#But that line about them always having to be together really bugs me

[capquinn]

Shelter | Q. Hughes

summary: with another baby on the way, quinn is doing everything he can to stay afloat — caught between bug’s meltdowns and the emotional waves of a second pregnancy, he's trying to hold his family together. request: yes (sort of...) pairing: quinn hughes x reader content: dad!quinn, pregnant!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, bug cries, reader cries, he cries, everybody cries. word count: 7k ��� main masterlist | dad!quinn masterlist

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Quinn feels like he’s walking a very thin line.

No — scratch that. He feels like he’s standing in the middle of a storm, caught between two colliding weather fronts, completely powerless against the way they crash into each other. There’s no predicting when it will hit, no safe place to take cover, no strategy to outrun it.

Because it’s never just you. And it’s never just Bug. It’s the both of you, moods shifting like the tide, always feeding into each other, never directed at one another but somehow always crashing straight into him.

And some days? Some days, it’s manageable.

Like today.

When he walks into the living room and finds you on the couch, arms crossed, a deep, dramatic sigh falling from your lips, staring blankly at the wall like it personally wronged you. Just minutes ago, he’d heard you laughing over something silly on TV — bright, loud laughter that made him think today might be one of the easier days. But now? Now you’re quiet again, moody and withdrawn, and the change is so swift he feels like he missed something critical.

"You okay?" he asks, careful, like he’s stepping around a landmine.

"Fine," you reply clipped.

He exhales, tilting his head.

"You sure?"

You don’t answer immediately, just sigh again, heavier this time, shifting like even sitting is exhausting.

"I’m just… tired."

Quinn waits, giving you space to say more, but you don’t. Just stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers, hands resting on the curve of your bump, absently rubbing in slow, mindless circles like your mind is somewhere far away, somewhere he can’t quite reach.

"Did something happen?" he tries again, gentler this time.

Your head shifts in a faint shake, lips pressed tight as if the words are there but you don’t have the energy to form them.

"No. Nothing. I just…" You trail off with another sigh, irritation flickering behind your eyes. "Forget it."

And he recognises it then — the way you start to pull inward, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your sentences taper off, unfinished. He feels it in his chest, the first quiet gust of wind signalling the storm that’s just starting to build.

He barely has time to process it before, across the room, Bug — who had been happily colouring only seconds ago — lets out a huff, flopping onto her stomach.

Quinn watches as she sprawls out, face smushed against the floor, limbs star fished, exhaling another deep, woe-is-me sigh.

He fights the urge to laugh, because God, you really are the same.

"You okay, Buggy?" he asks, already bracing himself.

She peeks up at him with one eye, just barely, like the sheer force of her emotions is physically weighing her down.

"No."

A storm is imminent. He can feel it.

Quinn inhales slowly. "Wanna tell me why?"

Bug turns her head to the side, cheek squished against the rug, and gives him the saddest little shake of her head.

"No."

Quinn flicks his gaze back to you. You’re staring at Bug like she just spoke your soul into existence.

"You don’t know why either, do you?" he asks, lips twitching just slightly.

You meet his eyes, brows furrowing.

"I don’t wanna talk about it," you mumble.

Quinn presses his lips together, nods once. Okay.

Sometimes, the only way to get through a storm is to wait it out. Quinn knows that some tempers can’t be soothed with logic, some moods can’t be unraveled with words. Some storms, like this one, don’t need him to fight against them. They just need him to stand in the middle of it and let it rage.

So he doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t try to pry an answer out of either of you. Doesn’t try to fix it, even though every instinct in his body tells him he should. Instead, he does the only thing he can do.

He moves.

Crosses the room, drops onto the couch beside you with a quiet oof, and stretches an arm across the back, fingers grazing your shoulder. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t press, doesn’t try to force the storm to settle. Just makes room. Just waits.

You sigh, slow and heavy, but you shift, curling into him, cheek pressing against his chest, body melting into his warmth like the eye of the storm finally found its way to you. His arm drops, wrapping around you, rubbing slow, absent circles against your arm.

Then he looks at Bug. She’s still on the floor, cheek smushed against the rug, eyes peeking up at him, waiting.

He pats the cushion beside him.

“C��mere, Buggy.”

She sniffs, pushing herself up onto wobbly little arms, dragging herself over like she’s trudging through the worst day of her life. Quinn watches as she climbs up, tucking herself into his other side, curling in small and warm, sighing just like you had.

And just like that, the storm settles.

No thunder. No more crashing waves. Just quiet, the kind that lingers in the air after the worst of it has passed. The kind that feels a little fragile, like it could roll back in with the right gust of wind, but for now, in this moment, there is peace.

Bug sniffles again. “I was sad, daddy.”

Quinn presses a kiss to the top of her head, his voice quiet, steady.

“That’s okay, Bugs. Some days are just like that.”

You let out a small, tired laugh against his chest, and it’s not much, but it’s enough.

Because sometimes, you don’t need to outrun the storm.

You just need to wait it out together.

But other days? It’s chaos.

It’s stepping into the whirlwind the second he wakes up — Bug already teetering on the edge of a meltdown before breakfast, hair tangled and pyjamas half on, her voice pitching high because you poured the cereal in the wrong bowl. Again.

You’re standing at the counter, unmoved, hand clenched around a spoon, your jaw tight and eyes glazed like you’ve already lived an entire day before the clock reaches seven o'clock.

“I told you,” Bug sobs, pushing the offending bowl away from her, “I want the pink one.”

“I know,” you mutter, fatigued. “But the pink one’s in the dishwasher, baby.”

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

She wails again, louder and sharper, face scrunching as tears roll hot down her cheeks and Quinn barely has time to step in, swooping her up before she hurls the spoon across the room.

It’s Quinn, caught in the middle. Again. It’s the only place he seems to exist lately. Wedged between tantrums and tension, between Bug’s tears and your silence, between holding it all up and watching it all fall apart anyway.

It’s watching Bug melt down in his arms, her tiny body wracked with sobs, while over his shoulder, you stand by the counter, wiping at your eyes, trying not to let him see you falling apart, too.

It’s the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders, the constant push and pull, the feeling that no matter how fast he moves, no matter how hard he tries, he’s always one step behind.

It’s knowing he has to be the steady one — has to be patient with Bug, has to be gentle with you, has to keep everything from tipping over. It’s feeling like every time he soothes one storm, another is already rolling in, relentless, giving him no time to breathe before he’s pulled under again.

And then, just when he thinks he has a handle on it —

It’s Bug sobbing before preschool, her little arms locked tight around his body, shaking as she begs him "please don’t go, daddy. I won’t see you when I get home."

And that’s not like her.

Bug has always been so good about goodbyes, so easy about his road trips, her little voice always chirping “see you soon, daddy! Win lots!” without a second thought. But today? Today, she’s wrecked. And so are you.

You’re standing by the door, rubbing your belly, looking just as lost as she does, eyes misty, voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, "I don’t know what’s wrong. She never does this."

Quinn exhales, slow and tight, arms still wrapped around Bug’s tiny frame, his chest rising and falling just a little too fast. His grip is firm, steady, but inside, he feels anything but. His pulse is hammering, heartbeat drumming against his ribs like a warning, like he’s already bracing for impact.

“Yeah… I know.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t have an answer that will make this easier.

“Maybe she’s just having a rough morning.” But the way you say it — it’s not convincing, not even to yourself.

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His shoulders feel like they’re carrying a weight he can’t shake, like every second is stretching longer, heavier, pressing in on all sides.

“Maybe.” But he doesn’t believe it either.

Because it’s not just Bug. It’s you, too.

You, looking at him like you need him to fix it, like you need some kind of reassurance that this is just a phase, that this is just passing rain, that this isn’t something bigger. And he wants to. He wants to promise you that. But the words catch in his throat, swallowed by the weight of it all. Because it’s been weeks of this — Bug clinging, unraveling, her emotions rolling in like crashing waves. And you, right there beside her, all fraying nerves and overwhelmed tears, feeding off each other, amplifying the storm.

Quinn takes a breath, exhales through his nose, and turns back to Bug.

"Bug, baby, you’ll have so much fun at school," he tries, smoothing a hand over her hair, pushing damp strands away from her tear-streaked face. "You love preschool, remember?"

"Not today!" she wails, curling into his chest, fingers fisting his hoodie like she’s trying to anchor herself to him. "I wanna stay with you."

And God, that one hits hard.

Because Quinn wants to stay. Wants to pick her up and tuck her into his side and tell her "okay, Bug, you can stay with me today." Wants to call the team, push his flight back a few more hours, push the world aside for just a little longer.

But he can’t.

And you know he can’t, but you need something from him, too. You’re still standing by the door, trying to steady yourself, trying to be the strong one even though your eyes are glassy, even though you look seconds away from breaking down yourself.

The pressure is building. He feels it in the silence stretching between you, in the weight of Bug pressing against his chest, in the way your fingers rub absently at the curve of your belly, steadying yourself, like you’re waiting for him to do the same.

He wants to be there for both of you, wants to hold Bug tighter, press a kiss to your forehead, tell you "it’s okay. You’ve got this. She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine." But it’s too much at once. The wind is howling, the waves are rising, and he feels stretched thin trying to brace himself against the force of it all.

But he knows you need him to go. You need him to walk out before you start crying, before it turns into a full meltdown that none of you will come back from. You need him to rip off the bandaid before Bug convinces herself he’s staying, before she starts believing that if she holds on just a little tighter, just a little longer, he won’t leave at all.

So he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss to Bug’s temple before gently, carefully, peeling her off of him.

"I love you, Bugs. I’ll be back soon soon, okay?"

She doesn’t answer. Just hiccups, wiping her face on her sleeve, sniffling as you pull her into your arms.

And then your eyes meet his over the top of her head, full of something raw and helpless, like you don’t know what to do with all the emotion swirling in the room. Like you’re begging him for an answer, for reassurance, for something.

And God, leaving you like this hurts.

It’s not an easy exit, and it’s not clean. He has to pry himself away from it, has to force himself out the door, has to resist the pull of turning around and staying just a little longer.

Because it doesn't stop at Bug. Leaving her is always hard, but leaving you — like this, lost and overwhelmed, feeling it all so deeply — cuts deeper every time.

Because lately, it’s you who worries him most.

You, so off-kilter, so unlike yourself, so overwhelmed by everything that’s changing. And it’s not like when you were pregnant with Bug — back then, it was just you and him, just the two of you navigating the unknown together with late-night name lists and soft hands over your belly when she kicked. The days were slower. There was room to breathe. But now? Now there’s Bug and her big emotions to balance — her meltdowns, her sudden clinginess, the way she seems to unravel right alongside you — and you’re drowning in it.

You’ve been unraveling for weeks, worn thin by exhaustion, by hormones that send you swinging from teary to irritable to brittle in a breath. They crash into you like waves you don't see coming. One minute you’re fine, steady on your feet, the next you’re barely holding it together, blinking back tears at the sink while Bug wails over something small, something that shouldn’t matter.

And Quinn — Quinn is just trying to keep up. Trying to be your anchor, trying to be steady, but still, somehow, always a step behind, caught between your storm and Bug’s, trying to soothe one without making the other worse.

And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The fact that Quinn can’t fix it, and it’s tearing him apart.

He can’t figure out what you need. How to make this easier for you. How to take even a fraction of the weight off your shoulders when you won’t let him shoulder it with you.

Because you don’t tell him. Not like you used to.

You let the silence stretch, let the weight of it settle between you instead of reaching for him, instead of saying "this is hard, I need you, I don’t know how to do this." And Quinn would give anything to hear that. To hear something. Because he’s trying so hard but he doesn’t know what to do when you won’t let him in.

And the space between you keeps growing, widening like the tide pulling back before the crash. Conversations have turned clipped, exhaustion settling in too deep for either of you to bridge the space.

He reaches for you in bed, fingertips skimming your back, but you turn away, not because you don’t want him, but because you don’t even know where to begin. He doesn’t say anything. Just stills behind you. Leaves his hand hovering there for a beat too long before slowly withdrawing, settling back into the sheets like maybe if he doesn’t move too much, the space between you won’t feel so wide.

So the pressure keeps mounting, thickening the air, pressing down on Quinn from all sides. He’s drowning in it, desperate to fix it, to ease the weight crushing both of you, to be the one who steadies the ship before it all capsizes.

And then, the lightning strike.

The morning when you snap.

When he reaches past you for a coffee mug, presses a sleepy kiss to your temple, murmurs a soft "g’morning, baby," and you recoil, the sharpness in your voice splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

"Quinn, can you just—"

It’s too sharp, too sudden, too much for something so simple.

His hand pauses on the cabinet.

You inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut like you already regret it, like you already hate yourself for it, but it’s too late. It’s already hanging heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

He exhales slowly. Measured. Careful. Like he’s trying to track a storm without a radar, trying to trace the spark that lit the fuse but the truth is, he has no idea what just happened.

"What?" he asks, trying so hard to keep his voice neutral. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," you mumble, voice tight. "You didn’t — just forget it."

He can’t forget it, and he also knows better than to push when you’re like this, wound tight, brittle around the edges, balancing on the precipice of frustration and exhaustion and something you haven’t quite named yet. You’re a live wire in bare hands.

But, still, the response grates. Not because you’re upset — he can handle that. Not the weariness in your eyes — he knows it well.

It’s the silence that follows. The wall that goes up. The way you don’t let him in. The way you won’t let him shoulder even the smallest fraction of whatever’s sitting so heavy on you.

He exhales slowly, steadying himself, trying to meet you where you are.

"Baby," he tries again, softer this time.

You stand there, tense, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shirt, staring somewhere past him like if you don’t acknowledge the moment, maybe it won’t settle between you like all the others have lately. Like another weight added to the pile.

And maybe that’s what gets to him the most.

Not the sharpness in your voice, not even the exhaustion clinging to your features — understands all of that. But this. The distance. The way you don’t talk to him like you used to, don’t let him in, don’t give him anything to work with. It’s like watching a door slowly close, inch by inch, and he’s still standing on the other side, waiting, hoping, reaching for someone who used to reach back.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “Can you just talk to me?”

It comes out rougher than he means it to, frustration bleeding through the exhaustion, through the endless cycle of tiptoeing around this, around you. Around the way things have been unraveling, thread by thread, while he’s been trying so damn hard to keep the house from splitting at the seams.

And for a second, the silence that follows feels deafening.

Like thunder, rolling in just after the strike.

You press your lips together, your breath coming a little too fast, a little too uneven, and for a second, he thinks — maybe. Maybe this is where the storm breaks. Maybe this is where you finally let it all out, finally let him in.

But then, finally, barely above a whisper, "I don’t wanna fight."

And it’s not a fight. Not yet. But the air is thick with something unresolved, the kind of tension that settles heavy in the walls, in the space between you, in the quiet that should be comfortable but isn’t.

Quinn stands there in the middle of the kitchen, hands braced on the counter, chest tight, heart hammering.

Because this isn’t new. It’s never just one thing — it’s every moment that’s been pushed aside with a quiet “not now,” every heavy breath exchanged across the dinner table, every look that lingers too long but says nothing at all. It’s the soft sighs, the brittle “I’m fine,” the way everything keeps getting postponed — later, tomorrow, when there’s time.

Only there’s never time. Just distance. Just silence dressed as survival.

But it doesn’t stay like this. Not for much longer.

Because Quinn’s never been the kind of man to let storms rage unchecked. Never been the type to let the space between you stretch too wide, to let things fester and rot in the silence.

Except this time, he did.

This time, he let it build for weeks. Figured you needed space. Figured, like always, you’d come to him when you were ready. He didn’t want to push, didn’t want to risk being one more weight pressing down on you — afraid that if he reached too soon, too hard, you’d only pull further away.

So he waited.

And waited.

But you haven’t come.

And this storm? It hasn’t passed.

It’s lingered. A low-pressure system that settled over your home like a weight. It crept in quietly, in the stillness after long days, in the hush of the night when Bug’s cries echoed down the hall and neither of you moved fast enough. It’s soaked into everything, in the silence between you, in the quiet way you move around each other like you’re trying not to stir the air, like even a whisper might trigger the downpour.

It’s in the sighs you don’t explain, in the moments where his hand reaches for yours and only grazes your sleeve. In the way your shoulders curve inward like you’re trying to weather it alone. It’s there in the space between what you need and what he can’t seem to figure out how to give — lightning just waiting for a place to strike.

And Quinn is trying. He really is. He's trying to be steady. Trying to hold the line. He tells himself it’s just a phase, just exhaustion, just the weight of everything pressing down. That you need space. That you’ll come to him, like you always have, when the fog lifts and the words come easier.

Because sometimes, that’s what you needed. Back then, when it was just the two of you, when emotions swelled and you needed room to breathe, to process, to untangle yourself from whatever had you feeling off-kilter, space was good. A quiet moment alone, time to let the frustration settle, to come back to each other with clear heads and soft apologies — it worked. It made sense.

But it’s different now.

Now, space feels like distance, and distance feels like a crack waiting to split wide open. Now, there’s Bug and her big emotions. Now, there’s you, carrying another baby, carrying the weight of change, carrying all the moments he’s missing when he’s away. Now, when you pull away, it doesn’t feel like breathing room — it feels like a warning sign.

And every day that passes without addressing it, every night spent in silence, every conversation left unfinished, makes it feel less like weather and more like climate.

So tonight, when he hears the creak of your footsteps down the hall, hears the soft click of the bedroom door closing, he doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tell himself you need more time. Doesn’t lie to himself about the sky clearing.

He follows.

Quietly, carefully, he pads down the hall and pushes the door open, stepping into the thick of it, into the eye of the storm. He settles carefully onto the mattress beside you, leaving space — giving you space to speak, to move closer, to do anything.

But you don’t.

You just stare at your hands in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts, and Quinn watches the way your shoulders rise and fall, notices the tension gathering like you’re bracing for something.

He exhales softly, rubbing a tired hand along his jaw.

"I'm trying," he murmurs, finally breaking the silence.

Your gaze flicks up, lips parting slightly, your chest tightening.

"I swear, I am," he says, quieter now. "I know Bug has been a lot, and your hormones, and the stress, and I know you’re just trying to get through it." His voice wavers for the first time, breath catching slightly as he drags a hand down his face, fingers gripping at his knee when they settle in his lap. "But I need you to talk to me. I don’t know how to help if you won’t let me in. If you keep pretending you’re fine when you’re not."

His voice isn’t sharp. It's not angry. It's just... tired. Not in the way he always is after road trips, after back-to-backs, after late nights followed by early morning skates — but in that bone-deep, heavy way that comes from holding too much for too long.

"I just—" He exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the headboard, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs. "I feel like I don’t know how to make this easier, how to fix it. I don’t know what to do anymore. How to help you, how to help Bug."

Your throat tightens, guilt pressing hard against your ribs.

"Quinn—"

"It’s killing me." His voice breaks over the words, and your heart clenches, because Quinn doesn’t break. Not like this. "I feel like I’m watching you fall apart, watching Bug fall apart, and I can’t—”

He stops abruptly, pressing the heels of his palms over his eyes, shoulders curling inward, like if he doesn’t he’ll completely unravel. His breath is heavy, chest rising and falling too fast, and then you hear it — a sound you’ve rarely heard from him, quiet and choked, a sob he can’t quite swallow down.

"I feel like I'm failing you both."

It slips out before he can stop it, before he can soften it into something easier to hear, and as soon as it’s in the air, it lingers — sharp, cutting. And God, you feel it. Feel it settle deep in your chest, feel the way it steals the breath from your lungs.

Because he’s never said something like that before. Not like this. Not with tears streaking silently down his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as if he’s ashamed of it. Not in a voice that sounds like it’s been scraped raw, like the words cost him something just to say.

Quinn’s never been one to unravel. He’s quiet by nature, steady in the way he moves through the world. He carries things inward, processes slowly. He’s always been careful with his words, measured with his emotions — not cold, never that, but composed. Grounded. He doesn’t let things boil over. Doesn’t let them spill.

And this? It isn’t something he does. Not because he’s trying to be strong, but because he’s always been wired to endure. To hold it together. To keep going, even when it hurts.

Your hand moves on instinct, settling against his knee, desperate to ground him, to pull him back before he sinks too deep.

"Quinn," Your voice wavers and you barely get his name out before the weight of it all crashes over you.

His shoulders rise and fall with another sharp inhale, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you. Just keeps pressing his palms into his eyes like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, fighting to regain control, fighting to hold onto whatever strength he thinks he still needs to have.

And that — that — is what undoes you.

"Baby, hey," you whisper, barely above a breath. "Look at me."

For a moment, you think he won’t. That he can’t. That if he does, if he meets your gaze, if he lets you see all of it, he might actually break.

But then, slowly, he drops his hands.

And when he looks at you, really looks at you — your heart shatters.

His eyes are glassy, jaw tight, lashes damp with tears, his expression so raw it knocks the breath right out of you. He swallows hard, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but there’s no taking it back now. No shoving it back down.

He’s unraveling, and you can see it. See the way he’s been holding too much, how it’s been slowly crushing him, how he’s been trying so hard to keep everything together while you’ve been falling apart. See the way it’s eating at him. The guilt, the helplessness, the constant push and pull of trying to keep up with you and Bug while barely keeping himself above water.

And God, it wrecks you.

You shift without thinking, curling into his side, arms wrapping around his middle, pressing your cheek to his shoulder like you’re trying to hold him together with your whole body. And for a moment, he doesn’t move. Just sits there, stiff, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to fall apart, not sure if he should.

But then he exhales, shaky and broken, and his arms come around you. He pulls you closer, pulls you into his lap, like if he holds you tight enough, close enough, maybe the ground won’t feel like it’s giving way beneath him.

His face finds your shoulder, burying into the curve of your neck, and his whole body shudders with the force of the breath he lets out.

"You could never fail me," you whisper, voice barely holding steady. Your fingers slide into his hair, slow and gentle, nails brushing lightly along his scalp, trying to soothe, trying to settle.

Then your hands slide down to cradle his face, thumbs brushing along the sharp line of his jaw, coaxing him to lift his head and look at you. For a second, he resists — eyes squeeze shut again like he’s bracing himself, like he’s afraid of what he’ll see in your face. But when they open, you make sure you make sure he finds only calm. Only love.

"I mean it," you whisper. "You’ve never let us down. Not once. Not me, not Bug. You are everything we need, Quinn."

A sharp breath rushes out of him, like he’s been holding it in for weeks.

You press your lips to his temple, slow and aching, like an apology wrapped in affection. I’m sorry you ever felt that way. Sorry for the silence, for the way you shut him out, for every time he reached for you and found nothing to hold onto.

You linger there, breathing him in, hoping it says what you haven’t found the words for. That you’re still here. That you never meant to leave him standing in the storm alone. That you love him, more than you’ve said lately.

And maybe he hears it. Maybe he feels it in the way you hold him now, tighter than you have in weeks. Because his hands tighten too, curling into your back, tethering himself to you. And when he exhales, it’s steadier. Softer. A little less like the weight of everything is his to carry alone.

"It’s just… different this time," he murmurs after a moment, voice rough at the edges like he’s been trying to make sense of it for weeks but still hasn’t found the words. "It wasn’t like this with Bug. You weren’t—" He stops himself, jaw tightening. "I don’t mean—"

"I know," you whisper.

Because you do. He’s not blaming you. He’s not making this your fault. He’s just trying to make sense of it the same way you are.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds quickly, tone softening immediately. “I just… I don’t know. You were still tired and emotional, sure, but we were —” He trails off, mouth twisting like the memory stings a little. “Happier, I think.”

You don’t say anything. Just nuzzle closer, biting your bottom lip. Guilt pressing in.

“We used to fall asleep on the couch talking about names. You’d make me drop everything when Bug kicked just to feel her. And now —” He breaks off, voice tightening. He swallows hard. “And now I walk through the door, I don’t know what version of you I'm coming home to. I don’t know if I should talk or keep quiet. I don’t even know if you want me here sometimes."

The words sting, and not because they’re unfair. But because they’re true.

You inch closer, guilt already starting to burn at your chest. Your nose finds the scruff of his cheek, breath catching as you press into him, barely touching but needing to be closer.

“I always want you here.”

He exhales, a shaky breath against your ear.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he murmurs, voice brittle and splintering at the edges.

And the silence that follows is brutal — thick and sharp, like standing in the wreckage of something you didn’t mean to break.

His thumb moves in slow, steady circles against your back, like he’s trying to settle a tempest he can’t see but knows is there.

And all you can do is lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, eyes shut tight — like maybe, just maybe, if you hold him close enough, he’ll feel everything you have yet to say out loud.

Your voice comes out small, barely more than a whisper. “I know I haven’t been easy, and I'm—”

"You don’t have to be," he cuts in, gently but firmly, the words spilling out before you can finish. "I just need you to let me in," he murmurs, voice low, unwavering.

His arms tighten around you, solid and warm, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, trying to keep the distance from creeping back in.

"I don’t care if you’re mad, or sad, or exhausted, or don’t even know what you’re feeling. I can handle all of it — I want to handle all of it. To be in it with you. But don’t—" his breath catches, and he presses his forehead to your temple, exhaling slow. "Don’t shut me out. Don’t act like I’m just another thing to manage. Like I’m something else making this harder."

His words land heavy, settling in the space that’s grown too wide these past few weeks. And maybe that’s what stings the most — how much truth there is in them.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, because he’s right. That's exactly what you have been doing.

You have shut him out. You’ve held him at arm’s length, convincing yourself it was easier this way. Because some days, it was simpler to let the distance sit between you, easier to let the weight of it build instead of unpacking it, to let the storm build rather than admit how much you’re struggling beneath it.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, voice small, uneven, barely holding together at the seams.

Quinn shakes his head instantly, shifting beneath you, like the words sting more than they should.

"That’s not—" he exhales sharply, pressing his palm against his forehead, shaking his head before wrapping his arms more securely around you. "That’s not what I want, baby. You don't have to apologise."

His chest rises and falls against yours, breath warm against your hair. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, rough at the edges like it’s been sitting heavy in his throat for too long.

"I just needed to say it out loud," he murmurs. "To you. That this is a lot. And that I'm... I’m struggling too."

Hearing it like this, quiet and raw, knocks the air from your lungs.

And now the guilt crashes over you like a rogue wave, pulling you under before you have time to brace for it. It presses heavy, suffocating, settling in the spaces between all the ways you let the silence stretch too far, let the exhaustion dictate your words, where you let the distance grow instead of reaching for him.

Because God, you’ve felt alone these past few weeks — adrift, overwhelmed, buried under exhaustion and the hormones you can't control, and Bug’s big emotions — but you never stopped to think that maybe he has too. That maybe, while you’ve been sinking, he’s been out in the storm, fighting to keep you all afloat, barely keeping his own head above water.

And now, hearing him admit it — hearing him tell you just how worn thin he really is — makes everything you overlooked painfully clear. You knew, in some distant way, that Quinn was tired. But you hadn’t let yourself see it fully. You hadn’t noticed how carefully he'd wrapped himself in quiet; how the calm he wore wasn't peace, but exhaustion. How close he'd come to breaking, waiting quietly for you to see it.

The ache triples, guilt sharp and bitter as your fingers twist into his shirt before you can stop them, gripping tight like an anchor, like you can hold him here, hold him up, the way he’s been trying to do for you.

Your throat tightens as you whisper, "I should’ve seen it."

Quinn shakes his head immediately, his arms flexing around you, one hand splaying wide against the small of your back, the other slipping up to cradle the back of your head. His thumb brushes slow, soothing strokes against your hair like he’s trying to keep the wind from howling, steadying the sails before the storm hits. This is him trying to keep you from turning inward, from spiralling into blame.

"Baby," he exhales, tipping his forehead against yours. "Don’t."

But how can you not?

How can you, when you feel his breath shake against your skin? When he’s been carrying all of this alone, when you’ve been so wrapped up in your own unraveling that you never saw him fraying too? When it finally hits you that every sleepless night, every tantrum soothed, every moment spent steadying you and Bug, he was never steady himself?

You can’t help it. Because now, the guilt is a storm of its own, building too fast, too heavy to hold back.

Quinn feels it before he even sees it.

The shift. The way your breath catches, stutters, like the wind just changed direction, gathering force. The way your shoulders tense, then tremble, like the weight of the storm pressing against you is too much to hold back.

And he knows.

Knows the way your body reacts before the downpour. Knows the way your fingers tighten their grip — on fabric, on him, on anything solid — when you’re trying to hold yourself together. Knows the way your chest rises too fast, the way your throat works through a swallow that doesn’t quite make it past the lump sitting heavy there.

Knows the warning signs.

Because he’s seen your storms before. He’s weathered them, stood at the eye of them, braced against them, held you through them. And now, as the first crack of thunder rolls through your body — a tiny, barely there inhale that catches in your throat — he knows another one is coming.

And he doesn’t want that for you.

"Baby," he whispers again and and it’s not more a pet name — it’s a plea. It's a a quiet, desperate thing, frayed at the edges. Please don’t go there. Please don’t blame yourself. Please don’t break because of me.

His forehead stays pressed to yours, hands tightening around you.

But you just squeeze your eyes shut, pressing yourself closer, and that’s when he really feels it. The tiny shake of your shoulders, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your body curls inward, instinctively seeking shelter.

Your voice comes out ragged. "I should've known. I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't—"

"I know," he murmurs softly, cutting through your words. And it’s not a dig, not an accusation, just fact. Just something true between you.

And that hurts worse.

Because you never saw it clearly enough. Because he never told you. Because you never asked. Because you’ve both been drowning in separate storms, hands outstretched, but never quite finding each other.

His hand slips lower, sliding over your back, pulling you in until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and the quiet understanding that you’re in this together. That you should’ve been in this together all along.

"What do you need?" His voice is softer now, lips brushing against your hair, the question almost hesitant — like he’s afraid you’ll shut him out again.

You shake your head, barely a movement, barely enough to count, but it’s there.

"Just you."

And God, that nearly knocks him over.

Because he can do that.

He can be that.

He can be yours. He is yours.

He presses a lingering kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, and a final one just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, pressing firm and steady against your skin, like he’s making a promise without saying a word.

When your next breath shudders through you, breaking against his collarbone, Quinn just holds on tighter.

"I’ve got you," he murmurs.

You don’t say anything, just hold onto him, letting the quiet settle between you, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing pull you back, slow and measured, like waves finally lapping at the shore instead of crashing against it. Like the first stillness after days of wind.

And then, before the weight of everything can creep back in, Quinn exhales, deep and slow, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

"We’re okay," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your hair, the warmth of his breath sinking into your skin. "We’re gonna be okay."

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

Then he shifts, nose nudging at your neck as he tucks himself in closer, like he’s been aching for this, for you. His arms tighten, drawing you in like he’s gathering something precious, something fragile that he almost lost. You feel it in the way his body softens against yours, shoulders finally beginning to uncoil.

Then, his breath evens out, slower, like he’s finally letting himself rest, and it feels like something cracking open and being put back together all in the same moment. Like all the weight you've both been carrying is finally lifting, piece by piece, no longer just his and no longer just yours to bear.

Like after weeks of drifting in separate storms, you’ve finally found your way back to the same shore, the waves settling, the worst of it behind you.

[skyloftian-nutcase]

My brain is buzzed and buzzing.

HW Zelda spent a good portion of her time with Link disguised as Sheik. She decided to keep her identity a secret from even Impa, which means she probably had to change her personality a little to make it convincing. So this entire time, Sheik and Link work together and fight together, and Link got to know this different persona. So when she revealed herself as Zelda, I wonder how that changed their relationship and dynamic?

Imagine Zelda is falling for Link but Link is falling for someone who doesn’t exist. Imagine Link’s agency and consent are so ambiguous because destiny determines that Link and Zelda are always together, that they have to be together, at least according to Lana and Cia.

I don’t know, I just have a lot of thoughts about HW Zelink. Not all of them are great. But I suppose if people write it well I can like it.

[ibbythebee]

Anything

pairing: Fred Weasley x Prefect!Reader

summary: Fred would do anything to see you, 'Hogwart's strictest Prefect', loosen up.

genre: fluff 'n stuff, and only slight angst, also borderline slowburn

warnings: swearing, bullying moments, implied that reader is in Slytherin, lots of teasing, flirting, kissing, Fred is completely and utterly whipped for reader, "your highness" nickname

a/n: not me in the middle of writing a neville fic and then having a shower thought of a fred x reader and writing this instead.

words: 6.9k

masterlist

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You can hear them. And you know it's them, because of the sniggering and that laugh.

By now, when you patrolled outside of class hours you'd find yourself actively seeking out these boys. Today happens to be good day to continue your spotless Prefect record.

With a hand sliding to your hip, you smoothly round the corner of the door to your Potions classroom and as you suspected, Fred and George Weasley are there, huddled over a particular cauldron. Something's clearly already been brewed and Fred is holding a cork screwed flask with the mysterious liquid.

It takes a minute until Fred happens to glance toward the door and sees you there, nose in the air and hands now clasped in front of you. He's trying not to laugh when he sees you, and elbows his brother.

The said Weasley is about to say something, but as he meets your gaze his lips press together in a slightly curved line.

Successful in catching their attention, one eyebrow and then one corner of your lips gently raise. "We've really got to stop bumping into each other like this."

"I think you wanted to bump into us," Fred says with a prominent smile. He looks innocent, just like always.

You neither confirm nor deny his remark and instead stride closer to them. You take your time, head turning in each direction, eyes scanning for any other suspicious looking activity. It feels good, because you can feel their stares and how they wait with bated breaths for your next move.

With a last step you settle on the opposite side of their table. You look at Fred, head tilted softly, studying his expression.

His smile only grows when you reach his eyes and it's finally time to address the elephant in the room.

In a newly straightened posture you say in a slow and sarcastic tone, "did you know... that I can take away points from your House? From each of you, in fact?"

"Oh, come on. Our favourite Prefect. Can't you pretend you never saw us, like last time?" George answers.

"Sorry what was that? You'd like 30 points taken away?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" Fred waves with a chuckle, "let's not get hasty. What about... a-a compromise?"

George nods desperately.

Your eyebrow raises again, and you lean back, crossing your arms. "A compromise, instead of taking away your precious points?"

"Yes, we'll do anything."

"Anything?"

"Anything." Fred glides a tongue over his bottom lip, speaking to you through his eyes.

For once he looks completely serious and it makes you smile in delight. An expression seldom found in your features. It's completely magical and Fred finds no regret to bargaining with you.

"There is something you can do for me," your eyes glaze over Fred's face and then you turn to George, leaning forward over the table on your elbows. "The next Quidditch Game."

"Yeah? Slytherin v Gryffindor. Need us to bug someone?" George grins.

You shake your head and smile again. You're frighteningly beautiful with that curve on your face as you continue. "I need you to make sure that Slytherin wins."

"What?"

Fred captures your attention, so you lean in closer to his side of the desk. "It shouldn't be too hard for you both, right?"

He squints, unable to hold back a smile of his own. In the previous times when you had caught the twins in the middle of scheming, you'd never been so coy with them. Ruffling your feathers a bit was always the boys' goal when getting caught by you, however now that you seem to be playing along, Fred can't get enough. "That's hardly something to wish for, your highness. You can have anything from us, really anything. Don't hold back."

You shrug, "well, that's what I choose."

"But if you think about it you cou—"

"I can take the points off now, if you like? It's really no problem."

"Fine. W-We'll do it." George huffs, and his brother follows with a playful bow.

"Your wish is our command."

"Please just don't take the points off. We'll be kicked out of Gryffindor if you snitch again."

"Me? Snitch?" Your voice drips in sarcastic innocence, and you push yourself off of the desk. Your feet turn to walk back outside first, but your eyes remain on Fred until it's physically impossible to stay focused on him. As you saunter to the door, you feel their gazes on you again and it's oh so satisfying to know that you get the last say. "You need to get better at not getting caught. Because, if I didn't know any better, it looks more like you want me to bump into you."

You turn around to face them again, and stare at the flask in between Fred's long fingers. By some miracle you'd never found yourself to be the butt of their schemes, unlike the other prefects. Even as a chaser of the twins' opposition in Quidditch, you've been the only lucky soul on your team to come out the other end. The question was why? Why spare you?

"Who in Salazar's name threw that?" Your captain shrieks, massaging the back of his head, small flakes of snow dropping to the skin of his neck.

How bothersome, you think, looking around at the rest of your teammates who're busy cooling down after Quidditch training.

"What?! A snowball just happens to gain sentience and hit me, huh? An owl maybe? Just come forward, admit you did it and I'll go easy on you—"

The spray of snow flies off of the captain's head again and you dodge the icy substance in time, some of it landing on your beater and chaser teammate. Everyone exclaims except you, you're too busy scanning over the field.

Suddenly, the burly boy of a captain huffs toward you, and you take a shove to the shoulder.

Stumbling back by a metre, you frown. Increasingly annoyed by your captain's baseless judgements. "What the hell is wrong with you? How many times do I have to tell you I'm a prefect?"

"I know a guilty person when I see one."

You're about to give him a piece of your mind until the idiot is hit again and you stifle a laugh at the noise he makes.

"Clever," he says through gritted teeth. Despite clearly looking at you just seconds before the snowball made contact with his thick skull, his pride is still hell-bent on accusing you. "I knew you were good at school, but I didn't think you'd stoop so low to use non-verball spells for something so stupid."

"Well, I knew you were delusional before, but now it's perfectly clear that you just don't have a brain."

As though your words were a signal, a tsunami of white ice balls appear in the sky and you don't hold back your smile as it pauses over your team. They each look up, faces with panicked expressions, and before they can even begin to escape, the snow crashes down over your peers. Figuring, it's the perfect moment to leave, you zoom out of the field on your broom and land to your feet once you can't see those angry faces anymore.

And that's when you hear him. That laugh, and he's looking at you and combing a hand through his ginger hair, all whilst adorning a satisfied ear-to-ear grin.

"Thanks." Is all you can say at first, then you realise his partner-in-crime George isn't right by his side. "Where's your brother?"

"On the other end of the field."

You nod. When you don't say anything more and turn to leave, you feel long fingers wrap around your wrist. He's warm against your icy skin, and your eyes shoot up, only to be greeted by a soft smirk.

"You're not going to snitch on us are you, your highness?"

"Me? Snitch?" You stop yourself from feeling so giddy about the previous event and instead focus on the fact that would you be doing your prefectoral duties correctly, you would have absolutely told a Professor about the twins. But the adrenaline rush feels too great and so you finally shake your head at the tall ginger. "You were just... watching us practice, right? I don't see anything suspicious about that."

His smirk twists into a genuine smile, and he allows your wrist to slide out of his grasp. A twinkle of mischievousness reaches your eyes, and then you're off, jogging into the distance. A few metres in, you take a chance to glance back to where you left Fred. And you don't know whether it was from training or the adrenaline, but you feel your neck and cheeks flare with heat at the sight of him lean against the frame of the entrance, steadily watching you run.

Clearing your throat, you push your recollection of the past away and take out your wand.

“You know you’re not allowed to use spells outside of class, your highness,” says Fred, his voice playful.

“That’s okay,” you shrug, “because I know you won’t tell on me.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” George chimes.

You nod immediately, the easiest question to answer. “I’m your favourite prefect, am I not?”

Fred’s expression is unreadable to you at first as he shakes his head slowly. He looks shocked, but at the same time pleased and a hint of something else that you can’t quite grasp.

Figuring you’ve stared at him long enough you send the twins’ a wink and the door shuts with a swipe of your wand.

»»————-　⌁　————-««

Your robe is floating behind you, a spitting image of Professor Snape, as you walk with purpose to your class, books cradled in your arms and head held high. You round a corner of the halls smoothly and find yourself at your Potions classroom. It's been a week since finding the Weasleys in there, and you still haven't found out what concoction they had created.

In any case, your class has already begun, and Snape's voice is barely audible with the door in front of you. You let your fingers clench around your books for a moment, taking in a breath. Then you push your way in, and each one of your classmates turn their attention to you.

"How lovely of you to join us, Miss L/N."

Having already predicted the Professor's sarcasm-filled reaction to your tardiness, you hand out a small slip of paper. "A note from Professor McGonagall."

He barely skims over the words and indicates for you to find a seat. Fingers clenching around your books again, you let yourself look over your peers. There's a seat next to Ginger Jorkins from Hufflepuff, but after noticing your stare she's quick to put her belongings where you could have sat. You hold off from sighing, because to your relief there is one more free seat, all the way at the back of the room. Right beside the vacant spot is a familiar head of red hair, and the pain from your tight grip subsides upon seeing him. That sigh you've been holding lets free once you sit down and the class continues.

"Welcome to the back of the class," Fred whispers with his signature grin. "You're with the cool kids now."

"Speaking of..." You glance behind him and frown. "Where's your brother?"

He makes a face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." And then it hits you. The Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch Game. The compromise. The "make-sure-that-Slytherin-wins" game. The "George-has-been-completely-annihilated-by-a-bludger" and "won't-be-walking-around-anytime-soon" game.

"Oh... right."

Fred simply nods, finding the way you froze for a moment to be equally funny and endearing. The rest of your face doesn't show it, but he notices the panic in your pretty eyes and gives your arm a little nudge. "Hey. The git's okay. Says it was worth the pain because the girl he fancies paid him a visit."

You bite your lip and let yourself focus on Snape, who's mouth is moving, but you can't hear anything coming out. "It's still technically my fault. He looked awful."

Fred leans forward, his head turning to rest against his crossed arms. He studies your features as you attempt to listen into the class. When he speaks, his voice is a whisper again. "Come to Hogsmeade with me."

You give him a side glance. No one's ever invited you to come before and for all you know he could be making fun of you. It'd been hard in the beginning, though you eventually found comfort being in your own presence; drinking butterbeer while other people joked and laughed and shared stories and the gossip of the week. And talked about how they received a pointless detention after being told off from that know-it-all bitch.

"I-I don't..." You stumble upon your words, the crease between your brows growing deeper as you try to recollect your thoughts.

"Yeah, you're coming," he declares. And when you go to protest, he sits back up, sending you a wink.

"AND so..." Snape glares in your direction, "by the end of this class, I will be testing the quality of your potions by using a simple leaf. If it melts you've brewed successfully, and if not... you'll be in here on the weekend till you get it right."

To your surprise, Fred doesn't make a fuss, instead he beams at you with a clap of his hands. "Let's get started then, shall we Professor?"

The said man only grunts in response, so you all begin.

Forty minutes passes by in an instant, and no matter how well you follow the recipe, the liquid in your cauldron doesn't look like a liquid anymore and it smells differently to Fred's.

Wait. Fred's?

You frown down into his cauldron. His potion's immaculate.

You pull at the sleeve of his robe till his head comes down and his long hair tickles the tip of your nose. "How are you doing this?"

"I'm smart when I want to be," he chuckles.

"That's not an answer. I demand you give me an answer, or... I will take off points from Gryffindor."

He feigns an expression of shock which immediately gives way to a smirk, face just a few inches away from yours. "And what if I do tell you? You promise not to snitch?"

"Me? Snitch?"

That mischievousness is back into your dolomitic eyes, and Fred swears that the potion isn't required to melt the leaf.

"How about a compromise?" you whisper.

He shoots a glance toward the Professor and then hums when he feels it's all clear to keep talking. "I'm listening."

"I come with you to Hogsmeade, and I promise to do whatever you want to do. Deal?"

He doesn't need a moment, or even a second to reply. He's already nodding, slipping a hand into yours. "Deal."

You share a knowing look and shake your intwined hands. Compromise confirmed. "Now—"

Before you get to finish, he pulls out a very familiar cork-screwed flask, and in perfect fashion you keep from gasping or reacting at all, but Fred can see it in your eyes. He scans over the classroom, Snape's busy writing something on the board, and so he's clear to lower his head to you.

Your fingers graze as he passes you the concoction he had made with his brother. Electricity runs through the veins of your fingers till it hits your heart, skipping a beat.

"Someone might've tipped us off about this assignment," Fred murmurs. "So, naturally, we just wanted to be prepared. There was no way we were going to miss out on a Hogsmeade visit."

Not with George in the Hospital Wing, you think to yourself with guilt, pulling your robe sleeve down to hide the flask should your Professor stop by.

"Well... my beloved brother sadly will. I'll never forget his bravery." Fred makes a show out of a simple sigh and you feel like slapping his arm. He places his hand over his chest and sighs again, only it's a little louder this time and longer. "A girl we know threatened us to rig the Quidditch game so that Slytherin would win, if we didn't do as she asked she would've gotten us into trouble—"

"Fred." Images of the poor Weasley twin with a whole half of his body covered in the sickening colour of a bruise flood your brain.

"—and being the good man that he is, Georgie sacrificed himself, in order to satisfy the needs of this girl."

"Oi! I already feel horrible, okay?" You finally give his arm that well-earned smack, and when all he does is laugh, you huff with a pout.

He recollects himself, and makes sure Snape's still preoccupied. He bends down to your level again, and his breath fans over the strands of hair by your ear. "I would do the same for this girl."

There's that heat in your neck again and yet another electric feeling runs up your spine at his worlds. You don't meet his gaze and instead stare forward. To save yourself from embarrassment, you lift your chin and with one swift movement, the liquid from the flask falls into your cauldron.

Fred watches in delight as you stir until your previously horrible creation morphs and dissolves into that flawless fluid that you had just seen in the Weasley's cauldron. From such a result, you're unable to stop yourself as your lips curl into a smile, parting slowly to reveal your teeth.

You are the embodiment of this potion. Any person or creature of the magical world would completely disarm at the sight of your expression. And Fred's lucky enough to be your first victim.

"You seem very pleased, Miss L/N."

The black figure of Snape shadows yours and Fred's vision as he glides in front of your desk. He peers into your cauldron, nothing shows on his face and then he's examining Fred's, the same reaction of nothing.

The man then clicks his tongue and floats back to the front of the classroom, picking two leaves off of the plant on his desk. He returns swiftly, gesturing the rest of the class to join him by your table.

"Look closely." Snape says as his hand hovers over your creation, and then his fingers let go of the green object.

Hushed breaths watch as it hits the surface of the liquid with a ripple. There's no reaction at first and it fills you with dread. You even see Fred stiffen in the corner of your sight.

Then the leaf twitches with a change in colour, and soon it's no where to be seen, dissolved. Successful.

Someone mutters a 'wow', others share glances of contempt or roll their eyes. You on the other hand feel relieved and lean onto your hip, arm brushing against the tall boy beside you. He relaxes at your gentle touch.

"It seems you will have the fortune of freedom this weekend." Professor Snape mutters, and then with no time to waste, moves on to Fred. You barely have a chance to thank the man. His hand hovers, fingers open and a new leaf falls.

In a blink, the leaf has melted and you feel the Weasley straighten up in pride.

Snape however, isn't convinced and folds his arms. "How convenient that you should produce a successful potion - out of many failures - when seated beside Miss L/N."

Innocent until proven guilty, you think and look up at Fred, who's only smiling like a fool, his focused trained on Snape's. Your classmates murmur, and it isn't hard to place who they're talking about with their not-so subtle glares pointed in your direction.

"So I did a good job?" The boy's happy expression grows with innocence.

"Somehow. Five points... to each of you." The raven-haired man admits, his gaze lingers on the Weasley before he turns away, addressing you both and the rest of the class. "L/N and Weasley, seeing as you have completed the task, you may be dismissed. However, by next class I expect a 2,000 word written report of your method and findings. That'll be all. The rest of you... you have fifteen minutes."

Groans and curses hidden under breaths echo through the room, you and Fred, however, turn to each other with eyebrows raised and stupid grins plastered over your faces.

Adrenaline kicks in, and you both scramble to clear up the desk and snatch up your belongings. You sprint out the door not after sending the Professor a 'thank you', and then you're out the door and sprinting into the courtyard, crisp winter air nipping at your extremities.

You pause by the fountain, leaning against the tall structure and Fred follows suit, situating himself in front of you. "I can't believe I did that," you say in a breathless tone still grinning, books hugging into your chest.

He chuckles in between his own pants of breath. "Feels good doesn't it, your highness?"

"I hate to admit but... yes."

You watch as his gaze on you softens, as well as his grin subduing into contentment. "You make a good partner-in-crime. I think I might just replace George."

"Then he will surely kill me once he's recovered! That is... if he doesn't already."

Fred winks, "I'll make sure that won't happen. A princess such as yourself deserves a knight-in-shining armour."

"Oh yes." You give a curtsy and wave of your hand, your voice forming a posh accent. Well, no more posh than you already sound. "Then will you do the honour of escorting me to Hogsmeade tomorrow?"

With a fist to his chest, Fred bows. "For you, my dear, anything."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

It's irregular of you to be so fashionably late. Last night you'd found yourself restless, thoughts of sleep hidden behind scenes of you and Fred eating candy together, laughing, using magic outside of class to throw snowballs at your Quidditch Captain. Despite the chill of a winter night, being covered by your duvet and blankets was suffocatingly warm, especially when you kept seeing Fred pull you behind a tree, gloved hands drawing you into him by your hips, noses barely touching and lips parted with warm butterbeered breaths.

Your chocolate-brown screech owl whinnies by the foot of your bed and you flinch, adjusting your beanie for the hundredth time. "What do you think, Prim? Do I look tired? I look tired, don't I?"

The owl blinks and gives another whinny, a sound similar to that of a miniature pony. You check the clock on the wall of your dormitory and bite your lip, jostling through your belongings and retrieving a small purse of galleons to shove into your coat pocket.

One more look in the mirror, just one more. Your hair looks surprising lovely, strands of it squished against your thick scarf, and fortunately covering areas of your blemished face that couldn't be covered enough by your concealer. "It'll have to do!"

Prim purrs when you stroke her head and then you're off. You almost trip at the bottom of the stairs and as a result you pause, taking in a breath, calming the pounding in your chest. This Hogsmeade visit is just like any other. Just like any other. You’re just… not alone this time. That’s enough to get you smiling, as you saunter through the halls and finally out the gates, where you see a few groups of students still hanging around Hogwarts.

At the top of the steps you crane your neck in an attempts to find Fred amongst the small groups.

“I was beginning to think you stood me up.”

You spin on your heels at the sound of his voice, and are greeted with a growing grin. Teeth sparkling and everything. It takes a toll on you not to tackle him in a hug right then and there. The thick hoody he’s adorning, as well as the adorable beanie all look extra cuddly. Those gloved hands that you’ve been thinking about slide out of the pockets of his jeans and reach for your scarf, gently tightening the fabric around your face and neck.

On the outside you seem unbothered by his action, but he already sees what you’re really feeling through those dolomitic eyes of yours. “A deal’s a deal,” you finally say. “But it was rude of me to keep you waiting so long, so I’ll buy you a butterbeer.”

He shakes his head, fiddling with the hem of the scarf. “You turning up is enough for me.”

You shake your head back, dipping your chin into the material to hide your smile. “I’m buying you one. Argument over.”

“Alright then.” He chuckles and gives your scarf a gentle tug. “No more time to waste, your highness, let’s go.”

“Lead the way, Sir Weasley.”

You’re perfectly giddy as you trudge your way to the little village. Fred tells you about his plans for Christmas and you tell him yours, not very big and not very exciting, but he adores listening to you speak. He tells you about George and his recovery, and teases you when he sees guilt written over your face. Then despite your many differences, you both bond over your love for Quidditch, especially the Irish team. Occasionally, your shoulders and arms graze, and other times your fingers, as you stomp through the snow covered grounds. With every touch your chest grows warm, and your belly flips. You almost forget that you should be looking out for any bad behaviour. You almost forget that you still have a duty to uphold to the school.

Hogsmeade is bustling with life when you finally arrive. More so now that you could share it with someone.

“Come on, let’s warm up first.” Fred tugs your scarf again and successfully gains your full attention. He pulls you into the Three Broomsticks, greeted immediately by a wave of warmth. He’s still pulling on your scarf so you swiftly ask for two hot butterbeers and allow him to lead you to a table at the far end of the room.

“Am I your pet? Leading me around like that.” You sit down opposite him, motioning to his hand still holding onto the end of the long material.

He hums for a moment, and doesn't look to have any intention of letting go. “More like restraining you from going into ‘prefect’ mode.”

"Hey! Some people need disciplining," you pout.

"You sound like a Professor..." he narrows his eyes at you, lacking the skills to stop smiling so big. "You're not Professor Snape using Polyjuice potion, are you? Trying to figure out my secrets for passing your class, huh?"

Slowly, meticulously you straighten your back and fold your hands over the table, and void any emotion on your face. Your voice is low and slow and articulating every syllable as you speak. "What a ri-di-cu-lous suggestion. However... while we are on the topic, you didn't... copy off me, did you?"

Fred is so bad at suppressing his smirk. "Bloody Norah, you found me out! You're so smart, Profess— I mean... your highness."

The clink of glass hitting your table interrupts yours and Fred's thoughts. Madam Rosmerta's standing over you and when you meet her gaze she winks. "Good to see you with company this time around, Y/N."

Your face squishes into the fabric that Fred's still holding onto as you feel heat rise in your cheeks. Desperate to eliminate the fact that she basically just called you a loner in front of him, you fish into your pocket and pull out some coins, placing them onto the woman's open palm. "Thank you, Madam Rosmerta."

"Pleasure, dears. Enjoy.” Another wink is sent your way and she’s off to tend the rest of her pub.

As you bring the hot beverage to your mouth, you peek through your eyelashes. Fred has removed one glove and is now using that bare hand hold onto his drink, allowing the warmth to transfer into his already warm skin.

"Thank you," he says.

Your brows press together, "what for?"

"For paying."

"Well... thank you too."

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a good sip of the butterbeer, waiting for you to elaborate.

"For inviting me," you say shyly, fingers sliding across the surface of the mug.

"Awh, that's nothing," he chuckles, gently swaying your scarf.

"It's not 'nothing'. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I was so excited to come with you."

The ginger-haired boy presses his lips together tightly and then leans his face closer to you. "Wait, really?!"

How many times has it been now that you've felt your face heat up around Fred? You could play so coy and confident before, but now you felt like any other girl-with-a-crush in your year. "As a matter of fact, yes." You raise your chin and attempt to sit up straighter. "I know it may seem that I only agreed to come because of a compromise, but... I really did — do — appreciate you considering me."

"I don't think we'll need to stop by Honeydukes, your highness. You're so sweet, that my teeth already ache."

"You're so...!" You smack his arm.

But he's grinning like a fool, pulling at your scarf. "I'm so what?"

"I'm gonna take points off Gryffindor, just because you asked."

He guffaws, "what is this abuse of power?"

You take a swig of butterbeer and shrug, head high and smirk on display. "I like to call them perks."

"See?" You feel on your neck as he gives a tug-tug. "This is why you need to be kept on a lead."

Before you can retort, you notice he's pointing at his upper-lip and quietly chuckling. It sets off your heart.

"Brilliant moustache you got there," he says.

"Oh... thank you." How embarrassing. You really thought he was suggesting something else for a moment there. You glance around the room to make sure no one's watching before you slide a tongue over the sweet foam above your lip. "Is it gone?"

"Just..." at first there's a second of hesitation, but then he pulls you in over the table and meets you half-way, un-gloved hand coming up to cup your face. Why is he always so warm? Why is it that one of the most notorious rule-breakers of the school is taking your fancy? And so easily at that.

It feels like an hour passes when his thumb smooths over the left corner of your mouth and you hold in a breath, fingers clenched around your mug. You simply cannot help the urge to look at his own lips; pretty, pink and gently parted, calm breaths passing through.

His movements pause all of a sudden, so you glance at his eyes, but he's already looking at you. Completely under your spell, completely forgetting how to move, and completely forgetting that you're in public. You seem to have forgotten the same, still not pulling away from his touch. He catches your eyes dip to his lips again and he swallows thickly.

Then he's moving away and sitting back down, clearing his throat. "There, now you're good."

"Thanks," you wipe a finger over for extra measure and then look out the window, clearing your throat and straightening your back.

"You know how you mentioned that part of the deal was that we'd do anything I want to do?" He inquires, finishing his drink with a last swig.

"Yeah. A deal is a deal," you answer, finally turning back to him, surprised to see a confident smile carved into his features.

"Perfect. There's something I want to show you, but first I have a really good idea to help you unwind and forget about your prefect-ness."

"That doesn't sound good," you tease, chugging the last bit of your own butterbeer.

He's smirking now, "you won't be saying that when you see what we'll be doing."

»»————-　⌁　————-««

You're both crouched behind a boulder that oversees the Shrieking Shack in the distance. The perfect spot to spy on anyone who visits the lookout point. The perfect spot to snog outside of school walls. And it also happens to be the perfect spot to stock up on snowballs and wait for one particular person to fall into your trap.

"I hate to admit, but you were right, Sir Weasley. Again," you mutter, rubbing your gloved hands together.

"The more you hang out with me, the more you'll find out just how right I always am." He peeks over the boulder for a moment and then his hand shoots up in alarm, speaking in barely a whisper, "he's here."

He is. You can hear your Quidditch captain now and a few of his buddies, chatting and laughing. Someone puts on a voice, and it makes the group howl, but makes your stomach churn. The closer they get to the lookout, the clearer their words sound and the more you're looking forward to breaking the rules.

"—thinks she's all that, just 'cause she's a prefect. Like, bitch, I'm older than you!"

Their laughter is equal to that of nails on a chalkboard. Pelting them with some snowballs might not be fulfilling enough.

"Nah, it's 'cause she's got Snape behind her, hah. Thinks she can say and do whatever she wants."

Fred is hearing all of this. You feel like screaming, and perhaps hexing the hell out of all of them. They need a proper disciplining.

"Yeah, that's probably what's happening!" The group laugh again, and the next thing they say is the last straw. "She only got prefect because she's fucking him."

The bottom of your vision is blurry, but you tell Fred you're ready and he only nods. You both raise your wands, and he counts to three.

One snowball hits the back of the captain's head and to your satisfaction he lands on his face. You and Fred are enjoying the scene a little too much that it isn't until one of the idiots shout your name, do you realise you've blown your cover.

"Shoot!"

"Quick! We need to unleash all we've got!" Fred takes your free hand and guides you up to stand beside him. "One, two, THREE!"

Adrenaline shoots through your veins, as together you swish your wands and the rest of your snow pile is sent into the air. One more flick of the wands, and the balls fly with the speed of a snitch. Straight toward their faces. Exclamations, grunts, yells echo through the woods and open winter air. They swipe at their faces and eyes, blinded by your attack. The captain's still trying to recover from the first hit, from head to toe the entire front half of him is covered in white.

You let out a laugh, and suddenly Fred takes your hand again and you're sprinting away from the crime scene.

"HEY!" The Quidditch captain shouts after you, pure rage in his tone.

But you couldn't care less, because that grin on the Weasley's face is too contagious as you run by him, gloved hand in gloved hand.

He peeks over his shoulder to meet your gaze, only resulting in a skip of his heart and a flip of his stomach. Losing that Quidditch match was absolutely worth it, and Fred had to remind himself to thank George later for taking the blow.

You share breathless laughter as the shouts increase in amount, but decrease in volume. You're both much too fast for them and manage to get back to the village where you could hide within the crowds.

Your feet slow to a walk, and you both check if any of the idiots followed. Fred spots two pass by a tree and squeezes your hand to gain your attention.

"In here," he jerks his head, and pulls you into a small alley between two buildings.

Finally having a moment to catch your breath, you realise that it isn't really an alley, and more like a small gap. The space is so narrow in fact that your body is essentially pressed up against his. Back against wall. Heaving chest against heaving chest. Feet and legs side-by-side each other as though woven.

You don't care to look to your left where those jerks could be looking for you. You simply can't. You can't because all you can see are Fred's parted lips again, and he's looking down at yours. After which, your gazes meet and you don't think you've ever felt so hot in the middle of winter before.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes. No grin, no smirk, no teasing, just facts.

"And you're..." Your eyes dip again.

His hand slides out of yours, and then you feel weight by your hips and he's squeezing against the material of your pants and sweater.

You crane your neck, and he dips his head, as those gloved hands of his pull you into him.

Your own hunger has your fingers smooth over his chest and grip the collar of his hoody, desperately tugging for him to come closer and closer, tension in the air building with each breath.

"And I'm... what?" He purrs.

Something stirs in the bottom of your abdomen as the scent of butterbeer fills your senses, just millimetres away now. And then he captures your lips. And it's like heaven, because his hands can't help but slide up under your sweater and hold you by the skin of your waist.

At first the kiss is gentle, hesitant, but then you open your mouth a little wider and Fred takes this as a clear invitation. He smooths a tongue over yours, the taste of the sweet foamy drink still lingering on your lips.

His bold action elicits a hum from you, and his grip only tightens, craving more and more of you and your pretty sounds. You go until you can't breathe, mouths parting reluctantly but eyes still closed.

Fred presses his forehead against yours, your noses brushing in a feather-like touch. His thumbs caress your sides as he whispers, "you never answered my question."

"You wanna know what you are, right?” You murmur, hands sliding down over his collarbone and resting on his chest.

“Yeah. You’ve said it twice now and never finished your sentence.”

“Okay,” you lean in, lips feathering over his. “You’re…”

Good Godric you’re addicting. He pushes his head forward to meet you, but you pull back with the most attractive breathy laugh he's ever heard. Your lips stay brushing against his, but you won't give him any more than that and he loves it.

"You're..." you say again on his mouth, and he hangs on every single one of your words. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me at Hogwarts."

He watches your eyes for a moment, and leans into you once more, hands climbing up to lay flat against your back, your sweater pooling by his wrists. And you share the softest kiss ever, full of adoration, full of care, full of absolute affection.

"You saying that, you being here right now... feels like I've just won the Quidditch cup," he says when you part.

"I really mean it, Fred." You wrap your arms around his middle and squeeze him there, cheek squishing into his chest. "You've heard how people talk about me, but you don't seem to care about any of that stuff."

He returns your gesture, his own cheek landing on the top of your head. "You're right. I don't care about it, because I've seen how much you care for the school and care for keeping things in order. A little too much, but to each their own."

"Oi."

"I have to tease, I have to. Still, joking aside, if anyone says that kind of shit about you and you hear about it, find me and tell me. Me and Georgie have your back."

"Just don't get caught," you smirk.

"You won't take points away if you catch us, will you?"

You pull away from the cuddle and send him that beautifully, intimidating smile of yours. "Not if you promise to keep losing your Quidditch games."

"Low blow, your highness!" He laughs and then you're running away, giggling like a fool.

You manage to slip through the crowds and head toward the woods by the Shrieking Shack lookout, your giggles only getting louder and more frequent when you see Fred bounding closer and closer to you. Your cadence slows when the ground starts to feel icy under your boots, and sooner than you think, you feel arms wrap around your stomach and you squeal.

Fred's laugh vibrates against your back, and after a few pants of breath he speaks into your ear. "There's still something I wanted to show you."

"Oh?" You spin around in his hold. "That's right. What is it then?"

"Surprise. Follow me." He's hasty in his movements, as he takes your hand, running further into the woods. Then he rounds the corner of a large tree trunk, his fingers slip out of yours as he twists around to face you and then he's pulling you by your hips, grin on display.

Your heart flips when your back meets with the rough surface of the tree, bodies pressing into one another and then his mouth is hovering over yours. There's hunger in his eyes, yet he's waiting for your next move.

"Wow. 'I have something to show you'. That was so corny," you tease in a whisper.

He chuckles, feeling your lips just barely touch his, "but you loved it."

"I did. You're right again, Sir Weasley."

"Always am, your highness."

He squeezes your hips. You lift your chin and you kiss for a third time that day.

[paxtito]

birthday girl

pairings: wednesday x reader

word count: 5.2k

warnings: none really, kissing and swearing here and there.

summary: wednesday was born november 13th, 2006, it’s her birthday soon so enid- being overly invested in your relationship- convinces you to plan a birthday surprise. you steal a very expensive book and put together an addams family themed escape room.

a/n: i’ve written quite a few fics since august so i’m just doing a little clear out of my drafts. apologies in advance for any mistakes. i’m no edgar allan poe expert, don’t come for me if the price is wrong.

MASTERLIST

It’s officially November. Wednesday’s birth month. You wasn’t planning on doing anything for it out of respect to her boundaries but Enid’s constant yapping in your ear brought you to the brink of insanity.

“Jesus! Fine, Enid… We’ll plan something, okay? Stop talking my ear off.”

Enid squealed excitedly, clapping her hands together. "Oh my gosh, yes! This is going to be so much fun!"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. Enid's enthusiasm was infectious, even if her ideas were sometimes a bit... much.

"Alright, let's brainstorm," Enid said, plopping down onto your bed next to you. "What does Wednesday like? Besides death and darkness, I mean."

You chuckled. "Well, she seems to enjoy solving mysteries and puzzles. And she has a thing for creepy crawlies… Dead things…”

Enid wrinkled her nose in distaste but nodded. "Okay, so maybe not a spa day then. How about a murder mystery party? We could invite everyone and have them dress up in costume!"

You shook your head. "Wednesday doesn't really do 'parties' or 'people'. She'd probably just end up killing someone for real."

"Good point," Enid sighed. "Hmm… What about a private escape room experience? Just the two of you, working together to solve some kind of creepy puzzle. That way it's intimate but still fits her interests."

You considered it. That actually didn't sound half bad. "Yeah, I could see her getting into that. Let me look into it."

Enid beamed. "Perfect! Oh, and don't forget her favorite foods - bugs and gross stuff. You could make her a special birthday cake with... I don't know, worms or something?"

You made a face. "I have to draw the line somewhere, Enid. I may love her, but I'm not putting actual worms in a cake… I’m not touching worms.” You grimace, a shiver running down your spine at the thought.

Enid pouted but nodded in understanding. "Fair enough. I guess you could always just make it look like there are worms in it. You know, like those chocolate bugs they sell online? That might be more her speed anyway.”

You shake your head firmly. "No food. Definitely no bugs or anything gross. I'm drawing the line there."

Enid sighs. "Alright, alright. No bugs in the food. But we need to get her something, right? Like a present?"

You nod, considering Enid's suggestion. "Yeah, a present is a good idea. But what do you get for the girl who has everything? Especially when 'everything' is basically just death-related shit."

Enid taps her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm... Maybe something personalized? Like a custom-made necklace with a little vial pendant that holds a drop of your blood or something."

You cringe. "Uh, no. Definitely not going to give her bloody jewelry. That's just weird."

"Okay, okay," Enid says, holding up her hands in surrender. "How about a book then? Like a rare edition of some creepy classic literature?"

You mull it over. Wednesday does love to read. "That's not a bad idea actually. I could look for a first edition copy of one of her favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories or something.“

Enid claps her hands together. "Yes! Oh, and you could inscribe it with a little personal message inside the cover. Something like 'To my darling Wednesday, may your days be as dark as your soul.' "

“Where would I get the money though?”

Enid smiles slyly, leaning in closer. "Well, you could always ask your parents for some birthday money. Or... you could sell some of your old junk online. I bet there are a ton of weirdos out there who would pay top dollar for your crusty gym socks or used toothbrushes."

You make a disgusted face. "Ew, Enid! That's gross. I'm not selling my dirty laundry to some freaks on the internet."

"Suit yourself," Enid shrugs. "But if you change your mind, I know a guy who runs a pretty lucrative online market for this kind of thing. He's always looking for new... supplies."

—

A week later, you and Enid are hunched over your laptop, scouring online bookstores for the perfect rare edition for Wednesday.

"Ooh, look at this one!" Enid exclaims, pointing at the screen. "It's a first edition of 'The Tell-Tale Heart' published in 1843. And it comes with a handwritten note from Poe himself!"

You lean in to take a closer look. The book does look impressive, with its aged leather binding and yellowed pages. But the price tag makes your eyes bulge. "$25,000?! Are you insane?"

Enid pouts. "C'mon, it's a collector's item! And it's not every day you find something this rare. Wednesday would love it!"

You shake your head. "I can't afford that, Enid. I'm just a high school student… I’ll steal it.. Where’s the store located?”

You lean back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Stealing a rare book from a specialized antique store sounds like a terrible idea, but you're desperate to impress Wednesday. Plus, you've always been pretty good at breaking and entering.

"The store is downtown, near the old theater district," Enid says, squinting at the screen. "It's called 'The Raven's Nest' - fitting, right? They specialize in rare horror literature and occult artifacts."

You smirk. "The Raven's Nest... I like it. Okay, here's the plan: we'll case the joint tonight, figure out their security system. Then tomorrow night, I'll break in and grab the book while you keep watch outside."

Enid looks nervous. "Are you sure about this? I mean, what if you get caught? What if there's some kind of magical protection on the book?"

You roll your eyes. "There's no such thing as magic, Enid. And I won't get caught - I'm the fucking master thief of Nevermore Academy.”

—

As you and Enid walk down the darkened streets of downtown, you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins. The anticipation of pulling off this heist and surprising Wednesday with the perfect gift is almost too much to bear.

"Alright, here's the plan," you whisper to Enid as you approach the old brick building that houses The Raven's Nest. "I'm gonna scope out the back entrance while you check out the front. See if you can spot any security cameras or alarm systems."

Enid nods nervously, clutching her jacket tight around herself. "Got it. But be careful, okay? I don't want you ending up in jail or worse..."

You flash her a cocky grin. "Relax, Enid. I've got this. Nothing can stop me once I set my mind to something."

With that, you split up, each of you slipping into the shadows to survey the store. The back alley is dimly lit, with only a single flickering bulb casting a weak glow. You notice a rusty fire escape leading up to a second-story window - the perfect entry point.

Enid shivers, pulling her collar up against the chill night air. She scans the front of the building, noting the ornate iron gate and the dim lights from inside. There seem to be cameras positioned above the door, but no obvious alarms.

You quietly ascend the fire escape, each step sending a faint creak echoing through the alley. At the window, you peer inside, spotting rows of shelves packed with dusty tomes and strange artifacts. In the center of the room, a glass case catches your eye - and inside it, the priceless first edition of "The Tell-Tale Heart".

You carefully pry open the window, wincing as the old hinges let out a soft groan. With a deep breath, you hoist yourself inside, landing softly on the creaky wooden floorboards. The musty smell of old books and mothballs fills your nostrils as you creep through the shadowy aisles, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you approach the glass case, you can't help but marvel at the beauty of the ancient tome. The leather cover is worn and cracked with age, but the gold lettering still glints in the dim light. You reach out, your fingers trembling slightly as they brush against the cool glass.

Just then, a sudden noise from the front of the store makes you freeze. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, growing louder with each passing second. You glance around frantically, searching for a place to hide, but the open layout of the shop offers little cover.

Panic rising in your throat, you duck behind a nearby shelf, praying that whoever it is won't spot you. The footsteps grow closer, accompanied by the jingle of keys and the click of a lock being undone.

You hold your breath, pressing your back against the wall as the footsteps draw nearer. Your heart hammers in your chest, threatening to give away your position. The shop door creaks open, and a beam of light slices through the darkness, illuminating a section of the floor just inches from where you're hiding.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice calls out. "I know someone's in here!"

You remain perfectly still, barely daring to breathe. The light from the doorway sweeps across the room, and you shrink further into the shadows, praying that your black clothes will camouflage you against the dimness.

The footsteps move closer, the owner of the shop clearly searching for the intruder. You consider making a run for it, but the thought of being caught red-handed with the stolen book makes you hesitate.

The owner's footsteps pause just outside the aisle where you're hiding. Your palms are slick with sweat as you grip the edge of the shelf, preparing to bolt if necessary. The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly, each one feeling like an eternity.

Suddenly, a hand reaches around the corner, grasping at the air mere inches from your face. You flinch instinctively, but manage to hold your ground, not daring to make a sound. The owner steps into view, his thick-rimmed glasses reflecting the dim light as he scans the area.

"I've got you now, you little thief," he growls, his breath hot and rank as it washes over you. "Come on out, hands where I can see them!"

Your mind races, desperately trying to formulate an escape plan. You could try to overpower him, but he's significantly larger than you, and the risk of him calling the police is too high. No, you need to be smart about this.

As the owner takes another step forward, you make your move. Ducking low, you sprint past him, heading straight for the back of the shop.

The owner bellows in anger, his heavy footsteps thundering after you. "Stop, thief! I'm calling the cops!"

You don't dare look back, pouring every ounce of speed into your desperate flight. Your lungs burn as you race through the cramped aisles, dodging past stacks of books and leaping over precariously balanced piles of occult trinkets.

Just as you're certain the owner is about to catch you, you spot the back door. With a burst of adrenaline, you lunge for it, your fingers scrabbling at the handle. The door swings open, revealing the darkened alley beyond.

You tumble out into the night, the cool air hitting your face like a slap. Behind you, the owner's furious shouts echo from the shop, followed by the shrill ring of a phone - no doubt calling the police.

You don't stop running until you're several blocks away, your chest heaving and your legs burning with exertion. Only then do you allow yourself a moment to catch your breath, leaning heavily against a brick wall as you gasp for air.

You turn to Enid who’d been running after you, “you’re an amazing lookout..” You mumble sarcastically.

Enid looks absolutely terrified, her eyes wide and her face pale in the moonlight. She's breathing hard, her chest heaving with each ragged gasp. "I... I tried to warn you," she stutters, her voice trembling. "I saw him coming in and I ran to find you, but... but you were already gone."

You push off the wall, your legs still shaky from the adrenaline rush. "It's okay," you say, trying to sound calmer than you feel. "We got away, that's what matters… I got the book.”

You pull the book from your jacket, holding it up in the moonlight. The leather cover glistens, and you can't help but feel a surge of pride at your successful heist.

Enid's eyes widen as she takes in the ancient tome. "Wow," she breathes, "you actually did it. You stole a first edition Poe book!"

You grin, tucking the book safely back into your jacket. "Of course I did. I told you, I'm the best thief in town."

Enid shakes her head in disbelief. "I can't believe you just broke into a store and stole something. That's so... so..."

"Cool?" you suggest, raising an eyebrow.

Enid laughs nervously. "No, not cool. Crazy! You could have gotten in serious trouble."

You wave a dismissive hand. "But I didn't. And now Wednesday is going to have the most amazing birthday present ever."

Enid bites her lip, looking uncertain. "Are you sure about this? I mean, what if she finds out you stole it? She might be mad."

“She won’t. Trust me.”

—

After weeks of planning and anticipation, the day has finally arrived. You've managed to lure Wednesday out of the house under the pretense of a "special surprise", blindfolding her before she could ask too many questions. Now, as you guide her down the street towards the escape room, your heart is pounding with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

"Where are we going?" Wednesday asks, her voice muffled by the blindfold. "This better not be some kind of lame party or something."

You can't help but chuckle at her grumpy tone. "Relax, Wednesday. It's nothing like that. Just trust me, okay? I promise you're going to love it."

Wednesday huffs but doesn't protest further, allowing you to lead her onwards. As you approach the escape room, you can feel a sense of anticipation building in your gut. You've put so much thought into this surprise, and you're determined to make it perfect.

The door to the escape room looms ahead, and you take a deep breath before pushing it open.

As you guide Wednesday inside, the blindfold is removed, revealing a dimly lit room decorated with eerie candles and macabre artwork. Wednesday blinks, her eyes adjusting to the gloom as she takes in her surroundings.

"What is this place?" she asks, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Some kind of gothic-themed restaurant?"

You grin, shaking your head. "Nope. It's an escape room. And it's all for you, Wednesday. Happy early birthday."

Wednesday's eyes widen, a flicker of surprise crossing her usually stoic features. "An escape room? Seriously? You know I hate those tourist trap things."

You place a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I know, but this one is different. It's tailored specifically to your interests. Mysteries, puzzles, all that creepy stuff you love. Plus, it's just the two of us. No annoying strangers to deal with."

Wednesday narrows her eyes, studying you intently. "Okay, I'll bite. What's the catch? There's no way you'd actually think I'd enjoy some dumb escape room."

You can't help but smile at her skepticism. It's one of the things you love about Wednesday - her sharp mind and unwillingness to be fooled by empty gestures.

"No catch," you assure her, holding up your hands in a gesture of sincerity. "I know how much you love a good mystery, and I thought this would be a fun way to celebrate your birthday. Plus, I may have mentioned to the owners that you're a bit of an expert in this kind of thing. They're really excited to have you try it out."

Wednesday's expression softens slightly, a hint of curiosity sparking in her dark eyes. "They know about me? How?"

You shrug, trying to play it cool. "I may have dropped a few hints about your... unique skill set. But they were sworn to secrecy. This whole thing is just between us."

As you and Wednesday enter the dimly lit escape room, you can't help but feel a rush of excitement. The space is decorated with an eerie attention to detail, filled with cryptic symbols, antique furniture, and a general atmosphere of macabre intrigue.

Wednesday's eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail with a keen curiosity. "Looks like they did their research," she murmurs, running a finger along the spine of an ancient-looking book resting on a nearby table.

You nod, grinning with pride. "I told you, I made sure it was the perfect fit for you. And trust me, the best part is yet to come."

Wednesday raises an eyebrow, but before she can respond, a low, ominous voice echoes through the room. "Welcome, dear guests," it intones, "to the Addams Family Escape Room Experience."

Wednesday's head snaps up, her eyes widening with surprise. "Wait, what?"

The voice continues, "In this immersive adventure, you'll navigate the twisted world of the Addams family, solving puzzles and unraveling secrets.”

The voice pauses dramatically before continuing, "Your objective is simple: escape the room before the clock strikes midnight, or risk being trapped forever in the Addams family's morbid mansion."

A sinister laugh echoes through the speakers, sending a shiver down your spine. Wednesday, meanwhile, seems entirely unfazed, her expression one of intense focus as she begins to examine the room more closely.

"Impressive," she admits grudgingly, running her fingers along the intricate carvings on a nearby bookshelf. "They've really captured the my family’s aesthetic."

Wednesday's eyes narrow as she takes in the details of the room, her mind already working to piece together the clues. The walls are adorned with eerie paintings and strange artifacts, each one seemingly hiding a hidden meaning or secret.

"Okay, let's start with the basics," Wednesday mutters, more to herself than to you. She begins to methodically search the room, her movements precise and purposeful.

As she works, you can't help but marvel at her incredible focus and deduction skills. It's like watching a predator stalk its prey, every action calculated and deliberate.

Wednesday pulls a dusty old book from the shelf, its pages yellowed and brittle. As she flips through the pages, her eyes widen. "Found something," she says, showing you a page filled with cryptic symbols and riddles.

You lean in closer, trying to decipher the message, but it's like reading a foreign language. "What does it say?" you ask, feeling a bit lost in the face of Wednesday's brilliance.

Wednesday's lips curve into a small, enigmatic smile as she traces her finger over the cryptic symbols. "It's a riddle," she explains, her voice low and conspiratorial. "A challenge, of sorts."

She reads the words aloud, her tone almost reverent:

"Seek the key that lies within

The heart of darkness, where the shadows begin."

Wednesday closes the book, her gaze sweeping the room once more. "Darkness, shadows... I wonder if that's literal or metaphorical."

She strides over to a large, ornate mirror hanging on the far wall. As she approaches, you notice a faint glow emanating from the frame, pulsing in time with some unseen heartbeat.

Wednesday reaches out, her fingers hovering just above the surface. "Interesting," she murmurs, her breath fogging the glass. "This could be it. The 'heart' of the room."

She turns to you, her eyes glinting with a newfound intensity. "I'm going to need you to do something for me," she says, her voice steady and commanding.

"I need you to stand behind me," Wednesday instructs, her voice low and authoritative. "And when I give the signal, I want you to push me against the mirror as hard as you can."

You blink, taken aback by her request. "What? Are you sure that's safe? I don't want to break it or hurt you."

Wednesday's eyes narrow, a hint of impatience flashing across her face. "Trust me, Y/N. I've done my research. This mirror is reinforced, designed to withstand pressure. It's part of the puzzle."

Still uncertain, you nevertheless comply, moving to stand behind her. Wednesday positions herself in front of the mirror, her stance wide and her muscles tensed. She nods once, a silent signal for you to proceed.

Taking a deep breath, you place your hands on her shoulders, feeling the firmness of her muscles beneath your palms. With a grunt of effort, you push, propelling Wednesday forward into the mirror.

As Wednesday collides with the mirror, there's a blinding flash of light and a crackling sound, like electricity surging through the glass. For a moment, you're blinded, your vision swallowed by the brightness. But as the glow fades, you blink rapidly, trying to clear your eyes.

When your vision returns, Wednesday is gone. Vanished. In her place, the mirror reflects an image of a dark, shadowy hallway stretching into the distance.

For a heart-stopping moment, you're frozen in shock, your mind struggling to process what just happened. Then, as panic starts to set in, you hear a voice echoing down the hallway, distant but unmistakably Wednesday's.

"Y/N! I'm in here!"

You lean closer to the mirror, your breath fogging the glass as you peer into the shadowy depths. "Wednesday?" you call out, your voice sounding small and uncertain. "Where are you?"

There's a pause, and then Wednesday's voice returns, sounding strained and urgent. "I'm stuck, Y/N. I need you to follow me. Quickly!"

"Hurry, Y/N!" Wednesday calls out, her voice echoing strangely in the shadowy hallway beyond the mirror. "I think I found the key, but I can't get it out."

Your heart pounds as you lean closer to the mirror, your reflection staring back at you from the darkened glass. The image of the hallway wavers and shifts, as if the shadows themselves are alive and moving.

Taking a deep breath, you reach out and press your palm flat against the mirror's surface. The glass is cold and smooth beneath your fingers, but as you apply pressure, you feel it beginning to give way, like a door yielding to a firm push.

With a grunt of effort, you step forward, feeling the resistance of the mirror against your body. For a moment, it's as if you're being pressed between two planes of existence - the real world behind you, and the shadowy realm ahead. Then, with a final heave, you stumble through, tumbling into the darkness beyond.

You land on your hands and knees, the floor beneath you cold and damp. As you push yourself upright, you see Wednesday standing a few feet away.

She's standing in a shadowy corridor, her face illuminated by the faint, eerie glow emanating from the walls. Wednesday's eyes widen as she sees you emerge from the mirror, relief and urgency flashing across her features.

"Thank god you're here," she breathes, her voice trembling slightly. "I was starting to think I might be trapped in here forever."

You take a moment to orient yourself, taking in the strange, otherworldly environment surrounding you. The walls seem to pulse with an inner light, casting shifting shadows across the floor. The air is thick and heavy, carrying an unsettling scent of decay and old secrets.

"What is this place?" you whisper, your voice sounding too loud in the oppressive silence.

Wednesday shakes her head, her eyes never leaving the object clutched in her hand. "I'm not entirely sure," she admits, her tone uncharacteristically uncertain. "But I think it's part of the escape room's final challenge."

She holds out the object for you to see - a small, ornate key, its metal surface etched with strange, twisting symbols.

Wednesday holds the key up to the flickering light, examining its intricate design. "The inscription... it matches the symbols from the riddle in the book. I think this is what we've been searching for."

She glances around, her eyes scanning the shadowy corridor. "But there's no lock here. We need to find where this key belongs."

You nod, following Wednesday's gaze as she begins to move down the hallway, her steps cautious and deliberate. The walls seem to shift and sway as you pass, the air growing colder with each step.

Wednesday stops suddenly, her head tilting to the side as she listens to a distant sound. "Do you hear that?" she whispers, her voice barely audible over the oppressive silence.

You strain your ears, trying to pick up on any noise. At first, there's nothing, but then you catch it - a faint, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat echoing through the darkness.

"It's coming from that way," Wednesday says, pointing down a side passage branching off from the main corridor. "We need to follow it."

As you and Wednesday move deeper into the shadowy realm behind the mirror, the atmosphere grows heavier and more oppressive with each step. The thumping sound grows louder, more insistent, echoing through the dark corridors like a macabre heartbeat.

Wednesday's brow furrows in concentration, her eyes scanning the walls for any clue or hidden passage. She moves with a predatory grace, her steps silent and purposeful as she navigates the twisting labyrinth.

Suddenly, she stops, her hand shooting out to grab your arm. "Look," she hisses, her breath hot against your ear.

You follow her gaze to where the wall seems to ripple and shift, like water disturbed by an unseen hand. As you watch, a shape begins to emerge from the shadows - the outline of a door, its surface covered in the same eerie symbols that adorn the key in Wednesday's hand.

Wednesday's grip on your arm tightens, her nails digging into your skin. "This is it," she breathes, her voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "The final challenge."

Wednesday's hand trembles slightly as she raises the key, the metal glinting in the eerie light emanating from the walls. With a deep breath, she fits the key into the lock, the symbols aligning with a satisfying click.

As the lock disengages, the door creaks open, revealing the room they’d started in.

"That was... impressive," she says, turning to face you. "I mean, it was still an escape room, but at least it had some real challenges. Whoever designed this clearly knows their stuff."

You step forward, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of your mouth. "You're welcome," you say, pulling the carefully wrapped package from behind your back. "Happy birthday, Wednesday."

Wednesday's eyes widen as she takes in the small, rectangular shape of the gift. She reaches out tentatively, her fingers brushing against the smooth paper. "What is it?"

"Open it and see," you encourage, handing her the package.

Wednesday tears into the wrapping paper with gusto, revealing the pristine leather cover of the book underneath. Her eyes widen as she reads the title embossed in gold lettering: "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe.

"Is this...?" she breathes, running her fingers reverently over the ancient binding. "A first edition? Y/N… How much did you spend-“ She begins, ready to scold you.

“-I stole it.”

Wednesday's eyes snap up to meet yours, her expression a mix of shock and awe. "You... you stole this for me?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, but there's an undercurrent of something else beneath the surface - something that sends a shiver down your spine.

"That's right," you confirm, stepping closer to her. "I knew how much you loved Poe, and I wanted to give you something truly special for your birthday. Something no one else could ever give you."

Wednesday's gaze drops back to the book, her fingers caressing the leather cover with a reverence that borders on obsessive. "This is... incredible," she murmurs, almost to herself. "I can't believe you'd go to such lengths for me."

You reach out, gently tilting her chin up to meet your eyes once more. "Of course I would," you say softly, your voice low and intimate. "You're worth it, Wednesday. More than worth it."

Wednesday's breath hitches as your fingers brush against her skin, her dark eyes searching yours for any sign of deception or ulterior motive. But all she sees is sincerity, and maybe something deeper - a longing that mirrors her own.

"Why?" she asks, her voice barely audible. "Why would you do this for me?"

You lean in closer, your lips nearly brushing against her ear. "Because I care about you, Wednesday," you murmur, your breath warm against her skin. "More than I've ever cared about anyone else. And I wanted to prove it to you, in a way that no one else could."

Wednesday's heart pounds in her chest, her body responding to your proximity in ways she didn't know were possible. She's always prided herself on her emotional detachment, her ability to remain unaffected by the whims and fancies of others. But with you, she feels herself crumbling, her carefully constructed walls beginning to fall away.

Wednesday's breath catches in her throat as your lips brush against her ear, your whispered confession sending a jolt of electricity through her body. For a moment, she's frozen, her mind reeling as she tries to process the intensity of the moment.

But then, slowly, she raises her hand, her fingers coming to rest gently against your chest. She can feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat beneath her palm, a reminder of the life and warmth that lies beneath your skin.

"Y/N," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "I... I don't know what to say."

You pull back just enough to meet her gaze, your eyes dark with desire and something deeper, more profound. "You don't have to say anything," you murmur, your hand coming up to cup her cheek. "Just let me show you."

And then, before she can react, you're leaning in, your lips capturing hers in a kiss that steals the breath from her lungs. Wednesday's eyes flutter closed, her body melting into yours as she surrenders to the sensation of your mouth moving against hers.

Wednesday's mind reels as the kiss deepens, her senses overwhelmed by the taste and feel of your lips against hers. She's kissed you before, of course - quick, furtive pecks stolen in the dark corners of school. But nothing like this. Nothing that makes her feel so alive, so utterly consumed by the other person.

Your hand moves from her cheek to the back of her neck, your fingers tangling in the silky strands of her hair. Wednesday lets out a soft moan, her body arching into yours as her hands come up to grip your shoulders. She's never felt so wanted, so desired, and it's both thrilling and terrifying all at once.

For a long moment, Wednesday is lost in the sensation of your kiss, her mind going blank as she succumbs to the heat of your touch. But then, with a sudden surge of willpower, she pulls away, her chest heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.

Wednesday's eyes snap open, her gaze locked with yours as she tries to regain her composure. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from the intensity of the kiss, and she can feel a warmth spreading through her body that has nothing to do with the heat of the moment.

—

[cedarxwing]

Absolutely FERAL over the hannigram privacy room scene...

Will is SO disgusted with Hannibal. From his perspective, either:

a) Hannibal thinks Will and everyone else is stupid enough to believe the copycat killer murdered the bailiff.

b) Hannibal is playing dumb to screw Will over in his trial, ensuring he'll get the death penalty.

c) Hannibal killed the bailiff but didn't do it properly on purpose to sadistically dangle Will's freedom in front of him before snatching it away.

Meanwhile, Hannibal looks sooo pathetic. Sad wet cat can't fool Will the way he could in S1 anymore. Ugh, step on him, Will. Squash him like a bug.

Hannibal's doublespeak here is insane.

"I wanted to dispel your doubts once and for all." <- Obviously, Will's first thought is that Hannibal means, "I want you to believe I'm not the copycat killer." That's the biggest "doubt" Will has about him, after all. But that makes absolutely no sense in this context, because how does a copycat murder happening while Will is in prison help prove Hannibal's innocence? It's doesn't! The opposite, in fact!

So we get a beautiful "what the fuck" moment from Will as he tries to figure out what Hannibal could possibly mean. Is Hannibal admitting that he did kill the bailiff on Will's behalf? Or does he only mean that he wished the secret admirer could be mistaken for the copycat, so that Will won't doubt that Hannibal is trying to get him out of prison?

"I want you to believe in the best of me, Will. Just as I believe in the best of you." <- Line that makes me want to throw Hannibal in a washing machine on a high spin cycle, because how does he always string words together into perfect optical illusions? He sounds like he's still trying to convince Will that he's innocent, but he really means, "I want you to believe that I have the best intentions for you." And to a normal person, "believing in the best of Will" would mean believing in his innocence, but of course Hannibal means that he believes Will is really a killer deep down inside. UGH.

But this is the moment that really does it for me. When Will won't play along with the bailiff lie, Hannibal throws a TANTRUM. Looking away, fidgeting, complaining that Will's locked away in prison like he's a toy his parents put on a shelf too high for him to reach. This line omits some sentences from the script, boiling them down to this momentary emotional outburst:

He's goading Will, trying to get him to participate in the "alchemy of lies and truths." Whispering, "Jack and Alana are no better than Kade Prurnell, lying about your sanity because they think you did it. They don't want you to walk free like I do. I'm willing to say whatever (or kill whoever) it takes to get you out of here."

And it works. Will ends up dropping his insanity defense. Is he so sick of prison life that he's willing to risk death for a slim chance at freedom? Or does he trust that Hannibal will do anything keep him out of the electric chair? The night after his plea of not guilty is ruled invalid, alone in his cell, is Will anticipating his own execution or the judge's?

Bonus points for Hannibal's pretty pink paisley tie and matching plaid suit. Babygirl dolled himself up before visiting Will. 💕

[charlotteking23]

The Lion's Lamb - Chapter 7 - MV1/33

Max Verstappen x reader

The Lion's Lamb Series: Aesthetics, Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5, Ch.6, Ch.8, Ch.9

Over the next few days, the two would meet up casually, either to get coffee at the cafe they met at, going for walks, and even getting casual dinners together.

Their conversations usually surround you, about your life, dreams, and aspirations.

Whenever the conversation switched over to Max, mainly about his line of work, he would always quickly change the subject.

You thought it was odd, but figured it wasn't something he wanted to talk about and he'd open up when he wanted to.

It was Friday evening and sadly Max was pushed into a boys nights with his friends, leaving you to figure out what to do for the night.

You knew Max had told you to text him if you needed him, but you didn't want to bug him, especially if he was around his friends.

You didn't want to be the type of girl that would continuously blow up a man's phone while he was out.

It was around 8pm when Amelia came storming into your room, "you're coming out with me tonight."

"Why do I have to go out?" You asked.

"Well I can't go alone," Amelia said dramatically, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Cant you go out with your friends? I really don't feel like going out tonight."

"You have too! Who knows what will happen to a young, pretty girl like me all alone at a club!"

You bit your lip while nodding your head slowly, feeling guilty if you left Amelia to go out alone and something were to happen to her.

"Great!" We leave at 10:30," Amelia said smugly before happily leaving the room.

By 10:45, the two girls had arrived at the club. You're trying your best to keep close to your roommate as they made their way through the busiest club in Monaco to get to the bar.

It was true that Amelia wanted the girl to go out with her so she wouldn't be alone, but it wasn't the full truth.

She knew how pretty the you were, how your aura of innocence you projected attracted men like a moth to a flame.

You had no idea that your roommate was using you to attract men. You were playing the oblivious wing man.

After ordering both of the girls a drink, Amelia was quick to pull you out onto the dance floor before you could even think about protesting.

While your roommate started dancing, trying to attract men towards her while you sat there awkwardly taking small sips of your drink.

You were uncomfortable with the amount of people surrounding you causing you to feel claustrophobic.

They were on the dance floor long before two men found their way towards to the pair.

One was blonde with brown eyes, average built and height. The other was brunette with brown eyes so dark they could be mistaken for black. But this man was shorter then the other but slightly more built. They were both attractive looking, and just by looking at them, a person could tell they reeked of daddy's money.

While the blonde went over to Amelia and whispered something in  her ear, the brunette stood there, staring at you. The look in his eyes made you nervous and intimidated the hell out of you.

"We're joining them at their table," Amelia interrupted before grabbing you by the hand and dragging you to the two men's booth.

Amelia is moving to sit next to the blonde and the brunette coming to sit next to you, uncomfortably close.

"I'm John," the man stated after an awkward amount of time passed with them just sitting in silence.

"(your name)," the girl responds softly, giving the man a small smile, trying to be polite.

The smirk that rested on John's face told the girl everything she needed to know. He knew he was an attractive man and used it to his advantage.

He knew that any girl at that club would be clawing to get his attention, yet he was intrigued on the one girl who didn't want it.

You continued to talk to him, making small talk because you didn't know any better.

You thought you were being polite and just trying to make it through the night. John took it for flirting.

Little did he know that the only person you were interested in was a blue eyed Dutchman.

"What is a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?" John asks while slowing inching closer towards you, resting his arm behind you on the back of the booth.

"My roommate wanted me to come out with," you politely stated, deciding to ignore the compliment and keep it short.

Before John could continue, alcohol was brought to their table. John, his friend and Amelia all were taking shots, the man next to her talking at least 5 in a 30 minute period.

They asked the girl if she wanted some, but you declined, okay with sipping what was left of your original drink.

It didn't take long for John to make his move after that. Thought their conversation, he had scooted closer until his knees were touching her.

His arm behind your back, causing you to be slightly trapped when he leaned in and started to run his hand up your thigh.

"Why don't you and I get out of here baby," he whispered in her ear, his lips grazing her ear.

You quickly jumped back from your seat, trying to get out of his reach.

"No," you stated sharply, but fear filled your entire body. You turned to catch Amelia's eyes to try to signal to her for help, but she was too busy making out with John's friend.

"Come on sweetheart, you wouldn't be here dressed in that sexy little dress if you weren't trying to get someone attention," he said slowly moving closer again, like a predator stalking its prey.

In an instant, you stood up mumbling about having to go to the bathroom. you bolted to the toilets in hopes of escaping the situation.

Max had spent the evening hanging with his friends and playing videos games together.

He hadn't done it in a while since meeting you, but you insisted he hang out with his friends, thinking he never gets to see them because he travels so often.

He was glad he did it because he had time to relax a bit before their next race in Qatar next weekend.

He arrived home close to midnight, and immediately laid down in bed, ready for a good nights rest when his phone sudden rang.

Looking at the caller ID he couldn't help the smile that erupted across his face.

"Hello beautiful," he said gently.

"M-Max," he heard your weak stuttering voice through the phone.

"What's wrong?" He asked, sitting up immediately.

"I'm scared." Your broken words echoed through the phone, leaving an impact on his heart with those two words.

"I-I went out with Amelia, a-and this man started to put his h-hand up my dress and I'm scared."

"Where are you? I'll come and get you right now"

"I don't know," you say softly, "I've never been here before. I don't remember the name."

"Okay love, can you send me your location?" He spoke softly, not wanting to cause anymore fear or anxiety.

"Okay," you mumble.

Max looked at where you were at and luckily the club was only 5 minutes away from his apartment.

"Okay love, I'll be there in 10 minutes. Why don't you go wait outside in front so the bouncers can watch out for you."

"Okay," you stated quickly before hanging up.

The Dutchman quickly bolted towards his front door, scared out of his mind. In his line of work, fear wasn't an option.

If they have fear while driving, they wouldn't survive. For the first time in his life he actually felt fear when hearing your meek voice say those words.

I'm scared

Those words echoes through his brain as he drove to his little lamb. He felt like someone stabbed him in the heart.

He made a promise to himself that his little lamb will never have to feel this way ever again.

You decided you had to grab Amelia and take her with you, or at least have to decency to tell her you're leaving if she refuses to come with you.

Swiftly, you left the bathroom to go back to the booth where you end up finding no one except one person, John.

"Where's Amelia?" You asked with hesitancy, wanting nothing more than to just leave.

"She left sweetheart," he said with a smirk.

"What?"

"She went home with David," he started to make his way closer to her again, his eyes darkening even more than they already were, "Now it's just me and you daring. Why don't we go and have some fun?"

"No," You said, taking a few steps back, "my friend is waiting for me outside."

Without another word, you finally made your way towards the exit, deciding not to give John the chance to keep coming after you.

It wasn't until you felt the cool Monaco breeze on your skin did you actually let out a breath of relief. You tried to even out your breathing, calming herself down but you couldn't.

The loud pounding of the music emitted from the club caused you to slowly make your way down the street towards the street corner.

You started up in the night sky. A wave of peace and calm washed over you as you gazed upon the stars that filled up the dark night sky.

Sadly, this peace did not last long as you felt a hand grip your arm tightly, making you cry out in pain as the person turned you towards them.

John stands before you again, yanking your body closer to him, leaving no room for you to struggle.

You scratched and tried to fight him but he quickly gripped your wrist, tight enough that there will surely be a bruise there tomorrow.

"I've been looked my everywhere for you darling," he whispered close to ear, pulling back with a wicked grin on his face.

"Let go of me," You hoped your voice would come out strong but it came out weak and fearful.

"I can't do that sweetheart," he tilted his head slightly to the side, starting you down like you were a monkey in a zoo, "you're coming with me."

"No!" You shouted hoping that someone would hear you. You need to escape somehow now or else-. You honestly didn't want to think about what would happen if you didn't.

"Stop fighting," John snaps, annoyed at your struggling, but You refused to go down without a fight.

One minute you struggled with John, the next you were being pulled away from him into someone else's arms.

This person wrapped you up in their arms, their firm chest provided you some form of comfort.

You didn't care who this person was, anyone was better than being stuck with John.

"Don't you dare fucking touch her!" The rumble of a familiar voice vibrated through the chest you currently leaned into.

Max.

Taglist: @shelbyteller, @smithieandy, @fangirlforever2000, @herexpertcollector, @vip-access, @genevieve-blr, @a-beaverhausen

[gingernut1314]

Could you write some luffy dating headcanons?🫶🫶🫶

Dating Luffy would Include...

Content: gender-neutral reader, more love bug Luffy, what I think dating Luffy would be like

Word Count: 700+

A/N: Umm....yesss!!! I'm always so down to write fluffy Luffy things!! If there are any specific dating escapades you'd like me to write about, just let me know! I hope you enjoy!

↞ to One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠

Luffy would be the softest, most kind person you’d ever dated

This man is peppering you with kisses every chance he gets

Hugging you every chance he gets

He’s just always finding ways to touch you

He needs to touch you, it’s his love language obvi

If you’re across the ship or somewhere doing something without him, he’s gonna stretch his arm or leg so that he can hold your hand or wrap an ankle around yours

Has close lined about half the crew cause of this

In his need to be close to you, expect to carry him a lot

Cause he’d gonna latch onto your back like some weird backpack

He’ll nuzzle his face in your neck and kiss your skin and tell you all the butterfly-inducing things he thinks of you

Luffy’s gonna say he loves you first

He might even say it way before you two start dating

This guy just loves his friends--you guys are his family

But when you two start dating, you might have to explain that you love him in a different way than you love the crew

Luffy might take a few moments to think this over, but I believe this guy is super emotionally intelligent so he’d know the difference 

And he has no problem letting you know he loves you in this different way too

Be ready to be the first person Luffy’s bringing his strange show and tell things too

Whether it’s a stick or a rock or a very creepy crawly bug, he’s gonna shove it way too close to your face and explain with a big old bright smile on his face what it is and how cool it is

Sometimes he’ll find cool gems or treasures and gift them to you

Sometimes, while on an island, he’ll see something that you just need to have

Of course, this man doesn’t have a single berri to his name, but he’ll beg Zoro or Sanji to buy it for him

And if he’s truly desperate, he’ll brave asking Nami for money

He’ll brave anything for you

He’s gonna do anything to see you smile and hear you laugh

He’ll do bad impressions of the crew or tickle you or even draw you something

He thinks you’re the most beautiful person in the world 

And he is not shy when it comes to telling you that

He’ll grab hold of your cheeks and tell you over and over till you feel like you might explode from the sweetness of it all

Luffy loves food

He lives and breathes food

Because of this, food, in a none cooking sense, is one of his love languages

Because while he will not share with anyone

You’ll find him not stealing food off your plate once you two start dating

You’ll find him making sure you’ve eaten enough before he vacuums down the rest of the food laid out for you all

If there was something you really were looking forward to eating, and Luffy has it on his plate, he’s gonna let you have a piece

You might even ask Sanji to teach you to cook something simple so you could cook for Luffy

And though Sanji assures you Luffy would beg for boiling water and eat burnt to near charcoal foods, he’ll understand you want it to be nice

Luffy will be brought to tears when you present your meal or snack to him

And he’ll attack you in hugs and kisses 

He’ll insist you share the food you made

I think any nicknames he gives you are gonna be food-related

“You’re my little rice ball or meatball” 

Might get the occasional Sunshine from him, but he’s coming up with these nicknames on the fly

And there are definitely ones that are better than others, but they are cute all the same

Ever since you two started dating, there hasn’t been a single night you two didn’t sleep in the same hammock

There really was rarely a night you two didn’t sleep together before you made your relationship official

But it’s mandatory now

And you are more than happy to be wrapped up in his strong, stretchy arms

Say goodbye to blankets cause Luffy is your blanket now

[shadowxamyweek]

Where Does the Headcanon That Silver Is Shadow and Amy’s Kid Come From?

Much like Shadow calling Amy, 'Rose,' Silver being Shadow and Amy's kid is everywhere. If nothing else, he's often relegated to a distant descendant. When did we all agree though that this was just kinda a thing? To answer that, we're going to have to back up to Dragon Ball.

Sega has never hidden its love of Dragon Ball. Much of what is now Sonic Canon just started out as Sega artists and game designers delighting in some of the cool stuff Dragon Ball does, including but not limited to how the 7 chaos emeralds parallel the 7 dragon balls, and how Sonic's super form mirrors Goku's. This is important to keep in mind because there's another set of parallels that are being drawn when the, 'Silver is Shadow and Amy's kid,' headcanon comes into play. In Dragon Ball, there's an villain turned anti-hero/secondary protagonist called Vegeta and a very bubbly, very domineering woman named Bulma. The two get together and have a kid, named Trunks. Trunks ends up time traveling, specifically going back in time to prevent certain tragedies from happening. Aaaaand then once again, in Sonic, we have Shadow, being a villain turned anti-hero/secondary protagonist, and Amy, being a bubbly and domineering girl. We've also got Silver, who ends up time traveling, specifically going back in time to prevent certain tragedies from happening. *gestures loosely* People on Sega's payroll have noticed the parallels and commented on them as well. In 2008, on his Bumble King website, Ian Flynn answered some fan questions about the subject:

Later, in 2023, Flynn and his cohost Crouse over on the @bumblekast answered a question about this again:

(It's at 1:26:13, just in case I messed up the link) ---- TRANSCRIPT Crouse: Right, here's another question. This one is from ChaosSonic1. "This might kill this headcanon for others, but it always bugs me: people constantly consider Shadow and Amy as Silver's parents but that would be impossible due to two things. One, Shadow was in prison for 200 years. Thoughts?" ...That's only one thing but okay. [Laughter] Flynn: It is something that's come up because there were a lot of weird parallels, number one that silver was, you know, decidedly based on Trunks and I think it's quite obvious that Shadow is the kind of Vegeta of this group. It makes Amy default to the Bulma, which isn't really solid. I mean, if anything, Tails is the Bulma of the group, but you know there are no solid one to ones throughout the whole thing. You started trying to get too specific with it and falls apart. There was other stuff like-... something in Sonic and the Black Knight-... Amy was Nimune and Shadow was Lancelot and Silver was-... Galahad... Point being, within Autherial 1:27:40 within Arthurian, lore Silver's character was the child of Shadow and Amy's characters, which kind of made everyone go, 'beg pardon?' (Brief pause, this is slightly incorrect. Nimune is both the singular and plural name for water nymphs, one, or all of which, raised Lancelot. Galahad is *only* Lance's child. Again, like Dragon Ball, not a one to one, but enough to cock an eyebrow.) Flynn: There's also like the kind of vague mysticism around Amy and the fact that Silver can do Chaos Control so it's like, did he inherit Shadow's Chaos Control and his psychic powers from Amy? And it's all like extremely loose vague breadcrumbs that don't really so much make a line as they just are kind of scattered in the water for the ducks to eat so no, it doesn't really make any sense because like you said, in that timeline, Shadow was sealed away for like the duration and it's still 200 years. I don't think Amy was, you know, secretly carrying Shadow's love baby that long. That doesn't add up...- I mean, who knows. I mean, if that is your headcanon, if that's your ship, if that's how you want to connect the dots, go nuts. I'm not going to shoot it down.

Crouse: But there's also the whole thing, like time travel is a thing.

Flynn: Yeah.

Crouse: A lot of other things are things that could happen, like- [Laugh].

Flynn: And Amy's associated with Little Planet a lot, I get it, you can- you could put the pieces together that way if you wanted. I just don't think that's what Sega's doing with it.

Crouse: Well, no, but you know, who cares what Sega's doing except you I guess. You have to. Flynn: I do. It's part of my job.

Crouse: You have to care, but the rest of us now, we don't have to. Screw whatever Sega's doing, we can do whatever we want. My headcanon.

---- (This evidence I have to thank @shadamyheadcanons for. I remembered reading this ages ago, but couldn't remember *where*. She also provided the Bumblekast interview. ) I'm also going to point out, as many have before, that Sonic plays loose and fast with what Chaos Energy/Magic/Science/Whatever can and cannot do, including but not limited to time stuff as evidence in Sonic 06, where Silver debuted. I've also talked before that just because we see a future based off of the current events and trajectory of those events in 06, that does not mean that said-future is set in stone, and may very well change if the characters themselves make different decisions.

And that's *only* arguments for the headcanon that Silver is, in fact, their child. That doesn't include just how much more liberty there is in the headcanon that Silver is some distant relative, who's bloodline is intrinsically tied to Shadow and Amy. So yeah! That's where the headcanon comes from! It's moments like these that I can appreciate the lack of details in Sonic. That's not a thing I say very often, but in situations like these, it really allows for an open imagination of the different parts and pieces, and how they all fit together. Sonic is fun like that, and I love it for this reason <3

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

I’m cackling at the idea of the bayverse boys going through the “baby’s first swear” moment 

Since the kiddos live in the sewer and all the turtles don’t seem like the type to swear around their kids (maybe Raph if especially angry) they would prolly end up learning it from Vern or Casey. 

Like just imagine any of the guys chilling with their kids, and then their little toddler son/daughter knocks over their juice cup and they just go “Shit” in their lil innocent kid voice with a grumpy pout, meanwhile their dads have snapped a wide eyed stare to them cuz WHERE did you hear that word?!- 

Obvs Leo would probably be the one who hates swearing the most and would be pretty angry in the moment but how would they all handle the aftermath? Like would they implement something sorta like a swear jar system? Would they just give their kids a warning? Interrogate their family to find out who taught their kid to swear?? The chaos that would follow sounds hilarious!

Your Kids’ First Swear Word (Fluff/Crack)

Children Series

Bayverse!Turtles x reader

A/N: I am Danish, and in Denmark, cursing is an important part of our culture. No beeping out curse words here! We say the shit fucking proud and fucking loud!🗣🇩🇰 Sure, we tell children that it’s bad, but we don’t care too much. Remember, the Danish versions of TMNT 1987 and 2003 had the turtles cursing. I learned a specific word for retard, because Shredder kept using it on Bebop and Rocksteady😂 But the turtles are American, and that is different, so here you go. Hope you’ll enjoy💚

Warnings: Cursing lol.

Leonardo:

Romeo is 10, Marcello is 7, Gerardo is 4.

The children always loved when uncle Vern, uncle Casey and aunt April came to visit in the lair. Other than their mother and aunts, these were the only human connections the kids had.

Funnily enough, the children took a strong liking to Vern, always hanging around him whenever he came to visit, which was way less than Casey and April. But why did the kids like Vern so much? Maybe it was his strong reaction of confusion and slight annoyance when one of them came running, wanting some sort of attention from him. Especially Marcello, who found that if he tugged enough at Vern, the human would start muttering all sorts of strange words under his breath, almost like he was spitting them in the boy's direction.

The other kids took notice of this as well, especially Gerardo who started taking on his older brother’s habit of bugging Vern whenever he was around, just to hear the strange words that he would mumble. Words that Gerardo found absolutely hilarious, and would save in his memory for a lifetime. Because then he learned what those words meant… or sorta.

Vern, Casey and April was once again visiting the lair, coming to eat dinner with the large underground family. In these cases they all ate together in the living area, at a bunch of tables, all lined out in one liner continuation. It was here, in the middle of conversations and laughter, that Gerardo suddenly perked up out of nowhere, in a way that only made sense for a child his age.

“Uncle Vern taught me a word!”, he said proudly to you and Leo, as he suddenly remembered one of the words Vern had said last time he visited, kicking his feet under the table in excitement.

“And what is that word?”, you asked smiling, eyeing Marcello as he poured up a glass of water for Romeo, no indication in the slightest for what was about to come out of your sons mouth.

“Shitling!”, Gerardo yelled out proudly.

Silence fell over all the adults at the table, all while the children kept talking and yapping. You and Leo made wide eyed eye contact, before slowly turning your attention to Vern, who sat frozen with his fork halfway into his mouth.

Needless to say, but from that day, Vern really had to restrain his vocabulary whenever he was around the kids.

Raphael:

Joan is 11, Minerva is 7, Ragnar is 4.

With your husband’s foul mouth, one would not be blamed for believing that Raph had been living his whole life on a ship out in the big open ocean, instead of in the sewers below New York City. It had long gotten Raph into trouble with his own father, often being the reason he would find himself in the hashish. Yet he never seemed to learn from his punishments.

Even as you and Raph got together, his foul mouth would be going. Never because of you, no no, never you. You could never do anything wrong in Raph’s eyes. No, Raph would curse at pretty much anything else. His brothers annoyed him - curse. He was angry and needed to get his frustrations out with a good work out - curse. He accidentally burned himself when cooking - curse. He watched a game and either something good or something bad happened - curse. Raph was in a good mood, and he wanted to let you know just how happy he was - sweet words with curses for emphasis. In order words, cursing was just a part of Raphael’s natural vocabulary.

But when you and Raph started having children, your husband was forced to keep his colorful words for himself, only letting his curses fly when none of them was around, usually when they were in bed. But somehow, even when he kept a careful eye on who was around, your children managed to catch a few of those words.

It was just like any other day in the lair. Your children was playing in the living area, Minerva and Ragnar’s laughter ringing out loud from the couch while Joan watched them from the armchair, making sure that her little brother and little sister wouldn’t accidentally knock each other out in their little play fight. You and Raph sat just a small distance away, seeing your kids jump around, ready to intervene should something happen, when all of a sudden-.

“Asshole!”, Mini yelled out loud, causing her and Ragnar to laugh even louder.

You and Raph sat up straight, eyes wide in shock, not fully able to believe what you had just heard, when Ragnar piped up.

“Fuck face!”, he yelled, making Mini fall over on the couch, holding her stomach in laughter, almost falling off and onto the floor below. Ragnar, continuing the game he and his sister had going, stood up on the couch, his little form looking so adorable as he tried to square up. “Shit maggot!”

For a solid five minutes you and Raph sat in absolute shock, still processing what the two youngest of your angels had just blurted out. That was when Joan turned calmly towards the two of you, shrugging her shoulders.

“If you think this is bad, you should hear them when you’re not around”, she said, before turning her attention back on her siblings’ play fight.

After this you and Raph started keeping a sharp eye on your children’s vocabulary, and started cracking down harder on Raph’s own use of words.

Donatello:

Galileo is 12, Dorothy and Marie are 7.

For a long time, you and Donnie had had problems with Marie’s tendency to suddenly blurt out things. You could be sitting at the dining table with family and friends over, when Marie would all of a sudden turn towards Vern and ask; “why do you look like that?”

Vern would in turn look at Marie a little confused and ask; “look like what?”

“Like that”, Marie said, pointing at his face. “Ugly”.

Casey almost choked on his drink, and even Splinter fought not to smile. And it would have been slightly adorable, if it wasn’t for the fact that she did this quite often.

Marie didn’t say these things to be hurtful, no, she said these things because she was honest and curious. She never thought that the things that she said could be considered mean. She just wanted to know, and just like she had been taught; if you wanted to know something you would have to ask. That was something Donnie had taught her and her siblings, but never had he thought that it would lead to Marie being so blunt. So blunt that sometimes even her siblings were shocked.

But one this was being blunt, asking out of the blue questions that would take people aback, but never had Marie cursed. But that changed fast one day.

You, Donnie and your children were sitting in the kitchen, eating your breakfast together, talking about whatever things families would talk about in the mornings. Dorothy was telling Donnie about her big plans for the day, aka, dress up, while Galileo told you about a new video game he wanted to play soon, when suddenly Marie perked up with a question that had been playing on her mind.

“Dad?”, she asked, leaving the spoon in her cereal.

“Yes, sweetheart. What is it?”, Donnie asked, happy to see that Marie was at least asking permission to ask a question, instead of just blurting it out in the open.

“There’s a word I don’t understand. Do you know it?”

“What word is it?”

“It’s actually more than one word”, Marie said.

“Is that so?”, Donnie asked. “What are they?”

“Shut the fuck up, shit face”, Marie said, looking up to the side, as if she was trying to remember the exact words as she spoke.

You and Donnie were shocked, staring at her with wide eyes. Dorothy was confused, looking back and forth between her parents and her sister. But not Gali. Instead he gasped, looking offended.

“I told you to get out when I was playing that video game!”, he gasped. “You snuck back in?!”

“You didn’t lock the door”, Marie shrugged, continuing to eat her cereal while you and Donnie was still trying to process what just happened.

Michelangelo:

Sunny is 4, Luis is around 1.

Your dear, sweet little bundle of sunshine, Sunny, was at that period of her life, where she would push boundaries, and say all the words she heard around her, just to get a reaction out of her family members, sometimes even yelling instead of actually speaking. She had also recently had her first real temper tantrum, which, thankfully was rare for Sunny, but sadly not the last to come in the next few years.

Sunny had recently taken to asking you or Mikey for food, only to bring it to the couch, and eat and play with it, causing her to spill everywhere, which you and Mikey obviously wasn’t too happy about, causing you and your husband to put in all efforts to get rid of her habit. That even meant that Mikey could no longer bring snacks to the couch, as that would totally undermine all that the two of you had been working for.

But that didn’t stop Sunny from trying, often ending in failure, which resulted in her first temper tantrum, screaming over the fact that she wasn’t allowed to bring her dino nuggets to the couch, but would have to eat them at a table. That didn’t fly by Sunny, what so ever, causing her to scream and cry for two whole hours, making Luis just as fussy by the sound. Oh, it was exhausting.

But that still didn’t stop Sunny from trying. No, in fact it made her attempts more elaborate, sometimes even taking you and Mikey by surprise.

It soon became a matter of principle for Sunny. It was no longer about her getting to eat on the couch, but simply the act of bringing food to the couch without you and Mikey noticing it. Chips from the cupboard, a pizza slice, a handful of popcorn and one time even a frozen chicken. But soon, Sunny came up with what she considered a genius idea - a cup of juice. If she could bring that to the couch, she would have won the battle. And so, Sunny asked you for a cup of juice while sitting at the dining table, drinking half of the cup, before slowly sliding off her chair, making her way toward the living area with her small cup of juice in her hands.

Here Mikey was sitting in the armchair, bottle feeding Luis. That was perfect for Sunny. With her father’s attention grabbed by her baby brother, there was nothing that could stop her. And so, she quickly and silently made her way towards the couch, her half filled juice cup in her hands.

Once at the couch, she placed the cup on the soft couch cushion, letting it whopple when she then began to climb up on the same cushion, when the cup suddenly tumbled over, spilling juice all over the couch. The exact thing her parents didn’t want to happen. And that was when a word graced Sunny’s lips. A word she had never used before, yet she had heard it being spoken around the lair in situations like this.

“Shit”.

That was when she caught the attention of Mikey, who stood from the armchair, still with Luis in his arms, seeing the mess Sunny had made, her small curse still ringing in his ear.

After that day, Sunny was no longer allowed to bring food into the living area, with each curse word he said from that day forward, resulting in a week without dino nuggets.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

I love the way you write Logan, it's so comforting! Can't wait to see more of your work, it's lovely💗

Idk if this would be your thing so feel free to ignore obviously!

How do you think Logan's dynamic would be with a reader having intense intimacy issues, to the point where they struggle to even think about doing anything more than make out with him? I really haven't found any fic like that and I think that you would a concept like that more than justice

I do see him having some intimacy issues himself (traumatized wet cat💀)

this is so sweet, thank you so much! My brain immediately supplied a list of head canons, I hope that you enjoy <3

~ So I am thinking about Logan from the original trilogy for these in particular ~ He definitely has some intimacy issues, more so on the emotional intimacy side than physical intimacy ~That is, until he meets you. You're a professor at the school, and while he can tell you love the young mutants with a large part of your heart, you remain physically distant from them. When the Youngers ones reach for a hug, you meet them instead with a fist bump or a high five. Never cruel, but always setting your boundary. ~The first time you catch him noticing your habit, you expect him to roll his eyes, or hit you with a judgy side eye. Instead, he quirks his head and resumes what he had previously been doing. ~Eventually, the two of you start spending a lot more time together. He will nudge a cup of coffee your way, and ask after you when you have a headache. He never encroaches on your space, despite being quite touchy with the other faculty.

~You spend a week working up the courage to confront him about it, strategizing the best way to ask for the reassurance you want but have trouble asking for. You expect him to blow you off, but when you knock on his door, he ushers you inside and lets you choose where to sit in the room, choosing his seat to be close enough to show he is invested but far enough away for your comfort. It isn't even a conscious thought for him, it's natural. ~You fumble through your question, doing your best to explain your line of thinking, before eventually just spitting out "do you hate me?" ~He is so shocked that he doesn't know what to say for a few seconds, which only makes your anxiety feel worse. ~He takes a few seconds, collecting his thoughts, and then you can see the typical Logan smirk start sparkling in his eye again. "Sweetheart, it's a little hard to hate the person you're acting a fool over". Your eyes practically bug out of your skull, and he chuckles to himself. He is twitching in his seat, and you can tell he is trying his best to not gather you up in his arms. ~You extend a hand out to him, palm upturned. He takes it instantly. He raises your entwined hands halfway towards his mouth, before meeting your eyes and waiting for your reaction. ~You nod, holding your breath and he drops a kiss on the back of your hand, before adjusting so that he can kiss your palm as well. ~When he hears your heartbeat stutter, he is quick to hold your hand again, resting against his knee. He confirms that you feel the same way, insistent on getting verbal confirmation. Your face feels like it is on fire, but you reply in the affirmative. "We are going to take this as slow as you need. I... I care about you so much, and your comfort always comes before anything else." ~You feel a few tears well up, and he moves to wipe them away as they begin to fall. Again, he pauses before actually making contact with your face, waiting for your gentle nod. ~From that day on, you are even more attached at the hip than before. Logan loves knowing that you are with him for more than his body, and he is constantly making sure that you know how much he values you. ~Overall, I just imagine him being very sweet and understanding and taking it as slow as you need. He is protective of you when you meet new people, often coming in between you and others who are not as considerate as he thinks they should be. Definitely sends his protective instincts into a bit of an overdrive, but you also appreciate having the scary dog privilege when you are out in public as well. People are definitely giving you a wider berth than you are used to. You always feels safe and taken care of with him, which is exactly how he wants it to be

[vekreng]

Tech - Totally Not Crushing

prompt: "...something with tech and an awkward reader maybe they admit feelings for each other or they are caught being cute by the rest of the batch and they tease them?.." pairing: Tech x Reader words: 2.2k requested: yes!

You didn’t know if you wanted to scream for the sake of screaming or if you wanted to throw yourself in front of some wild beast.

It had been an absolute age since you met the Batch, and him. The individual members were all striking in their own way, but none stood out more to you than Tech.

Your throat buzzed with an idle hum as you watched him tinker on the Marauder. He wasn’t as physically strong as his other brothers, no, but his intellect was unmatched. He could see patterns in nature and people that were indecipherable to most, pointing out what was about to happen before even Hunter could pick it up at times. His mind stored a vast wealth of knowledge on just about everything you could name and then some. He lacked subtlety in only the most adorable way. His round, soft eyes looked gentler still through the amber lenses of his goggles. He checked on you after every mission or trip, asked for your assistance on just about every task.

Time and time again you tried to confess, and time and time again the words died on your tongue. You tried when you were paired up alone on a mission, when you two had to sneak through a palace, when you two were the only ones awake one night in hyperspace. It was always so perfect, except for… for what? Why could you never tell him? Nerves, maybe? Perhaps the way his eyes locked with yours caused you to instantly short circuit and forget everything you ever knew. Yeah. That was definitely it. A very logical explanation. 

Your eyes followed the fluid movement of his hands, his skillful fingers practically dancing through the ship’s wires as he teased out minor bugs in favor of much larger ones that he will try to convince Hunter are actually improvements.

God, you loved him.

If only you could just say it.

“Staring is only going to put him off, you know,” a voice drawled from behind. You whipped around in a panic, only to see Crosshair grinning your way. “Pretty sure you don’t want that.”

“Cross!” You scolded, pinching the bridge of your nose. God, of course it had to be him. “Give a bit of warning next time, maybe?”

“I’m a sniper. It’s quite literally my job to not give any warning.” He pushed himself off the door frame he was leaning on and made his way to your side, leaning down ever so slightly to be more level with you while you both watched Tech work. “What’s your goal here? Memorize every aspect of what he looks like so you can dream about him at night? Or are you going to say something like a normal person?”

“You’re such an ass,” you grumbled, glaring at the ground. “You have no idea how hard this is for me. What if he rejects me? We all live on one very tiny ship, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that tension! Or what if I do tell him and he just doesn’t get what I’m saying and I have to spend ages trying to get more and more blunt and obvious about it. Do you really expect me to live out the rest of my life reliving that moment forever?”

“And what if you tell him and he says he feels the same way?” Crosshair argued back. “Talk to him or leave him alone. You make me want to throw up every time I see how lovesick you are over him.”

“I can’t, Crosshair! I freeze up every time I try!” 

The sniper spun you around to face him. “In this line of work, freezing up could mean death for you and your teammates. You take action when it’s needed; I’ve seen you do it. What’s so different about this? Get it together, walk over there, and tell him how you really feel, before you don’t get to tell him at all.”

You could only blink at him.

------

Hunter peeked around the edge of the Marauder briefly to watch you and Crosshair fighting before turning back to Tech. “You’re going to have to face them eventually, you know.”

“I do not understand your meaning. I face them every day.” Tech soldered a broken wire together, tugging lightly on one end to ensure the connection was strong. “Your statement is baseless.”

“You’re misinterpreting my words on purpose,” Hunter pointed out as he waved to Wrecker. The strongest of them all brought over a massive crate of spare parts and started handing bits of them to Tech. “I’ve seen how you are. Somehow, you’ve mastered the art of having as much interaction with them as possible while also avoiding them.”

“I do not avoid anyone.”

Hunter barked out a laugh. “Oh, really? Then why do you only take piloting shifts when theirs isn’t right before or after yours, or run off into only known safe markets and leave us all behind?” He passed a spanner to his brother. “But when we’re in unfamiliar territory, you refuse to leave their side unless one of us is already sticking with them, and even then you try to weasel your way in. Face it, Tech. We all know you’ve got a bit of a crush on them.”

Tech maneuvered to the underside of the ship, his face a light sheen of red. “Ensuring the safety of a teammate is not evidence of a crush, Hunter. I am merely showing caution in hostile territory.”

“I think the only person who doesn’t know that you’re in love is them,” Wrecker butted in, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where you and Crosshair were squabbling. Hunter glanced over to see that Crosshair had put you in a headlock and refused to release you until you cried uncle. “You’re not really good at hidin’ it, to be honest.”

Tech huffed. “As I keep telling you both, I—”

Hunter suddenly called out your name, cutting Tech off. “We need to get a few more supplies before we take off. Can you help Tech finish things up here while we head to the stalls?”

Crosshair kicked your leg when you opened your mouth. “Yeah, we can’t trust you to get actual essentials. Besides, you probably know as much about the Marauder as Tech does by this point.”

Before you could protest, the three brothers vanished into the shadows of the docking station.

You gulped. Crosshair’s words looped in your head.

It had to happen at some point, you suppose.

Slowly, you walked to where Tech was gathering up his tools. “I thought you had more work to do?”

“I do,” Tech replied, not looking up from his task, “but the remaining repairs are inside the ship.”

Great, you thought as you followed, all alone and in a confined space. What could possibly go wrong?

------

You were pretty sure that you were going to implode if you spent another minute helping Tech in the cockpit. 

Somehow the man was far too close and much too far away at the same time. You inched nearer and he pulled back. You gave him space and he closed in. Every time you opened your mouth to speak he would unknowingly interrupt with some sort of commentary or delegation, and when you closed it he looked at you expectantly for a comment. Ugh, it was infuriating. Just speak already! Tell him you love him!

You took a deep breath. Alright, this time, for sure. No more backing out. You can do this. It’s just three words. You’ve got this.

You steadied the rickety stepladder that Tech insisted on using to reach a panel in the ceiling. A few safety lights had gone out and Hunter was worried that it was an indication of something bad despite the protests of his sibling.

This was it.

Another breath. “Hey, uh, Tech?”

Tech hummed. His head was completely buried in the darkness of the ship’s interior system.

You squeezed your eyes shut to muster up all the courage you possibly could. “Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, for… a while now. And I was hoping that, since everyone else is gone, we could talk— HOLY—”

Tech shouted in surprise as the ancient stepladder finally gave out from underfoot, his flailing limbs knocking the both of you over, crashing hard enough into the floor for you both to see stars briefly.

“That hurt,” you muttered as you forced your eyes back open. It took a second for them to focus, but once they did, you realized with a start that you were looking into Tech’s.

Which were mere inches away from yours.

Because he had also fallen.

Conveniently, you cushioned his fall.

Oh no.

Tech’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, and closed again. Even in your horror you couldn’t help but think that he looked an awful lot like a fish.

“I apologize,” he finally spluttered, scrambling off of you and sitting against the wall. “I, it was not my intention to, I mean, that is….” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. Are you injured?”

You slowly sat up, rubbing a hand over the shoulder that hit the ground first. “A little sore, but I’ll be okay. What about you?”

Tech carefully tilted his head back and forth. “Nothing is broken. My fall was successfully broken, albeit accidentally.” He looked back at you, his goggles askew and one lens fractured. “I should have calculated the risks of using that ladder more thoroughly. My carelessness resulted in your harm; I will grab the bacta patches. Remain here.”

“Tech, wait!”

He paused when your hand landed unexpectedly on his upper arm, staring blankly at it before focusing on you. “Yes?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Your… oh, just hold still for a second.” You reached up and removed his goggles, peering at the right lens. The crack didn’t stretch fully across, but the glass was compromised nonetheless and would need a replacement. “They’ll work for now, but I really hope you have a repair kit somewhere for these. Or a whole separate pair.” Carefully, you pulled the bent frame edges back into place before refitting them to his face. “How’s that?”

Tech let out a small puff, the air surprisingly cold against your hot skin.

Wait. Hot?

Oh, you were much closer than you previously thought. Oh. Oh no.

 “Thank you.” Your name escaped Tech’s lips in a whisper.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your head reeling from the proximity between you two. Or the fall and subsequent head injury. “Any time.”

The silence that followed felt like a lifetime, but a clock proved it to be only a few seconds.

“...Tech,” you said slowly, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. The timing felt so off, so wrong, so inappropriate somehow, but you already let too many ‘proper’ opportunities slip by. You couldn’t take the chance again. “Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. I wanted to tell you that I’m—”

“I love you!” Tech blurted out, grimacing right after for cutting you off.

Now it was your turn to make an impression of a fish.

“I’m… I’ve loved you for some time now. I love your smile, I love the crinkle by your eyes when you squint, I love how you look when you’re lost in thought. I love your laugh, your kindness, the way you look after my brothers just as we do to you. I love the effort you put into helping in any way you can, and how you show grace when someone makes a mistake. I know you’re leaving, but I had to tell you.”

Your finger tapped an uncertain rhythm on the floor of the Marauder, your brain running a thousand miles per second. Tech loved you back? And he thought you were leaving? “Why do you think I’m going away?”

“Echo has gone to work with Captain Rex once more; it was only logical that your recent shift in behavior and desire to express something important indicated you felt similarly,” Tech explained. “Was that… not accurate?”

You couldn’t help but laugh and oh, the sound was so sweet to your own ears. It was a mixture of pure joy and relief. “No, Tech, it wasn’t that. I just wanted to let you know that I love you too.” Your hand found his, your foreheads gently knocking together. “I love how serious you are, how studious you can be, how attentive you are to the world around you. I love how you ask me to explain social mannerisms in exchange for a personalized research dive on whatever I want. I love watching you be confident and skillful in your work, and I love when you let me convince you to relax and let someone else take over. I love you, Tech, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Tech smiled. “Though I think any further discussion should be put on hold until we get a bacta patch on your shoulder.”

A snort escaped your nose. “I’ll allow a distraction just this once, so long as you promise to help me out with it.”

“Naturally.”

[fanaticsnail]

Grand Line Playgroup

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,200+

Synopsis: Adoptive parents have all taken the initiative to join together with their children to form: Grand Line Playgroup. This is the way it usually goes at playgroup: filled with shenanigans, support, and most importantly love for their children. 

Themes: the adoptive parents of one piece, all children are all relatively aged 3 to 7, but Robin is 10, au they all live, modern au, platonic, not an “x reader” fic, parenting drabble, fluff, nonsense. 

Parents: Mihawk, Rosinante (Corazon), Bellemere, Dadan, Zeff, Uncle Beckman, Shanks, Garp, and Smoker.

Children: Perona, Zoro, Law(rence), Nojiko, Nami, Uta, Ace, Sabo, Luffy, Sanji, Uta, Koby, Helmeppo, Robin, and Tashigi.

Notes: A small drabble about what it would be like if the one-piece characters were adoptive parents to an assortment of their toddler counterparts. This silly brain-worm was brought to you by several conversations with @feral-artistry & @writingmysanity, and the bestest aunties @since-im-already-here & @sordidmusings. This worm got to me and I needed to get it out. Links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff, @gingernut1314, @vespidphoenix, @i-am-vita

Dracule Mihawk arrives at Grand Line Playgroup ten minutes early every single Tuesday. He has a personalized gothic embroidered bag for both of his children filled with snacks, changes of clothes, water bottles, first aid kits, and a book for him to read while his two children play.

He wears matching nail polish with his daughter, Perona: today, she chose pink with black accents. He has parenting down to a fine art, everything always perfectly planned for any circumstances. Zoro takes out a collection of sporting equipment and begins kicking around a soccer ball as he waits for his friends to join him. 

The next to arrive is Donquixote Rosinante. He always attempts to get there early: set up his variety of bags to ensure his son, Lawrence, has everything he needs to enjoy his time at playgroup. His hair is a blonde, fluffy mess of mopped curls, his clothes disheveled and askew, but his smile is always cheerful despite his constant exhausted exasperated state. 

Law is a quiet child, not really engaging with Perona as she sets up a mock tea-party, nor Zoro as he kicks the ball against the wall. He, instead, opts to sit quietly alone and read a picture book in comfortable silence. 

Mihawk offers Rosinante a moist towelette, gesturing wordlessly to his lips, cheeks and right eye where Law graffitied art with permanent marker on his face as he slept. Rosinante gives him a gratuitous smile, huffing his laughter as he scrubs at his face with the towelette. 

The next to arrive is Rosinante’s old work colleague, Bellemere, with her two daughters in tow. Nami and Nojiko were walking arm in arm before rushing off to join Perona in her tea party. Bellemere gives Rosinante a clap on his shoulder, nodding her acknowledgement to Mihawk before taking her elected seat. 

As the clock ticks over to 10am: a small bundle of nervous, chaotic energy bounces inside the door and over the walls. This flash of black hair was followed immediately by a small blonde child that stares, unblinkingly, at Law. Dadan is exasperated as she carries an older and asleep Ace in her arms, attempting to catch up with Luffy to rein him in and set up. 

Rosinante springs into action, offering to ferry Luffy towards his regular playmate, Zoro. As Luffy nearly joins Zoro, he is instead drawn to the sticker book Law is holding containing bugs, beetles and arachnids. Luffy becomes entranced by the stickers: and he and Law begin cataloging them by shape, size and type over pages of lined paper. 

Dadan sighs, already exhausted although her day has barely begun. Rosinante smiles and fawns over the two dark-haired boys before resuming his seat beside Bellemere, talking about the latest gossip at his old workplace and the shenanigans his colleagues' love lives.

As if on queue, Ace wakes up and immediately springs out of Dadan’s arms, hurrying over to Zoro and joining him by kicking the ball against the wall. Sabo backs into the corner of the room and glares with his pale, blue eyes at Perona’s tea-party with intrigue. 

After Dadan, in comes Benn Beckman with his niece, Uta. Uta bounces on her heels as she runs over to Sabo, doing all in her power to make the small blonde smile instead of glare. She has a cheery disposition, guaranteed to always get a smile out of the quiet boy the longer she sings and pulls faces at him.

Zeff is the next, his young son, Sanji, sprinting towards the soccer ball and easily stealing it away from Zoro. They immediately get into a heated fistfight: legs and limbs flying as they butt heads as to who's turn it is to kick the ball next. Mihawk sighs, immediately rising to his feet to play referee to the match as Beckman places Uta's bag beside Perona's. 

Arriving late, and with his two adoptive sons Koby and Helmeppo, strolls Garp. Dadan glares at him, up turning her lip in a snarl as Garp shepherds his boys into the room. The tension is thick between these two due to Garp's history of dropping off children at Dadan's and not returning to raise them himself. She refuses to help with the latest two additions to his family, although she cares for them greatly. Sabo nods at Koby, Helmeppo scoffs at Uta. 

Another late arrival is a larger gentleman with his quiet and older daughter, Robin. Sir Crocodile is dripping in luxury brands, gold rings and smells of expensive colognes. Robin immediately humors Perona, Nami and Nojiko by playing mother in their tea party adventure. 

“Mihawk,” the larger man gruffy nods in acknowledgement. 

“Crocodile,” Mihawk mirrors his tone, gesturing with his chin to take a seat beside him. Sir Crocodile takes his seat before unrolling the newspaper tucked beneath his arm and beginning to read. 

As the children interact together, the more talkative parents swap parenting advice amongst one another. 

Rosinante asks for support with Law's current food aversion. How does he get this child to eat grained carbohydrates without him gagging about the fact it's bread? Dadan is a seasoned expert in parenting at this stage, still ignoring Garp as Garp speaks to Mihawk about his blonde son’s latest interest in kendo. 

Bellemere joins in the conversation, Mihawk leaving as the topic changes to work and joining beside Beckman who is silently brooding on the chair beside Crocodile. 

“No Shanks today?” Mihawk quips at the larger man. 

“No Shanks today,” Beckman parrotted in return with a disgruntled and gruff growl. 

As if the mere mention of his name summoned his presence, in comes the red-haired Shanks in a lazy and cheerful stupor. His socks are raised to his knees, tucked into some comfortable sandals on his feet. His cargo shorts are tied loosely on his hips by a brown belt, and his patterned shirt is open to expose his bare chest. 

Glasses are lying lazily on his head as he extends an enthusiastic smile at the children before acknowledging the adults. An enthusiastic chorus of “Uncle Shanks!” echoes throughout the playspace, a flash of small bodies immediately moving to tackle and engulf the redhead in a warm embrace. 

Shanks falls on his ass, holding high his coffee cup as he laughs at Luffy, Uta, Ace and Sabo as they enthusiastically clutch at him with grabby hands. Their faces all shine with the utmost adoration at the redhead, who shoots Beckman and Dadan a wink while mouthing: “I'm still the favorite.”

Beckman sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Dadan rolls her eyes at him. 

The adults are finally all gathered for their children’s weekly playgroup, the kids settle into playing amongst themselves once again. Shanks offers Beckman a smile before offering him the half-drunk coffee cup. The taller man takes a sip, choking on the liquid as the surprising burn of warmed alcohol scorches his throat so early in the morning. 

As their meeting draws to a soft close, a knock at the door interrupts their close knit conversation. 

“I heard there was a playgroup in here?” a gruff voice rumbled at the door. White hair and the scent of tobacco immediately sprung through the hallway. In arrived a large gentleman, another common associate of Garp, Bellemere and Rosinante who immediately sprung up to greet him. 

Smoker presented ushered a quiet child into the room, her uncertainty was one the children knew well. Immediately, Luffy sprang up from his arachnid archiving with Law and went to introduce himself to the girl. Smoker smiled at the interaction, nodding to Tashigi as an indicator for her to go ahead and play, before joining Bellemere and Rosinante. 

“Finally decided to foster, Smoker?” Bellemere smiled, embracing him into her warm and welcoming arms. Smoker returns her gesture, tapping her on the shoulder and releasing her from the embrace. 

“Foster? Not a chance,” he smirked, pulling away and smiling at the purple-haired woman, “Adopting.”

[starlightkun]

➺ teaser word count: 1421 | full fic: 9.4k ➺ genre & warnings: sci-fi, near future, fluff, falling in love without seeing each other, minor hurt/comfort, coworkers au (but in space), space traffic controllers; brief blood/injury mention ➺ synopsis: in which you go to your job as a space traffic controller every day looking forward to your shifts with one specific coworker who you might be falling head over heels for. and sure, you don't know quebec's real name, nor what he looks like, but you two talk for hours a day between guiding landings and take-offs, and you know him better than anyone else. you’re perfectly happy, until his end of the comms falls silent one day and won’t reconnect ➺ extra info: i highly recommend being aware of the existence of the icao alphabet so ur not thrown for a complete loop by ppl’s nicknames in here lol. u don’t need it memorized but i swear i didn’t pull these words out of thin air ok. also, in american aviation, the number 9 is pronounced niner, ur not going crazy and neither am i ➺ estimated release: saturday, february 1, 2025 3:00 p.m. eastern time

The days all tended to blur together on the space station if you weren’t careful. Time was pretty meaningless in the middle of nowhere with no seasons or daylight to give your body cues. STCs mostly relied on shifts and tower cycles as units of time—the duration of a shift, and how long you were assigned to one tower before you moved to the opposite side of the station.

You were back on shift with Quebec, and so far, it had been a busy one. You’d barely had time to breathe between arrivals and departures, much less chitchat. Finally, during what seemed to be a lull, you pulled out your bag of food from your bag.

“Alright, that’s it,” you huffed. “I’m eating dinner.”

“What do you have tonight?” He asked.

“Didn’t have time to run to the convenience store today so it’s just some snacks and stuff I had in my room. Might have to make a vending machine run, sorry.”

“Look in the minifridge.”

“What? Did you rig it to explode?” You pushed your rolling chair back to grab the edge of the fridge, pulling the door open to peer inside.

“You’ll just have to find out.”

A plastic container greeted you, and you grabbed it, already spotting something green inside. Setting it and your mic back down on your desk, you took the lid off with a pop, eyes bugging out of your head as you looked at the green and white cubes. The color and shine alone told you that these weren’t grown in an ag-bubble, these were imported straight from Earth.

“Quebec…” You breathed out in awe. “You did not.”

“You can’t justify spending that much on something you’re going to digest, but I can,” he replied kindly. “Go ahead, eat. Happy one year at the station.”

“I didn’t even remember that was today,” you admitted.

You grabbed a cube between your fingers, not bothering to find utensils. The best part was licking your fingers after, in your opinion. The fruit was juicy and sweet, no bitterness from the rind at all, and so much more flavor than ag-bubble fruit could ever develop. You felt tears well up in your eyes, embarrassingly.

“God, it’s so good. Thank you,” you mumbled through your half-eaten honeydew. “I wish I could share it with you right now.”

“No, don’t worry about me,” he said, and you heard a faint pop of another plastic lid opening on his end of the line. “They were selling it by weight. I had them send some to your tower and some to mine.”

You smiled at the tower across the landing dock. “We are sharing it right now.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Have you ever been on a picnic, Bec? Like, a real one, outside on a blanket with a picnic basket on the grass with fresh air and food and your friends and family?”

“Once, when I was really little. I don’t remember much about it. My mom showed me a picture,” he mused. “Have you, Zu?”

“No, never. I was born on a mining colony. Never breathed fresh air in my life, or been to Earth. Always been in ships, stations like this, or firmaments.” Firmaments—man-made structures on the surface of planets whose conditions were not naturally habitable for humans. Within the firmaments, the air quality, pressure, temperature, and planet’s surface could be regulated in order to allow for human survival. The actual mining typically happening outside of the firmaments, however, and that was only one reason that it was so dangerous—and lucrative.

“What about your parents?”

“They weren’t born on Earth either, never saw the big deal about going to visit.” You shrugged, popping another piece of melon in your mouth. “What about you?”

“My parents were born on Earth. They wanted me to be born there too, but I came a little early while they were on a trip to a nearby resort planet. The closest hospital was on its moon…”

“Did you grow up on Earth then?”

“Visited after I was born, went back and forth for a good bit of my childhood, but my parents just liked traveling too much to stay in one place.”

“My family moved around a lot too. Mining pays good, but you have to move with the materials. There’s always some hot new mineral in vogue that’s paying more than the last thing everyone wanted. You never want to stick around until a mine dries up.”

“How long does that take? Like, how much did you move around?”

“Depends. Sometimes we were there for a few weeks or months, sometimes years.”

Quebec was quiet for a moment, and you took the opportunity to eat two more pieces of honeydew. Then, he said, “Zulu?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you take this job? All the way out here?”

“I didn’t want to work in the mines with my parents my whole life. Saw the opening and figured I might as well give it a go,” you answered simply. “What about you?”

“Kind of similar. More desperate, I think,” he admitted. “I was in med school, actually, and I was absolutely miserable. Just at rock fucking bottom. I told my parents I was going to quit and they said I couldn’t unless I either enrolled in law school, or got a job. This was the first one I found.”

You blinked, watching the dark dot in the window across from you. “Wow. I don’t think you’ve ever told me that.”

“Haven’t talked to anybody about it since coming here.”

“Why’d you ask me that then? You had to have figured I would’ve turned the question back on you.”

“I… don’t think I knew I was going to tell you that until I said it.”

“You know you can always talk about whatever with me, Bec.”

“I know,” he replied warmly. “Same for you. I’m all ears.”

“So you quit med school, took the first job you could find and just happened to find something you liked doing?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I did not take to being an STC at all initially. I wanted to quit after my first week. I was on this stupid station in the middle of nowhere starting all over again at a job that paid considerably less than the surgeon I was supposed to be. I was miserable, and lost, and kept thinking that they were right and I should just put my head down and be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever. It felt like I could’ve disappeared from the universe and nobody would notice.” He sighed, and you felt your heart twist in your chest. “Then during my second week, another new STC started, and we ended up on a shift together. And you said—there’s no way you remember this, Zulu, it’s so… but—What do you remember about that shift?”

You rifled through your memories desperately for something, anything specific, but came up empty. “Not much, I mean, it was like my second one, I think. So I was still pretty nervous about doing everything right, and I remember meeting you, but I don’t think we even talked much outside of small talk, right?”

“That’s great. I mean it, I love that you’re just like this, that you weren’t trying to do it,” he laughed with his whole chest, and you smiled fondly, not feeling like he was laughing at you at all. “Anyway, it was pretty dead that shift, and in one of the quiet times, you got on the mic and you told me to look outside. I thought there was a ship or something going on. But then you said, ‘I’ve never seen these stars before.’ Which made me realize I hadn’t even looked at the stars since arriving at the station. At the end of the shift, you said, ‘Talk to you next time, Quebec.’ And I decided ‘sure, I’ll stick around until next time, see what else she’ll say.’” His words made you snicker softly, and he continued, “And then you just kept saying these little, interesting things, or things that made me smile for the first time in years, or you’d ask questions and let me talk about whatever I wanted… I kept putting off quitting until I wasn’t half-bad at being an STC and didn’t hate living at the station anymore.”

“Bec…” You murmured, fidgeting with the wire of your headset. “Do—”

A dot popped up on your monitor then, and Quebec said, “Ah, there’s the ambassador.”

⤷ masterlist

TEASER TAGLIST

@annenakamura @bee-the-loser @lotties-readings @ppddpjdr @reiofsuns2001 @snowyseungs @tearinka @yoursyuno @yutasputa69 @winkeuu

[motianz]

I'll rant about Zhanyi for a minute

Honestly such a shame that OX refuses to do anything with Zhanyi.

I'm not even talking about them not being the main couple anymore, but the lack of progress on their relationship overall.

In the beginning, they had a really cool concept of Jian Yi being this lovable childhood friend who hides behind smiles and jokes, that suddenly disappeared and came back years later with no explanation. Then we go to the past, and there's some angst about the intensity of Jian Yis's feelings, the mysteries of his family, his kidnapping, etc. And their dynamic was really good, with Jian yi being a very carefree but also intense person, and Zhan Zheng having a short fuse in a kind of childish way (as he is a teenager at the time), being extremely loyal and intensely confused about his feelings towards this friend of his, who he spent most of his life with.

Jian Yi kept pushing and Zhan Zheng was this un-movable force where he just decided fuck it, whatever the kind of love I still love you no matter what and I'll fight for you. From the dangerous adults around them to the people who had crushes on Jian Yi, Zhan Zheng refused to let him go. They had depth and a lot of development at the start.

It could be such a great dynamic, and could lead to so much angst with Jian Yi's disappearance.

And they even had some great comedic moments of teenagers figuring out their sexuality, so a lot of them being caught doing or saying weird stuff to one another and getting flustered about it.

But it's like OX just GAVE UP ON DEVELOPING THEM

LIKE GOD DAMN

Their dynamic pre and post disappearance is exactly the same, it didn't get any deeper or more explicitly romantic, it feels like they are the same people, no changes at all. They're not upset, Zhan Zheng didn't acknowledge he has sexual/romantic feelings towards Jian Yi (which was great back then, but how is it still the same), Jian Yi has the exact same personality - no shiftyness about his experiences being gone, no serious moments, no growth. Yes they do have this "I'll stay and take care of you forever" but they've had this same dynamic FOR YEARS (in universe), how has it not developed? How has it not sowered or changed after Jian Yi disappeared??

They still feel like the same teenagers that are very close but aren't together. Every time we could get a serious moment, or progress on their sexual/romantic feelings we just get another vague "no mater what, we are besties" or goddamm comedic relief.

(Teenagers on the left, adults on the right) Like, we got this same situation so many times already, where Jian Yi does something dumb, Zhan Zheng reacts and they get caught doing something that is misunderstood. (The bug bite photo Jy sends Zzx, Zzx drying Jys pants, Jy tearing Zzx pants on the subway, jy touching Zzx chest in public, Jy wearing the skirt, this update with Zzx spanking Jy, I can list this forever) it's always the same concept/situation, and their reactions are always the same, there's just never any progress.

And don't get me wrong, I very much understand and came to terms that 19 days is not a plot focused story, and let's be honest the time-line has been a bit of a nightmare lately, but I feel at the very least we have some very good and fun progress and character depth with Tianshan. Zhanyi did progress from the very beginning, but overall it feels like that just stopped.

Like, we still didn't get to see Mo realizing he tian is gone or anything from that period, but their dynamic changed SO MUCH from when they first showed up. From when they first meet to when Ht leaves (after beating up SL) their relationship deepens, their characters gain layers. And since 19 days takes time with its plot we are still at the very beginning of their post leaving dynamic and we've already got some pretty obvious change on how the intensity of their relationship changed (Ht basically proposing sex during their last update).

But it just feels like Ox doesn't want to do anything with Zhanyi, not even just forget about them, but freeze them in the same state. Maybe OX is just leaving them frozen until they finish Tianshan's story and then go back to focus on Zhanyi, but like, it just feels like such a let down to continuously see Zhanyi stay the same.

We got to here, we got JY admitting his feelings and ZZX accepting them but being vague whether he felt the same or not, and then we got them several times dedicating their futures to each other, and that's it. Nothing else changed or advanced from their teenage years.

I think it's why Tianshan became so much more popular, because they never got stuck in time. Zhanyi had around the same level of potential (don't come for me, I love Tianshan and HT is my favorite character from 19D so I can't say it's exactly the same lol) and could have such a great intense dynamic, but it keeps not happening.

Maybe I'll have to re-read their chapters, and the progress is just super nuanced, but hopefully, OX will do something with them now that they are really testing the limits of Chinese censorship, lol

TLDR: Zhanyi relationship and characters had so much potential but now feels frozen in time, their relationship lacks depth because OX keeps making them repeat the same situations and have the same reactions. Hopefully this will change.

[starryeyedjanai]

sitting between comfort and chaos

steddie | 5.7k | rated: teen

5 times everyone thought Steve and Eddie were dating before they got together + the first time Steve tells someone after they actually get together

happy birthday @legitcookie!!! i hope you had a fantastic day!💗

read on ao3

1.

Thinking back on it all, Steve thinks he should have known something was up when Dustin started letting Eddie sit up front when he drove them places, a spot reserved only for Robin or Erica when Dustin was riding with him.

Steve has seen that kid - who's not really a kid anymore, he's in college now which is so weird to think about - elbow his friends in the neck trying to get to the car first so he could ride shotgun. So giving up the coveted spot for anyone - even Eddie - should have been a giant red flag.

Steve brings up Dustin letting Eddie sit up front to Robin and gets an eye roll for his trouble.

"What?" he asks. "It's not like it isn't weird. The kid will literally only let you or Erica sit up front and he only lets Erica do it because he's afraid of her."

"Yeah, and he let me sit up front because he thought that we were a thing or about to become a thing or whatever," Robin says, like that explains anything.

"Right," he says, not quite getting what she's getting at.

Dustin knows better now and has stopped bothering them about it, stopped asking Steve when he's going to finally ask Robin out. It only took a million years, but he thinks Dustin gets it now.

He still lets Robin sit up front out of habit - and because Steve refused to start the car the one time Dustin tried to bully his way up front with Robin after figuring out they would never be a 'thing'.

"You know he still kind of idolizes both of you and now that you're, you know-" Robin says trailing off.

Steve lost the thread a little bit, but he nods. "Sure, sure," he says.

Now that he and Eddie are friends, Dustin has stopped bugging them about about each other. Maybe Robin's right. Dustin is still just idolizing Eddie and that's why he lets him sit up front.

Steve still thinks it's weird though.

2.

The first instance Steve can remember something weird happening even before Dustin started letting Eddie sit up front was at a club in Indianapolis.

Robin's sitting in between him and Vickie in the booth, talking about her classes this semester, when she stops short.

"Rob?" Steve asks, and then waves a hand in front of her face when she doesn't respond.

She snaps out of it when he boops her nose lightly. "Uh, um. Don't look, but-"

He immediately looks in the direction she was looking in when she spaced out and tries to scope out what she saw that caught her attention so hard she stopped talking. He sees the crowd of dancing people in his line of sight, but he doesn't see anything out of place.

"I said don't look!" she snaps at him and he turns back to her.

"What? I don't see anything!" he says, feeling chagrined at her snapping at him like that. "You can't say 'don't look' and expect me not to look."

"Just- Eddie's, like, dancing on someone right now," she says, tone almost apologetic.

Steve fails to see what's so special about that. Eddie's always hooking up with someone when he and Steve come out together. He doesn't even think it's the first time Robin's seen it, so he isn't sure why she's so shocked. Vickie has a sympathetic look on her face when Steve glances at her to see if she thinks it's weird that Robin is bringing this up.

"Okay?" he says, voice lilting high at the end like a question.

"And you're okay with that?" Robin asks, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Uh, should I not be? He's always hooking up when we go out," he says, looking back over and yep - he's got his tongue down some guy's throat on the dance floor, the guy's hands gripping Eddie's ass to bring their hips together. Steve feels a ribbon of want float through him - it's been a while since he hooked up with someone.

"So, you've got like an arrangement where you can hook up with other people?" Robin asks, confused.

And Steve is also confused. The way she says 'arrangement' like it has connotations that he should understand. Why would he and Eddie have even talked about hooking up with anyone?

His slightly tipsy brain tries to rationalize it - maybe she's talking about when they go out just the two of them, like if Eddie hooks up with someone, Robin's assuming Steve would be all alone. He doesn't have a problem with it - he's a social butterfly when he's drunk and even if he wasn't, Eddie running off to go dance or make out or hook up with someone gives Steve time to find someone to hook up with himself. It's not like he's ever bored when he goes out with Eddie.

So he tells her, "He can literally do whatever he wants, Bobbie."

She sips her drink and stares at him, her gaze scrutinizing, and whatever she sees must appease her because she drops it and starts talking about her courses again.

When he remembers that conversation the next day, all he can think about is how bizarre Robin was acting.

3.

The next weird occurrence he can remember happening, he didn't even find out until after the fact that something was awry.

He's on vacation with most of the older crew, staying at a house near the ocean, just a small little bungalow, for the week that they're in California.

When Steve and Eddie go to drop their suitcases off in the room Nancy shuffles them towards, they pause.

There's only one bed.

He and Eddie look at each other and Eddie says, "Maybe all the rooms have one bed?"

"Yeah, yeah, probably," he says, dragging his suitcase to the far side of the room.

"We probably shouldn't say anything, right?" Eddie asks, later, before they all head out to the beach. "Like, about the room?"

Steve thinks about it. He knows Nancy is the one who got the keys to the house through her parent's friends and she got here earlier than them and scoped out the place. If there was another option to them sharing the same bed, Nancy would have told them. "Yeah, I mean. It's fine, right? You don't have a problem sleeping next to me?"

Eddie shakes his head. "Oh, of course not. I'm good sharing if you are."

"Yeah, it's no problem," Steve says. He kind of can't remember the last time he shared a bed with someone other than Robin when she stays over at his apartment sometimes.

"Okay, then we'll just. Keep it to ourselves. Besides, I feel like Nancy would skin us if we tried to complain about a place we aren't even paying for," Eddie says with a grin. The perk of Nancy's parent's friend having a vacation house is that even though it's a little small, they let them use it for free. And it's empty because they only use it when it's winter in Hawkins.

"She one hundred percent would," Steve agrees, so they drop it and don't bring it up. Too few beds isn't the end of the world.

Waking up with Eddie's arm firmly wrapped around his waist is fine, nice even. If Steve turns off the alarm that woke him, snuggling back into the embrace, making them both late for breakfast when they finally do wake up, that's no one's business but his own.

-

It's later, after they're home, that Eddie stops by and tells him about the extremely bizarre conversation he had with Nancy the last day there.

He says, "So something weird happened on vacation and I don't know what to make of it and I'm only telling you because you're the only other person it affected," as soon as Steve opens the door.

"What happened," Steve asks, instantly worried. He lets him in and Eddie starts pacing in the living room. Steve goes to sit on the couch.

"So, that last day on vacation, Nancy asked me to come sit on her suitcase because it wouldn't close with all the souvenirs she bought. I went into her and Jonathan's room and there were two beds," Eddie says, stopping in place to look at Steve to gauge his reaction.

His eyebrows shoot up. "Oh," he says. He's really not sure what to make of that either.

Eddie starts pacing again.

"Yeah. So I asked her why there were two beds in their room, but not two beds in our room - kind of put my foot in my mouth if I'm being honest. I didn't mean to just blurt it out, but then she said 'we were just trying to make sure everyone was comfortable'," he says, inflecting his voice higher to mimic Nancy.

"What the hell does that mean?" Steve asks, trying to wrack his brain and see if he remembers her telling him anything about her and Jonathan's relationship being shaky. He thought they were good. There were some rocky times before Vecna, with the distance and everything, but once they were both in the same place again, things seemed to smooth out between them. They've been happy together for years as far as he could tell.

"Exactly!" Eddie says, finally coming to sit on the couch next to him. "I literally asked her what does that mean? Because I had no idea. Still have no idea. She said 'what? It's not like you have a problem sharing with Steve', which honestly something about her tone made me feel like I was stepping on her toes, so I just dropped it. But I can't stop thinking about it. Are she and Jonathan okay?"

"As far as I know," Steve says. "That's so weird. But if there is something happening between them, it would make sense that they'd call dibs on the one room that has two beds. I gotta talk to her and see what's going on."

"Don't, like, tell her I told you or anything," Eddie says to him. Steve still thinks it's hilarious that Eddie is patently afraid of Nancy and her guns, which are mostly retired and locked up.

"'Course not," he says. "I'll just ask how they're doing the next time we hang out. I hope it's something they can get through at least."

"Yeah," Eddie sighs. "If they don't make it, how are the rest of us supposed to have a chance?"

Steve does ask Nancy about it later, just casually asks how she and Jonathan are doing.

She kind of narrows her eyes at him and says they're fine, but her voice is suspicious like she isn't sure what he's getting at. He drops it because he's also a little afraid of her.

The entire situation just leaves him confused, though.

He doesn't bring it up to Nancy again, but he does talk to Robin about it because his conversation with Nancy left a weird feeling in his chest.

"Eddie told me Nancy and Jonathan had separate beds on vacation," Steve blurts out, trying to go for casual, but absolutely failing.

She looks over at him with a weird expression on her face and says, "Yeah, I thought you knew that? It was just how it all shook out. Nancy just wanted everyone to be comfortable." And those words are eerily similar to what Eddie told him Nancy said about it.

He asks, "What do you know?"

"What do you mean?" she counters.

"You know something," he says, narrowing his eyes. "Are she and Jonathan alright? I tried asking her, but I felt like she was gonna bite my head off."

"They're fine," Robin says. "Nancy and Jonathan were just taking one for the team."

Steve's still so confused.

Robin must see the confusion on his face because she grabs his hand and says, "Look, we don't really ever talk about it, and that's totally fine by the way, but we all just want you to be happy."

Steve isn't sure where that came from or what it has to do with Nancy and Jonathan, but he's touched that his friends want him to be happy, he supposes.

4.

It's when he and Eddie get an apartment together that Robin brings up the thing she said at the club, jogging his memory of that bizarre night.

She's helping him unpack his room, putting stuff in the drawers, leaving space in some of them like she expects half of his wardrobe to be filled with something else. He thinks it's just another one of her weird quirks. Does she keep yarn for her knitting projects in half of her dresser or something?

He's hanging some shirts and she's folding his jeans when she blurts out, "You know, you don't have to let him 'do whatever he wants' just because it's what he wants, right? You're allowed to have a say in it too, you know."

It takes him a minute to realize who she's even talking about and even longer to realize she's referring to the conversation they had at the club years ago now.

"What- Eddie?" he asks confused. She nods, so he asks, "Why, because we live together now and that should, like, change something?"

Robin sighs, setting the folded jeans in the drawer. "I just mean, this doesn't exactly seem like the type of thing you'd be into. You've never mentioned wanting-"

He cuts her off, and says, "I mean, it's not like I don't also hook up with people when we go out."

That shuts her up for a solid minute. He watches as she processes it and almost wants to roll his eyes. His friends really think he has no love life whatsoever, huh?

He knows he hasn't dated anyone in a long time, but he's fine hooking up with people when he and Eddie go out sometimes. He can't say he doesn't miss having someone, or being in a relationship, but he's fine for now. He's still young, he still has time, you know?

Robin looks at him and says, "Okay. Okay, if that's something you want. Only if it's what you want, though. Don't just let Eddie talk you into something you don't want to do. Don't let him walk all over you."

"Yeah, of course," he says easily. "And if you're worried about us bringing people back here and it causing tension or whatever, we have rules in place and everything."

Robin says, "That- that's good! Rules are good."

'Rules' might be stretching it, but they did talk about guests not staying for longer than one night and trying to keep it down when they do have guests and that's good enough for Steve.

Luckily, Robin seems content to let him drop the subject and talk about how they're thinking of decorating the living room.

5.

The invitation comes in the mail.

Max popped the question - surprising Lucas, who had been agonizing for weeks over how to propose - a few months ago.

They knew the invitations were coming. Max told him over the phone that they'd be coming soon and that she expected them to send back an RSVP even though she already knew they'd be coming.

Steve checks the mail and is surprised to find just one invitation addressed To Steve & Eddie.

He takes the mail inside and shows the invitation to Eddie, who's eating his breakfast, still a little bleary-eyed and soft from sleep.

He drags the chair at the kitchen table closer to Eddie's chair and drops into it as he watches Eddie frown at the envelope in his hands.

He looks at Steve and asks, "Just the one came?"

Steve nods and Eddie opens the envelope to pull out the invitation.

They look over the invitation and Steve notices the RSVP section doesn't have options to add a plus one for either of them.

"Wow," Eddie says, dragging the word out. "None of our friends think either of us would manage to convince someone to come with us to the wedding, huh?"

Steve hums in agreement. He knows Robin, Dustin, El, and Erica helped Max and Lucas with the invitations and no one saw an issue with this one.

"God, are we both so extremely single that not one of our friends thinks we could find a date?" Steve asks, putting his head in his hands.

"Truly and deeply so fucking single, dude," Eddie says, rubbing a hand over Steve's back to lament with him.

+1.

"Hey, can we talk?" Eddie asks him after dinner one night and Steve's heart immediately starts beating out of his chest.

That phrase, even uttered by a friend, out of blue, makes him think something is wrong. He has the irrational thought that he's about to get friend-broken up with or that maybe Eddie wants to get his own place or something, which would really fucking suck.

They've lived together for a long time and are kind of co-parents to a cat now - it would just be a supremely inopportune time for Eddie to suddenly decide he wants out.

Eddie must see the anxiety in his expression because he quickly says, "No, it's nothing bad. It's just- it's actually something good, I'm hoping."

"Uh, okay," Steve says, wringing his hands a little with worry.

Eddie takes a deep breath and says, "So you know how I haven't really been interested in going out or hooking up lately?"

Steve nods, his heart finally calming down a little. Eddie hasn't wanted to go out lately, but it's fine - Steve hasn't really been all that interested either, more content to just lounge around the apartment with Eddie than to go out and try to meet new people.

"It's because there's someone I'm kind of interested in right now, but I'm not sure if he likes me back. It's a close friend, so I've been debating whether or not to say anything because I don't want to screw things up if he doesn't feel the same," Eddie says.

Steve's eyebrows furrow trying to think of who Eddie could be into. The thought that he might be into Jeff or Grant or Gareth, one of his closest friends, makes something in Steve's stomach swirl. He's not sure he likes that. Eddie dating a close friend, moving out to move in with him, sharing a life with him - that leaves a bad taste in Steve's mouth.

But it's Eddie - and Eddie deserves to be happy - so he says, "I think if you like someone, even a friend, you should tell him. If he's into guys, I mean. He'd be a fool to say no to you, whoever he is."

The smile that lights up Eddie's face is a little painful to see for some reason.

"I was hoping you'd say that," Eddie says.

Steve expects Eddie to get up and leave, to go find whoever it is he's into, but he stays put, on the couch next to Steve.

He reaches out and takes one of Steve's hands in his, still looking at him, like he's waiting for something.

Thoughts churn through his brain, first wondering why Eddie would hold his hand when he's apparently in love with one of his friends, and then realizing that he's probably also in the category of people Eddie considers a close friend and then-

Oh.

"Me?" Steve whispers, eyes wide.

That smile is still there, fond and happy.

"You," Eddie says, squeezing his hand.

"But why though?" he blurts out.

Eddie laughs. "We kind of share a life together, dude. We have a cat together and a home. And like, I don't think I've ever wanted anyone the way I want you, so there's also that."

Steve looks at him and thinks about their friendship up until this point, thinks about them deciding to move in together, to keep the stray cat Eddie found, the natural stop to them going out to clubs and bars in favor of staying in together and curling up on the couch.

He thinks of waking up for a week straight on vacation with Eddie's arms wrapped around him, feeling safe in his arms.

He thinks about the feelings that wrap around his heart and squeeze when he looks at Eddie sometimes.

He thinks about Eddie's hand in his right now.

He squeezes his hand back.

"I did say whoever you were into would be stupid to say no to you," he says.

"You did say that," Eddie says. His cheeks are a little flushed and Steve is overcome with the urge to pepper kisses all over them.

He scoots closer on the couch and says, "I meant it."

Eddie leans in closer and says, "I want to kiss you, but I want to be sure that we're on the same page. Like, it's not just about wanting to fuck you, which I do by the way-"

Steve interrupts and says, "I mean, I kind of got that when you said you didn't want to ruin your friendship if I didn't feel the same."

"Shut up, I'm trying to confess my love to you," Eddie says.

"Love?" Steve teases.

The blush on Eddie's face deepens, spreading down his neck. "Kind of. I mean, I've known you for how long now? I think it's kind of impossible to know you and not love you."

There's heat prickling behind Steve's eyes, embarrassingly enough. "I'm gonna kiss you," he says, instead of addressing how that one line has absolutely swept him off his feet.

He pushes closer, closing the small distance between them, getting his mouth on Eddie's for the first time.

Eddie sighs against his mouth, this pleased little sound that lights Steve up from the inside. He wants to kiss Eddie until he's dazed with it, wants to hear all the noises Eddie can make, wants to draw them out of him with his mouth and his hands.

Eddie kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until his mouth feels tender under Eddie's.

He pushes Steve backwards on the couch to lay on top of him, his hips in the cradle of Steve's thighs. He keeps kissing him as he settles his weight on top of Steve, their bodies pressed flush together.

They lick into each other's mouths for a long minute, just tongues tasting each other and mouths moving together.

Steve is working up the courage to touch Eddie, to put his hands on him, when he hears him hiss in pain. He pulls away from Eddie's mouth and sees Trick clawing her way up Eddie's arm to get on the couch.

Eddie sits up and pulls her off his arm and deposits her on Steve's chest. She immediately steps on his windpipe in an attempt to curl up near his head.

"God, your daughter is so mean to me," Steve says as he moves her off his neck.

"To you?" Eddie asks, looking at his arm to make sure he's not bleeding. "It was my arm that she clawed."

Eddie's still perched between Steve's legs, but with Tricky on the couch, there's no way they can go back to making out.

And-

"I have to tell Robin," Steve says.

Eddie grins at him and asks, "Immediately after our first kiss? You're gonna run over to her place?" There's no judgment in his voice and that makes something in Steve's chest feel tender - that Eddie knows how he is with Robin and isn't weird about it.

"Yeah, it won't take long. I'll be back before you know it." Steve watches as Eddie climbs off him and adjusts himself in his pants. He covers Patricia's ears and says, "Trick won't like it, but when I get back, we can lock her out of the bedroom so she can't interrupt us next time."

"Oh yeah? And what are we gonna do 'next time'?" Eddie asks.

"Whatever you want," Steve says, watching the flush return to Eddie's face.

He bites back a grin and says, "Hurry back. I'll, uh, I don't know. I'll get myself ready or something."

Heat floods Steve's veins. "You gonna be waiting for me with a rose in your mouth when I get back?" he teases, trying to dissipate some of that heat.

"I think you're the roses boyfriend, not me."

"Boyfriend?" Steve asks, standing up from the couch.

"Boyfriend," Eddie says, cupping his jaw and kissing him again. It's easy to get swept up in it, the feeling of Eddie's mouth moving against his, the feeling of Eddie's hands on his waist.

He pulls back from the kiss with a slick noise and says, "I'll be back in like twenty minutes."

Eddie nods and lets him go.

Steve grabs his keys and heads over to Robin and Vickie's apartment where he knows Robin will be.

"Bobbin," he calls out as soon as he opens the door to her apartment.

"In here," she calls back from the kitchen.

He rounds the corner of the kitchen and says, "I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Eddie."

He watches several emotions pass over her face, none of them excitement, and deflates a little bit.

She says, "Okay?" like it's a question, like she's confused.

"Like, we're dating now and I'm. We like each other and I'm pretty sure it's more than that for both of us," he say, hoping to get some kind of reaction from her.

"I don't understand," she says.

"What's not to understand? Eddie and I- we're together now," he says, in case she didn't get it the first time.

Robin squints at him and says, "Okay, but you've never wanted to talk about it before. What's changed?"

"What do you mean, what's changed? We kissed and he said he was confessing his love to me. I thought you'd be happy?" His chest feels a little tight at the thought of Robin not approving. He really thought she'd be happy.

"Did you, like, break up and not tell me? Why would him confessing his love to you warrant a house call? Where is this coming from?" she asks, and Steve's moment of hurt is replaced with a deep sense of confusion because they are somehow not on the same page about this.

What the hell is she talking about?

"Rob, what do you mean break up?" he asks, feeling off-balance.

"I mean, you and Eddie have been together for years nowso I'm not sure what you're talking about." She looks in his eyes and then lights up. "Oh, are you trying to tell me you're exclusive now? That's exciting!"

Steve just stares at her for a minute, memories of the weird things his friends say to him and Eddie and the weird things that happen coming rushing to the surface. The weird conversations he's had with Robin over the years, feeling like they were talking about two different things. The first vacation where they shared a bed together even though there was a room with two beds, and how it happened again the next time they all went on vacation together. Dustin letting Eddie sit in the front seat of his car. The one, singular wedding invitation.

He's not even sure how to broach the fact that his friends all apparently thought he and Eddie have been together for years, but he says, "Eddie and I weren't dating before now. We literally just got together. We, like, literally just had our first kiss less than fifteen minutes ago."

"That's not funny, Steve. You guys have been in each other's pockets for closing in on five years now," Robin says, coming to sit on a bar stool at the kitchen island. "You, you live together and have a cat together."

He can see her mentally going through all the things she thought about them as he comes to sit next to her.

He gently says, "We weren't together before. We were only friends before today. I'm not sure what we did to make you think that we were together, but you know I'd talk to you about anyone I was dating, even Eddie."

"It's not just me!" Robin says, looking at him again with a piercing stare. "It's everyone! We all know. Or we thought you were together. I'm so confused. How is it possible that you've never kissed before? Like, wait a minute."

She stops talking and puts her head in her hands.

"What are you doing?" he asks her when she doesn't say anything for a couple minutes.

She pinches the bridge of her nose as she says, "I'm trying to channel my memories. Because there has to be a time where I asked you point blank if you were seeing Eddie and you said yes."

"I can guarantee you won't find that memory. Because it doesn't exist. Because Eddie and I weren't dating. Until now," he says.

"You went to Max and Lucas' wedding together!" she says, looking at him triumphantly.

"Not really," he says. "We thought everyone just thought we were both terminally single or something and that's why they sat us together."

Robin smacks her hand against her forehead. "This makes no sense to me. Wait, I asked you if you were in an open relationship before! We talked about it at the club and again when you moved in together. How do you explain that?" she asks.

"That time at the club, I thought you were talking about him ditching me to hook up. It didn't bother me. That's literally all I said. Not that we were in an open rela- wait, you really thought I'd be in an open relationship with someone?"

"I know! It never made sense to me! You're like the most monogamous person I know," Robin says. "Okay, I get that we crossed wires there, but what about when you moved in together? I talked to you about it then too. You said you had rules about hooking up."

He can see how saying that might have been misleading. He says, "I meant like, rules about keeping it down, not about us dating and hooking up with other people." He feels a headache coming on.

Robin looks just as exasperated as he feels. She looks like she's grasping at straws when she says, "You're always together and you touch each other all the time. When I've seen you cook together, you're always bumping his hip or hand-feeding him extra ingredients."

"We live together, of course we found a groove cooking together." he says.

"A groove, okay," she says, rolling her eyes. "But even before then, you were always hanging out."

"Because he's my closest guy friend? Closest friend in general other than you," he says, still so unsure how he missed his entire friend group thinking they were together.

Steve doesn't know how this happened - how all his friends could have thought they were together when he didn't even know how he felt about Eddie until today. How could he have missed this?

But listen.

Steve has never claimed to be a smart man.

If anything, he thinks Eddie should have caught on long before he ever did, so he's holding strong that it's not his fault he didn't see the signs. If Eddie couldn't see them either, how the hell was Steve supposed to be able to?

"And now you're boyfriends," Robin says, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"And now we're boyfriends," he agrees.

She grins over at him and says, "That's the first time you've said the b-word. This is the first time we've talked about it and you said the b-word. You really weren't dating before now."

He shakes his head. "We really weren't. And I seriously can't believe you ever bought me saying we were in an open relationship. It's like you don't know me at all," he says with a sniff.

"No, I was extremely confused about it, but you were happier with him than anyone else I've ever seen you with, so it didn't matter what I thought, you know?"

Steve's face smooths out at that and his heart melts a little. He loves her so much.

He hugs her to his side and she playfully shoves him away.

"I can't believe I've had it wrong - we've all had it wrong - this whole time. The more I think about it, though, the more it makes sense that you weren't together. Like, I expected you to be talking about him all the time, but you never really gushed about him to me. At first, I thought it was because it was your first boyfriend, you know?" she says.

He nods. He can get that. What he can't get is- "You were okay with me not talking about him, sure. But you really think I wouldn't kiss a guy I was dating in front of you? Or hold his hand?"

Robin shrugs and runs a hand over her forehead like she's getting a headache from thinking about it. "I thought you were just shy at first. Again, the boy thing. And then it was just habit not to or maybe Eddie wasn't into PDA- I was just guessing. And, I, everyone thought it, so it's not just me. You guys literally adopted a cat together, how were we supposed to take that any other way?" she asks in an exasperated tone.

"She's Eddie's, technically."

"You're telling me Patricia's not your daughter?" Robin asks.

"No, she is. But Eddie's the one that found her, so I'm just her step-dad," he says.

Robin stands up from where she's seated and says, "See! You say shit like that all the time and expect us not to think you're dating him?"

He winces. "Yeah, I kind of see it now. Well, good news is that we are dating now and I'm gonna go home and fuck him about it."

Robin rolls her eyes. "Christ, I can't believe I ever thought you could be dating him and be anything other than like that about him."

"Oh Robbie, when we come up for air, you're gonna wish we weren't like that about each other. Apparently, we've got like five years of PDA to make up for," he says with a grin.

[joe-leviari]

Simon Ghost Riley is annoyed.

" So you ended up working together, you ended up helping one another, you ended up not liking each other. " || Ghost listens in to you having sex ||

for adults only; NSFW; sexual themes; stalker!Ghost; smut; other COD characters briefly mentioned; backstory for main character; afab!reader x konig; no use of y/n; English is not my first language, feel free to privately message me to correct any mistakes.

Much to Ghost’s annoyance, they need you. 

You being the highly-trained-deadly-skilled-gun-for-hire of a now nearly collapsed criminal enterprise, and the only one left alive with the intel that they need. 

But that’s alright, because, as it turns out, you need them. 

Them being the task force 141, the very same that has been sistematically dismantling the above mentioned criminal empire and hunting down the above mentioned highly-trained-deadly-skilled-gun-for-hire. Little-fucking-nuisance, according to Simon. 

So you ended up working together, you ended up helping one another, you ended up not liking each other. 

Much to Ghost’s annoyance, judging by the way Gaz has been telling you stories from his childhood, the way Price has been calling you silly nicknames through the crackling comms, and the way Soap has taken the habit to fully lean into you every time you show him something stupid on your phone, the only one who doesn’t really like you is Ghost himself. 

Not liking you is fine; that’s something he can deal with for the simple fact that he does not really have to deal with it. Disliking you is a mere subjective perception that he acknowledges in passing, almost distractingly, when he lays his eyes on you. The real problem is that he does not fucking trust you. Now that’s something he has to deal with; that’s HIS duty, that’s HIS team. 

Sure, you are constantly monitored, they are not stupid: you have lived most of your life like a criminal, surrounded by criminals. You have the resources, the knowledge, and fairly good reasons to fuck them over. That’s why you are never left alone and never trusted to carry any weapons unless strictly necessary. Your location is always traced, your heartbeat is polygraph-tested every time you have to be questioned.  The thing is, you were very well made aware of all this when you signed on the dotted line the day that Laswell came to see you in the prison’s infirmary. 

A few days later, there you were, with a bruised face and an even more bruised ego, getting yourself nice and comfy in the room down the hall. 

So it was for the sake of HIS team that Simon had to break into the room down the hall to carefully bug it. With a bit of patience, he will find something compromising that will force Laswell - who seemed to take a shine on you for whatever bloody reason - to send you back to prison. Or anywhere else, really, as long as you were out of sight. And with that, out of mind. 

Much to Ghost's annoyance, you moan differently than he expected. Simon assumed, definitely assumed, and NEVER fantasized that you would moan like a fucking pornstar. 

No, this… This is something entirely different. And now that it thinks about it, it is more like you. You have a wicked sweetness about you, the kind that makes men want to either break you or protect you. 

You have the cheekiness that gets you in trouble—the same one that gets you out of it. Ghost adjusts the ear buds in his ears and draws his eyebrows together. 

The man on you (behind you? Under you? Most definitely inside you) is babbling, grunting, and moaning, visceral and guttural. And you... You sound breathy and airy and wet and light. In a delicate voice, you are giving him directions, but you have to repeat yourself a few times before he snaps out of his daze and complies. And when he finally does, oh, you are all praise. 

How the fuck did he menage to get into your pants? And why, on God’s green earth, would you let him?

Ghost has witnessed you flirt before: sometimes you were just doing your job, other times you were having fun dancing with recruits in bars, flashing them a little smile with a pretty blush on your face. You were quick to throw them a bait and even quicker to retrieve it. “Don’t push your luck, soldier” you would say with an easy grin. Cheeky little thing. 

Simon would scoff at your antics and at the men and women who would fall for your little act. That’s why he is so surprised now, because with you, everything seems to be either an act or a transaction. I’ll give you what you need if you offer me something better first.

That’s what he thought you were doing with Konig when he caught you complimenting his skills and commenting on his strength. Just being smart, just trying to have one more ally. 

But the way you were panting, mewling, and pleading told him a different story. You could not be trusted. And now HIS team is in danger because you couldn’t keep your legs shut. Are your legs actually wide open? Are they on his shoulders? No, Ghost is not thinking about your legs. Instead, he is thinking that he wouldn’t need you to give him pointers on how to adjust the rhythm or how to angle himself to hit your sweet spot. With one hand on your mouth, he’d know exactly what to do to you. You wouldn’t need to say please and thank you; you wouldn’t need to be so polite. 

Simon is startled when you let out a sudden giggle, immediately followed by a whimper. You are confusing, half crying and half elated, half begging to stop and half begging to continue. It’s intimate—you sound so defenseless, so vulnerable. You are definitely not to be trusted. 

Much to Ghost’s annoyance, a little escapade with a fellow soldier is not enough to get you to fuck off somewhere else—somewhere far, far away from him. If that were to be enough, the base would be empty by now. He just has to be a little more patient and wait until he hears you say something compromising to the mercenary (or any other bastard that you’ll let into your bed, for that matter, a slut like you). Eventually you'll let something slip that will put the safety of the team at risk and thwart your credibility in the process.

Ghost is just going to have to endure more of this bullshit, and THAT is what annoys him the most. Not the fact that while listening to you, he is reminded of that one time when you dislocated your shoulder. He lets his focus drift to your moaning, desperately trying to conjure the memory of the way you turned your big, watery eyes on him, looking like a wounded animal. He can see it now; he can hear it now—the barely audible plea that escaped your lips, “Please, please don’t hurt me,"  as he was grabbing your arm and trying to fix you. It is only a pang in the pit of his stomach that snaps him out of it; he should not find the idea of you getting hurt so damn erotic. 

You little fucking nuisance.