#everything hurts and I want to go to sleep

[syrecjh]

─★ ˙ 𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ No One Sleeps Mad

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || husband katsuki bakugo x wife reader, pure fluff

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

Three years of marriage to Katsuki Bakugo, and you learned something vital: silence is his weapon of choice. People always warned you that living with him would be Chaotic. Explosive. Loud. But in the quiet moments, when something’s wrong, it’s the stillness that cuts the deepest. Because Bakugo doesn’t yell at you. He doesn’t slam doors or shout insults. He just... stays quiet. Too quiet.

Tonight’s fight wasn’t big—just a few words that cut too deep, too fast. It started small, but in the silence that followed, you could feel it growing. You could feel him pulling away, not out of anger, but out of control. That’s when you know something’s wrong. When he’s not arguing, not raising his voice, but retreating inward. And for Bakugo, that retreat is the most terrifying thing. The calmness in his eyes is what makes your stomach churn.

You try to go to bed. You lie there, facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. But you can’t escape the space between you. The weight of unsaid things.

You hear the soft creak of the door. He doesn’t speak at first, just stands in the doorway, his silhouette outlined in the faint light. His arms are crossed, like he’s holding himself together. Waiting.

“You’re not sleeping like this,”he finally says, his voice low and measured. No shouting. No anger. Just a simple statement. But it hits you like a brick. "We're not sleeping like this,"

You don’t turn around. You don’t know what to say. So you let the silence stretch. And with it, the tension.

“Oi. I’m serious.” His voice is softer this time, but there’s a firmness there, like a command without a forceful edge. It’s the kind of calm that makes you feel exposed, like he’s reading you better than you can read yourself.

You swallow hard, refusing to show that you’re trembling. “I just want some space, Katsuki.”

His footsteps sound as he crosses the room. He doesn’t hesitate. He sits down on the edge of the bed, but just enough distance between you. It’s not an invasion, but an offer. An invitation.

“I’m not going to let you lie to me,” he mutters, his voice raw. “Space doesn’t fix shit. This does.”

He’s never been the type to hide behind words. He says what he feels, whether it’s love, frustration, or raw honesty. And right now, his honesty stings. It hits you right where you’re vulnerable—where you want to be left alone but know you can’t be. Because he knows you better than anyone. And he knows that pushing you too hard won’t help. But neither will letting you sleep with this weight in your chest.

You sit up slowly, heart racing. His eyes don’t leave you, but they soften slightly. You feel the walls start to crack. You hate that it’s coming to this, but you can’t help the sigh that escapes you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, like the words hurt to speak.

He doesn’t respond right away. But he doesn’t have to. His fingers move toward you, just enough to touch your shoulder—lightly, but it’s everything. He doesn’t say it, but you can feel his love in the simple touch. His apology, his offer to make it right.

“Stop making this harder than it has to be,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion you almost never hear from him. “We fix this tonight. Even if we’re both exhausted, we fix it.”

You can’t fight it anymore. You lean forward into him, the weight of the fight slipping away as he holds you, the promise of resolution lingering in the air between you two. “We don’t sleep angry, not in this house. Not in this marriage.” he whispers into your hair, almost like a vow.

And in that moment, you realize that, for Bakugo, love isn’t about perfection. It’s about finding the way back to each other, no matter how small the fight is or how much pride you both have. It’s about never letting the night end without fixing what’s broken. It’s about never letting the fight win.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

[urmommysfavkisserrr]

End Of Her Rope.

°•☆•° - Paige Bueckers x Ex-Wife Reader (Brazilian)

°•☆•° - In which your life as Paige’s Ex-Wife and baby mama leaves you dangerously overworked and at the end of your rope, so you call the blonde for backup.

°•☆•° - I couldn’t figure out what I wanted ‘you’ to look like, so I just ended up basing it off of an OC I already made…

°•☆•° - 3,075 words

Part 2 | Part 3

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

The divorce was messy, but needed. Paige had her career to focus on, her whole life, you didn’t. Her agent made sure you knew that when they called you in. They claimed they only wanted to do what was best for her, and they knew you would too. 

Of course you would.

You had your time to shine. You were one of the top soccer players at UCONN, then you got hurt. You had the looks, the family name, the ancestry, the backstory, but that's all you were. 

A story. 

Paige was making history. She was going to be history. She didn’t need some burnt-out Ex, and two kids attached to that.

And still through it all, she stuck around. She paid child support, weekly, even after you told her she didn’t have to. You even once sent the money back, which ended in Paige setting up a one-way transfer account. You didn’t argue again.

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

It was a Wednesday, meaning the kids were at your place, late at night, well past their bedtime. You got the girls during the week, and Paige got them on the weekends. Easy as that.

You were tired, having worked overtime the last two weeks at your job to get shit done just for some new company to come in and take over. The house was a mess, the kids were crazy, the dogs were wound up, and you were well over it.

So you called her.

Incoming call from ‘Pretty Mama🤍’

Paige sat on her couch watching mindless TV when her phone started to ring. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw it was you. “What’s up?”

"Is it too late for that abortion?"

Oh, good lord.

Paige let out a sigh, running a hand through her hair as she flicked off the TV, putting her full attention on the call. “What did the kids do this time? Are they still awake?”

“Yes.”

Paige could hear the frustration and tiredness in her ex's voice. “Want me to come over? I can put the kids to bed for you. They aren’t listening to you, are they?”

You huffed, tossing a rag over your shoulder as you moved to sit on the stairs. "It's like they know when I'm at my fucking breaking point"

Paige could hear the distress in your voice, a familiar feeling. She knew this all too well. “How much caffeine have you had today?”

"Not the point."

“No, that is the point. I can hear the irritation in your voice; you’re frustrated. You probably had a long shift, worked hard, came home, and got yelled at by our crazy kids, and let me guess the house is a mess, and you’re sitting in the middle of it because you’re too stressed to pick anything up?

“Fuck you.”

Paige let out a sigh. The fact that you couldn’t deny any of it is a win in her book. “Ma, why don’t I come over? I can get the kids to sleep and clean the house for you? You just need to put your feet up and relax for a bit."

You sighed, long and heavy, running a hand through your messed up messy bun. “It's..it's fine. Just..I'm gonna give Zahria the phone, will you just talk to her?”

Paige’s heart squeezed. Knowing what this meant, you were reaching the end of your rope. And fast. “Yeah…I’ll talk to her.”

After a moment of shuffling around, you got their 9-year-old daughter on the phone. “Hey, Mommy,” Zahria greeted her happily.

“Hi, my little angel,” Paige greeted back. “Are you being a good girl for Mama?” She asked.

“Yeah!” Zahria responded. “I helped with dinner tonight and ate all the yucky vegetables on my plate!” She told her proud of herself.

“Good girl.” Paige praised her. “Are you ready for bed and everything?” She knew Zahria didn’t go to bed without a good 10-minute argument.

“Ugh, no!” Zahria whined, her happiness quickly vanishing. “It’s only 8:30! I’m not tired at allllll! I want to stay up!”

“No.” Paige shut her down fast. “You need to go to bed, you have school, and a big girl like you needs to rest to have the energy to learn tomorrow. No arguments.”

“But mooooom,” Zahria whined again. “Can I just stay up five more minutes? Puh-lease?”

“Five minutes is all.” Paige relented. “And that means you go straight to sleep. No fighting me on it. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zahria agreed. It was quite possibly the easiest she’s come to agreeing to go to bed.

The a faint and muffled 'god damn it' came through the phone. Your voice.

Paige’s heart squeezed again. She could hear you losing it again. She knew this was the breaking point for her ex.

"Zahria, can you run downstairs and grab the Lysol, please? Leave it in the bathroom, don't come in here."

“Yeah, okay, mama.” There was some shuffling as the phone changed hands again.

Some more shuffling. A door closed. And then a sigh. You were on the line again.

"Glad she listens to someone."

“Only because it wasn’t you who asked,” Paige replied. “How are you holding up?”

"I have fresh vomit in my bra, I think I'm doing just fine."

“Lovely…” Paige sighed. She knew that you were close to your breaking point. “You’re overloading yourself again.”

"I don't have a fucking choice." You spoke back in the same tone.

“You do,” Paige said in the same tone. “You’re pushing yourself past your limits, Ma.”

A soft 'thank you, baby' came muttered from you as Zahria came back with the cleaner, followed by a deep and heavy sigh.

“Is the place still a mess?” Paige asked softly. She heard you sigh, and her heart squeezed again. It pained her to hear you like this.

"I'll take care of it."

“No, you won’t.” Paige immediately shut down that idea. “You always say that, and you never do. You’re too tired.”

“Paige-”

“No.” Paige interrupted. “I’m coming over. Take a shower. Relax. You can’t keep pushing yourself like this, baby.”

"The kids are awake, it's late, the house is a mess, you don't need to be here-"

“That’s all the more reason for me to be there tonight,” Paige said firmly. “You need help. I’m coming over and you’re not going to stop me.”

"Paige, please-"

“Please, what? Let you run yourself into the ground? This isn’t new. I know how you are. You don’t stop. You don’t take a break. You overwork yourself. You’re miserable and you can’t see that you’re too hard on yourself.” She scolded you.

“Just…” she sighed. “Let me come over. I’ll put the kids to bed. Clean up and you can relax. You need to stop for one night.”

“...Fine.”

“I’ll be over in 10. Don’t argue with me.”  Then she ended the call and let out a sigh.

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

You had just gotten out of the shower when Paige arrived and let herself in. You stood at the top of the stairs, just watching, but not really. You weren’t looking at anything at all. Your mind stuck in a daze. Then you started to sway, just slightly, but enough.

“Ma?” Paige looked up the stairs and noticed you were swaying. She could see the exhaustion and stress radiating off of you from all the way downstairs.

Immediately, she took off up the stairs. “Come on.” She said in a soft voice. “Let's get you in bed.”

“What…”

“You need to sleep.” Paige gently took hold of your arm and started to lead you to the bedroom. Your legs were wobbly and seemed like they were close to giving out. 

Paige led you into the bedroom and sat you on the edge of the bed. Your eyes were slightly glazed over from the exhaustion. “Lie down,” Paige instructed, her voice soft.

"But what about.."

“But what about what?” Paige could already guess what you were going to say. She knew you, you wouldn’t do anything until the kids were in bed. Hell, even after them, you would go around cleaning up the whole house.

"The girls...Zahria needs her homework checked, and Medora just threw up, so I have to check her temperature to see if she can go to school. Then gotta make lunches, and clean up dinner...then laundry...is it laundry day? Then then...um...I gotta..."

“Woah woah woah.” Paige quickly stopped you. This was exactly what she was expecting. “No. You’re done for the night. You’re not doing anything else but sleeping.”

“You’re exhausted.” Paige took hold of your shoulders and gently guided you back to a lying position. You felt like dead weight, like you didn’t even have the energy to hold yourself up anymore.

"just...needa minute..."

“No,” Paige said, being firm but gentle. “You need to sleep. You won’t even be able to form coherent sentences in a minute. Let alone get up and continue doing things.”

Your eyes went glossy with sleep, but also longing. Then they fluttered, feeling heavier and heavier by the second. You missed what the two of you used to have. That kind of love, that connection.

Paige continued to watch you and saw your eyes begin to shut again, this time heavier and slower.

Her heart squeezed as she took in her ex’s appearance. You looked so tired, completely drained from the day. Paige knew that you would push and push until you collapsed. Then you’d push yourself harder. It was a problem.

In a moment of weakness, Paige found herself reaching out to brush some of your hair away from your face. The action was purely on instinct. She used to do this when you were still together and you couldn’t sleep.

Her hand lingered on your face for a few seconds before snapping back to her body.

What was she doing?

Your final words were mumbled and incoherent before she completely fell asleep.

Even though your words were incomprehensible, Paige still knew what they were. 

Thank you.

She knew once you fell asleep, you were out like a light. There was no waking you up until the next day.

Paige let out a sigh as a wave of nostalgia washed over her. She could tell you to take a break and slow down a thousand times, but you would never listen.

With you finally asleep, Paige got up from the side of the bed, deciding to go check on the kids.

She quietly closed the door behind her and went to check on the children.

Walking down the hall, Paige first stopped at Medora’s room. She knocked on the door softly and slowly pushed the door open.

“Hey, sweetheart.” She said, peeking her head through the door.

Medora was fast asleep with her favorite bunny in her hand. It was the bunny you had bought her during their relationship. She was a sound sleeper, just like you. 

But she looked so much like Paige. Her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her smile, and still your curls fought hard to make themselves known on her little head.

Paige smiled softly, then backed out of the room. Next, she walked across the hall to where Zahria’s room was.

Opening the door, she peeked into Zahria’s room. To her surprise, Zahria was still up. “Hey angel.” Paige greeted her softly, walking over and sitting next to her on the bed. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Paige inquired, giving her a soft smile. Zahria was very obviously watching something on her phone.

“I’m not sleepy,” Zahria answered, quickly shutting her phone off. “I don’t want to go to bed.” The 9-year-old said with a pout. 

She was like a carbon copy of you. Your dark hair, your curls, your tanned skin, your almost magical gaze.

“Oh yeah?” Paige questioned with a soft smirk. “And why’s that?” She asked, gently poking Zahria’s side.

“Cause it’s too early!” Zahria said, swatting at her and giggling. “I wanna stay awake!”

“Alright, alright.” Paige relented. She knew it was best to just give in to Zahria. Even if they had made that 'five more minutes' agreement earlier.

“Get your homework and let me see.” She said, keeping her tone gentle but firm.

Zahria sat up properly and began to dig through her backpack for her homework. After a few seconds, she pulled out her folder and handed it to Paige, still pouting.

Paige took the folder and opened it to look through the schoolwork. She knew Zahria was a smart girl. It was one of the many things she took after you. 

“Mama made you a list?” She asked, noticing the list of math problems.

“Yeah, “ Zahria spoke up, a slight hint of annoyance in her tone. “Apparently, I was doing my math ‘too fast’ so mom thinks I’m not paying attention to the problems.” She explained.

Paige let out a soft sigh, closing the folder and placing it on the nightstand. “She just wanted you to do it right. She’s looking out for you.” She said softly, gently guiding Zahria to lie down.

Once Zahria was laid down, Paige pulled the blanket over her. “No reading or looking through your phone. You need to sleep.” She sternly warned her, seeing the slight look of defiance on her face.

“And I’m going to check to make sure,” She said, pointing a finger at Zahria, as if to say, ‘Don’t you dare try to get away with reading or looking at your phone.’

Zahria huffed and dramatically flopped back onto the pillow. “Fine.” She said with a defeated sigh.

“Good,” Paige said. She stood up and checked to make sure Zahria was all covered and had her bunny within reach, and quietly left the room.

Once out of Zahria’s room, Paige shut the door gently behind her. She didn’t need to worry about waking the kids up. They were both very sound sleepers, just like you.

She walked down the hall to check on Medora one more time before going back to check on you.

You had shifted to your side, still out like a light. Although there was a deep blue something wrapped up in your arms, held tightly against your chest.

One of Paige's old hoodies. From college. From when they were still together.

Paige stopped dead in her tracks once she took in the sight. You were holding one of her old college hoodies in a tight grip, like it was a lifeline.

Her heart ached, seeing the old article of clothing being smothered by her ex. A part of her felt a twisted sense of hope.

Paige wanted to take the hoodie and throw it away. Her mind was telling her to. But her heart, her heart was another story. That one wanted her to let you hold it. It wanted her to leave it right in your grasp.

She slowly and quietly walked over to the bed, being sure that her steps didn’t bring you out of your deep slumber.

She carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, right next to you. She studied your face, noticing how much more relaxed it looked when you were asleep. There was a soft, somewhat peaceful expression on your face.

Her eyes lingered on the hoodie, wrapped up in your arms, pressed against your chest. It was almost like you were holding Paige again.

Paige stayed on the edge of the bed, the image of you holding the old hoodie stuck in her mind. It was hard for her to take her eyes off it.

In a moment of weakness, she slowly lay down next to you, trying not to disturb you.

You shifted anyway, a soft, jumbled sound coming from the back of your throat. "Hm..?"

“Shhh…” Paige hushed you gently, trying not to break the moment. Her voice came out in a quieter tone, barely above a whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

"whatdoin.."

“Nothing,” Paige said softly. She was lying on her side, facing you. Their faces were only inches apart. With you facing her and Paige lying right next to you, it was like a little cocoon surrounded just by the two of them.

You moved closer to Paige in your sleepy haze, like two magnets coming together. It seemed as if your body was moving on instinct. Your head now rested against Paige’s chest, and her arm lay across your waist.

Paige didn’t reject you. In fact, she pulled you closer.

“Hm..”

“Shhh…” Paige slowly began to run her fingers through your hair, her touch gentle. Her other arm wrapped around you and held you close. “I got you…” She whispered.

"...obrigado.." (Thank you.)

“Eu sei. Você está segura.“ (I know. You are safe.) Paige responded softly. Her fingers continued to run through your hair, gently massaging your scalp.

"..you 'member.."

Paige smiled softly, her hand slowing for a moment, before resuming the rhythm of her fingers running through your hair. “Of course I remember.” She said softly, a hint of affection in her voice.

“...Stay.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” Paige responded with a soft laugh. She knew you were still half asleep, probably incoherent. There was no way she would leave regardless of what you said, though.

"..ever..stay ever.."

Paige’s heart skipped at your words. Did she mean it?

She held onto you tighter, her arms wrapped around your body. She would hold you all night if she had to. “I’ll stay.” She whispered, her voice a soft reassurance.

“Mhm..”

Paige kept her limbs around you, trapping you in a gentle embrace. Your head was still nestled against her chest, and Paige’s nose was buried in your hair.

She inhaled, the familiar scent bringing back a flood of memories. She felt a sense of comfort, having you so close.

Your last words before you fell back asleep were two plain and simple words.

"...love you"

Paige’s heart almost leapt out of her chest when she heard those words. She froze for a second, unsure of whether she heard you correctly.

But she did. She heard every word.

“I love you too…” She whispered back, her tone soft and full of emotion.

And with that, you were out like a light.

Paige continued to hold you in her arms, her grip on you not loosening. Her heart was pounding as she took in your words. ‘I love you..’

She knew you were asleep and probably didn’t realize what you were saying. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t meaningful.

[jungwnies]

co-parenting | charles leclerc

୨ৎ : featuring : ex-husband!charles x ex-wife!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : co-parenting with a kid who wishes you guys were still together.

୨ৎ : genre : romance & comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 525

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

the drop-offs were always the same. quiet. simple. polite.

a soft bonjour. a shared update. a backpack passed between cars. you never lingered and neither did he.

not because it was hostile — you’d never let it get that far. not with your daughter watching.

but it hurt, sometimes. the way you went from late-night laughter and pasta on the stove to schedules and calendars and “see you next friday.”

charles never stopped being a good father. maybe that made it harder.

today, she came running toward you from the steps of his monaco apartment, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed with joy.

“maman! papa says we can have dinner together tonight. all of us.”

you blinked. “oh?”

she nodded furiously, looking back at charles, who stood in the doorway, one hand in his pocket, eyes already on you.

“i made pasta,” he said, almost sheepishly. “her idea.”

of course it was. your little peacekeeper. your tiny schemer.

still, you nodded. “alright.”

the kitchen hadn’t changed.

same marble countertop. same magnets on the fridge. same faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. you didn’t realize you’d missed it.

dinner was easy. laughter spilled without trying. she told stories between bites of pasta and charles watched you with that soft, familiar look — the one that used to undo you in quiet places.

after she fell asleep — curled up in your old hoodie on his couch — you stayed to help clean. he didn’t ask. you didn’t offer. it just… happened.

you stood side by side at the sink, hands brushing.

“you still remember where everything is,” he said quietly.

you shrugged. “hard to forget.”

charles nodded, setting a plate on the drying rack. “i still forget you’re not here sometimes.”

you looked over at him. “charles—”

“i’m not saying it to make you uncomfortable,” he said quickly. “i just… i miss you.”

you froze.

he didn’t look at you. just kept rinsing dishes like he hadn’t shattered something soft and unspoken between you.

“it was hard,” he said after a moment. “losing you. coming home and not hearing your voice.”

“it was hard for me too.”

he finally turned toward you. “but we still work.”

you hesitated. “as co-parents.”

“as more than that,” he said gently. “we laugh. we talk. we still know each other.”

you swallowed. “charles, we divorced for a reason.”

he nodded. “and i’ve learned since then. grown. i don’t want to force anything. but i think our daughter sees something we’re scared to admit.”

you looked back toward the couch — toward the little girl curled under a blanket you once shared, peaceful and smiling in her sleep.

“she misses us together,” you whispered.

“she’s not the only one.”

charles reached for your hand.

“would you ever consider trying again?” he asked, voice quiet. “not for her. for us.”

you looked down at his fingers wrapped around yours — calloused from the wheel, familiar from a lifetime ago.

“do you think we've matured since then?” you asked honestly.

“i do,” his voice didn’t waver. “but we can go slow, i want us to work, no matter how long it takes.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[inkedinshadows]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again

Pairing: Rhysand x f!reader

Summary: Rhysand comes home to his mate after 50 years UTM, but he's worried she might not love him anymore after everything he's done.

Warnings: angst, sad boi Rhys, mentions of Amarantha

Word count: 2.2k

Main masterlist | Week Masterlist | Rhysand Masterlist | AO3

@sjmxreaderweek

Velaris was quiet, with only a few faelights shining in the night to rival the stars above. A gentle breeze blew your hair away from your face, carrying with it the scent of salt and spring.

You sat on one of the iron chairs on the rooftop, your head tilted back to look up at the twinkling stars. You'd lost count of how many times you'd wished upon them over the last forty-nine years, and though you'd long since stopped wishing they would return your mate, you had never lost hope that he would one day come back home to you.

But now your wishes were smaller, because maybe then they would be answered. Maybe asking for something too big was too ambitious to be granted.

So you stuck with the little things.

For your mate to be safe, and healthy too. That even if couldn't return, he would know you'd wait for him and love him from afar. That wherever he was, he could look up at the same stars and think of you, and maybe even feel you close to him.

You shivered slightly when the breeze picked up. Goosebumps rose on your arms as if the wind itself was telling you to stop thinking and go to sleep instead.

With a sigh, you finally stood. It was late, and the bed was calling to you with the promise of a sleep filled with dreams of Rhys.

After one last glance at the quiet stars, you headed down the stairs toward your bedroom. You frowned at the light filtering out from beneath the door. You were sure you hadn't left it on before climbing up to the rooftop. But when you pushed it open, your heart stopped.

You recognized his scent before you even saw him.

Citrus and sea salt filled your lungs, and then the door swung fully open.

And there he was.

Rhys was sitting on the edge of the bed, but he shot to his feet the moment you turned the doorknob. He just stood there, posture rigid, as you stared at each other.

His skin was pale—so much paler than the last time you'd seen him. His hair was slightly longer, and his eyes no longer sparkled with life and joy as they once had. He was thinner. And he looked tired—so tired that you wondered when the last time he had gotten some sleep was.

“Rhys?” you whispered. You were still standing in the doorway, too stunned to move. “Is that you? Are you… are you really here?”

Maybe you had fallen asleep on that chair and this was just another dream.

How many times had you imagined this moment, both while asleep and awake? Or was this real and the stars—or the Mother, the Cauldron, all the forgotten gods you'd silently begged—had finally answered your prayers?

Rhys didn't smile. Didn't nod. He just swallowed.

“I'm here, but…”

Your heart dropped.

“But I'm not…” He struggled to find the words. “I'm not the same person you knew.”

Finally stepping into the room, you frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve changed,” he answered. His voice was trembling. “I've… done things, Y/N. I'm not the man I was fifty years ago.”

You weren't surprised—not really. You had changed too. Fifty years was a long time, even for an immortal, and whatever Rhys had been through had visibly taken a toll on him. You had almost expected it.

But you had never once seen him so nervous, so… scared. As if he was afraid you were going to reject him, to tell him you didn't want him anymore. It made you wonder what kinds of things he was talking about.

“What did you do?” you asked quietly.

Rhys hesitated. For a moment, you thought he might not answer. But then he spoke.

“Everything she asked me,” he whispered. He didn't look at you. “I hurt people for her. Innocents. And I… I served her.”

He paused again, and you braced yourself for what he might say next.

“In the bedroom.”

The air left your lungs.

Rhys finally looked at you again. His eyes—usually so full of stars and love—were now anguished and scared.

“I promise you, Y/N, it never meant anything.” He took a step toward you, then stopped, as if unsure you would allow him to come closer. “Everything I've done, the people I've hurt… it was all to keep Velaris safe. So that I could come back home… to you.”

“Rhys—”

“And it's selfish, but I need to know if… if there's a chance you could still love me.” He swallowed. “If you only knew what I've done… I'm not the man you fell in love with. Not anymore. And I don't know if you could love me like you used to.”

“Rhys,” you said, and this time your voice was firmer.

He stopped just as he was about to say something else and looked at you, waiting.

You studied him for a long moment. His hands trembled slightly—something that had never happened before. His cheeks were a little hollow, his waist just a bit thinner. You took in every detail, every little change in his body, noticing all of them as if you'd last seen him only the day before.

You didn't doubt his words. He was different, and he was hurting, haunted by whatever Amarantha had made him do. In and out of the bedroom, apparently.

But you had waited half a century for your mate to come home. You wouldn't let anything come in between you and him anymore, even if it was his own fear and guilt.

“Do you remember when we first said ‘I love you’?”

He seemed confused, but you went on.

“We went to that concert at the Rainbow Theatre and then you walked me home, and we kissed in front of my door.”

Rhys frowned. “That was when the bond snapped, not the first time we said ‘I love you’.”

You tilted your head to the side as you thought about it. “Right,” you muttered. “So was it that time we just went to the coffeehouse across from where I used to work because I didn't have time?”

You had always loved your job at the bakery. Cakes and cookies, loaves of bread and rolls, pastries and tarts—they were your element. You thrived surrounded by flour and yeast and chocolate chips. But that first job became more like a prison and burden, where you had to work impossible shifts and run on little sleep.

You had met Rhys when he came in one day to order a cake for his cousin's birthday. Something immediately clicked between the two of you, and shortly after you were going on dates in between your shifts. You sacrificed so many hours of sleep so you could see him in your free time, until Rhys had convinced you to quit and find something better.

Hurt flashed in Rhys' eyes, but there was a hint of frustration in his voice. “That was our first date.”

Though it killed you, you just nodded thoughtfully. “Then when was it? Do you remember it?”

Rhys took a deep breath. You couldn't tell it if he was trying to stay calm or if he was truly that hurt by your apparent memory lapse.

“It was the day before you opened your own bakery,” he said. He spoke slowly, as if it would help you remember. “You were trying new recipes and making me taste all of them until I felt sick. And when you asked why I didn't tell you I'd eaten too much cake, I said it was because I loved you and wanted to see you happy.”

He hesitated before meeting your gaze. “Do you really not remember?”

You shook your head and stepped forward. Finally standing in front of him, the urge to throw yourself into his arms—or to hold him in yours—was stronger than ever. But you held back for now and just looked up at him instead.

“I remember,” you said. “Of course I remember. Our first date, the first kiss, the first ‘I love you’... I remember it all.”

He opened his mouth, but you already knew what he was going to say.

You lifted a hand to his face, fingers shaking almost imperceptibly, and then you were cupping his cheek.

After almost fifty years, you were touching your mate again.

Rhys tensed under your touch, his eyes searching your face, and you had to fight against the lump rising in your throat to speak again.

“I asked because I wanted you to remember,” you murmured. “To remind yourself that you remember all those moments and a thousand more. That you've changed, but you're still you.”

Your other hand came to rest on his chest, right where his heart was. You could feel it, beating wildly beneath your palm.

“In here, you're still Rhysand. You're still my mate. And you always will be.”

His violet eyes shone, silver lining them.

“I don't need another chance to love you, Rhys,” you said, your voice a soft caress, like your thumb now brushing his cheekbone. “Because I never stopped loving you. And I never will. You're my mate, my love, and I'd wait another fifty years for you.”

His throat bobbed, and then tears rolled down his cheeks. You cupped his face with both hands, wiping them away with a soft smile.

It broke your heart to see him like this. To know that whatever he had done, whatever he'd been forced to endure, had been horrible enough to make him think your love for him could ever die.

“Open the bond,” you encouraged gently. “Let the wall come down, my love.”

It had killed you not feeling him for all those decades. When he'd reached out with his magic to warn you, he told you it was for your safety. That if someone had suspected he had a mate, Amarantha would come for you.

And you had understood. You had accepted it—you hadn't had another choice. But it had still killed you.

Sometimes, you would pull on the bond, like you had done hundreds of times before, but you could never feel his presence on the other side. As if he had never been there. As if he were gone.

It had terrified you. You had no way of knowing if he was alright or hurt. Would you know it if he had died? With the mating bond shut, would you be able to feel it, to sense it? Would your heart stop beating without warning? The doubts and nightmares had haunted you for fifty years.

But now he was here. You were together again.

Rhys released a shuddering breath. He searched your eyes again, but all he found there was love and understanding.

A few seconds passed in silence.

And then you felt it—that feeling deep within your chest, like a string tied to your heart, pulling you gently toward him.

The warm, glowing mating bond.

A ghost presence in your chest for almost fifty years, but no more. And never again.

You both gasped at the intensity of it. You could sense that Rhys was still holding back, still trying to shield you from the full weight of his anguish and guilt. So you flooded the bond with your love, your relief, your joy at finally being with him again.

Slowly, Rhys leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. “I've missed you, my darling. Every minute of every day.”

A sob tore from you, and then you were crying too. Your arms looped around his neck to pull him closer, fingers tangling in his hair as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His hands slid to your back, holding you even tighter.

“I missed you too,” you choked out. “And I love you, Rhys. Please, never doubt that.”

His tears seeped through your shirt, dampening the fabric and your skin beneath it, but you couldn't have cared less.

You were holding him. And he was holding you. Everything was going to be fine.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

You didn't know how long you stood there in the center of the room, just holding each other. Minutes or hours—it didn't matter. You had no intention of letting him go ever again, and you knew he felt the same. You could spend the rest of your life like this and it would be enough.

It didn't matter what he had done, what Amarantha had forced him to do. Maybe one day he would tell you. Maybe he wouldn't. But even then, nothing he said could ever make you stop loving him.

If you had to spend the next few years proving to him that he wasn't the villain he thought he'd become, then so be it. You would show him that, however changed he might be, he was still your mate.

He was still—and would always be—your Rhys.

And he was finally home.

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

[nineteenninety-six]

Dana x younger sister, who’s a single mom and her daughters sick and she’s not getting better, ends up in the er, maybe idk which would fit Kurt Robby or abbot treating as well as Dana, and comfort

Pairings: Michael Robinavitch x Reader

AN: Sorry these having been taking so long to get out but this job is killing me but hopefully I get used to it in a couple of weeks. ALSO I've started Animal Kingdom and omg Pope is a babe but don't spoil anything for because I'm only just started the 2nd season.

Warnings: kid is sick. medical/hospital inaccuracies (pls forgive me).

Your daughter's wails pierced your ears as you rocked and bounced her in your arms, desperately trying to comfort her. The glares coming from the other patients didn't help but you refused to be intimidated  as she had as much of a right to be there as they did and you refused to leave the hospital until she was seen.

The receptionist had assured you that they were making space for you, calling other departments to pick up waiting patients who needed to be transported but there was no guarantee and you knew how short staffed and overcrowded the emergency department was but a part of you still wanted to drop your sisters name in hopes that It'll atleast get you through the waiting room doors.

Luckily you only had to wait for ten more minutes before you were ushered through by a nurse who thankfully took you to a private room.

You were halfway through texting your sister, telling her what was happening with one hand while the other continued to rock your daughter when the door swung open.

"Dana!" You sign in relief at the sight of the person who rushed through, "Oh thank God!"

"What the hell... " Dana gasped as she stepped forward, hands automatically reaching for your daughter, "I saw Juliet pop up on the patient board."

You let her take Juliet into her arms, watching as she cuddled and tried to soothe your crying daughter, who hadn't even calmed slightly at being in her favourite aunts arms liked she

usually did.

"She's burning up" Dana muttered with a frown, "Let me get Robby."

Dana passes Juliet back over to you before she disappears out of the room in search of the day attending.

Exhausted from hours of crying and screaming, Juliet quiets down to a whimper and buries her face into your neck. You grip the two year old close to you as you take a seat on the bed and murmur assurances into her hair.

"C'mon baby, tell mama what's wrong..."

Juliet only whimpered in response, her small hands clenching your jumper as she struggled through the pain.

The door opened, an older man stepping through as he snapped blue gloves on, Dana just behind him. "Hi, I'm doctor Robby and I heard we have a very important niece here today. Who do we have here?"

"This is Juliet. She's two and she's been up since the early hours with a fever. Crying all day ... a little coughing but I think that's because of how much she's been crying, I don't think it's another symptom. She hasn't been able to go back to sleep, I think something is really hurting her but I'm not sure."

"Oo-Kay" Dr Robby approached the two of you and reached out "May I?"

You nod and pass Juliet over and Robby sits her on the bed and crouches down in front of her, "Hi Juliet, I'm doctor Robby."

Juliet lets out a cry and a muffled whimper, a far cry from her usual friendly demeanor.

"What's her vitals Dana?" Robby asks as he looks for any external injuries along with pressing against her abdomen to see if she reacts.

"Her temp is 38C. Everything else is slightly elevated but nothing out of normal range. I'm guessing it's because she's distressed."

"Has she eaten?" Robby asks, turning his head to look at you.

You shake your head with a frown, "She hasn't been interested in anything. She nibbled on a few crackers and took a couple sips of water but nothing else."

"I'm not seeing anything so far." Robby nods and stands to his full height, "And she was fine last night?"

You shrug picking up Juliet when she reached out for you, "She wasn't very hungry but she ate. She struggled to fall asleep, in and out for the few hours she managed to get."

Robby nods before his eyes land on Juliet's ears and his head quirks slightly before he grabs a tissue and steps closer, "Ah, I think I may have an idea on what the cause is."

You watch as Robby wipes clear fluid from Juliet's ear, "I think we may be looking at an ear infection."

"Ear infection?" You echo, "That's it?"

Robby thanks Dana for the otoscope she hands him, "I'll need to look at it to confirm it but so far that's my leading guess."

"She had a cold just a couple of weeks ago," Dana recalls, "She recovered not long ago."

Robby hums and nods, "That'll do it."

You brush your hand over Juliet's hair, panic now subsided, "I can't believe I took her all the way over here for an ear infection."

"You did good." Robby reassures, "You worried, it's natural. You have a young kid and these things are scary. You did good by coming here."

"Maybe. But Dana pulled you away from your important patients."

"So I wanted the best care for my lovely niece." Dana interrupts, "Sue me."

"I can promise you Dana didn't pull me away from anything. Besides, it meant that I finally got to meet you after Dana's nonstop stories about you."

"Oh God, I hope it's none of the ones when we were young." You laugh with a slight wince.

"Oh I'm the best secret keeper on the floor. My lips are firmly sealed." Robby winks at you.

Juliet grumbles as she shifts in your arms, finally drifting off to sleep after hours of pain and discomfort. You press a kiss to her forehead and wrap your arms around her,

"So she'll be okay?" You ask, "Can I give her any medicine or anything? I'm worried about her eating."

"She'll be fine, you can give her some children's paracetamol. We'll give her some now and it's OTC so you can grab it on the way home." Robby tells you with a kind smile, "She should get better over the next few days but if her symptoms get worse or if it affects the other ear then you can come back here or to your GP."

You breathe a sigh of relief, fears settled, "Thank you Dr Robby."

"It was no problem." Robby shakes your hand, "It was lovely to meet you. Dana will sort out your discharge papers."

"It was nice to meet you too" You tell him, "Thank you again."

Robby gives you one last smile and wave before he exits the room and there's only a moment of peace before Dana turns to you with a smirk on her lips.

"So, what do you think of him?" Dana asks as she shuffles papers around.

"Of Robby?" You ask, "He's nice, just like you said."

"He's single ya know." Dana says as she passes you the papers to sign, "The long hours are a pain in the ass but they're workable."

You scoff at her words, signing the papers and returning it to her "Give it a rest Dana. Robby is kind but I'm sure he doesn't have any interest in me…I mean I'm a single mother Dana, that's a hard no for most men."

"Robby isn't like most men." Dana counters, "Just give it a chance. Please."

You huff slightly at your sister, "Please don't tell me you've forced him to ask me out."

"I didn't force him to do anything." Dana curls a piece of Juliet's hair around her finger, "I might have suggested something to him."

"Dana!"

"Just trust me okay." With that Dana leaves, the door slipping shut behind her.

An hour later and you're finally free to go home. Juliet woke up and a student doctor gratefully picked up a sandwich for her to nibble on, her appetite back after finally getting some sleep.

You keep an eye out for Dr Robby as you make your way out of the hospital, remembering Dana's words from earlier but you don't spot him so you continue your way out to the park, desperate for a couple of moments of fresh air after being stuck in the stuffy hospital for so long.

There on a bench with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jumper and his head tilted back with his eyes closed was Dr Robby. He hears your footsteps and opens his eyes, blinks a few times before he recognises you.

"Doctor Robby" You smile at him, "You okay?"

Robby nods, "Just..decompressing."

You hesitate before you speak again, hoping that you won't regret them, "Is your shift over?"

Robby nods.

"Someone woke up hungry," You smile, juggling Juliet in your arms, "We're going to get some food…do you want to join us?"

Robby hesitates and he almost looks like he's going to say no before he slowly nods, "Yeah…I'd really like that. Thank you."

You watch as he collects his bag from the seat next to him before he joins you. Juliet watches him from where her head rests on your shoulder and he smiles at her, laughing as she gets shy and turns away.

"Once she has had a couple of hashbrowns and some apple juice she'll be a completely different person." You laugh, "She'll talk your ear off."

"Oh, she takes after her aunt doesn't she?" Robby jokes as he follows you to your car."

"Oh absolutely!" You laugh, "If Dana gets her way then she will make Juliet into her mini me."

"Nurse and all?" Robby makes an exaggerated shivering motion, "I fear for the attending doctor when Juliet becomes a nurse, charge or not."

"If that happens then Dana will die a very happy woman." You joke as you unlock the car

Robby smiles at you as he holds the car door open for you as place Juliet in her car seat.

You smile back at him, "C'mon let's get some food."

[benispunk]

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

[mxxnechos]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ red marks

a/n: this is entirely self-indulgent. I won’t lie about that LMAO, I don’t know if this happens to other skin tones, so I am terribly sorry it won’t be as inclusive as I want it to be (I try and make my writing as inclusive as possible for anyone!!). I am white and my skin is very sensitive when I scratch it, so this is very common for me, so I apologise for those who are looking for inclusive skin tone stuff :(

pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader in mind, though Jaybin does use “ma” because even if I’m agender, I have a soft spot for him saying that

genre: fluff, kind of slice of life

words: 1k -- should be okay but tell me if there's any mistakes I missed!!

summary: Jason spots red marks on your skin, gets super worried, and won’t stop asking if you’re okay.

art on the right is by @/ciricearts & dividers by @/saradika-graphics!!

You stood in your kitchen, scratching your upper arm for what would be now for the better part of 5 minutes. The noise of sharp yet shorter nails running against skin filled the room, or more so your ears, as you waited for that faint ding of your microwave. The milk filled mug turning in circles as you absentmindedly waited for the timer to hit zero, your fingers running over your skin without you realising. Hot chocolate was always nice company while you waited for Jason to come home. Your brain was starting to blank out more and more while the soft electronic hum of the microwave mixed in with the sound of nails against skin, your eyes slowly losing focus on the dark wooden floor. Maybe you could—

Ding!

Your hand stops its constant up and down motion on your arm, your nails scratching the skin for one last time before you moved off of the counter to retrieve your mug. Your mind blanked once more between the time you got the cocoa and sugar, and the time you were already sipping on your finished drink. And then Jason was back.

He’s tired. He’s tired and he wants to be in your arms more than anything. But at least he’s home soon. At least he’s only tired and not badly hurt. And as soon as he’s held safely in your arms, he’ll be home.

Now, Jason just wanted to go back to your apartment, change and shower, and have the best sleep next to you. But then, of course, some stuff had to go a bit sideways (he’s being a bit dramatic).

What he comes back to instead is your gorgeous self in the kitchen, mug in hand, with big, red, extremely red, marks on your arm. It was worrying. Your skin flaked off a bit, and was red. And his mind went off.

“Sweetheart?” His voice came out a bit cracked as he hurriedly took his helmet off and placed on your table. He was quick to be by your side, your arm gently held by his hands, as if you were a precious jewel he was trying everything in his power to not damage.

You, mind still somewhat blank, shook awake out of your trance. A smile came up on your face as you set the mug down.

“Hi Jayjay,” you spoke softly, your voice portraying perfectly your tiredness. “How was patrol? Are you hurt?” A small worry took over your face, but you knew he’d be acting worse if he was badly hurt.

“Sweets, sweetheart, it doesn’t matter if I’m hurt,” his voice was pure worry, his eyes and body the same. “You’re hurt, what happened to your arm? Does it hurt a lot? We should put ice and cream on it. How’d you get it? Did someone do that? I swear to everything if someone did—” He’d started rambling, moving around the kitchen as his hurried words matched his hurried movements. He’s looking around cabinets and drawers, looking for that cream he’d mentioned, though it never resided in the kitchen to begin with. You just stared at him in confusion, unsure of what he was rambling about. Once his anger came out, showing that side of him that would about hurt anyone for you, you cut him off with a soft sweet laugh. He stopped dead in his tracks, and turned to look at you.

“I’m serious ma, did someone hurt you?” He asked again, a pout on his lips, though his demeanour had softened because of your laugh.

“Jay, hun, I have no idea what you’re on about,” a small sheepish smile formed on your face, as he frowned again. “Your arm, ma.”

You looked down at your arms, finding one significantly more red than the other, accompanied with some scratch marks. You were stunned, because when did that get here? You stared down at it for a moment, all the while Jason’s worry was worsening.

“Are you sure it doesn’t hurt ma?” He asked once more, before jumping back into action. “I need to find you that cream.” He hurriedly started looking through the drawers with a determination to not see you hurting anymore.

You kept staring at your arms as the puzzle pieces clicked together in your mind. And when the picture was done, you couldn’t help yourself but laugh.

You tried calling out to him through your laughs, though he wouldn’t listen.

“No, no! You’re hurt ma, can’t let you be hurt.”

“Jay— Jay, please look at me,” you said between giggles. “Jason.”

Hearing his full name made him stop and turn to you with a pout. You’d so rarely use his full name, it was always a nickname, a pet name, anything different. You’d only use it when he had to listen to you.

“Yeah?” He mumbled quietly, looking at you with that sad pout on his face, his voice so full of worry and care. His boyishness always came out in moments like this.

“Oh hun,” you chuckled, taking a step towards him to cradle his face in your hands. He leaned in on instinct. “I was just scratching my arm, see?” You smiled sweetly, demonstrating it by running your nails against your forearm. Few seconds after, and red-ish scratch marks appeared on your skin, following the path your nails took. Your hands found his cheeks again, as you pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’m okay, baby.”

Jason gently gripped your forearms as he leaned in closer to you. He gently turned your arm around to examine the marks, who were already disappearing, the big splotch of red on your upper arm already almost entirely faded, to a much lighter colour. Only then did he let out a big breath, wrapped his big arms around your waist, and buried his head deep in the crook of your neck, now breathing you in. Your arms wrapped around his neck, a hand slowly racking through his hair.

You both stayed like that for a while, holding each other, breathing them in.

…

“Can’t believe you got scared because I had an itch.”

“Shut uppppppppppp”

A long playfully annoyed groan merged with laughter in the quietness of the apartment.

again, this is entirely self-indulgent lmao, this happens to me way too much, I'll barely scratch my skin and then there's red marks on my skin for a good MINUTE, it's annoyinggggggg

I hope you guys enjoyed it, even if it isn't as inclusiv as it could be (which I am again sorry for)

I've been gone for a short minute, real sorry, I've been super busy with school and I essentially shouldn't even have been writting this in the first place considering I'm in exam season but I couldn't help myselfffffff

also!! I'm finally going to be properly setting up my blog soon, so that's going to be fun!! stay tuned for that I guess, and more stories because I wrote this in a day which is considerably really short for me :P

© mxxnechos -- please do not repost, modify, translate, plagiarise, or feed my content into AI. All likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are deeply appreciated!!

[otakudragones]

Bakugo Katsuki

As a boyfriend

• He’s the kind of boyfriend who won’t say “I love you,” but will fight the waiter if your order’s wrong. His love language is: acts of service + passive-aggressive violence.

• If he finds out someone made you cry, he’s already taking his gloves off. “WHO WAS IT? WHERE ARE THEY? DO THEY EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE TO ME?”

• Takes care of you without admitting it. If you’re sick: “I don’t need you dying in my house, so take this medicine and sleep in my bed. And don’t move, dumbass.”

• Gets mad if you don’t ask for help. “What the hell am I here for then, huh? You stubborn idiot.”

• He hates PDA, but looks at you like you’re the sun — and then flat-out denies it.

• Jealous? Oh, definitely. “Who was that, huh? Why’d he smile at you?” You: “The Walmart cashier, Katsuki.”

IMAGINE:

You’re at a party with your friends, and Bakugou hasn’t stopped frowning at you from across the room because you’re dancing without him. When you finally walk over, he says, “What, done trying to get attention or what?” But he takes your hand and doesn’t let go the rest of the night.

As a husband

• The wedding is simple, but he bakes the cake himself (with strawberry filling, because it’s your favorite).

• Says he won’t cry. Cries. Gets embarrassed. Gets mad about crying.

• Makes breakfast for you every morning, even if the toast’s a little burnt.

• He never goes to sleep without making sure you’re okay. Sometimes he gets up just to check if you’re still breathing — just in case.

• Talks to you about money, decisions, the future. He doesn’t run from adulthood. He’s the kind of husband who wants to do things right because you give him your all.

• Gets offended if you don’t lean on him. “What’s the point of having me if you’re gonna carry everything yourself, huh?”

IMAGINE:

You’ve got a headache and are lying on the couch. Bakugou covers you with a blanket, dims the lights, sets water on the table. He doesn’t say much — just strokes your hair and murmurs, “Rest, woman…” like he isn’t completely in love.

As a father

• Overprotective dad to the max. He’s freaking out during labor, but the moment he hears that first cry, something in him shifts. “Oh… This is real now.”

• Teaches his kid to defend themselves from kindergarten. Enrolls them in combat classes before soccer.

• But also: sings lullabies in a whisper, like his voice might break the baby if he gets too loud.

• He’s scared of hurting the baby at first, but soon becomes a pro at changing diapers and carrying without fear.

• Does homework, plays, reads bedtime stories (with full-on villain voices), and gets offended if his kid doesn’t draw him with enough muscles.

• His kid’s first “I love you” leaves him speechless for three minutes. Then he just says, “I love you too,” wiping his eyes.

In general, a relationship with Katsuki is…

• Like dating an emotional grenade who learned how to love gently.

• He doesn’t know how to be tender, but he tries. He tries so hard it hurts from how beautiful it is.

• You argue, but never go to bed angry. He always comes back to say: “I don’t care about being right with the world if I’m not right with you.”

• He has anxiety about not being enough, and you are his safe place. He won’t say it, but you see it in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching.

MINI ONE-SHOT: “Only You”

“Why are you with me?” you ask one night, staring at the ceiling while he strokes your back with one hand.

Katsuki doesn’t answer right away. He breathes. Hesitates. Then says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world:

—“Because you make me want to be a better person… without even asking me to.”

Then, softer, almost afraid:

—“Because you calm me down, damn it. You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

You look at him. And with glossy eyes and a clenched jaw, he just whispers:

—“And if you ever doubt it again, just remember there’s no one else I’d do all of this for… only you.”

Traducción

Como novio

• Es el tipo de novio que no te dice "te amo", pero pelea con el mesero si no trae bien tu orden. Su lenguaje del amor es: servicio + violencia pasiva-agresiva.

• Si se entera de que alguien te hizo llorar, ya está quitándose los guantes. “¿QUIÉN FUE? ¿DÓNDE ESTÁ? ¿TIENE IDEA DE QUIÉN ERES TÚ PARA MÍ?”

• Te cuida sin admitirlo. Si estás enfermo: “no necesito que te mueras en mi casa, así que tómate esta medicina y duerme en mi cama. Y no te muevas, pendeja.”

• Se enoja si no le pides ayuda con algo porque “para eso estoy aquí, ¿no? pinche necia”.

• No le gusta el PDA (afecto en público), pero te mira como si fueras el sol y lo niega rotundamente.

• Es celoso. Tipo: “¿y ese quién era, eh? ¿por qué te sonrió?” Tú: “el de Walmart, Katsuki.”

IMAGINA:

"Estás en una fiesta con tus amigos, y Bakugou no ha dejado de hacerte ceño desde la esquina del cuarto porque estás bailando sin él. Cuando te acercas, te dice: ‘qué, ¿ya te cansaste de llamar la atención o qué?’. Pero se deja tomar de la mano y no te suelta por el resto de la noche."

Como esposo

• Su boda es simple, pero el pastel lo horneó él (con relleno de fresa porque sabe que es tu favorito).

• Te dice que no va a llorar. Llora. Le da pena. Se enoja por haber llorado.

• Cada mañana te prepara desayuno aunque se le queme un poco el pan tostado.

• Nunca se va a dormir sin asegurarse de que tú estés bien. A veces se levanta a revisar si respiras, justo en caso.

• Habla contigo de gastos, decisiones y futuro. No huye de la vida adulta. Es el tipo de esposo que quiere hacer las cosas bien porque lo das todo por él.

• Se ofende si no te apoyas en él. “¿Para qué me tienes si vas a cargar sola todo, ah?”

IMAGINA:

Te duele la cabeza y estás acostada en el sillón. Bakugou te tapa, apaga las luces, te pone agua en la mesa. No dice nada, solo te acaricia el cabello y murmura: "descansa, mujer..."como si no estuviera enamoradísimo.

Como padre

• Es papá gallina nivel Dios. Te ayuda en el parto con un susto épico, pero cuando escucha el primer llanto, su cara cambia por completo. “Ah no....Esto va en serio.”

• Enseña a su hijo a defenderse desde el kínder. Lo inscribe a clases de combate antes que a fútbol.

• Pero también: le canta canciones de cuna a lo bajito, como si su voz pudiera romper al bebé si sube de tono.

• Le da miedo lastimar, pero poco a poco se vuelve experto en cambiar pañales y cargar sin miedo.

• Hace tareas, juega, lee cuentos (con voz de villano incluida), y se ofende si su hijo no lo dibuja con suficiente musculatura.

• El primer "te amo" de su hijo lo deja en silencio 3 minutos. Luego solo dice: “yo también te amo”, mientras se limpia los ojos.

En general, una relación con Katsuki es…

• Como salir con una granada emocional que aprendió a amar con cuidado.

• Él no sabe cómo ser tierno, pero lo intenta. Lo intenta tanto que duele de lo hermoso.

• Discuten, pero nunca se acuestan peleados. Siempre regresa a decirte: “no quiero estar bien con el mundo si no estoy bien contigo.”

• Tiene ansiedad por no ser suficiente, y tú eres su refugio. No lo dice, pero se le nota en cómo te mira cuando cree que no estás viendo.

MINI ONE-SHOT: “Solo tú”

—¿Por qué estás conmigo? —preguntas una noche, mientras ves el techo y él acaricia tu espalda con una sola mano.

Katsuki no responde al instante. Respira. Duda. Luego dice, como si fuera obvio:

—Porque me haces querer ser una mejor persona… sin que me lo pidas.

Y después de un segundo añade, más bajo, casi temeroso:

—Porque me calmas, cabrón. Me haces sentir que no estoy roto.

Lo miras. Y él, con los ojos brillosos y la mandíbula apretada, solo te susurra:

—Y si algún día dudas otra vez, solo recuérdate que no hay nadie más con quien haría todo esto… solo tú.

[mintyys-blog]

Hi minty , could u please do headcanons for main mark and variants of what they would do and feel if they believe reader is cheating. (She is not)

HEADCANON | variants with s/o who they believe is cheating

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: mention of cheating, false accusations, attempted murder, swearing

MAIN MARK

Mark wasn’t sure when the thought first entered his head. Maybe it was the late-night texts he couldn’t see the names of, or how you started coming home a little later than usual. Logically, he knew you had work. Logically, he trusted you. But logic had nothing on the gut-sick panic that settled in his chest.

He didn’t confront you right away. No, he tried to ignore it at first. Laughed it off. Told himself he was being insecure. But then came the slip—the way you smiled at your phone one night, whispered something to yourself, and didn’t notice him watching. That smile. It wasn’t for him.

That night, he sat on the edge of the bed, unable to sleep. You were brushing your teeth, humming under your breath, looking completely normal. Like everything was fine.

And that hurt the most.

So he asked, barely a whisper: “Are you seeing someone else?”

You blinked, stunned, toothbrush in hand. “What?”

His voice cracked. “Just tell me the truth.”

When you laughed—not cruelly, just shocked—he looked like you slapped him.

“Mark, what the hell are you talking about? Of course not!”

You explained everything. Showed him the texts—your friend planning a surprise for him. The extra hours at work? Covering for a coworker. You even opened your phone, unlocked, without hesitation.

Mark sank to the floor, hands in his hair. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

You knelt with him, gently guiding his face up to yours. “You’re not. But next time? Ask me. I love you, dumbass.”

He wrapped his arms around you like he thought he might lose you again. “I’m so sorry.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I forgive you. But you’re making me waffles in the morning.”

“Deal.”

MOHAWK MARK

He didn’t say anything at first. That wasn’t his style.

Mohawk Mark watched from a distance—arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes dark. You’d been acting different lately. Late replies. Brushing off his questions with a smile. And worst of all? You’d started hiding your phone.

He didn’t do subtle. So the storm had been brewing—louder in his head every day, pushing him closer to the edge until the night he finally snapped.

You were humming in the kitchen, minding your own business, scrolling your phone. And that was it.

He yanked the phone from your hands in a blink, slamming it on the counter. “Who the fuck is he?”

You stared at him, stunned. “Mark—what?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been hiding shit. Acting weird. So unless you want me to start tearing this house apart, you better start talking.”

You shoved his chest, furious. “Are you insane?! I’m not cheating on you!”

He sneered. “Then what the fuck’s going on?”

You grabbed your phone back, unlocking it with shaky fingers. “Go ahead. Check it. You’ll find nothing—unless you want to ruin your own birthday surprise.”

His expression faltered.

You shoved the screen in his face. Texts between you and his best friend, planning a surprise party. Restaurant reservations. Gift orders.

Mark stared for a long moment before backing off, running a hand through his hair, swearing under his breath. “Fuck… I—I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t,” you snapped. “Because you didn’t trust me enough to ask before losing your shit.”

The guilt hit him fast. The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

He muttered, almost too low to hear, “I thought I was gonna lose you.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. “You will, if you keep treating me like an enemy instead of your partner.”

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “…I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, softening slightly. “But you can make it up to me.”

“Dinner, back rub, whatever you want.” You leaned back into his chest, still annoyed but touched by the sudden softness. “Start with ‘I’m sorry,’ and we’ll work from there.”

SINISTER MARK

Mark wasn’t loud. He didn’t throw tantrums or pace the room when he was pissed.

He watched. He waited.

So when he saw you getting out of a car with some random guy—his arm casually slung around your shoulders, the way you were laughing, all soft and familiar—his vision darkened.

He didn’t follow you home right away. No. He followed him.

It wasn’t until the guy was alone in the parking lot of a corner store, head down in his phone, that Mark made his move. One hand around the guy’s throat, slammed against a brick wall.

“Didn’t think I’d notice you pawing all over her?” Mark hissed, squeezing tighter. “You have about ten seconds to explain who the fuck you are before I start making an example.”

“W-what?! Dude—I’m her brother!” the guy gasped, choking out the words.

“Bullshit.”

“No! No, I swear—! C-check her contacts—ask her! My name’s Eli! Look at my f—fucking face, man!” Mark’s breath hitched. And suddenly, he did look at the guy’s face. Closely.

Familiar nose. Same eyes as you. He hadn’t noticed before—his rage had blinded him. You showed up minutes later, breathless and panicked, having tracked your brother’s phone when he stopped answering.

And what you found? Mark, fangs bared, fists clenched around your brother’s collar—just short of crushing his windpipe. “Mark!” you screamed, shoving between them. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

His jaw was clenched so hard you swore you heard a crack. His eyes flicked from your brother to you—back and forth, trying to put it all together.

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother,” he growled. “You never asked,” you hissed. “Because you were too busy acting like a psychotic asshole instead of trusting me!”

Your brother was coughing behind you, pale and freaked out. Mark ran both hands down his face and backed off, still trembling from the adrenaline. He didn’t say sorry. Not immediately.

But he did stare at you like he was trying to piece his heart back together. “I thought I lost you,” he muttered hoarsely. “And I don’t lose things I love.”

You didn’t answer. You were still too angry, too shaken. But you reached out and took his hand. “Next time,” you said coldly, “ask before you kill someone I actually care about.” His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Fair.” He still didn’t apologize out loud. But he didn’t need to. The way he didn’t let go of your hand said enough.

OMNI MARK

Mark wasn’t like other versions of him. He didn’t shout, didn’t fly off the handle, didn’t indulge in petty emotions like jealousy.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

So when he spotted you at a quiet outdoor café—sitting too close to a man he didn’t recognize, your hand brushing his across the table—he didn’t make a scene. He didn’t even let his expression change.

He just… watched.

And when you laughed—genuine, unguarded—something in his chest pulled tight like wire straining to snap.

He returned to the Citadel early that day. Didn’t leave a message. Didn’t wait for you to come home. He simply stared out into the black stretch of space, arms folded behind his back, thinking.

You didn’t get home until late.

“Mark?” you called out as you stepped inside. “You’re home early—”

“Who was he?”

Your heart stuttered at the ice in his tone.

You turned, frowning, confused. “Who—?”

“The man.” He faced you fully now. No mask. No crown. Just a man whose brown eyes burned cold. “The one you met for lunch. You touched his hand. You laughed like you used to laugh with me.” His voice didn’t raise, but each word was carved sharp enough to bleed.

You stared at him for a moment before blinking. Then you laughed—soft, almost disbelieving.

“That?” you said. “That was my cousin. He flew in from out of town. I haven’t seen him in two years.”

His jaw flexed.

“I would’ve told you,” you added, your voice going smaller, “but you’ve been so… busy. You don’t exactly make time for small talk anymore.”

Silence stretched between you. You watched him process, piece by piece, his composure folding in at the edges.

“…Your cousin,” he repeated quietly.

“Yes,” you said. “I’m not cheating on you.”

He nodded once. Curt. Dismissive. But then he sat down—heavily, like the weight of what he nearly believed crushed something in him.

“I didn’t think I’d care,” he said after a long pause, his voice lower now. “I didn’t think it would matter if you left.” You swallowed, stepping toward him. “But it would?” you asked.

He looked up at you. For the first time in days, something warm and fragile broke through the surface of his gaze. “…Yes,” he said. And you knew that was as close to an apology as Mark would ever get.

VILTRUMITE MARK

Mark wasn’t one to hover. He’d never say it aloud, but he trusted you. Still, you were his wife—and the mother of his child. So when he couldn’t find you around the house that morning, a flicker of curiosity stirred. He didn’t panic—he never panicked—but the quiet absence of your voice made the silence feel too wide.

He flew a lazy loop above the property, scanning.

Then he saw you—kneeling in the backyard garden, your hands deep in the soil. Beside you was your daughter, a little smaller than she should’ve been for her strength, with your same sharp eyes and stubborn jaw. Her hair was tied messily like yours, dirt streaked across her cheek as she furrowed her brow in concentration.

“No,” you said gently, guiding her hands. “You press the roots in, not yank them out. Like this.”

“But it’s hard,” your daughter pouted.

You chuckled, brushing the dirt off your palms. “Yeah, well, life’s hard. Plants still grow. Try again.”

Mark hovered in the air, watching silently. He didn’t interrupt.

Instead, he landed quietly on the roof’s edge, arms folded, just… watching.

His expression, often hard and unreadable, softened around the edges. The quiet pride he felt burned low and deep in his chest—not the battlefield kind of pride, not the Viltrumite brand. This was quieter. He wasn’t proud because you were strong.

He was proud because you were kind.

And you were passing that kindness down to his daughter. A family. His. Mark smiled—just a little—and waited for you to notice him.

PRISONER MARK

Mark’s arms were always tense at night, like even in his sleep he was fighting phantoms. But tonight, his grip around your waist stiffened in a different way. His breath, hot against your shoulder, suddenly drew in—and didn’t release.

He shifted, nose brushing against your neck. His brow furrowed.

That wasn’t your scent.

You stirred at the sudden tension, blinking yourself awake to see his face shadowed in the dim light of your shared room. His eyes were half-lidded, but alert—suspicious.

“Why the fuck,” he rasped lowly, voice still gravelly from sleep, “do you smell like a man?”

You blinked at him, slow and confused. “What?”

He pulled back just slightly, not letting go but giving himself room to breathe. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know cologne when I smell it. Expensive shit too. That isn’t yours. That’s not mine.”

You frowned, then squinted like you were trying to remember.

“Oh—shit, no, Mark. I went out with Jules earlier—”

“The guy?” he snapped, sharp but quiet.

You held up your hands. “No, listen. We were at the mall. I was looking at cologne for you. I wanted to surprise you. He sprayed me with one of the testers to mess with me—he thought it’d be funny.”

His jaw flexed, like he was still grinding down suspicion. His eyes flicked over you, from your sleepy expression to the slow blink of realization on your face. No nervousness. No lies. You weren’t clever enough to lie to him in your half-awake state.

“…You were buying me cologne?” he said finally, voice quieter.

“I was going to,” you mumbled, “until I got soaked in that crap.”

Mark stared at you for another long second, then pressed his face into the crook of your neck again. His arms wrapped tighter, like he needed to crush the insecurity down with the force of his grip.

“You reek,” he muttered. “And if he ever sprays you again, I’ll break his fucking fingers.”

You smiled into the darkness, even as your heart still beat a little fast. “Noted.”

“Good,” he grunted, his body finally relaxing again behind you. “Still smells like shit.” But he didn’t let go.

TAG LIST: @onlybatsyy

[rongloa]

please make the most gut wrenching fanfic ever. i want mark to be like a crappy bf or like a messy breakup PLEASEEEE i need to cry or something

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 — m.grayson drabble

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). mark grayson x gn!reader

𝐰𝐜. 1.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. break up, swearing, mark being a fucking dick (slightly ooc), mentions of depression, mark hurts you, heavy arguments, use of the word ‘hate’ (you can see where this is going)

𝐚/𝐧. frick you anon (ily don’t stop), why’d you send this ask in? :(

You remember the first time he looked at you like you were something soft. Like the world hadn’t chewed him up yet. Like he hadn’t already seen its insides, bleeding and brutal. His eyes were wide and brown and impossibly open, like a door you didn’t realize you were walking through until it closed behind you.

It was late—he was late, always—but you had waited anyway, curled up on the concrete steps outside his house in your oversized hoodie and mittens, tapping your foot to some song in your head to distract from the cold. He said he was at a group project meeting. It sounded fake, but you trusted him. You always trusted him.

He jogged up, breath fogging in the air, cheeks flushed from the night wind. He looked surprised to see you. “You waited for me?” he asked, like he hadn’t been the one to promise, “Just an hour, tops.”

And you laughed—so stupidly, stupidly in love. “Obviously,” you said, as if the answer could’ve been anything else.

As if your body didn’t already know what it meant to belong to him.

Before he became a ghost in your inbox, before the silence grew claws and wrapped around your throat, Mark had been good to you. Not perfect—never perfect—but good in the way that mattered, in the way you could build a life around.

He held your hand even when no one was looking. Tucked your hair behind your ear like it was instinct. You remember the way he’d fumble over his words when he was excited, how his cheeks flushed when he saw you across a room like he still couldn’t believe you were his. How he used to walk you home, even if it meant doubling back two neighborhoods. Just to make sure you got there safe. Just to have those last few minutes of quiet with you.

There were Sunday mornings when the world felt small enough to hold in your palm—his voice soft from sleep, your legs tangled beneath thin blankets, the smell of coffee you never drank but he always made, just in case you changed your mind. He’d sit on the couch in his old t-shirt, hair messy, face buried in some comic book you couldn’t name, and you’d watch him like you were afraid to blink.

He made you mixtapes, real ones—burned CDs with tracklists scrawled in sharpie and titles like “For the Coolest Person I Know (Don’t Roll Your Eyes).” Songs he thought you’d like. Songs that reminded him of you. Sometimes he’d get the lyrics wrong, but he’d sing them anyway, horribly off-key, like it didn’t matter if he sounded dumb as long as it made you laugh.

And he listened. Really listened. Back then, you could tell him about the weird dream you had or how your coworker was annoying you and he’d actually care. You’d talk for hours, about nothing and everything, until the sun dipped low and your voices were hoarse from too many words. He remembered little things. Your favorite brand of cereal. The way you hated the sound of styrofoam. How you always got cold after you cried, even if it wasn’t winter.

He used to kiss you like he thought it might save him. Like if he just held you close enough, long enough, he could outrun whatever waited on the other side of the sky.

But then the world crept in. Bit by bit, like water under a locked door. You didn’t notice it at first.

You excused the first time he forgot your birthday—he was fighting a villain halfway across the country. You got it. Really, you did. You said it was fine and meant it, even if you cried in the bathroom at work.

Then came the days he didn’t check in after disappearing mid-dinner. The lies got easier for him to tell. Easier for you to swallow. He wasn’t just a person anymore. He was someone. Someone the world needed more than you did. Or so you started to believe.

You told yourself you were lucky. Blessed, even. To love someone who mattered. To matter to someone who could move mountains and outrun lightning. But somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as part of his world, and more like a pit stop. A soft place to land when the mantle got heavy.

You used to be his secret. Then his comfort. Then his burden.

You remember the last time he touched you like he wanted to. It was almost accidental—his fingers brushing your wrist as he took the mug from your hand. There was no heat. No ache. No softness. Just contact. You looked at him, trying to find that old spark—the boy who used to look at you like you hung the damn stars—and all you saw was someone who’d already left.

It didn’t fall apart all at once. It never does. It was a thousand tiny breaks. A slow erosion of everything you thought you had. A fading. A flicker. A final, quiet extinguishing.

You used to think love was something you could hold together if you just tried hard enough.

But some people hand you broken things and blame you when they don’t work.

Of course you didn’t know he was Invincible.

No one did. He looked like a kid still trying to grow into his body. He winced when he laughed too hard and couldn’t cook for shit. There was no part of you that thought he was saving the world between algebra quizzes and late-night cartoons.

But he told you. Right before he left.

The first thing you notice is that he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

He opens the door like he was already waiting for this. For you. For the end.

Mark’s hair is unkempt. There’s a bruise healing on his jaw and a dried line of blood near his ear. He smells like the cold night air and smoke, you can smell it from the threshold of his room. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t care. Or maybe you do, but not in the same way you used to.

You step inside. Quiet. Slow.

His room is dark, save for the small desk lamp. Everything is half-unpacked, like he never really came back. Like his body is here, but the rest of him never made it down from orbit.

“I thought you were dead,” you say softly.

Mark flinches.

“You were just gone. For months, Mark. No messages. No explanation. Not even a goddamn voicemail.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might split open and swallow him.

“I checked the news every day. I asked Eve, I asked your mom. Nobody knew where you went. Nobody knew if you were even coming back.”

You’re already crying and you didn’t notice until your voice cracks, until your chest hitches. You wipe your face roughly, like you’re angry for feeling this much.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you go on, choking it out. “I thought maybe—maybe you’d call, or come home, or—or say something. Anything. But you didn’t.”

Mark’s breathing is shallow. His fists are clenched. His voice is low when he finally says, “I didn’t know how.”

“That’s bullshit.”

He looks up.

“That’s bullshit, baby,” you say again, louder now, louder than you mean to. “You always know what to say to everyone else. To save everyone else. But when it’s me, suddenly you go silent?”

“I was trying to protect you,” he snaps, like it’s a reflex. A shield he throws up before the words can cut too deep.

You let out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh. “No. No, you don’t get to say that anymore. You don’t get to act like I’m some fragile thing you had to put on a shelf and forget about.”

Mark’s eyes are glassy now, too. Red-rimmed. Shining in the low light.

“I love you,” you say, the words breaking apart in your mouth. “I love you so fucking much, and you left me to grieve you like you died. You made me grieve you while you were still alive.”

He crosses the room in two strides, arms reaching, but you step back before he can touch you. Fingers grazing the wool of the your sweater— the one he gave you with its blue and yellow stripes.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please just don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, shaking. “I thought—God, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought—”

“You didn’t think about me.”

There it is. The truth. And it lands like a thunderclap between you.

Mark stares at you like he’s watching something beautiful collapse.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” you whisper. “You used to be kind. You used to show up. Now you disappear and expect me to just keep… waiting.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

You close your eyes. The tears won’t stop coming. “Then why didn’t you come back for me?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Because you wanted to hear something. Anything. A reason big enough to make this hurt mean something. But there’s just silence.

You move towards the door, out of the his room. The one you’d spend hours in just to be with him.

Mark’s voice breaks behind you. “Please don’t go.”

Those same big brown eyes you’d fallen in love with in home economics, staring right back.

You move toward the door with tears streaking down your cheeks, fingers trembling as you reach for the handle. You can barely see straight. The lump in your throat is thick enough to choke you.

“I don’t think I can stay anymore,” Your voice cracks on the last word, “not when I’m the only one who was still trying.”

You open the door.

But before you can take a single step, you feel his hand close around your arm.

Fast. Too fast.

Mark yanks you back—not roughly, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His grip is iron. Not human. And it makes you feel even smaller than you already do.

You whip around, tears flying. “Let go of me!”

He’s breathing hard. Face flushed. Eyes frantic. “No. No, we can’t—we can’t end it like this.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

You try to pull free, but his fingers won’t budge. It’s like being caught in a bear trap. You shove him, slap at his chest with your free hand, tears falling hot and fast.

His grip tightens to the point you follow the hand that holds you, pinned. “Let go.”

“I still love you!” he shouts, voice shaking. “Please just—just talk to me, please—”

You hit him again, fighting against him. Weak punches to his chest. You don’t care if it hurts him. You want it to. Even though you know it won’t.

“You don’t get to do this!” you cry. “You don’t get to leave me, disappear for months, break me down to pieces—and then decide you love me when it’s too late!”

Mark’s face crumples. He tries to reach for your face, but you pull back as hard as you can from the unyielding grip and push it out through pursed lips, “Don’t touch me!”

“Please do–“

“You’re HORRIBLE,” you sob, voice cracking apart as you watch your wrist twist at an angle you know it shouldn’t. “You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I loved you. I trusted you. I waited and I waited and I WAITED, and you never come back!”

“I was trying to protect you—!” Crack. It burns, and it hurts in a different kind of way to what you feel in your chest. And you can’t help the wail that burns its way out of your mouth.

He drops your hand like it burned him, like he’s finally realising that maybe he’s the bad one. He hurt you, he was hurting you and he didn’t even realise it. And it fills a rage in you that burns wild. It fucking hurts, hurts so bad and you can’t express it in just one meeting of your eyes.

“No, you were protecting yourself! You were a coward, Mark! You were a COWARD, and I hate you for it!”

The words echo.

He looks like you shot him—he had the gun loaded and cocked all by himself. It’s like something inside him breaks right there. His arms fall to his sides, limp. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks as what he’s done for fucking once.

And finally, finally, you’re free.

You back away, shaking. Hand dangling at your side with fingers twisted unnaturally.

“I don’t want an apology,” you whisper. “I don’t want your love. I don’t even want you to look at me ever-fucking again.”

You pull open the door and this time—this time he doesn’t stop you.

You walk away. Sobbing. Trembling. Sick with the kind of grief that only comes when someone you love turns out to be the reason you’ll never be the same again.

Behind you, you can hear his knees hit the floor.

But you don’t turn around. Don’t even look back because if you met those big brown eyes you’d fallen for in home economics, you’d run back. You’d comfort him because that’s all you ever wanted to do.

You don’t save him.

Not this time.

The hallway of the house feels louder than it should.

And Mark kneels there alone, in the dark, finally crying by himself.

[erwinsvow]

I think with the combination of all the Abbot fics I've been consuming and your pope x babysitter fic that has possessed my mind body and soul I've been ruminating on what pope would think or do if he was working and babysitter and Lena got into some kind of medical emergency, like an accident or assaulted (not sa) or something silly (traumatic) like that and he gets the call to come to the ER. The rage, the panic, the guilt, the floof. It's been my end of the day "time to world build a silly situation before I go to sleep" daydream.

oh this made me UNWELL. unwell.

his phone goes off while at smurf's—unusual, but not enough to make him panic immediately. you sometimes like to text or call to check in on him throughout the day, ever since you both made the jump from babysitter and dad to... whatever you are right now. he wants to say girlfriend and boyfriend but it sounds so silly in his head. you're more his wife and he's more your husband than anything else.

he knows that because your apartment's lease is ending next month and you have no plans to renew. he's been moving clothes around in baz's to make room for your belongings, and looking at other properties to see if there's somewhere bigger and nice he could get for you and lena.

so when his phone goes off, he thinks its you. when he sees the number flashing from the local hospital, he gets up right away, steps out briefly to take the call and ignoring his family in the other room. and his blood runs cold—hi, is this mister andrew cody? yes, i'm calling from the emergency room, your daughter and wife were hurt in a car accident—

and he has tunnel vision, not listening to smurf and craig yelling after him, getting in his truck and speeding to the hospital as fast as his feet can take him. he parks somewhere he probably shouldn't, brings his gun tucked into his waistband because someone is going to pay for this, and runs straight to the counter where he asks for you and lena. begs, demands, pleads. he needs to make sure you're both okay, expecting the worst, thinking he's ruined yet another good thing, that the only good things in his life are disintegrating with each passing minute.

and you're sitting behind a curtain, getting stitches on your forehead and arm. lena is okay, with a bruise that makes andrew angry the longer he looks at it. he goes in first to hug her, holding on too tightly, he's sure, checking her head for anything they could have missed. and then you—seeing blood on your pretty skin makes him irrationally upset. he's thankful he brought his gun inside.

"this lady," you start, after thanking the doctor and the nurse and lena taking her side by you on the bed. "she was old, i think maybe she didn't see the stop sign. but she feels terrible. i hope she's okay—"

"i don't," andrew interrupts. you gape at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"don't say that! it was an accident. we're fine, that's all that matters-"

"you could have not been fine," he says, the very idea that some demented old lady two seconds away from knocking on death's door could have taken both of you away from him making his vision blurry.

"but we are," you press, taking andrew's hand into yours. even in this state, even with everything going on, you still remember to take care of him. "we're okay, right, lena?" and she smiles up at him.

he doesn't deserve you.

"you got here fast," you say, rubbing your fingers on his knuckles, his racing heart steadying. you were okay. maybe that would have to be enough today. the metal of his gun feels cool against his skin.

he wants to say it. didn't exactly stop at red lights or listen to the speed limit. but nothing comes out, so he just stares. like he wouldn't—like he would linger where he was, take his time coming to see you. like you and lena being hurt in this hospital bed wouldn't mean that his life was over too.

you smile up at him, your other hand firm on lena's. and he smiles back, and for now, that'll have to be enough.

(though, a few days later, the insurance concludes it wasn't your fault. your poor car is totaled, and they'll be paying more than you expected to help get you a new one. and when you ask about the old lady, the one who hit you, if she's okay now, the agent laughs uncomfortably. she's fine, but she won't be driving anytime soon. someone stole her keys and punctured three tires, and well, insurance only covers it if all four are ruined at once.)

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

@zepskies

After reading your comments now I'm even more excited to read the epilogue!

She's a real sweetheart, right? Writing someone who wants to work with little kids, I wanted to write a young woman who isn't without her flaws, but really embodied that kind, nurturing nature that makes for great elementary school teachers. 💗 (And the kind of inner goodness that I think Dean would find endearing too.)

I love hunter!readers, but the soft!readers really have my heart. Not that a hunter!reader couldn't be soft per say, but I just love how cutesy she is.

Buuuuut maybe he should've asked Dean if it was really ok if he pursued the reader before he stepped in. Maybe as his friend, he should've asked Dean what the hell he was doing with Lisa when the reader really needed him right now lol. Maybe that would've been the wake-up call Dean needed to get his shit together and realize he didn't really truly love Lisa. 🤔

You're so right. Benny should have asked more questions!! Benny should have had the talk with Dean and if he is Dean's best friend he should have known. It kinda makes it sadder though. But I'll bet the epilogue kinda explains that a bit too 🥰 But at the same time yes, Benny was a good guy for stepping up and stepping in.

Ahaha yes!! I knew you would catch that! Oh yeah, but that's the kind of mistake a man not used to little kids would make, I feel like 🤣

It really is. I bet that Ben/Soldier Boy would let his kid watch something too soon and then live with the consequences when he can't have sex with the reader for a month because the kid sleeps in the bed with them 🤣

I knowwww I'm sorry I almost killed Dean, but this is the first of many wake-up calls for both Dean and reader. 😭😭

Don't be sorry, near-death experiences that make people realize they love one another is the kind of angst I live for LOL

I tried to do something different with this story and make it feel more realistic, with no real "villain," except that we can hurt the people we love the most unintentionally with our actions and inaction. What we say, and sometimes more importantly, what we don't say.

It really was wonderfully realistic- all the emotions all the drama, it was beautiful! I also think that it resonates more that way- making it about the internal and external struggle with relationships rather than some big-bad to fight. Because sometimes the big-bad is the little voice inside that makes you push everything down or sometimes the big-bad is you? If that makes sense lol.

Oh you saw that, huh? 😂 Yeah, I think you remember that turned into a fun "anonymous" ask in my inbox asking why I was so "defensive" when people criticized my work. I typically have thick skin and was ready to forget the comments entirely, but when that "ask" came in it really annoyed me, not gonna lie. lol I probably should've just ignored the inbox message and deleted it, rather than spend more time and energy on replying to someone whose mind likely isn't going to be changed on how they talk to writers, regardless. 😂 I get that this AU story was "different," and messy with these relationships, but that was kind of the point. Bless you though for your thoughtful and heartwarming feedback regarding the Lisa and Benny storylines! 💗💗💗

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that happened when I was in my two weeks off period 😅 But I don't think it's so much as you not having 'thick skin' or being 'defensive'- I see it more as you being open to the criticism, but them not giving you anything constructive. If someone says 'oh that's stupid' but then don't tell you why, it becomes more about the writer than what they wrote.

But oh yeah no. The fact that they felt the need to also send in an ask criticizing you even more is just uncalled for. I don't blame you for answering it, it would have annoyed me too- especially because lately I feel like the meaner anons think they're helping writers by being super rude?

Yes exactly! The AU is "different!" It's more about the relationships and drama and miscommunication! (slightly mad at you for that last one jkjk 🤣) AU's are supposed to be different, that's literally it- alternate universe. Which is why they didn't like it, because they didn't understand it. 😬

But you're welcome! I really did enjoy it and I'll bet the epilogue is going to be amazing! 💗

IF I STAY - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: Deep breaths Are you ready for a rollercoaster of emotions? 😘❤️

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” and “It’s Now or Never” by Elvis

Word Count: 13.1K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, pregnancy feels, hurt/comfort, fluff, time jumps and flashbacks, sexual tension, mutual pining, spice~, and an ending…

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Part 2: It’s Now or Never

At the doctor’s office, Dean goes in with you for the first trimester ultrasound. There you learn that you’re going to have a boy. Tears well up in your eyes and slip down your cheeks.

Dean wears a look of amazement as he sits on the edge of your bed. He takes up your hand and squeezes gently. He tries to be a strong support, even though he also tries to hide the fear that begins to churn in his gut.

For one of the first times in his life since Sam was born, he feels the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. In a good way. In a fucking scary way.

He looks at you and sees the wonder written across your face while you watch the tiny shape of your baby on the screen. His heartbeat thwaps fast and loud in the speakers.

Dean realizes something else then; the decision you're making is changing the course of your whole damn life…and it’s his fault.

With his weekly hookup rate, in the very back shelves of his mind he knew something like this could happen, even though he thought he'd been careful. (Apparently, condoms are fragile little shits.) But here, in this white wall-to-wall room that smells like hospital antiseptic, that thwap thwap thwap of a heartbeat reverberating in his ears, the reality of this is crashing hard on his shoulders and rattling down to the base of his spine.

Despite his earlier happiness, those thoughts stay with him when you two eventually get back into his car. You have the pictures of the sonogram in your hands. You smile down at them before you put them back in your purse for safekeeping.

However, you notice Dean’s sudden melancholy as he stares out at the road. He’s started the car, but he hasn’t moved to pull out of the parking lot yet.

“Hey, you okay?” you say, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Dean shakes his head. “Look…I’m sorry for tossing a giant friggin’ monkey wrench into your life. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

If possible, your heart softens even more. You slide your hand down to grasp his.

“Dean, this baby wasn’t planned, but he’s not a mistake,” you say. “I don’t regret anything.”

Dean stares back at you, incredulously. He can’t believe you could really say that to him. He doesn’t know what to say. He only knows what’s in his mind, and what he feels compelled to do in that moment.

He leans over and kisses you. It’s a firm meeting of his lips to yours and achingly familiar. But ultimately, it’s chaste. He pulls away and settles back in his seat.

When you blink your eyes back open, your expression is slack in shock.

“I’m sorry,” he says, seeming sheepish, and guilty. “I meant to say thank you. Just didn’t know any other way to say it.”

After a moment, you smile at him. It’s warm and almost shy.

Dean clears his throat, trying to ignore the way his face is heating up. He doesn’t say anything more. He just takes the wheel and shifts gears, pulling the car out of the parking lot. 

You don’t know what possesses you to bake cookies. Dozens and dozens of them, all the chocolate chip cookie recipes you can find. You’re in search of the perfect one. This will be the recipe your son will grow up on, and every time he eats them, he’ll remember how much you loved him.

And then, he’ll be ruined for any other chocolate chip cookies that try to grab his taste buds. He’ll say, Blech. Chips Ahoy? These aren’t as good as Mom makes!

…Or something like that.

Yes, these cookies have to be perfect. You’ll even write the ingredients down on a notecard and hide it away, and it’ll become your family secret recipe.

Once you feel like your cookie game is strong enough, you decide to test these babies out. You bring two dozen painstakingly baked confections to Firehouse 83, where Dean works. The man is a bottomless pit, to be sure, but you also want other people’s unbiased opinions. For science.

You park your car on the side of the road, making sure you’re not blocking the driveway where two huge fire trucks are parked. You head inside the firehouse with your big container under your arm and your purse on the other. Now at seven months into your pregnancy, you’ve gotten to the embarrassing “waddle” stage.

You’re still determined to be active though! You plan to keep working until you have the baby. Your parents live a few hours away, but you’re grateful that they want to help out as much as possible.

Even though they weren’t happy to hear about how you got pregnant, by now they've met Dean and begrudgingly admitted to liking him. He's really stepped up to the responsibility of a future father, insisting on baby-proofing your apartment, helping you shop for the essentials, and going with you to as many doctor’s appointments as he can. He’s even agreed to giving you child support payments, even though you hadn’t wanted to ask for it.

You look for him now as you enter the firehouse, trying to push the heavy glass door open with one hand.

“Here, I got you,” says a familiar baritone voice.

You’re pleasantly surprised at the man who helps you inside.

“Benny! It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, been…a while,” he chuckles, glancing down at the swell of your belly, but he squeezes your shoulder and leans in to hug you gently.

“Dean filled you in?” you ask. You hope so. Having to explain the story to one of his own friends would be embarrassing, especially since this is the man you walked in Sam’s wedding with. It reminds you of that day, and the way you told Dean that news in a glorified closet, with shaking hands and the wrong kind of butterflies.

Thankfully, Benny nods. “That he did…but come on, I’ll show you around. And I see you’ve brought somethin’ special for us?”

He gestures at the container you're holding and offers to take it off your hands. You give it to him, grateful for the help.

“Yeah, and I want you guys to give me your honest opinion.”

Benny tosses you a wink and a smile. “That I can do.”

Your cheeks begin to warm in a blush, but the way he helps you to a comfy couch in the common room earns your smile. There are still good men left in this world, and you’re glad to know that Dean works so well with one.

“You want some coffee, or water? Think we might have some lemonade,” Benny says.

“Water would be great, thank you,” you reply, as you rub your belly. The little man has decided to kick at your liver today. “I stopped drinking coffee for the baby. ”

It's your biggest challenge, to be honest. Try wrangling a group of fifteen to twenty six-year-olds while running on green tea, the fumes of sleep deprivation, reduced bladder control, and as much vim as you can muster.

“Ah, right,” Benny nods. “My sister has two kids. She cut out coffee, pain meds, some dairy stuff. But she claimed cheesecake was all right, ‘cause it’s got cake in the name.”

You giggle. “I see no flaw in her logic.”

Down the hall of the firehouse, Dean is just coming back in from going through a set of drills. He’s still the Candidate—the freshest blood in the house—so they’ve been putting him through his paces for the past several months. He’s eager to learn and to prove himself.

His ears perk up in confusion though. Did he just hear your voice?

Why does it smell like a bakery in here?

When he rounds the corner, he sees you in the common room, smiling and giggling like a teenager at something Benny said to you while he eats a soft baked cookie right out of a Tupperware container. You must’ve brought it for the firehouse.

This cozy little scene kind of annoys Dean somehow, though he doesn’t know why. He does know that it shouldn’t.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Dean says, forcing himself to smile. It becomes easier when you look his way, your eyes brightening at his arrival.

“There you are! Come ‘ere and try these,” you say, pointing at the box Benny holds. “Tell me if our son’s going to have the best PTA mom ever.”

Dean can’t help but grin after trying a big bite of one of your cookies.

“Oh, mah Gah,” he says, holding a hand under his mouth so nothing comes crumbling out.

“Good?” you ask.

“Good friggin’ cookie,” he confirms, after he swallows. “You’re gonna have the other parents frothing at the mouth. Who’s gonna be able to compete with this?”

Benny nods in agreement. When Dean squeezes your shoulder, your sweet, happy smile makes him smile too.

She’s going to be a good mom, he thinks. He can only hope against hope that he can be the man his son needs.

Two months later, the time has finally come. Your water breaks when you’re in the middle of teaching your second graders how to spell exaggerate—and no, Joey, it’s not e-g-g-zagerate.

However, the embarrassment of him pointing out the fluid beginning to stain your slacks is swiftly cut off by your shock. Your first call is to the principal, to have her send someone to cover your class. Your next call is to Dean, telling him to meet you at the hospital.

“Why the hell did he have to bring her,” you mutter to yourself, wiping sweat from your brow. Here you are, gritting your teeth through contraction after contraction in this damn hospital bed, and Dean is outside the room talking to Lisa.

You know you have no real reason to be upset. She’s been trying her best to be your friend in recent months. Hell, she helped Eileen and your mom plan your baby shower. She even brought you flowers when she got to the hospital, but you notice how less than five minutes after she got here, she and Dean became embroiled in yet another argument. It seems to you that all they do is argue, break up for a week or two, and then get back together again.

The sex must be explosive, like the fireworks at goddamn Disney World.

But Dean eventually does come back into the room alone. His support grounds you over the next few hours. He lets you basically break his hand, all while he gives you encouragement (and stands by your shoulder, so he doesn’t see anything you’d rather him not see).

And then, your son is born. Every muscle, every cell in your body is exhausted, but the pain meds have kicked in, and you’re in that blissed out state between abject reality and being entirely entranced by the bundle in your arms. His perfect face is just there, sleeping for the moment after the nurses taught you how to breastfeed.

Dean returns to sit in the chair beside you. He gives you some water and a piece of a protein bar. You’re not that hungry, but he pointed out that you haven’t eaten since before your water broke.

“Sam and Eileen are on their way up,” he says.

You nod in reply. You’re too into your son right now to think of anything else.

Dean shakes his head in wonder as he reaches out with a tentative hand, brushing his fingers over the baby’s downy head. He was born with a little tuft of brown hair.

“Okay, down to business,” Dean says, shooting you a playful look. “I vote for Zeppelin.”

You groan. “Dean, no. Veto. I’m not naming my son after a rock band.”

“Aw, come on. It’s a badass name!”

“What about Aiden?” you suggest.

“Veto,” he snorts. You two agreed to getting five “vetos” each, but this discussion has been more like a battle of wills over the last several months.

“Okay, what about Daniel? That’s strong, classic,” you pose.

Dean considers it with a tilt of his head. “All right, that one’s a maybe.”

Again, he strokes the baby’s soft cheek. You look over at Dean with a small smile.

“You’re going to be a good dad, you know,” you tell him. It earns his gaze. Although he’s trying to stay strong, you read the hidden insecurity there, the worry and fear. You rest a hand on his arm. “You are, Dean. You’re a good man, and you’ve really stepped up these past few months. This obviously isn’t how either of us thought our lives would go, but if this had to happen with someone, I’m glad it’s you.”

Dean’s expression softens. He hesitates, but he lays a hand over yours and squeezes gently.

“Thanks,” he says.

Your eyes meet, and it’s a moment charged with something you can’t even name. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this feeling with him. It both fills your heart with warmth, and makes you ache.

Then the door opens. It’s Lisa, Sam, and Eileen. Dean’s hand slips away from yours as they all pour in to congratulate you and Dean, and of course, meet the baby. There’s a lot of soft cooing and playful shushing.

In that small chaos, your parents call to tell you that they’re finally almost here. It really sucked not having your mom with you, but your parents live far enough away that they were going to take a train and stay with you for at least a week. Their train unfortunately got delayed due to mechanical failure.

It's okay though. Getting through the past several hours has made you realize that you’re stronger and more capable than you think, and even though part of you is still scared to death, you don’t need a husband to be a good mom. You’re going to give this your all, no matter who’s beside you…

And that's no more apparent than when Dean soon has to step out again, leading Lisa out of the room. He saw how her “helpful” suggestion to have a get-together at their apartment to celebrate the baby’s birth was setting you on edge. Really, you just want to sleep for the next 24-hours and not have any more pictures of you taken.

It gets loud enough outside your hospital room that Sam and Eileen feel they have to intervene. Lisa is Eileen’s best friend, and she’s the best equipped to try and deescalate the argument from that end, while Sam deals with Dean. It’s messy, it’s irritating, and it means that even today, you can’t just have a little bit of peace.

You sigh and cradle your still nameless baby close to your chest. He’s all that matters. Already, your heart is so damn full just taking him in.

“What’s your name, my little love?” you whisper. “What am I going to write on your certificate, besides Winchester?”

“How about Benjamin,” comes a Louisiana drawl.

You perk up and smile in surprise. “Benny, hey.”

He greets you with a slightly hesitant kiss on the cheek. He’s brought the baby an adorable teddy bear, and you a beautiful bouquet of white and blue roses, along with a box of chocolates.

“It’s the assorted kind, but they’ve got plenty of the caramel ones you like,” he says, then gazes down at the baby. “Aw, he’s a little charmer. Already got more of you than Dean, that’s for sure.”

You laugh lightly at his teasing. “I don’t know about that.” You hope your son inherits Dean’s strong jaw, and his green eyes.

Benny scratches the back of his head. “Also…sorry if I’m crossing some kind of boundary here. Looks like it’s a bit of a circus outside.”

You shake your head and smile through burgeoning tears. You set the chocolates on the end table where he’s placed the flowers and the teddy bear.

“No, it’s very sweet. Thank you,” you say. You glance out the window of your room to the hallway, where the arguing between Dean, Lisa, Sam, and Eileen seems to finally be calming down. You’re so damn tired, you don’t give a crap about whatever they’re hashing out now.

You look down at your son, and despite your strong thoughts earlier, insecurity begins to creep back into your mind like inky claws.  

“How are you holding up?” Benny asks. His face is kind and concerned when he notes the change in you.

You meet him with a wobbly smile. “Honestly? I’m afraid. I know I have a lot of people who want to support me, and I’m grateful, but…I just have this terrible feeling that we’re going to end up alone, him and me.”

You look down at your son, and you have to wipe away a tear from your eye before it falls on his face.

A large, warm hand rests over yours. Your gaze raises slowly, and Benny smiles at you. He’s serious though.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he says. “You’re not gonna be alone.”

FIVE YEARS LATER... 

For all that changes, there are some things that stay the same.

Dean and Lisa are still the world’s most “off again, on again” couple you’ve ever met. Sam and Eileen are still going strong as the hardworking, driven career couple. Your son is growing more and more every day and just started kindergarten this year.

(You ultimately caved on Dean’s idea to name him Robert, as in Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin.)

Oh, yeah, and the “you and Benny” thing? That’s been going well for two years now.

What can you say? The man is persistent, but respectfully so. He’s considerate, reliable, and always calls you when work at the firehouse has him running late.

You haven’t yet invited him to move in with you. That part you’re still hesitant on, mostly because of your son, but Benny helps you drop off Robbie at school and makes breakfast for you all whenever he stays over your apartment. Benny takes an interest in your son’s life and keeps up with all his energy, taking him to the park to run himself ragged before dinner, and helping you tuck him in at night.

Benny is a bit closed off though, the strong stoic type. He’s hard for you to get a read on, and sometimes you wonder if he’s just indulging you when you ramble on about your day or make silly jokes. Even now, sometimes you withhold the first thought that comes to your mind, hoping he doesn’t think you immature or…too much.

But Benny shows his caring in all those little things he does for you. They add up into the big things, and he makes you feel supported. He makes you feel safe.

He even helps you plan your son’s fifth birthday. Robbie wanted to go all out on a dinosaur theme; he’s been hooked on Jurassic Park ever since Benny “accidentally” let him watch it with him on one of your rare nights out with your friends.

So you set up a little party at the park by your apartment. You managed to reserve the biggest gazebo, where there are three picnic tables covered with dinosaur plates, and tablecloths, streamers in different shades of green. You even bought a big dinosaur cake—also in a radioactive green color that you hadn’t been sure about, but your son talked you into. Robbie thinks it’s awesome.

He’s running around on the playground with a few of his friends from school. Their parents (along with Sam, Eileen, and Lisa) are talking amongst themselves at one of the picnic tables while you try to figure out how to get the Bluetooth speaker to connect with your phone.

“Haha! Got it. If you're so smart, Alexa, why don't you connect on the first try?” You fist-pump the air triumphantly, just as Benny comes to your side. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your cheek, making you smile.

“How’s it going out there?” you ask, nodding at the kids. Plus Dean, who’s gamely been the one to keep them entertained with different games. Right now, it’s a thrilling game of Cowboys and Outlaws, where Robbie and his friends are the cowboys, and Dean is the outlaw. He’s been hiding under the slide, behind trees and other playground fixtures, while the kids have little squirt guns to pelt him with water every time they find him.

It's pretty damn cute, and you’ve been taking pictures. You smile at the sight of Dean leaping out at Robbie and the kids, catching them off guard.

“You’ll never take me alive, Sheriff!” Dean declares.

“Oh, it’s goin’,” Benny remarks with an amused shake of his head. “Still hard to believe that guy’s about to make it to Lieutenant.”

“Hahaaa, gotcha!!” Dean cackles. He’s grabbed up Robbie and yanked him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Robbie screeches with laughter while his dad runs around the playground, being chased by a bunch of five-year-olds with squirt guns.

Your smile threatens to make your cheeks hurt. You know your life is…unconventional, to say the least, but Dean is a good father to your son. He’s also been working hard at his job. He just took the Lieutenant’s test, and even though Benny already occupies that position at Firehouse 83, a spot at another firehouse might open up for Dean to transfer.

“Part of me doesn’t want to,” Dean admitted to you last week, while he was working on fixing your stubborn, leaky sink. “All the guys there, they’re like family, you know?” “I understand,” you nodded. “You have to do what feels best for you, whether that’s staying where you feel comfortable, or moving up in your career somewhere else. If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.” He took in your advice with a slow nod. “Yeah, thanks. Guess I have to time to think about it. Lisa had other ideas.” “Of course,” you said with a smile, but it soon dropped. “Why, what did she say?” “Do what I can to move up,” he sighed. “She’s got a point. That title comes with a pay bump, one I could really use right now.” “I get that. Totally valid,” you said. “But I just think it’s important for you to be happy with it too. Especially with what you do, helping people, saving people…I’d imagine being in the right mindset for all that is important, right? Who you work with can be just as important as the money stuff.” Dean considered you with a smile. “Yeah, exactly.”

As you think about it now, you have to admit that he’s grown up a lot.

Dean has to lean against a tree to catch his breath. Am I already getting too old for this crap?

Feels kind of young to have a stitch in his side after a few rounds with these kids, but even he has his limits. Lisa comes to bring him a bottle of ice-cold water, which he appreciates. He’s tempted to dump it over his head like he does after successfully neutralizing a fire. It gets literally hot as hell under that helmet and mask and all his gear underneath.

“Need an iron lung?” Lisa teases.

“Toss in a new pair of knees, thanks,” he wheezes. He downs half the water bottle in one go, but he smiles at seeing his son keep running around with his friends. He’s just got that manic kid energy that goes on for days. But Robbie’s also smart; like Dean, he likes taking things apart and putting them back together in new and ingenious ways.

Dean hopes his son likes the new model car set that’s waiting for him on the picnic table full of presents. In fact, he’s still surprised that you didn’t go with the race car theme he suggested for the party, but apparently, Robbie’s more into dinosaurs now. Dean wishes he knew that before he bought the model car set.

He looks over and catches sight of you and Benny wrapped up in each other. He has his arm around your waist while you fiddle with something, but the way you lean over and whisper near his ear elicits a smile on Benny’s face.

Dean’s good mood diminishes.

“Well, don’t they seem cozy,” he mutters.

Lisa arches a manicured brow. “Yeah, pretty sure he’s getting ready to propose.”

That earns Dean’s attention, his head swiveling back to her in surprise.

“Really?” he asks. “Who told you that?”

“His sister,” she replies. “Meg’s in my intermediate class, remember?”

Dean nods, sipping at his water, even though he’s a bit absent in the eyes. Lisa watches him shrewdly.

“Why do you seem upset about it?” she asks. “Benny’s your friend.”

“I know,” Dean says. He doesn’t need that reminder, or the guilty twinge. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.

“And she seems happy,” Lisa points out. “Don’t you want the mother of your kid to be with a good man who treats her right?”

He nods, trying to hide his growing annoyance. “‘Course I do. I just…I don’t know. I still don’t see them together, I guess.”

“Well, they’ve been together for like, two years.”

Again, Dean nods his acknowledgement. It’s hard for him to believe that so much time has passed already. He honestly didn’t think you and Benny would be together this long. He’d always felt a little uncomfortable with one of his best friends dating you, but you’d seemed happy about it, so he didn’t discourage it. But he’d never been very supportive, either. At least, not about your relationship.

Lisa sighs and grabs his arm, pulling him aside before he can rejoin the party.

“Listen, we need to talk about something,” she says.

Dean restrains a tired groan. “Can this wait ‘til later?”

“I think we should do this now,” she says. A hallmark Lisa-ism. She’s opinionated and strong-willed, something Dean’s always respected about her. Sometimes though, the timing is damn irritating. He doesn’t want to get into another argument with his girlfriend in public, especially not at his son’s birthday party.

“Speaking of commitment,” she says with a sigh. “I think it’s fair to say that we’ve been on a five-year rollercoaster, you and I. You know why that is?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me,” Dean says, crossing his arms.

“It’s because you’re spread too thin,” she says. “Between the firehouse, construction jobs on the side…not to mention other things.”

“What? What’re you talking about?”

Lisa’s lips purse, before she pointedly gestures over at you with her eyes. “Well, for example. You’re still going to her place after your next shift to fix her fridge, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, should be pretty simple. I’ve just gotta swing by the hardware store and grab this specialty tool I ordered—”

“Dean,” Lisa deadpans. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

She heaves a deep breath, running her fingers through her long brown hair.

“I get that navigating this situation hasn’t been easy for you,” she says. “It hasn’t exactly been easy for me either, but look.”

Lisa takes his hands in hers, uncrossing his arms. “I want to get married someday. I want kids too. And I want that kind of life with you…I’m just not sure you want it with me.”

Dean expels a heavy sigh. “Lis—”

“Don’t answer me right now,” she says, but she levels him with a serious look. “You need to decide though, Dean. Five years is long enough. You should know by now if you want to be with me.”

After letting go of his hands, she softens the edges of her words with a gentle kiss on his cheek. Then she turns to join the group now gathered around the picnic table where the food is, all the kids cheering for pizza and cake.

After the party, Sam, Eileen, Lisa, and Benny pack up their cars and yours with the leftover food, party supplies, and presents. Dean helps you clean up the trash, all while keeping an eye on Robbie getting out the last of his sugar-high on the playground swing.

You shake your head tiredly, if with a fond smile. “That kid’s gonna be up all night hype on that radioactive cake.”

Dean chuckles. “You want me to take him tonight?”

“It’s okay. I think he’s going to want to play with his toys,” you reply.

“Well, he could just as easily do that at my place,” he reasons.

You consider it, but you shake your head. “Yeah, but we got him the bike. He’s probably gonna want to try it out for a few minutes before we get him cleaned up.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean you and Benny,” Dean says, his tone becoming surly. “And about that. Don’t you think a bike is something you should run by me? That’s typically a ‘dad’ kind of gift.”

You pause what you’re doing at the sound of his tone. Your brows knit together.

“Sorry, but I feel like a bike isn’t exclusively a dad thing,” you say.

“My dad got me my first bike,” Dean replies. “Spent a whole three days teaching me how to ride.”

You take a minute to think about it. You understand where Dean’s coming from, so you nod.

“Okay, I get it. You want to be there to help teach Robbie? I’m sure he’d love that.” 

Dean tosses a wadded-up ball of frosting-covered napkins and stops, letting his hands fall to his sides in frustration. He draws closer and helps you untie the balloons from the picnic table.

“Yeah, I do, but that’s not the point,” he says. “Why can’t I take him home tonight?”

You blink up at him in confusion. “Well, like I said. The bike—”

“That I should’ve gotten for him,” he snaps. “Which, let me guess, Benny picked out. Right?”

You frown at him in earnest now. “Dean, why are you getting so upset about it? It’s just a bike.”

“Well you know what, it’s not! And it’s not just the damn bike either.” He swipes a hand over his face in annoyance, a telltale sign you’ve come to read well on the man. “Look, I’m missing too much shit, all right? Like, like the dinosaur thing! And the fact that I only get him on the weekends.”

You turn toward him, trying to put a cap on your own annoyance. This isn’t the first time you two have had a conversation like this. 

“We’ve gone over this before, Dean. Your schedule at the firehouse is just too unpredictable,” you say. “Robbie needs as much stability as possible between us. But…okay, if you want to take him tonight, that’s fine. We can bring the bike over to your place and show it to him there.”

You’re trying to be as reasonable as possible, and Dean knows that. Still, anger prickles just under his skin, and he can’t help but push his luck.

“You still should’ve asked be before you got the bike in the first place,” he argues.

Your brows raise high. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Look, it’s not like we bought him a Honda Civic. Honestly, Dean, why are you picking a fight with me right now?” you ask. “Did you and Lisa get into it again or something?”

Dean looks away and crosses his arms, giving you all the confirmation you need.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you nod. “I saw you two over there on the playground, looked pretty heated. But do me a favor. Don’t come at me with that energy, because I’m too damn tired of it!”

When you walk away from him, Dean can’t help but stare after you. He knows he fucked that up, just as he knows that you don’t deserve him snapping at you. He’s just too irritated to admit it.

For the entire week that follows, Dean finds himself distracted. He sticks to his word and helps Benny teach his son how to ride a bike in between their shifts at the firehouse, but Dean comes home each night feeling even more frustrated and drained than before. It’s too much, knowing Benny’s slowly but surely carving out a father-figure role in Robbie’s life.

These thoughts follow Dean to work, even while he climbs up the firetruck ladder in the rain. It’s parallel to a busted utility pole that still sparks with electricity, even in this torrential downpour. His task is to get up to the top and grab a large branch that’s tangled in the lines.

Rung after rung, he climbs. His safety mask protects his eyes from the rain, but he wishes they had some mini windshield wipers to keep his vision clear of the droplets pelting him in the face.

He also can’t help thinking of you. If Lisa’s right, then Benny’s about to become a more permanent fixture in Robbie’s life, and yours. 

Okay fine. It’s not like Dean expected you to be single forever, but did you really have to get with one of his best friends? Does it really have to be Benny, who seems so natural with Robbie, and more patient than Dean, and more of a support to you and Robbie than Dean can ever be?

And then there’s Lisa’s little ultimatum. He understands why she’s frustrated with him. Honestly, he’s surprised she’s stuck around this long. He knows she’s not going to wait too much longer for him to get his act together. For him to decide, as she put it.

It’s not that he’s not sure about her, it’s just that…

Just that what? he wonders.

He manages to grab the wily tree branch and maneuver it out of the power lines. 

He just doesn’t realize that his glove doesn’t have quite enough friction on the metal side panel of the ladder. Not only does his hand slip, but he’s forced to let go of the branch while he loses his balance. The branch falls to the sidewalk, far, far down below.

“Dean!” Benny shouts in alarm.

Luckily, the truck itself breaks Dean's fall.

Holding Robbie’s hand tightly in yours is the only thing keeping you steady as you lead him through the hospital. After the receptionist had checked you both in and gave you the room number, you hastened down the hall and up to the right floor. 2005.

Robbie breaks into tears when he finally gets to see his dad, laid up though he is in his hospital bed. Your throat tightens at the sight of Dean hooked up to all those monitors. He has his arm wrapped up and fitted into a sling. He has a thick piece of gauze taped to the side of his face, covering a wide, angry abrasion, but he seems to be resting easy on his back. The bed is at an incline, with most of the overhead lights turned off.

Robbie rushes to the bed before you can stop him. He hesitantly touches Dean’s non-injured right hand. “Daddy?”

“Robbie, wait,” you say, keeping your voice quiet. You quickly go over to the bedside and grab ahold of Robbie’s shoulders, but Dean takes a deep breath. His eyelids crack open.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, attempting a smile. His voice is rough and weak, but at least he’s awake.

Robbie’s lower lip wobbles as tears fill his eyes again.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean says, a little stronger. When he reaches out to his son, the kid hops up onto the bed and buries his face into his father’s chest. Dean holds him as securely as he can, soothing his hand over the boy’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s okay, little man. ‘M okay,” he promises. Robbie nods, but he still continues to cry.

You can’t help but do the same. Tears slip down your cheeks without your consent. Dean beckons you over too, gesturing with his chin and a slight smile. You’re more tentative in the way you sit down at the edge of his bed. You run your fingers through Robbie’s light brown hair to help reassure him. Then, you meet Dean’s gaze and lay a hand on his good shoulder. You don’t know whether you’re steadying him, or yourself.

“How do you feel?” you ask. “The hospital called me. Benny told me what happened.”

The thought reminds you to text your boyfriend. You hadn’t had a chance to tell him you made it here yet. He must be downstairs grabbing a bite to eat, because he’s the one who rode with Dean in the ambulance and has been with him for a while.

“The hospital called you?” Dean notes in slight confusion.

“Eileen told me that Sam is in court right now, so I must’ve been next on the list,” you say. He also must have taken Lisa off his emergency list the last time they broke up for almost a month. He probably forgot to update it again.

You reach out a hand to almost touch the bandage by his temple. Instead, you hesitantly hold the side of his face to see the area better. Dean closes his eyes for a moment. You can see he’s in pain. Your hand lingers on his cheek, but you know, deep down, that it shouldn’t.

Dean doesn’t stop you though. He lets out a deep breath, savoring how nice the gentle touch feels when the rest of his body feels battered to hell.

“Fell off the ladder. Was a stupid rookie move,” he explains, but when he sees that look on your face, he tries to inject a little more joking into a smile. “S’ not so bad.”

“You could’ve broken your head as well as your arm,” you say, more sharply than you mean to.

Robbie whimpers and clings tighter to Dean. You cover your mouth, as if you can trap the words back inside. You don’t want to upset your son more than he already is, so you fall silent. Another tear works its way down your cheek, but you brush it away. Dean shakes his head.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he reassures you too. He manages to smile as he pats Robbie’s back. “Right, buddy?”

The boy’s head perks up. His eyes are still shiny, but he smiles too. He’s not one to speak when he’s upset though, so he just curls up against Dean’s chest and hangs onto him. Dean rests his good arm snugly around him.

You smile and stroke Robbie’s back. Though your hand lowers, resting on Dean’s hand. You take in a deep breath to calm yourself down. Dean’s fingers curl around yours, prompting you to glance up into his eyes. The way he’s watching you is soft, grateful.

Until the door creaks open. Benny steps in with a subtle clearing of his throat. You jolt internally, and you slip your hand away from Dean’s. You offer your boyfriend a wan smile.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey, baby.” He comes over and greets you with a kiss to the side of your head. He smiles at your son gently. “The gang’s all here.”

“Oh! Let me call Sam, and Lisa too. They still don’t know what’s going on,” you say. You get up from the bed to grab your phone out of your purse. Dean nods in agreement and thanks you, while Robbie plays with his dad's long fingers.

“How you holdin’ up, brother?” Benny asks, after you step out of the room. He settles into the chair near the foot of the bed.

“Ah, you know me. I’m like a cat. Always stick the landing,” Dean says, smiling lazily. The morphine is starting to kick in again.

Benny smirks. “Maybe you do got nine lives, the amount of close calls you like gettin’ yourself into.”

Dean’s good humor fades. He considers his son in his arms, and he shakes his head.

“Yeah, well, no more,” he says. He got a taste of what it would be like to leave his boy behind, and he’s not fucking doing it. He’s not leaving you to raise Robbie by yourself. The mere idea tears a new hole in his heart.

His eyes sting just enough that he has to blink a bit harder, swallowing past a thick well of emotion in his throat. He presses another kiss to the top of Robbie’s head. Then, Dean meets Benny’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

Benny nods.

“You got it, brother.”

When Lisa steps off the hospital elevator on the second floor, you happen to be coming out of the bathroom to fix your racoon eyes. You’ve been crying way too much. You attempt to greet Lisa with something reassuring, but she cuts you off. 

“What happened, and why didn’t the hospital call me directly?” she asks.

Her tone is cutting, and it takes you aback.

“Well, Sam and I were listed as his emergency contacts—”

“Why?” she snaps. “You’re not his wife or his girlfriend. I should’ve been listed.”

Jesus Christ. At this point, you can’t help it. You’re too tired and emotionally drained to lasso in your temper with this woman.

“Maybe if you and Dean stayed together longer than five minutes at a time, he’d put you back on the short list,” you sling back. “But the truth is, you’ve never just…been there for Dean. Not without demanding something from him.”

Lisa scoffs incredulously. “Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you. You’re the reason he can’t commit to anything. You think your little world is the only one that matters, and you call Dean for any little thing! What, don’t you have a boyfriend to help fix your goddamn sink?” 

You open your mouth to retort, but you pause as her words seep into your mind. She might actually have a small point about that one. You realize then just how often you’ve been asking Dean for his help, not just with your apartment, but with your car, and other logistical things that usually have to with Robbie. Dean’s just such a good handyman, and you thought he genuinely liked being able to help…even though Benny did mention once or twice that he’d be just as happy to help you.

“Lisa, this is a lot more than a leaky sink. I just wanted to get here with Robbie and make sure Dean was okay,” you try to explain.

“Good. I’m glad his son was the first person Dean got to see when he woke up,” Lisa says. “But I should’ve been the second.”

She brushes past you before you can even think of what to say. You’re in a state of shock, feeling guilty, incensed, and on the verge of tears all at once.

A familiar voice calls your name, and you turn to Benny just as those tears begin to fall. He gathers you up into his arms and holds you there in the middle of the hallway.

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that, no matter how high tensions are today. I’ll talk to Dean,” Benny says. You shake your head and bury your face in his chest, clenching your fingers in his red flannel shirt. 

“No, it’s okay,” you reply, despite the sob that shudders through you. You’ve lost the will to fight.

Benny shakes his head and presses a kiss to your forehead. “It ain’t okay, baby.”

“Please, don’t bother Dean with this. Especially not right now,” you say. You take a moment to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself. “I’m gonna go get Robbie so Dean can rest.”

You can’t shake the feeling that Lisa is right. You do rely on Dean too much. You just don’t want to think about why that is.

Dean makes a full recovery after a few months. He never does hear about what happened in that hallway, but he knows that things need to change. 

He decides to dig out his mom’s engagement ring from a locked box of his parents’ keepsakes, though he’s still waiting on the right time for it. He and Lisa start looking at houses though, for real this time. She hires a realtor and everything. 

He’s making a firm decision, and he thinks it’s the right one. He wants to be there for his son, but he doesn’t want to keep “spreading himself too thin.” He has to figure out how to set some roots, and some boundaries with you while he’s at it. He’ll just have to come to terms with the idea that he won’t get to be there for everything. 

He has to be okay with the fact that you’ll probably marry Benny. You’ll keep making him cookies and cakes, giving him your smile and your time and your body. And Robbie will probably think of Benny as more of a father than his own Weekend Dad. 

Meanwhile, you’ve spent the past few months keeping yourself in check as well. You’ve stopped calling Dean for help whenever something breaks down in your old-ass apartment. You try to keep your conversations less about life and troubles and whatever funny thing your students did that day in class, and more focused on Robbie–strictly about his schedule and his needs.

It’s kind of painful, if you’re honest with yourself. Sam will always be one of your closest friends from college, but in the past five years, Dean has truly become your best friend. Because you’ve told him things. The things that come from sharing a child with someone, like Sunday dinners with your parents, flipping through old yearbooks and childhood pictures—and the details of day-to-day schedules and little stupid things that happen in moments between moments.

Dean also knows the deep cuts. Like being pregnant and scared and breaking down crying on the side of the road. Like sharing the deepest well of your insecurities with someone who knows your body intimately, even if just for one amazing night...a night you’ve never quite been able to put out of your mind.

However, you know that things can’t stay the same. From now on, he just needs to be your son’s father. Nothing more, nothing less. 

So today, on a crisp April 24th, you’re getting ready for a highly anticipated evening with your boyfriend. Robbie is sleeping over your parents’ house, and Benny has been planning something special for your third-year anniversary. 

You slip into your new dress, a deep emerald green, with a pair of black heels you’ve rarely worn since before you got pregnant. Come to think of it, you were wearing these the night of Sam and Eileen’s bachelor-bachelorette party. The night you…well, the night Robbie was conceived. 

You shake your head to rid yourself of those thoughts. You even consider changing. 

You’re being silly, you shake your head. They’re just shoes. 

And yet. Thinking of that time so long ago, it reminds you of a recent Sunday dinner at your parents’ house.

Two Months Ago...

Your parents live modestly, but comfortably in rural Kansas. Their ranch-style home boasts a creek in the backyard, where your dad is teaching your son how to catch minnows. Your mom is inside working on an apple pie, knowing it’s both Dean’s and Robbie’s favorite.

You and Dean have kept close to the house under the shade, sitting on a bench made more comfortable by a pair of old polyester cushions with red, faded flowers.

“How much longer do you have to wear that?” you ask Dean. He glances down at his cast-covered left arm.

“Doc says it’s about ready to come off,” he says.

You nod, allowing yourself a certain smile. “How bad are you itching to grab my mom’s garden shears and cut it off right here?”

“Woman, don’t tempt me,” he says, his lips twitching at a grin. “I’ve been eying those overgrown scissors for the past half hour.”

You laugh and take another sip of your glass. Yours holds sweet tea, while Dean’s has some of your dad’s favorite whiskey. You both raise your heads when Robbie yells across the backyard.

“I caught a minnow!”

“Good job, buddy,” Dean grins. “See if you can catch a marlin!”

“A marlin?” Robbie questions.

“Yeah, like that orange guy in Finding Nemo,” Dean calls back.

Your dad gives Dean the same wry look you do, though yours is tinged with more amusement.

“Dean, that’s a clown fish,” you say. “He’s not gonna find that in the creek.”

“Aw, shit,” he tries to quiet his laugh. “Ah well, should keep him occupied for another twenty minutes.”

You bite your lip to stifle your laughter as well. Though something else occurs to you the longer you watch your son play and explore in the creek. Your dad has the patience of a saint as he puts yet another bait worm on the hook for the kid.

“He’s starting to ask questions, you know,” you tell Dean, in a quieter voice. “‘Why aren’t you and Daddy married? Why can’t we all live together?’”

Dean's brows raise. His good humor dims when he looks over at you.

“What do you tell him?” he asks.

You take in a deep breath, considering your words now as carefully as you did with your son.

“That we care about each other a lot, as friends,” you say, meeting Dean’s eyes. “And we love Robbie very much. Nothing’s going to change that, even if you and I aren’t together like a normal mom and dad.”

Saying it like that makes your heart twinge, for more than one reason. The way Dean’s mouth twitches into a rueful smile just makes it worse, but you try your best to ignore it.

“I never thought about having to explain it to him,” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

It’s that anxious tell of his again. You notice every time he does it.

“I have,” you admit. “I just didn’t know for sure what I was going to say until it was coming out of my mouth.”

Dean smirks a little. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

You roll your eyes and sip your drink, crossing your arms as well. Dean considers you then, looking at you in a way that makes you raise a brow in question.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing, it’s just…” He sits back against the bench and rubs his hands down his jean-clad thighs. “For the record, I did try to ask you out once.”

“What?” you scoff incredulously. “No, you’ve been with Lisa since the beginning.”

“Before Lisa,” Dean says.

He isn’t joking. He isn’t teasing. He’s serious as he stares back at you with those green eyes of his. Your brows furrow as you wrack your brain. Did he drunkenly leave you a voicemail on one of those “off again” episodes between him and Lisa? No. You know you’d remember something like that.

“It was a few weeks after the bachelor party,” Dean says. “I called you up, remember?”

Your eyes widen. Finally, that jogs your memory.

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.” And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition.

You have to laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Dean, you did not ask me out,” you say. “You wanted to hook up. There’s a distinct difference.”

Dean frowns at you. “No, I was. I invited you over—”

“For essentially some Netflix and chill,” you retort.

“Hey, I offered to make you dinner,” he argues. “I didn’t say anything about hooking up.”

You pause at that. His earnest denial makes you actually think back to what you remember about that conversation on the phone.

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.” And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition. “I could make us some burgers, toss in a couple of beers and a movie night,” he adds.

You cover your lips with your fingers as you begin to realize…

“That was you asking me out?” you ask incredulously.

Dean’s brows furrow and he throws his hands up. “What? Who doesn’t like a little movie night?”

“Dean,” you huff another laugh. “You could’ve made it sound more like a date.”

“Well, ‘scuse me. Sorry I couldn’t afford the Ritz at the time,” he grumbles.

You sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”

The more you think about it, the more you just shake your head at yourself. Why did you have to overthink it, like you do everything?

“Wow,” you say, softer and more contrite. “I honestly never thought…”

“Yeah,” he says. He shifts his gaze out ahead.

You glance over at him, now more unsure of yourself. He wouldn’t have any regrets, you think. He has Lisa. As much as they go at it, they always inevitably get back together. And now you know they hired a realtor. They’re about to start making solid steps forward.

But Dean surprises you with another question.

“Do you think if…”

He doesn’t finish it, but you think you know what he’s asking. You hesitate, your fingers flexing around your glass that beads with condensation. You set the glass down beside you. 

Just as you open your mouth to reply—

“All right, pie is cooling and dinner is served!” your mom calls out. Her head pokes out of the sliding glass door to the backyard. You offer a smile, trying to hide how you jolted in your seat.

“Okay, thanks, Mom,” you nod.

You turn back to Dean, who also hesitates. His eyes meet yours, but all too soon, he locks the moment away.

Bracing his hands on his knees, he rocks to his feet and goes out to get Robbie and help your dad bring in the fishing gear.

You grab Dean’s whiskey along with your tea on your way back inside the house. You consider the amber liquid disturbed in his glass, and you down the rest yourself. The burn down your throat is a good distraction. If he asks about it, you’ll say you got the glasses confused.

You know you’ll have to leave that conversation unfinished at the foot of the bench.

Now...

Benny comes by your apartment and helps you into the passenger side of his pickup truck, like the gentleman he is. He takes you to a nice restaurant in downtown, much nicer than the usual sports bar or kid-friendly restaurant. You're very much looking forward to eating at a restaurant that doesn't feature chicken fingers or "kiddie" corn dogs.

“This is gonna be really expensive,” you whisper to him, after he hands his keys over to the valet. 

Benny squeezes your hand in his, leaning over to kiss your temple. 

“Don’t you worry about that. We both deserve a night out.” His blue eyes gleam with amusement. However, his gaze gentles, becoming more sincere. “You work hard, carin’ for everybody around you. How about you let me take care of you for once.”

Your eyes begin to water, your throat constricting with emotion. You rub his arm gratefully.

“Thank you,” you say. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.” 

It’s always easy with Benny. Nice and simple and easy. Nice, supportive, and considerate.

Nice and safe.

That thought follows you while you and Benny walk into to the restaurant. He’s reserved great seats in the back corner, overlooking a beautiful courtyard. It’s decorated with hydrangeas and light wood dining tables, all framed with a rod iron archway as the sun begins to set just so. After holding your chair out for you before he sits himself, Benny orders a bottle of champagne to kick things off.

He turns to you with a somewhat nervous look in his eyes, like he's steeling himself. It’s uncharacteristic of Benny, who’s always so calm and charming and sure of himself. It makes a zing of anticipation run down your spine, and…a dash of fear. You don’t know why, and you don’t know how to beat the feeling down as you fidget in your seat.

He subtly clears his throat, then takes your hand. “Sweetheart, I know I’m not all that good at the words you’re supposed to say. But I can say that the past three years with you and Robbie, it’s come to mean the world to me.”

Your smile softens. He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, encouraged by your reaction.

“So I think it’s time I made it clear where I stand, and how much I want to be the man in your life,” he says.

Your eyes begin to widen in shock, but not for the reason he thinks.

“Dean,” you gasp.

Benny’s expression slackens. “What?”

You point over his shoulder, and Benny turns to follow your line of vision. Dean and Lisa have just walked into the restaurant. They notice you pointing their way, and they both pause in surprise as well. Lisa is beautiful as usual in a slinky black dress, completely backless (something you feel you could never pull off, unless you had an invisible bra to keep the girls perked up).

Dean is…well, you’ve very rarely seen him in a suit, but charcoal gray works for him. The open collar and white buttoned-down works for him, as do the three top buttons he’s left undone, showing a tantalizing strip of tanned skin. He stares back at you like he forgot you live in the same time zone, let alone the same zip code.

“Uh, hey!” he casts out an awkward wave, before he makes his way over to you and Benny. Lisa is less than enthused.

“We shouldn’t interrupt their night,” you catch her whisper to him, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear her.

“What’s up, party people! Of all the gin joints in all the world, huh?” Dean says, a little too loudly when he thumps Benny on the back. Benny grunts, giving a bit of a forced chuckle.

“Dean,” he greets. “I think I told you about this particular gin joint. Good to see you can actually clean up once in a while.”

“Ah, you know what, this monkey suit ain’t too bad,” Dean says, pulling at his collar.

You smirk in amusement. “Yeah, I remember how much you complained about wearing a simple tie for Robbie’s Christmas pageant.”

He smirks down at you. “Hey, ties still might not be my thing, but nothing wrong with a sharp collar.”

He pops his for emphasis. You don’t know why it makes you laugh, but it does. Maybe it’s just his face and the silly, endearing expression he makes when he pouts his lips in a “blue steel.”

“So, is this just a night out, or you guys celebrating something special?” Dean asks, gesturing at the champagne bottle and your full glasses of bubbly.

Benny gives his friend a certain look. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Today’s three years.”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You smile back at him, though you’re a bit self-conscious at the way both he and Dean, and even Lisa have their attention on you.

“We should let you guys get back to it then,” Lisa says.

Honestly, it’s a relief. You and Benny nod, wishing them a goodnight.

For some reason, you notice how Dean’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But he goes with Lisa, laying a hand on the small of her back. You force yourself to tear your eyes away from them and refocus on Benny. You take up your champagne glass and raise it in offering.

“All right, where were we?” you ask, if with a nervous trill in your belly.

Benny smiles. He takes up his glass and clinks it with yours.

Lisa nearly sighs. She and Dean are back in line at the front of the restaurant, waiting to be seated. The second time she catches Dean glancing over at the table where you and Benny sit, she shakes her head and digs into her purse for the valet card. She’s done with this.

“I think maybe we should go to a different restaurant,” she says.

That finally earns Dean’s attention, mostly confused. “What, why?”

She just gives him a long look.

He realizes that whatever her reasons are, it’s easier to just give in than to fight her on it. He’s learning when to pick his battles. Or is he just giving up?

Also, if tonight’s “the night” he thinks it is for you and Benny, maybe he doesn’t want to stick around after all. Three years, huh?

“All right, fine. Let’s go,” he agrees.

Dean and Lisa wait for the valet to bring the Impala around. The minute he gets behind the wheel and turns the key into the ignition, she changes her mind.

“Look, let’s just go home,” she says. “I don’t really feel like eating out anymore.”

Dean’s brows raise. “What? Aw, come on. We’re already dressed and everything. You look great, Lis. Just tell me where you wanna eat.”

Lisa remains firm, with a small shake of her head. “Please, Dean, just take me home.”

After a moment of indecision, Dean sighs. He revs the ignition and does as she says.

It’s only a fifteen-minute drive back to their apartment, but in that stifling silence, it seems to drag on for a small eternity. He glances at her a couple of times. Lisa has her arms crossed as she stares out the window, watching the other restaurants and mom-and-pops shops and forest trees and old houses of Lebanon, Kansas go by.

Dean counts it a blessing when they’re finally home. He walks up the few short steps up to their ground-floor apartment and unlocks the door. He flicks on the lights inside, and she breezes past him to toss her purse onto the couch.

Dean takes off his blazer and begins to undo the buttons on his cuffs. He watches her all the while, knowing that a storm is brewing. She shucks off her heels and slowly paces the living room on bare feet, like her whirling thoughts are fueling every step.

“All right, I give. What’s going on?” Dean asks. “What’d I do this time?”

She pauses, with her back turned to him.

Shit, he thinks. He shouldn’t have said it like that.

He prepares for the inevitable blow up, but it never comes. Lisa just heaves a sigh. Slowly she turns, and Dean’s shocked and dismayed to see the tears welling up in her deep brown eyes. He makes quick strides toward her, but she raises a hand to keep him at bay.

“Dean, when you picture yourself happy, truly happy,” she says. “Is it with me? Can you imagine yourself marrying me? Buying the house, having kids, growing old together?”

If Dean was thrown for a loop before, he’s even more stunned by her question. “Lis…”

“Just be honest, for once,” she pleads. Her tears begin to brim over, but she blinks, somehow keeping them at bay.

It’s a bit too long before Dean realizes that he can’t give her an answer. At least, not the one he knows she wants to hear.

When he thinks of that picture in his mind, of course he sees his son. But the only other person Dean can imagine there beside him is…

“I…” He wills his mouth to work, but nothing else comes out.

The only face he can conjure is yours. Your eyes are warm and welcoming, your smile as bright and contagious as your laugh.

The only voice he can hear is yours, gentle and strong at the same time.

The only one he can see is you.

He knows the shampoo you use and the perfume you like to wear, how the sweet and floral scents mix together and linger in your hair and on your skin.

Even now he remembers the contours of your body, and how it could fit so well against his. He knows that you used to try and hide your shape under loose, baggy shirts and cargo pants that did nothing for you. He knows how much courage it took you to wear that red dress to his brother’s party, because you told him once, at one of those Sunday dinners at your parents’ house.

Come to think of it, there’s not a whole lot that Dean doesn’t know about you, except maybe what you see when you look at him.

“You love her,” Lisa finishes for him. “I think you always have.”

Dean’s throat tightens. Somehow he swallows anyway, and he shakes his head. 

“Lisa, I loved you.”

“Maybe you did, in your own way,” she says, laughing a little through her tears as she wipes them away. “But you already have a family, Dean. Go fight for it.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he can do.

He goes to her and kisses her cheek. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

Lisa merely nods, wiping her face dry. She watches Dean Winchester walk out of her apartment, and out of her life for good this time. 

Dean calls your cell, but it goes to voicemail. He drives all the way back to the restaurant and doesn’t find you or Benny there. 

Dean realizes that what he’s doing, what he plans to do, is not fucking cool. He wouldn’t blame you or even Benny for being severely pissed when Dean shows up. He also knows that he can’t let another day pass where he keeps lying to you, and himself. 

He eventually finds you at home. What’s weird is that Benny’s truck isn’t in the driveway—just your car. He knocks on your door, and he waits.

He unconsciously holds his breath while he waits in that terrible existence of limbo. However, his heart thrums back to life when he hears your footsteps drawing closer to the door. Anticipation, excitement, dread, it all roils together inside him like a bad cocktail as the door swings open.

And he’s once again rendered a bit breathless at the sight of you in that dress. The color alone appeals to him, let alone the way it accentuates your every curve, from full breasts to the swell of your hips, the softer slope of your thighs, and bare toes painted. You’re fucking delectable, every curve, and a temptation without you even meaning to be. 

You’re just…you’re still so goddamn beautiful, like the night he first saw you. Even now, he can almost feel the give of your thighs under his hands, his fingers pressed to supple flesh. 

But then he’s drawn to your face, and your wide eyes full of surprise. Your mascara is a bit smudged though. Your eyes are red too, like you’ve been crying. His brows furrow in concern.

“Dean, what’re you doing here?” you ask.

“I need to talk to you, but uh…did something happen?” he asks. “You okay?”

You’re reluctant to tell him. Did Benny say something to upset you? Or was it something he did?

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say.

Instinctively, Dean knows it’s a lie.

“This isn’t a good time though,” you say, after clearing your throat. “Can we do this tomorrow, maybe?”

Dean leans a hand on the doorframe.

“Please, it’s important,” he says. His eyes implore you harder than his words. Please.

That does it. A sigh passes through your lips, but you let him in. He knows Robbie is with your parents for the night, which actually makes this easier.

Once he steps inside the apartment, Dean does notice that your bedroom door is open. Half the drawers to your dresser are open too, and empty. Certain frames that used to be on your coffee table are no longer there, like the one of you, Benny, and Robbie on a camping trip. 

“You want some coffee, or soda?” you ask. 

Dean declines and grasps your arm before you can busy yourself into “hostess” mode. He leads you to the couch, where you both sit down together.

“What happened tonight?” he asks. “Where’s Benny?”

Your lower lip wobbles, the beginning of your telltale cry face. Dean knows his son gets it from you, and it always breaks his heart. He squeezes your arm gently, trying to ground you.

“Benny proposed to me tonight,” you confess, taking in a sharp breath. “He proposed, and I couldn’t give him an answer.” 

You shake your head as the tears sting hot in your eyes. 

“He got so upset, he just—he left!” You throw your hands up. “But honestly, I don’t blame him.”

Dean tries to comfort you as you try and fail to wipe at your face. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, cupping your cheek to brush the tears away himself. 

“Why couldn’t you answer him?” he asks. 

You look up at Dean, and you finally notice the shine of hope in his eyes. Dean touches your cheek more tenderly. 

“Does it mean I have a chance here?” he asks.

Despite what your eyes tell you, you still gape at him in shock. “What? But…what about Lisa?”

“It’s over. For good this time,” Dean shakes his head. “I realized what I wanted for my life, and where my heart is…”

And he chuckles weakly. “Truth is, you’ve had it the whole time, sweetheart.”

You begin to crumble all over again. You pull away from him and his touch, because you can’t believe it. You cover your face with your hands, sniffling as you try to make sense of his words, his touch, and the warm flutter threatening to brim happiness in your heart.

“God, Dean. You can't just..."

"I mean it," he insists.

You're still reluctant to take him seriously...no matter how much you want to. It's a conflicting realization that hurts, and makes you feel stupid for taking so long to figure it out, and makes you hate yourself for hoping his words are true.

"Come the morning, you’re going to change your mind,” you reason, without looking at him. “Like you’ve done with Lisa a thousand times.”

“No,” Dean says firmly. He shifts closer and prompts you to look at him, really look at him.

“Not about this, and you know it,” he says, catching and holding your gaze. “That’s why you couldn’t say yes to Benny. Because you know what we’ve got. It’s the real deal.”

You still look uncertain, even though you can’t bring yourself to pull away this time. Dean has always had this way of looking into the very depths of you, like he can actually see every thought as it passes through your mind.  

“I should’ve said yes,” you say. “I can rely on Benny. I know he would stay by my side, and…and I know he won’t hurt me.”

Not like I’ve just hurt him, you think. Guilt still pricks at your heart. The last thing you ever wanted to do was lead him on, and yet, that’s what you’d done, wasn’t it? You thought you had loved him. You’re sure that you did, but maybe it just wasn’t the kind of love that could reach down deep and grab you, set your blood on fire, and make you ache when the burn was gone.

That spark licks across your skin when Dean takes your hands.  

“What if I want to be that guy for you,” he says.

You allow yourself to look at him. Really look at him.

You know Dean. When he gets an idea in his head, it inhabits every bone and shred of muscle in his body. There’s no mistaking his resolve, or the steady grip of his hands over yours.

“If you let me, I’ll stay. I won’t leave you,” he says. In his eyes, there’s a firm promise. “I can be the guy you rely on. The man you can trust. The man who’s gonna love you, come whatever. Because now I know what it means. I know how it feels.”

You bite your lower lip against the smile that wants to surface.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Dean smiles for you. “If you wanna know the truth, I’m pretty sure I’ve been loving you since the day I heard Robbie’s heartbeat for the first time.” 

Your tears flow harder at that. A shaky breath escapes you, though it does nothing to steady you. Dean strokes your cheek gently with his thumb. 

“Please, just give me this one chance,” he asks. Begs, really. 

He doesn’t have to though. You nod, just a little. 

“Okay,” you agree. “Let’s try.”

Dean's smile spreads slow, but warm across his face. It’s your favorite kind, the kind that crinkles his eyes. 

He leans in and claims your lips with his own. The passion of it is familiar, but you don't think it’s the same as five years ago. Now, there’s an underlying note of tenderness in his touch and each new way he tastes you deeper. He holds nothing back this time, and neither do you. 

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, and then in his hair as you moan into his mouth. “Dean.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he answers against your lips, though he doesn’t give you much room to keep talking.

You haven’t heard him call you sweetheart in a long time. You feel your heart knitting back together, stitch by stitch. Tears sting in your eyes anew, but you squeeze your eyes shut against them.

“I…”

You can’t even continue the breathless thought. You hold his face desperately between your hands, pressing your forehead to his for a moment as you both catch your breath. But this man is like the sweetest, most seductive vice. Now that you’ve gotten another hit, you can’t resist. You no longer want to.

His arms wrap around you more securely, and he leans in to lure you back into his kiss. His tongue breaches past your lips to curl along yours with tantalizing strokes. His hands slowly move down your back and along your waist.

“Mmm, missed the hell outta this,” he groans into your mouth. Your heart flutters again at the way he holds you, the way his big hands squeeze you and feel you.

You let him guide you down onto the sofa cushions. He slots himself between your bare thighs and runs his hand up familiar smooth skin, bunching the skirt of your dress higher as he goes. He aims to get himself reacquainted with every soft part of you that welcomes him back.

For once, the gates around your hearts swing free. 

Dean never imagined that his own son would hand him the ring he gives to his wife, but today, it just feels like symmetry. He grins and winks at Robbie.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean says.

His son’s beaming grin is wide and toothy, but the boy takes his job very seriously and delivers the other ring to you. You smile brightly and caress his cheek after you take the shining, white gold band from him. It matches the thinner band that Dean has for you; it'll soon join the engagement ring that once belonged to his mother.

Robbie had liked Benny a lot, but he loves his dad. He’s probably the happiest person in the room to see his parents take each other’s hands in front of the minister. 

Benny is understandably absent in the chapel today. You had met with him after that night of your botched anniversary to apologize to him, and so had Dean. Benny understood. He’d admitted that in the back of his mind, he feared this might happen.

“I wouldn’t blame you for being angry with me,” you said to him. “You can even hate me if you want.” Benny gave you a wry, melancholy sort of smile. “Part of me’s still mad at you, I won’t lie…but there’s no use in it. Not even hating you.”

Even though Benny bowed out, carrying his hurt and his grief on those broad shoulders, letting you go meant letting go of a friend too. He put in his paperwork to transfer out of Firehouse 83.

As he’d told Dean himself that day, and in fact, the last words Benny said to him…

“There you go, Lieutenant. A spot’s just opened up.”

Dean didn’t want to get promoted this way. He felt guilty enough as it was, and not just for Benny leaving the firehouse. Benny recommended Dean to the Chief himself though, saying that if they were going to give someone a Lieutenant’s badge, it may as well be the guy who got a perfect score on his test, and had the natural leadership skills to boot.

To the end, Benny was a gentleman.

Now, Sam beckons his nephew over. Robbie quickly goes to his uncle’s side and puffs his little chest out as he stands proud behind his dad. 

Dean is able to take you in, your beautiful white dress, and everything about you that makes him smile…including the way you smile back at him.

Man and wife is all he hears. It’s all he needs to hear, before he’s pulling you closer by your newly anointed hand. He dips you for a thorough kiss in front of all your family and friends. 

You squeal in surprise, making Dean smile hard enough for his cheeks to hurt. Giggling hard enough to make you tremble, you raise a hand to caress his cheek. But you give him another real kiss after he guides you back up to your feet.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. The words are just for him to hear. Dean pulls back enough to see the truth shining in your eyes. Beautiful.

“Can’t help it, right?” he teases. 

You smile in amusement, but you grab his chin and shake it. 

“You got me,” you reply. “I really, really can’t.”

Your beaming smile softens. Even though the entire room is clapping and hooting and hollering in celebration, in that moment, all you really see is Dean. 

Here in his arms, you know that this is where you were meant to end up. From now on, it’s where you’re meant to be.

AN: From Lisa and Benny to Robbie and everything in between. Dean and the reader certainly aren't perfect in this, but what do you think about how their story unfolded? I truly hope you guys enjoy this one, because I've had so much fun with it. 🥰❤️❤️‍🔥

So please let me know what you thought! 😘

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: The Epilogue

"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you?"

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[ficsilike-reblogged]

Shelter - 7

Summary: You saved Soap's life. And Laswell has news.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley/F!Reader (No use of Y/N)

Warnings For This Chapter: Continued military and safehouse inaccuracies, mentions and descriptions of suicide, canon typical violence/gore, guns, attempted accents, and more Soft!Simon

A/N: Thank you for all the love on the latest chapter. I treasure each and every comment and they really keep me motivated! Just three more chapters after this!

Previous Chapter

You spent a strange amount of time just poking at things in your room. There had been a secret door between rooms; surely there were other things for you to find. You’d given up on trying to nap after you stared uselessly at the ceiling for an hour, listening to the muted sounds of the city starting to wake and start the day. You were tired. Exhausted. Had been for weeks.

But you couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t sleep because Simon had kindly offered to show you around a library. What was wrong with you? And how many times have you asked yourself that in the last handful of weeks? And you were so mad at yourself for wanting it. Wanting to see that library with Simon. You knew all of this was temporary. Even if they managed to kill or apprehend Makarov in a timely manner, where did that leave you?

He lived in the UK (when he wasn’t off somewhere around the world doing…whatever it is he does) and you had your life here in Chicago. Sort of. It wasn’t as if you had a job waiting for you. And your lease was nearing its end. And… You really needed to stop this train of thought. It would only hurt you. So, you turned over and shoved your face into the pillow and groaned before getting up and exploring your room a little more.

To your strange comfort, it seemed like your only surprise had been the door connecting your room to Simon’s. There were no secret compartments in your closet or bathroom. The one thing you did find was in the small drawer in the bedside table: a small red button tucked just inside. You knew better than to press it—red buttons usually meant trouble and you weren’t about to test your hypothesis when you finally had a small bit of peace.

Saving you from your boredom for a moment was a new text, chirping on your phone. It was a picture of Kirby and Pauline in the back of a car, bundled up and ready to go, the tiny yellow teddy bear tucked in beside the carrier. “Off on our first adventure!” The picture was probably taken by the post-partum doula or nanny Kirby had hired. Kirby had sent you heaps of potential resumes and then felt content with the two she’d narrowed it down to—and you’d felt a little more secure knowing she had help. She had steadfastly refused any other help you offered, telling you she was determined to do everything on her own. Were you nervous about that? Of course. But she had read every parenting book her doctor recommended, attended every single mothers’ birthing class, researched endlessly about each and every bit of furniture she could buy before purchasing, and went to extra therapy sessions biweekly ever since the situation with Julian blew up.

She’d have help and the money Julian coughed up would probably make everything a little easier. They’d be okay. You could be waiting in the wings if anything came up, and Kirby knew that. Kirby needed to be Kirby. And you needed to be okay with that.

Ugh. You did not need to be having all these emotions before breakfast. You typed out a quick, “love you guys!” message and deleted the perfunctory “stay safe!” you had first added and instead just added a single heart emoji. There. Nailed it.

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled. It had been a while since you’d eaten—a burger and one half of a chocolate bar you split with Kirby before dawn at the hospital hadn’t exactly been a complete breakfast. And thinking of the chocolate had you remembering Simon had been the one to buy it—not that you could ever forget any of this. Or him. And you knew it was stupid. Stupid to hope, to want…but you still found yourself going over to the hidden door and knocking. Maybe he’d get breakfast with you.

But the wall didn’t open and you tried to ignore how something ached in your chest because of it. Well, you could still get breakfast anyway. But first, you decided to give pilates another try, queueing up a workout on youtube and regretting it only a few minutes in. By the time you finished, your arms were shaking and your legs hated you but the shower felt nice. You slathered a bit more arnica cream across your throat when you finished. It would still take time for your neck to look normal, but the red in your eyes had steadily decreased.

You turned your attention to the extensive room service menu that had been tucked beside the sleek bedside table lamp and tapped your finger against the thick cardstock, mulling over your choices. You flipped the menu over, trying to make sure you knew all your options and instead found a small history of the hotel. Apparently it had always been “family owned” since its opening right before World War I. Interesting. Had it always been a safehouse? Either way, the matcha sounded good. Eggs Benedict, too. You ordered, feeling a little ridiculous—you’d never ordered room service before—but the person on the other end of the line was nice enough. It might have been the manager, but you weren’t entirely sure.

Your throat ached as you set the phone back in its cradle. All of the excitement yesterday definitely did a number on it all. Maybe tonight you’d actually sleep well… You weren’t going to hold your breath about that, though.

A knock sounded at your door a few minutes later (after Kirby had texted you back, another picture of Pauline, snuggled in her bassinet), it was probably your breakfast, but you still checked the peephole and felt a small bit of tension leave your shoulders when you recognized the manager on the other side.

She held out the covered tray with a smile. “Excellent choices, if I do say so.”

You returned her smile and took the tray, mouth watering a little at the smell of it. “I didn’t think you’d be the one to deliver it.”

She shrugged. “We don’t let just anyone up here. And the kitchen was busy anyway, two birds, one stone and all that.”

Briefly, you remembered how breezily she checked you all in, smiling at John the entire time. She really must have seen some stuff to not care that a known terrorist was looking for people who were hiding in her hotel. “Still, that was kind of you.”

She waved that away, too. “I’m sure Laswell said you could ask for anything,” she said, a knowing smile on her face.

“She might have said that to the guys.” Not to you. You were sure the no-nonsense woman you’d met back in the UK didn’t particularly want to think about you at all. You wouldn’t hold it against her; you hadn’t made the best of impressions.

She nudged her arm into yours. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re one of them right now. Maybe it’s just for now, maybe it’s just for a little longer, but for now, you are under my care and the hotel’s protection.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of you. “Sounds like a bit of a steep promise.”

The manager shrugged. “It is. But my family’s been doing this for generations. I know how to keep you safe.” Her watch beeped before you could even attempt to process what she’d told you and she smiled again. “I’ve got to run. Please, enjoy your breakfast.” And then she was gone, disappearing down the hall and into the elevator.

What an enigma of a woman. Again, you thought of Price’s interactions with her. Just what had happened between them? Hmm. Oh well. Probably just another question you’d never get the answer to. You settled onto the overstuffed armchair in front of the giant television and tried not to think about the man on the other side of the wall.

Simon had spent an embarrassing amount of time staring at the hidden door that led to her room. Wondering if she actually fell asleep. Wondering if her short time with her sister and niece was enough to make her happy. Or settled. She’d once asked if he had anyone to get back to after all this was over. He didn’t. And after she had told him about what she had gone through, he thought about his own family. His mum. Tommy. Beth and Joseph. And for a moment, short and aborted, he thought about telling her what had happened to them. She might understand. There could be understanding there, instead of the pity anyone else who knew his story usually met him with. But, again, Simon pushed it away.

Pushed it down, ignoring how the thought echoed and ached.

But it didn’t really matter because Price called them all to his room, telling them that Laswell had called with news. That could have been good. But Simon knew better than to think this all would be over soon. And then a strange, selfish thought struck him, too, as he followed Kyle to Price’s room. This gave him more time with her. She’d been quiet after he offered to show her the library before he watched a small smile push at her perfect mouth. And he thought about it until Price had called them.

But any sort of hope was quietly stuffed away when Price fixed them all with that look that Simon knew well. And maybe he should have been expecting this. Something didn’t feel right. It was too quiet. Simon knew Makarov played the long game. But Laswell had been briefing them about how several more of his caches had been destroyed and more of his men had been killed but Makarov hadn’t been spotted. There was no chatter from him or about him despite Laswell, Farah, and Alex all hunting for him.

Laswell was waiting for them, videoing in on the laptop Price had set up on the small table in his room. Simon stood at the back, letting the others take the chairs closer to the laptop. Price turned toward Laswell, his mouth set in a thin line. “We’re here, Laswell. What do you have for us?”

Laswell sighed. “I found who leaked your location.”

“And?” Johnny said, leaning forward in his seat. He was chomping at the bit to get some sort of revenge. Their families had been targets. No doubt Johnny had wanted to make him feel exactly what his mother had felt. And Simon knew that he hated that she had been hurt. The feeling was mutual.

“He’s dead.”

“What do you mean he’s dead?” The question had an obvious answer but it needed to be asked, if Simon was being honest.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say.” Laswell shook her head. “The man I tracked down when I figured out who leaked where your team was located shot himself.”

Price looked at Simon who looked right back. “Confirmed, then.”

“I was the one who found him, John.” Her breath crackled over the line. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

No. She wouldn’t. But this still all stank of something he didn’t like.

“I’m still tracking down who he sent his intel to, but I hope to have news for you soon.”

It was someone Laswell had worked with, not necessarily trusted, but relied on in some capacity. That was a betrayal. A deep one. Shit.

The video disconnected soon after and they all seemed to just look at each other. Silently processing what they’d just learned, calculating their next move. What options did they have? Moves to be made. Risks assessed. Before any of them could voice their thoughts, the computer beeped again. Simon watched Price type in a code and then sigh.

“I need a bloody drink.” The captain rose, in search of the morning drink he wanted, and Simon slid into the chair he vacated.

Simon didn’t blame him for wanting a drink. That was an appropriate response. Laswell had sent over a batch of pictures from the leak’s apartment. Probably taken when she’d gone to confront him. He clicked through the pictures, trying to tell himself that this was one loose end tied up in a neat bow. But there was a voice at the back of his head that kept whispering that something wasn’t right. There was more to this than one man’s apparent greed and Makarov playing him for a fool. Simon stopped, pausing on one of the photos of the man, his head back against the edge of his computer chair with blood and bone and brain spattered behind him on the white wall.

Everything on the desk was neatly arranged. Stacked. Organized. Now marred by the mess of his death. And yes, Simon knew death was messy. Could be messy. But people sometimes took care to make sure it wasn’t. And the more he looked at the surrounding room, Simon surmised that this man was a person who would take care to make sure his death wasn’t messy.

It didn’t fit.

The bruising, exit wound, and spatter might match all the hallmarks of a man seeing no other way out after committing treason. But it didn’t fit.

Kyle stepped to his side and bent down, just enough to look at the photos and Simon could see him working through it, too. He knew he would. “Staged. Someone else pulled the trigger. Held the gun beneath his chin while he hoped he could talk his way out of it.”

Simon nodded. Kyle had put the pieces faster than he had, but Simon knew he would.

Johnny was quick to take his place on Simon’s other side, reaching over him to click through a few pictures. “Is Makarov in the States?”

Simon glanced back at the picture before shaking his head. “We would have heard. Laswell wouldn’t’ve let ‘im slip by like that.”

Kyle’s mouth pulled into a thin line as he stood straight, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then there’s another problem.”

Simon almost hated that he was right. All of this just meant it was even more complicated than they had previously thought. And it already was a fucking nightmare. “There’s another person on the inside.”

Kyle grimaced. “Covering their tracks.”

Price walked in, half-empty glass of whisky in his hand and eyed them all. “So you see it, too?”

“Seems like it. Wasn’t acting alone.”

“I have no doubt Laswell saw it, too.” The glass clinked as Price set it down on the window ledge. “But she’s playing it quietly. No confirmation on anything else until she has answers.”

Simon knew that was the wisest way to do this but it still grated at him.

“How high does this go?” Kyle asked. Simon could feel the rage radiating off of him. But he always kept a tighter leash on it than Simon did. It was something Simon respected about him, one of the many, actually. And it was why he trusted him so implicitly in and out of the field.

Johnny frowned and then turned abruptly toward Kyle. “The lass’ flat was untouched, wasn’t it? When ye went to get her stuff?”

Kyle nodded. “Everything seemed fine. Wasn’t exactly looking for cameras though.”

Simon nodded, too. And everything had been in its place. He wondered how long it had taken her to make it feel comfortable. Not home, exactly. But a place she knew she could rest her head, like his flat in Manchester.

“But that bastard knew her name, no? Nearly killed her at the hospital in London. Why would he leave her flat alone?”

Simon chewed on that thought. He did know her name. And while there might be other people with her name but Makarov—or at least one of his men—knew she was American. If they’d taken her purse, it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine they knew where she lived. But why had her flat been untouched? “Laziness, possibly.”

“And he knew we were hiding her. She wasn’t going home.”

But that small fact was still a glaring part of the picture that someone knew they had been moving her.

“Do we move again?” Johnny asked.

“Moving us now would just confirm that we are here. And if it doesn’t, we are out in the open until we get to the next safehouse.”

“What other options do we have, Captain?” Kyle asked. But Simon didn’t miss the way his eyes went to him first. “She is still an asset and a target. We are still targets and Makarov is in the wind.”

Price leaned forward, mouth pulled into a flat line. “Way I see it, we can move and take our chances or we stay put and get ready.”

They didn’t like running. And the plan had always been to lure Makarov into a trap. Why couldn’t they do that here? And the silent looks between the men seemed to show their quiet agreement.

And then something whispered at the back of Simon’s mind. And then he remembered the curve of her lip. Her smile and the way she simply wanted to see her sister and her baby. “We need to tell her. Get ‘er ready for it.”

Price grimaced but didn’t refute Simon’s logic.

“She deserves to know. She’s in this with us.”

He nodded, but he didn’t look pleased about it. “If you think she can handle it.”

“She will.” Simon had watched her outmaneuver Johnny and fight like hell to live against a trained operative. She could handle a bit of book camp. He knew it.

“And the manager might want to know what’s happening. You seem to know her best, Captain. Want to break the news?” Kyle asked, face straight.

Price sighed.

You were on the last dregs of your matcha when you heard a sharp knock…on the wall. You turned and watched the hidden door open. Simon filled the space, broad shoulders brushing the sides—and no, that didn’t make your mouth water. He wasn’t even wearing any sort of gear, just a hoodie and loose joggers, swapping out the jeans he’d worn to the hospital with you and he looked better than ever. (Shut up!)

“C’mere, yeah?”

You frowned, not expecting the invitation, but stood anyway and let him shuffle you into his room.

It wasn’t that much different than yours. Same color scheme. Same layout. There was just one large, glaring difference. The closet door was open and the entirety was filled with weapons. Mostly guns, but you spied a few knives, too. There were also a few vests, that you surmised were kevlar or something along those lines. It really was a mini arsenal. This hotel kept surprising you.

Gaz and Soap were waiting inside as well and you resisted the urge to think the worst and smiled, feeling it twitch on your face. “Everything okay?” The stretched silence that followed only made your nerves start to fray, like overused yarn.

“Everything’s sorted,” Gaz said, arms folded neatly across his chest. And you wanted to believe him. You did. You could trust him and the others to protect you like they’d done before. But something wasn’t right.

You glanced at Simon, and he was already looking at you over the edge of another surgical mask. Your heart did an embarrassing little leap behind your ribs. And then you looked at Soap. There was a bit of calculation behind those unnervingly blue eyes. “C’mon, Soap. Out with it.”

He smiled, a bit of pink touching his cheeks. But the smile didn’t last long. “We’d like ta teach ye a few things.”

“Things?”

He nodded, overgrown mohawk flopping a bit. “Just in case.”

And those three words had your stomach sinking. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

“It’s just a precaution.”

And that was how you found yourself in the hidden firing range behind another false wall down the hall (apparently you had been right about there being more to your floor than a few rooms on this floor). It was entirely soundproof with a small sparring ring tucked behind it and another wall filled with guns and other weapons. No wonder the manager seemed so sure she could protect you. Kyle was patient as he adjusted your grip on the small handgun he said would be a good fit for you and patient still when your arms shook as you focused on the target. You didn’t like guns. But when he pressed, gently and kindly with hints of his megawatt smile, you promised to keep the gun in the drawer beside your bed. They were doing this to protect you. They liked you at least enough to try and give you a fighting chance. This was a kindness.

Soap was next but didn’t last very long. “Would ye like to learn how to make a bomb? Just a wee one.”

“No, thank you.” Jesus Christ.

To your surprise, Price walked into the large room next and then handed you…a crowbar. He taught you a few moves with it, telling you to aim for the neck if need be. “You might lose a gun, miss a moving target. But you can always hit them with that.” Comforting.

Then, to prove his point he turned and waved over Simon, who had been silently watching along the back wall (not that you were always innately aware of where he was in the room).

“Attack her.” The captain waved a hand at you before clapping Simon on the shoulder.

“Let’s not do that,” you said, words falling out of your mouth before you could think of something else to say.

Simon, however, stepped closer and held his hands up a bit, as if he were making sure you knew he was unarmed. That wasn’t exactly comforting. “I promise I won’t hurt you. I’d never ‘urt ya.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, and you felt every syllable wash over you. He wouldn’t hurt you but he was trusting you to swing at him with a goddamn crowbar. He trusted you. They trusted you.

Straightening your shoulders, you tightened your grip on the crowbar.

And then he moved. No one that big should be able to move that quickly—it didn’t seem fair—and you were flat on your back. You swallowed the lump in your still sore throat as you looked up at him.

“Try again,” Price called out.

So you did. Again and again. You managed to clock Simon in the arm exactly once and earned a round of applause from the other men, all of them decidedly ignoring that you were supposed to be aiming for the neck. Your arms and legs were screaming at you (again) by the time Price called him off.

“Ye did good, bonnie,” Soap said with another smile. “Proud of ye.”

Oh god, you were going to cry. Tears stung and your battered throat ached with the effort to hold them back as you handed the crowbar back to Price with an uneven smile. “Thanks for keeping me alive.”

“Fair play,” Gaz said, clapping you on the shoulder. “Kept Soap alive. Kept us from eating through the house. You’ve been good to us.”

You cleared your throat, trying to swallow down the emotions. They didn’t need to see all that. “Just trying to-”

“Earn your keep?” Price asked, blue eyes near twinkling. “None of tha’. You’ve done more than enough.”

It wasn’t many words but you didn’t think Price was a man who used flowery prose or words to anyone. But that didn’t stop it from meaning the world to you. How many times has someone said you’d done enough? You could probably count them on one hand. So, you simply nodded and murmured, “yeah, sure. Anytime.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price eventually trickled out, leaving you and Simon alone in the large room. “C’mere.”

You walked to his side, a strange jittery exhaustion pulling at the edges of your mind.

“I want to show ya how to get out of a few ‘olds. Yeah?”

Like the guy who’d try to strangle you back at the safehouse. This training made sense—and no matter how well you (didn’t) shoot or swung a crowbar, you felt like this bit was more practical. And you felt safe with Simon. Simon with his dark, warm eyes and rough hands.

He led you through a few grapples and moves to break a stranglehold—he never aggravated your throat, his grip gentle if not bordering on nonexistent. He even muttered something about getting you more cream when you finished.

As strange as it was—he was pretending to strangle you—you never felt unsafe with him. Not when he came up behind you. Not when he charged forward. Not when he bent you across a bench and coached you through how to maneuver around it while your neck was tucked into the corner of his bent elbow. Never.

“You did good. But I want ya to do better, olright?” He asked as you broke another hold.

You nodded and then the broad expanse of his palm was dragging across your throat and he was pushing you back back back until your spine collided with the padded wall behind you. You tried to ignore how your chest brushed his with every breath you took. The attempt flew right out the window when he wedged a firm thigh between yours.

“Remember whot I told ya.”

Right. Focus. You turned in his loose hold and shot your arm up, remembering the move he’d taught you earlier. But he must’ve moved or you did something incredibly wrong (more likely of the two options) because when you turned to drive your arm down, meaning to break his hold, your finger caught on something and it snapped against your palm.

You watched, a little confused, as Simon’s mask dangled uselessly off one of his ears. A scar, old and jagged, stretched from one corner of his mouth up to his ear. Another bisected it on his cheek. More scars twisted across his mouth and down his chin and-

You smacked a hand over your eyes. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I’ll buy you more masks. I-”

A now-familiar hand, gently pried your hand away from your eyes but you still kept them closed. He wore a mask for a reason. You weren’t about to betray him like that, even if it was an accident. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t!

“You can look. ‘S fine.”

“Not fine.” Eyes still closed.

“I’m saying ‘s fine.” But it was the gentle swipe of his thumb against your cheek that had your eyes slowly opening again. He meant it.

You watched, almost transfixed, as Simon reached up and unhooked the other side of the small mask. The simple act had your heart leaping and racing beneath the cage of your ribs. Your fingers shook with every bit of skin now exposed to you. He had scars. Some big, some small. And you had been correct in thinking his nose had been broken before but you liked how it sat, a little crookedly, on his face. His brown eyes didn’t move away from you as he shoved the small mask into his pocket.

Your hand raised and then froze, uselessly hanging in the air between you. It had been a selfish want to touch him. You hadn’t asked and he hadn’t given permission. Shouldn’t it be enough that he trusted you with this?

Before you could apologize or try to covertly play off why your hand was halfway to his face, Simon reached out and his thick, scarred fingers circled your wrist in a gentle grip and he dragged your hand up up up. The tremor in your hand ceased as soon as your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his cheek. Your thumb traced against the scar that cut from the corner of his mouth and up toward his ear. A cruel slash. And he was so handsome.

Your heart ached when you felt him press a little more into the warmth of your palm. His long blond eyelashes fanned against his cheek as his eyes closed. He was so beautiful.

“Simon.” His name was a prayer. A promise.

He moved closer, the heat of his body bleeding across yours.

And then his mouth brushed yours. It wasn’t a true kiss. Not yet. Just his lips, scarred and cold, against yours. But you kissed him, pressing your lips against his with an embarrassing insistence that you couldn’t stop. But the embarrassment did not get a chance to fester, not with how his large hands framed your face and you could feel him smile.

“Olright?” He murmured as he pulled back the slightest bit, letting his large hands smooth lightly down the sides of your neck to rest over your shoulders, warm and heavy.

Your heart fluttered. He cared. “Yeah. This is good. Y-you’re good.”

His thumb and finger hooked your chin and he tilted your face toward his again.

A/N: Thanks, again, for reading! Your comments mean the world to me and really keep me motivated.

[elllisaaa]

seventeen as love songs - hhu vers.

-> pairing : seventeen hhu x fem!reader

-> words count : 2.3k words

-> genre : fluff, hurt/comfort

-> warnings : none

-> sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language.

-> reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated !

-> author's note : it's been such a long time since i last updated this serie but i'm getting back to it ! hope you'll like it !

-> masterlist | svt masterlist | 1k event masterlist

hhu vers. | vu vers. | pu vers.

CHOI SEUNGCHEOL

-> Babydoll by Ari Abdul

"darling, i’m falling, fucked up over you."

→ When Seungcheol loved, he loved passionately, with no in betweens, no doubts, no guessing game. His first love was music, then his second was dance, his third was being on stage, and his fourth was you. It didn’t strike him immediately, because he was busy, and love - true love - wasn’t what he thought he needed in his life at that time. But the more time he spent with you, the more he found himself unable to pull away from your magnetic attraction. He was like a butterfly inevitably drawn to a blinding light. 

“- Man, you should really tell her.”

But Seungcheol stayed deaf to Mingyu’s advice. He knew he loved you, he knew it from the bottom of his heart and soul, but he wasn’t sure he had enough space in his life for you, and he firmly believed that you were better off without him. He tried to convince himself that he was okay with simply staring at you from afar. What a lie. 

“- Why are you looking at me like that ?”

Your smile was bright, and it made Seungcheol’s heart beat faster. He knew he should stay away from you, but it was hard to not fall deeper for you every time you laughed, every time you talked, everytime you looked at him. 

“- Nothing. You’re just really pretty.”

The blush on your cheeks as you shook your head and refused his compliments threw all his efforts to keep his feelings under control out of the window. And before he could think about it, he was blurting out the words he held in for so long.

“- I think I’m in love with you.”

"call me babydoll, come break down these walls, don’t leave me alone."

→ From that moment on, Seungcheol was attached by the hips to you. He couldn’t spend a day without talking about you, mentioning you, texting you. And sometimes, he cursed himself for the way he thought he wouldn't be able to handle this relationship when you were the best thing to ever happen to him. 

“- What are you going to do tomorrow, baby ?”

You didn’t even lift your head from where it was resting on his chest, simply nuzzling closer to him to seek more of his warmth. This was maybe your favourite thing about sleeping with Seungcheol - he was always warm when you were always cold. 

“- I have an appointment at the nail salon, and then I think I’m just gonna relax at home. It’s been so long since I had a day off.”

Seungcheol hummed as he slowly caressed your hair. These moments before you both went to sleep were his favourites, when you talked about both your days in a murmur, basking in each other's presence and just feeling the love in the most intimate way. 

“- I’ll leave you my card before going to work then, you need to spoil yourself a little more often. 

- You know you don’t have to pay for everything I want, Cheol.”

He looked down at you with a soft smile that definitely made your heart beat a whole lot faster. And he kissed your forehead tenderly, like he always did when he wanted you to stop arguing and just let him take care of you for once. You always did so much for him, and sometimes, he felt like he couldn’t give you as much. So paying for you felt like a solution to remind you that he was there, that he loved you, that he would never leave.

“- I know. But I want to. You deserve to have whatever you want. I do it because I love you, so let me.”

And you always let him, because it felt good to be taken care of sometimes. 

JEON WONWOO

-> Lover by Taylor Swift  

"have i known you 20 seconds or 20 years ?"

→ Being open about his feelings and easily interacting with people had never been Wonwoo’s strength. It wasn’t easy for him to talk with people he didn’t know, to be a social butterfly like some of his friends. He felt awkward when he did so, like it wasn’t his place. But sometimes, such conversations were unavoidable, especially when he ran into someone and spilled their coffee to the floor first thing in the morning. 

“- I’m so sorry, I didn’t look where I was going and I didn’t see you.

- No, no, I should’ve been more careful too ! Are you okay ? Did it burn you ?”

As you both raised your eyes from the floor where your coffee was splattered, and your gazes met, it was like time stopped. Wonwoo couldn’t help but think that this was a typical cliché, a ridiculous one at that, but he also couldn’t help the way his heart started to beat faster as he discovered your pretty face, and pretty eyes, and pretty hair, and pretty smile. He was smitten from the first minute and he had to mentally slap himself to remember that you had asked him a question.

“- Oh ! No, it didn’t hurt me, I’m okay. Are you ?”

You nodded with a delay, starstruck by how handsome the man in front of you was, trying to regain your ability to talk without embarrassing yourself even more. 

“- I am…

- Do you… Do you have enough time for another coffee ? To apologize.”

Of course, you said yes, even if that made you late for work, because Wonwoo made it all worth it. And it was like you had known each other forever, as if you were meant to meet right at this moment, and soon enough, your abandoned coffee on the ground was long forgotten.

"can i go where you go ? can we always be this close forever and ever ?"

→ It didn’t take long for Wonwoo to make things official with you. Maybe some people would say that it was too soon, too quick. But for you and him, it was perfect, and it was all that matters. Others opinions and critics weren’t what mattered, Wonwoo couldn’t even hear them when he was on his little cloud of happiness with you. 

“- Are you free tonight ? We wanted to do a game night.

- No, sorry, I’m with Y/N.”

These were now his typical conversations with the other members. He loved them, they were his family, but now, you had become his home, the one he wanted to go back to every day, the one he longed to be back to every night. 

“- I’m here, darling.”

As soon as Wonwoo closed the door of your shared apartment behind him, you were in front of him with a smile, standing on your tippy toes to be able to kiss his lips tenderly. 

“- Welcome home Nonu.”

This simple greeting was enough to make his heart melt away, and he engulfed you in a hug without thinking. You giggled against his chest as you wrapped your arms around his waist, not questioning his sudden urge to have you close, and rather basking in it instead.

“- Yeah, I’m home.”

KIM MINGYU

-> Televised by Hunny

"oh, she’s so bright, i can’t believe my eyes."

→ Mingyu was a joyful person. He liked to laugh, to love, to live. He was doing everything to a 100%. And love was not a game to him - it was serious, it was important. Because Mingyu loved unconditionally, but he was careful to whom he gave this privilege. But the first time he saw you, it was like every logical thought had been thrown out of his mind immediately. There was something in you, in what you showed off to the world that shined like a star and that he was unable to resist.

“- I thought you would have talked to me already by now.”

The honey-like tone of your voice straddled him, and he turned around to be able to look at you. You had that smile you had been wearing all night long, and your eyes were glimmering with something that made Mingyu’s heart skip a bit.

“- I… Was I that obvious ?”

And now, the sound of your laughter echoed in the bar, overpowering the loud music and the chatting. It was like he had tunnel vision for you.

“- A little bit, but I don’t really mind it.”

Mingyu smiled at you, not knowing if the warmth spreading through his body came from the alcohol he had drank or from the way you were looking at him. Either way, he liked it.

“- Wanna dance ?”

He didn’t hesitate to take your extended hand, and he let you drag him with you. He let you do everything you wanted because he would have followed you to the end of the world.

"i’m in paradise, show me heartbreak a thousand times, i don’t care to be or be caught without sweet misery by my side."

→ Hiding your relationship from his band members wasn’t easy, but you wanted to respect Mingyu’s wish. He knew he would get teased, he knew he would never hear the end of it, and mostly, he was scared. Scared that you wouldn’t get along with his second family, scared that to make things too real. 

“- Can I come over after work ?”

Mingyu stayed silent for a few seconds, and you understood immediately, a sigh escaping you without realizing it. 

“- Your friends are there, right ?

- Yes, I’m sorry baby.

- It’s okay…”

But was it really ? You knew Mingyu wasn’t ashamed of you, he had no problem taking you out on dates, or being seen with you, except by his friends. And you understood, you really did, but you couldn’t help but feel a little left out. Hidden like a dirty secret. You thought Mingyu had hung up, the silence so loud you could practically hear it, but then his voice rang through the speakers of your phone again. 

“- Guys, my girlfriend will come over after work later.”

You could hear the screams and diverse questions about you on the other line, but it was only background noise compared to his “I love you”, to the promise he just made to you. 

CHWE HANSOL

-> Movement by Hozier

"when you move, i can never define all that you are to me, so move me baby."

→ Everyone felt like your relationship with Hansol was a bit strange : he was leaning more on staying home, staying behind in social situations and he was a rather calm guy, whereas you were… Well, yourself. You were energetic, always needed to do something and you loved to go out. But strangely enough, it worked out. And it worked out very well. 

“- You’re going out tonight, Y/N ?”

You looked back at Mingyu, sprawled out on your couch beside your boyfriend, the both of them trying to win their Mario Kart race. 

“- Yeah, we’re celebrating Mina’s promotion.”

You didn’t think much of his commentary, just kissing your boyfriend, greeting his friend, grabbing your purse and heading out. But Han sol could sense that Mingyu had something to say. 

“- What is it ? 

- I… Don’t you want to go out with her ?

- No, I prefer to stay home. 

- But Y/N goes out a lot, right ? Isn’t it annoying ?”

Hansol didn’t even pause the game, still focused on the race, as he shrugged and easily won against a very unfocused Mingyu. 

“- No, it isn’t. I know she always comes back to me anyway. And I do go out with her sometimes, she makes it fun.”

It seemed strange to Mingyu, but to Hansol, it was the perfect way to live, especially when he woke up in the middle of the night to you, still dressed and with your makeup on, cuddled up to him and softly snoring. 

"so move me baby, like you’ve nothing left to lose and nothing to prove."

→ You had never been one to want the spotlight all the time or to love to brag about your achievements. But you were proud of yourself for what you had done and how hard you worked for it, and you were happy with where you were right now. 

“- And so Y/N, what do you do ?”

The question came with some kind of judgement in the eyes of the woman in front of you. Even if you loved going out, you were not too fond of these company events. But Hansol wanted you to tag along, wanted to show you off, and seeing his smile when you got dressed all classy was definitely all worth it. Though, you would have preferred to skip this part.

“- I’m a biologist actually, I’m working on some research on auto-immune diseases.

- That’s impressive. You’re not at all in the industry, thus ?

- No ! Me and Hansol met in quite a strange way actually.”

You were about to reckon to her how you and your boyfriend met despite her evident distaste for you when you felt the arm of the said boyfriend wrap around your waist and a kiss being placed against your temple. 

“- Hello Hina, I see you’ve met my girlfriend.”

The way he insisted on the last word almost made you laugh, but mostly, you let yourself melt in his hold because you knew you could always count on him to have your back. Always. 

-> i don't allow any copies, reposts or translations of my work.

svt taglist (fill in this to be added) :

@lil-kpopstan @hann1bee @bewoyewo @foxinnie8 @jaderabbit-98 @lala-----------lala @codeinebelle @miyx-amour @seomisaho @sashaaahh @straytiny127 @ltfirecracker @jaja-salute

[stellar-bluelock]

winners ☆ itoshi rin x reader

details: fluff | mild hurt/comfort | childhood best friends | romantic relationship | ~1.1k words | gn! reader | timeskip!rin | guys, i love childhood best friend rin. the yearning. <3

Itoshi Rin doesn’t know how to react when you start to tear up.

You haven’t seen each other for quite some time, with all your busy schedules. Messages and calls were your only options, so you practically jumped at the chance to invite him to your new apartment during the holidays.

The two of you didn’t really plan anything in particular; that’s how it was when you were younger, anyway. So, you spend the day catching up.

He tells you about something his teammate did to piss him off. He tries to explain how awkward it is whenever fans, especially kids, want to get his signature. He rants about something that went wrong during his last day of training. 

In return, you tell him how your coworkers made a fool of themselves in public. You make him listen to the song that’s stuck in your head. You share pictures of your cute newborn cousin and the joy it brought you.

And it’s all natural—it feels like coming home. You remember how you’d help your mother prepare dinner, while Rin and Sae made a quick run to the convenience store for snacks.

Now it’s the two of you making an ingredient list, going to the nearby grocery, and making dinner together. Rin argues about the nutritional value, and you argue about the taste. You teach him new cooking tricks you’ve picked up, and he asks to try them out for himself.

So, it’s no wonder that halfway through your meal, something tugs tightly at your heart. It’s the world-shattering realization that you want to be with him forever.

When the first sob escapes your mouth, you hear the clatter of Rin’s utensils falling to the table. 

You love him. 

You love him, and you don’t even know if he feels the same way.

Has he once considered it, in that ambitious head of his?

“Why are you crying?”

Unsure of how to respond, you shake your head and cover your face.

“Does something hurt? Does the food taste bad?”

You want to chuckle at his last question, but it feels like your chest is about to explode.

“Mm. Something’s wrong.” His chair drags across the floor with an unpleasant noise. In a matter of seconds, you feel his presence next to you. “You’re sad.”

It’s a lot more complicated than that.

He pulls at your arm, a gesture you’ve both used since you were kids. You did it to him first when he cried, so you could see his face—no, his expressive eyes.

So when you let your arms fall, you shouldn’t have been surprised at the sight of his round, teal eyes. 

You see fear and worry in them.

Has he ever looked at someone else like this?

“Is it me?” Rin asks quietly. “Are you sad because of me?”

You can’t stand the look on his face.

“No,” you whisper, wiping your cheek. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Then what is it?” He leans closer into your space.

“It’s…” You sigh. “I don’t know how to explain.”

Rin hums to himself. “Then what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

You’re so endeared that he’s paid enough attention to pick up on your style of questioning, that you cave in.

“I love you.”

Chills instantly run through your body at your confession. You assume Rin feels it too, considering how he straightens up after a few seconds.

“You love me?” He echoes.

“I love you,” you affirm with a shaky voice. There was no going back from this now.

A silence settles for a few seconds, but you can hear the cogs turning in Rin’s mind. 

“What do you mean?” he finally says a minute later. “You love me?”

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life.” You stare at the dinner table in front of you longingly. “I want to have long conversations about my dreams with you. I want us to wake up and go to sleep together. I want people to know that you’re everything to me. I want to be the one who shines the brightest in your life. I want you to be my other half. My pillar.”

Rin takes a deep breath. “But, we already do this as friends-”

“No.” You cut him off. “I want us to be more than just friends.”

“More than friends…like, lovers? Couples?”

“Yes.” You close your eyes, afraid of what comes next. You don’t dare to tell him that loving him means wanting to share surnames.

Suddenly, it feels like your apartment’s freezing.

“You love me, but it makes you sad. Why?”

“Because I’m scared that you don’t feel the way I do. That I’m just wishing for something that will never happen.”

Heat crawls over your face. Was telling him a mistake?

“Everything that you said,” Rin ponders, “that’s what it means to love me?”

You nod. 

“Then...that means I also love you.”

Nearly giving yourself whiplash, you gasp as you turn towards him.

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Wh- Wait- But, how- What? I don’t...you love me?”

“Yes.”

“In the exact way I do?” You can’t believe this. “Are you sure you understood what I said?”

“Yes.” Rin knits his eyebrows together. “Everything you want is what I want.”

Something swims in your gut. “Rin. I’m talking about living in the same home. Kissing you. Marrying you. Maybe even starting a family together. Are you sure that-”

“Yes.”

You’ve been rendered speechless.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Rin sighs. “Why do you keep asking me the same thing? Aren’t you supposed to be happy?”

“I just…” You run a hand through your hair. “I didn’t think you’d feel that way about me.”

“I’ve felt that way for a long time. I guess I didn’t know it was that kind of love.”

Oh.

“Why are you crying again? I don’t understand, is this making you sad-”

“Tears of joy, darn it. Come here.” You reach towards Rin, and he immediately opens his arms in response.

And all you can feel is his warmth. The steady rhythm of his breathing. The gentle way he holds you.

“You’ve really loved me all this time?” You whisper into the crook of his neck.

“You never abandoned the dream we made together.” His words are a little muffled, but you understand them all the same. “I’d do anything you asked me to. I’ll listen to no one but you.”

You snort. “Hey, don’t be too stubborn.”

“Well, everyone’s stupid. Except you.”

Classic Rin. 

“Okay, okay.” You slowly pull away from the embrace. “We can talk more later. Let’s finish this dinner we worked so hard to make.”

Rin nods, pulling his plate from the opposite side of the table towards the spot next to yours.

After you finish the rest of your now-cold meals, Rin hands you a bright blue popsicle from the freezer, and you recognize it instantly. 

He still likes it after all these years, you think to yourself fondly, unwrapping the package.

It’s not long before Rin finishes his dessert and looks for the marking on the stick.

“I won. What about you?”

When you glance at yours, you can’t help the grin that spreads across your face.

“I won, too.”

masterlist

[pankowcrumbs]

Back to You X Lando Norris (Requested)

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F1 Masterlist

request: Lando Norris x Reader They are actually exes, but realize they can not be without eachother.

They say time heals everything, but no one ever tells you what to do when the missing doesn’t go away when it lingers, quiet and constant, like background noise you can’t quite shut off.

It had been five months since Lando and I broke up.

Five months of pretending I was fine. Smiling at brunches with friends, replying to texts with fake laughs, and scrolling past his Instagram stories like they didn’t make my chest ache. But truthfully? Every part of my day felt just slightly… off. Like the world kept spinning but I’d been knocked half a step behind.

So when I walked into that Monaco party not expecting to see him, not prepared to I froze the second I caught his profile near the bar.

Same messy curls. Same easy grin. Same Lando.

He looked up like he felt me watching him, and our eyes locked. A beat passed. Then another. And I knew.

He excused himself from the conversation he was having, heading straight for me. My stomach turned with nerves, with hope, I couldn’t tell.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, cautious.

“Hi,” I breathed, heart pounding in my chest like it still hadn’t learned we were supposed to be strangers now.

“You look good,” he added, flicking his eyes over me, as if trying to commit every part of me to memory.

“You too,” I managed, even though the lump in my throat was growing.

We stood in silence for a second too long.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” I asked with a small laugh, trying to break the tension.

“It is,” he agreed. “I wasn’t sure if I should come say hi. I didn’t want to...”

“Hurt me?” I offered.

He nodded, looking down at the drink in his hand. “Yeah.”

I bit my lip. “Lando, I’ve been hurt since the day I walked away.”

His head snapped up, eyes meeting mine. “So have I.”

We slipped outside onto the terrace, away from the noise and the music and the stares. The air was cool, the sea shimmering under the moonlight.

“I thought letting you go would make things easier,” I admitted, wrapping my arms around myself. “I thought we’d drift apart and it would stop hurting.”

“But it didn’t,” he finished for me.

I shook my head. “No. I miss you.”

His jaw tightened. “God, Y/N… I miss everything. The way you laugh. The way you always bring a book on flights. Even the way you steal half my hoodies.”

“I still wear them,” I confessed. “That grey one with the faded print? I sleep in it.”

He gave a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I was going mad. Every time I saw something funny, I’d reach for my phone to text you. Every time I had a bad day, you were the person I wanted.”

“You were always my person, Lando,” I whispered. “Even when we weren’t… working.”

He stepped closer. “We stopped working because we stopped talking. We let the schedules and the travel and the pressure get between us. But I never stopped loving you.”

My eyes burned. “I didn’t either.”

“Then let me fix it,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Let’s stop pretending we’re better off without each other when we both know that’s a lie.”

A pause. A breath.

And then I nodded.

He took my hand, fingers curling around mine like they belonged there like they never should’ve let go in the first place.

“I don’t want perfect,” I said softly. “I just want you.”

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I needed to. But I didn’t. I tilted my head, meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted of relief and late-night tears and every word we’d never said.

When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine.

“We’re doing this differently this time,” he murmured.

“Better,” I agreed.

That night, under the stars and the sound of waves crashing somewhere below, I fell back into the arms I never truly wanted to leave. And for the first time in months, I felt whole again.