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[wchswift]

hii could you do mark meachum x wife reader,

she’s the sweetest person to ever be and mark just lets all his anger out on her when she asks to many question, because of everything that was been happening with his tumor. so she distances herself from him a bit but once he realizes what he’s done he does everything so she can forgive him

mark meachum x fem!reader

Mark lashes out in fear, distancing yourself from him until he realizes the damage and fights to make it right. content! emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a tender ending. word count: 868

notes: thanks for the request!! I've been trying all week to get inspiration to write for Mark and enjoy what I wrote, but I was having a hard time, so I'm glad I got a request for him to practice my writing :) I hope this is what you wanted!!

There’s something about how quiet you’ve become lately that makes the walls feel thinner.

You still move like yourself — soft, deliberate, graceful in the way only someone deeply in love moves through a home. But your presence no longer wraps around him like it used to. You don’t touch his shoulder in passing. You don’t ask if he’s hungry. You don’t call him baby when he’s pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself and raking his hands through his hair like the frustration is a fire only he can feel.

You used to chase after him when he got like that. Soft hands catching his wrist. Words that didn’t scold — just saw.

Now you don’t.

Now you sit at the edge of the bed when you think he’s asleep, fingers picking at the frayed hem of your sweatshirt, and the space between you both has become a breathing thing. Alive. Growing.

And Mark knows — god, does he know — that it’s his fault.

The tumor. The goddamn tumor.

The weight of it has infected everything: his patience, his mind, his sense of control.

He can’t fix this. He can’t throw money at it. He can’t outthink it.

So when you ask —

"Did you talk to the specialist today?"

"Is there another trial you can apply for?"

"Why won’t you let me come with you?"

— His voice goes sharp before he can stop it. “Jesus, would you just stop? I don’t need you breathing down my goddamn neck all the time!”

You’d flinched. Not like you were scared. But like he’d stepped on something fragile between you. And then you didn’t ask again.

That was four days ago.

Now, you speak in past tense. You sleep turned away. You still make his coffee in the morning, but you leave it on the counter and don’t wait to see if he drinks it.

The sweetness hasn’t gone — it’s just quieter now. Guarded.

And he hates it.

Tonight, he comes home late. Tension like coiled wire in his spine. Another round of bad news. Another clue that led nowhere. Another maybe. He half-expects to find you in bed already — curled up on your side of the mattress like you’ve started building a life at arm’s length.

But the lights in the kitchen are still on.

You’re sitting at the table. Wearing one of his old sweaters. Holding a mug you haven’t touched.

You look up, and your expression is careful. Like you’re waiting to see what version of him just walked through the door.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He swallows.

“Hey.”

The silence between you cracks open — a seam in something that used to feel whole.

You look back down. “You should eat something. I made—”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven.

You blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.”

You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.

“I know what I’ve been doing. I know I’ve been taking it out on you,” he breathes, like it costs him to say it. “Because I can’t control any of it. Because I’m scared. And I didn’t want to admit that. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I stayed angry, it would feel like I was doing something.”

Your voice is soft. “And me asking questions…?”

“Felt like a reminder that I couldn’t answer any of them.” He laughs, hollow. “But that’s not fair to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

You look down into your mug. Swallow hard. “You hurt me, Mark.”

“I know.”

“I was just trying to help you.”

“I know that too.”

His throat works.

“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”

That’s what breaks the dam. Your breath catches, and you press your lips together like you’re afraid of what will come out if you speak. But he’s already closing the distance. Dropping to his knees in front of you like it’s penance.

His hands curl around your waist — tentative, like maybe you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

You let him hold on.

“I’m still scared,” he whispers into the fabric of your sweater. “But I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do this without you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”

You tilt his chin up. Eyes shining now.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m still here. I’m always here. But I need you to stop shutting me out.”

He nods. “I will... I'll try at least. I promise.”

You brush his hair back with trembling fingers. Kiss his forehead.

And for the first time in days, when he breathes in, it feels like maybe there’s something worth holding on for. Something left to fight for that isn’t just survival — but love.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

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taglist: @sturnspup @mostlymarvelgirl @youdontknowe @kathie85 @that-stanford-girlie @donatello-fiend @aryaharmon @star-yawnznn @tinas111 @candy-coated-misery0731 (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

headcanons for a reader who’s lowk like intimidating to look at but like secretly such a softie and wants love with logan howlett ofc

✧ logan howlett x intimidating-looking!reader headcanons

notes: I hope you like it and that it's what you wanted!! I think I got a little carried away and it ended up being too long, but yea...

First Impressions:

✷ The first time Logan lays eyes on you, he thinks you’re so controlled and have such strong body language that he feels intrigued by your presence. You carry yourself with power—your gaze cuts, your posture screams confidence, and people get out of your way when you walk by. ✷ Logan always notices you the second you walk in a room — not because you’re flashy or loud, but because you’ve got presence. ✷ There’s something about your posture, the way your eyes sweep a space. You’re not scaring anyone — just… untouchable. Regal. Unreadable. You’ve got that look that makes people sit up straighter. ✷ People don’t mess with you. You don’t invite small talk. Even when you say something kind, people take a second to realize you were being kind. ✷ He respects it. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, but you can feel the caution in his stare. That low growl of curiosity. ✷ The students act differently around you. They scatter when you walk through the mansion halls, partly because of your intense presence, partly because of how silent and shadow-like you move. ✷ You don’t smile easily. Not because you’re angry—but because your resting face is unreadable. It makes people nervous. You’re calm. Composed. And undeniably striking. ✷ Logan doesn’t think you’re dangerous—he thinks you're sharp. A little hard to read. Mysterious. And he likes that. ✷ He doesn’t get intimidated often, but something about how effortlessly cool you look? Yeah. It makes him glance twice. ✷ Logan jokes to Scott that he has finally met someone who looks meaner than him. He’s interested.

Logan Sees Through It:

✷ Logan’s been around enough to know the difference between mean and guarded. You don’t glare — you just observe. You don’t sneer — you just don’t waste expressions. That’s not rudeness. That’s discipline. ✷ He catches on pretty quick that the image doesn’t match what’s underneath. ✷ He hears you humming softly while making tea alone. ✷ You pause to hold open a door for students and actually whisper “You’re okay, sweetheart” when one of them trips. ✷ You talk tough, but Logan sees how your eyes soften when someone’s hurting—even if you don’t say much. ✷ The moment that cracks him is the way you talk to animals. A stray cat shows up near the X-Mansion and you crouch down so carefully, calling it with the softest voice. ✷ You think no one’s watching, but Logan sees it all from the window. You scratch the cat’s ears and whisper, “You don’t have to be scared.” He blinks, surprised at how sweet you look.

The Real You:

✷ You overthink everything. Especially love. Especially Logan. ✷ You don’t know how to show softness without feeling exposed. But god, you want to. You crave touch. Quiet. Belonging. ✷ You write letters you never send. You keep things that remind you of good moments. You replay compliments in your head because you’re starving for them, even if you pretend you’re not. ✷ You’re gentle in private. Logan’s the first person who gets to see the way you whisper good mornings like they’re a secret, or how you carefully fold his flannel when you borrow it. ✷ You cry once. It takes everything in you to not apologize for it. Logan’s thumb swipes over your cheek, “Ain’t nothing weak about feelin’ things. Least of all you.” ✷ The first time he calls you “soft,” you stiffen like you’re insulted. Then he leans down and murmurs, “Didn’t say weak, darlin’. Just said soft.” And you melt. ✷ You have a “stoic face” but Logan lives for the tiny shifts—eyebrow quirks, lip twitches, the soft focus in your eyes when you're half-asleep leaning on his shoulder. ✷ You pretend you’re fine after missions. Logan sees right through it. When you’re hurt, he growls, “Stop acting like you don’t need help. I wanna take care of you.”

Your Relationship:

✷ Sunshine/grumpy? Nope. You’re both grumpy. But deep down, you're just as soft, if not softer, than him. ✷ He calls you things like “tough girl,” “heartbreaker"— teasing names that only he’s allowed to use. ✷ Logan never underestimates you, but he never lets you overextend yourself either. "You’re strong. I know. You don’t have to prove that to me, ever." ✷ You two are the kind of couple people are scared to approach but also whisper about—“they’re scary… but have you seen the way they look at each other?” ✷ He calls you intimidating, but never in a mocking way. It's respect. "You walk like you own the room, sweetheart. Can’t blame people for being a little nervous." ✷ He loves that you’re tough-looking. He thinks you look hot as hell when you spar, when you walk through the halls, when you stand behind him with arms crossed like you’ll kill for him. ✷ But his favorite look is when you’re in his shirt, barefoot, blinking sleepily, asking if he wants pancakes. ✷ To everyone else, you two look like a power couple and even more intimidating together: composed, guarded, silent, strong. ✷ But behind closed doors, you're curled up in his lap with your face buried in his chest. He strokes your hair, calls you “soft thing” and “my girl” in that low, raspy voice. ✷ He gets used to you being shy about asking for affection. So he learns to offer it before you have to say anything. ✷ He adores that you only soften for him. That the world sees steel, but he gets all the honey.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @cruel-as-sin @logaenhowlett @kvntonq @tinas111 @mcrdvcks (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

[wchswift]

you asked for request so can I pls get literally anything angsty (but with a happy ending) with richie? 🙏🙏🙏

richie jerimovich x fem!reader

You are Carmy's cousin, and after so many years, Richie realizes that he is in love with you. content! hurt/comfort, angst with a soft ending. word count: 1.7k

notes: thanks for the request!! this one took longer than I planned but yea... I hope this is what you wanted!!

Richie doesn’t remember when exactly it shifted. Maybe it was somewhere between you always laughing too hard at something dumb he said, even if no one else found it that funny. Or maybe it was after you became the most certain thing in his life — the one he knew he’d see every day, the one who would be with him at all times. The only person truly present in his routine. The only one he never had to wonder about, never had to question if you'd still be there the next day.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen, right?

You were his best friend. You’d been his best friend for years. You were Carmy’s cousin — the real one, blood — and you’d met Richie years ago at one of those chaotic Berzatto dinners. One of the last ones before everything started cracking at the edges. You’d come in holding a pie you made from scratch, hair windblown from the train, and laughed so loudly at one of Mikey’s jokes, Richie almost choked on his drink.

You had been all sharp edges and soft smiles, rolled sleeves and clean hands that weren’t afraid to get dirty. He’d liked you right away. You didn’t flinch around the noise or the heat or the bluntness. You called him out when he was being a dick, but you also sat with him through every fucked-up moment after. The divorce, the fights, Mikey. Especially Mikey. He remembered the way you held onto him after the service, when everyone else was afraid to come close.

You were always there.

And that was the problem now.

Because Richie couldn’t breathe right when you were in the room anymore. Couldn’t meet your eyes without thinking too long about how they crinkled at the corners. Couldn’t stand how your arm brushed his as you passed by on the line without feeling like his chest was gonna collapse. Couldn’t joke the same way anymore without worrying what was behind the laugh — yours or his.

It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

He leaned back against the reception balcony, watching you talk to Sydney through the glass, laughing about some catering client who nearly cried because he was allergic to the dish he wanted. You looked up mid-sentence and caught Richie watching. You gave him this small, knowing look, like you were used to catching him staring. Like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

He looked away before you could say anything. His heart pounded so loudly he swore Sydney could hear it.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t ruin the one good thing that hadn’t completely gone to shit. Not again. He had destroyed too many things already, and you weren’t gonna be another line on that list.

You’d been with him through all of it. You held his kid when Tiffany didn’t want him in the delivery room. You sat next to him in the car after the lawyer handed him the divorce papers. You poured him water when he drank too much after Mikey’s funeral, tucked him into a shitty motel bed, and drove him back to his in the morning without saying a word. You stocked his fridge for his daughter's visit when he forgot, reminded him of the important things he needed to do, helped him write a resume he never sent...

You were always there. Always.

And Richie had started dreaming about you.

Not just sex — though, fuck, that was there too, in the background like a low hum — but stupid dreams. Making you coffee and having you in his arms. Letting you wear his sweatshirt. Driving around Chicago with your feet up on the dash, arguing about playlists and dipping fries in milkshakes. Shit he never thought he'd care about again. Domestic things. Safe things. Things he thought were out of reach for someone like him.

It scared the hell out of him.

He started pulling back. Not hard. Just… a little. Quietly. Carefully. Like he didn’t want you to notice — but hoped you would. He gave you excuses not to give you a ride to the restaurant, even when his car was parked right out front. Told you he had errands, or needed to pick something up, or that he was heading in a different direction. And when you offered to just ride along anyway, he’d dry chuckle and shake his head like it wasn’t personal.

He stopped texting first. Then he stopped replying quickly. Sometimes he didn’t reply at all. A shift in the rhythm of your day that felt heavier than it should’ve, like a favorite song skipping.

He ducked out right after the shift ended, stopped offering to take you home, didn’t wait for you to change like he usually did, didn’t hover near your station asking if you wanted to grab a drink or get late fries or just sit for a minute and talk about nothing. He vanished before you could ask, slipping away like the closing of a door you didn’t realize had been open.

You noticed. Of course you did. You noticed the space he used to fill, the silence where he used to joke. You noticed that he didn’t bump your shoulder in the hallway, didn’t steal your pen, didn’t linger. You noticed the way your stomach dipped each time he walked away without looking back.

“Hey,” you’d said one night, catching him by the lockers. You cornered him gently, voice low, eyes searching. “You good?”

He looked up too quickly, too ready. “Yeah. All good.”

“Rich, come on.”

He gave a shrug, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Just tired. Long week.”

You stared at him, trying to find the truth in his face. He didn’t meet your eyes.

“Alright,” you said quietly after a long pause, your voice softer than before. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And you left. But your heart stayed behind a second longer, lingering like a light someone forgot to turn off.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, hand over his chest like it could keep whatever was breaking inside of him from spilling out. He thought about calling you. He didn’t.

You were slipping away and it was his fault.

So he did something dumb. He talked to Carmy.

Which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t that dumb.

Carmy didn’t even blink. Just looked at Richie like he already knew.

“Tell her,” he said.

Richie blinked. “That’s your fucking advice? Tell her?”

“Yeah. You think she doesn’t know?”

Richie opened his mouth. Closed it.

Carmy just went back to slicing onions like it was nothing.

The next night, Richie caught you alone out back after close. You were sitting on the steps, hoodie pulled over your knees, cigarette between your fingers, even though you didn’t smoke.

He sat next to you without asking.

You didn’t look at him at first.

“Hey,” you said eventually.

“Hey.”

A beat.

“Been weird lately,” you added, glancing sideways. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Not really.”

You nodded, like you already knew. Like you’d been waiting for him to admit it.

Another long beat.

“I’m in love with you,” he said. Just like that. Like it burned coming out. “And it’s fuckin’ me up.”

You blinked. Turned to look at him fully.

“What?”

“I mean it,” Richie said, eyes locked on yours now. “I think about you all the time. Every fuckin’ day. And I didn’t know what to do with it, so I just… pushed you away. I didn’t want to screw this up.”

You stared at him. Then you let out this little, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Rich.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, I mean… you idiot.” You shook your head, smiling now. “I’ve been in love with you since before you figured out how to use the new espresso machine.”

He blinked.

“What?”

You looked at him, really looked, like you were memorizing him.

“I didn’t say anything ‘cause… I figured you didn’t feel the same. Or maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe I just didn’t want to lose you.”

Richie let out a sound — almost a laugh, almost a choke. He shook his head.

“Fuck, I’m so dumb.”

“Yeah. But I like that about you.”

He looked at you then — really looked. The way your face softened when you smiled, the tiny scar on your jaw from that kitchen accident, the way your fingers played with the hem of your hoodie like you were nervous even now. The way your eyes searched his, wide and a little cautious, but not scared. Like you’d been hoping, just like him, but hadn’t let yourself believe it might actually happen.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every second to pull back.

You didn’t.

And when he kissed you, it felt like exhaling after holding his breath for years. Like every version of himself that had been angry or lonely or ashamed was suddenly quiet. Just quiet — and full. Like the pressure in his chest had finally found a release, and for the first time in years, he wasn’t bracing for something to go wrong.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was hesitant, a little clumsy, his nose bumped yours, and he tasted like cigarettes and nerves—but it was real. And breath and too much heart. But it was yours. And everything you didn’t know you needed.

You stayed like that, pressed together on the cold steps behind the restaurant, your knee brushing his, his fingers hesitant but curling around yours. Two people who had been orbiting the same fire for too long, finally letting themselves step into it. The tension that had tethered your every interaction, the loaded silences, the sidelong glances — it all softened into something real. Something warm.

He rested his forehead against yours. You smiled so close he could feel it, your lips ghosting over his again like a promise.

Nothing flashy. Nothing perfect.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed.

“Holy shit,” he muttered. “That was…”

“Yeah,” you said. “It was.”

And for the first time in a long time, Richie Jerimovich smiled like the world hadn’t broken him yet.

And finally, finally, okay.

Okay in the way only something true can be. Okay in the way that made the chaos worth it, made every missed chance feel like it was all leading here — to this quiet, holy stillness between two people who finally saw each other completely.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

[zepskies]

Aww, so bittersweet. I love Mark in an established caring relationship, even if it hurts 🥺

“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven. You blink, confused. “Do what?” “Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.” You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.

Gah, that took me out right there! 😫 That and:

“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”

*cries* I'm fine, really. lol

Really enjoyed this! 💙

hii could you do mark meachum x wife reader,

she’s the sweetest person to ever be and mark just lets all his anger out on her when she asks to many question, because of everything that was been happening with his tumor. so she distances herself from him a bit but once he realizes what he’s done he does everything so she can forgive him

mark meachum x fem!reader

Mark lashes out in fear, distancing yourself from him until he realizes the damage and fights to make it right. content! emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a tender ending. word count: 868

notes: thanks for the request!! I've been trying all week to get inspiration to write for Mark and enjoy what I wrote, but I was having a hard time, so I'm glad I got a request for him to practice my writing :) I hope this is what you wanted!!

There’s something about how quiet you’ve become lately that makes the walls feel thinner.

You still move like yourself — soft, deliberate, graceful in the way only someone deeply in love moves through a home. But your presence no longer wraps around him like it used to. You don’t touch his shoulder in passing. You don’t ask if he’s hungry. You don’t call him baby when he’s pacing in the hallway, muttering to himself and raking his hands through his hair like the frustration is a fire only he can feel.

You used to chase after him when he got like that. Soft hands catching his wrist. Words that didn’t scold — just saw.

Now you don’t.

Now you sit at the edge of the bed when you think he’s asleep, fingers picking at the frayed hem of your sweatshirt, and the space between you both has become a breathing thing. Alive. Growing.

And Mark knows — god, does he know — that it’s his fault.

The tumor. The goddamn tumor.

The weight of it has infected everything: his patience, his mind, his sense of control.

He can’t fix this. He can’t throw money at it. He can’t outthink it.

So when you ask —

"Did you talk to the specialist today?"

"Is there another trial you can apply for?"

"Why won’t you let me come with you?"

— His voice goes sharp before he can stop it. “Jesus, would you just stop? I don’t need you breathing down my goddamn neck all the time!”

You’d flinched. Not like you were scared. But like he’d stepped on something fragile between you. And then you didn’t ask again.

That was four days ago.

Now, you speak in past tense. You sleep turned away. You still make his coffee in the morning, but you leave it on the counter and don’t wait to see if he drinks it.

The sweetness hasn’t gone — it’s just quieter now. Guarded.

And he hates it.

Tonight, he comes home late. Tension like coiled wire in his spine. Another round of bad news. Another clue that led nowhere. Another maybe. He half-expects to find you in bed already — curled up on your side of the mattress like you’ve started building a life at arm’s length.

But the lights in the kitchen are still on.

You’re sitting at the table. Wearing one of his old sweaters. Holding a mug you haven’t touched.

You look up, and your expression is careful. Like you’re waiting to see what version of him just walked through the door.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He swallows.

“Hey.”

The silence between you cracks open — a seam in something that used to feel whole.

You look back down. “You should eat something. I made—”

“Don’t do that.” His voice is rough. Uneven.

You blink, confused. “Do what?”

“Take care of me like I haven’t been—” He stops. Runs a hand over his mouth. “Like I haven’t been a complete asshole to you.”

You say nothing. But your eyes glisten. Just barely.

“I know what I’ve been doing. I know I’ve been taking it out on you,” he breathes, like it costs him to say it. “Because I can’t control any of it. Because I’m scared. And I didn’t want to admit that. I thought if I kept pushing forward, if I stayed angry, it would feel like I was doing something.”

Your voice is soft. “And me asking questions…?”

“Felt like a reminder that I couldn’t answer any of them.” He laughs, hollow. “But that’s not fair to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

You look down into your mug. Swallow hard. “You hurt me, Mark.”

“I know.”

“I was just trying to help you.”

“I know that too.”

His throat works.

“I miss you,” he says finally. Quiet. “You’re right next to me, and I miss you.”

That’s what breaks the dam. Your breath catches, and you press your lips together like you’re afraid of what will come out if you speak. But he’s already closing the distance. Dropping to his knees in front of you like it’s penance.

His hands curl around your waist — tentative, like maybe you’ll flinch again.

But you don’t.

You let him hold on.

“I’m still scared,” he whispers into the fabric of your sweater. “But I don’t want to fight you. I can’t do this without you. And I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t need you.”

You tilt his chin up. Eyes shining now.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m still here. I’m always here. But I need you to stop shutting me out.”

He nods. “I will... I'll try at least. I promise.”

You brush his hair back with trembling fingers. Kiss his forehead.

And for the first time in days, when he breathes in, it feels like maybe there’s something worth holding on for. Something left to fight for that isn’t just survival — but love.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

taglist: @sturnspup @mostlymarvelgirl @youdontknowe @kathie85 @that-stanford-girlie @donatello-fiend @aryaharmon @star-yawnznn @tinas111 @candy-coated-misery0731 (if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)