#and also think of their names and descriptions

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?�� he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-three: y/n

word count: 5.5k

warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.

forty-two | forty-three | forty-four

“Y/N—”

His knees hit the tile hard.

There was no time to think. There was no protocol or logic. There was just instinct — vicious, blinding instinct — as Lando dropped to his knees beside Y/N, already reaching for her, already trying to stop the bleeding with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

She was on her side, curled in on herself like her body was trying to hold in what it couldn’t. There was blood — not a lot at first, but more now. It soaked through her shirt in thick, wet patches and smeared across the floor from where she’d moved, or at least tried to. Her fingers were clumsy where they pressed against her own side, slipping and twitching with every shaky breath she tried to take.

This isn’t happening.

There was also the sound. It wasn’t a scream or a cry. Instead, it was just a wet, desperate wheeze. Her body jerked with each gasp — shallow, wet, choking sounds that made him feel like he was suffocating too.

“Hey. Hey, look a’ me.” His voice shook. He grabbed her face too quickly, too rough, trying to tilt her towards him, but he didn’t know what else to do. “Stay with me. Please.”

It hurt worse because she was trying. 

He could see it in the way her mouth moved, like she was trying to say something. His name, maybe. Or help. Or hurts. But all that came out was more blood — red against her lips, down her chin, too bright.

His stomach turned.

“Fuck—what happened?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. “Who– Who did this? What the fuck happened—”

He was interrupted when her body jolted slightly and her hand clutched at his wrist and she was coughing again, harder now, the blood bubbling from her mouth and dripping down her cheek.

He froze.

Then panic ripped through him like lightning.

Somewhere in the back, the phone kept ringing.

“Help!” he screamed, his throat raw. “Somebody fucking help me! Please— please, she’s— someone call an ambulance!”

He could barely breathe. His whole body felt wired and numb all at once, like he was floating above himself watching it happen.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed how her hands were still pressed against her stomach, but they were losing strength — fingers twitching, slipping, losing grip. He pressed his palms over hers, harder than he should have, trying to add pressure, to stop the leak, to fix it somehow, but the blood kept coming, dark and too much and too fast.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice thin, breaking. “You’re alright, yeah? I’ve got you. You– You’re okay. You’re— fuck, what happened?”

In response, she could only look at him. Everything seemed to blur around the edges, including the outline of the man now holding her. Her eyes were wide and wet, dark pupils blown and drifting. 

This isn’t happening.

Her lips moved but no sound came out. There was only more blood.

“No, no, no, no—fuck!”, he muttered under his breath, clearly frustrated. He grabbed her more tightly now, easing her onto her back as gently as he could. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just—just breathe, alright? I know it hurts, I know, but you have to stay awake, okay?”

Instinctively, he still looked to her for a response. Maybe it was some desperate hope that she’d do something, make a gesture of some sort – that she’d do anything that she was aware, that she was here with him now.

It was only then he noticed the way she was shivering, the tny tremors wracking her weakening form. He didn’t know if it was fear, or shock, or from the blood loss — probably all of it. Her whole body was trembling against him and her eyes were unfocused now, lashes fluttering, her gaze slipping somewhere just past his shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–,” Lando swore loudly. His eyes darted to her side, where her hands were trembling against her stomach, barely pressing now, too weak to hold their grip. Immediately, he moved to take over, desperate to do anything to help as he pulled up her shirt just enough to see the wound.

The moment he saw it, all the oxygen escaped his lungs at once.

This isn’t happening.

Just where the cartilage met the bone of some of her ribs was a single, deep puncture wound. The incision was clean, even beneath the mess of fresh and dried blood that decorated its entrance, more blood spritzing weakly each time she attempted another shaky inhale.

Lower right lung.

Clean.

If it nicked somethin’ in there–

Lando couldn’t afford to think like that. So instead of thinking, he pressed down hard against the open flesh wound. Y/N let out a strangled cry, but at least it was sound. 

She can’t do that if she’s dead, he had to remind himself. That means she’s still alive.

She’s still alive.

Keep her alive.

Soon enough, even his hands alone weren't enough to stop the never ending flow of blood. Desperately, he spun his head around, looking for anything he could use, anything that could help. Anything even remotely useful was too far for him to reach without letting go of her, to far to reach without getting up. 

Wild eyes flitted in every direction, hoping to find a miracle. Eventually, when all else seemed to fail, Lando remembered the sweatshirt he’d been wearing.

I can use that. I can use it like a bandage and it’ll buy her time. It’ll buy her time so that she can–

So she could what?

Physically shaking the thought from his mind, Lando quickly pulled his sweatshirt over his head, before wadding it up and pushing it into the wound. As the fabric soaked up the fresh blood, rubbing up against the injury, Y/N cried out in pain again, the fabric’s brush causing her wound to burn. Her brown eyes widened with pain, her breath hitching and rattling.

“Y/N,” he called out, this time louder, hands shaking as he tried to steady her. Scrambling to find new patches of the fabric that hadn’t already been soaked in her blood, he explained, “I think– I think you’re bleedin’ into your chest. Shit—shit, I think ‘s your lung or somethin’, fuck, fuck—”

Her eyes were unfocused, her skin pale.

There was no way for him to know what was making it worse and what wasn’t, certainly not when his mind was blank and filled with static the way it was then. All he could do was hold her tighter, his palms pressed to her side as he tried to keep the warmth in. He pressed harder with little regard for her discomfort, because he would happily apologize for the rest of his life if he could just manage to keep her alive, if he could just manage to keep the cold tinge of death from creeping further up her fingertips.

“You’re okay,” he lied, smiling up at her. It was a warped, terrified quirk of his lips more than anything, but he put everything he had into making it as convincing as possible. Y/N deserved at least that much.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay, Y/N, you’re fine. ‘M right here.”

Below him, in his arms, the girl blinked slowly, like even that small action took too much effort. Her fingers twitched beneath his as blood leaked between them. Her legs twitched weakly once before going still again.

What? No, that can’t—

“Hey, hey, hey, stay with me,” Lando begged, his voice breaking completely. He’d begun to rock ever so slightly without realizing it, as if trying to soothe her to rest. “Don’t close your eyes. I swear to God, don’t fucking do that to me—”

Her eyelids fluttered anyway, as the colors only began to fade more feom view. Y/N tried desperately to focus on anything — the beaming overhead lights, the color of Lando’s eyes — but to no avail.

Oh, she realized distantly, trying to force herself to sort out her muddled thoughts. Lando’s here.

It was hard to know if she had managed to smile, since everything was so hard and Y/N was so very tired. But what she did know was that if Lando was here, he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

As if triggered by that very thought, the singing pain in her side began to lessen, an odd coolness beginning to spread in its place. It was now significantly less uncomfortable, enough that she could finally allow herself just a moment of rest—

“No, no, don’t— shit, HELP!” Lando screamed, the sound so raw it scraped up his throat. The cry seemed to reverberate in the empty of the store. “SOMEONE HELP ME— SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME, SHE’S DYING!”

No one answered.

With shaking hands and blood-slicked fingers, Lando managed to pull out his phone and dial the emergency number, snapping at the dispatcher so fast they had to tell him to repeat himself. How could barely recall anything he’d actually said — their location, that she was stabbed.

He’d told them she was dying.

That he remembered.

By the time he ended the call, she was barely conscious.

“Hey. Hey, don’t fucking do this t’ me.”

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing hard against her wound. His hands, his forearms, his clothes – everything was covered in her blood. His jeans were soaked through. Her breath was uneven, sharp and hitching.

It felt like hours passed before her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted in another attempt to speak, but all that came out was another choke. Blood bubbled at the base of her throat.

He nearly lost it then.

Hazel eyes met hers as he searched her face once more, looking for any sign she was in pain. But where there was once a grimace, now there was nothing. Nothing except familiar brown eyes, now wide with terror.

With his hoodie still pressed to her side in a futile attempt to put pressure on the bleeding, Lando was finally at a loss of what to do. There was no trick, no plan, no scheme that would whisk them away from this nightmare. There was only them, waiting on the faith that help would eventually arrive. 

As they waited, there was nothing he could do to take that look off her face. So he did the only thing he could still do for her.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he lied, his forehead pressed to hers. He had to force himself not to flinch in response to how cold her skin was against his. 

She’s not supposed to be cold. She hates being cold, always wants socks or a blanket or to lay next to me so she isn’t cold.

She’s not supposed to be cold.

“You hear me? You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you, promise.”

It might have just been his own wishful thinking, but Lando almost could’ve sworn he heard her try to mumble his name. But when he looked at her eyes, they began to flutter shut.

“No. No. Stop it, stop it. Don’t– Please, sweetheart—”

The phone clattered to the ground beside him, forgotten. If the dispatcher said anything else, Lando certainly didn’t hear it. Even as he gently tried to shake her awake, her eyes continued to slip closed. 

“No, baby, hey—hey.” 

He leaned in, voice cracking under the weight of panic and heartbreak. “Stay with me, okay? I know you hate me. I know. But don’t—please don’t leave me like this.”

She didn’t answer him. 

Her lips barely parted with each dwindling breath, but that was the only sign she’d ever been breathing at all. Her lips moved, but there was no sound now. Where there once was muffled coughing or gurgling or even just weak wheezing, now there was no sound at all.

“Somebody help!” he shouted once more, one final hail mary attempt from a boy who was watching the one thing he loved fade before his very eyes. “Please— SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Nothing happened. 

No one came.

There was just the sound of her ragged breathing. Just the music still playing softly in the background, some lazy instrumental track that suddenly felt cruel. There was just the blood on the floor, warm against his knees.

As he sat there, swathed in artificial lighting and surrounded by a puddle of darkening red, Lando Norris finally broke. He cried like his chest had split open, because for him, it had. He cried until his shoulders shook and his tears fell to the tiles like a sorry attempt at washing away the damage that had already been done.

Lando Norris cried like a little boy. 

Even in his despair, his fingers curled tighter around her, holding her closer the way he used to as they laid on her couch not long ago. This time, however, his hands shook as he pressed harder. Her blood had now soaked through every layer of his clothing. He could feel it stain the skin of his knees, the fabric of his sleeves, could feel it dry into the crevices under his fingernails.

“You’re okay,” he continued to ramble quietly, his free hand searching frantically for some place where he wouldn’t somehow make it worse, where he wouldn’t somehow reap the soul from her body any faster than he already was. “You’re gonna be okay, I’ve got you. You’re gonna be fine.”

As her body held on to the last tendrils of consciousness, Lando finally heard a faint sound in the distance.

Sirens.

He could hear them approaching closer, growing louder as they neared. But even then, they still sounded too far away.

Brushing the hair out of her face, Lando tried to give her a watery smile. His free hand reached for one of hers, squeezing it in an attempt at reassurance as tears streamed silently down his face. The sirens continued to grow louder as he curled himself around her further, like he was putting himself between her and the rest of the world, as if he was afraid someone would take her away from him.

He leaned his forehead against hers and whispered shakily, “Don’t go where I can’t follow, okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Even when the ambulance finally arrived, his hand never left hers.

Not once.

While the EMTs rushed to prepare the ambulance to take her, Lando appeared to be lost in his own world. The rest of the world faded into the background as he kept all his attention on her, nothing more important to him when every second she was in her arms could be her last.

He cupped her cheek with one hand, the other still pressing down on the gash in her side, and gently brushed his fingers against her cheek in soft strokes.

But she was so still now.

So quiet.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered. “You hear me? You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna get through this, and I’m gonna tell you m’sorry a thousand fucking times, and you’re gonna roll your eyes and make fun of me for crying. You’re gonna tell me I’m being dramatic and tell me to shut up and maybe— maybe even let me kiss you again someday.”

Y/N’s eyes finally slipped closed.

Panic consumed Lando like a tidal wave inside his chest. “No. No. Y/N—open your eyes. Please.”

The ambulance lights hit the windows as they finally drove away: red, then blue, then red again.

Lando didn’t remember walking through the doors of Princess Grace Hospital.

He could only vaguely recall being in the ambulance, muttering things under his breath, his words only soft enough for Y/N to hear. He remembered being upset about something…

But about what?

It took effort to recall the details with any level of clarity. As he strained himself to remember, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the chaos of the emergency department as the main doors swung open before him.

One medic was already haunched over her, checking vitals and shouting numbers. Another was holding pressure on the wound — not his hands anymore, someone else’s hands. That shook him more than he’d expected. She was bleeding out under someone else’s hands now.

Forcing himself out of whatever haze threatened to cloud over his mind, Lando rushed to keep pace with the rest of the medical personnel as they transferred her from one stretcher to another. 

He followed them as far as they let him.

“Sir, you can’t come past this point—”

His brows furrowed, immediately upset. “She’s my— I’m with her!”

Still, Lando wasn’t allowed past the double doors. He barely got a glimpse of her being wheeled away — her face slack, lips blue, oxygen mask pressed too hard against her skin. He tried to follow, tried to push his way after her, but someone — a nurse or a security guard, maybe both — held him back by the shoulders.

“Sir, you need to let them work.”

He nearly decked the guy, but he couldn't conjure the strength to. It was as if when she had left through those doors where he couldn’t follow, his strength had left him too. Instead, he just stood there shaking, covered in blood that wasn’t his.

Lando stood there for a moment. Just stood.

Someone said his name — maybe one of the nurses.

But the hallway started to stretch. His ears rang. His vision blurred around the edges, the sterile overhead lights casting everything in too much white.

As a nurse ushered him into a seat, his leg bounced. His fingers wouldn’t stop twitching. The front of his shirt grew stiff with her blood — and no one had asked him to change yet, probably because no one could even look him in the eyes.

Once he was seated, that was when they proceeded to ask him her full name. He gave it without hesitation. They asked her date of birth — he knew that too. 

But medical history? Allergies?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t fucking know.

He’d memorized the sound of her laugh. The rhythm of her breathing when she slept. The exact way she liked her coffee down to the swirl. But he didn’t know what kind of blood ran through her veins, or whether she could take O-negative, or if she’d ever had surgery before.

Something like anger burned in his throat at the mere suggestion that Lando didn't know her. Who the hell were they to even think that? They were’nt the ones who had to know what it felt like when your heart lives outside of your chest. They weren’t the ones that had their hands stained red with her blood. They weren’t the ones who had to listen for the faintest sound of her breathing after knowing what her heartbeat sounded like when she slept. They weren’t the ones who had to watch her go still before their very eyes.

They took her into the OR, and he was left in the waiting room.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

He hadn’t taken a sip of the vending machine coffee someone handed him. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom. Hell, he hadn’t even breathed right since the EMTs took her from his hands.

Now he just sat and waited. When he got too restless, he forced himself up onto his feet and paced. Back and forth, back and forth — near the entrance, then the vending machine, then the desk. Then he sat. Then he stood again. Then he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like that would stop the image of her from flashing over and over in his mind — her on the floor, her blood in his hands, her fingers slipping from his grasp like the whole world was tilting.

She’d been in surgery for three and a half hours.

The nurse at the desk had said they’d update him.

They hadn’t.

When it felt like time had slowed to a glacial pace, he’d gone to the front desk and asked if they could tell him anything — how deep the wound had gone, what organ had been hit — but they just kept saying they were doing everything they could. That she was in “good hands.”

Lando didn’t give a shit about good hands.

He just wanted her.

He wanted her yelling at him, telling him to go home. He wanted her brushing him off, rolling her eyes, pretending she hadn’t missed him even though he could always tell when she had. He wanted her awake. Breathing. There.

Yet as the clock ticking menacingly on the wall of the waiting room never let him forget, she was somewhere behind a wall of double doors, split open on a table, while strangers stitched her back together and tried to keep her from bleeding out entirely.

Lando pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.

He wasn’t crying.

He refused to cry.

He’d cried enough already.

Instead, the endless hours left him with ample time to play it all over and over again in his mind, like horror film he never wanted to see. Scrunching his eyes shut, his ears echoed with the memory of when the paramedics tried to pull him away from her. He’d screamed at them. 

Don’t touch her. Don’t move her. Don’t take her away from me.

They hadn’t listened.

In the ambulance, he just kept whispering to no one: “She has to be okay. She has to.”

Somewhere around hour five, his breath started catching in his chest again. His hands felt like ice. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, trying to steady himself.

One of the nurses nearby seemed to notice the way Lando was hyperventilating as if the walls were closing in on him. She tried to get him to eat, to get some rest. 

Lando wordlessly waved her away without answering.

The truth was that he was stuck. He was stuck in the moment he saw her eyes start to close, in the way she’d tried to say his name but couldn’t, in the way her hands slipped away from his and her body went so, so still.

He remembered thinking, This is what it looks like when someone dies in your arms.

And he hadn’t realized until just now that he was still holding her weight, even when she wasn’t there.

Physically, Lando Norris was sat in the emergency room of one of the best hospitals in the world, armed with a soft paper cup of lukewarm coffee that he wasn’t drinking, squinting every time the doors swung open just in case it was someone with news. However, in his mind, Lando was still on that café floor, still whispering to her through the blood, still begging her to hold on.

“Are you here for Y/N Y/L/N?”

Lando instantly bolted upright. “Yes. Is she—?”

“She is still in surgery,” a nurse said calmly. “We just wanted to inform you. It is… taking a while.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, voice too rough to sound like himself.

The nurse hesitated. “It means she lost quite a lot of blood. And her body isn’t responding well to the transfusions.”

That news marked the beginning of hours of pacing and stopping and pacing again, of every clock tick feeling like a needle to the back of his spine. He’d already asked the nurse’s station a second time too — no update. She was still in surgery. The damage had been extensive. The blood loss alone would’ve been enough to kill her if they’d gotten there even five minutes later.

What do you even say to that?

It was hour six when a surgeon finally emerged, just after 4 a.m. He looked middle-aged, and weary-eyed, rubbing at his face like the surgery had aged him in real time as he approached where Lando sat in the waiting room.

“She made it through surgery,” he stated first. “But it was close.”

That word didn’t leave Lando’s head.

Close.

“She lost a significant amount of blood,” the doctor went on, voice calm but firm, like this was just another case. “The stab wound punctured her lower lung, missed a major artery by about a centimeter. We had to do an emergency thoracotomy and abdominal exploration to control the internal bleeding.”

“She’s had two transfusions already,” the doctor added. “Her body’s reacting slowly. It could be the stress, could be the shock. Maybe also she was on the floor for longer than anyone realized.”

Then hee paused, as if trying to decide how much to say.

Lando only stared.

“They’ve had to go very slow with the replacement as she is rejecting some of it. It’s not uncommon. But it is dangerous. And the wound was… close. It missed her major artery by about two centimeters. We had to transfuse more than we expected — her body’s not accepting the new volume as quickly as we’d like. We’re monitoring for signs of organ stress.”

Lando’s mouth was dry. “But she’s alive?”

A beat.

“She made it through surgery,” the doctor said. “The blade missed several critical nerves by millimeters. But she’s still in critical condition. We need to see how she responds.”

Lando nodded once. Truthfully, it was about all he could manage. All the exhaustion of the day caught up with him at once, every muscle and joint aching as if he had spent the whole day sparring or running. Everything felt weaker, more fragile somehow.

“She’s being moved to ICU,” a woman came to inform him afterward. “She’ll be monitored for the next twenty-four hours. Those will be critical. If she stabilizes by tomorrow morning, her chances go up. If not…”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t have to.

They didn’t let him see her right away. “ICU protocol,” they’d explained.

But through the small window of the door, he could see the outline of her body beneath the thin white blanket. Tubes in her arms. Wires on her chest. The hiss of a ventilator helping her lungs do what they should’ve been able to on their own.

She looked nothing like herself.

She looked… small.

He pressed a hand to the window, even as it smeared blood across the glass. He didn’t wipe it off, content with finally being able to see the steady rise and fall of her chest, if even from afar.

They let him in around 3 a.m.

The nurse didn’t say much — just nodded toward the hallway and told him to keep it quiet, and please don’t touch any of the monitors. He didn’t answer, just followed the linoleum path past doors that weren’t hers until he reached the right one.

When they finally did let him see her, he wasn’t ready.

He’d thought he was. He’d spent hours pacing that waiting room, rehearsing what he might say, bracing for the worst, calculating how many apologies he’d need to string together just to deserve breathing the same air as her again.

But when he stepped into that sterile, humming room and saw her lying there, he was startled by how pale she was. It confused him to see her, to see the girl he loved hooked up to more machines than he could count. Her skin appeared faintly clammy under the pulse monitor’s clip.

Looking at her, the words left him entirely.

He hadn’t spoken since they let him in. Instead, he just watched her, just let his eyes move over every inch of her like he was memorizing her face all over again. Her lips were chapped. Her knuckles scraped. Someone had cleaned the blood off her hairline, but he could still see the faint trace of it, like something haunting the edge of her skin.

It was too quiet inside.

Machines hummed softly. One beeped — slow, steady. The fluorescent lighting had been dimmed to a low twilight glow, casting shadows on the walls like ghosts that refused to leave. It only made her look more pale, highlighting the way her lips parted just enough to see the breathing tube. Her arms were tucked with wires and tape and bruises blooming beneath the skin.

Lando sat in the stiff plastic chair at her bedside, elbows on knees, head bowed like he was in prayer. He wanted to reach for her hand, but he flinched when he found that her arm was hooked to an IV line, fingers limp against the starched sheets. A compression cuff hissed softly every few minutes. The bruises on her ribs were starting to surface now — angry, blue and blooming like ink stains.

At least she’s alive.

His elbows braced against his knees. His hands folded in front of him. His eyes didn’t leave her.

“Hey,” he said quietly, because anything louder would’ve felt wrong. “You look terrible.”

He waited for a beat, but there was no laugh or eye roll or snarky comeback about his own disheveled mess. In the silence of the room, there was just the soft hiss of the ventilator, the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Something about the sounds irked him. Slowly, he rubbed a hand down his face, cleary tired beyond just what anyone from the outside could see.

Y/N would’ve been able to see.

He missed her.

“I never meant for this t’ happen,” he muttered. His voice sounded too loud, even though it was barely more than a whisper.

“I was going to let go,” he added, quieter. “I wasn’t going to bother you anymore. I just… I just wanted to see that you were okay. That you moved on. That you—”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. 

“But I ruined everything,” he finished, his voice wavering.

He looked down at his hands, still tinged red no matter how hard he scrubbed them raw. He looked down at the hands that had done everything they could to try to keep her alive, only for her to end up like this.

Of course you couldn’t keep her alive. 

He was The Reaper, after all. And everyone knew that Reapers could only take lives, not save them. And Lando Norris had never known how to hold anything without killing it.

He stared at her. The only part of her that moved was the slow rise and fall of her chest — mechanical, borrowed, a rhythm not her own.

“I don’t know how to make this right,” he said after a long moment, almost to himself. “I thought I could keep you separate. Like maybe if I loved you hard enough, it would cancel everything else out.”

He let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t sound quite right.

“But it doesn’t work like that. You can’t love someone enough to undo what you are.”

His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. He never cried when it mattered most. He just sat there, with hands that didn’t know how to be empty and a silence that felt like penance.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. “I’d take it if I could. Every drop of it. Every minute.”

He reached for her hand, then hesitated, then folded his fingers around hers gently – like if he was any less careful, he might truly break her beyond repair.

Her fingers didn’t move. The machines went on ticking, reminding him that time was still passing — still moving forward, even if he didn’t know how to follow it anymore.

He didn’t let go. The thread bracelet was still around his wrist. It was half-soaked with blood, but still there. He looked at it now, turning it over between his fingers. It was proof that she would always be a part of him, long before she’d even known the truth.

“I don’t even know if you’d want me here,” he murmured, voice rough from too many hours without speaking. “If you knew I was sitting here like this.”

Out of habit, his thumb traced mindless patterns over the back of her hand. It reminded him of warmer times, of simpler ones. Lando would give anything he had to go back to then.

“I used to think the worst thing I could do was lose you. But now I’m starting to think it was letting you know who I really was. Like if I’d just stayed Liam a little longer… you might’ve never looked at me like that.”

He swallowed, hard.

“I don’t want to be the reason you stop loving anything. Not this place. Not your work. Not people.” He shook his head. “But I ruined it. I fucking ruined it. And I would trade everything I’ve ever built just to go back and not—”

He let his eyes fall shut for just a second.

That single second was just long enough to miss the sound of the door creaking open. It was just long enough not to hear the footsteps behind him.

The sound of a safety being turned off was unmistakable, the quiet click of it echoing in the silent room.

Lando didn’t even need to turn around to know what it was. The cold metal pressed to the back of his skull was confirmation enough.

He froze. 

A beat passed. 

Lando didn’t breathe.

“I knew I’d see you here, Norris,” the man behind him whispered. Alex Albon leaned in slightly — just enough for Lando to feel the weight behind the gun now.

“You’re so fucking predictable when it comes to the people you love.”

a/n: ...

[saintormentor]

dirty voicemails c. s

in which . . . chris sends you voicemails of him fucking other girls after the breakup, but why did he call out your name?

content warnings . . . voicemail-style formatting, sexual content involving third parties, emotionally manipulative behavior, degradation / humiliation, possessiveness / jealousy, toxic relationship themes, crying during sex ( implied emotional breakdowns ), references to alcohol and intoxication, masturbation / audio voyeurism, implied dubcon ( in tone, not literal non-consent) , heartbreak / emotional distress, gaslighting / obsessive ex behavior, self-destructive language, graphic language, suggestive audio description breakup aftermath / longing

voicemail #1 . . . 1:24am

“mhm… fuck, yeah, just like that—shit, baby.” panting. soft moans in the background.

he laughs. smug, loose. definitely drunk.

“you hear her? she sounds better than you ever did beggin’ for it.”

a wet slap. another moan. his voice dips—low, cruel.

“i’d tell you to block me, but we both know you won’t.” click.

voicemail #2 . . . 11:09pm

music in the back. maybe a party. girls giggling.

“she’s got a tongue ring. you ever think about getting one?” he’s chewing gum.

a girl moans again. muffled.

“she’s gagging all over me. you’d probably cry.”

another voice, asking who he’s talking to.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, baby. just an old friend.” click.

voicemail #3 . . . 3:32am

quiet. rain pattering outside. just his voice this time.

“y’know, i woke up and reached for you. stupid, right?”

he sniffles. sighs.

“i miss the way you’d hum when you brushed your teeth.”

a pause. his breath hitches.

“whatever. fuck you. i’m fine.” click.

voicemail #4 . . . 9:14pm

“she doesn’t talk back. you’d hate her.”

a sharp breath. skin hitting skin again. he groans, dragging it out.

“she lets me do whatever i want. that’s what i wanted. someone more… obedient.”

silence.

“but she doesn’t make me feel shit.” click.

voicemail #5 . . . 1:47am

laughter. his. and a girl’s. slurred, obnoxious.

“nah, don’t worry, baby—she can’t hear this. but you can, can’t you?”

wet, squelching sounds. breathy moans.

he gets close to the mic. you can hear the bass in his chest.

“miss the way you used to sob for it. fuck. that was art.” click.

voicemail #6 . . . 4:56pm

“saw your new post.”

he sounds annoyed. possessive.

“you wore that top on our second date. what, tryin’ to send a message?”

“you looked good. like… too good.”

“i bet you’re fucking someone. he fuck you like i l do?” click.

voicemail #7 . . . 2:11am

there’s crying. not his.

“she’s crying. i told her i couldn’t stop thinking about someone else.”

a door shuts. a silence. then he breathes out.

“you fucking ruined me.”

long pause.

“you win.” click.

voicemail #8 . . . 5:03am

he sounds wrecked. raspy. low and drunk and unraveling.

“baby… fuck… fuck, you always took me so good—shit—i keep fucking them like they’re you.”

he moans. clearly jerking off.

“miss you. miss your thighs. your throat. your smart ass mouth. tight fucking cunt.”

a growl. a desperate groan.

“god, [your name]—fuck, i—”

click.

a / n . . . credits to whoever first came up with this! couldn’t find out who, but this is not my original idea! also, this series depicts an unhealthy, obsessive dynamic. not a romantic portrayal — read with caution and take care of yourself.

[intoblonde6ftwbbplayers]

Transferring Hearts; a love story from Columbia to Storrs

TransferTeammate! x UconnPaige!

pairing; octransferteammate! x uconnpaige!

description; A South Carolina transfer comes to uconn after winning her second championship. Not a lot of people know why but all Andrea knows is that she needed to get away for her cheating ex and her lying “friend”.

random details; Andrea Pierce was ranked #1 on espn for her class and that’s how she got a big following. She’s basically 3 years younger than paige (like 2 years and 10 months) she’s entering her junior season and has won the championship twice with south carolina and got MOP in the 23-24 season. Her ex bf (yes a bi queen represented) and her close friend were hooking up behind her back for weeks. Andrea is very active on social media especially tiktok and youtube (think tara yummy style vlogs and edits being made of her). 

warnings; none really just I have no clue about basketball like other then what I learned 8th and 9th grade when I was forced to play. Probably bad spelling and grammar bc idk how to used commas. Oh also forgot to mention Andrea is going Latina bc I love my Latina baddies

lmk if y'all want longer chapters like this or shorter ones!

||

High off wining; prologue

April 6th 2024

"Hey guys what's up. It's your girls here with a quick little check in before tomorrow's game" Andrea said pulling her best friend and teammate Chloe Kitts into the camera

"Andrea Pierce basketball phenom and internet sensation everybody!" Chloe said giving her friend an introduction that wasn't needed but well deserved after her performance during this tournament.

Andrea begins blushing slightly "Okay bro not too much on me" she said with a smile

"alright y'all... i'm feeling it for tomorrow's game like seriously. Mark my words if our girl Andrea gets hot tomorrow then REALLY it's over for Iowa"

"Yeah we're speaking it into the universe guys. Gamecocks are taking the title tomorrow!" Andrea chants

"Yeahhhh! LETS GO WE GOT THIS!" Chloe yells right back into the camera before both girls look at each other laughing

"Alright, alright we need to get to bed before the big game tomorrow but we'll check in with you guys after getting the dub"

Andrea quickly stops the camera and sighs trying to shake out the nerves thinking about the game.

April 7th 2024

"And with 5 minutes left in the 4th quarter both Andrea Pierce and Kamilla Cardoso have been on fire tonight really pushing gamecocks ahead." Ryann Ruocco says

"Yes and let's talk a bit about Andrea Pierce for a second because at first glance you wouldn't expect a 5'7 shooting guard to be one of the biggest names of women's collegiate basketball" Rebecca Lobo said

"And that makes her all the more special. I mean from being ranked #1 in her class from ESPN and just seconds away from winning a national title with the gamecocks" Holly Rowe said

"I mean could Andrea Pierce be the key to a new dynasty for women's basketball? She was out for most of the season her freshman year with a knee injury but South Carolina has had a perfect season so far and Andrea Pierce has been a name that keeps coming up when you ask why" Rebecca Lobo says

"Her basketball IQ and court vision are unmatched I mean just this tournament alone, the no look passes, clutch three-pointers, and even blocks that have changed the game for the gamecocks this season." Rebecca Lobo continues

"And now finally with 4 seconds left and a 7-0 run by South Carolina, all by Andrea Pierce, the score is 87-75 with the gamecocks and Andrea Pierce solidifying this win for coach Dawn Staley and South Carolina." Ryan Ruocco said

"Lets check in with Holly on the court as she interviews Andrea Pierce" Rebecca Lobo said

"Yes thank you Rebecca, Im here with the Andrea Pierce who just got named most outstanding player. How do you feel right now Andrea?" Holly asks

"Uhm... Honestly im feeling really good right now. Just like on top of the world and just so extremely grateful for everything and for this season and for the people around me and that have supported me through everything"

"Yes you certainly have been through a lot in your short collegiate experience. How did your injury last year affect the way you went into this season?"

Andrea laughs nervously and looks down a bit before answering "It's changed the way I look at the world and has given me a deeper appreciation for everything I do and everything I want to accomplish. After my injury i was just living in a state of uncertainty but lots of people reached out, including players i've looked up to for a while, and I formed new bonds and deepened old ones that helped me get here today."

"Wow thats really sweet. Final question Andrea, you've had an amazing season and have even been referred to as the future of women's basketball and even just won MOP, what do you have to say about all this?" Holly asked

"I mean it wasn't just me it was my teammates giving me good looks, good assists, setting screens, the plays being made and just our overall trust in our talent. Everyone that's ever believed in me, close friends and family, and even my fans online that let me know that they're proud..."

Andrea looks to the side for a second with tears in her eyes.

"Ugh i'm tearing up I cant believe this, but uhm yeah when fans tell me 'you're doing so good' or like 'keep it up' like even those little moments have an impact and have gotten me that much closer to this moment and i'm so thankful for everything and everyone who has led me to this and... I cant wait to be back here next year for my second ring!" Andrea finishes excitedly, wiping her tears

"Alright thank you so much Andrea and again congratulations on the win and on the award." Holly finishes.

"Yeah thank you Holly. Bye!" Andrea says waiving one last time to the camera and giving Holly Rowe a quick side hug as she leaves to cut the net down.

"Wow what humble answers Andrea gave us, I mean at this point what's not to like she's great on the court and off" Holly says to the camera

"Yes and that comment about being back here next year? I believe it, I truly think that Andrea Pierce is just going to get better and already being so mature for being just 19 years old. We often talk about her poise on the court but off the court as well." Rebecca Lobo responds

"Yes I noticed that. Whenever you ask about a good game she talks about her teammates and coaching staff who made the plays or executed them, Andrea Pierce is next level and I don't want to jinx anything but it's likely we'll be seeing her cut this net down again in a year." Holly says bringing the broadcast to an end

Andrea runs to cut her piece of the net and even ends up getting a big piece to wear like a necklace.

She gets to the sidelines where her one of her closest friends, and roommate, Maddie, had been vlogging for her.

Andrea runs up to her and hugs her tightly.

Even though Maddie barely knew anything about basketball she had been Andreas friend since freshman orientation and was the first person to tell her that it was all going to be okay when she hurt her knee.

"You did it Drea I'm so proud of you!" Maddie says hugging her tightly while still recording.

"Thank you Maddie for being such a good friend and being there for me I wouldn't have been able to do this without you." Andrea says tearing up while thinking about all the highs and lows that her and Maddie have gone through together

As they finally pull away from each other Maddie spots Andreas new necklace that she assumes will be going home with them.

Maddie tugs on the net lightly and begins laughing at her friend. "New necklace?" she asks

"Yeah" Andrea responds glancing down. "You like it? 'Cause it's coming home with us." She says grabbing the net with both hands and lifting it toward Maddie to show her and the camera that caught this entire moment.

Andrea grabs the camera and says goodbye to Maddie who said she needed to get home to study for whatever pre-med class she said she was 'failing' (got anything below a 90).

"aight vlog its just us now! But guys oh my god i'm a national championnnnn!!" Andrea says walking toward the locker room now.

"It hasn't sank it yet... I'm just so thankful for all of you guys who have gone through everything with me and just grateful for everyone around me and most of all thank you God" Andrea finishes as she gets to the locker room where everyone is celebrating.

"There's our MOP" Kamilla says stretching the last syllable out playfully

"Aww I love you so much Kamilla I wouldn't have gotten this award without you."

"Heyyy vlogggg let me just steal them for a sec." Chloe says reaching for the camera.

Andrea and Chloe have a system when it comes to after a game. Chloe knows that the first person Andrea wants to call is her grandfather.

And she also knows that Andrea wants to capture every moment on camera so she helps her out by 'stealing' the camera for her segment of the video.

Andrea quietly thanks Chloe and proceeds to FaceTime her grandpa who picks up immediately.

"Hola abuelo!" (hi grandpa) she greets excitedly

"Hola mi princesita, estoy tan orgulloso de usted." (Hi my princess, im so proud of you) he says holding the phone at a very low angle like any old person.

"Gracias abuelo! Me nombraron la jugadora mas destacada del torneo. Y mire mi nuevo collar... le gusta?" (Thank you grandpa! They named me most outstanding player in the tournament. And look at my new necklace... do you like it?) Andrea said holding her net up to the screen smiling like someone had given her the whole universe.

"Me encanta. Bueno se que esta ocupada ahorita pero ya viene el verano entonces espero verla pronto. La quiero mucho, adios" (I love it. Well i know you're busy right not but summer is coming up so I hope to see you soon. I love you so much, bye)

"Adios abuelo lo quiero mucho!" (Bye grandpa i love you so much!) Andrea says hanging up the phone and going to find Chloe again.

"So where's Ethan?" Chloe asked Andrea as they get into the car ready to head back to the hotel

they were gonna celebrate back at Columbia since they had a 5 am flight the next day

"Oh he said he needed to study for some engineering class and couldn't come to the game or celebrate"

"Drea... You know I love you right but, why do you put up with that? I mean you deserve someone who see's how great you are and how bright you shine, not Ethans ass who gets in a mood every time someone talks about your accomplishments." Chloe says as they wait at a red light

"I dont know... I love him. When we met I was in a really dark place mentally and he helped me through it and even if we're going through a rough patch right now I do love him so much." Andrea says finishing the conversation

April 8th 2024

"Aight bye Drea see you tonight!" Chloe says once they arrive back their dorms.

"Yeah see you later!"

Thats when Andrea gets her phone out to see if Ethan has texted her back yet.

Still no reply. Andrea loved texting and often had no shame about pressing the 'notify anyway' button. Because who do you think you are on dnd?

But at this point her and Ethans texts were starting to look like he wasn't her boyfriend and more like a guy trying to ghost her.

'Heading to the game now'

delivered.

'Okay I lowk ate warmups up so we got this'

delivered.

'nvm thats fucking cc out there'

'who do I think I am? they beat uconn'

'they beat fucking paige bueckers yesterday'

'how can we even compete with that?'

delivered.

'ok officially crashing out wtf'

delivered.

'babe?'

delivered.

'sorry ik ur studying'

'just respond when u can'

delivered.

'ok momentary lapse of judgment'

'im fucking Andrea Pierce'

'I GOT THIS'

'LIKE DEADASS I GOT THIS'

delivered.

'BABE I GOT FUCKING MOP'

'LETS GOOO'

'LETS FUCKING GO OMGOMGOMG'

'IM ACTUALLY HIM'

delivered.

That was all last night. Andrea hadn't bothered to text Ethan this morning. She didn't know what had been going on lately but her and Ethan had been fighting a lot recently.

She felt like he was always on edge around her and didn't know why. He was picking fight for no reason or just wont respond for days and then act like nothing happened.

Andrea was getting a bit tired of it but she loved him so much. Be cause he wasn't always like this. He used to kind and would always check up on her mental health and never said anything about basketball because he didn't care about her stats only her.

But it felt like recently he not only doesn't care about her stats he just doesn't care about her either which really hurt Andrea but she figured that it was just the honeymoon phase coming to an end and nothing more.

All Andrea wanted to do was get back to her dorm and take a nap before going out tonight but she remembered that she had let Kamilla borrow her charger on the plane and she really needed it back.

So Andrea being half asleep at this point dragged herself over to Kamilla's dorm. Once Andrea showed up to her room she saw the door wasn't fully closed so she just let herself in.

As she walked in Andrea heard it before she saw it. Ethan's muffled voice mixed with kamilla's giggles coming from her room where that door was also left ajar.

"Bro what the fuck..?" Andrea quietly mumbled to herself as she walked up to the room where she didn't want it to be true.

As she walked in she saw Ethan and Kamilla on her bed making out and looking like the happiest people on earth so wrapped in with each other they didn't hear her walk in.

"So this is why you've been weird lately, Ethan? Because you've been fucking Kamilla?" Andrea said finally breaking them from their trance making her presence known

"I-Oh-Uh-Fuck! No! It's not what it looks like babe!" Ethan says barley able to form a sentence

"Do you think im fucking slow? She's literally on top of you. Like there is no possible way you this isn't exactly what it looks like... and it looks like 2 lil bitches who I never wanna see or talk to again."

"No Andrea this is the first time please baby you have to understand. We were just high off the win! You know a little celebration?" Ethan says getting out from under Kamilla and moving toward Andrea to try and calm her down

"High off the win? That's your excuse? Ew."

"We're fucking done Ethan. Fuck both of you."

The second the words leave Andreas mouth they feel bitter. She truly had so much love for both of them and for them to be able to treat her like this and be able to betray her then literally turn around and say 'I love you' is making her question who she can trust

Andrea quickly grabs her charger that she spots on the desk in the corner and makes her way out.

Portal Promise; chapter 1

April 13th 2024

It's officially been the most chaotic and dramatic 5 days of Andreas life.

Everything had gone downhill since that moment. Apparently in the time that Andrea had taken to take a nap and try and clear her mind after finding out her close friend and boyfriend were hooking up, they decided to get ahead of the story and start making shit up about her.

Ethan started spreading weird ass rumors about how Andrea was crazy and that she was manipulative and Kamilla was backing him which made it that much more believable.

Andrea was so overwhelmed and ended up speaking with coach Staley about everything that happened. Staley told her that she would speak to Kamilla but also knew that the damage was already done and that the team and the school would probably never feel the same to Andrea anymore.

So as much as it pained Staley to see one of her best players leave and one that she genuinely had grown to love and care for so much these past 2 years. She reminded Andrea that she still had time to enter the transfer portal.

So after some thought Andrea decided that she would. She told Chloe and Maddie of course, but the rest of the team had barely spoken to her since everything had gone down. Andrea knew they were just trying to keep the peace and not pick sides but it didn't help how alone she felt when people were believing those rumors.

And even though Andrea knew that the media would be all over her about the reason why. She knew that it was the right choice to make for her future. And who knows, maybe this could be the start of something great?

May 19th 2024

'On a recent instagram post made by uconnwbb you see that 19 year old basketball phenom Andrea Pierce has officially committed to Uconn'

Andrea was nervous. She didn't know what to expect. She was going to play for Geno Auriemma who had coached uconn into the dynasty it's known for and she wanted to live up to those standards.

June 2024

Andrea was about to walk into the women's basketball training facility for the first time and officially meet everyone. Sure she had been following Azzi Fudd on instagram, they were friends.

Her and Azzi had met a couple of times during their AAU days and were even on the same USA basketball team one year. But after Andrea got hurt last year Azzi reached out knowing what it's like to tear your acl at a young age and gave her some much needed advice.

CD had already let Andrea know that she had gone through all her vlogs and actually commended how well spoken and how poised she made sure she always presented as.

And said she could continue vlogging as long as it stayed within their guidelines for what they can do or say in media.

Andrea hadn't spoken to the media about her decision to leave South Carolina yet or posted anything on socials which was out of character for her, but what was she supposed to say?

My boyfriend and teammate fucked behind my back then spread rumors about me so I wanted to leave? Ew.

But Andrea quickly shook those negative thoughts out her head as she approached the gym locker room and heard a couple voices.

"Dude i'm so excited"

"Yeah have you seen her highlights?"

"Forget her highlights, lets talk about the face card and the game day hair"

"She's so cool like"

Andrea hears a couple of phrases but since they're all talking over each other she doesn't catch everything. Suddenly she doesn't feel as nervous when she hears the quiet whispers and the giggles coming from her new teammates.

Because at the end of the day they're all just girls who all share a love for the same sport.

"Wait shut up I hear someone coming!" Andrea hears someone whisper horribly which makes her laugh slightly

"Uh... Hey everyone" Andrea says looking around the locker room at everyone thats just getting settled in.

"Oh my god!"

"Hiii"

"Hey"

"Andrea Pierce!"

Everyone echos out at the same time. Which makes both Andrea and Azzi laugh, being the most familiar with you she decides to take the lead.

"I always said you'd look better in blue Drea" She finished quietly before the hurricane of fangirl questions and comments came in.

Azzi tried to recruit Andrea her senior year of high school but she had already fallen in love with South Carolina by then. She did let Azzi know that her efforts were appreciated and that Uconn was almost chosen.

"Yes guys this is THE Andrea Pierce so fangirl all you want know because you know coach is gonna get mad if you're all distracted during practice" She says walking up and putting her arm around your shoulder in a reassuring way to let Andrea know it was all going to be okay.

(random switch to first person idk why)

It was a lot from Kk and some from Caroline and even a couple from the incoming freshman Morgan and Sarah. Most of it having to do with basketball but every couple seconds Kk would throw in a comment about your 'face card never declines' or how your 'fits are always fire' which you thanked her for and even complimented some of her stuff you'd seen as well.

Then you finally got to Paige. And even after all of them fangirling over you and wanting to know everything about how you can score at all three levels while still looking good. It was not your turn to be starstruck.

Because Paige Bueckers was someone you had looked up to since she was in High School and now you're going to be on the same team. And she was looking right into your soul with the most pleasing smile in the world.

Luckily that smile and stare only made you forget your name for 2 seconds before you remembered where you were and just went with a simple 'hi' and a smile before turning back to the group making sure you were now officially following all of them on instagram and TikTok.

(back to third)

But what Andrea didn't know is that Paige had been a little starstruck too and the only person that knew just how closely she had followed your career was Azzi.

So the second Andrea looked away already fitting in with everyone so well, Azzi turned back to Paige and quietly asked if 'she had remembered her name yet or if she was just gonna keep staring'

Paige just shook her head and said a little too loudly "Bro i'm not staring" which made some of the group look at her confused for a second before going back to their conversation

"Im simply observing the newest member of our team" Paige finished quite this time

But the look Azzi gave her best friend wasn't one of belief it was one of knowing.

Because Azzi Fudd knew that this portal transfer could promise their team the chance to get back to the final four and win it all this time.

||

all any suggestions y'all want me to include in this story, my request r always open!!

thx for reading, goodnight!

[mona-risms]

Saw the hc's of bodguard!Reader, and maybe they're there for more of crowd control and paparazzi when the 3 go out? I can imagine them clearing a way in the crowd for Huntr/X and have an arm around Rumi to protect her. Runi is just like "bla bla bla property name, place name, backstory stuff" 😭

Also, I was thinking that they cook and clean the penthouse too, so technically, a glorified scary butler is the right description.

Bodyguard!reader would most likely be for crowd control yeah you're right!!! And it's the funniest thing ever bc imagine pulling Rumi in bc the crowd's getting to close to her and her brain COMPLETELY stops functioning at the feeling of your body on hers. And Mira can tell every time so she's laughing her ass off, probably signalling to Zoey asw while they walk so BOTH of them are laughing while Rumi's just too flustered to function. You're trying to say smth to her but it takes like two tries before she even responds like "HUH what hello were you saying smth" and the girls are cracking up like "oooooo not so fun when it's YOU is it"

Rumi would probably love to watch you work in the penthouse asw. Like she says you don't have to do any of that bc they can do it themselves and/or they have cleaning staff for that!!! But when you're cleaning up or cooking or doing literally anything in the house she's just 👁👁 staring at you before realising (eventually) that she's staring and then she tries to offer to help but even your words are going through one ear out of the other. Oh she's so fucking whipped you look bad as hell to her and she want that cookie BAD

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

i think you’re gonna cook with this one 🙏🏼

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

Thank you for your sweetness and patience — this one’s been a journey, a fully on fluff journey, with regrets and tears,

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

• Prompt: Drunk marriage in Vegas, accidental pregnancy, emotional confrontation

• Word Count: ~2.1k

• Type: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

🛼✨🧁🍒

Las Vegas was supposed to be a quick getaway. A fun escape from your routines, a wild weekend with friends, some bad decisions and blurry photos. You never expected to wake up in a luxury suite at The Cosmopolitan, your mouth dry, your head pounding, and Quinn Hughes sleeping next to you — shirtless, tangled in the hotel sheets.

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

You sat up too fast, blinking at the ring on your own finger. Your heart thudded, first with confusion, then with a growing pit in your stomach. The echo of last night’s chaos slowly filtered in — the shots, the dance floor, the neon lights, Quinn’s laughter, his arm around your waist. You remembered a chapel. Pink. Elvis impersonator. The words “I do.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

A low groan came from the other side of the bed. Quinn.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt: messy curls sticking up in every direction, red-rimmed eyes, shirtless. And when he sat up, he mirrored your horror as you both stared at your left hands.

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

You both lunged for your phones. Sure enough, your camera rolls confirmed it: a chapel, a very happy officiant, and you and Quinn grinning like idiots with glitter in your hair and rings on your fingers.

Quinn Hughes, your very complicated friend-with-benefits, your maybe-something-more-but-never-defined, had married you. In Vegas. While drunk.

You remembered the sex too. Vaguely. It had been good—scratch that, amazing. But also messy and unexpected and clearly not thought through.

Quinn freaked out.

He stood, muttering about mistakes and how this couldn’t be real, how he had to leave. You tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down, but he was already pulling on his jeans, grabbing his phone.

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

Three days later, you stared at the two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

You weren’t sure how you got there. How from a half-joking night in Vegas, a half-relationship with Quinn Hughes, you ended up alone, with a baby on the way. You hadn’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a call.

And that’s when you saw it. A story. A post. A girl — tall, blonde, draped over him like she belonged there. And the caption: “My whole heart.”

Your throat closed. He hadn’t ghosted you because he panicked. He hadn’t vanished because he was scared. He was with someone else.

You were just the detour. The accident.

So you did what you had to: you called your brother.

He showed up twenty minutes later, no questions asked, and held you while you sobbed. Then, slowly, piece by piece, you began to rebuild.

The months passed. The bump grew. Your brother went to every appointment with you, holding your hand while you heard the heartbeat for the first time, while you picked names, while you decorated a nursery in your new apartment.

And you tried—really tried—not to look at Quinn’s Instagram.

But you saw it anyway.

The James Norris Trophy. A clean suit, his proud smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”

Then, a month later, an Instagram story from Porsche Centre Vancouver: “Thrilled to welcome Quinn Hughes as our newest brand ambassador.”

Each announcement was a dagger. Because he was out there, living his best life, achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of—and you were in the quiet of your small apartment, folding newborn onesies and wondering if he ever thought about you. About that night. About what you were now carrying.

You didn’t want him back. Not after he ran. But part of you, some deep, aching part, wished he would at least ask.

Because even if your heart was fractured, your body swollen and tired and aching, you were growing something beautiful.

And he didn’t even know.

—

The hospital lights were harsh, too white, too real for the blur of pain and panic you were in. Your fingers clenched around the side of the bed as another contraction hit, tearing through your spine. You were alone, but not lonely — not anymore. Because you weren’t doing this just for yourself.

You were about to meet the only constant that had stayed with you since that night in Vegas. And she was coming fast.

You screamed, you pushed — and suddenly, everything fell away.

The nurse’s voice filtered in through the haze. “It’s a girl.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled as they placed her on your chest, slick and warm and alive. The world narrowed to a heartbeat and the softest cry.

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

Deep blue a touch lighter than yours, with some green in it. Familiar. Exactly the same shade as his.

Quinn.

You’d spent the past nine months trying not to think of him. Trying to erase the weight of the Instagram post that shattered your heart — his smile beside her, captioned “Heart”

But now, here she was. With his eyes. The proof that Vegas wasn’t just a mistake. It had left you with someone permanent.

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

Vancouver in early spring was always wet and green. You’d found peace in its stillness, a small rented flat near the sea, and a part-time job at a bookstore that let you be home by three.

Olympia ran ahead on chubby legs, clutching her red balloon and squealing as the ducks in the park scrambled. Her hair curled in soft brown waves. Her laugh was infectious. She was everything.

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

You knew Jack had moved closer. That his family still spoke well of you.

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

Two figures coming down the paved path, side by side. Quinn and Jack. Laughing about something. You froze mid-step, your heart doing a strange, sharp twist.

You hadn’t seen him in person since that morning in Vegas.

Quinn stopped first.

His eyes scanned you, then softened in surprise. His lips parted slightly, like a question was sitting on his tongue but hadn’t formed yet.

Jack said something, but you didn’t hear it.

“Hey…” Quinn’s voice was quiet, unsure. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, tensing your jaw. You were about to reply when you heard her.

“Mama!”

Olly’s voice rang out, bright and high, and she came toddling over, arms outstretched.

You bent to scoop her up, hugging her to your hip like muscle memory. You didn’t look at him yet. Not yet.

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

His expression folded inward, shock overtaking confusion. Because there, in your arms, was a little girl with his exact same eyes. The same curl in her hair. The same shape to her mouth.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “She’s yours?”

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

You saw it in his eyes before you heard it in his voice — the slow-burning panic blooming behind his irises, the sharp, silent question written in the twitch of his jaw: She looks like me. How is that possible?

Quinn stared at your daughter like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask himself in three years. You adjusted her on your hip, her tiny hand curled around your necklace as she blinked up at the stranger. Stranger to her, anyway.

“She yours?” he asked, voice raw, cautious.

“She’s mine,” you answered carefully, but your voice cracked under the weight of truth, and you saw it land.

That hurt that bloomed over his face—it was real.

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You nodded once. “Yes. She’s yours, Quinn.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t relief—it was devastation, thick and swallowing. He stepped back a little, like the truth physically hit him. Jack said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant. This was Quinn’s storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him. “Because you left me. You ran out of that hotel room like I was a mistake, and a few days later, you were posting pictures with your girlfriend on Instagram. I found out I was pregnant the same week.”

Quinn was silent.

“You didn’t even check if I was okay,” you continued, words trembling now. “You never texted. Never called. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to beg someone to be a father who didn’t want to be there.”

Quinn’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I panicked. I was scared—”

“You were selfish, Quinn,” you snapped, more pain than anger. “I was terrified. I went through pregnancy alone. I gave birth alone. I’ve raised her—every scraped knee, every nightmare, every milestone. Alone.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

“I never wanted you to be alone,” he whispered. “I was a coward. I thought if I ignored it, it would disappear. But it didn’t. You didn’t. And now she’s here and she looks at me like she knows me and I—”

He stopped himself, choking on the weight of it all.

“I want to know her,” he said finally. “Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

—

It started small. A text asking how she was doing. A message asking what kind of books she liked. A FaceTime where she shyly showed him her dinosaur pajamas. And slowly—like thawing ice—he melted into her life.

He came to the playground and pushed her on the swing. She reached for his hand without hesitation.

He showed up at your door with her favorite muffins and left with marker drawings all over his forearms.

The first time she called him “Dad,” he cried. Quietly. You saw it, though. And your heart cracked open.

Then came the big things.

Introducing her to Ellen and Jim. Watching Jack fall in love with her in five minutes flat. Quinn holding her on the bench of a Canucks pre-game warmup, helmet on her head three sizes too big.

And one day, he stood in front of you, nerves in his fingers, and said, “I left her. A while ago. The girlfriend. I should’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t want to show up like a white knight.”

“You’re not a white knight,” you replied. “But you’re trying. That means something.”

He took your hand. Carefully. “Can we try too?”

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

Your daughter ran between you both just then, laughing with her pigtails bouncing, and without thinking, you reached out together—one hand each, steadying her between you.

You looked at her. Then at him.

And for the first time in three years, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe… things weren’t broken.

Just unfinished.

——

It started with a question, whispered one quiet evening in your daughter’s room.

Quinn had come to tuck her in like he did now every night he was in Vancouver. She’d taken to calling him “Q” at first, unsure of what else to call him. Now it was “Daddy.” Sometimes “Daddy Q,” when she was being silly.

That night, as he settled the stuffed unicorn into her arms and brushed her dark hair behind her ear, she blinked up at him with those same eyes. His eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. “Are you and mommy married?”

Quinn blinked. He glanced over his shoulder at you. You smiled softly, already knowing this day would come.

“Kind of,” he said, trying to be gentle. “A long time ago. But not… not properly.”

She frowned. “I want it to be properly.”

It stayed in his head all night.

And three days later, as the two of you stood on your balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the Vancouver skyline glow like it was holding your secret, he turned to you.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be my almost-wife. I want you to be my real wife.”

You turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t go down on one knee. He just took your hand, kissed the ring that never left it — the one from Vegas you never dared to take off — and added softly, “Let’s do it right this time.”

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

Held in Vancouver, at a garden you’d always loved as a child. Your daughter wore a white dress with tulle wings sewn onto the back. She walked down the aisle holding a little velvet box, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Jack — proudly grinning — waited at Quinn’s side as best man.

Your dress wasn’t flashy. It was soft, elegant. Your bouquet was wildflowers. And as you reached the end of the aisle, your daughter took your hand and placed it into Quinn’s, the whole garden holding its breath.

Quinn looked at you like it was the first time. Even after everything — the mistake, the heartbreak, the rediscovery — he still looked at you like you were the beginning and end of his world.

“I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t stop the tears as you said it back.

⸻

The reception was simple — a long table under strings of lights, family and friends all gathered. Jack toasted to “the only couple I’ve ever known who got married in reverse order.” Your daughter climbed into Quinn’s lap halfway through the cake. He fed her the icing off his finger, kissing her temple like he’d never lost a single day.

Later, you danced to no music under the stars, her asleep in her flower girl dress in your mother’s arms.

“I always meant it,” he whispered in your ear. “Even back then. Even when I was scared. I’ve loved you every damn second.”

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

And in the warm hush of the garden, his lips met yours.

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻

[texanpanda]

Bob Reynolds x gn!reader

This is the first thing I've written in a very long time and probably the first story I've ever posted. Not sure how to format but I'll figure it out. I cried on my floor listening to the Let Down cover by Mack Lorén and then this idea popped into my head and wouldn't let me rest so here ya go.

I think I've kept the description and interactions with the reader pretty neutral even though I was picturing my oc Stella the entire time. Let me know if you like it and I might try to be creative again lol.

It had been over an hour since Bob saw you disappear into your bedroom. You had come out in an oversized sweatshirt and gotten a cold bottle of water from the fridge. When he offered a quiet "Hey-" you had hummed quietly in response then continued down the hall.

His leg bounced as he sat in his usual reading spot, occasionally glancing down the hall to your room. You had been acting distant that day and it sent his mind into overdrive. He wasn't sure if you were mad at him or if maybe something else was bothering you but he felt an overwhelming need to fix it.

He tried to go back to reading his book but couldn't get past the first sentence on the page before needing to lift his head to look down the hall again. His gut was telling him that something was wrong. He wanted to brush it off as his usual anxiety but couldn't because what if something really was wrong with you? What if you were hurt and hid it from him? What if you were mad at him for not helping with the dishes or for leaving the coffee creamer out yesterday? Did he even do that or was he making up reasons for you to be upset with him?

Snapping his book shut, he stood and made his way down the hall. There was nothing wrong with checking in, right? You always told him that he could come talk to you about anything. And that you wouldn't be mad if he asked a dumb question. Even if it sounded rude or inappropriate, there was always a way to move forward with the conversation.

You were helping him figure out how to communicate better. Not just with you but with everyone else in the tower and beyond. You had been in therapy for several years and had done your own research on the coping skills you had learned so you were the go-to person when anyone in the tower was struggling. But who do you go to? Who checks in with you when you are struggling?

Bob wanted to be that person. Not just to help you, because he definitely cared about you and wanted to make sure you were okay but also to be useful. He wanted to help in any way that he could so that him being here meant something. So that he meant something. To you.

When he reached your door he hesitated. He could faintly hear music playing from behind the door. Tilting his weight from side to side he contemplating actually knocking on your door or trying to go back to reading. What if you just wanted some alone time and him checking in was actually ruining your day? He shouldn't be trying to take up your time with his stupid need to help. He'll just make it-

His thoughts were cut off when he heard a sniffle sound. Had he heard correctly? Were you okay? He leaned his head closer to the door, the scolded himself mentally for trying to eavesdrop. But got distracted when he heard the sound of you blowing your nose and something almost like a whimper.

All doubts forgotten he knocked and called out your name. The sniffling stopped and he knocked again. The music went quiet and he faintly heard you call out "come in" . When he opened the door he was met with a sight that made his stomach drop and his head spin.

You were curled up on the floor hugging a pillow. Tears were streaming down your face as you blew your nose again then tossed the tissue into your nearby trash can. You looked like you had been full sobbing the entire hour he hadn't seen you and his chest clenched at the very idea of you suffering alone.

"Oh my God- ar- are you okay? What happened? What's wrong?" He stumbled into the room and knelt next to you, hands uselessly hovering in the air as if to grab you and check for injuries. He couldn't see anything immediate but that didn't mean there wasn't something hidden.

You let out a snort of laughter then sniffled again. "I'm fine, Bob." You replied so casually like your eyes weren't red and your breathing wasn't stuttering.

"You don't look fine." He fired back, no longer worried about upsetting you. "You look- what happened? Why- why are you crying? On the floor?" His hands flexed mid air as if instinctively wanting to hold you but not knowing if that would be welcome right now.

You blinked up at him then reached for the water bottle sitting beside you. "Oh, it's floor time." As if that would answer any questions he could possibly have about your current state.

"Floor time? What's floor time?" He'd never heard of floor time and was a little afraid to find out if it left you in tears.

"Oh yeah. It's a coping thing my old roomate and I used to do." Even with some context he was still confused. You had taken a small sip of water and then let out a deep sigh. When you looked up at him again you could see the confusion clearly on his face. "Lying on the floor and listening to sad music is a good way to cry." You explained simply.

"Uh, yeah. I can see that. But-" He couldn't quite wrap his head around you seemingly happy to have a full meltdown on the floor, like it was normal. "I don't get why?" His hands dropped to his knees as he looked you over again.

You nodded as if his confusion made perfect sense to you. "It's not for everyone. But with our line of work, I don't always have time to express my emotions in a healthy way, y'know?" You waved your hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "We're constantly on the move with missions stuff and it gets pretty overwhelming, so I decided to pick a time to cry before my body decided for me." You cracked a smile at your joke and he felt his lips twitch in an attempt to match it.

He nodded in understanding. There were times when the others got loud or someone made a comment that had him holding back tears. He never really thought about how often he felt overwhelmed with everything. Most of the time he tries to push it aside or hold it back.

"Yeah, so I like to set aside time every couple of weeks to just, have a good cry." You gesture to you self and your little set-up on the floor. That's when he realized that everything around you had been placed deliberately. The water bottle for hydration, the pillow for comfort, even the tissue box and mini trash can were all within easy access.

He'd never heard of purposely setting yourself up to have "a good cry" as you called it but he could see the benefits if letting all your feelings out.

"So you...you're not hurt?" You smiled at his concern and shook your head.

"No, I'm not hurt. And I was pretty much done when you knocked anyway." He nodded along, feeling embarrassed that he had freaked out about something you considered so normal. You watched him sit there staring at the bottle in your hands like it held the answers to the universe.

"Would you like to have some floor time too? I've got a good Playlist." His eyes trailed up to your face where you held a calm smile. His gaze dropped back down and he shrugged a shoulder.

"I don't think I'd be very good at it." His voice was quiet, still embarrassed and now wondering if he should have just stayed in his reading corner. Your hand reached out to brush his arm gently.

"There's no being good or bad at it. There's just letting yourself feel." You squeezed his arm slightly and he leaned into the touch. "It can be hard to do and there's no pressure to do anything but lying on the floor and listening to sad music helps me personally so if you want to try it you totally can."

Now that he was sitting on the floor with you, in your bedroom, there was a part of him that wanted to take any excuse to stay with you. Even if that meant crying in front of you.

He chewed on his bottom lip in contemplation. You sat beside him, body relaxed with your thumb gently rubbing his sweater.

"What do I do?" He finally asked. Your responding grin was bright enough to make his heard stutter.

"Alright first things first, make sure you have comfy clothes." He looked down at his usual ensemble of sweater, and sweatpants. "Check. Next get something for hydration. If you're gonna cry you gotta replenish that water. I've still got some in mine if you like." You'd managed to drink about half the bottle and handed it to him. He took it without question and held it like a life line.

"Check." He said softy.

"Next we lay down and get comfy on the floor. C'mere." You gestured to the emtpy space next you and lay down on your back. He followed your instructions and lay down on his back beside you.

It was then that he noticed you had tiny glow in the dark stars on your ceiling. His eyes traced over the imaginary constellations as you shifted and brushed your shoulder against his.

"Alright, final step is play some deep emotional music and then let yourself feel whatever you feel." You reach up to grab your phone and press play. Instantly the room is filled with a soft piano song that he doesn't recognize. "Don't forget to breath."

You both lay on the floor quietly breathing and letting the notes from the song wash over you. Bob let's out a deep breath and feels his body start to relax into the carpet. He isn't really sure what he's supposed to be feeling but he knows he's feeling something.

You reach over again and brush your fingers against his. He wiggles his fingers back until they are hooked with yours. Not quite holding hands, but connected in a way that feels comforting. Something in his shoulders let go and a tension he didn't know he felt finally releases.

The song changes to the ballad cover of a rock song. As you lay there next to eachother he thinks about everything that's ever happened in his life. His parents, his addiction, the vault. None of it really makes him cry but it feels good to think about everything without a voice in his head bringing it up first.

A sniffle pulls his attention back to you. He glances to the side to see slow tears seeping out of your eyes. Your face isn't scrunched but relaxed as the tears slide down the side of your face into your hair. You slowly reach up to wipe one when it gets to close to your ear.

Bob watches you for a second before turning his eyes back to the stars on the ceiling. He lays there for another minute, listening to the vocals of the ballad and waiting...

But nothing happens.

His body is more relaxed but no tears come. He wants to cry. He has so many reasons to cry but it just- isn't happening. His body isn't in the moment and he doesn't feel the need to cry. He let's out a frustrated huff.

"I don't think I'm doing it right." He speaks finally, annoyed at himself that he can't do something as simple as cry. You sniffed again then turned to face him.

"You're not doing anything wrong, Bob." You told him and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. "If you don't need to cry right now then don't worry about it. We can just sit here and listen to music." He turns to look at you again and you offer him a teary smile. He feels a pull in his chest at the sight, but nods and searches the ceiling for constellations again.

"We can just...sit here." He repeats like the concept of simply existing was entirely new to him. Your fingers curl into his his again and together you simply...exist.

The next half hour is spent mostly in silence as your tears dry up and you both enjoy the peaceful atmosphere in the room. Bob didn't shed any tears but let his body relax for the first time in a long time and that was kind of the whole point wasn't it?

@may-daye here's the full one-shot for you

[ipso-faculty]

This is a rant about the Scientific American diagram on intersex

This diagram makes the rounds periodically as an illustration of how sex development is complicated. Unfortunately, I don't think people really give it a close look, because it is incredibly intersexist.

The first thing to know about this diagram is it advocates for intersex genital mutilation. Here are actual boxes in the diagram:

"Genitals can be modified to look more typically female" is written in the part about how CAH looks at birth. "Dysgenic gonad and testis can be removed and genitals modified to look female" is under MGD at birth. "Dysgenic gonad can be removed and genitals modified to look male" is ALSO under MGD at birth and under PAIS.

Let's be clear here. This diagram is advocating that *babies* should be put through genital mutilation that causes permanent nerve damage, just so the babies can look "normal". 🤬

It also advocates removing gonads from babies, because they're the "wrong" ones. 🤬

The same diagram also advocates putting intersex youths on HRT to "promote (male/female) characteristics" or "regulate effects of [one's natural but apparently incorrect] male hormones". Again, coercive medical shit used to try and make our bodies conform to perinormativity without regard for our bodily autonomy, gender identity, goals, etc. 👀

Speaking of gender. The text that looks like the title of the diagram is the infobox on "the gender spectrum", which visually makes this seem about gender rather than sex. 🤨 This infobox also sucks: it defines trans, cis, and nonbinary, without any regard for how intersex people identify. I assume it's there to try explain to ignorant people that intersex is not gender, but in doing so it totally forgets that intersex people have gender and we often don't fit into these definitions of trans/nb/cis! It really reflects a view that intersex people aren't people with experiences and identities, we are just anatomical oddities. 🙃

The descriptions in the diagram are also gratuitously gendered. Like, "male hormones" are used rather than androgens, "female hormones" are used rather than estrogens, and there's vague shit like "male characteristics" (which ones?). 👀

Unsurprisingly, intersex variations are referred to by their pathologizing names, and they're called "intersex conditions" rather than variations. Language in the diagram throws around loaded shit like "biological male" (as in, intersex people are not). 🙃

Altogether this is deeply intersexist diagram, and it's upsetting every time I see it make the rounds. This is not the pro-intersex diagram people seem to think it is. 😩

[allthecastlesonclouds]

d20 fic-off 2025 fic recs! (part one)

so, this is the first post of two i'll be making! was struck with the want to toss some of the many fics i enjoyed from this year out into the world, because people truly threw themselves into this event and i had such a fun time reading the fics i read (because i'd wager a guess i read the most fics of the non-mods)

welcome to part one! more lighthearted fics! and also ell. ell's here too.

Diversity Win! Aguefort Gym Is Gay! by @luvo27 (fantasy high, 5k words, archive locked)

luvo’s in world voice is amazing and when i say this fic is the exact amount of wildness that exists in like. a fantasy high liveshow. i mean it. i’m invested in these buildings’ love story, god dammit!

stillness in woe by @serenescribe (fantasy high fabian&riz, 106.5k words)

my dear, dear friend ell, i was hanging on to every single word of that fic. Being able to live react was delightful and AUGH every beat of that story hits so well. fabian’s and riz’s bond is. so so well portrayed. and the world that you’ve created, too, is beautiful.

untangled all the strings 'round my wings that were tied by @vivitalks! (a starstruck odyssey, sid/barry, 4.6k words)

sundrysyx (/sidbarry) is one of my pc/pc ships EVER. and this is delightful! the chaos of AnarchEra is amazingly captured and everyone is so them

premature quangle by @arcanearies (fh/tuc, pete&kristen, 2k words, archive locked)

the one time you will write kristen happy, my friend, and you did it beautifully! The first two beardsley pcs facing each other and pete being. truly so so lost while kristen thinks the interaction was a 10/10. amazing amazing amazing 

come over and wreck my heart by @starstruckodysseys (never stop blowing up, dripsdrops, 3k words, archive locked)

leave it to reese to expand the universe of the characters that our amazing/awesome action heroes took over, by, of course, putting them in college. feat beautiful lesbianism that i’m so sad didn’t happen in canon. dripsdrops theeee ship name ever.

They Did The Monster Mash (It Was A Graveyard Smash) by @mossterious and @starstruckodysseys (never stop blowing up, 61k words, 20/30 chapters)

this one isn’t yet complete but i am patiently waiting because. NSBU Universal Monsters AU. featuring familiars i will forever be suspicious of (i shouldn’t be) (but they’re suspicious goddammit) the formatting is so cool and the voices are amazing– which is important because the fic’s in script format!

the stars are out tonight by @scalematey (the unsleeping city/stardew valley, kingston brown&oc, 7.8k words)

a “kingston brown forced out of nyc (to go to pelican town) (to help the farmer who’s a populi)” fic that truly delights me. Make that man stand in the rain!!!! hell yeah!!!

Christmas in July by @rrat-king (fantasy high, kristen/tracker, 4.5k)

this fic is the wonderful, wonderful result of “making fig’s two birthdays canon compliant” AND has beautiful trackerbees AND has amazing bad kids and manorlings dynamics!! Bird you’ve done it again <3

A Correspondence of Natalia Cicero Connie Lee Carter Bajar Shortly Prior to Lunch On The 30th Day Of The 219th Cycle of Anarch Era by @remidyal (a starstruck odyssey, 205 words)

a letter that’s a poem that’s an ultimatum. it’s torturous. it’s beautiful.

Skating by @thepoweroffriendshipgivesumoney (fantasy high, sklonda&riz&tbk&tbp, 964 words, archive locked)

talking about what the bad kids would do on the ice was so fun, and juse’s descriptions of them are even better. sklonda’s voice is delightful, too!

Gay Gym? by Artistkitty (fantasy high, fig/ayda/gorgug, 303 words, archive locked)

fig/ayda/gorgug theee ship ever i love them smmmm! It’s so short and sweet and cute and! aa!

forget the world now, we won't let them see by @highfiveheroes (fantasy high, fabian/gorgug, 3k words, archive locked)

some soft pre-canon thistlecaster in the aftermath of a figayda wedding, and when i say soft i mean soft and cute and sweet and the fluffiest ever <3333

Good-Night, Sweet Prince by @unsleepingtales (fantasy high, 1k words, archive locked)

!!!!!!! fic written for me i thinkkk. body euphoria for zayn after death with some mentioned yolanda&zayn friendship and. alksadhflkjasd<333

AITA for giving a second chance to the guy that attacked me and my friends? by @fish-food-s (fantasy high, adaine/oisin, 2k words, archive locked)

this was a delightfully fun fic to comment on as i followed along, and i highly recommend everyone read the comments to see a bunch of people pretend to be characters in universe as Adaine Goes Through It In The Relationship World <33

[nutsackx]

TELL ME ABOUT UR AUS!! I want to know your favorites

Rubs hands together evilly. I’m gonna do a brief brief description

my first (if I’m not mistaken) was the wokesiders. I thought I was the first person to do this but then I saw a lot of people have cool designs so I’m not sure?? Atleast I know mine is just the gang with different subcultures of clothing. I lost the OG but I do remember Darry being a retired scene kid?

raggedy ann is my FAVORITE in the sense that I obsess over raggedy ann. I really want to make designs for the whole gang, but it’s more difficult than I thought…

crazy scientist AU is probably tied for #1. designing them was so so fun and I love anything horror related. It’s based loosely off of Reanimator and a book series called Asylum, Pony being a perfect Herbert West.

I TECHNICALLY have a genderbend AU and have drawn designs, but they’re mostly old and that’s not really a me only thing… but it’s an excuse to make yuri Fanart so

there’s also my beloved Pokémon AU. Once again, had fun with the designs, but those boys took it OUT of me. Planning that was…urgh…and teh video on TikTok lowk flopped.

clown motel is another recent highlight!! I saw a photo of a clown motel on Pinterest was just thought…how do I force the outsiders onto this. I really do hope to make more content for it sometime soon!! But…a nsfw author on a03 that shall not be named said they were gonna make a freaky fic about it, and it kinda turned me off from it for a while.

I’ve gotten a lot of asks for Cowboysiders. Again, I am no where near the first to make that, but I love their designs! I didn’t flesh it out a lot, it was mainly just an excuse to draw them with funky outfits. I probably won’t have much more to post about it.

I also have a teacher AU I was working on!! I love ones where they just…have normal jobs. I have eveyrthing planned out, I just have yet to draw it. same with ones based off of The Office, Superstore, B99, and Bistro Huddy….can you tell I like sitcoms?

I think that’s it?? Maybe?? I loose track

[mogruith]

Now that I'm home, I need to add @majorasnightmare's tags to the post:

#i can imagine being chosen to play lolth would itself constitute a THREAT#YOU CANT GET A MORE EXPLICIT ''SET UP TO FAIL'' THAN THAT#so you might even get your political RIVALS put into the position#which inversely gives them the oppurtunity to triumph above you and your schemes#in a ploy im sure lolth adores from both ends#because that dynamic entertains her no matter what#its also a fairly safe move politically too#if your rival fails she displeases lolth and is killed badly for it#however if your rival succeeds youve technically brought great honor and esteem to the web mother!#ITS SO GOOD!!!!

I wanna add these to the post 'cause they're an excellent addition. 10/10 love the idea that setting up to play Lolth would be a death trap by itself with the promise of unmatched glory - and who knows it might result in more than just favor among your people.

Some other things I'm throwing in that are tangential is the sound of it. Namely how strange (to us, the audience) it sounds.

Here's a brief description of drow music for reference:

Perhaps the strangest of drow art forms is their music. The children of Lolth enjoy strange, prolonged, wavering sounds that other races consider unappealing or even uncomfortable. These often seem atonal at first, but when combined through the proper techniques they produce a symphony of alien, haunting appeal. The dark elves possess a variety of unique instruments, including the vazhan-do, a complex lute with sixty-four strings that can be plucked swiftly for a torrent of notes, or bent slowly, producing a ghostly wail; and the ezhirkiri, a wind instrument that transforms the air blowing through it into the sound of agonized, yet strangely melodic, shrieks. Drow of the Underdark - p. 29

And there's a scene from Daughter of the Drow that describes an elaborate dance with magical enhancements:

All eyes were upon her as she began to stamp a rhythmic counterpoint to the drum. Her arms started an intricate weave, and one by one other drums joined in, as well as strange percussion instruments known only to the drow. Then a deep-voiced flute began to play a strange, compelling tune, a melody that had once been sung by elves in the Lands of Light, many centuries past. Those long-dead elves would not recognize their song; its fey magic had shifted and changed to reflect the beings who now played it. Beautiful still, the music retained all of the mystery of the elven race, and none of the joy. The drow had forgotten that emotion. But they understood pleasure, and they would pursue it wildly in an attempt to fill the unrecognized void in their elven souls. Daughter of the Drow - Chapter 5

Strange, atonal, alien, haunting. A ghostly wail and agonized, melodic shrieks. Ancient elven song that's now joyless. I think A LOT about what Drow music sounds like and I never have a good answer to this. But I think this paints a pretty good picture, at least conceptually. But I would struggle to offer up a concrete example of what exactly that sounds like.

The brain worm today is drow opera.

Yeah. Yeah, you read that right. Drow opera. [is this a thing already? If not it should be]

I've talked about Coranzan being musically inclined thanks to his mother's instruction and that he was an actor doing propaganda pieces for a while.

So naturally... My brain went to opera as a cross section of those things and now I'm obsessed with the idea. I am putting Coran in there for his pre-Surface days.

It's the perfect venue for entertainment, propaganda, political showmanship and positioning, grandeur, and not to mention the absolute sadism possible as a part of it. For the audience and the singers.

I might yap about this little by little over the day as I find pockets of time.

But. TLDR Wagner. Absolutely Wagner.

[yveshusband]

My sister and I made a painting together for an open call for a this local gallery (They do this like monthly exhibitions open to any local artists based around a theme, the theme this time was collaboration (the artwork had to be made by more than one person)). And we thought about it more like a personal project, like when we had to put a price for it we weren't even sure. This weekend was the exhibition and my sister called me because someone contacted her wanting to buy it even before the exhibition was officially open (the gallery also rents out studios for artists, the guy who saw our painting was one of those artists). He started asking all these questions about our background and if we had an IG or website bcs he wanted to follow and see more of our work. My sister and I are so shocked bcs we really hadn't prepared for any of this, and now we are scrambling to make a proper IG and site for just our art. It's fun and exciting

[camficdiner]

Hi 😊 I love your work!

1.2 2.6 3.1 4.3 please?

☕ Cam’s Fic Diner — Order 038

🍒 thank you!

To the sweetheart who ordered this: soft boys with busted lips and even softer crushes? You’re speaking my language. Hope this stitched-up story gives you all the butterflies 💉💗

💬 “Split Open, Wide Open”

✨ description & prompts

character: Quinn Hughes

prompt: You’re Brock Boeser’s sister, a nurse on night shift. After Quinn splits his lip during a game, Brock begs you to stitch him up. He shows up bruised and beautiful… and maybe that’s the night everything changes.

word count: ~1.9k

type: fluff, slow burn, soft invitation, quiet pining, late night tenderness

⸻

You were on hour ten of your twelve-hour night shift when your phone buzzed. Again. You ignored it — until you saw the name.

Brock.

You slipped into the empty hallway outside triage and answered, voice taut.

“Brock, it’s three in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look—don’t kill me, okay? It’s for Quinn.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“What happened?”

“He took a puck to the face. His lip’s split bad. It’s… it’s bleeding a lot. Team doc’s out, and he doesn’t want stitches from a stranger. He’s on his way to your hospital.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“You’re the only one he trusts,” Brock said quietly. “Please?”

Ten minutes later, Quinn Hughes walked into your ER with a towel pressed to his mouth, eyes glassy, jaw tight. And he was still stupidly handsome.

He was quiet as you led him to an empty exam room, his steps careful, the blood blooming through the towel in slow, sticky streaks. The second the door shut behind you, you couldn’t help it.

“I told you to wear a cage.”

“I’m not even your patient yet,” he mumbled through the towel.

“You’re about to be.” You tugged on gloves. “Sit down and shut up.”

He smiled — or tried to. It just made him wince.

You examined the cut. The skin was torn straight through, lower lip swollen, bruising starting to crawl down toward his chin.

“You need stitches.”

“I figured.” He looked at you — really looked at you — and then whispered, “You’re still wearing the same necklace.”

You froze.

He meant the gold one, the tiny ‘B’ charm your dad gave you and Brock before he passed. You wore it every shift. You didn’t think Quinn would notice.

But of course he did.

You cleared your throat and started prepping the suture kit. “It’s going to hurt.”

He tilted his head. “You mean emotionally or physically?”

You gave him a look. “Don’t be cute.”

“You always say that, and yet here I am.”

You bit back a smile and numbed him up, cleaned the cut, and stitched him slowly — careful, steady, even though your heart was thudding the entire time. His eyes never left yours.

When you finished, he touched your wrist gently.

“Thanks for fixing me up.”

You stepped back, tearing off your gloves. “All in a night’s work.”

But then he said it.

“Come over.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Just for a while. You’re off soon, right?” His voice was soft. “I won’t sleep anyway. I… I don’t really want to be alone tonight.”

You looked at him — swollen lip, messed-up curls, exhausted eyes.

“I’m Brock’s sister,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know. But you’re also you. And I’ve been trying not to ask you that for months.”

Your breath caught. “I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “Had to try.”

You turned away quickly, gathering supplies, tossing gloves, wiping down the tray.

You were halfway to the door when he said, quieter:

“…But if you change your mind, you know where I live.”

⸻

You sat in your car for ten minutes after your shift ended, hands on the wheel.

You didn’t know what made you turn the engine back on and head toward his apartment. You just… did.

⸻

He opened the door in sweats and a hoodie, ice pack in one hand.

“Didn’t expect you.”

“You asked.”

He stepped aside. You walked in.

Silence. Then:

“I’m not trying to make it weird,” he said. “I just… I miss you.”

You turned to him. “We’ve never even dated.”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah, but I think about it all the time. What if we had?”

You swallowed.

“I don’t want Brock to hate me.”

“I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t look for you at every game,” he said. “And I don’t think Brock would be surprised.”

You looked at him for a long moment — then gently reached up, touched the bandage on his lip.

“You always get hurt when I’m on shift.”

“Maybe I do it on purpose.”

You laughed — softly, nervously — and he smiled.

That was all it took.

You kissed him.

Gently, carefully, hands in his hoodie, the heat of his skin beneath your palms. His lips were warm, wounded but willing. He groaned quietly into your mouth, pressing you back into the wall like he’d been waiting all season for this.

“I thought you said no,” he murmured against your cheek.

“I changed my mind.”

“Good.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, mouth parted, hands curled in your hair. He tasted like clean laundry and cherry chapstick, and when you slipped your arms around his waist, he whispered, “Stay. Please.”

And this time, you said yes.

⸻

Fast-forward — next morning

You woke up wrapped in his arms, cheek pressed to his chest. His lip was still puffy, but the smile on it was real.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, voice raw.

You shook your head. “Not even a little.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’d really like to see where this goes.”

You smiled.

“I think you already know.”

[eldritch-ace]

People seemed to enjoy my other hatchetfield art, so enjoy some murder spouses >:3

[thatoneperson747]

THIS. it's a pretty large portion of the reason why I never liked Alyss' character that much, partially because her defining character traits were being tall, pretty, and in love with Will. Yes, she was a diplomat and a good one at that, but when did we get to see it? Literally the only physical description I remember her getting is being tall, blonde, and pretty. Really Flanagan? And it's fine for Will to think that, honestly, but the older characters? Seriously? That's creepy as fuck.

And don't even get me started on Halt and Pauline. Yes, I think they could be a great couple, but they were written SO SHITTY. You're telling me Halt. Ranger Halt. The former Crown Prince of Goddamn Clonmel. That one. You're trying to tell me he's scared of his wife? He shouldn't be! He wasn't scared of her before!! I think it was Erak's Ransom that it was mentioned, but wherever it was mentioned, it was mentioned too much! No one should be scared of their partner.

Also!! You're telling me that Halt would take one (1) look at a pretty girl (Pauline in TEY) and immediately start acting like he was fucking lobotomized?!?!! He can't talk, his movements are clumsy and messed up, like seriously??? He's a fucking PRINCE. He knows how to act around everyone, especially pretty women!!!

And then Arridia. We were told in Erak's Ransom that the Arridians were Matriarchal, but where do we see that?!?! At ALL?!?! The closest we get to it is when Will is trying to impress that one tribe leader (can't remember his name it's been a while since I read Erak's Ransom) by shooting his bow at the snake, and the leader's wife comes and sticks up for Will when the leader gets mad at him for shooting near that kid.

AND EVEN THAT is done in the half-assed oh-no-gotta-make-the-wife-happy kinda way.

FLANAGAN WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST WOMEN?!

Ok I love Ranger's Apprentice. Like, we all know this by know (sorry to my followers who didn't follow me for this shit). But can we talk about how Flanagan portrays women for a second? Because...

Halt is *really* weird about Alyss. From thinking about how he'd be interested in her "if he was 20 years younger" to laughing and playing up her conflict with Evanlyn (Cassandra), he's really creepy about her all throughout the books. Speaking of the conflict with Evanlyn, they don't even manage to pass the Bechdel test until well into Emperor of Nihon Ja because of Alyss's purported jealousy.

I like how much better he's been doing with The Royal Ranger series (growth is awesome! Go Flanagan!), but the fact is that female characters in the OG series really aren't treated that great and it makes me really uncomfy sometimes.

[qwantzfeed]

the raven paradox was discovered by Carl Gustav Hempel in the 1940s, which was before the invention of Sonic the Hedgehog, which is why Sonic is not USUALLY included in the description of this paradox.  But good news: Carl died in 1997, and the first Sonic game came out in 1991, so it's NOT IMPOSSIBLE that this towering figure in logical empiricism both knew and enjoyed playing the Sega Genesis adventures of Sonic D. Hedgehog