#so i’m giving you this and disappearing into the void again

[sopekooks]

SVT LEADERS ★ CHEERS

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

@errorunfound1

Yandere!neglectful!Batfam x mom!reader

Wayne Manor had always felt vast, but to you, it was more of a void than a home. It was easy to get lost in its endless hallways, in the constant hum of life orbiting Bruce’s nocturnal mission. You married him for love, despite knowing the weight of the life he led. You accepted his scars, his mission, his world. But what you hadn’t expected was how little space there would be left for you in it.

Bruce was always out, chasing shadows, leaving you to navigate a family that seemed determined to keep you at arm’s length. You poured your heart into them—Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian—but your efforts were met with indifference at best and disdain at worst. You had been a mother in every way that mattered, yet the coldness you received in return made your heart ache.

“You don’t have to act like you care,” Jason sneered once when you tried to patch him up after patrol. “We both know you’re just here for him.”

Tim barely acknowledged you unless it was necessary, his head buried in his work. Dick’s smiles, once genuine, now felt like politeness masking discomfort. And Damian, always the sharpest, had no qualms about cutting you down. “You’re not my mother,” he’d said, his words a dagger that twisted in your chest.

Bruce never intervened. When you tried to tell him, his responses were dismissive. “They’ll come around,” he’d say before disappearing into the night. But they never did.

So, you stayed quiet, swallowing the hurt, letting it fester.

One night, you stood in the empty dining room, staring at the cold, untouched dinner you’d prepared. The clock ticked on the wall, counting the hours Bruce was late. Again. You could hear the faint hum of voices from the Batcave below, the family gathered around him while you sat alone.

It wasn’t anger that bubbled up this time. It was resignation.

You left that night, not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a simple bag and a note left on the kitchen counter.

“I love you, but I can’t keep losing myself in a family that doesn’t want me.”

The days without you passed unnoticed at first. Bruce buried himself in his work, assuming you needed time to cool off. The Batkids carried on as usual, their lives too busy to miss the quiet presence you’d once provided.

It was Alfred who noticed first—the meals left uneaten, the flowers on the windowsill wilting. “Sir,” he said carefully one evening, “she’s not coming back.”

Bruce stopped mid-step, his expression flickering. “She just needs time.”

But days turned into weeks, and the absence became impossible to ignore. The manor felt colder, emptier. Jason snapped more often, his temper flaring at the slightest provocation. Tim’s focus wavered, his mistakes piling up in a way they never had before. Damian trained harder, his strikes sharper, but there was a new tension in him, an unease he wouldn’t voice.

“She left us,” Damian said one night, his tone sharp but brittle. “That’s on her.”

“No,” Dick said quietly, guilt heavy in his voice. “It’s on us.”

Bruce found you three weeks later, living in a modest apartment far from the grandeur of Wayne Manor. The door was locked, but that had never been an obstacle for him. He let himself in, his imposing frame filling the doorway as you stood frozen in the kitchen.

“Bruce,” you said, your voice tight.

“Come home.” His tone was soft but firm, the same voice he used to give orders in the field.

Your laugh was bitter, hollow. “Home? That place hasn’t felt like home in years.”

His jaw tightened, the only sign of his frustration. “You belong there. With me. With them.”

“I belonged there once,” you said, your voice breaking. “But I spent years trying to love a family that couldn’t love me back. Do you even realize how much it hurt, Bruce? To be invisible in my own home?”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. “I didn’t see it. I should have. But I’m here now.”

“Too late,” you whispered, tears spilling over.

But Bruce Wayne was not a man who gave up easily. His hand reached out, brushing against yours. “You think I’ll let you go that easily?” His voice dropped, a dangerous edge slipping into his tone. “You’re mine. You always have been.”

You pulled away, shaking your head. “You don’t love me, Bruce. You love control. You love having someone waiting for you. But I won’t be that person anymore.”

The silence between you was heavy, suffocating. His eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you thought he might let you go. But Bruce was nothing if not persistent.

“You’re coming home,” he said, his voice soft but unyielding.

Before you could respond, his hand shot forward, pressing a syringe into your arm. The sharp sting was followed by a wave of dizziness, and your legs buckled.

“Bruce,” you gasped, your vision swimming as he caught you.

“It’s for your own good,” he murmured, his arms cradling you as darkness pulled you under.

(A/n: this is why I don't take money 😅 writing shi asf 😔🔥 chat did I cook or am I cooked?)

[avocado-writing]

being the worst wolverine’s wife and one day you get zapped by the TVA for whatever reason, and it looks like you completely disappeared, this is what leads logan to become depressed, start drinking and ultimately ignore the x men when they die etc etc

he goes with wade purely bc he would if you were alive- he couldn’t give less of a shit about wade’s universe but he can feel you over his shoulder like an angel telling him he needs to do this (i imagine it’s like the jean hallucinations he had in the wolverine movie)

what if you’re in the void and he finds you with the rest of the group, like being unable to believe you’re really here?

hehe i love angst and ily avo <3

I already did a “Logan meets you in the void” fic here so I didn’t wanna make this too long or I’d just end up hitting the same beats!

1.4k. rated m for excessive use of the word “fuck”

The day you disappeared you took his fucking soul with him. 

You had been out shopping. Nothing weird about that, he wasn’t some overbearing husband who demanded to know your location every single hour. But then afternoon had turned into evening had turned into night and nobody had heard from you. The unfamiliar sensation of panic had risen, queasy, from his stomach into his chest. They sent out a search party and looked for days. Not a trace of you to be found. Logan couldn’t smell you. Fuck, he’d never not been able to smell you before.

He would hunt for you every day, hoping to find you alive but trying to level with the idea of you being cold and dead because at least then he’d have closure; he’d stay awake for hours on end until he collapsed from exhaustion… then he’d wake up and repeat the whole horrible affair. Nothing. After weeks of searching, Charles had laid a hand on his arm. Logan can still remember the look of pity on his face, like a bomb to the gut. 

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

They had to assume you were abducted and killed. Your body never turned up. And Logan just had to… keep going. How was he meant to keep going? You were his entire fucking life and then you were just…

Gone. 

To say he was left empty was the biggest understatement of his fucking life. He was a shell of the man he once was. He never laughed any more, never smiled, always trying to plug the hole your absence left in him with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. Drink himself to a place where he could forget you.

It never really worked. At least it made him numb to the pain though. 

When he staggers home one evening, eyes bleary and head spinning, and finds the whole mansion torched? Everyone left that he loved fucking dead? Well, it takes the last vestiges of his existence and crushes them into dust. 

Oh, Logan, he hears in the back of his mind. Your voice. It breaks him. He falls to his knees, hands buried in the burning timbers, and wails. 

He survives. He does not live. Thinking about everyone he’s lost, with you haunting the corners of his consciousness, always reaching out to comfort him - but when he goes to nuzzle into the warmth of your palm he is overcome with rage and bitterness to find it’s just his own imagination playing tricks on him. 

Then a fucking idiot in red dragged him away from the shambles which was his life and forced him to be functional again, if only barely. He’s angry, so angry all of the goddamn time, even when in the back of his mind he can hear you speaking sweet, calming words to him. 

And then he hears your voice for real. 

Sees you standing across the base this pathetic resistance has made. You look older, sure, he does too - but there’s no mistaking the fire in those eyes. You’re even wearing the same fucking shirt you went missing in, he remembers it, it has a picture of your favourite band. 

His heart stops dead in his chest as you whisper his name. 

“Logan?”

“Oh shit!” says Wade, and Logan has never wanted to kill him more, “Oh shit! Is this your refrigeratored wife, coming back to throw in a third act character arc?”

Logan finishes the bourbon bottle and throws the empty at Wade’s head, where it shatters and knocks him flat. You wince at the violence and he feels like pure shit. 

“I’m fine,” Wade calls from the ground, sticking a thumbs-up into the air. 

“Logan, I…” you clearly want to say something, but you have not been met with the Logan you knew. That Logan would have spent no time running to pick you up and hold you in his arms. This one half-snarls at the man he bloodied on the floor. 

There is an agonising silence, both of you wanting to speak but not being sure how. You take a hesitant step forward. 

“I never thought I’d…”

“How do I know it’s you?”

You recoil like he’s stabbed you with his claws, confusion and hurt flooding your face. Goddamn. He is the worst man alive. He’s not sure if he’s saying it because he just wants to lash out at the nearest person, or…

… or if, because he gets his hopes up, it might just kill him to have them crash down again. 

“What?”

“All these fuckin’ timelines. How do I know? How can I be sure that you’re you?”

The sadness in your face melts away into anger. When you step forward this time, you’re on the warpath. He sees the others in the room cringe, trapped now in this caustic reunion. 

“How can you be sure it’s me? Fuck, Logan, I knew it was you, didn’t I? What do you want? You want me to show you the shitty tattoo I got after we first started dating and we were both drunk?” You lift your sleeve to reveal a little design on your shoulder. “Want me to tell you how an eighteen-year-old Marie was my bridesmaid and she cried because she didn’t think anyone would ever be that kind to her after living as a mutant again? Want me to fucking remind you that in my vows I said I would be by your side, for fucking ever, no matter what - and how when that TVA agent zapped me when I was out for the day and I ended up here, it was only the thought of fulfilling those vows which kept me going? How about all that, or do I fucking need to humiliate myself more?” At this, you gesture to the others who have lined up at the side of the room, trying to look scarce but utterly failing. 

Your shoulders are heaving with emotions, tears hot and heavy in your eyes but not yet spilling over. Logan grits his jaw. Yeah. It’s you. 

“I…” he starts, but trails off when he realises there’s nothing he can say. You shake your head, numb. 

“Fuck you, Logan Howlett,” you spit, words you’ve never ever thrown his way before, and run out of the room. 

“Wow. Aced that one, peanut,” says Wade, and Logan rips off one of his legs. 

He finds you several hours later at a campfire outside the rundown building which makes up headquarters. LeBeau has clearly been kind enough to part with some of his liquor, because you’re gulping down whiskey like it’s air. You stare at him, embers dancing in bitter eyes. 

“What do you want?” you snap. He grunts as he sits down opposite you, either from age or exertion. Stares into the flames. 

“I never stopped looking,” he manages. 

You blink. 

“What?”

“I never…” he shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he bared this much of his soul. “I never stopped. Even when the others told me to give up, that I would only make it worse for myself, I’d still search. Couldn’t face the idea you weren’t there any more.”

It’s true. If he was twelve bottles deep he’d be looking, if he was hungover as a dog he’d be looking. When the rest of the X-Men were still there and even after they weren’t. If he wasn’t sitting at a bar he was on the streets, ever a bloodhound trying to catch your scent again. 

For the first time you soften. 

“Oh.”

“So… when I asked if it was you… ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. Just couldn’t live with it if it wasn't true. Wasn’t real.”

When you stand he expects a slap. He deserves it. What he doesn’t count on is you sitting down - not on the log next to him, but in his lap. He hasn’t felt you do that for so long, and it’s so good. Your warmth on his thigh. You grab one of his hands, still larger than yours, and press it to your chest so he can feel your beating heart. 

“I’m real, Logan. I’m right here, baby,” you whisper, eyes dewy. Fuck. His are as well; he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed by you, your feel, your gaze, your smell. He’d forgotten how much he loved it. 

Logan noses upwards against you, searching for your lips, and you let him find them. When you stroke his hair he can feel the wedding ring on your left hand. The kiss is desperate, longing, and the best one he’s ever had. 

“Right here,” you repeat, forehead against his. He grips you so tightly that it’s possible he’ll never let go again. 

[archivequinn]

i loved your fic where reader cries and eddie calms her down as a thoughtful romantic caring boyfriend. i wonder if you could write something like that again. short or long, it doesn't matter. <3

Thank you so much! I'm so glad you liked it, I hope you like this one too. I did my best.

Nightmare eddie munson x fem!reader, fluff

summary: when you have a bad dream, your boyfriend eddie takes care of you at midnight, calms you down.

Falling asleep in Eddie’s trailer always gives you a different kind of peace. The bed is small, but Eddie’s presence makes you forget all the tightness. The faintly trembling walls of the trailer and the sounds of crickets outside add a strange serenity to the night. You’re wearing one of Eddie’s oversized sweatshirts; it still smells like him, that unique scent—slightly spicy and a bit woody.

Underneath, you’re wearing one of his boxers, because Eddie had grinned at you and said, “I love seeing you in those.” On the other end of the bed, he’s sleeping in just his boxers, the faint light of the trailer highlighting the contours of his shoulders. He’s breathing easily and deeply, completely at ease.

The night had started off sweet. The spice of the hot chicken wings you ate earlier still leaves a burning sensation at the corners of your lips. After that, you’d cracked open a couple of beers and laughed hysterically at an absurd horror movie Eddie had picked. His deep, slightly raspy laughter still echoes in your ears.

You fell asleep feeling drunk on this peacefulness, but at some point, a dream pulled you in. Everything felt so real. You were losing Eddie. Right before your eyes, he was disappearing, as if turning into a shadow and vanishing. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop him. You wanted to scream, but your throat felt tight, like it was constricted. You took a step forward, but the ground was slippery, your hands reaching out to grasp the cold void.

You jolted awake with a gasp of fear. The trailer was dark, with only a faint orange glow from a streetlamp filtering through the edge of the window. Your breaths were rapid, your chest rising and falling. You turned to Eddie beside you. He was still there. His back was to you, his hair spilling over his shoulders, rising and falling gently with his peaceful breaths. The weight on your chest eased slightly, but tears welled in your eyes for a moment. Losing him for real… the thought alone sent shivers through you.

Unable to resist, you placed your hand gently on his back. Your palm felt the warmth of his skin. It was as if this simple gesture reassured you: “He’s here, next to me.”

Eddie stirred slightly at your touch, lifting his head from the pillow and mumbling sleepily, “Hey... everything okay?”

The warmth and concern in his voice instantly softened you. “I had a dream,” you said, your voice still trembling.

Eddie, without opening his eyes, reached back to pull you into him. The weight of his arm around you melted all your fears. “I’m here,” he murmured softly. “The dream’s over.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your nose burying into the curve of his neck. His scent, Eddie’s presence, the tiny world inside the trailer... it was all real.

You wrapped your arms tightly around him, letting him draw you even closer with a sleepy smile. Your heartbeat began to steady. As he drifted back to sleep, you simply listened to his breathing. You were afraid of losing him, yes. But this moment, his presence, kept you safe.

Your breaths became uneven, and then, without realizing it, tears started slipping down your cheeks. The warm droplets trailed down your face, and for a moment, you tried to hold them back, but it was futile. The impact of the dream ran so deep, leaving a weight in your throat that you couldn’t shake.

When Eddie noticed the quiet sobs escaping you, he quickly turned. His half-asleep face was suddenly filled with concern. “Hey, hey... what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” he asked, his voice soft and gentle, though his eyes showed a flicker of panic.

You couldn’t find the words, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with trembling hands. But that only made you cry harder. Eddie didn’t hesitate. Sitting up, he pulled you into his arms, pressing you against his chest. “Shh... it’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, his lips brushing over your hair. “Don’t be scared, I’m here. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

His voice was as soft as a whisper but carried a soothing strength. He held you like that for a while, his palm gliding gently over your back. Even as you were wracked with sobs, he stayed patient, waiting for you to calm down.

Finally, taking a deep breath, you whispered hoarsely, “I had a dream about losing you.”

Eddie pulled back slightly, his hands on your shoulders as he looked into your eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes of his, still heavy with sleep, were full of love.

“Me?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily, sweetheart. Look, I’m still here. Still your silly Eddie.”

You nodded with a faint smile, though your tears kept falling. Eddie noticed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Come on, let’s wash your face. This beautiful face isn’t meant for crying this much,” he said, gently helping you out of bed.

When you reached the trailer’s tiny bathroom, Eddie grabbed a towel and turned on the tap. The water was cold, but it was enough to cool the warmth of your tears. He soaked the towel and pressed it gently against your face. “There we go,” he murmured. “Fresh start. No more crying, okay?”

You tried to laugh lightly, but a shiver still lingered. Eddie noticed and rolled his eyes playfully. “Oh, so I guess this is my fault for picking that stupid movie? I told you it’d give you nightmares.”

“Eddie!” you protested, lightly swatting his shoulder with a small laugh. Eddie chuckled, shaking his head. “Hey, I’m innocent. It was probably those chicken wings cursing us. They were way too spicy, probably fried our brains.”

He handed you a glass of water. “Come on, drink up. Crying dehydrates you.”

When your shaky hands struggled, he held the glass with his own, guiding it to your lips. “There you go. One more sip.”

Then he led you back to the small sitting area. Before heading back to bed, he sat on the floor, pulling you down beside him. His fingers combed gently through your hair as if trying to brush away all your fears. “You need a new hairstylist,” he teased, tugging playfully at a strand before tickling your side.

“Eddie, stop!” you whined, but he didn’t seem to care. “No, no, this face owes me a smile,” he declared, fingers trailing to your ribs as he tickled you. You tried to resist, but it was no use; laughter bubbled out, and the darkness of the dream faded into lightness.

Finally, you leaned against him, still giggling. Eddie finished smoothing your hair before resting his head on your shoulder. “I promise you,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you.”

In that moment, you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to have Eddie by your side. No matter what, you knew he would always make you feel safe.

taglist: (the only one 😅🧡) @nicholaschavezslut69 If you want to be added to my fic's taglist, just let me know. ✨

[itsthewritergal]

Just let me go - Bucky Barnes x reader

Okay this one is ANGSTTYYY Also there will be a part two! Posted tomorrow :)

TW: kidnapping, swearing, suicidal thoughts, guns, angst, sadness, suicidal ideation, also I haven't proof read this aha I'm sorry!!

“Sergeant Barnes, there is someone here to see you” One of the agent said as they stepped into the training room, 

“Who?” Bucky replied curtly, being halfway through a session with Nat he didn’t exactly want to be interrupted no matter who it was 

“I don’t know but she looks upset, if I was you I’d be worried” the agent said with a laugh, making a few of the other trainee’s laugh 

“Don’t forget your rank” Bucky said bluntly, 

“Sorry Sargent Barnes” The agent said, 

“You can start sparring, I’ll be back soon and I expect to see some improvements from yesterday” Nat said following Bucky out the room, 

“Who do you think it is?” Nat asked 

“I don’t know” Bucky said 

“What about that girl you went out with the other night?” 

“I don’t think she’d come here” Bucky said with a huff, “she didn’t like me” he said 

“Ooh what about the girl from Tony’s party?” Nat suggested, it sounded as though the idea of Bucky having a girl round was entertaining to her, Bucky narrowed his eyes at Nat, 

“No” He said bluntly, 

“Tensions killing me” Nat said with a dry laugh 

“Come on Nat, leave it alone” he said, turning the corner to the common room, he stopped immediately his breath hitching in his throat for a split second, 

“Y/N?” Nat beamed running over to give her a hug almost knocking her off of her feet “It’s been like a year since I saw you!” She grinned, 

“Hey Nat” She said gently, 

“You have to stay for dinner, Wanda’s cooking, she’ll want to see you. So will Steve, and Tony, oh and Sam!” She said “I’ll text them all now, they’ll set up a place for you” 

“Nat, I don’t think—” Y/N started 

“I don’t want to hear it, you’re staying” She said pulling out her phone and quickly tapping a message, 

“Y/N” Bucky said bluntly, his voice void of all emotions. 

“Hey” Y/N cut herself off unsure of what to call him so deciding against calling him anything,  her eyes wandered to his arm,  “the black and gold suits you” She said softly “Always said silver wasn’t your colour” 

“Shuri agreed with you” Bucky nodded

An uncomfortable silence settled across the two of them, 

“I should go” She said quickly, 

“Why did you come?” He asked a part of him not wanting her to disappear, not again 

“I, uh I found, I found this”  Y/N said her cheeks flushing red as she passed Bucky a t-shirt, one that he had forgotten about, but it certainly looked more worn now than how he remembered it. His heart squeezed at the thought of her wearing it after everything

“This is why you came?” Bucky said 

“You’re right, it was stupid. I’m gonna go” Y/N said quickly,  shaking her head as she turned, Bucky knew how she felt. He had imaged many times making an excuse to go and see her, he just didn’t think she was the kind of person to go through with it. 

“Y/N! Oh my, Nat said you were here. I’ve just laid the table dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes which is just long enough for you to catch me up on your life! Sorry Buck, but she’s with me until dinner. Then you can have her back” Wanda said not offering Bucky or Y/N a second option. 

----

“So Y/N where have you been?” Tony asked as they all sat down at the table “it’s like you dropped off the face of the earth

“Just around,” She said quietly 

“I came by your apartment, but it was empty” Tony said, 

“I had to move out” 

“You moved out?” Nat said “How come?” She said worry filling her voice 

“Life happens” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Bucky’s eyes fell on her face, watching how her eyes studied her plate not daring to look up 

“Well things always find a way of getting better” Wanda said squeezing Y/N’s hand on the top of the table 

“How about you guys, I’ve seen good things on the news” Y/N said softly 

“We’re okay” Steve said, 

“I”m pleased,” Y/N said with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes, 

“What’s your new apartment like?” Wanda asked, 

“It’s nice” Y/N said gently , 

“You should give me the address,” Tony said commandingly 

“I’ll send it over to you, I still don’t quite know it off by heart” She said, it was a lie. Bucky knew it was a lie, even if he couldn’t hear her heartbeat pick up, he would be able to tell from the way she couldn’t look at anyone in their eye. 

“What part of town is it?” Steve pressed, 

“I really appreciate you guys having me for dinner but I’m going to head home” She said quickly, “I’ll see you guys around” She said picking up her coat, 

“I'm sorry if I said something wrong” Steve apologised quickly, he should’ve known better than to press her, Bucky thought

“You don’t need to” Tony said trying to savour the dinner 

“Why don’t you stay for a movie?” Wanda suggested, 

“I need to go” She said standing up and quickly hurrying out of the room 

A gentle silence fell across the room, “I shouldn’t have asked her” Steve said 

“It’s not on you” Wanda said “I don’t think that anyone could have convinced her to open up to us” 

“I’ll find her address and go over tomorrow, it’ll be easier without anyone else there” Tony said fiercely, 

“She won’t talk to you” Bucky said 

“And she’ll talk to you?” Tony snapped “You’re the reason we are in this mess in the first place. She is my friend and I will do what I think is right” 

“What even happened when you broke up?” Wanda asked 

“ Nothing” Bucky said 

“Don’t lie” Tony snapped 

“What the hell did you do? I thought you two were fine” Nat asked 

“You told us all you two were fine after the breakup” Wanda said 

“Leave him alone” Steve said sternly 

Bucky sighed softly “She just came to drop off a shirt” 

“Nobody drops off a shirt after a year” Tony said “She wanted to see you and you couldn’t even give her the time of day” He snapped 

“She’ll be okay, I’ll come with you tomorrow, we can check in on her” Wanda said 

Bucky didn’t dare to say anything, he just nodded gently. It was a thank you, all be it a silent one, but a thank you none the less. 

----

“Tony, you need to see this” Wanda said as an alert popped up on the screen alerting Tony to a new message, they had been in Tony's lab for a few hours scouting out Y/N's new apartment.

“Have you seen where she is living?” Tony said scanning through the photos that FRIDAY had brought up on his screen “it’s worse than I thought”  

“Tony now” Wanda said fiercely,

“What is it?” Tony asked, turning around, his face dropping when he saw the screen. “Is that?” 

“Y/N” Wanda finished

“Who sent this” Tony asked 

“I don’t know, it’s anonymous. I can’t trace the signal either” 

“FRIDAY, call the team and get them into the conference room now” 

“Yes Mr Stark” FRIDAY answered 

“We can’t tell Bucky” Wanda said, 

“We can and we will because he is going to help us” 

“That’s a bad idea” Wanda said 

“He once was one the best assassins, no debate. As much as I don’t like the tinman, he can and will help us” Tony said leaving little room for debate. 

“Tony what the hell? We’re meant to have the week off of missions” Nat said, sitting down in a chair with a mug of coffee nursed in her hands

“This is different” Tony said, 

“How so?” Steve asked 

“This is personal” Tony said sternly, 

“It’s Y/N” Wanda whispered, 

“What happened to her?” Bucky asked 

“I was sent this video” Tony said

 “We thought it was best we watched it together” Wanda added 

“FRIDAY, play the video please”

The screen went dark for a moment and then lit up with a picture of Y/N locked in a room, Bucky felt a strange wave of familiarity wash over him 

“Tell your friends what we want” A voice spoke, it sent chills down Bucky’s spine, he put her in this position. He had done everything to keep her safe, after all these years, this was his fault. 

“They won’t come” Y/N’s voice was strangely calm 

“Don’t be difficult girl, tell them what we want” The voice spoke again 

“You want the soldier, you want someone who’s gone. But here’s the catch. Even if he wasn’t gone, even if the solider still existed he wouldn’t come. Not for me.” She said 

“We’ve done our research” The voice mused, there was a hint of amusement in it’s voice, as though it had caught Y/N out, 

“Your research is wrong. I haven’t spoken to Bucky in a year, he does’t care” Y/N snapped, a gunshot sounded through the conference room, making them jump 

“Turn it off” Bucky’s voice was quiet but cut through the entire room 

“Shooting blanks at me won’t work” Y/N snapped “If you’re going to kill me then kill me”

“Turn it off” Bucky said once more 

“We want the soldat” The voice behind the camera spoke 

“Then you’ll have to find someone who he cares about, because it  isn’t me” She snapped 

“You have six hours or she dies” 

The camera turned off and the room went dark. All eyes turned to Bucky, 

“When was this sent?” He said 

“Barely ten minutes ago” Wanda answered softly, 

“Let’s start at her apartment” Steve said firmly “Wanda, Clint you’re with me, Tony, Nat you should try and find something from the video, there might be an idea of where they’re keeping her.” 

“I need to go as well” Bucky said 

“No” Wanda said “You need to stay away from this” 

“I spent years tracking people down, I think I’m the best chance we have to finding Y/N” He said challenging anyone to speak out against him

“I’ll go as support” Sam said patting Bucky’s back comfortingly. 

“We need to go, now” Steve said 

----

Steve’s skin crawled at the sight of Y/N’s apartment.  He hesitated before pushing the door open, it creaked and echoed through the tiny studio. Clothes were thrown across the room, plates were stacked up by the sink, two blankets were half heartedly thrown across the bed, no sign of a duvet or pillow. Bucky had to tear his eyes away from her apartment for a minute to regain his composure. 

“I can’t believe she was staying here” Wanda said stepping into it

“It was a means to an end” Steve said, 

“I should have helped her” Wanda sighed softly, her eyes falling on the pile of clothes in the corner of the room,  

“We didn’t know” Clint said

“We should have” Wanda snapped “Look at how she was living, we should have been able to help” 

“She was always good at surviving” Steve said firmly 

“She shouldn’t have had to be, we are her friends and the moment her and Bucky split we left her” Wanda said, tears building in her eyes 

“They must have taken her here, look at the mess” Steve said changing the subject quickly,

“No” Bucky said softly “This is Y/N” Bucky said with a sigh

“What do you mean?” Clint asked “this is normal?” 

“When she got busy, she used to get messy, never put things away. Found it hard to do anything” Bucky said swallowing tightly  “We argued about it” He admitted 

“So did they take her here, or not?” Sam asked 

“Not here, this is normal for her. It didn’t happen here” Bucky said firmly

“Ok so that’s something” Sam said, attempting at a loose sense of positivity

“It must’ve happened by the compound” Wanda said “think about it, if they wanted Bucky then surely they’d be keeping tabs on him. When she left last night they must have taken the next best thing to get to him” She said 

“We need to look at security cameras”  Clint suggested 

“Who wants Bucky though?” Sam said, “I think we’re focussing too much on Y/N, rather than on what they want” 

“Hydra” Steve said through pursed lips 

“It can’t be” Wanda said 

“It has to be” Clint confirmed “It makes the most sense” 

“So who are we looking at? Zemo?” Sam asked 

“Maybe” Steve said “Doesn’t feel right though”, Steve’s thought was cut short by his phone ringing 

“Steve, I’ve got an address” Tony said, “suit up”

----

Bucky couldn’t stop shaking, he’d been on tougher missions, he’d been in tougher briefings, he had almost died more times than he could count. But this felt like the worst day of his life, 

“We’ve been sent an address,” Tony said 

“It’s a trap” Nat said 

“We don’t know that” Steve suggested, “Who sent it to you?” 

“It came with a video, it was from the same people as before” 

“What’s the video?” Sam asked, noticing the tension that had fallen across the room, 

Tony instructed FRIDAY to play the video, Y/N’s face was brought up on the screen, 

“Y/N tell them what you just told me” The voice spoke 

“No” She spat through gritted teeth, her hair was matted with blood which dripped slowly from a wound on her hair line, her face was bruised and Bucky was silently pleased he could only see to the base on her neck, anymore and he was sure he would throw up. The skin he had once pressed kisses to so gently was purple and blotted with blood. 

“Our captive here has a death wish” The voice said again, “She had her little suicide letters in her pocket when we caught her” it sneered 

“Shut the hell up” Y/N snapped, there was something in her eyes that scared Bucky, she looked so void of the love that she had once been filled with 

“She was on the top of a building when we found her, she’s only got 3 hours left avengers. Are you going to give in to her wishes?” 

“Just kill me” She whispered 

“What was that?” The voice asked, it was mocking her, teasing her, it was a sight that Bucky couldn’t stand 

“Kill me!” She shouted, her voice sent chills down each of the spines of her old friends “Just kill me” She said settling into a bought of sobs, 

The video stopped and cut to a map with a pin placed directly in it. 

“We need to go” Steve said “We leave in 5” 

----

The quinjet landed softly and Bucky could feel a knot growing in his stomach, he had been on enough rescue missions to know the ways that this could go. It was an old hydra base, one that Bucky was sure should’ve been emptied years ago. But here it stood, admittedly it was partly falling down but the cells were deep underground and the structures were built to last. He knew that much well enough, if he strained his ears he would swear that he could hear Y/N’s cries, but he convinced himself it was all in his head. 

“She’s going to be okay” Steve said 

“I can’t loose her Steve” Bucky admitted “I’ve lost her once, I can’t watch her die” 

“Then don’t let her” Steve said 

Bucky followed behind the rest of the team, Wanda stood beside him, 

“Do you want me to take the fear away?” She asked under her breath, knowing nobody else would be able to hear her 

“No, I need it” Bucky said, he didn’t explain anything else but Wanda nodded, 

“Let’s go get Y/N home” Wanda said

Bucky followed Tony’s lead, any other mission he would have tried to take the lead off of Tony but he couldn’t for this. Y/N needed Tony’s planning, Y/N’s life couldn’t be in Bucky’s hands. He would never forgive himself if anything happened. They descended into the base, it was too quiet for Bucky’s liking. Hydra would never have kept it this quiet, something was wrong. 

“Welcome home soldat” the words echoed through the halls, 

“They know we are here” Steve muttered, 

“She’s down here” Tony said, taking another set of steps downwards, Bucky could hear her shallow breaths getting louder slowly with each step he took. 

“Y/N?” Steve called out, 

“I told you to fucking kill me” Y/N screamed,  Tony immediately picked up the pace to a run following the sound of her voice.  Their footsteps echoed through the concrete walls, as they came across a long hallway filled with cells made of glass. Bucky’s skin crawled at the sight. This was what he wanted to protect Y/N from, she shouldn’t see this.  

“KIll me” Her voice rang through the cells, 

“Soldat” Bucky turned to find the voice behind him. “Do the honours?” The man said, he was older than Bucky thought he would be. 

“We’re surrounded” Steve said, 

“There’s no getting out of this” The man sneered, 

“That’s kind of where you are wrong” Tony said smartly, “You really think there’s only four of us?” He laughed 

“What?” 

“The rest of our team have cleared out your base, and they’re on their way” He said with a smirk “Also not only have we got two super soldiers, we’ve also got a freaky witch and me, ironman, you might of heard of me” 

“Ironman, you forget. You have an unstable winter soldier on your team, All I have to do is say a few words and he’s under my control right?” 

“Doesn’t work anymore” Bucky snapped 

“I’m bored” Nat said sneaking up from behind, with a wicked grin she pulled the trigger and the body fell to the ground with a thud. Instantly Bucky turned and shot the guard who was keeping him surrounded “God why are all the people we go against so boring” Nat said with a huff, once they had dealt with the guards. 

“Let’s just get Y/N” Tony said letting out a breath. 

Wanda took a step away from the group into a nearby cell, it was as though she felt her. 

“Guys she’s here” Wanda called, 

Bucky took a deep breath and turned the corner, Y/N sat slumped on a chair, out of breath and covered in bruises and dried blood. 

“Please” She whimpered 

“We’re going to get you out of here” Wanda said slowly untying her gently 

“Please no” She cried 

“You’re safe” Steve said kneeling at her side 

“No Please, let me go” She said 

“We’re letting you go, you’re going to be ok” 

“No, please” She sobbed again “You have to let me die” She cried as Wanda pulled the ties away from her 

“Y/N, we can’t do that” Steve said, 

“You’re going to be okay” Tony promised

“Just let me go please?” 

PART TWO

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Take You Home 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You awake in a strange place with a familiar man

Characters: Steve Kemp

Note: 🫢

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The sludge shifts in your skull as a rolling sensation surrounds you. There’s dull impact, soft but enough to jar you. Your voice drifts between your lips and tickles your clogged brain. Your eyes slit and a glow hazes your vision. 

You blink at the room, the wall obscure, only a shadow before you, a man’s distorted silhouette and his deep unintelligible timbre. Another creak in your throat and the world disappears once more behind your heavy eyelids. 

You plummet into the void, swirling and spinning. Your unconscious makes you dizzy with the unknown elixir coursing through your veins. A prick, sharp and deep, that’s all you can recall from the depths of nowhere. 

You languish there, down, down, where you don’t feel much, where you don’t think. Like a storm clearing, the clouds dissipate wisp by wisp and give way to a gray shroud. Your lashes bat, sticking together before you can peel them apart. 

Your muscles ache as you drag your arm up to wipe the drool from your cheek. Your eyes roll around as you take in the strange beige walls. You lay against once, crooked between it and the floor. You shift and touch the cushioned surface. 

You drop your arm and stare. What happened? Is this a hospital? Were you brought in for some sort of episode? If so, what kind of room doesn’t have any furniture? 

You bend your leg and push your elbows into the ground as you try to sit up. Your body is like stone. As you curl up in a shaking battle, there’s a tug on your ankle and the gentle clink of metal. Your head wobbles as you look down at the leather cuff. 

They don’t have those in any hospitals. 

A loud shink frightens you. You turn to the door as a space appears at the bottom. Through the small slat, a stack of folded garments is shoved through. You stare at the gloved hand before it quickly retracts. 

“Hello?” You call out. 

Silence. You stare at the clothing. What the hell is this? 

You sidle into the corner, or try to. You’re kept from it by the restraint on your ankle. You examine it. The sewn-in padlock has no give. Your eyes well with confusion and fear. 

You close your eyes and try to remember. The effort makes your head throb. You and your mom were having movie night. Just the two of you. Then there was a knock at the door. 

The door across from you rattles with an impact from the other side and breaks your concentration. “Put them on.” 

The voice is gravelly, deliberately so. The speaker intentionally lowers his octave. You must know him. No... 

It is Steve at the door. Your mom’s new boyfriend. New. Despite your protests, they were together for half a year. He always found a way to crash on your nights together. 

You look at the folded garments again. 

“I know it’s you,” your voice crackles sharply in your throat. 

He laughs and hits the door again. 

You shiver and sink down. You stare at the floor and wade back into memory. Further back but not so distant. 

“Mom, he kept touching me,” you tell your mother as she loads the dishwasher. 

“What? He’s just a touchy-feely guy, you know? I’m sure it was nothing.” 

“Mom,” you whine. 

“Well, if you have an issue, tell him,” she shrugs. “All I saw was a friendly nudge.” 

You huff, echoing the same in your current existence as the past shatters. You should have been more adamant. Louder. You tried. You really did. Your mom was willfully blind. You see that now. 

“He was outside my room last night...” 

“He was probably going to get water from the kitchen.” 

Every concern had an easy explanation but the constant stacking of the pieces couldn’t just be coincidence, and now you know. You weren’t wrong but it’s too late for all that. You knew Steve was slimy but you didn’t think he was deranged. 

“My mom will look for me,” you say. 

“Put the clothes on,” he demands, dropping all attempt at disguise. 

“You know she will. I won’t tell anyone how much of a creep you are if you let me go right now--” 

“Do as you’re told.” He slides the slat shut and you wince. 

You stay where you are. Your mom might not suspect him but she’ll look for you. She’ll find you. Once she sees your apartment is empty. Maybe even once she finds your diary and sees everything you wrote. Maybe then, she’ll hear you. 

You just hope it doesn’t take her that long. 

You linger in the stillness of the empty room. Just you and the chain hooked to the loop embedded in the floor. What the hell do you do now? 

Everyone always says they’d be different. They’d fight. They’d find a way out. It’s not that easy when there’s walls and a goddamn chain on your leg. Especially knowing that he’s prepared as much as you are completely not. 

The stagnant air thins as another rap comes on the door. You stare at the door and don’t move. Once more, the space turns stale. You hang your head, fighting down the panic swelling in your chest. 

A loud grind cuts through your fearful trance and the door swings open, sucking the air from the room. Steve storms toward you and rips you from against the wall. He rips your shirt up your torso until your arms are trapped and your blinded in the fabric. 

“Mph, what the frmph,” you growl into the tee. 

“I got you some nice clothes, honey, so go on and put them on.” He snarls as he stands with his feet on either side of you. 

“What is wrong—what are you doing?” You gasp as you push your shirt down. 

“Don’t make me help. You won’t like it,” he warns with a scowl. 

You stare up at him, searching his shadowed expression, “you’re sick.” 

“Don’t act like this isn’t exactly what you were begging for,” he nudges you with his toe then steps over you. “Two minutes, honey. More than enough time for you to come to your senses.” 

He stomps out and the door slams with a clanging echo that rattles your skull. There’s a hint of whatever he injected you with still sifting through your veins. The sluggishness only dulls your panic enough to keep from crying. 

You lean forward, hunching your shoulders and stare at the clothing. The way he pounced, the way he manhandled you, the way he did all this. This isn’t just a slip in judgment, this is meticulously planned. This is deviant. 

The whittling ache in your muscles assures you of little choice. You can resist but you don’t expect any different. Fighting him, him overpowering you, nothing about these walls, that chain, or his strength gives you hope. This is a battle you already lost. 

You reach for the mussed pile and unravel the first piece. A pair of sheer pink panties and a matching bra. The set is not your style. You prefer denim and cotton. Something comfortable and simple. 

Other memories trickle in. The comments. ‘This would look nice on you’ or ‘don’t you have anything with colour?’ Ugh. 

You’re slowed by whatever he put in you. You peel off your shirt. In his effort to strip you, he scratched your stomach. Your side stings from the cut of his nails. Him and his manicures. Everything about him was always too perfect. 

When was it that he got you? You’re fuzzy. You remember your mom on the couch. She fell asleep watching something. You went to the kitchen to get some water and then... nothing. It’s a fog. 

You turn your back to the door. You don’t know why. It doesn’t really matter. Your insides curdle as you pull on the panties first. Each piece is a symbol of your submission. The bra is too small. It pinches as your tits wobble over the cups. 

The dress is just as bad. Pink, the ruching along the sleeves give a small ruffle effect and the skirt dances on your thighs. You tug it down as far as you can then huddle into the wall. 

Your disbelief is padded in horror. The longer you sit in reality, the more virulent the dread. You stare at the door. This is real. There is no escape. 

You pick at the cuff on your ankle without thinking. You blink, the world fracture by black slides, and your breath puffs behind your ears. Your head is going to combust. 

The door jerks. You wince as the lock twists. You press yourself to the wall. 

Steve enters. He changed. His turtleneck and black jeans have been exchanged for dark slacks and a navy blue button-up. His hair is quaffed 

“Ah, you’re ready,” he grins. You glare at him. He looks you over and a smoky light passes through his blue irises. “Now, baby, you gonna be a good girl for me? I got a special night planned for us.” 

You grit your teeth and hold back the retort crawling on your tongue. You can’t move or speak. You know if you do, you’ll regret it. 

“Alright, you sit pretty,” he purrs. 

He leaves the door open as he struts out. It’s a blatant taunt. You couldn’t leave if you wanted. This is all just a joke to him. You have a chain on you, you don’t need the walls or the heavy lock. He has you snared. 

He enters again. He unfolded the table in his hand, locking the legs in place. He hums as he passes in and out; chairs, plates, wine glasses, he sets up the twisted romantic tableau. He sets a candle at the center and lights it. 

“Hungry? You gotta be.” He approaches you as your eyes cling to the floor. 

Your stomach is hollow. Painfully so. You don’t acknowledge him as you ball your fists. 

“You need some help? How’s that head feeling, honey?” 

Your eyes flick up to him. His pupils pinpoint and he offers his hand. You consider it closely then relent. You take it and he pulls you to your feet. You don’t know that you can do it yourself. 

He takes you to the table and sits you down. Just at the end of your tether. You stare at the plates he’s set out with glazed chicken, pilaf rice, and roasted veggies. As hungry as you are, the smell is repulsive. 

He uncorks the wine and fills the glasses. He puts one in front of you and slides one closer to his plate. He sits across from you and grins. He raises his glass. 

“For you, honey,” he winks. 

You look at the glass. Your hand shakes. You focus on the small effort of reaching for it. You shake as you hover your hand over the table. It’s anger, not weakness that has you trembling. 

You look at Steve as he watches you intently. You close your hand and grip the bottom candlestick. You lift it and jab it towards him, splashing him with hot wax as you ram the flame towards him. He spills the wine as he bats away your attack. 

The heavy holder falls out of your grasp and he rams the table into your stomach. It takes the breath out of you and you wheeze. He stands and you push on the chair, trying to stand. He storms around and kicks the legs out from under the chair. You crash to the ground with a cry. 

He kicks your shoulder and pins you to the ground as he stands on it. His other foot is planted right beside you. He pants and growls down at you as rage deepens the lines in his face. 

“Fine,” he sinks his heel into you, “let’s do it the hard way.”  

[giuliettagaltieri]

A Very Bad Day

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Everything burns right before the eyes of Charles Leclerc.

Warning: Swearing and intoxication

Word Count: 2996

Chapter: 1

Charles Leclerc couldn’t quite grasp how his life could turn a total 180 in the last 24 hours.  Over the phone, his girlfriend broke up with him.  Ferrari decided to void the contract after he got drunk at some bar.  And now, he has no idea where he is as he hops on one leg, trying to get the other foot inside his pants as he runs away from a hysterical woman he didn’t know.

And to put the cherry on top, his foot got caught on a table and he came plummeting down on the hardwood.

“Ah fuck.”

Yesterday started like any other day.  Nothing conspicuous about it.  Charles woke up in his apartment in Monaco.  His still droopy eyes stare out at the busy streets and tall buildings of Monte Carlo.  Charles scratches his hip, yawning.

Excited barks soon echoed around the room and he didn’t even need to look to know who it was.  His lips quirk to a smile.  “Morning to you too, pal.”  The goofy dog kept his owner’s attention for the next five minutes before Charles had to have his breakfast.

The man was simply trying not to burn his sunny side up eggs when he got a call from Alexandra.  Charles smiles, which quickly disappears as he tries to avoid a splatter of oil.  

“Charles?”

He inhales deeply.  “Since when was I Charles to you? I’m caro-”

“I’m so sorry, I can’t just do this anymore.”  Alexandra sobs from the other line.

Charles scratches his head.  “What, you want to find another petname?”  He chuckles awkwardly.

“I just…I want you to understand that it’s not you, okay?”

Damn.

Well, this is it.  He thought.

“You breaking up with me or something?”  Charles mumbles as he switches off the stove when the bottom of the egg starts burning.  Alexandra sobs again from the other line.  “You could’ve done it in person, you know.  Like how a decent person should.”

Alexandra was silent and Charles used the spatula to try and salvage the egg which stuck to the pan, its burnt stench made Charles step back and sit on the chair.  He runs a hand over his face.

“Hello.”

“Listen.”  Her voice is much stable this time, making Charles think if she really had been crying thirty seconds ago.  “I really can’t see any future in this relationship.  We should start seeing other people.”

Charles starts swinging the spatula lazily, his eyes now drained.  “Well, I can’t exactly stop you if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you, Charles.”  Alexandra responds a little softly this time, fooling him for a second that this was just another phonecall they have everyday.  Or was it every week?  Charles can’t remember as their relationship has been getting more dull and dull.  “I’m really sorry.  I tried to resist him for months but you just can’t…give me the love that I want and I want to end it between us before I start another relationship.”

So there is another man.  Charles nods somberly, forgetting that Alexandra can’t see him.  “Yes.  Thank you for being honest…you sure he’s a good man?”  Despite his relationship with Alexandra losing its flame, she was still his girlfriend once.

He hears the smile in Alexandra’s voice.  “He is really kind.  He has a daughter whom I love very much.”

“Yeah?”  Charles tries to sound cheerful for her sake, his eyes following the slow drip of the oil from the head of the spatula.

“Yeah!  He can be really busy with his mining company so I get to spend time with her a lot.”

“Good for you.”  His jaw ticks.  “I don’t appreciate you spending time with him while we were still together but I’m glad you broke up with me before you started dating the man.”

Alexandra sighs gratefully from the other line.  “Thanks, Charles.  I knew you’d understand.  What we had, it was good…but it was not going anywhere.  I’ll still come to watch you race though, see you around.”

Charles thinks it is better if she didn’t.  Leo paws at his leg but Charles can’t bother to do anything but scratch behind his ears sluggishly.  

What kind of person breaks up over the phone?  He was so good to her too, getting her anything a girlfriend could want.  Charles was a busy guy but he tried to make it work with her, spending time with her anytime he could.

This wasn’t how he planned his Saturday to start at all.  Charles can already think of the headlines surfacing in the internet soon.

His PR team would kill him.

Well, it’s not entirely his fault.  They can’t pin this on him.

Although the next thing that would happen that day would totally be his fault.

Charles really tried to keep the whole drinking and getting wasted part in his own apartment but the half empty bottles he kept stocked on his mini bar weren’t doing their job.  So he went with the next best thing.  Go get hammered in a bar.

He could have sworn he only had a few glasses.  How was he supposed to know the alcohol content in those drinks were beyond the roof?  That’s what he gets for ordering drinks he has never heard before in his entire life.

It couldn’t have been Alexandra that caused this much of an impact on Charles that he’d go out his way and get shitfaced in some bar where anybody with a phone could post him on social media.  He gulps down his drink, giving up on the puzzle he had no intentions in solving in the first place.

The bar was getting too cramped and Charles felt like he was fighting for every gulp of air.  He had to get out.  Which was a bad idea.  He could barely hold up his own weight, let alone walk.  Charles was stumbling to every person that passed by him in the busy streets of Monaco, he’s yet to be recognized thanks to his cap but he knows this won’t end well.

Next thing he knows, he is being thrown inside a car, the absence of street lights blinding him, the sudden change in colors disorienting him.  Loud voices of people he should know echo around the cramped car.  Someone he recognizes from his PR team is beside him, there’s another one in the passenger seat, trying to talk to him, trying to get his attention but Charles can’t peel his eyes off the floor.  He’s sobering up bit by bit now.  He hears his name being called over and over but he doesn’t respond, not even when somebody holds him by his collar.  

Questions are thrown his way and he can’t even process a single one before another is being thrown at him again.  They keep asking what has gotten into him.  What happened between him and Alexandra that she had to reveal publicly that their relationship was over.  They have no business in prying in that matter.  They repeatedly fume that he could have been arrested for public intoxication had they not gotten there on time.

The car comes to an abrupt halt, sending him forward.  Hands grip him under his armpits and he’s being forced out of the car and on his feet.  Charles doesn’t even know if it’s him making the steps or he’s simply being dragged.  He’s made to sit on the couch and he recognizes his own apartment.  He sees Leo growling at the people who invaded his home.  Charles hunches on the couch, his hands raking on his hair.

Was he stupid?

He is a Formula 1 driver for goodness sake!

It wasn’t easy to deduce that this would harm his career.  A blotch on his record.  Forever known as the Formula 1 driver who was intoxicated in the streets of Monaco, and it was barely even evening!  A fucking embarrassment is what he is.

A loud ringtone echoes and he hears the brief exchange of words.  A phone was then shoved in his hands and he brought it up to his ears.

Charles was used to hearing the calm and humorous voice of Frédéric Vasseur, never like this.

He knew he fucked up.

And like how Alexandra snipped whatever they had, Vasseur did the same to his contract with Ferrari.

“I am very disappointed in you, boy.  I’m afraid Ferrari will have to let you go.”

This is rockbottom.

Charles wordlessly hands the phone back and it’s replaced with his car keys.  For a moment he just stares at the dark stallion.  He hears them saying that someone picked it up from the bar for him.  

I’m fucking stupid.

Charles grips the key so hard it threatens to dig through his palms.  He gets up and heads to the direction of the door.  They call his name over and over but he just cannot deal with them at the moment.

“Get Leo to my mom.  I’m stepping out for a bit.”

He finds his car in the parking space and immediately gets in it.  Just like that, he threw his career under the bus.  What other team would want him to race for them, after this incident, he’d be lucky if some team with shit cars even looks at him.

For years, he built his name, trying to make those he loved proud, only for it all to unravel before his eyes in a single day. 

He needs to get out of here.

The engine roars as he speeds away from his place, going somewhere and nowhere in particular.

The city lights of Monte Carlo were a blur as he sped through.

Charles is never really one to run away from his problems, but there’s nothing here for him, is there?

The girl he trusted to be by his side went and broke up with him.  Their relationship lost its spark long before this day but Charles thought they were stable.  He was blinded with the comfort brought on by the convenience.  He drank not for losing her but for self-pity, which made him two times more horrible.  Charles would just love to blame anybody but himself right about now.  One stupid decision cost him his deal with Ferrari.

They had a fucking contract.  He was going to race for them for the next season, goddammit.

Charles pulls at his glovebox and sees his passport.

He drove to the airport of Monaco and hastily parked his car and gathered his stuff from the glove compartment.  For a moment his hands hovered over his phone yet he hesitates before deliberately leaving it.

He will deal with this later.  He just needs to get out.  Cold sweat was breaking out in his temple when he entered the air conditioned airport.  Charles pulls his hat down after security, feeling like everybody is looking at him.  His heartbeat accelerates and his breathing visibly picks up.  He’s going to be sick if he stays here a moment longer.

“Ticket to LA, please.”  Charles breathlessly said.

The ticket agent glances at him worriedly, familiarity clearly crossing her eyes.  “Sir, are you okay?  Do you need to sit down?”

Charles quickly shakes his head, giving her a forced grin.  “I’m fine.  I just need the ticket to LA.”

The woman types in her computer and her face becomes apologetic, making Charles grit his teeth.  “The plane just left.  The next flight is in six hours.”

“Shit.”  Charles runs a hand through his face.  “Uh…what about Las Vegas?”

“Next flight’s in eight hours-”

“JUST-…”  He inhales sharply.  “Just tell me which flight leaves now.”

The woman’s lips turned thin at his outburst but she chooses not to comment.

“Well, a flight to New York leaves in an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll need a ticket.”

New York was probably not the best choice but he was in a rush to just get out as soon as he can.  LA and Vegas would have been preferable.  He had friends there, somewhere he can crash for a while as he waits for everything to blow over.

But as he stands there in New York, he looks at the bustle of people.  Nobody looked at him yet and for some reason it felt good to be ignored.  To not be a spectacle for once.  But he doubts it will last.  Charles adjusts his watch to the time and has his money changed to dollars so he can use it and he exits the airport.  

The warm, polluted air of New York slaps him in the face.  He got on a taxi and it drives him out of New York.  He was dropped off at a bar in some town where he got a few drinks.  He remembers glancing at his watch, a little past midnight.  Considering he crossed continents, he thought it would be much later than that. 

He repeated the process of riding a cab and stopping by a few places to eat and drink until he lost himself.  He was black out drunk.  Playing Dora the explorer was not on his bucket list for this year but he was stumbling on a sidewalk of some town he doesn’t recognize.  No landmarks or anything to help him.

He’d probably die from alcohol intoxication if he didn't stop drinking.  But the flashing neon light of the word ‘PUB’ in the corner just invites him over.  He opens the door and sees nobody inside but the old bartender, wiping glasses.  How fucking cliché, it made him chuckle.  He trudges to the counter and he frowns at the empty glasses, some still decorated with different colored liquid on the bottom.  Charles awkwardly pushes them to the side and sits on the bar stool as his eyes squint on the menu.  Aside from the typical hard drinks, he sees a variety of unfamiliar ones and decides to order a spiced apple cider from the hot section of the menu.

Alcohol was still running through his system like crazy, making the rush of his blood thrum.  He needed a warm drink to wake him up.

“Hey!”

Charles whips behind him.  A bad idea.  He grimaces and he clutches his head as the sudden movement makes the room spin.

“That’s my seat.”

He blinks hard and looks up to see a woman with red bold lips.  She was pissed by the looks of it.  But Charles knew that the flush on her cheeks was not because of her anger.  She hiccups and Charles grins.

“Yeah?  Sorry about that.”  He moves to the other stool, still watching.

“What are you smiling at?”  The woman glares at him before looking at the bartender who brings over his drink.  “Tom, I’ll have sour cherry vodka.”

“Young lady, you had eight drinks already, I think that might be enough for you.”  The old man chastises gently, an accent thick on his voice.   “It’s wee hours of the morning already.”

Charles grins behind his glass when she visibly deflates, lips pouting as she rests her flushed cheeks on her hand, hiccupping once more. 

“I’ll just have a hot buttered rum then.”

“It still has alcohol in it.”  Tom replies but starts preparing it for her anyway.  He brings over two glasses of water for them in the meantime.

Charles quietly sips on his drink, ignoring the glass of water.  The woman beside him sighs loudly, her finger tracing something on the fogged glass.

“You know.”  She starts as she straightens up in her seat before turning to him with bedroom eyes, making Charles gulp thickly.  “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“It’s my first time here.”  He says before sipping his drink again.

She smiles at him this time.  “You’re a tourist?”

He shrugs.  “Uhm, I guess you can say that.”

Tom places her drink on the counter and she thanks him without taking her eyes off of Charles.

“You a local here?”  Charles asks as his eyes follow how the glass presses on the plumpness of her lips.

She hiccups before giggling, as if he said something really funny to her.  “I think so but I just moved here three years ago for work.”

Just watching her giggle makes Charles chuckles too, he doesn’t know why but he just does.  He clears his throat to sip his drink once more.  Cheeks flushing slightly at the effect she has on him.

She gulps down her drink without pause and Charles follows how her throat moves.  When she places the glass down, she has a goofy grin on and Charles groans out a chuckle upon seeing her whipped cream moustache.

“You have something on your…here, let me get that for you.”  Charles leans closer and he cups her cheek and glides his thumb over her upper lip.  He stared into her wide glassy eyes the entire time.

He feels his skin buzzing, heating up under her gaze.

And he gives in to the pull.  Charles leans closer to plant his lips on hers.  She hiccups once more, making them both laugh but he deepens the kiss, enjoying the flavor of her on his tongue.

A sharp cough makes them part.

Charles glances at Tom the bartender and he sheepishly scratches his neck but she grabs his hand. 

“Uhm…you wanna…”

“Yes.”  Charles answers for her, pressing his lips on hers briefly before he clumsily pulls out his wallet to pay for their drink.  He turns to Tom.  “Is this enough?”

Tom sighs and shoos them away with his hand.  “Just get outta here you two.”

The woman laughs and thanks Tom before she pulls Charles out of the pub and as soon as they’re outside, he pulls her close to him, just needing to kiss her again.  She was like a breath of fresh air from all the craziness that took place today.

“Fuck.”  His hands roamed on her body, making her laugh.  “I need you, baby.”

At this point Charles is just willing to throw everything out the window if it meant having her.

Overdrive

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (II)

Feyd Rautha x fem!reader

summary: the na-baron takes an interest in you

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 1.8k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

“...humiliating…disgusting…barbaric…”

You flinch as your father’s anger roars. Nothing you do will ever please him. 

“What do you think will be said of me? Of how I raised you?”

“You didn’t,” you want to say. Instead you apologize. Harkonnens are animals you rationalize. They were testing to see if you were prey and you had to show them you aren’t. 

“And in doing so you’ve tainted yourself.”

It’s like a slap. The cut on your hand still stings from the solution they’d scrubbed on it. It had only been a handshake. It was a show of strength. He’d understand that sentiment if there was a cock swinging between your legs. He doesn’t stay to say more, leaving you to nurse the wounds alone. 

A feast is held that night. A welcome to your guests. You're squeezed into a new outfit, one you've been told your father deems more appropriate than the one you’d had chosen. It’s the first time he’s ever taken the initiative to dress you. It gives you no pleasure to recognize the dress as one of his courtesan’s.

“Your dress is lovely,” says the Princess Irulan when she sees you again after the food had been taken away and the party mills about in the Hall. She takes your arm and strolls with you between the bodies. The familiarity between you is striking. She speaks of her sisters, the planet she calls home. You tell her of your studies. It seems you share a fondness for the same authors.

It’s odd to feel her warm smile. There were few women in your life. Maids mostly, though they rotated frequently. A few of the castle’s regular entertainers when allowed. You don’t count the courtesans who keep your father company. 

“Princess,” Paul greets her with a bow, intruding on your talks of taking an excursion around the palace grounds. Those green eyes turn on you and sweep across your form. “My lady, you look stunning.” He takes your hand again and bends to kiss it while you try not to flinch. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” Irulan says with more kindness than deserved. “We were just making plans to visit the lake the day after tomorrow.”

The way his face lights up has your excitement plummeting. He’s eager to join. You stay as long as you can stand his conversation. It’s not long. You excuse yourself, claiming the need to check on the rest of your guests, and extract your arm from the princess’. You accept a kiss on your cheek from her before disappearing into the crowd.

You have no desire to mingle more. Whatever consequences you’ll face when your father finds out about you slipping out don’t worry you. His anger would have found something to punish you for anyways. Cool air greets you as you step into the gardens. It’s not your favorite place, but the training yard is too far in this getup. 

“It’s rude to leave your own party.”

Hair raises on your arms, but you don’t turn to the voice. “You have my apologies for my rudeness then.”

“And it is unwise to keep your back to an armed man.”

“What fun is life without a little risk, na-Baron?”

He chuckles at that. There’s quiet footsteps as he paces behind you like a panther appraising a potential meal. You keep your eyes forward. “You and the princess seem to have bonded quite quickly.” He’s been watching you.

“She is easy to be fond of.” 

Shadow swallows you as he steps behind you. Breath ruffling your hair he asks, “But Paul Atriedes is not?” He’s been watching you closely. A fingernail scraps down your bare arm. “Do you resent him for what he’s stolen from you?”

You spin.

The black void that is his smile is wide on his face. Humiliation sears your throat. How many people know of your father’s deepest shame? Feyd-Rautha seems to revel in that silent moment. Your pain brings him pleasure. 

“I must return to my guests,” you say and step around him. His hand shoots out to grab your arm, but you're prepared. You evade, pull your arms taut to your chest, and dart down the hall as his laugh taunts. The respect you built with the Harkonnens was nothing more than delusion. It doesn’t matter what teeth you bare or claws you present, any show of weakness will be exploited. 

You round a corner and nearly crash into a guard. The same one from earlier. He questions if you’re hurt, eyes darting the corridor behind you. He seems to find nothing. You agree with his warnings now. It’s best you don’t wander alone.

You wake unrested. Images of blackened teeth, slicing blades, and hoarse laughter haunt you into the morning hours. You’ve made the decision to retain a personal guard. The choice in who is easy. 

You spend the day reviewing everything for your coming of age in a couple of days. Your father is supposed to do it, but he’s nowhere to be found. It’s tedious but the hours of distraction are welcome. And it gives you reason to decline Paul’s lunch invitation. It’s only when the sun is past its peak that you’re forced to hand over the remaining duties to your grumbling father. The swordmaster demands your time to refine a performance you still can’t rationalize. Who is it for?

Your father? A man who despises any display of femininity from you? The princess? In some attempt at an apology for a marriage that can now no longer be? Or House Atreides? The ones who’d stolen your destiny before you’d been a seed in your mother’s womb? This artistry certainly isn’t for the brutes of House Harkonnen.

The music halts half way through the fourth run. “Your timing is wrong,” the swordmaster says and has you begin again. 

By time he’s satisfied, your legs burn and your patience is worn thin. You can only glower at your guard, Fandral you’ve learned is his name, as he compliments the dance. “I like the story it tells,” he defends. 

“There’s not a story.” You massage the shoulder of your sword arm. The ache isn’t unwelcome, but the cause is frustrating. The time would have been better spent actually training.

“All art tells a story,” he says.

You scoff. “And what’s the story? I go crazy and start fighting air?”

“You can see it that way, but I think there’s more nuance.” He eyes the girls as you hand off the swords as if expecting one of them to run you through. “It’s the story of a girl turning into a woman.”

A laugh erupts from you. It’s a fitting story for your coming of age, at least. He tries to explain his reasoning. The symbolism of the first sword as the first menstruation, the second as the final years of youthful rebellion, and the end is the acceptance of the new role as a woman. You don’t quite believe it.

There’s no dreams of black teeth or the bite of blades that night. This nightmare is of your mother. Her face unmoving. Silent as you scream. She never moves, but she’s forever out of reach. Then she’s gone and you’re left gasping in the dark alone. 

“This is beautiful,” Paul says in awe as he stares out over the lake.

It’s difficult to not let every word out of his mouth annoy you. You remind yourself he didn’t steal anything from you. His mother did. “You should see it at sunrise.”

He tears his gaze off the water. “I’d like that.” He says it so earnestly you feel you’re missing something. 

“As would I,” Irulan says. You turn your head to look at her on your otherside, but her eyes remain focused on the scenery. 

“And I,” the Harkonnen rasps in your ear.

His addition to the excursion had been as unexpected as it was unwanted. He didn’t seem the type to enjoy a day by the water. Even now, he’s at odds with the world around him. His stark white skin and ghastly black clothes unsettling out amongst the colors. You doubt he truly wants to see the beauty of first light. 

“Another day,” you say. It’s not a promise. 

You only plan to stay for an hour at most, enjoying a light lunch under your favorite tree, but Paul asks about going out on the lake. There’s only a small canoe available on such short notice, but it’s enough. Irulan has no desire to get on the water and says she’d prefer to ask Feyd-Rautha about the Spice harvesting on Arrakis. You aren’t keen on leaving her with him, but she insists and there’s guards to keep her safe.

Paul tries to play the gentleman and offers you his hand once he’s in the canoe, but he’s unsteady and nearly tips it over. You return his apologetic smile as you hear hoarse, barking laughter from the tree.

He’s inquisitive as you row out of sight. About your studies, arts you partake in, foods you enjoy. He even asks about your favorite color. You try to respond in kind, but he doesn’t leave you much time to catch your breath between answers let alone ask your own questions. It’s frustrating but you smile and bear it.

“What’s that?” 

Blinking at him confused, you follow his gaze. A few meters from the shoreline was a small marble pavilion. It’s overgrown with vines, graying from the accumulation of dirt and grime. You’ve forgotten it was here. It feels like there’s cotton in your mouth when you speak. “Just an old pavilion.”

You let him take the canoe further for a while longer, before turning it back. You don’t look at the pavilion when you pass it again. It’s a relief to come back into view of the others. The canoe floats to stop beside the small dock. Fandral is there waiting, his arm extended. But Paul stands too quickly and the canoe sways. Your hand brushes Fandral’s outstretched one for a moment, but you tilt the other way and spill into the frigid water. 

It's not deep. Once you have bearings you’re able to stand and your head breaks through the surface. You take in a deep, shuddering breath. There’s a commotion beside you. Paul’s head pops out and sprays more water in your face.

Someone’s speaking, but there's a river flowing in your ears that makes it impossible to understand. It's a difficult walk to the dock. Your dress is heavy and the water slows your steps. An arm reaches out to you and you take it to help pull yourself up. 

Feyd-Rautha stares down at you. Not with a smile. There’s no amusement on his face. There's something new in his eyes you don’t recognize. It takes Fandral’s interference to release you from the intensity of his gaze. The guard shrugs off the jacket of his uniform and drapes it around your shoulders.

Irulan frets despite your multiple assurances you’re fine. It wasn’t deep. There was no danger. You’re wet, that’s all. Paul apologizes over and over and over again. “It was an accident,” you say in hopes of appeasing his guilt. You want Paul Atreides to leave you alone.

your thoughts are appreciated!

join my taglist 💕

next chapter

[neodaydreams]

How to disappear - L.DH. [teaser]

Pairing: idol!reader x idol!haechan

Genre: pure angst, suggestive.

Summary: You and Haechan are addicted to the adrenaline of being on stage, but once the show is over, you need to find something else to fill the void. - A tale of the troubled relationship between two child stars that burned too much as they grew up.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, addiction, drug consumption, drug abuse, mental illness, depressive episodes, suicidal thoughts, mommy issues, smoking.

Word count: TBA.

You and Donghyuck were seated across from each other in the bathtub, no words exchanged. Despite what was supposed to be an intimate moment, the complete silence that allowed even the small droplets of water falling to the ground to be heard was uncomfortable.

Your eyes, unable to meet his, looked at the ceiling—the stupid gray ceiling your mom had chosen against your will.

“Is this the life you envisioned when you started this?” you asked, finally breaking the silence, although the tension in the room was still high. Donghyuck's face was still turned in the opposite direction from yours.

“No.” His voice was quiet, broken, very different from the usual Hyuck you and everyone else knew. Even on his most tired days, when he could barely keep his eyes open or move due to the incessant hours of work, you had never seen him so broken down, so visibly defeated that it showed in his every action.

“Why are you here, Hyuck?” The question made him look at you for once. “I have no redeeming qualities other than my face and body, and I know that at this point, that’s not enough to make you stay.” You started to approach him.

“I am not fun, interesting, or smart. I am not a good listener nor comprehensive to other people's struggles. And I’m not a good talker either. I don't bring any joy and if anything, I make you even more miserable than you already are on your own.” Even with the self-deprecating words about yourself and him, you kept the same bored and monotone tone as always, hoping that would encourage Hyuck to do the same, to play pretend with you. But that was not the only thing you hoped for as you wished for Hyuck to give a comforting answer. To hold you in his arms and say something sweet, to assure you that everything was going to be fine with the both of you and the only reason he stayed with you was because he loved you and that was enough.

But Hyuck stayed quiet, confused red eyes looking into yours with a frown on his delicate face.

“Why do we keep insisting on this?” you tried again.

Do you love me? Do I love you?

“I don't know.” His voice was still broken.

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[l3viat8an]

One of those before-i-forget things :3

Brothers, minding their own business: ...

MC, probably on her period, tears in her eyes, shaky voice: if i were an ant, would you step on me or give me crumbs?

Just gonna drop it here and disappear into the void, goodnight 🖤🖤

Please don't mind it if it's too dumb I'm in my silly goofy arc and im exhausted

🐈‍⬛~

Ahhh I’m late again but goodnight!! And this is so funny dhajaj-

Belphie is just rolling his eyes and saying ‘Sure.’

Beel is completely serious “I’d still share food with you. but I’m not sure where you’d live…”

Asmo is having an internal struggle cuz ‘ewww bugs’ 💀 so he’ll probably stay quiet.

Satan says ‘yes’ without hesitation. He’d even build you an ant farm shjshs

Levi says ‘Yes’ just so you calm down, but then he’ll ask if you’d still love him as a worm-

Mammon says yes before asking immediately if you would love him as a bug, he needs an answer now or he’ll worry you wouldn’t-

Lucifer stays quiet because it sounds ridiculous you’re not going to turn into a bug. Yes, he would still take care of you as a bug but it’s ridiculous. 

[ridingreeves]

The rain poured down, a soft but steady drumming against the windows, as you stood in the dimly lit apartment you and John had shared for the past few months. The air was thick with unspoken words, and you could feel the weight of them pressing against your chest. John stood by the door, his face as unreadable as ever, but his eyes held a pain that mirrored your own.

You had noticed the change in him recently—how he grew more distant, his silence becoming longer, his touch more fleeting. Tonight, it felt like something had broken, and you were about to find out what it was.

“I can’t stay,” John said, his voice low and gravelly, barely audible over the rain. He didn’t look at you when he spoke, his eyes fixed somewhere on the floor, as if he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze.

Your heart clenched at his words, and you took a step closer, searching his face for something—anything—that would explain why. “John, what are you talking about?” you asked, your voice shaking despite your efforts to keep it steady. “We can work through whatever this is. You don’t have to go.”

But he only shook his head, the lines of his face hardening in that way they always did when he was about to shut down. “You deserve better than this… better than me.” His tone was final, but the sadness in his eyes betrayed the coldness of his words.

“John, don’t do this. You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” you whispered, your throat tightening. You reached for him, your fingers brushing against his arm, but he pulled away, retreating like a shadow into the dark.

He finally looked up at you, and the agony in his gaze almost broke you. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The people I’ve hurt, the things I’ve done… they’re never going to stop coming for me. I can’t keep pulling you into this life.”

“Then we’ll face them together,” you insisted, tears stinging your eyes now. “I don’t care about your past, John. I care about you. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

John’s jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, it looked like he might give in, like he might stay. But then he stepped back, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I can’t risk losing you,” he said, his voice breaking for the first time. “If you stay with me… one day, you’ll be gone. And I won’t survive that.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, a chasm opening between you that neither of you knew how to cross. The tears fell freely now, and you didn’t bother to wipe them away. “So you’re just going to leave? Walk out and pretend we didn’t mean anything?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the weight of your words was too much to bear. “I’ll never pretend that,” he said softly. “But this is the only way I can keep you safe.”

Without another word, John turned and opened the door. The cold air rushed in, and with it, the finality of what was happening. You wanted to scream, to beg him to stay, but you knew it wouldn’t change anything. He was doing what he always did—sacrificing himself to protect the people he cared about.

As he stepped out into the rain, you called after him one last time, your voice cracking under the weight of your sorrow. “John, please… don’t go.”

He paused at the doorway, his back to you, and for a moment you thought he might turn around. But then, without a word, he disappeared into the night, leaving you standing alone in the emptiness of the life you had tried to build together.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening. You sank to your knees, tears mingling with the rain that had slipped in through the open window. John was gone, and you weren’t sure if you’d ever see him again.

All you knew was that he had taken a piece of you with him, and no matter how hard you tried, that void would never be filled

Hiii I’m very new to this so it probably won’t be as good but I hope you all like it

[cogitory]

Plush Laughter (Coraline tickle fic)

Happy Halloween all. @toweroftickles requested that someone might follow up on a Coraline fanfic prompt that he got earlier this month. As a fan of his work, I attempted to heed the call. Takes place near the end of the movie. Entails the Other Mother employing one of Coraline's weaknesses with a voodoo variant of her usual dolls.

A sharp wind rustled the treetops overhead before going silent as the night sky faded to white. The ground beneath them fell away and color drained from everything as Coraline rushed past on her way back into the house. With a grunt she slammed the door behind her just as the world outside seemed to completely disappear.

She sighed in relief as the entrance clicked shut. Despite the chaos beyond it the interior of the house seemed normal. Not safe by any means, but not collapsing. Not yet.

As if sensing her trepidation, the cat leapt from her bag and disappeared around the corner up ahead without a word. Coraline sighed again and stood up. "Alright then. Let's keep moving..."

She was winning the challenge, and that meant the Other Mother's power was waning. Now her house was all that was left of this world. Despite the escape from the empty void outside (and the smell of something weirdly sweet wafting from the kitchen??), Coraline stayed on guard. The mask for this place had fallen, and now her freedom was hanging on the edge of another one of Other Mother's games. A finding things game...

She had been doing well so far, all things considered. The eyes of three ghosts (or the marbles representing them anyway) were safely packed away in her pocket. But another scavenger hunt across the entire house was easier said than done when she didn’t even know what exactly she was looking for. She was trying to find her stolen parents of course, but what did that mean in a fake little world where nothing was ever what it seemed?

“La da da daaa~”

Speaking of which… Coraline pursed her lips as she drew closer to the sound of the Other Mother’s voice humming down the hall. Coraline found her working alone in the kitchen, clearing a counter for the fresh gooseberry pie she withdrew from the oven.

My favorite… Coraline thought bitterly. She steadied herself and cleared her throat before moving into the doorway.

“Oh dear, did you tire of our little game so quickly?” The Other Mother glanced over her shoulder, still smiling warmly as a darker edge crept into her voice. She looked like Coraline's mother again, black button eyes aside. She was wearing a dark dress in all prim and proper smiles. The ghastly image of her true form already shelved behind another mask. “Ready to give up and rest?" she asked, gently closing the oven. "Just in time for dessert...”

“No,” Coraline answered quickly. She crossed her arms, determined not to show fear. “I’m doing just fine. Great in fact! Three things found, one thing to go…”

"Impressive!" The Other Mother’s smile twitched ever so slightly, but her cheerful tone didn’t waiver as she clapped her hands together. “Well then, if it’s too easy for you then perhaps we should mix things up! I’d hate for you to get bored...”

“Hang on!” Coraline stepped forward, hesitation forgotten in favor of anger. “You can’t just change the rules mid-game!”

“Who’s changing anything? This is more like, a bonus round!” The Other Mother chuckled, removing a doll from a small wooden box that had been placed near the wall. It looked near identical to the doll Coraline had been given before. That is to say, it looked like another miniature version of herself… Blue hair... Freckles… Only now the outfit it wore had been updated to resemble the one that she was currently wearing. Her dark vest atop orange pajamas and a pair of worn in sneakers. It even wore a little copy of the military cap she had lost outside.

“Another doll…?” Coraline raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“A special doll! I had to rush this one a little, but even so...” The Other Mother ran a hand over the top of the doll’s head, ruffling its yarny blue hair beneath its hat.

Coraline gasped, reflexively running her fingers through her own hair as she felt the top of her head being touched in tandem.

“It should be good for a laugh…” The Other Mother then booped the doll’s nose with her fingertip.

Coraline sputtered, stepping backward and furrowing her brow as she felt the tip of her own nose being prodded as well by some unseen force. “What is that?! What are you doing!?”

The Other Mother gave her an innocent grin. “You’ve been in suuuch a bad mood lately dear. I just wanted to find a way to make you happy again! So I thought maybe…” She ran a single finger along the curve of the doll’s waist.

“H-Hey!” Coraline flinched, jerking to the left as she felt that phantom touch trailing up her side.

“We could return to an old favorite of yours…” She trailed her finger up a little higher, swirling her nail just beneath the sleeve of the doll’s vest.

"Mmph!" Coraline hugged her sides, swallowing a giggle bubbling up in her throat. She forced her lips shut into a lopsided pout despite the hilarious sensation beginning to scrawl its way into her armpit. “Q-Quit-it!” she snarled.

“Aaw, what’s wrong??” The Other Mother rolled the doll over in her hand, this time poking the center of the doll’s midsection and giving her fingertip a wiggle. “Where’s that wonderful smile of yours…?”

“Mmmpppfffhhh!!” Coraline closed her eyes and clenched her teeth trying to ignore it. She really tried to play it off as her breath hitched. But it was a losing battle... A pair of invisible fingers were pressed gently into her belly, curling up and down and increasing in speed, teasing insistently as her defenses quickly crumbled beneath them. “PPFFFTT-HaaAhahAHAH!!” Coraline toppled over backwards as the dam burst with laughter, a goofy open-mouthed smile overtaking her whole face despite her best efforts.

“There it is!” Other Mother smiled sweetly as she began to quickly tiptoe the two fingers in a tiny path up and down the doll’s midriff.

“Stop-STAHHAHAAHP!” Coraline arched her back and flopped about on the floor. She scraped her hands down the front of her PJs trying to grasp at whatever ghostly force was there, but she grabbed at nothing but the rumpled hem of her shirt. “Nohooohohoo!!”

“What is it dear?” Other Mother cocked her head slightly, feigning a look of confusion over the sound of Coraline’s desperate giggling. “Oh does that…?” She turned her gaze back to the doll in mock surprise, her fingers still merrily dancing atop where the toy’s abs would be. “Does that tickle…?”

“Y-You!! Cheating Witch!! Hahahah!!” Coraline rolled over, trying to press her stomach to the ground and smother the sensations dancing across it, but it was no use. She could still feel a pair of slender fingers digging gently atop her skin, before one suddenly changed course and dipped into her belly button.

"EEAACK"! Coraline squealed, jerking up to see the Other Mother’s finger reflecting the action she felt. She saw a long teasing fingertip poking through the tiny gap between the buttons of the doll’s buttoned up shirt. Coraline shook her head. The Other Mother just gave a smug smile as her finger began corkscrewing back and forth against the plush felt beneath.

“NAhahAAHAHAH-Y-You Rotteahahann! Stuphaahpiad!!” Coraline’s cheeks flushed red as she slapped the ground, trying to spit out whatever half-baked threats or insults came to mind, her words losing meaning amidst her rising laughter. She rolled on her side, covering her middle with both hands as the finger continued to swirl against the ticklish rim of her navel, undeterred beneath her grasp.

“You know as fun as this is, I might be tempted to stop…” The Other Mother’s finger slowed to a crawl and began tapping in place, allowing Coraline’s hysterics to fade into breathless giggles. “If you’d just give up this messy little game of ours…”

“Haah… Are... Haahah… Are you kidding…?” Coraline used the chance to stumble to her feet, still trying to catch her breath and fight off a twitchy smile. “All that's happened, and you think I’m gonna give up? Haahah… Just like that...? You’re pathetic..!”

The Other Mother’s own smile fell. Twirling the doll like a baton, she suddenly flipped the miniature Coraline over in her grasp and popped off its tennis shoes with her thumb as if she were popping the lid off of a soda bottle. Coraline felt her heart sink as they fell to the floor with a light clatter.

The Other Mother furrowed her brow and began to raise her free hand. “The gloves are off… Coraline...”

Coraline looked down at the shoes and back up with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh you know what I mean!”

Her fingers dove for the bared soles of the doll. Dancing across the tiny appendage like a spider swarming a fly.

A shock went through Coraline's entire body as she barked with laughter once more, stumbling back and stamping her shoes as if they had suddenly become filled with feather-wielding ants.

"W-Wait!! NO! Not-There-Not-Therereereheahhaa!!"

The Other Mother merely smirked. "Oh yes there... I believe we've only just started."

Coraline was practically dancing in place now. Kicking out and jumping in the air, as if the movement would help her dodge any of the flurry of sensations. But unlike her, the doll's legs weren't moving an inch, leaving the simple pads that substituted for feet completely vulnerable to every gesture of the Other Mother's scurrying fingers.

Eyes beginning to blur with tears of mirth, Coraline could barely make out the Other Mother's fingers changing. The faster they moved, the longer and more needle-like they began to look. Their touch never hurt though. She felt them scrape and scurry and scrawl across the arches of her feet with the speed of a mouse and the pressure of a dull comb.

"HAhahaaahah!! MAke it Stahhahap!!" She was leaning against the wall now, hugging her ribs as her legs continued to bounce and twitch beneath her, threatening to buckle at any moment.

The Other Mother chuckled as she bent down and leaned in closer, her amusement barely heard over Coraline's hysterics. "As much as I love your choreography dear... Are you ready to surrend-AAARGH!!"

With a fresh burst of fury, the seemingly aimless swing of Coraline's foot rose up into a sudden kick, connecting with the side of the Other Mother's face with a heavy thud of her shoe.

The Other Mother jerked back, catching the side of her head against the fridge and nearly popping one of her button eyes loose with a rough tug of the string. "AAH! You Little Monster!!" She snarled. "Do you know what it takes to properly replace string of this quality?!"

Coraline didn't. And she didn't care. Still panting for breath, she began to run forward, trying to grab at the doll just as it was lifted once more out of her reach.

The Other Mother shoved Coraline back and held the doll up higher while she fixed her hair with her free hand. She was taking deep breaths and quickly calming down despite one button eye hanging loose on her left side. "It's fine..." she whispered. "It's fine! I can fix this... I can fix you...! But in the meantime!" She glowered down at Coraline with her good eye, and placed the doll next to a potted plant on top of the kitchen cabinet. "You'll need a sitter..."

"Coraline's eyes widened as she recognized the flower that had been potted there. It's orange petals twitching like a long open mouth as the doll was placed upside down alongside it.

"Wait-No-No-No-AhahaAHAHAA!!" Coraline dashed forward to scale the cabinet high above her, but she quickly lost grip and fell back as the dragon snapper began to playfully bite at the doll's feet.

"Not AGaaahiaiaiannn!!" Coraline fell back, kicking at the cabinet as her cheeks flushed pink from another barrage of tickles. " Stahp!! Stohahaahahppp!!" She cried out, but if the flower could understand her, it didn't seem to care.

"There. Now you play nice, while I freshen up! Be good now..." The Other Mother slunk out of the room, cradling her eye and leaving Coraline in a fit of giggles and guffaws without a second glance.

Coraline reverted focus to her new enemy, kicking at the cabinet while she still had the strength. "K-Knock it OoAahahahAHAHAFF!! Her words failed her as soon as the flower found proper grip of the tip of both doll's legs and began nibbling. If the Other Mother's claws reminded Coraline of the scraping teeth of a comb, then the dragon snapper was like having your toes eaten by feathers.

After what seemed like far too long to spend being tickled silly by a houseplant, Coraline made out a familiar shape moving atop the cabinet.

"H-Help! HAhaha!!" she cried. "P-Please!!"

Whether the cat was being helpful, or whether it was simply being a cat, it leaned the side of its body towards the pot and gave it a shove. Making a few last snaps at the open air between itself and the doll, the potted plant fell to the kitchen floor with a shatter.

As if a switch had been flipped off, Coraline's feet stopped tingling, and the stiff smile that had been glued to her cheeks finally relaxed. Coraline plopped backwards, closing her eyes and taking heavy breaths between a last few residual giggles as her breathing slowly returned to normal.

"Thank... Hahah... Thank you...."

The cat leapt to the floor, dragging the doll after it.

"Not the most dramatic monster for a hero to overcome..." the cat mused with a chuckle looking down at the scattered soil and leaves.

"Ah shuddup..." Coraline murmured, smirking a bit. Having caught her breath, Coraline suddenly remembered where she was and leapt to her feet. She bagged up the doll with the rest of her findings and crept out of the kitchen, the cat following behind.

"You're bringing the doll?" The cat asked, darting between her legs.

"I can't have her using it again!" Coraline whispered. "I have to keep moving. I'll just carry it for now..."

"And then what...?"

"I'll figure it out later!" Coraline clutched the bag tighter. The thought of taking such a doll home was embarrassing to say the least. But anything beat leaving it here to be weaponized again.

Weaponized... That was an embarrassing thought too... To think that something silly like tickling could have been the game-changer here.

But hey, everyone has their kryptonite...

[gaymurdersalad]

[ HOWDY Y’ALL! WE INTERRUPT THIS PROGRAM FOR A FUN BROADCAST!

If you haven’t noticed, it’s pride month! That means we’re legally allowed to be gay for an entire month before we have to disappear into our burrows once more! To celebrate the occasion, I decided to do a fun little pride post! ]

[ I’ve gathered all the little fuckers in The Void to poke and prod at them like zoo animals. In other words, I figure they all have some neat identities and wouldn’t mind being interrogated in honor of pride month. I’ll go ahead and turn it over to them, but I’ll say now, no matter how much they kick and scream, I am definitely NOT holding them at gunpoint! This workspace is… definitely OSHA approved. Don’t let them tell you otherwise. Have attem! ]

> This is fucking stupid. Stop waving that gun at me. I’m talking.

> My identity isn’t anything special. I’m just some guy who decided he was a guy way later than everyone else did. I don’t really give a damn what pronouns people use on me because usually they just end up avoiding me at all costs or scampering away like frightened animals.

> I’m bisexual, is that anything? But, like, only bisexual in a sexual way. I could not fucking fathom living a long prosperous life with anyone. How the hell are you supposed to enjoy someone for that long? Getting married seems like a scam. I bet it is. I bet it’s like the invention of Valentine’s Day for greeting card companies. You’re not actually supposed to be in love with someone for that long, it just doesn’t seem possible.

> … My marriage with Dave does not count, that wasn’t an officiated wedding. I’m fairly certain he fished those rings out of a water fountain and pawned his dress off a hooker. I do vividly recall dumpster diving for my tuxedo.

> Uhhhhhh wuh? Hmmmm, I’onno what the hell I am, Old Sport! Fuck!

> Shit, I guess I like everyone. A hole’s a hole. Why the fuck would I discriminate? I think I got a preference for men though! They’re so fuckin’ easy to romance! Unless they’re the likes of Sportsy, then it’s the hardest goddamn thing you’ll ever seduce. He gets real gay when he’s on acid, but then again, I get real gay on cocaine. Man, our wedding was immaculate. Imma tell our kids about it one day!

> Likewise, I’ll be any gender you fuckin’ want me to be. I got like, pocket gender, I can just whip it out on request. Want me to be a dude? Fuck yeah, alright. Want me to be a pretty lady? No goddamn problem at all! I can be both at the same time or one more than the other— who gives a shit? I’m just havin’ fun.

> Good fucking lord, really? That shotgun does not scare me, you orange fool—

> … I have a complicated identity. As any other living organism does.

> I have found that over the years I do not experience sexual attraction and that I experience little to no romantic attraction. I only recall feeling romantically attracted to one person in my entire life. I doubt it will happen again. > And it may seem, uhm... Embarrassing, but I do deviate from your traditional "man's man". In laymen's terms, I do not feel particularly drawn to being male. I am very certain I was born with the intention of being a man, but my mind has refused to accept it. I am not sure why. Instead of feeling like a proper bloke, I feel rather empty. If I could have it my way, I would be some... human silhouette rather than a full fledged man. I do not know. This is idiotic. > I cringe every time someone addresses me in a masculine way. I wish I could simply have no pronouns. I can deal with them because I am indeed a grown ass... person, but I just wish it were not so. Whatever. I am done complaining.

> Oh! That’s very simple, this is really easy.

> I literally don’t have anything going for me at all.

> What with the entire fabric of time being on my shoulders and all, I don’t even think about gender or romance much. I do love being a girl! It’s one of the things I miss most about being alive, actually. Pretty dresses, playing with makeup in the bathroom, trying to curl my hair without burning my scalp— I mean, it sounds horrendous sometimes, but you can’t beat it. Feeling alive and content in your own skin. Just one of those precious things that spawned from the chance of life.

> … Uhm, Uhhh… Men.

> Yeah. I Like Them. I Think… Yes, I Could Probably Date A Man Or Two. I Don’t Know, Employee, Why Did You Pull Me Out Here? You Know I Have Copious Paperwork To Do! Some @$!# $#*@ Kid Just Fell Into The Ball Pit And Got Mauled Jaws-Style And His Parents Are Really Grilling Us For It. Dumb&@#*s, It’s Not My Fault Their Kid Heeded The Call Of The Sirens. I Swear, This Job Is Going To Kill Me Or Force My Hand Into Becoming The Next Purple Guy—

> extremely in love with my wife and my gender!

> it was actually very cute how we met, employee. have i ever told you? heh heh, we met in highschool. she was on the football team and i was a cheerleader, can you believe that? oh, i was head over heels for her instantly. she was strong, she was quick thinking, she was so hecking beautiful, employee… i never got to tell her how i felt while we were in highschool, but we were good friends. very good friends. come a few years later, some old buddies of ours want to have a get together and dish it out like old times… go vandalize and drive off into the sunset in the back of a pickup truck sipping on horrendously cheap beer and laughing off our university work or our jobs. when i get to our spot, though, i see her. i’d recently wised up to my gender, y’know, had my hair cut and fresh scars on my chest, so suffice to say i looked nothing like i did when i cheered for her during football season. she’d done the same, employee— she grew out her hair to the middle of her back in such beautiful dark curls, her bangs tied back so every inch of her perfect face could glimmer underneath the neon lights of the derelict bowling alley we’d found ourselves in. she looked at me, and i sensed instant recognition. she smiled through her bright red lipgloss and rushed up to me, wrapping me up in a hug, and i swear, she hadn’t lost any of those muscles— almost broke my ribs!

> the rest of the night, we were so… comfortable together. sure, during highschool we were close, but without saying a single word about what happened to us between then and now, we understood, and employee— i think it brought us closer. it was around three in the morning while we sat around a bonfire with the rest of our buddies when she layed her head on my shoulder and i felt an unfathomable warmth. i knew i wanted her for the rest of my life.

> … i just love her so much, employee.

> oh ok

> its rlly whatever. any pronouns any gender anybody who wants me. who cares

> oh i do have a preference for girls. theyre pretty. if you disagree u are not blessed enough to be loved by gods best creation and ur pissed about it. i can tell

> what if i was actually catholic would that be fucked up or what

> …

> … I cannot… physically stress how abhorrent sexuality is to me. What… What an utterly damning notion. Someone’s greedy hands cursing you and plaguing your with their own dirty human desires. How disrespectful. How… invasive. Why on Earth would it be my responsibility to supply someone with something to love? Am I really subject to whatever the hell people think of me? Whether they “love” me or perceive me as some… some man, some object of attraction? Disgusting.

> If I could shed every trace of a sex or gender from my loathed corpse, I would. Often times I lay awake at night and consider skinning myself for the hell of it. I’ve related this to David and he said I sounded “fuckin’ insane”. Stupid bastard. I want to be a skeleton. I wanna be a fucking skeleton! Pretty and thin and not alive whatsoever! God damn this accursed body and its… rancid flesh and unidentifiable mystery goop. Ugh. Ugh!!!! God, the biggest blight on my “life” was being cursed with gender!

> I was born as a female which was just laughably wrong, then I recall amending that and trying to become a man, but none of it worked. All of it sucked. All of it was wretched. The ideal form is a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. You can’t romance a ghost or ghoul or skeletal figure. Can’t have sex with that. Unless you’re really, really determined. I don’t think even David could be that serious about his sexuality.

> … I… Hope. Oh dear. Oh god, I really am unsafe from the horrors of this world. God, I wish that bear had taken me out before I showed him to his grave.

[onegayastronaut]

Rekindling the Flame

Requested by anon: Hi could I maybe request a Melinda May & female reader fic where May and reader were best friends at the academy but went on different paths and are now reuniting again. Bonus points if Daisy is convinced they are a couple and is shipping them hard.

Words: 1104

Melinda May wasn’t one for nostalgia. The past was a place she avoided revisiting—its weight far too heavy for her liking. But when Director Coulson assigned her to oversee a new mission briefing, she couldn’t suppress the flicker of emotion that broke through her usually steely demeanor.

The specialist called in to consult wasn’t just anyone.

It was you.

Her best friend from the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy days. The one person who knew her before the “Cavalry,” before Bahrain, before the years of stoic silence and walls built too high for anyone to climb.

May stood near the head of the conference room, arms crossed, her gaze locked on the door. When you walked in, it felt like the years apart melted away, even if the faint lines at the corners of your eyes spoke of your own battles.

You scanned the room, stopping short when you saw her. A smile broke across your face—bright and familiar, just like she remembered.

“Agent May,” you greeted, your voice betraying a flicker of nervousness. You hadn’t seen her in over a decade.

“(Y/N),” May said, her tone unusually soft.

The room fell quiet as the two of you locked eyes. There was so much to say, but no words to fill the void years had left. Finally, you grinned, trying to lighten the mood.

“Still as intimidating as ever, I see.”

May’s lips twitched. “And you’re still as reckless.”

The old rhythm between you two came flooding back, and for a moment, the years and the pain didn’t matter. The rest of the room might as well have disappeared.

From across the room, Daisy nudged Mack with her elbow. “Okay, what is going on there?”

“What do you mean?” Mack asked, glancing at you and May. You were seated close together, heads tilted toward one another as you talked in hushed tones. It was the most animated anyone had seen May in months.

Daisy gestured wildly. “Look at them! The shared smiles, the intense eye contact. That’s not just a friend reunion. That’s chemistry.”

Mack snorted. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” Daisy countered, crossing her arms. “They’re giving serious power couple vibes. Like, ‘grumpy mentor meets sunshine bestie’ kind of energy. I’m just saying—I’m here for it.”

Mack shook his head. “You’ve been watching too many rom-coms.”

Later that evening, you found May in the lounge, sitting with a cup of tea in hand. The dim lighting softened her sharp features, making her look less like the hardened warrior the world knew and more like the young woman you’d shared late-night study sessions with at the Academy.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, taking a seat beside her.

“Never do,” she replied, her voice low.

You leaned back, letting the silence stretch. It was comfortable, just like it used to be. Words weren’t always necessary with May; she appreciated quiet company over hollow chatter.

“I missed you,” you said finally, breaking the stillness.

May’s gaze shifted to you, her expression unreadable. After a long pause, she admitted, “I missed you too.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “You could’ve reached out, you know. I’m not that hard to find.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” she said, her voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She hesitated, then looked away. “A lot’s changed since the Academy.”

“Not everything,” you said gently. “You’re still my best friend, May. That’ll never change.”

Her shoulders relaxed, just a fraction, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. For the first time in years, she felt something close to peace.

The next morning, Daisy cornered you in the gym. “Okay, spill it,” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

You blinked at her, mid-punch on the bag. “Spill what?”

“You and May,” Daisy said, grinning. “What’s the deal? Are you secretly dating? Have you been together since the Academy? Because if not, I’m officially shipping this.”

You laughed, a sound that startled even you. “Daisy, we’re just friends. Always have been.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Sure, Jan. Tell that to literally everyone else who’s seen you two together.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “I think you’ve been spending too much time on fan forums.”

“Maybe,” Daisy admitted, “but mark my words: there’s something there.”

The briefing had gone smoothly, and the mission was executed with precision. You and May fell into an effortless rhythm, working together as though no time had passed since your last joint operation. Your movements were in sync, your strategies perfectly aligned. The rest of the team couldn’t help but notice.

“They’re like a well-oiled machine,” Mack said, watching as you and May coordinated an infiltration with little more than nods and hand signals.

“Told you,” Daisy whispered back. “Couple energy.”

By the time the mission was over, the team returned to the Quinjet in high spirits. You sat beside May in the corner, both of you quietly decompressing. The silence between you wasn’t heavy this time; it was companionable, filled with unspoken understanding.

As the Quinjet soared back toward the Playground, May turned to you. “So...are you staying this time?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with hope.

You smiled, your eyes warm. “If you’ll have me.”

May didn’t reply right away, but the faint curve of her lips said more than words ever could. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to hope.

From the cockpit, Daisy leaned over to Mack and whispered, “Called it.”

Mack sighed. “You’re impossible.”

A week later, the team gathered for a rare evening off. Daisy’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she watched you and May quietly chatting on the other side of the room. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“So, when’s the wedding?” she called out, grinning.

The room fell silent. You choked on your drink, and May shot Daisy a glare that could’ve frozen lava.

“Daisy,” May said in a warning tone.

“What?” Daisy said innocently. “I’m just saying, you two are perfect together. The world’s been waiting.”

You looked at May, a mixture of amusement and embarrassment on your face. “She’s relentless.”

May sighed. “You have no idea.”

As the others laughed and the conversation shifted, May leaned closer to you, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “Ignore her.”

“She might be onto something,” you teased, your eyes twinkling.

May gave you a look, but the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest of smiles. For the first time in years, she felt something she thought she’d lost forever.

Happiness.

[thenewestxmen]

Wade and Logan, after returning from the Void, realize fairly quickly that there wouldn’t be any room for both of the men and blind al, and dog pool. After a long talk and a lot of convincing, Logan agreed to ask the professor to live in the mansion. Of course, Xavier heard that a version of Logan was alive and was living in wades universe. When Logan makes colossus do the talking to Xavier, he immediately agrees. Of course, all of the X-men are thrilled to have their teammate back. They were all hesitant about Wade coming too, but they agreed. Logan was of course nervous, the last time he saw the X-men, it was in his home universe, his X-men were dead at his feet. But as Logan’s jeep pulled into the driveway of the mansion, emotions flooded through him. Wade noticed this and grab his hand, squeezing it with reassurance.

“It’s ok, take your time.” Wade says, sounding genuine. Logan smiles, sitting for a moment before finally shifting in his seat, opening the door. They both grab a box full of clothing, when they knock on the door, Logan’s heart drops when Scott is the one to open the door.

“Logan! Buddy! So good to see you!” He says. But when he turns to Wade, his enthusiastic smile disappears.

“Scott, hey…” Logan manages. But when he sees Scott’s glare at Wade almost makes Logan angry.

“Scott. This is my amazing, handsome, talented boyfriend, Wade.” Logan says protectively. Scott seems to take a hint, he gives a half baked smile, shaking wades hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Cyclops.” He says in a stern tone. Wade takes it and smiles in return. They walk in, going to their room. Wade sets down the box on the bed, “Jeez, Scott looks like I’m going to add to his totally obvious control issues. I’m going to have to turn into the Van Wilder of this place.”

“Who?”

“Nothin’. Let’s get Mary, I left her in the car.” Wade says, skipping along. As Wade gets Mary Puppins, Logan meets with the rest of the team. It’s a bit hard for him to see them all again, as he sees them all so happy and… alive. 

as Wade came back in, Mary Puppins in hand, he sat next to Logan on the couch. They were talking to Ororo and Jean, both still a bit puzzled as to who Wade was.

BAMF

“AHHHH WHAT THE FUCK!!” Wade yells at the top of his lungs.

“Logan! Mein Freund!” A blue man poofs out of nowhere, grabbing Logan.

“What the fuck?!” Wade says, staring at Logan hugging a blue demon.

“Wade, this is Kurt! He’s a teleported.” Logan explains. It’s hard for Wade to wrap his head around it all. Just then, a woman in a pink dress with wild red hair beside the white strands on top, followed by a tall muscular man in a crop top with an insane hairstyle walk by. The woman starts to fucking fly… wades mouthy drops open as the woman wraps bar arms around Logan’s neck.

“Logan! I heard you’d be back, though I’d never see you again, short stuff” the woman says. Logan smiles, his muscles relaxed.

“Wade this is rogue. Rogue, Wade.” Logan introduces rogue to him, she smiles and waves. Her southern accent is clear. 

The tall man gives a playful clap of his palm to Logan’s shoulder. “Nice ta see ya Wolverine.” He says with a Cajun accent. The second that the man sees Wade he winces,

“What in the hell happened ta you? You fall asleep on the stove?”

Wade suddenly felt self conscious. Trying to hide as much as his exposed skin as possible.

“Remy! Shut your mouth before I make you. This is Wade, my boyfriend. Treat him with some damn respect, understood?” Logan said protectively.

Logan introduced Wade to Rogue and Gambit, but the words still hurt. Usually, no one really commented on wades skin in that way, usually, apart of them was usually joking, but Gambit looked genuinely disgusted. Wade quieted down for once. As he met the rest of the team, he only spoke few words. Everyone was in the common room as they were talking. Logan finally noticed wades quietness and decided to position himself sitting on wades lap, facing him. Gambit yelled something dirty and rogue hit him playfully.

“Bub… what’s going on.”

“Nothin’…?” 

“Tell me, please?” Logan says with his puppy dog eyes.

It was hard for Wade to resist so he complied. 

“‘M just not feeling too good about something…”

“‘Bout what?”

Wade nuzzled his face into the crook of Logan’s neck, not minding the stares from the other X-men.

“My ugly nutsack skin…” he said into Logan’s neck.

Logan got off of Wade and took his hand, starting to kiss from his wrist to neck.

“I love every inch of you. Was this because of what Remy said?”

Wade once again shoves his face into the crook of Logan’s neck, nodding into both the couch and Logan. Logan glared at Remy.

“Gambit, what’s this?” Logan said loudly to gambit, pointing at Wade, who was still shoving his face into Logan’s neck. Remy just muttered confused words.

“This is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in my 200 years of life.” Logan said, then lifted wades chin, kissing his softly.

The night, the two men cuddled in their bed together, so much wider than the shitty bed in their old apartment. The old bed, Logan could barely stretch out, even though he was shorter than Wade. They cuddled and cuddled, Mary Puppins at the foot of their bed. In the morning, Wade awoke to Logan stretching in the bed, his tired face droopy, adorable.

“biiig stretch?” Wade said, grinning at him.

“The bed is big…” Logan said in his morning voice Wade found so sexy. Logan got up and walked over to the bathroom, stopping at the doorframe.

“I’m going to shower.” He announced.

“Ok honey.”

“You’re coming with me.”

“O-Kay Hon-nay!” Wade said, pushing off the sheets of the bed.

They both stepped into the large, hot shower, body to body. Logan could hardly let wade step inside before pushing his lips onto wades, his kiss filled with intensity.

“Damn…” wade almost groaned. 

Logan let wade pin him to the tile wall, it was still cold, Logan arched his back, trying to make less of his back touch the stone cold tiles, only resulting in more of their bodies touching. After an (according to Wade, scrumptious) shower, they both walked down the stairs, running into Hank.

“Good morning.” Hank greeted.

“VERY good morning.” Wade said, side eyeing Logan, grinning.

“Sorry- - what?” Hank said, a little caught off guard.

“No, no, you didn’t do anything. Me and your best friend just had sex in the shower is all…” Wade said, pointing out the obvious, Logan jabbed him in the ribs.

“Oh… well, I’ll be in my lab if you need me.” Hank said, obviously uncomfortable.

Logan led Wade to the kitchen table, shaking his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re utterly handsome.”

authors note: should I turn this into a series or just leave this here? I have no clue. Sorry it’s been taking me forever with these posts, just having some issues with stress and stuff. So, be out with something else soon ig.

-Vee