#he would just give dogs people names
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
The breeder seemed happy as he held up a little puppy, looked like an apple head chihuahua with brown fur and big, wet brown eyes that, while growling at everyone else, was looking up at him and wagging her little tail.
"Heh, look, got a brand new lil face for the pack! Call 'er Maxine, ain't she great?!"
#ch: mondo oowada#verse: talent swap#he would just give dogs people names#exhibit A: chuck#open starter
155 notes
·
View notes
Text
Me, episode 1: Oh, a relatable protag! And a relatable female protag, at that. Sweet! That never happens.
Me, a few episodes in: Wait, the protag really is going to be my character? The one I identify with the most? Seriously? It's not going to be a strange, at least somewhat sinister, seemingly hostile male side character? It's gonna be a female character and the protagonist? That's insane, that literally never happens... what's the catch??
Me, more than halfway through the season: ... huh, I guess Maomao really is it. Okay, then ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ
Me to myself, after episodes 22/23:
#i let my guard down#i should have known#like really i should know better by now lmao#that's probably the best depiction of prosopagnosia i've seen in fiction ngl#also luo//men's suggestion re: using other attributes to tell people apart??#A++ approach what a guy#mine isn't nearly as severe but i totally use footsteps/gait/mannerisms as my primary means of distinguishing people#the very few people i care about i can definitely recognize by facial features#and people i see frequently; though i do have trouble recognizing them if they appear in a context i'm not used to#like. if i were to see one of my sword classmates at my workplace for instance i would have trouble recognizing them#but anyone else? forget it#the most difficult part of working veterinary front desk was returning animals to their owners#bc even though i could have /just/ spoken with the owners like. ten minutes ago#i couldn't tell you which animal belonged to which owner#faces just don't register with me#dogs were easier in that i'd just let them lead me to their owners#but if it was a cat in a carrier i was fucked lmaooo#it's why if there was another receptionist working i'd let them handle any hand offs XDD#i don't remember most of my childhood but i have some very vivid impressions of moments like#my mother asking me to go give a cash tip to the hairdresser who did her hair and me being unable to pick who it was out#of everyone that was working even though i'd been there with them for two plus hours.#or like. taking the school bus home and being unable to recognize my bus monitor and so getting on the wrong bus#and also getting ridiculed about this by my parents lol. ah good times.#on the other hand i can easily recognize a dog i've met once or twice even years later. and remember their name.#i think it all mostly comes down to disinterest for me. i've tried to change this but it's just how i am#so. he's very relatable. painfully so#also the pragmatism and rationality and hyperfixating on things.#i've never hyperfixated on another person tho and i am so grateful for that every single day#i know in my bones it would be an absolute disaster XD#withoutwords
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
i don't wanna call that lobotomy tiktok misinfo, because it isn't really, it's just that thing where it's hard to condense history into a 1 minute clip without stripping some context
#this isn't at the mutuals who rbed it im just having a History Nerd Moment#like walter freeman was 100% a piece of shit#and ruined countless people's lives#and the bit about him wanted to preform lobotomy experiments on the Tuskegee syphilis patients#was true! he did want to do it but was dismissed#the thing is freeman didn't invent the lobotomy per se--he studied the technique from a portuguese doctor#named egaz moniz who was the earliest guy to research the connection between the brain and mental health#and he preformed his early experiments on rabbits dogs monkeys etc#freeman came from a long line of famous surgeons and wanted to make his mark#so when he was working on a psych ward and heard about about moniz's research he decided#he'd begin his own studies on the relation of the brain and mental health#going in with the idea of 'most illnesses have a physical cause so that must be the case for the brain as well'#im not giving him any leeway but at that time in history the only cure for mi they had was 'lock them away in an asylum forever'#so wanting to find an actual cure for mental illnesses was relatively noble but. he was not#he did want a cure but it was only so he could Make His Mark on History. when he observed personality changes in chimps#when they had their frontal lobes demaged he went 'ureka!' and decided that was it#it caused many serious complications but he didn't care because it stopped all physical symptoms (really people would just. sit there)#and he thought this was such a perfect solution he wanted to franchise the procedure. for lack of better words#(i'm running out of tags so i'll rb with some more hang on)
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
i have enjoyed watching these movies because to me adam myoc is just like them ykwim. he's big, a freak, likes killing ppl, the only thing stopping him from wearing a mask is the fact that his face is so expressionless that it practically is one.
#tho he can be quite tender with silas. but silas gives him the weird shit he wants. so it's not wholly altruistic lol#i was going to say âand i mean he isn't a freak about his momâ but i realized i have before explicitly written that him lying by silas' sid#was like lying beside his mother but. i. i didn't mean it like THAT#just that he has had so few instances of feeling comfort that he can only really compare it to that bc it's the only frame of ref he has#even tho... he did just try to kill him. but like. he asked him to so it's kind of fine ig. he didn't succeed but it's like. ah. he's just#a little guy to me really. him and jason are like. the same kind of guy in a way. tho adam doesn't really kill people for no reason#but it would appear to others that it didn't have a reason. but he's like. a dog. so you might think he's smiling but that's not what he's#doing ykwim..#as i have said before adam does technically have a last name(it's silas') but it's in the same way as when you take your dog to the vet and#it's like oh pancake lastname lol. but using âmyocâ is funnier 2 me lol. anyway look forward to more posts on here about them
1 note
·
View note
Text
Yandere knight who wants you instead of the princess.
Dead dove Do not Eat Tw. For noncon, MDNI, Fem pov
Yandere knight who has been training in the palace for a very long time. It's an honor for a commoner like him to even set foot into the castle walls, so he works earnestly.
Yandere knight who's been catching glimpses of not only the lovely princess throughout the years, but her handmaidens as well. You're a daughter of a somewhat lesser noble house, and therefore you have essentially been given to the royal family until you're eventually married off to another courtier.
But of all the noble ladies, who often ignore him, he finds you to be the most approachable and kind to him and the other squires. He's developed a bit of a crush on you over the years, and he eventually found it in himself to express his feelings. They were innocent and pure then, and he stood there blushing and awkward waiting for you to accept or deny. He would've taken a no from you. Really, he would have.
But then that pompous bitch got in the way.
The princess had you pulled away by her other attendants before you could answer, and she all but sneered at him.
"My maids are not for common rife like you to sully," she spat, a look of disdain carved on her delicate features.
Yandere knight who was deployed to the battlefront soon after. He spent years in misery knowing it was that royal woman's meddling that had both sent him here and stopped him from knowing how you truly felt.
Yandere knight who carved through foe upon foe with the flash of his sword while thinking of you. He would wipe blood from his face and wonder what it would take to have you. He resolves to become so renowned that he could have you and the respect he deserved all those years ago anyways.
Yandere knight who comes back as the hero of the nation. A parade is thrown for him upon his return, and flowers are thrown at his feet by the masses of people. He is awarded a noble title, a duke (impressive), a territory of land to manage, and the blessing to have the hand of any eligible lady in the land from the king.
The implication was for him to go for the princess, sitting there in a gown befitting of an engagement party. She wasn't the heir to the throne, and having a young, impressionable Duke to have and father a potential crown prince or princess was certainly a draw for her to act so sweet and lovely despite her previous attitudes. He had to use all the will in his body to hide his disdainful glare towards her. Instead, he strode up with a near giddy grin, breezed past the waiting royal, and knelt before you.
"[Name], I shall have you as my wife," He says with a beaming smile. You try to protest, but he's already sweeping you into his arms. The king seems surprised by his choice, but as he stares between Yandere Knight, lovestruck and beaming, and you, squirming and utterly shocked, he realizes that he cannot simply go back on his word. The king waves his hand, and your fate is sealed.
Yandere knight feels bad for not giving you a proper wedding. In fact, he feels bad about not taking you to your new home before he's pulling up your skirts. He's a dog, he knows, but you're just so tempting now that you're all his. He shoving you down onto the plush upholstery of the carriage seats, and you let out a startled cry.
Yandere knight who cannot claim he's chivalrous. He wishes he could, but he loves the way your breasts look pushed up so tightly in the laced bodice of yours. He lets out a groan, petting your hair and shushing you as you whimper under his wandering touch. Button after button becomes undone.
"Love, you'll never wear such stifling clothing again. You hear me? All robes and lace from now on. None of this nonsense," He murmurs into your skin. He pulled your corset and chemise from your body, and he pressed fervent kisses to the crook of your neck. He grasps at your breasts, kneading them experimentally. He's had time to experience women on the battlefield. A fling or two in some field on the outskirts of a freshly liberated village. He would think of you the whole time and imagine what he was latching his lips around the stiff peak of your nipple while a random girl cried out underneath him. But this was real. Your warmth beneath his much heavier form was on of the most beautiful feeling he had ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
He parted your legs, and he could feel you shy away from him. He laughed. As if you had a choice. He knew you would love him eventually, but for now you can't blame him for how ravenous he was as he felt between your shaking, parted legs. He smirked as his lips met yours. His fingers slid against your folds, gathering slick arousal on his digits with a curious hum. He grinds his thumb against your clit as he slowly pushes his way into your warm, spongy walls.
"Oh? Is it good there? Or here? Where, love? You gotta use your words," He teases and licks the tears rolling down your cheeks, peppering your soft skin with kisses. He feels you pulse and stretch around his hand, and he relishes the way your back arches when he curls his fingers just right against that sweet little spot. Desperate noises tumble out of you, and he smiles.
He pulls his fingers out, and you cry out at the sudden sensation. Your chest is heaving with small moans, and your pretty pussy is drooling onto the carriage cushions. He pushes your legs up to your chest for a better grip, and his shudders at the way your twitching feels against the head of his cock.
Yandere knight knows that, as he thrusts into you, he's going to enjoy the luxury of finally having you both under his body and under his control.
#my writing#yandere#tw yandere#yandere male#yandere x you#yandere x reader#x reader#fanfic writing#yandere knight#dead dove do not eat#yandere character#yandere x darling
7K notes
·
View notes
Text
During the 2008 recession, my aunt lost her job. Her, her partner, and my three cousins moved across the country to stay with us while they got back on their feet. My house turned from a family of four to a family of nine overnight, complete with three dogs and five cats between us.
It took a few years for them to get a place of their own, but after a few rentals and apartments, they now own a split level ranch in a town nearby. Iâve lost track of how many coworkers and friends have stayed with them when they were in a tight spot. A mother and son getting out of an abusive relationship, a divorcee trying to stay local for his kids while they work out a custody agreement, you name it. My aunt and uncle knew first hand what that kindness meant, and always find space for someone who needed it, the way my parents had for them.
That same aunt and uncle visited me in [redacted] city last year. They are prolific drinkers, so we spent most of the day bar hopping. As we wandered the city, any time we passed a homeless person, my uncle would pull out a fresh cigarette and ask them if they had a light. Regardless of if they had a lighter on hand or not, he offered them a few bucks in exchange, which he explained to me after was because he felt it would be easier for them to accept in exchange for a service, no matter how small.
I work for a company that produces a lot of fabric waste. Every few weeks, I bring two big black trash bags full of discarded material over to a woman who works down the hall. She distributes them to local churches, quilting clubs, and teachers who can use them for crafts. Sheâs currently in the process of working with our building to set up a recycling program for the smaller pieces of fabric that are harder to find use for.
One of my best friends gives monthly donations to four or five local organizations. Sheâs fortunate enough to have a tech job that gives her a good salary, and she knows that a recurring donation is more valuable to a non-profit because they can rely on that money month after month, and can plan ways to stretch that dollar for maximum impact. One of those organizations is a native plant trust, and once sheâs out of her apartment complex and in a home with a yard, she has plans to convert it into a haven of local flora.
My partner works for a company that is working to help regulate crypto and hold the current bad actors in the space accountable for their actions. We unfortunately live in a time where technology develops far too fast for bureaucracy to keep up with, but just because people use a technology for ill gain doesnât mean the technology itself is bad. The blockchain is something that she finds fascinating and powerful, and she is using her degree and her expertise to turn it into a tool for good.
I knew someone who always had a bag of treats in their purse, on the odd chance they came across a stray cat or dog, they had something to offer them.
I follow artists who post about every local election they know of, because they know their platform gives them more reach than the average person, and that they can leverage that platform to encourage people to vote in elections that get less attention, but in many ways have more impact on the direction our country is going to go.
All of this to say, thereâs more than one way to do good in the world. Social media leads us to believe that the loudest, the most vocal, the most prolific poster is the most virtuous, but they are only a piece of the puzzle. (And if virtue for virtues sake is your end goal, youâve already lost, but thatâs a different post). Community is built of people leveraging their privileges to help those without them. We need people doing all of those things and more, because no individual can or should do all of it. You would be stretched too thin, your efforts valiant, but less effective in your ambition.
None of this is to encourage inaction. Identify your unique strengths, skills, and privileges, and put them to use. Determine what causes are important to you, and commit to doing what you can to help them. Collective action is how change is made, but donât forget that we need diversity in actions taken.
22K notes
·
View notes
Text
Kid?
Logan Howlett x fem!mutant!reader A/N: I havenât watched X-Men since I was a child, so I canât promise this is going to be canon-compliant. I havenât watched DP & W either, Iâve just been influenced by that one gif where Hugh Jackman shakes his head like a dog. I feel FERAL Also, I am not good at superhero names or coming up with creative powers. So youâre a mutant with matter manipulation and they call you Flux. I mean, superhero names are inherently ridiculous so I think this works. (Donât judge me, Iâm just here for the sexy man) Summary: You walk in on Logan and Jean in a compromising position and feel your heart break. You really thought he loved you, you were so wrong. (Or were you?)
It was your own fault, you should have knocked before you busted through the door. You only have yourself to blame as you struggle to catch your breath and swallow down the lump in your throat. The image of Logan standing between Jeanâs bare legs is going to haunt you for a while. Their faces will keep you awake at night, cringing at yourself while you remember the humiliating moment.Â
You rush towards the door, a stupidly giddy skip to your step. You were a mutant, a superhuman, and getting a chance to talk to your crush should not have you giggling like a schoolgirl. Still, youâre blind to all logic when it comes to Logan.Â
You turn the corner, spotting the medbay and nearly ramming into the door you know heâs lurking behind. Charles had told you where to find him. Of course, you hadnât paid attention to the odd tone of voice when he had very clearly warned you to knock. All youâd heard was Loganâs name and youâd zoned out for the rest of the conversation.Â
And, of course, you donât knock. You grab the doorâs handle and bust in, âHey!â Your eyes widen and your stomach plummets with a depressing plop to the floor. Your eyes nearly bug out of your head when you see the way Jean and Logan are entangled in each other. Heâs leaning over her, the muscles and veins in his neck pulsing with strain. Normally, that sight would have you nearly drooling.Â
Instead, all you can see is the flush on Jeanâs cheeks and the way her pupils are dilated with want. Her nails are digging into his back, bare legs twined around his waist. Thereâs no way to misinterpret this. No way for you to later assure yourself that this was all just a misunderstanding.Â
The words stumble out of your mouth in a disjointed mess that even you canât decipher. You stand there, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water before you finally get it together. âCharles,â you stutter out, his name sounding like a question. You wince and finally tear your gaze away from them. âSorry,â you chuckle, trying to play off your hurt as humor. âCharles needs us all for a mission.â
You donât give them a chance to respond, you slam the door closed, ignoring what you think might be someone calling your name.Â
You shake off the mortifying memory and groan. Your head falls into your hands and you grip at your face until the pain distracts you from the embarrassment. Itâs not too hard to push it all down, to pretend what happened didnât make your heart crumble away into nothing.
Maybe itâs because youâre a mutant that youâre so used to rejection. Youâre used to constantly being disappointed by people around you. Your childhood was nothing but cruelty, your crush not liking you back canât compare to half of what you went through.Â
Thatâs what you tell yourself, at least, to try and pretend it doesnât hurt as much as it does. You shove it down until you think you canât feel that dull ache anymore. And when Jean and Logan walk into the room, looking more put together, you smile at Logan like you always do. It doesnât turn down at the corners, your eyes donât water. You take in a deep breath and look utterly unaffected.Â
He sits down beside you and leans towards you. âI can explain-â
You cut him off and shake your head. âForget about it. I should have knocked.â You turn towards Charles who wheels himself to the front of the room. You dismiss Logan and ignore the way his stare burns into the side of your head.Â
Charles looks to Jean and Logan, a smile starting. Then his gaze drifts towards you and your chest deflates when you see the look on his face. He knows, the old miser probably coasted over your thoughts and he knows. He sends you a sympathetic look that makes you feel like a little girl who just got told unicorns donât exist. âJean, Logan, glad that youâve finally joined us.â
Logan nods and leans back in his chair. But his eyes remain fixed on you and it makes you wish you could stab a fork into them. You let out a short, irritated huff of air and frown at yourself. Maybe you were a little more angry than you would like to admit.Â
You blame Logan for that. You never would have fallen so deep into infatuation if you hadnât believed there was even a sliver of a chance with him. Always speaking so kindly with you when he would barely spare anyone a second glance. Constantly doing checkups on you after a particularly harsh training session with Charles.Â
Your mind runs over all the small things with him, everything youâve done together. And youâre hit with a sudden nauseating thought. Oh my god, what if he sees me paternally?
You force yourself not to physically react but inside your throwing up and fucking freaking out. You feel a sudden spark of alarm from Charles and quickly do your best to fortify your mind so he doesnât see your major mental freakout.Â
Youâre not that much younger than him. Well, itâs not illegal, your crush on Logan. But what if this entire time, when youâve been falling harder and harder for him, heâs just been platonically taking care of you? Youâve seen him do it plenty of times for the younger kids, as reluctant as he is to admit it.Â
Youâre spiraling further and further into panic. So much so that you have no idea whatâs even being discussed or whatâs going on. You get onto the jet and have to ask Storm what youâre doing. She gives you a confused look but tells you nonetheless. Just some recon on a potential mutant trafficking ring. Nothing out of the ordinary, as depressing as that is. There shouldnât be much violence, which is why your group is particularly small today.
You nod your head, moving like youâre in a daze as you throw yourself onto a seat. Logan sits beside you, an alarmed look on his face. âYou alright, kid?â
The nickname, which is used to make your stomach flutter, makes you want to throw up. How have you missed it for this long? It was laid out so plainly before you. Of course, he doesnât want you. Not when he has perfect Jean. Bile rises in your throat with a vicious ferocity when you glare over at Jean.Â
Thereâs a sudden petty, vindictive rage fueling you. The type you should have abandoned in high school, especially now that youâre grown. Instead, you feel like giving into Loganâs idea of what you are. You feel like reacting to all of this petulantly.Â
You ignore Logan and instead catch Jeanâs eyes. Slowly, and with as much intention as you can force into your gaze, you look from her to Logan and then Scott. Her eyes widen and Logan scoffs beside you. She shakes her head minutely, silently begging you not to say anything. You smile at her and stand up.
You take a step towards Scott and Logan calls out an irritated, âKid.â You ignore him and Jean eyes you warily as you approach. She stands like sheâs ready to fight you and take the jet down just to keep you quiet. You reach Scott and can hear the way Jean takes in a sharp breath.Â
âScott,â he looks up at you with his brows raised. There's a pause before you speak. Dragged on too long for Scott not to realize youâre planning something.Â
Jean takes a step towards you and you grin, âMind checking my cuffs?â Scott gives you an odd look and his confusion only gets worse as Jean slumps onto the seat beside him. Sheâs not even trying to hide her relief. Scott shakes his head and holds his hands out, fingers gently probing around the cuffs on your wrists. The ones that keep your powers in check.Â
Youâre still new to welding them. And theyâre too entwined with your emotions for you to just have free range with them. If you hadnât had the cuffs on this morning, youâre afraid you might have just turned everything around you into nothing but dust.
âThey look fine, Flux.â His tone betrays his thoughts. He doesnât know why youâd come to him for this when itâs Charles who usually deals with it. But this stupid, petty little display wasnât for poor oblivious Scott. It was for the woman sitting next to him. The redhead whose still drilling holes into your skull.Â
Youâve got leverage over her that youâve never had before. Scott wouldnât take her little foray with Logan very well. And all it would take is a flick of your wrist to give him a very clear image of exactly what youâd seen. Then, her picture-perfect relationship would be over in a matter of seconds. Youâre sure Logan would be more than pleased. But he doesnât seem to understand that Jean just wants to have fun with him, sheâd never choose him over Scott.Â
âThanks,â thereâs a bite to your tone that youâre not used to. You usually keep your emotions relatively in control. That way you wonât have to wear these cuffs one day. But you feel volatile today. Youâre channeling your hurt and turning it into misguided anger.Â
You drop your wrists to your sides and stalk toward the front, hovering behind Charleâs and Stormâs chairs so you donât have to look at the others. It doesnât take long for you to feel the floor trembling under heavy booted steps.Â
Loganâs arms rest on the headrest of the chairs, bracketing you in between them so you canât escape. He leans forward until his chest is pushed against yours and you can feel every ridge of his muscled torso pressing into you. You try not to suck in a breath, try not to play into the cliche of instantly forgetting why youâre angry when youâre faced with those muscles of his. It is hard, though, because heâs so handsome and so warm and you just want to melt into him.Â
âWanna explain what the hell that was?â His voice is so low, whispering against the shell of your ear so only you can hear. You feel the vibrations of it against your back, his tone more gravelly than it should be.Â
You glance over your shoulder at him, face placid and blank. âWhat? Just needed some help.â Storm looks over at you both and rolls her eyes.Â
Logan opens his mouth to say something but she cuts him off. âPut a pin in the loverâs spat, weâre landing.â Using just a bit of your power, you push Logan off of you and head towards the back of the jet. Thereâs a slight jolt as you land and then the ramp opens up and youâre practically running into the snowy forest.Â
You donât know where you are, mainly because you werenât paying attention, you just know it's fucking freezing. The leather of your suit isnât doing much to help fight against the chill. Charles stays on the jet and reminds you all that this is only meant to be recon. Youâre partnered up with Logan, and as much as it irritates you, youâre not stupid enough to argue against it.
You have to put aside your personal grievances for this mission. You canât risk the safety of mutants because the guy you like likes another girl. Logan seems pleased about it, stubbornly staying by your side even when you make it clear you want space.Â
You both linger behind the otherâs as Storm leads you through the forest. Jean is being more touchy with Scott than normal. Either to assuage her own guilt or to rub it in Loganâs face, youâre not sure which. You nearly gag as you watch them whisper to one another, you glance over at Logan to see if he notices.Â
Youâre startled when you see him already staring at you. His lips tick up into something mischievous when he catches your eye. That smug smirk on his face as he leans in towards you. âWanna tell me whatâs got you so pissed off?â
You roll your eyes and tamp down the rising tide of anger. âNothing,â you bite out, jaw clenching the longer you stare at the back of Jeanâs head. Youâre surprised you havenât chipped a tooth with how hard youâre grinding your teeth together.Â
He scoffs, not believing you for a second. He doesnât say anything, just gives you an expectant stare. You can taste the words forming on your tongue, an irritating urge to just spill your guts overcoming you. Before you can stop yourself you blurt out, âIâm a little surprised thatâs all.â
âOh yeah, âbout what?â You hate how amused he sounds, the chuckle just lying in wait under his words. Like your anger is funny to him, like he didnât just break your stupid fucking heart.Â
You stop walking, not feeling as intimidating as you want while you shiver and huddle into yourself. He seems perfectly at ease in his leather jacket and beater, still refusing to wear the uniform. He leans back and looks at you with a fondness that you canât tell if you love or hate. âYou and little Miss Perfect.â You spit the nickname with enough venom to make both of your eyes widen.Â
Logan rolls his eyes and takes a step towards you, again, Storm interrupts you both. âGuys, really?â Everyone turns around to stare and you will the heat in your face away. âNot the time,â she scolds and you brush past Logan to catch up with the others.Â
You come upon a warehouse, itâs nearly camouflaged under all the snow. You see two guards waiting outside the metal doors and you all disperse behind the trees. Storm glances towards Jean who focuses on the guards. They drop to the floor and you wave your hands, their guns melting into puddles of metal.Â
Logan and Scott move forward, sliding the large metal doors open. You wince at the loud screeching as the rust flakes off the sides. Thereâs a collective quiet as you all hold your breath, waiting for them to give the all-clear. Once they run inside and run back out, you and the others quickly get to your feet and rush into the warehouse. Logan closes the doors again as you make it inside.Â
âNo one here?â Storm checks. Scott shakes his head and you frown. That doesnât make any sense. Why would there be guards if there was nothing inside?
Your question is, unfortunately, answered a minute later. You find a pile of metal crates stacked on top of each other. A large beige tarp covers them. You tug at the corner, letting the fabric slide off. Your eyes flutter with disappointment, âGuys! Over here,â mutants sit inside the crates. Each of them stares at you with varying degrees of mistrust and fear.Â
As awful as it is, youâve gotten used to these quiet depressing missions. There arenât usually many mutants in one place. They donât like to keep the product in one spot for too long. There are only four kids here. The youngest is eleven and the oldest is seventeen. Thereâs nothing physically telling about their abilities so you assume it must be psychic powers.Â
They donât want to come with you until you all give them a demonstration of your powers. Proving that youâre not just trapping them and taking them somewhere worse. Youâre nearly out the door when Charles's voice rings loudly through all of your minds.Â
You wince at the volume, hands coming up to grip at your hair as he shouts, âBehind you!â A gunshot rings out, something hot rips across your wrist and you gasp in pain. Thereâs a clatter of metal as your cuff drops to the ground, the bullet having destroyed it. Without them both, theyâre useless. One wonât work without the other.Â
You glance up at Logan, a panicked look on your face. You can already feel the tidal wave of power thrashing and building in your chest. Itâs been so long with the safety net that you forgot how bad it gets without the cuffs.Â
âWe need to get you out of here!â He shouts over the gunfire. He herds the group behind a cluster of metal shipment boxes. It provides enough cover for you all to try and figure out an escape plan.Â
You listen to the otherâs worried voices, each of them trying to console the kids. You donât know their powers yet. Donât know what might go wrong if they get too scared and canât control their abilities.Â
You canât speak, breaths coming short and fast as you clutch your wrist to your chest. You know itâs delusional, hoping that if you keep a tight grip like the cuff you might be able to control yourself. You can already feel the energy leaking out of you, the ends of everyoneâs hair stands on end. The wall in front of you warps and cracks like it canât decide if itâs liquid or solid.Â
You grit your teeth and look only at Storm. âYou need to get out,â you force the words out. It causes physical pain to try and keep everything at bay. You can feel pressure building in your forehead, pushing out until you think you might explode.Â
âWeâre not leaving you,â Logan snaps. Thereâs shouting going on behind you, a pause as they all reload their guns.Â
âWasnât a question,â you grit out. You look towards Jean and thereâs a moment where you both put aside your differences. You both know how stubborn he is, how much heâll fight against leaving you behind. Regenerative powers or not, it's dangerous to even be close to your gift now. You can see them all straining against the ebbing flow of your powers. Their skin shifts unnaturally like youâre already altering the atoms of their being.Â
This is why youâre only allowed to train with Charles and Jean. They can get in your head, shut it down when you canât. Youâre not sure youâre going to survive yourself. Logan glances between the two of you and practically growls at Jean, âDonât you fuckinâ dare-â
His words trail off into an unintelligible slur as he slumps forward, Jean having knocked him out with her powers. Scott grabs him and grunts under the weight of his body. âIâll cover you,â you gasp the words out. Anything but focusing on your powers causes physical strain that makes you feel like youâre being tugged in a hundred different directions. âJust get them out,â you nod towards the kids.Â
Storm nods and you slip out of cover. It isnât hard to push your powers in one direction, to solidify the air in front of you so the bullets ricochet harmlessly off. You listen to the whine of the metal door and wait for the others to be gone.Â
âTheyâre in the jet,â Charles's voice rings out. âDonât do this,â he warns. You canât think of a response, youâre not even sure what you would say. You never thought you would be able to approach death this calmly, or that this would be how you die. It feels almost pathetic, dying because you lost control on a recon mission.Â
At least those kids are safe. Itâs not a bad reason to die. Just not great. You glance down at the other cuff on your right hand, the air around it fluctuates until it melts off your wrist like liquid metal. With the last barely there tether off your powers, you close your eyes and release the tidal wave.Â
It feels like a dam exploding. It doesnât leak fluidly from you, it rips through you like a hailstorm of knives. Tears apart anything in its path and rewrites the molecular build of everything in its path. Screams echo through the air as menâs bones turn into brittle dust and their hearts morph into something inorganic. Youâre blind to everything around you, vision clouded by the horrific release of energy.Â
You can feel warmth leaking down your face. Blood still pours from the wound on your wrist, and fresh blood from other wounds you canât even feel. You donât know when the screams stop, or when youâre finally drained. But you feel like an empty husk as you drop to the floor, your head bouncing harshly against the cement as everything goes black.Â
âIâm gonna kill you,â Logan says with a grin, glaring at Scott even though itâs Charles who is holding him back. Heâs got a firm mental grasp on Logan, keeping him locked into place while he focuses on the warehouse.Â
Theyâre waiting for the all-clear. The others know thereâs always the possibility that theyâre going to be collecting a body. But none of them are willing to say that, not with the look on Loganâs face. His muscles look ready to pop out of his skin with how much heâs fighting against Charlesâs hold.Â
Scott backs away from Logan with a scoff. He stands near Jean, but she canât take her eyes off the restrained man. Nothing had happened this morning, Flux had seen to that. Interrupting them just as theyâd started. Seeing the way heâs acting now, sheâs starting to believe that nothing is ever going to happen.Â
Heâd looked like he was about to dismiss her when she started making a move. She can see the anger on his face, it seems heâs only ever pissed off. But underneath that, as much as he hides it, she can see the fear. Heâs terrified that they're going to walk in there and youâre going to be dead.Â
Jean can feel the fear of the others as well. Theyâve only seen you lose control once and that had almost leveled the mansion. Charles had stopped you then, but the loss of the cuff had been so sudden Jean just barely had enough strength to keep the others blocked from your powers. She didnât have enough time to shut you down.Â
Jean, as much as sheâs tried to deny it and dismiss her suspicions, canât look Logan in the eye and ignore it anymore. Itâs never been her that heâs wanted. The way he trails along beside you, always prodding and poking until youâre pissy and mouthing off. Itâs not done because he finds antagonizing people fun, it's because he loves seeing you all worked up and passionate. He doesnât view you through the same platonic lens he does the others. Youâre something else to him, something she doesnât want to name, afraid of the bitter taste it will leave on her tongue.Â
Charles slumps back in his chair and Logan suddenly lunges forward. He looks a little surprised by the sudden freedom of movement, but before any of them can stop him heâs running out of the jet. âLogan,â Jean tries to call after him but heâs already a distant blur.Â
Scott sighs and starts down the ramp. âCome on,â he mutters. Heâs the last one who should be coming along. If anything is wrong with you, heâll end up being Loganâs punching bag. Jean follows reluctantly, sheâs not sure she wants to see whatâs happened.Â
Your powers are too similar in their volatile nature. The way they rule you and come so close to destroying you when you use them too much, is too familiar to Jean. She doesnât want to see you lying dead on the floor and be reminded of her own mortality. But someone needs to make sure Logan is stuck on a leash.Â
They reach where the warehouse should be. Itâs nothing but a pile of rubble now. Throughout the wreckage, Jean can make out odd pools of liquid, some writhing, others still. She can only assume that these had been the men shooting at them. She doesnât see your body, none of them do. But Logan isnât giving up.Â
He lifts different pieces of metal and tosses them off into the forest. Jean doesnât sense your presence anywhere but she doesnât have the heart to tell Logan to give up. After a few minutes of searching, she almost tells him to quit. But she canât see him anymore. Heâs disappeared somewhere behind a particularly large pile of roofing. A moment later, Logan stands up. His jacket is gone, wrapped around the body in his arms. None of them are close enough to see if youâre breathing. And he doesnât say a word as he brushes past them, just keeps going back to the jet. Ororo, Scott, and Jean all share a silent look. None of them prepared for the potential fallout thatâs going to happen after this.Â
The first thing you feel is two familiar bands of metal around your wrists. The comforting feeling of the cuffs is enough to have you sinking further into the pillows surrounding you. Then you hear the beeping in your ear, feel the cool blow of AC, and become startlingly aware of the fact that youâre in a bed you donât recognize.Â
You groan, eyes peeling open painfully as your lashes get stuck on your skin. You reach up to rub at your face but your arms feel too weak to lift. You give up on the thought, instead staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your vision to refocus.Â
A throat clears in front of you and you nearly jump out of your skin. Sitting at the end of your bed, arms crossed and a fierce glare on his face is Logan. His feet are propped up on the small table beside you. He quirks a brow and gives you a sardonic grin, âFinally awake, princess?â
Normally the name would have you up and doing somersaults, but thereâs something distinctly negative and disappointed lacing his tone. It squashes any and all butterflies in your stomach. You grimace as you try and sit up. Logan is up in an instant, an annoyed look still on his face as he helps you up.Â
You canât help your dopey smile at how gentle his hands are on you. Even pissed off, he treats you so kindly. Maybe itâs the drugs relaxing you, or the fact that you almost died, but you canât remember whatever made you mad at him. You can only feel the slide of his calloused hands against your arms, the way you shiver under his touch and crave more.Â
He pulls the chair closer to you with a loud scratch of metal feet on the linoleum. You groan at the loud sound and he huffs, throwing himself down in the seat. âHow do you feel?â
Your head sinks back against the wall and you finally realize youâre in the medbay. Itâs why everything smells so sterile. âLike I got hit by a semi.â
He barely lets you finish your thought before he spits out, âWhat the fuck were you thinking?â He doesnât ease you into this at all and you frown. Youâre not sure why you would expect him to ever beat around the bush. Thatâs not his style, heâs always been blunt. Even when others wish he wouldnât be.Â
âWhat else was I supposed to do?â You ask, voice weak. Your throat feels like itâs been ripped apart. Idly, you wonder if you had been screaming in the warehouse or if this was just general strain from the whole ordeal.Â
âNot put yourself at risk like that.â He leans forward, voice stern and bordering on shouting. You know heâs holding back. As much as he wants to lay into you right now, heâs stopping himself from going completely out of his mind. You appreciate it, but you almost wish he would just yell at you. You wish you had a reason to resent him, to finally get over him. âNot have Jean knock me out like that. You donât get to make those decisions for me.â
Itâs completely inappropriate and horrible timing, but you canât help but scoff at the mention of Jeanâs name. Can you not have one conversation thatâs not tainted by the mention of the redhead?
Loganâs mouth snaps shut and he glares at you in disbelief. You squeeze your eyes shut, not willing to face him as embarrassment washes over you. No wonder he always calls you kid. Youâre not exactly acting like an adult. Youâre being a brat and for such a stupid reason too.Â
Just because you like him doesnât mean he has to reciprocate. You canât just force your feelings on someone. âLogan,â you whisper his name, âSorry. Iâm sorry-â
He cuts you off before you can finish. Some of the anger, but not all, has ebbed from his expression. He almost looks like heâs smiling. âJean? Thatâs what this is about? Jealous or something, sweetheart?â
You sputter, shocked little noises leaving you but no words. After a solid minute of restarting a sentence you donât know how to end you finally land on a squeaky, âWho?â If you werenât so mortified, you might have just thrown yourself out the window. Out of every cop-out you could have gone with you chose to just pretend you didnât know who she was. Maybe you could make this work, like selective amnesia.Â
Your shame only builds as Logan laughs. You cover your face and wish you could bury yourself six feet deep and never come up. You feel two rough hands wrap around your wrists, tugging your own away from your face. You donât have the energy to fight back, so you keep your eyes on his chin. Too afraid to meet his gaze.Â
âCome on,â he mutters, gently nudging your chin up until youâre forced to look at him. You're caught off guard by the look in his eyes. You recognize it, but youâd only ever seen it directed at Jean. Itâs the same way youâve always looked at him. Pure unguarded want and desire.Â
The hand on your chin drifts back, fingers tangling in your hair and gently resting on your jaw. He tugs you forward until your lips are nearly touching, breaths mingling with every exhale. âOnly ever wanted you, darlin'.ââ
The kiss catches you off guard. It shouldnât, deep down you knew it was coming, but the intensity behind it, the way you can practically taste how bad he wants this, wants you, catches you off guard. You lean into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting yourself melt into his hold.Â
His free hand drifts to your waist and clutches the flimsy hospital gown until you hear it tear. You part your lips, deepening the kiss so you can finally taste him. Itâs cigars and whiskey, something you should hate but is entirely intoxicating when heâs holding you so tightly. Fireworks are going off in your mind, sparks darting between your fingers as the cuffs struggle to contain all the energy suddenly pushing out of you.Â
He can feel you holding back, squeezing you like itâs a promise he can take it. Take everything you throw at him. You let go as much as your cuffs will allow you. Let the energy blanket you both so you canât hear your heart monitor going off like crazy. So you donât feel anything other than each other. You think youâre going to devour each other like youâll just keep kissing until neither of you can take it anymore. You donât want to let go of him, donât want to lose this moment.Â
But you have to breathe. You donât get to just keep living the way he does. You pull away from him slowly, every part of you dreading separating from him. His forehead drops against your own, his laughter playing along your lips as he finally hears the monitor going haywire.Â
You groan, flicking your wrist and shutting it off so it canât betray how flustered you are anymore. He gently nudges you aside so he can sit beside you on the bed. You donât waste a second before youâre draping yourself across his chest and siphoning his warmth. He chuckles, arms coming up to wrap around you.Â
âCanât believe you were jealous of Jean.â
âShut up,â you snipe. You look up at him and glare, âHow else do you explain what you two were doing?â
He leans forward and gives you a smug grin. âShe came onto me, sweetheart.â Your face screws up in distaste and jealousy. Sheâs going to need to learn to keep her hands to herself. He seems to feel the way you tense up, he huffs in amusement and rubs your back. âRelax, youâre gonna blow your fuse again.â
You glance down at your wrists and nuzzle further into him. You canât believe you could have been laying on him this whole time. You never want to use a blanket again, not when youâve got him. âIâll be fine now that Iâve got my cuffs.â
His hand stills on your bicep. He squeezes it before his hand drifts up to your chin and he tilts your face up again. âI donât ever want to see that again.â Youâre a little surprised by the sudden shift in tone, but you knew this was coming.Â
âI had to, Logan. I either took you all down with me or I went on my own.â
Logan frowns and takes in a deep breath. You place a hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. He smiles down at you, âNext time, take me with you. Iâm not fucking dealing with Summers without you.â
You canât help but chuckle. Your face grows warm and your chest expands with some odd gleeful feeling as he laces your fingers together. âDeal,â you whisper, still smiling at him.Â
A/N: Okay, this might be shit, Iâm not sure. I sort of rushed the ending because as I was writing this I had another idea for him. I guess Iâm officially off my hiatus.Â
end. â I do not own the characters or the comics/movies Wolverine/X-Men, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2024. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.
#wolverine x reader#Wolverine x you#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett#logan howlett x you#x men#deadpool and wolverine#Wolverine
6K notes
·
View notes
Text
Toji who got really drunk after a misunderstanding you left him to ponder upon one morning when you left for work. You missed a part of your routinely goodbye to him and at first it didn't bother him. He understood that you were running late, but once he started chugging the cold drinks and he sat with the sentiment, he realized it did strike him.
He hated the entire process of getting drunk, hated that drinking was unbearable unless it was chased with sweet kisses from you, but there he was, downing bottle after bottle. He was starting to feel liquid full but even in this intoxicated state he didn't want to put down the bottles. At some point he starting feeling uncomfortable being by himself and didn't want to feel that way anymore, so he called and texted you. Multiple times. You finally picked up after the eighth call.
-Hi, baby! Sorry, I missed your calls. I just left work and i'm heading home.-
-Baby? Who are you calling baby?- He scoffs, a roll of his eyes following.
-You... Toji. It's you. Who else would I be calling baby?-
-Honestly, I...- He laughs, the sound not coming off as one of joy with the next words he speaks. -I didn't think you even loved me enough to give me stupid pet names. I feel very unloved by you and... mhm, just want you to know that.-
Now, that's just entirely untrue and it hurts to hear. You prove your love for him every day. What is this sudden false claim against you?
-Toji, love, what are you saying? I'm coming home, already. Maybe we should talk in person. This is hard to discuss over the phone.-
-Uh-huh, you do that.- He sighs, heavily, his eyes lidding with sluggishness. -Can't win a verbal argument, s-so you're gonna come over here and try to seduce me with your pretty face. I'm just gonna say no when you try to touch me. Just no.-
-I'll see you in a bit, Toji.- you say, before abruptly hanging up.
He sounded off. You knew something was up the second you saw his eight missed calls and a stack of messages just saying 'hey'.
Your keys jingled as you pulled them out of your bag to unlock the front door. The house was steady, no sign of Toji watching TV in the living room or of the shower running. You walked further in, calling his name. It was kind of eery walking through your silent house. You also knew of Toji's tendency of scaring you, so you were on guard for that as you paced around the house. You had one more room to check and it was the bedroom. You dragged your feet over to the room, knocking when you noticed the door was closed. There was no answer after two more knocks so you just opened the door.
The sound startled Toji who was lying against the headboard of the bed, almost falling asleep. The second he saw you his demeanor changed. He perked up like a dog when their owner comes home, before melting back to the stoic state he had been sitting in.
"Hey," you say, almost tentatively, as you walk towards your shared bed, sitting down on the edge. You're met with an acknowledging hum of a response. "What's wrong, baby?"
"There you go calling me baby again. Baby is for people who love each other, so stop it."
You look over the bed, spotting the evidence that led to the bite in his attitude towards youâ those bottles that spill the remaining drops of their content and Toji's backwash onto the bed, making the sheets reek of alcohol.
"Well, I love you, so no, i'm not gonna stop calling you baby."
He crosses his arms over his chest, huffing like a child. "That so? It didn't seem that way this morning. I've never felt so forgotten about by you."
"I told you I was gonna be late for work, but you insisted on keeping me trapped beneath you. Bring that part to light, handsome." You can see the corners of his lips twitching. He's holding back the most wicked smirk at the short burst of memories from the morning. "Plus, I still gave you your goodbye kiss, so what are you on about?"
"You didn't say 'I love you'. That's part of goodbye with you, so you can't blame me for feeling this way." His eyes express something of hurt. Maybe it's enhanced by the drinks he had, but you can't leave him that way.
"You're loved, baby. Very much so. Me not saying it this one time doesn't diminish the actual feeling." He's been reduced to a cub over this, so as his lover, you step in to mend the feelings that were grazed.
"Can you..." he rasps, patting his thigh, signaling for you to sit. You drag yourself towards him, and plop yourself onto his lap. You can smell the alcohol on his breath as he rambles on about how you can't forget to say 'I love you' to him ever again, even if it's a blurted, rushed one that he doesn't get a chance to respond to as you rush out the door.
The look he reserves for you is entirely soft, his hands are hot against your clothed back as they feel the warm body he's missed for hours. "I still..." he pauses to sigh, tiredness imbued into the sound. "Still want you to call me baby," he starts again. "I was just bummed. Don't stop calling me baby. Don't ever do that." He's letting his hands roam all over you. Your back, your waist, your hipsâeverything.
"Are you gonna let me touch you or are you gonna say 'no'?" You grin, remembering his words, verbatim, just incase he tries to tell you he never said them.
"Why aren't you touching me? Why would I not want you to touch me?" He looks insulted by the question and you have half a mind to remind him of what he said to you on the phone, but the heat in his eyes dies out as quickly as it appeared. "Really need a hug, mama. Please, hug," he says, the last part muffled by your chest as he keeps his face buried into it.
You held him tight and murmured 'I love you' countless times, while he hummed in response and groaned quietly as you ran your fingers through his hair.
#toji#fushiguro toji#jjk toji#jujutsu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen toji#jujutsu toji#toji fushiguro#toji fushiguro x reader#toji x reader#toji x y/n#fushiguro toji x reader#toji x you#toji fluff#toji fushiguro x you#jjk fushiguro#jujutsu kaisen x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen scenarios#jjk x y/n#jjk drabbles#jjk scenarios#jjk x you#jjk x reader#jjk fluff#jjk
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Found this while going through my fanfic files, and i absolutely had to share.
Danny: i want in
Red robin: âŠwhat?
Danny: your bat family. I want in.
Red robin, blinking in surprise: i dont know what you think you know about my associates, but we're not-
Danny: dont be obtuse. I know youre the smart one. And i also know that your all one big relatively happy family. I want in.
Red robin: âŠwhy?
Danny: because you guys are the first people ive found that are wealthy, intelligent and powerful enough to take on my fruitloop godfather and win AND are decent enough human beings that i can be assured that when all is said and done, my well-being will remain a top priority.
Orphan, appearing out of nowhere: new brother!
Danny: *stares in shock*
Danny: *sudden uncanny grin* well that's one convinced. How do i win over the rest?
Orphan: no need. New brother!
Red robin: *pointed glance of betrayal* fine. Who is your godfather?
Danny: vlad masters. He's a fruitloop.
Red robin: for real? B's been investigating him for years! Tell me everything! *genuinely excited for a new lead*
Danny: well, he's tried to murder my dad and marry my mom, gained his wealth illegally, committed voting fraud to become the mayor of my hometown, has a secret underground lab where he does unethical experiments, and he's abducted me more than a dozen times even before my parents disowned me to make me his evil apprentice or whatever. Now that im homeless, he's literally out to get me. Oh! And he's cloned me too! She's cool though, we're buddies now.
Batman, who just arrived but heard everything over comms: hn. (Translation: who are you?)
Danny: my name is Danny. No last name anymore, but im hoping itll soon be Wayne! *winking suggestively*
Batman: hn? (how much do you know?)
Danny: enough to know that youre a much better alternative to vlad.
Batman: âŠhn (i dont know anything about you. What if youre a spy for vlad?)
Danny, giving his salesman pitch: i was a teen vigilante in amity park before i had to run away from home for my own safety. Vlad is one of my rogues. I know how to fight and defend myself, how to minimize collateral damage in a fight, and ive gotten really good and escaping kidnapping attempts. Ive also managed to reform and/or make allies out of approximately half of my rogues and can talk down about 30% of all rogue confrontations before they turn into a messy fight. The other things i can bring to the table are: one, i can teach all of you guys proper liminality self care; two, i can probably minimize and possibly cure red hood's anger issues; three, i can get along with stabby robin because i consider fighting a friendly social interaction - he can even stab me and i wont be injured by it; four, i can be your go-to guy for supernatural cases so you no longer have to deal with that sad trenchcoat man; five-
Red robin: *blurting* youre hired.
Batman: hn (i am deeply concerned)
Danny: if youre concerned now, wait until i tell you about the anti ecto control act
Nightwing, who showed up in the middle of the sales pitch: ive never seen anyone crack B's grunt language so quickly
Danny: grunt language? He's just using ghost speak - which will be covered by the liminality self care lessons
Robin, who arrived with batman: what is a liminal?
Danny: all of you, of course! Otherwise you wouldnt need to learn about it, obviously
Robin: and why would we trust you?
Danny: did i mention i have a pet ghost dog?
Robin: âŠyou drive a hard bargain
Danny, fist pumping: yes! That's three!
Nightwing: four, you got me when you could understand B's grunting
Red Hood, arrived with nightwing: five, assuming you arent lying about the pit rage
Danny, hand to his chest: i would never!
Orphan: honesty. Earnest. New brother.
Oracle, over comms: six. The anti ecto acts are legit and im terrified for his safety, assuming he's phantom, who is the vigilante of amity park
Spoiler, arrived with orphan: seven, as long as youre down for a few pranks
Batman: hn (ive been outvoted)
Batman: hnn (i dont wanna hear any jokes about adoption habits when you all forced my hand)
Batman: hn (that said)
Batman: welcome to the family
Duke, the next day: man, i miss out on everything exciting.
Duke, blinded by danny: and who the fuck told bruce he could adopt the fucking sun?!
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
in every lifetime
summary: you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds? pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader warnings: post deadpool & wolverine ("worst" logan!variant), angst (mentions of death, loss from both reader and logan), no use of y/n. word count: 2.1k a/n: this is my first logan fic, so if anything is ooc, i'm sorry in advanced! just like everyone else, i've been obsessed with hugh jackman / logan after watching deadpool & wolverine (if it isn't obvious lol)... i had the song 'unchained melody' in mind when writing this story because whenever i hear it, i think of logan for some reason lol (tried to embed it but it didn't work, but i'd highly recommend listening to the song while reading this!) anyway, hope you enjoy! next part.
âIâll be back.â
âBut what ifââ
âI always come back, bub.â Loganâs looking down at you, hand cupping your cheek. In moments like this, you can see the age in his features. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The gray in his hair and beard.Â
âLoganâŠâ Tears sting your eyes. You know he has to leave, has to go help Charles, but thereâs a feeling deep in your gut that knows that if he goes, he isn't coming back.Â
âWait for me, then.â He says, dipping down to gently peck your lips. âOkay? Wait for me.âÂ
âLogan,â you repeat. âWhat do I do if Iâ if I lose you?âÂ
Thereâs a feeling in the pit of Loganâs stomach, a sense of dread and fear that heâs only ever felt when you were concerned. This feels a lot like a goodbye⊠That maybe if he does go, he wonât come back. And the thought alone scares him. He never used to have to think about the possibility of dying, his regenerative powers always healing him in record time, but he knows that he doesnât heal as quickly as before. He feels more pain now than he ever had. And he knows heâs sick, knows that the adamantium that once gave him strength is now slowly making him weaker.
But now, the thought of dying⊠It fucking scared him. It scared him to think that heâd leave you here, all alone, grieving him. He had never thought heâd be deserving of someone like you, to be loved and taken care of so gently, so sweetly, so patiently. Even with all of the baggage he carried, you never pushed. He knew, right off the bat, that you deserved someone so much better than him, but you stayed.Â
Through it all, you stayed.Â
And Logan would forever be grateful. After everything heâs been through, the things heâs seen, the things he had to do, the people heâs lost, you gave him a life that was finally worth living.Â
âThen, you move on, darlinâ.â Logan finally answers.Â
âAnd if I canât?âÂ
âYouâll have to.âÂ
âI donât⊠I donât want you to go, but I know that you have to. Charles needs you andââ
âI love you with every fiber of my being, baby,â Logan interjects. âAnd I will love you in every lifetime.âÂ
And that was almost a year ago. The moment he stopped calling, you knew that was it. That he either got into some real trouble or⊠Or that he was no longer here. It wasnât until a young girl named Laura showed up on your doorstep, holding his dog tags that your assumptions were correct.Â
You had fallen to your knees, a sob escaping your lips, as you felt your world come crashing down. Loganâs death had left a gaping hole in your heart, in your life, and everywhere you looked and everywhere you went, all you could see was him.Â
You learned from Laura that during his last moments, he had told her to come and find you, that you would take care of her and give her a good life. Whenever you were around her, you tried to be strong, tried to put on a brave front, but behind closed doors, you were a complete mess. There were days where you didnât want to get out of bed, didnât want to eat; you just wanted the pain to stop. Every night, whenever you closed your eyes, you forced yourself to sleep because that was the only place where you could be with him.Â
In your dreams, he was alive.Â
In your dreams, he had made it back home.
In your dreams, he was here with you, helping raise Laura.Â
And every time you woke up, you were welcomed with the sudden reality that he wasnât alive. He wasnât coming back home. He wasnât ever going to be here with you to help raise Laura.Â
Logan was dead and now, you had to try and learn how to move on.Â
For yourself.
For Laura.
For Logan.Â
â
He didnât know what he was doing here, why he agreed to stay with Wade because it was driving him crazy. This wasnât even his timeline; he wasnât even meant to be here. Despite saving Wadeâs timeline, Logan still found it hard to fit in. He tried to keep Wade and every single one of his friends at an arm's distance because he knows what happens to people he cares about.Â
But the more time he spent around them, the more he felt at ease. Logan would be lying if he said he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when Laura mentioned your name at one of Wadeâs family dinners, his heart skipped a beat. When he realized he would be able to stay in this timeline, you were all he could think about.Â
Logan wondered if you existed in this world and what he would do if you did. So, when Laura casually said your name, his head turned around so quickly that he felt dizzy. There were so many things he regretted in his own timeline, but you were his biggest regret.Â
Just like he failed the other X-men, Logan had failed you too. You had been there with the other X-men, trying to warn them of a planned attack and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. You had called out for him, just like Scott, like Charles, like Storm.Â
He managed to get to you before you had taken your last breath, holding you in his arms. Logan begged and begged for you to fight, that heâd do things right from now on as long as you just held on, but you were losing so much blood and Logan couldnât stop it.Â
Even then, when you had every right to be angry with him, you gazed up at him with an understanding look on your face. You had always been so patient and kind, so sweet and considerate. You had made him so happy and it scared him, which ultimately ended in pushing you away because he didnât think he was deserving of it. Of you.Â
âI love you, Logan,â you had said, wincing at the pain.Â
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâmââ Logan felt a sob catch in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he looked down at you. âPlease, baby, please please please, donâtââ
âIââ you coughed, eyes fluttering as you felt the pain overcome your entire body. âI will love you in every lifetime, Logan.â And then, you took your last breath, eyes falling shut and body falling limp in his arms.Â
Since then, Logan drank himself day after day, from dawn to dusk. The alcohol never truly helped, his regenerative powers sobering him so fast, but with every swig of liquor, it burned. And he spent years bringing pain unto others, including himself.Â
That was, until he met Wade who had given him a chance, a reason to fight for something⊠To not turn his back on someone who relied on him. A chance for redemption, to finally make things right.Â
âSo, will you meet her?â Laura asks, holding Dogpool in her arms as she gazes up at Logan. âSheâ She used to be with this universeâs Logan andâŠâ
âNo chance, kid.â Logan interrupts, shaking his head. âIâm not him.âÂ
âDid you have someone like her in yours?â she asks. âSheâs always put me first, always made sure I was taken care of even when she didnât have to, when she was grieving. And I thinkââ Laura sighs. âI think if she knows that some version of you is alive, it would make her real happy.â
âIâm not him,â Logan growls, feeling his irritation spike. ââSides, sheâs better off without me.â He stands from the table and walks out into Wadeâs balcony to get some fresh air, shutting the door behind him as he leans against the railing.
âBut sheâs coming tonight,â Laura finally says, long after Loganâs walked away.
Throughout the rest of the dinner, Logan remains outside. He can hear the muffled laughter coming from inside and it only angered him because it was just another confirmation that he didnât belong here. Heâs already on his fourth bottle of beer when he hears a familiar voice, smells a recognizable scent. He turns slightly and catches you stepping into Wadeâs apartment, an arm slinging over Lauraâs shoulders so casually, so maternally.Â
He feels his heart rate pick up. Your smile still lights up a room and he canât help but his lips turning upwards at the sight. With his enhanced hearing, Logan can hear your voice and he shuts his eyes for a moment, tuning all of his attention on you until youâre the only one he hears.Â
Then, he hears your laugh and he lets out a sigh. He never thought heâd be able to hear that again, but his eyes shoot open when he hears you say his name. Thereâs a shocked tone in your voice, laced with sadness and hope. It all but crushes him because he knows that youâre probably expecting someone else, expecting this worldâs Logan and he doesnât want to disappoint you. Not again. He doesnât think heâd be able to handle it if he were to hurt you again.Â
But when he looks at you, his breath catches in his throat when your eyes meet his. Logan notices the surprise look on your face, but before he could try and escape, youâre already walking towards him. When you open the door and step out with him, your scent fills his senses and it makes him dizzy, like he canât fully concentrate.Â
âYouâŠâ he hears you say, voice unsteady. âYouâre not⊠Iâmââ you sigh and shake your head.Â
âI know who you are,â Logan finally says, his own voice shaky.Â
Your hands reach out for him, but stopping halfway when you realize this isnât your Logan. This is not the same man who died all those years ago. This is some version of him â much younger, less wrinkles and gray hairs in his hair and beard, but he still has that same look on his face. The scowl.Â
âFrom Laura?â you ask hesitantly.Â
âFrom my universe,â Logan answers.Â
âThereâ Thereâs a version of me in your universe?âÂ
âThere was.â
âAnd what happened to me?âÂ
Loganâs jaw tightens. âThe same thing that happened to your Logan in this universe.â
âOh.â Your face drops, eyes softening. âIâm sorry,â you whisper.Â
Logan wants to run far from here, far from you because he feels himself yearning for more. He almost forgot how it felt like to be near you, to be inches away that he can just reach out and pull you into his arms. Your eyes captivate him, the kindness it expresses makes him feel like he matters. You had always made him feel that way that even through all of his anger, through all of the walls he put up, you showed him that he was deserving of something good. Even if he didnât believe it himself.Â
And you⊠You were the best thing to ever happen to him.
âDonât know why youâre apologizinâ,â Logan mutters.Â
Thereâs an uncomfortable silence that engulfs the both of you. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, can see the way your lower lip is beginning to tremble and he has this sudden urge to console you, to wipe away the tears that have now fallen down your cheeks.Â
âIâm sorry,â you repeat, bringing your hands up to wipe away the tears that seem to be trickling down your face nonstop. âI justâ Losing my Logan just crushed me and I donât think Iâve ever recovered.âÂ
My Logan.Â
Logan can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. This isnât a conversation that he thought he would be having and certainly not with someone he loved and died because of him.Â
âThatâs okay,â Logan responds quietly, his tone softening. âI donât think itâs easy to recover from losing someone you love.â
âDid youâ Did you love me in your universe?âÂ
Logan nods slowly, tightening his jaw as he gazes down at you. âWith every fiber of my being.âÂ
Your eyes widen and stare up at him. This might be a different Logan, but hearing those words again just brings you back to the moment you last saw your Logan before he left to go take care of Charles.Â
âDid you love me in yours?â Logan asks hesitantly.
You nod instantly, tears trickling down your cheek as you stare up at him. âIâd love you in every lifetime.âÂ
Logan feels his own set of tears pool at the corners of his eyes and he moves a hand to rest on the railing, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he stares into your eyes.Â
âIâm not him,â he whispers.Â
âI know,â you say quietly. âAnd Iâm not her.âÂ
#hugh jackman wolverine#hugh jackman character#logan howlett#wolverine#worst wolverine#deadpool & wolverine#logan howlett fanfic#logan howlett fanfiction#wolverine fanfic#wolverine fanfiction#worst wolverine fanfic#worst wolverine fanfiction#logan howlett x reader#logan howlett x fem!reader#post deadpool & wolverine#worst logan!variant#hugh jackman#logan howlett x f!reader
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Part 2
Can't stop thinking about reader finally cutting them loose.
For three days there was nothing but radio silence. In those three days you had told yourself that it was a grace period. Time for Simon to cool off and realize how much of a bastard he was for saying all those things he obviously didn't mean. Johnny coming back over with a bouquet of flowers and endless apologies and cuddles.
Simon didn't apologize for his harsh words.
Johnny didn't call you later, as promised.
For three days you jumped at every single notification, silently hoping it was one of them. Any of them.
But it wasn't.
And you, unfortunately, got the answer to the question you had been asking yourself for months.
Did they still want this?
The answer was clear.
You didn't let their unofficial dismissal get to you. You still had shit to do. A life to get on to. A book signing to go to.
Jesus.
A book signing. A book you wrote. A book that was being published and released the day of the expo. You weren't expecting a huge line because this was your debut novel, but with the help of some ARC readers who had took to social media, there had been a bit of a storm brewing.
You had listened to John when he had mentioned writing under an alias. Don't know how crazy people are out there. They'd do anything to get close to you, Dove. Just better to protect yourself where you can. You almost hated yourself for listening to him now. Now you would just have to keep writing under your pen name.
You were getting ready to close up shop early when your phone finally pinged.
Kyle.
Fuck.
Of course it was Kyle. The one who hadn't treated you like you were constantly bothering him. Not the one who made you feel guilty for agreeing to your arrangement. Nor was he the one who fucked you and left you. No. He was just the one who just wasn't there.
Maybe that was just as bad.
What are you up to today?
That was it. Almost two weeks of radio silence and that's all he had to say? It just added more evidence that you were making the right call in ending this now. It had already carried on for too long.
You had two things on your to-do list and you wouldn't let Kyle's sudden reappearance deter you.
E-mail the publisher back.
Change the locks.
You didn't have the strength to face them again. If they groveled, it would be too easy to take them back. One against four wasn't much of a fair fight. And if they didn't care to fight for you... you don't know if you could survive it. Coming face-to-face with the proof that it didn't bother them to give you up even though it was killing you.
No. Cutting it off completely was the best thing to do.
So you didn't respond.
You left Kyle's text unanswered as you e-mailed the publisher back that everything was set for your flight on tomorrow morning. You would spend Thursday adjusting to the time difference and Friday you would rest up before the expo this weekend. She assured you that you would need to rest up your writing hand. Whatever that means.
You left Kyle read as you closed up shop several hours earlier than usual. You needed to drop off the bank deposit before you started on task number two.
You didn't bothering responding to Johnny when he had texted you when you were leaving the hardware store, purchase in hand. Asking if you were free Friday. Promising dinner. 'In or out. Your choice.'
It was almost second nature when you got home to pull up your phone. Ready to text one of them to see which one of them could come over and help.
Fixing a leaky sink? Nothing Johnny hasn't seen before. Need help moving furniture? John won't mind when you change your several times on what should go where. Kyle would always come in with take out the moment you mentioned you were hungry and whenever you felt like going for a walk when it was a bit too late in the evening, Simon was the first to volunteer as your personal guard dog.
But asking them to come and change the very lock you planned on using to keep them out seemed... counter productive, if not downright petty.
You were almost done with the lock when your phone sounded off. Only this time it wasn't a text. Someone was calling you.
You almost faltered when John's name came on your screen.
Fuck.
That almost got you.
You almost answered it.
Almost.
You clicked on the 'Sorry, I can't talk right now. Options, before finishing up your work.
And just like that, you were done. No help needed. You had changed the lock. Even adding on a deadbolt. Replacing the flimsy chain Simon had taunted you about. If someone wanted to get in here, that wouldn't stop them.
Well, now you didn't need to hear it anymore.
Not that you would really hear it again...
Your flight was in twelve hours. Although that seemed an ample amount of time you hadn't even begun to pack. You had luckily narrowed your outfits down, but now was the task of folding it nicely into your suitcase rather than just stuffing it in there.
On my way. We need to talk.
It was too late for talking. Three days too late. Several months too late.
The last message sent was four weeks ago. A new Thai place had opened up close to your apartment that you were wanting to try. All of them had given you excuses.
Not my taste, Dove.
Cannae do it tonight. Next weekend? Next weekend didn't happen either.
I can do tomorrow. Kyle ended up bailing. You forget the excuse he used.
Simon hadn't even bothered to reply.
The final nail in the coffin of your relationship. Almost two years wasted with nothing, but a broken heart to show for it. And the worst part is, they had all chipped away at your heart, leaving you to deal with the final blow that would shatter it.
Im sorry. I canât do this with you anymore. wish you all the best.
Your fingers made quick work in blocking their numbers. It was best. If they wanted to reach you, they couldn't. On the other side of the coin, if they didn't care to reply, you wouldn't spend countless hours crying over the fact that none of them had been affected the same way you had.
You would deal with getting them their belongings that they had left behind another time. You had big things, great things happening for you. You were cutting your loses. You were cutting them loose.
You just hoped you didnât regret it.
#captain john price#kyle gaz garrick#simon ghost riley#call of duty#john soap mactavish#poly141#angst#grovel#groveling
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
On the Court
Taglist: @starlets-things
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who, whenever he shows up to practice, always gets asked about you by his teammates (sometimes random people â that he doesn't even know â ask him about you, too)
"How's Y/N doing?"
"Tell Y/N I said hi."
"I haven't seen Y/N around lately, how is she?"
"You'll ask how my girlfriend's doing, but not me? She's good â by the way." Sukuna always feigned to be hurt by these inquiries. He really wasn't . . . most of the time.
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who insists you give him a kiss before all of his games
"C'mon, baby, just one?" He pleaded. "You know you're my lucky charm."
You would always laugh, giving in to his desires. And in the end, he wasn't wrong. Sukuna comes out of most matches as victorious, thanks to you.
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who loves when you come to his practices, this doesn't happen often because you have to babysit Yuuji
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who, if you do come to his practices, always acts like it's a Magic Mike show: he'll wipe the sweat off his face with his jersey just to show off his bare abs; he'll drink from his water bottle like a dog, making the water drip all over
When he's feeling extra scandalous, he'll even say, "I'm so sweaty, babe. Come lick it."
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who always searches for you in crowds
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who would, without even a second of hesitation, skip a practice or even a game if you asked him to hang out or something like that
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who takes immense pride in showing you off as his
Sukuna pointed at you in the crowd to a new teammate of his, "See that beautiful lady over there? That's my girlfriend. My girlfriend."
Sukuna always teases, saying, "I wouldn't be surprised if we lost this game. I'll probably be too distracted looking at that absolute work of art sitting over there."
Albeit, sometimes his pride backfires on him.
"Isn't my girlfriend just so gorgeous?"
"Yeah, she is. She's like super hot," his teammate remarked.
"What the fuck did you just say about my girlfriend, you little son of a bitch."
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who gets so jealous when other people sit next to you at a game, but he can't (because he's playing) â sometimes you bring his baby brother, Yuuji, along with you and Yuuji sits next to you or on your lap, and Sukuna literally glares daggers at his brother
There was this one time, where a guy decided to sit next to you in the bleachers, and started to mansplain basketball to you. He told you all the rules, all the positions, and he even had the nerve to narrate Sukuna's game to you. And you, deciding not to interfere, just politely nodded.
It wasn't until the end of the game, when Sukuna had the chance to put this little boy in his place. Like you guys always do, you ran down the bleachers to congratulate Sukuna on his win. Most of the time, it's just a tight hug where the both of you share a chaste peck. But this time, Sukuna shoved his tongue down your throat, all while glaring at the guy from earlier.
Basketballplayer!Sukuna whose teammates always come to you whenever Sukuna gets mad after a loss; they know you're the only who's able to approach him without getting punched in the face
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who loves when you care for him after he gets injured
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who gets really annoyed when people try to hit on him, especially if they get in his way when he's trying to talk to you
"Hey, I saw you playing and you're like, really good."
"I know."
"I didn't catch your name."
"I didn't throw it."
NSFW Below
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who loves to fuck you while you wear his jersey; he can't help it; he just loves to see his last name on your back
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who would take you against the bleachers if you let him
Basketballplayer!Sukuna whose favorite position is having you on your hands and knees on the bleachers, he'll purposely pound into you just to feel you wobble and shake on the bleachers
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who fucks you like a rabid animal after a loss; he needs to get rid of all the pent frustration
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who'll tell you to be quiet whilst shoving his fingers in your mouth
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who meets up with you in the locker room after everyone's left, he gets annoyed when people tarry and delay his meeting with you
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who, after fucking in the locker room, will proceed to take you again in the shower room
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who absolutely degrades you, pulling on your hair and making you hiccup and sob, he thinks you look divine when there's mascara running down your face and you've lost the ability to say or think anything but his name
"Look at you, milking my cock dry. You were made for this; you were made for me. Dirty fucking slut. My dirty slut."
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who also whispers sweet nothings in your ear
"You're so beautiful, baby," his words were slurred, as his hips came to a stutter. "Such a good girl for me. Ah, shit. Look at the mess you've made of me. 'm drunk off of you, pretty girl."
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who goes round after round, his stamina is 100% inimitable
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who is not against sex in the car if people don't leave the gym fast enough
Basketballplayer!Sukuna who always has so much left over energy after a game that he fucks you senseless, leaves you absolutely destroyed, till your legs are shaking, cum is dripping between your legs, and you're mind is completely blank
#sukuna x reader#ryomen x reader#sukuna x you#jjk x reader#jjk x you#sukuna fluff#sukuna smut#sukuna headcanons#sukuna#em writes ËËË
4K notes
·
View notes
Text
Thoughts on the first time you give your man a back rub after a long day. (Some of them are nicer about it than others.)
nsfw/mdni/18+/daddy stuff
Simon - He's never been touched like that before. Who would voluntarily reach out to offer him comfort? He doesn't exactly scream "pet me, I don't bite." It makes him ticklish, but he's not the type to giggle and shy away. No, he doesn't want you to stop, but he doesn't know what to do either. So, he just tenses up, grits his teeth, eye twitching under his mask, skin crawling as you run your fingertips over the skin of his back, his shoulders, down to his waist.
After a minute or two, you realize he's more uncomfortable than when you started, so you pull back. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to help."
"You know how you can help me, lovie?" He unbuckles his pants and pulls out the only part of him left that feels anything uncomplicated.
Kyle - He's upset, at the unfairness of it all. Ranting and raving about the mission and the particulars. It should've been easy, people could've been killed. But as your hands move in wide circles along his neck and his spine, he quiets down. He forgets what he was so angry about. His breaths slow and his eyes close. His head rolls back until you think maybe he fell asleep.
So, you stop, just for a minute. Until he moans your name and kisses your wrist. "Enough about me, baby. How was your day? Want to go out for dinner?"
Johnny - The second you lay your hands on him, he starts to boss you around. "A little to the left." "Ah, that's it, lower." "Don't be shy, use your nails." "Harder."
Before you know it, you're playing 'Whack-a-mole' with the itch running around his back muscles and across his chest. He's stomping his foot like a dog and leaning into your touch. You're behind his ears and under his arms, down the waist of his boxers.
He's moaning like you're giving him the best fuck of his life, and when your roommate happens to poke their head out from the kitchen to see what the commotion is all about, it's just the big Scot with his shirt pulled up around his neck and your legs spread across his lap for better access to his hairy abs.
John - Like Simon, physical touch is a mixed bag for him. Most people who sneak up behind him want him dead, so he's more prepared for a knife than a kind pair of hands.
But he trusts you, he reminds himself. And he has a lot of hair, so it does get itchy. Especially in the heat after a long day. He pays for your maintenance--hair, nails, clothes--so it's only fair that he gets to enjoy everything his money gets him.
"Do you like this, daddy?" You knead his knotted muscles with your thumbs and mindlessly run your meticulously filed nails through the coarse salt and pepper curls along his back and chest.
Maybe the nicer you are to him, the nicer he'll be later.
#call of duty#john price#captain price#captain john price#price x reader#simon ghost riley#141 x reader#kyle gaz garrick#kyle garrick#johnny mactavish#johnny soap mactavish x reader#johnny soap mactavish#kyle gaz garrick x reader#simon ghost riley x reader
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Never had a thing
Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader
I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3.
Part 1 >> Part 2
Summary: Simon has to lie low and go dark for an undefined period of time. While trudging along the unbearably long, dark alley that's his life, he finds the light at the end of tunnel, and it's shaped like you. 18+
Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.
Masterlist đŠ
đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ
Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. âSomeone in Konniâs got your nameâ heâd said. âWe donât wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.â
He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didnât get a move on. For that, heâd hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasnât in Manchester.
Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was â living away from people, giving them the same treatment theyâve always given him.
Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didnât even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things â a rank he didnât hold, a flat that wasnât his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.
The SAS wasnât offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger â he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.
Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasnât picky â after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.
A few days into his exile, heâd entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didnât care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.
However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch oneâs attention. Heâd stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.
DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.
At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.
He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement â no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?
He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.
Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasnât expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for childrenâs toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.
The obnoxiously happy voice heâd heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.
It was a splash of colors Simon wasnât even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.
You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.
Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didnât blame you â he wasnât the most trustworthy-looking lad. While heâd ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.
âOnly a few weeks.â Heâd said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. âIâll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.â
And to his utter surprise, youâd accepted. He thought it was much too naĂŻve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.
He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand â especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you â well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.
You didnât question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes youâd knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. Heâd eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.
Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door heâd left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruiseâs mug â Top Gun.Â
Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since heâd moved in and heâd already gathered how brilliant you were. You didnât need to ask questions to connect the dots.
Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.
So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.
Dinner leftovers on the second rack. Heâd tick off the sentence to let you know heâd read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.
Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. Heâd write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.
I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when heâd headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.
And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.
Out for a few days. Thatâs how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.
Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. Youâd mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.
He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldnât recall when heâd stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldnât coincide.
Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule youâd both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.
Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being â trying to get to know him.
Zero Dark Thirty.
âIs it true you use callsigns?â
âYes.â
âYou have one?â
âYes.â
âWhat is it, then?â
âClassified.â
âOh, câmon.â
âNegative.â
The hurt locker.
âYou ever defused a bomb?â
âYes.â
âNo shit â oh my God. How was it?â
âDangerous.â
âWhy thank you for the chat.â
âNo problem.â
âWhen did it happen? Like, what was the situa-â
âClassified.â
You made a face and mocked his accent. âClassified.â
Apocalypse now.
âYou are a bit like Kurtz.â
He gave you a look. âMental?â
You huffed. âNo. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.â
Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.
He murmured, then. âThe horror, the horror.â
And you laughed.
He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.
Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like heâd initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he couldâve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.
Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.
Until two years became three, and then four.
Until he just kind ofâŠÂ stayed.
đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ đŹ
Simonâs day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.
Heâs risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.
Youâre lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because youâre already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.
All too well, because itâs his.Â
And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It couldâve been a laundry mishap; you couldâve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesnât even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesnât anymore.
It's clearly yours, now.
He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound mustâve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.
"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.
Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you arenât a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.
You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofaâs cushions. "Wanna join me?"
Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isnât in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesnât care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and heâs already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.
He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.
Youâve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.
You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps heâd wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because heâs never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.
That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.
Simon doesnât know much about things like that. He isnât daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents arenât his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.
At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers werenât all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if heâd seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. Heâd find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.
Heâd figured that the only way to ensure youâd avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldnât simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.
He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when heâd given them to you, how youâd clutched them to your chest as if heâd just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.
Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isnât about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust heâs placed in you.
You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"
âPeachy.â He grumbles dryly.
Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.
You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him â even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.
What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.
Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.
"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."
He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isnât a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.
âWhy are you being particularly friendly today?â He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.
He isnât complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who canât seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.
Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if heâs just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows youâll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.
You are particularly cheery.
"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."
That.
That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.
He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his â the kind that could cut through steel.
âA date?â He grumbles. âWhoâs the bloke?â
In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didnât have the reflexes of a sniper, youâd have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh â bloody used to it.
You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. Itâs painfully clear how you canât be bothered to stand.
You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.
Simon scoffs.
Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features â brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.
After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture youâre showing.
The man is⊠somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldnât appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldnât return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldnât buy you socks so youâd stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldnât let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be âtoo flashyâ - as if one on its own isnât obnoxious enough.
He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. Itâs an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.
"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.â
Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.
âLooks like a knob.â He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. âLooks old. Tory, probably.â
You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.
"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.
His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.
You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.
Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"
Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."
You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.
Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"
Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how youâre about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.
A little too naĂŻve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, youâd get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.
His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.â
You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and youâre a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giantâs warmth.
However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.
It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Rileyâs. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isnât it.
"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when weâll have dinner."
He scoffs.
âYouâre gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?â A condescending pat on your ankle. âSounds really romantic.â
His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.
The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.
"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.
Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.
"He looks like heâd vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."
âAÂ tiny bit?â He snorts. âLad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.â
You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that heâs shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.
"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."
He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts heâll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. âChrist. Didnât need that in my mind.â
In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you donât notice how heâs somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you arenât one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that youâve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.
The selfless angel that you are.
You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isnât written on the colorful paint of the walls.
"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."
Your eyes touch his. Thereâs a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.
"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."
He mutters under his breath. âRight.â
Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks youâre too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind arenât enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.
He hates that you donât seem to understand it. Hates that you require other peopleâs approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.
He hates that despite how sharp you are, youâre slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And itâs Simon fucking Riley whoâs saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isnât that you canât discern signs and tells, you arenât stupid by any means, but itâs painfully obvious how you just canât fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, youâd always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.
In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.
Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"
Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isnât exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.
âHeâll love them, you muppet.â He deadpans.
You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.
Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks heâs bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.
His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.
He could tell you to drop it. He could.
But youâre a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.
And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill heâs never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isnât going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.
Simonâs eyes rake over your body â your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.
Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.
Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"
He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded heâs on the verge of blowing a gasket â his patience wearing thin.Â
He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. âPeachy.â
His humor this time isnât successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simonâs defense, he hasnât used it to make you crack one at all.
You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how youâre already miles away â overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.
Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.
"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.â
A low scoff slips past his lips.
He is anything but peachy, heâd give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat â his flat.
He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.
âJust thinkinâ about work is all.â He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soapâs Scottish lilt calling him a âpining sod.â
Oh, but youâre an insistent little thing, arenât you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.
In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him). Â His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair â all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.
"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.
His fingers arenât as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.
âWork,â he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, heâs fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.
While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.
As in, touched you, touched you.
Heâs averse to that, to anything that isnât a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isnât.
His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldnât touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.
It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.
His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. Itâs leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether youâd whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.
So many ifs he wants to put to the test.
He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell youâre absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.
Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own â the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.
How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.
As if heâd ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is âStopâ and heâll take back his arm â cut it off for good measure.
Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.
Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"
Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.
Not now.
His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.
âReckon work can wait,â he rasps.
Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core â a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.
You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches â even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like youâve finally turned off your thoughts.
Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows youâre confused; he is too. Because itâs wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies â four years of shared everything is involved.
But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.
Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."
âMhm.â
His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that youâre just as affected as he is.
Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.
âLift your leg up for me,â he rasps.
Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too â someone as desperate as you look right now.
After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.
Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes youâd disappear with a text, saying youâd be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why â mostly, because he thought it wasnât his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, youâd take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasnât too keen on the idea.
After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.
There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.
âFuck.â You hiss, tilting your head back.
You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.
âChrist.â He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. âBarely touched you.â
He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But heâs just as desperate as you are, isnât he? Heâs craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.
Heâs no better than you are, currently.
So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.
You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.
But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.
Maybe heâs gone too far, he thinks. Maybe youâre realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.
However, itâs then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only â sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards â is wanted.
Not tolerated. Not required, or needed. Wanted.
He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that canât be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated â by him, and him only.
Why is he doing this.Â
What does it mean.
Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday.Â
Is it because he's frustrated at work and youâre simply there, lying on a silver platter.
So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, youâre still thinking.Â
He doesnât allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.
His first if is answered, then. Your eyes donât roll back like heâd expected.
Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing heâs ever seen.
Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks youâre wearing.
Simon takes in the sight of you â all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.
He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.
âKeep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.
Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofaâs cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.
He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt â the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.
You look ruined. And he loves that â the effect he has on you, the fact that heâs the one to have you like this.
He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesnât do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream.Â
And he finds it, then â to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. Heâs looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds heâs ever heard.
His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves heâs located. He doesnât want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain â questions. Or better, one question.
He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan â muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.
âDâyou think youâll need to go on that date on Friday?â he rasps and rolls his thumb again.
His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.
You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his fingerâs promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.
You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"
âNo,â he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.
He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.
You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. Heâs knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.
Heâs shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.
âGonna cancel it, then?â
Itâs bliss. You look like an angel.
"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."
Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else â two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.
Heâs never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.
Simon would give you the moon if you asked.
Heâs powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned â right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.
That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, heâd see no wrong in it â because what can you taint when youâre the purest thing heâs ever touched.
Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, heâd feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isnât a spot on you he doesnât wish to worship.
Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.
He canât take his eyes away from you â you have him absolutely entranced.
âs too much.â He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain
âIt ainât.â He manages to grunt as if it's an order.
And youâre a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as theyâre yours â they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.
âSimon,â your voice is so wrecked when you beg. âPlease - fuck.â
And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. ââm tryinâ.â
He drags his fingers deep down where yours canât reach, where heâs found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where youâre not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.
And the way that string of âYesâ leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.
Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans â bone-deep ingrained insecurity you canât seem to get rid of. He doesnât force you, though â he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.
Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and heâd recognize those signs anywhere.Â
âCum fâ me,â he orders. âCâmon, love. Give it to me.â
It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.
And fuck, arenât you a goddamn sight.Â
Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.
He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself â not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.
However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what heâs doing.
You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesnât want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.
Your breath comes out in puffs. Heâs not faring any better on that note.
"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."
Heâs gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.
Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. âAlrighâ?â
You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated â much more self-aware than before.
His fingers are still inside of you and youâre already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that youâre not regretting it â because he sure as hell isnât.
"Peachy.â Is your reply.
Oh, how the tables have turned. Jokeâs on him, heâs fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.
He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.
âFuckinâ look at that.â He murmurs, unable to discern whether heâs talking to you or to himself, âMessy girl.â
He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.
Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, âOpen.â
He knows heâs already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if heâs going to lose you after this, if youâre going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then heâs going to make the most of it.
Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.
But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.
Each time he thinks you canât look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.
He hums lowly in approval, and thereâs something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.
When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or heâll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.
âHow dâyou taste, dove?â he asks, blinking his eyes open.
The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.
Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasnât a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, youâve guessed it already.
"Not as sweet as I thought."
His lips twitch.
âNo?â he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him â must be a blue moon tonight. âI think you taste pretty sweet.â
This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one â in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesnât believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoeverâs up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap heâs been put through.
And he asks for nothing, but you.
His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that heâs just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.
You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."
He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.
For him.
His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.
âCâmere.â
You do.
He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought heâd be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.
Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way heâs always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and theyâre so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.
Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupidâs bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.
Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.
But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.
The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.
He doesnât recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed â whether you did it, or if heâs taken the matter into his own hands.
However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, whatâs separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.
He pulls away and â to his pleasure â he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.
âNo.â
He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that youâve done something wrong.
He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.
Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.
He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.
Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.
âKeep the shirt on.â He breathes against your skin, âI wanna fuck my name into you.â
And he does just that.
Itâs effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. Heâs famished; there isnât a single surface along the path he follows where he hasnât placed you â if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.
Until he has you on that bed, the one he shouldâve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.
You look wonderful on it.
But youâre even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap â your back facing the reflection.
He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch â sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.
Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.
You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you â sinking on it easy and slow.
You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.
Simonâs not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like youâd been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air â and oh, he couldnât be more grateful for it.
His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself â rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.
Simonâs hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.
Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint â not when he has you like this.
âLook at you,â he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.
He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.
He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole.Â
âLook at that.â His voice is equally as raspy as itâs enraptured. âPerfect.â
Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.
When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, âFuckinâ perfect.â
Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He wonât keep you like that for long, donât worry. Heâll take good care of you, like he always has.
But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.
Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and youâre too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.
The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss â lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.
In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.
And youâre so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know heâs never had a thing. You know that whatever heâs held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.
âIâm yours,â you whisper in his ear.
And so, Simon surrenders. Heâs at your mercy, you have his trust and whateverâs left of his heart â and he knows you wonât break either.
He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own â a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.
Because heâs never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.
#simon riley#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#call of duty modern warfare#cod#cod mw2#fanfic#archive of our own#ao3#jealous simon riley#ghost x reader
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
I know it's been said before, but... I'd like to take a little time to really point out all the many ways the locals are trying their hardest to be kind to Jonathan and to help him however they can, even at risk to themselves.
The innkeeper's wife breaks her silence enough to tell him not to go, and when he won't agree, to warn him about the eve of St. George's Day and ask him to delay. When that fails too, she gives him her crucifix. That's probably her personal protection she's giving up to him.
She's not done. She tells the driver of the coach about Jonathan, and I think asks him to rush through the pass so Dracula can't pick him up tonight.
The people nearby who overhear her look at Jonathan with pity. While they don't directly try to assist here, I can't help but notice that they're on the bench "which they call by a name meaning "word-bearer"" and talking loud enough/repetitively enough that Jonathan is able to look up their words about various supernatural threats. They outright say the word for "vampire", making it the first mention in the book. If we assume they subscribe to a belief where you don't name the evil lest it come after you, that could be them trying to indirectly get him some warning.
The whole crowd try to protect Jonathan from the evil eye when he's about to set out.
That one guy pointed out God's Seat to Jonathan... maybe trying to bring his attention to something nicer, maybe some kind of religious protection? A kind gesture regardless.
The driver makes a fairly black humor joke about dogs that seems to be hinting at wolves coming after them. I wonder if he's half-expecting Dracula to send wolves to hunt them down. Regardless, even though he arrived late to pick everyone up, he pushes really really hard the whole time to try and rush them through before Jonathan would be picked up. He succeeds well enough that they're a whole hour early, even.
As it gets dark, everyone else on board also starts urging the driver to go faster, and watching out the windows for Dracula's approach. They're invested in this too.
When they enter the Borgo Pass, they all start giving Jonathan protective gifts. I suspect those were meant to keep themselves safe as they pass close by Dracula's castle, but they insist he take them all instead.
They sigh in relief at their early arrival, and not seeing Dracula. The driver does the smallest most halfhearted pretense of trying to get Jonathan there, before declaring they'd better leave now since he's not getting picked up.
They obviously can't directly oppose Dracula when he arrives, but I have to mention the guy who quotes Lenore. That's maybe stupidly open about what Dracula is but it's still pretty ballsy even if he didn't really expect the Count to hear him.
They're just... doing their absolute best to help him. I love them so much.
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
it is the first snow today. i think we should all have off work, even though it didn't stick. i think there should be 4 national holidays, one for each season. happy first snow, go home and make cookies. for spring it can be the first crocus. for summer the first lightning bug. for autumn, the first golden leaf. go home, kiss your dog, feed your cat (who is absolutely already-fed but somehow still starving.)
i think we should all take more showers together, but i mean that in the soft way. i mean it like taking a nap. two years ago i had 5 adult friends in my queen bed, all of us laying across each other, head over belly over thigh over hand. any time one of us would giggle, it would ripple over each of us, like pulling on a spiderweb. kim actually needed to nap and didn't get to sleep and i am still sorry for it even though this is one of my most precious memories.
i think we should all wash each other's hair, i mean. i walk my dog and i watch someone put up twinkle lights around their front porch. alex and i just moved, and i love the neighborhood. already so many of our new neighbors have stopped by to say hello. the nice lady downstairs also collects plants, like me. she gave us her number on a pink post-it note. i am trying to decide whether to make her cookies or brownies.
i am going through a very hard time. something bad happened this weekend that i do not wish to discuss. it is hanging over me. i think of the green ribbon, and the woman who had her throat cut. it feels like that sometimes, inside of my body. like i am walking and talking despite being half-corpsed. like i am hanging on by a ribbon, standing on some kind of cusp. i keep saying - at least it wasn't worse. we are so lucky it wasn't worse. the idea is river-rock smooth now, all the edges worried off.
in this very dark night - the sun sets by 3 now - people don't need to, but they try anyway. they paint the missing light into things. i have an embarrassing number of missed calls and texts, but i feel the love from them nevertheless - hey. if you need something, i'm here. i will bring you food/puzzles/anything. i got you.
i think we should all have a big group chat where we do errands with strangers. this week i got lost in a home depot, which is wild because i'm a lesbian and we are actually hatched in a lowe's lumber section. there were two other women in the whole store. we ended up shopping together, at first by accident (we all needed things in the same aisle), and then because, well, why not. one of the ladies was taller than me, so she pulled down the screws i needed. i am agile and have the personality of a raccoon, so they sent me after anything below 3 feet. we talked about holiday plans and never learned each other's names, but did learn all the drama about each other's families.
i am making you cupcakes, because i have so much affection i want to pour it into batter. you ask me if i am eating enough per meal. i wrap your gift twice, trying to do it prettily. i get excited to give it to you, just because i hope you'll be excited too.
my parents drive an hour just to see the new apartment and to do the parent thing; standing in the kitchen saying things like "oh you'll get so much use from this dishwasher" and "well, you could paint that" and "when your mother and i moved it was uphill both ways and in a snowstorm and of course your brother was an infant." my mother brought me a plant for housewarming. i always say i love you before she leaves.
i play dnd on tuesdays still, after all these years. we all keep that night free. at one point, between grad school and marriage and all of it, we had to have a serious discussion about how to keep it running. we will keep going, we decided eventually. just to see each other, even if we don't play - you are all important to me. sebastian is not prone to affection but last night he stole my usual sign off - i love you all, be good, he said. he was laughing.
i don't love the winter, actually. i like snow in theory, but i grew up in the north, and am too-familiar with the season of "mud and sludge". i don't like being cold. but i do love something kind of soft and rare: every year around this time, people remember oh yes. you and i are human together. and i have love to spare.
it is the first snow, and something in my heart is finally warm again. i have spent what felt like the last 18 months just going-through-the-motions. it has felt blank and immediate, like i would never actually feel again. that sounds extremely trite and stupid - but that is the boring and familiar experience of depression. life just washes up against your windows, and you watch it happening. you see things that should be lovely and affecting, and it just whispers too-thin. i was desperately uncreative. uninterested in my hobbies. unimpressed by my writing. i told my therapist, often, i don't know how to find hope again.
almost sheepishly, something strange and lovely is burning in my chest. i keep not-looking at it, worried it will scamper back into the shadows again. it is skittish and wild, but it is so warm i want to sink my hands into its fur and feel it breathing. i love-hate it: if it's real, it can hurt me when it leaves again. but i am icarus-born, sun-lover and poet: i can't help myself. despite my best intentions, i am falling in love with life again.
i am planning to make cookies for my friends. alex and i are going to go christmas tree shopping. we picked out matching dish towels last night, and they have little mushrooms on them.
i love you. it does come back. yes, even after a long time. even for you. i promise. keep trying. you will wake up and it will be a day you can smile about.
write me when you get there. we will take the day off of work, and i will wash your hair, and we will both be laughing.
#spilled ink#writeblr#pos#recovery#my brain is like - don't trust it!!!!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!! we can't be wrong again!!!!!!#and im like. what if the sorrow is the thing that's wrong though.#what if this - this!!!!! - is the truth
4K notes
·
View notes