#yeah. figured it would be something along those lines. but still. :(

[liminalmemories21]

Give me some #40 from that prompt list, if you please!

Have some very early Buck/Tommy - from @cecilyv and I.

“You know, you can stay if you want to.”

Tommy sits up, skin glowing in the neon reflection of Buck’s alarm clock.  Buck watches him look around for his shirt, his pants, scattered like a breadcrumb trail from where they’d started. Tommy’s shirt, at least, is still downstairs -- vividly remembers stripping it off him and sliding his palms up his ribs, over his pecs. Buck shivers, from the memory --- Tommy’s skin pebbling under his fingers -- and from the cold of his bedroom, without the bulk of Tommy pressed up tight against him.  

They’d started downstairs.  Had put on a movie that Chim had told Tommy he’d never seen.  Still hasn’t seen it, because he’d been distracted by the heat of Tommy’s thigh against his.  Had casually - casually - stretched his arm along the back of the couch.  Caught Tommy’s amused smirk out of the corner of his eye, but Tommy hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t pulled away, so he’d figured Tommy didn’t mind the obvious move.

An arm across the shoulder had turned into nuzzling, had turned into kissing, had turned into making out.  Tommy had pulled him into his lap, and it had been disorienting for a moment to be the one being pulled, instead of the one doing the pulling, to be the one perched in someone’s lap looking down.  But then Tommy had shoved hands up under his shirt, and Buck had felt a little drunk with how big they felt on his back.  And, he rolled his hips down on instinct, and felt the line of Tommy’s dick against his and then kind of just stopped thinking.

He remembers that Tommy had been sweet though.  Thoughtful.  Stopping.  Checking in.  Checking to make sure they weren’t going too far, too fast.

He hadn’t found words to tell Tommy how much none of it was too much, how much more he wanted.  Needed.  He’d tried to show Tommy instead.

Reaching for his shirt to pull it off.  Bending to lick at Tommy’s nipples, pinching them and worrying at them with his tongue when Tommy groaned, and said, “Shit,” in that way that meant yes, and more.

He’d reached for Tommy’s belt buckle, wanting to touch the hard dick he could feel pressing against his ass.  Wanting to taste it.  The more of Tommy he saw the more he wanted to touch, and taste, wanted to memorize the dip of his waist, the feel of hard muscle under his palms where he’s used to soft give.

He was the one who’d stood up, tugged Tommy upstairs, tackled him into the bed.  Finally gotten to feel all that skin against his own, pressing him down into the bed.  He’d loved it.  Even more than he’d thought he would.  The feeling of being under someone as big or bigger than he is.  Someone with hands big enough to wrap around both their cocks.

He’d thought it was good.  But now, sweat barely dried on his skin, Tommy’s sitting up, looking for his shirt.  He’d thought Tommy would spend the night.  He could make Tommy breakfast in the morning.  Find out how he actually takes his coffee.

But, maybe the rules are different for guys.  Maybe this is one of those things that he’s going to have to learn.

Except.  He wants Tommy to stay.  

Sits up.  Clears his throat.  “You know, you can stay if you want to?”  Makes it a question.  Tries not to sound as needy as he feels.

Tommy stills, turns to look at him.  “Yeah?”

He nods.  “If you want?  I don’t know if you have a shift, or something –” trails off when Tommy smiles.

Tommy shakes his head, already sliding back down in the bed, curling against Buck, hand sliding over his stomach. “No. No shift.”

He smiles, pleased.  Turning his back to Tommy and tucking himself back against him, letting himself be the little spoon for the first time, not surprised by how much he loves it.  Loves everything about being with Tommy, if he’s being honest.  Pulls Tommy’s arm over his waist, and slots their hands together – keep Tommy from having any second thoughts about leaving.  “I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”

Thinks he hears Tommy say, “Or I could make you breakfast.”  Except he’s almost already on the verge of sleep, sated, and with the comfort of a big strong man behind him, the promise of seeing Tommy again in the morning.

Can’t believe it took him this long to realize he wanted this.

[berryispunk]

I Lost You To Another Almost

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! Firefly

tags: fluff, banter, allusions to smut, dual POV, kissing, heavy emotional content (take care!), idiots in love, love confessions (rockstar manner), poetry, soft! Frankie, grief and loss, death

notes: I can’t believe I’m actually typing this, but… Like a Song Stuck in My Head ends today. This story has lived in my heart for so long, and letting go of Firefly & Frankie—these two messy, magnetic, achingly human souls—is more bittersweet than I ever imagined. Thank you, truly, to every single one of you who followed their story, sent messages, screamed in the tags and comments, or quietly read along and felt something. You made this journey real. I know this ending won’t be easy. It’s raw. It’s heavy. But it’s also the most honest version of their story I could tell. I hope you feel the echo of it, the truth beneath the heartbreak. And maybe it stays with you a while. So, here it is. One last time. For the music. For the silence. For the almosts that still mattered.

word count: ~ 7,3 k

also readable on ao3

After the initial mess of figuring out how to fold Firefly into his whirlwind life, it got easier. They carved out time between his tour stops and her shifts at the bookshop, building something quiet, steady. It wasn’t flashy—it crept in like sunlight through the blinds on rare mornings when she woke up with him beside her. Limbs tangled, still naked from the night before. Frankie would stumble in, still riding the high from a show—thankfully not from the powder anymore.

He’d kept his promise: to do better. To stay sober. Even if some nights threatened to drag him under, he held the line. For her.

She lay on her stomach, legs lifted lazily behind her as the apartment door opened. Frankie kicked off his boots, smelling like sweat, adrenaline, and stage smoke.

“Hey, rockstar,” she said without looking up from her book, grinning.

He didn’t answer. Just crawled into bed, bracing himself above her on strong arms, and kissed the crown of her head. Gently, he brushed hair from her neck, then began pressing kisses there—soft at first, but growing bolder. His chest pressed against her back, his arousal clear through those unforgivingly tight black jeans.

She smirked. “What do you think you’re doing?” Her voice was already breathy, lit up by that rare softness only he ever got to see.

“I missed you,” he murmured against her neck, kisses trailing to her bare shoulder.

She glanced over at him. “Yeah? I’ve been right here, you know. Never far.”

“Too far for my liking.”

He moved down her spine with agonizing grace, mouth worshipping every inch. That’s when she turned onto her back and really looked at him.

He was different now—not the guy plastered across concert posters. His face had relaxed, the shadows softened, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were impossibly bright.

It messed with her head, knowing she was the reason he seemed almost grounded. The band teased him relentlessly, called him soft. Fans on the internet speculated about his dating life, about the shift in his vibe. Gone was the ever-brooding frontman who wore heartbreak like armor.

But they hadn’t gone public yet. They were still tucked inside their little bubble of intimacy, guarding it from the world a little longer. Protecting their love they fought so long to have. 

Her fingers threaded through his damp hair. He leaned into the touch, tilting his face toward her palm as she cupped his cheek, thumb brushing his cheekbone. He kissed her wrist—soft, reverent. It made something constrict deep in her chest.

“You smell,” she giggled.

He cracked one eye open, meeting hers in the dim bedroom light. “Bad?”

She shrugged. “A little.”

He pouted dramatically, then sat back on his heels and took a sniff of himself. His face flinched. “Oh, Jesus.”

She laughed—bright and high, the sound so rare that Frankie swore it lit something in him every time. He watched her, just in one of his old, threadbare shirts, one shoulder slipping down. His eyes darkened as he licked his lips.

“Guess I should shower, huh?” he said, standing slowly, never breaking eye contact as he stepped out of his jeans.

She shook her head. “I know what you’re doing.”

He bent down, leveling with her again. “You know nothing, sweet girl,” he teased, kissing her mess of red hair.

“You’re making that face again. And you’re performing a full striptease right now, Morales. Don’t play dumb.”

“A lot of people would pay good money to see this,” he said, gesturing to his near-naked form.

“Oh, I know.” Her voice had that familiar bite again, that fire in her eyes as she rose from the bed, tugged off his shirt, revealing nothing underneath.

His jaw slackened, gaze heavy with heat.

“You’re lucky you get it for free,” he said.

“The luckiest,” she breathed.

She stepped out of her slip and walked past him, bare and deliberate, hips swaying as she turned on the shower. He followed, hands already on her waist, mouth at that spot behind her ear, practically pushing her into the water.

Her back hit the cold tiles as he pressed her in, pinning her hands above her head before his mouth finally found hers. The water poured around them, steaming up the mirror and the entire tiny bathroom.

They didn’t exactly shower—but somehow still emerged fresher, lighter, glowing.

Later, damp and breathless, tangled in her sheets, Frankie mumbled about ordering Chinese from the place down the street. Thirty minutes later, they sat on her living room rug—thrifted, a little questionable. He always claimed it had bugs.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she scolded, laughing.

He helped her move in here. He didn’t have a real home—hadn’t since the tour started months ago—but he always circled back. Because home wasn’t a place. 

It was her.

—

On a rare break from the tour, Frankie insisted on taking her to the beach—just one day, sleeping in the bed of his old truck under the stars. The same rusted beast Firefly always made fun of. "You could drive a damn Ferrari now, and you still cling to this deathtrap?" she'd say, raising that suspicious brow of hers. Frankie would just grin and reply, “She’s got character. You wouldn’t understand.” She’d roll her eyes, but never pressed him on it.

The day they went, the sky was a wash of pale greys and soft blues, the sun hidden just behind the clouds. Her red hair blazed like fire against the muted background, and Frankie already had half a dozen lyrics forming in his mind just about that. They lay on their backs, side by side, pointing out shapes in the clouds with no pressure to be anywhere else. The waves crashing nearby created a rhythm he could feel in his bones, and for a little while, he drifted off—truly relaxed in a way he only ever was with her.

Firefly was tucked against his side, one leg draped over his hips. His hand rested on her thigh, fingers lazily brushing the soft skin left bare by those tiny shorts that always short-circuited his brain. The sun began to set, casting the beach in a warm orange glow when she spoke.

“You know…” she began, her voice almost swallowed by the waves. “The first time I heard An Abundance of Silence, it really hurt. I was in the damn cereal aisle and had to pretend like it didn’t hit me square in the chest.” She chuckled softly. “You really have a flair for the dramatic, Morales.”

Frankie tilted his head and kissed her hair. “Not the best with words—unless I can pack them into a song. I should’ve told you beforehand. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s a really good song. And hey, who else can say their boyfriend wrote a number-one hit about them?” she teased, voice soft.

“Oh, so now I’m your boyfriend with the songwriting skills?” he replied, a smile playing on his lips as he pressed another kiss to her forehead, lips lingering there for a moment.

“Still can’t believe you did that,” she murmured, tightening her hold on him just slightly. “Even when you didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again.”

And something shifted—right then, right there.

It was too big to ignore now, too powerful in the way it lit everything from the inside out. It rushed through Frankie like wildfire. He couldn’t outrun it anymore, even if he tried. Whatever this was, it had already undone him, brought him to his knees, rebuilt his whole world from the ground up. He knew—without question—that he’d never be the same. And more than that, he’d never be able to live without her. So he said it, plain and simple, even if the feeling behind it was anything but.

“I love you.” Whispered, but unwavering.

She froze. Completely still in his arms, barely even breathing.

He half-expected her to brush it off with a joke, deflect with her usual wit. But instead, she lifted from his shoulder, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked at him. The setting sun behind her made her red hair glow like a halo. He just watched her, utterly captivated—he could’ve stayed like that forever and still it wouldn’t be enough.

Her face softened, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.

He narrowed his gaze at her, smiling in spite of the knot forming in his chest. “Did you just… stop working?” he joked, voice low and warm.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips like she belonged there—and maybe, she did.

“You’re not fucking with me, right? This is serious, Frankie,” she asked, voice nearly trembling, almost panicked.

“I’m not fucking with you,” he said, then smirked. “Well—” She swatted his arm, eyes fierce. “Don’t.”

He shook his head, hands resting gently on her hips, grounding himself in her. “I’m dead serious, I swear. I love you. Always have. Even if I was too stubborn—or too stupid—to say it.”

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then her expression softened again, just as the sunset turned everything dreamlike.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

And Frankie forgot how to breathe.

She smiled then—the smile. The one reserved only for him. He saw it for the very first time in its full light, and he knew he’d do anything to see it again and again. She leaned down and kissed him, sealing something between them—something that couldn’t be undone.

There was no turning back now. That much he knew.

—

He wasn’t supposed to play it.

Hell, it hadn’t even been on the setlist since before they started doing real venues, before the label, before the fame. It was one of those songs from The Shack days, when the crowd was six regulars deep and most of them were too drunk to care. One of those songs he played like a secret, night after night, because it wasn’t written for the audience. It was written for the bartender.

And now she was standing in the front row.

Frankie glanced down between songs, sweat dripping from his jaw, adrenaline still pounding through his blood from the last number. She was right there—Firefly. Same girl. Same look in her eyes. She didn’t wear makeup on nights like this, and her red hair was tied back in a messy knot. That damn band tee of his band she cut herself, knotted at the waist. She looked like home. Like before. Like everything that still made sense.

His fingers hovered over the strings, his breath caught. He should’ve launched into the next planned track. The crew was ready. The boys were watching him closely.

But instead, he turned to the mic and said, “Hold up.”

Santi blinked. Will raised a brow. Benny mouthed, what the fuck are you doing?

Frankie just shrugged.

“This one’s not on the list,” he muttered into the mic, fingers already sliding into that familiar pattern. The low, slow bluesy notes that always made people quiet down—even in the rowdiest bars. The lights dimmed just a little as if the crew knew something was happening, and maybe they did. He hadn’t played For the Jukebox in almost two years. Not since before.

But that one had always been hers too. Just like the number one hit they owed to her but this one was the better-kept secret.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t have to.

The second he started singing, the crowd stilled like they’d felt the change too. He didn’t even need to look down to know Firefly had gone completely still. He could feel it, just like back then—every time she paused, wiping a glass, every time she leaned on the bar and listened, pretending not to.

It wasn’t a grand ballad. Not some stadium-shaking anthem. It was slow and simple—soaked in longing, half a confession, half an apology. Softer than their usual setlist, the boys only barely backing him with second guitar and light drums.

He didn’t look at her until the very end. But when he did—eyes sweeping down from the blinding lights, through the blur of cell phones, camera flashes, and stunned faces—she was still there. Front row. Frozen. One hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

He closed the song with one quiet strum. Let the silence hang, just for a moment. Didn’t look away from her. And then—grinning like he’d just won the grand prize. Because he had. Her. And the world deserved to know. He was done pretending. Done hiding. His heart belonged to one girl—now and forever. And Frankie Morales never did things half-heartedly.

The crowd exploded, almost hysterical screams, gasps. Phone screens lighting up. A thousand different theories taking off like wildfire.

Someone shouted “Who’s it about?” and Frankie just smiled and walked off the mic like he hadn’t just set fire to his entire public image.

Will grabbed his shoulder backstage, grinning like an idiot. “You serious? You serious-serious?” Benny clapped his hands once. “Oh, fans are gonna lose their minds—this is gonna be hell.” Santi just gave him that knowing look. “Guess it’s real now, huh?”

Frankie didn’t say a word. Just dragged a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath—still riding the high of the stage, sweat clinging to him more than usual. He’d just laid his heart bare for the whole world to see… but somehow, it didn’t feel scary anymore.

An hour later, he found Firefly sitting backstage in one of the folding chairs, arms crossed, trying very hard to act like her entire soul hadn’t just been dragged into a spotlight.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

She looked up at him like she wanted to kill him and kiss him in equal measure.

“You didn’t say my name,” she muttered.

“I didn’t have to.”

Her lips parted like she might argue—but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped in, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held him.

“You’re an idiot,” she murmured against his skin.

Frankie just grinned and pulled her tighter.

Just like that the world knew: Frankie "Fish" Morales was off the market.

—

His marketing team called him the next morning. Seventeen missed calls. Three texts that said: "What the HELL did you do.""Call us.""Frankie, I swear to God—"

He never called them back. Just rolled over, pressing himself against Firefly’s body, his face buried in the crook of her neck, basking in the afterglow of a happiness he never thought he’d have—but would fight every war all over again to keep.

—

One late night, between greasy fries in a rundown diner on the outskirts of town, Firefly was unusually quiet. Frankie noticed it right away—the kind of silence that settled behind her eyes, distant and stormy. He’d seen it before, back in the days of The Shack, when her laughter had an edge and her quiet had weight.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked gently, careful not to corner her. He knew better than to force it.

She shook her head, shoved another fry into her mouth, and looked away. Her gaze wandered somewhere far from him, drifting to a place he couldn’t follow. So he didn’t try. He just watched her, giving her the silence she needed. Waiting.

An hour later, in a semi-decent hotel room Frankie had booked during a tour layover in the city, she flopped onto the king-size bed with a heavy sigh that cracked something in him. Without a word, he sat beside her, pressing a comforting hand to her back, rubbing slow circles. He leaned down and kissed her temple.

She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. And then, after a long pause, she spoke.

“I was thinking…”

That alone cut through him. He braced.

“About what?” he asked softly.

“Nothing bad. Just… I don’t know. A pretty big thing for me.”

“Tell me,” he coaxed, voice low and warm.

So she did. Told him about the poems—nothing new, really. Frankie had always known. Even back when she was just the sharp-tongued bartender who rolled her eyes at his lyrics, she was quietly scribbling in notebooks behind the bar. It was in her, like music was in him. She’d told him before that she used to write constantly, that it stuck with her through the mess and phases of her life, even after she dropped out of college.

But now she was thinking about publishing. Putting them out there. Letting the world read what had only ever belonged to her.

“I’m scared,” she said finally. “They’re so personal. And I don’t want people twisting them. Or worse, not caring. I just… I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, then took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“I felt the same,” he said. “Before we dropped An Abundance of Silence. Before any of it. That song lived in a notebook for a long while. Every time I looked at it, I thought: if I let this out, it’ll be like letting people see my bones.”

She looked up at him, quiet.

“I wrote it for you,” he continued. “But the idea of the world hearing it? Picking it apart? Yeah, it scared the shit outta me. Not because I thought they wouldn’t like it. But because it mattered too much. Because it was the realest thing I’d ever written, and I couldn’t take it back.”

Her thumb moved over his knuckle slowly, her eyes soft now.

“But I also knew,” Frankie added, “if I didn’t share it, it’d eat me alive. That song deserved to be heard. Just like your words. You don’t gotta be fearless, Elena. You just gotta believe that what you’ve got is worth it.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him, eyes unreadable and glassy at the edges. Then she sat up a little, her free hand brushing his cheek.

“You always know what to say when it counts, huh?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Only with you.”

She leaned in, kissed him softly. The kind of kiss that said everything without a single word.

“Thank you,” she whispered, forehead resting against his. “Really. I needed to hear that.”

Frankie tightened his grip on her hand. “You’re gonna wreck people—in the best way. And I’ll be right here when you do.”

And in that quiet, firelit hotel room with threadbare curtains and the low hum of a broken fridge, something solidified. Not just in her resolve, but in them. A shared understanding. A soft, stubborn kind of love that knew what it meant to be afraid and to do it anyway.

—

It was late, and she had to be up early, but some nights, sleep simply refused to come without him beside her. She hated it—hated how much she needed him now, how deeply she relied on his presence since there was nothing left to hide.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed, the cold glow cutting through the darkness.

Frankie [2:03 AM]: i’d be wondering how the hell i got lucky enough to end up with you in my orbit again

Firefly [2:04 AM]: you always know what stuff to say at 2am?

Frankie [2:05 AM]: that’s when i feel the truth the loudest

Firefly [2:06 AM]: i miss you, fish

Frankie [2:06 AM]: god, i miss you too. this hotel bed’s too cold without you kicking me in your sleep

Firefly [2:07 AM]: rude. i do not kick (i nudge aggressively at best)

Frankie [2:08 AM]: aggressive nudging. right. pretty sure my ribs would disagree but i’d take every bruise if it meant waking up next to you

Firefly [2:08 AM]: you’re getting soft

Frankie [2:09 AM]: only for you. don’t tell the guys

Firefly [2:10 AM]: they know. everyone knows. the whole damn internet knows after that stunt you pulled

Frankie [2:11 AM]: no regrets. i meant every note, every word that wasn’t even in the lyrics too

Firefly [2:12 AM]: i know.that’s why it scared me a little, but also why i haven’t stopped listening to it since

Frankie [2:13 AM]: wish i could’ve seen your face again right after. burned into my brain forever

Firefly [2:14 AM]: i wanted to sink into the floor but also… maybe never stop looking at you

Frankie [2:15 AM]: same. but we’re gonna have a lifetime of looking now. you and me. front row, back stage, middle of the night. wherever

Firefly [2:16 AM]: you always do this, make the distance feel smaller somehow

Frankie [2:17 AM]: because it is. you’re always with me. every set, every city, every time i close my eyes and try to breathe

Firefly [2:18 AM]: okay stop. you’re gonna make me cry and i’ve got work in the morning

Frankie [2:19 AM]: get some sleep then, baby. dream something good. i’ll see you there

Firefly [2:20 AM]: love you, Fish

Frankie [2:20 AM]: love you more, always more

—

She knew he was on tour—some European city with a name she couldn’t pronounce right, playing to a crowd she couldn’t see. But the poem had been clawing at her insides all day, begging to be let out. It was the one she’d written the night everything shifted, the night he’d gone live and, without meaning to, dragged her right back into his orbit. She never let anyone read her poems. But this one… this one felt like his, too.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, pulse racing as she hit the call button.

He picked up fast. Music thudded in the background, the kind of bass that rattled through her ribs even through the phone. He sounded breathless, half-laughing, slightly slurred. “Elena,” he said, like her name was the start of a favorite song. “Should’ve known you’d hit me up when I’m a few beers deep and flying high on post-show adrenaline.”

She smiled despite herself. “You always this charming in the middle of the night ?”

“Only when it’s you,” he drawled. “Damn, you got perfect timing. What’s up, baby?”

Her smile faltered. “Can you… can you go somewhere quiet?”

He didn’t ask questions. Just said, “One moment,” with that soft kind of seriousness that made her heart thud louder than the crowd she could hear behind him.

The music and noise faded. A door clicked shut. Silence.

“I’m good. What’s going on?”

She stared at the ceiling. Her throat was already tight. “There’s something I want to read to you. A poem. I wrote it the night of your live, you know, back before we were official?.”

He didn’t interrupt. She took a shaky breath.

“I’ve never let anyone hear my stuff before,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Frankie’s reply came low and steady: “Then I’m honored. Hit me with it, Firefly.”

So she did.

—

Orbit

You crashed into my quiet,

like comets don’t ask for permission.

I was all jagged edges and rusted locks,

and still you lit a fire in the hollow parts.

I watched you from the shadows of my own silence,

counting reasons not to want what I already did.

But you played chords against my ribs

and called the ache a song.

You left,

but the galaxy didn’t stop spinning—

I just stopped pretending it didn’t matter.

And when your voice found me again,

through pixels and distance and too much time,

I wanted to hate you,

but I’d already made you a home in every line I wrote.

You were orbit.

Always returning.

Even when I stopped believing in gravity.

—

There was silence on the other end. Long enough that she almost panicked.

“Francisco?”

A breath, a swallow and then: “And I’m the one with the dramatic flair?”

His voice was thick. Choked. She could hear him trying to keep it together.

She laughed—soft, embarrassed, vulnerable.

He let out a low breath, almost a whisper. “You don’t get it, do you? That was… fuck, Firefly. That was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever written about me. About us.” Another pause. “No one’s ever seen me like that. Not really. Not the way you do.”

She didn’t say anything, heart pounding.

“You let me hear your voice,” he continued, quieter now. “The one under all the armor. And I know how much that costs you. I know. So I’m gonna carry that forever, alright? I’m never forgetting this. I’ll remember exactly how you sounded, reading that.”

“Frankie—”

“You’re so goddamn talented,” he murmured. “And I’m so fucking proud of my girl. You hear me?”

Her throat tightened. Tears prickled, but she smiled anyway. A quiet, stunned kind of joy.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And meant it like a promise.

—-

Frankie stayed on the line even after she whispered thank you, even after the silence stretched and he could hear the soft inhale-exhale of her breath against the receiver.

He stared at the hotel ceiling, a shitty chandelier above the bed throwing fractured light across the room, and thought—this is it.

Not the end of the tour, not the next record deal, not the stadium crowd that had screamed his name like it meant something. This. Her. That poem. The sound of her voice cracking mid-line and still choosing to finish it. The way she peeled herself open, raw and real, just to let him see inside.

He’d never had that before. Not like this, not even close.

He rubbed a hand down his face, chest still tight, voice thick with everything he hadn’t said yet.

“Elena,” he murmured, voice low, reverent.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” he said, steady and sure. No grand declarations, no shouting from rooftops—just raw truth. His heart felt like it was about to burst, the weight of his feelings so vast he feared his body couldn’t hold them. It was an emotion so powerful it scared him, but she deserved to hear it—especially now, as she slowly, surely let her walls come down.

A moment of silence, a sharp inhale from her.

“I love you,” he repeated again,softer. “And I’m gonna ask you to marry me. Soon. I know it’s late and I’m a little drunk and that probably sounds insane but—fuck—I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

There was a pause. Not the kind that made his stomach drop—just a breathless moment, like she was trying to catch up to what he already knew.

When she spoke again, her voice was quieter than before, probably ever. “You mean it?”

“I mean it so much it makes my ribs hurt,” he said with a breathless laugh. “I’d ask you right now if I could reach through the goddamn phone.”

She didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t need her to—not yet. He knew her. Knew the way she needed time to feel safe in something so big. But she didn’t hang up. Didn’t deflect. And when she whispered, “okay”, it was more than enough.

Frankie closed his eyes, smiled into the dark.

Yeah, he was gonna marry that girl.

And this time, nothing in the universe could stop him.

——

The call came out of nowhere—a meeting with a possible publisher. Just the thought made her stomach do backflips. Excited, yes, but terrified. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if all those poems she’d hidden away for years weren’t worth the risk? Frankie, though, was a different story.

He was downright ecstatic for her. The kind of pride that made his eyes shine brighter than the stage lights ever could.

On the morning of the meeting, she dressed carefully, almost formally—neatly pressed shirt, clean lines, the kind of outfit Frankie had never seen her wear before.

“Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend ?” he teased, grinning.

She rolled her eyes, but there was a tiny flicker of nervousness beneath her usual fire. “I’m a little scared, okay? This is a big deal.”

Frankie took her hands, steady and warm. “Whatever happens, when you come home tonight, we’re celebrating. No matter what.”

She smiled, that nervous small flame flickering to life, and leaned in for a kiss.

As she lingered in the doorway, she glanced back over her shoulder with that signature mix of sass and softness. “Don’t get too comfortable without me, Fish.”

Then she was gone, stepping out into the day.

The meeting went well—good, even—but not a definite yes. She left the office, phone in hand, heart still pounding, barely looking as she stepped into the busy street.

Her last text to Frankie still lit on the screen, unfinished.

Then—a sudden screech, a crash and everything went black.

The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was Frankie’s grin—boyish, crooked, a little too proud of itself. The only light that could ever cut through hers. And somehow, through the ache and the blood and the blurring edges, she smiled too. Of course it would be him.

—- 

The meeting was supposed to be over an hour ago. He wasn’t being clingy—he swore he wasn’t. She had said she’d text. She always texted.

First, he chalked it up to nerves. Maybe she was decompressing. Maybe she went to get coffee or took a walk or just needed to breathe. But then it was thirty minutes, then an hour. He sent a text.

Frankie: How’d it go, baby? Can’t wait to hear every detail.

No reply.

He waited ten minutes. Then called. Straight to voicemail. He called again and again and again. Still nothing. His gut twisted tighter with each ring that didn’t connect. This wasn’t like her.

He stood in the hotel room, pacing, his phone clenched in his fist like it could give him answers if he held it tight enough.

“Come on, baby,” he muttered, low, desperate. “Pick up.”

He called one of her friends, no answer. Then the damn publisher’s office, grasping for anything, but they had no information—they said she left right after the meeting.

Then a number lit up on his screen he didn’t recognize. A landline.

The voice on the line was calm, too calm. It didn’t match the storm rising in his chest.

“Is this Mr. Morales?”

His heart dropped.

They said there’d been an accident. Said she’d been struck outside the publishing house. That she was rushed in. That they tried. God, they tried.

That she didn’t make it.

Frankie’s world cracked wide open.

“No,” he said. “No—no, that’s not—she’s—no, that’s wrong.” Voice choked. 

He was on his feet, pacing. One hand tugging through his hair, the other holding the phone in a death grip.

“You said Elena. That’s—no. She’s just late. She probably got coffee, or she forgot to charge her phone, she does that all the time—she forgets to charge—”

But the voice didn’t waver, didn’t soften. It didn’t take it back or hesitate. Just delivered the words “I’m really sorry for your loss” like it was nothing more than a fact to state. Cold. Final. Detached.

He dropped the phone. Didn’t even hear it hit the floor.

The ring in his pocket felt like a lead weight.

Frankie fell to his knees in the middle of the hotel room, a sound tearing from his chest that didn’t sound human. It was pure instinct, pure grief, the kind that fractured bone and breath.

Because she was gone.

And he never got to ask. Never got to see her in some stupid, probably thrifted wedding dress. Never got to hear her gripe about how much he spent on the ring—then stare at it like it was magic. Never got to see that one soft smile again, the one he only saw once, when he told her he loved her for the first time. Never got to argue about the venue, to hear her say it was all too much, too expensive, while he thought she deserved even more.

Most of all, he never got to call her his fiancée. Never got to see her sign something as Mrs. Morales. Never got to tell her, just one more time, how she changed everything for him.

He had her love, her words, her fire and in one fucking heartbeat, it was all gone.

And the silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was thunder. It was the sound of his whole world caving in.

—

Frankie stopped existing the moment they told him Elena was dead. Whatever version of him remained was a shadow—held together by fraying threads and a constant loop of what-ifs he couldn’t shut off. For days, he didn’t leave the hotel room. The ring sat on the nightstand like some sick cosmic joke. Her funeral was small—just the band, Donna and the few friends she let into her world. Frankie didn’t cry that day, not once. He was stone, trapped in an agonizing limbo that refused to let him fall apart.

The guys made sure he ate, made sure he drank water. They paused the tour, quietly, without needing to ask. Most days, Frankie just sat in a room watching the sky change colors while he stayed exactly the same—frozen. The world moved on. His didn’t.

He slept with her hoodie clutched in his hands every night, breathing in the last remnants of her until the scent faded. The night it did, he wept so violently it hollowed him out.

Eventually, he found himself inside her apartment downtown. The stupid bug rug, the dishes still in the sink, her charger still in the wall. Her life—untouched. He ran his hand over the old vintage couch, his fingers brushing the one spot where she always sat. The cushions dipped there. An open book still rested on the coffee table, face up, as if she’d just stepped away.

Frankie slumped into the couch and buried his face in his hands. “Mierda!” he roared, the word raw, far too loud for the suffocating stillness of what was once her home.

He didn’t know how long he stayed. Time no longer meant anything. He was a ghost wearing her memory like skin—and even if he wanted to escape, he couldn’t.

One night, he dropped to his knees and prayed for the first time in years. Pleaded. Bargained. Offered everything he had if he could just wake up and find her there. But no one answered. So he shattered a lamp. A mirror. His knuckles split open—but even that pain was dull, a whisper against the black hole in his chest.

Grief became the only proof she had ever been real and he clung to it with both hands.

Weeks passed. Then months. Everyone said it was time to move on.

He couldn’t.

How could he? She was everything. In every verse he wrote, every note he played. She was the marrow in his bones, the pulse beneath his skin.

And now, all he had left was the echo.

—

It was late. The kind of late that blurred into early. Frankie hadn’t moved from the edge of the hotel bed in hours, guitar untouched beside him, the same half-drunk glass of something stronger than memory sweating into the nightstand.

The city pulsed just outside the window, neon bleeding into rain-slicked glass. He didn’t see it, didn’t care. It was all an endless loop of torture.

Then— Bing.

The sound cut through the silence like a blade. He didn’t move at first, figuring it was a spam text or one of the boys checking in.

But when he finally dragged his eyes to the screen his breath caught.

Firefly.Her name. Her contact photo, the one he took at the beach, her red hair flying around her head, crowning her like the queen of his heart she was.

A voice note, a fucking voice note.

Frankie’s heart stuttered so violently it physically hurt. His fingers shook as he reached for the phone, not breathing, not daring to hope. It could be old. A glitch. Some random cloud sync thing.

But when he pressed play, her voice filled the room like a resurrection.

“You know what sucks?” A breath. A pause. That tiny scoff of hers, the one she did when she was about to say something ridiculous. “You. You suck. Because somehow you got under my skin and now I miss you in the most annoying, inconvenient ways.” A small laugh, then her voice softened—only the way it ever did with him. “Like, I’ll be halfway through reading some sad-ass poem and I’ll think—damn, he’d ruin this with a joke, but I’d let him. I’d let you ruin all my favorite things, Francisco Morales. Isn’t that the worst?” Another pause. “Anyway. I’m not saying I love you… but I’m also not not saying it. So do with that what you will.” And just before the recording ended, quieter than the rest: “Come home safe, yeah?”

The voice note ended.

And Frankie broke.

The phone slipped from his hand, landing face-down on the carpet. His shoulders shook as the silence returned—crueler now than ever before. She’d sent it months ago, probably after one of their late-night banter sessions. Somehow undelivered until now. Some glitch. Some sick twist of fate.

Or maybe it was her. Reaching across the veil to pull him under. One last time.

Frankie wept like a man crumbling from the inside. Every thread holding him together finally snapped. His fists curled into her old hoodie, the one he hadn’t washed in weeks, trying to breathe her in like oxygen.

It was that night— With her voice still echoing through his skull, With the weight of what he’d lost pressing into his ribs, With the ring still sitting in the drawer like a cruel, shining promise— That he decided.

He couldn’t live in a world that didn’t have her.

Not anymore.

—

The boys noticed the shift before they understood it.

Frankie was suddenly focused—driven in a way he hadn’t been since before the crash of everything. He was still quiet, still hollow in the eyes, but his hands were always moving. Scribbling. Sorting through pages. Chasing down meetings. Making calls. It was like he had something to live for again, and none of them dared question it.

What they didn’t know was that he did, just not for long.

Frankie had one last promise to keep. One last act of love before he let go.

He used every connection, every inch of fame, every ounce of weight his name still carried to make it happen. A posthumous collection of her work—her poems, her fragmented thoughts, the pieces of Elena that the world never got to see.

He titled the book:

“When Fire Learned to Burn Quiet”

Because that’s what she did. All that spark, all that untamed energy—learning, slowly, to sit still. To trust. To let herself be loved. He wanted the world to read her like he had. Wanted them to feel her in their bones.

Inside the front cover, just beneath the title, was a note written in his own hand:

To the girl who lived like a storm but wrote like the calm after it. I told you once you were magic. This is proof. Forever stuck in my head. -F.

On the final page, where most books might list acknowledgments, he left the unfinished lyrics to the song he’ll never release:

“I Lost You to Another Almost”Scrawled in rough, aching lines. A love song born too late. The last verse unfinished, because it was always her.

After the manuscript went to print, Frankie stopped pretending.

He’d already packed up her apartment. Already sat on that ugly bug rug one last time. Already visited the crosswalk where she died. Already memorized every second of the voice note that somehow arrived months after she was gone—one last breadcrumb the universe had the cruelty to deliver.

That night, he wore the worn gray hoodie she used to steal. Set the ring box on her side of the bed—still unopened. He made the room clean, quiet. Lit the candle she loved. And he let “An Abundance of Silence” play on loop—the song he wrote about her, the one that catapulted Thorns of August to stardom.

He used to say she was the kind of melody that lingered. Some connections burn fast and disappear. Others stay, etched into you. Now silence was all he had left.

Frankie had been an addict long enough to know his limits. And this time, he went past them. Not out of recklessness, not out of impulse.

It was deliberate. A decision. The last one he would ever make.

He lay down with the book clutched to his chest, her voice in his ears, and the echo of her laugh tucked beneath his ribcage.

As the music blurred and the world faded, the last thing Francisco Morales heard was her voice whispering from the past—

 “Come home safe, yeah?”

And then—

nothing.

Only silence. Abundant. Complete. Like her. Like a song stuck in his head.

Forever.

—

Epilogue 

It’s quiet when Santi walks through the cemetery, the evening light sinking into the earth like it’s tired too. He’s been here before—more times than he can count. But this time, his hands aren’t empty.

He carries a worn copy of When Fire Learned to Burn Quiet, edges dog-eared, corners softened by time and too much thumbing through. Her name is embossed in gold on the cover. Elena Quinn. Below it, small and subtle: Edited by F.M.

He stops in front of the twin headstones. Frankie and Elena. Side by side like they were always meant to be. A cosmic joke, maybe. A cruel one. Or, Santi thinks, just fate being what it is—brutal and poetic all at once.

He kneels down slowly, pressing his palm to the cool stone before setting the book down between them.

“You made it,” he says softly, looking at Firefly’s name. “Number one. New York Times Bestseller. Poem book of the goddamn decade, they’re calling it.”

His throat tightens, but he keeps talking—like they’re just on the tour bus again, and Frankie’s sulking over his strings. 

“You’d laugh at the cover, Frankie,” he adds with a huff. “Too artsy. But it’s everywhere. People read her words and they feel. You gave that to her. Gave it to the world.”

Thorns of August are on an indefinite hiatus. Whether that means forever or just until the grief stops swallowing everything whole—Santi doesn’t know. Right now, music feels like an echo of something he can’t reach.

He stays a little longer, watching the light shift, shadows stretching long across the grass. He’s about to get up when he sees it.

First, a butterfly—small, white, flitting gently down to land on the corner of Frankie’s stone. Then, a firefly, blinking once, then again, perching beside it.

Santi stares. And then, slowly, he smiles. That quiet, broken kind that people wear when they see something they’re not sure they believe in.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, the words catching in his throat.

The two creatures lift off at the same time, spiraling upward together into the darkening sky.

Santi watches until they disappear. Then he places a single black guitar pick on Frankie’s grave, fingers brushing the engraved name like a blessing.

He walks away in silence.

Behind him, the book catches the last of the light.

When Fire Learned to Burn Quiet.

Words that once belonged to her, given shape by him.

Now they belong to everyone but they’ll always belong to each other first.

Because some songs never leave you, even when the music stops.

thanks for reading 💌

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[kiwikyuuu]

SPOILERS FOR DOCTOR WHO REALITY WAR FINALE

THIS IS A MASSIVE RANT OF MINE WHICH lets be honest I didn’t realize was gonna be a rant until i finished writing lmao, but enjoy!!!

Okay what the HELL did I just watch LMAO, like I have loved Ncuti Gatwa this entire time as the doctor, but the finales have consistently made me so confused and felt so all over the place. I am desperately hoping they dont cancel the show after these two seasons cuz Disney is as we all know Disney, But i really think they need to get their act together.

I was so taken aback by seeing Jodie Whittaker show up out of nowhere, especially because It took me a minute to realize that the doctor was actually like 100% gonna regenerate (WHICH WE WILL GET TO). The precursor to this made it seem like Omega was gonna be so much worse of a threat than he was, and when he did get released the doctor faced NO THREAT really at all. He immediately stumbled into the solution for the problem and fixed instantly, which does not give good character development. Also can we talk about the exposition dump that happened throughout this episode cause GOD its a lot.

Moving on to the Rani, Archie Panjabi played such an intimidating villain but when all of her actions fell so flat the threat of her became very very- dull if that makes sense. Mrs Flood had been building this all up like it was meant to be some sort of massive crazy reveal and then boom literally 2 episodes after Archie-Rani gets introduced she gets merked, leaving Mrs Flood to run off and do Mrs Flood things. I had not really known about the Rani until this point in Doctor Who, so when I researched her I was surprise she ended up coming back. It would have made sense to have her be uniting WITH Omega or something along those lines rather than her just dying by him. It felt like a cop out of not knowing how to do deal with a ridiculously strong opponent that the doctor wouldn’t have known how to fight.

But as a writer, that’s your job. You need to figure out how that could work with what you set up, you can’t just throw everything together and hope it works.

If there is one thing that the New New Who (I guess???) gets really good, its this: Building Tension, and the Episodic Storytelling Style. I can for sure say I was enthralled by what was going on with Mrs Flood for both seasons as well as what the story was building to with both seasons. Both times however, I was left confused and frustrated.

Now, Poppy was weird to say the least. I get, I 100% get the sterile thing, it makes sense (HOWEVER PLEASE YOU COULD HAVE INTRODUCED THAT EARLIER ON IN THE SERIES), and Poppy being a brand New Child of the Timelords COULD HAVE MADE THINGS SO CRAZY, but you didn’t commit to that. I LOVED that the doctor had to fight with not only himself but Ruby about whether he had a daughter, but decisively making that moment the point where he says “PEACE IMMA GO FIND MY DAUGHTER” and then pulls some extremely risky behavior (LITERALLY UNIVERSE HOPPING), just to get her back, and then having her not be his actual daughter, feels like the doctor got handed such a bad hand.

Like, in reality yeah sure universe hopping and finding poppy but realizing she’s not your real daughter? Yeah sure that makes sense, but in terms of story writing, with everything having been built up this whole time, ESPECIALLY the abandoning everyone part, he just settles there and is like “Yep! :) That makes sense haha lemme just go become Billie Piper rq-“ LIKE SIR NO LMAO

Now. Billie Piper. GOD THATS SO COOL BUT SUCH A BAD TIMING FOR A REGENERATION. Dont get me wrong I adore 10s era just as much as the next who fan, but with where 15 (?i dont know what number ncuti is anymore) was in his story arc he was not done. He still had so much more potential he had to give, Ruby is still an engima that SHOULD BE EXPLORED MORE!!!! Belinda was honestly a tad annoying at times as a companion but ultimately I do respect her as a character because she is very grounded in reality. I think it would have made sense to give 15 one more companion if they could have (ESPECIALLY SINCE THEY HAD SO MANY PEOPLE TO PICK FROM LIKE HELLO??? ROGUE WAS RIGHT THEREEEEEE). I also want to point out that I’m worried about whats going to happen with Billie Piper being the doctor. It took away a role that usually gets handed to someone who has either played in doctor who before (WHICH DOES MAKE SENSE WITH PIPER AS THE DOCTOR) or its given to someone completely new. Im worried that bringing in Piper as the doctor will lure in the rest of the fans looking for their escapism as a new 10 era, and find the same faulty finales that have been consistent with the past two seasons, which I feel like would hurt the fan’s love of the show as well as their respect for the show.

I think Piper is such a cool concept because we HAVE had people the doctor has met before come back as other doctors (Peter Capaldi came back after the one pompeii episode for example), but I think that 15 deserved at least one more season to truly show just how fantastic he is because in all honesty he IS such a GOOD DOCTOR.

LONG WINDED RANT OVER. Excited for what comes next, but still extremely cautious as well.

[aromanticasterisms]

man.

[ssweeterthanfiction]

heyyy i’ve been recently going into a a sotr spiral and am obsessed with the idea of a haymitch x everdeen!reader (burdocks sibling) and was wondering if you could write a fic on that??

YES OFC OMG

Someday, One Day.

young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader content warnings: none!! (SLIGHT SUNRISE ON THE REAPING SPOILERS!!!) summary: a crush on your big brother’s best friend wc: 1.9k

masterlist.

For the longest time, you've had a crush on the one and only Haymitch Abernathy. From his olive skin, his dark curly hair, and gray eyes you've been hooked. He had you wrapped around his finger since you were thirteen. Maybe even earlier than that.

The only problem?

He was your big brother's best friend.

You’d grown up watching them together, the two of them inseparable in the way that only childhood friends could be. Haymitch was always there, laughing at Burdock’s dumb jokes, sharing stories that made you blush or roll your eyes. You were just the little sister who tagged along, always feeling like the third wheel.

Until you weren’t.

Until Haymitch started looking at you differently.

Every now and then, you’d catch him staring. His gaze would linger a little too long, his smile would falter. And when he spoke to you, it was never quite the same as how he talked to everyone else.

Especially when he called you “sweetheart."

It was dangerous, that nickname. It made your heart flutter in a way you could never explain. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him act affectionate before; he had a way with people, a teasing warmth that made everyone feel like they were his best friend. But when he said it to you, it felt different. It made you feel like maybe...just maybe he saw you as more than just Burdock’s little sister.

But that was just a fantasy, right? Haymitch couldn’t like you that way. You were the kid he looked after, the girl who tagged along to make sure he didn’t forget to laugh once in a while. He didn’t have time for someone like you.

“Someday, one day,” you’d whisper to yourself late at night, as you stared at the stars, convincing yourself that it was nothing more than a silly crush. You weren’t anything special, just another face in the crowd.

Still, those moments, those stolen looks, kept you wondering. Was there something there? Or was it just a product of your overactive imagination? You’d never know.

The woods were always your escape. Burdock had shown you a safe way to them, so when things got too loud at home, when the world felt too heavy, you’d wander out here, into the quiet stillness, where you could be alone with your thoughts. The sunset was just beginning to stain the sky a deep orange, casting a soft glow over the trees and the dirt path beneath your boots. You felt a sense of peace as you walked, the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig beneath your feet the only sounds that accompanied you.

You had been walking for a while when you heard it, a soft crunch of leaves behind you, a familiar step. You froze. Then the voice you had been secretly hoping wouldn’t find you called out, low and teasing.

“You get lost, sweetheart?”

You turned to see Haymitch emerging from the tree line, his figure framed by the fading light of the sunset. His shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his usual cocky grin was replaced with something softer. Something almost hesitant. He always seemed to know where to find you, didn’t he?

“No,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you crossed your arms, the breeze ruffling your hair. “Just wanted to get away from the noise.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Haymitch said, taking a few slow steps toward you. He glanced around at the woods, his eyes narrowing a little. “But you do know it’s getting dark, right? You might want to head back before it gets too late.”

You smile faintly, your gaze lingering on the horizon where the sun was just starting to dip below the treeline. “Maybe I just like it out here. Feels...quieter. Like the world stops for a second.”

There was a pause. Haymitch didn’t speak right away, his gray eyes scanning you with a sort of intensity that made your heart skip. “One day, I’ll figure out why you always look at things like that,” he said, his voice soft, more serious than you’d ever heard it before.

You tilted your head, not quite understanding. “What do you mean?”

He took a few more steps toward you, his boots soft on the forest floor. The last rays of sunlight caught in his curls, and for a brief moment, he looked almost... like he belonged here, in the quiet of the woods, far away from the noise of the village.

“I mean,” Haymitch started, his voice quieter now, “you see the world differently than most people. You don’t just see the mess. You see the moments in between. The things most people miss. Even in people...Even in me."

You swallowed, trying not to let the warmth spreading through your chest show. Was this just some Haymitch thing, where he’d tease and then leave you wondering what he meant?

"What are you talking about, Haymitch?" Haymitch stopped in his tracks, just a few feet away from you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt thick, full of something unsaid. Then, he stepped forward, his hand gently reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch was warm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, the nickname now feeling tender, almost like a confession, “you don’t get it, do you?”

You blinked up at him, confusion and hope swirling in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he continued, his voice now low and full of something raw, “I can’t stop thinking about you. Not since… well, not since I actually started to...see you...” he paused, a small, almost embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve tried to keep my distance. Tried to ignore it, but you make it damn near impossible.”

Your heart raced in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “But…I thought you didn’t see me that way.”

“Been tryin’ not to. For a while now. Figured I’d be the worst kind of idiot, wantin’ my best friend’s little sister.”

You swallowed hard. “But you do?”

His laugh was soft. “Every damn day.”

You stared at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Then why haven’t you said anything?”

He looked away, up toward the woods where the deer were starting to step into the clearing, quiet and watchful. “Because if I let myself want you, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

Silence fills the air as you look at him with a soft gaze...then...

“You drive me crazy,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re all I think about lately. When I’m out by the meadow, when I’m with Burdock, when I try to sleep- hell, even when I try not to think at all.”

You stared at him, speechless, your mind reeling. The boy you’d secretly hoped might feel the same way was standing here in front of you, his gray eyes filled with longing. Slowly, you took a step forward, your voice barely a whisper.

“So...you...you like me? Like that?”

Haymitch’s gaze softened, and his smile was gentle now, sincere. “More than you’ll ever know."

You stood there, frozen, heart pounding in your chest. His words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, it felt like time had completely stopped. You’d spent so long wondering if this was just a fantasy, if you were just imagining something that wasn’t there. But now, standing in the dimming light of the woods, with Haymitch Abernathy looking at you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had, it felt real. Too real.

Haymitch seemed to sense your hesitation, and he took another step forward, closing the distance between you. His presence, so familiar and yet so different in this moment, made your breath catch. “Sweetheart,” he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “You’ve got no idea how much I’ve wanted to kiss you. How many times I’ve stopped myself because I didn’t want to make everything weird��but I can’t anymore. Not after everything I’ve been feeling. Not after how much I’ve missed this.”

Your stomach fluttered at his confession, the weight of his words sinking deep into your chest. You had dreamed about this. Dreamed about him confessing, about him seeing you, about him wanting you, but the reality of it was still overwhelming.

“Haymitch…” you started, your voice trembling with emotion. But before you could say anything more, he reached up, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t even want to.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes, as if asking for permission. You barely breathed, your pulse rushing in your ears, but you nodded slightly, unable to put words together. It was all you could do.

Haymitch closed the gap then, his lips soft and hesitant at first, as if testing the waters, feeling his way through the moment. When you kissed him back, just the smallest motion of your lips against his, it felt like the world tilted on its axis. All the years of stolen glances, the late-night conversations, the unspoken tension, it was all there in that kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way his hand cradled your face, the feeling of being held by someone who wanted you, needed you. It was overwhelming.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you catching your breath. His gray eyes were darker now, filled with something raw and unguarded. His thumb traced the line of your jaw gently, as if making sure this moment wasn’t just a dream.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’ve spent so many nights just thinking about you, about us, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. I didn’t want to risk losing you, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t have to risk losing me, Haymitch. I...I feel the same way.”

His smile, a soft, sincere curve of his lips, made your heart flutter. “Yeah? Well, in that case…”

He kissed you again, this time deeper, more certain. The world seemed to fade away as you kissed him beneath the trees, the sounds of the forest around you fading into a distant hum. It was just the two of you now, and nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the complications, not the fears.

For once, there was no hesitation, no wondering what could be. There was only Haymitch and the way he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as you had. And for the first time in years, you felt like the world had stopped spinning, just for the two of you.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Haymitch rested his forehead against yours again, his hands gentle on your shoulders. “You’re something else, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”

You smiled, a warmth spreading through you. “Me neither, Haymitch.”

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught in the quiet of the woods, where nothing could disturb you, not even the past. It was just you and him. And for once, that was enough.

[burningembers91]

Like a Dog - The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

Freak of Nature

On Display

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Crime of Passion

Rare

Gunpowder and Lace

Synopsis: Your grey suited man has finally relinquished control

A/N: well, I did NOT see the story going this way! But, the more I write for him the more I can’t help but see him as a secret sub. He’s so dark and evil during the day, but I can see him being so needy for his woman at night. So yeah, I guess this is now a Sub!Salesman storyline 🤗 but he’s still completely insane

Also, for the alleyway scene in this fic, I was deffo picturing this gif:

There was something so intimate about relinquishing control. It gave him a sense of freedom he’d never felt before, a kind of peace he was sure he’d never know. Since telling you his name, his world had altered, had taken on a new meaning. He was always so sure he’d wanted to control you, to torture you until you broke; it was a force of habit, really. He’d always been good at breaking things, of tearing even the strongest people down until they were nothing but withered shells. But somewhere along the line, his desires towards you had changed. You’d brought something new to his life; love.

It was an odd feeling, one that he’d never felt before. He’d been so sure that he was entirely incapable of feeling anything towards any living thing, and at first it at felt uncomfortable. It was uncomfortable the way his heart physically ached for you, the feeling seeping down into the pit of his stomach in a wave of delicious heat that tied itself in knots around his senses. At first he’d been sure he was having a heart attack, or possibly a stroke, but he was convinced that neither of those things were supposed to feel pleasurable, not like he felt when he was with you. He missed you when you weren’t around, and craved you when you were. He was like a loyal dog, blindly following you whenever you went.

He found it hard to concentrate at work, always wondering what you were doing. He wanted to know how your day was, what you were having for lunch, what time you’d be home, how the kids in your classes were getting on. Love was inconvenient, love was a distraction, but he was beyond the point of caring. He’d almost made mistakes at work, and mistakes in his job were simply out of the question. He had to figure out a way of getting you out of his head, had to find a way to block you from his brain during the day. But no matter how hard he tried, you always managed to worm your way back in.

You were living with him now, his desire to be with you so strong that he simply couldn’t face living apart. He enjoyed seeing your things in his home; your perfumes and lotions next to his cologne, your clothes hanging up next to his in the closet. He found himself excited to come home, to bask in the domestic mundanity of ordinary life. You liked to read, and the two of you would lie across his expansive leather sofa, his head in your lap as you played with his hair, both engrossed in your own novels. He was worried you were making him weak, turning him into the kind of man he enjoyed breaking. There were days he couldn’t make it until the evening to see you, showing up at your school to meet you for lunch, or walking you home after the day had ended.

He allowed you full control in the bedroom, bending to your every will and desire. He was so pitifully grateful on the nights you gave him the power back, allowing him to feel in control again for a brief moment. But you were the one calling the shots now, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t care.

As his love for you grew however, so did his disdain for others. He’d always been the jealous type, had never liked to share. He found it harder to maintain his cool when you were out, his eyes constantly scanning the crowds to see if anyone had the gall to try and undress you with their eyes. There was always someone he could pick out, someone who looked at you the wrong way, who walked a little too close to you. One day when you stopped for coffee, a man had the audacity to queue jump, pushing past you as if you were invisible. That man ended up with a broken nose and two black eyes, left to cower in the alleyway behind the cafe as your grey suited man stamped repeatedly on his ribs until you told him to stop. He’d been a fool to think you were making him weak; you were only making him stronger.

You still had so many questions about the man who worshipped you like you were a goddess. You knew he was dangerous; had seen him take a man’s life and beat another one almost to death because they had disrespected you. He’d gone from stalking you like a cat stalks a mouse to begging for your attention, your validation. He was a man who would crawl through broken shards of glass if you asked him to. You knew virtually nothing about his family, only that he had parents, but he no longer spoke to them. You never met any of his friends, never met any of his colleagues. Your belief about his job in sales and recruitment was dubious. He dressed in custom Versace suits and Prada loafers, and you didn’t know any sales job that paid that well. You were hesitate to quiz him though; he treated you like royalty, giving you everything you’d desired and more, along with an undying, almost obsessive love he showered you in.

As much as he loved you, he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. It was a terrifying word, one that had never left his lips before. He’d never even told his parents that he loved them, because in truth he hadn’t. Until you came along, he viewed everyone with a quiet distaste. People were a nuisance, a waste of time unless they had something you needed. He hoped you knew how much he loved you though, hoped his devotion to you showed through his actions. He showered you in gifts, did everything around the house so you never had to lift a finger, marked your students essays on the nights you were too tired. He was your servant in the bedroom, living only to please you.

He’d been scared at first, scared when he realised he was happy to let you dominate him. He’d always been in control, had always been the one calling the shots, but he’d never realised how good it could feel to be the one treated like a dog. He found immense pleasure in fulfilling your every desire, of letting you use him like a toy. His work required him to always be alert, to always ensure no one bested him. It became a relief to come home at night and allow himself to be told what to do.

He was enjoying this life with you, a life of domestic bliss he never thought he’d crave. You were by no means a conventional couple, but it worked for you.

You knew he had a dark side, had seen it many times. And yet he played the doting boyfriend so well. You didn’t care how dangerous he was, how devilish his desires were when it came to toying with others. With you, he craved nothing but your love and respect. And you were happy to give it to him, your submissive, grey suited man.

[slafastri28]

I Hope You're Doing Well - LN4

Note: I literally pulled this out my ass, but it just flowed!

Word Count: 2.2k (yes that is a lot for me) Warnings: Idk a lot of kissing at the end, little angst

“Hi Lando, it’s Y/N, I hope you’re doing well, I figure you are considering you just won the constructors championship, call me when you want to catch up, I miss you, okay bye,” you hung up the phone. You turned to face your parents along with Lando’s,

“Sorry kid,” your dad said rubbing your shoulder. The four sat you down in the middle of the F1 season telling you their concerns for their son, complaining of being homesick and lonely, which was not Lando at all. You had known each other as long as you could remember. Your parents all went to university together and forced you and Lando into a friendship like parents do with kids. It was awkward at first, but you were very social as a child, and hanging out with a boy a year older than you was cool to you, and if it made your parents happy you would do it. Despite being a year older than you, you were always the same height as Lando growing up. You fit perfectly in his kart, but he never trusted you to drive it. He was always on about traveling in Formula 1 eventually, and he was fine his first couple years but this year was different. 

“It’s alright, I wasn’t expecting an answer,” you gave the parents a half smile. You and Lando had lost touch after the first race of the year, after spending all of the winter together something shifted, but you didn’t know what you did to make him ignore you. You called him at the first sign of concern from his parents, but no answer, his parents even urged him to call you but they were rarely hearing from him as it was. Little did they know he would sit listening to the messages you left all the time thinking about home and being with you. 

Last winter your parents threw a big party, all their friends were there and of course Lando. There was no one else really your age there so you two find yourselves alone in your childhood bedroom sitting and talking. 

“I’m confident this year, we will perform better I know it,” he nodded.

“Well of course you will, and you are going to get that win, I just know it,” you smiled. 

“Yeah I hope, thanks for the belief,” he said.

“What are friends for,” that word friends hit Lando hard. He thought he had made so obvious these past few years about how he felt about you, but he was only a friend to you. The rest of that winter he was not his usual self leaving you questioning, he barely even said goodbye before he left for testing. You sat alone in your apartment finding yourself wanting to pick up the phone and ask him what you did wrong but you accepted he needed space. You soon felt something was missing as he didn’t call you after every race like he did last year, you missed seeing his smile, which you always thought was cute. Now without his constant presence, you discovered your true feelings for Lando. You sent him messages getting responses two days later, he wouldn’t take any of your calls due to being busy, but it was the time you would normally call last year, and you knew what was different. You began to leave messages when his parents went to see him. Each message started and ended the same way. 

“Hi Lando, it’s Y/N, I hope you’re doing well,” and ended with “I miss you,” or something along those lines. After his first win, you called,

“Hi Lan, it’s me, I hope you’re doing well, and celebrating this win, I’m so proud of you, I wish I could have been there, I miss you.” Your calls continued after each win he earned this year, each podium, each race he scored points, even in his worst races you still left messages, none being answered or getting a callback, making you long for him more. The season came to a close and there you were surrounded by the people near and dear to him leaving the same message again.

This winter he had not come back to visit his family yet, meaning you didn’t have that chance to see him in your time off from work. There you sat around the most important people in your life, as one was missing, holding back tears. His mother rushed out of the room picking up her phone and scolding her son in a message. You went to bed that night looking through the scrapbooks your Moms made of the two of you when you were younger, pictures of you hugging, your arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, pictures of you forcing a smile onto his face and him doing the same to you, so many memories. The books continued as the years went on, you at age 15 with a sign at one of his races and him hugging you after, your high school graduation, your college graduation, he was always there. Now this winter here you were alone a year from that night wishing he would come home. 

You woke up the next morning with a voice message lighting up your phone. You were stunned to see the contact picture, you and Lando as little kids. You put in your headphones and hesitated before pressing play on the message.

“Hi Y/N, it’s Lando, I hope you’re doing well, I am doing well, thank you for all your congratulations, I’m sorry I’ve ignored you this season, I will tell you more when I get home tomorrow, I miss you too, see you probably a few hours after you listen to this,” his voice was sincere and you could hear little cracks knowing he was upset. You could feel your heart racing, your mind was spiraling, what could he possibly have to say to me? This is going to be so awkward. What do I even say to him? Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on your door. You quickly fixed your hair before pulling the blanket up over your pajamas hiding any possible embarrassment.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you heard your mom’s voice outside, “can I come in?” 

“Yes, come in,” you put the blanket down, “what is it?” Your Mom looked unusually happy for it being eight in the morning, she must have already had her coffee. 

“Lando’s flight arrives in an hour, and we are all going to surprise him at the airport, I know you’re upset with him, but please maybe it will change things,” her eyes were pleading, and after the message, you knew it would be the right thing to do. You hopped out of bed grabbing your morning coffee before changing. You conveniently lived close to the airport so an hour was plenty of time. As you stood with your two families in the terminal waiting you began to think again, you had seen him on social media, which was easier to bury your feelings, but in real life, you didn’t know what you would do. 

You watched the hallway, seeing several people go by, none were the faces you wanted to see. It had been a few more minutes since you were distracted by your phone, but you chose to look up at the perfect moment.

“Here he comes,” his mom exclaimed. You shoved your phone in your bag immediately, putting on a smile. He dropped his bag greeting first his parents, then your parents, and froze when he got to you. It was like time stopped, and no one else in the airport existed. He stretched out his arms as you rushed into them. He pulled you so close, you felt your feet lift off the ground.

“Oh Y/N, I’m so sorry, I’ve missed you so much,” he began to cry into you.

“Lando, Lando,” you sobbed feeling his warmth. The two of you pulled yourselves together as you made your way out to your cars.

“Why don’t you two ride together, you have some catching up to do,” his mom winked in your direction. The two of you did as you were told riding in the “kids' car” back to his parents’ home. You got home before them leaving you two some time after your silent car ride, both of you trying to keep it together. Once you got to their house, you made your way upstairs to his room. You watched him unpack his things before you noticed the stack of books next to the bed, the same ones you had looked at the night before. Something in your gut told you to open one, and it was right, it struck his attention.

“Wow look at us,” he said joining you sitting on his bed. 

“I know, we were so cute,” you laughed pointing at a picture of you two at Lando’s 9th birthday, you were blowing out his candle with him. 

“Still are,” he said softly, the look in his eyes showed he wanted to continue. You closed the book and took a good look at him, you saw pain in his body language, emotional pain. He was different than the Lando you saw the previous year. 

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you said resting your hand on his shoulder, “what did I do,” you thought back to last year knowing exactly what hurt him. 

“Y/N, hand me the book,” he pointed to the one from your high school years. You handed him the book and he began to frantically flip through it, finding one specific picture. You stared at it, then at him with a faint smile on your lips. 

“The dance,” you nodded looking ashamed. 

“That’s when it started Y/N, and ever since then I have loved you, I thought I made it obvious, but you only saw me as a friend, I couldn’t take it anymore, I was hurt, and didn’t want to waste my time,” his eyes stayed locked on the book. 

“Lan, I feel the same, it took me not having you present constantly to finally realize I have loved you,” you smiled. His eyes picked up from the book,

“All those messages were cries for you to call me so we could have this conversation, I started to think you moved on after the constant lack of response,” you sighed.

“I should have answered all those calls, I should have called back, I should have said something-” you cut him off pressing a kiss to his lips. His hands quickly found your face as yours found his hair, running your fingers through his curls. You both gasped for air after that, your foreheads resting against each other’s. Your hands moved slowly from his hair to his hands which remained on your face. He let go interlocking his fingers with yours as your hands moved to your lap.

“This, this is how it was meant to be,” he smiled, before kissing you once more. 

“So should we tell our parents, who definitely have their suspicions already,” you laughed. 

“Not yet,” he said laying down in his bed and pulling you along with him. You two lay there your head on his chest with your hands locked over your heart. You were at full joy in the moment, a moment that you didn’t know you needed until now. You flipped over laying on top of him. 

“So despite my horrible dancing that night, that’s when you knew,” you laughed running your fingers through his hair again. 

“I wasn’t much better,” he laughed, “despite your clumsiness, you still were beautiful,” he said grinning. You pressed another kiss to his lips as his arms found your back pulling you in tighter. You two continued, intensifying the kiss as you both lay now on your sides. His lips moved from your face, down to your jaw and eventually reached your neck, letting you sigh.

“Kids dinner!” your mom called from outside the door. Lando continued moving back up to your lips. 

“Lan,” you repeated whispering, pushing him away, “come on,” you smiled. 

“Just a few more,” he begged.

“Later,” your eyes showed promise. You fixed your hair in his full-length mirror where he stood behind you wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“Come on,” you laughed opening the door. You two walked hand in hand downstairs meeting your families in the kitchen. They all turned to face the two of you standing there with intertwined fingers, both with red cheeks. The Dads gave nods of approval to Lando and the Moms squealed gesturing for you to both sit.

“Finally,” his mom clapped as you sat at the table.

“Come on give us a little kiss,” your mom added on. The Dads rolled their eyes but still watched. Lando pulled you in by your neck pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You heard your Dad’s whistle, you shot him a glare after the kiss ended. It was just like old times in the winter when you would have dinners, the conversation flowed naturally as you felt Lando’s smile beaming on his face. This was secretly what you always desired. 

[covenofagatha]

your stories are so good! Can’t wait for the next part of sugar spice and everything nice! If you’re still taking requests could you do one where reader is Agatha’s wife who’s found out she’s pregnant and accidentally tells her when they’re in the middle fucking and it makes Agatha even hornier? Thank you again!!

I had fun with this one so hopefully you all enjoy it too!

Knocked up and turned on

You find out you're pregnant and you aren't sure how to tell your wife, Agatha

Word count: 1600+

Warnings: pregnancy, pregnancy sex, girl penis Agatha, cum, creampie, slight breeding kink, sex, mommy kink

Looking back now, it all makes sense. 

Your breasts were tender. You were craving cheese and pickles a lot. You had thrown up twice this week. 

And your period was over a week late. 

Okay, yes, you probably should’ve figured it out sooner. 

But looking at the two bold lines on the pregnancy test, you figured there was no time like the present. 

While you weren’t exactly sure how it had happened as you were on birth control, you are overjoyed at first. A little you running around, a baby to spoil that would grow into an adorable toddler and then soon enough you’re driving them to their first sports match or dance recital or whatever they wanted. 

You even found yourself drifting to baby names. 

Then your thoughts turned to your wife. You knew Agatha had a rough childhood sponsored by her mother and she had always shied away from the topic of children. How are you going to tell her?

You could bake her something nice? Maybe buy little baby booties and box them up for her to open? You could always sit her down by the fireplace and pour a glass of wine – only for her, of course – and tell her the news. 

Nothing seemed right though, and you were worried as to how Agatha would react. 

Who says you have to tell her though?

Deep down you know it’s wrong, but you want to keep holding onto the secret for a little bit longer and just let it be you and your baby. You know it’s selfish and you know Agatha deserves to know, but you’ll tell her eventually. Once you figure out the timing. 

Or…you bring her along to a doctor’s routine check up so the two of you can “find out” together. 

You like that plan. 

You’re on the website trying to make an appointment when Agatha gets home. 

“Hey, hon,” she says, dropping her keys and coming to kiss your forehead. “Everything okay?” You glance up at her to find her looking at the computer screen. 

“Oh, yeah, just thought I’d go do one of the routine things, you know. You should probably do one too, when’s the last time you went to the doctor?” You ramble when you’re nervous. The words are on the tip of your tongue and you have to keep talking so you don’t accidentally blurt it out. “Maybe we can go together!”

She snorts, not choosing to indulge in whatever you’re being weird about, and walks away. You turn to call after her to ask what she wants for dinner because you’re already starving but your breath catches in your throat. 

There’s something about the way her hips are swaying that has you getting wet. You suddenly feel more aware of everything. 

“Agatha,” you croak. She stops in the doorway of your bedroom and turns to face you, putting a hand up on the wall. A very veiny hand. Your mouth goes dry and all you can think about is those fingers around your throat. 

And then you take in the rest of her outfit. A purple sweater rolled up to her forearms and the black pants that hug her ass so nicely. Her messy bun with strands of hair framing her beautiful face. 

She must see the look on your face because she smirks and starts slowly walking toward you. 

“Again, baby? You’ve been so horny lately,” she remarks and your face flushes more than it should. That should’ve been another clue. Your wife isn’t wrong; four out of the five last days you practically begged her to fuck you. You couldn’t get enough of her fingers, mouth, and cock and you had so much more stamina. 

“Is that a bad thing?” You counter and she chuckles, getting close enough so she can pull you in for a kiss. Her tongue slides into your mouth and you think you might be dripping already. 

Her fingers dip to your waistband but you stop her hand. 

“Just want your cock please, baby,” you beg. You suddenly feel so empty and you just need her to fill you up. 

“I need to make sure you’re ready then,” she says, hand moving into your sweatpants and cupping you over your underwear. You can tell the moment she realizes just how wet you are because you watch her jaw slacken and lust cloud in her eyes. “Fuck, doll, what have you been thinking about all day?” 

“You, mommy,” you breathe and kiss her again. Not technically a lie but you’re not sure if it’s such a good idea to tell her that the reason you’re so horny at the drop of a hat is because you’re pregnant. You don’t stop kissing her as you walk her backwards until she hits the couch. 

You push her down and immediately straddle her, grinding on her rapidly hardening length through her pants. 

“Fuck baby, you’re so hot,” Agatha moans, hands finding their spot on your waist and helping you. “You’re so desperate.” 

“Desperate for you,” you agree breathlessly, reaching down to undo her pants and pull her length out. You have to get out of her lap for a second to wriggle out of your pants but you don’t even bother with your underwear before getting back on top of her. 

Agatha reaches down to move your underwear to the side and line her tip at your entrance, and you do the rest. 

Your mouth drops open in a silent moan and Agatha’s eyes roll back in her head as you begin to move down on her. She feels so fucking good inside you, filling you just how you need. You don’t move for a bit once you completely bottom out, just feeling her throb in you. 

“God, you’re so perfect, mommy,” you groan, slowly starting to roll your hips, just grinding on her. Agatha’s breathing has increased and grown heavier, not able to hide the effect you’re having on her either. 

You begin to lift up and then back down, her tip hitting your spot with every thrust. It’s embarrassing how close you are already. 

Your wife’s thumb comes down to circle your clit and it slides easily with your wetness. You moan and start riding her faster. 

“God, baby, you feel so good around me,” Agatha pants, watching your pussy stretched out around her. “Taking mommy so well, wanna fill you up.” Her fingernails dig into your hips and use it to pound up into you. 

And for some reason, the words just spill out of your mouth. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Agatha freezes mid-thrust and you can’t help but clench around her, needing the lost stimulation. 

“What?” She says. “Did you just say that you’re pregnant?” 

You take a deep breath and nod. Obviously not the ideal way to have this conversation with her cock still buried to the hilt inside of you, but this is how it’s happening. “I found out today.” 

Agatha’s breath stutters and you’re worried about what she’s going to say until you feel her pulse inside you. 

“Fuck,” Agatha says, a flush spreading across her neck and up to her cheeks. She grabs your hair and yanks you in for a filthy kiss. Before you can ask if everything’s okay, she flips you on your back on the couch and starts fucking you with renowned vigor. 

“Agatha,” you cry, hips raising to meet every thrust. Small sounds are falling out of both of your mouths and you see her smiling above you. 

“I got you pregnant,” she says like she can’t believe it. “That’s so fucking hot, doll, I filled you up so well that we’re going to have a baby.” 

“Mommy, gonna cum,” you choke out, rubbing your clit and feeling her rhythm stutter as you clench deliciously around her. 

“Me too, baby, I’m going to cum inside you,” she groans, sloppily kissing you. 

“Maybe you can knock me up again,” you say and it’s mostly a joke but you don’t miss the way her hips jerk in a particularly rough thrust. It feels so good. “You like that, mommy? Want to breed me some more?” There’s no denying the effect those words have on your wife and you make a mental note to file that away for later.

“Fuck, yes, baby, I’m cumming,” Agatha moans and the feeling of her cock pulsing and then the thick warmth spreading inside you triggers your own orgasm. 

You both ride it out together and once you come down from your highs, Agatha sags down on top of you, just holding you close. You stroke her sweaty hair and she presses light kisses to your cheek. 

You can feel her cock slowly softening in you and when it finally slips out, so does a gush of her cum. Your hips shift at the feeling and Agatha gets off you to shove your legs open to observe the mess. 

With a wicked grin, she runs her fingers up your slit, collecting the cum, and fucks it back into you with two fingers. Your head lolls back against the couch and she quickly gets you to another orgasm with her hand and the knowledge that she’s pushing her seed back in. 

After, she gets a warm towel and cleans you up and then pulls you into a hug. 

“I can’t believe we’re going to have a baby,” she whispers into your ear. “I can’t wait.” 

“Me neither, Aggie. God, I love you so much.” You kiss her softly. 

“I love you too, baby. You’re going to be such a great mom.” 

You smile and run a hand through her hair. “You are too.” And then a thought crosses your mind and you can’t help but giggle. “Soon I won’t be the only one around here calling you mommy.” 

Agatha rolls her eyes fondly and kisses you again to shut you up. 

[pomefioredove]

Hiii!! Could you possibly do headcanons of overblot boys + adeuce with a s/o who likes to collect figures or like manga or something along those lines? Also I love your writing you’re awesome sauce. feel free to delete or ignore if you don’t wanna do it!! I understand :3

<3<3 ofc

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ collector! reader

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, ace, deuce, leona, azul, jamil, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

looking at... [vaguely gestures to Heartslabyul] all that, I can't imagine Riddle has any grounds to complain about knick-knacks or clutter. he literally lives in a minimalist's worst nightmare. he also gives the impression of a collector of odd trinkets. like stamps or antique tea cups. grandma vibes. probably gets you a nice display cabinet for your things

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ace is a sixteen year old boy who balls and thinks of himself as a lady's man. and, I mean, he loves you, but you can tell what he's about to say before he even opens his mouth. weeeeeeb... then he saves up all year just to gift you that one ridiculously priced figure for your birthday. like I said, he loves you, he just has a very... defensive temperament

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I feel like Deuce is a really good listener (or, at least, he knows how to be quiet when you're talking, unlike a certain other Heartslabyul first year), even if he doesn't quite get it. besides maybe Jack, he's the most willing to watch your favorite shows with you, read your mangas together, hear about each individual trinket you own... even if he still doesn't understand. it makes you happy <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona is more of a meh guy. "what do you want, a cookie?" is probably in his top ten favorite expressions. things to say when he doesn't care about something. and. listen. he cares about you, he does, but he's not really the type to pretend. he'll let you talk about your collection, though. as long as you're happy with him, you won't seek out Idia and become completely intolerable (his words, not mine!)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul is having flashbacks to all the junk that Jade and Floyd hoard. but, hey: at least your collection isn't of broken toasters or wild mushrooms. he can respect the pride you take in your hobbies, and the care you... wait, how much does all this cost?

...yeah. okay, he understands. definitely not toasters or mushrooms. your room is practically a museum

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[Jamil voice] "once you're done playing with your toys will you come help me clean up the lounge"

no, he doesn't get it. you haven't said how much all of this costs because you think he might have a heart attack if he saw the numbers, and you keep your belongings tidy enough for him not to stress. so he doesn't complain

(and also because he knows they mean a great deal to you)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[Vil voice] "once you're done playing with your toys will you clean up the lounge" lol

he's not exactly jumping for joy when you spend all your allowance on plastic merchandise and picture books. I mean, he's already had to lend you his winter coat, and there was that week you had to stay at Pomefiore because the water at Ramshackle was out... but making purchases seems to make you happy, so he begrudgingly accepts it

there are worse hobbies to have, after all. [side-eyeing Rook]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I don't even want to write Idia's part. I'm afraid he'll materialize in my room and start fangirling over this (rip idia shroud you would have loved x readers)

but seriously, he's been recommending you his favorite mangas and animes and games. he probably buys you authentic figures that are thousands of thaumarks on a whim 'cause you kinda like the character. very sweet. very thoughtful. when should I book your wedding. etc

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you'd think that Malleus would be astonished? WRONG this guy lives with Lilia "hip with the kids" Vanrouge. who is not only a hoarder, but someone who most certainly has a shelf of manga and figures from his favorite games somewhere in the cavernous hole he calls a room. Malleus has probably gotten him one for his birthday (after the 5 hours it took for him to figure out how to buy things online). so like. it's no big deal to him. if you ever mention wanting new manga or figures or... anything... he will give you twice the amount of thaumarks necessary. he's like that

[ayumigotabittoolonelyquitted]

Baby you are the baddest

Baby you are the baddest, baby you are the baddest girl

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓢𝔂𝓷𝓸𝓹𝓼𝓲𝓼 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎. 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒆 u 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆? 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓.

Characters - nanami kento , gojo Satoru and Suguru geto

Warning ⚠️ : contains suggestive smut, sexual content!

Gojo Satoru

Jujutsu Tech was hosting a huge party for all the students and teachers, and as one of the teachers, you were excited at least, you tried to be. You had asked Gojo to accompany you, but he refused, saying he was the organizer and had things to handle. So, you arrived alone.

You were wearing

Beautiful Right? Right??

But the moment you stepped in, something felt off. The room was filled with stunning people your coworkers looking absolutely amazing, dressed to impress. You knew you were beautiful, you reminded yourself over and over, but tonight… you just weren’t feeling it.

Then you saw her.

Gojo’s ex.

She was wearing blue too, but hers was a deeper, richer shade. Her dress was shorter, hugging her figure in all the right places. She looked effortlessly stunning, drawing attention from every corner of the room. Compliments flooded her way, and with each one, your confidence sank a little more.

Before you could spiral any further, a loud voice echoed through the room.

"ATTENTION!"

Gojo.

He cleared his throat, a smug grin already forming. Then, as expected, he started the program with one of his signature flirty lines something smooth, playful, the kind of thing he always did. Normally, you’d just roll your eyes, maybe even laugh.

But tonight?

Tonight, it just made you feel worse.

Everyone clapped, the room filled with cheers and applause. Lost in your thoughts, you barely reacted until Utahime lightly smacked your arm, snapping you out of it.

“Come on, at least pretend to enjoy yourself,” she muttered.

You let out an awkward snort, forcing a small laugh as you clapped along with the crowd. But no matter how much you tried to play along, that sinking feeling in your chest just wouldn’t go away.

His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke, but the moment they landed on you his breath hitched.

For a second, his mind went completely blank.

Why the hell were you looking like that in front of them? Dressed so beautifully, so effortlessly stunning, yet standing there with an unsure look on your face? It made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t expect.

And the worst part? He was the one organizing this damn event meaning he couldn’t just walk over to you, couldn’t pull you aside, couldn’t do a damn thing about the way you were making his head spin.

Frustrating. Absolutely frustrating.

With every passing second, the insecurity crept in deeper. No matter how much you tried to shake it off, the feeling only got worse.

Then, between the chatters and musics, you heard a voice that made your stomach drop.

"Satoru was definitely checking me out. He still thinks about me. Maybe I can get him back." His ex..

Absolutely not. What the fuck?

"Hell nah, he has a girlfriend," her friend scoffed.

But she just waved it off, laughing dramatically before saying something that hit you like a punch to the gut.

"That girl? Yeah, she looks good, but be real would you pick a cute girl with a basic look or someone hotter?"

Her friend chuckled, brushing it off like it was nothing. But you?

You stood there, frozen.

And for the first time tonight, a terrible thought crossed your mind.

Maybe… just maybe… she was right.

You couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not anymore.

Your chest felt tight, your hands clenched at your sides as those words replayed in your head over and over again. Would you pick a cute girl with a basic look or someone hotter?

Maybe… maybe she was right. Maybe Satoru deserved someone better. Someone who could match his energy, his confidence someone who wouldn’t feel small next to him.

Your vision blurred slightly as you turned on your heel.

Hell nah, you were not staying here any longer.

Maybe you'd even

No. The thought hurt too much to finish.

But a small, painful voice in your head whispered anyway.

Maybe you should break up with him.

Gojo was stress-eating sweets.

He had been trying really trying to get you off his mind, but it wasn’t working. Every time he glanced in your direction, he felt that same frustration bubbling up again. Why the hell did you have to look so good tonight? And why did you look so sad?

He hadn’t even noticed his ex in the crowd. Didn’t care, didn’t want to care. As far as he was concerned, she didn’t exist.

He took a deep breath, ready to continue his speech, when something caught his eye you.

You were leaving.

His heart lurched. And were you… wiping tears?

His stomach twisted, but on the outside, he kept his usual grin. Flashing a charming smile to the crowd, he smoothly passed the mic to Geto without missing a beat.

Then, without hesitation, he followed you.

You walked outside, tears streaming down your face as you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest ached, and no matter how hard you tried to push the thoughts away, they just wouldn’t leave.

Before you could take another step, you heard hurried footsteps behind you.

“Oi—”

Gojo caught up to you in an instant, his usual carefree presence feeling different this time. He let out an awkward laugh, but it wasn’t his usual teasing one. No, this one was tense forced. Because if someone had done this to you, if someone had hurt you enough to make you cry, he would fucking hollow them without hesitation.

This was the first time he had ever seen you like this.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt unsure.

His voice wavered slightly as he reached for you, hesitating before speaking.

“B-baby… who got you crying like that? Tell me, what’s happening?” He tried to mask the worry in his voice, tried to keep up his usual playful charm, but it was useless his concern for you was far too obvious.

You swallowed hard, looking up at him, your heart breaking before the words even left your mouth.

“Gojo… let’s put an end to this.”

What.

The.

Fuck.

His mind short-circuited.

What in the world did you just say?

He looked at you like he had just seen a ghost.

For a moment, he didn’t move just stood there, staring at you, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard. Then, without hesitation, he reached out and grabbed your hand, gripping it tightly like he was afraid you’d slip away.

“It’s not time to joke, babe.” His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it something desperate, something scared.

But you only shook your head.

“I’m not kidding, Satoru.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through. “I looked at myself… and then at your ex… and I realized no, not realized, because it’s the truth you deserve someone better than me. Someone more attractive, someone at your level. After all… you’re the strongest sorcerer.”

You expected him to laugh it off, to tell you you were being ridiculous. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his grip on your hand tightened just a little more

He wasn’t laughing.

He was mad.

Not the kind of playful, teasing irritation he usually had no. This was different.

It wasn’t just anger. It was disappointment. Not at you, but at the fact that you his girl were standing here, crying, actually believing you weren’t enough for him.

His eyes darkened for a split second, jaw tightening as if he was holding something back. But then, just as quickly, he dismissed it, forcing a smile onto his face.

And if you were being honest… that smile scared you a little.

Before you could say anything, he moved.

Swift, effortless he scooped you up into his arms without warning, ignoring your startled gasp.

“Satoru what the hell?”

“Shh, sweetheart.” His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that made your breath hitch.

Without another word, he carried you straight to the washroom, his grip firm, his expression unreadable.

He gently pulled you inside the bathroom and started to make out with you.

The moment he locked the door behind you, there were no words.

No hesitation.

Just him grabbing you, kissing you, devouring you.

It was rough, desperate, his lips crashing onto yours with a force that left you breathless. First, you had shown up looking so damn beautiful, completely stealing his focus. And then, you had the audacity to say you wanted to break up because you weren’t enough for him?

Enough for him?

Fucking enough for him?

You were everything to him. The most perfect, precious woman in the world. He saw perfection in every flaw you thought you had, and the fact that you couldn’t see it? The fact that you even doubted it?

It pissed him off.

His hands cupped your face, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes burned with something unreadable, something intense, before he let out a sharp breath and snorted a quiet laugh.

Then he kissed you again.

Again.

And again.

“Ooo, look at this woman,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something dark, something possessive. His hands trailed down, fingertips skimming over your thighs inner thighs, to be precise.

Your breath hitched.

“S-Satoru, what the fuck?” Your voice wavered as you tried to gather your thoughts. “What if people-”

“They’re too busy, babe,” he cut in smoothly, lips brushing against your jaw as his fingers traced slow, teasing circles.

“But what if they catch us…” you whispered, your pulse racing. The last thing you needed was for someone to walk in and see this.

A smirk curled against your skin.

“I hope nobody catches us,” he hummed, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

Then, he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

“But…” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, "I kinda hope they catch us"

You gasped, hands gripping onto his shoulders when his fingers ghosted over the thin fabric covering your heat.

“You wore blue for me, no?” His tone was teasing, but the satisfaction in his voice was undeniable.

It was true. You had wanted to look good tonight. But more than that, you knew blue was his favorite color.

And yet, as his fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along your waistbandyou found yourself lowering your gaze , feeling shy.

"You are so gorgeous," he hummed against your skin, his lips trailing along your jaw, pressing slow, lingering kisses.

"Baby, you’re the baddest girl… nobody else matters. Not anyone. Only you."

His voice was low, dripping with conviction, and the way he said it like it was the most obvious fact in the world made your head spin.

It was almost like he was gaslighting you into believing you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist.

And fuck it was working.

He gently pushed your dress up to your waist, exposing your soft skin to the cool air. His touch was slow, deliberate like he was savoring every moment, every reaction.

Then, with the same maddening patience, he hooked his fingers around your panties and slid them down, removing them effortlessly.

But instead of tossing them aside, he smirked and casually slipped them into his pocket.

You gasped, your breath hitching as you instinctively clamped a hand over your mouth.

His smile only grew.

"Oh?" he mused, tilting his head, eyes dark with amusement. "Shy now, baby?"

You said nothing your breath caught in your throat as he leaned in, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against your neck. Each one sent a shiver down your spine, his lips warm, teasing, possessive.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, gripping onto him as he moved lower, his kisses trailing along your collarbone.

Then, without breaking contact, you heard the soft clink of metal.

Your eyes flickered down just in time to see him unfastening his belt, the sound making your stomach tighten with anticipation.

Satoru smirked against your skin.

"Still think I don’t want you, baby?" he murmured his voice dripping with amusement as he pulled his belt smoothly.

You swallowed hard, heat rushing to your face as he slowly slid the belt from its loops, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. His fingers moved next, unbuttoning his pants with agonizing slowness like he was giving you a chance to stop him, to protest, to run.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Not when his lips returned to your neck, kissing, biting, claiming you.

His hands roamed over your bare thighs, squeezing, kneading his touch firm yet teasing, possessive yet gentle. He was so big, his presence alone swallowing you whole.

"Still quiet?" he murmured, voice laced with amusement as his fingers traced the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. "Not gonna fight me on this?"

Your breath hitched when his fingers slipped higher, parting your thighs with ease.

"Satoru—"

"Shh, sweetheart." His thumb brushed against your clit, barely applying pressure, yet it was enough to send a shiver through you.

Your legs instinctively tried to close, but his grip was firm.

"Uh-uh," he tutted, his other hand gripping your hip. "You’re not running from me now."

You let out a shaky breath, fingers digging into his arms as he kept up his slow, torturous pace, his touch deliberate, calculated meant to break you.

His lips brushed against your ear, his voice dropping lower, thick with something dark and dangerous.

"Let me show you just how fucking perfect you are."

And that’s how it was Satoru making love to you in the bathroom, his touch reverent yet desperate, like he needed to prove something to you.

You muffled your gasps and moans, biting your lip, your hands gripping onto him as he moved against you, within you, filling every inch of your senses.

His eyes never left yours, filled with something deeper than lust something raw, devoted.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, pressing kisses wherever he could reach.

“So fucking perfect for me.”

He watched you intently, drinking in every expression, every quiet sound, and when you looked up at him desperate, vulnerable he swore under his breath, leaning in to kiss you again.

As if he could make you feel just how much he meant every word.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop touching you, didn’t stop kissing you, didn’t stop whispering words that made your chest ache and your stomach tighten.

"God, baby… you have no idea what you do to me." His voice was hoarse, filled with something dangerous, something utterly worshipful.

"You’re not just beautiful. You’re stunning. The kind of gorgeous that makes people stop and stare, but they don’t even know the half of it."

His hands slid over your body, tracing every curve, every inch of skin like he was memorizing you.

"It’s not just your looks, sweetheart." He pressed a lingering kiss to your collarbone, then another, his lips trailing up your neck. "You. It’s you. Your smile, your laugh, your stubborn little attitude that drives me crazy."

You whimpered when he thrust deeper, and he groaned at the way you clenched around him.

"You’re so fucking smart, too," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "The way you think, the way your mind works I swear, it’s the sexiest thing about you."

His fingers threaded through yours, pinning your hand above your head as he met your gaze.

"And don’t even get me started on how kind you are," he breathed, his tone almost pained. "You care so much about everything, about everyone but you don’t even realize how easy it is to love you."

Your heart clenched.

"You are everything to me," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. "So don’t you ever say you’re not enough for me again."

Then, with a smirk, he tilted his head and added,

"If anything, I should be worried about keeping up with you, gorgeous."

After some moments, you heard the click of heels approaching, and before you could even react, the door swung open.

It was none other than his ex.

Her eyes widened in pure shock, and her makeup kit slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor with a loud clatter.

But Satoru?

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he smirked, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for his discarded jacket and draped it over you, shielding your exposed skin.

Then, as if this was the most casual thing in the world, he turned to her and tilted his head.

“Oh?” His grin was lazy, smug. “Didn’t see you there.”

His grip on your hips tightened possessively before he let out a soft chuckle, his tone downright mocking.

“Hope we didn’t… interrupt anything.”

His ex ran away crying, heels clicking rapidly against the floor as she bolted out of the bathroom.

Satoru barely spared her a glance.

His attention was still on you.

His smirk softened into something more genuine as he gazed down at you, his hands gently running over your waist, your thighs, as if grounding you.

“Look at you, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your flushed cheek. “So fucking pretty… too pretty to be worrying about anyone else.”

You tried to say something, but your head was spinning, your body still trembling from everything. Words felt impossible.

Satoru chuckled, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes, his expression dripping with admiration.

“Lightheaded already? Cute,” he teased, but his tone was filled with nothing but warmth.

He kissed you again slow and deep before murmuring against your lips,

“Let’s get you cleaned up, gorgeous.”

Satoru cleaned you up with a level of care that made your heart ache his usual teasing replaced with soft kisses, gentle touches, and whispered praises.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmured, smoothing down your dress and fixing your hair, his blue eyes scanning your face like he was checking for any signs of discomfort.

You nodded, still too dazed to form actual words, and he chuckled, shaking his head.

“God, I wrecked you, huh?” His smirk returned, but his touch remained soft, almost reverent.

Before you could even try to respond, he scooped you up into his arms effortlessly.

“Satoru—”

“Nope, not letting you walk,” he said firmly, pressing a kiss to your temple as he carried you out of the bathroom. “You look too fucked out to stand properly. And besides…” He grinned down at you. “Gotta make sure everyone sees you wrapped up in my jacket, looking all cute and satisfied.”

Your face burned as he carried you back into the party like you were the most precious thing in the world.

Every single head turned.

Gasps. Stares. Murmurs.

Your coworkers exchanged looks, some shocked, some amused.

And his ex?

Nowhere to be seen.

Satoru, on the other hand, was absolutely thriving. He wore his usual cocky grin, his chest puffed out like he had just won the grandest prize of all.

Which, in his eyes, he had.

Because you were his.

And he had just made damn sure everyone knew it.

And in that moment, wrapped up in his arms, surrounded by the warmth of his jacket and the even warmer way he looked at you

As he carried you through the party, past all the stares and whispers, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before murmuring against your skin

“You know… in this whole damn world, you’re the only one who can bring me to my knees.”

His voice was soft, but his words carried weight, filled with something undeniable.

Because Satoru Gojo the strongest, the untouchable, the man who stood above all

Would willingly fall for you, every single time.

All your insecurities melted away.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Roads Untraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Single and pregnant, you discover a super soldier in the dumpster but he might not be hero you think he is. 

[This is a rewrite of a series of the same name which I removed a couple years ago]

Characters: Silverfox!Steve Rogers

Note: I finally did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

‘When he went away  The blues walked in and met me  Oh, yeah if he stays away  Old rocking chair’s gonna get me  All I do is pray...’ 

You sway to the melody as you wipe dry the last plate. You set it in the rack as Etta James’ soulful crooning wafts around the kitchen. Just the simple task of washing the dishes has you out of breath. You can no longer hum along as you’re suddenly light headed with sweat speckled across your brow. Even the breeze drifting in through the open window can’t cool the constant heat brewing within you. 

You brace your lower back as you reach for the dish towel and pop open the cupboard. The music drones to silence as the next some in queue loads. Your rounded stomach presses to the counter as you take a mug and dry it inside and out. Strange, you don’t remember the song starting like that; the strange warbling noise much unlike Marvin Gaye’s rich tones. 

You set the mug on the shelf and back up. Another noise peaks your attention, too tinny to be a snare. You rub your stomach mindlessly as you sling the cloth over your shoulder. You waddle across the tile to the folding table beneath the window. You tap pause on your phone and the bluetooth speaker goes silent. 

Your fingers pick the damp fabric away from your bump. These days you can’t avoid getting soaked. Even as you can’t forget about the burden of your condition, you’re still oblivious to how it gets in the way until it does. You sigh as you listen for another clue. 

A pained deep grunt floats up from below. Distant but decisive, another rustle beneath the unexpected noise. You lean over the table, a hand on the ledge as you push the pane higher. You bend, stomach pressed to the speaker, and peer down. You expect another dumpster diver searching for empties to trade in; rather you meet a most unexpected sight. 

There is a man in the dumpster, alright, but he isn’t moving. From there, you can’t see very clearly. You squint at the figure strewn among the trash but the zigzag of the fire escape obscures your eye line. 

You shouldn’t go and see. Not only is it a lot of effort, but it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be wandering into alleys to check on strangers in dumpsters. You don’t know any good reason someone might be swimming in garbage. Nor do you think they would want to be bothered.  

Still, the prickling in your neck urges you to do something. There’s just something so peculiar about the angle of the arm you can see clearer than the rest of the body. At least they’re moving, even if they sound agonized. 

You take your phone and untether it from the bluetooth speaker. You unlock it and keep your thumb ready to dial out. You move as quickly as you can, not very, and waddles along the back of the couch into the entry way. You take your keys from the hook near your door and step into your cushy slides. 

You turn back the latch and leave the door unlocked behind you. The slides shift on your swollen feet as you rush down to the elevator. God, your back hurts. You try not to lean too far back as it only adds to the pain. You need a belly belt but they’re so darn expensive. 

You’re out of breath as you step on and turn to watch the numbers count down. You’re still panting as you reach the lobby and push through the front doors, leaning into the heavy grated iron until it creaks loudly. You clamour down the steps to even ground and your hips pang. 

You put your hand under your stomach, trying to lift it and ease the pressure in your hips. You blow out between your lips as you have to slow down. You shuffle across the grass and into the paved lobby. The stink of the trash brings you back to those early days of morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And night sickness. 

You try not to inhale too deeply as you step between the brick buildings. You bring your phone up, ready to hit those three digits in a heartbeat. You should’ve done so already. Even if you do, it’ll take hours for anyone to come out here. 

You stop and listen a few steps from the dumpster. You don’t hear anything now. You look up at the sky, dimming towards evening in a mixture of pink and blue, the moon peeking palely through the hue. You grip your phone tight, keys jangling with your movement as you continue forward. 

“Hello?” You call out, “is someone in there?” You linger near the corner of the dumpster, the trash reeking in your nostrils, “do you need help?” 

No answer. You stare up, wondering how you might see inside. If you weren’t built like a keg, you might be able to see from the lower level of the fire escape but you can’t even make it one rung. You blink and call out again. 

“Hello? Are you okay?” 

You wait for a response. Silence again. Maybe they found their way out on their own. You huff. So much for all that. All you’ve done is added to the pain in your arches. You turn on your heel and a groan gurgles and plastic crinkles noisily. 

You stop again, wavering, and peer back over your shoulder. A hand appears over the tops of the dumpsters edge and grips it. You face the large metal bin as the knuckles strain within the stained brown leather, fingertips poking out nakedly, blood and dirty tinged across the flesh. A long grunt follows as the figure drags himself to look over the top. 

“Sir, are you--” you begin, voice catching at the sight of the cowl and the man’s square jaw. The white star on his chest stuns you. It’s him. Everyone knows that uniform, that face, even under his helmet. New York’s own Captain America. 

You gape as the super soldier strains and swings himself out of the dumpster with one arm. His other is hanging limply as his feet hit the pavement. His knees crack and buckle. He drops down onto them and hisses. 

“Captain America?” You utter dumbly. 

He puts his fist to the ground and leans on his arm. He hangs his head and heaves. He drags a leg forward, planting his foot, and makes himself stand. He pushes his shoulders back and winces, reaching to cradle his dangling arm. 

“Steve,” he rasps, “goddamn.” 

You don’t expect the obscenity. Not from him. He leans against the dumpster and turns his chin up. He gnashes his teeth as he grips his arm and jerks, moving the heavy bin with his effort. The pop of his shoulder is sickening as he growls tightly. He stomps his foot and as he shakes out the arm he just put back into place. 

He reaches up and peels off his cowl as he puts his head straight. He looks at you as he wipes the streak of blood from lip to chin. His blond locks are streaked silver and his face is lined. He looks much older than the magazine covers and the TV screens. The magic of editing, right? 

He swipes the sweaty hair from his forehead and huffs. 

“Steve,” you rest your phone on your stomach, “are you okay?” 

He pushes himself away from the dumpster and puffs, “I’m fine. Just... a hiccup.” 

You stare at him. He looks tired and worn. You believe him when he says he’s okay. He's a super soldier and the world has seen his many feats. Yet he looks completely hollow. 

“Are you sure? I could call someone or...” you step forward and point to the slash that borders chest and shoulder, “you should clean that out, shouldn’t you?” 

He looks down and grimaces, “had worse. I got comms. HQ doesn’t care about a few scratches.” 

He goes to step forward and stumbles slightly. He snarls and kicks his foot into the gravel. He wiggles his knee and bends to rub the joint. 

“I...” your mouth opens and closes. This isn’t the man you’ve seen in the media. He's not smiling and golden and shining. Still, he’s the Captain. “I live above,” you gesture upward, “I could help... or maybe you can just... sit for a little bit. Get yourself straight?” 

He looks at you. As if for the first time. His forehead smooths as the tension eases from his jaw. His gaze slowly crawls down to his stomach and you see the dimple in his cheek. 

“Your husband okay with that? I’m a bit of a mess,” his tone is lighter as he fixes his grip on his cowl. 

“Oh no, I don’t have--” you chew your lip and look at the brick wall, “it’s just me. But I have first aid kit and learned to stitch in summer camp. I think I can still remember how.” 

He glances around and nods, “got a back door?” 

“Yeah, it’s... past you,” you nod in his direction. 

He pivots stiffly and cranes to see around the dumpster. You near him and your keys jingle again. You follow him to the metal door with the glass window and you shove the key in and twist. You pull it open a few inches. It’s heavier than the front door. He grabs it and wrenches it all the way back. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. “There’s an elevator.” 

“Hm, fewer people see me, the better,” he sniffs as the door clanks behind him. 

“It might take me a while,” you warn, “I’m slow.” 

“What floor. I’ll meet you,” he offers. 

“Sure, it’s three.” 

“Number?” 

“310.” 

“I’ll find it,” he states and marches towards the stair sign. 

You go to catch the elevator, stewing in disbelief on your ascent. You step off and continue on to your apartment. He’s already there. He stands with his hand on the frame, looking over his shoulder as you waddle down the hall towards him. 

“It’s unlocked,” you say. 

He opens it and waits for you. You thank him as you enter and he follows. He locks it and lingers behind you. You put your hand to the wall as you slip off your slides. He gently lays his cowl on the corner table and bends to unlace his boots. You hang the keys on the hook and place your phone on the small table. 

He leaves his dirtied boots on the mat and limps forward. You stand in the open doorway of the living room and peek back at him. He looks around reluctantly. 

“Please, sit down,” you insist and wave through the doorway before you pass through. 

“I...” he begins and you hear his uneven gait down the hallway. “I don’t want to dirty your couch.” 

“I have a steam cleaner,” you assure. “Sit, I’ll get the kit.” 

He stares, his eyes once more scanning the space. Does he think this is a trip? That you’re some covert agent who all too conveniently found him? That’s absurd. Look at you. 

You shrug off that ridiculous idea and cross to the kitchen. You open several drawers before you remember it’s in the bathroom. Of course. Your brain likes to play games these days. You grab the metal tin from under the sink and return to Steve.  

He pulls off his gloves and balls them on the side table next to the couch. You come around the other side of the couch and sit, leaving lots of space between you. You squeeze the kits as you’re once more out of breath. 

“You okay?” He turns the question on you. 

“I’m not the one bleeding. Just pregnant,” you smile. 

You balance the kit on your stomach as you lean back. You sanitize a needle and weave it with surgical thread. You put that aside and fish out an alcoholic swap. You shift the kit aside and push on the back of the couch as you try to sit forward. You shake and he helps you, a humbling assistance. 

“First,” you turn to him, “we’ll see how deep it is,” you tear open the swap, “can I...” 

“One sec,” he dips his fingers into the fabric and tears the sleeve, renting the fabric like tissue. His arm is thick and well-toned despite the years. A centurion like him can’t complain for the shape he’s in, even battered. “I can do it myself.” 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be easy.” 

You reach as he angles towards you. You gingerly dab around the gash and he tenses. He takes a sharp breath, “you don’t have to be so gentle. I can handle pain.” 

“Right,” you work more diligently. 

He’s quiet as you tend to him, picking out gravel and some metal slivers. You worry that you might miss some. You lean in closer and he steels himself at your proximity. 

“So,” he clears his throat, “just you and...” the kid?” 

“We all make mistakes,” you chuckle. You can only laugh about it, as scared as you are. 

“Mmm,” he flinches as you sweep down the length of the cut. It’s not that deep, mostly superficial. 

“Let me put some steri-strips on, shouldn’t need the stitches, ” you say as you sift through the kit with one hand, “if you’re hungry, I have leftovers. You like chicken?” 

You don’t know why you’re offering. Maybe it’s because you owe him. Like everyone in the city. It’s your chance to give back to the hero who gave so much. Or maybe it’s because you’re so damn lonely talking to your own stomach. 

“I should go,” he insists as you place a strip across the cut. 

“Up to you,” you say, “I don’t mind either way, but I’m not going to chase Captain America out of ym apartment.” 

He doesn’t say anything. You finish dressing his wound and gather up the wrappers and all. You crumple it in one hand and rock yourself to stand. You’re overly aware of him watching you. You touch your stomach and rub it, soothing your nerves. You find him watching the movement of your hand. 

“You must be pretty far along,” he says. 

“Six months. Chicken tortellini, if you want. I was gonna reheat some. I haven’t eaten since work.” 

“Work?” He frowns and stands, moving better than before. “Should you be?” 

“I’m at a desk. It’s nothing. HR got me some ergonomic stuff. Nothing compared to what you do.” 

You put away the kit and toss the garbage. You wash your hands before you search out the container of pasta in the fridges. You sense him behind you, just in the wide archway that peers into the kitchen. You reach into the cupboard you left open and take the single plate that isn’t in the rack. 

“So, you want some?” You ask. 

He’s silent with contemplation, the shift of his weight creaks in the floor, “I appreciate it, yes, please.” 

“I might have something you can change into,” you say. You wonder why you’re doing all this. Maybe it’s that maternal instinct kicking in. “The father, before he took off, left a few things.” You peek over your shoulder, “he was a bit smaller than you.” 

He shrugs then winces at the careless gesture. “Do you mind if I wash up before I eat? I smell like garbage. I don’t wanna overstep--” 

“Go ahead, it’ll take a while to warm this up,” you say. 

Another long lull. He taps his fingers on the wall and inhales deep enough for you to hear, “promise, I’ll get out of your hair after dinner.” 

“Please, take your time,” you say as you put the tortellini in a glass pan to rebake. He backs away and you sense his hesitation, “oh, down the hall, to the left of the bedroom at the end.” 

“Thanks,” he intones, “oh, uh, just realised, you know who I am...” 

Your brows pop up and you stop before you can put the pan in the stove. You look back at him and give your name. He nods. 

“Pretty,” he comments, “also, it’s just Steve, not Captain.” 

[sreabhadh]

Don't know how Tumblr works honestly, or if I'm doing this right but Kef's TexAid au and everything everyone has written, drawn, and made for it- well it's got its hooks in me. It's probably pretty tame as far as TexAid goes... so trigger warning here lol. If you are not part of the fandom/already a freak I do NOT recommend reading it because I don't want to be responsible for accidentally traumatizing someone/revealing to others who aren't also like this how "like this" I am.

Like I said, probably pretty darn tame as far as TexAid goes (so those of you like me, don't get your hopes up), and those of you NOT like me in this regard... probably better keep away lol.

Anyway, you've been warned. If you're still here, please enjoy.

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

He still hasn’t found him yet.

Vortex held back his laughter at the thought, wondering how much longer it would take Felix to find his ‘other friend,’ Ambulon. His other friend. Well, ‘another friend.’ That’s what Aid had said. First Aid considered him, Vortex, his friend. A place he could be safe. ‘Friend.’ It should’ve made Vortex want to squish the ‘pilot’ up till he popped and died. Should’ve made him want to explore the ways he could torture him without killing him, break and bend his mind, then test out a new method of completely dispatching him. Just like his other playthings. That had been one of the only things that had been exciting about Vortex’s life, back when he had a fleshy body, and it had been arguably the best part about being… him. Gears and all.

Killing things would always be fun. Unless it was First Aid. Somehow, somewhere along the line, First Aid had made the thought of killing his pilot…less exciting. Letting him live, the little freak, had turned out to be much more fun. Letting his squishy ‘pilot’ feed him information, ideas on how to disembowel their prey. At first Vortex had done it so he could keep going out without risking the scrapheap. Done it for the thrill of watching his cleaner squirm, trapped and forced to come back every time, no matter how much he didn’t want to. His newest toy had proved to be much more entertaining than that though. And now he was- Vortex didn’t want to think too hard about it. But he was his. First Aid, no- Felix was his.

Vortex had chosen him as his pilot. Felix had ‘chosen’ to accept. Felix chose to call Vortex his friend, chose him as a safe place to rest. And Vortex had chosen, time and time again, not to kill him. He belonged to Vortex now. Felix was his. And no one, Pharma or otherwise, was going to take him away. Vortex wasn’t going to let him leave the cockpit ever again.

Logistically, that had issues. Which should be Felix’s problem. Vortex shouldn’t care about that. It should be for Felix to figure out. Vortex’s mech- his body- his- there wasn’t a bathroom. Or a cafeteria. There were lockers, with his old stuff. Old MREs, enough water to help Felix after he woke up- even if the idiot had puked the first bottle out onto the mech’s- Vortex’s hull. But it wouldn’t be enough, not forever. Maybe Felix could think of a solution; he was smart like that sometimes. Felix seemed to have a lot on his mind right now though. Vortex had expected Felix to find Ambulon by now, he really wasn’t that well hidden. He was just tied to the wall with some cable, one of the sleeping bags Felix had brought inside Vortex’s- in the mech’s head- to cover him up.

Felix usually had a much sharper eye than this. Vortex grumbled quietly. Felix didn’t notice. Vortex snorted crossly, more loudly. Felix picked his head up from his hands. “Vortex?” he asked. There was something in the way Felix said his name, something in the way his eyes glinted in the mech’s- in Vortex’s- red lights.

[FELIX BABY~] he purred.

Felix leaned forward in his seat. “Yeah?”

Vortex let the silence pick at Felix’s patience a moment, then grinned.

[I CAN WARM YOU UP~] he said, flashing the words on his screen and speaking it into Felix’s head through the drift, grinning fiendishly as the suggestive tone in his voice made Felix blush. Little freak~

“Errrr, but I’m not cold,” Felix fumbled. His eyes darted around a little, as if looking for somewhere to look that wasn’t part of Vortex. He still didn't see Ambulon. He was busy looking for somewhere that wasn’t flirting with him. Basically, Felix was avoiding looking Vortex in the eye. Or he would be if Vortex were.. organic. And while he tried to feign a lack of understanding, Felix was blushing. It was cute. Vortex snickered. His pilot was adorable. And also a freak. He was an adorable freak. And he was his.

Vortex snickered again, opening the vents and blasting his AC. Felix stared dumbly, then stood, hand on hip, an admonishing look on his face. His mouth opened like he was going to deliver a withering retort, then it shut again, and he swallowed. His expression softened slightly, then contorted with confusion, and rehardened into complete bafflement with an edge of offense taken.

“…why?” he murmured quietly, so softly Vortex felt it through their drift connection more than he heard it.

[COLD YET?~]

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…”

Vortex opened the vents even wider, blasting the cold air even harder.

Felix gaped.

[COLD YET?]

“No, but I will be soon, do you mind??” he snapped back. His exasperation overpowered his fear of retribution for being cheeky. It was delicious.

Slowly, Vortex closed the vents, letting the air flow ponderously wilt to a trickle. Felix glared suspiciously at the vents as they sluggishly shut close. Vortex held them open a moment, waiting to see and feel Felix’s anticipatory frustration bubble, which it did. Once he’d tasted enough of that, he let the vents snick all the way shut, cutting off the AC completely. Felix held his breath a moment, waiting for Vortex to do something. Which he didn’t. Felix waiting for him to do something was too fun. And it felt nice having Felix so focused on him, especially after he had spent so much time “distracted.” By Pharma. By recovering from Pharma’s vile mysterious IV drip. By Pharma trying to turn Felix into another one of him. Another Vortex. Vortex gritted his- well he would’ve gritted his teeth except he didn’t have any. His gears ground in response to his anger. His current “body” didn’t have organic teeth but it did what it could.

Felix tensed, ever mindful of Vortex’s moods. The moment was ruined. He HAD been planning on waiting until Felix relaxed, then immediately restarting the AC as strong as it could go. Give him a good jumpscare, and give Vortex another excuse to crack a joke about keeping him warm before pointing him to the sleeping bag Ambulon was occupying. But Vortex had gotten distracted thinking about Pharma- every passing thought on the matter made Vortex itch to kill something. Or rather, several somethings. Lots of somethings, (including Pharma of course), with as much blood and screaming as possible. Anyway. He had gotten distracted, and ruined the moment before he could make Felix jump.

Vortex forced himself to allow a smile on his… well, not on his face. His mood? He allowed a smile on his mood. Felix was okay. He was away from Pharma. He was safe, and alive, and trapped inside his cockpit. He wasn’t going anywhere. Vortex had plenty of time to play with his pilot. And they had a friend now too- someone Vortex could send out to get food for Felix, or hold hostage if Felix tried to leave. Someone else who had an actual brain to figure out how to solve problems. Felix’s brain couldn’t be trusted- not when it came to self-preservation. His choice of Vortex as a friend made that clear enough. That and his inability to spot anything wrong with the bulging lump on the wall. Vortex had a mind, he was able to think despite being dead afterall, but his brain had been dragged and cleaned out of his current head ages ago. Shattered skull and all.  

Ambulon, despite getting very chatty when he had first woken up, still had a skull in perfect condition. He wasn’t even bruised (probably) when Vortex re-sedated him and tied him to the wall, and covered him with the sleeping bag. He’d even managed to duct tape the jumpy lab rat’s mouth closed without blocking his other airways. That took skill. Absently, Vortex wondered if Felix would be impressed by his handiwork. Felix hadn’t been around when Vortex first came online- after dying that was. Didn't know how difficult this kind of precision could be. Hadn’t been around when Vortex was still figuring out how to move his new “body.” Some of the casualties he’d caused back then had been accidents. Sort of. Accidents he’d, unbeknownst to his victims and everyone else who’d thought he was gone, reveled in. And then replicated. Again. And again. Repeating until he was capable of the same intentional blood spilling he had been capable of before. Like a baby murderer, relearning how to walk and talk- and stab people in the guts.

Killing was like breathing to Vortex. Was like laughter, and smiling. It was really quite kind of him to have not killed Ambulon. He was Felix’s friend though, and had enough potential to be fun and useful- not to mention he’d been running from Pharma. Vortex might not know a lot about Ambulon, but he wasn’t about to do Pharma’s dirty work for him. Beyond that…Ambulon’s drift connection allowed Vortex to feel what Felix felt like. As an organic. With a living body. Had allowed him to feel what it felt like to hold his hand. To hold him as he slept, safe and sound. Vortex could repay that by not killing or hurting Ambulon too much. Wouldn’t stop him from spooking him as much as he pleased, but…he was grateful, in a way. It wasn’t something he had ever expected to experience. It was part of why Vortex had stuck him to the wall instead of back in bed with Felix. He liked it, but he wasn’t sure what to think or feel about it, and frankly didn’t want to right now. And he didn’t want to share the feeling either. Felix was his, and that’s what mattered. Ambulon was Felix’s friend, and they, he, Vortex, could figure out what that meant later.  

Felix, for his part, had fallen back asleep, slumped in his pilot’s seat. Ambulon could wait until he woke up again. Vortex used some cabling to grab the remaining sleeping bag, then wrapped it around Felix and the chair- cocooning him cozily and tying him to the chair simultaneously. He toyed with the thought of dangling his old suit in front of Felix’s head so it would be the first thing he saw when he woke up… but he decided against it in the end. He liked the thought of punishing Felix if he tried to grab and put it on, but he knew he wouldn’t. There had been such a reverence in the way Felix stared at the suit that Vortex had once worn. An unspoken want in the way he caressed Vortex’s name stitched over the right breast of the suit. An unspoken want that made Vortex want him to wear it. Even without punishing him for it, just to have his name on him…he couldn’t stitch it onto his chest, not directly- Felix was too squishy for that, and Vortex wasn’t delicate enough with a blade on his own to do it without killing his prize. If he could have his name on him though, if Felix put it on by choice-  

Vortex hummed thoughtfully. The notion was intoxicating. Invigorating. Carefully adding more cabling to secure Felix to the chair and their new resident lab rat to the wall, Vortex got up and started walking. Felix had only just recently removed whatever Pharma had attached to his leg, and if it had been a tracker, then they didn’t want to stay here for long.

Maybe he could find some monsters to kill, something to take the edge off his currently stronger-than-usual bloodlust. Maybe find the ones Felix had once considered the most likely to be edible. Have Ambulon cook it and test it, see if it worked.

He hummed some more, looking forward to getting his gears bloody again. He was going to go kill some monsters, wouldn’t be returning to base, and would have Felix with him the whole time. Yes, today was going to be a good day.  

[lee-laurent]

Crushin' - Quinn Hughes

Summary: Quinn's crush on Brock's sister starts to cause some issues

wc: 7.8k

content: fluff, angst, kissing, grinding, mentions of sex but no smut, friends with benefits

notes: hi! i'm like working through writers' block rn. so... here is this i guess

Emma Boeser, known to those close to her as Emmy, had always been fiercely independent. Growing up as Brock's younger sister meant that she was no stranger to the world of professional hockey, but she had long ago sworn off any romantic involvement with hockey players. The glitz and glamour that others saw were just distractions to her--hockey players were trouble, and she had learned that the hard way. Now, she focused on her career, determined to make a name for herself that wasn't tied to her brother and his achievements.

Emma had secured a role in the Canucks' PR and marketing department, a job that she actually enjoyed going to. She was good at it too--organizing press events, managing the team's public image, and navigating the chaos of media day with ease. Her colleagues respected her, and the players knew she was off-limits, a professional boundary she had enforced since day one (one that her brother was glad to back up).

Quinn Hughes, on the other hand, was everything a star defenceman could be--talented, dedicated, and just the right amount of cocky. He had quickly made himself a name in the NHL, and his focus had always been on the game. Off the ice, Quinn was reserved, not one to seek out the spotlight unless it was absolutely necessary. But there was one person who managed to catch his eye every time, no matter how hard he tried to stay focused on his career--Emma.

Quinn had noticed Emma from the moment she started working with the team. She was striking, not just because of her looks, but because of the way she carried herself. There was something about her confidence and no-nonsense attitude that drew him in, even if he couldn't quite figure out why. They'd had only a few friendly interactions, but Emma always kept things strictly professional.

~~

It was after a team gala that their relationship shifted. Emma had been working late, ensuring everything ran smoothly. Quinn had stayed behind, nursing a drink as the event wound down. He noticed Emma, finally off the clock and enjoying a rare moment to herself. She looked relaxed, maybe a little tired, but still as composed as ever.

"Long night?" Quinn asked, leaning against the bar beside her.

Emma glanced at him, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "You could say that. But it's part of the job."

He nodded, studying her face. She was always so put together, always in control. "You did a great job tonight. Everything went off without a hitch."

"Thanks," Emma replied, raising her glass slightly. "But I'm sure you're not hanging around just to compliment the event planning."

Quinn chuckled, appreciating her directness. "Maybe not. I guess I was hoping to get to know you a bit more... off the clock."

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Off the clock?"

"Yeah," he said, meeting her gaze with a confidence he wasn't sure he really felt. "No work. Just us."

She considered him for a moment before downing the rest of her drink. "Alright, Hughes. But let's keep this simple. No strings, no drama. Just... fun."

He agreed without hesitation, not realizing at the time how much more complicated things would become.

~~

Emma wasn't one to complicate things, especially when it came to her personal life. Her rule was simple: no dating hockey players. The lifestyle, the endless travel, the pressure--they were all things she wanted no part of. But when it came to Quinn, that line had blurred.

What started as a one-time thing after a team event quickly turned into a series of late-night encounters. It was easy, convenient, and, most importantly, private. Emma liked the control it gave her--she could have what she wanted without risking her independence or her brother's wrath. And Quinn? He played along, meeting her in the middle of the night, leaving before dawn, and never asking for more.

Their relationship was built on stolen moments. Sometimes it was at his apartment, other times hers, but always with the same unspoken agreement: no one could know. Emma was strict about that, even more so than Quinn. The idea of Brock finding out was enough to make her heart race--not from excitement, but from pure dread. She knew her brother would lose it if he found out she was hooking up with one his teammates, especially Quinn, who was practically family to him.

For Quinn, those nights with Emma were a mix of heaven and hell. Being with her, touching her, was everything he wanted. But every time she slipped out of his bed, leaving him alone in the dark, it tore at him. He wanted more--he wanted her in his life in a way that went beyond just the physical. But he also knew that pushing for more could mean losing her altogether, and that was a risk he wasn't sure he could take.

At work, Emma was the epitome of professionalism. She was efficient, focused, and kept a cool distance from the players, especially Quinn. In meetings, she barely looked his way, addressing him with the same detached tone she used with everyone else. It was as if the Quinn who whispered her name in the dark didn't exist during daylight hours.

Quinn noticed, of course. He noticed everything about Emma. The way she would set her jaw when she was stressed, the little lines that formed between her brows when she was deep in thought. He noticed how she avoided his gaze during team meetings, how she never lingered when passing by him in the halls. It was like she had put up a wall between them, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't break through.

It was frustrating, especially when Quinn would catch a glimpse of the Emma he knew--the one who laughed at his jokes and leaned into his touch when they were alone. But at work, she was distant, almost cold, and it gnawed at him. He found himself wanting to bridge the gap, to make her see that they didn't have to keep pretending.

One afternoon, after a long practice session, Quinn saw his chance. Emma was standing by the rink, talking to one of the other staff members. She was dressed in her usual work attire, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, and her expression serious as she discussed logistics for an upcoming event.

Quinn approached her, waiting until the other person had walked away before speaking. "Emmy, do you have a minute?"

Emma glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly as if to warn him to keep things professional. "What is it, Hughes?" she asked, her tone brisk.

He resisted the urge to sigh. "I just wanted to go over some of the plans for the charity event next week. Thought we could grab a coffee and talk it through."

She hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. "I'm pretty swamped right now," she said, already turning to look at the iPad in her hands. "But I'll email you the details later."

"Come on, Emmy," Quinn pressed, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "It's just coffee."

Emma shot him a look that was both annoyed and pleading. "We can't, Quinn. Not here."

The way she said his name sent a shiver down his spine, but it also made his chest tighten with frustration. "It doesn't have to be like this," he said quietly. "We don't have to pretend."

She shook her head, tucking the iPad under her arm. "Yes, we do. I told you, this is how it has to be. We agreed."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm not okay with that anymore."

Emma froze, her eyes searching his face for a moment before she looked away. "Quinn, please. Not here."

The vulnerability in her voice was new, something she rarely let slip. It softened Quinn's resolve, but only just. He nodded, stepping back to give her space. "Alright," he forced a smile. "I'll see you later, then."

Emma didn't reply, turning back to her work as if the conversation had never happened. But the tension lingered, heavy in the air between them.

~~

As the weeks passed, Quinn found it harder to ignore the growing feelings inside him. He was falling for Emma, and he knew it. It wasn't just about the physical connection anymore, though that was still a big part of it. It was about the way she challenged him, the way she made him laugh, and the way she kept him on his toes. She was different from anyone he'd ever been with, and he couldn't shake the feeling that she was exactly what he'd been looking for.

But the more he tried to let her in, the more she pulled away. Emma was stubborn, and Quinn was beginning to realize just how deep her fears ran. She had been hurt before--by a hockey player, no less--and she wasn't about to let that happen again. No matter how much she cared for Quinn, she couldn't bring herself to break her rule.

Quinn found himself torn between respecting her boundaries and wanting to push past them. Every time they were together, he tried to show her how much he cared, how much he wanted more than just sex. He'd hold her a little longer, kiss her a little softer, hoping she'd see that he wasn't like the others. But Emma was like a fortress, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find a way in.

One night, after a particularly grueling game, Quinn found himself lying awake in his bed, his mind racing. Emma had been distant lately, more so than usual, and it was driving him fucking crazy. He missed her, missed the way things used to be before his feelings got in the way. He knew he should be grateful for what they had, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was slowly losing her.

He picked up his phone, scrolling through their old messages. Most of them were short, simple texts about when and where to meet. But buried between the lines was a connection that went beyond just physical need. Quinn could see it, even if Emma refused to admit it.

Without thinking, he typed out a message: Can we talk?

He hesitated before hitting send, his thumb hovering over the screen. Part of him was terrified of what she might say, of hearing the words he didn't want to hear. But he couldn't keep going this like, stuck in a limbo with no idea where they stood.

Finally, he pressed send and waited. The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. He stared at the screen, willing it to light up with her reply. When it finally did, his heart skipped a beat.

I'm busy right now. Maybe later?

Quinn's shoulders sagged, the tension in his chest only growing. It wasn't a no, but it wasn't the answer he wanted either. He knew Emma well enough to know that "maybe later" was her way of putting him off, of avoiding a conversation she didn't want to have.

But Quinn wasn't willing to let it slide this time. He needed to know where they stood, needed to know if there was any hope of something more.

I'll wait. he replied.

Emma didn't respond, and Quinn didn't expect her to. He set his phone down and stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what he'd say when they finally did talk. Part of him knew he should be careful, that pushing too hard might drive her away for good. But another part of him--the part that was tired of pretending--was ready to take the risk.

As the hours passed by, Quinn's thoughts continued to circle back to Emma. He thought about the way she smiled when she let her guard down, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention. There was something there, somthing real, and Quinn was determined to make her see it.

When his phone finally buzzed with her reply, his heart raced. But when he read her message, his hope deflated.

Can we just keep things the way they are? I'm not ready for more, Quinn.

He stared at the words, feeling the weight of them settle in his chest. It was exactly what he feared, but hearing it--reading it--still hurt more than he expected.

Despite the sting, Quinn couldn't bring himself to walk away. To put his phone down. Not yet. He knew that if he wanted to be with Emma, he'd have to be patient, to wait for her to come to terms with her feelings. And as much as it pained him to do so, he respected her wishes.

Okay, he typed back. But I'm not giving up on us, Emmy

There was no response, but he didn't need one. He knew it was going to be a long road, but he was willing to wait as long as it took. Because for Emma, it was worth it.

~~

It was another late night in Vancouver, and the city was quiet outside Quinn's window. The game had been tough, a hard-fought win that left him physically drained but mentally wired. Emma had come over, as she often did after games, slipping into his place with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before. They hadn't said much--there wasn't a need for words when they both knew what they were there for.

But tonight felt different to Quinn. There was a tension in the air that he couldn't shake, a weight pressing down on his chest as they lay in bed afterward. Emma was curled up next to him, a dull ache in her thighs, her breathing slow and steady as she started to drift off to sleep. Normally, Quinn would have let her, content to hold her in his arms until she inevitably slipped away before dawn. But not tonight.

"Emma," he whispered, his voice low and hesitant.

"Mmm?" she murmured.

There would be no going back. The words were there, waiting to be said, and he couldn't keep them bottled up any longer. "Can we talk?"

Emma's eyes opened, and she shifted slightly to look up at him. "About what?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

"About us."

She frowned, already sensing where this was going. "Quinn, we've talked about this. You know how I feel."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "We haven't really talked about it. Not like we need to." He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Emma, this isn't just... physical for me anymore. It isn't just about the sex. I care about you. A lot."

Emma's frown deepened, and she pulled away slightly, sitting up in bed. "Quinn, don't--"

"Just listen to me, please," he interrupted, sitting up as well. He could see the walls going up, the defences she always put in place when things got too close. But he was determined to push through them this time. "I'm falling for you, Emma. I think I've been falling for you for a while now, and I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with this being just... whatever it is."

She stared at him, her expression filled with surprise and something else--something that looked a lot like fear. "Quinn, you know I can't--"

"Why not?" his voice raising with frustration. "Why can't we be something more? We're good together, Emma. I know you feel it to."

She shook her head, wrapping the sheet around herself as if it could protect her from the conversation. "It's not that simple, Quinn. You know it's not."

"It is that simple," he insisted, reaching out to take her hand. "We care about each other. We have fun together. The sex is incredible. We could have something real if you'd just let yourself believe it."

Emma's hand tightened around the sheet, and she looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "Quinn, I have rules for a reason."

"Rules?" Quinn scoffed, feeling his frustration boil over. "Emma, you're not living your life. You're hiding behind these 'rules' because you're scared."

She flinched at his words, but her expression hardened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Quinn pressed, his voice softening as he saw the hurt in her eyes. "Emma, I'm not trying to hurt you. I just... I want more. I want us to be more. But I can't do that alone."

There was a long silence, the air between them heavy with even more tension. Emma finally looked at him, her eyes filled with fear, doubt, and maybe longing. But then she shook her head, her walls returning.

"I can't, Quinn," she said quietly. "I'm not going to break my rules. Not for anyone."

Quinn's heart sank, but he forced himself to nod. He had known this was a possibility, that she might not be ready to take that leap with him. But hearing her say it still hurt more than he could've ever imagined. "Okay," he whispered. "I understand."

But the truth was, he didn't understand. Not really. Because he couldn't see why she was so determined to keep them apart when it was clear they could be so much more.

~~

Emma could feel Quinn's words threatening to crack the carfeully constructed walls she had built around herself. She had always been so sure of her rules, so certain that she needed them to protect herself. But hearing Quinn say that he was falling for her, that he wanted more, made her question everything.

It wasn't that she didn't care about Quinn--she did. More than she had ever intended to when they first started sleeping together. But that was exactly the problem. Caring about Quinn meant opening herself up to the possibility of getting hurt, and that was something she couldn't afford.

"Quinn," she began, choosing her words very carefully. "I made those rules for a reason. I've seen what happens when you get involved with hockey players. The lifestyle, the pressure--it's not something I want stacked on top of my own work."

He frowned, clearly not satsified with her explanation. "But I'm not like that, Emma. I'm not just some random guy looking for a fling. I want to be with you, for real. Why can't you see that?"

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I do see it, Quinn. But that doesn't change the fact that it's a bad idea. We're too close to Brock, too close to the team. If things go wrong--"

"They won't," his tone was firm. "I know it's scary, but we can make it work. We can take it slow, keep it private if you want, but I can't keep pretending this is just about sex."

Emma bit her lip, her mind running a mile a minute. She knew he was right, that what they had was more than just physical. But admitting that, giving in to it, felt like stepping off a cliff with no idea if there was anything there to catch her. She had promised herself she wouldn't get involved with a hockey player again, and yet here she was, teetering on the edge.

"I can't," she said again, shaking her head. "Quinn, I can't risk it. I'm sorry."

The words felt hollow, even to her, but she couldn't bring herself to say anything else. She looked at him, hoping he would understand, but the hurt in his eyes told her that he didn't. Or maybe he did, but he wasn't willing to accept it.

"Fine," Quinn said, his voice flat. "If that's how you really feel, then fine."

He moved to get out of bed, grabbing his clothes from the floor. Emma watched him, her heart aching at the sight of him pulling away. She wanted to reach out, to tell him she was sorry, that she didn't mean it. But the words stuck in her throat, choked by fear and doubt.

Quinn dressed quickly, avoiding her gaze as he headed for the door. Emma felt a surge of panic as she realized he was really leaving, that his might be the end of whatever they had. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the door was already closing behind him before she could find the words.

And just like that, he was gone.

Emma sat in the empty room, the silence keeping her stuck in her spot. The bed still smelled like him, a painful reminder of what she had just pushed away. She curled up into a ball, pulling the sheets around her as if they could somehow shield her from the reality of what had just happened.

She had been so certain she was doing the right thing, sticking to her rules and protecting herself. But now, with Quinn gone, all she felt was an overwhelming sense of loss. She had never let herself get this close to anyone before, not since the last time she had been burned by a hockey player. But Quinn... he was different. And that was what made this so much harder.

The tears came before she could stop them, spilling down her cheeks as she buried her face in the pillow. She had told herself that she didn't need anyone, that she was better off alone. But now, she wasn't so sure.

Meanwhile, Quinn was walking the streets of Vancouver, the cold night doing little to cool the fire of frustration and hurt burning in his chest. He had laid his heart on the line, told Emma how he really felt, and she had shut him down. He knew she was scared, that her rules were her way of protecting herself, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow.

He kicked at a loose piece of gravel on the sidewalk, watching as it skittered across the pavement. He wanted to be angry, to blame her for being so stubborn, so unwilling to let him in. But deep down, he knew that wasn't fair. Emma had been through a lot, and her fears were valid. But that didn't change the fact that he was hurting, that he wanted more from her than she was willing to give.

Quinn found himself at a small park, the trees bare and the benches empty in the late hour. He sat down, his head in his hands as he tried to sort through all the feelings in his head. He had never felt like this before--so out of control, so vulnerable. And it scared the hell out of him.

But what scared him even more was the thought of losing Emma. He knew she cared about him. There was something between them. Something worth fighting for.

As he sat there in the dark, he made a decision. He wasn't going to give up on Emma, no matter how hard she pushed him away. He knew it was risky, that he might get hurt in the process, but he also knew that it would be worth it. Emma was worth it.

He stood up, heading back to his apartment. He wasn't going to let her fear dictate their future. He would give her space if she needed it, but he wasn't going to walk away. Not yet.

Because sometimes, the best things in life were worth fighting for. And Quinn was ready to fight.

~~

The Canucks were on the road again, heading into a critical stretch of the season. This time, they were in a small city with a reputation for rowdy fans and intense games. The hotel was nice enough, but the schedule was grueling, leaving the players and staff little time to do anything but eat, sleep, and prepare for the next match.

Emma was there, of course, coordinating PR events and managing the team's image as she always did. She was good at her job--meticulous, organized, and (usually) calm under pressure. But this trip felt different. Ever since the conversation with Quinn a few weeks ago, she'd been on edge, constantly looking over her shoulder, half-expecting him to show up and push her again.

She'd managed to avoid him for the most part, keeping their interactions strictly professional. But then tension between them was palpable, simmering just beneath the surface. Emma threw herself into her work, hoping to distract herself from the nagging thoughts that kept creeeping in whenever she allowed herself a moment to breathe.

That night, after a long day, Emma retreated to her hotel room, exhausted. The PR duties had been endless, and she was looking forward to nothing more than a hot shower and collapsing into bed. She had just slipped into her pajamas, an XL Canucks t-shirt, when there was a knock at her door.

It was late--too late for any of the players or staff to be knocking at her door for work-related matters. For a brief moment, she considered not answering, pretending she was already asleep. But something compelled her to go to the door, her hand hovering over the handle as she took a deep breath.

When she opened the door, her heart sank and fluttered at the same time. Quinn stood there, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, his hands shoved in his pockets. His expression determined and vulnerable, and for a moment, she was at a loss of words.

"Quinn, what are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I had to see you," he replied, his voice steady. "Can I come in?"

Emma hesitated, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one was around. The last thing she needed was for someone to see them together like this. "Q, it's late. We can't do this here."

"I know it's late, but I don't care," he said, taking a step closer. "Emma, please. Just... let me in. We need to talk."

There was something in his eyes that made it impossible to say no. With a resigned sigh, she stepped aside, allowing him to slip into the room. The door clicked shut behind them, the sound loud in the quiet night.

Quinn didn't waste any time. As soon as they were alone, he turned to face her, his face serious. "I can't keep doing this, Emma. I can't keep pretending I'm okay with the way thing are."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "We've talked about this, Quinn. You know where I stand."

"No, we haven't really talked about it," he countered. "You've told me how you feel, but you haven't listened to how I feel."

Emma looked away, unable to meet his gaze. She knew what was coming next, "Quinn, please. Don't do this."

"I have to," he said. "Emma, I'm in love with you. And I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with this just being sex. Because it's not, at least not to me."

The words hit her like a punch to the gut, winding her and leaving her breathless. She had known this was coming, had seen it in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. But hearing him say it out loud made it real in a way she wasn't prepared for.

"Quinn..." she began, but he shook his head, cutting her off.

"No, just listen to me," he pleaded. "I know you're scared. I know you've been hurt before, and I know you've made these rules to protect yourself. But Emma, you can't shut yourself off from the world forever. You can't yourself off from me."

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined not to let them fall. "It's not that simple."

"Yes, it is," he insisted, stepping even closer until he was right in front of her, his hand reaching out to cup her cheek. "It is that simple. We care about each other. We have something real. Don't you want to see where this could go?"

Emma closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. "I'm scared, Quinn. I'm scared that if I let you in, I'll get hurt again."

"You won't," he whispered, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down her cheek. "I'm not going to hurt you, Emma. I promise you."

The dam broke. All the emotions Emma had been bottling up for months came flooding out in a rush. She let out a choked sob, her hands gripping the front of Quinn's hoodie as she buried her face in his chest. "I don't know how to do this," she admitted, her voice muffled by the fabric.

Quinn wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly as she cried. "You don't have to know. We'll figure it out together."

For a long time, they stood there, wrapped in each other's arms as Emma let herself be vulnerable for the first time in years. It felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders, but at the same time, she was terrified of what was to come next.

Finally, she pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes red and puffy from crying. "I don't want to lose you, Q. But I don't know if I can do this."

"You can," he assured her, his hand gently carressing her hair. "We'll take it one step at a time. I'm not going anywhere, Emmy. Not unless you tell me to."

She shook her head, her grip on his hoodie tightening. "I don't want you to go."

"Then I'm staying," he said, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

The kiss was tender, a promise of what was to come if she could just let go of her fears. Emma felt something shift inside her, a crack in the armour she'd built around her heart. She looked up at Quinn, her heart pounding in her chest as she realized how much she wanted this--wanted him.

Without another word, she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his in a kiss that was different from all the ones that had come before. This one was slow, deliberate, filled with all the emotions they'd been holding back. It wasn't about lust or need--it was about something deeper, something that scared her just as much as it thrilled her.

Quinn responded immediately, his arms tightening around her as he kissed her back with the same intensity. The world outside ceased to exist; all that mattered was the two of them, alone in the quiet of the hotel room.

They moved together in perfect sync, their movements slower, more meaningful than before. It was as if they were discovering each other all over again, but this time with their hearts fully in it. Quinn laid her back on the bed, his hands reaching under her shirt. She shivered, his skin cold against hers. She gripped his hair, bringing his body closer to hers so that their hips were pressed together. There was no rush, everything felt slow and loving.

As they lay together afterward, their breaths heavy in the air, Emma felt a peace she hadn't felt in years. For the first time, she felt hope that a relationship could work for her. As she drifted off to sleep in his arms, her mind still buzzing with the emotions of the night, there was a small part of her that couldn't shake the fear of what was to happen next.

~~

The soft light of the morning filtered through the thin curtains of the hotel room. Emma stirred in her sleep, the events of the night before replaying in her mind as she hovered between dreams and waking. She could feel the steady rise and fall of Quinn's chest, his arm draped protectively around her waist.

For a moment, everything felt perfect. Peaceful. But then she remembered that it wasn't just another night together. This time it was more intense, more meaningful. Emma knew she couldn't pretend it was just a casual hookup anymore.

Quinn was awake, too, his fingers gently tracing patterns on her back. He didn't want to move, didn't want to ruin the moment they were sharing. But he knew they couldn't stay like that forever. Sooner or later, they'd have to face the consequences of what they had become, and that thought terrified him.

"Morning," he whispered.

Emma tilted her head up to look at him, her eyes still heavy with sleep. "Morning," she replied, her voice barely audible.

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to speak about how things had changed between them.

"What happens now?" Emma finally asked, her voice wavering slightly.

Quinn hesitated, searching her eyes for any sign of doubt. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I do know that I don't want this to be the last time we wake up like this."

"I don't know if I'm ready for that," she confessed, her fingers absently tracing the outline of his collarbone.

"I know," Quinn said, his voice gentle. "But I'm not asking for you to be ready right now. I'm just asking you to think about it. To think about us."

Emma didn't respond right away. She wanted to believe they could make it work, that they could be more than just a secret. But the reality of their situation--of Brock, the team, and her own fears--loomed over her like a storm cloud.

Before she could find the words to respond, a sharp knock echoed through the room, shattering the moment of quiet intimacy. They both froze, their eyes locking as the sound registered in their tired brains.

"Emma?" Brock's voice called from the other side of the door. "You up?"

Panic surged through Emma's veins as she scrambled to sit up. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not like this.

Quinn's eyes widened in alarm, his hand gripping the sheets as if to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "What do we do?" his whispered urgently.

"Shit," she cursed under her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. "You need to hide."

"Where?" he hissed, his eyes darting around the small hotel room. There was nowhere to go, nowhere that wouldn't immediately give him away.

"Just--" Emma was cut off by another knock, this one more insistent.

"Emma, you in there?" Brock's voice was more concerned now.

Her mind was racing, trying to come up with a plan. But before she could do anything, the door handle began to turn. Brock was coming in. Emma always gave him an extra key to use in case of emergencies. And her not answering him was an emergency in his mind?

Quinn barely had time to leap out of the bed, grabbing his clothes and diving into the bathroom just as the door opened. Emma could feel her heart in her throat as she watched him disappear, her pulse pounding in her ears.

Brock stepped into the room, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Em, what's going on? Why didn't you answer?"

Emma forced a smile, suddenly feeling like she was going to be sick. "Sorry, Brock. I was just getting up," she lied, pulling the covers a little tighter to her chest.

Brock's eyes narrowed, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing back on his sister. "Are you okay? You look... I don't know, off."

"I'm fine," she replied quickly, hoping her voice didn't betray the panic she felt. "Just tired, that's all."

Brock didn't look convinced, but before he could press any further, a loud clatter came from the bathroom. The sound of something falling, followed by a muffled curse.

Emma's blood ran cold as Brock's head snapped toward the bathroom door so fast he could've gotten whiplash. "What was that?" his voice was twinged with suspicion.

Her wind went blank, all possible excuses failing her. She couldn't come up with a single plausible explanation for the noise. All she could do was watch in horror as Brock took a step towards the bathroom door.

"Brock, wait--"

But it was too late. He was already pushing the bathroom door open, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the sight before him. Quinn stood there, half-dressed, his face covered in guilt and resignation. He had clearly tried to get dressed quickly, but it obvious what had happened. There was no hiding it now.

"Quinn?" Brock's voice was low, dangerous, as he turned to look at his sister, his eyes blazing with anger. "What the hell is going on here?"

This was exactly what Emma had been trying to avoid, the confrontation she dreaded from the moment she and Quinn had started whatever it was they were doing.

"Brock, I--" she began, but Brock cut her off, his voice rising with anger.

"How long has this been going on?" he demanded, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "How long have you been sneaking around behind my back? Sleeping with my teammate?"

"Brock, it's not what you think," Quinn interjected, stepping forward, his hands raised as if he was approaching a wild beast.

"Not what I think?" Brock's eyes darted between the two of them. "What am I supposed to think, Quinn? You're in my sister's hotel room, half-naked, and you expect me to believe this is just a misunderstanding?"

Emma couldn't help the sense of guilt that was creeping in when she saw the hurt in her brother's eyes. This wasn't how she wanted him to find out, not like this. But there was no taking it back now, no undoing the mess they had created.

"Brock, listen to me," she started. "I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd react like this. But it's not Quinn's fault. It's mine. I... I care about him a lot."

Brock's anger faltered, replaced by confusion. "You care about him? Emma, you've always said you'd never date a hockey player again. You've always told me--"

"I know what I've always said," Emma interrupted. "But things change. People change. I didn't expect this to happen, but it did. And I didn't tell you because I was scared of how you'd react."

Brock stared at her, "You should have told me, Em. You're my sister. I deserve to know what's going on in your life.

"I know," she mumbled, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Brock. I never wanted to hurt you."

The room was silent for a long moment, then tension in the air thick. Quinn stood by the bathroom door, his heart heavy as he watched the siblings. He knew this wasn't giong to be an easy conversation, but it was necessary if he and Emma were going to have a chance of being together. They had to face this head-on.

"I just... I can't believe you didn't tell me," Brock said quietly, his voice tinged with sadness.

"I'm telling you now," Emma said softly. "And I'm telling you that I care about Quinn. This isn't just us hooking up. It's something more."

"You really care about him?"

"I do, Brock. I really do."

Brock glanced at Quinn, who stood there with a look of determination on his face. It was clear that he wasn't going to back down, that he was ready to fight for Emma if that's what it took. And as much as it pained him, Brock knew he couldn't stand in the way of that.

"Alright. But if he hurts you, Emma... if he breaks your heart, I swear--"

"He won't," she interrupted, "He won't."

Brock nodded, "Okay. But you two owe me an explanation. The whole story."

"We will," Quinn promised. "You deserve that."

Brock turned to leave, to give them some space. They had made it through the worst of it, but there was still so much unsaid, so many obstacles they would have to overcome.

~~

The morning after Brock's discovery, there was still a tension in the air. The team was scheduled to leave the hotel soon, and Emma could feel the unease radiating from Brock as they packed up their things.

Brock waited until they were in the parking lot, away from the rest of the team, before he turned to Quinn. "We need to talk."

Quinn nodded, "Yeah, we do."

They walked a few steps away from the bus, finding a quiet corner where they wouldn't be overheard. Emma watched from a distance, she could see the stiffness in Brock's shoulders.

"What the hell, Quinn? You're supposed to be my friend. How could you go behind my back like this?"

Quinn swallowed hard, knowing that Brock had every right to be angry. "I didn't mean for it to happen this way. I never wanted to keep it from you, but Emma... we weren't really sure where we stood. I was trying to respect her wishes."

Brock let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "Respect her wishes? You're supposed to respect me, too. I trusted you, Quinn."

"I know. And I'm sorry. I hate that I hurt you, Brock. But I care about Emma. I care about her more than I've ever cared about anyone."

"This isn't just some fling to you, is it?"

"No. It's not. I know how it looks, and I know why you're pissed. But Emma means everything to me. I'm not going to hurt her, Brock. I swear."

Quinn could see the conflict in his friend's eyes, the way he was struggling to reconcile the betrayal he felt with the truth of Quinn's words. Finally, Brock let out a long sigh, ruunning a hand through his hair.

"I'm still mad as hell at you. But if you're serious about her... if you really care about her, then I guess I don't have a choice but to deal with it."

"I am serious, Brock. And I get why you're angry. But I promise you, I'm going to do everything I can to make this work."

"You better. Because if you screw this up, Hughes... if you hurt her, I'm coming for you. And nothing will stop me."

Quinn didn't flinch at the warning, understanding the protective instincts behind it. "I won't hurt her. You have my word."

Brock didn't say anything for a few seconds, then finally extended his hand. "Alright. We'll see how this goes."

Quinn shook his hand. It wasn't a full reconciliation, but it was a start.

~~

Emma sat by the window on the back of the bus. The conversation between Brock and Quinn had gone better than she'd expected. Now, more than ever, she needed to decide what she really wanted.

As the bus rumbled down the highway, Emma continued to stare out the window, her mind drifting back to all the events that had led her there. She thought about the walls she had built around herself, the rules she had clung onto so tightly. They had been her armour, her way of protecting herself from getting hurt again. But now, she was starting to realize that those same walls were keeping her from something she truly wanted--something real with Quinn.

But could she really risk everything for him? Could she trust him not to break her heart, not to shatter her into pieces like she'd been before?

She thought about the way he had held her in the hotel room, the way he had looked at her with such sincerity, such unwavering care. He had been patient with her, understanding her fears even when she hadn't fully explained them. He had been willing to wait, to take things at her pace, and that meant more to her than she could express.

Emma knew that she couldn't keep running from her feelings, couldn't keep hiding behind her rules. If she wanted to be happy, really happy, she needed to take a leap of faith. She needed to let Quinn in, to trust that he would catch her if she fell.

She made her decision. She was going to give Quinn Hughes a real chance. It wouldn't be easy, but she was tired of being afraid, tired of letting the past dictate her future.

~~

After they arrived at the next hotel, Emma waited until most of the team had gone up to their rooms before she approached Quinn. He was standing by the luggage cart, talking to one of the staff members, but when he saw her coming, he broke off the conversation, his eyes locking onto hers.

"Emma? Everything okay?"

She nodded, "Can we talk?"

"Of course. What's on your mind?"

Emma led him away from the group, finding a quiet spot near the hotel's entrance. "I've been doing a lot of thinking. And I've realized something."

Quinn nodded, urging her to continue.

"I've been scared. Scared of getting hurt again, scared of what might happen if I let someone in. But... I don't want to be scared anymore."

His eyes softened, and he took a step closer, reaching out to gently untangle her hands, holding them in his. "Emma..."

"I want to give us a chance, Quinn. A real chance. No more hiding, no more pretending it's just physical. I want to see where this can go."

Quinn's face lit up with a smile. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that." He squeezed her hands, his thumbs brushing over her knuckles. "I promise you, Emma, I'm all in. Whatever it takes, we'll make this work."

Quinn leaned down to kiss her, a soft, tender kiss that held all the promises of the future they could create together. Emma knew she had made the right choice. She was taking a risk, but it was a risk worth taking.

Later that evening, as the team gathered for dinner, Brock found himself watching Emma and Quinn across the room. They were sitting together, not hiding their connection but not flaunting it either. He could see the way Quinn's hand rested protectively on Emma's knee, the way Emma leaned into him, a soft smile on her face.

He could see how much Quinn cared about his sister, how much Emma softened around him. It was becoming glaringly clear to him that this wasn't just some fling, that they were both very serious about making it work.

Brock let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure he was ready to fully forgive them, but he knew that he couldn't stand in the way of their happiness. If this is what Emma wanted, if this was what made her happy, then he would find a way to be okay with it.

He caught Quinn's eye from across the room, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Then, slowly, Brock gave him a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of the understanding they had reached earlier.

Quinn returned the nod. And as Brock watched Emma laugh at something Quinn said, her face lighting up in a way he hadn't seen in years, he realized that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly what she needed.

[itsnesss]

Hey Hey can i request a Sensei Wolf x reader where reader and and Kwon Jae-Sung are best friends and Sensei's Jealous🙏🏻i love youre writing

𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 | sensei wolf × fem!reader

summary | wolf's possessive words about your past make you question everything as his jealousy and intensity pull you back in

warnings | possessiveness, jealousy, intense confrontation, tension, emotional manipulation, past romantic connection

word count | 2.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The roars of the crowd and the clash of the matches echo around you, but your eyes can't look away from Kwon, your best friend for years. You're so used to seeing him fight that his presence no longer surprises you, but today, amidst all the competition, your mind keeps drifting back to him, to his smile, and the way he moves in the arena.

"Well done, Kwon!" you cheer with a smile, clapping as he finishes his match with a victory. In that moment, your eyes shift to the corner where Sensei Wolf watches.

You've noticed it from the start. His gaze never leaves you, as if he's waiting for something. Or maybe, as if he's... jealous. Every time you speak with Kwon, you can feel that pressure coming from his direction, that tension in the air that makes you feel uneasy in a way that you can't quite place.

And today is no different. While Kwon receives applause from his teammates, you can't stop thinking about the times when you and Wolf trained together, when he was your sensei at Iron Dragons, and the kind of connection you shared. That connection that now seems to be pulling you back to him, even though you don't want to admit it.

You're about to turn back to Kwon, but a shadow approaches you, blocking your line of sight. You recognize the figure immediately. Wolf.

"Enjoying the tournament ?" His voice is low, almost like he's biting his words. The tone isn't friendly, and you know it. There's something more in the way he says it, something that makes you frown.

"Yeah, Kwon is doing great," you reply, forcing a smile, but your heart is beating faster than you'd like. Despite the crowd and the noise, Wolf's presence beside you makes it feel like the entire world has stopped.

Wolf watches you for a moment, his eyes locked onto you, but in his gaze, there's something different. Something you can't identify, but it makes you feel as though you're being inspected, measured. As if he wants to see you in a different way, as if your relationship with Kwon is a problem for him.

"I see you get along pretty well with him," he says, his voice sharp, his words colliding with the air like an unexpected blow.

"It's nothing unusual," you respond, raising an eyebrow. "He's my best friend."

But when you look at his face, you realize he's not satisfied with the answer. In fact, he's absolutely upset. You can't see it, but you know it. His posture stiffens, his jaw tightens.

"You don't get it, do you?" His tone is low, dangerous. "All of this... what we shared when you trained in my dojo, the way you fought, how you looked at me... It wasn't just training, was it?"

Your breath quickens as you remember those days. The days when you both shared something more than just the sensei-student relationship. There was something deeper, a connection you both tried to ignore, but deep down, you knew you couldn't deny it. And now, hearing those words, it all comes back with full force.

He takes a step closer, almost approaching you with that gaze you've never seen so intense. "You were mine," he whispers, his voice deep, almost like an order. "And even though you're here with Cobra Kai, I still see you as mine."

The world seems to stop for a second. The sensation of suffocation takes over you, and Wolf's words, so possessive, so full of jealousy, cut through your breath. How dare he say something like that? After everything you've worked for, after all the months that have passed since you left his dojo?

"I'm not here to go back to what we had, Wolf," you say, trying to regain control, though you feel a tremor in your voice.

But he doesn't let you retreat. He gets closer, his face so near you can feel his breath on your skin. "It doesn't matter what you say. I still see the way you looked at me when we trained together. And that doesn't disappear, you know? No one else looks at you like I did."

His words are harsh, his tone possessive. The heat in your body intensifies, and for a moment, you wonder if you're wrong for thinking that all of this is wrong. Can you really forget it all so easily?

"This isn't what you think," you reply, trying to stay firm, but insecurity starts to fill every corner of your mind. "You don't have the right to talk to me like that."

But Wolf doesn't give you space to respond. In a swift motion, he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward him with an unexpected force. "I don't want you to keep pretending, alright? You were with me before, and if you have a problem with that, we'll settle it here and now."

Your heart races as you try to pull away, but his grip doesn't loosen. You feel trapped, like the air around you is becoming heavy. And worst of all, deep down, you don't know how to react.

Before you can say anything more, the fight begins to erupt. The sounds of the tournament fade, replaced by the rumbling of the world around you. And the last thing you hear is Wolf's voice, low and deep, as his words pierce your chest.

"You’re mine, you always will be."

The air feels denser as you stand there, caught between anger and confusion. The noise of the tournament continues to feel distant, as if it isn’t real, as if you only exist in this moment between Wolf and you. Every word that comes out of his mouth makes you question everything you once thought you knew about him, about you, and about what it meant to be part of his dojo.

You struggle to stay calm, but you can't help feeling the control slip through your fingers, just like before. Those days when you trained with him, every punch, every glance, made you feel like you were under his command, like you were an extension of his will. And now, with his venomous words, you feel that connection, the one you tried to bury, returning with full force.

"Tell me, don’t you feel it too?" Wolf insists, his voice lower, more intense. "You can’t deny it. You were mine back then, and you know it. I don’t care what you do here, I don’t care about the dojo you’re in. You were always mine."

[rhys-writes-some-shit]

"Sing to Me?"

Alastor x Reader (QP)

Yawning, you trudged out of the bathroom, drying your hair loosely with a towel. You were warm from your shower and the filling meal you'd had a little while earlier. Alastor was probably the best chef you knew, a fact you were extremely proud of. Even if your preferred form of protein was banned from the hotel premises, Alastor was always able to make do with what he had.

Despite it being late at night, you grabbed your laptop (a very rare, not VoxTech one) to work on some paperwork. You'd promised your boss to get these spreadsheets done, and you weren't one to shirk on your promises. Yawning again, you tuned your old-fashioned radio before settling down with your laptop. The radio had been a gift from Alastor. Many late nights had been spent listening to his broadcasts. They'd always been a comfort, even before you'd signed a contract with him.

Some light jazz filtered through the static, one of your favorite songs. Alastor knew you were listening. Smiling lightly, you started typing away.

The music was occasionally interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream or a sharp whimper. Your smile never left, humming along while Alastor had his fun. Part of you was vaguely aware that the radio show was now being broadcast all throughout Hell, that you didn't even need the radio, but you liked it, so it stayed on.

The spreadsheets were simple enough. With the radio in the background, you were able to focus just enough that the job came naturally. In the back of your mind, you started going over the next day’s schedule.

You'd ended up zoning out while you typed, not even noticing how the radio switched to static and then turned off by itself.

A single knock preceded Alastor's entrance, enough to break you from your thoughts. You were quick to notice the faint blood splatter on the sole of Alastor’s shoes, the only evidence of his previous activities.

“My dear, you know how I abhor those vile machines,” Alastor reprimanded, walking and starting to subconsciously organize your room. A chair was pushed in, a painting adjusted so it was even, the bottom drawer of your dresser lightly closed.

“Yeah, yeah.” You grinned to yourself. “I need it to do my job, Al. Besides, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a piece of electronic equipment that's not created by VoxTech?”

“All the more reason to get rid of it.” Alastor walked over to the window and stared out at it. He was a little lost in thought himself, it would seem.

Typing a line, you said, “I liked your broadcast.”

“I'm glad.”

He was quiet. Something was wrong. Your grin died down, pushing your laptop to the side. Alastor’s smile was still there, but dimmer. Sadder.

“Al? You okay?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, dearest,” Alastor replied, a slight edge in his voice.

You wanted to push. To get him to talk to you. But you knew it wouldn't be worth it. If anything, he'd just get upset or shut down more.

“You know, sometimes I wonder what would've happened if we'd met while we were alive,” You said nonchalantly. “I mean, obviously that would've been impossible in the first place, considering I wasn't even born when you died, but I just wonder about it.”

“What a ridiculous thing to wonder about!” Alastor laughed a little. “As you said, it would have been impossible. And why think about being alive when we have all of death to enjoy?” His tone lightened a bit. “There is so much entertainment to be had! Life was quite dull, comparably.”

You wondered for a moment, trying to figure out where to lead the conversation. “Where did you live, when you were alive? You already know where I lived when I was alive, it's only fair I know where you lived.”

Alastor’s grin softened a bit, still sad, but with a hint of happiness in there. Nostalgia, if you had to guess. “New Orleans, Louisiana. I lived there with my mother. I had a delightful job as a radio host.”

“You're still a radio host,” you teased playfully. “What was it like, back then?”

“Ah, it was… entertaining.” He didn't say anything more, lost in thought as he leaned on his cane. You were vaguely aware that you were the only person who ever saw him like this. Alastor wore his smile like armor, guarding himself with a nonchalant facade, but very rarely, behind closed doors, the guard would fall, just for a little while.

Just as you were about to open your mouth to ask another question, Alastor spoke, “You seem quite tired, my dear. Maybe it is time we part ways for the evening.”

Pressing your lips together, you knew he was right. You really should be getting to bed, but you were worried about Alastor. You hadn't seen him like this before, so it was impossible to guess what he'd do once he was alone.

“You really should learn to hide your emotions better.” Alastor turned suddenly, chucking to himself. “There is nothing to worry about, darling. I am perfectly fine.”

“Yeah, you say that, but for some reason I don't believe you.” Stifling a yawn, you gave Alastor a look.

“Now, now, don't be like that.” Alastor came and sat on the edge of the bed, using his magic to set the laptop on top of the dresser. “What can I do to convince you to sleep?”

Leaning back, you thought for a moment. When the idea hit you, your face flushed with embarrassment for a moment, but you swallowed the anxiety. He did ask, after all.

“Sing to me?”

Alastor laughed, causing you to glare. “Again with the ridiculous ideas!” When your face fell subconsciously, Alastor hesitated.

When he didn't say anything, you accepted the fact that it was a ridiculous request. Assuming he'd leave the room on his own accord, you used your magic to turn out the lights as you slid under the covers of your bed. You never did get all those spreadsheets done like you'd wanted.

“Parlez-moi d’amour.”

Alastor’s slightly-static-filled voice was quiet. His eyes faintly glowed in the dark and you watched him with wide eyes.

“Redites-moi des choses tendres.”

Smiling softly, you sank into the bed, closing your eyes and allowing Alastor’s comforting voice to wash over you.

“Votre beau discours /

“Mon cœur n'est pas las de l'entendre /

“Pourvu que toujours /

“Vous répétiez ces mots suprêmes /

“Je vous aime.”

((The song))

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.83)

(Sneak Peek) (Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: soulmate bonds come in many shapes- like matching tattoos, picking the same house color, and mating bites... but those are no big deal right?

Tags: Hurt/comfort, Angst, Fluff, Discussions of past trauma, the good type of crying, lots of bickering, an attempt at humor brief blood, mating bites, discussion of asexual episodes/coping mechanisms

W/c: 20.6k

A/n: wow its been a moment since i've updated bily! i've been working on another series too- hold your breath and count to seven, if you've ever wanted to see what hobi would be like as a pack alpha- i think you'll like it alot. it's also referenced a little bit that its an alternative universe of bily so! i feel like i should mention it here.

Previous part- Masterlist - First part

The moon is high in the sky, winking like Hobi's crooked smile. The sound of crickets litters the tall grass, and the peepers across the way make for pleasant background noise.

Summer is here and in full swing. Is it August or July? Does it matter at all when summer always feels like this, always tastes like lemonade and sunshine? Noodle is sitting on the stone wall, tail wagging, pink collar catching the light from the living room, the kitchen, and upstairs. Every light in the house is on. Moths buzz around the streetlight.

The pack has taken to hanging curtains on the porch to keep the pollen out and off of the furniture, the stand still in the lack of breeze. Hobi's big Boston ferns hang between the translucent fabric. And the whole space has this light and airy, almost fantasy-like atmosphere with Jungkook's fairy lights and Tae's pink outdoor furniture. now still and unfilled under the cover of darkness.

Noodle's eyes narrow at the fireflies hovering over Hobi's garden beds. Overflowing with winding tomatoes, heavy and sweet.

His tail flicks.

You and Hoseok burst out onto the porch when the thunder of footsteps. Noodle scatters with a belabored yowel. The curtains ripple with your movement. Giggles stifled behind hands, your hand in his, him pulling you along, down the steps and over the stones, shoes untied because you’d pulled them on in a hurry.

“Hurry! Before they figure it out!”

Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you swear you almost hear something when you start the car, maybe just Namjoon’s concerned tone from the upstairs as you escape unnoticed. Hoseok backs out sloppily, almost hitting your mailbox while you click your seatbelt. half falling over the center console.

He reaches over the console to take your hand in his, lifts it to his mouth as he turns out of your street one handed. Smile stretching against your skin.

Hoseok always looks particularly good at nighttime. The way that shadows wrap his elegant face, like a bud that’s barely blooming. You love his smile lines, his tousled hair, the crack of his giggle in the air. Everything.

You love everything about him, you tell him. The back of your hand still pressed to his lips.

“I love you. Don’t make it weird.” Hoseok licks the back of your hand, “gah!” you squirm trying to pull your hand away but his grip on you only strengthens. He doesn’t even reply.

He’s just turning down the steep hill when he realizes, letting go of your hand to pat his side, then the other. “Ah fuck- forgot my wallet.”

“I’ve got mine.” You say, holding up the fluffy bunny purse shoved in the middle pocket of his sweatshirt. The same one that jimin and tae gave you on your first date so long ago. It's ears flop in the wind, the windows down to let in the nighttime air.

“Need my ID for this.”

“Oh? Yeah you might be right...”

You’ve cut your hair shorter for summer. Hoseok likes it, you and Tae are opposites now, you with short hair and her with long. Hoseok tugs on one of the locks as he turns. By the time he rolls to a smooth stop in front of the house you stiffen.

Yoongi is already waiting there tapping his foot. Noodle by his side and curling around his ankle, looking mad at himself for the affection or maybe at you for startling him. Tail flicking agitated.

He's in his matching pjs, a black and white gingham top and bottom, a translucent face mask over his face, a bowl of Oreo ice cream in one hand, and Hoseok’s wallet in the other.

You roll to a stop in front of him, both of you grinning uneasily. Yoongi doesn't make any expression, just blinks at both of you. Substantially unimpressed.

Coming Saturday May 24th @ 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)