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sacredsorceress · 4 months ago

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in this home / logan howlett

PAIRING: logan howlett x f!witch!reader

SUMMARY: after the avengers disbanded, you were left with no direction. what happens when you save a certain mutant from the brink of death and invite him and his daughter into your home? (or rather, co-parenting and falling in love with Logan to give him and Laura the life they never had)

WC: 9.1 k

WARNINGS: SLOWWWWW burn, use of y/n, witchcraft (mcu style. i started this during agatha), hopelessness, mentions of death, injuries, nightmares, reader nearly getting killed, guns, a wannabe murderer, violence, blood, angst but also fluff!!

logan masterlist | inbox | masterlist

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What most stories fail to discuss is what happens after the day is saved. They complete with a delicate happily ever after, wrapped in a bow and shipped off to the Void where the characters, presumably, live in domestic bliss for the remainder of their days.

You wish that were the case.

What they don't discuss is the mourning once the adrenaline has worn off- a gnawing grief that brings you to the knees in the middle of cooking dinner and a pain in your chest that renders you dizzy. They don't discuss they days you feel numb, sitting in the driver's seat of the car with nowhere to go.

You had spent years devoted to the Avengers. In a way, all you knew was saving people. But with Thanos defeated, fifty percent of the population returned to their loved ones, and the team disbanded, you were left with nowhere to go.

Some say if people no longer talk about a thing, it ceases to exist. With your name out of papers and no longer slipped into children's nighttime prayers, you wondered if maybe that were true.

Certain people, however, kept you from fading into the abyss as you knew it.

It was a Sunday morning and the cafe you sat in was packed. Between Sam Wilson being late and the awkward shuffle to steal a table the moment another couple sat up, you had almost gone home.

The conversation had been pleasant but you drifted in and out of focus, not being able to forget what this same conversation would have been like before.

Glancing out the window, you felt as if you were trapped within an aquarium.

The sharp, fluorescent lighting above had given you a migraine and the sounds of innocent forks scraping cake off their plates sounded like nails on a chalkboard in your ears. The passerbys laughing with their friends on the sidewalk shook you as if you were in a snow globe- as though everyone was living, moving... going someplace-while you were bound.

Sam's hand waved in front of you, breaking you from your thoughts.

"You could work for the government?" Sam suggested. He leaned back in his seat and pointed two thumbs at himself. "You've got an in."

You snorted. For several reasons, you'd have to decline but you imagine that sharing the same skillset as Wanda Maximoff would not go over well with the government.

Bringing a piping hot cup of coffee to your lips, you shook your head.

"No thanks."

Sam waved his hands in the air as if to brush off the suggestion entirely.

"Alright," Sam said, tapping his finger against his chin as if to think. "What about dating? My sister met her boyfriend on Tinder. Have you tried that?"

You raised your eyebrow at him as if to ask, "really?"

"I'm serious!" Sam defended. "Some lovin' could be good for you."

Besides the fact that that sentence alone made you throw up a little in your mouth, you couldn't think of anything less appealing.

Not to be a snob, but you weren't sure if the bright-eyed men holding fish in their photos and promising to let you steal their sweatshirt were right for a woman like you. In the past few years you had become a reclusive storm with trauma a mile long. Sprinkle in the fact that you were a former Avenger who dealt with the threat of danger and uncertainty daily, that was a recipe for disaster.

Who could deal with a life like that?

You shuffled in your seat.

"Can we change the subject?" You asked, clearing your throat.

Sam looked at you for a moment before leaning in. His arms laid crossed on the table as his voice lowered.

"Listen, I get. I do." He said, glancing at the passerbys. "But when Tony left you that land, he didn't want you to sit around and be alone forever, okay? You're alive and you've got some pretty cool wizard-"

"Witch-"

"Whatever, powers." Sam finished. "You think Nat or Steve would want you to sit around and mourn them?"

Despite how you failed to meet his eyes, instead opting to look at the dregs of your coffee at the bottom of its glass, his words hit you deep.

He was right.

"No," You said. "but I don't know what to do, Sam. What's next for me?"

Sam leaned back in his seat and shrugged.

"The whole damn multiverse is open." He sighed, lifting his own mug up to his lips. "You'll find something."

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A divination witch set you on your path.

Since breakfast, you hadn't been able to shake off your conversation with Sam. After your fellow Avengers' deaths, it had almost felt wrong to do something for yourself. Why did you get to live while the others perished?

But now you wondered how upset they would be to find out you had become a living ghost. You couldn't bear their disappointment.

It took you three fake fortune tellers before you found a proper witch in a hole in the wall shopfront. The pleasantries were short before her power overcame her.

Her eyes rolled back as the candles scattered about flickered. The light above you flashed as the bulb exploded, raining glass over your head. With a pen in hand, she scribbled on the paper in front of her. You listened to the etching of lead against paper while shielding yourself from the falling pieces of glass.

In an instant, as if you had imagined it, the lights fell back to their usual dim appearance, the rumbling stopped and she cleared her throat, suddenly composed.

She handed you that same piece of paper and sent you on your way.

Now, as the sun set beyond the horizon you skimmed the paper once more. Your candles had been lit and the aroma of the potion that had used up most of your stores wafted throughout the space, gurgling in its cauldron. Your symbols had been etched on the floor, written with your fingers dripped into the prior substance.

Now all that was left was the setting sun.

Check.

It was now or never.

With a deep breath you sat on the floor. The wood creaked beneath you as you did, as if your home could feel the weight of the spell you were about to cast- the future you were about to create. You crossed your legs into an all too familiar position and laid your hands palm-up on your knees.

The beat of your heart quickened in your chest, uncertainty threatening to take hold. You took a shaky break and cleared your throat. The silence of the room made it echo in your ears.

You closed your eyes.

"Oh maiden, mother, crone,

Show my path

written in thy stone."

The floor rumbled beneath you. A breeze filtered in through the opened window and brushed against you, raising your skin. You heard the sound of wood creaking, churning as if the house were renovating itself- expanding and rearranging the makeup of your walls. Finally, and most odd of all, you heard a lock click.

You turned around.

A door had appeared in your once solid wall.

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So this is what it feels like.

When Logan opened his eyes, he was greeted by a warm, inviting light. The evening sun had begun to peak through the windows of the bedroom, leaving shadows on his arm from where the blinds stood, weakly shielding him from its rays. A jazz song hummed from the distance, luring Logan with its melodic keys.

The first thing he noticed was the lack of pain. The last Logan remembered, he was impaled by a branch- body beaten beyond return. Laura was holding him, the children were safe, and for the first time, he learned what it was like to die.

After all the stories that he had heard, Logan thought that this was it. What comes next. Peace.

It took a bit of effort for him to get his eyes open- something he had experienced more than a handful of times after a particularly strong night drinking. At first, all he saw was light. Blinking a few more times a familiar figure came into clarity:

"Laura?"

His voice was raspy and he felt his vocal chords scrape against one another, dry. Just as he had made out Laura’s figure, she ran from the room.

Logan rubbed at his eyes with his left hand as he gripped the sheets with his right.

"Laura?" He called again. "Kid?"

Finally gaining clarity, Logan discovered that he was in a bedroom. The rocking chair that Laura had been in moments before sat facing him and continued to creek forwards and back after she had left. Throughout the room, various books and bottles littered every surface.

Before he had time to process, you came bolting into the room with Laura at your heel. The mutant rubbed at his eyes, as the image of the two of you wobbled in his vision. Logan, upon your entrance, attempted to lift himself up with a groan.

"Hey... hey." You cooed, gently easing Logan back into bed. "Easy tiger. Relax."

Laura took her place at his side as your soft hands laid against his bare chest.

"Relax?" Logan asked, a dry laugh escaping his throat. "Listen lady, I thought I was fucking dead. Where the hell am I?"

If there was one thing that Logan was terrible at- it was relaxing. And also probably mathematics if he really thought about it, but after nearly dying and being tasked with saving a dozen kids, relaxing was about the last thing on his mind.

He was tempted to fight back. Afterall, you were a stranger and it was rare that one of those had the best intentions with him. That was until he saw Laura- safe and clean and, most importantly, calm- looking up at him with her doe eyes.

The last time he saw her this calm was with Charles. He felt a pang in his chest.

"She fixed you." Laura said as she glanced between Logan and yourself. "She's magic."

Logan furrowed his eyebrows, pulling his eyes away from Laura to look at you.

One of your hands remained on Logan's chest while the other flipped through a spell book on the bedside table. Your hand was gentle against his skin, encouraging him to relax without forcing him into the pillow. Your face was scrunched, focused on the passage below and yet, you seemed perfectly calm. It was odd almost. Logan couldn't remember the last time a person, especially a mutant, had been relaxed in his presence.

A part of him, albeit a one that often failed in the fight for dominance, was relieved to relinquish himself to you. He had fought, and fought, and fought, and fought. And, god, it didn't matter how many times Logan's body healed himself- he was tired. Exhausted.

If it weren't for Laura, after two hundred years, he was ready to die in the middle of that forest.

"Where am I?"

Shifting your attention back to logan, you placed your hands on your hips- leaving the spot on his chest where your hand had once been cold.

You and Laura exchanged looks and the girl giggled quietly.

"Well, the short answer is upstate New York." You responded with a flair, watching as his eyebrow arched. "More specifically? You're in a different universe."

Huh?

Logan glanced between you and Laura. A silence hung in the air as you both looked at him with playful grins on your faces.

Logan had been unconscious for about a week while his body healed. In that time, you had watched over Laura- explaining the different universes, your magic, and the way those with abilities were perceived in your world. By now, this had become home. Logan, however, would need a bit more convincing.

When he realised the both of you were being serious, a congested laugh left his throat.

"Oh c'mon." Logan chuckled in his gravely voice. "I must've hit my head real fucking hard-"

"-She's not lying!" Laura interrupted, squeezing Logan's arm enough to draw blood. "It's safe. Look."

Laura picked up his hand and held it in front of his face.

His wrinkles had vanished, elasticity restored in his skin. His scars had faded into nonexistence. The spot where Laura had just drew blood healed quickly, erasing any trace of injury. He watched the edges of his skin lace together again, born anew.

“How…” Logan began, noting how the callouses on his hands had seemingly disappeared. “How in the hell did you do that?”

You smiled.

“A magician never reveals her secrets.”

Logan continued to stare at you incredulously, his mind racing, trying to make sense of the matter at hand. Despite you never having done something this drastic before, you had seen this look your fair share of times and understood it well.

As the sun continued setting in the distance, the light peeking in had become more faded by the minute. With a wave of your hand, you shut the blinds, and the candles littering the space had alit at once with a resounding "whoosh".

Logan, more confused than ever, tugged at the bedsheet that had laid over him, kicking his feet over the side of the bed with a humph.

Laura had told you that he would be difficult... stubborn even. The life that he had lived, albeit longer, was not unfamiliar to yours. It was hard to trust and more difficult to accept comfortability. Even after being comatose for a week, in autopilot fashion he was onto his next mission. Despite you not affording the same grace to yourself, you weren't going to let that happen to him.

“Laura, honey,” You said. “Why don’t you let your dad and I talk a bit, okay?”

The child glanced between you and her father before nodding and making her way from the room. The door shut behind her with a click.

The air in the room felt thick. You could feel Logan's eyes burning a hole right through you.

You cleared your throat.

"Look, I'm sure you've got a lot of questions-"

The man ran one of his hands through his tussled hair while the other scratched his overgrown beard. As messy as he was in this state, a deeper part of you couldn't help but think of him as the definition of rugged.

"You think?" Logan quipped sarcastically. "Where's the rest of 'em?"

The other mutant children.

"They're here too." You said, crossing the room to your rocking chair. "I'm part of this sort of ... uh... organization.. for people like us. With special abilities. When I ended up in your universe and came back here, I contacted some people I knew and they've adopted them. We're starting a school for them too, but otherwise they're going to grow up like any other kid. Not soldiers." You crossed your legs, allowing the old wooden chair to creek back and forth. "They deserve it."

Logan couldn't help a scoff that escaped him. A light, tired smile fell to his lips as he thought of a new school for mutant kids. The old Logan would have laughed, but with the death of the professor remaining a fresh wound, it felt like a relief.

You did what he couldn't.

"A school, huh?" He asked.

You smiled.

"A school."

For a moment, silence hung in the air. The only sound was the persistent creak of wood emanating from your rocking chair.

"Logan, I-" You pierced the silence.

"I'll take the kid and get out of your hair in the morning."

And there it was.

What you had been fearing the past week.

"Logan," You treaded carefully, fearful that one wrong movement would send him out the door. "Don't. I'm serious when I say that I want you here. I... it's been nice."

He looked at you quizzically. As if a cartoon lightbulb had flashed with an animated ding! above him, the answer came.

"That uh... what did you call it? Organization?" He pondered, looking at you solemly. "Let me take a guess- it's not around anymore?"

A silence hung in the air once more.

"Let me take a guess," You said just above a whisper. "Yours isn't either?"

His unresponsiveness answered your question.

"Right, well," you said, ceasing your rocking. "If you want to go, I won't keep you here. I'll help you out in whatever way you need to get your life started. But between us... I like the company."

You pushed yourself to your feet.

"I'm going to go start dinner." You announced, slipping towards the door. "Think it over and let me know."

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Laura was perched in front of the television while you sat planted behind her, braiding her damp hair. The blue light of the television reflected off of her face as she absentmindedly shoved popcorn into her mouth— focused solely on the screen.

Above the crunching of popcorn kernels you heard Logan's sock padded feet make their way into the room.

His hair was still wet and you could tell that he had tried to tame it by brushing his fingers through either side, sticking it up.

Logan smiled when he was greeted by you and Laura dressed in pajamas watching some princess movie on the television. Although he would never be caught dead in pants with ice-skating penguins on them, instead adorned in the matching gray sweatpants and t-shirt you laid out on the bed for him, he found it.. comforting. One would even say "cozy" and "domestic" if they had it in their vocabularies, to which Logan did not.

All he knew was this was a far cry from what he had been experiencing the week prior.

"Hey," You smiled up at him, nudging your head to the next room. "Dinner's in the dining room. I'll be there in a minute once I finish up her hair."

He wanted to argue about how you didn't need to make dinner for him or, better yet, spend the effort to come keep him company, but Logan knew better.

And, to be completely transparent, he didn't want to say no.

Logan instead nodded and pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning against. He moved towards the dining room, grabbing a handful popcorn from Laura's bowl as he went past.

"Hmph!" She snarled, snatching it back.

Logan shrugged and shoved a few kernels into his mouth, "Taxes."

You giggled as you watched the two of them interact, tying off Laura's hair.

"All good to go, missy." You announced.

In the dining room, the candle that you had left burning on the table illuminated Logan's face. The warm tones of the flame highlighted the curve of his nose and the reddened blush on his cheeks from the warmth of the space. An old jazz song played on the record player as Logan leaned back in his seat, taking a sip from the glass of whiskey you had left for him on the table.

When he heard your footsteps, Logan looked up and tipped the glass towards you.

"How'd you know?"

You shrugged, pulling out the chair beside him.

"Lucky guess."

Leaning forward in his seat, Logan placed the glass back down on the table. The silence between you was comfortable- your feet resting on the rungs of his chair as the melody from the record filled the room.

Logan leaned forward and took a bite from the plate you had laid out, humming as he did.

"You made this?" He asked, mouth full.

You leaned forward, inspecting his plate.

"Well yeah," You responded warily. "Is it okay? I've just been cooking for myself the past few years so it might not-"

"You kidding?" He responded with a chuckle that came from deep within his chest. "I can't remember the last time I had a home cooked meal."

You smiled.

"Well I don't remember the last time I had someone to share it with."

The comment came out before you had the time to quite think about it. You had only really met this man hours ago and here you were, feeding, clothing him, and having an air of intimacy surrounding you both that was owed to a pair who had known each other far longer.

To your relief, a crooked smile rose to Logan's face as he shook his head.

The two of you sat in silence, Logan eating his meal as you relaxed into your seat, letting the music soothe you. The noise from the television playing in the other room periodically carried into the one you sat in but you, and unbeknownst to you, Logan, found solace in it. The company, the warmth of sitting close to someone, and the mashup of various sounds were a comforting reminder that you weren't alone.

After a moment, Logan cleared his throat.

"I'll go find some work tomorrow."

"Logan, you really don't have to-"

He shot you a look- eyebrows raised and lips drawn in a thin line- that told you that he was firm in this.

"Listen," He said. "I appreciate all this, but if the kid n' I are gonna stay, I need to do something, alright? Let me help."

You nodded, biting back your smile at his decision to remain.

"There's a lumberyard up the road if that's your thing." You said bringing a glass to your lips. "The owner's always complaining he can't find new guys out here."

Logan scooped up another bite with his fork.

"That'll work."

"Good." You said with a smile. "Then it's settled. Your new life starts tomorrow."

Or was it today?

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At the end of the first week, Laura's nightmares began.

Her screams- not of her usual rage, but of sadness... fear- would pull you and Logan from your slumber. You'd rush from your bedrooms on opposite ends of the hall towards Laura. His hands would reach for the knob first, but you'd be at her bedside in an instant, brushing past him.

He'd flick on the light as you brushed her hair from her forehead, cooing her awake.

"Laura, honey, it's a dream." You said, shading her from the light as she opened her eyes. "We're right here."

We.

It was the first time that you referred to you and Logan as a pair. A team. The other half that made you whole.

It became the same pattern every night. You'd wake up to her cries, rush to her aid, then read with her until she fell asleep. With you both within reach, she'd fall peacefully back to sleep- staying that way until the morning.

This night, when you went to tuck Laura in, however, you never made it back to your beds. With either of her hands, she held onto one of your wrists, urging you to stay with her as she fell asleep. The look on her face could melt even the Wolverine's heart, how did you stand a chance?

You and Logan made room for each other at the edge of the bed, sitting side by side with your backs against the baseboard. There were whispered sorrys and mumbles of discomfort as elbows collided with ribs and knees with shins.

"Kid did this on purpose." Logan grumbled.

Before you could ask why, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, alleviating the discomfort as you melted into his side.

"There."

At first you stiffened, in unfamiliar territory with the man you had only just met a week ago, but as you heard Laura's breathing turn to snores, you relaxed into his chest.

You could hear how his breath rattled in his chest, your head rising and falling with each inhale. You couldn't help but smile at the fact that Logan smelt like the body wash and shampoo you had left in the bathroom specifically for him. But not the conditioner. You should have guessed.

The nightlight in the corner spun, casting silhouettes of horses around the room. It looked as if they were running, chasing after one another but never able to reach the finish line.

The light ran over Logan's face, highlighting the scruff he had missed from that morning. His head had tilted back against the board, his eyes closed shut. You thought that if he had been normal, you would have noted razor burn on his neck.

With Laura's snores and Logan's eased breathing, you felt your eyes begin to lull, luring you into the sleep you so desperately craved. Laying your head on Logan's chest completely, you surrendered yourself to the wave of exhaustion.

Logan felt your head fall lower on his chest and your body go limp in his arms. As your breathing slowed, your hands fell into his lap and your leg draped over his.

He wanted to laugh. Really, he did, but the idea of waking either of his girls up stopped the laugh in its track, it falling to a scoff that just barely escaped his lips.

If only the man he was two weeks ago could see him now- tucking his daughter into bed and falling asleep with a woman in his arms all without a single worry in the world. Maybe he was dead and somehow made it to heaven.

But then he remembered his imagination couldn't make up a woman like you. One who took him in without a second thought, who worried about if he ate enough, who bought him new clothes because "they reminded me of you". Logan hadn't been able of conceiving normalcy. That, he left to you.

But he was still learning you then.

It was in that moment that his heart skipped a beat for the first time as your face nuzzled into his neck, hair brushing against his cheek. It was such a shocking feeling- one he hadn't known in decades- that his hand flew to his chest.

Then he realized- it was you. You did that to him.

Fuck.

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After a month, Logan got his own vehicle: a truck with a front bench seat. Although it was old and a bit beat up, he took pride in it. And besides, you would’ve been lying if you said your ears didn’t perk up every time you heard that rusty door slam signaling his return from work.

Without thinking, all three of you had fallen into a routine. Laura, who had been playing in the front yard after school, would run up to her father, roping him into whatever she had been getting up to that afternoon. You, hearing the truck's engine turn off and the playful giggles of Laura, would find yourself on the porch watching the two of them- shawl wrapped cozily around your shoulders as you brought a hot drink to your lips.

And whether it was while he was drawing the most awful scribble you've ever seen in chalk, or roughhousing on the front lawn, you'd manage to catch Logan's eye.

What you didn't know, was that Logan had his own routine. He'd join Laura in whatever she doing, but when he heard that squeak of the hurricane door opening, signalling your arrival to the scene? He was like a dog. Logan would pause whatever he was doing, looking up to meet your eyes.

Only when you gave him the same, warm smile that he thought about morning, noon, and night, did he find the permission to continue what he had been doing prior.

He'd go back to passing the ball to Laura, giving her pointers on her throw, or pushing her on the tire swing he'd set up a week earlier; but now he had an added pep in his step knowing your watchful gaze was on him. It wasn't daunting, but peaceful, warm, and comfortable. It made him want to be better... do better.

It was always in him, but your faith in Logan is what brought out his potential.

Jean always said he had a soft spot for women. The same bitter resolve Logan reserved for the rest of the population would dissipate in the presence of the opposite sex- a remanent of a bygone era maybe. Maybe.

When the sun began to set- "God damn daylight savings," Logan would grumble- all three of you would begin to head inside, the warm glow of the house inviting the three of you in. Sometimes Logan would hold the door open for you, insisting he be the last to go in and lock up.

You figured it was chivalry. He knew it was the care and concern that had grown for not only Laura, but you.

Alternatively, you'd sometimes catch him before he crossed the threshold. You'd watch Laura skip out of earshot, and gently grab Logan's arm.

The feeling of your touch against his skin was foreign yet familiar, but most certainly welcomed. The absentminded rub of your thumb against the fabric of his shirt was enough to make his heart sink in his chest. Then, you'd look up at him with thankful eyes, peeking beneath your eyelashes and he'd wonder whether he'd physically be able to restrain himself much longer.

You'd comment on something you watched him do and remind him how good he was. But once, in a moment Logan would never forget, as the two of you watched your girl run inside, you snaked your arm around his back.

"We're lucky to have you, you know?"

Logan, stunned, wasn't sure what to respond, but luckily you didn't give him the space to.

"Now, what are we thinking for dinner? I'm starving."

Still, he waited for your foot to cross the threshold before he allowed himself to enter.

That night when Logan went to sleep, the interaction played over and over in his mind. He could feel the ghost of your touch against his skin as he fell asleep to the lullaby of your soft voice reminding him that you were his.

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After how many years does a person stop remembering their own birthday?

For Logan, it was complicated but he stopped considering the day very early on. When there was no one there to celebrate with and you had the "gift" of never ending regeneration, was it worth commemorating another year in a seemingly endless life? Especially with one such as his, he wondered...no. was sure.... that there wasn't anything worth celebrating.

It was like any other day: Logan woke up, ate breakfast, went to work... but unlike the rest of them, when he slammed his truck door shut after a long day on the job, Laura wasn't playing outside despite the sun's rays still peeking through the trees. Shrugging it off, he grabbed his bag from the bed and made his way inside.

On most occasions, Logan would have stopped.

Logan would have heard the hushed whispers between you and Laura, her giggles spurning you on to do the same. He would've noted the click of the lighter on the other side of the door, but in the complete opposite of Wolverine fashion, he had gotten comfortable.

"Just like we practiced-" Your hushed voice whispered from the other side of the thick wood.

Raising his eyebrow, Logan opened the door.

On the other side, you and Laura stood with a homemade cake in your hands. The candle on top- a "1"- flickered brightly as your voices rang out singing happy birthday.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you.."

Logan could count on one hand the number of times he had cried in his very long life, but seeing the two of you standing in front of him, he felt pressure grow behind his dark eyes. Your smile, bright as ever, welcomed him in and he couldn't help but admire the way that the flame made your eyes sparkle.

You had the option of anybody- anyone in the multiverse- and you chose him to share this family and home with. Although Laura may have encouraged you, Logan knew that this was your idea. The cake, the song, the candles, the banner hanging above the door- it had your scheming written all over it. You were warm and kind and, Logan would admit, so beautiful that in that moment, he got choked up. Never had he been shown care like this.

"Happy birthday dear Logan-"

"-Daddy..."

"Happy birthday to you!"

In one hand you brought the cake close to the burly man. With the other, you brushed a stray tear from his cheek.

"Make a wish!" Laura shouted, tugging on his arm.

Pulling himself back into the moment, Logan ruffled his daughter's hair.

"Well I don't know, kid." He said. "Doesn't seem like there's much to wish for."

"Oh c'mon, Lo." You said, brushing his hair from his face absentmindedly. "There's gotta be something."

And something there was. Rather, someone.

The Logan that had existed three months ago was a changed man. To be clear, he was just as stubborn and hotheaded as always, but the unshakable doom, gloom and overall nihilistic manner about him had shifted.

Once, Charles had told Laura that Logan was ready to die... wanted to die. Now, he would never let anything happen to him, not for his own sake but for yours and the mutant girl the two of you shared.

He wanted to wake up in the morning and smell the bitter coffee you brewed for him in the kitchen before work. He wanted to go to work and have the men tease him about his "missus" they knew nothing about. He wanted to come home at the end of the day to hear your laughs and jokes at his expense. Most importantly, he wanted to fall asleep at night knowing it would be the same tomorrow.

Logan, the lone wolf, the Wolverine, in his vulnerability had found a safe haven in Laura and you.

You, who gave yourself freely and optimistically. It almost felt wrong how he wanted more from you, but how could he help it? You gave him a taste and he wanted more.

Taking a deep breath- and rolling his eyes for show- Logan blew the candle out with a wish in mind.

"What's your wish?" Laura asked, bouncing on her toes as the smoke flitted through the air.

Logan, a bit embarrassed but not wanting to admit it, was preparing to mess with Laura about wishing for something completely asinine, but to his relief, you stepped in.

"He can't tell you, silly." You said, placing your hand on Laura's back to guide her towards the kitchen. "If he tells you, then it won't come true."

Glancing over your shoulder, you shot Logan a wink.

God, he was fucked.

Logan and you followed Laura into the kitchen, dragging a few feet behind.

"Didn't wanna know what I wished for?" Logan asked.

The Logan of long ago- the one who had the time and heart to devote to a woman- had slowly appeared the more time he spent with you. It's as if in the warmth of your love, the harsh exterior had melted away.

Sometimes Logan wondered if you were right that first day when you told him the old him was dead. Then, a moment like this would happen and he would be reminded that it was always in him, waiting for the right condition, or person, to bring it forth.

"I don't know what you're talking about," You said, smiling. "I meant what I said. I don't wanna know. I want your wish to come true... don't you?"

Logan in that moment wondered whether you had peeked into his mind. Had you fished out his deepest desires and decided to dangle them in front of his face?

You hadn't given him time to ask. Instead, you left him standing in confusion in the foyer as you rushed into the kitchen.

"Laura!" You shouted, "Do not stick your hand into that cake! Laura-"

Shaking his head in disbelief at what his life had become, a dry chuckled escape Logan's throat.

"Jesus."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Considering the portion of her life that she had spent locked up in comparison to being free, you were proud of the progress that Laura had made. She picked up incredibly quick on the way things worked. She knew not to steal, how to use a fork and knife, to wait until the little green man appeared to cross the street- she was quick, intelligent, and incredibly perceptive.

One part she still struggled with, however, was managing her anger: a trait she had inherited from her father.

It was a minor concern. The life that you and Logan had created for her was one that made the likelihood of outbursts scarce- only a heated argument with Logan over something as silly as a game would be able to bring her claws out... metaphorically of course.

"Logan, she doesn't know what property tax is." You'd say after she stormed off with a stomp and growl. "Give her a break."

"That's not how the game goes." Logan would argue. "If the kid wants to survive out there, she's gotta know how the world works."

"It's Monopoly, Logan!"

However, as with any child, you couldn't always control when those outbursts occurred.

The three of you had had a nightmare of a weekend. A short trip that had otherwise gone smoothly, went up in flames last minute when all flights were canceled due to an impending blizzard. Rather than stick it out, with Logan needing to get back to work, the two of you decided it would be best to road trip back home.

For the most part it was fine. Intermittently Logan would scold Laura for kicking his seat absentmindedly and you'd all argue over whether to use air conditioning or windows, but besides that it was perfectly fine. Normal even. Which was rare for two immortals from a different universe and a witch.

When Laura begged to pull over for a snack, how were you supposed to know that it could go so wrong?

As you browsed the aisles, occasionally picking up a snack, skimming the back and placing it back where it came from., Laura had drifted from your side. A beverage in the back had caught her eye without you realising and by the time you noticed her departure, it was too late.

When you heard her sweet voice turn to cursed growls that resembled her fathers, you were across the store in an instant.

An old man stood before her with a hand wrapped around one of her wrists.

"Woah!" You shouted, standing between the man and Laura. "What's going on here?"

"Your brat kid stomped on my foot, that's what!" The man growled. "You oughta teach that girl a lesson!"

Although you had created a gap between her and the man, that comment had you throwing Laura behind you entirely. A part of you that had been buried for years- an aggression you barely recognized- came to the surface.

"Don't talk to my daughter like that!" You shouted, shoving your finger in his face. "You have some fucking nerve-"

All of the commotion piqued Logan's ears from across the shop. The unfamiliar pitch of your voice had Logan tossing his keys on the counter and quickening his pace to you.

"Oh good," The guy said. "Maybe you can tell your bitch of a wife to-"

In the past few months, Logan had become a man that the old Logan- figuratively and literally- would have never recognized. He was cool, calm, and collected. His outbursts were few and far between and never, ever violent.

But, hearing that bite in your voice? Seeing the fire in your eyes? And, worst of all, some man call you that? No Logan would have let that slide.

A part of him- a primal one that called to action when needed- came out then.

Before he had even had time to process the implication of what the asshole said, Logan had grabbed the collar of his shirt with a growl and slammed him against the freezer. Bottles rattled on their shelves as the collective hiss of a spare few crashing on the floor echoed throughout the convenience store.

"We got a problem here, bub?” Logan hissed.

The confidence of the man whose feet were now dangling in the air had deteriorated. The fear in his eyes was palpable as he gasped for air.

“No!” He gasped. “Everything’s fine!”

“Yeah?” Logan asked, shoving the man up higher, eliciting a whelp. “Why don’t you apologize to the lady then.”

“I’m- ah!” He hissed. “I’m sorry!”

Logan's face burned red as he held him high. A visible vein protruded from his neck.

"Logan." You called. "He's not worth it. Let him go."

The man's shoes scraped against the glass doors he was pressed against.

"Let's just go home."

Logan glanced to where you stood with Laura shielded in your arms. On any given day of his other life he would have beat that man to a pulp for insulting the only two people breathing who mattered to him. He would of let his conscience take a back seat while his fists led, the only consequence being a stinging in his knuckles for a brief moment.

But now, there was stuff- or rather, people... his girls- at stake. Any confrontation with the law could put the dynamic you had in jeopardy. His ego wasn't worth the price.

Logan dropped the man to the floor and wiped his hands against his jacket. Before he could allow himself to turn back and get himself into trouble, he placed his hand on your shoulder and gently guided you towards the door.

"C'mon, let's go."

Later, as the sun set beyond the horizon, Laura laid asleep with her head in your lap. Had she been anyone besides the daughter of the Wolverine, you would have argued for seatbelt safety. However, seeing her content face nuzzled in a sweatshirt on your lap- her feet kicked up onto her father's- how could you say no?

Logan lazily hummed along to an old tune playing on the radio, one arm leaning out the window.

He cleared his throat.

"Daughter, huh?"

His eyes were trained on the road but you saw a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips.

"Am I your wife?"

If he had been the old Logan- before the endless pain, before the wars, before the deaths of his loved ones- he would have told you he loved you right there.

I wish you were.

But he wasn't. Despite his appearance he was an old, disgruntled, traumatized, burdened man. Logan didn't have the same confidence he did decades ago where he could say it, mean it and not worry about the consequences.

And your love, romantic or not, was not something he was willing to gamble.

But God he wanted you.

"If you were my wife, I'd treat you helluva lot better." He said. The smile had disappeared, replaced by a stoic, knitted line.

The fingers of yours that had been running through Laura's hair stopped. Your breath caught in your throat as you glanced out the window, watching the trees on the side of the highway blur past you.

"You treat me pretty damn well, Logan." You said, trying to sound humorous but ultimately falling flat. "I envy the woman who gets you."

This should have been the moment that it changed.

This should have been the moment that Logan pulled the car over to the side of the road and told you that he didn't want to pretend to be a family anymore- three people who were falling into the roles assigned to them- he wanted you to be a family because you were one. It wasn't pretend. It wasn't a facade. You were a family in every sense of the word.

Because he was yours, you were his and Laura belonged to you as much as Logan.

When the guys at work asked about his missus, he wanted to say your name. The lines had been blurred, but he wanted to straighten them out beyond where they had begin- where they were meant to be. You with him, him with you, you all together.

How could he think about another woman when his world revolved around you?

But then Laura stirred in your lap and his built-up confidence crumbled.

She yawned, curling herself into your lap.

"Are we home yet?"

Pulling your eyes from the road, you smiled and resumed brushing your fingers through her hair.

"Almost, honey."

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

"Logan!"

Your sharp cry woke Logan from his slumber with a start. Before he had entirely processed that it was your voice calling for help, he had flung the sheets from his body and threw himself out of bed.

"Y/n?" Logan shouted, his sock covered feet hitting the floor.

Below, he heard a shatter. He could make out the sound of distinct pieces of glass sliding across the floor as you screamed his name.

"Get off of-" He heard your muffled voice grunt from the floor below. "Logan, help!"

Hearing your pleas, Logan threw open the bedroom door and ran down the stairs- skipping three steps at a time. He felt his heart pounding against his chest so aggressively that he was sure he would be able to see the imprint of it on his skin had he looked in a mirror.

Despite his descending the staircase at a rapid pace, your voice became more distant the closer he got.

Then, he heard the back door swing open.

Logan dodged his way through the threshold of the living room, running over the shattered vase that littered the floor. Drops of blood stained the rug. The television that had been on when you fell asleep on the couch hours earlier was still playing reruns of your favorite show.

Logan quickened his pace. He felt the chilled breeze hit his skin coming from the backdoor left ajar. When he crossed from the kitchen onto the porch, he froze.

He could hear the rhythmic buzz of the electric collar around your neck- suppressing your powers- from where he stood. Your socks were wet from the freshly melted snow that stained where you stood on the grass. A deep red gash drew blood from your forehead, dripping down your face and over your cheeks.

Behind you, a man stood with a gun to your back.

"Who the fuck are you?" The stranger called, shaking you 'til you lost your balance.

You fell to your knees in front of him with a cry.

"I'm gonna be the guy who kills you if you don't let her go." Logan growled, fists balled up at his sides.

His voice echoed amongst the trees and as sturdy as it sounded, the feeling of his fingernails digging into his palms was the only thing that kept Logan from shaking.

You- precious, kind, loving- you were on your knees powerless, preparing yourself for your own demise. Tears pooled at the corner of your eyes as you heaved, no doubt from the fight you had just lost in the living room. Logan realized that for the first time in the months he had known you, you were scared.

You were like a fortress in a storm- sturdy, powerful, confident- but now it was as though a battering ram had been taken to your resolve, leaving you destroyed. There was something about that knowledge that terrified him even more- if you were scared, he had every reason to be terrified.

"Oh I'm not letting her go," The guy laughed. "The Avengers ruined my life. This used to be the Avengers Compound base and she's going to die here like the rest of them. You can kill me all you want, but she," He pulled your hair, "is going out with me."

As he tugged your hair, your face raised to meet Logan's. By now, tears stained your cheeks, running down your neck and into the hem of your shirt.

Finally, when life was going the way you wanted- in the way you felt you deserved- it was coming to an end.

The only comfort brought was that Logan was here with you.

"Logan-" You cried, a sob lodged in your throat.

Logan could feel his heart shatter into a thousand pieces at your soft, yet broken voice.

Holding back his own emotions for your sake, he breathed shakily.

"Sweetheart... I'm gonna fix this. Just-"

"I love you." You sobbed, hands tied behind your back. Your chest rose and fell with a wheeze as another cry escaped you. "God, I loved you so much it hurt. I wanted us to-"

Past tense.

Just like that, the dam broke.

Tears that had been burning behind Logan's eyes fled the corners, blurring his vision. His fists loosened their grip as one moved to balance himself on the railing. All the while, his chest burned with the fire of a thousand suns.

"Don't talk like that." Logan huffed, blinking back tears.

Then, Logan heard the click of the bullet falling into place.

"Show's over." The stranger announced. "Say hi to your friends for me."

People often wonder what thoughts go through your head the moment before you die. Some say their life flashes before them, others disappear without even knowing. You?

Oddly enough you wanted to remind Logan to clean up the glass in the living room before Laura could step on it. That you had bread rising in the kitchen that he should bake, or remember to throw out before it got moldy. That the deed to your land was in the safe in your office. The combination was your birthday.

But all you could manage was an-

"I love you."

You think that covered it.

You could hear his index finger fiddling with the trigger behind you. You swore later that you could even make out the sound of his knuckles popping as they bent into position.

Both were interrupted by a whiny slishhh as two shimmering claws shot from his torso.

Laura.

Like a gun going off at the races, Logan broke into a run across the yard. When you were feet away, he slid onto his knees in the wet grass and pulled you into him.

If his brain hadn't been so fogged, Logan would have worried that he hurt you from how tight he squeezed you. His calloused fingertips tangled themselves in your hair as your forehead found its home against his own. His other hand gripped your shirt for dear life, feeling the chill of your skin through the cloth.

His warm breath enveloped your face as he held you tighter- fearing what would happen if you escaped his reach.

Soft cries escaped your lips as he peppered your forehead in kisses.

"You're safe now, I got you." He said, more for himself than you. "I love you too, darlin', I'm right here."

Logan heard the earth crunch beside him as Laura wordlessly kneeled beside you both and slipped into your embrace.

.:*

After the first responders had come and gone, it was 3am.

You and Logan put Laura to bed together. When you leaned over to tuck her in, her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into her. Her fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt as her face hid in your shoulder.

For the second time that evening, tears burned in your eyes. This time, not out of fear of the unknown but peace at the future revealed.

You brushed her hair back and kissed her forhead.

"I love you." You said, quelling the shake in your voice. "I'm not going anywhere."

She pulled away and allowed you to tuck the blanket up to her chin.

"Sweet dreams."

As you handed her the stuffed animal you had gifted her the first day, her voice spoke out barely above a whisper.

"I love you too, Mommy."

And the dam broke. As if sensing your composure, Logan reached out and laid a hand on your shoulder.

"Night kiddo."

Logan ushered you from the room, carefully closing the door as you exited. He took your hand in his and led you to your room.

His hands were just as you imagined them- callous and rough. But they didn't scare or deter you. No, they were a physical manifestation of his perseverance. The hands he would use to love, provide and protect you. They had to be strong, they carried the weight of the world in his hands. It was a comfort and privilege to be loved by them.

In your room, Logan turned the lamp on and guided you under the covers. He pulled the covers over your form and as he did, you snatched his wrist in your hand.

"Stay."

It wasn't question, an order, or a command.

It was a plead. A begging on your knees.

"I'm not goin' anywhere."

His voice was dry, tired.

Moving to the other side of the bed, he carefully slid into the space beside you.

"C'mere."

He stretched his arm over your back and eased you into his side. Like a woman stranded in the ocean and he your life raft, you slipped your arms around him and held him as if your life depended on it. You nuzzled your face in the crook of his neck and breathed in his scent for the first time.

Although it was new, the intimacy felt familiar. Whether because of your dreams made real or that you both had fallen into the place destined for you, you weren't sure. But the ease lulled you to surrender to your exhaustion.

"I love you." You mumbled into his neck, your vision fleeing from focus as your eyes drooped.

Logan breathed in deeply, stroking his face with your knuckles as your breathing slowed.

"I love you too, darlin.'"

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

This has been in the drafts for months and i'm SO excited to finally put it out into the world. replies and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I would love to know what you all think <3 laura's perception of reader and logan are very much based on the end of logan where she calls logan daddy (i wanna SOB) and i did edit a few chunks out to limit the word count aflkdjal, anyway thank you for reading!! -cass

#logan #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine fanfiction #logan fanfiction #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett x you #logan howlett drabble #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett fanfiction #xmen fanfiction #logan howlett angst

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forklesbian · 1 month ago

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@harp0crat35

Did you knwo?! Its a very important tip

❗️GAME TIP❗️you can take your autistic girlfriend to the aquarium to stare at fish🐟🐠

#fork talks to the void #subliminal messages #very subliminal #I swear #I like the fish

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forklesbian · 6 months ago

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When Ashes was Hades, they definitely kept a subsect of the Acheron lit right behind them in the room where people were begging for help. So the only way to avoid looking at a bunch of brains is to either look directly at them or look at the floor.

Ulysses looked straight into their eyes (as best as they could because smoke was probably all around) because they were used to speaking to higher up military officials.

Heracles looked at the brains because he always had a soft spot for carnage.

Orpheus looked between Hades and Persephone before closing his eyes to sing.

#the mechanisms #the mechs #fork talks to the void #ulysses dies at dawn #the mechanisms udad #udad heracles #udad ulysses #udad orpheus #ashes o'reilly #Persephone Tim #Did I write this just because I think the visual of Ashes smoking and lounging in front of a bunch of glowing brains incredibly attractive?#possibly

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em1i2a3 · 26 days ago

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The Moon Song

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you and Bob return from your rehearsal dinner for your wedding tomorrow, you both decide that it is time to finally practice your slow dance and settle on a song.

Warnings: Pure Fluff, and nice intimate moments, Talks about the future, Y’all it’s so sweet that it’s cavity inducing to be honest.

Author’s Note: I loved the idea that reader and Bob procrastinate for so long that they are literally making these decisions the night before the wedding, just seems like something Bob would do. I thought it would be a cute little blurb piece, cause this weekend there are some pretty heavy updates coming from the Bob o’sphere lol, and I need to ease that tension by starting with this fluff lol. I hope y’all enjoy this little piece <3 (Also, Happy RAF!)

Word Count: 3,017

The door to your shared apartment clicked shut behind you, and both you and Bob let out a long sigh at the exact same time, not even trying to hide the slight exhaustion that laced the breaths.

Your clutch landed on the little table beside the door with a dull thumb as you reached up to tug your earrings out, wincing a little at the ache in your lobes from how the weight of the jewelry pulled at them throughout the night. You didn’t try to take off your heels just yet, but your feet were already screaming for relief.

Behind you, Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, slowly loosening the collar of his black button up. The quietness of your apartment wrapped around you both like a blanket, giving you a breath of real air after hours of wine refills, clinking forks, and polite interrogations.

The sound of your shoes echoed down the hallways as you and Bob made your way towards your bedroom.

“That was so much small talk,” You muttered, trying to unzip your dress before realizing–for the second time tonight–you couldn’t reach behind you properly to do it. You let out a frustrated exhale and added “I’m sorry about my cousin, by the way. She was relentless…If it wasn’t for my aunt distracting me, I would’ve stepped in sooner.” Bob shrugged as you reached your bedroom door.

”It wa–wasn’t that bad,” He said gently, “Especially for it being our fi–first meeting.” You smirked and glanced over your shoulder at him.

”Well, you made a good first impression. I just wish they weren’t so pushy with you, and maybe they would actually let you finish a sentence instead of jumping in for you.” Bob reached out and took your hand, his large fingers wrapping around yours, giving them a small squeeze.

”We li–literally will never se-see them again after this anyways…There’s also a reason wh–why I didn’t meet them before tonight, right?’ You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up your throat.

”Yeah…I guess you’re right as usual.” You gave his hand a squeeze back, “You know how I am, though.” He nodded, bringing your hand up to his mouth–the diamond of your engagement ring catching in the dim light–his lips brushing against your knuckles as you stepped into the bedroom fully.

”Al–Always on the defensive for me…Ju–Just like I am for you.” You smiled, feeling the warmth blooming in your chest as the two of you paused in the center of the room, bathed in soft amber lamplight. The chaos of the evening started melting off your shoulders.

Then Bob grinned and said, “Now, turn around for me. I wanna help my fiancée un–undress one last time before I can say she’s my wi–wife.” You rolled your eyes, letting out a small laugh.

”God, you’re so sentimental tonight.” You joked, but you still turned anyway. His hands were on you instantly. They were steady and unhurried as they found the golden zipper of your short white dress, fiddling with it for a moment before guiding it slowly down your back, his fingertips skimming your spine. The fabric fluttered down your hips and pooled at your feet. In one quick movement he knelt to unbuckle your heels next–one, then the other–thumbs brushing against your calves like he wanted to remember how your skin felt tonight, of all nights–on the eve of your wedding day.

When he stood up again, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, then another at the top of your spine. Then another one near the nape of your neck.

“You looked be–beautiful in that dress tonight, by the way,” He said, his voice muffling and vibrating against your skin. You let out a little laugh as you turned to face him, your chest pressing against his.

”You’ve said that ten times tonight.” He smiled, eyes half-lidded as he leaned in and kissed your lips.

”El–Eleven including this time.” You sighed and kissed him again, softer now, allowing your lips to linger against his, before pulling back.

”Mmm…I love you so much.” He bumped his forehead against yours.

”I kn–know,” He whispered, “I love you too.” You smiled, reaching up to help him undo his tie, the cool fabric sliding loose with a soft hiss before you slipped it from around his neck and let it drape carelessly over the footboard. You didn’t stop there.

You glanced up once–his eyes were on you, heavy-lidded–before your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. One by one, you undid them. Each pop of a button revealed more of him. The line of his sternum. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The very faint dusting of light brown hair that trailed downward from the center of his ribs. The faintest pink scar near his left collarbone. All of him–warm, familiar, and yours.

And as each new inch of skin appeared, you leaned in and kissed him—soft, slow, sweet.

A kiss just below his collarbone.

Another near the center of his chest.

A final one low on his ribs.

Each one paired with whispered sweet nothings:

“So handsome.”

“Tomorrow I get to call you mine forever.”

“You’re everything to me.”

Bob stood still and quiet beneath your affection, his chest rising with every breath, eyes fluttering shut as his hands rested loosely at your waist.

When you finally stepped back, you did so slowly–eyes trailing over him one last time before giving him space to finish undressing.

You peeled off your sticky bra and underwear, reaching for the soft, worn t-shirt of his that always ended up in your drawer no matter how many times he looked for it. It still smelled faintly like cedar and fabric softener and the faintest trace of him.

You tugged it over your head and pulled on your cotton sleep shorts, the ones that rode up your thighs just a little too high for modesty but were impossibly soft and broken in from so many washes. You raked your fingers through your hair and gave it a twist into a bun.

When you turned back around, Bob had finished changing. His black dress shirt was now a forgotten memory in the hamper, and in its place: those loose grey sweatpants that always hung low on his hips and that godforsaken navy blue t-shirt. The one that clung to his shoulders and arms, fitted just enough to be devastating.

You stared.

Groaned.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face, “You change out of that hot button-up and then put something even hotter on? Bob, how you torture me.”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck like he couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him like that. “St–Still not used to me being in something fitted, hm?”

You stepped toward him, swaying your hips a little just because you could, and reached up to playfully tug at the hem of his shirt. “Never. And I don’t think I ever will be. It’s always a wonderful sight.”

You kissed him again, slower this time–more lips, less breath. Your hand splayed across the center of his chest, feeling the firm, steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He let out a low, soft moan into your mouth. Just a small one.

Enough to make you feel like you could melt into the hardwood.

When you pulled back, both of you a little flushed and breathless, Bob leaned his forehead against yours again. “Le–Let’s make some tea and relax together, hm?”

You nodded, and as you turned toward the door, he gave your butt a playful tap.

You gasped and looked back at him, eyebrows raised.

He had the nerve to look innocent, “Just giving yo–you a little love tap of encouragement.”

——————————

The kitchen was dim and glowing when you reached it, lit only by the under-cabinet lights and the golden cast from the hallway lamp.

You moved automatically, hips brushing each other in the small space as Bob pulled two mugs down from the cabinet–your favorite one with the little chip in the rim, and his black one with the faded NASA logo. The kettle was already humming on the stove, steam beginning to whisper from the spout.

You hopped up onto the counter while he reached for the tin of ginger peach tea you both loved. He spooned loose leaves into the steeper, the soft clink of metal against ceramic the only sound for a moment.

You pulled your phone from the pocket of your sleep shorts and opened your Spotify, immediately tapping into the playlist you’d been building in slow, indecisive spurts over the past few months.

“first dance???????”

The title said it all.

And now–tonight–you were scrolling through it with a dull ache in your stomach. Too many ballads. Too many lyrics about heartbreak or metaphors that felt too heavy. Everything either felt choreographed or too raw.

Behind you, Bob poured hot water over the tea, the scent of ginger and an array of mixed dried fruits beginning to warm the air. The kitchen slowly filled with that calm, earthy sweetness you always associated with late nights and deep conversations. He set your mug beside you, but you barely registered it.

Bob said something–something quiet and offhanded, voice soft and low–but you didn’t catch it.

”Hm?” You murmured, still staring at the list of songs, scrolling more and more down the list. He shook his head, smiling.

”Nothing. Yo–You’re busy.” You finally looked up from the screen, locking your phone and putting it beside you.

”No, I”m sorry. Go ahead and repeat what you said.” You said gently. He picked up his mug, leaning beside you on the counter, his free hand coming to rest on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.

”I just said…We don’t ne–need to stress out about picking the perfect song…We’ll be fine.” He reassured.

“Bob…” You sighed, setting your hand over his, “We have not really been blessed with the skill of being rhythmically inclined.” He let out a soft huff of amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“So we sway ar–around a little bit for a few minutes…” He said, voice low, warm. “As long as I’m with yo–you, nothing else matters.” He pulled his hand from your thigh to reach for your mug of tea and held it out to you, like he was presenting a peace offering. “Now… drink yo–your tea and relax a bi–bit.” You took the mug with a sigh, exaggerating the frown on your face as you wrapped your fingers around it and brought it to your lips. The steam brushed your cheeks, warm and soothing, as you took a slow sip–sweet, herbal, grounding.

But when you looked over the rim of your mug, Bob was watching you with that expression. The one that said he knew exactly what you were thinking before you said it.

He shook his head and sighed, low and fond. “Alright…” He murmured, dragging out the word with performative defeat. “Let me go grab my sp–speaker, and we can go through a few songs…”

Your lips curved up immediately, hope fluttering in your chest. “Thank you.”

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead–soft, slow, lingering. “On–Only I would do this for my future wife.”

You let out a small, genuine laugh, “I’m honoured.” You replied quickly, watching as he turned and padded out of the kitchen.

Moments later, he returned, speaker in hand. He turned it on, the soft hum and flash of blue light indicating it was connected. As he returned to his space beside you, you unlocked your phone and handed it to him.

Bob opened the playlist, scrolling with one thumb while the other cradled the speaker against his hip.

“Pl–Plainsong by The Cure is great…” He said thoughtfully. “But do we really wanna be on that da–dance floor for five minutes?”

You smirked, sipping your tea. “Okay, you’re right…Let’s aim for something a bit shorter.”

Bob chuckled and scrolled again, brow furrowing slightly in concentration. “Yo–You’ve got so many songs on this pl–playlist. How the hell are we gonna decide?”

You shrugged, tapping your finger against your mug. “We whittle it down until we’ve got a top five…Then try dancing to them?”

Bob sighed, resigned. “Alright…” You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek before he could spiral. His skin flushed pink almost instantly under your lips.

You lost track of time after the fifth or sixth song.

What started as a forty-track playlist and a long list of indecisiveness had finally been whittled down to something manageable—five songs. Five contenders for the first dance of your lives. By now, your mugs were long emptied and pushed aside on the counter, forgotten in the warmth of focused decision-making and the lazy comfort of each other’s presence.

Bob leaned his elbows on the counter beside you, scrolling through the final list. “Okay…” he exhaled. “We’ve got—it down to five songs. Which one do you want to start with?”

You hummed, stretching your arms above your head with a quiet groan. “Let’s do Sea of Love first.”

Bob offered his hand to help you down from the counter, steady and warm as always, and you took it without hesitation. Your bare feet touched the tile floor with a quiet sound, and a soft click followed as he pressed play.

The song drifted in gently—delicate and dreamy, like something meant for twilight and candlelight and hands held close to the chest.

Bob stepped toward you, and you met him in the middle of the kitchen. His hand found the small of your back while the other cradled yours carefully in his own. You rested your free hand just beneath his shoulder, fingertips grazing the curve of his bicep, your body sinking easily into his.

The music wrapped around you both like steam curling through warm air. You moved together in small, uncertain sways–barely even dancing, really. Just shifting with the rhythm. But it felt right.

He looked down at you, cheeks tinged with color, his eyes soft.

“Wh–What do you think people usually talk about when they’re actually doing th–this?” he asked quietly.

You let out a breath of laughter, gaze flicking upward to meet his. “Probably mundane things… I hope.”

He smirked, eyebrows raising with mock seriousness. “Did we lock the doors? Di–Did we invite too many guests?”

You laughed a little harder at that, your hand tightening lightly in his. “How long do we have to be here before we can go home?”

He chuckled, dipping his head close, his nose brushing yours. “I’ll start pr–preparing conversation starters in the morning.”

His hand moved slowly, absentmindedly, up and down the small of your back–just enough to soothe, enough to ground you. You leaned into him a little more, letting your cheek brush his collarbone, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath your palm.

After a quiet moment, you whispered, “Do you think Sentry’s going to come out tomorrow?”

His chest lifted with a deep inhale. “Ye–Yeah. Probably,” he said softly. “I do–doubt he wouldn’t. I’ll be so ov–overwhelmed with happiness, he’ll definitely be taking the wheel at so–some point.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “I think my extended family will be very surprised to meet him.”

Bob gave a short breath of laughter and kissed your forehead with a smile that barely concealed his nerves. “We’ll really be ma–making memories at that point.”

You held him closer, letting your fingers trace slow circles along the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, it was just the music, the warmth of his body, and the quiet in-between.

And then the next song began to play.

You hadn’t even realized the first track had ended.

It came in slow, barely there at first–soft, careful guitar strums like someone thinking out loud, hesitant and full of longing. The vocals followed, almost whispered, harmonized gently by a second voice that lingered like a ghost. The whole thing felt like standing outside on a rooftop under a navy sky, wrapped in a blanket, forehead pressed to someone else’s.

Your breath caught.

Bob’s hand stilled against your back, and neither of you said anything.

The song continued–gentle strings winding under the fragile weight of each lyric. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t theatrical. It sounded like two people trying to hold a quiet moment in their palms and not break it.

You slowly looked up at him.

His blue eyes were glassy in the low kitchen light. Not crying–just brimming with tears that were threatening to escape.

“This one…” He said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “Fe–Feels like us…Wh–What is it called?” You coughed slightly, clearing your throat from the lump that was beginning to form.

”It’s called The Moon Song.” You replied, smiling a bit. He held you tighter, his thumb brushing a slow arc over your spine.

”It’s perfect…”

And without saying another word, the two of you swayed together in the center of your shared kitchen as the soft voices wrapped around you like the stars themselves had come inside to listen.

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dramaticals · 2 years ago

Text

did you hear what i said?

pairing: theodore nott x gryffindor reader

summary: after a year of secretly dating, theo breaks things off when classes start up again. it's now christmas eve and he's back with a figurative box of regret / requested by anonymous.

author's note: angst! there will be a part two with fluff, but i just needed to get this out since i've been writing this for too long. (please) feel free to leave angsty requests in my inbox because this is the genre that gets my gears going! but i make no promises on resolutions and happy endings ♡

"You look happier."

Theodore stands in front of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, his hands shoved into his pockets. His presence garners murmurs all around, even though the Great Hall was emptier than usual for the holidays. The sight of him makes your breath catch. It's been three months since you last spoke to him, but the memory of that night resurfaces, ripping open the wound on your healing heart.

It was back in September.

Theo had passed you a note in Potions, asking you to meet him in the Astronomy Tower after dark. It wasn't a peculiar ask, so you didn't think much of it at the time. The Astronomy Tower had become your and Theo's spot. A quiet place for the two of you to just exist—no interruptions and no expectations from the outside world. Your house rivalry was nothing in that tower. It was just you and Theo.

The two of you would spend hours hiding there, often cuddled on top of a lush blanket you had hidden nearby. You'd talk about anything and everything with him, from learning about each other's likes and dislikes to venting about classes and classmates. On nights where the two of you favoured serenity, it was never unpleasant. You'd embrace the quiet, exchanging sweet kisses all the while enjoying the comfort and protection of his arms.

That night in September was different, though. You sensed it the minute you ascended the steps to see Theo standing stiffly by the railing, his gaze concentrating on a bird on the horizon.

Theo didn't even turn to face you—acknowledge you—before he was muttering the words that shattered your heart into pieces.

"I'm over this." Theo said, his tone void of any emotion. His hand clutched onto the railing so tightly that his knuckles were pale.

Stunned silence fell over you. You just looked at him with a puzzled expression.

"Did you hear what I said?" Theo turned to you then, and you could see the pained expression on his features. But then something shifted, and his expression turned cold. "I'm breaking up with you."

His words on their own were harsh, but the inflection on each syllable felt like he was personally twisting a serrated knife into your heart.

"I don't understand." You said. "Why? What did I—"

"I feel like you're getting attached, and I think we've run our course." Theo interrupted. His eyes, the ones you became so accustomed to, were dark and flooded with an expression even you weren't familiar with. Theo scoffed. "You didn't actually think we'd last, did you?"

Maybe it was the naive and hopeless romantic in you, but you truly believed you would. House rivalries, judgemental friends, and family expectations were merely obstacles the two of you would deal with together. You just felt so strongly about him, and you were certain he felt the same about you.

"Did you hear what I said?" The Theodore standing in front of you jerks you back to the present.

You blink, and you nearly drop your fork.

"I heard you," you say firmly, returning your attention back to the half-eaten plate in front of you. You make yourself look busy and uncaring (as much as you could with food and a full stomach), as if Theodore's sudden presence had no effect on you.

Theodore shifts in his spot, his eyes darting to the empty seat in front of you, silently contemplating whether he should take it or cut his losses and leave. Reluctantly, he settles on the former. This makes you tense, your lips pursing as he sits. It doesn't help that you were highly attentive to the whispers; your classmates were surely speculating why Theodore Nott would be choosing the company of a muggle-born on Christmas Eve. You put down your fork, bring your gaze to his, and let out an exhausted breath.

"Nott, what do you want?"

Hearing his last name from you makes his jaw clench. It was cold and formal, stripped of any history you two shared.

"Just wanted to know if you were as happy as you looked."

"You have no right to that type of information anymore."

"Humour me."

You glare at him. Theodore looks back at you with such shy tenderness that your gaze softens slightly.

Am I happy? you think.

Some days, sure. But most days, you find yourself wandering back to that dreadful night in September. Even after all these months, you still wonder if you had just said something different or fought back instead of taking it, maybe you and Theo would still be together.

It was why Ginny, the only poor soul who was aware of your relationship with Theo, had set you up with Michael Corner, a cute Ravenclaw boy in your year. He was smart, funny, and occasionally sweet, but he wasn't Theodore Nott.

Still, you persisted. You allowed yourself to indulge in the idea of being with Michael because the brooding Slytherin boy who had your heart had made his choice. You went on a few dates with Michael; he'd walk you to class, sit with you during Quidditch matches, and sometimes—when he was feeling courageous—he'd plant a kiss on your lips in the middle of the bustling corridor.

"I am." You lie, and you bite down on the insides of your cheeks. What good would it do to admit you weren't, especially to the cause of your turmoil?

Theodore watches you, practically analyzing your features. He doesn't have to say anything for you to know he didn't believe you, and you hated that—hated him, for having been so attentive to you that your tells were obvious.

"You are?" Theodore questions.

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"I think you and I have a habit of saying things we don't mean."

His careful words and wistful gaze make you flush with embarrassment and anger. To this day, you still weren't sure why Theo had broken things off with you, and it was something that had kept you up countless nights. Through gritted teeth and cheeks stinging with remembered hurt, you say, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Theodore starts, his eyes flickering around to ensure no one was listening in. While a few lingering glances were sent your way, everyone was spread out far enough that it'd be hard to eavesdrop. He drops his voice anyway. "I shouldn't have said what I did that night. I didn't mean it. I don't mean it."

The anger bubbling in the pit of your stomach erupts, your eyes blazing. "Is this some sick game to you? It's been three months, Theodore. I spent three months crying over you and wondering what the hell I did to you to be so bloody cruel. And now when I'm finally ready to move on from you, you come back to tell me you... you didn't mean it?" The last words leave a dirty, salty taste in your mouth.

"No, no," Theodore shakes his head, swallowing thickly as you recounted the months of hell. He hadn't been doing any better either, but Theo was generally good at hiding his afflictions. Numbing the pain with weed and alcohol were among his favourite remedies. "It's not a game. It was never a game. You should know me well enough to know that I would never mean any of the things I said."

"Know you?" You almost laugh. You had replayed the breakup and the weeks leading up to it in your mind countless times, trying to make sense of the bullshit non-reason he had given when he broke up with you but nothing made sense. The whole thing made you spiral, questioning everything that had ever happened between you two. "I'm actually convinced I never really knew you, because the guy I knew would never have done that to me."

Having had enough of the conversation, you get up, leaving your half-eaten plate and a pained Theodore at the Gryffindor table. You're almost past the door of the Great Hall when Theo, as a last-ditch effort, grabs a hold of your wrist, hauling you to a stop. You let out a small huff and turn to face him.

"Meet me in the Astronomy Tower after dark." Theodore says softly, almost pleadingly. He makes a conscious effort to ignore all the prying eyes that turned.

"Because that worked out so well for me last time."

"Just—please. If you want to continue never speaking to each other again after that, then fine. But at least let me explain."

You had every intention of ignoring Theodore’s request. He didn’t deserve a chance to explain—the statute of limitations for explaining ended months ago. And yet, you found yourself sneaking out of the Gryffindor common room and up to the Astronomy Tower, inebriated by the countless what-ifs and string of memories: Theo sneaking a kiss on your lips as everyone turned to view whatever Hagrid had for Care of Magical Creatures, Theo resting his hand on your thigh during potions, Theo winking at you as you watched him play Quidditch.

“You’re here.” Theodore says, just as you reach the top of the staircase. He was sitting by the railing.

“I am,” you say as you walk toward him reluctantly. You settle next to him.

Theodore looks at you, and it looks like he’s about to say something, but then he shuts his eyes, shakes his head, and sighs.

You’ve never seen him at a loss for words. He was intentionally silent, sure, but his quick wit never failed him.

“I’ve regretted that night every day, you know.” He speaks up, his solemn eyes trained on yours. “I replay it over and over.”

Theodore’s gaze is unrelenting, brimming with seriousness and a vulnerability that you haven’t seen before. You tear your gaze away from his because the more he talks and looks at you like this, the more you find it hard to breathe.

“Then why do it? Why say those things?” You manage to ask.

Theodore’s jaw clenches. “Lesser of two evils.”

When you look at him with a confused expression, he continues, “It was better to lose you on those terms than to lose you completely.”

Silence falls on both of you, filling the space like a thick fog.

“I lost my mom when I was seven.” Theodore explains, his eyes darkening. “A freak accident.”

Out of the year you and Theo dated in secret, he had rarely mentioned his mom. And if he did, it was small tidbits—precious memories. Regardless of how small and insignificant the memory would seem to others, you gathered how important Theo’s mom was to him. Underneath Theo’s stoic expressions and calculating demeanour was a softness to Theo that could only be accredited to his mom.

“She got caught in the crossfire between some death eaters.” Theodore says, his expression pained. He drops his gaze now, but you keep your eyes on him. There’s a mixture of grief and anger that flashes across his features, and it takes everything in you to hold yourself back from reaching for him. To comfort him.

“It took me years to get over it. I don’t even think I am yet—I’m still angry at my father for allowing this shit into our lives and for continuing to do it.” Theodore says, letting out an exasperated breath. You knew what everyone else knew about Theo’s father—he was a blood purist, rumoured to be loyal to you-know-who. He’d hate you the moment he’d find out you were muggle-born.

Theo meets your gaze now, and it’s your turn to feel winded. It was like you were looking at your Theo again. The sweet, sarcastic, pain-in-your-ass-but-in-a-good-way Theo. “I lost my mom, who meant the world to me, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it if I lost you too. So I pushed you away. I figured it was best to cut our losses before I pulled you into something you had no reason being in. Before I lost you permanently.”

“What’s changed?” You ask, shaking your head. His words were hard to process, but the pieces of the last few months were beginning to click into place. “I’m still me, and last I heard, your dad was still your dad.”

“I realized that, in a way, I was kind of like my dad.”

“What?”

“I mean,” Theo says. “My dad never gave any of us a choice. Not me, and not my mom. We always had to go along with him and deal with the consequences of his actions. I took a choice away from you, and you just had to deal with it. I don’t want to do that anymore. I still think I did it for the right reasons, but I regret it. I want to be with you. I should have told you what I was worried about—told you about the risks of being with me, so we could make a decision together.”

Together.

That’s all you wanted. You were more than willing to have dealt with any obstacle that was thrown your way, so long as you had Theo by your side.

But that was three months ago. And while his words brought goosebumps, butterflies, and heart palpitations, they also brought a slew of conflicting feelings. You understood why he broke things off now, and although his reasoning was well-intended, it didn’t excuse the fact that you had spent the last three months in a state of despair and heartbreak. You didn’t eat as much, your grades dropped, and you couldn’t even look at him until recently in fear of tears and the overwhelming rush of memories.

“So?”

“Theo,” you say softly. Your eyes search his face.

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips at the sound of his name. Not Theodore, not Nott. Theo.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He exhales sharply at your response, and his expression shifts as he turns to face the horizon. He wanted you to say it was worth the risk and that you wanted to be with him as much as he did. He wanted you to forgive him for what he did to you. “It’s fine.”

“No—I just... I need to think.” You say quickly. Your heart was screaming for him, but your brain was weary. And if the past three months taught you anything, it was that you needed to act with your brain and not your heart. “I just need time. This was a lot to process.”

“Right, of course.” Theo says with a curt nod. He turns to you again, offering a weak smile. It was his heart’s turn to break. “Well, thanks for coming tonight and letting me explain. I guess, just let me know.”

You watch him stand, brush the dirt off his robes, and turn away. Just as he reaches the staircase back down, he looks back at you. Your eyes catch his gorgeous arctic eyes, your cheeks burning and your heart racing.

"Merry Christmas, by the way." Theo says before he descends down the stairs.

#theodore nott #theo nott #harry potter imagine #slytherin x reader #theodore nott x you #theo nott x you #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott x reader #theo nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theodore nott x y/n #slytherin boys #theo nott imagine #*writing

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forklesbian · 1 month ago

Text

This is a terrible day for the Mechanisms Fandom

#fork talks to the void #mechanisms #the mechs #fuck you and fuck your train friday

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woantohae · 2 months ago

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I wanna know what love is (Bob Reynolds x reader x Void)

Summary: Bob returns to the tower with the rest of the team and prepares to go on missions. Slowly but surely, he trains and has the help of everyone there if he needs it, especially Y/N.

But Void also returns, and he seems interested in the girl, and will take advantage of every moment to feel her close to him.

Content warnings: fluff, hints of angst, SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS, Void being obssesed with reader, hints of smut, found family trope, sexual tension, dark! Void.

Author's note: A lot of you ask me to continue this fanfic, so here it is! Hope you like it <333 I'm thinking of writing a While You Were Sleeping au! with Bob and Bucky as the Callaghan brothers..... tell me if you like the idea 💌 @stillinracooncity @looneylooomis @cosmicpixel97

The smell of food invaded Y/N's nostrils. They had prepared different dishes—consisting of macaroni and cheese, sandwiches, and a few slices of pizza—to celebrate Bob's arrival at the tower after so long without seeing the full team.

The laughter never stopped, and the buzz of conversations around the table never seemed to end. The warmth of the room made Y/N finally feel part of something. Part of a family that had been through similar things in their lives and could understand each other almost immediately. She still missed her brothers, and there wasn't a day she didn't think about Dieter. But the girl didn't allow herself to dwell on the past; she now had a goal in life: to be part of the new Avengers.

"Tell us, Bob, did you miss us?" John asks, chewing on a piece of pizza.

Bob smiles and lets out a nervous laugh, shaking his head.

"Of course I missed you, guys. It was lonely in that house, even though you came to visit me frequently," he replies, playing with his fork in his bowl of mac and cheese.

"Aww, we missed you too, Bob," Yelena says, looking at him fondly.

"Yeah, you were missed around here," Ava continues, nudging him playfully.

"Really missed" Bucky emphasizes giving Y/N a mischievous look, to wich she rolls her eyes.

"Thank you guys," he says, a hint of blush spreading across his cheeks.

Y/N looks up at him with a soft smile and meets those blue orbs for a fleeting moment, before Bob decides to look down at his plate. It was clear their feelings were more alive than ever and on edge.

The table could have been talking about something else, but everyone else could tell by the glances and smiles they were giving each other what they were feeling, so John decides to intervene with a playful smile.

"So, tell me, Bob. Who did you miss the most of the team?" he asks and suddenly the room goes quiet.

Bob opens his mouth to answer, feeling the spotlight on him. Everyone else looks at the brunette, amused, waiting for his answer, even though they already know it—it's obvious when his eyes flit from the table to Y/N.

"Guys, don't bother Bob," the girl says, taking a sip from her glass, even though inside she still wants to know the answer.

A sliver of hope and excitement spreads through her chest, hoping it could be her, but she feels like it would be stupid to even think about it. It seemed like Yelena could be the answer, because they were always together, and she was the one who decided to give Bob a chance and take him in. The complicity was there, so Y/N was almost certain the blonde would got the point for that.

"C'mon! It's just a question. I wanna know too" Alexei says with food on his mouth.

"Dad, please, close your mouth" Yelena sighs and shakes her head.

Ava decides to intervene.

"So, who's the lucky one?" she asks.

The table is still waiting for Bob's response, and before he can answer, the doorbell rings.

"Must be dessert," Bucky says, getting up from the table.

Bob feels his soul return to his body. Because it's not so easy to say that his favorite company was Y/N, the girl who makes his heart race faster than usual and who constantly plagues his mind.

Now wasn't the time.

Now was the time to eat dessert.

———————————

The laughter had ceased, and silence reigned throughout the halls and corners of the tower. Everyone was either asleep or tucked away in their own spaces, trying to get through the night, as was usual.

Apparently, there were two people who couldn't stay still.

On one side was Bob, who wandered the halls trying to get to sleep, but something on his mind was tormenting him. Or rather, Void tormented him. The entity that seemed to be fighting the hardest to emerge and take control of Bob again. It had been doing so frequently lately, especially when a certain female presence was near Bob.

He didn't want to have to lose control again, but Void was plaguing his mind to do it, and he was about to do it if Bob let his guard down.

On the other hand, Y/N was on the couch in the tower's living room, staring out into the night and listening to the rain falling furiously. There were some rumbles of thunder accompanying the ambient noise, which made Y/N adjust the blanket surrounding her body better. It wasn't uncommon for the girl to be unable to sleep, but lately, her mind had been creating dreams where the same person was always invading her head.

That person was Bob.

The dream began with the man trying to take her hand, but as soon as he did, a darkness began to take over his body, trying to encourage her to do the same. Even though she didn't want to do it, there was something that drew her to try. As if this person wanted her to unleash her full power and not consider the consequences. But at the same time, it wanted to take control of her.

To be close to her.

Whatever it was, it made her hair stand on end.

"Shit," she heard someone curse as they entered the room.

Y/N turns her head and looks at Bob, who is standing nervously near the hallway wall, feeling embarrassed at having been caught. She offers him a small smile and shakes her head.

"Can't sleep either?"

Bob laughs nervously and shrugs.

"I've never been able to sleep properly," he replies with a hint of nostalgia in his voice.

Y/N shakes her head ndicating that he should come and sit next to her. The brunette does so almost immediately, stumbling over his steps because he wants so much to be near her. The girl takes off her blanket and covers Bob as soon as he reaches her side of the couch.

The truth is, he'd been thinking about telling her how he felt, but he always chickened out, thinking she couldn't possibly feel the same way. Yelena had made it her mission to tell him that it was more than obvious the feelings they had for each other, and John had even encouraged him to make a move on Y/N. But there was someone who was waiting for the opportunity. And Bob was afraid of that: losing control.

Again.

He couldn't.

Not when it meant Y/N could get hurt in the process.

He would never allow that.

"So, what should we do in the meantime?" Y/N asks with a soft voice.

He frowns slightly and pouts, wondering what to do while he's busy.

"I've never been good at breaking the ice," he admits with a nervous laugh.

You've never been good at anything.

That voice again.

It haunts him forever. Now more than ever.

"We could ask each other questions to get to know each other better," the girl offers, turning her body so her full attention is on Bob. "I'd like to get to know you more."

Bob smiles and nods, feeling a heat spread to his cheeks.

"Sounds good," he says, settling into the couch. "Ladies first."

Y/N smiles and thinks about it for a few seconds before asking.

"Where are you from?" "I was born in Florida. I lived there until I was 16, and then I came to New York," he explains, his voice soft at the memory. "Until I read about the program in Malaysia and the whole Sentry thing, and well... here we are."

He laughs nervously.

"Favorite movie?"

And so they continue, endlessly asking questions, unwilling to break the moment. Although sleep is starting to become a problem, neither of them seems willing to end the conversation—they should cherish this moment however they can, they think to themselves.

She feels the connection with Bob and doesn't want to miss the opportunity to ask him the question that was on her mind that afternoon after lunch.

"You don't have to answer this if it makes you uncomfortable, Bob" Y/N begins saying.

The least she wants to do it's making him feel pressure to respond it. But the growing feeling of curiosity plagues the girl's mind to encourage her to ask this question.

"Of course, Y/N. But I really doubt you'll make me feel like that, you know" he says trying to lighten the mood.

You could never make me feel uncomfortable, he thinks.

Honestly, he was kinda nervous of the question that the girl could possibly ask him. The brunette starts to mentally prepare himself to anything in order to look casual and cool in front of her. The raindrops broke the brief silence between them, giving them a moment of calm so they could talk better.

"When we were having dinner, John ask you something about your favorite teammate coming to check on you and visit you while you were in the lake house," the girl begins to say, testing the waters so as not to sound so hasty or nosy, "and you didn't have time to answer."

Bob swallows and settles back on the couch, fiddling with his fingers. He knows he's trapped and must answer the question, and hates himself for not being able to be confident enough to tell her it's her right away. Even though he's dying to let her know that she's the only one he feels comfortable with and would like to continue being by her side.

Yelena has given him that trust as well, of course. And he was thankful for that.... but the girl in front of him stirs strong emotions inside him that only want to be reciprocated. There's no day that he's not thinking about Y/N — what she's doing, what she's thinking or if there's a small chance that the girl it's thinking about him too. He knows it is something pathetic, because she is way out of his league.

At least that's what the other guy says constantly to him.

"So, I wanted to ask you, and you don't have to answer, of course," she moves her hand to emphasize the last thing said "who was your favorite when we visited you back then?"

"I uh...." he stutters and looks down briefly.

C'mon Bobby. If you don't do it, I will.

"You don't have to..."

"It was you" he finally admits out loud.

Y/N closes her mouth immediately upon hearing his answer and releases the air she had unconsciously accumulated. She looks at him carefully, her eyes soft, waiting for him to continue.

"I don't know when it happened exactly, but it's you," Bob says, and suddenly such a simple answer has become the opportunity to admit his feelings for her.

"I can't get you out of my head and I'm always wondering where you are, what you're doing, or what you're thinking. Damn, I also wonder if you might be thinking about me, but it's ridiculous to even imagine, right?" he says with a humorless laugh "I just know that you're incredible and so beautiful that... god, I can't even think properly when I'm around you"

Y/N feels her heart race with his words and her eyes watered for a moment at the confession.

"All I know is that I'm falling" Bob says and looks directly into her eyes, feeling more confident suddenly "And god, I'm falling hard for you"

Y/N moves closer to join their lips in a kiss, letting him know exactly the same. The man is quick to reciprocate by putting his hands on her waist and holds her body close to him. In one swift motion, he lifts her and settles her onto his lap and continues exploring her mouth with passion and determination. His rough hands rush to feel every corner of her, removing the blanket from her body to get a better feel for her. Grabbing, palming, and caressing every corner of her over her shirt, but his mischievous fingers hide beneath the fabric to feel her skin.

Y/N sighs between kisses, noticing the heat of the moment and questioning Bob's abrupt change of attitude so suddenly, but before she can ask him, Bob's lips attack her neck, making her close her eyes and imprisoning him against her so he won't stop.

"Bob..." she moans and the man lets out a small laugh with a smirk on his face.

"Yeah, sweetie?" he asks her.

"Don't stop, please" she begs him.

The man can respond by holding her to his body and said against the skin of her neck.

"I wasn't planning on"

And he smiles with satisfaction, having achieved his goal.

Having her close to him.

While Bob just hoped he wouldn't hurt her.

I swear if you hurt her...

That's where you're wrong, dear Bob. I'm not planning on hurting her.... but to enjoy having her.

Just like you will, soon.

You can thank me later.

Yeah. Right.

Bob just hopes he will regain control of the situation again, because he can't help but grow desesperate to have her in his arms. To be with her, love her and cherish her.

He knew Void was also enchanted by the girl, but unlike Bob, his purely was obsession. The shy brunette worried he'd harm her in the process, but as long as Bob or Sentry regained control, he'd make sure he didn't do anything to her.

His time will come.

In the meantime, he will wait.

And it'll be worth it.

With her, it'll always be.

#fanfic #fluff #angst #bob reynolds x reader #marvel #thunderbolts #smut #sentry masterlist #sentry x reader #the void x reader #bob reynolds x fem!reader #bob reynolds x female reader #robert reynolds masterlist #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x female reader

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itneverendshere · 1 month ago

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little miss perfect - r.c (+18) - girl who cried wolf

pairing: siren!reader x rafe. warnings: none.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Rafe has been gone for four days.

Not gone gone…simply not home, where you are.

He stays out late, every other day he crashes at Kelce’s, then Topper’s, then someone’s friend’s brother’s place one night.

Rafe spends his time ripping through the island with a blunt always half-lit, always either rolling or sparking.

Anything to keep his mouth and brain busy, void of any remains of your voice or the look on your face when you lied the other day. That quiver in your tone, he knows it was fake; that’s the part that’s stuck in his chest, how easy it was for you.

You got him chewed out by Ward for an entire day, ignored by your dad, and laughed at behind the backs of the guys. All for what?

Fun? Because you were bored? Why the fuck are you still so mean when you want to?

Rafe can’t get the question out of his head. It follows him through every bar, every round of beer pong, and every line blown off some bathroom counter. He tried fucking someone else—some girl, something to get you off his skin—but she touched his neck, and he flinched. Didn’t call her after.

Now, despite all of it, here he is.

It’s 3:12 in the morning; he’s barefoot in the Tannyhill kitchen, sweatpants slung low, hoodie halfway unzipped, hair a mess, high as fuck, eating leftover pasta straight from the container.

He’s still pissed, wired in all the wrong ways, which explains how he doesn’t hear you coming in at first.

“Rafe.”

You’re greeting him like you hadn’t gone full fucking sociopath on him the last time you interacted with him.

He turns to see you're also barefoot, standing in the doorway with your hair unkempt and a sleeping t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, not bothering to cover the curve of your ass. Panties lie beneath.

And that smile—tilted...apologetic, if he squinted, but he knows better than to do so.

He chews slower.

You paddle closer.

“Didn’t know you were home.”

“Didn’t know you cared.”

“Don’t be like that.”

Rafe stabs another piece with the fork. “Be like what?”

“Mean.”

He laughs, unbelievably bitter, and it makes your brows twitch.

“You’re calling me mean?”

You bite your lip, “I didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

He drops the fork into the container, metal clanking hard.

“Bullshit.”

You continue. “It was a joke.”

“Yeah.” He steps around the island. “Isn’t it always?”

“Rafe…”

“No, seriously,” He scoffs, the high making his blood overheat. “Let’s talk about it. How everything’s a fucking joke to you. How do you lie to everyone’s face and throw me under the bus for fun? Now you show up in my kitchen at 3am in your underwear?”

He’s still coming down from the joints he smoked, and his throat is dry.

“We have nothing to talk about.”

You take a step forward, your teeth still attacking your lips.

“Why not?”

“You know what you did.” He snaps, not bothering to look at you.

You exhale and give a hollow chuckle. “Relax. It’s not that serious.”

You have spent years making certain it is, setting fires and dancing around them, and you’re still acting as if he’s the insane one who choked on it.

Rafe is repulsed.

“Go to bed.”

Of fucking course you don’t go.

“I said,” he repeats, slower this time, “go to bed.”

There’s no threat, it’s a command that doesn’t need to be shouted, because it’s the last one he’s giving.

“No.”

His gaze narrows. “No?”

You pop a grape from the fruit bowl into your mouth.

“Not tired.”

You’re doing the bored act you always pull when someone tells you no.

He makes a menacing step toward you.

“Oh, look at you,” You taunt. “You’re gonna make me?”

Rafe’s hands are balled into fists at his sides. He wants to—God, he wants to shove you back against the cabinets, and prove something.

You don’t run this; you don’t get to lie and play and still have the upper hand.

You’re talking now, something about Sarah, or her shoes, or how the pasta in the fridge tastes weird—voice airy, like you’re not standing in the middle of a war zone.

Rafe gawks at you from across the kitchen, features clenched so hard his teeth hurt, while you keep going. Babbling. Carefree.

His head tips back, letting out a sharp breath, eyes fluttering closed for a second. Perhaps if he doesn't see you, he won't lose it.

You’re behaving as if you didn’t throw him to the wolves and then smile when they bit.

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

You finally stop, a dead silence that never comes from you unless it's real.

“I’m not your fucking friend,” he hisses, with fury. “We were never friends. Don’t do that. Don’t stand here talking about shoes and dinner like you didn’t spend the whole fucking week trying to ruin me for fun.”

Your mouth opens, and nothing comes out.

Rafe keeps going.

“You’re mean. And spoiled, and fake, and you never say sorry. You like hurting people; it’s some fucking party trick to you.”

Your jaw tenses, then loosens, but still—nothing.

"I understand now," he continues, chest heaving. “This is who you are. This is what you do: you lie and act like it’s not that deep, and everyone lets you. Even me. I let you. Over and over.”

His fists are clenched, nails digging into his palms. He can’t look at you without wanting to tear down the entire house. Still, you don’t fight back; you’re no longer laughing or rolling your eyes.

It’s the first time in years he’s ever seen you unsure. That shit makes his throat tighten, it means you’re finally listening to him; something's finally landing in that brain of yours.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” Rafe breathes, stepping so close he can see the tremble in your chin. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You want attention—whatever makes you feel like you matter for a second.”

He wants it to hurt.

“You don’t get to cry now,” he spits.

He can see it—whatever half-assed apology or excuse is forming behind your teeth.

“Say something,” he snaps.

You don’t. You’re still browsing his face, he’s not making any sense to you, you’re waiting for it to blow over like it always does.

“You think I’m gonna fuck you after this?” Rafe continues to taunt.

Your eyes widen.

“That’s what this is, right?” Rafe laughs as his hands fly out. “You show up in your panties, and I’m supposed to forget you humiliated me.”

Your lip is quivering. “Would it be so bad?”

“Yeah,” he mutters bitterly, shaking his head. “That’s what I thought.”

Your tongue drags along the inside of your cheek.

“That wasn’t a no.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, choosing to walk out and slamming the door so hard the cabinets rattle—before you can answer.

After that, you disappear without a dramatic exit, eye roll, or slammed bedroom door for days.

Rafe is relieved—even grateful.

The house is quiet; his head void. He can come downstairs without hearing your voice or seeing your legs propped up on his couch.

He can eat, shower, and exist peacefully. But the peace is short-lived as he realizes you’re avoiding everyone, not just him.

You don't follow Ward around like a puppy, or gossip to your dad, you hardly pretend to care about the drinks Kelce brought over, or ask Topper to help you with your serve out back. You aren't laughing in his face or whining or bothering to make noise when Rafe leaves a room.

You stay in your room for hours on end, lights off most of the day, curtains drawn. Not sad enough for anyone to say something, but not loud enough to be you.

That pisses him off more than anything else. What—are you sulking now? Because he yelled? Because he said something you didn’t like? You could dish it out fine, but the moment someone threw a mirror in your face, you disappeared?

What the fuck were you doing there? Plotting? Crying? Sleeping?

You’re not sorry; you’re never sorry.

Rafe would take another lie for this silence, one of your sarcastic "awww baby"s. Anything.

Instead, all he gets is the eerie quiet.

He isn’t expecting to see you when he turns the corner.

Damp hair, steam curling out of the bathroom, and there you are in the middle of it—fresh out of the shower, towel tucked around your chest, skin flushed warm.

A scene that makes his mouth go dry. He braces for impact, for some fake yawn or thigh stretch, “Oops, forgot you were home.” A well-rehearsed coy glance as the towel happens to slip too far down your hip.

But it doesn’t come. You look at him—not through him, not at his mouth or his jaw or the hem of his sweatpants like you usually do—but right at him.

“Sorry.”

Rafe’s brain stalls. “Huh?”

You take a timid glance down before returning your gaze.

“I said I’m sorry. About Ward. It was shitty.”

No. You’re giving him nothing to work with.

There’s a catch here; there’s always a catch with you. You’re going to laugh and say, “You should’ve seen your face”. And drop the towel anyway.

To his utter dismay, you pull the towel higher, pressing it tight across your chest, knuckles white. You’re nervous. You, who has been wrapping men around your finger since eighth grade, making pain a game and calling it fun.

“Okay…” he nods slowly, testing the waters. “What is this?”

“What do you mean?”

He tries to force the truth out with just his eyes.

“This,” Rafe gestures vaguely between you.

He doesn’t feel like you are ten moves ahead of him for the first time since you were children. You don’t make excuses. You are always the excuse. That’s how it’s always worked between you.

“I was really mean,” you continue, throat tight. “You didn’t deserve what I did.”

“Are you high?

You let out a breathy laugh, almost a scoff, "You know I don't smoke."

“Trying to manipulate me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“…Sure am,” you echo, brows pinching.

“I don’t know.” Rafe shrugs, “You don’t usually mean shit. Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”

“I’m serious.”

He hates that part of him softens seeing your mouth tremble. He hates how familiar you are in your worst moments.

“…Okay. Thanks.”

You give a bashful nod, human for once. No siren in sight.

“You’re not fucking with me?” He inquires one more time for good mesure, there’s a boyish rasp in it.

The idea that you might be sincere is too fragile to touch.

“No.”

You walk past him, towel snug and unslipping, no extra glance, no game, leaving him stunned in a puddle of steam and the first apology you’ve ever given to him. That fucks with him more than anything else you've ever done over the last decade.

Rafe stands there for a full two minutes after you walk off. He hears the door to your bedroom click shut, soft as anything. No flounce, no slam.

You didn’t bother to try to get the last word. What the fuck.

If the apology had twisted something weird in his ribs, the way you said it, not demanding forgiveness or even expecting it, made it worse. What was that?

He runs a hand through his hair, then drags it down his face, letting out a looong breath.

No. No, this shit can’t be right.

As much as you piss him off—and you do, so thoroughly it feels like a second job—this haunted version of you is much worse. This hollow, too-soft thing isn’t you. This isn’t some pathetic moral reckoning that makes sense in his brain.

It doesn't fucking sit right.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The next day is muggy.

Rafe wakes late, suffocated in sweat, sprawled in his sheets in a pair of shorts and nothing else. Tannyhill’s central AC is doing jack shit against the heatwave pressing into the island, but that’s not what drags him out of bed—it’s the voices downstairs.

He thinks he hears your name.

He throws on a clean shirt, still damp from the laundry pile, and stalks out of his room. The closer he gets to the bottom of the stairs, the clearer it becomes: Ward is in the kitchen, pacing slowly in his boat shoes. Your voice answers calmly from somewhere near the counter.

Rafe doesn’t make his entrance. He lingers beyond the last step, leaning into the wall as he listens.

“I thought maybe you knew,” Ward says. “He hasn’t been home. I’ve heard from just about everyone but him.”

You hum. “I saw him. Yesterday.”

Rafe frowns.

Ward pauses. “Where?”

Here we go.

He can hear a casual squeak of the stool, the clink of your spoon in the yogurt you’re probably eating.

“He was with the boys. They’re building something for Brandi’s mom. You know Brandi, right? Her mom’s birthday is coming up, and they’re surprising her with a dock extension.”

Rafe’s brows shoot up, his mouth parting in pure disbelief.

A what? And who the fuck is Brandi?

Ward scoffs under his breath. “It’d be nice if he told me that instead of disappearing like a damn vagrant.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they wanted to spoil the surprise,” you say sweetly, spoon still scraping. “It was last-minute. You know how boys are.”

The silence that follows is long and awkward.

Then Ward mutters something about heading to the office and needing his keys, and Rafe slips back up the stairs before anyone catches him eavesdropping.

He’s still stunned. Not only did you cover for him, you made something up. You never cover for him. You’ve sold him out for less—once over a broken lamp, another time because he called your playlist boring.

You’ve lied to him, about him, and at him.

By the time you return to your room, he’s already sitting on your bed.

You halt in the doorway, raising a brow. “Huh… Rafe?”

“What the fuck was that?”

“Hi to you, too.”

“You told my dad I was building a dock.”

“For Brandi’s mom,” you add.

"Who?" Rafe glares. “You made that up.”

“No shit.” You close the door behind you and toss your phone on the bed. “Are you mad I made you sound useful?”

He doesn’t laugh. “Why’d you do that?”

You shrug. “I figured you’d prefer that over him knowing you were doing lines off someone’s cousin’s boat railing.”

Rafe watches you for a long second. He knows what you’re doing—he knows you. You never say sorry until it’s too late, you downplay your feelings so no one sees the full bruise of them.

But you did cover for him when you could’ve let Ward eat him alive.

You didn’t.

And fuck, that meant something. He's so easy.

Rafe tries—tries—not to look at the slope of your thighs, the shine on your collarbones, and the hem of your shirt riding way too high up your legs.

“Okay. Drop the innocent act.”

“What—”

“I’m serious. This whole sad, sweet girl routine? Not buying it.”

You stare, mouth parted in confusion.

He points at you. “Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?” You ask curiously.

“This,” he growls. “You’re not sorry. You’re never sorry. I know what the fuck I’m dealing with.”

Your lips press together, the lotion bottle slipping from your hands and thudding on the mattress.

“I am sorry.”

He shakes his head, praying you’re messing with him.

“No, you’re not. You’re bored, or you’re punishing me or playing the long game—I don’t know. But this sad-eyed version of you?” He gestures again. “Fuck no.”

You look down, hair falling in your face, and Rafe stares, fists still lost at his sides, heart hammering. He can't stand it. Not because you were acting out, but because you weren’t.

He lets out a slow breath, crossing the room, sitting beside you on the bed, heavy enough to dip the mattress. Your thighs brush, and he doesn’t hesitate, reaching for you, his arm slipping behind your back, his hand resting on your hip.

You don’t fight it when he pulls or seem surprised when he tugs you into his lap. You curl instinctively, knees drawn, arms loose around his neck, like muscle memory takes over where pride usually lives.

All of it is wrong.

Not because of the way you feel; that part, unfortunately, makes complete sense. His hands know exactly where to land on your waist, your back, or your thigh. He can map you blindfolded just from the years he spent admiring you.

What doesn’t make sense is you letting him hold you without seducing him or manipulating him like usual, that sly twist in your mouth nowhere in sight.

He squints at you.

“Let's get this shit over with,” he starts slowly, solving a math problem with a loaded gun to his head. “What’s it going to take?”

“For what?”

“To get you back to normal.”

You speak against his neck. “I am being normal.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“No, you’re being—” His hand motions vaguely, trying to swat away fog. “This.”

Your eyes drop to his hoodie drawstrings, twisting one between your fingers.

Rafe groans, leans back further, dragging a hand through his hair.

“You know what I mean.”

Your lashes flick up. “I said I was sorry.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

“I thought it was what you wanted,” you confess, voice mellow. “I’m mean and fake and spoiled, remember?”

Yeah, he said all that and meant it, even. But this shit isn't you, and it doesn't satisfy that awful, burning part of him that only ever calms when you’re spitting venom back at him.

“I don’t want you different.”

“Excuse me?"

“I want you real,” he says. “Even if that version drives me insane.”

You give a breathy laugh then. The first real sound you’ve made in days. Rafe swears—swears to God—his chest fucking hurts.

Your eyes are still pliant and half-lidded from whatever tenderness blooms between the two of you, but your voice, that voice, comes back sharper.

“Would you look at that.”

Rafe’s head snaps back. “What?”

You lean in, eyes flicking down to his mouth before dragging back up.

“You like it when I ruin your day; makes it real east for you to pretend you don’t care.”

His breath hitches.

“You don’t want me quiet, because if I’m quiet, you have to listen to yourself.”

The silence snaps taut.

His eyes burn into yours, and, finally, your lip curves.

“There she is.” His eyes drop to your mouth like it owes him answers. “The demon.”

You flutter your lashes and smile wider.

“Missed me?”

“You’re really something.”

“Is that the polite way of saying I’m a bitch?”

“You’re worse.”

Your hand ghosts down to his chest, fingers splayed flat against his sternum, tapping your nails.

“Does the sad girl act not do it for you anymore? You used to kiss my boo-boos when I did it.”

His mind travels back vividly to that afternoon when you were twelve, just a kid with fire in your eyes and a mouth that never quite shut off.

Rafe lets out a low sound, between a laugh and a growl, grabbing your chin in the process, bruising enough to say, don’t fuck with me.

Your eyes sparkle because you want him to.

He shakes his head, scoffing under his breath. “You’re sick.”

You hum in agreement. “Takes one to know one.”

You move in his lap, and Rafe’s hands fly to your hips, gripping hard enough to make a point.

“Cut that shit out.”

“You like it.”

You’re gleaming now, soaking in the fire under his skin, leaning in again, near enough to be dangerous.

“I missed you too, Rafey.”

He groans gutturally, pushing you off him.

“Get off me.”

You don’t fight it, sprawling onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh, limbs stretched and hair a mess on the pillow.

"Fucking brat," he mutters, standing, fists digging into his eyes like you’ve left a stain behind.

“And you’re still not over me,” you sing-song, turning to your side, propping your head up on your hand, eyes glinting.

“I was never under you.”

You click your tongue. “Soon.”

He shoots you a glare, then snatches his keys off the desk where he dropped them earlier.

“Where are you going?” You call after him, stretching like a cat in your bed. “You’re the one who told me to go to sleep!”

“Anywhere you’re not. Stay away.”

Easier said than done.

#itneverendshere works✨#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron au #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x kook!reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron fic #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #outerbanks rafe #rafe imagine #rafe obx

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digitaldiaryofadoll · 5 months ago

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۶ৎ. Cute Kid.

Tokyo Revenger Boys. Pt 1.

۶ৎ summary: They asked you out on a date, but your child had other plans. So the date was cancelled and instead happened at your home, this leads to your child blatantly cockblocking. Your child (and soon to be new man) actively have beef with one another.

۶ৎ Characters include: Rindou Haitani, Chifuyu Matsuno, Kazutora Hanemiya, Hanma Shuji, Manjiro (Mikey) Sano Nahoya Kawata, Izana Kurokawa, Hajime Kokonoi, and Tetta Kisaki.

۶ৎRindou Haitani:

The apartment was warm and cozy, with soft pink accents and the sweet scent of vanilla candles filling the air. You’d been forced to cancel your date tonight — Raiden wasn’t feeling well, and there was no way you were leaving him alone, not even for a few hours. You’d expected disappointment, maybe a gentle “next time,” but instead, Rindou suggested bringing the date to you. It was thoughtful, sweet, and you’d appreciated it… though as you opened the door and saw him standing there, black button-up fitting just right, a small bouquet of white lilies in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, you knew this might’ve been a mistake.

Rindou’s gaze flicked over you as you stood in that flowing white and blue dress, his expression unreadable for a brief moment before he smiled — soft, charming, and far too smooth. “Hey,” he murmured, stepping inside as you moved aside, heart fluttering just a little. But before you could say much, Raiden appeared.

The four-year-old stood in the hallway like a tiny bodyguard, wearing his dinosaur pajamas and holding a half-empty sippy cup, glaring at Rindou with the intensity of a seasoned interrogator.

“Who’s that?” Raiden asked flatly, not taking his eyes off him.

Rindou, ever polite, crouched slightly, offering a friendly smile. “Hey, buddy. I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Raiden cut him off, his tone accusatory. The tension in the room shifted instantly.

As Rindou settled onto the couch, Raiden wasted no time wedging himself between the two of you, clutching his stuffed tiger protectively. “This is my seat,” he announced, eyes narrowed.

Rindou, playing along with a small smirk, shifted to the side. “No problem, champ.”

But that tiny smirk was all the opening Raiden needed. The battle lines were drawn.

Every time Rindou tried to talk, Raiden interrupted.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.”

“Mommy, my show is on.”

“Mommy, he’s sitting too close.”

You tried to juggle it all, gently redirecting Raiden, but he wasn’t having it. When Rindou offered to help with dinner, Raiden “accidentally” knocked a toy truck off the coffee table — right onto Rindou’s foot.

“Oops,” Raiden said, monotone, not breaking eye contact.

Rindou, biting his tongue, gave a tight-lipped smile, but you could see the flicker of frustration in his gaze. He knew what was happening… and Raiden knew that he knew.

Dinner didn’t go much better. Rindou made an effort, asking about Raiden’s favorite shows, his toys, what games he liked to play.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Raiden replied flatly, stabbing at his mac and cheese with a plastic fork.

“Okay… fair,” Rindou muttered, clearly trying not to laugh.

But halfway through the meal, Raiden deliberately spilled his juice across the table — and right into Rindou’s lap.

“I said oops,” Raiden repeated, voice utterly void of remorse.

Rindou, now with wine-stained pants and a forced smile, wiped at his jeans, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a curse before plastering on his charming expression once more. “Yeah. Sure you did.”

After dinner, the battle continued. Raiden insisted on being carried to bed — by you. Not Rindou. As you tucked your son in, brushing his hair back gently, he clung to you, clearly determined to stretch this bedtime routine as long as possible.

When you finally stepped out of Raiden’s room, leaving the door cracked, Rindou stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, waiting. From his bed, Raiden’s small voice called out, loud enough for only Rindou to hear.

“You’re leaving soon.”

Rindou, leaning casually against the doorframe, raised a brow. “You really don’t like me, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

Raiden shrugged, pulling his blanket up to his chin. “Because you’re not supposed to be here.”

There was a pause, then Rindou chuckled quietly, ruffling his own hair, looking away with an almost amused sigh. “Little punk…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

But as he grabbed his jacket from the couch and slipped it on, you could tell — he knew he’d lost tonight. Raiden had won this round, and the tiny smile on your son’s face as he drifted off to sleep made it clear he knew it, too.

۶ৎChifuyu Matsuno:

Chifuyu showed up right on time, dressed casually but nice — a crisp white shirt, black jeans, and sneakers. He had a small bag of pastries from that cozy little bakery down the street, probably thinking it would be a sweet touch. The plan was supposed to be a simple dinner out, something light and easy, but of course, that couldn’t happen. Haruki was having one of his clingy days, the kind where he wouldn’t let you out of his sight without throwing a fit. Cancelling the date seemed inevitable, but Chifuyu, ever understanding, suggested bringing the date to your place instead.

The moment he stepped inside, Haruki was already sizing him up. Sitting on the floor with his building blocks, pacifier half-hanging out of his mouth, he didn’t say a word — just stared, eyes narrowed with a silent challenge.

“Hey, little guy,” Chifuyu greeted, giving a friendly wave.

Haruki didn’t answer. He just kept watching, calculating. Then, without breaking eye contact, he grabbed a block and casually tossed it. Not hard, but enough to make a point. It hit Chifuyu’s shoe with a soft thunk.

“Oops,” Haruki mumbled around the pacifier, eyes wide with fake innocence.

Chifuyu smiled, playing it off, though there was a flicker of something behind that polite expression — something that said he knew exactly what was happening.

“It’s okay,” you said, smoothing things over, but Haruki was already planning his next move.

Throughout the evening, it was a passive-aggressive battle, and Haruki was winning. Every time Chifuyu tried to engage with you, Haruki countered like a tiny, chubby-cheeked saboteur.

“So, how’s work been?” Chifuyu asked, leaning in, his voice warm and easy.

Before you could answer, Haruki, as if on cue, climbed into your lap. “Mommy, hold me,” he demanded softly, snuggling against your chest with a smug little glance at Chifuyu over your shoulder.

Of course, you picked him up — how could you not? His arms wrapped around your neck, thumb back in his mouth, looking victorious. Chifuyu just sipped his tea silently, clearly aware he was losing, but too kind to say anything.

When dinner was ready, things only got worse. Haruki outright refused to sit in his booster seat. “I don’t wanna sit there!” he whined, clinging to your arm.

“Haruki…” you tried gently, but he wasn’t having it.

Chifuyu, ever patient, tried to help. “Hey, buddy, I’ll tell you a story if you sit in your chair.”

Haruki’s response was a blunt, unwavering, “No.”

So, the entire dinner was you trying to eat one-handed while Haruki picked at your plate, glaring at Chifuyu like he was some kind of intruder.

The breaking point came when Chifuyu offered to help clean up. As he stood to take the dishes, Haruki “accidentally” knocked over a full glass of water — straight into Chifuyu’s lap. The splash was loud, ice clinking against the floor, and Haruki’s little “oops” came way too quickly to be sincere.

Chifuyu froze for a second, water soaking through his jeans, and you could see the brief, slow inhale he took, grounding himself.

“It’s okay… it’s fine…” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched as he forced a smile. Meanwhile, Haruki, nestled comfortably in your arms, looked utterly satisfied with himself.

When bedtime rolled around, Haruki refused to sleep unless you stayed with him. “Mommy, sleep with me,” he whispered dramatically, eyes big and tear-filled, the ultimate weapon.

From the couch, Chifuyu heard this and knew the date was officially over. As you took Haruki to bed, Chifuyu lingered near the doorway, smiling gently, ever understanding.

But as you turned off the light, Haruki opened one eye to find Chifuyu still watching… and offered a subtle, triumphant smile. It was the kind of look that said, You’re leaving soon.

Chifuyu gave a playful, defeated little wave. “Goodnight… little monster,” he whispered.

And as the door softly closed, Chifuyu knew, without a doubt, he had completely lost this round.

۶ৎKazutora Hanemiya:

Kazutora arrived at your place just as the sun was setting, casting long shadows across the living room. He looked good—casual but sharp in a fitted black Henley, distressed jeans, and his usual combat boots. His messy hair, falling in golden waves, gave him that effortless cool that was so undeniably him. In his hands was a bouquet of sunflowers, bright and thoughtful. The plan was supposed to be dinner out somewhere nice, but you’d had to cancel because Renji wasn’t feeling well earlier. When Kazutora suggested a cozy date night at home instead, it seemed like a sweet compromise.

Renji, curled up on the couch with his blanket and a stuffed tiger, watched Kazutora enter with wide, suspicious eyes. There was something comical about it—the little tiger in Renji’s arms and the tiger tattoo stretching over Kazutora’s neck. “Hey, little dude,” Kazutora said with a small smile, trying to sound friendly. Renji didn’t respond. He just stared, lips pressed together in a tight line, already radiating an unmistakable “I don’t trust you” energy.

As you set the bouquet in a vase, Renji made his move. Kazutora tried to sit next to you on the couch, but Renji climbed into your lap, pressing himself against you with exaggerated heaviness. His head nestled into your chest, little arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if to stake a claim. “You okay, baby?” you asked gently, running your fingers through his hair. Kazutora leaned back, trying to play it cool. “Tired, huh?”

Renji lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “She’s my mommy.” His voice was soft but firm, the kind of territorial declaration that only a four-year-old could pull off with such conviction. Kazutora raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, already realizing this wasn’t going to be easy.

The sabotage began subtly. Every time Kazutora tried to start a conversation, Renji interrupted. “So, how’s work—” Kazutora started. “Mommy, look at this!” Renji demanded, holding up a random toy he’d strategically grabbed from the floor. Of course, you praised the toy, smiling, while Kazutora sat there, watching the whole thing unfold with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “That’s… cool, man,” Kazutora muttered, but Renji just stared at him like he’d committed a crime by speaking.

When Kazutora brought over takeout from a fancy ramen place, trying to make dinner feel special, Renji took the opportunity to escalate. He refused to eat unless you fed him. “I can’t do it,” he whined dramatically, holding out his spoon like his arms didn’t work. So there you were, spoon-feeding your four-year-old while Kazutora silently stabbed at his food, fully aware that he was, once again, the third wheel on his own date. Renji, between each bite, shot him a smug, triumphant look. Kazutora whispered under his breath, “Little punk…”

Later, when Kazutora suggested watching a movie, hopeful for a little alone time with you, Renji made his next move. Just as you shifted to sit beside Kazutora, Renji announced loudly, “My tummy hurts!” Panic-mode kicked in immediately, and Kazutora watched helplessly as you scooped Renji into your arms, rubbing his back, comforting him. But as Renji nestled into your shoulder, Kazutora caught a glimpse of his face—Renji peeked at him and smiled. A slow, evil little grin. Kazutora blinked, realizing the kid had faked the entire thing just to kill the vibe.

After some coaxing, you finally got Renji to agree to go to bed, and Kazutora thought maybe, finally, there was a chance to salvage the night. But Renji wasn’t done. A few minutes after being tucked in, he appeared in the hallway, rubbing his eyes dramatically. “Mommy, I’m scared…” he whispered. Kazutora, sitting on the couch with a drink in his hand, muttered, “You are not scared.” But the way you immediately went to comfort Renji told Kazutora he’d lost this battle.

Tucking Renji back into bed, you kissed his forehead, promising to stay until he fell asleep. Kazutora, sprawled on the couch, staring at the ceiling, knew it was over. When you finally came back out, Kazutora caught one last look—Renji, eyes half-closed, offering a triumphant little smile from his bed. The unspoken message was clear: Mine. Kazutora, defeated but amused, mouthed back, “You win this time…” But he knew the war for your attention was far from over.

۶ৎHanma Shuji:

Hanma showed up that evening with his usual chaotic charm, dressed in black skinny jeans, a white button-up with the top few buttons undone, and his signature trench coat slung over his shoulders. His black-and-blonde hair was slicked back lazily, and he carried a bag of takeout and a bottle of wine. The original plan was dinner out, but you had to cancel because baby Shion was “extra fussy” and refusing to sleep.

When you opened the door, Hanma’s gaze swept over you, taking in the white maxi dress with its blue seashell and fruit print, the halter neckline that tied at your chest, creating a keyhole cutout, and the open back with thin blue straps that crisscrossed and connected to the skirt. For a split second, Hanma forgot how to breathe.

“Damn, babe… you really gonna make me behave tonight?” he teased, his voice low and playful. But just as he leaned in for a hello kiss, a loud, shrill baby wail pierced the air. Hanma froze mid-lean, eyebrows raised, as Shion made his presence very, very known. You gave him a sheepish smile, already exhausted, and said, “He’s just a little cranky…”

Hanma stepped inside, and there was Shion on a playmat, aggressively chewing on a teething ring, big teary eyes glaring up at the new man in the room. Hanma squatted down to his level, offering a lopsided grin.

“Yo, little man.”

Shion stared… then let out a loud, angry babble — a clear “No.”

Hanma, laughing softly, muttered, “Oh, we’re starting like this, huh?”

You tried to settle Shion back on the mat, but the second you moved toward Hanma, Shion’s arms shot up, demanding to be held. You scooped him up, and he immediately buried his face in your neck, shooting Hanma a side-eye over your shoulder.

“Guess he’s not a fan of sharing,” Hanma joked, setting the food on the table. Shion made a small, possessive coo, tightening his chubby arms around your neck.

Hanma tried to set up the food, plates, and wine, hoping the baby might calm down. But every time you tried to sit next to him, Shion fussed until you were forced to hold him in your lap, feeding him little bites of soft food with your fingers.

“Want me to hold him while you eat?” Hanma offered, reaching out.

The instant Hanma’s hand got too close, Shion let out a furious wail — loud, sharp, and accusing. Hanma pulled back, blinking.

“Damn… okay. I get it.”

You looked apologetic, gently rubbing Shion’s back while Hanma tried to play it cool, chewing his food slowly, though there was a clear challenge forming in his amber eyes.

After dinner, Hanma tried again — grabbing one of Shion’s stuffed animals and making it dance.

“What about this guy? He seems cool.”

Shion glared… and then dramatically threw the toy on the floor with a loud thud.

Hanma raised an eyebrow.

“Okaaay. Tough crowd.”

You gently scolded, “Shion, be nice…” but Hanma was already smirking, recognizing the game.

“It’s cool, babe. He’s just testing me.”

Shion, as if understanding, grabbed another toy and chucked it — this time, narrowly missing Hanma’s knee.

“Oh-ho… so we’re throwing things now?” Hanma chuckled, but there was an almost playful competitiveness in his tone.

You tried to put Shion down for bed, giving Hanma a hopeful smile.

“He usually falls asleep pretty fast… I’ll be back in a sec.”

Hanma leaned back on the couch, stretching out with a satisfied smirk, thinking the battle was over. But ten minutes later…

WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH.

Shion, standing in the crib, red-faced, absolutely refusing to sleep.

Hanma sighed, watching you scoop Shion back up and cradle him, bouncing gently. The baby, once again in your arms, gave Hanma a smug little look over your shoulder.

You ended up sitting on the couch, rocking Shion while Hanma sat beside you, trying to act unfazed. But Shion made sure there was no hand-holding, no cuddling, no date-night atmosphere whatsoever.

Eventually, you leaned your head back, sighing softly as Shion finally dozed off against your chest. Hanma glanced at you both, smirking despite the chaos.

“You really are his whole world, huh?”

You smiled softly, brushing a hand through Shion’s hair, but Hanma caught the glint in baby Shion’s barely-open eyes — the silent message: “You won’t be here long.”

Hanma leaned closer, whispering near Shion’s ear with a sly grin:

“We’ll see about that, little man.”

۶ৎManjiro (Mikey) Sano:

Your apartment was cozy and softly lit with warm-toned fairy lights along the walls. The air smelled faintly of lavender and fresh laundry. Mikey showed up wearing black cargo pants, a plain white tee, and an oversized black hoodie—casual yet effortlessly attractive. His black hair fell in soft, messy layers around his face. He was carrying a small bag of taiyaki and a six-pack of melon soda, fully expecting a chill, intimate night in since you had to cancel your restaurant reservation due to baby Sora’s “restless mood.”

When you opened the door in your white and blue maxi dress, his dark eyes immediately scanned you, lips quirking into a lazy grin. “Wow… you really got dressed up just to break my heart and stay in?” he teased, but before he could lean in to kiss you, a loud, angry cry erupted from somewhere in the apartment. His smile twitched as he glanced past your shoulder. “Ah… the little prince.”

You laughed softly, feeling a bit tired as you let him inside. Just as the door closed behind him, Sora toddled into the living room, a pouty frown on his chubby face, clutching a small plush dinosaur. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Mikey. For a brief moment, there was a tense silence—the baby processing this intruder—before Sora dramatically dropped his toy and raised his arms to you with a demanding whimper. “He’s been a little clingy today,” you murmured apologetically, scooping him up.

Mikey offered a gentle smile, reaching out a finger to tickle Sora’s side. “Hey there, kiddo.” But the second Sora felt himself being handed off, he immediately erupted into a meltdown, screaming like Mikey was made of fire. Mikey blinked, then chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah… I see how it’s gonna be.”

As you tried to set up your little at-home dinner, Sora refused to be put down, clinging to you like a koala. Mikey sat cross-legged on the floor, watching with an amused smirk, but every time you tried to hand Sora a toy or put him back on his playmat, his face scrunched up in pure outrage, arms flailing. Eventually, Mikey offered, “Want me to hold him for a bit?”

You hesitated, but Mikey was already reaching out gently. The second Sora felt himself being handed off, though—instant meltdown. “WAAAAHHHHHHHHH.” His scream was ear-piercing, like Mikey had just committed a grave sin. You quickly took him back, soothing him with gentle shushes while Mikey, now rejected, sat back with a raised eyebrow. “Okay, so I’m the bad guy now?”

Sora, once safely in your arms again, gave Mikey a triumphant side-eye—subtle, but unmistakable. Mikey narrowed his eyes playfully. “I see what you’re doing.”

After dinner, you tried to put Sora down for the night. Mikey, hopeful, watched you walk toward the bedroom, thinking the battle might finally be over. He sprawled back on the couch, smirking to himself, waiting for your return. Five minutes passed… ten minutes… and then, WAAAAHHHHHHH. Sora’s angry, tired wailing filled the apartment. Mikey groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair as you reappeared, holding a very awake and very cranky baby. “He won’t sleep unless I hold him…”

You looked apologetic, but Mikey just offered a soft smile. “It’s fine.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his hand subtly resting on your thigh, though Sora was still very much the center of attention.

You sat beside him again, gently bouncing Sora, who was snuggled against your chest, eyes half-lidded but still refusing to fully sleep. Mikey leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, his hand subtly resting on your thigh. But every time Mikey leaned in to say something—a soft compliment, a joke—Sora dramatically shifted in your lap, shoving his head against your chest or reaching up to grab your chin, forcing your attention back on him.

Mikey looked down at the tiny foot, then up at Sora, who, despite looking half-asleep, gave Mikey a slow blink of pure defiance. You hummed softly, your fingers running through Sora’s hair, completely unaware of the silent war going on right under your nose.

Mikey leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for the baby to hear, “You’re lucky you’re cute, little man.”

Sora smirked—or at least Mikey swore it was a smirk—before closing his eyes, fully claiming you for himself. Mikey sighed, leaning back against the couch, defeated for now—but the challenge was set. Round two, tomorrow.

۶ৎNahoya Kawata:

The evening had a gentle warmth to it, the sun just beginning to set, casting a soft golden hue over the apartment. You’d planned to go out tonight — a long-overdue date with Nahoya — but, of course, life had other ideas. Kaito had been fussy all day, refusing to nap, and by the time the sitter was supposed to arrive, it was clear you weren’t going anywhere. You felt bad canceling, but Nahoya, ever relaxed, just laughed over the phone and said, “No biggie. I’ll come to you instead.”

You hadn’t expected him to actually show up thirty minutes later, leaning against your doorway with that easy grin, hands in his pockets, looking far too good in his black short-sleeve Henley and ripped jeans.

“Thought I’d make your night a little less boring,” he teased, eyeing you with a playful glint as you stood there in that white and blue maxi dress — the flowing fabric hugging your curves, the open back making you feel a little more elegant than a typical night in.

But as inviting as the scene was, there was one small, glaring problem.

Kaito.

Your three-year-old was sitting right in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by blocks, and the moment Nahoya stepped inside, his chubby cheeks puffed out in a pout that spoke volumes.

“Who’s that?” Kaito asked, blunt as ever, eyeing Nahoya like he was an intruder.

Nahoya, never one to back down from a challenge, crouched slightly, offering a friendly wave. “Yo, kiddo. I’m Nahoya.”

Kaito stared. Hard.

You could already feel the tension brewing, though Nahoya seemed completely unfazed. He kicked off his shoes and made himself comfortable on the couch while you moved to the kitchen, already preparing snacks.

The second your back was turned, the battle began.

Kaito, still sitting on the floor, glared up at Nahoya, gripping a bright red block in his little fist. “That’s my couch.”

Nahoya smirked, lounging deeper into the cushions, spreading his arms across the back like he owned the place. “Yeah? Looks like I found it first.”

Kaito’s eyes narrowed dangerously — well, as dangerously as a toddler could manage.

The next half hour was a constant back-and-forth.

“Momma, I want a snack.”

“Momma, I’m thirsty.”

“Momma, can you come here?”

Every request timed perfectly to interrupt any conversation or moment of closeness between you and Nahoya. You could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, though, as he played along, more entertained by the challenge than anything else.

But Kaito wasn’t done. No, not by a long shot.

When Nahoya tried to help clean up the blocks, Kaito dramatically threw himself on top of the pile, shouting, “NOOOO! Don’t touch my toys!”

“Alright, alright,” Nahoya chuckled, raising his hands in surrender, though you caught the faintest twitch of annoyance in his smile.

Dinner rolled around, and Kaito, sensing his mother’s attention was being stolen, took things up a notch.

“Momma, sit next to me,” he demanded, climbing into his chair with a determined frown.

You gave Nahoya a small, apologetic smile as you slid into the seat beside your son, leaving Nahoya on the other side of the table, now thoroughly third-wheeled by a toddler.

Halfway through the meal, Kaito “accidentally” knocked over his water cup, sending a small flood across the table — and right into Nahoya’s lap.

“Ooops…” Kaito drawled, with the most unapologetic expression a three-year-old could muster.

Nahoya froze, blinking as the cold water soaked into his jeans, before exhaling slowly through his nose, giving Kaito a long, unreadable look. “Yeah… sure.”

After dinner, the standoff continued.

Kaito insisted on bedtime stories — multiple bedtime stories — and of course, only from you. Not Nahoya. You could feel the man’s gaze on you from the doorway as you tucked your son in, brushing his hair back gently, his tiny hand clutching your fingers as he yawned, dragging out the bedtime routine as long as physically possible.

When you finally stepped out, closing the door quietly behind you, Nahoya was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching with a lopsided grin.

From inside the room, Kaito’s voice drifted out, soft but pointed.

“Is he still here?”

Nahoya smirked, not missing a beat. “Yup.”

“Tell him to go home.”

“Not happening, kid.”

There was a pause. Then, from beneath the blankets, Kaito muttered, “I don’t like you.”

Nahoya let out a quiet, amused huff, shaking his head. “I got that, yeah.”

But even as he grabbed his jacket, preparing to leave, there was a flicker of determination in his eyes. Kaito might’ve won tonight… but Nahoya clearly wasn’t planning on giving up anytime soon.

۶ৎIzana Kurokawa:

The evening air was soft and warm, the sky painted with hues of pink and orange as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You’d planned a night out — something rare and exciting — but with Kaizer still so little, the reality of getting away for a few hours was impossible. The babysitter canceled last minute, and despite your apologies over the phone, Izana’s voice was smooth and unconcerned.

“I’ll come over,” he said simply, as though it was no trouble at all.

You didn’t expect him to actually show up on your doorstep twenty minutes later, dressed effortlessly in a sleek black shirt and dark jeans, hands in his pockets, giving you that quiet, knowing smile that always seemed to unnerve and charm at the same time.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, gaze trailing over the flowing white and blue maxi dress you’d put on for what was supposed to be a night out — the open back, the delicate halter neckline, and the soft skirt brushing your ankles. His eyes lingered, but his attention was quickly stolen by the soft babbling of Kaizer, who sat in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by his plush toys.

The second Izana stepped inside, Kaizer — barely over a year old — froze, blinking up at the unfamiliar man with wide, dark eyes. And then… the hostility began.

Kaizer stared at him with a seriousness far beyond his baby years, clutching a stuffed bunny with both hands, holding it like a weapon.

“Hey there,” Izana greeted softly, crouching down a little, keeping his distance but offering a gentle smile. “What’s up, little guy?”

Kaizer blinked once. Twice. Then, with the most exaggerated pout imaginable, he let out a loud, disapproving wail.

You rushed over, scooping him up into your arms, gently bouncing him, whispering soft reassurances, but Kaizer’s dark little eyes remained locked on Izana with an intensity that spoke of pure, baby-sized betrayal.

Izana chuckled softly, not at all deterred. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“He’s just… fussy,” you tried, offering a weak smile as Kaizer buried his face against your shoulder, one chubby hand clutching your dress possessively, as though claiming you as his and his alone.

The evening unfolded with Kaizer declaring quiet, passive-aggressive war.

When you sat on the couch, Kaizer insisted on being in your lap. When Izana tried to sit beside you, Kaizer kicked his tiny feet out, accidentally (but very much on purpose) hitting Izana in the thigh with surprising strength for such a little thing.

“Oops…” you murmured, shooting Izana an apologetic glance.

Izana, ever composed, just smiled, though there was a glimmer of challenge in his eyes as he leaned back, watching Kaizer with amusement, as though recognizing a worthy opponent.

Dinner was no better.

Kaizer, seated in his high chair, stared Izana down with the determination of a baby defending his territory. Every time Izana tried to talk to you, Kaizer made a loud, random noise — banging his spoon, squealing, or blowing raspberries with dramatic flair — effectively cutting off any adult conversation.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?” Izana murmured, gaze locked with Kaizer’s.

Kaizer responded by throwing his spoon on the floor. Hard.

You sighed, bending down to retrieve it, and when you sat back up, Izana was still watching Kaizer with a faint, unreadable smile, like he was actually enjoying the challenge.

After dinner, things escalated.

Kaizer, tired but refusing to go to sleep, became extra clingy. You tried rocking him, singing softly, but every time you tried to set him down, he wailed, reaching for you with dramatic sobs, forcing you to pick him back up.

“Go to sleep, little man,” Izana said quietly from the doorway, his voice calm but firm.

Kaizer’s head snapped up from your shoulder, glaring over at him with sheer, baby-sized defiance.

“No,” he said, clear as day.

You blinked.

Izana blinked.

Kaizer, satisfied, buried his face against you again, little arms tight around your neck, effectively claiming victory.

“You’ve got your hands full,” Izana said with a soft chuckle as you finally emerged from the nursery, looking tired but relieved that Kaizer had finally fallen asleep.

“Yeah… sorry. He’s… a bit much,” you sighed, brushing your hair back, offering a sheepish smile.

But Izana, leaning casually against the wall, gave you that slow, unreadable smile of his — a mix of amusement and quiet determination.

“I like a challenge,” he murmured, voice low, eyes glinting as though silently telling Kaizer — asleep just beyond the door — that he wasn’t going anywhere.

۶ৎHajime Kokonoi:

The evening had that soft, golden glow that only came with summer’s end — warm, honeyed light streaming through your windows, casting long shadows over the hardwood floor. The smell of shea butter and cocoa lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the soft floral perfume you’d carefully dabbed on your wrists. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the white maxi dress that hugged your curves just right, its blue seashell and fruit print vibrant against your caramel-toned skin. The halter neckline tied neatly at your chest, forming a small, teasing keyhole cutout, while thin blue straps crisscrossed your bare back before meeting the fitted waist. The skirt flared out gently, brushing against your ankles with every shift, giving you the kind of soft, effortless elegance you rarely got to feel anymore.

You’d even taken the time to refresh your curls, the thick, springy coils framing your face perfectly, glossy with a light coat of coconut oil. The scent was subtle but warm — familiar, comforting. Your edges were laid flawlessly, baby hairs swooped in delicate waves along your hairline, the kind of detail that took time and patience but made all the difference. You looked good, felt good… for once.

But of course, peace was never that simple.

From the living room came a loud, exaggerated sigh — the unmistakable sound of your five-year-old daughter, Airi, broadcasting her boredom and dissatisfaction with her entire soul.

“I really can’t go out tonight,” you whispered into your phone, glancing toward the sound of her dramatics. “My babysitter canceled… I’m so sorry, it’s just—”

“I’ll come to you,” Kokonoi interrupted smoothly, his voice low and decisive, like he’d already made the call before you could protest.

You hesitated, glancing back at Airi. She was sprawled out on the floor, her caramel-brown cheeks slightly flushed, surrounded by a mess of coloring books, markers, and her ever-present pink stuffed bunny, whose fur was worn down from years of love. Her wild, coily pigtails stuck out in two large, frizzy puffs, stubbornly resisting your attempts to tame them earlier that day. She was gripping a marker like her life depended on it, her little brows furrowed in fierce concentration as she colored — hard.

“I don’t know if that’s a good—”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Kokonoi said, and just like that, the line went dead.

You barely had time to straighten up the house before the doorbell rang.

When you opened it, there he was — sleek and polished, like he’d just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. Kokonoi Hajime, with his hair perfectly tousled, a black button-up with the top buttons undone just enough to hint at the smooth line of his collarbone, and fitted slacks. His sharp, calculating eyes did a slow, deliberate sweep over you, taking in the dress, the curves, the bare skin of your shoulders, and the smoothness of your legs.

“You look…” He paused, his voice rough around the edges now. “Incredible.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, a flattered, fluttery feeling stirring in your chest — until a small, suspicious voice shattered the moment.

“Who are you?”

Airi had materialized in the doorway, barefoot, wearing her oversized princess nightgown, the hem brushing her ankles, her stuffed bunny dangling limply from her hand. Her skin glowed softly in the evening light, and her big, dark eyes were narrowed in unmistakable distrust.

Kokonoi’s gaze flicked to her, and for a split second, he looked… caught off guard. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being interrogated by someone half his height.

“I’m a friend of your mom’s,” he said smoothly, offering a faint, polite smile.

Airi wasn’t impressed.

“Why are you here?” she pressed, her tone flat, her little arms crossed tightly over her chest, one hip popped out in that sass-filled way only a five-year-old girl could manage.

“I—”

“You’re not my dad,” she announced bluntly, her expression making it clear that this fact alone was enough reason for him to leave immediately.

The air went thick for a moment. You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing, watching as Kokonoi — cool, composed, and calculating — found himself on the receiving end of the world’s tiniest power move.

“Airi…” you started, your voice low with warning, but she wasn’t done.

With dramatic flair, she turned her back to him, marched into the living room, and flopped onto the couch with a loud, pointed sigh, clutching her bunny to her chest like a beloved battle companion.

“I’ll be nice if you give me twenty dollars,” she added, not even looking up, her voice casual, like this was just a standard transaction.

Kokonoi blinked. Slowly. The disbelief was plain on his face as he glanced back at you.

“She’s extorting me,” he muttered under his breath.

“She does this with everyone,” you whispered, your tone apologetic, but Airi was already watching him out of the corner of her eye, waiting.

Kokonoi, ever the businessman, sighed and pulled out his wallet, producing a crisp twenty-dollar bill.

“Is this all it takes?” he asked dryly, raising a sharp eyebrow.

Airi snatched the bill with the speed of a seasoned hustler, stuffed it into the pocket of her nightgown, and… went right back to glaring at him.

“She’s not going to be nice, is she?” Kokonoi asked quietly, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and resignation.

“Nope,” you confirmed, sighing. “Not a chance.”

And thus, the silent war began.

During dinner, Airi made sure to sit pressed up against your side, her small, warm arm looped possessively around yours. Every time Kokonoi tried to speak to you, she’d cut in — her tone flat, her gaze sharp, tossing shade with the casual precision of a child who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

“You’re sitting too close,” she declared when Kokonoi shifted his chair an inch nearer.

Kokonoi gave her a long, unreadable look… and leaned back with a sigh, clearly calculating his next move.

After dinner, you tried putting her to bed, but of course, that didn’t go smoothly either.

“She does this every time someone comes over,” you whispered when you reappeared, looking mildly exasperated.

Kokonoi, lounging on the couch, one arm draped casually over the back, smirked faintly.

“She’s protective,” he said simply, like that explained everything.

“You’re being generous,” you muttered, collapsing beside him, grateful for the moment of peace.

But just as the tension shifted, as Kokonoi leaned in a little closer, his eyes dark with something warmer, hungrier—

“Mommy! I need water!”

You groaned, already halfway to the kitchen, Kokonoi watching you with a resigned, faintly amused smile.

“She’s not going to let this happen, is she?” he murmured.

“Not a chance,” you called back, grabbing a glass.

And as the night stretched on, it became clear that Airi, your tiny, sassy gatekeeper, had won this round — and probably every round after.

۶ৎTetta Kisaki:

The evening light filtered through the window, casting a soft golden glow in the living room, while the faint scent of lavender and honey mixed with the sound of your daughter’s footsteps running across the hardwood floor. Your white maxi dress with the blue seashell and fruit print clung to you just enough to feel graceful and feminine, but the reality of your life had you focused on much more than your outfit. The halter neckline with the keyhole cutout felt flattering against your caramel-toned skin, and the blue piping accentuated the curves that had both the grace and strength of motherhood. The warm, soft feel of the fabric as it swayed with your movements made you feel light — a moment of calm before your daughter inevitably interrupted.

Layla, your 10-year-old daughter, was on the couch, sitting cross-legged, her dark brown eyes flickering with impatience. With a sharp mind that often made you think twice, she had an opinion about everything, and that included the people you brought around her. And now, someone was here — and Layla didn’t quite approve of him yet.

When the doorbell rang, you opened it to reveal Kisaki. He stood tall, sharp in his dark suit, his platinum blonde hair a stark contrast to the darkening evening. His cold, calculating eyes softened a little when they met yours, but the usual smug smirk played on his lips, always so confident in his approach.

“You look stunning,” he said, his voice smooth as always.

You smiled, half-flattered but aware of the tension in your chest. “Thank you.”

But as soon as you let him inside, Layla piped up from the living room. “Who’s that?”

You glanced back toward the couch, where Layla was sitting, arms crossed, a serious look on her face, her deep brown eyes narrowing slightly as she sized up Kisaki. She looked like she was calculating him, figuring out the angles, the weaknesses. She was smart, and she wasn’t quick to trust.

“Hey, Layla. This is Kisaki. He’s a… friend of mommy’s,” you said, trying to keep the tone light.

Layla looked at you, then at Kisaki, then back at you again, her expression unchanged. “A friend, huh?”

Kisaki raised an eyebrow but didn’t break his cool, collected demeanor. “That’s right. Just a friend.”

Layla’s mouth curved into a slight, knowing smirk. “So, are you going to be here for dinner or are you just here to stare at my mom?”

Her tone wasn’t rude, but it had the unmistakable bite of a child who wasn’t afraid to be blunt. And there was something in the way she said it — the way she didn’t flinch when Kisaki’s gaze met hers — that made it clear she wasn’t going to let him off easy.

Kisaki’s smirk didn’t falter, but you could see the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I’m here for dinner,” he replied, a trace of humor in his voice.

Layla didn’t move. She just stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read him like an open book. It was clear from the way her eyes flickered that she wasn’t intimidated, just observant. A sharp, calculating mind wrapped in a 10-year-old’s body.

You shook your head slightly, both amused and exasperated. “Layla, go set the table, please.”

Her eyes flickered to you, then back to Kisaki, and she hesitated only for a moment before she stood and stalked off to the kitchen. Her steps were heavy, purposeful, and she muttered something incoherent as she passed by.

Kisaki looked at you, his expression unreadable. “She’s… something.”

You sighed, turning back to the kitchen where Layla had already taken charge. “She’s protective, that’s all,” you said.

Kisaki chuckled low in his throat. “I can tell.”

Dinner was an exercise in patience. Layla continued to challenge him with her snarky comments and hard stares. She didn’t make it easy for him, questioning every little thing he said with a critical eye. She’d interrupt the conversation to tell him how she preferred her food to be cooked, pointing out how she thought he was a little too fancy for a family dinner.

“Do you always wear suits?” Layla asked between bites of her food. “It’s not a formal occasion.”

Kisaki leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the rim of his glass. “I like to dress for the occasion,” he replied smoothly, his voice steady despite the underlying tension.

Layla wasn’t convinced. “And is this an occasion? Or is this just you trying to look important in front of my mom?”

You nearly choked on your drink, a laugh bubbling up, but you quickly stifled it, clearing your throat. “Layla, that’s enough.”

But Kisaki didn’t seem offended. He almost looked impressed, like he was enjoying this little game. “It’s fine,” he said, his eyes not leaving Layla’s. “But I’m not trying to look important. Just trying to get to know your mom.”

Layla narrowed her eyes. “I’m not stupid. You’re trying too hard.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Layla, please.”

But Layla didn’t seem to care. She’d made up her mind. This wasn’t just a regular dinner — this was a test. And she was going to see how Kisaki handled it, every little bit of it.

The rest of the evening didn’t get much easier. Kisaki tried to engage you in conversation, but Layla always seemed to have a way of interrupting at just the right moment — demanding more juice, needing to tell you something about her day, or giving you the “look” that told you she was still suspicious of him.

As the evening wore on, Layla finally retired to her room with a heavy sigh, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You turned to Kisaki, exhausted from the mental gymnastics of the evening.

“She’s a handful,” you said, massaging your temples.

“I’m not bothered,” Kisaki replied, his voice still smooth, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes. “It’ll take more than that to stop me.”

You looked at him, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I’ll be honest — she’s not easy to win over. But she’ll eventually warm up… hopefully.”

Kisaki smiled, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m patient. I’ll wait.”

And you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of something, something between excitement and apprehension, as you realized that this wasn’t going to be over quickly. Layla might be protective, but Kisaki wasn’t a man who gave up easily.

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forklesbian · 29 days ago

Note

Well, it worked!

COOK THE MEAT

@harp0crat35 WHY AM I GETTING THIS ASK

#fork talks to the void

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steviewashere · 1 month ago

Text

What is a Heart Worth if It's Just Left All Alone?

Rating: General CWs: None! Tags: Post-Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, POV Outsider, Switching POV, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Breakup (Brief), Getting Back Together, Love Confessions, Dialogue Heavy, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Dustin Henderson Being a Voice of Reason, Steve Harrington & Dustin Henderson Have a Brotherly Friendship, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues Wrote this all on Tumblr this morning literally in an hour. Hope it's good! Title from "Questions" by Jack Johnson

💕—————💕 Steve and Eddie are seen always sitting next to each other. At first, when they were just friends, it was nothing more than just an Oh, hey, this seat is empty, mind if I sit down? Now that they're several months deep into dating, it's as if they'll evaporate without the other right by their side.

Movie nights? Cuddling together. BBQ at the Byers-Hopper house? Thigh to thigh, eating off the same plate. All the seats full? A lap is now a seat.

They hold hands; Steve sometimes spinning Eddie's rings, Eddie popping Steve's tense knuckles. Arms slung over shoulders. Ankles looped around each other. Again, food shared between plates, forks, and fingers. Petting hair, twirling strands, braiding chunks. Murmured compliments and whispered questions and smiley answers. Commentary about the show or the movie or the commercial. Naps intertwined, snuffling under the only throw blanket, craning their necks to watch over each other.

It's sick.

It's sweet.

Nobody's seen them as happy as they are than when they're with each other. If they don't spend at least five of seven days in a week together, then they pout and groan and those arbitrary questions come popping back up—"Is he okay? Did I go too far with something? Why isn't he seeing me right now?" Long gaps between dates means reunions as if the world is still ending; long winded hugs and smiles too big for their faces and hushed words nobody knows how to pick up. Sometimes a kiss...or two...or three.

And then, out of nowhere, Steve and Eddie stop.

Stop hanging out. Stop talking to each other. Stop being in the same room, on the same couch, in the same conversation.

It's weird.

"We broke up," Steve says in this quiet, dismissive way. Utterly void and somehow completely flimsy. He shrugs at Dustin's confused, questioning look. "I'm fine. Eddie's fine. It was...it was mutual. Don't worry."

Don't worry?

That's all Dustin's doing now!

In what world do Steve and Eddie—or better yet, SteveandEddie—just up and leave one another's lives? Sure, the affection they put out sometimes interrupted everything else going on around it. And yeah, if he had to see basically his two older brothers mack it one more time, Dustin was going to ralph—and not in that homophobic, Billy Hargrove/Jason Carver/Troy Walsh way. But because it was always so graphic and noisy and full of pure love that Dustin had nothing else to do but look away. He had to for his own sanity!

But now it's just...gone? All of it?

The gentle, teasing remarks. The warm, sleepy, early morning laughter that followed an all group sleepover. Arcade visits where the two were fighting over the same cabinet. No more bickering over the radio station, swapping sunglasses, turning down the volume if Steve had those early telltale signs of a migraine. Goodbye coffee runs and BBQ plate sharing and grabbing the other's favorite at a convenience store—just because.

"What do you mean you guys broke up?" Dustin squawks. "What the—How in the—Just like that?! What the hell even happened? You guys were perfect for each other!"

Because, yeah, as much as he'd been cheering for the whole SteveandRobin of it all...he has eyes. He's got eyes all over his head, blinking, gazing right into the sun that is Steve and Eddie's megawatt, shiny, beautiful relationship. They're an endgame telenova couple, and Dustin just sat down with his bowl of popcorn! No way is he letting these kernels go stale.

Steve shrugs dismissively—again. He's gripping his steering wheel tight, though. And his sunglasses are sitting low enough on his nose to unsheathe his shiny, sad eyes. Dustin's a fool, but he's not a moron. These are the telltale signs of heartbreak—and yikes does Steve wear it all well...too well.

"I don't know what to tell you, Dusty. Some things just don't work out. No matter how good they were going." He flicks his turn signal to flash left, right towards Forest Hill. Right towards doom, it seems like. "We were just...we were too different, dude."

"Oh, no fucking way!" Dustin roars.

Steve brings his right hand to his ear, tweaking it. "Lang"—

"Are you intentionally being stupid or something?" he asks rhetorically. Slamming out his hands when Steve begins to answer. "Don't—Just...where the hell did you get an idea like that, man? So you don't enjoy playing some D&D like Eddie does—who actually cares? I get it now, dude, not your thing. Not your ala mode, whatever. And you listen to more radio hit, poppy songs than he does. And maybe you don't read as many novels as he does"—

"Y'know, you're kinda proving the point"—

"Ah! No! Shut up, will you? Just fuckin' slam the breaks for a minute, 'cause I'm not done." Dustin tosses his hands back to his lap, slapping them down with firm smacks. He guffaws, stuttering over the same incomprehensible, unintelligible noises of disbelief. "You guys just got each other in a way that I haven't seen out of anybody in my entire life. It's like you guys have met before, but like...like lifetimes ago. Like you've lived somewhere in the universe simultaneously in alternate timelines over and over and over again. Some real sort of Twilight Zone kind of shit.

"Who cares if you guys have different tastes? We have different tastes, don't we? You like raucous comedy videos and I'm a big sci-fi fantasy nerd in ways you don't get—and that's fine! That's completely fine!

"If you were just like Eddie—or, to take it back to me—if you were just like me, you'd be so insanely boring. No offense, but you would be. God, our conversations would just run dry.

"Some of my favorite things I'd see between you and Eddie were these just purely, like, inquisitive conversations, y'know? Where Eddie'd be complaining about some far away Lord of the Rings lore bullshit and you'd be asking all the questions. Like...like that one time you asked why Bilbo and all the other dudes didn't just take the giant eagles to Mordor! What an entertaining conversation that was. But if you knew the answer already, then why would you ever want to have a conversation about something you already know? Why would you ever want to talk to Eddie about anything fantasy wise? You'd just bore each other out!

"Or...or the whole music taste thing, right? Metal stuff gives you migraines"—

"I mean...it doesn't always give me migraines...it just gets too loud and then"—

"Okay, so it's a trigger," Dustin says flippantly, tossing up his hand. "Got it. Yeah. But the thing is, Steve, that became an obvious thing of importance to Eddie. He played his music, but he played it quieter when you were around. And...and, yeah, okay, he didn't always enjoy the pop songs—the exact same way you didn't enjoy the way Iron Maiden sounded...again, that's okay!

"The fact that you guys were willing to indulge each other, though, that's pretty big. Eddie listened to what you had to say about your favorite Madonna song. He loves hearing you talk about your music, the same way your face visibly lights up when Eddie talks about his. He wants to know you.

"Eddie wants you to be different from him. He wants to know your perspective on things, don't you get it? He wants to have somebody that'll bounce right off of him and give him something to deeply think about. He needs a person who's going to shoot him down on his stupidest shit, but he needs a person who's also going to respect him.

"Just like you do," Dustin murmurs carefully. "You used to tell me that the key to getting a girl to like you is to act like you don't care. Or to be flippant. Or to just...just go along with it. Which, yeah, pretty stupid advice, if I'm being honest.

"Something, like, visibly shines from inside you when you find yourself caring. And I think what you've been looking for all these years is a person who is not you. Or, better yet, somebody who shows up for you—in ways, maybe, a person hasn't before.

"Eddie cares about you, Steve, in ways I've never seen him care about anybody. Especially somebody who aligns with all his Munson doctrine horseshit that he's been carrying around like a fucking cement block. You align with it, maybe, but the way you show up for him is important, too. You disprove everything he's previously believed about people like you. He needed that wake up call.

"And now that he's awake, man, I don't think he's gonna want to go back to sleep." The sign at the entrance of Forest Hills is a few feet ahead, right inside his peripheral. For some reason, Steve is slowing down instead of speeding up. And Dustin feels like he's giving a debate team speech—Jesus. "I don't think you should let go of this, Steve. This relationship is right. For him...for you.

"What's the real reason you guys broke up? And don't give me the bullshit of him being too different from you. That's not true and you know it."

They could just speed right into Forest Hills. He could be dropped off. The BMW could sputter dust right in his face and leave a trail as Steve speeds back down the road, away from the trailers and the chain fence and the orange couch on the Munson porch. Instead, though, he pulls off to the side of the road.

Steve parks. Rips his sunglasses right off his face. And—for the first time ever—Dustin sees tears pour right down Steve's cheeks. He doesn't even wipe them away, just rubs the snotty tip of his nose against his Members Only jacket, and sighs.

"When'd you start giving relationship advice?" Steve crackles like he's trying for a joke. He even huffs a senseless chuckle. Eyes still wet. Cheeks ruddy pink and white. "You're gonna hate me," he mutters.

Firmly, "No, I'm not, Steve. Just be honest with me."

"I was the one who broke up with Eddie, okay?"

Dustin blinks, cowed. "What? Why?"

Steve shrugs, this time helplessly. Aimlessly. Scared. "Thought that, um...um, that he'd see that I'm not the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with. Not that—I mean, we're barely in our twenties, y'know?

"And I know, okay, I know that I'm not everybody's favorite person. No matter how much of my ego tries to blow smoke up my own ass. He's just...Eddie's brilliant in ways I've never faced before—out of partners, at least. He's, uh, intelligent and so...so fucking funny and just overall a very beautiful person. Looks and smarts and whatever other shit spreads between all that.

"I'm just..."—Steve stops to take a heaving, stuttering deep breath—"...just sorta the placeholder, I guess? I feel like, one day, Eddie's going to see me for the person he didn't expect and he's going to realize how little of me he actually loves and cares for. And I just...I don't know, man. I don't know where I'm going with this! I know that I'm basically talking myself into and endless fucking spiral and that I broke up with him for a very, very stupid reason, but I...

"I'm scared he's going to stop loving me, Dustin." Steve looks him dead on now. Swollen eyes and puffy cheeks and quivering bottom lip. Broken and splintering all at the same time. "I thought"—another stuttering, nasally breath; it chokes out at the end, teetering on a sob—"I thought that if I broke things off, then he wouldn't have to waste his time with loving me, but also...also to stop loving me. Does that even make sense? I know I'm being fucking irrational. And—What I did was pointless and cruel and stupid of me, okay? It's stupid!

"Eddie's probably way worse off compared to me. And here I fucking am, sobbing in my car to some fifteen year old kid as if I'm not the literal monster in the scenario." Steve scoffs to himself, rolls his eyes, faces towards the windshield again. "And now Eddie probably actually fucking hates my guts. He's probably...probably grateful that I ended things and showed my true clashing colors. Proved him and his dumb fuckin' doctrine right. I'm an asshole. That's all I'll ever be. King fucking Steve, a walking, talking, gaping asshole." He sniffs, rubs his wet nose against his jacket again, and scoffs at himself once more in utter disgust. "I mean, like, who does this shit, right? Who looks at the person they love the most in the world and decides—oh, look at me and my big, stupid self imposed hate. Better break up with my doting, loving, patient partner to make things not as bad. Look at me, Mr. Righteous doing the selfless thing! Who am I kidding, though?

"I'm so fucking selfish. And the only person who's actually hurt is Eddie. And I didn't even get to tell him that I do love him. I do, I really, really love Eddie.

"Didn't even give our relationship enough time for us to say that to each other." He scrubs his hands over his face, squishing his eyeballs with audible, wet squelches. Steve sighs around a humorless laugh. "I have to apologize," he decides aloud—said so low, Dustin's not even sure if he was supposed to hear it. "But if I apologize and Eddie asks for the reason, then what? I gotta be honest, right? But then, what, make myself look like a victim? I broke my own stupid heart. Squished it under my shoe and everything." He shakes his head. Clicks his tongue. Chuckles dry again. "But Eddie likes honesty, I guess. So...so I guess I have to be. He's gonna be so mad at me, isn't he?"

Dustin blinks again. Takes a deep breath. Flounders for a beat, then two. "That's...I don't know, Steve," he speaks carefully, "I mean...dude, that was a lot to process? I think you should apologize, for sure. If Eddie asks for honesty, though...If Eddie asks for honesty, I think he deserves to hear the truth.

"He'll probably be a lot upset, I can't tell you that he won't be. But I think...I think if you consider the fact that this is Eddie we're talking about, then there's always going to be room for compassion, maybe even some forgiveness. Eddie can be an asshole, but he's not cruel. And he can be mad, but he's not going to stomp you our for having insecurities." Dustin swallows, it clicks against the back of his throat. Then, "That's what that whole thing was, by the way. A lot of insecurities that, I gotta be honest, Steve, that need to be mended, man. You're walking around with a lot of heavy baggage and I think it's time to let some of it go."

Steve nods, slowly wiping the tear tracks away from his face. "I know," he croaks. "I know, I just..."—again, helplessly, Steve shrugs—"...I didn't think I was this bad."

"You're not bad," Dustin remarks quietly. "You're not cruel and you're not an asshole. Steve, you just...you're a good person who happens to have been seriously hurt before. Of course you're going to be scared of being hurt again.

"Sometimes heart talks over logic. And that's what happened. You got scared, so you backed away the only way your heart told you to. The whole...the whole messy aftermath is logic finally catching up.

"It doesn't feel good, I bet. But it doesn't make you a bad person for realizing you've made a mistake."

"Pretty fucking explosive mistake, isn't it?"

Dustin sighs. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, pretty explosive. But that's okay, Steve. You realize that, right? It's okay that you said some things and now you're learning from them?

"It's just like when you made that joke to me about punching out my teeth, dude. And then you caught what you said. And you walked it back. And you apologized.

"You put your foot, like, pretty firmly in your mouth, sure. Doesn't mean you can't dislodge it or something, right? Everybody does something that they aren't proud of. And that something comes with consequences.

"You're going to be okay, dude. No matter what happens. Eddie may not immediately forgive you. And you guys probably won't go back to being as all over each other as you were before. But that's okay. Time heals all wounds or whatever bullshit that saying is." Steve laughs at that, finally humorous and loud. "Also, gotta say, it's kind of fucking crazy that I'm the voice of reason right now. You realize that, right? I'm fifteen and obnoxious and somehow, I'm giving you the best advice in the whole universe."

Steve rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright. Don't go blowing smoke up your own ass, you butthead. But, uh...you're reasonable right now. So I guess I should listen to you."

"You guess? Just take the advice, you asshat! When we get to Eddie's, I want you to apologize to him and see what happens." When he doesn't get a response, Dustin sighs. "Seriously," he says, no longer teasing, "I'm going to go inside Eddie's and send him right out to you. You don't have to give, like, a perfect apology. But just be honest with him, alright? You'll be fine. And so will he. At least try to get some words out, okay?"

They finally turn down the Forest Hills drive. Park right outside of Eddie's. Steve turns to him. "Send him out," he says, "I'm sorry, in advance, if this takes a while."

"If you guys take the rest of the day, I won't be mad. You, uh, you guys are actually perfect for each other. I was being honest about that." Before anything else can be said, Dustin runs right up to Eddie's door, enters without a knock, and prepares himself to sit on the couch for a little while.

——— Steve's still drying off his face and rubbing the visible sheen from his eyes when Eddie approaches him. The two of them standing a couple feet apart at the BMW's front bumper.

"Dustin said we had to talk," Eddie says flatly instead of greeting. "Is it as important as he made it sound?"

"Um"—Steve nods, shakes his head, nods again—"I wanted...to...apologize. For breaking things off the way I did."

Eddie loudly scoffs and huffs. "Oh, so you're sorry for breaking my heart? Gee, thanks, Harrington. Like that's going to make it all better."

The drying his cheeks was a dumb thing to do in hindsight. Tears come back to his eyes tenfold. He can't bring himself to look up at Eddie, even though the heartbreak is clear in his voice.

"I don't know...I don't know what to say," Steve admits. "Guess I should just start with, um, the fact that I didn't actually want to break up with you?"

"God, you are terrible at apologies, you know that? Is that supposed to make me want you back or something? That you didn't want to break my heart, just testing the waters? See how far you could stretch my care for you until being able to just burn it up?"

Steve shakes his head. "No, I—I ran away, okay? That was me running. We...we were getting really deep into everything. And I scared, like, stupidly scared. Because you care about me now, sure, but what about a couple years from now when I'm too much again or maybe, like, too shallow or I'm full of shit or"—he sighs and slouches against the hood of his car, face pointed down at the dirt under his shoes—"Fuck if I know if we'd even survive a few years, y'know? Who says we would? It's not like my other relationships lasted that long."

Eddie audibly shifts, but Steve still doesn't look up. "So...so breaking up with me was the only option? What happened to talking to me when you get in your own head, Steve? One of the main things in a relationship is communication. I can't help you if I don't know what I'm supposed to help with."

"That's the thing!" Steve huffs out. "Okay? I don't know how to talk about it without sounding like a complete fucking baby or something, I don't know!

"You know how many other people have looked at me and decided that I'm just not worth the time? That my interests and my hobbies and my affection—all of it, just none of it mattered! And I—Eddie, oh my god, Eddie I'm so stupidly in love with you, you have to believe me. But it's...it's just a matter of time, right?

"It's a matter of time until you look at me for who I am. Like, really, really look at me for who I am and you realize that I'm not who you actually want. I'm not interesting enough. I'm not caring enough. I'm not doting enough. That I'm just not enough or something, I don't know.

"And like...like I'm so in it with you. I could picture myself just years down the road, you right by my side at the dinner table. With...with our tape collection mixed up and toppling over, the fridge stocked with our favorite drinks, mugs stained with each other's coffee mess. I could see myself dedicating all of my time to you. Bending my life in all sorts of ways to accommodate you in it, to make sure there's always somewhere for you to breathe, for you to just exist, for you to just...just be there in it with me.

"I wanted a whole life with you. I still want that whole life with you. And I...I'm so stupid about all this because it's so obvious that you care about me and that you want me, but for some reason I just led myself to believe that at some point, it would all go away. That, for some reason, you would just stop.

"And I didn't want you to stop wanting me. Because I don't want to stop wanting you. Because my bed is better with you. And my arms are meant for you and my whole—Everything! Everything I have is meant to be shared with you, just you, Eds.

"But you...you have so much ahead of you and I don't know...maybe I'm just not supposed to be in it? I feel like I'm picturing too much. Or maybe I'm just getting too ahead of myself. We were only eight months into it, but if I had the money, Eds, I'd get all the moments right to put myself on one knee. And that...that scares me, too. How much I want you." Steve tries for a deep breath, but this time—this time—it sputters out of him as a sob. A wet, scratchy, painful sob. "I'm sorry that I hurt you, Eds. I'm so sorry that I couldn't see past myself. I'm so fucking sorry that I tanked everything because I can't seem to get over everything else. I'm sorry, Eds, I'm so"—

"Stop," Eddie chokes out. He sniffles. Steve finally looks up, blurred vision and all, to try and clue out what emotion is flickering over Eddie's face. No dice. "I need you to stop, Steve. Just...just give me a second."

So he does. He sits on the hood of his car, looking down at the dirt again, trying to reign himself back in. It doesn't work. But he does quiet down. Enough to hear the stuttering of Eddie's own breath, which he seems to be trying to get under control, too.

Finally, Eddie croaks, "I'm hurt."

"I'm"—

"No, Steve, stop. My turn to talk, okay?" He just nods at Eddie. Collecting himself again, Eddie takes a deep, steady breath. Softly, "I'm...I'm hurt that you think of me like that. Or that you led yourself to think that. Because it's just not true, Steve. Not at all. Y'know how bad it's been to not have you around me?

"It's been awful, Steve. I think about calling you at least twenty times a day. To tell you about the stupid mundane things I did. Like what I ate for breakfast or what show I caught late last night or the best pop song I heard in the day. Because I love talking to you.

"I love your warmth, how you press right up next to me. I love your snoring when we're napping. I love the way you ask so many questions, the way you make me stop and think, the way you want to know more, or even when you want to know less. I love the way you guide your fork to my lips when you want me to try something from the absolute mountain of food we're sharing. I love your hand in mine. I love just...

"Steve, I love you." He catches himself whimpering around a sob, but it goes unnoticed right now by Eddie. Who steps closer. So close, the toes of their shoes clunking against each other. Eddie reaches out his hands and holds Steve's head up, palms on either cheek. The both of them crying. "And you tried to tell me that we should see other people. Because we're different, but then also we're too young, but then also this and that—It hurt so bad, to watch you visibly shrink away, disappear right out of the room.

"And baby, oh, baby—I'm obtuse sometimes, but I'm not stupid and neither are you. You aren't. But everything you said carried itself as these big, flashing neon signs of I'm not okay, something's wrong. You tried to trick me against it, but I could tell you were talking yourself into dumb, dumb circles.

"Do you not trust me?" Eddie asks carefully, "is that what happened? Did I do something to make you think that I was going to stop loving you?"

Steve shakes his head however much he can. Tries to swallow his tears, but to no avail. His words come out half-garbled. "No, I'm sorry."

Eddie tsks. "Stop apologizing," he whispers, "I want you to be honest with me, okay? Is there something I did?"

"No," he murmurs, "I just got too caught up."

"Too caught up in love?"

Steve shrugs. "In myself. Like...like maybe I was too many steps ahead. It felt like, sometimes, that maybe—But that's not fair to you because I just am hopeless, y'know. That's not on you. I don't know why I got so in my head."

"What's not fair to me, Steve? Please just tell me," Eddie presses.

Bursting, "It just felt like maybe you weren't on the same level or step as me, okay? Like I was letting myself get too ahead, too involved, too head first. And that's when I get to be too much. And that's when my partner usually pulls away. And I act like I'm blindsided, but it happens every time, Eddie!" Steve huffs, tries to shrug away, but Eddie only holds on tighter. "I just...I just didn't know, okay? I didn't know that you actually loved me. Which is stupid of me to think because, like, it was always so clear, now that I'm thinking about it. You care for me in ways nobody has. And even Dustin fucking saw it!

"I don't even know what I'm trying to say! That's how dumb this whole breakup thing was on my end. I don't have a real reason, okay? I just got too ahead of myself, I guess. And at the same time, I guess I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because it does. It drops at some point."

Eddie tenderly wipes at Steve's cheeks. Drying his tears. Steve feels bad about it, that he hasn't even tried to reach out and do the same. But, selfish as it is, he soaks it all up anyway.

It may be the last time he gets it.

"Steve," Eddie whispers—even his voice is tender—"I have to be honest, it makes me sad to hear that you think of yourself...of our relationship like that. But I promise you that the other shoe was never going to drop."

"Eds, how am I supposed to believe that? Be real with me."

Eddie firmly grabs Steve's face. Holds them steady. "Look at me." He does. "I am so deeply, incredibly, and passionately in love with you. And I was a fool to not tell you before, but that's not your fault. We're both young and scared and want a lot, we both let that get in the way of things. And we didn't talk like this. But. Keep looking at me." Steve sniffs, but, again, he does what he's told. "I love you, Steve."

Steve sniffles again, tries to blink the tears out of his eyes—and he's crying all over again. "I love you, too, Eds," he mutters, nearly inaudible.

"Hey, Steve?"

"Hm?"

Whispering again, "I love you a crazy lot. I love you, I love you, I love you." Eddie gives him a small smile. "We were missing that, huh? You just needed to hear that."

"Eds," he sighs. Shakes his head to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I am."

"Hey," Eddie murmurs, "I know, sweetheart. And...and I forgive you, even if maybe I'm jumping the gun on that. But I know I'm going to forgive you eventually. I love you too much to let you go."

"You should take your time"—

"I am in love with you. And I accept all ten trillion of your apologies that you're trying to queue up, okay? We are both damaged goods, in a lot—and I mean a lot—of ways. It doesn't feel right to me to put us in a place where we're walking on eggshells, waiting.

"I forgive you. And I love you. So endlessly." Eddie swipes his hands over either side of Steve's head, brushing hair behind his ears. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear how deep in this I am with you. In case it's still not clear, if you propose to me tomorrow, I'm going to say yes."

Steve chuckles. "That's ridiculous."

"The right kind of ridiculous for us, though." Brushing through Steve's hair again, Eddie sighs. "I wish you would've told me how you were feeling, though," he whispers, "that way we could've avoided any sort of mess."

"I'll get better at talking," Steve swears. "I'm bad at it. I don't want to be bad at it. Not with you."

"We'll both get better at it, how about that?" Eddie smiles small again, tenderly caressing Steve's head. He leans it, slow and careful, and plants a gentle kiss against Steve's lips. "You're too important to just let go. I love you from here to our neighboring galaxy and back."

"I love you, too, Eds. God, I love you so much. That feels incredible to say."

Eddie pecks him again. Murmuring against Steve's lips, "Do you wanna come in and watch a movie with Dustin and I? I want your questions and commentary."

"That's gonna be annoying, though."

"Come inside and be annoying, then. I've got your Pringles in the snack cupboard and your root beer on standby. Some cuddles and kisses in there, too."

Steve smiles, can feel the way it crinkles the tip of his nose. As if he can't resist, Eddie smacks another kiss, yet to Steve's nose this time. "I'll give you all the makeup cuddles in the world, Eds. Hold my hand the entire time, though?"

"And let 'em get all sweaty and gross? Hell yeah, baby. All the hand holding for you."

They've got a little ways to go, more potholes to pave, but it feels better to do it side by side, thigh warm against thigh, every question answered, and both hands held.

💕—————💕

#I'm not even kidding when I say that I wrote this all on here #this was originally just going to be a short post about Eddie whispering how much he loves Steve into Steve's ear but.#alas. they love each other too much for a 100 word post.#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #steve harrington & dustin henderson #angst and hurt/comfort #edit: I just plugged this fic into the ao3 fic editor. to archive it. and it's over 5k words?#how the hell did I do this in an hour this morning? why is my brain suddenly working again?#YIPPEE!!!!

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