#the silent sound of loneliness

[murdrdocs]

go about things the wrong way

description. LOGAN HOWLETT proves himself to be a bit of a hypocrite

includes. SMUT 18+, age gap (reader is implied to be mid20s, logan assumed to be mid30s), protected piv, denial is a river in egypt logan fucks them younger, logan calls reader "kid", insomnia trope, slightly brat reader, remnants of angst, set during early x-men

wc. 5k

a/n: photo creds unknown. title from how soon is now? by the smiths

You should be in your own bedroom. 

It’s a nice room, decorated better than your childhood room in your parent’s house, likely because you’ve grown since your mint green and chevron phase. It’s silent in your room, no other inhabitants except you and your pet fish that was somehow still hanging on. There’s no reason for you to leave your room, it has everything you need. But it’s not right. 

The loneliness is uncomfortable amidst your inability to sleep. It hovers over your bed, staring down at your shuffling frame as you try multiple positions, each one leaving you as restless as the last. You know that’s why you venture off to the kitchen, the search for companionship outweighing the desire for a treat. You just need to talk to someone, remind yourself that you aren’t all alone. There are other people like you, and you live with them. You’re safe. 

You ended up finding what you desired—a non-freezer burnt ice cream bar buried beneath frozen waffles, and a warm body to stand opposite of as you steadily made your way through it. 

You wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, maybe not even yourself, but you had hoped to run into Logan the entire time. Ever since his return you had been itching to get a glimpse of him, but between shadowing Storm, Scott, and Jean, and tending to whatever menial chore Professor Xavier tasked you with, you didn’t have any time for run-ins. Nothing but quick passing in the hallway where you were too shy to do much other than meet his eye for a second, wave, and then scurry along towards the end of the hallway. 

But you had gotten what you wanted when you heard the soft thud of feet followed by the sound of Logan speaking. 

“Is there another one of those?” 

You face him with your mouth stuffed with ice cream. It takes you a second to chew enough to speak around the food without making a complete fool of yourself in front of Logan. 

“This is the last one …” you swallow, ignoring the sting of the cold at the back of your throat. “Sorry.”

Logan shrugs like it’s no big deal and he steps to the fridge. You move out of the way, even though you weren’t really in the way at all, and try to be casual as you chew the remains of your bar, ignoring the sudden warmth in your body now that he’s here. 

Logan doesn’t say anything. You watch the top half of his body disappear as he reaches into the fridge for something, coming out after a minute and some soft shuffling later with a beer bottle in his hand. You don’t know when it got there, and you’re amazed that it was still there and not stolen by some eager teenager. You try not to stare as he takes his first sip, but you sneak a few glances. 

You finish your sandwich, throwing the wrapper out in the drawer trash can and trying your best to ignore Logan’s eyes on you the entire time. He gets halfway through his beer before he says something. 

Leaning against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle and one arm tucked across his chest, he asks, “Can’t sleep, right?”

You nod, not shocked at all that he has you pegged. It’s not unsurprising for a mutant in this place to be unable to sleep. 

Logan nods as if he understands and you know he does, you remember the incident with Rogue just a year or so ago, that and the stories you hear about him wandering the halls at night. It’s why you’d always been so eager to slip down here during restless nights, constantly hoping that this would happen to you. 

And now that it has happened, you don’t know what to do. There’s not much for you to discuss with Logan, the two of you don’t have all that much in common. He’s far older than you, for starters, at least a decade and a half on you from what you’ve gathered. He’s been gone for a while, but you think the others have caught him up on everything that he’s missed already. 

So you just build onto what you have. 

“I just can’t fall asleep. Every time I start, I shake myself awake.” 

Logan takes a swig from his beer and pulls his lips tight, a face of sympathy sliding over his features—eyebrows pinched, lips downturned, eyes a little narrowed. 

“Yeah?” You nod your head. “Sounds horrible, kid.”

Kid. You know you’re younger than him, it’s obvious, but you’re not a kid. You don’t see why he thinks of you that way. Rogue and Bobby are kids and you’re older than them. More mature, no longer a student but now practically a teacher. 

You don’t want Logan to see you as a kid. You know what you want him to see you as, but it seems to become more and more impossible by the day. 

You don’t say anything, lifting your foot enough to press the toe of your slippers into the cleaned grout between the tiles at your feet. 

“Tell you what,” he begins, promoting your head to lift, “next time that happens to you, you come find me, alright? I know how much it sucks to be alone like that so if you need me, come find me.”

That’s what you did. 

After you left the kitchen, finally letting your grin break free since no one was around to see it during the trek back to your room, you told yourself you would only go to Logan if you needed him. 

You tried to sleep, snuggling yourself in a cocoon of blankets and pillows around your head. You lit a candle, counted sheep, made up scenarios to doze off (ones that definitely didn’t involve Logan tenderly holding your hand and stroking your cheek and—), but nothing seemed to work. 

So you found yourself standing in the doorway of Logan’s bedroom, one hand still on the doorknob and the other toying with a loose thread at the bottom of your tee shirt. The bedroom is dark, save for the moonlight peeking through his opened curtains, but from the hallway light behind your back you can see Logan’s frame under the sheets. 

His back faces you until you harshly whisper his name, which at the call of he lifts his head, looking at you, and then rolls over completely to click the lamp on his nightstand on. 

“What’s wrong, kid?”

You feel so meek when you explain, like you are a kid, crawling to your parents after a nightmare. 

“You told me to come find you.”

His squint relaxes. His entire frame relaxes actually. He sits up, jerking his head in a beckon. You click the door shut behind you as softly as you can, approaching the bed timidly until you stand on the other side. 

And then you just hover. You stand there hesitantly, staring down at the slightly unmade side of the bed. Logan doesn’t say anything for a minute, but once the silence and hesitance stretches to an uncomfortable end, he speaks up, his voice groggier and raspier than it was before. 

“You gonna sleep from there? Is that some mutant power that I didn’t know about?” He says it like he’s teasing you, and when you look at him you can see the small smile on his lips. It’s similar to the one he sports when he’s messing with Scott but with more softness in his eyes. 

You scoff, trying to play it cool when Logan lifts the sheets for you and you climb under them. This side of the bed is cold and unused and you wonder if you’re the first person to use it. 

You get as comfortable as you possibly can. You fluff the pillow and create the perfect indent for your head, you pull the sheets up to your shoulders, you lay on your side and face the window, and then when Logan clicks the light off, you close your eyes and try to sleep. 

You don’t know how you thought this would be any better than struggling to sleep in your own bed, because it’s so much worse. 

In your own bed, you were left with the out-of-reach fantasies of Logan. You laid in bed, giggling to yourself as you imagined what it would be like to lay next to Logan. You filled your head with blurry images of Logan’s frame, what he would look like with his eyes closed and his face completely relaxed. You tried to imagine the heat of his body in the cold of your room, trying to change your body temperature just with a thought. 

But now it’s all right beside you, left there for you to catalogue so you could never forget this moment. 

The feeling of his body so close yet so far from yours. The sound of his breathing. The smell of his body wash and the way it lingered on his sheets. You’re finally in Logan’s bedroom, but you’re not getting what you want. You truly don’t think you ever will. 

It’s impossible for you to sleep now. You try to keep your tossing and turning to a minimum, only moving when absolutely necessary and doing so with tentativeness. You’re trying to be meticulous with your movements, all with a goal to disturb Logan as little as possible. You’re a guest here, after all. 

But even if he wasn’t an attentive mutant you knew he would’ve eventually gotten fed up. 

He calls your name, soft yet sounding like a warning, and you’re quick to apologize. 

He doesn’t say anything else for a second, then, “Whatever’s on your mind, squash it. Jus’ let it go.”

You don’t mean to sound as bitter as you do when you say, “Easier said than done.”

Logan shifts and turns around until he’s facing you. You stay facing the window. 

“What usually turns your mind off?” he asks. “A glass of warm milk?” 

When you laugh it’s halfhearted and maybe this is the final indicator that something about you is off. 

“Look at me.” You obey embarrassingly quickly. 

You can’t really see him in the dark, but the white light from outside illuminates the slope of his nose and the apples of his cheeks. You can sort of see his eyes too, the usually light green darker because of the environment, but the shadowy fan of his eyelashes is as distinct as usual. 

“Seriously, tell me what’s going on. Anything I can help you with?” He lets the question linger in the air for a second before adding on. “You need me to rough a few kids up? You being bullied?” He says it like a joke.

“No,” you say. 

Logan makes an ‘ah’ sound. “Yeah I’m sure you could handle yourself.” The sheets lift again. “Come ‘ere.”

Shit, shit, shit. 

You listen to him, scooting closer until you’re wrapped in Logan’s arms, enveloped in his warmth. It’s nice and comfortable, the sound of Logan’s heart right next to your ear, the security of his arms wrapped around your frame. 

“Does this help you?”

You hum affirmatively, already starting to feel more comfortable than you had before. Your heart beats painfully hard in your chest and you start to get self-conscious, knowing that Logan can definitely hear it.

Right on cue, he laughs a bit against your head. 

“Nervous?”

“No.” God, you’re so obvious. 

Logan’s laugh grows until he’s snickering, doing a terrible job of stifling his laughter. “‘s alright,” he eventually says. “Nothing wrong with that.”

You make yourself as comfortable as possible, pressing your back to Logan’s chest, trying to ignore the hard feeling of his body behind you. You can basically feel everything, the plane of his chest pushing through his tee, the ridge of his sweatpants against your lower back, his legs against yours—tempting you to intertwine them together, his feet hanging right under yours. You’re not exactly dressed for this and your shirt has ridden up, bunched at the top of your ass and exposing your panties. You wonder if he knows. You wonder if he cares. 

This is helping you a lot, but there’s still something on your mind. Something you need to solve before you can go off to sleep. 

You don’t know what it is that makes you confident, that makes you want to ruin a good moment. Maybe it’s the dark providing you comfort, but you lay it all out. 

“You treat me like a kid.”

Logan takes a second. You can just barely make out the hitch in his voice. “...Yeah?”

You’re glad he can’t see you when you pout. It wouldn’t have done much to help your case. “I’m not a kid, Logan. You don’t treat Rogue like a kid.”

“Rogue is different.”

“How? I’m older than her.”

“Just … can we not argue?”

“We’re not arguing.”

“Yeah? Then whaddya call this?”

“A conversation between two adults.”

He hums as if he’s unconvinced. 

You won’t let it go. “How is Rogue different?”

“Go to sleep,” he admonishes.

“Can’t. Not until you answer my question.”

Logan sighs. “‘cause I’m not attracted to her, alright?”

Oh. 

Oh. 

Wait … what?

You’re sure your silence is enough to express your confusion because Logan adds on. 

“I’m trying to set boundaries between us, kid—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He corrects himself with the use of your name instead, but it comes out the same way. “We need boundaries between the two of us. You think I don’t see how you look at me? ‘s not good.”

“If you’re setting boundaries why did you invite me in here.”

“Because I wanted to help you.”

Why is he making you feel crazy? He just told you he’s attracted to you, but he wants to set boundaries? There are barely any boundaries here. You’re alone with him, in his bedroom, tucked away at the end of the hall surrounded by mostly empty bedrooms instead of bedrooms of asleep mutants, curled up against his chest. This is the most opportune time, yet he didn’t want to make a move.

Maybe you were reading too much into it. 

You go to pull away from Logan’s embrace but he keeps you pulled tight to his chest. 

“Don’t do that,” he says it like a command and just to piss him off you consider pulling away. But you’re really comfortable and this is a comfort you aren’t sure you’re ever going to find again. 

“Just go to sleep, alright,” he says your name again, much softer this time. He says it like he’s coaxing you like your name is the final tune in a lullaby. 

Maybe Logan has other powers you aren’t aware of because just that one sentence is enough for you to let it go and submit to the sudden exhaustion that settles over your body like a weighted blanket. 

You don’t know if Logan’s been avoiding you. Mostly because you’ve been avoiding him.

It’s not often that the two of you would have to run into each other, but there were a few times when Professor Xavier extended the invitation to observe an upcoming class, and you declined upon learning that Logan would be subbing. 

You kept your distance as much as you could, even keeping yourself locked up in your bedroom throughout the night, no matter how restless you got. You were miserable, not only because you wanted to be near Logan, but because you were fucking exhausted. 

You could barely stay awake throughout the day, always sneaking off for power naps, taking whatever you could get even if it was only five minutes. 

But you finally have the rest of the afternoon to yourself and you intend to use it to sleep. Uncaring of how much it threw off your sleep schedule, you just needed a solid half hour curled up at the foot of your made bed like a dog, sleeping to your heart's content. 

Of course, it’s on your way up to your room that you run into Logan. You try to ignore him, continuing your path up the stairs, praying that Logan will continue on his path downstairs. 

You don’t know what it is about you that says come talk to me! but Logan stops in his journey, turning to face you. He calls your name, continuing even when you don’t respond. He follows your trek up the stairs and down the hallway, always right on your heels and within arm's reach. 

By the time your hand reaches for your bedroom door, Logan is practically breathing down your neck. 

You know there’s no avoiding him now, but you also don’t want to. 

You stand still, hand wrapped around the doorknob, waiting for Logan to say his piece. 

“Why’d you lead me to your bedroom?” The way he says it, with such arrogance and assurance woven into that same joking manner as if he wasn’t the one who turned you down just a few nights ago. 

“Fuck off, Logan. I just wanna get some sleep.”

You twist the knob and this is what wakes Logan up. “Okay, wait.” His hand reaches out and rests on your elbow. Just this one touch strikes you still. “Will you look at me?”

You turn around, trying to keep your gaze hard even as you take in his appearance for the first time in days. 

The bags under his eyes, the relaxed smile that’s constantly on his face when he’s around you, the thickness of his eyebrows, the points in his hair. You’re staring at his hair, wondering if it’s naturally like that or if he does it himself, and when you look at his eyes again there isn’t a connection. He’s staring at your lips instead. 

You lift your eyebrows impatiently, already imagining the sleep you’ll get after you ruminate until you can’t form a coherent thought. 

Logan opens his mouth. “Look, I’m sorry if you got a little hurt from the other night. Is just this age gap and your little crush is not gonna wor—”

You’re already turning around, deciding whatever else he’s going to say isn’t important at all, but Logan stops you. His movements are fluid, they flow naturally from his body and straight into yours, causing you to move with a coordination you didn’t expect. He spins you back around and pulls you straight to his chest, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, while his hands rest on your hips and your cheek. 

The movement is quick, it happens within a couple of seconds, and it makes the moment after feel so much longer. Nothing but shared blinks as Logan looks at your lips and you look at his. You’re so close to him, even closer than you were the other night, but neither of you makes a move. 

You’re considering making the first move, opening your mouth as if to ask him a question that was still unknown to you, but then Logan’s grip on your cheek tightens as if he’s holding you still and he moves in closer, and closer, and closer until his lips ghost over yours. 

In the end, it’s you who crosses the bridge. 

Your lips touch, sandwiched together, but neither of you do anything. Not until you take a tiny step closer, really nothing but an adjustment of your feet, is Logan pulling you into him. He digs his fingers into the waistband of your jeans, that one hand possessing all of the aggression that doesn’t exist in the hand holding your cheek. 

It’s like the touch of two different men—one who wants to devour you whole and the other who wants to treasure you. You hope that they’re able to coexist as you desperately want both. 

You let Logan kiss you feverishly, an intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen him display settling in his lips. The Logan you knew was always relaxed, walking around the mansion with a carefree, practically laissez-faire, attitude. He didn’t meddle, he kept his hands to himself, always wrapped around a cigar or a beer. 

But now those hands were wrapped around you for the second time this week. 

You press your hands into the shoulder of his white tee shirt, starting to slide them up towards his hair before you resist. You want to get comfortable kissing him, but you’re still out in the hallway. 

Having the same thought, Logan pulls away from your lips with enough time to open the door, latch his hands onto your hips, and blindly steer you backward until you’re in the room. He stares down at you the entire time, that same smirk on his lips as he kicks the door closed behind him with a single boot. 

And then he has you pressed against the wood, sandwiched between a rock and a hard place. 

He looks at you for a second, his gaze lingering, and then he gets back to it. 

If even possible, Logan has more passion this time around. He sinks his hands to your thighs, pulling one up by his hip. He slots his legs into the opening until your center is hovering over his thigh. You don’t know what to expect, but when he flexes the muscle and presses his limb right up against you, you’re already trying to get more. 

Logan smiles as he kisses you, clearly entertained by your anguished need to get off. He doesn’t verbally reassure you, he doesn’t help you grind yourself down, he doesn’t do anything but continue kissing you. 

When you need to come up for air, knocking your head back into mahogany as you intake large gulps, Logan dips his head down and explores as much skin as he can. He creates a path of kisses from your jaw, down your neck, to the exposed parts of your chest. 

You tilt your head down, locking your hand into his hair and trying to redirect his lips back to yours, but he stops you with a hand pinching your cheeks. 

His eyes flick back and forth between yours, nothing but mischief and arrogance in the green. You wrap a hand around his wrist with the initial want to tug him away, but you like the hold he has you in. You like the look in his eyes. 

“Good?” His voice is softer than his grip. 

You nod, trying to grin as best as you can when your lips are forcibly puckered. 

Logan smiles right back at you. “You got a rubber?”

You nod again, scurrying to your nightstand once Logan lets you go. He tells you to get on the bed and you take the liberty of throwing your shirt off and bra as you go. You have enough sense to step out of your shoes, unclasp your jeans, and tug the zipper down in the path. 

By the time you’re sitting on your bed, you can feel the anxiety thrumming through your body. It’s a good kind, the kind you’ve been seeing less and less of lately. You’re still a little tired and still desiring a solid nap, but it can definitely wait. This is your main priority. 

Logan speaks to you as he undresses. 

“You still doing okay?” he asks as he’s pulling his tee over his head. When you nod, he moves to his belt, thick but deft fingers undoing it and leaving it hanging open and hooked into his belt loops. 

“You tell me if you wanna stop,” he says as he pulls his jeans down, stepping out of them right after he steps out of his boots. You give him a look and he clocks it immediately. 

“You think you can take it, bub?” He laughs. “Yeah? Don’t you think you’re talkin’ a big game?”

Petulantly, you roll your eyes. “Logan, I’m not a fucking kid, I’ll be fine.”

Wrong. So, so, so stupidly wrong. 

You are fine, but the sight of Logan’s dick sends nerves down your spine. You’ve talked yourself up, you can’t go back, so you do what you can. You let him peel your jeans and panties off, hoping you look as seductive as he does. You keep your eyes on his abdomen, tracing the vein that runs from the right of his navel down to his cock, breathing as well as you can while Logan lines himself up. The first push burns, just like you expect it to, but you adjust quicker than you thought. Eventually, all you can feel is pleasure. You’re so full when he’s only halfway in you. You feel stuffed as soon as he bottoms out, his heavy ball sack resting flush against you, a thick forest of pubes pressed against your cunt. 

Logan is so much, it’s everything you’ve ever wanted and more. Hovering and staring down at you as his hips rock into yours, slowly and experimentally at first. It’s not until you draw a leg up over his hips that he increases the strength of his rocks. 

He has one hand keeping himself steady and the other holding your waist. It’s so intimate, and not only because he’s fucking you, but because he’s staring down at you the entire time, his teeth bared as he watches you for every single reaction. His eyes rake down your body, watching the way your tits jiggle before dipping lower to watch the way he’s entering you. You can’t see his gaze, but you can feel it, the weight of it comparable to the weight of his cock in you. 

There’s an inhuman nature to it, hidden deep below the surface as if he’s trying to hold back, but it’s there. You’re made aware of it when you clench around him and he growls. It comes from the back of his throat but it’s a sound you’ve never heard before. It’s so Logan, you don’t think anyone other than him could make a sound like that as erotic as it is. You want to hear him more, you want your moans to blend together amongst the four walls of your bedroom, but he keeps his sounds to himself. It’s like there’s a disconnect between the both of you, like Logan’s still holding back even though he’s balls deep in you. 

“Logan,” you whine, getting his attention. He looks at you with concern in his eyes, his hips slowing down. You shake your head, pushing more towards him. “Please,” you beg, praying he knows exactly what you want. 

“What? What d’you want?”

“More.”

Logan gets rougher. He’s grinding up into you like his life depends on it, blunt nails delving into your skin as if he wants to break it. You wish he would. You aren’t regenerative like he is, but you still desire the broken skin, the beads of blood, the marks left behind. 

You’re thinking about it, eyes lidded and falling closed when Logan knocks his forehead into yours once. He moans, closed-mouthed as his head lolls to the side, a shiver shaking him from the bottom of the spine up. 

“Jesus, baby,” he says. It’s all he says, but it’s more than enough. He keeps going, digging his tip into you deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s swimming in your guts. 

He drags his head down until he can wrap his lips around one of your nipples, licking and sucking before moving on to give the other one the same treatment. You desperately want him to mark you up, you want a reminder that this—the thing you’ve been wanting since Storm and Scott came back with two new mutants in tow—actually happened. Bravely, you reach out and tangle your hand in his hair, surprisingly softer than you thought it would be. You don’t hold him down much, just enough to communicate what you want nonverbally. And then after a few tortuous seconds of hesitation, his lips wrap around the skin atop your left breast and he sucks. The strength in it stings, it reminds you just how strong Logan is, but it feels so good. 

Unexpectedly, you feel your muscles seize. It starts in your tummy, deep down near where Logan’s been massaging, and then it just doesn’t stop, likely because he doesn’t stop. 

It’s like he’s spurred on by the feeling of you cumming, motivated by the way your back arches and you reach for the heavens as you clench around his cock. 

He gets a burst of energy, fucking you like he has something to prove when really it’s you with something to prove. 

You’re overstimulated, struggling to keep up with Logan, but you don’t want to tap out. You talked a big game, you can’t back down now. So you remain silent while Logan pulls another orgasm out of you, hoping he won’t notice the way your eyes brew tears without your consent and the way your lips quirk with the impending request to slow down. 

Of course, he notices. 

He’s grinning with sympathy—you don’t know if it’s sincere or faux—when he takes a hand and strokes your cheekbone. 

“I see ya, kid. Feels good, yeah?”

For some reason, when he calls you kid like this, you don’t completely hate it. 

There’s no point in lying, so you nod. 

“So tight,” he winces, eyebrows pinched together as he flashes his teeth, a dimple in his right cheek appearing with it. 

Just as you didn’t warn him before, he doesn’t warn you when he cums. You feel it though, the way his thrusts get sloppier and faster just before he gives you one punctual one, and then you feel the confined warmth of his cum shooting into the condom. 

You wish you weren’t as exhausted as you were, because the next time you’re conscious, it’s dark out and the bedsheet is covering your body. You’re hot, hotter than you usually want to be when you’re sleeping, but you’re bare naked. That and you only have a thin sheet covering your body. 

It doesn’t take much investigation to figure out what’s making you so hot, not when it’s attached to your back with one meaty bicep slung around your neck and keeping you pulled against him. It takes you a bit to fall asleep, but once you do, you’re out for the rest of the night. 

[yandere-writer-momo]

Author’s note: I am stuck in a slump so I’m going to write a guilty pleasure of mine… the body swap trope except this time, with a twist. And of course with the one that got away trope. I adore it so very much like black cherry ice-cream.

Yandere Head Canons:

The Husband Swap

Yandere Shapeshifter x Married Fem Elf Reader x Neglectful Drow Husband

TW: yandere content!! Mentions of smut, dubcon, tentacles, monster fucking, size kink, manipulation, voyeurism, oral, and unhealthy relationship.

Art from Veil Manga

You had been married to your husband, Nikolai Sokolov, for many years. An arranged marriage set up amongst your people as a peace treaty… you, a high elf, wed to a drow, dark elf. And Nikolai was often cold to you… despite how often you attempted to bond with him.

Nikolai refused to eat any of the food you made and he constantly brushed aside your attempts to get to know him. He cared little for this arranged relationship and treated you as if you were some mere commoner, a fact that only made your heart sting.

Nikolai would occasionally share a bed with you, but it was often out of fulfilling his needs. He cared little for your pleasure and only cared to satiate his own.

One day, Nikolai bought you a servant just to get you to leave him alone (outside of sex). A shapeshifter.

A magic collar was bound tightly around their silver neck as a preventative to their ability to shift. They were now powerless and subservient. A trait that most shapeshifters didn’t have since they were quite sly by nature. You wondered what this creature had done to have been reduced to a servant…

Their name was Lev Snegur and they were close in age to you and Nikolai. The shapeshifter was somewhat masculine looking with sharp features and pitch black eyes. A genderless species that never uttered a sound, what wonderful company to have.

You often tried to engage in small talk with them, but they remained as silent as the depth of night. Not a peep left their lips to ever give you input. It unnerved you.

You were very sweet to them and even offered to share meals, but they only stared at you. Talking to Lev was like talking to a brick wall that nodded at times. Lev was an incredibly good listener.

Lev’s company did little to satiate the ache in your heart and the all consuming loneliness. You were so isolated in this empty home filled with bitterness. And you started to accept that you’d never find any warmth with him. Nor would you find solace in your silent servant’s company.

Occasionally you’d wake up covered in a slight sweat, a puddle of dampness below you. The room would always feel of sex, yet you hardly had any of that… but you were always a bit sore between your legs when you’d wake up on mornings like this. Had you been having wet dreams due to your consistent loneliness? Or was there something foul at play?

So it was a surprise when Nikolai bounced into your room like a puppy one morning. His arms wrapped around your side while he inhaled your scent. What on earth was he doing?

“Nikolai?” Nikolai placed a finger on your lips, a mischievous look in his crimson eyes.

“Shh, I have a surprise for you!” Nikolai gave you a bright grin that made you do a double take. You’ve never seen your grumpy husband smile in his entire life. This had to be a dream… you gave yourself a pinch and hissed at the pain you inflicted on your poor arm. Nope. Not a dream.

Nikolai lead you out of the room to where a grand meal was set before you consisting of all of your favorite delicacies. You had no idea your husband even knew you adored such food…

“Do you like it?” His face was hopeful as he took your hand in his. “I’ve come to a realization that you genuinely care for me… so I will treat you better.”

And from that day forth, Nikolai was more attentive than he ever had been. He insisted you should move into his room and he often cuddled with you… it was so odd. This entire situation was bizarre, almost as if this was another person and not your husband.

It was when Nikolai went down on you for the first time that your mind truly began to believe he was another man. When did he learn how to please you and why did he eat you out like a man starved? This wasn’t your husband… this was an imposter.

When ‘Nikolai’ made love to you, he felt bigger. You swore he was nearly two to three inches than he used to be, which made your stomach protrude like you had a baby bump. And his hands ardently grasped at every bit of your body as he could.

It wasn’t too uncommon for you to find your husband sniffing your hair like some sort of animal. You were so scared…

The longer you spent time with ‘Nikolai,’ the more paranoid you became. There were less and less drows around now and your servant was missing… you were starting to become afraid.

But you never were able to get much time to think about it too much since ‘Nikolai’ was always dutifully by your side. There was never any time to ask questions… until tonight. You decided to ask him… for you feared you’d fall off the deep end into insanity if you didn’t.

“Where’s Lev?” You softly asked Nikolai whose fingers paused their dance over your scalp. His crimson eyes glanced over to your face.

“And why do you care so much about a shifter when your husband is here?” Nikolai asked in a bitter tone, but you could see a bit of excitement in his eye. And it made your heart pulse in your brain.

“Well, I miss Lev.” You softly whispered. It wasn’t a complete lie. You did miss your servant who always listened to you, but you preferred his silent company over the overbearing presence of your changed husband.

“Hmm… well, we can go see him if you’d like.” Nikolai rose up from the bed and wrapped a black robe over his bare chest. “He’s in the dungeon.”

You were a bit shocked by your husband’s words. “What do you mean? Lev never did anything wrong-“

“My wife is too kind for her own good.” Nikolai held your chin to pause you from rambling on even more. His eyes were filled with so much emotion, it froze you in place. “It’s what I love most about you.”

You gulped and averted your gaze, your cheeks felt hot.

Lev lead you down the hallway and down the winding stairs to the dungeon, his hand gently held yours. You felt dread creep up into your stomach the closer you went to the dingy dungeon. Your nerves felt as if they were on fire…

And the sight before you terrified you to your core, the angled corpse of Nikolai laid sprawled out on the brick flooring. His lifeless eyes turned toward the door and his mouth agape in a horrific scream forever frozen on his rotting face.

You tried to flee but your ‘Nikolai’ began to shift, slender hands now held you firmly in place while your captor’s face slowly morphed into the bewitching creature named Lev.

“It didn’t take much to overpower him. Your husband was too cocky to notice I figured out how to disarm the collar.” Lev’s voice made your blood run cold from how raspy it was. His voice low and monotonous despite the various emotions that hid beneath the surface of his eyes. “To whack him over the back of the head with a sword hilt and drag him down here. It was child’s play really.”

“Are you going to kill me too?” You whimpered when his grip tightened around your arms. His face filled with concern.

“Kill you? Nonsense, I’d never kill my wife!” Lev began to pepper your face with numerous kisses while his arms snaked around your waist. “I mean it when I say I love you, I love you more than that bastard ever could.”

You try to protest, but you feel something slimy wrap around your legs and give them a squeeze. Your eyes are wide in terror at the black tendrils that snaked around your plush thighs. What on earth?!

“And I can certainly fuck you better than he ever could… I can show you things no other monster could ever show you, so won’t you indulge me? I promise I’ll blow your mind.”

[katsu2ji]

homesick — k. bakugou

a/n: to everyone going through a season of change, no matter how big or small, i love you :')

katsuki does a lot of stupidly annoying things sometimes, but one thing he will never, ever, do, is make fun of you for being homesick. he might joke around at first, but the moment he noticed you going silent and getting too lost in your own head, he makes a mental note to keep his mouth shut. he doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything for fear of making things worse for you. he just lays down beside you, holding you up a bit and letting you cry as much as you need to. he doesn't care if you soak his shirt—it's you, for crying out loud. "it's just some damn fabric, it'll dry."

afterwards, he's doing everything he can to distract from the loneliness you may be feeling. he's grabbing a weighted blanket, arranging it so that most of the comfortable heaviness lays on you just right. he's getting you some water, making sure you get the rehydration you need so that you don't end up with a headache. "i don't wanna hear you complainin' later," he carefully teases with a small smile, glad to see you faintly return it. he's moving back into bed with you, resting comfortably at your side, a silent reminder that he's here. you're not alone like your mind is trying to convince you.

when he feels like the floor is open again, he's trying to bring back that smile. he's reminding you of all the good reasons for this change, the goals he knows you have and are capable of accomplishing. in his own katsuki-bakugou way he's trying to get you to focus on the positive side of things, something that you're usually doing to him. but he's willing to switch roles, because if there's one thing that makes him feel more helpless than anything else in this world, it's seeing the people he loves upset.

the feeling of homesickness can be hard, that he knows. it's a that feeling like your heart is squeezing in your chest and you can't stop it, and he's not gonna pretend like he hasn't felt it before. but at the end of the day,—and as cheesy as he knows it would sound coming out of his mouth—you've both got each other. he's not the biggest fan of change either, but he'd gladly go through a thousand different lives with you. he vows right then and there to make as much of a home for you as possible, whatever it looks like. he knows he can't make the uncomfortable feelings go away, but if he can loosen the painful tightening in your chest just a little, he'll do whatever it takes to see you smile again.

katsu2ji © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything of the sort with my work! i work very hard and you simply do not have my permission.

[callsigns-haze]

Hi Z I loved you "Lean on" fic!! just high praise for that but I have a one shot idea.

Maybe Tyler and Yn are dating and He gets hurt after a chase so y/n cares for him after he comes home and it can be fluffy only or hints or smut whatever your comfortable with. Thanks!

A/N: I'm soo happy you enjoyed Lean On!!!!

A Love in the Eye of the Storm

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: Y/N tends to Tyler's injuries after he returns from a dangerous tornado chase, and their emotional reunion culminates in a passionate embrace, reaffirming their deep love and commitment to each other.

Chapter Warnings: Injury, mild descriptions of wounds, emotional distress

Y/N and Tyler had been together for six years, their relationship solid yet often tested by Tyler's dangerous passion for storm chasing. It had become a familiar routine: Tyler would be home for a few days, only to leave again, chasing tornadoes with his crew. Though it was difficult, Y/N had grown used to his absences and the constant worry that came with them.

Tonight, however, was different. Y/N lay in bed, the hours ticking past midnight, unable to sleep. The ceiling above her seemed to be closing in, the darkness a weight on her chest. It had been two weeks since Tyler left, and each night without him felt lonelier than the last. She missed the way he would wrap his arms around her, his steady breathing a lullaby that carried her into peaceful sleep.

She tossed and turned, the empty side of the bed a stark reminder of his absence. Just as she began to drift into an uneasy slumber, a sudden noise startled her awake. The front door creaked open, sending a jolt of fear through her. Her heart pounded as she reached for the baseball bat she kept by the bed, a precaution for nights like these when she was home alone.

Clutching the bat tightly, she tiptoed down the hallway, her breaths shallow and rapid. The house was eerily silent, the only sound the faint rustling coming from the kitchen. She peeked around the corner, her grip tightening on the bat, ready to confront the intruder.

But instead of a stranger, she saw Tyler standing by the counter, his back to her. Relief washed over her, but it was quickly replaced by a surge of concern. As he turned to face her, she gasped. His face was marred with cuts and bruises, his clothes torn and dirty. He looked exhausted, every line on his face a testament to the battle he'd fought against nature's fury.

"Tyler!" Y/N dropped the bat and rushed to his side, her hands trembling as she reached up to touch his bruised cheek. "What happened to you?"

Tyler winced but managed a weak smile. "Just a rough chase, that's all."

"Just a rough chase?" Y/N's voice cracked with emotion. "You look like you were in a war zone, you look worse than my great grandfather in all those pictures and he's a bloody veteran from the war."

He sighed, leaning heavily against the counter. "It was a close call. The tornado changed direction unexpectedly, and we got caught in the debris field. But I'm okay, I promise."

Y/N's eyes filled with tears as she took in the extent of his injuries. She wanted to be angry with him for putting himself in such danger, but all she could feel was an overwhelming sense of relief that he was alive and home. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly as if to reassure herself that he was really there.

"Come on," she said softly, guiding him towards the bathroom. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She helped him out of his torn clothes, wincing at the sight of the bruises and cuts that covered his body. Each movement was deliberate, her hands steady but her heart racing. As she carefully peeled away the layers of dirt and grime-streaked fabric, Tyler hissed in pain, but he didn’t protest.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured again, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's okay," Y/N replied, trying to keep her voice calm. "Let's just focus on getting you patched up."

She ran a warm bath, adding some Epsom salts to help soothe his battered muscles. She checked the temperature with her hand, making sure it was just right before guiding him to sit on the edge of the tub. Tyler groaned softly as he lowered himself into the water, the warmth immediately starting to ease the tension in his body.

Y/N rolled up her sleeves and knelt by the tub, grabbing a soft washcloth. She dipped it in the water and began to gently clean his face, wiping away the blood and dirt that had caked around his cuts. Tyler closed his eyes, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as the warm water and her tender touch began to work their magic.

"I'm so sorry for making you worry," he said again, his eyes opening to meet hers.

"Shh," she soothed, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. "You’re here now, that's all that matters."

She moved the washcloth over his shoulders, carefully avoiding the deeper cuts. With each pass, she washed away the physical evidence of his ordeal, hoping it would also help to wash away the emotional strain it had put on both of them. When she reached his hands, she noticed how they trembled slightly, and she took extra care to clean each finger, the intimacy of the moment calming them both.

Once he was clean, Y/N drained the tub and helped Tyler to his feet, supporting his weight as he stepped out. She wrapped a soft towel around him, patting him dry with gentle, soothing motions. She then led him to the bed, where she had already laid out fresh clothes for him.

"Sit here," she instructed, guiding him to the edge of the mattress.

She fetched the first aid kit from the bathroom and began to bandage his wounds. She worked methodically, her hands sure and steady. She applied antiseptic to each cut, blowing softly on the deeper ones to ease the sting. Tyler flinched but stayed silent, his eyes fixed on her face.

"I'm really sorry, Y/N," he said once more, his voice thick with emotion. "I hate that I bring you to tears."

She paused, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. "I just want you to be safe, Tyler. Seeing you like this…it scares me."

"I know," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I promise I'll be more careful."

Y/N finished bandaging the last of his wounds and helped him into a clean t-shirt and a pair of soft pyjama pants. She then tucked him into bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. She kissed his forehead, a silent promise of her unwavering support and love.

Lying beside him, Y/N felt a sense of peace she hadn't felt in weeks. Tyler was home, and despite the dangers he faced, they were together. She nestled against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and finally allowed herself to drift into a deep, restful sleep.

Tyler, however, wasn’t ready to let her go. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until her head rested on his chest. She could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, a comforting reminder of his presence. He tilted her chin up, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmured, his voice husky with emotion.

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers, capturing her in a kiss that was both passionate and tender. It was a kiss that spoke of longing and relief, of fear and love, and everything in between. Tyler’s hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down her face.

Y/N melted into the kiss, her hands tangling in his hair as she poured all her emotions into the embrace. She had missed him so much, missed the way his lips felt against hers, the way his touch could make her forget all her worries. Tyler’s kisses became more urgent, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time, each one deeper and more intense than the last.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered against her lips. “Missed holding you, kissing you…just being with you.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words, and she kissed him back with equal fervor, her body pressing closer to his. She could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, the rapid rise and fall of his chest mirroring her own. Tyler’s hands roamed over her back, pulling her even tighter against him, as if he couldn’t bear to have any space between them.

As the kiss deepened, Y/N felt a rush of warmth spread through her body, chasing away the lingering fear and worry. All that mattered now was that Tyler was here, safe in her arms. They broke apart for a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting against each other’s.

“I love you,” Tyler said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m so sorry for everything. I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

Y/N cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over the stubble on his cheeks. “I love you too, Tyler. Just promise me you’ll come back to me every time.”

“I promise,” he replied, sealing his vow with another kiss.

They lay there in each other’s arms, the world outside forgotten. The only thing that mattered was the love they shared, a love strong enough to weather any storm. And as they held each other close, Y/N knew that no matter what dangers lay ahead, they would always have this—this moment of pure, unshakeable love.

Requests for Tyler are open be free to send in as much as you wish!

tagging some:

@senawashere

@saviorcomplexrry

@cevansbaby-dove

@saynotononsense

@missdottie

@willowisp7

@taorislover94

@eloquenceinpurple

@86laura11

@rosiahills22

@jessicab1991

@kmc1989

@shanimallina87

@eternalsams

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tender Cuts

Gwayne comes home battered and beaten, and so you kiss his busted lip and tend to his wounds.

Gwayne Hightower x Reader | 700< | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, mentions of injury/blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, softhours, typos, etc.

A/N: i cant help myself. the unholy unspeakable things i want to do to this man... and yet here i am offering you some fluff

Tagging: @lancedoncrimsonwings

Gwayne watches the way I undo his armor. He sighs and straightens from his chair, turning to the vanity mirror, "I am uninjured."

"And so you say, yet on your lips therein lies the lie you offer, husband," I retort as I finally remove the final piece of steel upon his form.

I bend over as he sighs once more. His tired eyes remain on my face as I unbutton his top. He places his hands on his thighs as he spreads them, "I am not gravely injured."

I forfeit a response and continue to touch him with care, as not to accidentally cause his unexposed injuries any more irritation. By the time I have his top unbottoned, Gwyane removes it along with his undershirt before I can do so. He stands and takes my hands. His eyes are more awake now as he places my palms on his bare chest, "inspect me yourself if you distrust me so."

His tone pinches my heart. "It's not that I distrust you, love," I rub his shoulders, "it's just that you've grown numb to your pain, and I do not wish any ailment to sneak up on you."

Gwayne's eyes slowly shut as I rub his arms then caress the sides of his firm belly. "So?" he grumbles, "shall I rid myself of my pants?"

My expression perks, "you might as well."

He opens his eyes and furrows his brows.

"I will bathe you myself."

Gwayne does not protest, save perhaps for a few more sighs as he rids himself of his last articles of clothing and steps into the preprepared tub. I waste no time and drag a stool to the side, eager to get him clean. He melts into my touch as I scrub his skin.

I splash his arm a few times before moving onto his chest. The room is silent, apart for the sound of sloshing water. Gwayne's head feels heavy, I can tell. I rub his shoulders to encourage him to relax.

"You don't have to mother me, you know."

I tilt my head as I find one of the freckles on his sternum, "I am a mother. You should know, you were there when it happened."

"You mothered my children, not I." He rests his arms on the sides of the tub.

I lift my gaze. His eyes look heavy.

For a moment, my husband is not he, but a child abandoned. I look upon his tired face and recall the soft confessions he'd whispered as I laid in his arms, confessions of his loneliness, his longing. He recounted all the memories of his mother that remained with him. He vented out his hurt over his father who he grew without.

I knit my brows and put down the sponge in my hand, "do you not want my touch?"

He drops his head then grabs my wrist, "I do not want you to worry." Gwayne pushes closer to me. The water around him splashes. He leans on the rim by my side and kisses my pulse. He repeats softer, "I do not want you to worry."

I press my lips into a line and brush his hair back with my free hand, "oh, my love," I sigh, "unfortunately, I worry regardless."

He rests his head upon my hand when I caress his cheek. I comb my fingers through his hair as much as it will allow me in its matted state. He closes his eyes. I trace the shape of his nose with my palm.

Gwayne has never said it out loud, but I know that sometimes he feels undeserving of the attention I so freely shower him in. The wounds of his younger self that never quite healed make the affections he's so craved quite hard to take in.

"My sweet boy," I whisper, gently rubbing his lips, "let me do this for you."

His blue eyes slowly open. They are shrouded with red exhaustion. He finally relents, eyes closing again as he leans back and offers himself completely to me.

I decide to wash his hair for a change, and as I do so, I sing a folk song from the Reach. He rests his head on the tub, sinking slightly into the water as he allows himself to relax.

I only stop singing when he mutters something unintelligible. I lean towards him, "what was that, my love?"

His lips barely move, "thank you."

A soft smile finds me.

"I love you."

I immediately press my lips into his. I make sure to do so delicately, so not to disturb him or the cut on his lower lip. I look at his face for a few moments before pulling back, "I love you too."

I continue singing from where I left off.

[its-avalon-08]

Can you write me something for Lando? Where his girlfriend is scared, he's going to leave her because everyone eventually does. (Like a bad home life and never had good relationships) And she's just waiting for Lando to dump her, but Lando resizes this and assures her that she is it for him and he would never abandon her.

i'm never giving up on you (ln4)

avaspeaks: at this point i'm just a lando norris fanclub, and i have no issue with it whatsoever

✦ pairing - lando norris x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, neglect, fears of abandonment, comfort

Y/N sat in the dimly lit living room of her small apartment, the shadows on the walls a stark contrast to the memories that haunted her. Her fingers traced the worn edges of a photo album she had found while cleaning earlier, each page a painful reminder of her past.

Growing up, Y/N's home life was far from stable. Her parents' relationship had been a volatile cocktail of arguments and broken promises, their voices often raised in anger rather than love. The air in their house had always felt thick with tension, a palpable force that suffocated any semblance of comfort or security.

Y/N flipped through the album, her eyes lingering on a picture of her younger self. She was smiling, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, even then. Her parents stood on either side of her, forced grins plastered on their faces for the camera. She remembered that day clearly—it had been one of the few times they had tried to act like a normal family, but the effort was short-lived.

As the years went by, the arguments escalated, and the once infrequent absences of her father turned into a permanent departure. Her mother, already struggling with her own demons, fell into a deep depression, leaving Y/N to fend for herself. She became a master of hiding her pain, putting on a brave face at school while silently dealing with the chaos at home.

Friendships came and went, most of them fleeting. Y/N had learned early on not to get too attached, as people seemed to drift away just when she started to rely on them. Her heart had been broken too many times, not by romantic relationships, but by the countless times she had opened up to someone, only for them to leave.

Closing the album with a sigh, Y/N glanced around her apartment. It was small but cozy, a space she had made her own. The walls were adorned with pictures of places she hoped to visit one day, a reminder of dreams she refused to let go of, despite everything. Yet, the emptiness of the apartment echoed the loneliness that had been her constant companion.

Meeting Lando had been a beacon of light in her otherwise dark world. His infectious energy and genuine kindness had drawn her in, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a glimmer of hope. But with that hope came fear—the fear that he, too, would eventually leave, just like everyone else.

The sound of the front door opening pulled Y/N from her thoughts. She quickly wiped away a tear that had escaped, not wanting Lando to see her like this. She loved him deeply, but the scars of her past were not easily forgotten.

Lando entered the room, his eyes immediately finding hers. He could sense something was wrong, the way she held herself, the distant look in her eyes. He walked over and sat beside her on the couch, his presence a comforting contrast to the turmoil in her mind.

"Hey," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Are you okay?"

Y/N took a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yeah baby, I'm okay"

time skip

The tension in the apartment was palpable as Lando and Y/N stood facing each other in the living room. The argument had started innocuously enough—a simple conversation about their busy schedules—but it had quickly escalated into a heated exchange.

"I just don't understand why you can't make more time for us," Y/N said, her voice tinged with frustration. "You're always so busy with races, interviews, and events. I feel like we're barely together anymore."

Lando ran a hand through his hair, his patience wearing thin. "I have obligations, Y/N. This is my career we're talking about. I can't just drop everything whenever I want."

"I'm not asking you to drop everything," she retorted, her eyes flashing with anger. "I'm asking you to make an effort. I want to feel like a priority, not just another item on your to-do list."

"That's not fair," Lando shot back. "You know how demanding this job is. I can't control the schedule. And it's not like you don't have your own commitments."

Y/N crossed her arms, her voice rising. "But I still try to make time for us! You promised me that we'd find a balance, but it feels like I'm the only one trying."

Lando's frustration boiled over. "I’m doing the best I can! Why can't you see that?"

"Because it doesn't feel like it!" she shouted, tears of anger and hurt welling up in her eyes. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm the only one making an effort in this relationship."

A heavy silence fell between them, the weight of their words hanging in the air. Lando shook his head, his expression a mix of frustration and helplessness. "I'm driving around the bloody globe and this - Y/N I'm just- I need some air," he muttered, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

Y/N watched him leave, her heart sinking. She stood there for a moment, her mind racing with thoughts of abandonment. This was it, she thought. This was when he would realize it wasn't worth the effort and leave her like everyone else had.

Y/N sat on the balcony, the cool night air brushing against her skin. The city lights flickered in the distance, but her mind was far away, lost in the painful memories that had shaped her.

She was six years old, hiding under the kitchen table as her parents screamed at each other. Her father’s voice was a thunderstorm, her mother’s a desperate plea. "I can’t take it anymore, Marie! I’m done!" Her father stormed out, slamming the door so hard it rattled the windows. He never came back.

Years later, her mother’s addiction had taken hold. Y/N would find her passed out on the couch, empty bottles and needles scattered around. "Mom, please," she would whisper, shaking her gently. "Wake up." But her mother’s eyes remained closed, her body unresponsive. Social services came and went, but nothing ever changed. The house felt emptier with each passing day.

Her first boyfriend seemed kind at first, but the facade quickly crumbled. "You’re too clingy," he said, pushing her away. "I need space." He left her in tears, feeling like a burden. The next relationship was worse—manipulation, emotional abuse, constant belittling. "You’re worthless," he sneered. "No wonder your family abandoned you." She believed him, internalizing every cruel word.

Y/N hugged her knees tighter to her chest, the tears slipping down her cheeks. The patterns of her past replayed in her mind, a cruel reminder of the pain she had endured.

Her best friend in high school promised they would be friends forever. But as soon as things got tough, she disappeared without a word, leaving Y/N to navigate the tumultuous teenage years alone. "I thought we were friends," Y/N had said, voice breaking. But there was no answer, just an empty silence.

Her college roommate had been kind, at first. They shared secrets and late-night talks until one day, without warning, she moved out, leaving a note saying she couldn’t handle Y/N’s “drama.” Another abandonment, another confirmation that Y/N was too much for anyone to handle.

She wiped her eyes, the heaviness in her chest a familiar ache. Lando was different, she knew that. He was kind, loving, and patient. But the fear that he would eventually leave her, just like everyone else, was always there, lurking in the back of her mind.

The balcony door slid open, and Y/N didn’t turn around. She felt Lando’s presence as he stepped outside, the silence stretching between them.

"I'm sorry my love," Lando finally said, his voice soft and weary. "I didn't mean to storm out like that."

Y/N took a deep breath, her voice trembling. "I just… I don't want to feel like this anymore, Lando. I don't want to keep waiting for you to leave. It's not your fault, it really is not. I'm just- my past. It has been hurting me so much even when I try for it not to."

He moved closer, sitting beside her on the balcony floor. "Y/N, I'm not going to leave you. I didn't realize how much this was affecting you. I thought we were okay but I need you to speak to me, to voice your conerns."

She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I was scared to tell you how I really felt. I didn't want to seem needy or make you feel guilty."

Lando reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "You have every right to tell me how you feel. I need to know if something's wrong so we can fix it together."

She looked at him, her eyes filled with vulnerability. "But what if you get tired of always having to reassure me? What if you decide it's too much?"

He squeezed her hand, his gaze steady and sincere. "I won't. I'm here because I love you, Y/N. I want to be with you, and that means working through the tough times, too. I know I haven't been perfect, but I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make this work."

Y/N's heart ached with both fear and hope. "I want to believe you, Lando. I really do."

"Then let me prove it to you," he said softly. "We'll figure this out together. I promise."

She nodded, a small smile breaking through her tears. "Okay. I trust you." He could see the pain in her eyes, the scars left by a lifetime of abandonment and disappointment. He knew this was the moment to make her understand how much she meant to him.

"Y/N, look at me," he said softly, lifting her chin so their eyes met. "You are perfect for me in every way. I don’t just love you because you’re beautiful or because we have fun together. I love you because of who you are, inside and out."

She tried to look away, but he gently held her face, making sure she was listening. "You are the strongest person I know. Everything you've been through, everything you've survived—it hasn't broken you. It's made you who you are, and that person is incredible."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't say anything. Lando continued, his voice full of conviction. "You have this amazing heart, Y/N. You care so deeply about the people in your life, even when they don't deserve it. You give so much of yourself, and that’s something truly special."

He brushed a tear from her cheek. "You make me want to be a better person. Every day with you is a gift, and I don’t take that lightly. I see how you look after everyone, how you’re always there for others, even when you’re hurting. You inspire me."

Lando's voice grew more intense as he spoke. "You’re not a burden. You’re not too much. You are exactly what I need in my life. You’re my anchor, the one who keeps me grounded. Without you, none of this—racing, fame, everything—would matter. You’re my reason, Y/N."

She sniffled, her tears falling freely now, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. "I know you’re scared, and I get it. But I’m here to stay. I’m not going anywhere. I promise you that. We’re in this together, and I will never, ever leave you."

He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes again. "Please believe me when I say that you are my everything. I love you more than words can say, and I will spend every day proving it to you. You are my future, Y/N, and I’m not going to let anything take that away from us."

She clung to him, her sobs quieting as his words sank in. "I love you too, Lando," she whispered, her voice shaky but filled with hope.

"And I love you," he replied, kissing her forehead gently. "Always."

For the first time in a long while, she felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make it work. And for now, that hope was enough.

[kinascum]

PICKUP - DAD!M. STURNIOLO

SUMMARY. when a stressed-out, sleep-deprived and chaotic SingleDad!Matt falls in love with his son’s kindergarten teacher.

CONTENT. no major warnings

WC. 1.3k

proofread by @baileysturns

You wait as the hours ticked by, the soft hum of the kindergarten classroom lulling you into a gentle rhythm. The children have long been picked up, their laughter echoing through the hallways replaced by the quiet buzz of teachers finishing up their duties. Then, you hear the distant sound of rubber soles slapping against the linoleum floor, approaching at a brisk pace. The door bursts open and in strides Mr Sturniolo, his eyes scanning the room frantically before they lock onto yours. His son, Tommy, who's a tiny bundle of energy, squirms in your arms as he calls out, "Daddy!"

Matt's cheeks are flushed with exertion, his tie askew, and his hair sticking up in every direction. You can see the lines of stress etched into his forehead, but when he sees you, his face relaxes into a relieved smile. "Thank you so much," he says, his voice a little too loud in the quiet room. "I had a meeting that ran over, and traffic was..." He trails off, shaking his head. You understand; the world of a single dad is often one of unpredictability and juggling responsibilities.

You hand over Tommy, who clings to your neck for a moment before launching himself into his dad's arms. "It's no problem," you reply with a smile. "We had a great time, didn't we?" The little boy nods enthusiastically, his eyes shining with excitement.

As they leave, you watch them go in a hurry, the chaos of the day seeming to dissipate around them. The hallways are empty, the lights flickering in the descending twilight. You pack up your things and head home, feeling a twinge of loneliness as the school falls silent around you. It's not every day you meet a parent who seems so genuinely thankful for your work.

-

The next morning, you're setting up the classroom when you see Matt standing in the doorway, Tomas tugging at his hand. He holds out a small box of chocolates to you, his eyes earnest. "I wanted to apologize again for yesterday," he says. "And thank you for keeping an eye on him. I know it's not part of your job, but..." His voice is gruff, and you can tell he's not used to being vulnerable. You take the chocolates, a warm feeling spreading through your chest. "It's okay," you reassure him. "It's what we're here for." He nods, his expression a mix of gratitude and something else. Something that makes your heart skip a beat.

As the days turn into weeks, you find yourself looking forward to the moments when you see Matt. His mornings are still hectic, but he always has a smile for you, and he makes a point to thank you every time he picks up his son. The two of you start to chat, sharing stories about the little one's antics and the challenges of single parenthood. You learn that he's a dedicated father, working long hours to provide for his child, and you can't help but admire his determination.

One afternoon, after the last child has been picked up, you're organizing the bookshelf when you hear a knock on the door. You turn to find Matt, Tommy nowhere in sight. "Could I speak with you for a moment?" he asks, his eyes searching yours. You nod, curious.

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "I know this is probably weird," he starts, "but I just wanted to say... I really appreciate what you do. For him, and for me." He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that somehow makes him even more endearing. "I don't know how I'd manage without people like you." He pauses, and you can see the weight of his words hanging in the air. "And I was wondering if maybe, when you're not busy, we could grab a coffee or something. Just to say thanks. Properly."

You're taken aback by the invitation, but the warmth in his eyes makes it difficult to refuse. "I'd like that," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "How about tomorrow after work?" He grins, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. "It's a date," he says, and you can't help but blush at the term.

The next day seems to drag on forever, with every tick of the clock bringing you closer to the promised coffee. You're acutely aware of Matt's presence when he arrives to pick up his son, your heart racing every time you catch a glimpse of him. When the time finally comes, you grab your bag and walk with him to the small café across the street.

As you sit down, the café's warm lights reflecting off the polished wooden surfaces, you feel a mix of nerves and excitement. You've never done anything like this before, especially with a parent from your class. But something about Matt is different. He's not like the other dads who hover awkwardly or only engage in small talk. There's a depth to him, a raw honesty that draws you in.

The conversation starts off tentatively, with both of you sticking to safe topics like work and the school. But as the minutes stretch into an hour, you find yourselves delving deeper. He tells you about his life as a single dad, the struggles and the joys, and you open up about your passion for teaching and your hopes for the future. His laugh is contagious, and you find yourself smiling more than you have in a long time.

Then, in the middle of a story about his son's latest attempt at art, he looks at you with a glint in his eye and says, "So, tell me more about you, Y/N." You blush, surprised by his directness. It's clear he's trying to flirt, but you're his son's teacher, and there's a line you can't cross. You laugh it off, keeping the conversation light and professional.

The evening stretches on, the café slowly filling with the scent of freshly ground coffee beans and the murmur of other patrons. You both find yourself getting lost in conversation, sharing stories about your pasts and your hopes for the future. His son is a common thread, weaving through every topic, a reminder of the bond you share beyond the classroom.

As you sip on your now-cold coffee, you feel a pang of something unfamiliar. It's easy to be drawn to Matt's charm and the way he talks about his son with such love, but you know that this isn't just a casual chat between friends. You're his son's teacher, and there are boundaries that need to be respected. But the way he looks at you, with genuine interest and a hint of admiration, makes it hard to remember why this isn't a good idea.

Finally, you decide to address the elephant in the room. "Matt," you say firmly, setting down your cup. "I really appreciate the gesture, and I've enjoyed our time together, but I think we should keep things professional. I care about your son, and I don't want anything to jeopardize that relationship." He nods, understanding in his eyes. "You're right," he says with a sigh. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

The walk back to the kindergarten is a little awkward, the air thick with unspoken feelings. When you reach the door, he takes a step closer, his hand brushing yours. "Thank you," he says, his voice low. "For everything. And I'm sorry if I overstepped."

You smile, feeling a rush of affection for this man who's doing his best in a tough situation. "It's okay," you reply. "We're good." With a final nod, he turns and walks away, leaving you standing there with a jumble of emotions.

That night, as you lay in bed, you can't help but think about Matt. The way his eyes lit up when he talked about his son, the way his hand felt against yours. You know that you can't let this go further, but you also know that you're going to look forward to seeing him in the mornings, even if it's just for a brief exchange about homework and school events. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough for now.

tags! @christophersgf @rainuhh @mattandchrismakemewett @gxldenlush @immattsslut @slut4chriss @stasiesturn @jetaimevous @solarsturniolo @watercolorskyy @thedarkqueenofavalon @meowira @secretagentspy @shadowthesim @baileysturns

[aemondwhoresworld]

STRANGER TO LOVERS

pairing: mafia!cregan stark x reader

summary: after eight months of being in an arrange marriage, mafia boss of the city of winterfell finally confessed his true feelings for his wife, y/n

word count: 1,5k

warning: english is not my first language. modern au, arrange marriage (?), angst to fluff, use of y/n.

masterlist | ADD YOURSELFT TO MY TAGLIST

The city of Winterfell was a frigid, unforgiving place, but it was also the heartbeat of Cregan Stark’s empire. A dynasty of power and shadow, the Stark family had ruled the city’s underworld for generations. Cregan was no exception, standing at the helm of the family’s criminal syndicate. Despite the harshness of his world, Cregan ruled with a code—one that valued loyalty above all. He was feared, respected, and rarely challenged.

But within the icy walls of Stark Manor, a different battle raged. It wasn’t over territory or power but something far more complicated—his feelings for you, his wife of eight months.

Their marriage had been an arrangement, forged not from love but from necessity. Cregan needed an alliance to secure his hold on Winterfell, and your family had deep ties in the South. The union had been strategic, coldly calculated like everything else in his life. Or at least, that’s what Cregan had convinced himself.

You are beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely independent. From the moment he’d first laid eyes on you, Cregan had felt something shift inside him—something he’d never felt before. But he was a Stark, and Starks didn’t show weakness, especially not to their wives. He’d kept his distance, playing the role of the detached husband, leaving you to the sprawling mansion while he handled business.

But over time, that cold detachment had begun to melt. He found himself seeking you out more often, stealing glances when you wasn’t looking, lingering in conversations that had nothing to do with the business. Yet, he remained silent, trapped by his pride and the fear that you could never feel the same.

It was a cold winter evening when everything changed.

The night was quiet, too quiet for Winterfell. The snowfall outside had turned the city into a white, silent expanse. Inside Stark Manor, a fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting long shadows across the walls. You curled up on one of the leather armchairs in the living room, a book resting in your lap. You’d found solace in reading since moving to Winterfell, a way to escape the loneliness that often crept in when Cregan was away.

Tonight, however, you couldn’t focus on the words. Your mind was elsewhere—on your husband.

Cregan Stark was a mystery to you, a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Their marriage had been more of a business transaction than anything else, a way to strengthen ties between their families. But despite his cold exterior, you had seen glimpses of something more—something tender hidden beneath the surface. You just didn’t know how to reach it.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway, pulling you from your thoughts. You looked up as Cregan entered the room, his presence commanding as always. He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric tailored to perfection, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. His icy blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Y/n,” he greeted you, his voice deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Cregan,” you replied, closing your book and placing it on the table beside you. “I didn’t expect you to be home so early.”

He walked over to the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the flames. “There’s nothing more to be done tonight,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. “And I wanted to see you.”

The admission caught you off guard. He rarely said anything so direct, so… vulnerable. You studied him, trying to read the expression on his face, but as usual, it was a blank slate. You stood up and walked over to him, your heart pounding in your chest. The heat from the fire warmed you as you stood beside him, close enough to feel the tension radiating from his body.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his eyes for answers.

He turned to look at you, his gaze intense. “Do you regret it?”

You frowned, confused. “Regret what?”

“This,” he gestured between them. “Our marriage. Do you regret marrying me?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded with emotion. You blinked, taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his voice. You had never expected him to ask something so personal, so raw.

“No,” you said after a moment, your voice steady. “I don’t regret it.”

Cregan’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but there was still a storm brewing behind his eyes. “Why not?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “Because I’ve come to care for you, Cregan. Despite everything—despite how we started—I care for you more than I ever thought I could.”

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception, but he found none. You were telling the truth, and it shook him to his core. He had always assumed you was with him out of duty, out of obligation. But to hear that you actually cared for him? That was something he hadn’t been prepared for.

He looked away, his jaw clenched. “You deserve more than what I’ve given you,” he said, his voice tight with emotion. “I’ve kept you at a distance, thinking it was what was best. But the truth is… I don’t know how to be a husband. I don’t know how to love.”

You reached out, placing your hand on his arm. “You do love, Cregan,” you said gently.

“You show it in the way you protect your family, in the way you’ve built this empire to keep us safe. You may not say it, but your actions speak louder than words.”

He looked down at your hand, feeling the warmth of your touch seep through his suit jacket. For so long, he had convinced himself that he was incapable of love, that his heart had frozen over in the bitter cold of Winterfell. But you had been slowly thawing it, chipping away at the ice until he could feel again.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’ve been a fool to keep you at arm’s length.”

You stepped closer, your heart aching for the man before you. “It’s not too late, Cregan,” you said softly. “We can still make this work. But you have to let me in.”

He looked into your eyes, seeing the sincerity and love reflected back at him. For the first time in a long time, Cregan felt hope. He placed his hand over your, pulling you closer.

“I love you, Y/n,” he confessed, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you, but I was too afraid to admit it. Too afraid to lose control.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, your heart swelling with emotion. “I love you too, Cregan,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. “I promise I’ll do better,” he vowed, his voice steady. “I’ll be the husband you deserve.”

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his touch. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Cregan leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss, one that spoke of all the love and longing he had kept buried for so long. You melted into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his neck as you kissed him back, pouring all of your love into that one moment.

When they finally pulled away, Cregan rested his forehead against your, his breathing ragged. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude. “Thank you for giving me a chance.”

You smiled, your heart filled with love and hope for the future. “We’ll figure this out together,” you promised, your voice steady and sure.

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the warmth of the fire and their newfound love surrounding them. The city outside may have been cold and ruthless, but inside Stark Manor, there was nothing but warmth and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of emotions and newfound closeness. Cregan made good on his promise to be a better husband, spending more time with you and opening up to you in ways he never had before. He shared the burdens of his empire with you, letting you into his world and showing you the man behind the mask.

You, in turn, supported him every step of the way. You became his confidante, his partner, and his anchor in the storm. The more they shared, the stronger their bond grew, until the walls that had once separated them were nothing more than a distant memory.

But life in Winterfell was never simple. The Stark empire was powerful, but it was also constantly under threat. Rivals from the South, old enemies of the Stark family, were always looking for a weakness, a way to bring them down. And now that Cregan had let you into his heart, you had become his greatest vulnerability.

It was a crisp winter morning when that vulnerability was put to the test.

Cregan had been in meetings all day, discussing the latest threats to their territory. You had spent the morning in the study, catching up on some reading and preparing for a charity event they were hosting that evening. You were just finishing up when the phone rang, the shrill sound breaking

like, reblog if you enjoy this fic, thank you!!

TAGLIST: @r-3dlips

[forzalando]

hi! can you do "kisses. on. the. tip. of. the. nose." + charles please please please 🙏 tysm <3

hi hi hi! i hope you like it😊💛 thank you so much for your request, i had so much fun writing this one!!! charles + kisses on the tip of the nose 631 words, no tw!

Adopting Leo was the most wonderful decision that you and Charles had ever made – he was the sweetest puppy, even if he could be a menace at times, and had so much love in his tiny little body for the two of you.

He was exceptionally clingy, especially with you since he spent more time with you, which prompted Charles to overcompensate a bit for his absence.

It wasn’t that you were jealous of your dog, per se, but as you sat on the couch and watched Charles give his undivided attention to Leo while completely ignoring your existence, you felt a bit slighted.

His puppy voice and the sound of him leaving kisses all over Leo’s face, particularly his adorable nose, had your frown growing deeper. You’d never been great at controlling your facial expressions but Charles had yet to notice until you sighed involuntary.

“Mon amour, what’s wrong?” Charles asked sweetly, cradling Leo delicately to his chest in order to move closer to you.

“Nothing,” you pouted, stealing Leo from his arms to hopefully quell the loneliness in your chest.

“It’s not nothing, you are sad. Talk to me, my love.”

“I just – gosh, it’s so stupid.”

“Your feelings are not stupid, I promise. Did something happen while I was away? If someone hurt you I will – ”

“No, Charles,” you interrupted, debating the best way to tell him. “I…I know you miss Leo a lot and you feel guilty because you’re away so often but you’ve been home for four hours and after a quick ‘hello, I love you, I missed you”, you haven’t paid attention to me at all. I’m just feeling a little left out.”

It was silent for a moment except for Leo’s soft pants and the sound of him licking your chin – you couldn’t help but smile at the affection from him, the affection you were craving from your partner as well.

“Mon amour,” Charles cooed. “Are you jealous of little Leo?”

“I’m not jealous, but you’ve kissed him 81 times and I’m feeling neglected.”

Charles smiled softly at you, “I’m sorry, Leo is new to me being gone so often, I’ve been so wrapped up in making sure he knows I love him that I forgot for a moment it never gets any easier for you.”

“I understand, Charlie, it’s ok. I’ve just missed you a lot,” you whispered shyly. He moved even closer to you, cupping your face with his hands, leaning in. You closed your eyes and waited patiently, eager to lose yourself in Charles.

Your eyes flew open in shock when you felt his lips upon the tip of your nose repeatedly – over and over again while Charles giggled and pressed himself as close as he could without crushing your fur child.

“Charles!” you squealed, laughing along with him as his kisses moved to your cheek, chin, and right back to your nose.

“You said you were jealous of Leo’s nose kisses!”

“I said kisses in general,” you gasped between laughs. “And it looks and sounds like I’m not the only jealous one in this family.”

Leo was yapping away in your arms – his little paws trying and failing to push Charles away while he snuggled closer to you. “Leo, let me love on your Mama, no?” Charles lightly scolded, ruffling the fur on his head. As if Leo understood, he huffed out a sigh and relaxed in your arms, quickly falling asleep.

Charles leaned back against the edge of the couch and beckoned you to sit between his legs, cocooning his arms around you as you leaned back into him.

Your head nestled in the crook of his neck and Leo snoring softly in your arms – you wouldn’t trade your perfect, little family for anything in the world.

if you'd like to request a short drabble/blurb, please see this post!!

[splatashahowlett]

do you think you could do Logan taking care of you while your sick ??

love fever

logan howlett x reader

the leather of the couch was sticking to your skin. you could feel droplets of sweat rolling down your forehead. your body felt numb, and your headache was agonizing.

you hated being hot; you hated being sick.

you had fallen asleep on the couch, in one of the school's living room. you were watching a movie with rogue, and before you knew it you had slipped into morpheus' arms. when you had woken up, the lights were out. everything was dark and silent. it didn't freak you out but it would solicit a strange feeling of sadness and loneliness. you had figured rogue had gone to bed just like everyone else.

you found yourself all alone, hair in a mess, mouth dry, eyes puffy and sick.

the only thing that could be heard was the ticking of the clock, way louder than necessary or the occasional light footsteps upstairs coming from tormented students.

it was so peaceful you almost were afraid of making a noise, not daring to disrupt the singular and placid atmosphere around you.

you were looking around, when you noticed a room ligthing up on the other side of the hallway. someone was in the kitchen. you didn't want anybody to see you like this so you gathered the energy you had left to get up and join your room. but before you could do so, the person left the kitchen. you felt a strong sense of relief when you realized it was logan. he probably was one of the few person you were completly comfortable around, he had seen you in your worst days: a little cold wouldn't scare him away.

logan and you had known each other for forever. you were both running away from people who wanted to take advantage of your mutation. you met in a bar, in the middle of the night and got along beautifully. you hit the road together and never left each other's side from this moment. you had both joined the X-Men and the idea of doing it with your bestfriend was comforting for you two.

"i was looking for you" logan said, worried.

"I'm here" you answered, still swimming in an hypnagogic state. logan smiled and leaned against the back of the couch, inclined over your frame. he looked at you for a while. it wasn't awkward, nothing could be with him but you were still confused.

"why aren't you in bed?" he asked.

"uhm, I fell asleep" you replied, knowing how silly that sounded. logan laughed softly at your angelic face. "I think I'm sick" you added. logan furrowed his brows and put a hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. he walked away immediatly, mumbling something about your head being hot.

when he came back, he had a glass in his left hand, a wet rug in his right one.

"drink that" he ordered.

you grabbed the glass and looked at it hesitantly, you looked up at logan.

"painkiller" he simply said. you drank it. god only knows how much you needed it.

you were expecting him to hand you over the rug but instead, he sat next to you and started wiping your sweaty forehead. the gesture made your smile, it was rare seeing logan so caring and you doubted he would have done the same thing if there was people around. you knew you could count on him to take care of you but behind closed doors. when you adressed the matter once, he admitted he was scared of people hurting you to get to him. it wouldn't be the first time. so he would show affection in different way; getting you something to eat when you've been working all afternoon in the lab, smilling at your jokes even when they aren't funny, turning off the light in your room when you've fallen asleep after a long day (still completly dressed).

you never doubted of the affection logan had for you, he just didn't have the same way of expressing it as everyone.

"what are you thinking about?" he whispered.

"I'm really lucky to have a friend like you"

he smiled.

"so am I" he took your hand in his, raised it to his lips and placed a tender kiss on the back of it.

you rolled your eyes at his action and you both laughed loudly. you immediatly stopped when you where reminded of the children sleeping and put your hand on logan's mouth instinctively. you both froze, realizing your mistake and hoping you didn't wake anyone up. you took your hand off his face and laughed as silently as possible together.

"you should go to sleep" he whispered. you nodded, knowing it was the right thing to do. but you didn't really want to go to bed. you loved the quiet moments you spent with logan. those moments where neither of you would say a thing but simply enjoy each other's company.

you were both waiting for the other to stand and go to sleep; but neither of you was ready to say goodnight.

you coughed vociferously, which caused your headache to get worse. you rubbed your hand against your forehead and closed your eyes, maybe you should just sleep on the couch?

before you could take a decision, logan's arms went under your legs and behind your back. he lifted you against his chest.

"let's get you to bed" he explained. you leaned against him and sighed loudly. your eyes were closing on their own. you were fighting not to fall asleep but your efforts weren't enough.

when you woke up the next day, your eyes went wide when you looked at the time.

one pm?!

you jumped from your bed, mortified at how late you were but immediatly sat on the floor after almost fainting.

you heard the sound of your bedroom door opening.

"are you okay?" logan hurried in the room and joined you on the floor. his hand went to your head, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

you clearly weren't doing good, you were frowning, your eyes were closed and you were breathing heavily.

"I'm late, I have to go" you complained

"I warned everybody that you were sick and wouldn't be available today" he reassured. you smiled softly, as a way of thanking him.

logan helped you get up and tucked you in bed. he left your side to grab the plate he had come in with.

"here. eat something"

you grabbed the plate from his hand.

"can you stay?" you pleaded.

"I wasn't planning on leaving babygirl" he said softly.

"thank you"

logan leaned over and kissed your forehead.

"don't. I'm sick" you said

"we've known each other for decades and you still forget I can't get sick?" he laughed. you smiled, laughing at how stupid you were.

logan ended up staying the whole afternoon, he had cancelled his classes to stay with you. he made sure you had everything you needed; food, water, medicines, attention, love.

your heart was full of love. you adored logan. he was the person you trusted the most on earth and you were more then grateful to have him in your life.

the sun set and logan wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. he ended up falling alseep before you, his head on your lap, your fingers massaging his head. you could hear him grunt and sigh at the sensation and you smiled each time, amused at his cat-like behavior.

"you're my person" was the last thing you whispered in the dark of your room before falling asleep.

[alyrasturnz]

 ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎TOLERATE IT

❐ summary » matt and y/n find themselves in a heated argument due to matt's frequent absences. feeling neglected and overwhelmed, y/n confronts him about his perpetual absence. matt, realizing the depth of her loneliness and frustration, makes a heartfelt attempt to reconcile and mend their strained relationship.

❐ pairings » dad!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » lowkey toxic!matt, argument (resolved)

❐ a/n && w/c » i didnt realize i hit 300 😭 thank u guys smmm • 3.20k

you sit at the dining table, the remnants of dinner barely touched, each morsel a testament to the lingering void. the weight of motherhood envelops you like an oppressive cloak, suffocating and unrelenting in matt's absence. the silence in the room is a deafening symphony, punctuated only by the sporadic clink of cutlery against porcelain, each sound a stark reminder of the solitude that has become your unwelcome companion.

you drop your utensils onto your plate with a jarring clatter, the sound echoing through the silence like a cry for attention. your gaze, heavy with unspoken words, shifts away from matt, who remains ensconced in his own world, seemingly unperturbed by the storm brewing within you.

he sat at the table, the soft glow of his phone casting shadows on his face. his fingers moved methodically over the screen, eyes fixed with a steely detachment. each swipe seemed to deepen the chasm between you, a silent testament to the growing distance.

as he mechanically brought the fork to his lips, his expression remained cold and unyielding, the warmth of shared moments now a distant memory.

“matt, we need to talk," you begin, your voice quivering like a fragile leaf caught in a tempest, each word a struggle against the torrent of emotions threatening to break free.

matt looks up from his phone, a flicker of irritation dancing in his eyes. "what is it now, y/n? i've had a long day."

"every day is a long day for me too," you reply, your voice gaining strength as you rise from your seat, hands trembling with pent-up frustration. "but unlike you, i don't have the luxury of escaping to an office. i'm here, day in and day out, dealing with everything alone." your eyes bore into his, a mixture of pain and determination, as you take a step closer, your breath uneven with the weight of unspoken words.

"you're exaggerating," matt says, dismissively, his tone laced with condescension. "i work hard to provide for this family. you should be grateful for that." his words hang in the air, a cold barrier that refuses to acknowledge the depth of your struggles.

"grateful?" you echo, incredulity coloring your tone as you take a step back, your hands balling into fists. "grateful for what? for feeling like a single parent while you're off at work? for the endless nights spent alone, wondering if you even care about us anymore?" your voice cracks, the raw emotion spilling over as your eyes glisten with unshed tears, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of the chasm between you.

matt's face hardens, the lines around his eyes deepening with a mix of frustration and hurt. "that's not fair, y/n. you know my job is demanding. i'm doing this for us, for our future." his voice carries a steely edge, each word a plea for understanding masked by the armor of duty and sacrifice.

"and what about our present, matt?" you counter, tears threatening to spill over as your voice trembles. "what about the here and now? i feel so isolated, so overwhelmed. i need you, not just as a provider, but as a partner. i need your support, your presence." your words hang heavy in the air, each one a desperate plea for the connection that seems to be slipping through your fingers.

matt sighs, rubbing his temples as if trying to massage away the weight of the world. "i don't know what you want from me. i'm doing the best i can." his voice is weary, a fragile thread of exasperation and helplessness woven through his words, as if he's grappling with an invisible burden that words alone cannot lift.

"i want you to see me," you say, your voice breaking as the dam of your emotions begins to crack. "to understand that i'm struggling. i can't do this alone. i need you to be here, to help shoulder the responsibilities of our family. we need to find a balance, matt, or we're going to lose each other." your plea hangs in the air, a poignant reminder of the fragile threads that bind your lives together, threatening to unravel if not carefully tended.

matt's eyes narrow, frustration bubbling to the surface like a volcano on the brink of eruption. "maybe if you appreciated what i do, you wouldn't feel so alone." his words are sharp, tinged with a bitterness that cuts through the air, revealing the deep chasm of misunderstanding and unmet expectations that lies between you.

your heart sinks at his words, the final blow to an already battered spirit. tears well up in your eyes, blurring the sight of matt as he turns away, his attention already drifting back to his phone. your chest tightens, the weight of his indifference pressing down on you, each tear a silent testament to the growing distance between you.

the room falls into a heavy silence, the chasm between you widening with each passing second. the air grows thick with unspoken words and unresolved pain, each heartbeat echoing the vast emptiness that now separates your souls.

"i remember when we used to dream together," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "we promised each other a life of shared joys and burdens. but now, it feels like i'm the only one carrying the weight." your words hang in the air, a poignant echo of a past filled with hope and unity, now overshadowed by the solitary struggle that defines your present.

matt's shoulders tense, but he doesn't respond. the silence grows heavier, pressing down on you like an oppressive fog. the weight of his unspoken thoughts and the invisible wall between you becomes almost tangible, each second stretching into an eternity.

"i miss you," you continue, your voice barely audible. "i miss the man who used to hold my hand and tell me everything would be okay. i miss the laughter and the love we shared. where did it all go, matt?" your words tremble, laden with the weight of lost moments and fading memories, each syllable a desperate plea to reclaim what once was.

he finally looks up, his expression unreadable. "i don't know," he admits quietly. "maybe we just grew apart." his words, though simple, carry the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions, each one a fragment of the distance that has slowly and silently crept between you.

"or maybe you stopped trying," you reply, the bitterness in your voice undeniable. "maybe you decided that your career was more important than your family. i can't do this anymore, matt. i can't keep pretending that everything is fine when it's not." your voice quivers, each word a sharp blade cutting through the fragile remnants of your shared life, exposing the raw truth that has been festering beneath the surface.

matt stands up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "i need some air," he mutters, walking towards the door. his movements are sudden, almost violent, as if trying to escape the suffocating tension that has filled the room, leaving behind a trail of unresolved anguish.

as he leaves, you feel the tears spill over, hot and unrelenting. the weight of your loneliness crashes down on you, leaving you gasping for breath. you sit there, tears welling in your eyes, the realization sinking in that the man you once loved is now a stranger.

the future you dreamed of feels like a distant memory, replaced by a stark and painful reality. your heart aches with the profound sense of loss, each tear a testament to the love that once was, now shattered and scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream.

you feel the tears spill over as you stand up, the legs of the chair scraping against the hardwood floor. each tear is a silent scream, echoing the pain that words cannot capture, while the sound of the chair's movement seems to underscore the finality of the moment, a harsh reminder of the emotional chasm that now separates you.

you quickly run to your shared bedroom, collapsing onto the bed as you desperately cry into your pillow, mascara staining your cheeks. the sobs wrack your body, each one a visceral manifestation of the heartache that grips you, while the dark streaks of mascara on your cheeks serve as a poignant reminder of the facade you've been forced to maintain, now crumbling under the weight of your sorrow.

»--•--«

you wake up, your eyes swollen and feeling horrible. the remnants of last night's tears leave your face tender, and an overwhelming sense of desolation weighs heavily on your spirit. each breath feels labored, as if the very air around you has thickened with the residue of your sorrow, making every moment a struggle to endure.

you turn your head to matt’s side of the bed, only to find it empty, as always. the absence is like a gaping void, a stark reminder of the growing chasm between you. the cold, untouched sheets seem to mock your yearning for connection, amplifying the loneliness that has taken root in your heart.

you roll your eyes, sitting up as you rub your eyes. the gesture is both reflexive and laden with fatigue, a silent testament to the weariness that has settled into your bones. each movement feels heavy, as if the weight of your emotions has seeped into your very muscles, making even the simplest actions a laborious endeavor.

you turn to the clock on the bedside table. the soft glow of its digits pierces the dimness of the room, marking the passage of time that feels both swift and interminable.

7:38 AM

matt should be at work by now. the thought crosses your mind, a stark reminder of the routine that has become your reality. his absence is predictable, yet it deepens the void within you, emphasizing the growing distance that time and obligations have carved between you.

your feet touch the cold hardwood floor, sending chills through your body as you stand up. you grab your blanket and wrap it around you, crossing your arms in front of your chest. the chill seeps into your bones, a physical manifestation of the emotional coldness that has settled into your life. the blanket offers scant comfort, a fragile barrier against the pervasive sense of isolation that clings to you like a shadow.

you walk outside of your bedroom and towards your daughter’s room to wake her up for school. each step echoes softly in the quiet hallway, a prelude to the day’s responsibilities. the door to her room stands as a threshold between the innocence of her dreams and the reality awaiting outside, and as you reach for the handle, the weight of your own burdens seems to momentarily lift, replaced by the tender duty of rousing her from slumber.

you open the door and stop in your tracks. her bed is made and empty, a stark contrast to the usual disarray of her morning routine. the room feels eerily still, the absence of her presence amplifying the silence. she is nowhere to be found, and a sense of unease begins to coil around your heart, tightening with each passing second.

"aniella?" you call out, your voice still raspy from sleep as you step into her room. the name hangs in the air, unanswered, and the silence that follows feels heavy, laden with an unspoken tension. each step forward is tentative, as if you are wading through the thick fog of uncertainty, seeking the warmth of her presence in the cold, empty space.

your eyebrows furrow, a deep line forming between them as the realization dawns that she wasn't there. the room, usually brimming with her energy, now feels like a hollow shell, echoing the absence that gnaws at your consciousness. you stand there, grappling with the unsettling quiet, your mind racing to piece together the fragments of the morning's mystery.

your mind races with thousands of thoughts, each one more frantic than the last, as you quickly rush out of her room and into the living room. the urgency in your steps mirrors the chaos in your mind, a whirlwind of worry and confusion. the living room, usually a sanctuary of familial warmth, now feels like an arena of unanswered questions, each corner holding the potential for discovery or despair.

you stop in your tracks, your brows furrowing as your gaze locks onto the figure seated on the couch. matt. the sight of him there, in the midst of your turmoil, adds another layer to the tangled web of emotions. his presence, usually a source of comfort, now feels like an enigma, stirring a storm of questions and unresolved tensions within you.

his face was buried in his hands, his hair disheveled, a testament to the inner turmoil he was experiencing. you hear him muttering some inaudible things, the words slipping through his fingers like sand, lost to the vast ocean of his despair. each whispered syllable seems to carry the weight of a thousand unsaid apologies, adding to the heavy atmosphere that envelops the room.

you rub your eyes, the disbelief palpable as you try to reconcile the sight before you with reality. was he actually there? your gaze returns to him, the figure on the couch, as if the act of looking again might somehow make the surreal scene vanish. yet, he remains, a living contradiction to your expectations, and the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for the next beat in this unfolding drama.

“matt?” you say softly, your voice barely a whisper, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile reality before you. in response, matt quickly removes his head from his hands, the sudden motion revealing a face etched with lines of worry and exhaustion. the air between you feels charged, every second stretching into an eternity as the weight of unspoken words hangs heavily in the silence.

his eyes met yours, and in that fleeting connection, you saw the depth of his anguish. they were puffy, dark, and red, like the storm-tossed sea after a relentless tempest. each glance was a silent testament to sleepless nights and unspoken sorrows, a mirror reflecting the turmoil that lay just beneath the surface.

“have you seen aniella?” you inquire softly, your voice a delicate whisper that barely disturbs the heavy silence. the name hangs in the air, laden with unspoken worry and the weight of countless memories. each syllable seems to tremble with the fragility of hope, as if the very act of asking might unravel the tenuous threads of your composure.

“i, uh,” he began, his voice faltering as he stood up, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. “i drove her to school,” he continued, his gaze dropping to the couch where his hands fumbled to pick up a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. each movement seemed laden with unspoken apologies and the remnants of a love that had been left unattended for too long.

you furrowed your eyebrows, a storm of confusion and apprehension brewing in your expression, as he approached you. each step he took seemed to magnify the tension in the air, the distance between you shrinking yet feeling more immense with every passing second.

“um—you didn’t have to do that,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you instinctively step back, creating a gulf between you. the words, though simple, carry the weight of unspoken emotions, and you can almost see the pang of sadness slash through his heart, leaving an invisible wound that deepens the chasm of misunderstanding.

"y/n," he begins, his voice trembling slightly, each word a fragile confession. "i know i’ve messed up. last night made me realize just how much i’ve been neglecting you and our relationship. you mean everything to me, and i'm ready to show it. i want to make things right." his eyes, filled with a desperate sincerity, search yours, hoping to bridge the chasm that has grown between you.

tears well up in your eyes as his heartfelt words wash over you, each syllable a poignant reminder of the pain you've endured. you take a deep breath, trying to steady the tumultuous storm of emotions within. "matt, i’ve felt so alone and unappreciated. i need you to understand how much that hurt," you say, your voice trembling with the weight of unspoken sorrow and longing.

matt steps closer, his eyes brimming with regret, each step a silent plea for forgiveness. "i do understand now. i’m so sorry for making you feel that way. i’ve been so caught up in everything else that i forgot to cherish what’s most important – you. i promise to be better, to be the partner you deserve. i love you, y/n, and i don’t want to lose you," he says, his voice laden with a profound sincerity that reverberates through the air, seeking to mend the fractures in your heart.

you look at the flowers and chocolates, then back at matt, your gaze unwavering. "i need to see that you mean it, matt. actions speak louder than words," you say, your voice steady yet tinged with the echoes of past disappointments, a silent challenge for him to prove his sincerity through deeds, not just declarations.

he nods earnestly, the weight of his resolve evident in his eyes. "i’ll prove it to you, every day. just give me the chance. i’ve already started making changes. i’ve rearranged my work schedule so i can spend more time with you and our daughter. i want to be there for you, to support you, and to show you how much i care," he says, each word a solemn vow, a promise etched in the air between you, seeking to mend the fractures with tangible efforts and unwavering commitment.

your tears spill over, but you nod, feeling a glimmer of hope amidst the storm of emotions. "okay, matt. let’s try to fix this together," you whisper, your voice a fragile thread of optimism, weaving through the tapestry of your shared pain and longing for a renewed connection.

matt reaches out and gently takes your hand, his touch a tentative bridge to your heart. "thank you for giving me another chance. i promise i won’t let you down. i’ve also planned a special date for us tonight. just you and me, so we can reconnect and start rebuilding what we’ve lost," he says, his voice a solemn pledge, each word a step toward mending the fragile bonds of your relationship.

you squeeze his hand, your heart softening under the weight of his sincerity. "i’d like that, matt. i want to believe in us again," you murmur, your voice a quiet testament to the flickering hope that still resides within, yearning to see the dawn after the darkest of nights.

you share a tender embrace, both feeling the weight of your words and the promise of a better future. the road ahead might be long, but with love and determination, you are ready to face it together. in that moment, the world seems to hold its breath, granting you a fragile, yet profound, sense of unity and purpose, as if the universe itself conspires to give your love a second chance.

[ronearoundblindly]

Lease

best-friend!roommate!reader x Steve Rogers

*This was a totally random and spontaneous idea. Not edited. Light language (so we can get *the joke*), pining, light angst, hurt/comfort, and fluff. This work is for all ages! WC ~2k

Sam Wilson introduces you. Both your parents were veterans and active at the VA, so you practically grew up there.

At first, you’re reserved, a little formal, but very nice. Oddly enough, Steve just likes that you don’t hound him with questions about his military service and how it was different based on the decade, etc. You are just…around to listen.

He finds himself filling any (comfortable) silence between you with stories. Stupid things. Things that don’t have to do with the VA or his past or even his present, which is entirely work as Captain America.

Steve gets to a point where he is itching to live off of Avengers Campus, but he doesn’t want to live alone.

One day he finds you hunched over a laptop and grumbling, “why is everything so fucking expensive?”

A sentiment which, of course, he frowns at.

“Sorry,” you shrug, a look of sincere apology on your distraught face. “I didn’t realize it, but apparently, I’m poor with my measly three-thousand-dollar-a-month budget for an apartment. Now I have to find a roommate, and—“ you start wagging a finger at him sarcastically “—I don’t know if you’ve noticed there’re some real weirdos out there. It’ll take me longer to find a safe, stable roomie than it takes to—“

“I can move in with you.”

Steve almost gasps at how fast the words fly out of his mouth.

“Well, not ‘move in’ to your current place. I mean. I can—I would be willing to live with you. Sorry! That sounds bad. You’re not bad. I meant…you know, anytime you want to chime in and stop me would be helpful.”

You remain silent and smirking.

“Right. Okay. So…think about it? Or not, that’s fine.”

“Let’s talk figures, Rogers. The square-footage just doubled, and I need to rework the budget.”

Moving in is shockingly uneventful. You’re easy to get along with, when not suddenly up on your high horse about something, and Steve is easy to get along with under the same circumstances. You push his militant rigidity to the brink on purpose, but never too far.

Things sit out in the wrong place, but it’s never dirty. Stuff doesn’t always get returned promptly, but if he asks, you’re on it.

There are two bathrooms, thank mercy.

He has random and odd hours. You work nine to five, mostly. It’s the perfect level of independence without loneliness for Steve.

Sam and Natasha stop by regularly or ask you both out for drinks or to fun, new places.

One time, when Nat is ribbing Steve to go talk to a cute girl ordering at the bar, he panics and takes your hand in his on the tabletop.

“How can I do that when my date is right here?” he grits playfully through his pearly white teeth. “Leave it alone.”

Each word is punctuated by a shift forward and a slight tilt of his head.

Natasha is unamused and instantly grabs your other hand (which was holding your drink) to pull you toward the dance floor.

It’s awkward for multiple reasons. You’d pay a whole month’s rent to know what Sam and Steve talked about after you left.

Sam takes a different approach, luring—or attempting to lure—Steve into setting up just one dating profile online.

“You don’t have to put photos,” Sam assures, “and you can stick with your first name only. I swear to you, man, this’ll be good for you. Get you out there more. Help me out here, Tagalong!”

He turns to you for support. To be fair, you did quite literally tag along with your parents for years to the VA, and it stuck. Why it sticks as a grown-ass adult? You’ll never know. You just don’t mind Sam Wilson saying it because he means well and never uses it in public.

“Uh, nooooo.”

Sam’s face falls. “What?”

You look at Steve and grimace, clicking your tongue. “He’s not ready for that,” you conclude.

Steve jumps out of the chair, arms wide with victory.

“THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING!”

“I know you told her to say that,” Sam shouts back.

“Did not,” Steve barks.

“He did not.” You lean against your bedroom doorframe. “I just think it’s obvious.”

That makes Steve deflate a little. “Wait, but…I’m not that bad.”

“Oh gosh,” you fake with a huge smile, “look at the time! Gotta be off to bed…”

The men keep fighting albeit muffled from your side of the wall. The only part you can make out before giving them privacy is Sam, whining, “but you actually like bubble baths and walks on the beach, dude. You’re gonna be money on there.”

“Hey, why do you not, ya know, date?”

You look up from your breakfast, stunned because that came out of nowhere. You’ve lived together over six months now, and Steve hasn’t asked for one iota of personal—well, romantically personal—information.

Twiddling your fork around, you think.

“I always imagine what my parents would think of him, any guy I’ve ever considered being with longterm, and…I was just never proud to say ‘here, here’s the one,’ I guess.”

Your parents have been gone for years. You value their opinion anyway.

“Mhm,” Steve hums, “the one?”

You take a bite of food, straightening your back, tossing a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah, if you believe in that sort of thing.”

He’s quiet for a while.

“So you’re waiting for the right partner?” Steve finally mutters, and he watches your noncommittal gesturing intently.

That was a ‘yes.’

Natasha knows. Sam knows. Steve suspects but won’t admit to anything. You are kind and unreadable.

You’ve always been kind, so there’s no discernible difference to signal you have feelings for him in return. He can’t bring himself to be anything less than a gentleman at home and makes absolutely no moves to find out.

He stays out in the living room a lot more, all hours, hoping you’ll mention staying in for a movie, praying you’ll be tired enough to fall asleep on his lap on the couch.

He’s in way too deep.

What Steve suspects is that it would be too awkward to start anything while living together, but he doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch for rent or a roommate. He also desperately doesn’t want to move out. The status quo is comfortable.

He loves being comfortable with you.

The stress of not telling you, while needing to make some sort of arrangements should telling you blow up in his face, starts to wear on him.

Steve is a pro at compartmentalizing his life, so it’s when he’s stuck at the apartment without any missions, a handful of meetings, and a team that all have lives for two long months that he cracks…in the least attractive way.

He’s messed up his sleep schedule with worry and playing innocent, and out of the not-so-blue, a horrible, vivid nightmare hits him. Steve isn’t even on the mattress anymore by the time he figures out there wasn’t carpet like this in Germany and the desk chair he grips is not a motorcycle.

“Rogers,” he hears. “Rogers, can you look at me?”

The dark room is somehow hollow and stifling all at once. His head turns slower than his brain tells it to.

Steve blinks.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Hey, sweets,” he husks from a dry throat. “What…”

“Can you tell me where this is?” You step closer and pry one of his hands off the mesh to cradle in yours. “Where are we, Rogers?”

“Home.” He swallows. “Our home.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, but you nod like he’s done well.

“Okay, Steve, I’m going to get you some water. If you want—“ your fingers smooth over the back of his hand, nudging the other to release the chair “—you can sit on the bed.”

You don’t leave. You don’t even get up from the floor.

He doesn’t notice he’s clutching your hands, shaking slightly until long seconds go by.

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve lets go, otherwise unmoving, contemplating how he ever thought the semi-rough industrial carpet felt the same as mud.

You carefully hand him the water and rub his back, using your nails to trace invisible patterns. He can’t remember what he was so scared of a minute ago. He only knows he’s sweating that empty kind of confused.

“What’s that supposed to do?” he asks absently.

You shrug. “Eh. Back scratches just feel good.”

Steve’s mind remains blank as he sips his water.

: We need to renew the lease soon. Like this week.

Steve has stalled as long as humanly possible; he is officially not being a gentleman now. He is a coward.

: Talk about it when I get home?

: Could you at least tell me if this is a hard NO on staying here or just some concerns/questions? : I don’t get why you’re being like this.

Steve gets it, but he hates it.

: I’ll be back tonight. Should I pick up food?

: ffs : Fine. Whatever you want.

Steve also hates when you’re mad at him…which has been happening more and more.

He’s been distant, he refuses to let Sam or Nat come around for fear they’ll play match-maker and ruin the whole thing, and he is about to ruin the whole thing anyway.

Because he is not smooth. Because he is not prepared. Because he’s built up this perfect and amazing, sweep-you-off-your-feet moment.

And he bungles it.

“Out with it,” you command, haughtily yanking your portion of food from the countertop beside him, heading for the dinette.

“I want to be with you,” he blurts.

“Thank god,” you sigh, settling in your spot. “So we’ll go down to the office and sign in the morning. I don’t want there to be an issue if you’re off to wherever for who-the-hell-knows how long on the date the thing expires.”

“No, I…” but Steve’s voice is too quiet.

“There’s only a tiny window where they’re open before I have to head to work, so let me physically sign first, right? Then I gotta go.”

“Sure,” he slurs.

“Steve?” You turn to see him staring down at his food. He’s still across the room. “Are you okay?”

“I said I—I meant that—“ he huffs out his breath and taps his fist on the counter “—I meant that I’m an idiot,” he finishes softly.

Approaching with that beautiful, open-hearted kindness that haunts his days and soothes his night, you cross to him, scratching his back just the way he’s grown to crave.

“Think you might be hangry,” you chuckle.

He cannot do this. Steve is hanging on by a thread until the graze of your hand slides down his forearm to take his plate, and he spins.

He’s thought about kissing you so many times, he mapped out the angles he’d have to hold himself at, how far he needs to lean to get to you, the care to take wrangling in his strength and sheer excitement.

Steve Rogers is good at planning, at least, this part.

Gentle pecks of his plush lips to yours leave gaps in contact that let you whimper, and he fears you stopping him. He presses, wrapping his arms around you and molding your bodies together. The linoleum of the kitchen floor makes sticky sounds beneath your shuffling feet, squeaking once you hit the adjacent wall.

The force of that knocks your frozen arms into his chest, and painfully, Steve relents to step away, but not far. He bites his bottom lip and tastes the balm from yours, his head tilted in shame but fiery eyes watching you from beneath long lashes.

“Oh,” you breathe out. “Oh…you meant…”

Steve’s tongue darts out hungrily.

“Yeah.”

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

They're soooo cute!!!!!!

[writingescapades]

Gratitude

Aventurine x Bodyguard Reader

He found you digging through the trash. Months of tracking you down led to nothing, and he was on the verge of giving you up when his luck rang through once again. Deciding to not waste the moment, he approached you and smiled when he saw how quickly your muscles reflexed into a ready stance despite your shabby appearance and weakened state. Always out for yourself. As expected of a mercenary.

He offered you the position right there. Be his bodyguard, and in exchange, well all the money you could possibly imagine.

“And I’m sure your pursuers will back off once they know you’re under the IPC”.

It was to be a formal relationship. An exchange of services. He made the contract, and you signed it.

“At least read it once before you sign it. You don’t know what I will be asking from you,” Aventurine cautioned.

“I don’t need to read to know what I’m getting myself into,” you replied calmly.

Indeed you never questioned your role, and very quickly established yourself as Aventurine’s silent shadow. Rumours spread that his murky character was only your shadow. That his eyes bewitched while yours homed in on the attack. Everyone soon watched their tongue around the IPC manager, least they find it cut by your sword. Sometimes Aventurine wondered if he really knew what he was getting himself into. Other times, he intentionally pushed you to see what it would take to make you snap from your calm demeanour. Impossible missions ranging from late night escapades, rescue missions, even getting up at 2 am to get him a snack. You bore it all with no malice. Truly, you were dangerous.

You had no friends and made no attempt to create new friends. They were possible attempts on his life was the rational you provided. Even if you wanted friends, Aventurine mused, no one would dare approach someone they knew might harm them, not in this stratum of society where foes and friends of the IPC were treated alike. Stuck with him, he supposed he could offer you a modicum of friendship. If only to stave off the loneliness of two people. He found himself exchanging slights of hand tricks, and asking questions to which your answers had him honestly laughing. It was fun, Aventurine realized, to have this banter between you within the familiarity of your roles. You were taciturn, but woe betide the fool who assumed nothing more lay behind your professional face.

It started with a mission plan. Late a night, echoes of the casino music and laughter reached to his hidden chambers where the IPC manager stayed up planning a stealth attack. Struggling over how to extract himself from the danger, he almost forgot you were there until he saw your arm reach over and readjust the plan. A sudden change of view and Aventurine’s problems fell away. He looked up at you only to see a gleam in your eyes as you stared at the mission plan. You were in your element.

“Foolish of me to not see things that way,” he murmured.

“Late night thoughts are dangerous, sir”.

There were several more moments like these. Nights when he awoke to sounds and only found you cleaning up. You would turn towards him and ask him in a gentle voice to go back to bed. The blood was always gone by morning. Another when he arrived to see his dinner had been eaten by you. Perspiration appeared on your forehead, and you began to wheeze. Still you quietly begged forgiveness, claiming that your hunger was uncontrollable. It was your duty, yet Aventurine didn’t understand why your actions carried such a depth of emotions within them. Worse yet, Aventurine didn’t understand why he grew concerned over you. It was your responsibility. So why did he wait till he heard you stop cleaning before slipping back to bed? Why did he panic over your poisoned state, ushering you to induce vomiting without a care for his clothes.

The turning point occurred during a casino night. Caught up in the moment, Aventurine failed to notice a pair of cold eyes, staring hard not at him but at his hand, the one that always stayed near his person when he played. All of a sudden, he could feel your presence near him, gently leaning into him, hiding his hand away from the world. He stared at you, but you stared ahead, challenging the eyes that dared to cast a glance at that which you protected so fiercely. He didn’t know when you noticed his habit, but for some reason, didn’t find it all that alarming that the one person to find out his secret was you. He knew you would keep it safe.

You became his confidant soon after. A hundred secrets, but a thousand smiles. For the first time laughter tailed Aventurine’s shadow, and people stopped differentiating between you both. Rumours began to spread, rumours Aventurine neither confirmed nor denied. He knew the emotion that linked the two of you. Gratitude. He hated it. Relations formed on such a flimsy emotion are quickly manipulated and broken. Like misery, the emotion wafted through life. It’s why he never questioned the second mug you left for him, or the extra plate of food. It’s what he told himself when you took his exhausted body to bed, gently stroked his head, and didn’t flinch when he screamed out at night and clenched your hand, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent-shaped tears.

Too scared to ask for more, Aventurine sustained his life on temporality. He once gave you a gift. Nothing but a miniature coin attached to a pin, but you had yet to remove it from your appearance. He told himself, he just wanted to thank you. It was also why he insisted on helping you clean your wounds, slowly tracing over your marred skin, gently asking if you were still alright. If you were still alive. Still with him. Enjoy the moment. Don’t ask for more.

So why was it that this particular moment had him far more upset than the situation warranted? In the white noise of the casino where glamour trumps sensibility, a gentleman had the gall to approach Aventurine. Accustomed to the routine, Aventurine watched the man wager a high stake. Like bees to honey, eyes swarmed the two men as they ascended the ladder of fate. As usual, no one saw Aventurine’s hand shake or the exhale when the odds came into his favour once more. As expected, the distraught man slipped out insults at his opponents. Sighing, Aventurine slipped into his role of providing superficial comfort. What he did not expect was the silver glint. A sudden clash of metal, and the click of a gun.

You were in front of him, blocking Aventurine from having to see the poor excuse of a human being. The gentleman’s dagger was pathetic in comparison to your sword and the gun you jammed into his head.

“The game is over, sir. Take your losses and go home”.

“You work for a cheat! A Scoundrel!”

Aventurine pressed his glasses closer to his eyes and smiled. Really, the man had guts to continue to insult when death stood right in front of him.

You easily flicked away the dagger.

“Hold your tongue. Leave now”.

The gentleman’s eyes narrowed as he registered you and your role. His lips curled and he sneered, “And here comes the guard dog, protecting its master”.

Aventurine gripped his hand and felt the engraving on the coin within, press into his skin. His lips thinned but he remained silent.

“A master worth protecting”.

Now both men looked at you, clearly shocked by your statement. Then the gentleman scoffed and snatched his hat.

“You’ve got them trained well, Gambler. But you better yoke them before they land you in trouble”.

You watched the man until he left the room. Behind, you could hear Aventurine lazily count his winnings. Clatter. Clatter. Clatter. The sound of each coin bounced off the room. Aventurine was upset. You sighed.

“I don’t like you accepting such talk!” the man sputtered out. It always amused you when he did this, concern choking his suave side.

“The man was angry. Let him bark,” you grinned at him. “I’m the one who bites”.

Aventurine turned his head away from you, failing to hide his smile. The he reached his hand out to you. Taking the cue, you sat near him. He shook off his glasses and placed his head on your shoulder. When you made no move to remove his head, he let it sink down as you buried your hands into his hair.

“Am I really worth protecting?” A quiet whisper came out.

“Yes”.

“I’m not your master,” this time the voice was firmer.

You hesitated. “The contract,”

“Damn the contract! You’re—We’re—. You can leave anytime you want!”

Silence hung in the air as you both pressed closer.

“I didn’t mean that,” Aventurine murmured, hand reaching for yours.

You placed you head on top of his. “Late night thoughts are dangerous, dear”.

Aventurine closed his eyes, feeling the edges of sleep flow in. There would be no going back now, but Aventurine found himself ready to slip off into the unknown, because now you were there, guarding his back. Was it gratitude? Maybe. But maybe, just perhaps. It was the start of something stronger. Something better that would etch itself upon his soul, overriding all the other scars.

[henrycangelbaby]

In which: He feels foolish, admitting his fears out loud, for they seem so silly, but he wants to be honest with her, always.

or

Logan feels unfit to be a father.

He sleeps most nights, always on the left side of the bed (he used to sleep on the right until they started sharing a bed, and they quickly found out she had no hope of sleeping peacefully when on the wrong side for the night). He had given up the right side easily; if he had achieved anything else in all his years of life, adapting to change (new sleep conditions) now came easy to him.

She always sleeps on the right, her back curled into his chest; sometimes she even cuddles his arm close. It causes his shoulder to ache in the morning, but it feels like it’s worth it. Her happiness is always worth it.

He hasn’t been sleeping as much as he usually does. He’s not well rested or peaceful, and despite all his sleeping experience, he cannot seem to get a good night's rest. In recent months, it’s his thoughts that have been keeping him awake. His doubts and worries haunt all his thoughts day and night. He should speak to her about it; he knows if he brought it up, she would scold him for not bringing it up sooner. They were in this together, and he could always tell her anything.

Part of him feels guilty; she shouldn’t have to bear his burden; she’s already doing so much for him, growing their child and giving them the gift of a family. He might never be able to repay her for it. Part of him feels embarrassed. Why is he feeling so many stupid feelings? All this anger and self-pity is so stupid that it makes him, well, angry.

Sometimes it makes him sad, a kind of sadness that he can’t seem to shake off; it lingers deep in his chest, and sometimes only when she sleeps quietly next to him does he allow it to consume him. A few silent tears slip from his eyes as he splays his hand, covering the expanse of her stomach. His eyelashes feel wet.

She sleeps peacefully next to him, her eyelashes gentle against her cheekbones. He can feel the way her stomach rises and falls with her breath, his palm spread across the bump. Well, it isn’t just a bump; it’s her bump. His baby is in there, their baby. He’s not quite sure how to refer to “it” yet. Not to sound rude, but the whole “kid” thing had never really been on his radar.

Logan knows many things; he knows violence and death, fighting and killing, loneliness, and years and years of loneliness. He’s not actually been lonely; he's always been surrounded by people, but he never quite had the love and intimacy that Y/N has brought to his life. It was new when they first met; she was so young, sweet, and loving. The sun shone so brightly whenever they were together that he swore his tan got a shade or two darker after he saw her. They would bask together, sleeping peacefully in the yellow hue.

There is no hue right now; in fact, he feels like the sun may have retreated forever, leaving him in a gloomy darkness. And it’s all his fault. Y/N still loves him the same; nothing has changed, only his feelings.

He can feel the tears again; they burn his eyes, blurring his vision. His chest feels tight; it aches as it begins to beat faster. He feels different from before; never have his emotions felt so heightened before. He has to get out.

He throws the covers off his body so fast, not giving a second thought to where they land. He finds himself in the dining room, hazardously throwing on the big light. Before he can think about it and compose himself, they come out. His claws suddenly shoot through the wood of the dinner table.

"Fuck,” he curses, and it hurts like a bitch as well. Logan has had control over his claws for quite literally decades; he has grown to understand the pain of it, but so unexpectedly, this time it hurt. He can’t stop the tears in his eyes as he yanks the metal out of the wood, leaving the splintered wood behind.

“Lo?” Y/N's voice comes from behind him. Sweet and sleep-ridden, she walks quietly from the bottom of the stairs, tiptoeing towards him. “Why are you out of bed?”

Her eyes suddenly catch the busted wood he stands over, and caught at the scene of the crime, he feels a sense of shame wash over him. How had he let his emotions get the best of him like that? This was the whole fucking problem.

She spoke again: "Is everything okay, honey?"

Fuck, she shouldn't be worrying about this. He apologizes before he can think about it. "I'm sorry for waking you, baby; everything's fine; go back to bed."

She doesn't listen to him as he expected, stepping closer to him, eyes skimming over the damaged table before coming to stand right in front of him. He goes to flinch away when she reaches out for his hand. She soothes her other hand up and down his arm for a second. God, he feels so fucking dumb right now, acting like a feral street cat.

The soft petting worked, and she softly grabbed his hand without resistance, pulling it up to her lips to plant the softest of kisses on it. It's an act of affection that he only allows Y/N to do; he feels like a feral cat when other people try to touch his hands, almost hissing at the touch.

He had opened up to her about the pain, while it healed instantly, he often felt it linger there, a tenderness that could only be healed by kisses from his sweet girl. She always treated them like it was real pain, kissing his knuckles after a long day and ensuring he takes hand cream with him everywhere he goes (he would never usually use something like that, but she buys them the same one, and he quite likes the sugary scent that reminded him of her).

"You can tell me what's bothering you." It sounded less like an offer and more like a demand. She must have seen the hurt that flashed across his face at her words, "I would never judge you."

It seems uncanny that she always knows what he needs to hear; her reassurances mean the world to him. She guides him to sit down on one of the dining table chairs standing between his legs. He looks up at her, and she smiles back at him. She always looks so beautiful when she smiles.

"You'll always be safe here, with us."

Logan couldn't help it; the tears started leaking out of his eyes. "Us," he knew what she meant by that, their baby—the reminder of the burden he was about to become in the family that they had created together. His silent tears dribbled down the soft fabric of her t-shirt, creating a wet patch at the top of her rounded stomach. She let him cry, shushing him gently, as he imagined she might do in a few months with their baby.

There are so many things he wants to say, so many apologies he wants to utter out loud, but nothing comes out except more tears. "Tell me what's hurting you, honey; maybe I can help fix it."

He shakes his head. "You're already doing so much for me; for our family, I just can't."

"Can't what?"

He feels foolish, admitting his fears out loud, for they seem so silly, but he wants to be honest with her, always.

"I'm scared," it comes out barely as a whisper, his confession quiet, but he knew she heard it. She nodded wordlessly; it was enough to encourage him to keep going. "I'm scared to be a dad, scared that I'm a bad person, a violent and unfit person to raise a child, a man as horrible as me tainting such an innocent thing."

She holds him tighter, his head resting against the home of their baby.

"You are not a bad person." Her words are firm as she tilts his head upwards, forcing him to make eye contact with her. "Honey, you are the nicest person that I know."

He opens his mouth, but she shakes her head at him before continuing, "You are many things, Lo, so loving and so kind, and not once have I felt unsafe around you, yeah?"

He stopped crying, wiping his eyes, and apologizing. "I'm sorry, bub."

She shakes her head with a chuckle. "None of that; you are always valid for believing these things, but that doesn't make them true. You are the best husband, and I know that you will be the best daddy ever."

Before he can think about it, he pulls her down into a kiss and smiles into it. For the first time in months, he feels fine, like everything will work out just fine.

"Come on, let's go back to bed." She grabs his hand, leading him out of the room. He casts the splintered table a glance as he turns the light off.

"I'm sorry about the table, bub."

She just smiles at him. "That's okay; it was ugly anyway," is all she says before picking up the pace towards their bedroom.

Wait, he picked out that table.

"Hey!"

A/N: first fan fic i've ever published and finshed, pls be nice. Also i have the grammar + spelling skills of a dyslexic baby, i did put this through a checker but please just ignore it. also also feedback is always welcome idk if anyone will read this but i heart Hugh Jackman

[icarusallusion]

One of the main reasons I've been so fond of Otasune since I first knew it was a thing was because I think they're genuinely one of the purest forms of love in Metal Gear.

Throughout the series we see horrible relationships between horrible people trying to get by and then that relationship gets dragged through the awful scenarios they live with, be it war, internal struggles, infidelity etc. Despite this common place struggle with so many other characters, we see Otacon and Snake steadfast loyal and healthy throughout every struggle they go through.

They may not be an official couple, but they will always stay the most communicative relationship even outside of shipping. I see people joke about how Otacon kind of bosses Snake around (especially in MGS4), but I always saw it as refreshing. In the series, there is so many times where x character does something horrendous and y character just sits aside and silently sulks about it.

But this doesn't happen, like at all, with Dave and Hal. There are many times where Snake doesn't think about consequences to his actions as a general rule of soldier, however Hal has never been a soldier. So when these things happen, Otacon tells him off and it's something Snake genuinely needs to hear. It's something human, away from combat. Because Otacon is one of the very few characters that talks to Snake as a person, as a human, not as a soldier or fucked up clone baby.

Snake has gone his whole life scrapping the bottom of the barrel to stop feeling so lonely, he flirts with every woman he sees, he attaches himself very easily onto superiors, etc. Snake is a man who has spent his whole life trying to appeal to people, to get the praise he was never allowed as a child. Otacon gives him the comfort he never got. While any military superior can say Dave is the best of the best. None will look him in the face and tell him he has to live to just live.

Hal also opens a lot of doors to Snake's own discovery about himself. While this next point might sound a little cringy, stick with me. People may joke about the anime interest Snake and Otacon share, but it always came across so genuinely sweet to me. Snake's only interests up until he met Otacon have been, stop feeling lonely and war. I think even part of his musher life and interests within sledding can contribute to part of this. I mean come on, not even a regular musher keeps 50 dogs in their house and dogs are a natural remedy to loneliness. But in all seriousness, David refers to the huskies as his only family and I don't see him connecting with any other mushers he works with, it reads as him wanting to not be alone while also still being so lonely. As well as how mushing is considered a more normal interest than being an otaku, especially in the early 2000s. Mushing is a sport, and being an Otaku was pretty much unheard of or hated. Watching this guy who has been stuffed full of war propaganda scream a dorky "falcon punch" and "ninjutsu" with his best friend is so heartwarming in a way.

As well as Otacon's whole meme turned question of "do you think love can bloom on the battlefield?" Is something that I think Snake needed to be asked. It's probably been something he's been thinking about. It is also one of the most human things Snake asked throughout the game. About finding love in fear. Otacon constantly prods into Snake's heart and brings out the good in him.

Not only does Hal open up a space for Snake to have genuine unashamed interests and show true pure humanity. He also shows off their childhood. Both Hal and David never got proper childhoods. They connect that with each other through cheesy animes, talking about uncertainty in love, finding out what life is all about, navigating feelings, and through that damn cheesy handshake hug. It's all genuinely pure and wholesome love that connects what they didn't get to explore in childhood with one another. When Snake opened that piss covered locker and saved Otacon, he brought his own salvation into his life without knowing it. The very presence of Otacon saved Snake. It's why MGS4 felt so depressing for me especially, the strain between Snake and Otacon left a hole in my little heart and made Snake feel even more hopeless.

I also want to talk about how Snake benefited Otacon.

Otacon begins as cowardly and timid, he's an incredibly insecure character that struggles to connect with others, probably stemming from the issues in his younger life. When he meets Snake, he's faced with someone he could relate to that has an outward appearance that makes him seem so much more confident than he is. Snake is not this, he's as insecure as Otacon. Indirectly, Snake is the whole reason Otacon gets on his feet to take action against terrorism, takes action to become a better person. Snake shows Hal that he doesn't haven't to be strong to do the right thing. Throughout time, Snake helps Otacon come to terms with his own self worth and issues.

In MGS2, it has one of my favorite examples. The infamous bro hug scene.

Before it, this is when Otacon allows himself to open up about his childhood, not even just Infront of Snake, Infront of Raiden too. This showcased such a development in his character because he's proudly talking about it, while even through tears he doesn't hide it anymore.

Did you know that during that scene if you pan the camera to Snake, you can see that he is crying too?

When Hal has a breakdown over his sister's death, Snake is there to comfort him as well as tell him how it is in bluntness with a hand on his back that he needs to save people. It isn't cold or callous, it's letting Otacon know that he has something worth fighting for after a loss like that. Then when they face one another, they embrace each other and Snake tells Hal that he believes in him. Hal spent a lot of time as a scientist, hoping for someone to believe in him, while Snake puts all of his belief into Hal.

I can never forget the iconic "You're the only god I can pray to, Otacon" line. Snake has a deep loyalty, love, and belief in Otacon that Otacon has never been truly given before.

They both, in turn love each other till the end of their lives. Their love was one of the most heart wrenching and beautiful things in Metal Gear Solid and it's no surprise it captivated so many people. Their relationship, whether you ship them or just see them as a bromance. There is no denying the love they feel for one another as friends or lovers is one of the most iconic and sweetest bromances out theres They have impacted so much pop culture and I love them forever, as I'm sure many of you do who read all the way to the bottom.

[bi-writes]

bff!roommate!simon comes home from deployment. it is the first time that either of you feel the distance thousands of miles can bring.

more bff!roommate!simon (part 10/?)

word count: 3.4k

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, aNgSt, mean!simon, mentions of simon's canon trauma, military service criticism, pet names (luv, kitty), vague smut (18+) ⚠️🔞

large blocks of italicized text are flashbacks.

she hasn't called.

it was something that simon realized only a week in. normally, he spent his evenings sheltered in his room, his earbuds in, your voice on the other end. even if he didn't talk, you spoke. normally, you would tell him about your day; about the customer that gave you a hefty tip, the kids that left the tables a sticky mess, the meal you made that you think he would like. simon listened, and he would close his eyes and let the lull of your voice put him to sleep. sometimes, it was the next best thing to get him rest; it was impossible to know the comfort of you in your bed across from him when he was so far away.

more recently, those calls had become something else. you would still tell him the same stories, but sometimes your voice would drop a few degrees lower, and you would ask him if he was thinking about you--about all of you. and there simon would be, a pathetic, choking mess as he fucked himself to soft sound of your voice on the other end--so good, simon, miss you so much, need you, need you--can't wait for you to come home, n-need to feel you--

but it was quiet now. there was no one calling him, no one leaving him texts that he couldn't wait to read in the morning. his phone was silent; but the thoughts in his head were not.

the inevitable loneliness faded to anger after the weeks apart; his sergeants were quick to learn to stay out of his way. there was to be no conversation, no jokes, no playful banter before and after their ops. there was complete silence, because if they spoke about anything other then their direct objective, simon was an unleashed dog, and no one wanted to be on the spitting end of his berating.

he thought about you even when he wasn't supposed to. when he was supposed to be focused, when he was supposed to have his eyes on the target, sweeping the horizon--you were there, behind his eyes. remembering the look on your face before he had left.

the gloss of your eyes. the tears that collected at the edges. the drawing in of your knees to your chest, the tremble of your pouty lip. the stain that he was leaving on you--he didn't even have it in him to turn around and tell you that he was sorry.

he was sorry. the things you asked for weren't unreasonable--you wanted answers. you wanted him to tell you what this was, what this would be. it wasn't enough anymore to pretend this wasn't real. the reality was that there was no one else--and his eyes had yet to go anywhere else since the first moment he tasted your sweet cunt. he knew, deep down, that this possessiveness had started long before that--when you were just kids, holding onto each other for some kind of comfort away from what waited for you at home.

you cradled his head in your lap. a damp towel was in one hand, the other holding his trembling face to your chest. when you pulled the towel back, you flinched at the sight of blood.

"simon? y-you...y-you wanna talk about it?"

all he could was shake his head. you picked him up, sitting him back gently against the bench, and you used the towel to wipe at the blood drying under his nose. his eyes were red with the tears he wanted to cry, but he held them back, swallowing them down.

you leaned in, looking down as you rested your forehead against his.

"what was it this time? was it tommy?"

when he just shrugged, you reached down, smoothing your hand over his. his hands were smooth, soft--they had not seen the other side yet.

"n-no one's gonna be at my place," you whispered. "why don't you stay tonight?"

you ate instant noodles on the roof that evening, your head leaning on his shoulder as you both looked out into the dreary city. there were dark clouds overhead, and you knew it would rain tomorrow. fitting, and you hoped then that it might wash away the pain of yesterday.

it was the first night that simon was encased by silence. on his back beside you on your twin bed, staring up at the ceiling as he thought about how he might explain the bruises on his face when he went to his classes the next day--about what he might say this time.

when he turned his head, there you were. eyes closed, face pressed into your pillow as you breathed gently. real. alive. here. some kind of respite that he didn't think he deserved.

the papers he had taken were burning a hole in his desk at home--just waiting for his signature. it was time to take control. to take his life back. that was the only way that he could keep this, whatever it was--this was the only way that he could protect you. protect himself. protect tommy, his mother, his sanity.

the only thing he prayed for that night was that you would forgive him when he left you behind.

you had always been his. you belonged to him. and he could keep pushing you away, but it wouldn't erase the fact that he lived in your bones and you under his skin, and whatever this was meant forever.

and simon wouldn't fucking die--no matter how hard they tried--and he needed to fix this.

but he was angry. and half of him came from something else. something not real. something sour. something that bled dark, not red but black, poison. sometimes he could feel that half of him right under his tongue. he could taste it, the sour and rot that part of him was made of, and he could feel it multiplying under his skin like mold.

he would never be rid of this kind. he couldn't throw away half of himself without losing all of himself; and normally, simon could swallow this down, keep it underneath, but fuck, it's coming, going to be fuckin' sick, it's coming--

when he saw her, he just took her. glaring at her under a dark mask didn't deter her, and when she kept pushing, he let her. he let her follow him home, let her through the threshold of a space that had only ever belonged to someone else.

he let her in. he let her in. he let her in.

she didn't taste like you. she was too loud. her voice was too shrill, moans that made him flinch rather than relax. between her thighs, it wasn't the same--it wasn't warm like it was with you. she was wet, dripping actually, but she smelled like something else. foreign. poison.

her eyes were too wet, too harsh, a glare there that didn't belong. this was wrong, it felt wrong, but he was so angry, and he needed something to bite. maybe something to tear about, he wasn't exactly sure, but as soon as he had her here, under him, knees pressed to her chest as she let him fuck her senseless, he realized that it was painful.

there was a disconnect between what was real and what was not. it was so real with you, and now he just felt so far away from himself. he felt like someone else. and he thought, he really thought, that the other half of him was so fucking real that it would come easy.

to hurt. to inflict pain. to growl and claw and take and eat, shouldn't this be easy? pain was in his genes, it was a part of him. trauma ran in his blood and into his veins, and when his heart pumped, it trickled into every soft place that lived and breathed inside of him.

isn't it? isn't this a part of me? why does it hurt? why doesn't it feel good? why is it worse, why does this hurt, why can't i breathe--

the front door shut behind you. you let out a shaky sigh, shrugging off your jacket and putting your bag down. you tossed everything onto the kitchen table, and just as you went to put your shoes away by the door, you noticed something out of place.

simon's boots were haphazardly tossed beside the shoe bench, laces hurriedly untied, one boot fallen onto its side. strange, and it stood out to you because simon wasn't someone who didn't put things away where they should be. he was adamant about this practice. but the strangest thing was the pair of shoes thrown beside them--heeled suede boots, with a pointed toe.

but they didn't belong to you.

you froze, your lips parting when you heard the shuffle of noise behind a closed door. you stepped backwards in the foyer, your back hitting the wall, and you put your hand over your stomach, suddenly feeling like heaving.

simon had come home; and there was someone else here with him.

your entire body suddenly felt hot, on fire. you looked towards the window, the one that faced the street, and when your vision went blurry, you realized there were tears coming down your face. the heat must've been your falling heart--it was dropping, fast, sliding down your chest and into your stomach, and it was like the acid there was crawling right back up your throat. you couldn't see anymore, warm tears wetting your cheeks and gathering in your mouth and staining your jaw and your neck.

simon had come home--and there was someone else here with him.

it had felt so real. hadn't it been real? wasn't this real? wasn't he real? weren't you real? this was real--it was fucking real.

right?

you hurried. you went right for your bedroom, shoving the door open, and you frantically went for your closet, pushing it open and scrambling for one of your bags. you tossed items off the shelves, blind through your tears, and as you grabbed one that hid behind a box of your memories, the lid popped off of it, its contents spilling onto the floor. you stepped over polaroid pictures, over moments captured in time, and you couldn't focus on them because you were blind--the tears just wouldn't stop, they won't stop, please stop.

you tossed the bag onto the bed, ripping the zipper open, and you flung the drawers open, just scooping handfuls of your clothes into the bag. whatever would fit--anything you could pick up until the bag was full, until you could barely force the zipper closed and swing the bag over your shoulder. you looked around the room frantically, looking for any essentials you might need, and you froze when you heard voices outside your door, the padding of more than one pair of feet. simon's footsteps were easy to point out, but then there was a lighter pair, a voice a little high-pitched wafting after his own.

suddenly, the idea of running away, of crying--it felt so stupid. he wasn't your boyfriend. he wasn't your lover, not your significant other, there was nothing that tied you together. the string you always thought that connected you wasn't that at all; simon had you on a leash, and you just hadn't realized he just let go.

he leaves me behind. he always leaves me behind.

there was nothing in those dark eyes that belonged to you. there was nothing here in this apartment that told you otherwise. separate rooms, separate things--you were just two people that lived in the same place, so what if he eats my cunt and puts his fingers inside of me and calls me a good girl? he's not mine, not mine, he doesn't belong to me.

and the only thing worse than the truth of it was that you belonged to him. and he had ruined you for anyone else.

the door swung open. you stopped moving, your hands shaking as you turned towards the sound of it. you knew how it looked--the bag over your shoulder, a few cherished knickknacks cradled in the other arm. the red in your eyes, the tears on your face--the rawness of your sadness so exposed and so there, right in his face, right where he could see you.

he was dressed down, sweats pulled on haphazard, a wrinkled shirt pulled on so hastily that he hadn't realized it was inside-out. and that fucking mask, crooked and damp on his sweaty face. he was gripping your doorknob tight in one fist, his knuckles white from how hard he held it.

"oi," he looked around your room. disheveled, messier than usual. ransacked drawers from your frantic packing, items knocked over as you searched for your precious possessions. "wot's this?"

you swallowed.

"i'm...i'm going on...on a trip. i..." you tried to laugh through your tears, "i thought i told you. i-i must've forgot."

"'cause i just got home," he muttered, stepping into your room. you stepped back at that. simon had been in your room before, of course he had. but something wasn't the same. something was different, and now instead of feeling like every corner of your apartment was safe, it felt like he was invading this place. he was too big, the room was too small, the distance between you was too short. you were suffocating. you couldn't breathe. and when he reached over and snatched the bag off your shoulder, you flinched.

when simon met his own eyes in the mirror, he nearly choked. he didn't recognize himself. the eyes that stared back at him didn't belong to him. not simon, not ghost, not the someone he pretended to be--no. no, no, no--that isn't me--i'm not like him--not him, not him, not him, anything but him.

he dropped your bag, holding out his hand suddenly. he was careful, slow, as if he might startle you, and you stepped back again, shaking your head.

"kitty--"

"don't!" you cried, and the yell of your own voice startled you, so much that you put a shaking hand over your mouth. you looked away from him. "d-don't call me that."

and just like that, he felt it. the spool of thread, cut. the line connecting you--severed. the apartment you had made a home, the sacred door that you hadn't opened to anyone, fuck, it was gone so quick. the years of trust, the undeniable bond, just gone, it was gone, how the fuck was that possible?

had it really been that easy? had this thing between you that had been so real been so fucking delicate?

your hands were shaking. trembling, and it was hard to read the papers that you held, and it was even harder to read them when the tears you shed was making the ink bleed.

your bedroom door creaked, and you looked up. simon ran an uneasy hand through his hair when he realized what you were holding. his signature so clear at the bottom, and all he had to do was walk back into the recruiting office. he didn't want to take anything with him--he didn't have any possessions, nothing he needed to pack away.

nothing he needed to pack away. nothing he needed to pack away. nothing he needed to pack away, nothing, nothing, nothing.

"when were you going to tell me?" you asked, but it was more of a strained whisper. you let the papers slip back into their place, and when you met his eyes, he was sympathetic, but you knew that look. you weren't going to change his mind about this. it was all made up.

"i...i-i hadn't thought about it. i...no, i just...i don't know."

he swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. he was uncomfortable, but he came closer, settling onto the ground beside you, sitting just next to you.

"when...when are you leaving?"

a beat. and then, "in a few days."

you looked down at your hands, and as you watched them continue to shake, simon reached over, putting his own hand over them and clasping them together, stilling you. just like that, so easy--how much power did he hold over you?

"b-but...but why?"

"need to do this. not just for me," he murmured. "not just for tommy. not just...for mum. you. have you seen the fuckin' news? haven't you seen what's going on?"

and what about what went on behind your closed doors? his own? simon gets to decide to be hero when the real war is right here, right under his fucking nose?

selfish. he's so selfish. i hate him. i hate him. i hate him.

"so...what?" you breathed. "those...those towers get hit, so that means i-i have to lose something, too?"

he turned to face you, frowning. "don't say that. that isn't...that's not what this is. i need to do something. i can't...i can't just keep watching this happen. it's not right." he squeezed your hand. "i can do something about this. i can help."

you had no idea simon had suddenly become some kind of martyr. that he suddenly felt some kind of obligation to saving the world.

he was your world. weren't you his?

"'m gonna come back," he said softly, but it didn't feel like a promise.

it just felt like goodbye.

he was calling your name, but you pretended not to hear. her boots were gone, but the trace of something unfamiliar still lingered in the air. you grabbed your purse, the keys jingling, and just as you were going to move again, reality hit him.

i'm going to lose her. i'm going to lose her if i don't say something.

"would y'just let me fuckin' say something?!"

the sharpness of his voice stopped you, and you turned to face him, your bottom lip trembling.

"what do you want from me, simon?" you breathed. "what the fuck do you want from me? i-i...i didn't ask for this."

"luv--" he came closer, and you sobbed when he gripped both sides of your head. his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you tight, firm.

solid. grounding.

"it's okay," you shook your head. you smiled through your tears, blinking through them, meeting his eyes. "simon, it's okay...it's...it's my fault..."

"..wot?"

"i wanted more," you whispered. the tears were wetting his hands, and as much as he tried to wipe them away, more kept falling. "i wanted more, and i..." you laughed a little, but there was no humor in it. just sadness, echoing and hollow, just how you felt inside. you lifted a shoulder in a defeated shrug. "it's never been that way."

simon shook his head. "no. kitty, 's not true--"

"you've never fought for this before, simon, don't start begging now," you gasped. "just don't. you leave me behind. that's my fucking fate with you, getting left behind, and i keep thinking you'll change, but you won't--"

"that's not--!"

"you won't change, simon!" you cried, choking on it, and you were so sad, and for something that supposedly wasn't real, it felt like a gaping wound, something splitting apart his skin and crawling from the inside-out. "you...you won't change...but it's okay...s-simon, it's okay..." you tried to smile again. "i've always known. i-i think i've just...i've always known..."

the glass around him shattered when you spoke again.

"i-i've always...i-i...i think i've always been yours," your voice was so soft. it was the pain of accepting a truth you never wanted. "a-and...and you've never been mine."

it wasn't true. that wasn't true. you had no idea what kind of things you held over him. you had no idea the power you had, the kind of things that your touch made him feel. you had no idea how tightly he was bound--he had no room to breathe.

if this wasn't love, if this wasn't the kind of pain that love brought, then what the fuck is this? isn't this real? aren't we real?

but half of simon was poison. and when you left, it was quiet. there was no one to hear him scream. there was no one to take the glass out of his mouth, the shards of them that he swallowed, to watch the black of his blood choke him.

when he looked in the mirror again, he recognized those eyes. he had been too afraid to see them for what they were before, but now he knew who those eyes belonged to, and he thought it would be easier to cut them out than look at his reflection again.

a dream, a nightmare, not reality.

left behind.

always yours. and never mine.