tags⠀𖥔 ࣪˖ angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship, smut, 5k word count, mdni 18+
synopsis 𖥔 ࣪˖ loving him was painful, but you wouldn’t give it up for anything and neither would he.
The snow fell quietly beyond the apartment window, soft flakes dissolving against the glass. Outside, the world looked frozen and distant, but inside the small living room there was a strange kind of stillness it was almost comforting, if it hadn’t felt so hollow.
You wore Mark’s dark navy oversized sweater, the sleeves swallowing your hands. It smelled faintly like him, detergent, wind, and something warm that used to make you feel safe. Tonight it only made the ache in your chest feel heavier.
Your arms wrapped around your waist as you leaned against the kitchen counter. The ticking clock on the wall filled the silence, each second stretching longer than the last. The apartment creaked softly, floorboards shifting like they were remembering footsteps that weren’t there.
It has been so quiet lately, too quiet.
The doorknob jerked suddenly and your head lifted.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and swirling snowflakes and then he stepped inside.
Mark.
His inky black hair was messy from the wind, tiny flecks of melting snow clinging to the dark strands. His black and blue suit looked worn, faint scratches and soot marking the fabric. He shut the door behind him, locking it out of habit, then dropped his keys onto the small table by the entrance.
For a moment, he didn’t notice you.
His shoulders sagged like the weight of the entire world was pressing down on them. His gaze was distant, lost somewhere far away.
Then he looked up.
His chocolate eyes found you.
They were tired. Not just physically tired but the kind of exhaustion that settled deep in the bones.
He was here.
But somehow he still felt miles away.
Neither of you wanted to say it out loud.
The truth sitting between you was like something fragile and dangerous.
That, whatever you and Mark had, wasn’t working.
Not the way it used to.
Mark had been busier than ever. Missions, emergencies, disasters-there was always something pulling him away before you could call his name. Nights passed where you were already asleep by the time he came home, bruised and aching. Mornings came where his side of the bed was still cold, and empty.
You couldn’t even remember the last full day you’d spent together.
Three months ago, maybe.
He’d taken you to a small Italian restaurant. You remembered the candlelight, the quiet music, the way you tried to pretend things were normal.
But even then his earpiece had stayed in.
You remembered the moment it buzzed.
The apology in his eyes, as he looked down at the table.
The way he stood up mid-meal, already pulling on his suit under his blouse.
A quick kiss on your forehead.
“I’ll make it up to you,” is all he said tenderly.
The food had ended up in takeout containers, and you were flown home.
The date hadn’t even lasted an hour.
And nothing had really been the same since.
You never blamed him.
How could you?
He was saving people. Protecting the world. Being Invincible wasn’t just a job-it was part of who he was.
You had accepted that.
But acceptance didn’t make loneliness easier.
You were tired of waking up in a cold bed.
Tired of eating breakfast alone.
Tired of texting someone you loved more than anything and feeling like you were talking to a ghost.
Your friends asked how your boyfriend was doing.
Half the time, you didn’t even know the answer.
Sometimes you buried your face into his pillow just to smell him again.
Sometimes you cried there too, your body curling into yourself sobbing horribly in pain.
You just wanted him here.
Really here.
Holding you.
You just… missed him.
Mark looked at you for a long moment before finally speaking.
“Hey.”
His voice was quiet.
Almost careful.
“Hey,” you echoed softly.
You stepped closer, brushing soot from the shoulder of his suit without thinking. The gesture was familiar, automatic. Your fingers lingered for half a second longer than they should have.
“You’re usually asleep by now,” Mark said, watching you softly.
You nodded slightly.
“I couldn’t really sleep.”
You tried to smile.
For a moment it worked.
Then it slowly faded.
Silence settled again.
Mark shifted his weight, like he wasn’t sure where to stand. Like the apartment suddenly felt unfamiliar.
“You should’ve texted me,” he said. “I could’ve y’know come back earlier.”
The words hung in the air.
Both of you knew they weren’t exactly true.
You exhaled softly. “Mark… you-" You cut yourself off with a tired sigh, pressing your fingers to the bridge of your forehead, as you continued speaking. "You have a lot going on, you were probably saving someone… or trying to stop a kaiju from wrecking town-”
He ran a hand through his black hair, frustrated. “That doesn’t mean I can’t-”
“But it does.”
The words slipped out before you meant them to.
Mark froze.
Your heart immediately sank.
“I didn’t mean it like-”
“No,” he said quietly. “You did.”
The room felt colder.
Snow tapped softly against the window.
You crossed your arms around yourself, fingers gripping the sleeves of his sweater. “I just mean… you always have something to do. There’s always another emergency-”
His jaw tightened. “So what, you think I choose that?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You looked down at the floor.
“You’re just never here anymore,” you whispered.
The words were barely audible.
But Mark heard them.
Of course he did.
“You know I’m trying,” he said, voice rough.
“I know you are.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know, Mark.”
That almost made it worse.
He stepped closer, boots heavy against the floorboards. “Then why does it feel like you’re already giving up on me?”
Your chest tightened immensely.
“I’m not giving up on you,” your voice cracked, looking up at him finally.
Your eyes were glossy now, your lips trembled.
“I’m just… really, really tired of missing you when you’re standing right in front of me, or-”
The words hit him like a punch.
Mark stared at you, something breaking open behind his eyes.
You hadn’t meant to cry.
But the tears came anyway.
“Do you know what it feels like?” you continued quietly. “To wake up every morning and reach for you and you’re not there? To hear the door open at two in the morning and pretend to stay asleep because if I look at you I’ll start crying?”
Mark’s hands clenched at his sides.
“You think I don’t miss you?” he said, voice suddenly tight.
“Can you blame me?” you whispered. “I barely see you, and get an ounce of your time-”
He took another step toward you.
Now he was close enough that you could see every bruise on his face. Every tiny cut along his. The snow fell quietly beyond the apartment window, soft flakes dissolving against the glass. Outside, the world looked frozen and silent, but inside, the air was thick with everything left unsaid.
“I fucking miss you every second,” he said.
His voice faltered, cracking at the edges. When his eyes met yours, they looked broken-dark brown, glossy with unshed tears, a storm gathering behind them.
“You think I like leaving you here alone?”
You didn’t answer.
Because you didn’t know.
Mark reached for you then, hesitating for just a second before his hands found your arms.
Warm.
Familiar.
Your breath caught.
“And you’re wearing my sweater,” he murmured, a tired, lopsided smile forming on his lips.
You laughed weakly through the tears. “It’s the only thing that still smells like you.”
Something in his expression shattered.
Before you could react, Mark pulled you against him.
The hug was tight.
Desperate.
Like he was afraid you might disappear.
Your hands gripped the front of his suit, burying your face against his chest. His heart was beating fast beneath the fabric.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
The tension between you still existed but it had softened into something fragile.
Mark pressed his forehead against the top of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit.
“I know.”
Another pause.
Then he tilted your chin up gently.
Your faces were close now.
Too close.
He leaned forward, his lips brushing near your eye, softly kissing your tears away.
“I hate that I’m hurting you,” he murmured.
Your voice came out small, as your hand moved to splay on his chest.
“You’re not the only one hurting.”
Something dark and conflicted flickered across his face.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted.
You swallowed.
“Maybe you just can’t.”
The words lingered between you.
But neither of you pulled away.
Mark’s hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as his forehead rested against yours.
Your breaths mixed in the small space between your mouths.
The tension shifted, heavy and painful but threaded now with something warmer. Something dangerous.
“I missed you,” he said softly.
Your fingers tightened in his suit.
“I know,” you whispered.
But neither of you moved to let go because even if everything between you was breaking. This still felt like home and for a long moment, neither of you moved.
The apartment was quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock and the distant whisper of snow against the windows. Mark’s forehead still rested against yours, his hand warm at the back of your neck, fingers tangled slightly in the fabric of the sweater you wore.
Your breaths mingled in the small space between you and you could feel the tension in him, how tightly wound he was, like if he let go even a little, something inside him might unravel, your eyes searched his face, every bruise every, tired line.
Every part of him that looked like the world had taken more than it should.
Your voice came out soft, almost fragile.
“I don’t-” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “…I don’t know if we can do this.”
Mark went completely still and not the stillness of calm.
The stillness of someone who had just been hit by something they didn’t see coming, his hand tightened slightly at the back of your neck and your chest tightened immediately.
“I mean-” you tried to correct yourself, voice shaking, “not because I don’t love you. I do. I just-Mark, this hurts. All the time. And I don’t know if loving each other is enough if we’re always-”
His fingers curled against your skin.
“Don’t,” he whispered, the word was quiet but it carried a weight that made your heart stutter.
You looked up at him. Mark’s eyes were blown wide now, something raw behind them. Something desperate. “I don’t want to hear you say that,” he murmured.
Your throat tightened. “But it’s true.”
“No.” His voice cracked slightly, as his forehead pressed more firmly against yours, like he needed the contact, he needed to feel your skin, any of your warmth.
“I don’t want to let you go.” The confession slipped out of him like something he had been holding back for months, since when did he ever say that? It hurts that he probably failed to reassure you too, what have you been thinking this whole time?
Your breath caught.
His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw instead, his thumb brushing faintly along your cheek.
“I love you so much,” he said quietly.
Not rushed.
Not defensive.
Just honest.
“So much.”
Your vision blurred slightly, of course you knew that and you had always known, that was the worst part.
Your voice trembled as you spoke.
“I know.”
Your face pained him the most, you looked so sad and small, like you thought you took up too much space, and your face was tear streaked. His expression shifted immediately-something soft and pained crossing his face.
“I hate that you cry because of me,” he whispered.
Your lips parted slightly.
“You’re the reason I don’t fall apart,” you admitted quietly. “And somehow you’re also the reason I do.”
Something in Mark broke at that, his hand slid fully around the back of your neck again, pulling you closer without thinking. you were so close now your noses brushed.
Your breath hitched and his gaze dropped to your lips.
Then back to your eyes.
Like he was asking a question neither of you had the courage to say out loud, your fingers slowly curled into the front of his suit again, the fabric was warm from his body.
“Mark…” you whispered.
But the word barely left your mouth because suddenly he kissed you.
It wasn’t careful nor respectful.
It was desperate, like he had been holding himself back this entire time, for weeks and finally couldn’t anymore.
Your back hit the counter softly when he pulled you closer, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you might slip away, your breath caught against his mouth. the kiss was deep, aching, almost overwhelming and you kissed him back immediately.
Of course you did, your hands slid up his chest, gripping the collar of his suit as if grounding yourself.
Mark made a quiet sound against your lips-something between relief and longing.
His mouth softened slightly then, slower now, but no less intense.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
Your lips.
Your breath.
The way you leaned into him without hesitation.
One of his hands slid up your back, fingers spreading across the sweater like he needed to feel you there.
Real.
Still with him.
Your fingers slipped into his hair, brushing away the last melting snowflakes tangled in the strands.
Mark exhaled softly into the kiss.
The tension between you, the arguments, the loneliness, the months of distance poured into it, all of it.
Every unspoken apology, every missed night, and all the moments you wished he had been there.
Your lips parted slightly when you needed air, but Mark followed immediately, pressing another kiss to you before either of you could think too hard about it.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
Your heart was pounding.
His forehead pressed briefly against yours again as both of you caught your breath.
His hands were still on your waist.
Holding you like he never wanted to let go.
Your noses brushed.
Your lips hovered just barely apart.
“I can’t walk away from you, from this,” Mark murmured softly.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
“You’re the one who keeps leaving,” you whispered back.
The words weren’t angry.
Just sad.
Mark’s eyes closed for a moment.
Then he kissed you again, his tongue making its way into your mouthing like he owns that place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his lips still hovering against yours, his breath warm and ragged.
The words hung there, soft and heavy, a confession that seemed to fill the entire quiet apartment. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to, and maybe you both shouldn’t be doing this, but desire overcame reason.
Your hands gripped the front of his suit, pulling him closer, your mouth opening under his again, your eyelashes fluttering softly as you felt his lips against yours.
The kiss deepened instantly, losing all hesitation. It was hungry, desperate, a physical answer to months of lonely nights and empty mornings.
His hands slid from your waist to your hips trailing to your ass, squeezing the flesh tenderly, He lifted you easily, your back no longer against the counter, your feet leaving the floor. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, your arms locking around his neck. He carried you like you weighed nothing.
He walked to the nearby wall, pressing you against it, his body pinning you there, his mouth never leaving yours.
The kiss broke only when he needed to breathe. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes blazing into yours. “I’m not leaving tonight,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not this time.” Will that promise mean anything, you didn’t know anymore, you were just lost in his touch and all you needed was more.
You nodded, breathless, your fingers tangling in his inky hair.
“Okay.”
He leaned forward to kiss you again, but this time his lips trailed from your mouth down your jaw, to your neck. His teeth grazed your skin softly, not biting, but tasting, claiming. You gasped, your head tilting back against the wall, giving him more access. It felt so good.
His mouth was hot, his tongue tracing a path along your collarbone. His hands moved under the oversized sweater you wore, his sweater and founded your bare skin. His touch was addicting.
His calloused palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.
“It looks good on you,” he murmured against your neck, his voice thick with emotion. “My sweater.”
“I look good on you” you repeated, looking up at him, your voice trembling.
He made a sound a low, pained groan and then his mouth found yours again, kissing you with a ferocity that stole your breath. His hands pushed the dark navy sweater up, over your breasts, and you felt the cool air of the apartment against your heated skin. He didn’t remove it, just pulled it up enough to expose you, his gaze dropping to look at you, his dark brown eyes darkening with a mix of reverence and raw need.
One hand cupped your breast, his thumb circling your nipple slowly, making it tighten instantly. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips, your brows furrow in ecstasy. He watched your face, every reaction, as if he were memorizing it. Then he leaned down, his mouth leaving yours to kiss the peak of your breast, his lips closing over your nipple.
The sensation was immediate, intense. Heat pooled low in your belly, your legs tightening around his waist. He sucked gently, then more firmly, his tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh. You cried out, your hands clutching his hair.
He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, his mouth wet and hot, his teeth giving gentle, teasing nips that made you shudder.
“Mark,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up, his lips glistening, his eyes locked on yours, Mark looked at you, desperate and flushed, his chest rising and falling a little too fast,
“Tell me you want this,” he croaked, his voice sounded rough softened by the vulnerability in his eyes. “Tell me you want me.”
You shouldn’t want him, because it hurts, because holding on felt like it was scalding you and you were burning, but you can’t say that, because how he’s looking at you right now, like your oxygen and he can’t live without you.
You couldn’t.
“I want you,” you said immediately, your voice breaking. “I always want you. I’ve missed you so much.”
Because countless nights when you were alone in your forsaken shared bed, you wish he was here, touching you, kissing you, doing things to you.
That was all he needed. His hands moved to your hips again, holding you steady against the wall as he began to kiss his way down your stomach. His lips traced a path over your belly, his tongue dipping into your belly button, giving a soft wet kiss, his teeth scraping lightly. You were trembling, your whole body alive with sensation, every nerve ending screaming for more of him.
He lowered you gently, your feet touching the floor again, but he kept you pinned to the wall, his body crowding you, one hand splayed against your abdomen to hold you still. The other hand went to the waistband of your leggings. He hooked his fingers into the fabric and pulled, slowly, dragging them down your hips, over your thighs, until they pooled at your ankles. You stepped out of them, kicking them aside.
He knelt before you, on his knees, like a man on a mission.
Your breath caught in your throat. He looked up at you, his face flushed and his eyes full of unbearable hunger, intense. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the sweater up further until it was bunched around your waist. You were completely exposed to him now, and the air felt cool against your damp skin. His thumbs brushed along the inside of your thighs, spreading them gently, his gaze fixed on the heart of you.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Your so fuckin’ beautiful.”
Then he leaned forward, his mouth finding the soft skin of your inner thigh. He kissed there, his lips warm, then his tongue traced a slow, wet line upward. You whimpered, your hands flattening against the wall behind you for support. He didn’t rush. He kissed and licked his way up one thigh, then shifted to the other, his mouth worshiping every inch, building an ache so deep your legs were trembling, and then his mouth found your center.
His lips pressed against you, soft at first, a gentle kiss that made your whole body jolt. Then his tongue slid out, tasting you, a long, slow stroke that curled your toes. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your flesh, and you cried out, your hips bucking involuntarily.
He held you steady with one strong hand on your hip, his other hand trailing all over your stomach coming up to cup your breast again, thumb rolling your nipple. His mouth worked you open, his tongue delving deep, then flicking over the sensitive peak of your pleasure. He knew your body, remembered every rhythm that made you shake, He licked and sucked, his pace building from slow exploration to focused, driving intensity.
You were panting softly, your head rolling back against the wall, your eyes closed. Pleasure coiled tight inside you, hot and urgent. His tongue circled your clit, then pressed flat against it, a firm, relentless pressure that made you sob. Your hands found his hair again, gripping, pulling, urging him on.
“Please,” you whimpered, the word torn from you.
He didn’t stop. His tongue pushed into you, deeper, his lips sealing around you, sucking gently as he worked you with his tongue. The dual sensation, the penetration, the suction was overwhelming. Your thighs trembled, your knees threatening to give out, but he always had you, always, he would never let you fall.
He held you up, his hand on your hip firm and unwavering.
The orgasm built swiftly, a tidal wave rising from the depths he was stirring. You felt it cresting, your body tightening, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He sensed it, his motions becoming more urgent, his tongue flicking rapidly, his mouth sucking harder, as if he was trying to reach through to the deepest depths of you.
Then it broke.
A white-hot burst of pleasure exploded through you, radiating from your core out to your fingertips, your toes, the crown of your head. You cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound, your body convulsing against his mouth. He stayed with you, his tongue gentling, lapping at you as you trembled and shook, drinking every drop of your release until you were sagging against the wall, boneless and spent.
He rose slowly, his lips wet, his eyes dark with satisfaction and a deeper, hungrier need. He kissed your stomach, then your breasts, then finally your mouth, letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was deep and claiming, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you again.
He carried you this time to the couch, and laid you down on the soft cushions, your sweater still tangled around your waist, your body glowing with the aftermath. He stood over you, looking down at you, splayed on the couch, your eyes slightly blurry with tears, and your body was marked from his touch and affections, his expression broke you, he stared at you reverently.
“I need you,” he said, his voice rough. “All of you. Now.”
You nodded, your voice gone, your body still pulsing with soft aftershocks. He undressed quickly, his suit jacket discarded, pulled off over his head. His body was a map of his life muscled, powerful, but marked with bruises and small scars, the evidence of the world he fought for. He was beautiful, and your heart ached just looking at him.
He knelt on the couch between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs again. He leaned down, kissing you deeply once more, his body aligning with yours. You felt him, hard and urgent, pressing against your stomach. You reached for him, your hand wrapping around him, feeling the heat, the weight, the desperate need. He groaned into your mouth, his hips shifting.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered against your lips. “Making love to you, touching you like this.”
His hand was palming his cock, lining up near your slick entrance, your soft hand gently closed over his calloused fingers, guided him to you, your hand trembling. He didn’t enter you immediately. He pressed against your entrance, the head of his cock nudging into your wet, sensitive flesh, and paused, his eyes locked on yours.
“Look at me,” he murmured softly.
You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, seeing the storm of emotion there was love, guilt, longing, possession.
Then he pushed forward, slowly, inch by inch, filling you with a deliberate, aching stretch. You moaned, your body arching, your inner muscles clutching around him immediately. He was big, and the sensation of being filled after so long, so completely, was almost unbearable in its intensity. Pleasure and a sharp, sweet pain mixed, making you cry out.
He watched your face, his own expression taut with restraint. When he was fully seated, buried deep inside you, he stopped, his hips flush against yours, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Tell me,” he breathed, his voice ragged.
“Tell me you feel me.”
“I feel you,” you moaned, the pleasure so immense your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your hands clawing at his shoulders. “It feels so- fuck-.”
He smiled, a tired, broken, beautiful smile. Then he began to move.
His first thrust was slow, a deep, dragging withdrawal followed by an even deeper return. You whimpered, your nails digging into his skin. He set a rhythm immediately, not fast, not frantic, but profound. Each stroke was long and full, his cock sliding out almost completely before plunging back in, filling your pussy to the hilt each time. The couch creaked softly beneath you, the sound mixing with your ragged breaths and his low groans.
His hands moved to your breasts, kneading them, his thumbs brushing your nipples with every thrust. His mouth found your neck again, kissing, biting gently, his tongue tracing the pulse point there. You were lost in sensation, every nerve alive, every thought burned away by the physical reality of him-his weight, his heat, his smell, the sound of his breath in your ear.
"Fuck I love you.” he repeated against your skin, his voice possessive, desperate. “I loveyouIloveyouIloveyou-" He whispered it like a prayer, the words stumbling over shallow breaths.
“Yes,” you choked out, your hips rising to meet his, driving him deeper. “I love you”
His pace increased, the slow, deep strokes becoming harder, more urgent. The friction built, a delicious, burning heat that coiled tighter and tighter inside you. His swollen balls smacked rhythmically against your slick, dripping pussy.
You were already sensitive from your first climax, and this new onslaught was pushing you toward another peak swiftly, wet sounds echoed in the living room of him making love to you.
He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and the next thrust hit a spot deep inside that made you cry out, your body jerking. He did it again, aiming for that same place, each impact sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
“There baby?” he asked, his voice rough with effort.
“Yesyesyes-,” you cried, tears leaking from your eyes again, this time from overwhelm, from the sheer physical intensity of him being joined with you, making love to you, loving you.
He focused on that spot, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more precise. Your body tightened around him, your inner muscles spasming, clutching him tightly.
You were panting, your cries becoming continuous, a stream of sound that you couldn’t control.
He watched you unravel, his eyes filled with awe and hunger. One hand left your breast and slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed there, in time with his thrusts, a firm, circular pressure that tipped you over the edge instantly.
His name left your lips brokenly, as the second orgasm tore through you, sharper than the first, a lightning bolt of pure, undiluted pleasure. You convulsed beneath him, your back arching off the couch, your hands gripping his arms so hard you might leave marks. He kept moving, driving into you through your climax, his own control fraying.
He groaned, a deep, ragged sound, and his thrusts became erratic, losing rhythm. He was chasing his own release now, his body pounding into you with a final, desperate urgency. You felt him swell inside you, his cock hardening further, his hips pistoning against yours.
Then he came.
His body locked, his thrusts stopping as he buried himself as deep as possible, his muscles trembling violently. Seeps of warm thick ropes of his cum joining yours, and he cried out, a raw, broken sound that was half pleasure, half pain. He collapsed against you, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath heaving.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. He was still inside you, his body weight pressing you into the couch cushions, his skin slick with sweat. Your arms wrapped around him, holding him close, your fingers stroking through his hair. The apartment was silent except for your combined breathing, the soft tick of the clock, the whisper of snow outside.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes were soft now, the storm momentarily passed. He kissed your shoulder, then your collarbone, then your mouth, gently, almost chastely.
“I love you,” he whispered again, his lips against yours.
“I love you.” you repeated it back to him like a hopeless prayer, as you buried yourself surrendering to his touch.
He shifted, pulling out of you slowly, both of you shuddering at the sensation. He lay down beside you on the couch, pulling you into his arms, your body fitting against his side. He tugged the discarded sweater back down to cover you, his hand smoothing over the fabric.
You lay there, in the quiet, his heartbeat steady against your back, his arms locked around you. The tension from earlier was still slightly there, but replaced by a deep, exhausted peace. The loneliness of the past months was still lingering, but it faded as soon the solid reality of his body against yours, his scent filling your lungs, his warmth enveloping you.
He kissed your temple. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured. You nodded against him, you could think about it tomorrow, still have this conversation with him, making whatever you two had work.
But it didn’t matter right now, because all you needed was him, and you didn’t want him to leave, you would rather surrender to the flames as it engulfed you in ruins, if that was loving him, then you’d still stay, even when you should leave, and even when he should too.
You didn’t answer. You just turned in his arms, kissing him again, his forehead bumping into yours, as your breathing slowly evened out, surrendering to sleep, waiting for tomorrow to come.
How would you deal with your significant other being jealous and self-conscious about you being hypothetically in love with five hot ass fuck animated demon boys, but they won't actually admit it? Asking for a friend.
TheatreRock but its onesided—Ruin doesnt have feeling for Tiger Rock, just who Tiger Rock reminds him of.
TheatreRock but they arent even dating; Ruin keeps seeing his Monty/Rusty eveyr time he even glances at Tiger Rock, despite how different their palletes differ.
TheatreRock but Ruin unintentionally uses Tiger Rock as a way to "replace" Rusty, developing a bad coping mechanism that ends up hurting him more than it does helping him.
How can he even look at the albino animatronic without seeing the face of the one he once loved?—No matter how different the two look, they act so alike that Ruin swears he saw Rusty in the corner of his eye before he turns and realizes its just Tiger Rock.
And Tiger Rock... hes too focused on Chris that he doesn't even realize it.
Do you realize how awful a decision it was to do Padme's outfit and hairstyle in Clovis's arc in Season 6???
Let's all admit that the mere addition of Clovis to Padme's relationship is a blatant affront to the Anakin and Padmé relationship that existed in the films. And it's Padmé's design in this unfortunate episode that exemplifies this:
Firstly, she's wearing a dress that's practically identical to the one Padmé wore in that very moment in Episode II when Anakin confessed his feelings to her. And don't try to justify it by saying it's different; we all understand that this dress is hinting at what happened in Episode II. This means that this romantic relationship is already overshadowed by the Clovis affair:
But the scariest thing isn't even that... it's that Padme's hairstyle in this episode of this arc is the hairstyle... that she had on when she told Anakin about her pregnancy!:
I mean, you understand? They literally took the cutest moment from Episode III, Episode III, which is the tragedy of Padme and Anakin's relationship, and they literally abused it by making it so that this hairstyle was originally on her at the moment when Padmé decided to end her relationship with Anakin, and for a very stupid reason, which, by the way, was her own fault...
Maybe it's because of my Eastern European mentality, but I'll say it. Padme shouldn't have dressed like that for Clovis. Especially since she's a married woman. Yes, secretly. Yes, a woman has a right to dress however she wants. But still, when you become someone's husband or wife, you have to take on some obligations and maintain at least some decency. This isn't abuse; it's equal rights in a relationship, and that's NORMAL. Feminism, for example, wasn't about female dominance, but about gender equality.
Secondly, she blames Anakin for not trusting her... but how can he trust her when he only found out about Clovis now? Why didn't she tell him earlier? How can she hold Anakin accountable for trusting her when she herself didn't tell him the truth?
Let me just remind you that this wasn't the case in the films. In them, she honestly told Anakin that she was in love with a guy who later became an artist, and that was it. Now that's honesty and openness
So if you still think that TCW didn't ruin Anakin and Padme's relationship and that it's the same as in the movies... well, sorry, you're weird, to put it mildly...
This story has a sad ending. It has some differences from the Wicked movie and/or musical, in addition to the Reader insert. Story involves themes of jealousy, unrequited love, flirting, kissing, etc.
Summary: Fiyero Tigglar reunites with Reader, his childhood best friend, long after communication between them stopped, at Shiz University. But feelings are hurt, hearts are broken, and Reader finds themself mourning a love they could have had. Will Fiyero be able to make things right before Reader gives up on him forever?
Note: Not exactly based off of the musical or movie, at least not exactly. This is my first time posting something original. Hope you like it.
Please comment to let me know if you want any other one shots/stories like this. Whether a continuation of this one or something else.
The halls of Shiz University echoed with laughter and chatter, but Y/N could only hear the pounding of her own heart. She watched from around the corner as Fiyero - her Fiyero, her childhood best friend, the boy who used to climb trees with her in the Vinkus - smiled down at Galinda. The blonde beauty was practically hanging off his arm, giggling at something he'd said.
"Oh Fifi, you're simply perfect!" Galinda's high-pitched voice carried through the corridor.
Y/N's stomach twisted. Fifi. When had that nickname started? She remembered when he was just Yero, racing through the palace gardens with her, sharing secrets under starlit skies. Before he stopped writing. Before everything changed.
She turned away, clutching her books tighter to her chest. The silver locket around her neck felt heavy - a gift from him on her sixteenth birthday, the last time they'd seen each other before Shiz. Inside was a pressed blue iris, his favorite flower to give her.
"Y/N!" His voice made her freeze. "Wait up!"
She considered running but forced herself to turn around, plastering on a smile. "Hey Fiyero."
"I've barely seen you lately," he said, falling into step beside her. His presence was achingly familiar - the scent of sandalwood and something distinctly him, the way he walked with that slight swagger.
"Well, you seem busy," she replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "With Galinda."
He ran a hand through his hair - a nervous habit she remembered well. "About that..."
"Don't," she cut him off. "You don't owe me any explanations."
But he did. He owed her an explanation for every unanswered letter, for every promise broken, for making her fall in love with him only to watch him fall for someone else.
That night, after seeing Galinda announce to everyone at dinner that she and "Fifi" were officially courting, Y/N finally broke. The tears came hot and fast in her dorm room, quiet sobs muffled by her pillow.
A soft knock at her door made her hastily wipe her eyes. "Who is it?"
"It's me." Fiyero's voice was soft, uncertain.
She considered ignoring him but knew he wouldn't leave. Opening the door, she saw his face fall at her tear-stained cheeks.
"Sweet Oz, Y/N..."
"What do you want, Fiyero?"
Instead of answering, he stepped forward and kissed her. It was everything she'd dreamed of and nothing like she'd imagined. His lips were soft, desperate, tasting of mint and regret.
When they broke apart, both breathing heavily, he pressed his forehead to hers. "I love you. I've always loved you."
"Then why?" she whispered, voice breaking.
"I don't want to hurt Galinda. She's... fragile. We need to keep this quiet, just for a while."
Y/N stepped back, cold washing over her. "How long is a while?"
"I don't know," he admitted.
The words hit like physical blows. "So I'm supposed to watch you parade around with her? Pretend my heart isn't breaking every time she calls you 'Fifi'?"
"Please understand..."
"I understand perfectly," she said, voice hollow. "You want us both. But I won't be your secret, Fiyero. I deserve better than that."
The distance grew after that night. Y/N threw herself into her studies, avoiding the dining hall when she knew they'd be there. But she couldn't avoid seeing how Fiyero's gaze increasingly followed Elphaba - the same longing looks he used to give her.
One afternoon, after watching him stare after Elphaba in history class, Y/N felt the last piece of her heart crack. She'd lost him not once, but twice.
"Y/N, please," he caught up to her after class. "Talk to me."
"There's nothing left to say," she replied, fingering the locket she still wore. "You can't keep everyone happy, Fiyero. Sometimes you have to choose."
"I choose you," he said desperately. "I'll tell Galinda today, I promise."
She smiled sadly, unclasping the locket. "No, you won't. Because you're not that boy from the Vinkus anymore. And I'm not that girl who waited for your letters."
She pressed the locket into his palm, the metal warm from her skin. "Goodbye, Yero."
As she walked away, she heard him call after her, voice breaking: "I'm sorry."
But sorry wasn't enough to mend a heart broken three times over - once when he stopped writing, once when he chose Galinda, and once when his eyes found Elphaba. Some love stories, Y/N realized, were better left in childhood memories and pressed flowers in silver lockets.
