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lostinlovingrevery · 2 days ago

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Loveuary Challenge! - I Think I Love You

Worst! Logan X F! Reader

A/N: Here's my entry for @yxtkiwiyxt and @lubdubology's Loveuary Challenge! I picked Worst Logan cause he's my boo rn <3, also I sorta but not really based it off the song "I Think I love You" by the Partridge Family! It just been stuck in my head!

Plot: Logan has a crush on the florist in the neighborhood...

Warnings: SMUT, and fluff :), MDNI, PiV sex, Logan being an anxious baby girl, Wade being a nuisance, a lil angst cause of Logan self-loathing

Word Count: 5650

Logan stared at the door of the apartment building, his hands felt shaky, and his stomach turned. He felt like all the adamantium that had merged into his bones had melted and pooled into his feet, keeping him from stepping outside.

The Wolverine, the toughest son of a bitch out there

Frozen in place because he’s nervous to talk to a woman.

Pathetic.

He swears he could hear Wade right now, taunting him, calling him names.

“Whiskey dick, whiskey dick, whiskey dick-OW!”

He turned his head, annoyance clear on his face, shoving his hand in Wade's face which had become annoyingly close to his, and pushed him away. Apparently, he zoned out in his anxiety-ridden panic so much he didn’t notice Wade stalking him. “Shut the hell up.” He growled, shaking his head, turning back to the door. He took a deep breath, pushed the handle of the door and stepped outside in the cold February air.

He didn’t like the cold, but at least the fresh air seemed to help clear his head, as he shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way down the street, to you. He knew where you would be, as you are almost every day. He has your routine remembered down to the second - though hopefully you haven’t noticed that.

The colorful florist shop came into view quickly, seeing it was only right down the street from the apartment Logan was hopefully temporarily residing in. He caught sight of you, wonderful, lovely, gorgeous you, and his heart started beating faster.

He met you pretty quickly after he regrettably agreed to live with Wade until he could get on his feet. He’d been walking the block, the streets of the neighborhood every day to get familiar with them, and hopefully find a job. He bumped into you- well actually, he caught you.

You were up on a ladder, fixing the marquee sign of your shop, changing out the words of the previous promotion you were offering for your flowers, and putting up the new sale. Logan was watching you- you immediately caught his eye from the way the sunlight glowed around you. One misstep down the ladder and you nearly took a tumble to the concrete- but he stepped in and caught you in his arms, bridal-like in how he held you- like a true hero.

God, you were so sweet, so flustered. You thanked him a million times, and gave him some flowers as appreciation. A bouquet of Hyacinths. He felt silly as man to be taking flowers from someone…But he couldn’t say no to you, not with how you made over him, how your hand touched his arm, how you fixed the collar of his flannel and pressed your hand to his chest. That pretty smile, those gorgeous eyes….

He was smitten from then on.

Something drew him to you, every day. An urge to see your smile, to hear your voice. A strange comfort in a world that was similar to his but not-quite-his and it had put him on edge.

He came home that day he met you and Wade immediately knew what was up.

“Oh, I see you ran into a flower girl.” He grins, eyeing the bouquet in Logan's hand. Logan frowned, quaking a brow. “The lovely lady at the florist shop down the street, yes? She’s a good friend of mine. You recognize her in the picture?” Wade nods to the polaroid that was sitting in a frame, burnt and torn from the incident with the TVA, now carefully preserved. Logan glanced at it and recognized your smiling face.

“I just helped her out. “ Logan mutters, a shake of his head as he glances down at the pretty flowers you gave him.

“And she appreciated it so much that she gave you flowers?” Wade stood up. “So…I’m only going to ask this once and whatever you say, I’ll believe you! But…”

Logan waited in confusion, his irritation growing as silence went on.

“Whose ass do you prefer? Me or hers?”

That was about 6 months ago. Since then, he’s gotten to know you on his walks, running into you nearly every day- purely by coincidence of course - not because he had the pull to see you ever since he met you. Wade invites you to his parties, occasional dinners, and movie nights- sometimes you stop by with a homemade meal to drop off for them. He’s learned your favorite drink, your favorite snack, your favorite song, your favorite flower. Your favorite things. Ever since he’s been on these walks, your shop being on the path that he takes to his job, the dining room table of Wade and Althea’s apartment always has a vase of fresh flowers.

Logan felt for you a feeling he thought he didn’t have the capability to feel anymore.

Today was Valentine's day, and Logan was working the nerve up to finally ask you out. Wade had been pushing him to for months, always getting hit with a “shut the fuck up” from Logan, pretending as if he wasn’t interested, even though it was far from the truth.

Logan was terrified. Not just of asking you out, but of you saying yes.

Logan didn’t think highly of himself. He was dragged into this universe, forced to start over, in some ways a blessing but also a curse. While the Wolverine in this universe is regarded as a hero, he still remembers his old life, where he was regarded as a killer, a monster, a disgusting mutant. He knows of the blood on his hand, the mistakes he’s made, the people- people he loved- that he turned his back on.

You didn’t know this.

You were just such a lovely creature. You had a figure that made Logan want to drool like a dog, fisting himself nearly every night in the shower to the image of you. You were smart, open and welcoming, and extremely compassionate - and likely the only person truly patient enough to put up with Wades antics.

Logan didn’t feel like he deserved to have someone like you in his arms, in his life. Yet, with the constant nagging from Wade, and the flutters he gets from your smiles - he found himself giving in. He was going to attempt to ask you out today, Valentine's day, and hope that this doesn’t end in hellfire, like most things in his life.

He spotted you, outside your shop, preparing bouquets of roses, lilies, and other flowers he hadn’t really learned the name of yet. The sight of you took his breath away. You had on a pink t-shirt, tied in the front that hugged your waist, and high-waisted jeans- they fit around your tummy and thighs snuggly. When you turned around he had to gulp. Two large heart prints on the fabric of your jeans, over your butt.

He couldn’t help but hold a small smirk as he admired your ass from afar. It wasn’t till he got glared at by an old lady walking past that he realized he probably looked like a pervert. He cleared his throat, giving the lady a courteous yet awkward nod as he made his way over to you.

He reached you, and could barely make a word to you, you turned around, looking up in surprise at Logan.

“Oh! Hey Lo!” You smiled, eyes bright. “Happy Valentine’s day!”

He thought his heart was going to jump out of his chest. “Hey doll,” He greeted back. “Sell a lot of flowers already?”

“Yes, actually.” You smiled bigger. “It’s so cute, these people coming in here, buying flowers. I had this teenage boy come in a little bit ago, he was SO nervous, he was buying flowers for his first girlfriend.” You clasped your hands together, shaking your head, your hair bouncing with your movements. “So cute, young love. You remember your first crush?”

Not really, it was almost 150 years ago.

“Sure do.” Logan lies.

“Do you have any Valentine's plans? I heard Wade and Ness’ are going on a date!”

“Yeah,” Logan nodded. “I mean, no- no I don’t have any plans.” He stammers, “I just know about them going on a date. Wades all nervous about it.”

“He’s so cute.” You laugh, turning back to the bouquets and fixing them up a little bit. “So, you don’t have any plans?”

“No, not at the moment.” He says. Your eyes lingered on him for a moment, your expression looked like you wanted to say something, but then you bit your lip, and nodded, turning back to the roses.

Flowers, you need to give her flowers before you ask her out.

“I actually wanted to buy some flowers, bub.” He says finally, almost monotone- lacking any excitement in his voice.

“Really? What are you looking for?”

“Uh…” He glanced at the bouquets in the front. “I’ll look around.” He nodded to the shop, and you smiled a nod. He turned to go inside, but you called his name.

“You okay Lo?”

“Fine.” He forced a thin-lipped smile, before heading inside your shop, and you watched him with a suspicious squint. This was not the usual Logan you knew. He looked nervous as hell, he’s never acted like that before. An anxious thought hit you. He’s never bought flowers before- you gave him bouquets for free, it was your discreet way of flirting. What if he’s buying them for some other girl?

You tried to shake the thought out of your head, as you ended up going inside- the cold was biting your skin, and now you were nervous at the thought that some girl out there had caught Logan's attention before you could muster the courage to say something to him.

The inside of your shop was an absolute wonderland of plants. Not only did you sell flowers, but you sold houseplants, gardening tools, gardening decorations, and more. Seeing that it was Valentines, you had the place decorated with red and pink hearts, and bouquets were scattered all over- alongside decorative cards someone could pick up and hand write to their loved one.

He was staring at the cooler of flowers, that you could create individual bouquets with. He had several flowers picked out already, as he stared at them with concentration, completely focused on the task at hand.

You tried to busy yourself with your usual tasks as you leaned against the counter, but your eyes kept wandering to where he stood. You glanced up to his face and felt yourself swoon for a moment. He’s just so handsome.

When Wade first told you about the new roommate, whom he described as “Hugh Jackman is he was an alcoholic and had emotional constipation”, you just rolled your eyes and laughed- figuring he was up to his shenanigans. Then you met said roommate- the man literally caught you when you fell off a ladder the first time you met. How could you not form a crush on him?

He did strangely look like Hugh Jackman too...

Then you got to know him. You got to know of his temper, his smart mouth, and you saw how hard he tries every day, despite his past. He doesn’t know that you know about it, and that you know he’s a mutant. Wade spilt the beans accidentally over a few drinks where he ended up crying in your lap about Vanessa, and somehow ended up talking about Logan's problems too.

It didn’t change your view of him at all. Of course not. Sure it sounds a bit...violent. Logan wasn’t a perfect man, but neither were you. You were the kind of person who believed that everyone deserves second chances, and you fully believed this was Logan's second chance…

Logan huffed, staring at the flowers he picked out. Hyacinths, roses, something leafy that he doesn’t know the name of but smells incredibly good. He walked over to your register, catching sight of the bare skin of your midsection as your shirt rode up your body from leaning over.

“Pick something out?”

“Yeah..This looks alright?”

“It looks great.” You smiled, you took the bouquet, and began preparing them. “You want them wrapped, or in a vase?”

“Wrapping is fine.”

“Color?”

“Um…Pink.”

You nodded, and moved to start wrapping the bouquet, snipping the stems, and pulling some leaves off so the flowers would remain fresh. You hummed along to a song that played over the speakers in your shop - something Logan knew was your own personally crafted playlist. He faintly recognized the song, something he likely heard years and years ago.

This morning I woke up with this feeling

I didn't know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself

I'd hide it to myself and never talk about it

And did not go and shout it when you walked into the room

I think I love you (I think I love you)

I think I love you so what am I so afraid of

I'm afraid that I'm not sure of a love there is no cure for

I think I love you isn't that what life is made of

Though it worries me to say that I never felt this way

His eyes trailed over the curve of your face, as he thought about what it might feel like to press his lips along your jaw, leaving behind soft kisses and purple bruises as he showed you how he felt about you.

You finished wrapping the bouquet, and presented it to him proudly.

“There you go! Looks good?”

“Looks perfect.” He nods, flashing you a genuine smile that makes you blush. You moved to type the price into the registers. You informed him of the price and he pulled his wallet out, pulling out some cash and handed it to you.

“Thanks Lo…” You put the cash away, completing the sale. “So…Who’s the lucky one getting that bouquet? Or are you getting it for yourself?” You tease as you lean forward against the counter towards him. He looked at you blankly, then looked at the flowers.

You fucking idiot.

“Well,” He glanced at the bouquet, “It’s actually for you.” He says, handing it back to you over the counter. You stood up, surprise on your face. He felt himself flush, you have to think he was the biggest dumbass on Earth. Walking in here and buying flowers from you just to hand them back over? He wasn’t even thinking. That’s what you do to him, his brain goes fuzzy when you’re around. It’s not as if he wasn’t over 200 years old, and has done flirting and relationships more times than he can remember.

You slowly took the flowers, and he waited, but a huge grin grew on your face. You looked up at him through your lashes. “Logan?”

“Yeah bub?”

“You want to have dinner with me tonight?”

His mouth hung open, and he closed it, a thin-lipped smile, and he nodded. “Yeah..That’d be nice.”

You bit your lip, as you resisted the urge to wiggle your hips and dance from excitement. “Okay, how about 7 pm?”

“That’s good for me.”

“Okay, just buzz in when you’re here.” You smiled. Your apartment was upstairs, a very convenient location for you when you were looking for a place to open your shop a few years ago. He nodded, turning to leave, “And Lo? Thank you.” You add, cradling the flowers to your chest.

He smiled at you, before leaving the shop. You took a deep breath.

God he is so cute…

The next few hours were hell for Logan. He sat on the couch panicking over every possible situation that could happen tonight. Ranging everything from you laughing him out of your apartment to him somehow accidentally maiming you with his claws.

He reached out for the bottle of whiskey he pulled out the second he came back into the apartment, and then another horrifying thought came to his head.

Whiskey dick

He set the whiskey bottle down. It’s not like he was expecting anything to happen tonight, it was just dinner. It’s not the first time you had dinner together, but..If something were to happen, he couldn’t risk the idea that he wouldn’t be able to perform. Fuck, nothing would be more embarrassing then the idea of being able to get into your pants and he couldn’t even do anything. In fact, he hasn’t done anything in years and he really rather not think about that.

You were not much better. After you closed the shop at 4 o'clock- it had been an extremely busy day. Customers rushing in and out, men, women, mothers with children, a father with a newborn, an old man, a man in a business suit who had no idea what he was looking for, a group of teenagers, people who tugged you left and right for a custom bouquet, advice for flowers, even asking you to write love notes to their loved ones. Some of them are cute, others baffling you at how they managed to get a lover if this is the effort they only put in towards it.

Despite the chaos of the day, Logan lingered in your mind. Nerves shot through you as you realized that you had nothing planned when you asked Logan to come over for dinner.

You rushed upstairs to your apartment, rushing to shower, shave, moisturize- and figure out what the hell you were going to make Logan. Oh- and clean your apartment. Put on makeup. Figure out an outfit.

Didn’t think this through.

You check the time, 5:45. It’s okay. You have time.

You looked at the bouquet Logan had gotten you, and you smiled softly, carefully taking one of the flowers in your hand as you felt the petals. How adorable was he, the way he scrutinized every flower he picked out, and you were so worried that he was picking them out for someone else, and it was meant for you the entire time. The way he looked like a deer caught in headlights when he handed them back to you.

You've never seen him act like this before. Logan was always so…calm, if that’s the way to put it. He acted with a certain nonchalant grumpiness that didn’t make him an asshole but more like someone you could be comfortable with because he didn’t mind the silence and didn’t force the awkwardness. He’d get pissed at Wade- that was the worst you saw of his temper, albeit you’ve heard a few amusing stories from Wade over it. The Logan you saw today seemed like a schoolboy approaching his crush to ask to dance. Did you really make him that nervous?

You took forever picking out the dress, the perfect makeup, deciding how to style your hair, and you started cooking a tad late, and before you knew it you heard the familiar buzzing at your front door.

You walked up to your door, pressing the intercom button,

“Hello?”

“It’s Logan.”

“Come on in, apart 4-”

You hit the unlock button, hearing a clicking across the intercom, as you let go and go back to the kitchen to check on your food for the moment. A knock at your door and you quickly ran over to open it.

Logan stood there, adorning a nice t-shirt, flannel, and jeans. He held a bottle of wine in one hand, a hand in his pockets. He blinked as his eyes raked over your figure.

“Wow.” He breathed out, a small smirk appeared on his face. “All this for me?”

You blushed, biting your lips, “Come in.” You moved out of the doorway to allow him space. He stepped in, brushed past you, not taking his eyes off you.

“I brought some wine- It’s the kind you like, right?” He held up the bottle and you smiled, taking it and nodded for confirmation.

“It is! Thank you.” You say, “Dinners running a little late by the way…Hope you’re not too hungry yet.”

“Need help?”

You eyed him cautiously, “Didn’t Wade say you almost set the apartment on fire trying to cook?”

“No. That was him, asshole just blamed it on me.” Logan scoffed, shaking his head. You chuckled, leading him to the kitchen. He was greeted by the fresh aroma of seasoned veggies, and steak simmering in a pan. “Smells great.” He says warmly, his eyes taking over your back.

God you looked good.

He had been so nervous, but then you opened the door. Standing there, all gussied up and it felt like he could breathe. A stroke of confidence ran through him, and suddenly he didn’t know why he had been so…Nervous.

It was you. Sweet, wonderful you. Who always knew how to calm him down with a simple touch of your hand, how you always asked how he was doing but never pushed him to talk about anything he didn’t want to. You, who greeted him happily every single day as if you didn’t know he was going to show up, with that sparkle in your eyes that made him think you saw something in him he didn’t know existed.

How’d that song go again?

I think I love you, so what am I so afraid of

I'm afraid that I'm not sure of a love there is no cure for

I think I love you isn't that what life is made of

Though it worries me to say that I never felt this way

His eyes landed on your thighs, where the hem of your dress ended just above your mid-thigh. Your skin just looked plush and soft and fuck he wanted to bite you.

“Thanks! Could you wash those potatoes and cut them up for me?” You asked, turning your head to glance at him. You saw his eyes snap up to yours at the last second.

“Sure bub.” He nods, moving to the counter next to you, he grabs the sack of potatoes already lying out, pulling a few out and bringing them to the second where he washed them under the faucet, before placing them on the cutting board already set out. He reached out and grabbed a knife from the placeholder and set to dice them. You watched him for a moment and it slipped out.

“Do you ever use the claws to do that?”

He stopped, completely frozen, before his eyes turned to look at you and you realize you messed up.

“Cause..I…Figured that…Would be…more…convenient…” Your voice got quieter under his stare. “Wade…Told me. A while ago. To be honest though I assumed, even if you guys didn’t say anything, you both acted weird about how you came here and stuff.”

He sighs, his nostrils flaring as he shakes his head turning back to start dicing the potatoes again, anger evident in the way the knife slammed into the cutting board.

“It doesn’t bother me.” You say softly. His face relaxed, and he looked at you again. You brought a hand up to his bicep. “I think you’re great Logan.”

You saw his shoulders relax. He put down the knife, and he turned to face you. “You sure?” He asked, and you could see the vulnerability in his eyes. “There’s still things you don’t know about me.”

“I actually think I do.” You squeezed his shoulder, stepping closer. “I’m sorry, for everything that happened to you.”

He pursed his lips together. “I’m not a good guy bub.”

“You’re trying though.” You say. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

He let out a small breath, as he leaned forward and quickly captured your lips in a kiss. He was soft, gentle about the way he kissed you- trying to give you space to pull away, but your hands slid into his hair, and pulled him closer. He placed his hands on your hips, pulling you against him.

Parting with a harsh gasp, slowly opening your eyes, to still him in a similar state as you. Flushed, panting, with swollen lips.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He says.

You shook your head. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I found out.”

“How long?”

You bit your lip, “Few months.”

He let out a sigh. “You really knew all that time…And didn’t think less of me?”

“Of course not.” You reassure, your eyes glancing down at his lips. You looked back up at him. “I like you…A lot Logan.”

He smiled, tugging your closer, lowering his head against yours. “Yeah bub? Think I like you a lot too.”

Your hands moved down to the collar of his shirt. “Why don’t you show me?” You whisper.

“Really?” He chuckled. “What about dinner?”

“That can wait. Show me.”

He wasted no time in capturing your lips in a searing kiss, your arms rested on his shoulders, as his hands gripped your hips and tugged you closer, leaning into you. Your lips moved together with a fervent passion, and he licked across your bottom lip, as you allowed him inside, moaning the moment you felt his tongue lick into your mouth.

His hands moved down your hips, over the curve of your ass, and he squeezed- letting out a soft breath at the feeling of you and the way his hands covered you. He leaned down, encouraging you to jump as his hands went to your thighs and he picked you up, carrying you into the living room.

He placed you gently over the couch, one hand braced by your head, the other still resting on your hip, as he kept himself located between your thighs. He pecked your lips a few times before moving down to kiss your neck, his lips brushing over your pulse point, you sighed contently at his touch.

He brought his hand down, realizing that he’d become a tad shaky as he pushed it underneath the skirt of your dress, and began moving up your thigh.

“This okay?” He mutters as he kisses along your collarbone.

“Mhm.” He felt you nod, and his fingertips made contact with your panties- they were lacey, he could feel as he brushed over them and he let out a shaky breath. “You’re so beautiful darling-” He mutters, nuzzling into your neck and sucking at your pulse point.

You let out a soft moan, which spurred him on as his fingers flit under the hem of your panties, reaching your soaking wet core. Your hands came to his shoulders, gripping his flannel tightly.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.” You nodded again, squeezing your eyes shut and biting your lip. He lifted his head up, watching your reaction as he delved his fingers into your warm wet folds. “Oh-” You breathed. He had to swallow back his moan at the feeling of you- so wet for him already. Have you been needy for him for a long? He’d have to make it up to you.

His fingers stroked back and forth in your folds, before he found your clit, softly pressing against it, making your hips jump. He nuzzled against your face, hearing the sound of your heart pounding. He understood, his heart was pounding too. He began running circles over your bud, listening and watching for your reaction that showed him what you liked.

“Logan-” You whined.

“Yeah bub?”

“I need you.”

Oh fuck.

“Please?”

He let out a shaky breath as he lifted his head to look down at you. “You sure?”

You opened your eyes and nodded. Biting your lip and you look up at him pleadingly.

Normally, he’d like to take his time. Open you up, get a taste, and hear those sweet moans escape your lips. He’s not sure if he’s going to last long- the way you’re looking at him right now made him want to cum right then and there.

He captured you in another heated kiss, adjusting himself, his hands came to your panties and pulled them off you. The sweet smell of your arousal haunting his senses and making his mind go blank. His hands came up and quickly undid his belt and pants, pushing his jeans down, his hard cock popping out- thick and swollen, pre cum oozing at the tip and making your mouth water. He was huge, bigger than any man you’ve seen. You’re wondering if maybe you should have let him finger your- but then again, the idea of him fucking you open created a fresh gush of wetness between your legs.

He started to adjust himself, then stopped.

“I don’t have a condom.” He says blinking up at you.

“That’s okay. I’m on the pill.” You say shyly with a shrug.

He groaned. “I think I love you, bub.”

You giggled at that, not realizing how much honesty was behind his words.

He leaned down and pecked your lips again, before leaning his forehead against yours and angling himself against your wet pussy, finding your hole and circling his tip around it, lubing you with his pre-cum.

You gasped the moment you felt his tip push inside, and your legs shook from the pressure of him stretching you open. He waited a moment, before moving deeper inside you, inching slowly and carefully, watching for any sign of your discomfort.

You on the other hand? Was on cloud 9. You tipped your head back, mouth hanging open, eyes rolled back. You would often use your fingers to fuck yourself, imagining it was him- but your fingers were nothing compared to him.

He bottomed out inside you, resting there, as he felt your walls constrict around him.

Don’tcumdon’tcumdon’tcumdon’tcum

He begged his mind as he went into a haze over how good you felt with you spread on his cock. He should have made a move sooner, fuck he should have asked you out the second he caught you off that ladder. He knows one thing for sure, that he wasn’t letting you go at all. You’ll be lucky if he even lets you out of his sight at this point- much less this apartment. Already making plans in all the ways he’s going to fuck you.

“Logan-” You whined. “I- I need you to move.”

He took a deep breath, and he slowly pulled out, before thrusting back inside. A small hiccup escaped you, and he did it again. He pressed his hands onto the cushions of the couch. One leg braced against the floor, the other bent and resting against the cushion. He thrusted his hips again, as he felt you begin to open up, and moved his pace to go faster.

He fucked into you at a steady pace, his lips finding purchase on your neck again as he sucked bruises onto your skin, giving him something to focus on because he thought he was going to blow any second, your whines and cries filling his ears.

He sat up, looking down over you, his mouth hung open and eyes heavy-lidded as he panted, maintaining his pace. He moved to grab the hem of your dress and pushed it up your belly.

Fuck fuck fuck!

He watched himself fuck into your, the way you pussy sucked him in greedily with each thrust, your arousal coating his cock and your thighs.

“You feel so fucking good doll-” He moaned, he started getting faster, his fingers finding your clit again, and began rubbing. “I’m gonna need you to cum baby.”

“Logan-” You whined, grabbing his arms, your nails digging into the skin of his forearms as you stared up at him with wide, pleading eyes and parted lips.

“C’mon, I know you can do it sweetheart. Cum for me.”

Your body trembled, as his fingers moved faster against your clit, he angled himself to thrust upwards into you, and that thin thread finally snapped. You stared into his eyes as your cunt clenched and tightened over him. Relief washed over you as wave after wave of your orgasm passed, Logan fucking you through it and finally cumming himself.

He slammed into you, his body falling over yours, with a shout of your name, as he filled you up with ropes of his cum. He was panting harshly, and your arms wrapped around him, as you turned your head to seek out his lips. He pressed an eager kiss back to you, bringing his arms to carefully hold onto you while you both laid there in post-orgasmic haze. His head resting next to yours, your hand softly scratching his back.

“Lo?”

“Hm?”

“Can I see the claws?”

There was a moment of silence, and he brought his fist up, safely away from your face as he let his claws out.

Snikt!

You gasped, eyes wide in delight as you observed the metal appendages that came out of his fist, the way they shined against the light of your living room. “Wow!” You exclaimed. “You know that would be nice for pruning.”

Logan chuckled, “Really? You think?”

“Yeah!” You grinned looking at him, admiring his smile, and the flush of his cheeks.

“Are you hiring?”

You giggled, moving to kiss him again, you moved to wrap your arms around him and you heard the claws retract as his arms wrapped back around you, his arms pulling you into a warm embrace that felt nothing but safe in his arms.

Logan thought back to that song again, as he felt your lips against his, your hands tugging him closer.

I think I love you isn't that what life is made of

Though it worries me to say I never felt this way

Believe me you really don't have to worry

I only wanna make you happy and if you say "hey go away" I will

But I think better still I'd better stay around and love you

Do you think I have a case let me ask you to your face

Do you think you love me?

#klloveuary2025 #wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #logan howlett fic #vans daydreams #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut

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leeknowsnot · 2 days ago

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SKZ when you suddenly call them with their full name

I am posting every entry I have written in my notes app to make it up to you guys. 😭😭😭 Anyway, happy hearts day to everyone!!

CHAN

— his eyebrows are immediately raised and he's looking at you like "Did you just call me with my full name?" with eyes wide enough for you to poke them

— you pretend you don't hear him and just continue on with talking to him and calling him Christopher

— he's immediately on your tail like a kid, asking the same question all over again you can't help but pinch yourself to stop yourself from giggling at how cute he is

— he calls you all sorts of cute nicknames to make you surrender to his cuteness

— eventually you do give up and when you start calling him back with your nickname for him, oh my God he smiles at you so cutely you could just dive into his dimples

— you are spoiled

MINHO

— definitely the type to call you back with your full name

— you challenged the wrong person, now he's gonna be the one who'll call your full name with EVERY sentence he'd say until you admit defeat iT BACKFIRED SO BAD

— evERY CHANCE HE GETS HE'S GONNA DO IT

— especially when you guys are out with friends, he's gonna call your full name WITH YOUR MIDDLE NAME people are gonna start staring

— you start ignoring him whenever he calls you your full name on purpose and oh does that annoy him eventually

— the audacity to ignore him and be annoyed with him when you were the one who started this little game, right?

— "kitten got a taste of her own medicine?"

— he's gonna punish you for being such a bad kitty wink w0nk

CHANGBIN

— his pouts are aLL OVER THE PLACE

— whoever sees him gets a free show over a man with biceps pouting like the big baby he is

— he'd feel a bit off at first but eventually gets used to it eventually cause he dares not to pick on how you want to call him

— even if it's a bit weird, he'll tolerate and learn to accept it if that's what you want

— tELL HIM IT'S JUST A PRANK HE'S TOO WHOLESOME FOR THIS WORLD 😠

— would be weirded out again trying to adjust to being called with his nickname again when you finally stop with your prank

HYUNJIN

— will give you an offended stare as if you just committed a sin

— no cuddles for u because he said you're not his gf and says he doesn't know u

— he's gonna make such a big deal abt it to the point Chan would be calling you in the middle of the night asking you if you guys fought cause Hyunjin's acting so weird, like he's so pouty and edgy

— so when you said it's only because you called him by his government name for a prank, Chan L O S E S it

— you'd find a pouty Hyunjin in the morning, complaining cause Chan gave him an earful for maging a big deal out of your prank

— he basically forgot you were the one who started it . at least he's pouty over Chan instead of you anymore

HAN

— waterworks EVERYWHERE

— how dare you make him cry

— the moment you call him Han Jisung it's over for him

— the London Bridge is falling, Eiffel Tower is collapsing, the icebergs are melting

— "Is he better than me? Is he treating you better at least?"

— sTARTS ASKING QUESTIONS THAT SOUNDS LIKE YOU LOVE SOMEONE ELSE NOW BC HE'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH AND HE THINKS YOU DESERVE BETTER

— expect him pulling all-nighters writing a sad love song

— when you explain to him that it was just a prank, he immediately bursts into tears, either in relief that you still love him or bc you messed with his feelings 💀

— how dare you make him cry pt.2

— turns the sad love song that he wrote into a body roll song

FELIX

— he immediately catches on and knows it's a popular prank trend amongst couples so he plays along

— but ofc he's still making sure it really is a prank and you're not actually mad at him

— your friends would be looking at you both weirdly and think you guys have broken up but maintained good friendship

— his friends only know you by nickname so when they saw your caller id on Felix's phone and it was your actual full name, they were having multiple question marks as to why Felix was being all so chummy and sweet with this (Y/N) on the phone

— the next time you meet them they'd be shaking while trying to tell you that Felix has been cheating on you with someone named (Y/N)

— oh my God you and Felix die from laughter

SEUNGMIN

— tbh he doesn't care

— he'd been trying to get you to stop calling him smookie poo, pookie, moochie bear, and all sorts of nicknames the past weeks so this was actually a win situation for him

— he enjoys it too much he starts frowning at you when you go back to calling him the nicknames

— "Where'd the 'Yah, Kim Seungmin' go?"

— 10 out of 10 he loves the prank, would definitely avail for more 💀

— Now he won't stop demanding you to do it again

I.N

— immediately thinks he did something wrong but he just sITS THERE PROCESSING AND STARING AT YOU WITH HIS FAKE EYES OPEN

— he'd malfunction so bad how can you do this to him

— he's already clumsy as is but bc you're making him overthink, he's unintentionally breaking and dropping stuff all over the place

— in the "is-she breaking-up-with-me/did-she-find-someone-better" lineup

— he doesn't show it tho

— he tries not to at least

— would send you all sorts of gifts; flowers, chocolates, champagne, stuffed toys, you name it—it's his love language

— he'd actually try to win you back from this "new guy"

— when you tell him it's just a prank, he doesn't talk to u for a few days and gives you the silent treatment

— i mean, you obviously had it coming

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wordsmeetwbb · 15 hours ago

Text

Every Loser Needs an Azzi

Word count: 1.3k

Content: fluff, angst (it’s just hurt/comfort okay)

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: Short little fluff piece for you on this fine UConn vs South Carolina game eve. If UConn loses in a dramatic fashion tomorrow (which I'm hoping they won't), at least we still have fluffy fanfiction!

________

Paige had played like shit. Worse than it, actually. Sure, everybody had bad games. Paige knows that. But this had been downright embarrassing. She slumps onto a bench in the visitor’s locker room, avoiding the pitying looks from her teammates. Azzi, KK, and Jana had already gone to do media, so no one left in the locker room was brave enough to approach her. Good.

Her mind runs wild as she goes through the motions of showering, changing, and heading out to the bus that’s already waiting outside. She’s moving slowly, too caught up in her thoughts. By the time Paige gets on the bus, trying to ignore the disappointed stares from fans, Azzi is already in a seat, headphones on, looking out the window. Paige plops down in the seat across the aisle, avoiding the look she can feel Azzi giving her. She doesn’t want to see the disappointment coming from her too.

“Paige,” Azzi says. Her voice is soft but somehow still carries the few feet to Paige’s ears, even through the raucous noise of the mostly full bus. Paige slouches further into her seat and pretends not to hear. “Paige,” Azzi tries again, voice more insistent now. Paige can’t help it. She glances up.

Azzi’s staring at her, eyebrows raised but with no judgment on her face. No pity, no disappointment. She pouts a little. “You’re not really gonna make me sit by myself, are you? After a loss?” She complains. Her tone is light but Paige is immediately hit by guilt. A loss that she caused. Paige looks away from the brunette, staring out the window at the fans for only a moment before she can’t bear it, and looks straight ahead at the back of the seat in front of her.

“Paige.” Silence. Paige presses herself into the wall of the bus, pulls her headphones over her ears, tugs her hood up, and tries to hide from Azzi. She’s not proud of it, but she doesn’t want to face reality on this bus.

A body slides into the seat next to her. The scent of vanilla perfume and lavender soap washes over Paige, soothing her just slightly. “You don’t have to talk to me, but you can’t hide from me either,” Azzi says softly, too quiet for the rest of the team in the seats around them to hear. Paige nods, just once, and swallows hard. Azzi gets comfortable in the seat next to her. She’s being careful not to touch Paige, to give her space. All the places where Azzi’s body would usually be pressed into Paige’s are notably cold, but Paige is grateful for the separation.

The bus starts moving. Paige turns her music up as her teammates continue to chatter around her, seemingly unphased by the pathetic loss they had just been handed. She stares out the window and watches fields rush by. Five hours later the sun has set and Paige is finally back in her apartment. Jana and Allie are mercifully quiet, so she escapes to her room quickly, dropping her bag by the door and heading straight for her closet, desperate to just put her pajamas on and go to sleep.

She’s just crawled into bed when there’s a knock at her door. She knows it’s Azzi without asking. She hesitates. Azzi doesn’t open the door, just knocks again.

“Paige? Can I come in?” She calls, voice muffled by the wood between them. Paige wants to say no. Wants to pull the covers over her head and pretend she’s already asleep so she doesn’t have to face her girlfriend. She doesn’t do that though.

“Yeah,” she croaks, voice rough from yelling during the game and not speaking for hours after it. Azzi opens the door slowly, looks at the way Paige is curled up on the bed, and immediately folds the blonde into her arms.

“It’s okay, baby,” Azzi soothes, one hand rubbing up and down Paige’s back as Paige breathes shaky breaths into her neck. A tear slips down Paige’s face, the droplet tracing a hot, wet line down her cheek. She’s thankful Azzi can’t see it.

“One point,” she whispers into Azzi’s skin. “One point, three rebounds, two assists, and five turnovers.” Azzi doesn’t shush her this time, just lets her get the words out. “Five fucking turnovers, Az. Do you know how many points they scored off of my turnovers? Nine. Nine fucking points, and I only scored one to make up for it. I couldn’t get anybody the fucking ball, couldn’t get it through the hoop, couldn’t even keep it in my goddamn hands. I’m supposed to be the best in the nation and look at me. Fucking pathetic.” The words quickly devolve into sobs, tears falling onto Azzi’s shoulder, soaking the fabric of her shirt. Azzi just holds Paige.

At some point, Azzi moves them to lay down, once Paige’s tears have calmed down enough that she isn’t gasping for air. Paige is still wrapped in Azzi’s arms, and she knows that one of them must be falling asleep, prickling painfully where it’s trapped under Paige’s body, but she can’t quite get herself to move.

“That was a bad game,” Azzi says finally. Paige lets out a surprised, wet laugh.

“Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Az. I didn’t notice that I cost us the fucking game until just now when you said that,” she says sarcastically. Paige can hear Azzi’s tentative smile when she replies.

“You cost us the game and you’re still the best player in the nation.” Paige wants to cry again. She turns herself all the way around in Azzi’s embrace so they’re facing each other, scans Azzi’s face, and then lets herself smile a little bit. Not a big smile. Not a particularly happy one. But a small, fragile thing.

“I guess we’ll see when ESPN puts out the next mock draft, right?” She jokes. Relief breaks over Azzi’s face. She reaches a hand up, the one that’s not trapped under Paige’s body, and brushes away the remnants of Paige’s tears.

“It’s okay to have bad games, Paige,” she says gently. “Being Paige Bueckers doesn’t exempt you from that.” Paige swallows around the lump in her throat.

“I know. It's just… knowing that I’m going to have shitty games doesn’t make having one any easier. All those people that come to see us play, see me play- hell, you see those signs, Az! People driving across the fucking country to watch and I just disappointed all of them. They didn’t come to watch that disaster.” Azzi grasps Paige’s face gently but firmly and tilts her so that she has to meet her eyes.

“Honey, you don’t owe anybody a damn thing. Every single person in that arena chose to be there, regardless of how you performed. And yeah, there’s probably somebody who walked out of there feeling disappointed. Who fucking cares? You don’t know them, Paige. They don’t know you. Bad games don’t define your career, and they certainly don’t define you as a person,” Azzi soothed. Paige brought her arms around Azzi and hung on for dear life.

“How are you so fucking emotionally wise? Who taught you this?” She groaned. Azzi laughed.

“I read books and talk about my feelings, Paige. It’s not my fault you can’t read,” she teased. Paige gripped Azzi a little harder.

“I can read. Just don’t like it,” she mumbled. Azzi pressed a kiss into Paige’s hair.

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. As long as we can go to sleep now,” Azzi yawned. Paige’s heart stuttered as she looked at Azzi.

“Yeah. We can go to sleep now,” she agreed.

As Azzi was drifting off, Paige hugged her tighter. “Thank you,” she whispered. Azzi mumbled something that may have been a reply, and although she had just played the worst game of her college career, Paige had never felt more like she had won.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconn women’s basketball #pazzi fics

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withacapitalp · 2 days ago

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Stuff Me, Hug Me, Take Me Home

@stevesbipanic B HAPPY VALENTINES!!! Tis I! Your secret admirer!!! I loved this prompt and I had so much fun with it thank you so much and I hope you love it!!! Special thanks to @thefreakandthehair and @hairstevington for listening to be a little feral and insane about the first thing I'm writing in a very long time

Read on AO3 instead

If there was one place Eddie never expected to end up at on Valentine’s Day, it was the mall.

When Steve had asked to ‘take point’ this year, Eddie had imagined a day at the lake, maybe a secret picnic, perhaps even a scenic road trip. Something that was their style. A tucked away moment, quiet and held close, so it belonged to just the two of them.

There was no way the mall - the epicenter of American greed and capitalistic cannibalism - would have that.

“I can’t believe I found this parking spot!” Steve crowed, tossing Eddie a winning smile as he threw the car into park and grabbed his phone from where it was charging, “Wasn’t that lucky?”

“Sure, Stevie,” Eddie agreed, trying to hide his disdain, but definitely failing given the way Steve’s smile dipped. The mall loomed over them, blocking out the sun with its oppressively boxy architecture, and Eddie couldn’t help his own glow starting to dim.

The day had started so promisingly. Steve had woken up early and slipped out of bed without Eddie realizing, coming home with ludicrously over decorated heart shaped donuts and coffee from their favorite bakery. They had traded lazy sugar-filled kisses, cuddling and watching Labyrinth.

Hell, Steve had even managed to almost hide how much he disliked the movie, commenting on David Bowie’s ass and conveniently ignoring the plot and puppets. He hadn’t even texted Robin all morning!

And now…well now they were at the mall.

“Are we going to a movie or something? We could’ve just gone to The Hawk. You know IMAX movies give me headaches.” Eddie said as they exited the beemer. Steve came around the front, grabbing Eddie’s hand and squeezing it twice - their signal for needing the other person to listen.

“Trust me?” Steve offered, chewing on the inside of his lip and giving Eddie the big puppy dog eyes he could never resist. Eddie groaned, grumbling softly to himself as he lifted their joined hands up to his lips.

“Always,” he whispered back, sealing the promise with a kiss.

As much as Eddie hated to admit it, the mall actually wasn’t as bad as he had imagined. His brain had conjured up tortuous images of packs of useless husbands trolling around for a cheap gift to pawn off on their wives, or hordes of angsty teens lamenting not having someone to share the holiday with.

But at almost four in the afternoon it was sleepy, practically dead. And besides, it was hard to look around when Steve was dragging him forward with a single-minded determination. All Eddie could do was try and keep up, shooting glances at his boyfriend to try and catch his eye, wondering why Steve was suddenly loath to meet his gaze.

Then they were stopping short, Eddie stumbling and nearly tripping as Steve let go of his hand out of nowhere. He righted himself, about to tell Steve off for acting so weird, when he looked up and was struck speechless.

“You mentioned that you always wanted to go here, but that Wayne never had the money for it,” Steve mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and leaning out of Eddie’s space as he continued to avoid eye contact.

Eddie had told him that, but just once. Only once. He could remember the exact moment. The two of them in the kitchen of their apartment right after the move, unpacking mugs as Eddie told the story of each one and placed it with care on the shelf. It was the last mug, the final story of that night.

“My dad promised me he would take me to Build-a-Bear for my fifth birthday. And my sixth. And my seventh. By my eighth, I stopped answering when he asked me what I wanted, ‘cause I knew it didn’t matter. By ten I was already living with Wayne, and I didn’t even want to ask him, I knew we couldn’t afford it. Wayne found out anyway, because he’s Wayne, and so he got me this mug for my eleventh birthday, and told me it was an IOU. I don’t even know why I wanted to go to build-a-bear so badly, I just got it in my head that having my own bear would be special. Something that was mine, and always would be, you know?”

And now here Eddie was, standing in front of an ostentatiously yellow store with his heart settled neatly in his throat.

“I know it’s kind of silly now, because we’re almost thirty. You might not even care anymore, but I thought maybe it would be a nice Valentine’s Day gift? We could build you a bear, and then you would have him forever and always,” Steve explained, his thoughtfulness continuing to choke Eddie to death.

Eddie didn’t believe in God, but it was hard to believe there wasn’t something looking out for him. Something had to have given him Steve. There was no way this wonderful, beautiful man just landed in his lap.

“I’m sorry I-” Steve began, obviously misinterpreting Eddie’s silence.

“I love it,” Eddie said, cutting off the apology before it could truly begin.

He couldn’t let Steve doubt this, not even for a single second. Eddie cleared his throat roughly, blindly reaching out and latching onto Steve’s wrist, pulling his boyfriend close and wrapping him in the tightest hug possible as he continued to ramble.

“I do, I love it and I- thank you, Stevie. You’re so- you’re just- thank you, thank you, thank you,”

“Easy, Eds,” Steve murmured, the tips of his ears turning pink as he pressed their cheeks together and gave Eddie a parting squeeze. Eddie let him pull away, but didn’t let him go, interlocking their fingers as he began to bounce in place.

“We’re going to Build-a-Bear!” Eddie giggled, his joy beginning to spill all over the place.

Steve nodded, smiling just as brightly as Eddie. But, when Eddie went to pull him forward, Steve held fast, keeping them both in place.

“There’s just one rule. I don’t want you to look at prices at all. You get whatever you want, however you want it. Got it?” Steve said with a mock stern look. Eddie opened his mouth to agree, then hesitated.

It wasn’t like they were destitute. Between Steve’s job as a sub and Eddie’s work at the garage, they were making good money. But with rent, Steve's tuition, and the regular expenses, they didn’t exactly have a lot of cash to blow on fulfilling a childhood dream.

“I’ve been saving for this, baby. Been doing extra tutoring on the nights you were with the guys playing dungeons and dorks,” Steve admitted, a pretty blush sitting high on his cheeks. Eddie’s heart clenched up again, and he couldn’t resist dragging Steve into a chaste but forceful kiss.

“You’re the most amazing partner, you know that, right?” Eddie whispered against his lips. Steve ducked his head, pulling away and squeezing Eddie’s fingers silently as they walked into the store.

The store was almost empty, even quieter than the mall itself. A couple of parents were watching their daughters giggle over clothes for their new stuffed animals, and a young couple was chatting by the little clawfoot bathtubs in the back, but other than that it was just the two of them. There was some bubblegum pop playing in the background, the kind of thing Steve liked to listen to when he made dinner at night. The sound of it settled Eddie instead of setting his teeth on edge, and he couldn’t help leaning against Steve as they approached the bins of unstuffed bears.

“Go on, pick your new friend,” Steve said, nudging Eddie forward and taking a step back to watch.

It was easy to eliminate some choices off the bat. Eddie took away anything that was themed for Valentines, or promotional, and he pretty quickly decided against anything that wasn’t a traditional bear. Normally he would’ve loved the contrarian energy of building a dragon or a unicorn, but he wasn’t just making this for right now. This was also for the little Eddie that had dreamt of having that perfect plush bear to snuggle with at night.

But the problem was, he had never really imagined what the bear looked like.

“Help me?” Eddie whined, turning back to Steve who shook his head fondly but walked forward anyway. Steve perused the options for a second before reaching into a bin and pulling out a charcoal black bear with brown eyes.

“What about this one? If you give him a battle vest and a band tee he would be a mini-you,” Steve offered, holding the bear out. Eddie took it, letting his fingers run over the fur and imagining the bear properly stuffed and dressed.

It was perfect.

They walked past the bear bins, up to a stand with plastic cases and the words “HEAR ME” above it in bright red letters.

“Okay, one more rule for today. Cover your ears and turn around,” Steve ordered, putting his hands on his hips and giving Eddie a no-nonsense look. Eddie raised a brow, briefly considering putting up a fight, just for the heck of it.

But there was something in Steve’s face, a glint in his eyes that just bordered on the edge of panic and a crook in his smile that made it sit not quite straight on his face. Whatever he was doing, it was probably something big.

So, instead of being a gremlin, Eddie remained obedient, turning on his heel and cupping his ears, humming one of the band’s latest creations for good measure. He managed to get all the way through the first two choruses and up to the bridge before he felt a soft hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes.

“Time for the best part,” Steve said in a soft sing-song tone, pushing Eddie towards the machine filled with stuffing where an employee was patiently waiting for them.

“Hi there, guys!” She said with a bright grin, “My name is Rosie, and I’m here to help you bring your friend to life.”

Steve, being the amazing boyfriend he was, somehow sensed Eddie’s hesitancy, speaking for both of them as they got closer. “I’m Steve, and that’s Eddie. It’s his first time here.”

“That’s so great! Okay so I am going to stuff your new friend exactly how you’d like him, then you’re going to pick a heart out of this box and follow all my instructions,” she explained in a patient but authoritative tone that reminded Eddie so much of Nancy he almost laughed out loud. He willingly handed over the bear, watching as she lined him up with the machine.

“Firm or soft?”

“Soft,” Eddie answered automatically, going with his gut.

Rosie nodded and went through the process of stuffing the bear, methodically filling up each paw and giving them a good squeeze before handing the bear to Eddie for a quick check.

“Before we do the heart ceremony, do you want to add a smell to your bear? We have some of our scents here, and I can go to the back and get you any one off this list if you want.” She offered as Eddie held his bear close.

“Remember our rule,” Steve whispered loudly in his ear, and Eddie rolled his eyes, his heart almost filled to the bursting. He pointed out a lemon scent on the list and they watched Rosie leave to grab it.

“Why lemon?” Steve asked, cocking his head to one side.

“Reminds me of how the house smells on Sundays,” Eddie replied. “All your favorite cleaning products smell like lemons, and all you drink from May to September is lemonade.”

“It’s a refreshing smell,” Steve grumbled, not a trace of heat in his tone. Eddie chuckled and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Whatever you say, Lemon Boy,” he managed to get out just as Rosie returned, a yellow bear paw held in her hand.

“Now while I put this in and add some final touches, you choose your heart and then we will do the heart ceremony.” She instructed.

Eddie peered into the box, his eyes immediately locking onto a plaid heart. He plucked it out, showing it to Steve who couldn’t resist laughing. It was the exact same pattern as the god-awful wallpaper he had in his room when they first started dating, and, without words, they both knew what they were thinking about.

“Okay, are you ready?”

Eddie nodded, bouncing on the balls of his feet as Rosie stood in front of them and held out her hands.

“So you’re going to hold the heart just like this,” she demonstrated, cupping her hands and beginning to rub her palms together, “and you’re going to make the heart all nice and warm and toasty for your new buddy over there!”

Eddie followed her directions to the letter as she had him flip the heart and tap three times (“To wake up his heart and get it beating!”) and lifted the heart up to the sky and waved it back and forth to give his bear very high hopes. He even turned in a circle, delighting in listening to Steve laugh at his antics.

This was the exact kind of thing Eddie loved to do most - put on a show and lose himself in being a little silly.

“Now, rub the heart down your back, that way your buddy always has your back. Rub it down your side, so they stay by your side forever and always. Rub it across your cheeks, so your buddy is always smiling each and every day, and hold the heart to your chest to make a nice big wish!”

Eddie paused for a second, closing his eyes and taking a second to think. He had lots of wishes. He wished his van would hold out for just one more paycheck, that the kids would enjoy the campaign he put together for them. He wanted Wayne to stay healthy, for Steve to pass his classes, for someone, anyone, to find the band and give them their big shot.

But there was one wish that was more important than the rest.

“The last thing is giving it a nice big kiss, so your buddy is always full of love.” Rosie said with a flourish.

Eddie was about to lift the heart to his lips when he paused, turning to Steve and holding it out. Steve’s lip curled in a small, indulgent, smile, and he leaned forward, pressing a long kiss right in the middle of the fabric heart. The edge of his lip touched Eddie’s thumb, sending a shiver down his spine.

From there the process moved quickly. Rosie sewed up his bear with deadly efficiency, and Eddie and Steve tag teamed the wall of outfits to find the perfect battle vest for Eddie’s bear. Before he knew it, Eddie was sat at a tiny little computer with his bear in his lap and Steve’s chin hooked over his shoulder, both of them staring down at the blank bear birth certificate.

“I don’t know what to name him,” Eddie moaned, leaning back against Steve, who appeared to be deep in thought.

“Beddie.”

“Beddie?” Eddie repeated incredulously, turning to look at Steve properly.

“Bear Eddie,” Steve shrugged, as if that made any sense at all. “He does look just like you.”

Eddie snorted, leaning forward and typing out the name, then hesitating and typing some more.

“What do you think?” he asked, trying to hide the sudden nerves that were lighting up his veins. The last name wasn’t a huge risk to take, but it meant something, something far more than either of them were willing to admit just yet.

“Perfect,” Steve said with a kiss pressed to Eddie’s cheek.

And that was how Beddie Bearington ended up nestled between Eddie and Steve that night as they lounged on the couch. Steve had fallen asleep two episodes deep into their Survivor binge, and Eddie was content to stay exactly where he was for at least a few more hours. He dipped his head down, pressing his face to the center of the bear’s chest and smelling the candied lemon scent that permeated through the fur. As he continued to cuddle his bear, Eddie felt something hard and square in the left paw. He pulled back, perplexed by the sudden change, carefully feeling around the object and wondering what it might be.

With a jolt, Eddie finally put together Steve’s behavior from before. He had somehow hidden a sound box inside Eddie’s bear, that was the secret Steve hadn’t let him hear before. Eddie slapped his forehead with a palm, unable to believe he could’ve missed something so obvious. The boys would’ve had words to say about their DM being so unobservant.

Eddie took a cursory look down to make sure Steve was still asleep, and then pressed it, putting the bear's paw up to his ear. He had expected a song, or even some funny sound.

Nothing could have prepared him for the soft tone of Steve’s voice, fulfilling the secret wish he had put into his bear’s heart.

“Hi Eddie, it’s me, your boyfriend, Steve. I want you to know that you are the funniest, sweetest, most creative person I know, and I’m so happy that I get to love you…because I do. I love you, Eddie.”

“It’s true,” a voice whispered from below. Eddie moved the bear and there was Steve, staring up at him. “Sorry I couldn’t say it before.”

“I love you too,” Eddie whispered, almost in awe that he could finally say it and hear it back.

He could hear it whenever he wanted. Eddie pressed the button on the box again just because he could. Steve’s words filled the air as Eddie nestled Beddie into the couch and dipped his head down, hair falling in a curtain around them as they shared another kiss.

#steve harrington #stranger things #eddie munson #steddie #st #valentines day #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfic

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bokutoko · 3 days ago

Text

2/14

character: atsumu miya (timeskip!atsumu)

wc: 1.4k

cw: valentine’s day (barf), alcohol, cussing, kinda sorta uni!au (uni!reader x msby!atsumu), slight feelings of inadequacy (reader), they kith💋, atsumu thinks the L-word

pt. 2(ish?) to 7/11

Valentine's Day... also known as your least favorite day of the year (besides your birthday, but that’s a whole different story). The holiday made popular by monetizing the idea of setting aside only one day out of the year to show how much you love your partner, with all the godforsaken life-sized teddy bears and dozens of balloons, and all the mediocre chocolate and overpriced flowers. A cock of shit was what it was—someone should not be loved just one day out of the year.

Of course, its only significance to you was being a milestone to remind yourself how painfully single you were.

But you weren't bitter. Not at all. Not. One. Bit.

The kicker, though? It almost felt like you didn't even want anybody. The mere idea of dating someone—a person you probably didn’t even know at the time and probably (not so) secretly a piece of shit—made you so nauseous that swearing relationships off altogether seemed more tempting as the days passed...

But alas, the small, hopeless romantic peeking through the rose-tinted lenses of your heart unfortunately held out for something beautiful one day... Maybe not for a prince, but a knight in shining armor. Maybe not a man to sweep you off your feet, but instead one willing to help you pick up the pieces when it felt like everything was falling apart at your feet.

"Maybe I'll just die an old spinster.”

"C'mon, it can't be that bad," Atsumu's Kansai dialect filtered through your headphones as you walked across campus to your morning class. He’d called, asking if you had any fun plans for the night, fully knowing you didn’t.

“There’s carnations and balloons all over campus. It looks like one of those my little ponies took a dump all over the place."

"But ‘m sure them carnations are pretty. Maybe you'll get one from a guy or somethin’."

"I think I'd rather die," you gagged.

A laugh filled your ears, and everything felt okay–what a nice sound to hear. But after feeling your heart do the thing, you quickly shook it off.

It was strange how for years now, it sometimes made you feel all weirdly warm and tingly when Atsumu laughed with you (even sometimes when he laughed at you).

It was best to not even entertain that notion.

"Well, gotta go, 'm at class," you sighed loudly for dramatic effect, "Maybe I'll go bitch to 'Samu later about my woes and personal vendettas. y’know, since you hate me."

Atsumu found himself smiling at your childish whining. "You mean ‘cause I'll be at practice?"

"Same thing."

“Fuck you too,” he grumbled with a scoff, not an ounce of actual annoyance in his voice, “Bye, nerd.”

A small smile made its way onto your face at his jabs. That was how it always was with Atsumu, ever since you two were in high school together. The both of you always shat on each other, knowing there was never any heat in your malicious words. It was nice, being able to feel safe with someone, to feel comfortable enough to be yourself and unapologetically bully your best friend.

As you prepped for lecture, your mind wandered, constantly circling back to your partner in crime. With every moment that passed, you quickly came to realize that Atsumu always only judged you a little bit with your (sometimes questionable) decisions, keeping it real with you while ultimately supporting you and being one of your biggest cheerleaders. Because all he wanted was to see you succeed. All he wanted was to see you happy.

You felt your face heat up just from thinking about him.

For fuck’s sake—

While it was nice to attempt to delude yourself into thinking something could ever happen, you were easily able to convince yourself that this strange… crush was most likely unrequited.

This was Atsumu. Your Atsumu. He deserved the world.

And yet, you were just… you.

Time seemed to pass as slow as humanly possible: all your classes droning on, your exam sucking the life out of you, your professors assigning loads of busywork for the weekend ahead. The walk back to your cramped, overpriced shithole apartment was bustling with people: couples going on dinner dates, partners buying last minute gifts, and the occasional groups of galentines. Thankfully, your roommates all had plans with loved ones or already left for the weekend, so you had the entire place to yourself to sulk!

Turning the key and walking inside, you were slapped in the face with color. The common room area was decorated with a couple red heart balloons and… a pink “happy birthday” balloon floating around?

Your eyes honed in on Atsumu standing in the middle of the living room, holding another pink happy birthday balloon.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. Y’have no idea how hard it is to find last minute stuff,” Atsumu sighed with a sheepish grin, "and I know it ain’t your birthday, but it was pink—a-and the color kinda matches, so…”

‘What was he talking about?’ he thought to himself, ‘oh god, please shut up.’

And the epiphany came crashing down upon you that maybe you never actually hated Valentine’s Day, you just wanted someone to love you every day, not just for one day of the year. You looked over to the chocolates on the counter and the flowers perched in a vase next to them—it was your favorite everything. On display before you was your favorite dessert, your favorite flowers, your favorite person—

“‘Tsumu…” you struggled to find the right words, “What is all this?”

He just shrugged, hiding the flush to his cheeks by scratching the back of his neck. “Ya’ve been all down in the dumps that you’re single ‘n shit, so i got some chocolates, some box wine, and ‘Samu’s hulu logged in so we can rot on the couch and watch anything ya want tonight.”

Atsumu watched you break out in the biggest smile, almost splitting your face in two, and god, he knew he loved you.

You swiped a box of chocolates off the counter. “You know me too well.”

He returned your smile with one of his own, so handsomely crooked. “I know.”

As the hours passed, empty boxes of chocolates were scattered on the table, along with half-drank glasses from a second round of wine. The two of you devolved into sharing a blanket that was definitely too small for the both of you, resulting in you two occasionally tugging on it and grumbling, “gimme.”

“Woulda thought you’d have plans tonight,” you commented as an ad played on the TV, your voice attempting to sound as casual as possible.

He hummed, feigning nonchalance as well. “I do. I’m here, ain’t I?”

You actively couldn’t stop the snort that escaped you. “Be serious, ‘Tsumu.”

“What, can I not make my own kind of plans?” he huffed in reply.

“I meant a date, ‘Tsumu. Y’know, with a girl ya like.”

He hesitated, feeling slightly deflated by her response. “Yeah…?” His voice was uncharacteristically… soft. It may had just been the alcohol talking, but Atsumu wondered if the taste of your lips, now stained a soft pink, was any better than the vino you two shared.

The air in the room suddenly felt way too warm, and you could feel your face flush as you just silently stared at him, like you were some brainless neanderthal. You swallowed, only just now realizing how close the two of you were—no longer tugging on the blanket but practically cuddling. You felt the warmth of his thigh against your own, and you swore you could die right there on the spot, melting right into a puddle of goo.

Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “Yeah.”

His eyes lazily bounced back and forth between yours, searching for something, and he let out a sigh. “Yer the smartest person I’ve ever known, but God, you can be so damn stupid sometimes.”

Before you had the chance to fire an insult back, you felt a pair of lips on yours, the movements gentle yet nervous. It was instinctual, bordering embarrassing, how fast you melted into the kiss. His tongue tasted of white chocolate truffles and red wine, the heady mixture causing you to let out the softest sigh in his mouth. Atsumu's hands gently cupped your jaw, his thumbs gently running along your cheekbones until his brain finally caught up to his actions.

He pulled away and watched you almost chase his lips, your eyes still fluttering with your skin bathed in the soft lamplight of the room. He quietly whispered, “Sorry, I–”

“Don’t you dare apologize, you dumbass. Just kiss me again.”

And you didn’t have to tell him twice.

a/n: happy valentine’s day to all the happy couples and all the single people out there—single or not, here’s some atsumu to feed the delulu <33

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please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2025.

#i want to kiss his stupid lips so bad #ABS POSTING A FIC OVER 1K WORDS???#someone conduct a wellness check #atsumu #atsumu miya #miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #atsumu hq #atsumu miya x reader #hq atsumu #hq #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#atsumu fluff #haikyuu fluff #bokutoko

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narnian-neverlander · 3 days ago

Text

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

#arcane viktor x reader #gender neutral reader #machine herald viktor x reader #epic the musical #would you fall in love with me again #hurt/comfort #angst #childhood friends #past established relationship #viktor arcane #machine herald viktor #machine herald #viktor the machine herald #league of legends #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane imagine #SoundCloud

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concretejunglefm · 2 days ago

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Oooh, if you're up for writting mutual masturbation also with Noah, I wouldn't mind that at all (not stepbro tho, just Noah lol).

Or if not that, then maybe face sitting with Noah so this request doesn't go to waste muhehe bye

CW: mutual masturbation, dry humping, men whimpering and rambling ig?

NSFW below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Mutual masturbation with best friend!Noah?

The same best friend you have no problem sharing a bed with. It’s not like he’d notice if you started slowly grinding against the pillow you’ve placed between your thighs for comfort, because there’s just a slight dull ache you need to satisfy before you can really fall asleep. You can hear his breathing and it's soft enough to convince you he’s asleep anyway, until…

“What are you doing?” Noah’s voice pierces through the room, causing you to freeze and halt any movement you’re making.

“Nothing.” You lie, hoping he won’t notice it.

“You were rocking the bed.”

Damnit. You thought you had been more discreet, but apparently, that was not the case.

“If you need any help—”

“No, I don’t,” you huff, while he chuckles. It’s not the first time he’s offered, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep declining his offers.

After a moment, you hear him ask, “What do you need?”

You’re hesitant when you roll over and onto your back, a bit tentative because the last time this happened, you both promised it would be the last time. Apparently, that rule has been broken. “You know what…” you mumble.

The light from the TV you’ve left on as a source of light and background noise to help you fall asleep illuminates the room just enough to make out his face. “Okay,” he nods, and this time there’s no witty remark on the tip of his tongue. You watch as he slowly pushes down the covers, exposing his bare, tattooed chest while his hand deliberately sinks deeper beneath them and into his boxers.

You watch the way the covers move above him as he strokes himself, first to full hardness before he begins fisting his cock in the manner he would when he’s alone. That's what you'd asked to see the first time it occurred; a genuine masturbation. You wanted to hear the actual sounds made when someone lets themselves go, nothing fake like in a porn video, and he willingly provided it to you then, just as he was doing now.

You roll onto your front, keeping the pillow tucked between your thighs. You rest your head against the pillow at the top of the bed and continue watching him as your hips roll to grind against the one between your thighs, dragging yourself along it.

Noah is quick to align with your wish; he whimpers and rambles about how much he wants and needs you, even looking down at you as he speaks. While you convince yourself that it’s all part of your fantasy, you can’t help but notice the hint of desperation in his voice, suggesting that this isn’t just for show.

When you know he's reaching closer to his climax, your hips grind harder, and you can’t suppress your moans. Your gaze rises to his face, and you find his eyes already fixed on you, as if he’s utterly captivated by you. You dare to touch him, running your hand across his tattooed chest. With your touch, he finally succumbs to his release, and you’re overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure in that very moment, too. It makes you whine as you buck against the pillow, your nails digging into and scratching across his chest.

Neither of you moves; instead, you bask in the blissful afterglow for a moment longer. Noah’s free hand gently lifts to yours, laid upon his chest, and slowly strokes along your arm. It’s a tender touch, the only one you ever share after a moment like this. Then, you feel the soft press of his lips against your crown as he whispers, “I’ll clean up.” Slipping himself from beneath the covers, he walks over to the bathroom, while you remain in place for a moment longer.

#anon ask 💕#noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian blurb #concretejunglefm fics #noah thots #bestfriend!noah x reader #bestfriend!noah

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flowersdiceandlove · 23 hours ago

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Au where Hua Cheng stays as Wu Ming. All the canon stuff during the first banishment happens, but when he goes to Mount Tonglu, he stays as Wu Ming instead of becoming Hua Cheng. He decides to keep the name Wu Ming bc that’s the name His Highness gave him. He keeps wearing the black robes and Xianle soldier uniform/armor. He makes it clear that he was a soldier in the Xianle army, that he still considers Xie Lian his god, and he wants to serve and protect his god for the rest of his existence just as he wanted in life. He still becomes the calamity and founds Ghost City and challenges the gods, but he does it as Wu Ming. Instead of Crimson Rain Sought Flower, he becomes Crimson-Teared Smiling Ghost (or maybe Crimson-Teared Smiling Soldier?) bc when he’s standing in the blood rain, it slides down his smiling mask making it look like he’s crying tears of blood.

The Heavens know that he’s looking for Xie Lian, and when the Mount Yujun mission happens and Xie Lian’s asking about the young man who controls silver butterflies, they’re like “ah, yes, Wu Ming... Of course he was there since you were…” And Xie Lian is balking learning that Wu Ming is still here and has been looking for him and is still openly worshiping him after all that happened. Xie Lian finds out where to find Wu Ming and hurries down to Ghost City and finds Wu Ming.

This could either be a speed run for their relationship (more than it already was in canon) because Wu Ming’s devotion makes it kinda clear of how much he loves Xie Lian and Xie Lian figures out that he’s Wu Ming’s beloved that Wu Ming wanted revenge for—and, while Xie Lian’s not sure he deserves this love after all that happened—is touched deeply and falls in love with Wu Ming as they spend time together. Or it makes it drag out so much bc they both feel guilty about the past and inadequate to stand next to the other. Xie Lian not feeling worthy of Wu Ming’s steadfast devotion, and Wu Ming feeling he’s failed his god since he left Xie Lian to fight White No-Face alone and is only just now finding him. Either way, like hell Xie Lian’s leaving Wu Ming’s side after their parting 800 years ago and is 100% on Wu Ming’s side in everything. The Heavens have some sort of critique about Wu Ming or warning to Xie Lian about him? In one ear and out the other along with a pointed reminder that Wu Ming is his ghost and his follower. Do not speak I’ll of him again :) Wu Ming’s poor heart is pounding and his face is flaming at how steadfast his god, his love, his everything is defending him and fanboying so hard about it to He Xuan and Yin Yu.

I think at first Xie Lian would move into one of the shrines or temples that Wu Ming built in Ghost City, but then after a little move into Paradise Manor properly.

Also, while Wu Ming openly worships Xie Lian, he doesn’t make any of the denizens of Ghost City worship him. However, bc their beloved Chengzu is worshipping this god, they want to as well and learn about this god that their Chengzu loves. Because of this Xie Lian has a lot of temples and shrines in Ghost City. This number increases after Xie Lian moves there and actually starts answering their prayers, helping where he can, becoming just as beloved as their Chengzhu to them in his own right.

Since Xie Lian has all these temples and shrines, when he has his initial debt, he actually has merits streaming in that Ling Wen is plucking from Xie Lian before he even gets them to start repaying the debt. He still needs to do the Mount Yujun mission though because it is a big debt. And Wu Ming has no intention of purposefully giving more offerings to Xie Lian to help him pay the debt that way cause he doesn’t think Xie Lian should have been billed in the first place. And, since the gods know that any merits from Xie Lian would be coming from Wu Ming and Ghost City, they’re actually scared to take the merits since they think it would piss Wu Ming off (they’re right, of course). So they’re more than happy when they learn about the Mount Yujun arrangement, saying they only want merits if it comes from that mission. (Some still decide to just wave the owed merits all together just to be safe.)

Most of the gods in Heaven still avoid Xie Lian like he’s the plague because of his past but also because (and as the leading reason) because they don’t want to piss Wu Ming off accidentally if they say something offensive to Xie Lian by mistake. After Wu Ming challenged the gods and it came out that he worshipped Xie Lian, the incident of the 33 gods kicking Xie Lian off the mountain came out and so people are scared they’ll be next if they make a wrong move around Xie Lian. They don’t know Xie Lian very well, so they don’t know what he would consider offensive.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing know Exactly why Wu Ming’s pissed at them and can’t even blame him for it after learning of Wu Ming’s devotion. I think their interactions would be really funny. The three of them dragging up old, petty grievances, and hurling Xianle insults at each other. Wu Ming and Mu Qing are winning this because their memories are so good that they remember a lot while Feng Xin is wondering how these two remember so fucking much and so many fucking details. He’s doing pretty good with the insults, though. Those he remembers just fine. Pretty much all of Heaven has learned insults and swears from the Xianle dynasty and dialect and they actually use it. (Xie Lian is pretty shook after ascending again and hearing his native dialect used so casually after it being out of use for centuries.)

The gods eat up Wu Ming, Feng Xin, and Mu Qing’s beef because they know it’s personal instead of left wondering why he’s so against the two and are enjoying watching the matches, arguments, and fall out with them all just like they did with just Feng Xin and Mu Qing in canon.

While Wu Ming does have a lot of fake skins, he still always wears the smiling mask when he’s going up against the gods or in any Official business as Crimson-Teared Smile Ghost/Soldier(?) as a matter of trademark and principal. If he’s not wearing it over his face, he might slide it to the side of his head or have it hang from his waist. When he’s in a human disguise in the Mortal Realm, he keeps it tucked away out of sight, but still on him and easy to grab to put on. He might also just have a technique for making and shattering them for when he needs them. Like how his butterflies come out of his vambraces.

I really like the idea of his title starting out as “Crimson Teared Smiling” because it’s so beautifully tragic. The blood rain falling down makes him look like he’s crying tears of blood, and horrible type of grieving for his his god who went through so much. He wears his smiling mask, though, and is makes it look like he’s smiling because his god was kind and smiled kindly to all, offering shelter and a helping hand. Xie Lian’s duality is reflected here, the pain and suffering he went through with the bloody tears, but also the kind smile he kept and still offers despite it all. We also can’t forget White No-Face’s cry-smiling mask. That just feels like the cherry on top of hidden meanings.

As for whether it ends in “Ghost” or “Soldier” I keep wib-wobbling back and forth on because they’re both so good. “Ghost” is good because that’s what Wu Ming is. He is a nameless ghost. He was nobody until his god gave him purpose. He was ready to die and felt dead because of his shitty life and luck before he remade himself for his god. Even when he was alive, he was always told he’d be better dead and that he’d not live to 18. He was always surrounded by death and tragedy. A ghost is a very good descriptor of what he is even before he died. In volume 1, Chapter 6 it says:

Many believe that, as the God of Misfortune, any paintings or writings of the Prince of Xianle have the powers of a curse. If placed on the back of a person, or on the main entrance of a household, then the cursed person or household will run into all sorts of bad luck… …It was hard to tell whether this was a description of a god or a ghost.

With Honghong-er's luck, even as alive, I would not be surprised if this was true for him also. So, "Ghost" is a very good word to describe him and has a lot of meaning to it.

However, "Soldier" also has a good meaning to it. Wu Ming was a soldier in the Xianle army. He took up arms to defend the capital, but mostly his god, Xie Lian. In the first battle after Xie Lian desended, Mu Qing notes that Wu Ming(still a nameless soldier) was fighting really closely to Xie Lian the entire battle, trying to keep enemies away from Xie Lian. Later, as the ghost Wu Ming in actuality, he was a soldier once again, serving Xie Lian directly, working as his blade and tool. He made himself into a solder for Xie Lian. He did that. That was his choice. He pushed away his fate and became what he wanted. A soldier. A protecter. All for his god. He still wears the armor and attire of a Xianle soldier because that's what he is in this au. He is a champion of Xie Lian, the Crown Prince of Xianle, his weapon, tool, protector. He is a soldier and he wears that honor proudly. Xie Lian is the one who told him he would be suited for a saber and gave him tips. He pledged himself to Xie Lian many times, and Xie Lian accepted that pledge. He is Xie Lian's soldier. His champion. Everything Wu Ming built was towards that end of protecting Xie Lian. The fact that Wu Ming made himself this, is so very in line with canon that it would be so beautiful for his title to reflect this just as the "Sought Flower" does in his canon title.

"Ghost" is a good descriptor of him, but holds tones of his past and what was given to him.

"Soldier" is what he made himself despite it all.

Both are so good, and I'm not sure which would be better. Maybe it's something they change? In canon, there are multiple titles used for people. Just Qi Rong is called both "Night Touring Green Lantern" and also "Green Ghost." So, idk.

I thought up this idea about a week ago and was like "I should write that. That's such a good idea and would be so much fun." but then I remembered that I have so many other fics I need to finish and that this idea would be a big one because there's no way that this could be a oneshot or anything even in the realm of short. I would think 50k at least, but the way my writing goes, it would probably end up closer to 100k. So, i decided to release this idea to the wind and see if any of you got inspiration from it. If anyone writes this or has ideas, let me know because I really do love this idea and want to see stuff about it.

#tgcf #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #hua cheng #xie lian #hualian #wu ming #wulian #tgcf fanfic prompt #tgcf fanfiction prompt #do with this what you will

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themioka · 2 days ago

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Happy late Valentines 💝, I've come to hurt :3

During the inversion, Milo became hesitant in giving David's leather jacket back to Angel because it was the only thing left at the time that reminded him of one of his closest dearest friends. It wasn't til Sweetheart gave him a little nudge. Did he actually hand it to them. It was also the first time in years that he felt selfish over something and couldn't help but feel a bit guilty.

Sam briefly avoided Vincent and Lovely for a time because of the amount of guilt he felt for not being able to become Lovely's maker. Darlin has found him more than once sitting out on porch, lost in deep thought, wondering just how different things could've been if Sam had managed to convince himself he could handle the toll of turning Lovely right after healing Asher rather than giving in to his exhaustion so easily. Even now, Sam wouldn't look directly at Lovely or Vincent anymore because of the guilt that he still has.

Before Babe had gotten used to Asher's scar, they stopped touching him frequently because every now and then would unintentionally run their hand over his scar causing him to wince from how tender it was before profusely apologizing to him. It took a lot of coaxing from Asher to go back to their playful shenanigans and constant touching. Even now, on rare occasions, whenever they accidentally touch his scar, Asher will blatantly lie to Babe's face that his scar doesn't bother much in fear. Babe would fall back into old habits.

Even though Milo survived in bringing down the ward, Sweetheart can't properly relax or sleep unless the side of their head is resting directly above his heart. That only true confirmation they have of Milo being truly alive and well is the sound and rhythm of his heartbeat. Because they're afraid if they heavily relied on the sound of his voice and presence alone, there be a day they'll wake up to the reality of their mate being gone.

David went through a brief period of having night terrors, and it was time. Angel hated being unempowered because while they understood the context of what had happened, they knew deep down it was something they couldn't truly understand. And because of it, all they could do was lie in bed and listen to David talk about what was on his mind. Every now and then running their thumb across his jawline as they held his face in their hands, whispering/murmuring affirmation.

Ever since being turned, at the beginning, lovely was found shocking themselves via static electricity or as been seen staring out a window during a lightning storm every now and then. It was the only reminder they had of the power they once possessed.

David only knew what had happened to Milo was because he briefly stopped showing up to pack meetings, which Sweetheart mostly filled in, and had an excuse on hand to where nobody questioned it. It wasn't til one day, Sweetheart asked to speak to David alone, and there they revealed what was going on with Milo and asked for him to speak with him as they fear Milo would start lying to their face as he was beginning to slowly withdraw from them as well. It was also the first time David felt lost on what to do, what to say when Milo broke down in front of him, revealing his fear of losing his wolf.

After Sam's turning, Vincent, at the time, blindly clung onto the hope that after Sam's introvert and temporary hostility behavior settled. He would've integrated himself within the family. However, that never happened due to the harsh boundaries lines Sam drew, making it clear to Vincent that he only stuck around due to him and William at the time. That during the summit before the whole chaos erupted, and everyone went into their little groups. Vincent couldn't help but feel a bit envious towards the Shaw Pack as they drew out various sides from Sam he's never seen before, making Vincent ponder if Sam's ever been his true self around him or if it was nothing but a mask he wore around him at the time.

Babe and Angel sometimes feel out of pocket due to being unempowers within the group, and Darlin is fully aware of it. Knowing what it's like to feel the odd one out, Darlin tries their best to make sure they're always included and will explain things the best they can so Babe and Angel don't feel lost/confused.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ ☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Reminder these are nothing but all head cannons, so take with a grain of salt. I had more, but I got rid of them due to not knowing how to exactly word them, or i just hated how they looked typed out in general.

Anyway, I hope yall had a good week and good Valentines Day.

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empressdede · 2 days ago

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Reconnecting Ringside

Sade is interning at WWE, hoping to gain some insight experience and runs in to Jon, an old friend. What are the chances of these two reconnecting?

Word count: 3.5K

Pairing: Jonathan x OC (Sade)

No warnings, Happy Valentine’s day ❤️••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••Jonathan Fatu adjusted his snapback as he strolled through the halls of the WWE Performance Center, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Fresh off a promo rehearsal, he was already thinking about heading back to his hotel—until a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Jonathan Fatu? Is that really you?”

He turned, eyebrows raising in surprise. “Sade?”

There she stood—Sade, his old friend from back home. The years had changed her, but the warm smile and bright eyes were unmistakable. She held a media badge around her neck, a notepad in hand.

“Wow,” Jonathan chuckled, a grin spreading across his face. “Long time no see! What brings you here?”

Sade’s smile widened. “I just started an internship with WWE’s journalism team. Gonna be doing interviews, covering events, all that.”

“No way!” He beamed proudly. “Look at you, making moves. This business is wild, but you’re gonna kill it. Trust me.”

Sade laughed. “I hope so! And I’m pretty sure an interview with a certain Uso has to happen soon.”

Jonathan smirked, his playful side kicking in. “Only if you can handle the heat, ’cause when I’m on the mic, it’s straight fire!”

“Bring it on,” she teased. “Just don’t make me roast you on camera.”

Jonathan laughed loudly, shaking his head. “You ain’t changed a bit.”

Before they could say more, a voice called from down the hall—production needed Jonathan on set. He glanced back at Sade. “Yo, we gotta catch up after this. Dinner tonight?”

“Deal,” she replied.

As he walked away, Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. The WWE ring had brought him countless battles—but this? This felt like the start of something special.

Later that evening, Jonathan and Sade found themselves at a cozy restaurant not far from the arena. The air buzzed with the soft hum of conversations, but their table felt like its own world.

“So, WWE journalism, huh?” Jonathan leaned back, his chain catching the low light. “How’d you end up here?”

Sade smiled, setting her drink down. “Well, you know I always loved storytelling. After college, I did some freelance sports writing. Then, I saw WWE was offering an internship for media coverage. It felt like fate. And now here I am, about to cover superstars—never thought I’d run into one I actually know.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Man, life’s wild like that. Feels like yesterday we were back home, clowning around.”

Sade’s eyes sparkled. “Remember when you used to practice your promos in front of my camera for my school projects?”

Jonathan laughed loudly. “You mean those cringy ones with the bad lighting? Yeah, I remember. Guess that was my first taste of ‘The Mic.’”

Sade grinned. “I knew you had star power even then.”

Jonathan’s expression softened. “And now you’re here, chasing your own dream. That’s dope.”

Their laughter faded into a comfortable silence, and for a moment, it was just two old friends, worlds apart from where they started, but somehow right back in step.

Then Sade’s phone buzzed with a notification—Interview assignments posted. She opened it and paused, eyes widening.

“Well, looks like fate’s still working overtime,” she said, turning the screen to him.

The assignment read: “Exclusive Sit-Down Interview with Jimmy Uso – Tomorrow.”

Jonathan smirked. “Guess you’re getting that interview sooner than you thought.”

Sade raised an eyebrow, her playful competitive streak kicking in. “Hope you’re ready, Fatu. I don’t go easy on my subjects.”

Jonathan grinned, his tone playful but firm. “And I don’t pull punches. Better bring your A-game.”

Their eyes locked—a spark of excitement, challenge, and something unspoken lingering between them.

“Game on,” Sade replied with a smirk.

The following morning, backstage at a live event, the atmosphere was a mix of buzzing anticipation and focused intensity. Jonathan Fatu—better known in the ring as Jimmy Uso—sat in his dressing room, meticulously going over last-minute details. The mirror in front of him reflected a man who had weathered countless storms in the squared circle, each scar and smile telling a story of his journey.

A gentle knock at the door broke his concentration. Jonathan looked up to see Sade stepping in, notebook in hand and a confident gleam in her eye. The room, usually reserved for quiet pre-match rituals, seemed to brighten with her presence.

“Good morning, Jimmy,” she began warmly. “Ready for our sit-down?”

Jonathan grinned. “Always. It’s not every day I get to be interviewed by an old friend.”

They settled into a pair of mismatched chairs by a small table cluttered with water bottles, a coffee mug, and memorabilia from past events. Sade switched on her recorder and leaned forward. “Let’s start at the beginning. What was it like when you first realized this wasn’t just a game, but your life?”

Jonathan’s eyes softened with memory. “I remember the first time I stepped into the ring—the roaring crowd, the smell of sweat and determination. It wasn’t about winning or losing back then. It was about proving to myself that I belonged in a world where every moment mattered.”

Sade scribbled a note, then asked, “And what about the pressure of living up to a family legacy? Your brother, the rest of your clan—it all adds a layer of expectation.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Family is both the weight on my shoulders and the wind beneath my wings. Every match, every promo, I’m not just fighting for myself but for everyone who’s ever believed in me. It’s a relentless drive.”

The conversation flowed naturally, as if the years apart had melted away. Sade probed further, “There must have been moments of doubt along the way. Can you share one that changed you?”

Jonathan’s gaze drifted to a framed photo on the wall—a candid shot of him and his cousins backstage, laughing after a tough day. “There was a time when I wasn’t sure I’d ever overcome the obstacles. A major injury had me sidelined longer than I’d hoped, and the fear of losing my edge was overwhelming. But in that quiet darkness, I learned that resilience isn’t just about physical strength—it’s about heart, determination, and the unwavering support of those who stand by you.”

Sade’s voice softened. “That vulnerability… it makes your triumphs all the more inspiring.”

“Exactly,” Jonathan replied, a wry smile playing on his lips. “The ring isn’t just about the spectacle you see on TV. It’s about the sweat, the scars, and the moments when you push past pain to become something more.”

A comfortable silence fell over the room as they both reflected on the weight of his journey. Finally, Sade added, “I think that’s what the fans need to hear. Behind every high-flying move and every electrifying promo, there’s a human story. A story of struggle, family, and the relentless pursuit of a dream.”

Jonathan nodded appreciatively. “And thanks to you, Sade, that story is going to be told with honesty and heart.”

The recorder clicked off as Sade closed her notebook. They sat for a moment, two friends connected by time and a shared passion for storytelling—one through the physical poetry of wrestling, the other through the power of the written word.

Stepping out into the corridor, the buzz of the arena waiting just beyond, Jonathan clapped Sade on the shoulder. “I’m looking forward to the next chapter. And hey—if you need any behind-the-scenes action, you know where to find me.”

With a final smile and a promise to reconnect after the show, Sade walked off, her mind brimming with the raw, authentic narrative of a superstar whose legacy was as much about heart as it was about hustle. And for Jonathan, the day had reaffirmed that every story—both in and out of the ring—deserves to be told.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••Weeks passed, and Sade and Jonathan settled into an easy rhythm. Between shows, interviews, and the chaos of WWE life, they always found time for each other—grabbing dinner after tapings, cracking jokes between promos, and sharing late-night conversations that blurred the line between the past and present.

Their friendship felt natural, like they had never lost time. But for Jonathan, something unexpected had started to creep in—attraction. He found himself looking forward to her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she asked the right question, or how she stood her ground during heated debates about wrestling storylines.

One evening, they sat together in catering, plates filled with the usual post-show fare. The energy of the arena hummed faintly through the walls. Sade, scrolling through her notes for her next assignment, glanced up to catch Jonathan watching her.

She smirked. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Jonathan shook his head, leaning back with a grin. “Nah, just—never thought I’d see you in this world. But you’re killin’ it.”

Sade chuckled, brushing off the compliment. “You always did hype me up.”

Jonathan’s eyes glinted with curiosity, and he tilted his head playfully. “So, tell me… you leave a boyfriend behind to pursue this dream?”

Sade paused mid-sip of her water, then burst out laughing. “Boyfriend? Nah, haven’t had one in a while. Been single for two years now.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, though he kept his cool. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She raised an eyebrow, her playful side kicking in. “Why you askin’, Fatu?”

Jonathan shrugged casually, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. “Just curious.”

Sade smirked. “You’re terrible at being subtle, you know that?”

Jonathan laughed, rubbing his chin. “Maybe. But I’m good at being real.”

A charged silence settled between them, one that felt… different. Sade felt the weight of his gaze, but before she could unpack it, a crew member called her name from across the room.

She stood, flashing him a quick grin. “Well, just curious, I gotta get back to work. See you later, Fatu.”

Jonathan watched her walk away, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “See you later.”

But as she disappeared down the hall, one thought stuck in his mind: This ain’t just friendship anymore.

The more time Jonathan spent with Sade, the more his feelings tangled. Friendship had always been easy with her—jokes, conversations, the comfort of someone who just got him. But now? He found himself noticing everything—the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how she challenged him in conversations, how her passion for storytelling mirrored his passion for the ring.

But the more he felt it, the more he panicked.

Jonathan wasn’t a stranger to love—he’d been through enough to know how messy it could get. And with Sade? She was his friend. Hell, his best friend. If he crossed that line and it went south, he could lose something he hadn’t even realized he needed so badly.

So, he buried it. Teased her like always. Kept his playful charm front and center.

But his heart kept slipping through the cracks.

One Night After SmackDown

The locker room buzz had died down, and Jonathan was cooling off from his match, towel draped around his neck when his phone buzzed.

Sade: “Still here? Grab a late bite with me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Bet. Meet you outside.”

They ended up at a small diner—not glamorous, but the kind of place that felt real. Sade was deep into a story about a backstage interview gone hilariously wrong, and Jonathan, fork paused halfway to his mouth, just… watched her.

“You good?” she teased, catching his stare.

He blinked, covering with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Just… you really love this, don’t you?”

Sade’s expression softened. “I do. I love getting to know people, hearing their stories. Wrestling isn’t just about fights—it’s about heart, passion, legacy. And you…” She nudged him playfully. “You live that every night.”

Jonathan felt a warmth he couldn’t shake. “Yeah, well… guess I’m lucky I got someone who sees the real side of all this.”

Their eyes locked—something unspoken humming between them for a beat too long.

Later That Week – At the WWE Performance Center

Jonathan decided he needed to do something about these feelings—anything—before they started eating him alive.

So, he did what he knew best: he hit the ring. Training always cleared his head. Except, this time, it didn’t.

Every corner of the ring reminded him of Sade—because she was everywhere now. In his matches, his promos, his downtime. And it wasn’t annoying. It was terrifying how right it felt.

Finally, he stopped, breathing hard, hands on his knees. “Man… what the hell’s wrong with me?” he muttered.

A voice from behind startled him. “You good, Uce?”

Jonathan turned to see Joshua, arms crossed, watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jonathan lied, wiping his face. “Just workin’ some stuff out.”

Josh wasn’t buying it. “Man, you wrestlin’ ghosts or somethin’? What’s really on your mind?”

Jonathan hesitated, then sighed heavily. “It’s… Sade.”

Josh’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk forming. “Ohhh. Sade. Say less.”

Jonathan groaned, “Man, don’t start—”

Josh cut him off, serious now. “You feelin’ her?”

Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I mean… I didn’t plan on it. But it’s like—she’s my friend, but she’s more than that, too. And I don’t wanna mess it up.”

Joshua clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Bro, when you know, you know. But if you’re already over here sweatin’ and stressin’ like this? It’s ‘cause you care.”

Jonathan looked at his brother, the truth hitting him square in the chest. “Yeah… I do.”

–

Lying on his bed, phone in hand, Jonathan’s thumb hovered over Sade’s contact.

He typed: “You up?”

Then deleted it.

Tried again: “Hey, you wanna talk?”

Deleted that, too.

Frustrated, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Get it together, Fatu.”

But deep down, he knew—this wasn’t something he could fight like an opponent in the ring.

This was something he had to face.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••Valentine’s Day was a week away, and Jonathan Fatu had one thing on his mind—Sade.

The decision to finally tell her how he felt was clear, but how he’d do it? That was where he was stuck. He wanted it to be perfect—something meaningful, something that showed her just how much she meant to him.

So, between training, matches, and travel, he found himself scrolling through ideas—dinners, flowers, maybe something personal like a custom WWE jacket with her name on it. But every option felt too small for how big his feelings had become.

The planning was driving him crazy—and, without realizing it, making him distant.

Sade Notices the Change. At first, Sade didn’t think much of it. Jonathan was busy—WWE life was hectic, and they both knew that. But as days passed, she felt it—text replies were shorter, their usual jokes felt half-hearted, and he wasn’t hitting her up to hang out like he usually did.

After their last interview together, he barely stuck around—just a quick “Good job” and he was gone.

Sade couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Talking to Joshua

Sade decided to get to the bottom of it, and who better to ask than Jonathan’s twin, Joshua?

She found him backstage after SmackDown, cooling down from his segment.

“Hey, Jey,” she greeted, her voice light but uncertain.

Joshua smiled, towel draped over his neck. “What’s good, Sade?”

She hesitated briefly, then got straight to it. “Can I ask you something? It’s about Jonathan.”

Joshua’s eyebrows lifted knowingly. “Oh?”

Sade shifted her weight, arms crossing. “He’s been… different lately. Distant. Did I… do something? Is he mad at me?”

Josh chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, you didn’t do anything.”

Sade narrowed her eyes. “Then what’s going on? We were tight, and now it’s like I barely know what’s on his mind.”

Joshua debated for a second—he knew what his brother was up to, but it wasn’t his place to spoil it.

Instead, he grinned slyly. “Lemme just say this—My brother’s head is in the game… but his heart? Yeah, that’s somewhere else right now.”

Sade frowned in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joshua gave a small shrug but couldn’t hide his amusement. “You’ll see soon enough. Trust me.”

Sade’s confusion only deepened. “You Fatu boys and your cryptic answers…”

Josh laughed, “What can I say? We love a good storyline.”

Meanwhile, Jonathan was pulling every string he could to make this Valentine’s Day unforgettable. He called in a favor with WWE production for something special during that night’s show—a personal video package with highlights of their friendship, moments from their interviews, and even a few candid clips.

His heart pounded at the thought of it. This wasn’t just a gesture—this was him laying it all on the line.

But he hadn’t spoken to her much because if he did… he’d slip. He knew it.

Sade, still confused and slightly frustrated, wondered if Jonathan was pulling away from her for another reason entirely.

But what she didn’t know was that Jonathan wasn’t pulling away—

He was getting ready to step closer than ever before.

Valentine’s Day -

Valentine’s Day arrived, and the energy backstage was electric. Red and pink decorations lined the catering area—thanks to some overzealous staffers—and the buzz of the night’s matches filled the air.

Jonathan, though? His heart was racing for a different reason. Tonight was the night. His plan was set—the video package would air after his segment. But before that… he needed to ask her. Directly.

Sade was reviewing her notes for a post-match interview when she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Hey.”

She turned, and there he was—Jonathan, looking slightly… nervous? She raised an eyebrow. “Well, well, if it isn’t Mr. MIA. You finally decided to show up.”

Jonathan rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, about that… I’ve been, uh, working on something.”

Sade folded her arms, smirking. “Something so important you had to ghost me?”

Jonathan chuckled softly, but then his tone shifted—serious, genuine. “Nah… something for you.”

Sade’s expression softened. “For me?”

Jonathan took a small breath—this was it. “Yeah… So, listen. I know I’ve been distant, but it’s ‘cause I’ve been trying to figure out how to do this right.”

He stepped closer, his voice steady but warm. “So, I’m just gonna say it plain—Sade… will you be my Valentine?”

Sade blinked, her lips parting in surprise. Of all the things she expected—that wasn’t one of them.

Then, a slow, radiant smile spread across her face. “You mean all this time you were stressing about this?”

Jonathan chuckled nervously. “Yeah… pretty much.”

Sade shook her head with a laugh. “You really are something else, Fatu.” She paused, eyes softening. “But… yeah. I’d love to be your Valentine.”

Jonathan’s grin could’ve lit up the entire arena. “Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t takin’ no for an answer.”

Later that night, as the crowd roared and the lights dimmed for a transition segment, the arena screens flickered to life—playing a special video package.

Footage of Jonathan and Sade appeared—interviews, shared laughs, behind-the-scenes clips… their story. The final frame read:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sade. — Jonathan”

Sade, watching from the interview set, felt her chest tighten—warmth flooding through her.

And as the camera panned back to Jonathan, standing in the ring with a mic, he smiled toward her direction.

“Yo, Sade,” his voice boomed, “Just wanted everyone to know—you’ve already made this the best Valentine’s Day.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, and Sade couldn’t fight the grin on her face.

The cheers from the crowd still echoed faintly through the halls as Sade and Jonathan stood together backstage, the energy of his Valentine’s Day surprise still buzzing between them.

Sade pulled back slightly from their hug, her eyes searching his. “That… was unreal, Jon. I don’t even know what to say.”

Jonathan’s gaze softened, his hands lingering at her waist. “Don’t gotta say anything. Just… tell me how you feel.”

Sade’s heart pounded. She felt the weight of the moment—the years of friendship, the teasing, the laughter, and now… this.

So, she stopped thinking.

And closed the distance.

Their lips met—soft, warm, and every bit as perfect as she’d imagined. The world around them blurred into nothing, the noise fading until it was just them.

When they pulled back, Sade’s breath was shaky, but her smile was radiant. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jonathan’s lips curled into a grin, his forehead resting against hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve been hoping you would.”

The unspoken was spoken, and everything felt… right.

And as they stood there, lost in each other, one thing was certain—this wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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