#I had somehow more to say than I expected

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (2) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You tried baking cookies for your boyfriend, but instead of a sweet surprise, your apartment quickly filled with smoke. The window you'd asked your boyfriend to fix weeks ago is still jammed shut, trapping the haze inside. Panicking, you rush across the hall and knock on your neighbor Michael’s door, hoping he can help.

Word Count: 3439

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 20s / Early 50s)

Author's Note: omg thank you for all the Across The Hall love. In no way I was expecting it to do numbers...The pressure is on now...yikes lol. More to come soon. (also happy teacher appreciation week!!!)- ryn

It had been a week or two since Michael saved your evening—and somehow, everything felt just a little different now.

The two of you had always exchanged the usual neighborly nods, the polite “hey” in the hallway or small talk here and there. But now, those brief moments have stretched into something more. Small talk in the elevator turned into real conversation—books, weekend plans, favorite takeout spots. More than once, you found yourselves lingering in the hallway long after reaching your doors, caught in easy banter that neither of you seemed in a rush to end.

Sometimes it happened in the lobby, a coffee in one hand, keys in the other, both of you half on your way somewhere—but never quite leaving. Other times it was on the front steps of the building, the evening airsoft, the streetlights humming above as you talked about everything and nothing. Conversations with Michael had a way of unfolding naturally, without effort or pressure, as if you’d known each other much longer than a few weeks.

There was a quiet comfort in it. A kind of attention he gave you that didn’t feel performative or polite—it just felt present. 

Sunday 7:10pm 

You were baking Aiden’s favorite cookies for tonight, hoping to lift his spirits. It had been a rough week for him at work—a particularly grueling case, the same one that made him cancel dinner just a week or two ago. You understood. That’s why you wanted everything to be perfect: soft centers, golden edges, just the way he liked them.

But something had gone terribly wrong.

Instead of comfort, you pulled ruin from the oven—cookies charred beyond recognition, blackened into something closer to charcoal than dessert. Smoke billowed out in thick, bitter clouds, curling through the kitchen as the acrid stench of burnt sugar and scorched flour filled the apartment.

Panicked, you’d tried the window—the window. The one Aiden had promised to get unjammed weeks ago. Still stuck. Of course.

The smoke detector began its shrill protest, echoing through your tiny space, refusing to be ignored. You waved at it with a dish towel, to no effect. The haze was thickening, your eyes stinging. With no other option, you rushed into the hallway and knocked on Michael’s door, your heart pounding hard enough to feel in your throat.

“Crap!” you muttered, glancing down at yourself in your embarrassingly loud pajamas.

Garfield. Everywhere. Orange, grumpy, judgmental Garfield.

You barely had time to regret your life choices before Michael opened his door halfway.

“Hi,” you said, breathless and flushed—partly from running to his door partly from mortification.

He took in the scene: you in your cartoon-themed PJ set, mismatched slippers, hair messily braided like you'd just rolled out of a nap you never intended to take.

“Uh—hey,” he replied, brow arching in amused curiosity. His gaze lingered a beat too long on the giant frowning cat across your chest. He opened his mouth—clearly about to say something, probably teasing—when a piercing beep cut him off.

Then another.

And another.

The unmistakable shriek of your smoke alarm.

Michael’s expression shifted. His eyes flicked past you, toward the open door of your apartment, where a gray haze curled into the hallway like a guilty secret. The acrid scent of burnt sugar and flour trailed after you like a cloud of shame.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his tone shifting, stepping forward slightly now.

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah—I mean, I’m fine. I was baking and I burned the cookies and now the alarm won’t stop—smoke everywhere—my window is jammed and I can’t get it open to air my apartment out and I thought maybe—”

You stopped, realizing you were rambling, words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. Your hands flailed uselessly in the air as if gesturing could somehow undo the disaster or explain why you were standing in a hallway dressed like a sleep-deprived cartoon enthusiast in crisis.

Then he nodded. “Right. Okay.” 

You stepped aside as Michael brushed past, moving with calm purpose. Inside your apartment, the smoke was thicker than you realized—your eyes watered, and your throat caught with the stale bitterness of it.

Michael went over to your large window. 

“My boyfriend was supposed to unjam it for me a while ago,” you muttered, coughing slightly, unable to stop yourself from adding, “Guess he forgot.”

“Forgot, huh?” he said lightly. Sounds like a guy with a questionable sense of priorities, he thinks to himself. 

Michael noticed the fire escape outside, and his irritation toward your boyfriend grew with each passing second. The window was jammed shut. The fire escape, a possible lifeline, was completely inaccessible because of your boyfriend’s inaction. He should have unjammed the window when you asked, he thought, frustration building. What if there had been a real fire? What if your only escape route had been blocked because of his laziness? His jaw tightened, the nagging feeling that your boyfriend’s indifference could have put you in serious danger gnawing at him.

He didn’t say anything, but his gaze flickered to the fire escape for a moment longer than necessary. You were so close to something more than just inconvenience. You were this close to something much worse—and your boyfriend, the person you trusted most, hadn’t taken the problem seriously enough.

Shaking off the thought, he focused on the task in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration, his hands steady and efficient as he worked at the stubborn window. His fingers gripped the edge, testing it, giving it a few sharp tugs. The frame creaked but didn’t move.

It wouldn’t budge. Michael rolled up his sleeves. 

Frustration flared again, but Michael swallowed it down. He was glad he was home. Glad he was here. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like fixing the window was more than just a neighborly favor. He didn’t want to think about that right now.

You couldn’t help but notice the way his biceps flexed, the muscles in his forearms tightening with each practiced movement. There was something almost hypnotic about the way his hands worked—fluid, precise, like he’d done this a hundred times before. You quickly shook the thoughts away. And Michael was just your neighbor, a person you were slowly becoming friends with. 

Still, you weren’t blind. You could appreciate a handsome man when he was right in front of you—sleeves rolled up, fixing your window like it was the easiest thing in the world. There was an effortless competence to him, the kind that made it hard not to watch, even harder not to wonder.

The screech of the wood under his hands broke through his thoughts, and he pushed harder, silently willing the frame to give. He had no interest in playing the hero; he just didn’t want you to be at risk.

There was a soft click as the window finally loosened, the frame shifting ever so slightly. Michael exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and with a final, firm push, the window gave way. It slid open with a satisfying whoosh, the cool air rushing in, sweeping the smoke from the room in a way that almost felt like a small victory.

You let out a soft sigh of relief as the room slowly began to clear. For a moment, you both stood there, letting the fresh air fill the space. The heavy, burnt scent seemed to lift with the smoke, leaving behind only the faintest trace of disaster.

He dusted off his hands on his jeans.“There. Crisis averted.”

“Thanks,” you said, your voice quieter now.

Michael gave you a quick, understanding glance, the tension in his shoulders easing now that the window finally slid open. “You’re welcome. Just…” He paused, eyes searching yours, his voice quieter now. “Be careful, okay? Don’t wait on him next time. If something’s broken, get it fixed.”

Then, with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt, he added, “Or come find me. I’ll help you deal with it.”

There was a weight to his words, simple but solid—like a promise he meant to keep.

You blinked, processing his words, but the tone behind them hit you harder than you expected. “I will,” 

Michael’s eyes softened slightly, as though he could tell that wasn’t the only thing weighing on your mind. He took a small step back, nodding like he’d done his part as if that was enough. Then his eyes caught yours, held them. For a moment, neither of you moved. Something lingered in the silence—not tension, exactly, but something close to it.

You realized you were still staring.

He noticed too.

You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the oven. “I’m usually not this much of a walking disaster.”

Michael gave a small laugh, just the corner of his mouth curling. “I don’t know. Garfield pajamas, scorched cookies, a smoke-filled apartment—it’s a strong aesthetic. Bold.”

You groaned, half-laughing. “I can’t even bake cookies without almost burning down my apartment.”

He chuckled again, the sound warm and easy, grounding. “Well, at least you didn’t burn down the whole apartment. That’s a win in my book.”

You gave a half-hearted laugh, your eyes drifting toward the still-hazy kitchen. The smell of burnt sugar clung stubbornly to the air, like a reminder you couldn’t quite scrub away. “Yeah,” you murmured, “I guess I’ve got that goin’ for me.”

Your gaze landed on the tray of blackened cookies still sitting on the stove—charred little offerings to a plan gone sideways. You groaned. “The cookies were supposed to be for Aiden. My boyfriend.”

Michael’s smile faltered—just briefly. It was subtle: the slight shift in his eyes, the faint tightening of his jaw. You didn’t notice.

“For Aiden,” he repeated, voice careful, neutral. It was the first time he’d heard the name.

Michael hadn’t officially met your boyfriend, but he already didn’t like him. Not after stepping in to salvage your evening when Aiden bailed, and certainly not now—knowing Aiden had left your window jammed, turning what should’ve been a harmless mishap into a real safety hazard. Still, Michael kept his growing dislike of your boyfriend to himself.

You nodded, a new flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “He’s coming by tonight. I thought if I made something sweet, it might... I don’t know. Lighten things up a little. He’s been really stressed lately—he’s a lawyer, working this huge case.” You trailed off, unsure whether to explain more, unsure whether you wanted to.

Michael didn’t push. Instead, he stepped closer to the stove, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the tray like it was some abstract piece of modern art.

After a moment, he glanced back at you with a crooked smile. “Well,” he said, “you tried. That counts for something.”

You let out a soft laugh, dragging a hand down your face. “Yeah. Tried and failed spectacularly.”

“I just wanted to do something kind… I should’ve just bought cookies. Way less risk involved. Now I’ve got a kitchen that smells like smoke and a tray of cookies that could probably be used as a weapon.”

Without missing a beat, Michael walked over to the stove and picked up one of the blackened cookies between two fingers. He let out a low whistle, examining it like an artifact.

Then, with mock solemnity, he banged it against the edge of the tray.

A loud clack echoed through the room.

“Oh yeah,” he said, brow furrowed in theatrical seriousness, “this could take someone down flat. Definitely not FDA approved.”

You burst out laughing—real, full laughter that caught you off guard. It rang out in the smoky air, cutting through the heaviness that had settled in your chest. For a moment, everything felt lighter.

Michael smiled, small and satisfied, like he’d achieved exactly what he’d intended. He liked your laugh—unfiltered, unguarded, genuine.

Without a word, he turned and began dumping the ruined cookies into the trash. He slid the tray into the sink and ran a thin stream of water over the scorched metal, his movements fluid and easy, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Like he’d done it here.

Like he belonged.

You watched him for a moment, the ease of his movements, the quiet competence. The way he didn’t try to make a big deal of helping—but didn’t hesitate, either.

“I promise I don’t usually invite people over just to make them throw out my failures,” you said, smiling, the lightness of the moment creeping in despite the earlier chaos.

Michael chuckled softly, wiping his hands on a towel before leaning back against the counter, his posture easy. “Good,” he said, his voice warm, “because I only throw out cookies for people I like.”

The words hung in the air for a beat—just long enough for the weight of them to settle, but not enough to make the moment feel heavy. He looked at you then, his expression not quite teasing, not quite serious. "Besides," he added, a playful glint in his eyes, "they weren’t a failure. They were… experimental."

His arms crossed, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “So. What kind of cookies were these supposed to be? Just so I know what I almost died for.”

You rolled your eyes, the humor lightening your mood. “Chocolate chip. Or… supposed to be.”

Michael nodded solemnly, clearly indulging in the joke. “A tragic loss.”

“Well…” he started, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “If you ever feel like baking again—with supervision—my oven works. And my windows open.”

The offer caught you by surprise, and you blinked, unsure how to respond. Michael pushed off from leaning on the counter, his posture relaxed but still carrying that same easy confidence.

“You’re offering to chaperone my cookie redemption arc?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “Strictly for safety reasons. You know, some of these kitchen appliances could be dangerous without proper supervision.”

You couldn't help but grin at his playful tone. "Well, in that case," you said, trying to keep the mood light, "I’ll take you up on it. Couldn’t hurt to have a backup plan for next time. But just so you know, if we’re going the safety route, I’m going to need you in full protective gear—apron, oven mitts, maybe even goggles."

Michael chuckled, clearly enjoying the banter. “I’m ready. Just let me know when you want to give it another shot. I’ll bring the fire extinguisher, too, just in case.”

"Deal," you said with a nod, feeling something warm and easy settle between you two. "Next time, we’ll aim for cookies that aren’t hazardous to public health."

"Looking forward to it," he said, his smile softening, like he genuinely meant it.

And as he turned to head toward the door, his hand lingered on the doorframe for a moment, resting there like he was holding onto something, before he looked back at you one last time. A nod, a small smile, and then he was gone, retreating to his side of the hall without another word. The door clicked shut behind him

The room seemed just a little brighter, the air a little clearer, like the chaos had been swept away by the easy camaraderie. The weight of the evening shifted, and for the first time, you weren’t thinking about the burnt cookies or the mess you’d made—you were just looking forward to the next time you’d share a laugh with Michael.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d get those cookies right.

—-

You stood there for a moment, surrounded by the fading smoke and the lingering scent of burnt cookies, staring out the now-open window. The air was cooler, fresher, but something still felt heavy inside you—like the weight of all the things you’d left unsaid.

Then, a knock.

It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hurried. Just… there.

You already knew who it was.

You wiped your hands on a dish towel and opened the door.

Aiden stood there, phone in hand, earbuds still in place, barely looking up as he gave you a quick, distracted peck on the lips. “Hey. Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled, already starting to step past you.

“I made cookies,” you said, gesturing vaguely behind you, your tone lighter than you felt. “Well… tried to.”

He sniffed the air, finally looking up, his expression flat. “Smells like you burned them.”

You nodded once, your face giving nothing away. “Yeah. Window was jammed. Whole place is filled with smoke.”

Aiden frowned, stepping further into the apartment without asking, moving through your space with that casual confidence he always had. Like nothing had happened. Like the last few weeks hadn’t been filled with moments you’d asked him for help—moments he hadn’t shown up for.

He glanced into the trash, saw the tray of ruined cookies, and let out a soft, almost dismissive laugh. “Damn. These are toast.”

You didn’t bring up that they were supposed to be for him.

Your arms crossed slowly, more to steady yourself than anything else, but Aiden didn’t seem to notice the shift in the air, the distance that had been creeping in between you two for a while now.

“I asked you to fix the window three weeks ago,” you said quietly, your voice cool now. The words weren’t angry—just resigned.

Aiden looked back at you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “I said I’d get to it. You know how busy work’s been.”

You nodded once, your gaze steady and a little too composed. “Right.”

He didn’t catch the edge in your voice, the small but significant change. He never did.

He glanced at the open window, then back at you with a lazy shrug. “I see you managed to get it open, so problem solved, right?”

You didn’t bring up Michael. Didn’t mention how he had been the one to help you fix it, to clear the smoke, to make sure you were okay.

No, you just stood there, arms crossed, and tried not to feel like a stranger in your own space.

The silence stretched between you.

Aiden, oblivious to the tension in the air, tossed his jacket onto the couch with a carefree grunt, already making his way to the TV. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to watch anything, or if you were still upset about the window, or even the cookies that had failed so spectacularly.

He just pulled out his phone again, scrolling through it while his fingers idly pressed buttons on the remote. The quiet hum of the television started up, filling the space between you, but not really bridging anything.

You stood there, watching him settle into the couch, his legs stretching out comfortably like he owned the place—like everything was still exactly how it had been, no changes, no questions.

Your eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than usual, noting the small, absent-minded way he took up space. How he could just slip in and out of your life with that same half-attached, half-carefree attitude that used to feel like freedom but now felt like something else. Something far less generous.

"Want to watch this?" he asked, his voice light, already glancing at you from over the rim of his phone. The question was almost an afterthought, like an extension of the routine, as if nothing was out of place. As if you hadn't just stood there in silence, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you.

You didn’t answer right away, just letting the question hang in the air. The light flickered from the TV screen, casting a dull glow over the room that seemed to only accentuate the distance between you two. Finally, you sighed softly, letting your arms drop to your sides. Maybe the moment had passed. Maybe this was just what it had become.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, almost too quietly. "Sure." You walked over and sat beside him on the couch, not really focusing on the TV, but on the way the space felt different now. On the way you had to settle yourself into the silence. A silence that didn’t feel comfortable anymore. Not like it used to.

Aiden didn’t notice. He never did.

The silence between you wasn’t just the absence of words. It was the absence of anything that felt like it mattered.

He got lost in whatever was on the screen, and you were just sitting there, staring at the flickering images that blurred together, wondering if you could still pretend it was all fine.

tag: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor

Across The Hall (1) (2)

[lizzybugsblog]

Based on this post, here's how I think Leo would react to a new friend or potential person of interest. (This is just for human type of reader.)

I feel like if you are a human and meet Leo, he'd try to explain that he isn't a giant talking turtle and "you're just seeing things" or ask for directions to the science convention he's currently dressed for(I don't remember the exact quote). Chances are you would see him again, since they do little to nothing to hide themselves from the general public. Probably just avoid actual citizenship as to not pay taxes. But anyway, you'd probably also find out they exist from April(I'm writing this in the pov that you are teenage or young adult going to school with her). After Leo properly introduces himself, he'd want to learn a little about you. Y'know, just incase you're trying to get close to them for some reason nefarious. But since you aren't because you're a good person and good people don't betray their turtle friends out of nowhere. He's not all quick wit and funny poses. Anyway, you two are friends are now, you've joined his list of 'people to bother when he's bored'. Expect a bunch of sudden drop ins with his portal swords and rants about the Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu lore. He sometimes gets annoyed by the questions you have about why he is the way he is. "You have you're weird habits! I have mine!" If you forget something at home, he'll be fine with portaling the item to your location. If you're standing beside him, chances are he'll hold it above your head to mess with you. He's 5'5" cannonically. There's only so high he can hold it.

Leo enjoys challenges, so if you're competitive or at least willing to play along, there will be a bunch of races or competitions of some sort. He doesn't let you win. You have to win fair and square or drop a banana peel to make him fall. In any video games, he'll always be excited to set a high score for you to try and beat. If you do, he'll try his hardest to beat it. It's a vicious cycle of trying to be better than each other.

If you're not as competitive, Leo does some of his "impressive" tricks, like skateboarding tricks, or trick shots in basketball, or the pizza tower balancing on his head just to earn a surprised look from you or a "how did you do that?" type of reaction.

Also, you'll probably catch on to his aromantic tendencies or he'll show it. Probably because his brothers tease him sometimes since you two spend so much time together. "I don't have many outside friends! Of course I'm going to hang out with them. You guys are no fun anyway." I fee like he'd say something like that so his brothers would quit teasing him. Hopefully, you can resist the "prettiest face" of the Mad Dogs. *Inset eye roll*

He comes to talk with you on the rooftops or just the park if you're not that casual. Mostly about his missions and how he totally had everything under control. Definitely, tells you all his one-liners or "jokes" he said that day. If you actually laugh, he starts smiling a little more softly and genuine as opposed to his usual smirk.

He wouldn't think of you as a love interest, just someone he can talk to that isn't family. Based on your reactions most the time, he doesn't think you find it weird. And if you do ask questions about it, he'll deny and say something to most likely make any assumption or fantasy about him evaporate from your brain.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the events from the Movie, Leo tends to call you for conversations on rooftops. Or depending on your injuries, you two will just talk on the floor or couch in your house/room.

He still sees you as a friend. Even if you did tell him never to do that again and constantly hold onto him when he's the slightest bit sad. Leo may feel a little confused to be cared for by a human. And even if he does somehow feel a little different around you, he can't let any lovey-dovey thoughts in his mind. You're a human and he's a freak of nature. Literally.

Although, after a few session with Mikey or Dr. Feelings and an overlook of his relationship with you, it's clear as day that he's fallen for his best friend. "No, I haven't. That's ridiculous. I think the Kraang did a number on you to think of a situation as crazy as that." He's definitely in denial. Poor boy can't realize he's in love.

Gross. He can't be in love. That's icky.

So what if he knows what you like and don't like? That's what friends do. So what if he spends more time with you than he would with April or Sunita or Casey, both of them? You're the newest and least judgmental friend he has. And when you are judgmental it's kind of funny. So what if he text you in the middle of the night? He's an insomniac and he's bothered his brothers long enough. So what if he hugs you and spins you around and shares his pizza with you? OH. He shares his pizza with you. Yeah, he's toast.

At first, he doesn't know how to approach the idea that he likes you more than a friend. Leo mostly tries to ignore it, but every time you smile his way or laugh at his jokes or say he's actually got "rad skills". OHH! WHY??! He sometimes has to cover his face or act like he's adjusting his bandana to make sure you don't see him sweat or blush a little in embarrassment.

If you confess first, he might react like "Oh, of course you do. I am the face man. The greatest ninja of all time, who wouldn't love me?" He'd say with the most confidence, flipping his bandana tails and smirk while trying to ignore the blush on his face. If he has to confess, eh boy. He's acting a lot more flamboyant until you ask him why he's acting so weird. "Weird? I'm not acting weird! You're being weird! You're being weird hanging out with a turtle who can do ninjitsu!" He eventually calms down and takes a deep breath to look you in the eyes. "Okay, don't freak out, but I may have an attachment to you further than... oh, I can't say it." He'd probably turn around to actually figure out what to say. He can't wing it this time, he's gotta be professional. "OK! Listen, I... I like you. And... more than a friend should." Leo has to say it since you're probably confused if he's getting a flashback or just speaking gibberish at this point. "And I was wondering if... maybe... you... like me too?" He's looking down and tapping his fingers together like this.

This idiot.

If you return his feelings, he's shocked at first. Real shocked. You like him? How? He's a clumsy, weird, arrogant, impulsive, and self-sacrificing. Why would you like him?

Well, somehow you like him back and he's so happy. He's a little confused on how to react since... romance. Icky. So he just settles with hugging you and spinning you around like he normally does.

If you don't like him. Oh. Yeah that makes sense. He's weird and you guys are just friends and romance icky. You guys agreed on that. No lovey and or dovey talk. You can still be friends. He's just glad to get that off his chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is my opinion so take it with a grain of salt. Or pepper if you don't like salt.

Why I headcanon Leo as aromantic

While I enjoy the fanarts and fics of Leo with Usagi, if I would gonna write a Rise fic, I would write him as aromantic, cause canonically, this boy is disgusted about romance.

Is not just that he doesnt like it: he is GROSSED OUT.

Look at this boy, and tell me, do you think someone that reacts like him is cannonically interested in romance 😭 And of his brothers, is the only one that reacts this way.

... so, yeah, thats why I headcanon him as aromantic.... and gay. Cause you dont need to be in love to feel atraction.

[pandapetals]

ain't no grave

chapter two: crawling home previous chapter | next chapter

summary: A clicker bite should’ve ended your life. Instead, Joel made a brutal choice to save you. Now, one hand gone and your place in Jackson hanging by a thread, you're left to battle grief, survivor’s guilt, and the town’s growing fear.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!reader

content warnings: angst, joel POV, infected, trauma, pain, guilt, mentions of blood, killing, guns, knives, not graphic gore but could be triggering, no y/n used, she/her pronouns, lots of pet names used, established relationship, protective joel, jackson setting

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. very much inspired by work song by hozier and ain't no grave by johnny cash.

Joel had lost his fucking mind.

He didn’t know what the hell he was doing anymore — just moving, hands working on instinct while his brain screamed this isn’t enough, this won’t be enough. The blood was everywhere, slick and warm, steaming in the cold, and you’d already gone limp in his arms. He’d expected you to pass out. Hell, he was counting on it. But what he hadn’t expected was this.

The way you looked now.

Pale. Still. Like something already gone.

His stomach lurched, and for a half-second, he almost dropped the belt tourniquet, his fingers stiff and useless. Four inches of your wrist and hand lay nearby in the snow, pink and red against white, a grotesque thing he couldn’t look at for long. His breath hitched, but his hands kept moving.

Stop the bleeding.

His jacket came off, hitting the snow with a hard thud. He wadded it against what was left of your arm, pressing down until the blood seeped through, hot against his skin. Too much. Too fucking much.

“C’mon, baby. Stay with me,” he muttered, unsure if he was saying it out loud or just in his head. His voice was shaking — he could hear it but couldn’t stop it.

He grabbed your jacket, tearing it open, the fabric resisting before giving way with a rough rip. Every second felt like it stretched out forever, the cold gnawing at his hands, the coppery scent of blood thick in the air.

Cauterize.

The word dropped into his head like a stone—a terrible, necessary thing. He fumbled for his knife, the hilt slick with blood and sweat, and struck a match with numb fingers. The flame flared to life, tiny and defiant in the freezing air. He held the blade over it, watching the metal darken and glow.

He hated this. Hated how your face was slack, hated the memories clawing at the back of his mind — too many people lost, too many bodies buried, and now you, the only good thing left in his world, bleeding out in front of him.

“I can’t lose you,” Joel rasped, more to himself than anything else, his voice raw and breaking. “You hear me? I can’t…”

The knife glowed, and he pressed it to the wound.

The sickening hiss of flesh meeting hot steel filled the silence, and even though you didn’t make a sound, Joel flinched like you had. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, but his hand stayed steady.

Do it. Get it done. Save her.

Joel felt you jolt beneath his hands, your body arching weakly against the snow. Your eyes snapped open, glassy with pain, your mouth moving in a scream you didn’t have the strength to make. The raw sound of it never came; somehow, that was worse.

His stomach turned. His throat burned.

He wanted to scream for you. Wanted to howl, to break, to throw the fucking hatchet into the trees and tear the sky down. But there wasn’t time for that. There wasn’t room for it. Not out here.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice shaking, though his hands stayed steady, pressing down hard against the ragged wound. Blood still seeped, thick and hot, painting his skin, but it was slowing.

Your eyes fluttered, a soft, broken whimper escaping your lips, and then you slipped under again, your head lolling to the side.

And for a beat, Joel just knelt there.

Snow falling in slow, lazy flakes. Blood steaming in the cold. His chest heaving, eyes stinging. The world narrowed to the sound of your breathing — shallow, but still there.

He swallowed hard, shoving the grief down deep. No time for it. No space for what was clawing its way up his throat.

Once the bleeding slowed and the flesh around the cauterized wound blackened and charred, Joel forced himself to move. He stripped the last of your ruined jacket, packed snow against the burn, and wrapped it tight with what clean cloth he had left. His fingers moved automatically now — soldier hands, survivor hands.

He knew the panic would rip him apart if he stopped for even a second.

So he didn’t.

He secured the last knot of the makeshift bandage, bloodied hands trembling against your skin, then lifted you into his arms. You were far too light, your face far too pale.

“Got you,” he murmured, his throat thick. “I’ve got you.”

Joel shouldered his pack, his teeth gritting against the sharp pull in his muscles as he lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your head lolling against his chest, face bloodless, breath so shallow he had to lean close just to feel it.

He started walking, his boots crunching through the snow as he headed toward the pharmacy, where the horses waited, tethered out front, steam rising from their nostrils in the frigid air. Every step felt like it took a year.

His mind spun, chasing half-formed plans, desperate prayers he didn’t have the words for.

Get to the horse. Ride hard. Don’t stop.

Jackson was about six miles out — twenty, maybe thirty minutes if he pushed the horse hard enough, faster if luck was on his side for once. He could do that. He’d done worse. He’d get you there, get you to someone who could help. Maybe Maria. Maybe Ellie.

Then the dark thoughts slipped in, ugly and persistent. What if this was for nothing?

What if, somewhere along that ride back, your breathing slowed? What if your eyes opened and they weren’t your eyes anymore? What if he felt your teeth at his throat before he could do a damn thing about it.

Or worse — what if the infection was already moving through your blood, racing toward your heart the moment those teeth sank into your wrist? What if no amount of hatchet swings and tourniquets could stop it?

Joel clenched his jaw, the hot sting of tears burning the back of his eyes.

Can’t think like that. Can’t.

He adjusted his grip on you, pulling you closer to his chest as if he could somehow keep you tethered to this world by sheer will alone.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice raw and cracking. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me now.”

The horses came into view, stamping anxiously in the snow. Joel forced his legs to move faster, every instinct in him screaming to run, though his body felt heavier with every step.

He didn’t know if this was hope or madness anymore.

It didn’t matter because he’d already made his choice.

Joel hoisted you into his arms, your weight too light and still against him. He swung up onto Whiskey’s back with practiced ease, though his muscles screamed in protest. He barely felt it. His focus was razor-sharp, burning through the fog of panic.

Stella—your horse—whinnied nearby, tugging at her reins. She’d have to wait. He’d send someone back for her if there were time. If there was anything left to come back for.

He cradled you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other steady on the reins. Your head lolled against him, skin ice-cold beneath the blood, lips parted in a shallow, ragged breath.

“I got you,” Joel kept muttering, the words slipping past cracked lips, mostly to himself. A promise. A prayer. A lie. He didn’t know anymore.

He dug his heels into Whiskey’s sides, the horse surging forward, snow kicking up behind them. The wind bit at his face, but Joel barely noticed. His gaze never left yours, flickering down every few seconds, watching for any change — twitch of muscle, any unfocused glare in your eyes, the subtle shift from you to… something else.

A groan slipped from you, faint and broken, and Joel’s heart lurched against his ribs.

“I got you, baby,” he whispered again, tightening his grip, as if he could anchor you there by force alone.

You mumbled something, words half-formed, your voice slurred with pain and fading consciousness. He caught one word—his name.

Like a knife in his chest.

His throat clenched around a knot so thick it felt like it might choke him. The memories came hard and unbidden, sharp as broken glass. Sarah’s face, small and pale, cradled in his arms as the warmth bled out of her, her blood-soaked hair sticking to his skin. The way her hand had gone slack, how the world had shattered in a single, irreparable moment.

Then Tess. Her eyes were steady, jaw set with that stubborn, defiant tilt. “Get her to safety, Joel.” The way she’d planted herself between him and death, buying him time with the last of her courage.

Faces. Names. Voices. Ghosts. All of them folding in on him now.

All the people he had held… and failed.

His grip around you tightened, pulling you closer against his chest, as if sheer force could hold the darkness back.

Not this time. He wouldn’t let you join them. Wouldn’t let your face become another thing to haunt him when the nights stretched too long and the silence got too loud.

The forest blurred past, branches clawing at the air. Whiskey’s hooves pounded against the frozen earth, the world narrowing to the steady thrum of the horse’s gallop and your chest's faint rise and fall against his.

Joel gritted his teeth, the sting of tears threatening again.

“I ain’t losing you,” he said, his voice rough, breaking, fierce. “Not like this.”

The wind howled past him, biting through his clothes and skin like shards of glass, but Joel barely felt it. His world had narrowed to the ragged, uneven rise and fall of your chest against his and the deathly stillness in your face. 

He kept glancing down, the distance between each check shrinking, hoping — begging — for some sign. A twitch. A sound. Anything.

But you didn’t move.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice cracking at the edges. “Don’t do this to me. You hang on, you hear me? Don’t you fuckin’ quit.”

Nothing. Just the sharp thud of hooves against frozen earth and the faint whistle of wind through the trees.

His stomach twisted tighter with every mile. Every second that passed felt like it was stealing you further from him. He could feel it, like sand slipping through his fingers, and no matter how hard he squeezed, he couldn’t stop it.

He remembered Sarah going quiet in his arms, how the light had left her eyes before he even realized it.

He remembered Tess’s final look, a silent order: Keep moving.

He wasn’t ready to see that in your face.

The trees began to thin, and familiar landmarks rose out of the darkness—the old, rusted truck bed, the half-collapsed shed, and the crooked fence post.

His heart kicked up, pounding so hard it hurt.

Almost there.

Whiskey snorted, hooves slipping on a patch of ice for half a second before righting himself. Joel kept one arm tight around you, the other pulling the reins, willing the animal to move faster, ignoring the burn in his muscles, the way his fingers were going numb.

Then the gates of Jackson appeared ahead, tall and solid against the night sky, lanterns flickering along the top.

Relief should’ve come then, but it didn’t because you were so goddamn still.

“Open the goddamn gate!” Joel bellowed, his voice raw, half-breaking.

Figures scrambled along the walls, shouts echoing in the night, but he barely registered them. His whole world was the weight in his arms and the faint warmth of your skin against his.

“Hold on, baby,” he rasped again, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “Almost home.”

The gates began to creak open, and Joel didn’t wait. He kicked Whiskey forward, riding through before the opening was wide enough, the horse’s hooves skidding on packed snow as shouts echoed from the watchtower.

He was off the saddle before the horse stopped, boots hitting the ground hard, jarring his knees. Your weight in his arms made his muscles scream, but he didn’t notice. Didn’t care. His arms ached, blood soaked through to his skin, and none of it mattered.

You needed help.

You needed someone who could fix this. Stop it. Make it right.

“Joel?” a voice called, somewhere behind him. Familiar. Tommy.

But Joel didn’t stop.

Footsteps crunched in the snow as Tommy caught up, his voice sharp with confusion and fear. “What the fuck happened? Jesus, Joel — are you hurt? Where’s—”

His words cut off when his eyes dropped to you.

The blood. The limpness. The awful, shallow flicker of your chest rising and falling.

Tommy’s face paled. “What—what the hell—”

“Not now,” Joel ground out, his voice ragged, not looking at him, not slowing. His world was reduced to the next step. And the next.

People were shouting — Maria’s voice was somewhere nearby, someone was running for the infirmary, but it was all a blur. A rush of sound that barely registered.

He felt Tommy grab his arm, trying to stop him, to get an answer, but Joel yanked free, tightening his hold on you.

“Get outta my fuckin’ way,” he snapped, his voice hoarse, nearly breaking.

Tommy fell back, his eyes wide.

Joel didn’t stop; he couldn’t. He kept moving, your head lolling against his shoulder, skin too cold, too still.

“Hang on, baby,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Just a little more.”

He barreled toward the infirmary, like the world might end if he didn’t get there in time.

“Joel!” Maria’s voice cracked through the cold night air, sharp as a whip. She was chasing after him now, boots crunching hard in the snow. Tommy was close on her heels, his face tight with worry, eyes darting between Joel, the blood, and your limp form.

He’d seen Joel like this years ago, that wild, feral look in his eyes — but this was worse. This was Joel unraveling.

“Joel, I swear to God—”

Joel spun on them so fast it startled them back a step, his face twisted, voice hoarse and raw. “Can’t you see she needs fucking medical attention?!”

Maria blinked, thrown by the sudden crack in his voice, the frayed edges she wasn’t used to seeing. But it only took her a second to recover. Her expression hardened, slipping into that cold, sharp-eyed leader’s mask she wore so well. She crossed her arms, posture stiff.

“What happened?” she demanded, tone clipped, eyes locking on his.

Joel’s chest heaved, breath misting in the frigid air. He didn’t answer, didn’t have it in him, and didn’t have the time.

Maria’s gaze dropped to the limp body in his arms, following the bloodied sleeve, the missing wrist, the makeshift bandage charred at the edges. Her lips parted, her eyes flashing wide for half a heartbeat before narrowing.

“Does it look like I’ve got time to explain?” Joel snapped, his voice breaking on the last word as he shifted your weight in his arms.

Tommy stepped up, laying a hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Darlin’,” he said quietly, gently. “Let him get her help first.”

But Maria wasn’t done. Her jaw clenched. “Was she bitten?” she asked, voice low, cautious, and cold.

Joel stiffened. It was small — a tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of his grip on you, but Maria saw it. She always did.

Her face changed, the anger flaring back. “You brought her in? Joel—if she turns—”

“She’s not gonna fucking turn!” Joel’s voice cracked, breaking like a damn giving way.

Maria scoffed, disbelief twisting her face. “You don’t fucking know that,” she snapped, her voice rising, eyes wide and sharp. “How long’s it been? When did it happen—?”

“I ain’t got time for this,” Joel growled, his voice raw and low, the tone that felt like it could break something in half. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching in his face, every part of him coiled so tight he felt like he might shatter.

Without waiting for another word, he shoved past them, your limp form cradled tight against his chest, and barreled toward the infirmary doors like the world was closing in behind him.

He didn’t hear what Maria yelled after him.

Didn’t care.

Because none of it mattered if you didn’t make it.

taglist: @televangrl @burntsaltsblog @bowsnbang @yvonne-dump

[mintyys-blog]

TOO HEAVY, HUH? | jason todd x reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: insecurities, mentioned sex, implied sex.

You didn’t mean for the comment to slip out. It just happened—soft, bitter, and too quiet to be taken as a joke.

“I’m probably too heavy to lift anyway,” you muttered, tugging your shirt down over your stomach and avoiding his eyes.

Jason stilled. He was mid-way through drying his hair with a towel, drops of water still clinging to his collarbone, but now he was staring at you like you’d just insulted his favorite book and his motorcycle in the same breath.

“Too heavy?” he repeated.

Your shrug was half-hearted. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m not exactly—”

Whatever insult you were about to throw at yourself got cut off when your world suddenly flipped. With zero warning, Jason grabbed you—grabbed you—and hauled you up into his arms like you weighed less than a duffel bag.

“Jas—!”

“You mean like this heavy?” he teased, arms solid under you, expression infuriatingly smug. “Because I can do this all day.”

And then—he deadlifted you.

He actually deadlifted you, squatting low before standing up tall, arms wrapped under your thighs and back. Like it was nothing.

“Jason!” you squeaked, smacking his shoulder. He only grinned wider.

“Still too heavy?” he challenged, and before you could answer, he tossed you up slightly—just enough to catch you again with ease. Your breath hitched, heart racing, and he chuckled. “I train with hundred-pound sandbags, babe. You’re warm, soft, and so much better to hold.”

You tried to hide your face in his shoulder, but he shifted you again, adjusting you like a human barbell.

“You’re not allowed to talk shit about my favorite body,” he said, suddenly serious. “Especially not when it’s the one I fall asleep holding every night.”

Your eyes stung. Stupid Jason and his stupid gentle voice when you least expected it.

“…You really don’t care?” you mumbled.

He looked at you like you were insane. “Care? I love your body. Every part of it. And if I have to throw you around the apartment until you believe that—” he hoisted you once more, arms flexing “—then I guess I’m getting a workout in.”

You finally laughed, weak and watery, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for the space you take up,” he murmured. “I’ll always make room for you.”

Your laughter finally faded into quiet breathing, cheek pressed against the slope of his shoulder. Jason had stopped showing off—sort of—and now just held you, his hands slowly tracing up and down your back, warm and possessive.

He walked the both of you to the couch, sitting down with you still in his lap. His arms didn’t loosen once.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting yourself melt into him. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, voice soft.

“Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “And I’m gonna keep lifting you until you stop saying dumb things about my girl.”

He tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around the both of you, one hand running through your hair. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and grounding.

“I hate that you ever feel like that,” he murmured. “Like you have to shrink yourself, or like you’re somehow not enough. Because the truth is, babe—you’re too much in the best damn way. You wreck me. In the best way.”

You swallowed hard at the crack of emotion in his voice. The vulnerability beneath the bravado. That was the real Jason. The man who fought so hard, who loved so fiercely.

His hands roamed gently, skimming your waist, your thighs, your hips, like he needed you to feel every inch of the devotion behind his touch. His grip wasn’t possessive—it was reverent.

“You know what else?” he asked, his voice dipping lower.

You hummed questioningly.

“I love your weight on me. When you’re on top of me, when you’re riding me, when you’re just lying on me like this.” His hands splayed across your back. “It’s perfect. It’s you.”

You shivered a little, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were darker now, intense. Focused.

His thumb tilted your chin up, and he kissed you—deep, slow, and coaxing. His lips moved like he had all the time in the world, like there was no rush to take you apart, because he already had you. Mind, body, and soul.

The kiss deepened, his hands drifting lower, gripping your thighs again like he was ready to lift you all over again—but this time, right onto his lap in an entirely different way.

“Still think you’re too heavy?” he rasped against your lips, his voice ragged now, needy.

You shook your head, flushed and breathless. “Not even close.”

His smirk was dangerous, smug, and stupidly hot.

“Good. Now let me prove it again,” he growled, standing with you in his arms like it was nothing, carrying you to the bedroom with sinful purpose in every step.

And he did. Again. And again. And again.

[yvaineseleneposts]

would you ever write singlemom!reader x Nico or anyone? 🥹

A/N: I hope this does your request justice, because I have no clue how to write singlemom!reader or any motherly fics

Requested: yes by @one-sweet-gubler

Pairing: Nico Hischier x Singlemom!Reader

Words: 2k

Warning(s): none (I think)

You weren’t looking for anything — especially not love — when you agreed to take your six-year-old son, Jamie, to his first Devils game. Hockey had always been something your ex loved, but Jamie had taken to it in his own way. Obsessed with jersey numbers and face-offs, he chattered endlessly about his favourite player: Nico Hischier.

“I like him because he’s the captain,” Jamie said solemnly, clutching his tiny Hischier jersey, too big for him but worn constantly. “And because he always skates fast, even when he’s tired.”

You smiled and ruffled his hair. “Then let’s hope he scores tonight.”

You didn’t expect to catch Nico’s eye. You certainly didn’t expect him to catch yours — not in a sold-out Prudential Center, not from your modest seats near the glass. But in the third period, after a hard-won goal, he skated by, met your gaze — and lingered.

Maybe it was just coincidence.

Except… after the game, a staff member tapped your shoulder and said, “Nico Hischier asked if you and your son would like to come down to meet him.”

You blinked. “Sorry, what?”

Jamie was beaming. You were stunned. And Nico? He was… surprisingly shy.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, crouching to Jamie’s height. “Nice jersey.”

Jamie couldn’t speak, just nodded, eyes wide.

Nico grinned, then looked up at you. “I hope this isn’t weird. I just—saw you in the stands. Thought your son might like this.” He handed Jamie a signed puck. “And maybe… I thought I’d like to say hi.”

You blinked again, heat rushing to your cheeks. “That’s very kind of you. He’s a big fan.”

“I can tell.” Nico’s voice softened. “And you?”

“I’m… more of a coffee fan,” you replied, half-joking. “But I’m warming up to hockey.”

He laughed, that boyish, crooked smile melting something in you you hadn’t realized was still frozen. “Maybe I could help with that. If you ever want to… grab that coffee.”

You hesitated. It had been a long time. You weren’t sure you remembered how to do this. But then you glanced at Jamie — who was still talking Nico’s ear off now — and realized you were already doing the hardest job in the world. Maybe you deserved something soft. Something sweet.

You nodded. “Okay. But only if you promise not to quiz me on power plays.”

“No promises,” he grinned.

Nico never rushed you. Never made you feel like your son was an obstacle. In fact, half your “dates” took place at playgrounds or pizza joints with booster seats. And somehow, he never minded.

“I like this,” he said once, after helping Jamie tie his skates. “It’s real.”

You weren’t used to real. But you were starting to crave it.

He kissed you on a Thursday. Lightly. Like a question. And for the first time in years, you said yes.

It had been three months since Nico kissed you. Three months since he'd officially become part of your orbit — not just yours, but Jamie’s too.

You'd worried, in the quiet of night, whether this was fair to Nico. Whether the weight of loving you and your child would be too heavy for someone with skates instead of roots.

But he never gave you reason to doubt. He showed up with hockey cards and coffee, sat through school plays with his arm around your shoulders, and texted you photos of Jamie napping in his lap after “movie night with the boys.”

So when he asked, "Will you come to the team family skate?" — it felt more like a milestone than an invitation.

You hesitated. “Won’t that be weird? I’m not a wife or a fiancée or—”

“You’re my person,” he said, voice low and sure. “That’s all anyone needs to know.”

The rink felt different when it wasn’t packed with roaring fans. Empty stands. Warm smiles. Players skating with toddlers holding onto their sticks for balance, wives wrapped in puffer coats, babies strapped to chests.

Nico had his hand wrapped around yours, Jamie bouncing beside him in his tiny Devils beanie.

“Are you sure you can skate?” Nico teased as you laced up your borrowed skates on the bench.

“Barely,” you muttered. “If I fall, you’re catching me.”

“Always,” he said, eyes soft.

You didn’t fall — not at first. You wobbled, held onto his arm like a lifeline. Jamie took to the ice like he was born for it, zig-zagging with more confidence than grace.

“You look good out here,” Nico said, smiling.

You raised a brow. “I look terrified.”

“Still good,” he murmured, leaning closer, brushing his lips against your cheek — public, tender, intentional. Like he wanted everyone to see.

That part surprised you most: how proud he was. How openly he loved you.

A woman skated by and gave you a warm smile. “You must be Nico’s girl. He talks about you all the time.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Good things, I hope?”

“The best. And that little guy?” She nodded toward Jamie. “Nico already calls him his shadow.”

Later, Nico was skating backwards, arms open, coaxing Jamie forward. “Come on, bud, bend your knees! I’ve got you!”

Jamie grinned, wobbled, then threw himself forward — Nico caught him, lifting him like he weighed nothing.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, watching them. A lump formed in your throat, thick and unfamiliar. Was it happiness? Relief? Hope?

He skated over with Jamie on his hip. “He says he wants to be captain when he grows up.”

You laughed, brushing snowflakes from Jamie’s beanie. “Ambitious.”

“He’s got good taste.” Nico looked at you — really looked. “So do I.”

Later, in the locker room hallway, Jamie sat sipping hot chocolate, wrapped in Nico’s extra hoodie that swallowed him whole.

Nico took your hand. “You okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He exhaled, nervous now. “I know this isn’t how most things start. But I’m not going anywhere. I want this—” he gestured toward the two of you, “—you, him, all of it.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Even the hard parts?”

“Especially those,” he said, stepping closer. “I want to be the guy who shows up. Always.”

You kissed him. And this time, it wasn’t soft or uncertain. It was a yes. A promise.

That night, as Jamie fell asleep in the car, Nico glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled.

“What?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Just thinking… he called me ‘my Nico’ today. Not Mr. Hischier. Not ‘the hockey guy.’ Just… mine.”

You rested your hand on his. “You are.”

Jamie’s cheeks were flushed, curls poking out from beneath his new youth team helmet. He skated wobbly but determined toward the bench, his jersey hanging off him like he was still growing into it — which he was. The name on the back read YourLastName — but Nico had joked they’d need to stitch Hischier underneath one day too.

“Nice hustle, bud!” Nico called out, kneeling on the ice in his Devils tracksuit, whistle hanging from his neck.

Jamie beamed.

You sat in the stands, watching the exchange. There was something deeply full-circle about it: Nico guiding Jamie through drills the same way he once coaxed him across the family skate rink months ago. Only now, there were other kids, other parents. And yet somehow, Nico made Jamie feel like the center of it all.

“He’s so patient with them,” one mom beside you said, watching Nico tap a kid’s stick and offer a quiet high-five. “He doesn’t act like he’s a star.”

You smiled softly. “He doesn’t have to act. That’s just who he is.”

But the season brought new challenges too.

Road trips got longer. Away games meant silence in group chats and phone calls that dropped before bedtime.

One night, Jamie padded into the living room in his pyjamas, clutching the stuffed hockey puck Nico had won him at a carnival.

“Is Nico coming home tomorrow?”

You hesitated. “Not tomorrow, buddy. Couple more days.”

Jamie’s lower lip trembled, but he nodded. “I just miss him.”

You pulled him into your lap, his weight familiar and comforting. “Me too.”

You hadn’t meant to say it. But it was true. When Nico was gone, it was like a light dimmed in your home — like something was always slightly off. You used to be good at being alone. You had to be. But now… now it just felt empty.

Two days later, Nico showed up with coffee and that smile. You opened the door before he knocked.

“Hi,” he said, soft and tired from travel.

“Hi,” you said back, trying not to launch yourself at him — and failing.

He wrapped his arms around you, face tucked into your neck. “Missed you.”

You closed your eyes. “Me too.”

Jamie came flying down the hallway, nearly skidding in his socks. “NICO!”

That was the best part — watching Nico drop his bag and scoop Jamie up like nothing else mattered. And maybe that was when it clicked. He was part of this life. Your life. Not just on weekends. Not just when the schedule allowed. He was woven into the fabric now.

Later that night, with Jamie asleep and your couch dimly lit by a single lamp, you curled into Nico’s side, finally speaking the truth that had been pressing on your chest for weeks.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to be two people,” you said quietly. “Nico the boyfriend. Nico the NHL captain.”

He turned to you, expression soft. “I’m not trying to be two people.”

“But you are doing it all,” you whispered. “And I know that’s not easy. But I also know… I want you here more. In my life. In Jamie’s life. Not just for skates and sleepovers and Sunday dinners.”

He looked at you then — really looked. Like your words had landed exactly where they needed to.

“I want that too,” he said, voice low. “I already feel like I live half here anyway.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “Then maybe it’s time we stop doing halves.”

He leaned forward, forehead against yours. “You mean it?”

You nodded. “Come home, Nico. For real.”

There was a beat. Then his hand slipped into yours, anchoring you.

“I was just waiting for you to say that.”

The next morning, Jamie bounded into the kitchen to find Nico making pancakes in his socks, whistling some cheesy pop song.

“You stayed over!” Jamie grinned, eyes wide.

Nico grinned back. “Think your mom’s gonna let me stay a lot more.”

Jamie didn’t even blink. “Good. You make better eggs anyway.”

[livinghalfway]

"For the last time Grayson this is not a 'playdate' as you call it. This is me investigating an obvious threat!" It seems no matter how much Damian insists that the Fenton wasn't his friend, no one in the family was going to believe him.

"Whatever you say Dami!" Grayson smiled brightly, clearly not believing a word he just said, "Would you like Allred to prepare some snacks for you and Danny for in between your fencing matches?"

"...Yes, that would be apprenticed. In the mean time I must prepare the battle ground for Fenton and I's fight." Damian stood quickly making his way hastily out of the room.

"I'll bring Danny to the gym when he gets here!" Grayson calls out after him.

No matter what the others say this is not a friendly visit. He is going to prove to them all that Fenton is a threat once and for all. The security cameras have been set up directly were Damian plans to face off against his foe.

With that everyone will finally see that Fenton has been trained to handle something far deadly than a fencing foil. His trap has been set; now he just needs the mouse to show his face.

-

Damian is standing in the middle of the mat when Fenton finally enters the room. A duffle bag, with his fencing gear most likely in it, is thrown over his shoulder. "Hey Damian! You ready to practice?"

"Actually Fenton, I was thinking of something a bit more...exciting." Damian doesn't hesitate after that to throw one of the katanas that he had been hiding behind his back towards Danny, and charging him immediately after the blade lands in his hands.

Fenton is seemingly not startled by this new development, and is starts to charge forward as well, his duffle bag now forgotten on the ground.

The two trade blow after blow, and for a moment Damian would say that he is having fun. That quickly ends though when Danny somehow manages to knock Damian's blade out of his hands, making it land far across the room. With no way to get his weapon back without Danny landing a winning blow Damian takes on a fighting stance. This is hardly the first time he's fought without his weapon.

What he doesn't expect though is for Fenton, upon seeing Damian with his fists up, discards his own weapon, and takes on a fighting stance similar to Damian's. Just as quickly as before the two are exchanging punches and kicks to one another. The worst part of all of this though is that Damian can tell that Fenton is going easy on him!

How is this possible? Who tried him? Is he here to cause trouble in Gotham? These are all questions Damian has as he lands hard on his back. He lost, again.

Damian demands a rematch as he smacks Danny's hand away from himself, refusing his offer to help him stand back up.

By the end of their battle Damian is left utterly exhausted and humiliated. Halfway through Fenton had started to try and teach him how to improve. He hated that the things he said were helpful.

Damian would beat Fenton next Saturday as that was when they planned their next battle, and no Grayson it was not another playdate!

Mini Prompt: Fight Me

Damian didn’t have high hopes when he saw that the new kid, Danny Fenton, at school would be joining fencing club.

Which is why it angered him so much when he lost three times in row to Danny. Worst of all he did it with a smile, and words of encouragement after each match.

At the same time though this was the most excitable moment he’s had while in this club. No one else has ever been near his skill level before, and he was frankly ready to get quit because of the boredom.

There was no way Damian could leave now though, not after such an embarrassing loss. He vowed then and there that Danny was his enemy, and he would defeat him.

It was when Damian was observing Danny during another fight that he noticed it. Danny wasn’t just a skilled fencing player, he was trained to fight with an actual blade.

Was Danny also trained to be an assassin from a young age? He had to know more.

[shortnspidey]

THE VOID

Bucky Barnes X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 5.4K

SUMMARY: What was supposed to be a quiet family weekend getaway at the Stark cabin is quickly interrupted by New York City being terrorized once more!

WARNINGS: Thunderbolts* spoilers! Angst, slight fluff, hurt-comfort, non-sexual nudity, talks of past trauma & HYDRA PTSD

A/N: Based on my Collateral Hearts series but can be read as a standalone! This was meant to be a short drabble but I couldn't help myself! It's safe to say Thunderbolts* is my new Marvel comfort movie! I hope I did this one-shot justice since we didn't get to see much of Bucky during the movie! 🫶🏻

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As the soft glow of morning sunlight filtered gently through the sheer curtains, casting warm streaks across the hardwood floor. Your eyelids fluttered open, adjusting slowly to the familiar surroundings, the soft lavender hue of the walls, the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air, and the peaceful silence broken only by the occasional chirp of a bird outside.

A small sleepy smile tugged at your lips as your gaze settled on the delightful chaos around you, a mountain of stuffed animals piled high near the window, polaroid pictures taped to the dresser mirror, each one a tiny fragment of a life well-lived and well-loved. Shifting to your side with a sleepy sigh, you expected to find the comforting bulk of your super-soldier fiancé beside you. His warmth, his steady breathing, maybe even the soft snore he always denied having.

But instead, a mop of tousled brown hair and a small frame tucked under a fortress of blankets greeted you. Morgan. Your not-so-little sister, who had clearly claimed the entire bed as her own sometime during the night. You let out a quiet chuckle, realizing you were perched on the very edge of the mattress, less than an inch from tumbling onto the floor. The covers had all migrated to her side, cocooned around her. She was somehow an even worse bed hog than Bucky, and that was saying something.

Even Alpine, with all her feline entitlement, hadn't managed to steal this much space. Your thoughts were interrupted as Morgan stirred, her little nose wrinkling adorably in protest against the invading daylight. She nestled even closer into your side, seeking warmth and refuge. "Morning, sunshine!" You chirped with faux cheeriness, knowing exactly what kind of reaction you'd get. Predictably, the nine-year-old groaned, burying her face deeper into your ribs with a dramatic sigh that made you smile even wider.

Definitely not a morning person, another undeniable Stark trait. "Morgan," You sing-songed, dragging her name out teasingly. “Time to wake up!” She grumbled in protest, clearly trying to lull herself back to sleep or at least tune you out. A soft giggle escaped you as you gently poked her side. “The only way I’m waking up is if you make me breakfast.” Morgan grumbled, her voice muffled against your side. You gave a mock gasp, clutching your chest dramatically.

“Demanding.” You teased, though your tone was soft as you reached out, brushing a few strands of her tangled hair away from her face. You leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering there for just a second longer than necessary. Her skin was still warm from sleep, and for a moment, you just took in how small she still was, despite her growing stubborn streak and increasingly bold opinions. “How about I make you breakfast,” You offered, lifting your brows with a knowing smile, “and I’ll even let you sneak a juice pop before Mom makes us lunch?”

Her face twitched, trying to stay serious, trying not to give in to your irresistible offer, but you saw the small smile forming at the corner of her lips. “Promise?” She asked, lifting her head slightly and giving you those big, brown, soul-piercing eyes that always reminded you a little too much of your dad. You nodded, solemnly holding out your pinky. “Pinky promise,” You declared, your voice dropping to a whisper like it was sacred and in a way, it was.

Morgan didn’t hand out trust easily, but a pinky promise? That was ironclad. She hooked her little finger around yours, her smile breaking fully now. “Deal!” You grinned and pressed another kiss to her forehead, this one quick and full of affection, before leaning over to grab your phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a flurry of notifications, texts, emails, a missed call from Harley, but your thumb moved instinctively to the one name that always made your chest tighten in the best way. The most recent message read:

Bucky 🖤: Made it to the Capitol in one piece. Miss you already, doll. Tell Morgan I’m bringing her that thing we talked about.

You smiled at the screen, thumbs flying across the keyboard as you typed back a quick “I love you, stay safe.” Before you could even lock your phone, Morgan was peering over your shoulder. “Why couldn’t Bucky come?” She asked, her voice softer now, her fingers still tangled in the edge of your sleep shirt. You arched a brow, turning to face her with a mock pout. “Am I not enough for you anymore?” Morgan rolled her eyes with a giggle, but her cheeks flushed pink.

“You know what I mean.” She grinned. It always amazed you how quickly Bucky had wormed his way into her heart, how naturally he’d settled into the role of her protector, bedtime storyteller, and co-conspirator in every bit mischief she could dream up. And truthfully, you loved watching the two of them together, even when you pretended to be jealous. “Believe me, sweetheart, he wanted to,” You reassured brushing her hair back again as she snuggled close once more. “But he’s just a little busy now that he has Congressman duties.” Morgan huffed.

“You should’ve brought Alpine at least.” You laughed, ruffling her hair. “If we let that spoiled cat in this bed, there wouldn’t be room for either of us. Plus, she’d steal your juice pop.” That earned a giggle from her. “C’mon,” You coaxed, stretching your arms and sitting up fully. “Let’s go make some waffles. With chocolate chips. Maybe even whipped cream, if you swear not to tell Mom.” She perked up instantly, eyes gleaming. “You got yourself a deal!” This kid was definitely going to be the death of you.

After scarfing down at least a dozen waffles between you and Morgan, each one stacked precariously with whipped cream, chocolate chips, and just a hint of syrup for good measure you both made sure to clean the flour battlefield you’d left behind. The kitchen still smelled like vanilla and melted chocolate, but the counters were wiped, dishes stacked, and evidence buried, for the most part. Just in time too, as Pepper raised an eyebrow when she entered but said nothing.

Only offering a suspicious glance toward the empty whipped cream can in the trash. With the scent of breakfast still clinging to your pajamas and Morgan cradling a warm cup of cocoa, the three of you curled up on the couch for your weekend ritual. Blankets, mismatched socks, and the faint crackle of old movie magic filled the living room. The familiar sounds of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone played in the background, Morgan mouthing lines under her breath, completely absorbed in the scene.

And then, it happened.

The screen glitched, colors flickering unnaturally before the film feed abruptly cut to a flashing Breaking News banner. Static crackled. Then came the footage. A live aerial shot of Manhattan, swallowed by what looked like a creeping black fog, only it wasn’t fog. It slithered like it was alive, climbing buildings, flooding streets, consuming everything in its path. Helicopters struggled to keep up with the growing shadow that rolled through downtown like a tidal wave of nightmares.

Your blood ran cold. A surge of déjà vu punched through your gut, memories of Thanos, of the Snap, of losing everything for a single moment in time. But this wasn’t dust. This was something else, something darker. Morgan leaned forward, her cocoa forgotten, and even Pepper tensed, lips pressed into a thin, worried line. The footage zoomed in closer. Through the billowing obsidian mass, faint shapes flickered, terrified civilians, abandoned cars and buildings.

The once-iconic Avengers Tower, half-swallowed and collapsing in on itself, like some monument to forgotten glory. And at the center of it, looming like a shadow torn from nightmares, stood a shadowy figure. He wasn’t entirely solid, more like a dark silhouette. With every movement, people vanished. Your hand trembled as you reached for your phone, a cold sweat already forming at the back of your neck. You didn’t even remember dialing, your thumb working on autopilot.

“Pick up. Pick up.” You whispered, heart hammering against your ribs, anxiety rising like bile. One ring. Two. Three, then static. Faint, fragmented screams filtered through. Car alarms. Crumbling stone. You heard staggering breath, sharp and uneven. “Bucky? Are you there?” You asked, voice cracking, eyes fixed on the chaos on the screen. A ragged exhale echoed on the line. Then voices, quick, panicked. Civilians? You couldn’t tell. “Bucky, please tell me you’re not in that mess.” You begged, voice fraying at the edges.

You weren’t even sure if he could hear you. A pause. Then finally, his voice, raw and distant. “I wish I could, doll.” Your breath hitched. “I’m sorry.” He added. Those two words carried more weight than you could bear. Every instinct in you screamed to fight, to argue, but your voice didn’t come. Not even a whisper. “Doll, I—” And then, the call dropped. Your phone slid from your hand and landed on the couch cushion beside you with a thud. Your chest was tight, lungs refusing to work properly. Noticing the shift in your demeanor, Morgan instantly wrapped her arms around your waist.

“Is Bucky okay?” She whispered, burying her face into your side. You pulled her close, holding her like she was the only anchor in the storm. “I’m sure he is, sweetheart,” You reassured softly, kissing the top of her head. “He’s strong and brave.” But even you couldn’t tell if you were trying to reassure her or convince yourself. You looked up. Pepper had already stood, face pale but composed. She met your eyes, her strength unwavering even now. “Mom—”

“I know,” She mumbled quickly, cutting you off. Her voice was gentle, but there was an iron edge beneath it, a quiet strength born from too many nights spent watching the man she loved walk into war zones with nothing but conviction and an arc reactor. Pepper Potts wasn’t a stranger to sacrifice, and now, neither were you. “Go.” You hesitated, guilt gnawing at your gut. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.” She added, her hand closing tightly around yours.

You nodded, trying to keep your face neutral even as your stomach churned. You turned toward Morgan, who stood silently by the couch, clutching a pillow to her chest like it was a lifeline.“Morgie,” You called softly, crouching down to her level as her tear-filled eyes locked on yours. “He’ll be okay. We both will. Stay here with Mom, alright? I’ll call you as soon as I find Bucky. I promise.” You extended your pinky once more. This promise felt heavier than all the others.

“Okay.” She whispered, her voice cracking as she surrendered to your embrace, small arms wrapping tightly around your neck. You held her close, kissed her temple, then leaned into her ear.“I love you, kiddo.” You breathed, barely able to speak past the knot forming in your throat. You felt her nod against your shoulder, and it shattered something inside you. With that, you quickly got dressed, grabbed your car keys and drove as fast as the speed limit allowed you into the void that was now New York City.

As you made your way into the city, weaving recklessly through the traffic, your hands clenched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. Horns blared, lights flashed, but none of it registered fully, you were running on instinct and adrenaline. You fumbled for your phone at a red light, trying once again to ping Bucky’s location. Nothing. The screen flashed back the same message, unable to locate device.

You swore under your breath, the sickening realization hitting you like a punch to the gut, his phone must’ve been destroyed during all the chaos. There was no other choice. Without any clue where he might be, you had to go back to the apartment. Your chest ached with the weight of uncertainty, but through it all, a stubborn flicker of belief remained, he’d make it home to you. He had to. The moment your key turned in the lock and the door creaked open, the silence inside greeted you.

You didn’t need to call out to know, he wasn’t there. The emptiness clung to the walls, thick and oppressive, and did absolutely nothing to soothe the storm of fear brewing inside you. You closed the door quietly behind you, letting your forehead rest against it for a beat too long, before turning to scan the room with hopeful eyes. Then, a soft meow echoed from around the corner. “Alpine,” You breathed out, your voice cracking slightly with relief. The snowy white cat padded into view, her tail high as she trotted toward you, clearly happy to see you home.

You knelt down immediately, scooping her into your arms and pressing her warm body close to your chest. She purred against you, a soft, steady vibration that grounded you just enough to keep from unraveling completely. “Hi, sweet girl.” You murmured, your voice gentle as you carried her to the couch. You sank into the cushions, Alpine nestled securely in your lap, and stared out the window at the glowing city beyond. Every instinct in you screamed to go back out there.

To search every alley, every rooftop, every shadow, but instead, you sat still. Holding on to hope like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. After what felt like an eternity of pacing in the kitchen, organizing things that didn’t need organizing, and switching between news broadcasts that offered very little comfort and a phone that refused to light up with his name, you were unraveling thread by thread. Each second stretched, heavy and tense, your breath shallow. And then, you heard it. The familiar jangle of the doorknob.

Your heart skipped a beat, then thundered, and as the door creaked open, you let out a breath that felt like it came from somewhere deep in your soul. Your muscles, locked in anxious tension, began to loosen as you rose quickly from the couch. But the moment you turned the corner and saw him, really saw him all of that fragile relief shattered and the fear came crashing back in. There he was. Dressed in his signature all-black, the fabric of his clothes torn in various places.

Revealing angry red gashes and violet bruises beneath. His broad shoulders were pulled back in a rigid posture. His long hair was disheveled, sticking to his forehead and brushing his jawline, and his face, God, his handsome face was a map of pain. Scratches lined his cheekbones, one temple split and still weeping. His knuckles were bruised, skin split. And still, he didn’t bother to close the door behind him. His cerulean blue eyes locked onto yours, and for a brief moment, time stood still. He closed them slowly, like the sight of you was too much to bear all at once.

Relief, exhaustion, maybe even guilt, it passed across his face like clouds across a stormy sky. “James.” The name left your lips sharp and clipped, your arms instinctively crossing over your chest. There was frustration in your voice, more than that, there was hurt. At the sound of his given name, his eyes opened again, more alert, more present. He knew exactly what it meant when you used it like that. But he also knew this wasn’t about being in trouble. Not really. Cautiously, he took a step forward, hand raised, vibranium fingers trembling just enough to betray the storm inside him.

He reached for your arm, bracing for the rejection he was sure he deserved. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. When his palm met your sleeve and you stayed rooted to the spot, something in him broke loose. He took another step, his other hand rising to gently uncross your arms, and you let him. You didn’t meet his eyes, not yet, but you didn’t resist his touch either. He pulled your body into his slowly, grounding you with the firm steadiness of both flesh and metal, his touch familiar, grounding. You looked away, jaw tight, holding back tears or words, you weren’t even sure which.

He exhaled slowly, then lifted a hand to your face, calloused fingers brushing lightly against your cheek as he tilted your head up. You didn’t want to look at him because if you did, you’d lose what little composure you had left. Still, you let him tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your temple as he searched your face like it held the only truth left in the world. Your eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was louder than anything either of you could say. Then finally, you broke it, your voice low and rough around the edges.

“You’re still in trouble.” You grumbled, trying for stern but falling short, the corners of your mouth betraying you with the tiniest quiver. “I know, doll,” He murmured, his voice gravelly and soft in that way only reserved for you. “I know.” He rested his forehead against yours, his breath shaky as it ghosted over your skin. He wasn’t asking for forgiveness yet. He just needed this. You. “Just let me hold you.” He whispered, more of a plea than command.

And without another word, you let him.

Bucky’s chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, each breath shaky, uneven. His arms were tight around you now, no longer tentative. Flesh and vibranium wrapped fully around your waist, holding on like if he let go, everything would collapse. And maybe it would. You didn’t want to test that theory. He smelled like smoke and the faintest trace of blood, but underneath all that, you still found him. That scent you’d come to associate with home.

“Hey,” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, lips brushing your hair as he spoke. “I’m here. I’m okay.” You pulled back slightly at that, brows furrowing. “You’re not okay, Buck,” you scoffed softly, your hands coming up to cradle his scruffy cheeks. “You’re clearly hurt and you’re bleeding.” You swallowed hard as your thumbs traced the edges of a fresh cut along his jaw. “You scared the hell out of me.” His eyes closed again, jaw clenching as he leaned into your touch. You blinked quickly, fighting the sting in your eyes, but he saw it anyway.

Without hesitation, Bucky leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours again, this time more firmly, grounding himself in the contact. Then, slowly, deliberately his lips brushed yours. It wasn’t a kiss full of hunger or urgency. It was soft yet purposeful. You melted into it instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as his hands cupped your jaw, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones. His lips trembled against yours, not from fear but from sheer, overwhelming feeling. He kissed you like he’d been afraid he wouldn’t get the chance.

Like this kiss was a thank you, an apology, and a promise all in one. When you finally parted, he lingered, his nose brushing against yours, eyes searching yours with that soft, open ache that always made you want to protect him, even when strongly believed that he was the one built to protect you. You exhaled shakily, resting your hands over his heart. In that moment, no words needed to be shared. You simply pulled him close, this time wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face against his shoulder.

After a beat, your voice now more steadier broke the silence. "I hope you know you owe Morgan a call, she was pretty shaken after what she saw on the news." Bucky let out a long breath, one hand ghosting up your back in an absent, soothing motion. "Hopefully the bear plush I brought all the way back from DC will be enough for her to forgive me." Your brow lifted, eyes narrowing slightly as amusement flickered in your voice. "Seriously, Bucky. Morgan has enough stuffed animals to fill an entire daycare."

"Doesn't mean I'm gonna stop spoiling her," He offered a small shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking just enough to chase away some of the tension. "We should call." You nodded slowly, lifting your head from his shoulder without pulling away completely, your arms still draped around him in a gentle tether. "We should," You murmured in agreement. Your gaze swept over him, taking in the grime, the torn edges of his clothes, and the blood smeared along his jaw. "Might want to clean yourself up first."

Your fingers reached up, brushing lightly over the blood smeared on his cheekbone. The touch wasn’t firm, just the barest sweep of skin against skin, but it carried so much more than it seemed to. In that single gesture, you offered reassurance, a silent apology for whatever pain he endured, and the comfort of knowing he wasn’t alone. He leaned into the touch with a subtle, almost imperceptible sigh, his eyes fluttering closed for just a beat too long. Like the warmth of your hand was more healing than anything could ever be.

His lashes lifted slowly, gaze locking with yours. The blue of his eyes, normally sharp and vigilant, had softened into something almost vulnerable. “Join me?” Just two words. So simple, but they cracked something open inside you. The sheer vulnerability behind them wrapped in a quiet plea and a need for closeness he rarely voiced ever made your throat tighten. You didn’t trust your voice to hold steady, so you simply nodded, the motion small but immediate.

His expression didn’t shift much, but you saw the way his shoulders eased, just slightly. He leaned in, pressing one last lingering kiss to your forehead. He stayed there for a moment, his lips resting against your skin like he was afraid letting go too soon might shatter whatever peace had settled between you. Then, he stepped back, not far, just enough to reach for your hand. His fingers found yours with an easy familiarity, holding on like you were his lifeline. And without a word, he turned, guiding you slowly toward the bathroom down the hall the space you shared.

As you stepped into the space, a wave of protectiveness surged through you, catching you off guard with its intensity. It was more than just concern, it was an aching need to reassure him, to make it unmistakably clear that he was safe and loved. He stood quietly, as if waiting for something he didn’t quite know how to ask for. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of his t-shirt, eyes flicking up to meet his, searching for any flicker of hesitation. The fabric was worn, soft beneath your touch, and you tugged gently, more a question than a motion.

His response was wordless but immediate, lifting his arms and granting you silent permission. You peeled the shirt upward, revealing inch by inch of scarred, bruised skin that made your heart twist. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped your lips as the damage came into view faint scrapes, livid bruises blossoming in purples and yellows, and the ever-present, jarring contrast where metal fused into flesh. You knew the serum would eventually do its work, knitting tissue and dulling pain, but logic didn’t stop the worry that clawed its way up your throat.

You leaned in, unable to keep the distance between you. Your hand wrapped around his warm, solid bicep, drawing him gently closer. He didn’t resist. Your lips brushed against the harsh line where his metal shoulder met skin, a place that too often bore the weight of his guilt and silence. You pressed a soft kiss there, then another, scattering them along his shoulder blade, the curve of his jaw, and finally to the corner of his mouth. Each kiss was a silent whisper: I love you. You’re not alone.

His breath caught, chest rising sharply, and in the next heartbeat, his lips found yours. The kiss was deep, unhurried, the kind that said everything neither of you could quite put into words. When he finally pulled away, it was only to mirror your earlier gesture, his hands slipping under your oversized knit sweater and lifting it with reverent care. It joined his shirt in a quiet heap on the floor.“I love you so much, Y/N.” He murmured against your mouth, the words rough and tender all at once.

What followed felt timeless, a slow shedding of barriers, both cloth and emotional, until you were stripped bare, wrapped in warmth and each other. Garments fell away between stolen kisses and whispered reassurances. Hands traced the map of each other’s bodies like a prayer, gentle and certain, until there was nothing between you but skin and steam. At one point, his fingers intertwined with yours, he brought your left hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

Then pausing, kissing the delicate glint of the engagement ring that rested there. His eyes met yours, soft and unguarded, and it said more than any vow ever could. Under the cascade of the shower, he held you close. You could feel the tension leaving his frame as your fingers threaded through his damp hair, massaging the soap in gentle circles. You washed away the remnants of blood and sweat, each pass of your hands careful not to press too hard against his bruises. Then it was his turn. He touched you as though you were made of glass.

His hands were hesitant and unsure, but so achingly tender it brought tears to your eyes. Every swipe of the washcloth, every stroke of his palm was deliberate, a silent apology for all the times he’d believed he didn’t deserve softness. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, surrounded by heat and steam and the quiet hum of water. Time didn’t matter. All that did was this, the slow melting of tension, the steady beat of his heart against yours, and the comfort of knowing that here, in this moment, you both had found something worth holding onto.

After drying off and pulling on soft, comfortable clothes, you settled into the rhythm of familiarity. Bucky perched at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, as he FaceTimed Morgan. You watched as the tired lines around his eyes softened at the sight of her excited face, his voice lifting just enough to sound like himself. “I promise I’m in one piece, kiddo,” He reassured her, holding the camera up so she could see the both of you. “Got a surprise for you next time I visit. I just know you’re gonna love it!” Morgan giggled, already speculating what said “surprise” was.

As the call continued, he had her and you laughing in no time, making goofy faces, promising to teach her how to do a proper left hook (with Pepper's reluctant permission), and patiently answering every curious question she had about what she had seen on the news. You noticed how his shoulders dropped, tension easing the longer he talked to her. Even Pepper smiled, though her eyes flicked across the screen with a mother's worry, lingering on the faint bruises still visible on his face.

When the call ended and the familiar dial tone hummed into silence, the weight of the night returned. The room felt heavier, quieter. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, phone dangling forgotten in one hand. The other scrubbed across his face as though trying to rub away everything he’d just relived. You straddled his lap slowly, grounding him with your presence, settling so your chest was against his, your arms around his shoulders.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, gently scratching at his scalp, something you knew calmed him. “You want to tell me what happened?” You asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper. His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing. “Yeah,” He rasped. “Yeah, I do.” And so he did. He spoke in starts and stops, piecing what had happened in fragments. He told you about flying to D.C. to expose Valentina de Fontaine. How he’d manage to convince force Yelena and her father, John Walker, Ava Starr, reluctantly, to gather enough evidence to bring Valentina down. But as usual, she was always ten steps ahead.

“She was manipulating this innocent man, Robert Reynolds, Bob, to somehow become the world’s New Avenger under her control, yet her plan had a horrible flaw,” He explained, eyes distant. “Bob, he had another side of him. This drug trail, it wasn’t anything like what happened to Steve or Banner. There was a darkness, a void.” Your hand moved from his hair to his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat. “Go on.” You coaxed softly, watching as his breathing grew more labored.

“The worst part,” He muttered after a long pause shutting his eyes, bracing himself. “Was that this alter ego, he could get inside our heads. All of us. It wasn’t just telepathy. It was like he peeled something back. Like he could reach into the rot of the trauma we’d buried and drag it into the light.” His voice cracked on the last word. Your arms tightened instinctively around his back, rubbing in slow reassuring circles. “He saw inside my worst nightmare,” Bucky continued, each word weighted and raw.

“And then he made me live it again. It felt so real, Y/N. The cold steel of the restraints. The stench of antiseptic. I was strapped down at that H.Y.D.R.A. base again. My body was fighting, but my mind—” His jaw clenched hard. “They were erasing me. Again and again. Every time I’d start to remember who I was, they’d wipe it clean. My name. My face. You.” A pained breath escaped him. “You were fading. I couldn’t hold on to you.” You leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “But I’m right here,” You whispered.

“You held on enough to help your friends. To come home to me.” He swallowed back a whimper, blinking back tears. “I didn’t think I’d make it out,” He admitted, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t think I deserved to.” You tilted his chin gently until his eyes met yours. “You always deserve to come home.” For a long time, he didn’t say anything, just let himself breathe against you, his arms wrapping around your waist like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he lifted your left hand and brought it to his lips again. He kissed the engagement ring slowly, reverently, holding your hand against his chest. “This,” He murmured, voice barely audible, “is the only thing that kept me from breaking.” You felt your own tears gather against your lash line as you processed his words. “Bucky, sweetheart, while I'm not thrilled you jumped into danger," You began, your tone soft but laced with honest concern. His arms wrapped around you tighter, keeping you anchored against him.

“I know, doll,” He murmured, his voice low against your lips. “I’m so sorry I scared you.” You pressed your index finger to his mouth before he could say anything else. “But I am so proud of you,” You declared firmly, your words laced with admiration, leaving no room for protest. That brought a real smile to his face, that rare kind of smile that lit up his features and made the years of pain and burden momentarily vanish. The kind of smile that always made you swoon just a little, no matter how many times you saw it.

“Besides,” You added with a dry scoff, “Let H.Y.D.R.A try to get close to you again and see what happens.” He raised an eyebrow, half amused and half confused. “What, you gonna fight 'em with your sarcasm?” You rolled your eyes, but your voice was calm and certain as you lifted your left hand between you. The ring glinted in the low lamplight. “No. You have me. And I’m not going anywhere.” Understanding dawned in his expression, and something unspoken passed between you.

You had seen each other at your best and worst, through blood and bruises and sleepless nights. And still, here you were. That was all he needed. And that was more than enough.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! <3

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room for one more - m.celebrini & w.smith

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m.celebrini x fem!reader & w.smith platonic | 1k

Summary: when will's date doesn't go as planned and he crashes date night for macklin

masterlist

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The apartment smelled like garlic, tomato, and love. I had just pulled the lasagna out of the oven, my oven mitts covered in little strawberries, and Mack was setting the table with a kind of clumsy charm that always made me grin. He was trying to be precise, lining the forks up perfectly, but every so often he’d bump one slightly out of place with those big hockey hands of his and mutter something like, “Dang it,” under his breath.

Our playlist was on in the background, low and mellow, the kind of indie love songs that made me want to sway in the kitchen with him. And for a few blissful minutes, that’s exactly what we did. He came up behind me while I was wiping the counter, wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed the top of my head, whispering something corny about me being the best chef in the world. I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. We danced there, barefoot and swaying, just the two of us in our little bubble of coziness.

Just as we sat down with our plates full, a knock echoed through the apartment. Mack and I both turned our heads.

“Are you expecting someone?” I asked, already rising, my napkin sliding off my lap.

He shook his head, brow furrowed. I opened the door to find Will standing there, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, eyes wide and red-rimmed, and none of the usual fun, bubbly, giggly, smiley Will anywhere to be found. My heart dropped.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Oh, Will,” I murmured, stepping aside without even asking. He looked like a kicked puppy.

Mack was already on his feet when Will stepped inside. “What happened, man?”

Will shrugged, and it was almost worse than if he’d cried. “Date was... bad. Really bad. She spent half the time on her phone, and then said I was 'too nice.' Like that’s a dealbreaker or something.”

I glanced at Mack, who was already moving to grab a third plate. We didn’t need to speak. We had our unspoken language. Mom and dad mode: activated.

“Well, lucky for you, I made enough lasagna to feed a small village,” I said, guiding Will to the table. “Sit. You need carbs and comfort. And maybe a hug.”

Will gave me a grateful look and sank into the chair. I could see the weight of the night in his posture, the slump of his shoulders. He looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical tiredness, like he was carrying the rejection around in his chest, pressing down with every breath.

Mack heaped a generous portion of lasagna onto Will’s plate while I fetched one of Mack’s comically oversized hoodies—one of those ridiculously soft ones he wore after games. I handed it to Will with a smile.

“Go change, get comfy. You’re staying here tonight.”

“I don’t want to crash your night,” he started.

I gave him a look. “You are not crashing anything. You’re our favorite third wheel.”

Mack nodded solemnly. “We were actually just saying we wished someone would interrupt our romantic night with a lasagna emergency.”

That finally got a small laugh out of Will. He took the hoodie and disappeared into the bathroom. When he came back, he looked ten times cozier and maybe a little less like his heart had been stepped on. His damp hair curled slightly, and he looked younger, softer somehow.

We put on the cheesiest rom-com we could find—Mack's idea, surprisingly, and not mine. Will curled up on the couch between us, a tub of ice cream in his lap, a blanket thrown over all three of us. Mack rested his feet on the coffee table and I tucked my legs up, leaning into his side. Will was quiet at first, barely touching the ice cream, staring ahead like he wasn’t really seeing the screen.

But little by little, the movie did its job. He started to laugh at the dumb jokes, snorted when a character tripped over a dog leash, even groaned when the predictable kiss-in-the-rain scene came on. He even made fun of the plot, which is how I knew he was starting to feel like himself again. At one point, Mack reached over and ruffled his hair.

“You’re not too nice, man. You’re just real. Anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve to know you.”

Will blinked a few times too fast and nodded. “Thanks.”

I reached over and gave his knee a squeeze. “You’re gonna find someone who actually thinks your stupid little jokes are funny. Just wait.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Hope she likes hockey.”

“She better,” Mack muttered, “or I’m vetoing her.”

When the movie ended, we didn’t even bother moving. Mack grabbed more blankets, and I brought out extra pillows, and we built the coziest little couch nest you could imagine. We started a second movie—something equally cheesy and predictable—and all three of us melted into the cushions. Will ended up with his head on Mack’s shoulder and his feet on my lap, and at some point, he passed me the ice cream without a word like it was a peace offering.

As the second movie dragged on, the atmosphere shifted into something softer, sleepier. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering screen and the tiny string lights we had hung up months ago and never took down. I yawned and leaned into Mack, who kissed my forehead without looking away from the screen.

I thought briefly about setting up the guest room, but looking at the two boys I loved in such different ways snuggled up like overgrown puppies, I didn’t have the heart to move anyone. Will’s breathing had gone even and deep, and Mack’s arm was heavy around my shoulder.

Mack kissed the top of my head as the credits rolled. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” I murmured, eyes already heavy.

And with Will snoring gently beside us and a faint smell of garlic still in the air, we all fell asleep like that—safe, full, and loved. Just three people on a couch, wrapped up in warmth and friendship, and the kind of quiet that only comes when you know you're not alone.

[onlyangel4]

going soft. cm punk.

cm punk x reader

synopsis: when punk goes on a podcast the whole world finds out just how soft he is for his girlfriend.

punk hadn’t expected to enjoy this podcast as much as he was. he’d been on enough to know the beats, a little banter, a few nostalgic wrestling stories, some inevitable teasing. but this one had a laid-back energy, and the host clearly knew his stuff, not just about wrestling, but comics, pop culture, and all the weird corners of interest that Punk cared about. they were nearly forty minutes in, and it had been mostly harmless fun, batman debates, injury horror stories, and a detour into punk’s very strong feelings about pineapple on pizza.

then the host grinned across the table and said, "so, we’ve talked wrestling, pipe bombs, and the joker’s overrated plans but let’s pivot. fans want to know, what’s going on outside the ring these days? you’ve mellowed out a bit, haven’t you?"

punk chuckled, sensing the shift. "i don’t know about mellowed out" he said, leaning back in his chair. "i still yell at clouds on twitter. but yeah, life’s good. i’ve got someone who keeps me grounded."

the host raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased. "the mystery woman makes an appearance. you’ve been keeping that low-key."

"i try. i don’t need the whole world in our business", punk replied with a shrug. "but she’s awesome. smart, funny, way cooler than me. And patient. god, so patient. you have to be, to put up with my cranky ass."

the host laughed and pointed at him. "you’re smiling like a dork right now."

punk blinked. "am i?"

"you don’t even realize how soft you just got. dude, you went from ‘pipe bomb’ to ‘puppy love’ in thirty seconds."

punk rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. "she’s got that effect, i guess. i don’t notice it when i’m talking about her. feels normal."

there was a brief pause, and then, more quietly, he added, "it’s weird. you go through life thinking you’re this lone wolf. you make peace with it. then someone shows up, looks at you like you’re worth something, even on your worst days and suddenly you’re checking her grocery list and reorganizing your whole damn house just so she has drawer space."

the host let out a laugh that bordered on a wheeze. "so what you’re saying is, cm punk the most dangerous man with a mic, is out here living the domestic dream."

"hey", punk said, mock-defensive. "don’t get it twisted. i’ll still fight a dude in a parking lot. but i’ll text her first to let her know I’ll be late."

that set the host off again. "that’s love, man. that’s growth."

punk laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression softening despite himself. "she makes things better just by being around. she doesn’t try to change me, and somehow that makes me want to be better. you don’t come across people like that often."

"does she know she’s got you like this?"

"oh, she knows", punk said with a smirk. "doesn’t abuse the power. well, not much."

"you’re whipped."

"i’m in love. big difference."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

later that night, you sat curled up on the couch, one of his hoodies drowning you, headphones in, phone clutched loosely in your hand as the podcast played. you were at the exact part where he started talking about you, really talking about you and the smile on your face couldn’t have been stopped if you tried.

you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he walked into the room, pausing mid-step when he saw you grinning.

"you’re listening to it, aren’t you?" he asked, already looking like he regretted opening his mouth on the show.

you paused the episode dramatically and turned to him. "she’s got this stupid laugh", you quoted, placing a hand over your heart. "poetic."

he groaned and dropped down onto the couch beside you, burying his face in your shoulder. "i knew that was gonna come back to haunt me."

"you’re soft", you teased, laughing as you stroked his hair.

"i was ambushed", he said into your hoodie. "i thought we were gonna talk about bane and joker, not my undying devotion."

you kissed the top of his head and pulled him closer. "for the record", you murmured, "i love your cranky ass. especially when you get all mushy without realising."

he sighed but didn’t move. "remind me to never speak publicly again."

"too late. the world knows", you teased, resting your chin on his head. "you’re whipped."

he tilted his head up just enough to look at you. "yeah", he said simply, his voice low and honest. "i am"

[benispunk]

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

[wrongbodies]

Fanfic: Heart Stopped, pt. 2

Charlie had no idea what was going on, but after being pulled into the group of popular kids, he tried to catch glimpses of Nick and the mysterious other Charlie he had seen. What's more, he still couldn't get over what he saw in the camera. Was that real? He was desperate to confirm, but didn't want to go too far. What is going on?!

He saw Nick pull the fake Charlie into his car, and drive away. These kids he didn't associate with were all cracking jokes and boasting, but none seemed to care he was staring at the doppelganger drive away. Once the car disappeared from sight, he stood and darted into the school.

He dashed to the nearest bathroom, and crashed through the doorway. His intensity died down immediately, though. He was suddenly aware of how scared he was to confirm his suspicions. He had reasoned that the phone could be hacked or glitched... but the mirror? Could it really be true that he was currently in Harry Greene's body?!

Finally summoning the courage, he looked up. There, under the phosphorescent lights of the bathroom, stood the figure of Harry Greene. Rich douchebag of Truham Grammar School. Charlie felt something lurch in his stomach. Harry's stomach... He felt he was going to be ill, but it passed. Approaching the mirror he felt his face with his fingers. He was fascinated by the texture of his hair. It was shorter, and straighter. His own hair was quite curly. He traced his lips, and tapped his nose. He folded his ears, and stuck his tongue out. This was almost funny, he could make Harry look like a jackass and record this, even!

After a while, Charlie realized that this was not really all that funny. Who knew how this happened? And worse, could it be undone? Although Charlie had often wanted to be someone else when he was bullied, if that had happened he certainly would not have ever chosen Harry fucking Greene of all people. This body was the one that tormented him nearly constantly his whole time at the school. Even after the worst people graduated from last year, when the bullying was at its worst, Harry was still here and still seemingly set on making him miserable.

There was certainly no other face that he'd want to see everyday, every morning he woke up, than this one. He frowned into the mirror.

"Oh Harry, what are we going to do?" He asked, the empty bathroom offering no suggestions.

Meanwhile, across town and at Charlie's house: Nick was growing concerned for Charlie. He had expected the fight to put a toll on Charlie, of course. Yet, what he was witnessing was beyond anything he'd seen before. For starters, Charlie seemed to have amnesia of some kind. From getting into the car to Charlie's house, he was apparently unaware of any details of his life. In fact, he kept asking Nick questions.

"What happened to me?! Where is my body?" Fake-Charlie asked again, breathing quickly.

"Char, I don't know what to tell you. Harry Greene tried to fight you, but then you collapsed and I pushed him away. You didn't get hit, but you still fell down." Nick explained.

"Why do you keep calling me that!?" Fake-Charlie barked.

"What? Char? I thought you liked it, Charlie." Nick said, soothingly. He put a hand on Charlie's arm.

Fake-Charlie yanked his arm away violently and snapped. "I'm not that little gay boy, Nick. I'm Harry, and I don't know why we are here in that fags room."

Nick felt the blood draining from his face. Was this it? Was Charlie cracking? He watched as Charlie stood up and padded over to the mirror on the door.

"What the..." Fake-Charlie spun. "Why is my face... where is my... WHAT IS GOING ON?!"

"Charlie, you are scaring me. Did you hit your head?" Nick asked, trying to calm Charlie down.

"I told you, I AM NOT CHARLIE." Fake-Charlie returned to looking at the mirror. "This can't be happening. We've switched somehow. I gotta find my body."

Nick was trying to understand what Charlie was saying. "Switched? What? Are you going on about?"

Fake-Charlie turned towards Nick again. He seemed to collect himself a bit. "Nick, I know you aren't going to believe me, but I swear this is the actual truth. I'm not Charlie. It's me, Harry."

"What...?" Nick said, feeling he had finally lost the plot.

"Somehow that gay- er, your boyfriend and I switched. He's got my body, and I'm stuck in this weak, scrawny body." Fake-Charlie explained.

Nick just stood there, trying to let what was just said sink in.

The two boys stared at each other for a long time. There wasn't a sound. But behind both their eyes, a thousand thoughts a minute were rushing through their brains.

TBC

[thatstrangegiiirrlll]

weak hero sieun as your boyfriend head cannons ? preferably someone who is the complete opposite of him. (sunshine/bright personality) luv ur work 💗

Yeon Si-eun as your boyfriend (a pessimist and optimist duo) ❣︎

Dating Si-eun when you’re bright, bubbly and optimistic is definitely different for him at first. But the whole “opposites attract” dynamic of your relationship somehow manages to work. Even more so than either of you expected:

At first, Si-eun is dumbfounded by you, he looks at you as almost alien-like because you're so far removed from anything that he is. He can't fathom your constant bubbliness and positivity, but he likes it. He adores it because it brings a way of thinking that he could never even think about embodying.

And boy do you love to talk — you talk a mile a minute. Not because you make everything about yourself, but because that's how you both prefer it. Si-eun chimes in, but he's more of a listener. He listens with intent, taking every conversation as a way to learn about you. He may not say a lot, but he remembers every detail. “Didn’t you say you liked this snack?” he’ll ask, giving it to you. It's one of your favorites — and honestly, you had no clue he was even paying attention.

You hug him often and give his tense shoulders and back a massage every chance you get. He's resistant at first, the intimacy something foreign to him, but after a while, he's finding himself looking forward to your touch. He notices the relief in his body that your hands bring and how your hugs make him feel grounded after a long day.

When you're both out together in public, you're expressive with your love, and loud with your laughter. Always making jokes and having a good time. Sometimes he’ll look at you, wide-eyed with disbelief. Si-eun is used to making himself small when he's around others, but every so often you bring out that pretty smile of his.

His acts of love are subtle and quiet, but impactful, and thoughtful. He brings you healing foods when you're sick, and helps you with schoolwork. When you’re sad, he lets you fall asleep on his chest, offering as much warmth as he can.

When you're having one of your usual spiels about something, you'll catch him looking at you and you'll pause. “What is it?” He’ll look away, a small tint on his cheeks. “Nothing,” he’ll mumble. But inside he's thinking about just how much he adores the sound of your voice and the expressions you make.

When you're upset or hurt, Si-eun is quiet and empathetic. He may not always know what to say, but he offers his presence. He may not be loud with it, but he's very protective of you. Your light and love are like a delicate piece of rare jewelry that he has vowed to keep safe forever. He'd confront anyone if they ever crossed you because he knows your heart. And you don't deserve to be mistreated.

Si-eun uses actions more than he talks. The way he treats you shows how much he cares for you. When it comes to saying “I love you” it’s rare. He most certainly loves you, but he’s spent the majority of his life not hearing or saying the phrase. As an upbeat person, you say it often. But he tries for you. He eventually comes around to it, whispering it softly in your ear as you doze off or when you’re not feeling well.

i hope you enjoyed reading as much as i enjoyed making this. It was so fun and cute to write. — Ash <3

[wisteriaiswriting]

S/O Who Flinches Often

Words: 455

Request: Omg hiiiiii!!! I’m in love with your blog at the moment and was wondering if I could send in a request for tf2? Where m!reader (is that how you do it?) just flinch’s a lot a lot, say when you start a conversation, when you touch their shoulder ect and it’s due to a bad experience with maybe a ex or their parents with different mercs (?) like for spy it’s ex and for sniper it’s parents? (If it’s okay to ask I was wondering if the characters could be medic, engi, spy and sniper? Of course if that’s too many then sorry) make sure to drink water enough and have a good day/evening/night byeeeeeeee!!!! Requested by: @vxnom100

This can be read as gender neutral as I couldn't really fit the male part into it, although Spy uses 'beautiful' once

This man was kinda baffled when you first flinched, he had just brushed his hand across your back while walking past, he watched and felt you flinch.

Tries to brush it off as “You have such sensitive reflexes! No wonder I never need to heal you.” Though this causes him to watch you even closer now.

Is so cautious when approaching you now, as if you’d go running off when you see him. It’s weird, but also somehow respectful? In his own way…

But eventually he’ll corner you in the infirmary, making sure you know that he knows, how much he has been watching you. And that you can come to him for almost anything, once again keeping a careful eye on you.

Look, he wasn’t the kind of man to go around startling people, he didn’t even like it. So when you flinched as he lightly tapped your shoulder, he froze.

Apologizes to you every time it happens, making sure you realise it wasn’t on purpose. “Sorry there darl.” “Didn’t mean to scare ya’ there.”

He is a smart man, we know this. So quickly he started changing his tactics when it came to approaching you. Calls your name, walks, talks and even puts things down louder than normal.

Soon enough it’s very clear when it’s him coming up behind you, he makes sure of it.

He only meant to get your attention for something, opting to reach out while saying your name. Almost offended when you jerked away, not that you would notice.

“Ah… I’m sorry, beau. J'aurais dû le voir...” Being in his job for as long as he has, he understands and expects people to flinch, but when you do? It silently breaks his heart, he never expected it from you.

Does his best to comfort and assure you, this comes in words and actions.

Being noticed isn’t his strong suit and he’d rather not, but for you he calls out your name, tapping the walls and doors.

He was never the touchy type of man, but the first time you flinched when he simply said your name, it was like a punch to the gut.

Anyone could notice the shift in his voice, suddenly becoming slightly softer but loud enough for you to hear him.

Really treats you like a skittish animal, no more sudden movements, no raised voices. If you ever apologise he tells you that it isn’t your fault, “It aint your fault love, you deserved much better.”

Never pushes you to talk or anything, but he always leaves the option open to you. Leaving cups of coffee or anything else you drink, a small nod of acknowledgment when you meet his eyes. Nothing that pushes your limits.

[endofthelinegang]

“how don’t you know the difference between your left and right?” with Walker please, where reader and him have a sibling dynamic (both in the Thunderbolts, I love this team so much. Now I think I understand how fans felt about the Avengers, which I wasn’t into the MCU at the time)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem! platonic! reader

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ the f word

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ wait stop because even if you fucking hate john walker this is funny shit. (2.1k words)

The mission brief was simple.

Sneak in. Secure the drive. Sneak out.

It was a three-step process, like a microwave meal or an Instagram tutorial on microwave desserts, and somehow—somehow—you were still managing to screw it up by step two.

“Left,” John growled through your comms. “Take a left at the fork.”

Naturally, you put up your fingers but then quickly decided that would get you bullied so you took a guess and ended up going right.

“...That’s your other left,” came the follow-up, clipped and already filled with the bitter disappointment of a man who knows better than to expect anything else from you.

You stopped mid-step. The hallway lights overhead were flickering dramatically—broken bulbs, unstable wiring—and in any other context, this might’ve been a suspenseful moment. Tactical. High-stakes. Because it was clear whatever danger was dangering had just been through here or was still right in that general area.

Instead, you blinked. “There’s no such thing as ‘other left.’” you scoffed and stood rolling your eyes. 

“Yes there is,” John hissed. “It’s called right.” The mission had only started moments ago and he was ready to come down there and shoot you himself.

You tilted your head, hand on your hip. “That’s a label society assigned. Much like gender and sporks. Though the idea of a spork is a lot more useful than the other labels, it’s a really fun word to say too.” Before you could repeat the word spork and somehow mindlessly start walking down the trail that screamed danger John made a comment,

“God, I knew I should’ve left you in the van.” 

“Joke’s on you,” you replied cheerfully. “I hotwired the van. You couldn’t leave me even if you wanted to.” There was a reason he kept you around, all of your illegal knowledge that you felt overly confident doing and sharing. In fact you would even show John Tiktoks and Reels of all the people your age putting it all over their public social media platforms. To which he was not surprised that half of the New York population happened to be these people.

A pause. A deep, deep inhale on his end.

And then, voice flat: “Turn. The hell. Around.” You sighed dramatically, like this was somehow his fault, and began rotating yourself in slow, half-conscious steps like a Sims character that couldn’t find a free tile.

And, because you knew it would drive him completely feral, you whispered into the mic: “...Which one’s left again?” You smiled at yourself turning back around and jogging out of the area he specifically kept telling you to get out of and stay out of.

You could feel the eye twitch through the comms. 

“Left is the side with your watch on it,” John said, enunciating each word like you were a foreign dignitary he hated but had to be polite to. “The same watch you said made you ‘feel like a spy, but slutty.’ Remember that?”

“I do. I also stand by that.” As much as he pretended to ignore you all the time he did recall everything you said. In all fairness the watch was completely blacked out with a leather band. 

“Great. So use your slutty spy watch to figure out which direction to go before I come down there and push you out a window.” John would’ve said something more violent but that would have started an actual argument. 

You gasped. “You said you weren’t gonna use your military strength on me!” You continued to walk back where you had started, you also realized John was kind of a total dumbass because there was like one window and it had bars over it. 

“I lied.” And with that, you finally—finally—pivoted the correct direction and continued down the left hallway like a reluctant Sims character with one trait point in Navigation and zero in Listening.

—

You met up with him two corridors later. You were lightly jogging, in fact almost skipping, and you might be wondering where this good mood was coming from. Nothing was better than a mission with just John because at the end of the day you could save your own ass you did not need him there. But messing with him, yeah, you needed that.  He was already standing by the server room door, arms crossed, jaw tight, the image of Grumpy Soldier Barbie—but in your defense, he looked like that all the time.

“You’re late,” he sassed looking you up and down. 

You rolled your eyes. “Relax. I was out here doing recon.”

“You got lost.” He whisper-yelled, not appreciating the very idea that you thought anything you had done was recon.

“Reconnaissance of the floor plan,” you said smoothly, brushing past him with your hand on the panel. “Maybe if your directions were better—”

“They were good directions. They were literally left. That’s it. That’s not even complicated. It’s not like I said ‘head northwest by the air shaft and look for the door with the red laser grid.’” He repeated real instructions from a previous mission he had gone on with Yelena. Instructions she also chose to ignore. 

“That sounds kinda fun actually.” You had no idea what he was talking about. 

“You are not allowed to speak anymore.”

He had the two of you on the move. The server room opened with a quiet click. You ducked in, he followed close behind, and for about thirty blessed seconds, things were normal. Professional. Efficient. Until you spotted the wires. John of course had you closest to the wires so that if you pulled the wrong one it would be your fuck up and not his. 

“Uhhh…” you said, hands hovering over the motherboard. “Which cord do I pull?” The board was a mess, yes there was green but all of the wires were so small.

John looked up from the small device he was planting in the far corner. “Green.”

You stared at the wires even closer, there were three different greens. There were different shades of every color and all of the greens were super far apart from each other which meant that they all probably did different things. 

“...Green which?” you asked, hands hovering over top of the crazy mess in front of you.

He looked over. Blinked. And then, with the slow patience of a father of four who just caught one of his kids trying to microwave foil, he moved you over, pointed directly at the correct green wire, and said—

“This green. Right here. Not seafoam. Not olive. Green.”

You nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

And then, because apparently you were put on this earth to test his willpower, you reached for the wrong one. Not slowly either you grabbed that motherfucker like you were really going to pull it up and out. 

“Nope!” he barked, grabbing your wrist before you could trigger an accidental building-wide meltdown. “Do you have some kind of death wish, or are you just genetically incapable of behaving?”

“I don’t respond well to being micromanaged,” you sniffed and pouted. He gave you the look—that devastating combo of older-brother exhaustion and someone who once had dreams before you happened to him.

“You know,” he said, voice low and tight, “I’ve had missions go off the rails before. I’ve had teammates flake. I’ve had intel turn out bad. But nothing—nothing—has ever compared to trying to get you to do something simple.”

You tilted your head sweetly. “That’s just because you’re not used to working with people as unique as me.” You held his hands and swung them back and forth before getting up as he watched you in plain horror. 

“Unique,” he repeated, dead-eyed. “Is that what we’re calling this now?”

You grinned. “You love me.” 

“I’d trade you for a ham sandwich.” He scoffed and started walking away from you to which you got right behind him and yelled in his ear, 

“A ham sandwich?” you repeated, mock-offended. “That’s so basic. At least make it like… a fancy club sandwich or something.”

He gave a long sigh, eyes skyward like he was praying for strength. “Do the job, dumbass.”

—

The escape route—because of course—was also somehow your fault. It started fine. Quiet hallway, clear egress, no hostiles in sight. The corridors were low-lit, industrial concrete with buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and peeling paint on the corners. You could hear the hum of distant generators, the faint tick of your watch, and the crunch of your boots on loose debris.

John’s plan had been tight. Simple extraction. The van was parked in an alley on the north side, GPS-tracked and synced to the route in your earpiece. Cameras had been looped, alarms temporarily frozen, and all you had to do—all you had to do—was follow him and not get distracted.

Until you stopped at the final turn and muttered, “Wait, I thought the exit was that way,” and pointed the wrong direction again.

He didn’t even look. He just kept walking. “Don’t you start.”

“No, but I really thought it was—”

“Left. I said left again. For the third time.”

“And again, I ask: my left, or yours?”

“HOW IS THAT A REAL QUESTION.”

“BECAUSE I’M WALKING BEHIND YOU. PERSPECTIVES CHANGE.”

He whipped around to face you mid-step, face flushed, hair slightly mussed, entire being radiating the energy of a babysitter who was about ten seconds from calling your mom.

“I’m going to ask you one time,” he said, slowly. “And I want you to really think about this before you answer.”

You saluted. “Aye aye, Captain America-lite.”

He visibly had to restrain himself from launching you into orbit.

“How—don’t—you know—the difference—between your left—and your right?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Thought for a second.

And then said, earnestly:

“It’s conceptual.”

John looked like he aged four years in real time.

“...Conceptual.”

“Yeah. Like, I get it in theory. But in practice? I just vibe.”

“You just vibe? This is tactical infiltration, not yoga.”

“Exactly. You gotta feel the space.”

“I swear to God,” he muttered, turning back toward the exit, “if you make me do paperwork on your death certificate I’m writing vibes as the cause of death.”

—

You made it back to the van, somehow.

Your boots hit pavement with a final, glorious crunch, and the cold night air slapped your face like a wake-up call from God Himself. The alley was still empty, shadows long and stretched under the flickering glow of a busted streetlamp that buzzed like it was shorting out on its final life. The mission had drained just enough energy from you that you were too tired to celebrate but not too tired to be smug. That perfect, post-chaos middle ground.

You both clambered into the van—the familiar creak of the door, the satisfying thunk as it shut behind you. John wordlessly dropped into the driver's seat, hands on the wheel but not starting it yet, like he needed a minute to recover from whatever the hell just happened.

There was a brief moment of quiet where you both sat there, the adrenaline fading, the mission technically complete. The drive buzzed in your pack. The radio hummed.

A random pop station played something way too upbeat for the mood. A pigeon flew overhead and nearly dive-bombed the van’s windshield for no reason except to keep you humble.

And then—

“So…” you said, angling toward him with a smug smile. “We gonna talk about the fact that despite all my ‘distractions,’ we still got out clean?”

He didn’t even look up. “Luck.”

“Skill.”

“Luck.”

You poked his bicep, still smug. “Admit it. You like having me around.”

He gave you a long, baleful stare. “You make my blood pressure rise like a balloon animal in a microwave.”

“But a fun balloon animal,” you said brightly. “Like, the dog kind.”

He closed his eyes. Whispered a quiet, resigned, “Why me.”

You beamed, settling back into your seat, feet up on the dash.

He didn’t make you move them.

And later, when you both walked into the safehouse and he saw you take the couch first, he didn’t say anything. He tossed you a water bottle. Turned on the shitty hotel TV. Sat down next to you like it was nothing.

The safehouse smelled like dusty air filters and microwave popcorn someone had definitely burned earlier in the week. The couch was too firm, the lighting was too yellow, and the remote had teeth marks in it—unclear if human. It was perfect. It was home—for now.

But when you turned the wrong direction again—again—to hand him the remote?

He just caught it mid-air, muttering, “Still your wrong left, dumbass.”

You grinned. “Still made the shot though.”

“Unfortunately.”

And that was it.

That was how John Walker—ex-Captain America, Thunderbolt, grumpy golden retriever in combat boots—ended another day stuck with you. His teammate. His human migraine.

His family.

Even if it killed him slowly.

Even if you never learned your left from your right.

Even if you made “conceptual directions” your new excuse for everything.

You, him, and the mission.

That was the job. That was the team. And, God help him, he wouldn’t change it for the world.

[young-waverer]

fic recs: 4/27 - 5/4

started working full-time again this week and yet........ fic recs under the cut

🚒 The Silence That Only Comes When Two People Understand Each Other by turningthepages rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

Real love, true love was something that had to be shouted from the rooftops. Grand gestures, sweeping monologues, heartfelt ballads sang out at top volume… that was love. He knew that one day when he found the real thing it would topple him over from the sheer decibels it would hit. And it would be real. or Buck believes love is loud but he and Eddie fall in love quietly.

🚒 once more, with feeling by mercess | @spaceshipkat rating: explicit pairing: buck/eddie

Buck goes missing, and Eddie goes crazy. — Eddie came home expecting to step right into Buck’s open arms, to hear the soft gravel of his laugh, to finally fucking breathe for the first time since Chris walked out the front door and Buck held Eddie up with a hand on his shoulder. He expected to show up at Bobby and Athena’s new house tomorrow night for a welcome back party he wasn’t supposed to know of but had already heard about from Buck, Ravi (by accident, since he assumed Buck had already told Eddie), and Denny via Chris (he wanted to ask Chris what games he should bring over). He expected life to go back to normal, to how it used to be. Instead, all he has is a pit in his stomach and a lump in his throat and a heart beating too fast, even while he’s standing still. He doesn’t panic, but for Buck, he might take up the habit. “He’ll be okay, Eddie,” Bobby says, and when Eddie just hums noncommittally, he adds, “When have you ever not known him to be fine?” “You want a list?” Eddie jokes, though he actually does have one, and each bullet point carries an addendum that says Eddie wasn’t there to keep him safe.

🚒 In The Cracks Of Light, I Dreamed Of You by icewhisper rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

They bury Bobby on a Thursday and nothing feels real. (It’s not. Things haven’t been real for a while.)

🚒 ever falling, never landing by drh0rrible rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

“It’s Bobby.” Buck’s voice shakes. That isn’t unusual, it shakes often. Most of the time, it’s because he’s too excited and the words stutter and start like a scratched record, but almost as frequently, the cause is more emotional. Maddie kidnapped, Chris lost in the water, Chimney missing. There’s no mistaking this for excitement. “He’s dead.” Or: Eddie processes the immediate aftermath of the tragedy.

🚒 I hummed sweet relief by WillowFlycatcher | @hannimals rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

He lets his eyes scan over to this Buckley guy and they catch on the LAFD t-shirt. Interesting. He’s lean but pretty built, not surprising for a firefighter, and tall, all leg. Together, it’s giving the impression of a Ken doll, but somehow less punchable than Eddie would expect. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d have no one to pick him up at the hospital. Then again, neither does Eddie, probably. And it’s not like he has no one. So Buckley’s probably got his own list, and his own reasons he can’t call anyone on it. Eddie’s got one thing he doesn’t, though: a really fucking stupid idea. Or: Eddie meets Buck in the ER and takes him home

🚒 Devour Me, My Love by giselleslash | @gigi-gigi rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

When Buck holds onto Eddie it quiets the noise and brings him back to himself. Eddie doesn’t want to need him, but he can’t stop. (basically Eddie being a freak about Buck. and then Buck being a freak right back)

🚒 If You Could See Yourself Like This by floatyourboat1997 rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

Buck points an accusing finger in his direction, surprising himself with how steady it is as it pierces the air between them. “You can’t be gay,” he states. Eddie scoffs. “I am gay, Buck. I’m gay. Frank and I spent, like, three weeks figuring it out-” Buck is still shaking his head. “No. You can’t be gay, because if you’re gay then that means I’m in love with you.” + In which Eddie and Buck navigate the nuances of realizing they might each be in love with their best friend, and a joint near death experience helps them bridge the gap.

🚒 face the burnin' heat by EiraLloyd rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

At Bobby's funeral, Buck witnesses Eddie punching Tommy right after Tommy says something particularly hurtful. Buck knows there has to be more to this than just anger—and it turns out, he's right.

🚒 Hospital Coffee by glorious_spoon | @glorious-spoon rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

"I—I keep thinking…" He couldn't finish. "Yeah," Eddie said. He rubbed at his jaw, sighed, shifted close enough to settle a hand on Buck's arm. "Hey, come on. We should probably get some sleep." And that sounded like the worst thing—the worst thing. Worse than those first nights alone in this house, worse than those nights at Abby's place after she left, worse than the couch at the loft after the ladder truck explosion, with his shattered leg throbbing and the whole vast empty future yawning out ahead of him.

🚒 this must be the place by becausebuckley | @becausebuckley rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

In the end, moving in with Buck is surprisingly easy.It still breaks Eddie’s brain a little to think about it like that. This is his house, has been his house for years, the best years of his life, probably. This is where Christopher grew up, the place they both call home still. And sure, Eddie’s been renting it all this time, so it might not technically be his, but it’s close enough, right?Close enough, except he moved all his belongings into a Uhaul and then into El fucking Paso, into what was supposed to be a fixer-upper and turned out to be some sort of haunted husk of a house with more problems than Eddie has hairs on his head, and now it’s not really home anymore, hasn’t been home for a while, except it also kind of never stopped. or: buck, eddie, and domesticity.

🚒 I've had just enough time by cathcer1984 rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

Buck and Eddie get hurt on the job.

🚒 'til our ribs get tough by hyruling | @hyruling rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

"You really didn’t have to get a whole bed just for me,” Buck adds, scratching the back of his neck. Eddie shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s a faint flush on his cheeks. “It’s not—it’s a guest room. I would have gotten one anyway. For other guests too, so.”

🚒 in all my weakness by helikesyou rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

Pins and needles swept down Eddie's arms and through the tips of his fingers in a flush of heat, then cold. Breath suddenly coming fast, he shook out his hands, starting to turn away, but not before Buck caught his shoulder, concerned. “Eddie, are you okay? You’re shaking.” Eddie looked down at himself. He was. Pretty violently, actually. “Huh. Yeah,” Eddie pulled in a breath, clenching his hands and releasing them, “must be banked adrenaline. I…I really thought I’d have to carry you out of here.” His throat tightened around the words. There was a buzzing in his ears. Panic, he realized, delayed panic.

🚒 rivers 'til i reach you by rosereddoors rating: not rated (~teen) pairing: buck/eddie

“Is it fucked up if I say I hate your parents?” Eddie huffs, as close to a laugh as he can get with how drained he feels right now. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate their kid-making ability. They made one of my favorite people, and you made my actual favorite person, but-“ Buck shrugs, “Still hate them on principle for everything else besides that.” At his words, Eddie feels a sharp tug in his chest, his heart leaping like it’s trying to reach LA and nestle beside Buck’s. (or: eddie moves back to el paso & finds his way back to himself in the process.)

🚒 a palm to my mouth by hyruling | @hyruling rating: explicit pairing: buck/eddie

Now, in the after, Eddie in his house is dangerous. Eddie in his house means walking on eggshells, means avoiding eye contact and physical contact and brushing off concerns with endless variations of I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m dealing, don’t worry. He is not any of the above. But if he lets Eddie know that, he’ll want to help, he’ll want Buck to tear down the walls he’s so carefully thrown up and let him in. And Buck can’t stand that, can’t risk that. But they’re burying Bobby tomorrow. And Buck’s slipping, the tentative at best control he had over himself is wearing thin, getting thinner with every hour that brings them closer to dawn. And Eddie’s just there throughout, watching him. Like he’s waiting for the inevitable.

🚒 in pursuit of good health by lightyears | @bisexualbellamyblake rating: mature pairing: buck/eddie

“Did you know that kissing is good for you?” Buck asks the question out of absolutely nowhere, and Eddie blinks as he tries to process the words. To be fair, it’s barely seven in the morning — on their day off, after Eddie’s night on the couch — and he’s yet to have the coffee that typically kicks his brain into action. Also, what? “Buck,” he says, rubbing at his eyes. “What?” Or: Eddie and Buck start platonically kissing.

🚒 sing to me instead by putanauhere | @putanauhere rating: explicit pairing: buck/eddie

He’s in the kitchen with the wives, though even the wives were there too, and the 118 are crowded together, stuffed onto a couch that doesn’t fit four, closer than they’ve ever been in more ways than anyone will be able to name.Not for the first time in his life, Eddie stands on the outside looking in. He can’t have this again, this family that he fell into - it’s a flash in the pan, lightning in a bottle. His new crew waits for him back in El Paso, a new collection of strangers he can't let himself get close to.Buck looks up and around, catching Eddie’s eyes when he finds where Eddie has gone. He moves his arm to the back of the couch, fingers reaching out in what looks like an invitation. Eddie stands in the kitchen and begs himself - take it, take it, take it. [Or coming together and coming apart in the days surrounding Bobby's funeral.]

🚒 I just want to keep this dream in me by flightlessmaddie rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

“Bobby?” Eddie asked. Silence filled the other side of the phone and Eddie felt something cold and dark slide down his chest, settling in his gut. “Bobby?” he repeated. A sob left Maddie. “Maddie,” Eddie pleaded. “Is Bobby okay?” ~ Eddie comes home after learning about the lab.

🚒 Tomorrow I'll Be Brave (You Make Me Brave) by serenelystrange rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

Buck pulls open the gate and rushes to the tree, gasping when he sees the crumpled form of a man there. He’s mostly horizontal, laying across the roots, blood soaking the grass beneath him. - In which Buck’s life in L.A. falls apart before it can even begin. He never expects an orange tree to be the thing that changes it all. And along the way, he falls in love!

🚒 i want to go home / but i am home by signetsealed | @gayeddieagenda rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

This would be easier, Eddie thinks, if he were something to Buck. -- Eddie comes to stay with Buck for the funeral.

🚒 Buck, Bald, and Bedazzled by Excalipurr, pinkpeachtea rating: teen pairing: buck/eddie

Reluctantly, Buck peels the hoodie off, not daring to look at the two of them while he does so. And then, he waits. For sixteen exact seconds, there is absolute silence. “So, hmm…” Maddie starts at second number seventeen. “How do you feel about beanies?” Buck groans, covering his face with his hands. “Oh my god, that bad?” or: Buck shaves his head (it seemed like a better idea ten minutes ago)

🚒 i looked at your face & i knew that i’d found it by fleetinghearts | @shitouttabuck rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

“Well,” Ravi says, taking a step back from the vic with his hands on his hips. The woman blinks up at him balefully, arm still stuck in the boot on her car tire where she’d tried doing… something to get it off. Ravi grins at her, and then at Buck, and oh no. “Lucky for you, ma’am, we have a professional boot remover right here with us today. Eddie, care to offer any advice?” Eddie’s head whips up from where he’d been rummaging through the med kit. His brow is furrowed in confusion, giving Buck a desperate three seconds before he processes Ravi’s words. It’s hardly his fault, right? It’s not like it was a secret, and he didn’t expect Ravi to trot it out like a funny and totally not illegal anecdote. Also, he was drunk. Also, at that point he’d kinda been forcing himself to accept the fact that Eddie might never come back to LA. Much less be singled out in front of their coworkers like this. So, surely he’s absolved of all responsibility in sharing this story, even if Eddie, post-three seconds of brain buffering, is glaring a hole in the side of Buck’s head right now. or, it might be just slightly obvious that buck really, really likes to talk about eddie

🚒 i'll be your hands, i'll be your spine by dershoimvik rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

But Eddie saved him, too. Bobby mentioned it only once.   The night after the funeral, Eddie and Buck can't really talk about it.

🚒 Cool and Chill Things to Say to Your Best Friend Who You’ve Accidentally Been Having Phone Sex With When You Pick Him Up at the Airport by hwaelweg | @the-hwaelweg rating: mature pairing: buck/eddie

Eddie shows up to arrivals 30 minutes before Buck’s flight is even due and paces the luggage carousals like a caged tiger. He runs through various greetings in his head: Hey Buck, great to see you or maybe Long time no see Buckley or Hey handsome, didja miss me. No definitely not that one. He’s suddenly arrested by the idea that Buck might try to kiss him. Oh god, what if he does and Eddie’s entirely fallen out of practice and doesn’t remember how mouths work? What if Eddie’s secretly a terrible kisser and no one’s told him? What if the minute they touch they realize the chemistry is terrible? What if it’s awkward and horrible and Buck just says— “Eddie?” Or, in which we explore the intimacy of having someone's voice in your ear, accidentally falling into phone sex, and edging Eddie Diaz until he can admit he's a good person.

🚒 Chartreuse Marriage by rainbowninja167 rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

"Run that by me one more time?" “Buck and I got married yesterday,” Eddie repeated, as calm as he’d been the first three times he’d said it. “So we’re officially disclosing our relationship to the LAFD.” Bobby ran an exhausted hand across his eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.” Eddie learns what Tommy said to Buck after their hookup and reacts like any normal best friend would.

🚒 maybe this time, I'll be yours, you'll be mine by Elgney rating: gen pairing: buck/eddie

“Are you homophobic?” “What?” “Will you be my boyfriend?” “Yes,” Eddie answered, automatically, even though his mind had volunteered several other pressing questions, like what are you talking about and what is happening and did I recently sustain brain damage. “Thanks,” said Buckley, and then he pushed Eddie back against the side of the firetruck and kissed him. — It's the 63rd Annual Los Angeles Fire Muster & Firefighter’s Family Day, and inter-station relations are about to get real friendly between stations 6 and 118.

[kenzdolls]

# . sparks of familiarity𓂃 ♥︎

𖤐 synopsis: you, the most popular person at ua high school, discovers that fame means nothing compared to the electricity between you and your childhood best friend denki kaminari, who's been secretly in love with you since you were kids—sparking a relationship that proves the person who truly knows you is worth more than being known by everyone.

𖤐 pairing: denki kaminari x gn! reader

𖤐 trigger warnings: none

the first time you walked into ua, everyone already knew your name.

how could they not? your quirk had made headlines in junior competitions for years. students whispered as you passed in hallways, teachers nodded respectfully, even all might had greeted you by name on your first day with that booming laugh and a hand clap that nearly sent you through the floor.

everyone knew who you were.

everyone except the one person who mattered most.

"y/n!" the familiar voice cut through the cafeteria chatter as denki dropped his tray beside yours, his million-watt smile brighter than any electricity he could generate. "did you see me during training today? i think i'm finally getting the hang of directing my discharge!"

you laughed, reaching out to fix his hair where it stood on end. "you've been saying that since we were seven, denki."

his laugh joined yours, warm and familiar like the countless afternoons spent in your backyard, practicing quirks until the sun went down and your mothers called you in for dinner. eleven years of friendship had taught you every one of his expressions—the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, how he scratched the back of his neck when nervous, the slight pout when he was trying not to show disappointment.

"whatever," he nudged your shoulder with his. "at least i didn't short-circuit the entire training arena like someone did last week."

your cheeks warmed at the memory. "it was one time! and aizawa-sensei said my control is improving."

"i know, i know. just teasing. you were awesome," he said, casually stealing a fry from your plate—a habit from elementary school lunches that had never broken.

classmates stared, as they always did when the school's rising star sat with kaminari. you heard the whispers—why him? she could be friends with anyone. is she dating kaminari? no way.

if only they knew how those golden eyes had been your constant since you were both awkward kids with quirks too big for your bodies. how he held your hand through your first quirk malfunction that landed you both in the emergency room at age eight. how his notes appeared in your locker before every big exam with stupid jokes that somehow calmed your nerves. how he never once treated you differently when your name started appearing in hero magazines.

"earth to y/n," denki waved a hand in front of your face. "you disappeared on me for a second there."

"sorry, just thinking."

"about the sports festival next week? you're gonna crush it," he said, leaning his elbows on the table. "everyone's saying you're gonna take first place."

you sighed, picking at your food. "that's the problem. everyone's expecting so much."

his expression softened immediately. "hey," he said quietly, just between the two of you. "remember what we promised when we applied to ua?"

"that we'd still have movie nights no matter how busy we got?" you offered with a small smile.

"well, yeah, that too. but i meant the other thing." he held out his pinky finger. "no matter what happens—"

"—we're just denki and y/n," you finished, linking your pinky with his. it was your childhood promise, made the day your quirk had first made local news.

"exactly. the rest is just noise." his eyes held yours for a moment too long, enough that you felt that familiar flutter in your chest that had been growing stronger with each passing year.

"hey, wanna skip study hall and get bubble tea?" he whispered, leaning close enough that his shoulder pressed against yours.

"and miss present mic's lecture? he'd kill us," you replied, but your fingers were already intertwining with his under the table.

"worth it," denki grinned, a spark jumping between his fingertips and yours—an accidental discharge that had been happening more frequently lately.

an hour later, you were sitting at your favorite bubble tea shop three blocks from campus, denki dramatically recounting bakugo's latest explosion in class while the shop owner, who knew you both by name, chuckled behind the counter.

"i swear his eyebrows haven't grown back yet!" denki concluded, making you snort your taro milk tea.

"you're terrible," you laughed, wiping your mouth with a napkin.

"but you love me for it," he shot back with that lopsided grin that always made your heart skip.

the words hung in the air between you, heavier than he'd intended. you looked down at your drink, stirring the tapioca pearls, wondering if now was the time to finally say something. fifteen years of friendship, and the last three had been torture—watching him flirt with other girls at school while you pretended it didn't bother you.

"actually," you started, gathering courage, "i've been meaning to talk to you about something."

his phone buzzed before you could continue. he glanced down, then grimaced. "it's kirishima. hero basic training got moved up, we gotta get back."

your moment deflated like a punctured balloon.

"rain check on the conversation?" he asked, already gathering his things.

"yeah, sure," you nodded, trying not to show your disappointment.

outside the shop, you both broke into a run toward campus. halfway there, denki grabbed your hand to pull you through a shortcut—an alleyway you'd discovered during your first week. his fingers were warm against yours, and you tried not to read into it.

"race you the rest of the way?" he challenged as you emerged onto the main street.

"you know you'll lose," you teased, already picking up speed.

"maybe i just like watching you run ahead," he called after you.

the comment made you stumble slightly, but you recovered quickly, heart pounding from more than just exertion.

you reached the ua gates first, as expected, turning to find denki jogging up with that carefree smile. but something was different in his eyes when he looked at you—something intense and nervous that made your breath catch.

"y/n," he said, slightly out of breath, "what were you going to tell me? at the shop?"

students streamed past you toward the main building, but suddenly it felt like you were alone in your own bubble.

"it can wait," you said, suddenly nervous.

"actually, i need to tell you something too," he said, stepping closer. a small spark jumped from his hair to yours, making you blink in surprise.

"sorry," he mumbled, brushing a hand through his blond locks. "that keeps happening around you lately. can't control it."

you stared at him, realization dawning. "wait… your quirk only discharges involuntarily when you're—"

"—emotional, yeah," he finished, cheeks reddening. "specifically when i'm around the person i've been in love with since we were kids."

the world seemed to freeze. "what?"

he shrugged helplessly, that vulnerable look you'd only seen a handful of times crossing his face. "i was gonna tell you after the sports festival. figured if i embarrassed myself, at least you'd have a gold medal to distract you."

you couldn't help it—you laughed, a bright sound that made several passing students turn to look.

denki's expression fell. "okay, not the reaction i was hoping for."

"no, you idiot," you said, grabbing his jacket and pulling him closer. "i was going to tell you the exact same thing at the bubble tea shop."

his eyes widened comically. "for real? since when?"

"since forever," you admitted. "i just thought… you know, with all the attention i get, you might think i'd want someone… i don't know, more like—"

"more like what? more like the amazing person i've known my whole life?" he placed his hands on your waist. "y/n, everyone knows your name, but i know you. you're still the same person who cried when we found that injured bird in third grade, who stays up way too late reading, who stress-bakes before every exam."

your heart felt like it might burst. "and you're still the same person who helped me nurse that bird back to health, who brings me coffee during all-nighters, who eats my stress-baking even when i burn it."

another spark jumped between you, larger this time, causing both of you to jump.

"sorry!" denki winced. "i told you, i can't control it around you."

"then don't," you whispered, curling your fingers into his uniform.

when his lips finally met yours, there was a literal spark—a tiny crackle of electricity that made you both smile against each other's mouths. fifteen years of friendship crystallizing into something new, something that felt inevitable.

someone wolf-whistled nearby—probably mina, you thought absently—but you didn't care.

because while everyone at ua knew your name, your quirk, your potential, only denki knew all the parts of you that mattered. only denki had been there before the spotlight, before the expectations. only denki made you feel like just yourself.

and maybe, you thought as his arms tightened around you, being known completely was better than being known by everyone.

"did you see the latest hero billboard rankings?" mina squealed, sliding into the seat across from you at lunch three days later. "they're already predicting you'll debut in the top twenty!"

you nodded politely, half-listening as she continued gushing about your prospects. under the table, denki's knee pressed reassuringly against yours.

"speaking of predictions," kirishima chimed in, "who had 'childhood friends finally get together' on their class 1-a bingo card?"

"i did!" mina raised her hand triumphantly. "i won the betting pool!"

"you guys had a betting pool?!" denki spluttered.

"since the first day of school," bakugo muttered from the end of the table. "even i could see you two were obsessed with each other."

you buried your face in your hands, mortified yet strangely happy. denki's arm came around your shoulders, his laughter rumbling against you.

"well," he announced proudly, "i've known y/n since we were in diapers, so i think i won the real prize here."

"you've known me since we were four, not since diapers," you corrected automatically.

"close enough," he shrugged, pressing a kiss to your temple that sent another small spark between you.

the conversation shifted, your classmates moving on to discuss the upcoming training camp. but denki's hand found yours under the table, his thumb tracing circles on your palm—a secret language developed over years.

maybe everyone knew your name, but only one person had always known your heart. and finally, after all these years, he knew it belonged to him.

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