#...with a dash of comfort

[msmk11]

Pretty Boy

Harry Potter x fem!reader

WC: 563

CW: mentions of the Dursleys being neglectful; FLUFF

Summary: You love to make your boyfriend embarassed

Day 21 of mk's mad dash

Sadly, your boyfriend grew up without any affection from his family. So, it was no surprise that any affection he was shown was foreign to him. And, in some cases, maybe even a little embarrassing. You remembered the early days of your relationship- how even a peck on his cheek or a hug would make him blush furiously. With time, of course, he became more comfortable in your affection and even initiated it himself. Still, occasionally, you were able to bring back out his shy side, intentionally or not. 

In this instance, you were very intentional about trying to make your boyfriend blush. After he’d called you pretty girl a few weeks ago and left you a flustered mess, you were determined to get revenge. 

You decided to act completely unassuming, only throwing the term of endearment back in his face when he was most vulnerable and sweet in your arms. 

After a long Friday of classes, you brought Harry back to your dorm to cuddle and relax, simply enjoying one another’s presence. You snuck some food from the kitchens that now left you both feeling stuffed and satisfied. In your current position you were laying sprawled out, back on the bed and Harry nearly entirely on top of you.

In your post-dinner bliss, you two had gone mostly silent, reveling in each other’s company and touch. You absentmindedly ran your fingers through Harry’s wild black hair, pursuing a pointless mission of trying to untangle his curls. 

Your boyfriend’s face was buried in your neck, occasionally pressing gentle kisses to your skin when the urge presented itself. 

When your fingers made their way to the nape of his neck, Harry hummed softly against you.

“Feel good, Haz?”

“Yeah, baby. So good. Love when you play with my hair,” he sighed.

You pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, “Good. You deserve to be spoiled, you know.”

“Why? ‘Cos my parents are dead?” he mumbled.

To those who didn’t know your boyfriend, this type of comment would’ve left them floored. But for you, who was used to his dark humor, you only laughed disbelievingly, squeezing his arm chidingly, “Harry!”

“Well?”

You pressed another fond kiss against his skin, this time to his cheek, “You deserve to be spoiled because I love you and because you’re a sweet boy.”

Then more quietly you whispered, “my sweet boy.”

Harry raised his head from its home in your neck and pecked your lips lovingly, “love you, baby.”

You knew that now was the time to strike. 

“I love you too, my pretty boy.”

Your boyfriend’s face went from loving to embarrassed in seconds, his brown skin coloring red. 

He whined and buried his face back in your neck.

“What’s wrong my love,” you asked teasingly.

“You know what’s wrong,” he grumbled, “you did it on purpose.”

“Did what on purpose?”

Harry looked back up at you, the most adorable pout gracing his lips, “You called me…. pretty boy…. just to make me embarrassed.”

“I said what I meant,” you answered honestly, “though the teasing was a benefit.”

Your boyfriend continued to pout at you, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you reminded him, “Otherwise you wouldn’t feel so embarrassed right now.”

“Fine,” he huffed, rolling his eyes, “Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

And damn him, because now you were the one left a blushing mess.

[hitlikehammers]

The One Where Wayne Munson KNOWS BETTER Than to Lend Air to IDLE GOSSIP

(and does it anyway on accident and ends up thinking his 💕boy's boy💕 might be ✖️stepping out) ——(1/3)

Wayne Munson’s lived his life mostly free from the hubbub of small town gossip. Some was unavoidable in his tiny holler as a boy; more was part and parcel to the service, and plain keeping half-sane in war—anything for a distraction. After all that though, Wayne’d had more’n his fill of even a teaspoon of hearsay, and compared to where he came from? Hawkins, Indiana was small potatoes for keepin’ his nose clear out of it.

Which is all to say he don’t mean to collect any of the latest scuttlebutt on his way just to town after he gets off his shift with the sun barely a glimmer, just past 5 for Leah’s to be open for a better cup-o-joe than the sludge he gets on the floor. All he wants is a hot nightcap because he knows damn well his boy didn’t pick up more grounds before Melvald’s closed last night, and Wayne doesn’t want to see his bed until he’s had a full mug of fair-to-middling coffee.

And honest: he don’t think that’s more than he’s earned to ask.

But it is more than he bargained for signing’ up to, when he sees the only other people in the diner at this hour on a Saturday.

Because the only other people are a girl he don’t know, though he can’t see her real well from the back, which only really means he sees her coffee date full-on and much too well in exchange because they’re leaned in and they’re being all touchy across the table, voices low but not too low—he don’t think they even noticed him come in, let alone come to wait close enough to hear ‘em while he insists on saving the lovely Leah herself the trip to a table when he can damn well carry his own drink, thanks kindly.

“You’re gonna have a coronary if you keep hiding this.”

The girl sounds…she sounds the way Wayne remembers his Mamaw sounding when she was about to hit his Grampy up the head over some harebrained such-and-such. Exasperated, but all from a deep well of unshakable loving.

Which is what perks up Wayne’s attention, and then churns his insides quick right-next, because—

Well. The boy this young lady’s being all over-fond at for his antics is Steve Harrington.

Who, for all that Wayne understands, is meant to be his boy’s boy.

“No, no,” Steve’s shaking his head, tone bowstring-taut; “I’m gonna tell him.” Kid sounds resolved for all of half-a-second before he’s groaning, running hands over his face: “Or, I mean—”

The thunk of the boy’s head to the tabletop clatters the cutlery, and if Wayne weren’t already clued into their conversation, he’d be wholly absolved for dropping eaves given how the noise echoes through the mostly-empty establishment bar-to-door.

“Dingus,” the girl says, and it drips with concern, with affection, with a deep choler that, again, sings loud of married-couple.

Which twists Wayne’s guts all the more to hear.

Because she’s talking to Wayne’s boy’s boy.

“I’m gonna, I promise,” Steve sounds not unlike a man on his way to the gallows, even more when he sighs deep as anything and traces out his lips with his fingers, hands shaky even out the corner of Wayne’s eye for a distance as he hisses low:

“Fuck.”

And Wayne, see, he don’t like borrowing trouble. He meant it about keeping his nose clean of the gossip and the hearsay. So he makes sure he reminds himself good in his own head that he don’t know the facts here, and jumpin’ to conclusions don’t do no favors to nobody.

It don’t do nothing for the way that what he does know, what he sees and hears with his own god-given senses in the now, don’t add up too kindly for the Harrington boy.

Not least because it seems to be adding up poor indeed for Wayne’s boy.

“Do you think he’ll—”

“Steve,” the girl’s voice goes softer, but also frantic almost, as Wayne sees her reach across the way and gather Steve’s hands with a familiarity to the motion that wouldn’t make sense unless…

Unless they’re something special to each other.

Wayne’s watched Eddie reach out for Steve that way. He’s watch Steve do the same. So it…it just don’t make sense—

“You’re shaking,” the girl says, all kinda pitiful, and Wayne’d seen it before, but now he chances a look again and: oh.

Boy’s a leaf in a cyclone.

“It’s a big deal,” Steve rasps out near under Wayne’s ability to hear it.

But he does hear it.

“You need to just lay it out,” the girl tells him, earnest now and more of that than any irritation, any frustration put-upon or otherwise; “be up front with him.”

And it ain’t fair, yet, even if all the signs are pointing that direction; but Wayne likes Steve. He doesn’t want to think the worst of him. And he doesn’t, really, in his heart, think Steve could do or be the worst, from all he’s learned and seen—Wayne’d had uncharitable thoughts about it he kid, before he knew better, based on hearsay which one more time, he don’t countenance as a rule, and he’d been taught better and quick from the second he saw Steve at his nephew’s bedside, and heard the only thing he’s proud and happy to have dropped in upon uninvited:

You nearly fucking died yourself dragging him out, Steve, what the hell—

That Henderson squirt, scolding Steve something fierce.

So Wayne reminds himself this boy loved his boy enough to risk himself to bring Eddie home. Before they were anything to one another. And Wayne knows damn well they’re both something to each other, now. It don’t make sense that Steve wants to…be up front about a notion with Eddie that could hurt.

But then: care can look a lot of different ways, and can change over time. Ain’t nobody to fault for that. And much as Wayne can’t quite believe the Steve he’s gotten to know these past many-months could swallow hurting his Eddie…

Wayne’s been proven incorrect about people more than enough in his life to know better than to think it’s impossible to be wrong about a man’s heart.

“Oh, I’m sure that’ll go over fucking fantastic,” Steve’s huffing, rolling his eyes—apparently he don’t want to be up front with the person they’re talking about. Wayne tries to remind himself that they’ve not flat out said it’s Eddie yet. Wayne shouldn’t go making assumptions.

“Why not?” the girl’s pressing him. “Be honest, with him,” then her tone does go a little judgemental; “you can’t honestly think he doesn’t suspect—”

“I really don’t think he does,” and it’s a strange thing, because no matter the words themselves, it don’t sound like Steve’s meaning to be deceitful about a thing. Kinda sounds a little like he’s mourning, like he’s just in a kind of pain. “If he did, then at least maybe I’d have some kind of,” he waves his hand in the air, looks frantic, at loose ends all around; “heads-up for where his head’s at.”

And they’re both quiet for a spell, and Wayne looks for Leah in the back, knew she was getting food ready and was happy to wait—for better or worse with the conversation he’s been privy to without permission unspooling at his side—but he’s starting to feel antsy for all that he’s hearing, and the way he can’t quite tamp down associating it all with Eddie, with touchy things Steve might have to tell Eddie—

“Tell him by the end of the weekend.”

And now: think he might have to tell, encouraged so damn strong and single-minded by his lady friend with her hand on his arm.

“That’s fucking tomorrow!”

“End,” she’s narrowing her eyes sharp enough Wayne notices more in the shift of the room than to see it head-on; “of,” and then she’s smacking Steve’s arm to emphasize hard enough it rings out; “the weekend.”

Then Wayne notices how her posture shifts, and she leans closer again, so much affection, and easy with it, and welcome for it, no doubt about it:

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” she says low and earnest; “especially not when the thing you’re like this about is,” and then her tone shifts to something bright, near-on hopeful, even:

“It’s such a good thing, Steve.”

“I mean,” Steve mumbles, kind of miserable really; “of course you think so.”

And Wayne don’t like where his head goes for things the girl who’s watching Steve with such soft eyes might think to be good, might think while she’s touching him so close and —

“He’ll,” and she huffs a touch before going all heartfelt again: “Eddie is going to—”

And the moment his plausible deniability about the subject of the discussion is gone, Wayne gives up waiting for his coffee at the counter and…retreats to the corner by the door, far as he can get from whatever’s said next. He’d leave, honest, but the truth of the matter’s this:

He can’t be expected in good faith to figure out how to bring any of this up with Ed if he don’t have no caffeine in him.

☕ 👀 ☕

✨ part ii >>>

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—and since this is almost a YEAR LATE, could I possibly offer it as a normal-amounts-of-late birthday gift, more than as an egregiously-and-unforgivably-late prompt fill for you?

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

NOTE: it's important to me that you know that Wayne's accept belongs to nowhere, and is just the voice of someone I knew as a kid, who also sounded like a little of everywhere and then again nowhere. so if you think some turn of phrase doesn't fit what you think you're reading in terms of dialect? it's just that this way of stringing words together is—with intention—its own amalgam of places and times

divider credit here and here

[chimchiri]

Tank to the rescue

[hiddenmoonbeam]

A soft llal wip I still want to work more on, but as I’m slow at finishing things I want to get better at posting wips and sketches, so here is this one from a couple of months ago <3

[cordiallyfuturedwight]

i really wanna, wanna, wanna just dance ♡

for @senor-hoberto 🌷| cr. 0613data

[ventique-genshin]

A wish

art is platonic

[jellofish-plant]

A Different Kind of Love

Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader

Summary: Life as parents in Gotham isn’t easy, especially when one of you is the infamous Red Hood and the other is trying to keep things together at home. But when it’s just the three of you—your partner, your child, and yourself—the chaos of Gotham can feel a little less daunting. Jason Todd never thought he’d be a father, but with you by his side, he’s learning what it means to love unconditionally.

Warnings:

Parenthood and family fluff

Mild violence (Gotham-style crime-fighting, no explicit content)

Emotional moments

Mentions of Gotham’s dangerous environment

Gotham had a way of testing you, and Jason Todd knew that better than anyone. He’d faced the city’s worst criminals, had lived through death and resurrection, and still nothing had ever made him feel as vulnerable as the day he held his child for the first time.

It had been months since your daughter was born, and in that time, Jason had learned how to protect her just as fiercely as he protected you. But there was something else something softer and more terrifying than any criminal he’d faced: the overwhelming love he felt every time he saw her smile, every time she reached for him with her tiny hands.

He had never been good at emotions. His childhood was a wreck, and he’d never had the luxury of being part of a “normal” family. But with you, everything had changed. The little moments he shared with you and your daughter those were the things that made him believe there could be more to life than just surviving.

The sound of soft giggles drifted from the nursery, and Jason’s lips twitched upward as he adjusted his helmet, finishing up the last of his nightly routine. He knew he should’ve been out on patrol, but tonight, he had made a promise to stay home. Gotham would survive for a few hours without Red Hood especially when it meant he could be with you and the little one.

The door to the nursery creaked open, and there you were, standing in the doorway with your daughter in your arms. Her big eyes shone in the dim light, and when she saw Jason, her little face lit up in a grin.

"Hey, kiddo," Jason said, his voice unusually soft as he knelt down in front of her crib, taking in the sight of her tiny hands reaching toward him.

You watched from the doorway, smiling at the scene. Jason, the fierce vigilante who struck fear into the hearts of Gotham’s criminals, was completely undone by his little girl.

"I think she’s ready for her bedtime story," you said, a playful hint in your voice. "But maybe she wants her dad to read it tonight."

Jason raised an eyebrow, glancing up at you. "She’ll probably fall asleep halfway through, but you know what? I’ll take that as a challenge."

You laughed, and Jason gave you one of those rare, genuine smiles—one that he reserved only for you. He reached out for your daughter, taking her gently from your arms. His protective instincts kicked in as he cradled her against his chest, his strong arms instinctively holding her close, his fingers brushing over her tiny head with the utmost care.

"Alright, little one," Jason murmured, kissing the top of her head. "Let’s see if your old man can do this."

You leaned against the doorframe, watching as Jason settled down in the rocking chair, his daughter resting comfortably against his chest. For all the chaos in his life, for all the times he’d been pushed to the edge of his humanity, moments like these made him feel like he finally had something to fight for something to protect.

Jason cleared his throat, grabbing the book from the small shelf beside the chair. You’d been reading bedtime stories to your daughter for months, but tonight, Jason was in charge.

"So, uh… This one’s called The Brave Little Knight," Jason began, glancing at you for reassurance. "Don’t expect too much, kid. I’m not exactly a storybook kind of guy."

You smiled softly at his self-deprecating tone. Jason had never been good at this type of thing being soft, being gentle but for you and your daughter, he was trying. And that made your heart swell more than you could put into words.

As Jason read, his voice growing more confident with each sentence, your daughter’s eyes fluttered as she fought to stay awake. She was still young enough that the world was mostly about the comfort of your voices, the softness of your touch. But even now, Jason could see the spark of her growing personality in the way she tilted her head toward him, her tiny hands gripping his shirt like she was already trying to keep him close.

"You know," Jason said, his voice quieter now, his gaze softening as he looked down at the baby in his arms, "I never thought I’d be here, doing this."

You leaned against the doorframe, heart in your throat. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated for a moment, his fingers gently brushing your daughter’s cheek as he kept reading. "I wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s father. After everything… after the way I grew up… I never thought I’d be able to be the kind of dad she needs."

You stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t look at you, but you could feel the weight of his words.

"You’re exactly the kind of dad she needs, Jason," you said softly. "You might not have had the best role models, but you’re doing everything you can to be better for her. And that’s all she needs. All we need."

Jason swallowed hard, looking down at your daughter as she began to drift off in his arms. "I just… I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want her to go through the same things I did."

"You won’t," you assured him, your voice steady. "We’re in this together. And no matter what happens, she’ll always know she’s loved. That’s more than we had, right?"

Jason finally looked up at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that was so raw it took your breath away. "Yeah," he whispered. "You’re right."

He shifted in the chair, adjusting your daughter in his arms as she began to fall into a peaceful sleep. He kissed the top of her head and then looked back at you, his gaze softer than you’d ever seen it.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For giving me this. For giving us this."

You smiled and moved closer, brushing a hand through his hair. "I didn’t do it alone, Jason. You’re a great father. And she’s lucky to have you."

Jason nodded, his lips quirking into a small, almost hesitant smile. "I’m lucky to have you."

And in that moment, with the quiet hum of the night surrounding you, the chaos of Gotham seemed miles away. In that small, safe space, everything felt right. Just the three of you, holding onto each other as a family.

Jason Todd, Red Hood and protector of Gotham, was learning that love had a way of healing even the deepest wounds. And for him, that love was right here small, fragile, but unbreakable.

[stuffyflowers]

Uhhh

Text + Inspo:

[vellichorom]

that one " Draw Your Comfort Characters " meme i'm sure you've seen everywhere but i had to reach deep into my psyche for it

they all wanted mcdonalds but they were not allowed any,

( using the cleaned up template graciously provided by @ UsagiEroArt on twt! )

[starscelly]

it's that time of year again... new fans! old fans! general inquiring minds!!! i present to you this year's dallas stars primer!! as always, based more on Vibes and Personality than the cold hard facts (but there are cold hard facts). slides last updated as of April 3rd, 2024 (:

huge huge huge thank you to @oetter @saltandpepperbox and @stickypucky for constantly reading over my work and helping add to this <3 <3

as always if there's any further questions do not hesitate to send me an ask or message!! enjoy!!!! slides below + small blurb about starsblr community for those curious/interested

(click to make the images larger/easier to read)

AS OF APRIL 5th 2024: MAVRIK BOURQUE HAS BEEN CALLED UP FROM THE AHL, LIKELY DUE TO AN ON-AND-OFF INJURY SUSTAINED BY TYLER SEGUIN. CURRENT AHL LEADING SCORER (SINCE STANK HAS BEEN CALLED UP) AND VERY FUN AND FRENCH CANADIAN (:

If after reading all of this, you're interested in becoming more involved with the stars and stars community, please know on starsblr we are sooo insanely welcoming!!!! the lb tag is extremely active and has some of the funniest, nicest people you'll ever meet. we also have such a blessedly large gifmaking community, some great artists, and of course phenomenal fic writers, so there's no shortage of silliness and vibes. I really encourage you to scroll the tags and consume all of this work because it is truly SUCH a fun, lively place here!!

and again, as always, my dms and inbox are always open <3

[onboardsorasora]

My dash is very sad right now and I get it, it feels like the end. But please understand and appreciate that I do not share the sentiments that this is 'it'.

This is allllll too very fishy and weird and the more I think about it, the more i step away from the emotion of it all. The more I'm sticking to my guns that this isn't over.

This is entirely the media's fault.

They kept badgering him while he was mentally and physically exhausted. If he kept hearing it over and over- we can't blame him for starting to believe it.

Anyhoo. I hope he has a lovely break at home, fills his cup and lets his team deal with holding RBR/VCARB responsible for this shit storm. And when he comes to work in COTA I hope he's tanned and happy and doing the most.

[msmk11]

I Love You First

Ron Weasley x gn!reader

WC: 538

CW: hurt/comfort

Summary: Ron is used to feeling second.

Day 17 of mk’s mad dash

Ron has yet to say anything, but you can tell that something is wrong. You knew the instant he walked into your room, his usual casual demeanor tinged with an air of sadness and insecurity. And while your boyfriend is always cuddly, when he instantly finds a home face down, buried in your stomach, your fears are confirmed. You’ve opted to not say anything, and instead are going to let Ron share his feelings with you when he’s ready. In the meantime, you provide little reassurances- pressing a soft kiss to his neck here or there, running your fingers through his knotted, ginger hair, and talking quietly about your day.

It’s only when you start to feel your shirt dampen that you decide to speak up, “baby? What’s wrong?”

A little sniffle escapes from your boyfriend, “nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Ron, you’re crying, sweetheart. What happened?”

Ron ignores you and squeezes your thighs tightly.

“Baby,” you bring your hand to his chin, forcing him to look up at you.

You instantly coo at the sight in front of you. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his cheeks stained with tear tracks, “talk to me, please.”

Ron refuses to look at you, “nothing’s happened. Not really. It’s just… I’m just…. I’m feeling insecure today, okay?”

You tut softly at him, pulling him up to sit in between your legs. You swipe your thumb across his freckled cheeks, “insecure about what, baby? Anything I can help with?”

The redhead mumbles something, and you have to ask him to repeat it.

“I said that I’m just tired of feeling like second best.”

Your boyfriend looks so sad and vulnerable as he confesses to you, and your heart breaks.

Feeling second is something Ron has always struggled with. With having so many siblings, being best friends with the chosen one, and also being best friends with ‘the brightest witch of your age’, he often feels less than. Less loved. Less important.

“Oh my love, I’m sorry,” you sigh softly. You reach out and kiss your boyfriend’s cheek. He instinctively leans into your touch.

“I know I can’t automatically change how you view yourself, but you must know that all your friends and family love you so very much. And me, well, I love you very very much. I love you the most, actually.”

Despite the sadness in his heart, a small grin forms on Ron’s face, “you love me the most? More than even your own family.”

“Mhmm. You’ve stolen my heart, Ronnie.”

The nickname and your confession makes him blush all prettily, and you peck his lips happily.

“I guess I just…. want to feel like I’m important to the people I care about. That I’m first in their hearts sometimes, you know? That I’m not just an afterthought, or the side character. I want to mean something to people.”

“You do, babe. I promise you that. But I get it. I know it feels easy to get lost in the commotion of your family and friends. But I always see you, yeah?”

“I love you, baby. Really, thank you,” he replies, nodding. Every word drips with adoration and your heart swells.

“I love you, Ron. And I’ll always, always, love you first.”

[hitlikehammers]

💫FINALLY✨ The One Where Wayne Munson Has to Carefully Try Not To Eavesdrop 100% COMMIT TO THE EAVESDROPPING When 💕HIS NEPHEW'S BOYFRIEND💕 Comes By To FACE THE MUSIC Reveal What That Coffee Date ☕ Was REALLY All About

(well: at least Wayne's just a willful fool about all this, rather than a witless one) ——(3/3)

<<< part two

~or~

<<< back to the beginning

Wayne’s the one who lets Steve in the next morning.

It’s his day off, and he only managed to get to bed for a couple hours anyway, so he’s just shaking off sleep when the knock comes.

And of course Steve’s as polite as ever, takes his shoes off like the upper crust kid he’ll always be but not with any of the snootiness Wayne’d expected in the beginning, just an ingrained—and eventually, grew to be downright upsetting—need to not be obtrusive, to step on no possible toes. Wayne’d been wishing for a while he’d go ahead and stomp on whatever toes he’d like to, save that today—

Today’s-Steve looks about ready to blow a gasket, and goddamn but Wayne hurts for him. He hurts more for his own boy, if what he fears despite his own good sense is what’s about to happen. But at the very same time he can’t wholly ignore the equal truth that Steve?

Steve’s grown to be his boy, too.

Wayne offers a cup from the coffee he’s about to brew but Steve turns him down with a tight smile, barely even worth being called such, which is telling for itself and more for rejecting the coffee—Steve only really does that when something’s wrong.

But Steve’s barely got to craning his neck around to look for Eddie when the man himself pops out from his room, all dimples and the kind of joy you can feel fill a room. Wayne aches for how it might be lookin’ to get dimmed, sniffed out at worst, if things are about to go sideways.

But Steve, who’s looked like he was ‘bout to be ill since he came in, takes a full breath and sheds the slightest sliver of the tension in him, just for meeting Eddie’s eyes across the way, and then Eddie’s closing the gap, arms out wide and grabbing Steve in tight and Steve’s grabbing right back, and they look for all intents like they’re trying real hard to pull so close they’ll break bones and mesh into one person, and Wayne tries to find comfort in the way people don’t do that sorta thing if they’re lookin’ to hurt one another.

They might well do that sorta thing as a kind of goodbye, though.

Eddie’s pulling them to the couch as Wayne stews over the thoughts he’s got, all at odds with each other and his own gut feeling too at that, because he’s up against the evidence he has against it turning out alright, versus the way he does believe he knows Steve to be a good man; the coffee’s burbling and draws his attention as a kindness until he hears voices from the living room:

“Eds,” and Steve’s leaning in to Eddie on the sofa and Wayne has to strain to hear and that alone should be enough to stop him. To make the more’n obvious point that he’s in the mess he’s in at all because he didn’t keep his ears to himself.

He don’t know if it makes it better or worse, that he’s not a witless fool, just a wilful one, to hold still where he’s got the dishes in hand to dry in the kitchen, so he can have a clean cup for his coffee. When he should move to the porch, have a smoke, take a walk.

“I gotta talk to you,” and Steve sounds grave with it, and Wayne tenses—he wants so bad to be wrong, because he can’t believe that Steve would do the things all the little clues add up to so easy. Not that sweet boy beat around by circumstance beneath the surface; and not done to his boy, neither.

Because Steve looks at his Eddie not so different from the moony cow-eyes his nephew don’t even try to tame.

But it’s…he sounds like there’s a death in the family he’s come to convey. He sounds like the world’s maybe ending.

Wayne don’t know if he holds his breath just to hear better, or because everything feels fragile. Maybe both things at once.

“What’s up, Stevie?” Eddie speaks so low, so sweet like he cherishes so damn much. “Are you okay, is everything—”

“Everything’s fine,” and Steve, hell: he sounds just the same, like there’s love coming out his ears. “Good, even, great, possibly,” but that sounds stilted, or maybe anxious, and Wayne don’t quite know what to make of it; “if you…”

And even Wayne can hear the labor in the breathe Steve’s taking, so he ain’t surprised when Eddie goes in all gentle and half whispers to his boy:

“Hey, Stevie.”

And Wayne don’t look, he’s pouring his coffee now, can’t take the chance of burnin’ himself and risk missing out hours for it, ‘course that’s why.

He don’t look, but he hears exactly what Ed’s words do to Steve when the reply comes out with the kind of relief you can feel with a weight in it, for what it sloughs off and makes light again:

“Hey.”

He can catch the way Eddie rubs hands up Steve’s arms, back and forth and back, foreheads leaned in together, and they sit there long enough for Wayne to lean in comfortable enough against the counter and test the heat of his drink.

“Whatcha got to talk to me about?” And it’s Eddie who broaches the elephant in the room, the soured thing at the base of Wayne’s throat churning for the past day and change. Wayne expects Steve to hold off, tiptoe a little.

He doesn’t, though; not even a little.

“I got the job.”

And that…that ain’t what Wayne was fearing at all, is it.

“Steve,” and Eddie does sound like it’s a good thing, a great thing, truly he does; “baby, that’s amazing!” And then the springs of the couch are creaking and Steve’s making a punched-out sorta sound that means only one thing: Eddie’s tackled him whole-body to the other side of the sofa.

“Fuck I’m so proud of you, sweetheart, holy shit,” Ed’s sayin’ a little breathy, punctuated by loud wet kissy sounds that Wayne usually takes as his cue to skedaddle but…he needs a minute to reconcile what he’d been thinking without believing it could be true, and the reality that it seems he’d been right deep-down about who Steve Harrington was.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Steve’s protesting through laughter, but once they both seem to catch back their breaths he likewise leans back to something serious, and Wayne sees into the living room how Eddie’s stretched on top of Steve, with Steve reaching up and holding him by the cheeks:

“I won’t take it if you,” and Steve’s clearin’ his throat, something Wayne’s noticed is like a squaring of shoulders, whether that part’s there at the same time or not; “I won’t take it, not if it means,” and it’s a painful thing the way Steve swallows, the click of it somethin’ Wayne can hear all the way in to kitchen:

“I won’t take it, and not be with you.”

And that…that Wayne don’t quite get, and he feels wrong-footed for more than just listening in, as if that weren’t enough on its own, plus the cause of the problems he’d been wrestling to start, but then: “What?”

Ed seems just as puzzled, which makes Wayne feel a little less bamboozled, but still not…still not settled with whatever’s causin’ any of it, because now that Wayne’s got real context, he thinks back a-ways, to how Steve had mentioned a promotion, but was then looking at something better all around, regional-sort of stuff; now that he’s got context, he thinks back to the morning-last, and tries to pick apart what he’d heard without an invitation, if it weren’t about the lady friend. Steve had still been so��worried, with the banging of the head on the table—and how could he think Eddie’d be anything but as thrilled as he clearly is right now for his boy? Wayne’s never seen Eddie as proud of anyone or anything, so much as he is for Steve just breathing in the world at all—and damn it all if the sentiment hasn’t rubbed off a little, and sure Wayne knows Steve’s history’s made him gun-shy to celebrate the bright spots but…

“It’s in Indy,” Steve’s spelling out, and Wayne remembers that being tossed about, and well: regional. That’d make sense.

“And you,” Steve pauses, and the breath he takes in next is a shaky-echoing thing; “for now you’re here, but not for long, because you want to go and try doing music, right, and that means New York or L.A. or somewhere big, not the armpit of fucking Indiana, and—”

“Breathe, Stevie,” Eddie cuts in quick, adoring; coaches with such patience, the care in it—the love in it a tangible thing; “in, and out,” and all of a sudden from nowhere, save from everywhere and every moment leading into this—

Suddenly Wayne blinks, and out the clear blue he’s witnessing the man Eddie’s grown into.

Talk about bein’ proud.

“One more,” Eddie coaxes a gentle, and Steve listens, Wayne hears as he gulps in the air carefully and deep, sees them move in the corner of his eye as Eddie sits up proper now and folds forward into Steve’s chest where he muffles what he says, less for hiding and more maybe to press it firm into Steve’s chest so it can’t be denied, because it’ll be on the inside and settled there sure:

“Fuck, I love you.”

And Wayne has that feelin’ again like he ain’t supposed to be party to the particular degree of intimacy in the moment; maybe he lets the plates on the counter clank a little more’n necessary to remind them casually that they ain’t alone.

But discretion’s not what follows, more like the wet slip of mouths against each other and oh, well then: if the boys don’t seem to view Wayne’s presence in the next room as a deterrent then Wayne’s just gonna keep at feelin’ embarrassed, rather’n guilty to boot.

“Steve,” and Ed’s voice goes warm and low and Wayne tries to not feel bad for hearing, more focuses on bein’ happy, and grateful, for this thing his boy found in maybe the most unlikely of places, through the hardest round out of hell he could have met: he gets a thing here that Wayne wasn’t sure he still believed could even be, not with so much hate in the world as there is.

“Me and the boys, we’re good, but we’re not,” and Eddie huffs, a light thing that feels gentle and almost joyful, like he’s celebratin’ a thing that’s not inside the same words he speaks at all:

“We’re not that good.”

“Bullshit,” Steve’s quick to counter, like it means more than it reads on the label somehow, too, and still it’s said with his whole throat, at that: and at that, Wayne can’t help but grin a little himself.

He knew he wasn’t wrong about the heart of Steve Harrington. About how much this young man loves his boy.

“Steve,” and Wayne watches, don’t even make a secret of it now: watches over the lip of his mug because he’d only dared to hope for this kinda thing idly, and always feeling foolish for it, for his Eddie to find something even a smidgen close to what he’s got here; what they’ve got here as Ed reaches and tips Steve chin just a touch.

“I don’t want to waste years trying to fit a mold even by being a freak, trying to sell my brand of weird and hoping people get it,” Eddie tells him, clear-eyed like Wayne’s not sure he’s ever heard him. “I don’t want to put that much of my life into a maybe,” and then he’s tracing Steve’s jaw with a tenderness he was never taught, so it’s just something natural and pure inside him, brought out just so by this one man in his arms as he whispers so soft-hearted and with more love than feels possible even just to watch:

“Not when I’ve got what my whole heart wants most.”

And Wayne sees Steve’s jaw work under Eddie’s touch as he asks so low, and far too timid for a man Wayne’s seen live up to the monster-slaying he’s heard tell of.

“More than music?”

And it’s asked like he could never believe it; like he couldn’t expect it.

But Eddie’s back to the clear-eyed sureness, then. He has no doubts.

“More than fame,” is what he answers, flipping hands through Steve’s hair as he leans just to whisper:

“You’re the music,” and Wayne watches Steve still, his face scrunch like it does when he thinks he feels too much; “my music,” and Steve would be embarrassed to know Wayne hears the tiny little whimper that he gives when Eddie presses a kiss to the space between his eyebrows, and there’s part of him that’s embarrassed for himself in it, to have heard what’s not his, but if he’s honest he’s still stuck in that gratitude, that relief for this way it’s all shaken out, not to mention how Wayne’s little family that he never intended to start’s now feeling complete where he didn’t think there was anything left to add, to grow.

“And I have music with you as much as anywhere,” Eddie’s explaining with a wobbly little grin; “plus with you, even the music’s sweeter.”

Then he’s cupping Steve cheeks again and pressing forehead into forehead so that Wayne can only hear the barest whisper:

“Lead the way, baby, and I’ll follow with fucking bells on.”

And Steve, he’s quiet, leans back into the cushions a little and Wayne watches unabashed about it now as Steve studies Eddie, takes him in less like he’s weighing anything and more like he’s committing to memory a moment worth knowing everything about in full, and then he’s the one framing Eddie’s face in his hands and asking with a certainty he didn’t have before, and that fits him so much better:

“Move in with me? Leave here, and leave all the shit they say and the way they look at you and how they fucking treat you,” Steve damn near growls and Wayne feels all the more why he trusts Steve Harrington, and should never have even considered doubting, no matter if the mere suggestion was something he knew was pressing up against his better judgement from the start, because this is the man who loves his boy enough to take on the world, and tear it to shreds when the need rears its ugly head.

“Come with me?”

And that’s maybe a little more of the hesitance, and again, it sounds wrong as a rule, but Eddie’s quick as anything:

“It’ll take me less than a hour to pack.”

And he’s on his feet in a second and Wayne has to bite back a snort because that’ll give him away more’n anything else, but Steve’s pulling Eddie back to the sofa again in a heartbeat:

“Not that fast,” he laughs, a breathy little chuckle that’s got so much more to it even to Wayne’s ears, that’s disbelief and a little wondering joy and everything this boy deserves and has done his whole goddamn life, and heaven help his parents if Wayne ever sees them again face to face for all they ever did to make their son feel less; “got a couple months, I’ll drive up for training while the other guy’s wrapping up, then,” and he shrugs, Wayne hears it shuffle against the upholstery, then he sees Steve looking up from guarded lashes, just that little bit of uncertainty left—

“Then,” Eddie prods, meets him in that moment of waffling, of fear in trusting to feel all that they do, so visible you don’t even have to search it out. It just shines through, couldn’t deny it if you tried, and sure as hell not for how giddy, how overfull Eddie sounds then with…promise.

Ain’t no other word for it.

Ain’t no other thing Steve could latch to like he does, wholehearted and unfettered where before he was still fighting old chains.

Not no more.

“There’s a record store that needs a new manager,” Steve starts off; “a tattoo shop that’s taking apprentices, and they also need someone to watch the books,” and it’s a list, he’s listing opportunities, he’s counting out the promise; “a music store, like for instruments and stuff, that needs someone who can work but also maybe teach, because they want to start giving lessons, apparently people keep asking for them, and then there’s—”

Steve’s cut clear off, and Wayne don’t have to be in the room to know it’s for being kissed within an inch of his life.

“I love you,” Eddie’s saying again because it’s more’n a given, but it’s sounding like it’s shaping into something a little different, a little deeper, somehow a something that’s more.

“I love you so much, Steve Harrington,” and Eddie’s voice is rough with it, and Wayne ain’t gonna lie to himself that his eyes sting to hear it, even if no one can see and hold him to bein’ honest about it.

“You looked for jobs for me?” Eddie asks small, the first thing here that’s maybe overwhelmed him good and true, and in the best of all ways.

“Yeah?” Steve says it like it’s obvious, then goes back bashful nearly:

“For if you said yes.”

And then the springs of the couch are doin’ the heavy lifting again as Steve huffs and Eddie pounces.

“I fucking,” and there a pause that sounds a lot like more kissin’, which tracks along right, yeah: “I fuckin’ love you.”

And Steve chuckles, and Wayne just shakes his head, smiles down at his coffee while Eddie’s tone sobers, while he asks a little small:

“You thought there was a chance in hell that I’d say no?”

“I,” and Steve sounds chagrined, in that way that Wayne’s come to recognize means there’s an old hurt he’s covering, but one that might have a shot at makin’ a scab finally to close for good. “Robin thought I was being dumb, but I,” and he blows out a long breath, and Wayne glances to watch Eddie rub up and down Steve’s arms, waiting and being right there and oh, true as anything.

That’s the man his boy’s grown into.

“People don’t really,” Steve says slow, but measured, like he’s planning every letter out to land just so: ”people haven’t…stuck around, y’know?”

And Wayne can’t help but look to see how Eddie’s hands stop at Steve’s wrists, grounding and holding and keeping, sort of, or not sort of: absolutely that without room to misinterpret or think any bit less; same as Wayne won’t try to pretend away the bitterness at the back of his own throat that a boy as good as the one he’s learned Steve Harrington to be could think that of himself not just in passing, but as a preordained thing, an inflexible rule for always.

Makes him sick; makes him angrier than he tries to ever be these days, but good goddamn if this don’t warrant it.

“So asking someone to come with, to not just not leave but to chose to go, with m—”

And Steve’s saying things, and Eddie lets him but only to a point, and Wayne doesn’t see how he stops him, but he knows full well he’d stop still in the middle of a sound himself if the tone that comes out his boy were leveled his way: unshakable. Granite-strong, diamond-hard.

“Listen to me,” and oh, but for all the way it lands intense, the love in it’s a thing to behold and marvel at just to hear; he feels like it could undo a man to be under the gaze that tone comes alone with it, like Steve has to be sitting just now: “listen to me so fucking close right now.”

And maybe Wayne leans in, too, whether it’s meant for him or not:

“I will choose, with my whole goddamn chest, with every piece of me there is in the whole fucking world,” Eddie says, puts emphasis and feeling on each and every word; “to go anywhere, if it’s with you.”

And it’s silent for a minute, but then Wayne only just hears the sound of mouths parting and sharp intakes of breath ringing through the sill and Eddie hisses, a little hoarse, a little broken, entirely with all that he is, just like he said:

“Always.”

Then the couch goes about protestin’ again, but it’s Eddie who Wayne makes out for groaning on impact, and it makes sense that it’s Steve’s voice now breathing harsh through the vow of what comes next:

“Love you,” and there’s the kissing again; “love you so goddamn much.”

And Wayne figures he’s had more’n enough of overhearing what’s not quite his to hear, but here’s the thing.

These boys are gonna be at this for a bit, he reckons, and the coffee’s already half-gone and lukewarm besides. They’ve got money to be a little indulgent with these days, courtesy of Uncle Sam, plus Mary at the plant said the rhododendrons actually like coffee anyway.

So he figures he can justify brewing another pot, if for no other reason than to start the day off better than he’d been expecting by one helluva country mile and then some.

♥️

✨also on ao3

For @thefreakandthehair, who requested 'Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[spookberry]

Does it bother anyone else how the only people who canonically have siblings are Danny(Jazz), Maddie(Alicia), and Dora(Aragon) like... I get not everyone is like one out of ten siblings like I am and also we often don't see enough of the reoccurring characters to even be able to know what their familys like anyways but still 2/3rds of all sibling duos in DP are fentons

[mewkwota]

So I was just supposed to find out myself that Volnutt had a (scrapped) casual outfit, so sure, of course I'm gonna try to draw it.

That way he has something more fashionable to wear out of battle.

[chuluoyi]

i got him too but at what cost :’)