook his head, his own eyes filled with sorrow. "Spence, you did everything you could," he insisted, his voice firm yet compassionate. "No one blames you for this. We're a team, and we're going to find justice for her."

Spencer nodded silently, his throat tight with unshed tears. He knew Derek was right—that guilt was a burden he couldn't afford to carry. But the ache in his heart remained, a constant reminder of the life they had lost, of the future they would never share.

In the days that followed, the BAU worked tirelessly to track down Y/N's killer. Garcia sifted through mountains of data, and Emily coordinated with local law enforcement to canvas the area. But for Spencer, the investigation was more than just a case—it was a quest for closure, a way to honor Y/N's memory and the love they had shared.

As they pieced together the evidence, a pattern began to emerge. The unsub—a disturbed Jack Mconnell,  with a history of violence and obsession—had fixated on Y/N, seeing her as a symbol of everything he desired but could never possess. His delusions had driven him to commit unspeakable acts, until ultimately ending Y/N's life in a desperate bid to fulfill his twisted fantasies.

When the team finally identified the unsub and cornered him in a remote cabin, Spencer was among those who stormed in, his gun drawn and his heart pounding with a mix of rage and sorrow. The confrontation was brief but intense, ending with a single gunshot that brought Jack to justice. But for Spencer, the closure he sought remained elusive.

That night, standing alone on the balcony of his apartment, Spencer stared up at the stars. Their distant light seemed to mock him, reminding him of the vastness of the universe and the fragility of human life. He thought of Y/N—the way she had believed in him, the way she had made him feel seen and understood in ways he had never thought possible.

The tears finally came then, unchecked and unrestrained. He had always prided himself on his ability to analyze, to compartmentalize his emotions in the face of tragedy. But now, faced with the emptiness of Y/N's absence, he felt utterly and completely lost.

In the weeks and months that followed, Spencer struggled to find his footing. The BAU continued their work, chasing down new cases and unraveling the minds of criminals, but the team dynamics had shifted irreversibly. There was a void where Y/N had once been—a presence that had anchored them all, reminding them of the humanity they fought so hard to protect.

Garcia, ever perceptive and empathetic, made it her mission to check in on Spencer regularly. She brought him his favorite coffee, listened patiently as he rambled about obscure facts and theories, and offered quiet words of comfort when the weight of grief threatened to overwhelm him.

And Derek, unwavering in his support, stood by Spencer's side through it all. He didn't press for conversations or demand explanations. Instead, he simply remained present—a silent pillar of strength in Spencer's darkest moments.

One day, several months after Y/N's death, Spencer found himself standing at her grave. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the headstone engraved with her name. He placed a bouquet of flowers—a mix of lilies, her favorite—and knelt beside the grave, his fingers tracing the letters of her name.

"I miss you," Spencer whispered, his voice raw with emotion. "Every day, I miss you."

He stayed there until the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky, his heart heavy with the weight of his grief. But amidst the pain, there was a glimmer of something else—a determination to honor Y/N's memory, to carry her with him in everything he did.

And as he stood to leave, he made a silent vow to never forget—the love they had shared, the moments they had cherished, and the promise of a future that had been stolen away.

copyright 2021 heizenka, all rights reserved. I do not allow my creations to be published of translated anywhere else so please do not repost.

[callie-the-creator]

insomniac

sfw. warnings: reader is fmab, mentions of kira and his murders, l can’t sleep, etc.

author’s note: i miss l so much. :(

l sat in his characteristic crouch on the edge of his chair, fingers entwined, eyes intently focused on the monitors before him. the task force headquarters was dimly lit, the flickering screens casting a bluish hue across the room. he had spent countless hours reviewing evidence, piecing together clues, and trying to identify kira, but the elusive criminal mastermind continued to evade him. l won't rest or, at the very least, he refused to. his main focus consisted of two things: keeping y/n— his girlfriend— safe and away from any danger and catching kira (l had dedicated the past few years to the investigation pursuing kira), a figure known to kill those whom he deems morally unworthy of life.

so many criminals have died.

his mind raced with possibilities, tracing and retracing steps, connecting and disconnecting dots. his suspicions often circled back to the same few individuals, but without concrete evidence, he was trapped in a maddening loop of speculation. he needed proof, something tangible that could lead to an arrest. the gnawing uncertainty kept him awake, denying him the rest his body craved.

as the hours dragged into the early morning, l's eyes, bloodshot and weary, drifted to the cot where his girlfriend, y/n, lay sleeping. her presence had been a rare comfort in his life, a steadying force amidst the chaos. she stirred slightly, her breathing deep and rhythmic, oblivious to the turmoil that raged within him. "y/n...?" he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. he wasn't expecting an answer; he just needed to hear the sound of her name, something to anchor him to reality.

she groaned softly, her eyes fluttering open to meet his. "hmm...whaaaat?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. it was clear she wasn't pleased about being woken up, but she tried to focus on him nonetheless.

l hesitated, his mind teetering on the edge of a precipice. he knew what he was about to ask could shatter the fragile peace they had, but he couldn't suppress the question any longer. "would you betray me?" he asked.

y/n blinked, her drowsiness giving way to confusion. "what are you talking about?" she inquired, pushing herself up on one elbow. "why would you ask something like that?" she added.

l’s gaze remained fixed on her, searching for any hint of deceit, any flicker of guilt. but all he saw was a concern, her eyes wide and earnest in the dim light. "i’ve been thinking…” he began, his voice steady but laced with tension, "about kira, about the people who might be capable of such things. and it occurred to me that...i don't know if i can trust anyone anymore." he said, sadly.

she sat up fully, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, her hair all messy. "l, you know me," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. "we’ve been through so much together. how can you even think i would betray you?" she questioned, despite knowing very well that l had every right to not trust her. after all, he was the head of the investigation and thus the arch nemesis of kira. he must remain vigilant, it is all he can do to ensure his safety.

"i don't know what to think anymore…” he admitted, his tone betraying the depth of his internal struggle. "i just…can't afford to make any mistakes. you know that.” he sighed. this was the last conversation that he wanted to have with y/n, despite it needing to be addressed.

y/n reached out, her hand covering his. "listen to me," she said firmly, her touch grounding him. "i am not kira. i would never do anything to hurt you or anyone else. you have to believe that." she partially pleaded with him. if they wanted to put their relationship on ice because of this minor bump in the road, then so be it, but y/n is sure that it would only result in hurting them.

l’s eyes softened, the storm within them momentarily calmed by her words. he wanted to believe her, to cling to the hope that at least one part of his life remained untouched by kira's darkness. "i want to believe you.” he said quietly, "but i can't let my guard down. not even for you,” he said matter-of-factly. “i’m sorry…”

y/n sighed deeply. she then slid out from under the warm blankets, her bare feet meeting the cold floor with a shiver. standing beside him, she gazed down at him, his hunched form bathed in the eerie glow of the computer screens. leaning down, she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, her lips lingering there for a moment before she ran her hands through his unruly black hair. "can you at least come to bed then?" she asked softly.

the night had stretched on for far too long, and the first light of dawn would soon pierce the gloom. l shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling almost imperceptibly. "don’t know," he replied, his tone detached and distant, eyes never leaving the monitors.

y/n let out a small, plaintive whine, her worry for him bubbling to the surface. she wrapped her arms around him from behind, pulling him into a tender embrace. "please?" she murmured, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "you need to rest. just a little while…”

l felt the warmth of her breath against his skin, the comforting pressure of her body against his back. for a moment, he allowed himself to be still, to feel the weight of her concern and the depth of her affection. he glanced at her, then at the clock on the wall, the numbers blurring slightly in his tired vision. his gaze returned to her, meeting her pleading eyes. "fine," he said finally, his voice tinged with reluctant resignation before mustering a small, almost imperceptible smile. "but five minutes is all you’re getting."

[pamwritessometimes]

Tuesday's Gone — Chapter 5

Russell Shaw x reader

Summary: When the police does little to no help to find your missing daughter, you are forced to contact Colter Shaw. What you don’t expect is how his investigation will reveal secrets about both your past and your daughter’s, in ways you never imagined.

Warnings: description and mention of murder, language, absolutely cliché cliffhanger

A/N: Hey, lovely moots! Just a heads-up that things are about to get a little hectic on my end with writing my MA thesis and juggling work over the next few weeks, so there might be a slight delay in the next chapter. Thanks so much for your patience and understanding & most importantly for loving this story so far. Hope you enjoy the read in the meantime! 🤍

Catch up on Chapter 4 here

Tuesday’s Gone masterlist

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Previously:

With Emma snug in your arms and a renewed sense of determination, you stepped into the night together. 

For a second, the three of you standing there almost looked like some offbeat family photo… bittersweet, and about as far from normal as it gets.

But the moment you took in your surroundings, you felt a chill sensation. This sure as hell didn’t look like Idaho Falls. Nor the rundown warehouse you’d started in.

You had no idea where you were. 

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You tightened your grip on Emma, feeling the weight of her small body pressing into you like an anchor. And you undoubtedly needed that goddamn anchor then and there. Wherever there was.

She looked up at you with wide, tired and weary eyes, sensing the danger but too young to understand the why of it all. She was still shivering from being held hostage in a — what exactly? You turned around to take a glance at the building you and Emma were taken to. It was some sort of a fort-looking, massive, brutalist building. The unpainted concrete walls and the defined, sharp edges just gave the already eerie atmosphere another layer of creepiness. 

Russell also took a look at the building, but his mind was occupied with finding something — anything, really, that indicated where they were.

He scanned the empty streets. The whole place looked deserted and industrial. Old factory buildings with busted-out windows, a chain-link fence rusting along the perimeter, and no signs of life except for a stray cat slinking through the shadows. 

This is what The Rolling Stones was singing about in Living In A Ghost Town, he thought.

Russell glanced around, brow furrowed.

“This… doesn’t look good” he muttered, looking like he was trying to solve a Rubik's Cube with one hand tied behind his back.

“No kidding” you shot back, keeping your tone as light as you could manage for Emma’s sake, but your heart was thumping like a jackhammer. You were about three seconds away from a nervous breakdown — which, at this point, would probably be your hundredth. “So, genius… what’s the plan?”

Russell glanced at you, clearly trying to keep it together, but the frustration in his voice was impossible to miss. “I’m trying to come up with one. But I’m pretty sure you won’t like it.”

“There wasn’t any part of this I liked in the first place!” you grumbled.

Just then, a low rumble echoed from somewhere in the distance, a car engine revving up, headlights slicing through the dark. At the sound of voices barked orders, “Get ‘em!” and “Don’t fucking let them get away!”, Russell muttered a curse under his breath, pulling you both back into the shadows.

You flattened yourself against the cold wall, clutching Emma close. The car’s headlights swept across the cracked pavement, illuminating the scene for a heartbeat before the light passed, leaving you in the cover of darkness again. You held your breath, listening as the car slowed, idling nearby.

Russell’s eyes met yours, a silent message passing between you. You could almost hear his thoughts screaming This wasn’t part any of the plans I came up with.

The car's engine finally faded, and Russell took a slow, perfectly controlled breath. Huh. “Alright” he whispered. “Follow me. We stick to the backstreets, stay low, and pray they don’t have the whole damn town locked down.”

You raised an eyebrow, attempting a dry smile despite the tension. “So, no master plan, just hope for the best? Excellent.”

His lips twitched, a hint of his usual smirk breaking through. “Welcome to my life.”

With that, he led the way down the alley, sticking close to the wall and guiding you through the maze of abandoned buildings. Emma clung to you, her little fingers curled into your shirt with a force that no four-year-old should bear, and you stroked her back, whispering soft reassurances you weren’t sure you even believed yourself.

And honestly, you weren’t sure who needed the comfort more, her or you.

A few blocks down, you came across an old diner with a busted sign hanging above. It looked deserted. Perfect. Russell motioned for you to duck inside, the three of you slipping into the dimly lit space, huddling behind an overturned booth.

Russell scanned the room. “We’ll wait here for a few minutes. I need to come up with a plan.”

You nodded, settling Emma down and trying to keep your own nerves in check. It was just the three of you now, in a dusty, forgotten diner on the edge of nowhere, hiding from a nightmare that had yet to let you go. As you leaned back against the booth, you glanced at Russell, whose eyes were still scanning the room, like he could will a plan into existence if he stared hard enough. “So, any ideas on where exactly we are?”

He shrugged, offering a look that was almost... endearing in its hopelessness. “Somewhere... not Idaho Falls?”

You couldn’t help it. A low, incredulous laugh slipped out of your lips. “Well, thanks, Sherlock. That really narrows it down.”

“We’re far from home?” Emma's voice cut through the hushed tension.

You froze as you looked at her wide, curious and somewhat nervous eyes. 

“Yes, we are” Russell said before you could answer. Your eyes snapped at his face with a questioning expression, then he continued “… because we are on a little adventure.”

You shot him a look. Adventure? Was that what we were calling it now? Maybe you’d missed the part where your life turned into a bad action movie. But you just kept quiet. No point in crushing the adventure vibe. And you had no better idea how to explain it to her without mounting the trauma of the situation to her.

Emma turned to him as he spoke and after a moment of silence, her little voice hit his ears. “Who’s he?” she asked, pointing at Russell.

Russell blinked back, like she’d just asked him how to solve world hunger in the span of five minutes. He’d only met her about an hour ago, and now this. The million-dollar question.

Your dad, his mind screamed, but his mouth rather formed the following sentence.

“Uh, I’m a friend of your mom’s” he said, flashing her a smile that wasn’t exactly convincing. The truth was right there, hanging in the air like a bad smell, but neither of you were about to air it out yet. Not now, and definitely not here. "My name's Russell."

Emma didn’t seem to notice the weirdness, though. She just nodded like that made sense. And you? You were still stuck on the fact that your life had turned into a poorly scripted Bruce Willis-movie.

Emma tilted her head while her expression turned adorably thoughtful. “You’re hairy. Like grandpa.”

Russell chuckled as he ran a hand through his beard. “Yeah, I guess I am. It’s my pirate look.”

Her eyes lit up at the word pirate. “Are you a pirate?! Can I be one, too?”

“Absolutely” he replied. “But we have to be sneaky pirates, okay? No one can know we’re here.”

Your heart did a little flip at the sight. The way he talked to your daughter. His daughter. His voice was surprisingly soft and sweet, even in this situation. Emma’s reaction wasn’t a shock, though. She had a habit of linking beards (like the one your dad rocked) with safety and familiar love.

“Okay!” Emma nodded so seriously it was like she’d just signed up for a full-on treasure hunt. “What’s our treasure?” she asked, her little brain clearly putting the pieces together. If we’re on an adventure, we must be looking for something, right?

Russell didn’t miss a beat. “Finding you is the biggest treasure there is” he said, throwing you a quick look that somehow managed to be both warm and determined. “Your mom was worried sick about you.”

Emma’s serious face melted into a grin, giggling like she’d just figured out the punchline of a joke she didn’t even know she was in. “I’m a treasure!”

Russell couldn’t help but smile back, watching her with something a little different in his eyes now. There was something about this brave little girl that made him feel a little less lost in the middle of all this chaos.

Just then, the sound of tires screeching echoed from down the street, and he stiffened, pulling you both deeper into the shadows, close to his chest.

"We need to move” Russell said, his voice sharp with urgency. The fact that he still didn’t have a solid plan didn’t seem to slow him down. Without warning, he scooped Emma up into his arms, his eyes softening just a fraction as he did. “We’ll move faster this way, pirate” he added, his lips twitching into a grin. “Just stay quiet, little treasure hunter, ‘kay?”

Emma blinked at him, clearly processing this new development like she was on the set of some kind of action flick. But after a beat, she nodded, her little hands clutching his shirt like she was ready to face whatever was next.

This whole scene was surprising. She seemed to like him already — and that was backed by the way she smiled back at you from his arms. 

You could hardly believe your eyes. 

In the midst of a kidnapping, Russell somehow made her forget the fear and pain of the past few days, if only for a moment.

Russell gave her a quick wink before looking back at you. The plan might still be nonexistent, but at least someone was acting like they had it together.

With Emma snug in his arms, Russell headed out quietly, leading you through the maze of shadows and concrete buildings. The screeching tires faded into the background, replaced by the rhythmic pounding of your heart that you could feel in your eardrums. 

“Alright, pirate crew” Russell whispered, his eyes scanning the surroundings like he was already in full-on mission mode. And he probably was. “We need an escape route. And I need your sharp eyes on lookout, got it? Keep ‘em peeled for any bad guys.”

“Bad guys?” she echoed, looking around, wide-eyed. “Are they gonna hurt us?”

Russell shook his head, grinning. “Not a chance. We’re pirates, remember? We’ll outsmart them easily. Right, captain?”

Emma giggled, playing along like she was born for this. And you had to hand it to him — Russell knew exactly what he was doing. Using the pirate game to sneak his way in, to worm his way through to your daughter. You hated to admit it, but... yeah, it was working.

“Alright, crew, any bright ideas?” you whispered, forcing as much lightness into your tone as you could muster for Emma’s sake.

But before anyone could answer, you heard it—tires screeching, closer this time, much too close. The sound scraped at your nerves, a noise that would probably haunt your nightmares for weeks. If your survive it, that is. Your heart skipped a beat as headlights sliced through the dark, illuminating everything for a split second before they vanished again.

"Shi—“ you muttered, but quickly bit the end as you glanced at your daughter.

Russell’s face hardened, the easy smile he’d been wearing slipping away. "Stay down, stay quiet. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

Emma clutched at his shirt. “What’s happening?”

Russell’s jaw tightened, and for a second, you could have sworn you saw actual fear in his eyes. Like he knew something bad was about to happen. Something fatal.

“We’re playing a new game now, treasure hunter. It’s called ‘hide and don’t get caught'” he said, his eyes darting around, until they landed on a massive tree surrounded by some half-crushed rocks.

And just like that, he got the plan.

Without wasting another second, Russell shoved Emma back into your arms, nudging you both behind the tree. You opened your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes was all the explanation you needed. There was no room for negotiation. This wasn’t just another close call; he was done running.

“Stay here” he whispered. “… and whatever you hear… don’t come out” he added. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, like he was taking in all of your little features; the way your hair framed your face, the slight tremor in your shoulders, your lashes looking slightly vet from fear. You looked like you’d been through a storm, and honestly, you had. But to him, standing there, you and Emma were worth every bruise, every risk.

With one last look, he turned, placing himself between you and the approaching threats.

You barely had time to register anything before you heard a car door creak open. You couldn’t see a thing from your hiding spot, but you didn’t need to. You knew exactly who it was. Rourke, or one of his Horizon lackeys. And Russell? He was still out there. With only a single gun and that damn stubborn fire in his eyes (that you somehow always adored). 

It was insane. He was insane.

Your pulse raced, heart hammering in your chest as you pressed yourself further into the shadows, praying Russell had a plan. Or, at the very least, that his unshakable confidence wouldn’t get him killed. You could hear the shuffle of boots approaching, slow and controlled.

You held Emma close, her small fingers tightening around you as she buried her face against your shoulder. You stroked her back gently, whispering, “Shh… we’re just playing hide and seek, yeah?" you asked, echoing Russell's words from earlier. "Can you… can you stay quiet for me?” 

Her fearful eyes were shiny from unshed tears, but she nodded. The guilt hit you like a punch to the gut. God, you’d never felt more of a failure as a mom than in that moment. You were supposed to keep her safe, to protect her, not drag her into this mess.

Outside, Russell didn’t flinch as the footsteps drew closer, his body poised like a coiled spring, ready to move. You could only listen, heart hammering, hoping he had some kind of plan up his sleeve because this wasn’t a fight he could take on alone.

“Come on, Shaw” a voice called from the shadows, the kind of voice that made you want to punch something. Rourke. Of course. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be. You’re outnumbered, outgunned, and just plain out of luck. Come back to us… and maybe we’ll consider not wiping out your adorable little family."

Russell’s jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides as he took a step closer to the darkened street. He didn’t raise his voice, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable. “You touch one hair on their heads, and you’ll regret it, Rourke.”

Rourke chuckled with a sound so smug, it almost made you physically ill. “You know, Shaw, I thought you were smarter than this. Putting your life on the line... and for what? You can’t win here.”

Russell didn’t waver, his voice low and steady. “You don’t know a damn thing about what’s worth fighting for.”

“Oh, I think I do” Rourke sneered, taking another step closer, his figure shifting in the moonlight. “I know weakness when I see it. I see it every time I look at you.”

A beat of silence. It was deafening.

“And I see a coward” Russell finally replied. “Hiding behind hired thugs, preying on those who can’t fight back. Real tough guy... That's what you enjoy, huh? That's the reason for that little side hustle of yours?" he asked. "Does Morello still have no clue about it?"

Morello? Side hustle? What was Russell playing at?

Rourke’s smug grin faltered, but only for a second. “You talk a big game, Shaw. Let’s see if you back it up.” He motioned to his men, weapons glinting faintly. Russell mirrored their actions.

You couldn't see anything, but the sounds were lound and clear. You’ve never felt this scared in your life. Ever.

From your hidden spot behind the tree, you felt Emma’s little arms clutch you tighter, sensing the danger. Your heart pounded as you watched Russell’s shadow standing alone, facing them all down.

Then Rourke took one last step forward. “Final offer, Shaw” his voice creaked with menace. “Come with us, and maybe, just maybe, your bitch and offspring stay intact.”

Russell’s grip on his gun tightened. “Big words for a guy who needs an entourage to feel important” he shot back. “But I’ll pass on the offer, thanks.”

Rourke’s face twisted, anger finally replacing his smirk. “Fine,” he spat. “You want to play hero, Shaw? Then let’s see if you survive it.”

And then, without warning, bang. The most terrifying gunshot sound you’ve ever experienced.

Not that you’ve never heard a gunshot before. It wasn’t necessarily the sound you found terrifying… but rather the silence that followed, and the uncertainty of who was at the receiving end.

━━━━━━━━━━✦✧✦━━━━━━━━━━━

Next on Tuesday's Gone (Sneak Peek from Chapter 6):

“I know you don’t want to“ he began, holding up a hand before you could get a word in. “But you and Emma need to check into the hospital. Just to be sure she’s okay, no hidden bumps or bruises.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he shook his head, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t try to be a hero. Do it for her, if not for yourself. And…maybe a little for me, too.”

His eyes softened as he looked at you both. “I need to know you’re safe. After everything that just went down, I don’t think I could handle one more surprise tonight.”

━━━━━━━━━━✦✧✦━━━━━━━━━━━

I know, such a cliché and terrible cliffhanger. But what can I say? Don’t fix what’s not broken.

Read Chapter 6 here

🤍 Taglist 🤍

@bitchykittenconnoisseur @smoothdogsgirl @spnfamily-j2 @winchesterwild78 @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @zepskies @kr804573 @sebastianstangirl01 @kmc1989 @drakelover78 @amberlthomas @lomlbuckybarnes @n-o-p-e-never

[obsessedwithtoomanythings]

Anchor Up to Me, Love

Pairing: Alpha!Leon Kennedy x Omega!Reader

Warning: College AU, Knotting, Claiming Bites, Breeding Kink, Penis In Vagina Sex, Oral Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, But Leon saves the day, cause we love him, Possessive Leon S. Kennedy, Protective Leon S. Kennedy, Violence, just a lil, Leon S. Kennedy Being a Little Shit, Leon S. Kennedy is a tease. Leon S. Kennedy is a Sweetheart, I slept for 2 hours last night cause of this, bon appétit, bone apple teeth, Leon Kennedy loves eating pussy change my mind, Loss of Virginity, Unprotected Sex, POV First Person

Words: 3.3K

A/N: I wrote this in one afternoon, it was not beta'd at all. I pulled this STRAIGHT out of my ass. THIS IS NSFW. IF YOU ARE A MINOR, PLEASE GO AWAY. Title from Anchor by Novo Amor.

The campus was buzzing with hyper energy, the students littering the quad as the weather finally warmed up enough for them to comfortably rest on the green grass. My sneakers slap against the concrete as I take a deep breath in, the fresh air mingling with the student’s scents and I can’t help but feel a twinge of loneliness at the sight of the couples sprawled across the area.

I have spent half my life terrified of everyone - especially alphas - since my father’s warning when I presented. “You need to be careful, pup. Alpha’s only want one thing. You don’t want to end up like your mother - God rest her soul.” The fear it caused has definitely contributed to my self induced isolation. The scent blockers stir in my stomach, and I place a hand over my gut softly as I continue to head toward the library. I couldn’t afford the textbook, and thankfully the library had a cheap copy, but it can only be used in the library. I huff in annoyance as I mount the stairs. I step into the air conditioned building, skin prickling beneath my tee shirt. Should have worn a sweater.

The library is huge, 3 floors of walls lined with books, and the loner in me cries out in joy at seeing how deserted the stacks are. Having memorized the way already, I walk toward where they keep the textbooks and I run my fingers across the bindings until I come across where my textbook should be. I glance around to see if it was maybe misplaced before I head to the front desk.

“Hi, I’m looking for the Understanding Earth textbook for Professor Fieldman’s class?” I ask, and the woman behind the counter looks up with a small smile.

“Oh, that’s a popular one today. There’s a young man in blue who asked for it maybe 10 minutes ago. He should be in one of the study rooms, I think Room C.” The one with the windows. I nod, glancing down at my phone for the time. That paper is due in 12 hours. I’ll have to suck it up and ask if he’s willing to share. I head up the stairs, the hushed whispers of students giggling on the second floor catches my attention as I rub my fingers over my arms to warm them. The straps of my backpack are becoming more and more noticeable the longer the bag rests on my shoulders, and the girls’ voices become audible. “Wasn’t he adorable? He’s in my criminology class. His scent is intoxicating.” I scoff at their words. I walk toward the closed oak door before lightly rapping my knuckles on the varnished surface, and I crack it open as I hear a voice speak. Please be a beta. Please be a beta. Please be a beta.

“Yeah?” The door opens a bit more and that’s when I see him, strong hands hovering over the keys of his laptop, bright blue eyes trained on me as I stand in the doorway, my cheeks probably red from embarrassment.

“Hi,” I say before introducing myself with my name. “I know this is probably weird, but Professor Fieldman assigned a paper due tonight and I need some sources. Would you mind if I shared the textbook with you?” I ask, definitely speaking too fast as the anxiety crawls up my throat, tasting an awful lot like bile. He chuckles and that’s when his scent hits my nose. Those girls weren’t lying. He smells like pine and citrus, which you wouldn’t normally assume would mix, but something about the way it mingles as it enters my nose, my whole body flushes,, and I wonder if it’s because of him being an alpha or just him in general.

“I’m Leon. Leon Kennedy. And no, I don’t mind at all,” he says kindly, scooting his chair over a bit and pushing the textbook closer to the chair next to him. I should not sit next to him. His scent is already almost overwhelming and I’ve been in here for all of 1 minute. I find myself walking forward as I hear the door close behind me and I sit down in the black mesh swivel chair next to Leon. He gives me a small smile before I realize he probably thinks I’m a beta. My scent blockers should be enough. When is my heat due again? I vaguely wonder as I slip my backpack onto the floor next to me and pull out my laptop, opening the document to this stupid paper. “The paper on your favorite mineral and its multitude of uses?” He asks, glancing at my screen and I nervously huff out a laugh.

“Yup. I went with obsidian.” I say as I look back at him. His eyes are like two pools of blue, oceans in their entirety and threatening to drag me under and drown me.

“Good choice. Quartz,” he points his thumb at himself with a small smile as he runs his fingers through his hair before training his eyes on his paper. We sit in comfortable silence for about 10 minutes before the first cramp shoots through my gut. I press a hand to the muscle, hoping pressure will relieve the ache before it increases. I tense up as I groan, dropping my head to the cool desk as my skin feels like it’s on fire. “Are you okay?” He asks, placing a hand on my back, and the warmth of his hand makes me release a very different kind of groan, which I try to muffle by clamping my teeth down on my bottom lip, so hard I may be drawing blood. Heat washes over me and I vaguely register that I am absolutely going into heat right here, next to this alpha I just met. I reach down for my phone to check, and that’s when I realize that I am a week early for my heat.

“I’m fine, I just need to go, I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I stand quickly, slamming my laptop closed much harder than I should before practically throwing it into my backpack, slinging the fabric over my shoulders before I feel a hand lightly wrap around my wrist, not restraining me, just… catching my attention.

“I’m sorry, I can go if you need the-” Leon trails off, his voice fading into silence as his eyes widen. “You’re an omega?” He asks, and I know my scent blockers aren’t very effective anymore. Not against a sudden onset of heat in the middle of the day. I nod smally, feeling tiny compared to this alpha, despite him still sitting down in his own chair. The place where his skin meets mine on my wrist tingles, sending sparks up and down my arm as I am suddenly extremely grateful that I didn’t wrap myself in a sweatshirt. I’d be sweating through it by now.

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, taking a deep breath while facing away from me, as if he’s trying to compose himself before he speaks again. “Sorry, you’re just… You smell amazing…” He practically rasps, voice dropping to a painfully attractive octave. “I thought you were a beta when you walked in. You shouldn’t be out this close to your heat,” he mumbles, still unable to meet my eyes.

“I’m not due for a week. Trust me, I intend to go home,” I explain, and he nods as he lets go of my wrist. Without another word, I walk briskly to the door. I don’t breathe until I’m out in the fresh air, trying to wash Leon’s scent from my nose before I begin to practically sprint toward the parking lot where my car is. I’m almost there when I hear whistles behind me. Oh no.

“Where you going, pretty ‘mega?” My hands shake violently, slick pouring into the center of my panties due to the incoming heat, and I hear several sets of footsteps behind me. There are at least 3 of them. A cold hand lands on my shoulder and I yelp, dropping my keys to the tarmac as tears brim in my eyes. The alpha spins me around as his friends snigger behind him and his hard body presses me against the nearest vehicle, hands roaming over my jean covered thighs as the hot tears pour down my cheeks. His scent is vile, aggression and sweat wafting off of him in waves, and his nose runs along the column of my throat. “You smell so good, baby. How about you let me take care of your little problem?” His voice is gravely and harsh, tongue licking up my neck to taste my sweat. “God, I’m gonna knot you so-”

“Get the fuck off of her.” A voice says, and it takes my mind only moments to realize it’s Leon.

“Fuck off, finder’s keepers.” I squeeze my eyes closed so tightly that harsh colors flash across my darkened vision, and my hands push against his cotton tee shirt pointlessly.

“Then how about this?” The weight is gone, ripped from my body and I open my eyes to see that Leon has physically ripped the guy off of me and I watch as his body collides with the vehicle next to us, the white metal slightly dented from where his head hit before Leon’s fists tighten in his shirt, pressing him into the truck. “Touch my omega again, and you won’t be leaving unless it’s in a body bag.” Leon lets him go and we both watch as the alpha runs away, followed by his lackeys. If he had a tail, it’d be between his legs.

I sink to the ground, knees pressed to my chest and my hands press into the dark concrete. “Holy…”

“Are you okay?” Leon is there, crouching at my level. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” I shake my head, hands twitching, begging me to reach out and touch him and I can’t stop them as one lands on his shoulder.

“I just want to feel safe... Can you hold me?” I whisper, and it’s only seconds before his palms skim along my bare arms. Feeling like I’ve been shocked with straight electricity, my gasp escapes as I shift to press my nose into his shirt, the blue cotton/spandex mix beneath my lips driving me up a wall and rushing more slick into the gusset of my panties.

“Of course.” His words are soft, fingers carding through my hair in soothing motions. His lips are soft as they press to my temple and I clutch his shirt tightly in my fists. “What do you need?” He asks, making sure to address me by my name.

“You, alpha…” I whisper, desperation in my tone. “Please…”

“Fuck…” Leon mumbles, nodding and accidentally brushing his nose through my hair, and he groans. “Okay, come on.”

The kisses are all tongues and teeth, lips connected as teeth nibble at the already plump flesh as the door opens. Thank god he has an apartment, cause Dad would never let me bring home an alpha for him to fuck me through my heat. The room smells overwhelmingly like him, air fresheners be damned. Palms on hips, slipping into the waistband of denim, untucking shirts, fingers dancing across skin and I tug on the hem of his light blue shirt, silently pleading for it to come off.

“Need something, sweet girl?” He chuckles, a teasing edge to his voice. A whine slips from my lips into his mouth and he pulls back to press our noses together, foreheads in contact as he looks into my eyes. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“Off, please, Leon.” Well, he said words. I managed that. He peels the fabric from his chest, my eyes raking over the exposed muscles and soft flesh.

“Eyes up here, ‘mega.” His finger slides under my chin, bringing my eyes to his as our lips collide again before parting to remove my own tee shirt, dropping the cotton onto a pile on top of his. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers under his breath. Before I can process the movements, my feet are off the ground before I feel the weight of the couch beneath me as he tugs on my waistband. “Can I taste you, ‘mega? Please?”

“Mhm,” I hum through my bitten lip, teeth pressing into the tender flesh as I help him remove my tight jeans, my panties flying somewhere in his apartment as he buries his mouth against my cunt without further question.

His name leaves my lips in a squeak as my fingers thread through his dark blonde locks, tugging the strands lightly as his tongue laps at my sex. Growls rumble from his chest as he sucks gently on my clit, the suction forcing gasps and moans from my mouth; I look down and find those intoxicating blue eyes locked on me, the wet sounds coming from my center absolutely lewd. How do people live without this?

“Do you want my knot?” The question should require more thought. More attention.

“Yes. Please alpha, need it.” Leon stands, lips and chin coated with my shiny slick, and I watch as he licks the fluid off his lips before using his fingers to wipe off the remainder before sucking them into his mouth. Oh fuck, that’s hot. Nimble fingers undo the buttons of his jeans, tugging the zipper down tauntingly. “Leon.” His name comes out as a frustrated groan, and I’m gifted by the sweet sound of his light chuckle.

“Patience is a virtue, sweet girl.” I groan, a small laugh of my own filling the air as he comes up to kneel between my thighs, the skin of my ass pressing against his thighs as he leans forward to rub his cock along the length of my core. “Fucking shit, got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, ‘mega. Have you ever had a knot before?” He asks, rolling his hips so his tip bumps against my clit and I shake my head no. “Have you ever had sex with anyone?”

“No…” I admit, hands coming up to press against my hot cheeks.

“That’s okay, ‘mega. Do you want to keep going?” I peek between my fingers to see his soft smile. He is willing to stop for my comfort. “I can make you come in other ways if you don’t want-”

“I want your knot, please Leon.” My hips cant on their own accord, rubbing against him and his groan quickly dissolves into a huff of laughter, the sound filled with affection and gentleness.

“Okay, baby. We’ll take this slow, okay?” His head nudges at my opening, pressing the head in. The slight burn doesn’t last as my body adjusts to him, his arms caging me in on both sides of my head filling each of my senses with nothing but Leon, Leon, Leon. It continues like this, him pressing his length pressing in an inch or two before he pauses, huffy breaths puffing against my face as his peppers my face in soft kisses, my hands cupping his jaw and nape of his neck to feel some semblance of balance as he splits me open. I have nothing to compare it to, but he feels pretty big to me. Finally after a painstakingly long time, his hips press forward, flush with mine, and we both release shaky pants at the sensations.

“Please move,” I whimper as my hands shift to dig into the firm muscle of his shoulders, dull nails leaving crescents in his flesh.

“Anything for you, my sweet little omega.” The sweet words are quickly drowned out as he begins a leisurely pace, and I can feel the drag of his cock against my walls at every movement he makes. Kissing is futile by this point; We’re practically just breathing into each other’s mouths. His pace begins to steadily climb, faster and harder as his deft fingers rub soft circles over my bud, my head thrown back in response to the new sensation. “Does that feel good, sweet girl?” I nod before his earlier command rings through my ears.

“Yeah, Leon… Feels so good.”

“Such a perfect little omega, my omega.” The possessive tone sends a wave of heat straight down my spine as he continues. “That alpha touching you earlier… God I wanted to rip his throat out…” Hips slapping harder against mine as my moans grow in pitch, his name practically the only coherent sound that can be heard from my lips.

“Yours, alpha. All yours.” The blonde nuzzles into my neck, teeth grazing across my sweat slicked skin. He speaks, and it takes a nip to my ear to realize he’s speaking, my focus being tugged between the wet sounds of us meeting, his teeth on my neck, his scent in my nose, and his dirty words in my ears.

I want to claim you.

Fill you til it spills from that tight little pussy.

Want my babies, sweetheart?

Knock you up, god you’d look so pretty carrying my babies, ‘mega.

I nod blindly, barely unable to form words anymore as I’m so fucked out, so cockdrunk.

“Yes, please, fill me. Want it. Want you.” I groan in protest as he pulls out, emptiness bringing tears to my eyes before his gentle caress causes me to peel my eyes open to meet his. I’m greeted with a new sight. This isn’t just Leon.

This is my alpha.

“Present for me, ‘mega.” I nod, flipping over so my knees press into the scratchy fabric of the couch, arms resting on the arm rest as my body arches for him practically unconsciously. This is how it feels to find your mate. Callused hands trace the skin of my back, rubbing softly over the skin of my ass before his tip presses against my opening again, sliding in much easier than before, the wet slick aiding in creating a smooth glide and I practically feel him in my throat as he resumes a fast pace. Mumbles of curses fall into the air, sweaty skin pressing to my back, giving him access to whisper in my ear.

“I want you to come for me. I’ll give you my knot if you do.” The rough tips of his fingers return to my clit, rubbing much faster circles as the band in my gut pulls tight. “Come for me, omega.” That’s all it takes. I come with a yelp of his name, followed by a chorus of ‘alpha’s mixing with ‘Leon’. He growls, leaning forward to press the expanding ring of muscle into my pussy as his teeth sink into the flesh of my neck, locking us together in every sense of the words.

Gentle hands maneuver us to our sides, his warm body spooning as he grabs the blanket from the back of his couch to drape it over us as the sweat on our skin rapidly cools in the now chilly air of his living room.

“Are you okay?” He whispers, lips pressing soft kisses across my exposed flesh, and he sounds almost guilty. I nod sleepily, reaching back to run fingers through his hair with a chuckle. “Something funny, cutie?”

“I don’t think sharing the textbook is gonna be an issue anymore.” At my words, we both burst into a fit of giggles, panting breaths as I turn my head to press our lips together before I gasp, hands coming up to my mouth.

“What?”

“My dad is gonna kill us.” I admit with a nervous laugh.

“Nah. I meet parents like a champ.” His face practically drips with confidence and I chuckle.

“Oh really?”

“Oh yeah. Look at my face. This is the face of ‘I’m absolutely not sleeping with your daughter’.” The laughter is uncontainable now.

Oh yeah. Definitely.

Tags:

Leon: @house-of-kolchek @bonnibuckets @athanasia-day @muffimtv Everything: @chaosandbubbles @kassiekolchek22 @akiramoon8088

[himasgod]

Kazuha x Reader

(Happy birthday to my beautiful boy! It means a lot to me, because he was my main for a long time, an essential component in all my teams. Kazuha I love you so much happy birthday, this is dedicated to you 😭. I made this a bit shorter because I'm preparing a Halloween special that will take me quite a while, still, I hope you enjoy it! 0.4k words)

The sound of the sea and the waves in the Alcor were part of the daily landscape, but since Kazuha and you began sailing together, the tranquility of the ocean took on another meaning. He used to observe the sky in silence, looking for shapes in the clouds or listening to the wind as if it were confiding secrets to him, and you stayed by his side, feeling at ease in that serenity.

It had been months since your relationship became something more than friendship, and although Kazuha maintained his reserved and peaceful character, there was a special tenderness in his gestures. Today, in the crow's nest of the ship, both of you shared a quiet conversation while observing the horizon, he reciting fragments of poems, and you simply listening, capturing each word.

“This place reminds me of a mountain I visited in Inazuma,” he murmured, his eyes gently squinting in the wind. “The sound of the sea there was different, but the calm… is the same.”

You knew what it meant to him to remember Inazuma, a past marked by the loss of his family, his fallen friend, and a wandering life that led him to become a fugitive from the shogunate. Despite his quiet words, you noticed how he gently held onto your hand, as if finding in you an anchor that kept him grounded in the present.

“Kazuha, do you plan to return someday?” you asked, though you feared the answer.

He sighed, letting go of your hand to let the wind carry away the weight of his uncertainty. “My heart has found a home here, with you. But sometimes, Inazuma calls to me… not so much the place, but what I once was there.”

He turned to you, a serene smile on his lips as his hand returned to yours. “But where my peace is now is where the wind has taken me; it took me to you. That is enough for me.”

You caressed his face gently, and he closed his eyes, relaxing under the touch. At that moment, you understood that Kazuha's journey had no end or concrete destination, only the desire to find beauty and peace in what life offered him. And you, in his life, were a constant, his refuge amidst the storms and calm of the ocean.

You knew that one day he could return to Inazuma, guided by the wind, but as long as he was by your side, the world seemed to stop, as if both of you were one with the sea.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[benispunk]

Who's That Girl?

Chapter 8: You're All I Need To Get By

One day, Logan decided to enter a bar and his life changed forever.

logan howlett x reader

TW: language, alcohol, D&W.

A/N: hello everyoneeee!!!! here is one of my most favorite chapter of this series!!! so this is a flashback obviously, it takes place about 6/7 years before the main timeline AND it's basically how Logan and Wade met... I love them, your honor.

→ this fic is inspired by the TV Show New Girl, Wade and Logan aren't Deadpool and Wolverine (no powers/mutant gene etc) but I did take most of their character traits and storyline!!

Masterlist / Previous Part

The rain fell in a steady rhythm, tapping against the concrete like a metronome keeping pace with Logan’s heavy steps. His jacket was soaked through, but he didn’t care. The damp cold gnawed at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill in his chest, the gnawing sensation he had been carrying for what felt like years. That sense of being adrift, of not belonging to any moment or place.

It had been two, maybe three years since he’d left the army. Time felt blurred, like one endless cycle of meaningless days. He could still feel the weight of the past pressing down on him— his time in the service, the things he’d done, the people he couldn’t save. Sometimes, it was as if his memories were trapped in a fog, creeping up on him when he least expected it.

His new job at the special education center had been a lifeline of sorts, something to keep him anchored. It had only been three months since he’d started, and though he’d grown fond of the kids, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was barely holding on. The stress, the nightmares, the pressure of everyday life— it all felt like too much.

Logan wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this. He’d managed to get through another week at work, but tonight, he felt particularly worn down. Exhausted. The faces of his students, the weight of his responsibilities, everything seemed to pile on top of him. That’s how he ended up here, standing in front of a random bar, hoping for a moment of silence, something to quiet down the constant noise in his head.

The neon lights flickered weakly, reflected in the wet streets as Logan pushed open the door. Warmth and the low hum of voices greeted him, but it wasn’t comforting. It was loud, too loud, just like everything else in his life. But at least here, surrounded by strangers, he could disappear for a while. Just sit, drink, and maybe forget. And drink again. 

Logan moved towards the bar, head down, making sure to keep his distance from the clusters of people laughing and talking. The seat he chose was near the end of the counter, a quieter spot, just far enough from the action. He sighed heavily as he sat down, barely glancing at the bartender who appeared in front of him.

"Whiskey. Neat," he muttered, his voice rough, barely audible over the noise.

The bartender nodded. “Sure thing, Mr. Serious,” he quipped, pouring the drink with a bit more flair than necessary. “Rough day?”

Logan didn’t even look up, keeping his eyes trained on the amber liquid as it was placed in front of him. “You could say that.”

He wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Hell, he wasn’t in the mood for anything other than silence. But the bartender didn’t seem to care about Logan’s mood—or his obvious desire to be left alone.

“Yeah? Well, I got just the cure for that—alcohol and terrible jokes,” the bartender added with a wink, before moving off to another customer.

Logan took a slow sip of his drink, letting the burn of the whiskey settle in his throat, grounding him for a moment. He kept his head down, trying to block out the noise, the laughter, the life happening all around him. A part of him wondered how everyone else did it—how they moved through the world with such ease, while he felt like every day was a battle just to stay afloat.

He tried remembering if he ever had that in his past. If his life had ever been that simple, maybe less miserable or dangerous. The fact he couldn’t recall one happy memory made him want to lean over the counter and take all the bottles there, downing them straight in one go.

His thoughts drifted back to work, to Charles’ center. It wasn’t easy, but it was… something. Something that, on good days, gave him a sliver of purpose. His students—those kids—had already been through so much, and they were only just beginning to find their place in the world. He saw a lot of himself in them, in their struggle, in their quiet resilience. But most days, he felt like he was failing them, like he was still failing everyone.

Logan rubbed his temples, the weight of his thoughts sinking deeper. Another long sip of whiskey followed, and he let the warmth spread through him, hoping it would numb the ache. But even as the alcohol took the edge off, he couldn’t shake the exhaustion pressing down on him.

Maybe if he couldn’t recall his happy memories it was because he was drunk in most of them?

Time passed— how much, he couldn’t say. He stared into the glass, his mind lost somewhere between past regrets and the crushing weight of the present. He was vaguely aware of the bartender moving in and out of his peripheral vision, tending to customers, laughing, telling some stupid joke that had the whole bar roaring with laughter.

Logan didn’t want to laugh. He didn’t want to join in. But every now and then, he found his eyes drifting to the bartender— Wade, his name-tag said —and the way he seemed to effortlessly command the room. There was something about him, something disarming.

At first, Wade had been an annoyance, just another loud presence in a world that felt too loud already. But as Logan sat there, watching him move through the crowd with ease, throwing out jokes, making people laugh… Logan found himself almost envious. Wade made everything look so simple, so easy. He moved through life like he didn’t have a care in the world, like nothing weighed him down.

It wasn’t long before the bar started to empty out, the noise fading as the night grew late. Logan had been so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize the bar was about to close until Wade appeared in front of him again, wiping down the counter with an exaggerated flourish.

“You’ve been sitting there for hours, man,” Wade said, leaning against the bar with a grin. “Bar’s about to close. You alright?”

Logan blinked, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten. He hadn’t even finished his drink, the ice long since melted. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Sorry, I’ll get out of your way.”

He reached for his wallet, ready to pay, but Wade waved him off.

“Nah, this one’s on the house,” Wade said, his grin softening into something that resembled actual warmth. “You looked like you needed it.”

Oh. Logan paused, surprised by the gesture. He didn’t say much, just nodded, feeling an odd sense of gratitude he didn’t know how to express.

Before he could stand to leave, Wade spoke up again, this time a little quieter, a little more sincere. “Hey, feel free to come back whenever. It’s not the worst place to hang out when you need a break.”

Logan didn’t say anything at first, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the urge to push someone away. He nodded once, quietly, before heading for the door. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective under the dim streetlights.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, Logan couldn’t help but feel… lighter. Just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And right now, he’d take anything he could get. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

———

A week had passed since Logan’s last visit to the bar, but the weight on his shoulders hadn’t lifted. His job at the center was growing on him, and the kids were starting to feel like a reason to keep going. But there was still that constant murmur of unease, the anxiety that clung to him like a second skin. Most days, it was bearable. Some days though, it felt like drowning.

Tonight, the streets were quieter, and Logan made his way back to the bar. He didn’t have a specific reason for returning there, it was just something he felt drawn to, like a familiar place where he could sit in silence and, for a little while, forget everything else.

The neon sign above the door flickered in the same weak pattern as the week before. When he stepped inside, the place seemed less crowded. It was game night, and most of the customers were glued to the large screen mounted on the wall, the roar of the game commentator filling the room.

Logan walked to the same spot at the end of the bar, near the far wall where it was a little more secluded. He wasn’t expecting anyone to pay attention to him. But just as he sat down, he heard the same familiar voice.

“Well, look who’s back!” Wade’s voice was louder than the low hum of the bar, cutting through Logan’s quiet thoughts. “Mr. Serious, right on time. Thought I scared you off last time.”

Logan looked up, surprised to find Wade already moving towards him, his grin wide and easy. Wade didn’t wait for Logan to order— he was already pouring the whiskey, setting the glass in front of him before Logan could even open his mouth.

“I didn’t—” Logan started, then stopped, unsure how to respond. He hadn’t expected to be remembered, let alone for Wade to remember his drink.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Wade interrupted with a wave of his hand. “I got it. Whiskey, neat. Same as last time. You’ve got that ‘I need a drink but don’t wanna talk about it’ look again.”

Logan blinked. He wasn’t used to people paying attention to him like that, and it unsettled him, even if it was just about his drink.

Wade leaned against the bar, glancing around at the tables where most of the customers were focused on the game. “Ugh, I hate game nights,” he sighed dramatically, wiping a nonexistent spot on the counter. “I mean, look at this. All these people, and no one’s here for me. They’re all staring at that damn screen like I don’t even exist.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, unable to help the small flicker of amusement that sparked in his chest.

“Boring as hell,” Wade continued, shaking his head. “Normally, I’m the star of the show, you know? People come here to be entertained. But on game nights? Pfft, forget it. I’m just here to pour drinks and watch people yell at a TV.”

Logan sipped his whiskey, the corner of his mouth twitching in the barest hint of a smile. Wade was different from anyone he’d ever met. Loud, sure, but oddly genuine. It was like he didn’t care about making an impression— he just was.

Wade caught Logan’s almost-smile and pointed at him, his face lighting up. “Oh, wait a minute. Is that a smile I see? Careful, man, you’ll ruin your reputation.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “ Is it?”

Wade shrugged, wiping down a glass with a rag. “You’ve got that whole brooding thing going on. It works for you, don’t get me wrong. But if you ever wanna, you know, change the channel in your brain’s TV, I’m your guy.”

Logan didn’t reply, just took another sip, but he couldn’t deny that Wade’s antics were… refreshing. He had a way of filling the space, his presence loud and bright, in contrast to the usual suffocating silence Logan carried with him.

“So, what do you do, anyway?” Wade asked, resting his elbows on the counter as he leaned in, clearly curious. “You look like a firefighter or one of those ex-military types. Maybe a cop? Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

Logan hesitated, unsure if he wanted to share that part of himself. Wade had hit closer to the truth than he knew, and Logan’s time in the military was something he wasn’t ready to unpack for a stranger. So he sidestepped. “I’m a teacher.”

Wade froze, mid-wipe, his face twisting in confusion. “Wait. What?”

Logan gave a small nod, raising his glass to his lips again. “Special education teacher.”

For a second, Wade just stared at him, mouth slightly open, as if processing the information. Then, a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. “Man, you—you’re a teacher? I mean, no offense, but I was really expecting something like, I don’t know, ‘I wrestle bears for a living’ or ‘claws come out of my hands when I’m angry’ type of superhero. The author really took the no-powers AU to the letter.”

Logan’s lips twitched again, and before he knew it, a low laugh escaped him— unexpected, warm, and real. It had been so long since he’d laughed like that, he barely recognized the sound of it.

“So, what else does a teacher do on a night like this?” Wade asked, smoothly continuing the conversation, as if nothing had changed.

Logan shook his head, still chuckling under his breath. “Not much. Usually grading papers, I guess.”

Wade made a disgusted face. “And I thought my job was boring tonight.”

Logan huffed, the tension in his chest easing with the rhythm of their conversation. Wade had somehow broken through. But he wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it. He let Logan breathe.

Logan settled back in his seat, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. Wade drifted off to serve the other customers, but he returned often, refilling drinks or making some sarcastic comment about the game on TV. And every time he came back, he checked in with Logan, like he was making sure the conversation didn’t end too soon.

It was strange. Logan wasn’t used to this. Someone breaking through the walls he’d spent years building. But Wade seemed to make it easy. It wasn’t that Logan had let his guard down completely, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel the need to keep it up so tightly.

By the end of the night, when Wade started wiping down the bar and flipping chairs onto the tables, Logan realized that once again, he’d stayed until closing. He hadn’t even noticed the hours pass, caught in the flow of the conversation.

As Logan stood to leave, Wade shot him a quick smile. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Logan nodded, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Same time next week?”

Wade grinned. “You bet. I’ll have your whiskey ready. I’ll even throw in some peanuts if you’re kind enough.”

Logan turned to leave, the door swinging shut behind him. And for the second time in two weeks, he left the bar feeling… lighter. The world outside still pressed in on him, heavy and cold, but Wade had managed to crack something open, just a little.

And for that, Logan was grateful.

———

Over the next few weeks, Logan became a regular at the bar, showing up almost every night like clockwork. He never said much, but he was always there, always at the same seat, nursing the same drink. Wade, in his usual style, would chat away, spinning wild stories and throwing quips, never needing much from Logan but his presence.

One night, as Wade slid the usual whiskey in front of him without even asking, Logan glanced up and said, “You never asked my name.”

Wade paused for a second, an exaggerated look of realization crossing his face. “Sweet baby chimichanga, you’re right! I’ve been pouring whiskey for months to a stranger. What kind of a gentleman am I?” He shook his head dramatically, a hand on his heart. “Alright, mystery man, spill it.”

Logan smirked, a subtle but telling expression. “Logan.”

Wade grinned wide and slapped the bar. “Logan. Well, I’m Wade, though you probably figured that out from all the autographs I’ve been giving.” He leaned in as if sharing a secret. “I’m kind of a big deal.”

Logan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, I bet.”

From that point on, their banter grew more familiar, the teasing easier. Wade didn’t ask too many personal questions, and Logan appreciated that. He liked the way Wade kept things light, but every so often, he’d throw out something real, something that tugged at the corners of the silence between them, that would make them grow closer.

One night, weeks later, after the bar had quieted and the crowds had thinned out to just a few people, Wade leaned against the counter, wiping a glass and sighed. Logan noticed the change in his usually dynamic demeanor. Wade’s grin wasn’t there, replaced by a quieter version of himself. Logan never thought he would actually miss it.

“Long day?” Logan asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Wade chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nah, just... life, you know?” He glanced up at Logan. “Ever told you about Vanessa?”

Logan shook his head, listening closely now.

“We were together for years,” Wade continued, wiping the same spot on the glass absentmindedly. “Loved her more than anything, but... I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good for her. Too much... too much of me to deal with, you know?” Wade’s voice dropped slightly. “She deserved better, and I knew that. But it still sucked.”

Logan was silent, just watching Wade, waiting for him to say more if he wanted to.

“I kept thinking I’d change, fix all the mess in my head, but... that’s not how it works, right? No one can fix you. You gotta do it yourself.” He looked up, meeting Logan’s gaze. “I wasn’t ready to do that. Still not, really, but... I knew we couldn’t keep going. And she had all these big projects for herself. I was an obstacle. I saw it. And I…I mean we agreed, not that there was an actual choice, anyway, we agreed to end it. The relationship.”

Logan didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, understanding something in Wade’s words. “It’s not easy,” he finally said, voice low.

Wade gave a short laugh, more bitter than anything else. “No kidding.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sound of the muted TV in the background barely noticeable. Wade, for once, didn’t fill the space with his usual chatter, and Logan found himself respecting the quiet between them.

“You ever been through something like that?” Wade asked, his tone still casual but with a hint of genuine curiosity.

Logan exhaled slowly, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Not exactly. But... yeah. Different demons but…same struggles.”

Wade smiled softly, not pushing for more. He understood that Logan wasn’t the type to spill everything in one go, and that was fine by him. He’d gotten further with him than most people probably had.

Over the next few months, they grew even closer. Logan found himself looking forward to their conversations, whether at the bar or somewhere else. They started hanging out outside the bar, exchanging their numbers and all. Logan would say they were friends. Wade would add the « best » before the word.

They’d fall into these deep talks, ones that started with Wade’s humor and somehow drifted into something more real. Logan talked about his struggles as a teacher at the special ed center, and Wade, despite all his jokes, listened seriously.

The more they talked, the more Logan realized that Wade’s loud, chaotic energy was a front, a shield for his own pain. And in Wade, Logan saw someone who understood the dark places he tried to bury, even if they had different ways of dealing with it.

One evening, when the bar was quieter than usual, Wade threw a towel over his shoulder and sat down across from Logan at the counter.

“You know,” Wade said, smirking, “I think I’m rubbing off on you. You’ve been laughing more lately. Not that I’m surprised. I am incredibly funny.”

Logan snorted. “Maybe I’m just getting used to your terrible jokes, bub.”

Wade grinned. “That’s what they all say. Until they admit I’m a comedic genius.”

Their bond had formed into something solid, a real friendship. Wade became one of the few people Logan could actually stand to be around, someone who saw past the walls and the quiet brooding and still stuck around. And Logan, despite himself, found that he cared more than he ever expected to.

Time passed like that—quiet nights at the bar, loud nights at other places, and conversations that lasted longer than either of them had planned. Wade’s energy was exactly what Logan needed, and in turn, Wade found a steadiness in Logan that he hadn’t expected.

Their friendship felt natural, inevitable. But neither of them realized just how much they’d come to rely on each other until the day Wade needed a place to stay.

———

Another late night at the bar, Wade was ranting as usual. He wiped down the counter with exaggerated frustration, talking to Logan like he was the only person in the world who would understand.

“I swear, my landlord is out of his damn mind,” Wade grumbled, tossing the rag aside. “I mean, who raises rent by that much? How am I supposed to afford this place and still have money for essentials? Like food. And beer. The important stuff!”

Logan took a sip of his whiskey, eyebrow raised. He didn’t say much, but Wade could tell he was listening. Wade always knew.

“And don’t get me started on finding a new place,” Wade continued, flopping dramatically onto the barstool in front of Logan. “It’s like a full-time job just looking for somewhere decent. You gotta call a million people, view a bunch of tiny shoeboxes, and then probably sell a kidney to afford it. Meanwhile, my paycheck? A joke.” He leaned back, throwing his arms up. “I might as well live in this bar.”

Logan smirked slightly but remained quiet. As Wade rambled on, Logan found his mind wandering. He’d been struggling with his own place for a while now, too. Rent was higher than he liked, and the isolation wasn’t helping. But earlier that day, his colleague, Scott, had mentioned something— a big apartment nearby was looking for new roommates. The place was empty, ready to be filled.

Another late night at the bar, Wade was ranting as usual. He wiped down the counter with exaggerated frustration, talking to Logan like he was the only person in the world who would understand.

“There’s this place,” Logan said, interrupting Wade’s rambling. Wade looked up, surprised Logan was chiming in. “One of my colleagues said something about an apartment. Empty. They’re looking for new roommates.”

Wade’s eyes lit up. “Wait, seriously? That sounds amazing. But... where the hell am I gonna find people to room with? I mean, strangers? That’s a recipe for disaster.” He shook his head. “I don’t do well with randoms.”

Logan was quiet for a moment. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

“I could.”

Wade froze mid-rant, his mouth hanging open in shock. “Wait. What?”

“I could be your roommate,” Logan said, as casually as if he’d said it a hundred times before. But it was the first time. And it surprised even him.

Wade blinked, then a huge grin spread across his face. “Holy freaking guacamole! Are you serious? You and me? Roommates? We could be roommates?”

Logan shrugged, a little awkward but still firm in his offer. “Yeah. Why not?”

“Why not?!” Wade’s eyes widened as he leaned forward on the bar. “Peanut, this is perfect. Perfect! You’ve got the whole brooding, quiet thing going on, and I’ve got, well, everything else. And—” Wade paused for dramatic effect, “I’m very tidy. Mostly. Sometimes. But I can be, for you, buddy.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I believe that.”

“Oh, you will, peanut. You will.” Wade slapped the bar with excitement. “This is going to be epic. EPIC.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head at Wade’s enthusiasm. He wasn’t sure how they had reached this point, but the idea of sharing a space with Wade didn’t sound as bad as it should have. In fact, it sounded... kind of right.

“We need the info!” Wade exclaimed, bouncing on his feet.

“I’ll send a text to my colleague.” Logan said, still getting used to the idea.

“Deal, roomie!” Wade slapped the counter, already full of energy about their new future together. “We’re gonna crush this. You’ll see!”

Logan smirked, taking another sip of his drink. It felt like a step forward. One he didn’t realize he needed to take until now.

The rest, as they say, was history.

XXX

[goldfades]

𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒, 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 / 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈❜𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐋 𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐄 / 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ─ SC⁸⁷

TRACK 12 ─── LOML

TTPD CELLY MASTERLIST !

౨ৎ ─ summary | caught in a cycle of love and heartbreak, you find yourself constantly returning to sidney crosby, the one person who promises everything but never follows through. as the years pass and the same promises echo between you, you’re left questioning if holding on is worth more than letting go

─ word count | 6.3k

─ warnings | ANGST ANGST ANGST, oh my god i teared up writing this (im on my period shut up). a rollercoaster of emotions, young love -> soulmate kinda vibe. on and off, just overall angsty (with no happy ending... its ttpd, what do u expect?) idk what else to add but like... if u need a good cry, read this

The night is colder than you remember, and the city lights are muted, softening the edges of every memory you have of this place. Pittsburgh’s skyline blurs through the frost on your windshield, each bright glow fading into the next as you pull into the parking lot of a bar you used to know so well. It’s different now—a new name, new sign, but the same chime of the bell when you push through the door, like a greeting from the past.

You used to come here all the time, back when the two of you were something. Not official, not permanent—never those things—but something more than a fling and less than a promise. He used to sit right there, at the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low and face half-hidden, and you’d slide in next to him like you belonged there. Because, for a while, you thought you did.

But now you stand there, scanning the faces, waiting to see if he’ll show. The text he sent still hangs heavy in your mind, words you could almost memorize by heart: Can we talk? I miss you. It’s always like this—a cycle you’ve danced for longer than you’d care to admit. He always says the right things, words that feel like they could anchor you in the storm of his life, but it’s always just a promise, never reality.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because this time, you don’t know if you’ll fall for it again.

───

It was summer, and everything was golden.

The sun filtered through the trees, casting shadows that danced along the edges of the makeshift hockey rink. You remember the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant hum of cicadas, and the way the air buzzed with a warmth that clung to your skin. You were barely a teenager, and the world felt infinite, stretched out before you like the blue sky above. It was one of those summer afternoons when the days felt endless and you thought you had all the time in the world.

The rink wasn’t anything special—just a patch of concrete nestled in the middle of the park, surrounded by chain-link fences and littered with the scuffs and scratches of a hundred other games. But for you, it was everything. Your brother had dragged you along, promising it would be “cool” and that the guys he played with wouldn’t care that you tagged along. You’d insisted on wearing his old jersey, the one that hung loose over your frame and brushed against your knees when you walked. It smelled faintly like sweat and summer afternoons, and even though it was too big, you wore it like armor.

He was already there when you arrived, leaning casually against the boards with his stick resting on his shoulder. He wore a backwards cap that made him look like an absolute douche, but you could still see the way his grin spread wide when he laughed. He was tall, at least compared to the other boys, and he had this presence about him—like he knew exactly where he belonged, and it was right there on that concrete. He radiated this easy confidence, the kind that made people naturally gravitate toward him, and you found yourself watching him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

“Hey, kid, you play?” he called out as your brother introduced you to the group. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in it that made you straighten your shoulders, determined to prove you weren’t just some tag-along.

You lifted your chin, clutching your stick a little tighter. “Yeah, I do.”

A laugh rippled through the group, and he tilted his head, an eyebrow raised in a way that seemed to dare you. “Alright, show me.”

You skated out onto the concrete, feeling the rough texture beneath your sneakers, the familiar push and glide that came as natural as breathing. You could feel the eyes on you, the judgment, the expectation that you’d stumble or falter.

But you didn’t.

You skated like you always did—like you had something to prove, even when no one was watching. You could feel the summer breeze tugging at your hair, could hear the sounds of sticks clashing, wheels spinning, and the distant shouts of kids playing in the park. The world faded into a blur of movement and sound, and for a moment, it was just you and the puck, gliding across the concrete.

When you stopped, stick planted firmly, the puck resting right where you aimed, you turned to face him. His grin had shifted into something softer, something that looked like approval. He nodded, a small movement that somehow felt like a victory, like you’d passed some unspoken test.

“You’re pretty good,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’m Sidney.”

You told him your name, trying to play it cool, but there was something about the way he looked at you, something that made your heart beat a little faster. You brushed it off—he was just another kid, another boy who thought he ruled the rink. But when he passed you the puck during the game, when he skated close enough that you could hear his breath, quick and heavy, you felt something shift, like the start of a story you hadn’t planned on telling.

The hours blurred together, the sun sinking lower as the sky melted into hues of orange and pink. You played until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from smiling. He was quick, his movements sharp and precise, but he had this way of gliding past the others like he was weightless, like he’d been born on skates. And every time he sent the puck your way, you felt that rush again, that thrill of being seen, of being chosen.

At one point, when you stopped to catch your breath, he skated up beside you, close enough that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes. “You should come out more often,” he said, a smile playing at the edge of his lips. “We could use someone like you.”

You shrugged, pretending like you hadn’t already made up your mind. “Maybe.”

But deep down, you knew you’d come back.

And when he grinned, that slow, easy grin that made you feel like you were sharing a secret, you realized that maybe this was the start of something. Something that felt like endless summer days and the thrill of chasing after something just out of reach.

He was only a boy then, and you were only a girl with skates too big for your feet and dreams too big for your chest. But that was the thing about summer—everything felt possible. And standing there, the light catching in his hair and the warmth of his presence radiating like a sunbeam, you felt like you’d met someone who could make it all come true.

The years rolled on like they always do, slow and steady until you looked back and realized how quickly time had slipped by. What started as childhood games on concrete rinks and sticky summer nights turned into something deeper, something that felt like it could last forever.

When you were sixteen, things shifted. You’d always been friends, maybe even best friends. By then, he was already “Sid the Kid,” the local legend whose name was whispered with reverence around the rinks. But to you, he was just Sidney—the same boy who laughed with you when you scored, who always had an extra stick in his bag just in case, who stayed up late with you, lying on the cool grass, tracing constellations with his finger.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and the secret smiles, friendship turned into something more. It wasn’t a single moment; it was a thousand little ones, each building on the next until you both looked up and realized you weren’t just kids playing pretend anymore.

The first time he kissed you, it was right before his first big tournament. You’d been nervous for him, more nervous than he seemed to be. You’d walked down to the empty rink at dusk, the air cool and the sky the color of fading ink. You remember how his hand felt, warm and solid as it slipped into yours, and how he turned to you, eyes bright with something you hadn’t seen before. The kiss was tentative, like he was testing the waters, but it felt like fireworks, a spark in the night that you carried with you long after you pulled away.

From then on, you were something more—together but not quite official. You tried not to think about it too much, content with what you had. You showed up at every game, standing in the crowd with his number on your back, feeling that thrill when he’d glance your way. You’d spend the evenings together, sometimes in the rink, sometimes out by the water, stealing moments in between practices and tournaments. For a while, it was perfect.

Then, life happened.

He got drafted, and everything changed. He moved to Pittsburgh, and suddenly the boy who was always around, who could text or call at any hour, was miles away, caught up in a whirlwind of cameras, contracts, and the pressures of professional hockey. You were still in high school then, watching him from afar, cheering him on from a distance. You told yourself it was fine, that the distance didn’t matter, and that you were both still too young to worry about anything more than the present.

But even then, you could feel the space between you growing.

In his rookie year, you made the decision to move to Pittsburgh. You’d gotten into a college nearby, and when you called to tell him, he was ecstatic. You’d never forget the way his voice sounded on the phone—relieved, almost. Like he’d been waiting for you, hoping you’d make the leap. And so you did. You left your friends, your family, everything familiar to be closer to him. It felt like a grand, romantic gesture—the kind you saw in movies. But in the back of your mind, you knew it was more than that.

The first year was a whirlwind. You were in the stands for his games, holding your breath every time he took a shot, cheering louder than anyone when he scored. Off the ice, it felt like the two of you were creating a life together, slowly but surely. You moved in together, and even though his schedule was insane—practices, games, interviews—there were still those quiet moments.

Mornings when you’d wake up to him already gone, but with a note on the counter that read, I’ll be back soon. Evenings when he’d come home exhausted but would pull you into his arms like nothing else in the world mattered. It was enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the cracks started to show. At first, it was small things—missed dinners, texts that went unanswered because he was “caught up in meetings.” Then, the fights started. You’d ask him about the future—where were you going, what were you to each other? He’d dodge the questions, promising you that things would be easier once the season was over, once the next championship was done, once his contract was sorted out.

You tried to believe him, tried to convince yourself that you were both still young, that you had time. But every time you saw him, it felt like you were grasping at something that was always just slipping out of reach.

The first breakup came after his rookie season. You’d been together for two years, and you could feel the weight of it pressing down on you, the uncertainty, the feeling that maybe you’d given up too much, too soon. You remember standing in the doorway, watching him lace up his skates, and asking, for the first time, why you weren’t moving forward. He looked at you, eyes soft but distant, and said he didn’t know. That maybe things were moving too fast. You didn’t yell, didn’t cry. You just nodded, kissed him one last time, and left.

It was the first time you thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to be with you the way you needed him to be. But it wasn’t the last.

Over the next few years, it was the same dance—back and forth, the two of you pulled together by some invisible force that neither of you could name, only to be pushed apart by the same old arguments, the same doubts.

Each time you broke up, it felt like the end.

You’d tell yourself that this time, it was really over. You’d pack your things, move out, and try to rebuild your life. But then, he’d call. Sometimes it was months later, sometimes just weeks, but it was always the same: I miss you. I’m sorry. I wasn’t ready then, but I am now.

And every time, you believed him.

Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like you were the only person who really knew him, who understood the weight he carried every time he stepped onto the ice. Or maybe it was the promises he’d make when he held you close, whispering that one day he’d put a ring on your finger, that one day you’d have a family together. You told yourself that this time would be different, that you could trust him, that he was finally ready.

But each time, it ended the same way. The season would start, and he’d get caught up again—first in the games, then in the championships, then in the next contract. And you’d find yourself alone, the same questions building up, the same empty promises echoing in your head.

It went on like that for years. You tried dating other people, tried moving on, but it was always temporary. No one else felt like home the way he did, and you hated yourself for it. You’d built your life around someone who couldn’t give you the future he kept promising, and the worst part was, you kept going back.

You remember the last time you walked away. It was after another fight, the same one you’d had a dozen times before. You’d asked him about the future, and he’d given you that same look, the one that told you he was already pulling away. But this time, when he said, I just need time, you didn’t have the strength to believe him. You nodded, the lump in your throat too tight to speak, and left before he could see the tears in your eyes.

And now, you find yourself back where it all started, years later, wondering if he’s changed. If this time, when he said I miss you, it really meant something. But deep down, you already know the answer.

It’s the same as it’s always been.

───

You scan the room, your heart pounding, eyes darting from one face to another, hoping—no, dreading—that you’ll see him. Part of you wants to run, to turn around and pretend you never agreed to meet him. But the other part, the part that still holds on to the memories of you and him when things were easy, when love was simple and uncomplicated, keeps your feet rooted to the floor.

He’s always late, and you’ve learned to hate it. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a symbol of everything between you two, a reminder that he always has something, or someone, else pulling him in another direction. Every time he tells you he’ll be there, every time you stand waiting, it’s like a countdown until he lets you down again.

You glance down at your phone, the screen lighting up with the time: fifteen minutes past when he said he’d be here. You think about leaving, about saving yourself the heartache. You’ve done this dance so many times before. You know the steps, know the way it’ll play out if you wait long enough. He’ll walk in, breathless and apologetic, and those eyes—God, those eyes—will soften when they find yours. He’ll look at you like you’re the only thing that’s kept him steady in a world that’s always moving too fast.

And you’ll feel your resolve slip, just like it always does.

Your hand tightens around the phone, knuckles turning white as you try to steel yourself against the pull of old memories. You think back to the last time you saw him, to the way he looked at you when you said enough. It had been one of those fights, the ones that started small—something about how he missed dinner again, or how you were the only one trying—and escalated into everything you’d ever bottled up. You told him you were tired of waiting, tired of hearing him say he was ready when all he ever did was prove otherwise.

He’d stood there, silent, watching you with that look—the one that said he was sorry but not enough to change. And you left, thinking that maybe this time, you’d finally meant it. That you could walk away and not look back.

But now, here you are, back in the same place, waiting.

A familiar ache spreads through your chest as the seconds tick by, every moment without him another chance for doubt to creep in. You don’t want to be here, don’t want to be the person who keeps holding out hope when all it ever does is hurt. But despite everything, you can’t help the part of you that still believes. The part that whispers this time could be different, even when you know it won’t be.

Just when you’ve almost convinced yourself to leave, the door swings open. Your breath catches as you spot him, shoulders hunched slightly like he’s unsure of how to approach. He looks older, wearier than you remember, but it’s him. The moment his eyes lock with yours, you feel it—the same rush, the same pull that’s always been there, drawing you back in.

He smiles, that small, tentative smile that used to melt your defenses. It’s like he knows exactly how to walk that line between sincerity and charm, and you hate how well it works. You fight the urge to return it, to let that familiar warmth bloom in your chest, and instead, you keep your expression neutral.

He crosses the room with that unhurried stride, his gaze never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he stops, just a foot away, close enough that you can smell the faint hint of his cologne—a scent you’d once known better than your own. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, like he’s memorizing the way you look right now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s testing the waters.

“Hey.” Your response is cool, guarded. You’re not going to make this easy for him, not this time.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck—a habit you know means he’s nervous. “I’m sorry I’m late. Got caught up—”

You cut him off, tired of the same excuses. “It’s always something with you, Sid.”

He flinches, and you almost feel guilty. Almost. But then you remember all the times you waited, all the empty promises, and you stand your ground.

“I know,” he says softly. “You’re right.”

The words hang between you, heavy with everything that’s come before. It’s different this time. Usually, he jumps right into the apologies, into telling you how much he missed you, how he’s ready now, how he’s changed. But tonight, he just stands there, the look on his face a mixture of regret and something else you can’t quite read.

And maybe that’s the problem. You’ve never been able to fully read him. You’ve spent years trying, and every time you think you’ve figured him out, he slips away. You wonder if he knows how much it hurts—wonder if he even cares.

“So, what is it this time?” you ask, folding your arms across your chest, your eyes searching his for any sign of what he’s thinking. “Why’d you want to see me?”

He exhales, a slow, deep breath that seems to carry the weight of everything you’ve been through together. “I just—” he starts, then stops, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I miss you.”

You shake your head, the familiar ache settling into your bones. “You always miss me when I’m gone.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—something real. “No, I mean it. I’m tired of pretending everything’s okay when it’s not. I’m tired of losing you.”

You want to believe him. You really do. But the words feel like echoes of promises he’s made a hundred times before. And the part of you that’s always been waiting, hoping, feels like it’s hanging by a thread.

“Prove it,” you say, your voice steady even though your heart is racing. “Because I can’t keep doing this, Sid. I can’t keep falling for the same lines.”

He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the pull again—the magnetic force that’s always drawn you back to him, no matter how many times you’ve tried to walk away. You can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words, and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

But as he reaches for your hand, you can’t help but brace yourself for the familiar sting of disappointment. Because no matter what he says, you know how this story ends.

He glanced down, looking down at the promise ring on your finger. Your ring finger. The same ring he'd given you many years ago, before he left for Pittsburgh. He told you it was just the beginning, a placeholder for something bigger. Something that, back then, felt like a certainty. You remember the way he slipped it on your finger, his hands steady and sure. His eyes shone with the same excitement you felt—like the future was a road you were both eager to walk down together.

“I’ll get you the real thing one day,” he’d promised, his voice brimming with that youthful conviction. “Just wait for me.”

And you did. For years, you wore that ring like a badge of honor, a symbol of everything you believed you were building together. When he left for Pittsburgh, you told yourself it was only temporary. Distance was just another hurdle, and the two of you had overcome so many already. You visited him during breaks, and every time he came home, it felt like picking up right where you left off. You thought nothing could break that bond.

Now, standing in front of him, you can see it in his eyes—that same look he’s always given you when he knows he’s let you down. But there’s a hesitation there, too, a weight he’s carrying that wasn’t there before. You wonder if he’s finally seeing it the way you do—if he’s finally realizing that words and promises are never enough.

He reaches for your hand, his thumb grazing the cool, faded metal of the ring. “I know I’ve said it before, but I—”

You pull your hand back, your chest tightening with all the years of waiting, all the times you’ve heard those same words and let yourself believe them. “Don’t. Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

His jaw tenses, and he looks up, his eyes searching yours. “I do mean it,” he says, but there’s a hint of desperation in his voice now. “I know I haven’t been fair to you. I know I’ve asked too much.”

You shake your head, the anger and sadness mixing together until they’re almost indistinguishable. “No, Sidney, you’ve taken too much. You’ve taken years of my life—years I can’t get back.”

He winces, and you can see the hurt flash across his face, but you don’t pull back. You can’t. “I’ve given up everything for you—my job, my plans, my own life—because I believed in this. I believed in us. But every time, you leave. Every time, you break your promise.”

He opens his mouth, but you cut him off before he can speak. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep living my life waiting for a future that’s never going to come.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he’s fighting to find the right words—words that you know won’t change anything.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it feels like the final nail in the coffin. “I know I don’t deserve you. But I’m here now, and I want to make it right.”

You look down at the ring, that small circle of metal that once meant everything to you. It feels heavy now, like a weight dragging you down, a reminder of all the time you’ve spent waiting for something that never happened.

“I can’t wait forever,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need more than just words, Sid.”

For a moment, it looks like he might finally say something real, something that could change everything. But instead, he just stands there, silent, and you feel your heart break a little more. Because you know, deep down, that he doesn’t have an answer. He never has.

“You still wear it,” he spoke slowly, glancing down at the ring. “Doesn't that mean something? Anything? That maybe, maybe we should give this another try?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his words settle around you like a storm cloud. It’s so typical of him, to latch onto the smallest signs, to twist reality just enough to make it feel like there’s hope. It’s the same hope that’s kept you coming back time and time again, like a moth drawn to the flicker of a flame.

But this time, that flame feels like it’s burning out.

“Sidney, I never stopped loving you,” you admit, and it’s the raw truth, the kind you’ve tried to keep buried for so long. “But love isn’t the problem. It’s everything else. It’s you telling me we have a future and then disappearing when it matters. It’s you making promises you can’t keep.”

He reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, holding on like he’s afraid you’ll slip away for good. “I’m different now. I’m ready. I know I said that before, but this time—”

“No,” you interrupt, pulling your arm back, the frustration building in your chest. “You’ve said that every time. You tell me you’re ready, that things will be different, and I believe you because I want to believe you. But then the same thing happens—you get busy, the season gets hard, and suddenly I’m on the sidelines again, waiting for you to make time for me.”

His shoulders slump, and he looks down, like he can’t face the truth of his own words. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know I’ve messed up. But I swear, this time—”

“Sid, listen to yourself.” You cross your arms, trying to steady the tremor in your voice. “This time, next time—there’s always a next time. But it’s just a cycle. It always has been. And I don’t know if I can keep believing that things will change when they never do.”

His eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a flash of something you haven’t seen before—fear, maybe, or the realization that you’re slipping away. “But I don’t want to lose you,” he says, his voice breaking. “I can’t lose you.”

For a second, your resolve wavers. You see the boy you fell in love with, the one who used to hold your hand in the stands and tell you he couldn’t imagine his life without you. But the boy grew up, and his dreams took him places you were never a part of, no matter how hard you tried to be.

“You already have, Sid,” you whisper, feeling the ache spread through your chest. “You lost me a long time ago when you chose everything else over us. And I don’t think you even realize it.”

He steps closer, his hand hovering near your face like he’s afraid to touch you, like you’re something fragile that might break. “I’m trying, okay? I’m here now. I’m trying to make it right.”

You close your eyes, fighting the tears threatening to fall. “You always say that. But it’s not about showing up when it’s convenient for you. It’s about showing up when it’s hard, when things aren’t perfect, and proving that I’m more than just an option.”

When you open your eyes, you see the pain on his face, and it almost makes you want to take it all back, to say that you’ll try again, that you’ll believe him just one more time.

But you can’t. Not anymore.

“Tell me what to do,” he pleads, desperation clear in every word. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

But that’s just it. It’s not something you can tell him. It’s something he has to want, something he has to choose—without you holding his hand through it, without you putting your life on pause, waiting for him to catch up.

“I can’t tell you how to love me, Sid,” you say, and it feels like the hardest thing you’ve ever done. “You either do, or you don’t. But I can’t be the one always holding this together. It has to be both of us, or it’s nothing.”

He looks like he’s about to say something, but then he hesitates, and in that silence, you feel everything shift. It’s as if the reality of the situation is finally sinking in for both of you.

“Maybe…” you start, your voice cracking, “maybe this was always going to be the end.”

His face pales, and you see the fear flash through his eyes, but you hold firm. “I can’t keep living in the past, hoping you’ll change. I need more than just words, and if you can’t give me that, then…” You take a deep breath, the weight of the years falling away with each word. “Then maybe we need to let go.”

Sidney’s lips part as if to protest, but then he stops. His hand falls away from yours, and the emptiness between you feels colder than the Pittsburgh winters.

You let out a bitter chuckle as the tears begin to fall. “We could've had a good life together, Sid. Everything you could've wanted. Kids, a nice house and some... some cute dogs,”

It seemed silly to say, but it was the truth. You swallowed as you looked, trying to stifle your incoming sobs. “And it would’ve been ours. Not just mine, or yours—ours.”

The words are raw, cutting through the stillness between you. You can feel the sobs building in your chest, threatening to spill out, but you hold them back, just for a moment longer. “But you never wanted that. Not really. Not enough to make it real.”

Sidney’s face crumples, and he looks like he’s about to speak, but you don’t give him the chance. “You always talk about wanting it all—wanting me, wanting the life we could have had, but then you pull away the second it gets too real. And I’m tired, Sid. I’m so damn tired of giving everything to someone who can’t meet me halfway.”

He shifts, taking a hesitant step forward, like he’s testing the waters, his eyes pleading. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want it,” he says, voice rough and cracking. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face, frustration evident. “I didn’t know how to balance it all. I thought I’d have more time, that we’d figure it out eventually.”

“Eventually?” you repeat, the bitterness seeping through. “Sid, we’ve been at this for years. Years of back and forth, of me waiting for you to choose me. To really choose me. And every time, it’s the same story. I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending that things will be different.”

He stands there, shoulders hunched, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s the same look he’s given you countless times before, like he wants so badly to fix things but doesn’t know where to start. It makes your heart ache because you know, deep down, he’s not a bad person. He’s just… lost.

And maybe, you realize, he always will be.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I just—every time I tried to make things work, it felt like something else came up, and I kept thinking if I waited just a little longer—”

“Then everything would magically fall into place?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sid. Love doesn’t work that way. You can’t keep putting off what you want, what you need, and expect everything to turn out okay in the end.”

He takes another step forward, reaching out like he’s about to pull you in, but you take a step back, needing the distance. “I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks. “I just needed you to try. To show up. To prove that I was worth fighting for. But it feels like every time I turn around, you’re already halfway out the door.”

His expression falters, and you know he wants to argue, to tell you that it’s different this time, that he’s ready now. But you’ve heard it all before, and the words have lost their meaning.

“I wanted the house,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I wanted the dogs, the kids, all of it. I wanted us, Sidney. And I believed we could have it. But you kept pushing it off, and now… I don’t know if I can keep waiting for something that might never come.”

He reaches out again, and this time, you let him. His hand closes around yours, and it feels both familiar and foreign—like holding on to a memory that’s slipping through your fingers.

“I love you,” he says, and there’s a desperation in his voice that makes your heart clench. “I’ve always loved you.”

You give him a sad smile, knowing that, despite everything, that much is true. “I know,” you say, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

And as you turn and walk away, leaving him standing alone in the cold, you hope—maybe for the first time—that you’ll be strong enough to let go. Because you know if you don’t, this cycle will only repeat itself. And you can’t keep breaking your own heart for someone who won’t give you the life you’ve always wanted.

That night, you dreamed of the house. The kids, and the dogs and of him. You'd wake up, it would feel like how it did the day you met—warm and safe, like everything in the world had finally fallen into place.

The sun would stream through the windows of that little house you imagined, its golden light wrapping you in the kind of warmth you’d always craved. You’d roll over, and there he’d be, his arm draped lazily over your waist, his eyes still heavy with sleep but soft, so soft, like he was seeing the whole world in you.

The kids would run down the hall, their laughter echoing, filling the space between your shared breaths. You’d rise together, slowly, and there would be no rush, no impending flight or long distance to worry about. Just you, him, and that perfect slowness of a morning spent together. The dogs would bound into the room, tails wagging, and the day would unfold in simple, perfect moments—breakfast at the table, messy hair and pajamas, the feeling of his hand on yours as he refilled your coffee cup.

It would feel right.

And in that dream, it would all make sense—why you’d waited so long, why you’d kept coming back, even when you knew better. Because in that world, in that life, you had everything you’d ever wanted. It was real, and it was whole, and there were no questions, no doubts, no space for the silence that always lingered between you in reality.

But then, you’d wake up.

You’d open your eyes to the quiet, dark room, the emptiness of your side of the bed. There’d be no warm sunlight, no laughter echoing through the halls, no weight of his arm pulling you close. Just the cold, still air of your apartment, the hum of the city outside, and the realization that it was all just a dream—a dream you’d had a thousand times before, and one you knew you’d have again.

And as you lay there, staring up at the ceiling, you’d feel that ache settle in your chest. The one that reminded you that no matter how real it felt, it was only ever going to be a figment of your imagination. Because the truth was, you had to wake up alone.

In that moment, you’d wonder if he ever dreamed of it too—if he ever pictured that life, those mornings, the way you did. If he ever saw a future where he stayed, where he chose you and didn’t let go. But you knew that even if he did, it wasn’t enough. Because while you were left clinging to dreams, he was off living a life that didn’t have room for you in it.

You’d curl back into the blankets, pulling them tight around you, pretending for just one more moment that the warmth was him. That maybe, one day, you’d wake up to the life you’d always imagined, and it wouldn’t slip away like morning mist.

But until then, all you had were the dreams and the memories of a love that almost was—almost, but never quite enough.

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