#💌.valentinesevent

[bratbarzal]

for ur valentines blurb pretty please these prompts with quinn hughes ☺️😘

¹⁾ “you really planned this?! remind me how you’re single, again?”

⁴⁾ “c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.”

⁵⁾ “i can’t help but think that this is a little more effort than someone would normally put in for their friend.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

idk why I give prompts and then continue to go off script but I honestly think I have a problem with being told what to do lmao. something about scripted sentence cuts a creative wire in my brain. THE SENTIMENT OF WHAT I WROTE IS THE SAME!!!!! I promise. also I like this one lmao!! I hope you like it too thanks for requesting!! and stacking the prompts is very cool gave me a nice little story to follow I love it!!! I wrote this whole thing and realised I didn't mention valentines once, but it's belated, so..... we're going to pretend it's okay I've decided on your behalf thanks love you

this ended up at 3.4k words lol - warnings for fade to black type smut, slightly angsty

Quinn: you coming over tonight?

A text from him has never filled you with anxiety like this.

But then again, for as long as the two of you have been friends, you've never actively avoided Quinn until now.

Monday had been one word answers, Tuesday had been emojis, Wednesday had been reactions, and Thursday had been radio silence, because he hadn't texted you, anyway.

It's not that you're mad at him. You wish you could be mad - wish you had any reason other than your own shame to be turning down all attempts at contact. But instead, all you can think when you see his name is how much you had fucked everything up the last time you saw him.

You: idk

And only because you feel instantly bad about how short that is, you immediately follow up with:

You: work has kicked my ass this week

You see the little dots keep popping up, and you're only torturing yourself to watch them come and go as he figures out what to say - how to salvage what you'd so carelessly made a gigantic mess of only last weekend.

You should really just say yes, you think - be the bigger person. Fridays have been your thing, all season. The day of the week he most frequently has the night off, and an end to your usually-hectic work-week, it has just made sense for the two of you to hang out, to make a routine of doing so.

Bailing on him is harsh, you know that. And with such a weak excuse too - you've had much worse times in your job, and it's never come between the two of you before.

And you know that he knows what you're doing. It's obvious. It's just whether he's in any mood to try and recover whatever scraps of your friendship still remain. Whether he even cares, anymore.

Quinn: please?

The two minutes it took for him to type just one word dragged longer than they ever have in your life, and you blink at your phone screen as you see the dots jump up again.

You chew nervously at your lip and wait, tapping your foot against the side of your desk and watching this time as it stays.

Quinn: I've already bought enough to cook for us both

He's such a guilt tripper.

You sigh, typing back and sending an immediate response, figuring a week of the bare minimum is punishment enough without blanking him or making him wait.

You: okay

A heart pops up below your message almost immediately, the reaction only worsening your anxiety at the thought of how hard keeping your distance is.

You: I'm finishing later than usual, should be there around 8

Quinn: ok I'll have dinner ready for then!

--

You knock on Quinn's door a little after 8pm - still in your work clothes, although that is usually how you come over, in your defence. Quinn loans you something comfy, and you usually change, but changing means staying over, and you're kind of trying to avoid all that again.

So when he welcomes you in, you awkwardly pat at his back as he tries to embrace you, before hovering around the kitchen instead of making your way back to his room.

He frowns a little as he watches you - he's in a hoodie and sweats, settled in now for the night with no intentions of getting back up once the two of you have eventually sunk down into the couch together - and waits a second to see if you're just on a delay, if you're just beat from work, like you said.

"I left a change of clothes for you on my bed," he says once he realises you aren't shifting, glancing quickly at you before he starts to busy himself with dishing up dinner.

"I'm good," you tell him, short, with a tight lipped smile sent his way when his eyes meet yours, narrowed in curiosity.

You're wearing a skirt and heels, for Christ's sake, and a blouse that's a little too restrictive around your shoulders. You've been in them all day, too. Of course you aren't good, and of course he knows that, but he drops it, a resigned nod and an awkward shift of his gaze back to the task at hand, spooning an assortment of green vegetables beside the rice on your plate.

You chance a good look at him while he's distracted - his hair soft, pushed back messily in a way that makes it flop straight back into place, and he looks a little tired, but he's had a long week, too. Back in training, pushing himself, dealing with a best friend who isn't reciprocating his energy. He's probably exhausted.

His jaw is clenched as he finishes the meal off, clattering utensils a little louder the longer you're quiet, and letting out heavy sighs when he's clearly growing more frustrated with how little you're giving back.

"How was work?" he tries, reaching into the draw and retrieving a knife and fork for the two of you.

"Long," you sigh, offering a small smile when he looks over to let him know that this particular instance of a short response isn't personal. You are genuinely exhausted - you'd worked an extra long day, just to get a major project finished, and, if you're honest, you're just ready for bed. "Glad it's the weekend, I'm probably gonna hit my pillow tonight and not see tomorrow."

The initial spark that lit up in his eyes when you started speaking a full sentence to him dulled immediately when he realised that you had all intentions of going home.

"You're not staying over?"

"I can hardly sleep here until Sunday, Quinn, that would be insane." Like you haven't spent consecutive days around his apartment, before. Like you haven't spent weeks with him back at his lake house in Michigan in the summer. Like the two of you didn't isolate together when you both got covid, probably from each other.

He nods, brief and sharp, jaw tensing again as he mutters out a bitter, "Right."

God, this is hard.

"Do you want me to carry anything?" You ask, trying to be helpful, just to make yourself feel better.

He wordlessly hands over the cutlery before turning to grab both plates on his own, nodding for you to make your way out of the kitchen for him to follow.

You do as he asks, holding the door for him so he doesn't struggle, stepping nervously behind him as he guides you through to where he's set the dining table up.

His curtains are drawn, a picturesque view of the nightlife of downtown Vancouver, twinkling city lights and the distant flash of vehicles passing by below stands as the most perfect backdrop to his set-up - the table candle-lit, a vase of fresh flowers in the middle, wine glasses and a salad bowl situated around the nice placemats you'd made him buy the last time the two of you went shopping together.

You hesitate when you get a little closer, eyeing up the setting reluctantly as Quinn places the plates in your retrospective places.

He's usually neat when it comes to his dinner table - usually likes to set things up so that they look nice, placemats, coasters. cutlery and napkins - but it's never like this.

"What's all this?" You ask, meeting his eye as he leans across the table to place down the knives and forks you hand to him.

"You said you had a bad week," he shrugs, "Wanted to do something nice."

He shuffles around you, the light placement of his hand on your hip as he does so jolting you toward the table, head swivelling to watch him disappear back toward the kitchen.

"You planned this?" you call after him, turning to look down at everything - a meal that he cooked, something nutritious and filling, knowing you wouldn't have the energy to make as much yourself, pretty flowers, and a calm, ambient atmosphere flooding the room. Your fingers poke softly at the petals on the flowers, lifting them a little to get a better look, mindful of the roses in the arrangement, careful not to be pricked by their thorns. "And you said you didn't think you'd be a good boyfriend,"

The latter sentence is muttered to yourself more than anything, a remembrance of something he'd said a while ago now - something that had always been in the back of your mind when you considered anything more - but your heart drops when you hear him chuckle from not too far behind, spinning on your heels to look at him, wide-eyed and apologetic. "I didnt-,"

“It’s fine,” he assures you, dipping his head but still keeping his gaze on yours, “Wine?”

He holds the bottle up in one hand, and your mouth goes a little dry at the sight of the label, mind going straight back to this time last week, when you had shared a few glasses with him. When things had gone too far.

Quinn's hands were holding you in place on his lap, soft fingers slipping under the hem of his sweatshirt that you wore, sliding up to press into the warm skin of your back, rocking you on his lap as his tongue swiped languidly against your own.

You couldn't quite tell whose mouth the taste of plummy Malbec sat within, but at that point, you didn't care - you'd both drunk enough of it to find yourselves in such a situation, you were at equal fault.

Not that any of it felt wrong in the moment, his hips bucking up as you straddled his thighs, your fingers clutching where his hair grew thick at the back of his neck. Quinn was humming soft, delicious groans straight between your lips, his own closing around your tongue as he sucked on it - all other bodily movements frantic and stuttered until he was repositioning the two of you, laying you back on the couch and gripping the elastic waist of your sweatpants.

It can't have been wrong - not with how easy it all unfolded, your hips lifting until he slid your bottoms off, his fingertips sneaking their beneath the hem of your panties - too drunk to care how sexy they might have been, never expecting to have to even consider such a thing around Quinn - all the while his mouth pressing firm, bruising kisses to your own.

"I shouldn't, I'm driving," you mumble, a soft shake of your head supposed to let him down easy, and to bring your senses back to the present, but his frown just deepens, the crease between his eyebrows now almost a fold.

"You can stay, you know," he tells you, pouring his own glass. "I don't care if you sleep until Sunday, it's not like you haven't spent the weekend before."

"I don't know," You sit cautiously in your seat, watching as he lowers into his own, face morphing into a hard scowl before he lets out a heavy sigh. "What?"

"It's like you've been making excuses not to hang out."

"Or maybe you've been making excuses to hang out," you retort, cringing yourself at how stupid it sounds, looking down into your lap as you place your napkin there so that he can't see the visible curl of your features.

"That doesn't even make sense," you know that, obviously, but you've been avoiding him for a reason - you don't want to have this conversation. You're not ready. "I don't need an excuse, we're friends, it's what friends do."

And God, you wish he'd just stop saying it. It's getting annoying now, your jaw tensing as you huff a short breath out, still keeping your head down to avoid him reading you like an open book - a book that may as well be pictures, at this point, or written for children with the most basic reading comprehension, one sentence per page and clear as day.

"What friends do," you mutter, in disbelief. He's one to talk about what friends do.

Friends don't do what you did last week.

Quinn's body had pretty much completely flopped onto yours, his chest rising and falling in heavy pants, but still careful enough not to bare all his weight on you so that yours could do the same.

Your skin felt clammy all over, baby hairs sticking to the back of your neck and your forehead, your neck slick from where his lips had been pressing all into it, sucking and nipping and you swear you'd even felt the glorious scratch of teeth at one point, and the heat of him above you was doing little to remedy the feeling.

You brought a hand up, almost absent-mindedly, to scratch softly at the back of his head as he came down, an overwhelming dizziness gripping at your eyelids, pulling you down as you felt him follow.

"You're making me feel like I'm going crazy," you sigh, "You can't seriously set all this up and not realise that it's way more effort than anyone would normally put in for someone that's just a friend,"

"You're not just anything," he counters, "When did I say you were just anything?"

He looks annoyed, that much is obvious - and yeah, you've technically been avoiding him, just like he assumes, but he was the one who made you feel like you had to.

A soft, sleepy groan was the first sound that brought you into consciousness the next morning - raspy and thick, and so close to your ear that the feeling of it buzzed the whole way down to your toes.

Then came unassuming movements, a twist of his torso, a shuffle of his hips, the stretch of his legs, all of which had been pressed right against all the same parts of your body - the sticky warmth of him catching your skin and rousing you fully from your sleep.

His arms tightened their hold around you before you really thought he knew what he was doing - a lethargic sigh huffing from his nostrils as he got comfortable again - and you had maybe a solid minute in his embrace until he fully came to.

The two of you were naked, one of the throws from the back of the couch draped lazily over your modesty, but that didn't really matter when you could feel the heavy press of him all over - your chest, your stomach, your hips, your thighs.

His fingers tightened, pressing a little into your waist before his touch disappeared completely. Before he was retreating, untangling himself from your body and sitting up. You felt the couch move as he shuffled around doing God-knows-what - felt the soft drape of the throw back over your body, and the whoosh of cold that followed and refused to leave.

When you dared to open your eyes, he was sat on the other side, leaning over, head in his hands after shrugging his boxers back on.

"Quinn?" you asked, your own voice thick with sleep, straightening to face him properly and rubbing at your eyes until they focused. "What's going on?"

"How much did we have to drink last night?"

Your heart dropped at the question, but your eyes floated over to the coffee table, two empty bottles standing on the other side. "A lot, I guess."

"Shit," he cursed, pushing himself up and pacing in front of the couch, refusing to look at you. "Fuck."

"Q, you're making me dizzy."

"I just," he stopped in place and scratched at the back of his neck, eyes lowering down your body in a way that made heat creep back up your neck, and your shoulders practically fold in on themselves consciously. "I didn't mean for it to go that far."

Your lips parted, although you didn't really know what to say to that. All you could do was nod, stuttered and slow, your gaze shifting too until it landed on the carpeted rug in front of him, focusing too hard on the pattern. "It's fine."

You could feel the weight of his stormy stare, but you couldn't look up - too afraid of rejection, too afraid of regret.

"We're friends, you know, you're-,"

"I know," you confirmed, not needing to hear how he didn't ever intend to be anything more. "We were drunk, Q, it's fine."

Your attempt at a reassuring smile probably looked a little more like a grimace, but you were saved probably by the fact that the two of you had had a lot to drink, and you were honestly a little queasy.

And maybe it had been the cold hard slap of rejection you woke up to that made you feel that way - after years of wanting more with Quinn - but he didn't need to know that. Not if he was already 10 toes deep into a regret spiral so soon after opening his eyes.

"We're friends."

"You said it last Saturday," you frown, "Saturday morning."

"No, you said we were drunk. I said we were friends, but you cut me off-,"

"Yeah, 'cause I didn't really want the first thing you said to me that morning to be that you made a mistake!"

"And here you are again, cutting me off!" his voice is a little raised now - so unlike the soft-spoken Quinn you're used to - easy going and well natured. "I can't win with you, you're either avoiding me like the plague, or you're not letting me speak, either way, I can't clear all this up!"

"What's there to clear up?" you scoff, "I don't need you to hold my hand and give me the full speech, okay, I get it, you don't want to be anything more than-," your body is jolted quickly by the sudden scrape of your chair across the floor, Quinn's grip firm on the leg as he pulls, "Hey, what are you-,"

And he's at the perfect height, then, to meet your lips once you're close enough, his hand leaving the chair to grip at your face - hold you in place so that you can't protest, can't cut him off in this, too, like you have been doing with every other way he's tried to communicate his feelings for you.

His kiss feels familiar, achingly so, the swipe of his tongue soft at the parting of your lips, his own mouth closing in a soft pressure against yours, over and over at a disorienting intensity - all thoughts melting away at his endeavour.

When he pulls away, he keeps his hands in place, watching intently as your eyes flutter open, and you slowly sink back into consciousness, pupils blown when they meet his, intense in their focus on you.

"You're really important to me."

You frown, because your brain will only allow you to process that as the start of rejection - followed by, which is why we can't go further - but that's not the direction Quinn is taking this.

"I wanted to do all of this right. That's why I freaked out last week. I didn't want you to think it was a drunken mistake."

Oh.

You're still a little dazed from the kiss, if you're honest, and so you find yourself blinking slowly back at him, mouth bopping open and closed while you figure out what to say.

"What?" Is all that comes out when you find your voice, watching as he rolls his eyes - part exasperated, part amused.

"Now you have nothing to say?" He scoffs, thumb swiping gently at your cheek as if to show you he's kidding. "I like you. I have for a while, and I want to be more than friends. I want you to stay at my place whenever you come over, and wear my clothes, and eat my food, and drink my wine," he lists, dipping his head closer and closer until you're face to face, a mere inch or two from him kissing you again. "And I want you to sleep here until Sunday. Maybe even after."

"Okay." you respond - the kind of one word answer you've been throwing his way to avoid getting hurt all week. And because you feel guilty, you add, "I want all that, too."

He breathes out a sigh of relief, closing his eyes and smiling slowly - an infectious kind of smile, that has you doing it right back, noses just brushing before you kiss him, again.

Stone cold sober, no longer looking to avoid your feelings, with the intention of being so much more than his friend.

[bratbarzal]

Could you please do ⁵⁾ “i couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you i am.” with Nico?

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“i couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you i am.” this also goes out to the anon who requested this exact line with meier sister reader bc it's where my brain immediately went when I saw this!!!! BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND!NICO NATION WE UP!!! RISE AND SHINE!!!

*this includes sexual references, but no actual smut.

"Stop watching me like that."

Nico sits at the top of the bed, the bed sheet only just covering his modesty as his legs sprawl out from beneath the covers. He has one arm stretched across the pillow you just vacated, and another scratching slowly at his stomach, where the soft patch of hair on his abdomen disappears under the flimsy strip of cotton.

He looks like sex personified, and he needs to give it a rest.

Laughter rumbles lowly from the depths of his chest, a sly smirk spreading across his lips as his eyes follow you - rushing around the room to retrieve the clothes he had torn from your body maybe an hour ago now. You hop back into your panties, and then your shorts, and it's as you're clipping your bra back on that he asks, "Like what?"

His tone is teasing, familiar, exactly the kind of flirty cadence that had lured you into his bed earlier today, in the first place - passing by a little too close for comfort with a hand on your hip, and lips to your ear, muttering how good your ass looked in your shorts before he planted a quick, light smack to it.

He knows what he's doing.

"Like you could go again," you huff, buttoning at the light, summery shirt you were wearing before as you look up at him.

"Maybe I could," he shrugs, straightening up in a way that makes the sheet slip dangerously low, an action that attracts your gaze like a high powered magnet, stuck on him until you can shake yourself out of it. "Maybe we should."

"No," you rattle your head, trying to claw back any kind of sense or dignity, diverting your attention in search of your sandals. "Not happening. I need to go shower. I smell like a combination of a sex den and you."

"And what's wrong with that?" he chuckles, "You use my stuff in the shower every time you come over, you wear my clothes when you leave, why's today any different?"

"Because we're on vacation with my brother, Nico," you huff, finding where you had kicked them off and they had slid toward his side of the bed. "He catches a whiff of you on me, on today of all days, and he'll throw you overboard the next time we're out on the boat."

"C'mon," he sighs, although that tempting smirk remains, and shuffles his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet slipping, forcing you to spin on your heels to avoid staring down the barrel of what you have no doubt is, once again, a loaded gun.

That man is insatiable.

You hear his laughter from behind you, along with footsteps that fall out of pattern for a brief second, and you're thankful when a large hand places itself on your upper arm to turn you, that he's at least wearing boxers now.

"We can't keep sneaking around forever, it's been long enough, don't you think?"

You feel your eyes flutter shut as he pulls you close, his assertive grip holding you in place with fingers now curved around the back of your waist, and you sigh - a big one, that despite the heaviness of it, does little to quell the anxiety swirling around your chest.

"I thought you wanted to wait until the season was finished," you frown, distinctly remembering how you felt after that conversation back in November - when your situation became a lot less casual, and Nico had officially asked you to be his girlfriend one morning when he had finally run out of other excuses for you not to leave his bed.

"I did," he muses, fingers pressing into your flesh and forcing you forward, until you're flat against him, and once again encompassed by his ever lasting warmth. "But now I'm tired of hiding. Just want to love on you, not just in private or when Timo isn't looking."

His actions mimic his words as his hands start to wander, and his lips press soft, lingering kisses in a trail from your cheek, to your jaw, to your neck.

You melt, as you always do, body feeling like putty that moulds to his touch and sticks to his fingers as he reels you back in.

"We can't hard launch to my brother on Valentines Day, Nico," you mumble, your resolve weakening by the second with every slight ministration, his lips nipping at all the sensitive parts of your neck and his hands seeking out whatever skin he can get to first.

"Why not?" he asks, his voice low just beside your ear - so low that it sends a shiver down your spine, your chest pressing straight to his. "It's technically our anniversary after all."

This whole thing had started last year - in his bye-week - not long after you had moved in with your brother, and had been invited with the two of them and a couple more of their friends for a week-long trip.

What had always been teasing and lingering between you and Nico had swiftly evolved into more - one night of one too many drinks leading you straight to his bed, and one night leading to something frequent and forbidden.

Something changed in the summer - the two of you meeting up a little more back in Switzerland, when you weren't under your older brother's constant supervision, and you weren't worrying about being caught all the time, and then when you all came back to the states, you found yourself in Nico's bed more often than your own.

“I couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you I am.”

Your heart thuds in your chest at the revelation, muttered straight into your ear - it taking you a second to get past the vibration of his words down your whole entire body before you register exactly what he said.

And then you lean back, your faces close as you turn to meet his eye - that captivating glimmer shining straight across dark chocolate irises, the smirk from before melting into something softer, more serious, more real.

"You're in love with me?" You ask, watching the smile slowly grow.

"Obviously," he replies, his thumb swiping gentle strokes into your spine, not giving it a chance to tense up or stiffen at the revelation - still moulded perfectly to his touch. "I don't risk my life at the hands of your brother for just anybody."

You smile too, despite the four-tonne block of anxiety that's launching itself your way at the all the possible ways this could go wrong.

Nico loves you.

And Timo's just gonna have to deal with it.

"I'm in love with you too," you tell him, leaning in immediately to press a kiss to his lips, like sealing the sentiment in place, feeling them curve against your own.

"Good," he mutters against you, kissing and kissing until you're too far gone again to do anything about it. "We should fuck again to celebrate, just in case your brother kills me."

You giggle, still not pulling back, letting his feet shuffle towards the end of the bed and guide you the same way.

You'll shower later. Probably with Nico - and the smell of his shampoo in your hair might give the two of you away, but who cares.

He's in love with you.

[bratbarzal]

you said i could send multiple requests and you wouldn’t block me

could you do roommate (or neighbour) nico with ³⁾ “i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.” with neighbour!nico!!!!! bc of course neighbour nico joins your boozy galentines, wears pink fluffy cowboy hats and sings horrific karaoke duets with you. why wouldn't he? not to toot my own horn (again) but beep beep this is a dream that I have had since lunch and I am not giving up on it now.

“I’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything I need to know about how your date went.”

You're locking up your apartment when Nico emerges from the elevator down the hall, shoulders slumped and face downcast as he trudges over to his door.

You'd seen him when you got home from work, earlier - dressed in a dinner jacket, hair all styled, shirt tucked neat - and he had told you he had a date. On Valentines Day.

And yeah, your heart had pretty much plummeted to the very core of the earth, but at the very least, you got to see him looking so good - a vision to store in your memory bank for a rainy day, when you're thinking too hard about how close he is, just across the hall, but so far away, only being your neighbour, and all.

And that was only an hour ago. Just enough time to get ready, yourself. Hair curled all nice, makeup done - the sexiest outfit you could possibly throw together, because it's girls night, and you deserve to feel your best.

A good date doesn't last an hour. Doesn't end up with a guy slumping home, hair all mussed from running his hands through it, jacket slung over his arm and his heart crushed into pieces.

"Got stood up," he huffs, reaching into his pocket for his keys, "Said she didn't realise I was a hockey player, and didn't think I had the brain cells to hold a serious, thoughtful conversation for a few hours."

"Ouch," you frown, feeling anger more than pity - because, wow, what a bitch!

"You look nice, though," he throws out the compliment almost as an aside, but you can tell by the way his eyes linger that he means it - fixated on the spot where your skirt ends and meets bare thigh. You're probably gonna freeze, but you're going to get some great pictures for your Hinge profile, so does it really matter? "Didn't realise you had plans."

"Going out with the girls," you tell him, "Galentines, 'cause we're all single this year."

He nods, his gaze trailing back up your body until your eyes meet, torturously slow, only enhanced by the darkened colour of his irises. "Have a good night."

"You should come," you tell him without thinking better of it - hypnotised by the low, sexy tone of his voice. It goes straight through you - almost takes control of you like a puppet on a string.

"I'm not a gal," he frowns, although he makes no move to go into his apartment.

"You're single, though," you shrug, "I don't think they'll be too fussy on the criteria once we get a few drinks in."

"Are you sure your friends won't mind?" he asks, eyebrow wiggling and head tilting in the adorable way it so often does.

You press your lips together as if you're rethinking it, casting your eyes slowly down his figure - broad shoulders, big arms practically bulging through his shirt, slacks clinging to his thick thighs for dear life. Your friends will have the time of their lives with this.

"Considering a night out only won the vote for what to do by fine margins, I think they'll be okay with it." You smile, knowingly, nodding toward the elevator, "C'mon, we don't want to be late."

"I don't get what that means, what came second?"

"Magic Mike." You smirk as you walk backwards, reaching to press the button and laughing when his jaw drops. "You take your shirt off later and we'll be golden."

The poor guy has no idea what he's in for.

--

Your girlfriends don't mind when you and Nico meet them at the bar, not once you've introduced him - his name not ringing a bell until you mention he's from the apartment next door, and you see the flash of recognition wash through them almost like cascading dominoes, knocking each other over one by one.

They don't know him as Nico, he's much more fondly referred to in your group chat as sexy neighbour, after all.

You've only been telling them about him for the past 18 months you've lived across the hall - regaling them with stories of bulging muscles carrying grocery bags for you, compression shirts sticking to him when he comes back from the gym, and the one time the fire alarm went off in summer, and he hadn't thought to put a shirt on when you met out the back of the building.

Yeah, sexy neighbour is pretty much a celebrity in your friend group.

They welcome him with open arms, and the night evolves, as they so often do in your friend group, in highly chaotic fashion.

It starts with a round of shots, because of course it does. The bar is rowdy, the music loud, and those tiny little glasses of you-don't-even-want-to-know-what loosen lips all around. Nico picks up on the dynamic of your group pretty quickly, shifting the shyness he had walked into the establishment with and charming them all with that same dimpled smile he got you hooked on the day you met.

Shots turn into drinking games - chugging cocktails, taking on dares, spilling secrets, and you learn so much about Nico that you would never have known otherwise, so much that you would never have had the guts to ask.

Drinking turns to dancing, which starts in a crowd on the floor, bodies all smushed together, and ends up on tables, Nico by your side the whole time, hooking an arm around your waist so that you don't fall.

You end up bar-hopping to an extent, the second place you go being a little quieter, and you're all way too drunk to stay, so you end up at the karaoke joint further down the street.

Your friends all pick the girls night classics, Man I Feel Like A Woman, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and there's even a full dance intermission for three of your friends to perform Single Ladies.

You all end up adorning fluffy pink cowgirl hats from god knows where, fluffy feather boas slung from your shoulders, and Nico is suddenly grabbing your hand, dragging you on stage, and handing you a mic before you're fully aware what's going on.

But by then you're too drunk to care, belting What Makes You Beautiful at the top of your lungs with him, still conscious enough to blush when he directs the lyrics towards you - as out of key and awful as they may sound.

And you don't know what happens between that and ending up at the club, bass thumping in your ears, blood pumping, skin sweating, and your back is pressed against his chest. You can still see flashes of feathers in your peripheral, your friends close by, but you can't really focus on anything else.

Anything other than the heat of Mr Sexy Neighbour, himself, flush against you, one of his hands holding yours to keep you steady, the other in the dip of your waist, and his breath warm on your bare neck. You lean into him more than you probably should - more than the sober you of tomorrow will be comfortable with, when you're bumping into him again and unable to look into those pretty eyes - and he leans in right back, nose at the junction where your jaw and ear meets, lips flush against your skin, where you hear him mutter, "I should get you home."

You nod, because what are you supposed to do, speak? With him looking at you like that?

Fat chance of that happening.

And he takes your hand in a firm, clammy grip, doing the rounds between those friends that still remain - the ones he hasn't had a chance to personally see off into a cab - telling them to text him if they need help getting home, and to text you when they eventually make it there.

He guides you practically the whole way home - helps bundle you into the back of a cab, buckling you in for safety and sitting in the middle, where you can lean on him with a heavy head, and your hand in his the whole way.

He throws an arm around you to help you stumble your way through the lobby of your apartment building, holding you up in the elevator and pressing the button for your shared floor. And then he props you up beside your front door, taking your keys from your purse and unlocking the door for you as you watch him with a tired but focused gaze.

God, you want him.

Is the world really so cruel that he would never want you back?

When he finally tries the right key and pushes the door open, he looks over at you, a heated gaze assessing if you're fit enough to send in on your own, and you imagine it's the way you blink slowly at him that tells him you're not.

You were just admiring him, really - your buzz wearing off, and the stumbles added for dramatic effect so that he wouldn't stop touching you - but he doesn't need to know that.

He makes a come here motion with grabby hands, and you practically launch yourself back into his arms, him accepting you with an amused smile as he walks you into your apartment, throwing your purse onto your counter and leaving your keys on the side.

You tug a little to steer him down the hall - in the direction of your bedroom, because if he's gonna play white knight, he may as well go the whole way.

"I had fun tonight," you tell him once he's dropped you off onto the safety of your bed, the bouncing motion only making you slightly dizzy again as you watch him stand before you, hands on his hips. "I don't want to say I'm glad you got stood up, but-,"

"I had fun, too." He tells you, dark eyes landing straight on yours as he slowly lowers, dropping to his knees in front of you and reaching for your leg. He starts unzipping your boots for you, and you watch him with what you can only assume are hearts in your eyes, a slow, dreamy sigh wracking through you.

"Wish I got to see you with your shirt off."

He laughs, in a way that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners and his shoulders shake - genuine amusement flooding through him as he looks back up at you, the angle straight up sinful and sobering.

He holds your other leg behind the knee, large hand warm against your bare skin, and slides your other boot teasingly slow - your gazes locked for the whole manoeuvre - his hand following down your leg until he discards both boots to the side.

He stays down there, kneeling in front of you, staring up at you with the prettiest eyes you've ever seen - a flush to his cheeks and a million thoughts racing through his brain.

You lean forward before you can think, and he meets you half-way in a kiss that's slow - sensual and pressured, firm and assuring - the taste of tequila on his tongue as it swipes against yours, which no doubt tastes the same.

He's the first to pull back, but it isn't all the way - just until your lips smack apart, his nose still pressed to yours as he avoids your chasing with a big grin.

"You're drunk."

"Don't care, wanna kiss you." You just about manage to catch him before he pulls back again.

"Not like this."

And then the touch of him is gone, the bump of his nose and the press of his forehead to yours disappearing in a way that makes you pout.

The way he kisses you again is quick - too quick to react, really - before he retreats again.

"You know where to knock when you're sober."

You let out a groan as you watch him leave, unashamedly watching his ass as he goes, eyes still lingering when he stops at your door and catches you with a knowing smirk.

"Happy Valentines Day, sexy neighbour."

[bratbarzal]

maggie i’m going a bit off-script here, but for your valentine’s blurbs can i request ³⁾ “has it occurred to you that we’ve spent more valentine’s days with each other than with people we’ve actually been dating?” with quinn — but plot twist, he thought you were passed the just friends phase. just a little awkward & flustered quinn vday moment 💌

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

3. “has it occurred to you that we’ve spent more valentine’s days with each other than with people we’ve actually been dating?” we love awkward and flustered quinn in this house!!!

"I can't do this anymore," Quinn grumbles out of nowhere as the two of you are on his couch, drawing your attention from the dimmed screen of your phone to watch him pinch at the bridge of his nose and kick the throw that is draped over both of your lower bodies.

"Can't do what?" You frown, tilting your head to watch the theatrics, the blanket falling from your own lap into a tangled mess on the floor.

"Sit here and do nothing. I'm sick of doing nothing. You're driving me crazy, is this like, some sort of power thing? Are you seriously not even gonna acknowledge what's going on here?"

"What's-," You literally have no idea what the hell has gotten into him. "Going on? Quinn, what are you even talking about? When did you get all antsy and weird?"

"Uh, I don't know," he retorts, narrowing his eyes in your general direction, not quite able to meet yours. "Maybe when you started giggling at your phone and acting like this is any normal day? I get trying to convince yourself that this is no different to all the other times, it's what I kept telling myself to calm down earlier, considering we've been technically doing this," he gestures around the two of you, "For the past few years now, but I thought this time was different. I want it to be different."

"What do you mean by that?" You frown, pushing your phone under the pillow you're leaning on, shuffling a little where your legs are tucked beneath you on the couch and watching as he stands, arms thrown out in irritation as he turns back to you, swiping quickly where the blanket is bunched up and an inevitable trip hazard and throwing it over the back of the couch.

"Alright, has it ever occurred to you that the two of us have spent more Valentine's Days with each other than with the people we've actually been dating?"

You stare blankly at him for a second, mouth agape as you register what he's actually talking about, before you clear your throat with a hand to your mouth as Quinn stares back, waiting for a response, eyes narrowed as his patience wears thin. "It's Valentines Day? Today?"

He's right - for as long as you've lived in the same building as Quinn over the past few years, the two of you have spent the day together, making a tradition of it, even when you'd had boyfriends and he'd had girlfriends, somehow always finding yourselves in distant relationships with people who travelled or just plain didn't care.

Quinn's door was always open to you - even on days saved specifically for romance, even if the two of you had never even considered crossing that line.

You know you've been a little distracted with work lately, but surely you'd have heard about it being Valentines Day sooner than now. You reach back for your phone just to check, and sure as anything on your homescreen is the date - Friday, February 14th.

Crap.

You've literally spent the past twenty minutes texting your group chat, following along on the boozy girls night you had turned down in order to spend another night in with Quinn. A night you hadn't given a second thought to, as the two of you have been hanging out more and more, lately - him slotting you in pretty much any and every time he's free.

And now it makes sense - they're doing Galentines.

Double crap.

"Oh my God," he runs a hand through his hair in exasperation, that one thick strand you always thought was a cool stylistic choice bouncing straight back into place across his forehead - because of course it just naturally does that. "I can't tell if you're just oblivious or I'm a complete idiot."

"Maybe it's a secret third option?" You offer, standing from the couch and taking a cautious step towards his now pacing figure.

"Don't be cute," he glares back at you, "I'm really not in the mood right now for you to be cracking jokes, I'm embarrassed enough-,"

"Embarrassed?" You frown, taking another step, "Why would you be embarrassed?"

"Because I thought this was a date," he jabs a finger into his chest before pointing it back in your direction, "And you thought it was any other Friday night."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he huffs.

"That is embarrassing."

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, spinning on his feet and starting to make his way over to the kitchen before you panic and grab at his wrist, tugging him back with a little more effort than you're used to - because Quinn Hughes is nothing if not stubborn when he wants to be.

"Wait," you pout, trying to meet his avoidant gaze as he looks at anything but you, jaw set and body angled away. "Why did you think it was a date?"

"What is this, a humiliation ritual?" he scoffs, "I thought it was obvious. I asked you over. For dinner. I cooked! When you walked in here I was wearing an apron, for crying out loud! There's flowers on the table," he hooks a thumb over to where the two of you had eaten - sat across from one another at his small dining table, for once, instead of on the couch or the breakfast bar, places set before you even got there. A small vase with gerbera daisies and a little ribbon around the rim. "And I'm wearing a shirt. In my own home." You cast your eyes down, to the way the buttons are popped at the top, a small sliver of his chest peaking through - and it feels like the first time you're really taking him in.

Not even tonight, but maybe ever.

It's not like you've never thought Quinn was hot - he's gorgeous, Mike Wazowski in a blindfold could see that - but there's always been a barrier there, like a cartoonish, pixelated sort of blur that hides him from full view, unlocked only by some costly subscription with life changing terms and conditions that you could never be bothered reading.

And you might have struck him off, until now - until he stood before you with a pouty bottom lip and a mortified flush to his cheeks - and he all of a sudden doesn't look like someone who could never be more than a friend.

Especially when you consider that maybe he's been thinking about crossing that line.

In a new light, he looks like someone who goes the extra mile, who gets you flowers and cooks you your favourite pasta dish, buys your favourite wine, puts an effort into his appearance to distinguish between all the times you've seen each other in sweatpants and actively listens to your dumb stories about office politics and teams meeting etiquette - like it ties in at all to any part of his world.

He sighs, heavy and resigned, and you see his chest deflate where your eyes are locked on it, catching the subtle shake of his head in your peripheral as you take too long to respond.

"Look, I kinda feel like an idiot, so maybe it's better if we just-,"

It's the tug of his wrist that spurs you into action, and you let it drop - too eager to grab him elsewhere, like by the front of his soft, pretty shirt - pulling him in by the collar and pressing your lips firmly to his.

You worry for all of three seconds until his fingertips dig pointedly into your hips, guiding you forward until you're a little closer, and they can slide further back. Your own hands move higher, touching skin now - curling around the back of his neck to bury themselves in his hair, pushing at his head to better meet where you're angled up to kiss him.

He purrs almost at the feeling, a hum of satisfaction that's spoken straight into your lips, and it almost distracts you from the way his touch wanders, one hand sliding up the back of your shirt and the other hand sliding lower.

You hum back at the firm press of his palm into the small of your back - his hand warm and his touch soothing, your shoulders loosening until all the tension seeps from your body, and you start to feel like you're floating.

Or falling.

You part slowly - of equal volition, you think - your eyes opening to see Quinn's screwed shut, and you take the second he keeps them that way to feel a flush of pride at the soft pink tint that has taken to his lips.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, barely above a whisper, when he finally opens his eyes and flashes you that darkened gaze, where it darts between your own eyes and your lips in a tantalising triangle.

He clears his own throat then, blinking hard and purposefully, and licking at his swollen lips.

"For what?" he asks, breathless, his hands still in the exact same places, thumb swiping at the dip in your spine and the fingers of his other hand temptingly close to crossing the curve of your ass - confident more in his touch than he seems to be with anything else.

"For wearing sweatpants to our date," you huff, embarrassed yourself, because even if you hadn't known the implications of him asking you over for dinner, why couldn't you have at least put on something nice. "Now I get why you looked at me so funny when you opened the door, earlier."

He laughs then, slow and easy, his smile crooked and his eyes a melting kind of warm.

"I'll forgive you if I can change into mine."

"Deal," you nod, lips twisting as you take him in - those barriers, that pixelated blur, animating into something crystal clear and definite, something you can't believe you haven't given yourself the pleasure of seeing until now. "I'm sorry for being oblivious, too."

"It's alright," he shrugs, "I'm sure there's some way you can make it up to me."

And you're still standing with your arms resting on his shoulders and your hands behind his neck - the prime position to lean up and kiss him again.

[bratbarzal]

for your valentines event ³⁾ "you've been teasing me all this time about being single just for you to get stood up?" "....." "move over, you're lucky i'm hungry." with quinny ❤️

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

"you've been teasing me all this time about being single just for you to get stood up?" "....." "move over, you're lucky i'm hungry." with toxic!quinn!!! ALOOF!QUINN TRUTHERS THIS IS YOUR MOMENT!!! this came to me in a fever dream last night tbh and escalated so hope you enjoy once again I took creative liberties with the exact wording (I didn't want it to be too much like the nico blurb) and I'm not sure this fits the vibe of the prompt but I saw I'm hungry and my mind went to one place!! and I don't even think this mentions valentines but what can you do it's may!!! (post requested blurbs within a normal response time you say??? who do you think I am?) I'm not great at writing smut but I did my best and my best is probably taking things too far with random interlinked plot dotted throughout

warnings: 18+ MDNI!! smut!! the filthy kind tbh - dom!quinn, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, squirting, slight/light/barely even spanking if you want to be dramatic lol, degrading comments maybe, brief mentions of previous sexual encounters, quinn is a menace and a dirty talking tease :) ~cheating but not really it's a first date with no labels that's going nowhere and reader and quinn have history. he's an asshole :) but I'd let him do unspeakable things also

4.7k words!!

The last place you expect to run into Quinn Hughes is in the middle of a bar.

The venue is too crowded to be somewhere he would usually visit - rowdy guys in the corner watching the baseball on the TV, even though you're not sure it's even live, a couple pool tables occupied with the kind of people who would recognise him in a heartbeat - and maybe that's why you chose it in the first place.

But you should have run for the hills the second you saw Elias Petterson and Brock Boeser on your way in. You should have known it would only be a matter of time before Quinn himself showed up, and that you would have no chance of escaping before he saw you.

"Was gonna offer to buy you some fries to share," he comments as he slides into the booth beside you, his eyes assessing the rest of the bar as if he's trying to gauge who might notice him talking to you. "But Petey said you were meeting someone,"

God, he can be such an asshole when he wants to be.

You haven't seen him for weeks, he's been ignoring your texts for weeks, and he can't even look you in the eye?

This is exactly why you keep telling yourself that you're done. This is exactly why when you mention him to your friends, they roll their eyes and tell you to just block his number and move on.

But they haven't seen the parts of him you've seen - the parts you so desperately cling to when he's cold like this.

"I am."

"I don't see anybody."

"He got held up at work."

"Of course he did." he scoffs, "You're being stood up. You're lucky I'm hungry though, I'll save you the embarrassment of sitting here on your own."

"Just because you're an asshole who ghosts girls the second things get serious, it doesn't mean Justin is."

"You don't have to get protective, sweetheart," he purrs, glancing down at you in a way that shouldn't make your throat seize, "Just saying, it's the oldest trick in the book. I was gonna sit with you but if you're gonna be snippy about it, I'm sure Justin will turn up eventually."

Asshole.

You couldn't be more thankful for the buzz of your phone on the table, pulling you from the depths of Quinn's gaze as you glance down, Justin's name flashing on your lock screen.

Quinn quirks a brow as he looks down, too, watching as you swipe into the message.

I'm here.

And then you glance to the entrance of the bar, relief flooding your system at the sight of him - not a sensation you ever thought you'd be feeling when you agreed to meet up with him after months of him asking.

But you're supposed to be getting over Quinn Hughes.

Justin is sweet, and you suppose he's attractive in a cute sort of way. He doesn't make your head spin, or your heart pound, or your stomach swirl into knots, but you're not supposed to want that, so he's the next best thing.

You edge past Quinn without sparing him another glance, hoping it hurts him in some way - hoping he at least feels something at your feigned indifference - and you proceed to spend the rest of your night unable to shift that hope.

Every time you force a laugh at one of Justin's attempts at a joke, you hope Quinn hears it.

Every time you try to flirt, you hope he sees it.

Every time you lean over the table when the two of you move over for a game of pool, you're hoping Quinn's watching.

And you think it must be the karma that comes from craving his attention that has you colliding with somebody else on their way back from the bar, their drink spilling all the way down the front of your top until it sheers out a little, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom to go and try clean up.

You really hope he didn't see that.

You're thankful it was vodka soda and not cranberry, the stain easy to shift with a little water and a blast of the hand dryer, and you're shrugging the top back on when you hear the rap of knuckles against the door.

"Yeah, sorry," you call out, shuffling towards the entrance, "I'm finished, it's all y-,"

Quinn stands on the other side of the door when you swing it open, hair astray like he's been running his hands through it endlessly, and his stature imposing.

“What are you doing?” You ask as he crowds into your space, backing up until you’re both in the bathroom, and he’s reaching back to lock the door behind him.

“Told you, I’m hungry,” and the look in his eyes confirms just that - dark and dangerous, a stormy swirl of greys and greens that make your breath stutter, the intensity sweeping straight through you.

He advances on you slowly, your feet stumbling back until you can steady yourself against the bathroom counter, and his gaze drops agonisingly down your body, lingering way too low for any sort of friendly admiration - because that's what he'd said the two of you were too many times to count, just friends.

You feel goosebumps rise as Quinn's head tilts, his eyes meeting yours just as the calloused pads of his fingertips graze the soft flesh of your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt.

"You wore this that time we fucked in my car after a game," he mutters, pushing ever so gently until his hand slips beneath the fabric, "Did you think of me when you put it on?"

"No," you gulp, your tone entire unconvincing.

The guys had all gone out after a win, and Quinn had texted you his location - meeting you outside the bar so that the rest of his teammates didn't see you and him together - and had driven you out to some random parking lot, had you crawl over the centre console into his lap, and had pushed this exact skirt up until it bunched at your hips and he could watch himself disappear into you.

It was so hot and sticky that you remember swiping little jagged finger marks against the fog on his window, and you wondered the next day when you saw him and he pretended that none of it happened if he had just wiped them away.

You'd remembered the incident as you were getting dressed, earlier, smoothing your hands down your hips and picturing the way his knuckles whitened as he took the skirt into his grip.

You don't get how he can so easily pretend the two of you are nothing when he remembers, too.

"So you wore it for him?" He doesn't push any higher, but his hand forms an authoritative grip around the back of your thigh, squeezing until they part by instinct, and he uses the leverage to slot his own leg between yours so that you can't fully close them again.

He knows how to work you like it's second nature to him.

He brings his other hand up to shift your hair back over your shoulder, clearing a path from your neck to your collarbone where he can trail his knuckle along the smooth skin just to make you shudder.

You shake your head, again, an unconvincing response, but what else can you do? You're too breathless to speak when he crowds into your space like this, and all you can smell is his cologne, and all you can feel is anticipation of his touch.

"Does he know you like being kissed right here?" His thumb presses down on your pulse point, the pressure firm in a way that makes your spine stiffen, and he tilts his head again as you meet his eye, his smirk condescending and so so sexy.

"We haven't kissed yet," you blink slow, trying to shake the daze he's put you under.

"Ahh," the grin Quinn gives now gives a flash of teeth, and you gulp at the visual it brings - said teeth sinking teasingly into the plush skin of the thigh he's still holding, and it's only then that you notice how his hand has moved, how his fingers are now curled into the leg of your panties. "So he's not taking care of you?" And then he pulls, and you gulp as you feel the fabric fall in his clutch, loosening once they're not flush around your hips anymore and dropping when he's pulled them down enough.

"Quinn," you warn, and he waits, to give him credit - his dark eyes narrowing in on yours, pupils blown, his tongue swiping out against his lips, and it takes you back to another night, a few weeks back.

Quinn turning up at your apartment late, his game having gone into overtime and then a subsequent shootout, and he looked exhausted - hair a mess, eyes sunken, shoulders slumped. The team had lost, and the first place he thought to go was to you, and maybe this was the delusion your friends kept warning you about when it came to him, but it had been the first night things between the two of you had been slower and softer.

The way he kissed you was different - it wasn't a rushed fumble into more, it was intentional and tender, he took his time advancing it into something more, and when he finally backed you into your bedroom, the two of you laid together far beyond the two rounds he managed before tapping out.

He let you stroke at his hair, and kiss at his skin, and see him beyond the cold and unattached version of himself he so often gave to you. And he didn't leave until the next morning.

And sure, that was the last time you saw him, and every text you've sent him since has gone unanswered, entirely, but you can't help but think something changed that night.

Something he doesn't want to acknowledge, now.

A loss of control, or a surrender to his feelings.

You can only hope it's finally the latter.

And because of that blind hope, you can't bring it in yourself to push him away - not if this is the only way he's going to let you have him, teasing and detached.

You swear he sees the moment you give in, when something shifts in his gaze, and he slowly, tormentingly drops to his knees before you.

He looks up at you from the lower position, palms caressing your thighs as he pushes them both up, your skirt following his ministrations and bunching at your hips until you're bare to him, and it's only then that his eyes shift - somehow you feel the intensity of them as much as they stare at your very core than you had when he was looking back up at you.

"Please," you whimper pathetically as he admires the way your legs part even further without prompting, the way your body crumbles and you lean back against the counter, arching to reveal yourself to him entirely.

"Look at you," he mutters as he brings one of his hands to the apex of your thighs, using his fingers to swipe through your folds and pulling them back to show you the sticky mess that now coats them, "So wet, already."

"Quinn,"

"For him?"

You shake your head as he repeats his actions, running his fingers from your entrance and bumping them teasingly against your clit, looking up at you again with a raise of his brow, prompting a further response and pressing lightly at the bundle of nerves until you answer.

"For you," you breathe, your hips stuttering forward to try and increase the pressure - but he knows you too well, anticipates your impatience and lightens his touch even more. "Only you."

"Good girl."

You gasp the second his mouth makes contact with your core - tongue pressing flat between your folds until he can lick a firm stripe upward, his lips closing sloppily around your clit until he sucks it into his mouth, the pressure of his kiss divine and mind-numbing.

Your feet stumble a little against the floor, and he braces his hands against your hips, pulling them firmly against his face so that he can hold you in place, and all you can do to maintain your balance is curl your fingers into his thick hair, pulling and tugging as you please - as he pleases you.

And God, you can't believe you thought you could just give this up. He's so good. So fucking good it's insane. And you really considered leaving things alone with him, for what - some nice guy from work who barely knows how to flirt with you?

Quinn's fingers curl into the soft flesh of your hips, the pressure firm enough it'll probably bruise by the morning, and he's nipping and licking at your pussy like he can't get enough - the sound of it alone is obscene enough to make your legs feel like jelly, and you're pretty sure you're going to collapse if he carries on like this.

You tug a little harder on his hair until he parts with a wet pop, the sound making your throat go dry so that all you can do is pant down at him in response.

And his eyes are clouded over, entirely, a hunger you've never seen before taking over him. His lips are parted and slick, and his chest is heaving like he was depriving himself of breath, and the sight of it takes your breath away.

You heave yourself up onto the counter behind you, parting your legs again and leaning back a little onto your hands - all without saying a word.

You don't need to say anything, though. Not to Quinn.

He's diving straight back in as soon as you're situated like a man starved, and from where you are now, you can shuffle into him a little, grinding against his tongue as it works against you - works inside you, even, and you slap a hand to your own mouth in a last-ditch attempt to conceal the moans and whines before they carry way beyond the locked door of the bathroom.

Quinn's displeasure with that fact is obvious when he pinches and smacks at the side of your ass, his hand shooting up until his fingers curl around your wrist and he tugs it away from your mouth, pulling away from your pussy to glare up at you from between your legs.

"Don't you dare," he huffs, "I'm putting in the work, I wanna hear how much you like it,"

"But Quinn-,"

The press of his finger into your entrance cuts you off, and the squeaky, surprised moan you let out seems to echo off of every wall, heat creeping up your neck as you hear how pathetic you sound as he pushes the digit all the way in, pressing as far as it will go into your spongey walls until your back is arching and he's straightening up with it still inside you.

"You think you can hide from me?" He asks as he crowds back into your space, your faces level and his other hand coming down onto the counter beside you. "You think I don't know how to make you scream for me?"

He presses another finger into you, and the slow stretch of your walls around him has your eyes fluttering shut, your head lulling forward until it bumps into his, and your clammy foreheads press together. He shakes against you with a dark chuckle, allowing you a moment to adjust until he's thrusting them in and out, stroking up until he presses into your g-spot.

You haven't been with anybody since you were last with him - you haven't been with anybody since you were first with him, however many months ago that is, now - and you're pretty sure he knows that, for as much as he's been teasing you about your date.

"You think you can walk around in this skirt, bending over pool tables, looking this pretty, and I'm just gonna sit back and watch you with another guy?"

"No," you whine, your hips bucking and your hand reaching out to clutch at his shoulder, nails digging in through his shirt until you hope they leave a mark, too. You hope there's something left behind to remind him of this tomorrow when he wants to pretend you don't exist, again.

"No, that's right," he patronises, his lips nipping at your jaw when he leans in and brushes the bridge of his nose against your temple. "'Cause you're mine, aren't you?"

You nod frantically, chasing something more from him, as if he could possibly give you anything else - your back arching until he retracts his fingers, ignoring the instant whine you give only to push three inside, your mind going blank at the pressure of it all.

"Oh my God," you throw your head back, giving him access to the front of you, your neck bare all the way down to the low cut of your top, and he takes full advantage of the space.

You can't even bring yourself to care about marks, as stupid as it is to let him touch where someone else might see - and there's a voice in the back of your head that tells you he wouldn't risk it, anyway.

Quinn doesn't want anyone talking, not about you.

He'd rather keep you some dirty secret confined to the back bathroom of a dingy bar, the front seat of his car in the middle of some random parking lot, or the privacy of your apartment on the other side of town.

But that was before Justin, who's voice carries through the thick wood of the bathroom door accompanied by a few bangs and a call out of your name - and Quinn is the first to react, his movements more vigorous and intentional.

You grab at his wrist in some weak attempt to slow him down, but he won't budge, and then you're too consumed by how good it feels to actually get him to stop.

Your jaw goes slack as Justin calls your name again, and you can't move, can't breathe, can't blink without your space being consumed by Quinn.

"Are you good? You've been in here a while, your shirt isn't ruined, right? You can cover up with my jacket if you need to!"

You press your hand to your mouth to try and conceal the moans he's eliciting from you, his pace unrelenting as your eyes go wide, and you hate how much it spurs you on to see him enjoy this.

“Tell him you’ll come in a minute,” Quinn mutters into your ear, his fingers relentless in their movements as they curl inside you, his palm firm against your clit.

“I’ll come-,” you squeak, arching into his touch as his lips press wet, hot kisses into your neck, “I’ll come out in a minute!” You call, a little steadier though still breathless. "It just needs to dry off a bit!"

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?” Justin calls through the door, and you feel the vibrations of Quinn’s groan into your skin.

“Tell him I’m helping you just fine,” his mouth moves against your jaw, the low hum of his voice carrying all the way down to the base of your spine in a persistent, dizzying vibration. He starts to shake his hand with his fingers still inside you, and the pressure inside you builds to the point you think you might burst, your thighs trembling and your hips stuttering against him. "Go on, tell him you're all taken care of,"

"Tell-," you stutter mindlessly, your only thought to repeat him, not even considering what you're repeating. "I'm-,"

Quinn chuckles darkly against your throat, his teeth nipping into the sensitive flesh - and you swear you can feel him everywhere. He's relentless, he's unforgiving, he's determined to get you to come with Justin on the other side of the door, and you're in no fit position to stop him.

"I'm fine," you call out in one last attempt, praying to whatever god is up there that he finally gets the hint and leaves.

There's no way you can be quiet about this.

"Alright, I'll get you another drink!"

"You're gonna need one, aren't you baby?" Quinn asks, his grin smug and his tone teasing as he parts from your neck, your faces level again as he juts his chin to catch your drooping gaze, the pet name doing little to rouse you from your stupor as he draws you closer to an orgasm. "Gonna make you come so hard it fuckin' drains you," he promises, "Gonna make you walk back out there and sit in a mess in your panties while you talk to him, and all you're gonna think about is this."

"Quinn," you cry out, the mind-numbing pace of his fingers rubbing into your pussy bringing tears to your eyes, and your bottom lip pops out in a pout as you try to chase him for a kiss. "Please, please, please," you beg as he evades you, keeping up the fervour with his hand. You need something to occupy your mouth so you don't scream out, and he hasn't kissed you yet - not tonight, not properly.

"You think you've been good enough for a kiss?" he taunts, his fingers curling inside you just when you're at the brink, "You think that a naughty girl who's letting me fill her pussy with her date standing just outside deserves a kiss?"

"Yes," you whine, "Quinn," and plead, and you bat your lashes in one final attempt at convincing him, your eyes watering, lips trembling, spine tingling as he considers it for a brief moment.

"Come," he commands, "And then I'll kiss you."

You groan, throwing your head back as he brings his other hand into the mix, swiping at your clit with a feverish speed until you really feel like you're about to scream, gripping onto him for dear life as his three fingers plunge all the way into you, to the bottom of his knuckles, his touch pressing against the deepest part of your core until you fall apart.

And it's a mess.

The counter becomes slippery beneath you, your thighs coated in your own slick, and the way you hear Quinn remove his fingers makes you wince more than the feeling, itself.

He's still looking down at your pussy when your vision comes to, blinking away the white spots in your eyes until all you can see is him - in a daze at the way you can feel your walls contracting still, missing the way he had them filled just seconds ago.

You think you're shaking all over, too weak to move - to lift yourself onto your legs, to even lift your arms to do anything about how bare you are to his hungry glare - and you're struggling a little to catch your breath, if you're honest.

You feel hot all over, too. In your head, on every visible surface of your skin - and you can't tell if the flush is from the physical activity or the sheer mortification of the fact you just squirted in front of him.

Your last shred of dignity probably disappeared as soon as that drink fell into your lap, there's no use in denying it now.

And just as he said, Quinn bends to retrieve your panties from where they hang from one of your ankles, bending your leg to slip it in the other side and pulling them up until you can shimmy your hips into them despite how wet you feel all over. He puts one hand down beside you on the counter once they're in place, his gaze lifting to meet yours, a little lighter but stormy, nonetheless, a million unspoken thoughts swirling behind those cloudy irises.

"You said you'd kiss me," you mumble, feebly, leaning into his touch when he pushes a strand of hair back out of your face.

"Did I?" he smirks slowly, those same eyes now tracing your lips.

You nod, your tongue swiping out against them in preparation.

He hums, teasing as he leans in, and he brings his free hand up to your mouth, hooking one of the fingers that had just been inside you against your lips until they part, pushing the digit in until it's pressed against your tongue, and you close your lips around it by instinct.

He watches as your cheeks hollow, satisfaction in his stare, and the slight upturn of his lips causes your chest to puff with pride, opening your mouth again so that he can slot the other two fingers in.

"Maybe you are a good girl," he mutters, and you nod, humming around the taste of your own release until he pulls his fingers out with a pop, using them to grasp at your chin and pulling you forward until your lips collide.

It's almost like he's trying to chase the taste of you, his tongue licking into your mouth and then he's actually sucking at yours, your hands clutching at the chest of his shirt to keep him close, letting him do whatever he wants for as long as he wants, because you're trying to get your fill.

Him using you like this seems better than the alternative - him ghosting your for days or weeks at a time, making you feel like you don't matter to him in the way he matters to you, or that he'll never feel the same way.

But there's something desperate in the way he kisses you - you think that's why he tries to deprive you of it, like you'll be able to read him through the taste on his tongue.

And you get a little greedy with his affections, probably, your hands sliding down until they meet his belt, and he pulls away before you even realise, stepping back completely so that you can't reach and running a hand through his already messy hair.

"Or maybe not."

"I just thought-,"

"You really are naughty, huh?" he chuckles, "What were you gonna do, make him wait out there all night while you tug at my cock? Get on your knees for me while your sweet little boyfriend buys you drinks and sits alone?"

"No," you pout, "He's not my boyfriend, he's just a guy from work."

"Just a guy you're using to make me jealous."

"Don't flatter yourself," you scoff, suddenly finding the nerve to stand up to him - the smirk he sends your way a touch too deep, and lasting a second too long. "I didn't even know you'd be here. Not everything is about you."

"Not what you were saying when my face was just between your legs." He shrugs as he takes another step back, and the grin you found so sexy mere minutes ago now makes you want to smack him as you watch him retreat. "I'll see you around, pretty girl, don't forget to clean up after yourself before you go back out for your date."

He winks before he leaves completely, leaving you alone in your own sticky mess, feeling dirty and used just like you always do when he disappears.

You find yourself wishing he stayed as you shuffle completely off the counter, pushing your skirt back down and grabbing some paper towels to clean the spot you were just sat on.

He'd stayed that night in your apartment, and you really thought things might change after.

But you should know by now things will never change with Quinn.

Especially when you head back out into the bar and find him speaking to Justin, shaking his hand with the exact same one he'd just used to bring you to a screeching orgasm, a crooked smirk stretching across his lips as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye before he leaves for the night.

Especially when he texts you moments after, your screen flashing with his name until you press through and read, He'll never be good enough for you.

And especially when you're answering the door of your apartment to him again a week later, falling back into the same pattern and letting him charm his way back in, no matter how shitty you feel when he disappears afterwards.

[bratbarzal]

A VALENTINES BLURB EVENT? You’re too kind.

what about “wow, you really don’t have anyone special in your life at the minute.” with ex!fwb Jack Hughes?

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

3. “wow, you really don’t have anyone special in your life at the minute.” the maggie cinematic universe really is expanding!!! a jack blurb!!! hey look at us!! who'd have guessed it?? not me!! it's a smidge angsty, because all the fluff was giving me a complex. it's not who I am. I can barely look in the mirror any more. also you said the word ex!!!!!!!! I have no choice but to create problems!!!!!! also again, changed the phrasing bc I was struggling with it exactly as is but the sentiment is there ♥️

*mentions of vomiting

Jack knew to keep a close eye on you the second that he saw you down that first drink - plastering yourself to the other side of the room, avoiding him like the plague, as you so often do these days, but somehow he can't look away.

He tries not to be too obvious about it, knows that you'd have a problem with him showing any signs of interest or concern anymore, but he knows how these nights go when you're like this. So he watches over the rim of his cup, spares fleeting glances in your general direction, and pretends he's looking at something else nearby to avoid detection.

But he gives up the act when you're too far gone - stumbling to the nearest bathroom with your hand clasped over your mouth after dancing around with the girls and getting a little lightheaded.

He can hear the retching from the other side of the door, thankful that it isn't locked when he twists the handle - closes it softly behind him and secures the two of you inside so no one else can see you in such a vulnerable state.

You groan, probably having seen him from the corner of your eye, and press your forehead to your forearm, the clamminess of your skin evident even from over where he's stood.

"Don't come any closer," you warn him, holding out your other hand in a stopping motion without even looking his way, "I feel sick enough without my senses being flooded with Creed."

He ignores the warning, a heavy sigh and hard roll of his eyes his only response as he rolls up his sleeves and makes his way over, making a move to hold back your hair before you're shoving at his thighs in defiance. "I'm trying to help you," he snaps, voice low as he fights your objections.

"Don't want your help," you snap back, "Want you to go get someone else."

“You really think I’d just leave you here?” He jiggles your touch from his thigh, despite the way he likes how your hand lingers lightly as another wave of nausea washes over you. "C'mon, straighten up a little."

You whine as he guides your body, his touch gentle as he manoeuvres you slowly to avoid making you sick again. "Jack," you groan, "Stop."

"'M'not gonna leave you," he huffs, avoiding the blind swat of your hand as you reach back again to push, swerving around the stretch of your arm and throwing himself onto the floor on the other side of the toilet. "You shouldn't be on your own, not like this."

"You had no problem leaving me before," you grumble, your face wincing as you try to breathe through queasiness, straightening up now that he isn't the one telling you to and sitting back on your heels.

"You really wanna do this with your head half in the toilet?" he quirks a brow, leaning against the sink and settling in - his body language a certain show that he isn't going anywhere any time soon. "6 months you've barely spoken to me, and you want to bring it all up now?"

"You're the one who followed me in here," you scowl, "You're the one who's been stalking me all night. Why are you even here, shouldn't you be out with whatever new girl you're fucking? It's Valentines Day, that's your schtick right, making them think you're invested before you pull the rug-,"

"You're talking a lot for someone who was throwing their guts up 2 minutes ago," he cuts you off, face curling defensively as your eyes meet his in a heated glare. "There is no new girl, so you can stop your little speech before you say something you regret."

"I don't have regrets." You snort, your arms shaking as you push yourself up a little.

"The circumstances we're currently under would suggest otherwise." He nods toward the toilet, eyes flickering carefully over you as your brows furrow - looking for any further signs of distress. Your skin has brightened up a little, tears crusted in the corner of your eyes, the tip of your nose reddened and your lips swollen. "Why are you even here? Thought you found your special guy," he mocks the words he had seen plastered on your story only a few weeks ago - a selfie of you with some loser, lips pressed to his cheek as he wore the dorkiest grin Jack has ever seen in his life. It had made his skin crawl. "Not special enough to whisk you away on some romantic weekend for the holiday, huh?"

Your scowl quickly dips into a frown, brows softening, glare melting and tears welling at your lash line. Your lips start to tremble, and Jack straightens up - not knowing if you're nauseous or upset.

“I hate Valentine’s Day,” you cry dramatically, leaning on your arm as you stay hunched over the toilet bowl.

“No you don’t,” Jack snickers, reaching to tuck your hair behind your ear and smoothing it into place, the touch of his fingers soft against your scalp and almost lulling you into a sense of calm. “You’re just drunk.”

“No, I hate it. It sucks,” you huff, “It’s a con and a scam and I’m sick of having it shoved in my face all month. I want it gone and I want it gone now.”

“Alright, Princess,” he mocks, “You never hated Valentines before, what happened?”

“I never hated a lot of things before,” you scowl again, eyes narrowed at the way his lip quivers in amusement - because of course he’d take pleasure in your misery.

It’s what he loves to do.

Only, it isn't your misery that's making him smile. It's just you - dramatic and exaggerated - looking him in the eye and talking in full sentences, or near enough. It feels like forever since he's had you like this.

"I got dumped. Again. You'll probably be happy to know that you're not alone in thinking I'm not worth your time."

"I didn't dump you," Jack defends himself, immediately, "And I don't think that."

He isn't lying either - technically the two of you were never in a relationship, so dumping was out of the question. He needed a break to focus on his recovery - focus on building himself back up for a full season, no distractions, no entanglements, and he hadn't thought either of you were in that deep for it to actually matter.

Until he started to miss you.

It took him mere days, hitting him like a tonne of bricks the first time he tried to text you and it wouldn't go through.

He was still in Michigan, you were in Jersey, and taking drastic measures to seek you out at the time felt a little too much for the casual circumstances you had both originally agreed to - friends with benefits, scratching each other's itches and relieving each others stress.

And then by the time he was back in town - it felt too late.

You still crossed paths, ran in the same circles, but you wouldn't speak to him anymore, and he didn't want to open any old wounds you were clearly trying to heal.

But he never stopped caring. Never stopped looking out for you when you got a little too drunk at parties, or watching your stories from Luke's phone, because you had him blocked on every platform.

And it's only now that you're in front of him, speaking to him again, that he realises the extent of how much he's missed you.

"Whatever," you sigh.

"No, not whatever," he shuffles along the floor, legs knocking into yours as he reaches out again, swiping the stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling forward back behind your ear and holding it in place. "I don't think that."

He tries to be assertive in saying it, this time - eyes locked on yours, grip firming up a little on your face, lowering his tone of voice until it sounds more sure - and he figures it works a little better, your tired eyes blinking slowly as the honesty seeps in.

You sigh, heavy in a way that makes your shoulders slump, your lips twisting as you look down.

You're quiet for a moment, and all Jack can do is watch - stuck in the same position, the same proximity - as you try to fight the tears. Something tugs, like an ache in the depth of his chest, a soreness that can only be remedied by holding you, he thinks. But he knows that isn't the right move.

You're not okay. You're drinking to mask your feelings, to the point of self-destruction, throwing up on your own in the bathroom at a party filled with all your friends, and it's all his fault.

"I'm sorry," is all he can think to say, a lump in the back of his throat as you give a resigned nod, still not meeting his eye. "I'm sorry that I was a dick, and I'm sorry the other guy was a dick. You deserve better than both of us."

A lone tear slips out, rolls down your cheek cinematically slow, and Jack swipes at it before it can fall, the pad of his thumb stroking gently at your jaw.

"I'm not gonna leave you," he promises, and you're probably too drunk to look any further into it, but he means it in more ways than he can possibly convey on a bathroom floor, your hair matted to your forehead and tears in your eyes. "I'm gonna look after you. I'm gonna get you home safe, and in the morning, we're gonna talk, okay?"

You nod again, looking up briefly into oceanic irises - a storm that once consumed you still swirling within them.

"Alright, c'mon, let's get you up." He stands before you do, shifting behind you with hands under your arms, holding your body against his as he leans over and flushes all the evidence of your intoxication away.

"Don't manhandle me," you huff.

"I'm just trying to-,"

"If you say help one more time, I'm gonna throw up all over your car."

He presses his lips together to save himself, nodding towards the door and gesturing for you to start heading out if you can do so by yourself. He hovers behind you the entire time, hand floating behind the small of your back, ready to catch you when you inevitably stumble on unsteady feet.

And when he finally gets you home, you don't let him go any further than your couch, shoving him down onto it and stomping off to your room, the slam of your door causing him to smile to himself - because despite all your defiance, the stomping, the slamming, the sulking and the sighs, you still let him back in.

And he's not going to let you go again.

[bratbarzal]

hey maggie😈 I know this is for exes to lovers but any spin of this for tsou/lih luke: “you really thought i wouldn’t remember what you like? please, give me a little credit.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

“you really thought i wouldn’t remember what you like? please, give me a little credit.” with our boy!!!! LIH/TSOU!LUKE!!! this probably fits in the timeline of tsou part two - and I feel like the vibes of this are gift giving, but because there's technically two gift giving scenes coming up, I did something a little different/cute for this!! again I switched up the phrasing of it a little to match their vibe but I hope you like it Hannah ily!!

Luke: hungry?

You: starving

Luke: I'll pick you up

Hanging out with Luke has all of a sudden become as easy as that - throwing on an old hoodie and running out to his car when it drives by your sorority, never thinking you'd be so grateful that he chose to spend his break back in Michigan instead of taking an actual, much needed, vacation.

You'd chirped him at first, calling him crazy for picking this place over somewhere sunny and warm, but as he drives over to the mall, your passenger seat heated so that you're all cozy, and the all too familiar scenery blurring through your window, you're grateful he has such an attachment to the area.

Especially after the week you've had - you just need a moment to be away from everything and everyone.

"I'm gonna run in, do you want me to leave the heat on?" he asks as he unbuckles his belt, twisting over to you as he grabs his wallet from the tray below the console.

You nod, a shy smile offered in return of the one he gives to you.

"I'll be 10 minutes, max, I'm gonna leave my keys, lock the door behind me," he tells you, flicking at your nose affectionately as he adds, "No joyrides."

You roll your eyes and swat at his hand before watching him retreat - watching all the way until he disappears into the mall, glancing back at you as he turns the final corner, and busying yourself with your phone until he taps on your window maybe ten minutes later, scaring the living crap out of you.

"Jesus," you huff, reaching over to unlock the doors, opening the one on your side so you can take the bag precariously hung over his fingertips while he balances a drinks holder in his hand. You check in the bag as he rounds the front of the car, noticing a few different things from different places, smiling to yourself as you realise he's picked up your favourite things.

You wonder if he has developed a sixth sense for when you're a little down, or a little quieter than usual, or if this is just what he does, regardless. Texts you out of the blue, picks you up from your house, drives you across town to the mall with the food court and hops around until he has everything to make you happy again.

Either way, you're grateful.

Luke shuffles into his seat before he puts the drinks down in the middle of the two of you, and you glance down. Two large diet cokes and something little lodged between them.

"You got me a milkshake too?" You gasp, taking the smaller cup from his hold and looking inside.

"Yeah, 'cause you like to dip your fries like a freak."

"You remembered?" You pull out said fries, grabbing one to eat as you watch him shudder dramatically.

"Stuff like that is pretty hard to forget," he steals one of your fries and throws it into his mouth. "I got your order perfect, give me a little credit, here," he adds around it, eyes meeting yours as you smile over at him.

It's been a while since you've done this - sat in the front seat of his car, a tray of food between the two of you and no other plans. It used to be your thing sometimes, when he'd pick you up from the club in the summer, taking a detour to a drive thru and eating junk food, just the two of you, away from the judgement of his more-regimented older brothers. It helped when you got back to the house, and the rest of the guys had worked through most of whatever Quinn might have cooked up, and you were left with scraps.

You still wonder how none of them ever clocked onto how you and Luke were both miraculously not that hungry at the same time - Luke especially, who pretty much eats his family out of house and home on any given day of the week. But maybe you pay more attention to him than most people.

When you think back on it, compared to how the two of you have been over the last few months - you realise how surface-level your relationship might have been back then. Yeah, you told Luke more than you told most people about yourself - about your family, your life, your job, or whatever - but it was nothing compared to how things have been since the two of you seriously became friends.

The two of you talk every day - about school, about hockey, about how you're feeling, about how he's coping - and it feels a lot more even, this time, like there's a balance there.

The thought brings a soft smile to your face as you reach into the bag and pull out your sub, a wave of appreciation washing over you at all the effort he put into getting all the things you like.

"The boy did good," you tell him, meeting his eye again to give him an assured grin as you unwrapped your sandwich, "Are we going halves?"

"Of course we're going halves," he playfully rolls his eyes, taking the half that you offer him and switching half of his sub back over - part chicken caesar and part turkey and ham. "It doesn't taste right when I get it on my own, anymore."

"I know," you laugh, holding it out for him to cheers before you can start eating. "I don't think I've had one since the last time we got it together." You take a bite of yours, covering your mouth as you chew and notice him watching you, amusement flashing in his eyes, a similar smile to your own stretching at his lips before he takes his own bite, humming and nodding in approval at the taste.

"'S'good," he mumbles around his mouthful, and you snort around your own, reaching for your coke to wash it down.

"It's the best," you correct him, fighting the temptation to reach out and swipe your thumb against the corner of his lip, wiping away the smudge of sauce left behind.

[bratbarzal]

Maggie you doing blurbs has made my whole week! Could I get “you celebrate this corny day?” “just say you’re lonely and have no one to spend it with, next time, ‘kay?” but with friends to lovers instead of enemies? With Quinn pleeeease <3

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

4. “you celebrate this corny day?” “just say you’re lonely and have no one to spend it with, next time, ‘kay?” with quinn (I took creative liberties with the exact phrasing of this but the essence is there lmao!! also love you for customising it, if anyone else is requesting feel free to jumble the tropes!!)

"You can't seriously be into all this stuff," Quinn huffs as he watches you pick up another heart shaped pillow down the seasonal aisle in the grocery store - your cart still empty despite being there almost 15 minutes, now - and the object in your hand having no conceivable difference to the one you picked up just before it. "It's so corny."

All he's heard for weeks now is Valentines this, and Valentines that, all his teammates going the extra mile for their significant others like it isn't just the same as any other Friday.

Dozens of roses, candlelit dinners, boxes of chocolates and God-forbid any of them forget a card, because how could you possibly ever show someone you love them without a folded bit of paper.

It's all so stupid.

"It's not corny, it's cute." You throw back over your shoulder, making a point of lifting the pillow higher just to show him, "Look, it's got ruffles!"

"What's the big deal about ruffles," he scowls, stepping past the cart and closer to the display that houses all the valentines themed garbage - pillows, keychains, water bottles and little plushies. He never thought you'd be into all this stuff - you barely even like Christmas - but here you are, fawning over anything you can find that's pink, or fluffy, or both. "You have like 90 pillows back in your apartment, I can barely fit on the couch anymore."

"There are 8 pillows max between both of my couches, Q, and they're decorative." You retort, rolling your eyes at your best friend as his face turns, nose scrunching in a petulant scowl. "I'm not taking interior design critique from someone with a sauna in his kitchen."

"It wouldn't fit anywhere else, you know that." he grumbles, snatching the pillow from your grip and throwing it back with the others.

"What's got you so annoyed about Valentines Day, huh?" you pick up the next item along, a fluffy keychain with cherries shaped like hearts - or hearts shaped like cherries, you're not quite sure - swinging the loop around your finger until you have enough momentum to launch it his way. "Did no one give Quinny a rose?"

He catches it, clumsily, against his chest, holding it in front of him to get a good look before he throws it straight back. "I'm not annoyed. You shouldn't have to buy any of this garbage to show somebody you love them. Just think it's a made up holiday set up to make money off of schmucks. "

"Hey, don't call me a schmuck," you jab a finger into his arm.

"Don't call me Quinny," he jabs back.

"If you don't have anybody to spend Valentines with and you're feeling lonely, you can just say that," You tell him, purposely bordering on condescending, picking up one of the stuffed animals - a bear, holding a heart that reads, I love you - and wiggling it his way. "See, we're all lovers, no one else here is gonna judge you."

He watches the way you pout down at the bear, tapping at its nose with your finger and hesitantly putting it back, like you don't quite want to.

"We're the only ones here, period," he scoffs, "No one else is weird enough to do their grocery shopping at 10pm."

"It was the only time you're free and I need you to haul the big bag of cat food into my car," you pout, remembering how much he had scolded you the last time you tried to do it on your own and hurt your back - promising that the next time you needed to top up, he'd come with and get his own shopping done at the same time.

"Whatever, you don't have anybody to spend Valentines with, either."

"I have Ziggy," you shrug, referring to your cat with the little white patch of fur around it's eye like a lightening bolt - the cat that Quinn had grumbled about when you first brought her home from the shelter, but who he always sought out whenever he came over to your place. "We're gonna watch Bake Off and eat dinner off of matching heart-shaped plates."

You hold up two red ceramic plates to him with a big smile before putting them in the cart, ignoring when he chuckles to himself, and edging past him to finally make your way off of the seasonal aisle.

"Hold on," he calls after you, appearing by your side with another plate in hand. "Ziggy already told me she'd be my Valentine, so we're gonna have to share."

"She's way too high maintenance for you." You snort, bumping your hip against his, "Especially if you think Valentines gifts are corny. She's not a cheap date, Q."

"Just like her mother," he sighs, dramatically, jumping back when you swing your leg out to kick him. "Hey, watch the shins, cat lady, you can't afford the damages on these things!"

He ignores the glare you give him as you watch him retreat, jogging back over to all the Valentines stuff and picking up two bears - the one you were just holding, and a smaller copy - one for you, and one for Ziggy.

"Here," he throws them into the cart, too. You pick the bear back up, twisting your lips as you look at the two of them side by side, and look back up to watch him walking backwards down the aisle, a glint in his eye as he watches you. "Don't check out without me, I need to go pick up some supplements."

"Big macho health-nut thinks I'm the corny one," you speak to the bear like it can even hear you, putting on a grumbly voice in an attempt to mimic Quinn.

"I'm sorry I called you corny!" He calls, further down the aisle, now.

"You called me a schmuck, too!" You call back, cheeks flushing at the lopsided grin he gives just before he rounds the corner at the bottom.

It's a smile he can't really shift as he makes a bee-line for the health aisle, content now that he actually has plans - isn't going to be sitting alone in his apartment with no one to spend his Valentines with, and doesn't need to fork out thousands just for it to mean something.

And when it rolls around a couple days later, and he's sprawled out on your couch, pillows tossed to the floor, and Bake Off flickering almost silently on your TV, he lays back with that same smile etched into his features.

You're asleep under one arm, and Ziggy is purring under the other, and for the first time ever, thanks to his best friend and your overly fluffy cat, he thinks that maybe the holiday isn't such a joke.

[bratbarzal]

Maggie!!! Here is my fire blurb request for your event!

Coworkers to lovers with dawson pretty pretty please 🥰🙏

With the prompt " if you’re still wondering who left those flowers at your desk, i think i’m ready to put your mind at ease.”

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

"if you’re still wondering who left those flowers at your desk, i think i’m ready to put your mind at ease.” SWEET SWEET SYD as agreed not technically valentines themed and a little more generic for you I hope you like it!! I tried to put some chaotic syd vibes in here lmao in my head I saw co-worker and straight went to the office vibes lmao you're so kelly!!

"I think I have a stalker."

Dawson looks up from his computer after what feels like hours, his eyes starting to swirl and his head starting to spin, as your wheely chair bumps into his, the collision bringing him out of whatever spreadsheet-induced haze he had just found himself in and diverting his attention straight to you - just how you like it.

"Good morning to you, too." He frowns, not sure how he feels about that statement being the first thing he's heard from you so far today. It's Monday, he hadn't seen you over the weekend, and so the last thing he had seen of you was Friday, which feels like a lifetime ago. The two of you didn't drive in together, for once, with you having a meeting off-site with your boss, and he has been seriously knocked off his groove.

His coffee hasn't tasted right, his computer has crashed more times than he cares to count, and he thinks someone has been messing with the height settings on his chair, because something feels off.

"It's," you grab his wrist and turn, checking the time on his watch, "11:45, it's hardly the time of day for good mornings."

He snatches his wrist back before slumping in his chair, his knees knocking against yours as he runs a hand through his already-messed hair, sighing heavily at the fact it isn't even noon, and he still has half a day ahead of him.

"I'd argue any time of day before noon is the time of day for good mornings, but I'm already bored of this conversation."

You scowl, a familiar playful glint in your eye that lightens the heaviness on his shoulders - something he's missed since he stepped foot into the building this morning.

Everyone else has been getting on his nerves, and despite all the ways in which you purposely try, you only ever really do the opposite.

"Rude," you pout, kicking lightly at his ankles and scooting back to avoid a kick-war, needing to have the last word before it gets out of hand and he gets you to give in and let him win. "It's like you don't even care that I'm being stalked. You'll be sorry when they start coming for you - stalkers don't like the best friends, haven't you ever seen You?"

He rolls his eyes, straightening in his seat and clasping his hands together in his lap - a sign that he means business to anyone else, but a sign that he's no doubt mocking the seriousness of this discussion to you. "Why do you think you have a stalker?"

"Because someone left a serial killer note on my desk this morning." You slam it down onto the surface in front of him, a psychopathic scrawl of, You can poppy over any time, with a drawing of a poppy beside it.

Dawson laughs - because of course he finds it funny.

"How is that a serial killer note? It's a pun."

"It's crazy, is what it is. It's the gateway into leaving locks of hair in my drawer, Dawson. I'm afraid I'm going to go to my car later and there will be a lurker in the backseat."

"Because of a drawing of a flower?" He scoffs, placing two fingers atop the note and sliding it back over to you. "If this even is a gateway, I think the escalation rate between this and someone hiding in your car is pretty steep."

"You would say that," you glare pointedly, the amused smile only furthering your - mostly exaggerated - irritation. "Such a male response. You will never understand the perils of being a woman in modern society."

"Yeah, how dare I think you're being dramatic," he smirks, "You're gonna want to hold onto that, keep it in a safe place in your desk, y'know, for evidence."

"You'll be sorry when I'm someone's basement bride and you have no one to entertain you around here, anymore." You warn him, snatching the paper back and wheeling away toward your own desk, flipping him off as you go.

--

For the first time in what feels like forever, your work week is pretty hectic - going here there and everywhere around town trying to appease your boss, and your time in the office is limited - which means your time with Dawson is limited, too.

Just enough every day to catch him up on the evolution of your stalker's crazy behaviour.

Tuesday starts off pretty normal - he gives you a ride to the office, your morning is pretty slow, and then you have back to back meetings, missing lunch and only just plonking into your seat before the end of the day.

And there, just where a similar note had been yesterday, you find another.

It's a daffodil this time, bright yellow, with the corresponding joke, you're a daffodil-ight to be around.

You scowl at the paper as if your glare will set it alight, reading it over again before you're shooting up and stomping straight over to Dawson.

He's on the phone, this time, twirling the cord around his finger as someone yaps his ear off on the other side, one leg crossed over the other as he turns side to side in his chair. He looks up at you, the completely bored expression he holds never shifting, and you gesture dramatically at the note you've just slammed down onto his desk.

He leans over, phone still pressed to his ear, and squints to read it, smiling immediately as he looks back up at you.

"It's cute!" he mouths, a lopsided smirk forming as you scoff in response.

"It's insane." You mouth back, finger jabbing into your temple to make a point before you're headed back to your desk, throwing yourself dramatically in your seat and folding your arms like a petulant child.

Daffodil-ight?

This can only be someone's idea of a cruel joke. You've never been described as a delight in your life.

Someone wants to cuff you to a radiator in their mom's basement, you're almost certain of it.

--

"I think it's Dave in accounting," is the first thing you say to Dawson on Wednesday - the two of you taking the steps down a couple floors, walking in sync as you so often do when you take your lunch break together. "The flower thing, today's was a dead giveaway. I'm being groomed."

"I don't think you can be groomed once you become an adult," he chimes back, holding the door open for you when you reach the ground floor, and you turn back to scowl as you duck under his arm.

"I don't think you're the authority on that," you tell him, "And as my closest friend around here, you really should have my back with this, it's harassment."

"It's drawings of flowers, babe," he chuckles, the term of endearment slipping out before he can really think about it, but it feels too normal to get weird about it.

"Today's was creepy, Dawson," you whine, "Like the kind of letter they write using magazine cut-outs for a ransom note!"

"What did it say?"

You reach into your pocket and hand it over, I think we're Mint to be, with a green mint leaf drawn beside it.

"And what about this is screaming Dave from accounting?"

"He gave me a strip of gum once," you groan, "I've felt weird about it ever since."

He barks out a laugh as the two of you cross the parking lot, throwing his arm over your shoulders to guide you toward his car, the warmth from his torso doing little to melt your icy exterior, your own body going frigid at his amusement.

"Don't laugh," you shove at his side, the action only causing him to laugh louder. "It's like taking candy from a stranger. Now I'm gonna have to suffer with God-awful jokes and kindergarten level drawings for the rest of my sad existence."

"Aw, bud," Dawson pouts, mockingly, "Try stay posie-tive."

"I'm gonna kick your ass."

--

Thursday takes the cake for being the creepiest note you've received yet - and the worst part of it all, is that Dawson isn't even around for you to show it to him - off-site for a presentation with a client somewhere else in town - and you're left to your own devices, stashing the note with the others in the drawer, chewing at the skin beside your thumbnail and tapping your foot nervously as you wrack your brain over who could possibly be writing, Lilac the ability to control myself any longer.

--

You don't think you've ever been more thankful for a Friday in your life - so ready for it to be the weekend - to be away from the office and away from these stupid notes.

You know deep down that there's hardly any danger behind them, but you're an over-thinker, if anything - and the countless possibilities as to who could be sending them and why are weighing on your mind.

If it isn't someone who wants to kidnap you and move you to a remote location in a woodland cabin, never to be found, then it's someone with an actual crush - and you're so bad at saying no to people that you're now probably doomed to marry some corny, flower loving creep, anyway.

It weighs on your mind throughout the day - so much so that you don't even realise you don't get a note by the time you're finishing.

You don't realise a lot of things.

And you only realise that when you're pushing through the doors downstairs into the early evening, and Dawson isn't by your side.

He's been back and forth to his desk all day, in and out of meetings, on and off calls, and you've been distracted, yourself - but he usually drives you home, especially on Fridays.

You venture a little further into the parking lot, just to see if his car is still around - and sure enough, it's in his usual spot. You can see him leaning against it from the other side, his back to you, and you assume it's best to go around rather than jump straight in, figuring he probably has plans and can't give you a ride today.

You walk past the front of his car, and at the sound of footsteps, he turns. His movements are slow, and so are yours, and so the reveal of what he's holding, or hiding, happens like something out of a movie.

"If you're still wondering who left those flowers at your desk, I'm ready to put your mind at ease."

He's holding a bouquet - one that looks expensive, wrapped in that nice brown paper and held together with twine - a mix of pinks, light and dark, purples, greens and a bit of white, different flowers that don't look like something he picked up at a gas station.

"It was you?" You gasp, stepping closer to admire the flowers, a bouquet so fresh and full of life, clutched in his almost-shaky grip.

"Figured I had to come clean before you went to the cops." He chuckles, handing them over and watching you pluck the small card from the middle.

The note inside has no drawing this time - short and sweet - Thanks for being my best Bud, and this time, instead of horror, it brings a slow smile to your lips.

"I can't believe it's been you this whole time, why didn't you say anything? I said you had the drawing skills of a toddler, Dawson!"

"You know I like it when you're mean," he winks, stepping closer, "You should have known, though, who else around here would think you're a delight?"

Your cheeks flush as he says it - realising you probably should have known. He's found this whole thing so funny, and he's the only one in the office with the slightest sense of humour and love of pranks.

No one else could probably even think of something like this - let alone actually carry it out, planting notes while you're busy doing God-knows what and watching you spiral out.

He's probably had the time of his life.

"I could have gone on, but I could tell you were getting freaked out."

"No shit." You chuckle, nervous now, with flowers heavy in your hand, that you've been so ungrateful.

"Didn't even get to use my favourites - like the one about how you get violet when you're mad." He nudges you, stepping closer again, and when you lower the bouquet, you realise he's straight in front of you now, looking down with that amused glint in his eye that always makes your heart beat a little faster. "Ya get it? Violet? Like violent?"

You swat the bouquet lightly at his arm - enough to thwack at him but not enough to damage it, and he grins - big and amused.

"See." he smirks, "Or the best one."

"I dread to think what the best one is if the rest of them have been so bad."

"It's something about my tulips," he winks, leaning in and pressing two lips to your cheek, "I'll let you think about that one, though.

[bratbarzal]

OR, and feel free to skip, obviously!!!

“c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.” with Poppy and Nico pre-On Your Side?

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

4. “c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.” WITH PRE OYS NICO AND POPPY THE DREAM REQUEST!!!! ILYSM FOR THIS

"You don't look like you're dying," Poppy hears the hum of a low voice muse, all too lost in her work until she looks up from her computer to see those familiar dark eyes gleaming back at her from across her desk.

She smiles up at Nico, tight lipped and guilty at the sight of the slight pants of breath he is taking - obviously having run over from wherever else in the Rock he might have been.

Sending an SOS text with thirteen exclamation marks might have been a little excessive, but it had felt necessary at the time - and hey, he might have even broken some sort of world record, she only sent it a few minutes ago.

"Hi," she says, tone sweet and smile even sweeter, now. "Thanks for coming."

"You can't abuse SOS texts, Poppy," he huffs, lowering himself onto the edge of her desk, "If you did that in the military, you'd be dishonourably discharged."

"Good thing we're not in the military, then."

"Speak for yourself," he grumbles.

"You're hardly G.I. Joe, Nico." Poppy scoffs, "We both know you really did your service to get pictures for your dating apps."

"You're the one who told me to use them," he leans over to flick at her shoulder playfully, "What do you want?"

She wants to immediately rid herself of the thoughts of him in those photos - looking all official and handsome, but unfortunately it isn't that easy. "Uhh," she drags out while she tries to get her momentum back, shifting awkwardly in her spinny chair in the middle of her cubby and telling herself that friends don't think of friends in uniform like that. "I need a favour."

"And you had to give me a heart attack to ask for it?"

"I thought you were the embodiment of physical health?" she chimes back, shaking her head to get it back in the game, "Doesn't matter, you're not distracting me again. You know Michael, the guy who's office that is," Poppy points to the office in the corner - one of the nicest on the floor, with a window in the corner and it's own private bathroom. "He handed in his resignation this morning, and Elaine is dividing his projects out to all us lowly cubby losers."

"You're not a cubby loser-,"

"I am, and I'm okay with it, because I have a way out."

"Let me guess, I'm your way out?"

"Let's not get an ego about it," she scoffs, "But yes. One of his projects is Hockey In New Jersey, you know with all the cute kids? And I want it. And if I can go to her and tell her I convinced the team captain to get involved, then I'm a shoe in for it. Which means I'm a shoe in for that prime piece of real estate in the corner over there."

"I see," he hums, lips twisting as he watches the passion for her job consume her - sees the determination in her eyes, and the unwavering confidence that the 13 foot by 13 foot space on the other side of the floor will be hers.

"So the favour is that you agree to come with me to one of the rinks next Thursday, and we do a bunch of cool sessions and get some really great photos for the website," she gestures with her hands as if trying to guide him through the concept, and the amusement never shifts from his gaze, "And I know that it's technically your day off, and the last thing you probably want is to be in work mode, especially around a bunch of kids, but-,"

"Poppy," Nico chuckles, cutting her off with a quick press of his hand to her forearm, the touch startling her into immediate silence, staring at him with her mouth agape, "It's fine, I'll do it."

"Really?" She asks, to which he just nods in return, a soft smile like it's really no skin off his back to agree. "I was about to offer to bribe Jess to stay away from you for all other media activity for the next month."

"C'mon," he snorts, "Like I need an excuse to spend time with you. This can be my Valentines present for this year." He shrugs, like the concept of the two of them exchanging gifts for Valentines Day of all holidays is no big deal. Like that's something that just friends do.

Poppy hadn't even realised that next Thursday is Valentines Day, a flush suddenly rising up her neck as she thinks about the implications - but he hadn't seemed too disturbed by the idea, so probably best not to bring it up.

"We get each other presents for Valentines, now?" She leans onto her elbows on her desk, looking up at him as he gives one of those slow smiles back, cheeks dimpling and lips stretching softly.

"I've been getting you Valentines presents for the last two years, Mohn," he twists a little from his position atop the edge of her desk - the movement causing the pens in her pot to rattle, and Poppy can see one of her co-workers looking over from the corner of her eye. She can't wait to get this project out of the way - to solidify herself on the team enough that she's entrusted with her own office, because meet-ups like this with Nico are hard when there's little to no privacy.

"I think I'd know if we were exchanging gifts, Nico." she scoffs.

"I didn't say exchanging," he mimics her fondly, "I said I've been getting them for you."

She frowns, trying to think back to the previous couple of years, and anything Nico might have given her around this time.

She usually spends Valentines with her girls - she hasn't really had a serious boyfriend in a while, especially not one that stays around for the holidays - and the only thing she can think of is the heart-shaped heating pad Nia had given her last year.

Nico picks a pen from Poppy's pot and taps it against the side of her mug, the one that says I Heart NJ that she keeps in the office and drinks out of every day. The mug that Nico had brought her a drink of tea in last year when she was a little under the weather, and she had been using ever since.

"Shut up, this was a Valentines gift?" she gasps, lowering her voice so she doesn't garner the attention of Mr Nosey-Pants across the room.

"It has a heart on it, doesn't it?"

Poppy frowns then, staring down at the mug. She didn't even know it was technically from him - just thought it was something he had brought over and she had subsequently claimed as her own.

And now she feels bad - thinking he's been sneaking her gifts this whole time and she's never even spared a thought to getting him anything back.

"We're gonna have to take it in turns now," she huffs, not liking that he has been making an effort to do something for her and she hasn't been doing the same, "Next year, I'm gonna give you the biggest and best Valentines present you've ever gotten in your life, to make up for the years I missed."

"I look forward to it, Mohn." he laughs, lowly, his cheeks dimpling and dark eyes gleaming back at her, nudging at her ankle to shift her attention back from where it had fallen to his smile before he says, "What was it you were saying about no media activity, again?"

[bratbarzal]

Blurb event yay! Is Coley fair game? If yes....

Maybe a cross of Friends/Roommates to Lovers with Coley:

"I thought since we both had nowhere to be today, we could make a day of it. Just ourselves"

"C'mon, like I need an excuse to spend time with you"

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

3. “I thought since we both had nowhere to be today, we could make a day of it. Just ourselves" and "C'mon, like I need an excuse to spend time with you" with Cole!!!! you better believe anyone who names their dog olive pawfield is fair game. I see your friends/roommates to lovers and I raise you childhood friends/he took you in after a bad breakup to kind of lovers!!

Cole has always been a little funny when it comes to you dating.

The two of you have known each other a long time - since you were a scrawny little 7 year old new to town, getting shoved around the playground for fun until someone took it too far, and Cole ended up being the one sat in the nurse's office with you, holding a bleeding rag to your nose and waiting for your mom to come pick you up for concussion protocol.

He's been looking out for you ever since, and you'd always assumed it was that same protectiveness that had him acting up whenever you got into any sort of relationship with any other guy.

He'd checked your first kiss into the boards at a junior hockey tournament, a kid almost twice his size - but that didn't matter to Cole, warning him away from you with a padded elbow to his side after he had heard that you weren't the only girl he was going around kissing.

Your first serious boyfriend had a similar fate when Cole had watched him flirting with another girl in class when you were off sick, telling you that same night when he had brought your textbooks from your locker, promising to knock his teeth out if you wanted him to. You'd shrugged it off - and it wasn't that you didn't believe Cole, but you'd never seen your boyfriend display that sort of behaviour, at the time - and later down the line, when it had ended in tears and drama, a stray puck might have flown his way when the two of them shared the ice, bruising his ribs and putting him out of action for a couple of weeks.

He promised, after that, to be less physical about it, but he never stopped looking out for you.

And what was once petulant and slightly, problematically, violent became solid and reassuring, because Cole Caufield never says I told you so, despite all the times he could.

And that's what led you to moving into his place when your last relationship imploded - Cole offering you his spare room for as long as you needed it, promising that you weren't a burden, and needn't be in any rush to look for other living arrangements. Even after he had warned you exactly what kind of guy your ex boyfriend was, having treated his teammate's sister the exact same way, he still held your hand through the aftermath.

To say you're grateful is an understatement.

Living with your best friend is great. He's good company, he's clean, he keeps the refrigerator stocked, and he's the perfect reminder of home - warm in his affections and cozy in his presence, with a playful smile that sometimes takes you straight back to those chairs in the nurse's office, to him telling you that you still looked pretty even with blood crusted all over your face.

It's the kind of comfort that makes it easy to get over the rest, to forget boyfriends who cheat and lie, and only remember the love of your best friend, who always leaves coffee in the pot and comes home from his morning skates with breakfast bagels in hand.

You're expecting an empty house for most of the day when you wake up in the late morning - a quiet, serene lull in the air and the heat cranked up in his absence - but when you shrug on a hoodie - no doubt one of his - and your slippers, and pad through to the living room to seek out Olive, you're surprised to find Cole there, too.

"You're home!" You smile as you round the couch, distracted all of a sudden by the array of blankets on the floor, with a spread of pillows at the top. The blinds are half drawn, the late morning sun blocked and giving a moody glow to the room, and Olive sits just behind him, pretty much begging for her routine cuddles.

"Yeah, I didn't feel right leaving you alone on Valentines," he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck, thick muscles tensing in his arms as he winces nervously your way. "I thought since we both had nowhere to be today, we could make a day of it. Just the two of us, like old times."

"Aw, Cole," you pout, "You didn't have to stick around just for my sake, Olive already promised me a romantic stroll in the park, later."

He chuckles, that same sweet smile that settles like a familiar weight in your stomach, like a soothing hot tea or a home-cooked meal. "Maybe I'll come with, considering my plans for the day are being walked all over."

"What do you mean?"

"I set up a den, like we used to make, and I figured we could watch a movie, but I couldn't find any of the snacks you like at the store, it was all like fancy and heart-shaped, and I didn't know if you'd really want that. So I bought you a cookie but uh," he looks back at Olive, who looks between the two of you with an unassuming, innocent gaze, sugar-cookie crumbs dusted across her whiskers where she hasn't quite reached to clean them yet, "I guess I tempted fate leaving it on the coffee table."

"You didn't get her one, too?" You giggle, stepping toward the dog and kneeling beside her, scratching at the back of her head in the way she likes until she nuzzles into your familiar touch and you coo at her, "That's not like him, he forget his number one girl, huh?"

"Well, I figured if either of you needed a pick me up today of all days, it wasn't the pampered pooch."

"I'm alright," you smile as you stand back up, edging toward him with open arms, "But I'll take you up on a den-day. This is really sweet."

He wraps his arms straight around you as soon as you're close enough, pressing his chin to your temple and twisting his lips into the side of your head. "Anything for my number two girl."

"Please don't call me that," you snort, sensing the way his cheeks puff out into a smile and playfully pushing him away.

"You brought that on yourself," he chuckles, "What do you say we go on a snack hunt, leave Olive to do zoomies from her sugar rush so she's not bouncing all over us on the floor?"

"You could have stopped at snack hunt," you smile softly, edging past him in search of your thickest winter coat - ready to brave the Montreal weather in search of popcorn and chocolate, and maybe even something heart-shaped to fill the void, because all of a sudden, you are in a loving mood. "I don't need any other excuse to go anywhere with you."

Cole nods, following your lead and grabbing his coat straight from the hook next to yours.

You don't know how you end up holding his hand the whole way around the store, the two of you foregoing a cart so that you can just get as much as you can carry - or why you're still holding it over the centre console as he drives the two of you home, heart shaped lollies pushing into both of your cheeks.

But maybe you need to stop questioning things when it comes to how you love Cole, and just accept that maybe he always knows exactly what's right when it comes to you and relationships.

[bratbarzal]

happy valentines day!

I've never really done a blurb event before but I wanted to do something cute for valentines to give back for all the love you guys have given me recently!!!

probably should have started this sooner but having a small window hopefully means I won't get overwhelmed and end up with demand avoidance lmao

if you've seen any player on my page before, assume they're fair game for a request, but if you haven't, I'll let you know if I won't fulfil a certain request for anybody else ♥️

requests will close this sunday (16th feb - which I know is counterintuitive for a valentines themed event but love is forever, okay?) just send in a prompt from the list under the cut + whatever player you want! (you could also do trope!player if you wanted like dad!whoever or fwb!whoever else it’s up to you!!) and don’t be afraid to jumble the prompts/tropes around if you like a specific one but not enemies to lovers or whatever!!

also just know I usually write exclusively in 300 page novels and blurbs are new to me so pls be kind and patient lmao I'm just trying to have fun with something different ♥️

prompts have been copied from here, please show love to the original creator / enemies to lovers prompts taken from here!!

ੈ✩‧₊˚ friends to lovers

¹⁾ “you really planned this?! remind me how you’re single, again?”

²⁾ “thanks for making today a little less depressing.”

³⁾ “has it occurred to you that we’ve spent more valentine’s days with each other than with people we’ve actually been dating?”

⁴⁾ “c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.”

⁵⁾ “i can’t help but think that this is a little more effort than someone would normally put in for their friend.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚ coworkers to lovers

¹⁾ “if you’re still wondering who left those flowers at your desk, i think i’m ready to put your mind at ease.”

²⁾ “you’re telling me you really have nowhere better to be than here today?”

³⁾ “c’mon, it’s not like haven’t shared a dinner whilst working late before. it doesn’t have to mean anything different just because of the day that’s in it.”

⁴⁾ “someone’s been leaving valentines for me all over the building today, and i’m pretty sure i know who.”

⁵⁾ “i don’t have any plans after work, and i know you haven’t either. how about we keep each other company instead of spending it alone?”

ੈ✩‧₊˚ roommates to lovers

¹⁾ “before you say anything about me being at home tonight, i want to remind you that you are too.”

²⁾ “i thought that since we both had nowhere to be today, we could make a day of it. just ourselves.”

³⁾ “i’m guessing that the fact you’re already home will tell me everything i need to know about how your date went.”

⁴⁾ “wow, someone’s looking good. hot date, or what?”

⁵⁾ “i’m happy i got to spend the day with someone i actually care about.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚ exes to lovers

¹⁾ “don’t tell me; you had so much fun with me last year, that you just couldn’t resist spending it with me again.”

²⁾ “wow, you really don’t have anyone special in your life at the minute.”

³⁾ “ i wanted to treat you how i should’ve before.”

⁴⁾ “you really thought i wouldn’t remember what you like? please, give me a little credit.”

⁵⁾ “maybe if things had gone like this every year, we wouldn’t have ended up the way we did.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚ secret relationship

¹⁾ “are you telling me we can’t do anything to mark the day?”

²⁾ “i understand if you don’t want to, but i wanted to tell you that i planned a few things for us today.”

³⁾ “it’s so much less than what you deserve, but it’s all i could think to do given the circumstances.”

⁴⁾ “and here i was, expecting just an anonymous bunch of flowers.”

⁵⁾ “i couldn’t think of a better night to show everyone how in love with you i am.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚ enemies to lovers

¹⁾ “you have a date? how much did you pay them?"

²⁾ "i told my friends i'd go on this stupid double date with them." "and that's my business because..?" "..i don't have a date."

³⁾ "you've been teasing me all this time about being single just for you to get stood up?" "....." "move over, you're lucky i'm hungry."

⁴⁾ "you celebrate this corny day?" "just say you're lonely and have no one to spend it with, next time, 'kay?"

⁵⁾ crashing their date with another person purposely