#a good time - hopefully - but a Time nonetheless

[mika-no-sekai-blog]

Word count: +4300

Warnings: SA, abuse (kinda Cinderella vibes), almost rape, seriously 18+ please🙏

This was written only because few scenes, that will be in the next part, is occupying my mind for weeks now and I need to get rid of that to make space for anything else. At this point I have no idea what to do with this anyway. I have potential villain/s and that's it. Nothing more - I still didn't get much further, only a hazy outline of story that could work, but it's still more than I had when I started to write Heal me

This most likely isn't up to everyone's taste and it's a bit raw and harsh (like winter), but who knows. You might like it nonetheless

Hopefully it will help me get rid of whatever is eating on me since August, so I can again be productive and write something..different Anyway, enjoy🫰

Edit: as I read it after a long time I surprised even myself.. in many ways =_= Where did this come from - seriously? Sorry if there are still mistakes. I usually do at least five rounds of checking before posting anything, but this.. I can't possibly do another round. Don't tell me I didn't warn you. 18+ really!

Let's start new year with angst 😵‍💫

Part II

I stood by the window, wrapped in warm fur. My eyes roamed over the crumbled ruins of houses disappearing under layer of heavy snow behind the inner walls, icicles longer and thicker than my forearm, glittered in sun. Silver snowflakes danced above that graveyard of half-fallen stone walls that were sticking up like black fangs surrounded by pure whiteness.

These lands used to be prosperous and lively, dozens of families lived under the governance of my father, the lord whose family was assigned to protect the border with Autumn Court. Because of the good relationship with the lords on the other side of border, father's family used to be one of the strongest and most important in entire Winter Court. But that was story of past.

Everything started to crumble when my father took a lady from Autumn as a bride. Like ice and fire, people of Winter never fully trusted the wielders of fire from Autumn, despising them; looking down through the fingers at my poor mother. Rumours spread faster than plague, infecting every heart on its way. Nobody cared they were true mates, it didn't matter.

The day I was born was the day when everything went to Hell. People started to leave, moving to who-knows-where. When my powers manifested for the first time, they started to run away in big groups until just few were left behind, mostly only vassals and families of staff at our castle. Fire wielder born in Winter.. it was as if my father brought in a demon disguised as one of them. As soon as I started to notice and understand the side glances, the disgust and even the rage on faces of faeries around me, I swore to never again use the magic circling in my veins and buried it deep down. Of course, every act against the nature demands a price to be paid. My price was almost constant migraine and often nose bleeding, yet it was better than using the powers.

I was three when my mother suddenly died. She was weak and unwell ever since I was born and the harsh blizzard that hit whole Winter Court that year, was too much for her; or that's what I was told. She was always cold and it caused her a great suffering - something we had in common.

During the following months my father was rapidly withering and aged a lot during that time, refusing to eat until I burst into tears, scared he would leave me, too. That broke him and finally, he ate. He started trying, living to take care of me.

In his efforts to protect me and save the name and position of our family, when I was ten, he married a widow with son from prestigious family. The boy was eighteen at the time. Ever since they started to live with us, I felt his intensive gaze glued to my back anywhere I went. I tried to ignore it, really tried, but it was getting worse and worse lately.

Faint sounds of jingle bells scared away pictures of the past and all dark thoughts and I straightened up, watching the horizon. At first I saw nothing, only blinding whiteness. I squinted, listening carefully. No, it wasn't a cry of cold wind, that were really jingle bells and they were quickly getting closer. And then I finally saw it.

Pair of reindeer passed through strait between the steep mountains that were protecting this valley, hauling huge sleight seemingly made of the polished ice. When they reached the first ruins, I recognised the emblem of High Lord's family at the sleigh's side. I immediately rushed from my bedchambers and ran to father's study at the ground floor. By the time I reached its doors, the sleigh were already passing the gates.

"Father!" I heaved. "We have guests! Message from the High Lord!"

Father looked up from the stack of documents, slightly startled, putting down the glasses. "It must only seem to you, sweetheart. There's no way-"

"Guests! We have guests from capital!" My stepmother shrieked as soon as she opened the doors. Then she noticed me and wrinkled her nose in disapproval. Despite my father's belief, she never liked me nor considered me her daughter. She managed to suppress her hate in presence of him, but she never omitted the oportunity to hurt me, verbally or physically. "I thought that you are unwell when you didn't join us for the breakfast," her lips curled into cruel grin. "You look well to me."

"I saw royal sleigh from the window," I mumbled, averting my eyes. She hated when I even merely looked at her. Once she claimed that the disgusting fire in my pale eyes burnt her and punished me for it. Whether it was true I didn't know. Except of the fire magic, I looked like a normal High Fae of Winter Court. My long white hair had slightly silver shade, my skin was pale and eyes had color of frozen river.

Father stood up and swiftly headed to doors. "If it is so, we have to welcome them accordingly. Where's Zima? Are maids preparing the refreshments?"

"I instructed them to brew the best tea we have and prepare some warm refreshments on my way. Zima is training, but I sent butler to call him in," Morena replied as she hurried after father. I followed after them, keeping my distance.

The second she mentioned him, her son appeared. He observed the situation and his cold, almost white eyes landed on me. He took his time as usual. It felt as if he was trying to peel off all of the clothes from my body. Cold shiver ran down my spine and I tugged the fur cloak even closer.

"I was told that we have visit from capital. Is it true?" his raspy cold voice caused that I instinctively cringed.

"Yes, dear," Morena looped her hand to his arm, excited. "Royal family's ignored us for years now! This has to be some good news finally!"

My father sighed. "I have bad feeling about it.."

Chirping, Morena led Zima to the foyer. I matched my steps with father. "It certainly will be okay. No need to worry," I smiled gently.

Father only pressed lips into thin line. We arrived just as the sleigh stopped at the stairs and importantly looking male in thick fur cape got out.

"I'm Isen, High Lord's main advisor," he said without paying any respect to us. He was looking down the length of his nose at us with frown, then his eyes slowly wandered all around the mostly empty, dark and cold hall. Compared to the High Lord's castle, ours had to look like a nest of poor villagers to him. That much was clear from the strict lines around his mouth that only deepened. "I brought a message from His Highness. Can I have a word with you, lord Cherith? In private, of course." His gaze stopped on me and one of his brows raised as he surveyed me from feet to head with almost interest.

I held my breath, looking down as ethics dictated. However, he wasn't the only one looking at me. Morena's rage was staging into me like daggers and my stepbrother's sick possessiveness made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Father's brows knitted with worry and he cleared his throat.

"Yes, sure. Please, follow me to my study."

"How about a cup of warm tea?" Morena offered with sly smile.

"There's no need of tea. I don't plan on staying here long," the adviser declined coldly.

Morena paled and froze on spot. "As you wish, your-"

They were gone before she finished the sentence, the soft click of doors echoed in hallway. She turned to me, baring her teeth.

"What was that? What have you done to catch his interest? You little witch!"

"I did nothing," I tried to defend myself, already knowing what would follow.

She grabbed my elbow harshly. "Come!"

I was resisting, but she pulled me all the way to the closest lounge. Zima followed without word with perverted grin. He loved to watch my punishments. He locked the doors and warded them.

Morena pushed me to the table. "Pull your skirts up!"

"But I did nothing bad, I-"

"You dared to look at me with your dirty eyes today. That alone is enough good reason for punishment! Hurry up, if you don't want it to get worse."

Tears stung my eyes. No matter what I would do, I wouldn't get out of here without punishment. Even if I tried to call for help, all staff at this castle ignored me. I couldn't ran from this, so I did as I was told.

Zima stepped away from the doors for better view and his mother took out thin wand she was hiding in her skirts. As usual, she whisked the back of my thighs until she drew blood.

I bit on my lower lip, suppressing the cries of pain, my fingers fisted the edge of the table. I wouldn't give her such satisfaction. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks - that was the only sign of my protest.

When Morena was done with me, she simply left, immediately losing interest in me. Though, my punishment wasn't over. Zima was still in the room. I suspected that his mother knew very well what he was lately doing to me, yet she never stopped him, never told him anything.

"Don't dare to move," he hissed as he stepped even closer.

His trousers fell down and I could hear strange noises from behind. Thankfully, I didn't see him nor what he was doing there. Nevertheless I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, the worst part was just about to come yet. My fingers balled into fists. I could feel his hand on my legs, his fingers digging into my flesh as he groaned. And then it started. He pressed his hips against my clothed back, rocking back and forth as something thick and hard poked me, sliding down my underwear and between my thighs. Both of his hands landed on my sides, holding me down. I held my breath trying to block his disgusting moans and groans. Once a single sob escaped me, I was unable to stop the following ones.

I didn't know how long it took until he finally groaned for the last time, something wet covered my inner thighs and he pulled his trousers up. He leaned over me, whispering into my ear, slightly breathless. "One day, you will be mine. Truly mine. You can't escape me. I'm looking forward that day."

The doors closed behind him and I shivering pulled my skirts down and fell to my knees. I curled into a ball on the floor and cried. The stinging pain of beating slowly subsided as the shallow wounds healed. However my soul was behind the point of mending for years now. I had enough of this. I couldn't take it anymore, but what could I do? Where could I go to get rid of my stepmother and especially of her disgusting son. Bile rose in my throat and I crawled to the window, pushing it open.

The freezing cold air filled my lungs and few snowflakes landed on my cheeks, mixing with the tears that already started to turn into ice. This kind of pain was welcome. At least for a moment, I could forget. I sighed heavily. What kind of life would I have if my mother didn't die? I wondered. She for sure wouldn't let anyone treat me like this. For her, I wouldn't be nuisance nor the monster.

The sharp pain split my head and my vision went black. I hissed, massaging my temples even though I knew it wouldn't work. A wave of nausea made me empty my stomach. I again closed the window and wrapped myself in the fur cloak. Slowly breathing in and out, I sat down and waited until it got a bit better.

After a while I heard hurried steps at hallway and dared to peek out. It seemed that the lord Isen was done here, leaving. I hurried to the foyer, wiping my mouth and adjusting my appearance.

"I hope that you understood the instructions and you and your family will act according the High Lord's will," I heard his reserved voice as I got closer. My stepmother and her son were already there, waiting. Morena seemed to be confused, but she didn't even look my direction as I joined them. Her son narrowed eyes on me in malice. However, it was my father who worried me. His shoulders were slumped, he was paler than usual, terror and pain marking his face.

"Yes," was the only thing he said. Lord Isen immediately turned away without second glance at my family. His eyes landed on me for a short moment though and he was off. Reindeer shook their heads, ringing the jingle bells and the snow creaked as the sleighs moved.

"What did he come for?" Morena asked the second the entrance doors were firmly shut.

My father only shook his head and his sad eyes searched for me. "My sweet little girl, can you accompany me for a while?"

I was already eighteen yet he still called me like that. My heart filled with love. "Sure, dad." I took his big, warm hand and he led me back to his study.

"What's going on?" Morena demanded, following us, her son at her heels.

"Later. I'll tell you later," father stopped them with a simple gesture.

We walked down the hallway in silence. Father locked the door of his study and pulled me into a tight hug. He let out a shuddering sigh.

"What happened?" I asked softly, holding him just as close.

Father was still silent. When it already seemed that he wouldn't answer, he took a deep breath. "High Lord thinks that it's time for his heir to get married," his voice was strangely raspy. "And he chose you to be the bride."

I froze in disbelief, lump raising in my throat. I felt sick again. "Me?" My voice was weak and shaky, mirroring my terror. "Why me?"

"I thought it's long time forgotten and royal family already crossed out our name from the family tree," he sighed, leading me to the small sofa near to the hearth with flickering flames. "Long, very long time ago, royal family needed someone reliable to protect our Court from the Autumn as the natural barrier of mountains didn't seem to be enough. The High Lord decided to entrust such important task to his cousin who he was very close with. He gave him new name and extensive land at the border. It's a position that is inherited in our family for generations now."

Even though I understood what he was implying, I still didn't see the reason why to choose me. Father had to read it in my eyes because he squeezed both of my hands in his big one and smiled sadly.

"High Lord needs to strengthen the position of the heir and the royal family. Unfortunately, there isn't any suitable lady between their close relatives, so he decided to call upon our ancient bonds and wants you. The noble families in power aren't very reliable these days and keep plotting against the royal family. But we, despite everything, still keep on our oath and serve well, so High Lord counts on our loyalty now."

I swallowed hard. "Do-.. Does he know about..?"

Father nodded. "He knows about Evalyn, your mother, but that's all. He, as the rest of the court, has no idea about your powers. By your appearance, he probably assumes you took after me."

"If he finds out..?"

"I tried to object," father sighed heavily, tears shining in his eyes. "Unfortunately, it isn't a proposal. It's an order. You are the only reminder of my beloved Evalyn I have. I swore to protect you, my little girl, but the moment you get married, I won't be able to fulfil the promise... I can't even imagine what will happen once young Kallias or his father finds out about your magic."

He pressed face to my hands, cool wetness trickling into my palms. "I thought I have enough time to find someone kind who would love you and take good care of you somewhere far from this Court. Somewhere where you could live freely without being looked down. But I failed you.. I'm sorry.. I'm so sorry, my precious child.."

His words were breaking my heart and I wept with him. He was trying so hard for me all these years. Because of me he lost almost everything, yet he never blamed me for it and always thought so dearly of me. And now, he was even apologising.

"Please, don't, papa." His shoulders trembled and he started to cry even harder. "You protected me whole my life."

Suddenly, he raised his head, pale eyes wild. "You have to go. I'll send you to your family in Autumn Court. They will hide you - royal family won't be able to forcibly take you. Not without risking a war. We can say that you ran away. Yes. That could work." He stood up, pacing.

"Papa, no," I stood up too. "You can't do that! Royal family could take it as a betrayal and punish you for that."

"Who cares what will happen to me? As long as you are safe, everything would be okay."

I hugged him, crying to his shoulder, willing him to understand.

"I care, dad," I sobbed. "I won't allow it. I'll rather go to Mountain Home and endure it. I will live as up to now and-"

"You can't not use your powers for the rest of your life. It's too dangerous. It could kill you. It's already causing you so much pain."

I looked him into the eyes, determined. He was my only living family, the only person I held dear in my life. I wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. I couldn't. "No! I can do it. I wil go!"

* * *

It was already late at night when I finally returned to my bedchambers. I was exhausted. It took some time to persuade my father, but at last he agreed. It hurt so much to see him in such a state, so sad and broken. However, there was no way around this. I had to do as I was ordered by High Lord and marry his son, Kallias.

At dinner, father broke the news to Morena and her son. Morena made a big scene, but over all she seemed happy to get rid of me. Zima took it seemingly calmly. He didn't say a word and frowning stared at his plate with dinner he hadn't touched. I had a bad feeling about that, his words still ringing in my ears.

One day, you will be mine. You can't escape me.

Maybe this wedding was the getaway from this situation I prayed for, given by the Mother herself. The question was whether it was reward or different form of punishment though. Anyway, I had no saying in it and had to obey.

After the dinner, I spent the rest of the evening at father's study, talking with him about everything and nothing. He wasn't a drinker, yet he opened a bottle of wine and offering me a glass, we gazed to the flames in hearth until we grew too tired and called it a night.

I reached for the door handle of my bedroom, the metal cold in my hand. I twisted it and opened the door, already excited to dive under the thick and warm comforter while soft crackling of fire would lull me to sleep. I halted as the gust of freezing cold air rolled out from inside, biting into my flesh. I suppressed the urge to tug the fur cloak closer and looked around, or at least tried to. Curtains were closed, the room was completely dark except of few last coals in hearth. I heard movement from somewhere near my bed, soft rustling of the sheets. Someone or something was here.

A pale big hand with long fingers shot out from the darkness, grasped my arm and pulled me in. The door closed with loud click, followed by the sound of lock. I was trapped. I was so scared I couldn't make a single cry as I was nudged backward and fell on the bed. The person straddled me, trapping me under their heavy body, hand on each side of my head. The smell of strong alcohol filled my nose.

"You can't escape me."

I cringed at the hoarse deep voice, the voice I knew. Whole my body started to shiver. I clenched my teeth, but even that couldn't stop their chatter. It was Zima, my very drunk step-brother.

"You are mine and you always will be."

His cold fingers wrapped around my throat, slightly squeezing as if testing it. Then they slowly slid down to my chest and under the dress, leaving a burning pain wherever his skin met with mine. He yanked on the collar with such strength that the fabric had torn. The freezing cold clenched its claws into my skin and I cried out in pain and horror.

"I won't let some brat to take what is mine. To touch what belongs to me. This all is mine, only mine."

He sounded like a crazy man. His cold hands cupped my breasts and pushed them together while his face nuzzled between them. His wet tongue licked my skin and sucked on my nipple and I cried and screamed. The pain his cold touch caused me, was agonizing, much worse than the horror of being so helpless. I tried to push him away, punching his ribs and anywhere I could reach, yet it seemed he didn't even notice.

I was dizzy and nauseous. Just when I thought I wouldn't be able to take it anymore and faint, the doors in connected sitting room opened and a maid called out.

"My lady, your father is sending you a tea! I brought also your medicine!"

Zima stilled, listening.

"My lady?"

He cursed and his weight disappeared. The window on the other side of room opened, letting in even more of the coldness and he was gone. I managed to sit up and pull the fur cloak over the torn dress with trembling fingers just before the door opened and maid peeked in.

"My lady..? For Mother's sake!" she wailed. "Why it is so freezing cold here? My lady, are you okay? Why is even the window ajar?"

It was Lucy, a young maid who began to work here just recently. Unlike older maids, she was very kind to me and often came to help me dress or brought me a tea. She immediately ran to the window and shut it close, locking it. She turned on few lights and add logs to the hearth. When the fire came to live again and flames started to dance over the log, she rushed to me.

"My lady, are you all right? You are so cold and shivering. What happened?"

I tried to hold it back, but when she started to rub my arms and back to warm me up, I burst into tears.

"I'm so happy to see you, Lucy."

"Everything is okay now," she comforted me. "What happened?"

I cried even harder. I couldn't tell her. I couldn't tell anyone about this. Who would believe me anyway. And the moment my father would find out.. I didn't even want to think how he would react. It would break his weakening heart for sure. I didn't want to lose him. He was my only family.

Lucy just pressed her lips together and brought in the tea.

"Here. Drink this, my lady. It will warm you up."

I reached for the cup. The fur cloak a bit loosened and Lucy gasped.

"My lady! Your neck! You have frostbite all over your throat!"

The breath hitched in my throat, panic rising. I had to come up with something and very fast. If she noticed that it was in shape of a hand, that my dress was torn and the wounds on my chest.. She was clever girl, she would piece together what happened.

"I-it's nothing. It will heal in no time. Could you prepare me a bath, please? I'm really cold."

She nodded, but her gaze lingered on my neck, brows furrowed.

"It's only good that you will leave soon," she mumbled and left.

I swallowed hard. She knew. With such, all servants probably knew, yet they never said anything. They never helped me nor said anything to my father. When it came to the servants who worked here since before I was born, it wasn't so surprising. They couldn't care less for me. However, when even those who came recently, didn't say a word.. well.. It had to be because of Morena. She most likely threatened them all.

Dread washed over me. Maybe after all it was really good that I would leave soon. If only to get rid of Zima and his mother. But what about my father? What would happen to him after that? More I thought about it, more restless I grew. If only father could stay in the capital with me.

That night I couldn't sleep. The bath helped a great deal and warmed me up, yet I couldn't stop shivering, jolting at the slightest sound. The wounds healed really fast, however my heart needed much longer.

Most of the time before the day of the wedding, I spent locked in my chambers or with father in his study. I couldn't relax even when Lucy told me that Zima left the castle and wouldn't be back before I would leave. Last days at my home I spent in constant state of alarm and haste, preparing to leave my old life and to survive the new one in capital with faeries I'd never met.

And at last, the final day of my current struggles came.

[ggrimboy]

ITS GRAND FEST TIIIMMEEEE and that means everyone gets a hairstyle change since i got a little bored of them having the ingame styles . first up is bud

[murmel-malt]

@tremendouswolfsaladranch

you are absolutely right about Daera supporting Rhaenyra’s interest in sword fighting.

I mean, who is going to tell the daughter of Alyssa Targaryen that her own daughter cannot do what her grandmother did?

If Rhaenyra wants to learn how to wield a sword, Daera will rope a King’s Guard into teaching her the basics and if her interest continues, more. Her Nyra is just similar to Alyssa in that regard (that certainly makes Vizzy come around).

And if Daera gets to ogle a handsome knight under the pretense of watching over her daughter during training, where’s the harm in it?

[snufflepup]

Tonight is a My Love is Sick night .

[dandyshucks]

LETS FUCKING GOOOOOO

[starbuck]

another semester BEHIND me… the relief hasn’t fully kicked in, but i’m starting to feel it.

[seventh-district]

oh nice! the Matt fic posted itself at the correct time

[bullseyelover]

Q: When you get the role, what were your impressions of Benjamin Poindexter before you had to live in his skin and peel back those layers?

A: Well, obviously, there’s a pretty big mythology around this character. So, you can’t ignore ignore that. That said, Erik Oleson, the showrunner, he had something pretty close to a carte blanche in developing a backstory and really developing a more intimate and intricate psychology for the character. You have a certain version of the character that exists in the comic book, but I’d like to think you get a really more fleshed out version. You’re getting to really spend some time with him this season on the show and hopefully in future seasons. So, I think part of the excitement for me was really getting to learn about him as I read more scripts. And of course as an actor, that just enriches just a bigger understanding of what his motivations are and where he’s going — what his arc is. I think part of what makes the character so cool is that when you meet him, he’s a troubled guy clearly, but he’s also good guy. He’s on the right side of the law, and he’s fighting the good fight. He’s working with the FBI, and for all intents and purposes, he’s a hero. What this season charts is his being pulled from a better nature into a darker nature, and Wilson Fisk is a big part of that.

Wilson Bethel for 411 Mania

[arttsuka]

Omfg I love your art sm!! It's so refreshing to see traditional art, it's such a rarity on this platform. I checked out your blog bc of your radiostatic posts, and went through your star trek art and they're so good?? Omg <33333

Oh, thank you ♡

Also yes, there seems to be a lack of traditional art in general, not only on tumblr. I can understand why, digital art doesn't have the same limitations (you can use all the colors you need, references, erase mistakes and much more) but I love drawing on paper, the feeling is unmatched for me (also the alternative rn is drawing on my phone with my fingers and I'm not a huge fan of that. Sometimes it's unavoidable tho)

[luveline]

jade my lovely, i would kill for more early season spencer and bombshell!reader. i love them sm!! (i also love seeing the mentions of elle, like that’s my bbg)

“You aren’t still mad.”

You take a sip of your coffee and refuse to answer. 

Elle rolls her eyes. It’s unrestrained, as is her deep sigh. “Whatever.” 

You drink more coffee. Think about it, can’t contain it, “Whatever yourself, Greenaway.” 

“I want it just as bad as you do.” 

“But I’m better.” 

“You’re not better. You’re less likeable, there’s a difference.” 

You weren’t surprised when they chose Elle for the open BAU position, but you were gutted nonetheless. Pretending it doesn’t bother you comes easily, just not when she’s rubbing it in your face. “Can you leave that?” 

She hands over the stapler she’d been about to put in her cardboard. You don’t own one, and you decide to forgive her when she hands it to you without argument. “You want anything else?” 

“No, it’ll just remind me of you.” You sniff. 

“At least you’ll have an empty desk beside yours for a while. It’ll be good for your afternoon meditation.” 

“Hopefully, they’ll fill your absence with a very attractive new recruit.” You’d like that, a hottie to crush on. Now Elle’s leaving, you’ll have no one to project your fantasies on to make it through the work day. “How will you cope?”

“What, without you?” Elle asks. 

“With all the BAU hotties. Everybody on that team is maddeningly attractive,” you say with a put upon swoon, back of your hand curled and thrown to land against your forehead. 

“I didn’t realise you felt that way about Jason Gideon. Perhaps if you’d made that known, you’d be packing your desk up instead of me,” Elle laughs. 

“Well, maybe not Gideon. But the rest of them. Derek… if you take him seriously, he’s gorgeous. And Hotch–”

“He’s married. And older than us by ten years.” 

“He’s handsome, is what he is. So quietly funny and moody. I’m not telling you to ruin his marriage, I’m just saying he’s distracting.” 

“And Spencer Reid?” she asks. 

You grin. “He’s cute.” 

“Morgan said you asked him out for coffee?” 

“He wanted to tell me about water bugs.” It was sudden but sweet, he’d started a tangent on how they can walk on water because they’re small and hydrophobic, then asked if you really wanted to know, which you did. 

“He’s cute,” Elle says, raising her brows. 

“Have you seen him turn to the side? His jawline is ridiculous.” 

“He looks a little… dorky,” Elle says finally. She isn’t mean-spirited, just honest about her tastes. 

“I like dorks. And I really loved him, he was adorable. Derek’s been hazing him, so maybe you could be nicer? I think he really needs a friend.” 

“You don’t want to be that friend?” 

You smile. “I do. But I can’t exactly do that from Sex Crimes.” 

“Well, you can help me carry my stuff to the BAU. Come on.” 

“And look desperately needy? Is there anything worse than going where you’re not wanted?” 

“Morgan will be happy to see you. Maybe Dorky Spencer will be there to tend your BAU shaped wounds.” 

“You’re heartless, Greenaway.” 

You put your arms out obediently for her box. She grabs her jacket and her bag, gives her desk a last sweep, and turns away. It’s the last time she’ll ever sit at her desk in the Sex Crimes Unit, and it’s the most envious you’ve ever been of a friend. You want more than anything to be in her position. Profiling isn’t mythical to you, it’s a science you’ve studied, and you believe you could do it well if they just gave you time to learn on the job like they’ve done for Elle. 

But the position is filled. There’s no room left on the team. 

No need for a sex crimes expert now they’ve chosen Elle. 

You’re going to have to make yourself useful in other ways, or play politics, or, better, make friends. 

Hotch likes you, you know that, and Derek’s awesome. Gideon is the one you need to convince, but for some reason he’s totally sworn off of you. Luckily for you, he isn’t out in the BAU office when you enter, it’s just Derek, Spencer Reid, and Elle’s waiting desk. 

“Hi boys,” she greets. 

Derek turns. 

Spencer puts down his book. You meet his eyes. 

You’re far more flirty than Elle. “Hi, Derek. Hi, Dr. Reid.” 

Derek grins and takes Elle’s box from your arms. “Hi, girls. Happy moving day.” 

You don’t really want to talk about it, think about it, or come off as a jealous jerk, so you do a little bit of performance. “What are you reading?” you ask Spencer, pretending to be interested, hoping he’ll throw you a rope. You spot a familiar creature on the cover and your smile legitimises. “Is that about pond skaters?” 

“It’s Small Freshwater Creatures,” he says, shy but somehow firm, too. His tone changes as he relays facts. “It’s an identification guide, but it does talk about the specifics.”

“You really like bugs, huh?”

“I wanted to know more about it in case you came back.” 

You can’t help grinning. “That's really sweet,” you say earnestly, “did you learn anything new? You sounded like an expert already.” 

“They’re predators. They eat mosquito larvae.” 

“Oh, awesome, so if we had a few more pond skaters in the world we’d be better off.” 

You prop yourself on Spencer’s desk as he begins to rattle of facts and figures. Not too far away, Elle and Derek talk under their breaths. 

“Is it me, or is she into him?” Derek asks. 

“Maybe more than she realises.” Elle bites back a smile, stealing glances at you from over Derek’s shoulder. You’re more interested in what he has to say than anything she’s seen on you before. You lean in, your eyes bright. A little flirty, ever so slightly teasing, but genuine, too, as Spencer begins a quick spiel. 

“Well, he’s a goner,” Derek laughs. 

Elle doesn’t know about that. You don’t play with people’s hearts. 

There’s a teeny, tiny strand of shyness to you as you touch your neck. You begin rolling the chain links of your necklace along your finger, causing poor Dr. Reid to lose his train of thought. Two people entirely unaware of the road they’re embarking on. 

“Do you guys have a stapler?” Elle asks. “I lost mine in the divorce.” 

[k9wa]

⟁ PLUMMET. ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — “swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

⚠︎ mechanic!reader (but it isn’t really relevant), i saw boothill trailer and ran to google docs, gn reader (ma’am used once at the end) wc 1k.

“your bounty has been completed!”

boothill could feel the explosion of the ship, even from the distance he was and against the strong winds from his high speed fall. a rush of heat slapped him in the face, leaving a thorough hunger in his gut temporarily quelled.

“how would you like to land?”

the cyborg kept his hat fastened to his head with his palm against the top, eyes briefly glancing down to the city below he was slowly getting closer to plumetting down into.

“…good question.”

the ground was steadily approaching, even if it was gonna take him a solid second or two to actually reach it. he’d never tested if his body could withstand smacking against concrete from— give or take— six thousand feet in the air, but he had a small hunch today wasn’t the day to try his luck. becoming a blue splat on the pavement wasn’t exactly in the cards of his itinerary.

boothill’s eyes looked left, looked right, fingers twirling the rope on his belt. he doubted it’d do much to really help, but it was a start nonetheless. 

he eventually came up with an idea— a totally foolproof idea. loop his rope around one of the street lights when he got close enough, avoid hitting the ground, swing himself back up into the air, and land safe and sound on…wherever the hell he managed to land. hopefully on his feet. 

super simple, super easy. lightwork.

and so he eyed the ground, wrapping one end of his rope taught around his right palm, his left getting the momentum of the other end ready in a smooth swinging motion.

“c’mon now boothill,” he muttered to himself, voice thoroughly drowned out by the wind. “ain’t nothin’ but a lil’ repositionin’.”

he kept falling, getting closer, 

closer…

closer…

almost there…

boothill readied his hand to swing, but the motion quickly became unnecessary when something— or rather, someone— grabbed his wrist, and he was pulled upward with a shocked ‘muddle—!’ before he could test the success rate of his plan.

the cowboy snapped his head up, hat nearly tipping off his head. he was hung like a ragdoll from his arm, feet dangling down below him as his eyes met his apparent saviours—

of course.

boothill’s sharp teeth slowly shone in a wide grin, loud and scruffy laugh echoing into the still rather open air around him. because who else would it have been besides you, your brows slightly furrowed at him from the safety of your little hoverboard he remembered you tinkering with just a couple days ago.

“well fudge me!” he’d slap his knee if the position allowed. “look who it is— ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!” 

boothill reached up for your other hand, you wordlessly met him halfway reaching down, leaving both of your fingers locking around the others wrist.

“swoopin’ in to save me again, sugar plum?”

you shake your head with a sigh, hoverboard beginning a steady descent down. it was a little harder to balance with boothill weighing it down, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

“you’re lucky,” you half scoff. “i’ve got a sixth sense for you being an idiot.”

boothill’s hearty laugh echoed out again, the wind whipping around you leaving his hair tousled and a little tangled. 

“ain’t that the fudgin’ truth,” he jostled your hand a little. he doubted he could really get adrenaline rushes anymore, but this was pretty damn close. “reckon i’d be flatter than a darn hotcake if it weren’t for yer timely intervention!” 

his feet touching the ground were a welcome stabilisation, though the cyborg made no move to release your hand— instead he actually broke into a quick sprint, barely giving you the time to pick up your board as he tugged you along.

“you got somewhere to be or somethin’?”

you asked, stumbling a bit before you got your footing to keep up. you were just so cute when you pretended to be all sore with him.

“you bet i do— somewhere that ain’t swarmin’ with those sorry IPC shirtbags!”

it was a fair point— a giant explosion in the sky of one of their own ships made quite the beacon for attention.

running with him wasn’t so bad, at least. his grip around your wrist was surprisingly gentle, and the smell of him filled your nose in the wind as you trailed behind. some citrus, maybe cedar, and an unmistakable lingering of those phosphorus tracer bullets he chewed on so often. 

you two dipped around a corner, backed against an old brick wall as some heavy footsteps kept running the other way. 

“say, remind me to get’cha a drink later,” boothill gave a small tug to your wrist again, bringing you just a little closer. “as a thanks for all them times y’saved my sorry behind.”

boothill smiled when you chuckled rather than shooing his hand away or giving a smart response.

“you’re gonna have quite the tab going.” you carefully repositioned your hand with his, your fingers lacing together rather than him just holding your wrist. boothill’s eyes could have turned into cartoonish hearts.

“tell ya what,” his hand gave yours a squeeze. “i know a place. it ain’t too far from here, won’t have to worry about no one botherin’ us,” it was quite endearing, the way his voice still held that gentle rasp even as it softened. “i start workin’ off that tab, get a night with you, and heck we’re both winnin’ ain’t we?” 

you hummed at that. it didn’t sound so bad.

“alright,” you nodded. “but let’s focus on you not having to gun down another dozen IPC workers first.”

it was your turn to pull him along with a swift tug of his wrist, resuming your sprint just in time to avoid some more heavy footsteps heading in your direction.

“you weren’t pullin’ my leg about that sixth sense, were ya sweetheart?” boothill fell into a natural step behind you.

“consider this added to your tab.”

“yes ma’am!”

⠀ MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[dreaming-tonite]

The Necessity of Old-School Dating

— A relationship should start with flowers and a proper confession.

A/N: I just finished x-men 97 and my crush on Kurt when I was like 15 came back in full force. Like, you cannot tell me this man would not go to lengths trying to charm you.

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x reader

Warning: (1) German pet name in the feminine form that hopefully will not ruin this for any German speakers

Word count: ~1.5k

When Kurt Wagner was in love with you, the entire world would know.

He had a lot of love to give, knocking people off their feet (quite literally) when he made his sudden appearances and tackled his friends with full-body hugs. But with you, he was always more careful. While he made no hesitation in finding his way to you in a puff of purple smoke the second he saw you, he always landed just a step away from you.

He grinned ear to ear, glowing eyes curled into thin moons just at the sight of you. His body leaned towards you slightly, aching to be close to you but restraining himself until you reached out for him first. The heat radiating off his body tempted you to close your eyes and allow your mind to sink into his embrace when he immediately pulled you in after getting the go-ahead.

“It is good to see you.” His voice was soft in your ear, the vibrations from his chest seeping into your skin.

He made sure to tell you that every time, even though he must be aware that you already knew how often he told you that. But to him, it was important that you hear it from him.

Kurt never pulls away until you do and the lingering of his touch on your back when he does always leaves your skin tingling.

A true gentleman but with a trickster’s spirit nonetheless. Your back bumped into his anticipating tail, respectfully curved around your form. You gasped when it presented you with a bunch of flowers that he seemingly pulled out of nowhere, the end of his tail holding at the stems.

“Oh, you really shouldn’t have,” you sheepishly said, “today is not even anything special!”

“I like that they make you happy,” he mused, his gaze so soft that it made your face burn, “is that not enough of a reason?”

“They make me very happy,” you smiled and took the bouquet, his tail gently recoiling from behind you to sit neatly against its owner. You pressed the flowers against your chest, the faint scent of petals tucking at your senses, “Thank you, Kurt.”

You did not remember a moment when your room was void of flowers since the very first time he ever gave you any (in fact, you did not even have a vase before that and now it was reserved specifically for flowers he brought you). Some days it was a properly wrapped bouquet, some times it seemed he just saw a daisy on his way and plucked it when he thought of you.

It was a fluttering feeling to be treated special, to have someone show you that you were always on their mind. As much as it was a sweet gesture, it sure was a smart one too. Flowers sitting at the corner of your room reminded you of him whenever your gaze flickered towards them, and it brought a smile to your face whether you intended to or not.

("That brother of mine sure got you smitten for him, doesn't he?"

The sugar-sweet voice broke you out of your trance and you subconsciously stopped toying with the daffodil you had been twirling between your fingers. "I have no idea what you are talking about," you quipped, avoiding Anna-Marie's amused stare.

"Why, is that so?" she crossed her arms in front of her chest in fake thoughtfulness before it broke into a smirk, "Then care to explain what is so special about some little flower that it got you smiling like a fool?"

Your eyes went wide, the smile on your face that you weren't even aware was there dropping in an instant as the realisation hit you in full force.

"Sugar," she said, a loop-sided grin tucked at the corner of her lips, "I know the look of someone in love when I see one.")

They said that if their heart was in the right place then you would never doubt, and he made sure that his intentions were clear from the very moment you caught his eye.

He remembered things you said in passing, asked you to go out for dinners and subtly took note of items your eyes lingered on when you passed by store windows even before there was a proper label to your connection.

Kurt always managed to find excuses to take the long route when he walked with you back to the school. Sure, he could, and usually would, skip the unnecessary process of walking. But the minutes that were saved would be a waste of precious time he could spend with you.

The world was quiet and all was good in these rare moments when you were alone, talking about nothing and everything and all that fell between. He fell a little bit more in love every time you laughed as if his heart was not already threatening to burst out of his chest. He preened in moments like this, standing a little taller and a little closer to you until your shoulders nearly bumped with each slow stride.

And if the knuckle of your fingers happened to brush against his, then he would allow himself to be a bit bold under the disguise of the starry sky to hold your hand.

Kurt was a true believer in the importance of proper courting, putting in the effort and letting the effort be felt. But as much as he enjoyed the tip-toeing and the words that were left unsaid, there came moments when the passion was too much to bear.

It was a night much like any other. You had thought that things were going well, there was laughter and he was being his usual charming self until the two of you started heading back. Under the silver moonlight, he was... quiet. Your gaze flickered towards him in concern but seemingly, he was too deep in his thoughts to notice.

So instead of speaking, you reached for his hand and his walls came crumbling down.

"I wanted to take things slow so that you could consider if my affections, my— my love is worthy for you." He blurted out, accent thicker than usual in a moment of vulnerability. "But recently, I have been plagued by my own selfishness, that the more you have allowed me in your life, the more I crave to have you all to myself."

"Ah, entschuldige, I am rambling," he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling and guiding your hand so that he faced you properly. You reached out to hold his face and he leaned into the touch, sighing in content at the contact and all the more certain that close could never be close enough when it came to you.

"I like to think that any relationship, any romance, should start with flowers and a proper confession, and you deserve nothing less." he paused, his hand reaching up to hold yours firmly. "My heart is in your hands, mein liebe."

Time stopped, and all was still.

The thudding of your heart was the only thing in your ear as he waited for your answer with bated breath.

The first touch was so light he could barely feel it. Your body reacted before your mind could keep up and at the first brush of your cupid's bow against his lips, perhaps the bravest thing you had ever done even though you had been on literal battlefields, your reason immediately got ahold of the better of you. But before you could start to pull away, doubt and logic melted into a puddle when he crashed into you, strong arms holding you firmly as he returned the kiss with one much deeper than the one before.

He kissed you again, and again, getting light-headed when you pressed your palm flat against his chest and kissed him back every single time.

You gasped when you suddenly felt the ground disappearing from under your feet, purple smoke blurring your vision and your feet stumbling when gravity weighted you down once more. Kurt didn't seem to notice it at all, too drunk in having your body flushed against his.

Bamf, bamf, bamf. You nearly stumbled when you landed one last time, his hand finding its way to hold you by the small of your back before you could fall.

He was out of breath and if you could see under the blue fur of his cheeks you were sure he must be blushing like mad. Still heaving, he pressed his forehead against yours.

"Forgive me, I lost control of myself," he closed his eyes, the tip of his nose touching yours, "you have no idea how happy you make me."

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you decided that a proper confession deserved a proper answer.

"I love you," you said, "it would be a blessing to call you mine."

He chuckled before leaning in once more, this time soft and tender.

"And me, yours."

[zemosbff]

study session

amongst other things…

pairing: mentor!agatha x witch!reader

summary: tired of studying, you find something far more enjoyable to do together with your mentor, agatha harkness..

content warning: (legal) age gap, teacher x student, fem (afab) reader, a little mix of everything; dry humping, nipple play, eating out (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), mommy kink

word count: 1.6k

a/n: haii :3 this is my first ever fanfic, i hope you all enjoy it! don’t be afraid to leave requests or some feedback!

MINORS DNI. 18+ ONLY

the words in the book you were reading soon turned into mush. your head throbbed and a big sigh left your lips before turning to your mentor sitting on your right.

you had been agatha’s student for a couple of months now, ever since you moved in next door. she had been the first to introduce herself to you, and as soon she realized that you too, just like her, were a witch, she took you under her wings. she wanted to teach you everything she knew, wanted you to be her perfect little student.

“agatha..” you started, but as soon as you locked eyes with the older witch already staring at you, you quickly forgot your trail of thoughts.

as embarrassing as it was, there was no denying your feelings for agatha. which maybe wasn’t so weird after all since she was quite literally the only one you had. you spent more time with her than alone, and you had tried to convince yourself it was because of your immense dedication to the research and work you put into learning and be a good student. but that wasn’t exactly the truth, and deep down you knew it.

so, instead of trying to bury your feelings, you decided to have some fun with it instead.

you had no idea whether agatha actually liked you back though, so it was definitely a risky game. but you were tired of studying, and it was a risk you were willing to take. besides, she always used pet names for you which sent butterflies down your stomach. was it normal for a mentor to call their student things like “hon, “sweetheart”, “angel”? or your personal favorite, “good girl”. you weren’t sure, but in your mind you were the only one she would call those things. hopefully.

“what, darling?”

darling. the word sent shivers down your spine, and you tried hiding your little smirk that creeped up your face. perhaps agatha saw this, because what she did next made your breath heavier.

she calmly put her hand on your thigh, still keeping eye contact with you as she started to move her hand up and down, caressing you carefully. the touch wasn’t necessarily out of the ordinary, but made your heart flutter nonetheless.

you had grown impatient as of lately, and therefore dressed in a way you thought would attract the older dark haired witch beside you. the short dress made an easy access to your already dripping cunt. it took so little to make you worked up, something that agatha regularly took to her advantage, unbeknownst to you of course.

“are you going to answer me or not?” she let out a small chuckle, watching your cheeks grow red.

“can we do something else?” you asked with uncertainty. you didn’t know how she would react, perhaps your delusions were just that - delusions.

she leaned towards you, and when she was so close you could feel her breath against your ear she whispered in a seductive voice.

“like what?”

she leaned back again and bit her lip while watching you lose your confidence and quickly surrender to her.

your legs started to feel weak, and you felt thankful for sitting down. was this actually happening? is agatha flirting with you or is this simply your imagination slipping away from reality?

she closed the thick book in front of you harshly and continued.

“alright, since you’ve worked so hard, would you like a little reward?”

you managed to open your mouth and let out a pathetic attempt to answer yes while nodding.

you had no idea what would happen next, it felt as if your head simply stopped all kinds of thoughts, not wanting to interfere with whatever was going to happen next.

agatha leaned forward slowly, as if she was afraid to scare you away if she moved too quickly. you could see the lust and yearning in her eyes, and as if something took over your body you crashed your lips onto hers. her hands reached your hair and gripped tightly, making you groan into her mouth, which led to her taking the opportunity to stick her tongue in your mouth. you had been kissed before, but nothing could compare to this. months of stares that lasted a bit too long, pet names and touches that could be considered flirting, but both too anxious to actually take the first step.

it felt as if you were on fire, shivering when her tongue went deeper, making you forget how to breathe properly. while keeping body contact she stood up, and you obediently followed her lead. her hands laid on your shoulders and still deep in the kiss you moved to agatha’s couch; the bedroom simply being too far away at the moment. you needed each other, and had no time to spill, so the couch would do. agatha pushed you down while quickly following, she sat down beside you, legs touching.

without breaking the kiss you raised one of your legs and put it on the other side of her, making you sit on top of her. the sudden change of position made agatha whimper into your mouth and you realized you now had the upper hand.

desperately wanting some friction you started moving your hips back and forth, searching for something to get you off on. agatha’s hands found your hips and pushed you down while helping you move.

“please.. i want you..” suddenly the words you had been thinking of for so long finally left your mouth, and you couldn’t believe this was really happening. apparently those three words i want you was all that was needed for agatha to hungrily touch you all over. her hands lingered over your breasts and just seconds later she threw your dress over your head. still sitting on top of her, she had a perfect view of your completely bare chest. she looked at you shamelessly while she took one of your nipples into her hot mouth, swirling her tongue just perfectly making the hairs on your body stand right up. one of her hands found your other nipple and gently pinched it, looking for a reaction from you which you gladly gave her, whimpering loudly.

she moved on from your breasts and instead started leaving wet kisses all over your neck, trying to taste every part of you.

“you want me baby? tell me you want me” her voice was low and husky, making your legs tremble.

“yes, god agatha, i want you so bad”

“such a good girl”

there it was. good girl. nothing in the world could ever get you as riled up as agatha calling you a good girl, specifically her good girl.

you sucked in a sharp breath when she moved you to lay on your back, and she slowly lowered herself and pulled down your underwear with only her teeth. you could tell she was skilled, way more than you were, so you decided to just let her take full control over your body. she could use you, do whatever she wanted with you without question.

she put a trail of small fluttering kisses along your inner thighs, making your whole body shiver.

“does this feel good hon?”

without even waiting for your answer she teased your folds with her nose, before licking up your leaking juices.

“so wet for me already, hm?”

you let out a loud moan when she for the second time closed the distance between your soaking core and her mouth. she explored your pussy with her tongue and started getting more and more aggressive with it. wanting to give you the most pleasure possible she started rubbing your clit in circles with her fingers, still burying her entire lower face into your folds.

“feels.. so good..” you finally let out with a heavy breath, not knowing what else to say or do.

your hands reached down to her thick hair, pulling it harshly when she bit down on your sensitive clit.

mindlessly fucking you with both her fingers and mouth she felt you tense up, and you started to feel the familiar sensation in your abdomen, knowing you were close.

“i.. i’m close..”

“beg.”

“please.. please let me cum”

“that’s what you call begging? honey, you’re pathetic” she said with her low sexy voice, absolutely sending you over the edge.

“agatha oh my god, please let me come, please mommy”

and with that you let it all out, squirting over her face while you bucked your hips up and down to ride it out. with a sigh and eyes rolling back in your head she inserted a finger in your hole, stretching it out without any warning.

“fuck, agatha!” you screamed, while she hushed you, explaining that we didn’t want the whole neighborhood to hear now, do we?

but in all honesty, you couldn’t care less. she pumped her finger in and out, soon leaving you a blabbering mess.

a second finger appeared inside you, and she picked up her pace even more while your walls started to clench around her.

agatha leaned forward and pressed loving kisses all over your face while tears started to form in your eyes as she continued aimlessly fucking you, not giving a single thought to just how overstimulated you were at the moment. just a single touch would make you melt.

your breath became more prominent and you knew you wanted, no, needed, to orgasm on her fingers. your back ached and with a couple more sinful moans from you and a third finger from agatha, you screamed her name while letting loose the best orgasm you’ve ever had in your entire life.

panting like she had just ran a marathon, agatha left a kiss on your forehead.

“how was that, hm?” she asked, and all you could think was that this was so, so much better than studying.

a/n (again): let me know if anyone would be interested in a part 2! also i lowkey rushed this because i just wanted to be done with it, but hope yall enjoyed it anyways!

[puckstories]

Surrender | Quinn Hughes

Pairing; Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut (p n v), spanking (once), cursing, use of the term 'good girl', situationship, slight angst, edited once.

Summary; A brutal loss to the Bruins leads to Quinn showing up at your apartment at one am, and subsequently changes everything. Title and fic is slightly inspired by the song Surrender by Kut Klose.

Word Count; 8.8k

Author’s note; This was my first time writing smut! But weirdly, I found it easier to write than fluff..? That being said, hopefully this isn't too bad, and any constructive criticism is appreciated. This morphed into something more complicated and detailed than I originally planned, but I like it nonetheless. Would love to hear any thoughts you have + reblogs are super appreciated. Feel free hit my inbox with anything (: -Honey.

You and Quinn had been casually seeing each other for the past couple of months. It hadn’t been planned, not really. You’d met him at a bar one night—a place with dim lighting and sticky floors, the air humming with laughter and bass-heavy music. One of those rare evenings when the stars seemed to align just right. He was sitting alone, nursing a drink, the brim of his black New York hat pulled low enough to make him look just anonymous enough to the crowd. He’d caught your eye almost immediately, and when his gaze found yours across the room, something about the way he smiled—confident but a little hesitant—had you walking over before you even realized it.

Things had taken off quickly after that. A few drinks. Easy conversation. A kiss outside the bar that turned into more. He was charming in a quiet, unassuming way, and that first night left you with a lingering curiosity about him. Who he was when the spotlight wasn’t on him. What made him laugh, what kept him awake at night. So you kept seeing him. Not all the time, not in any way that felt serious. Just enough to keep the connection alive.

The two of you hadn’t given it a label. You both avoided that conversation like it was a landmine. And maybe, in a way, it was. You weren’t sure if you wanted one. Quinn was busy—the kind of busy that came with being the Captain of the Vancouver Canucks. His schedule was a whirlwind of practices, games, and media appearances, leaving little room for anything beyond fleeting moments of downtime late at night. And you… well, you weren’t ready to completely settle down, not after the way your last relationship had crumbled in slow, messy pieces that you were still picking up. Casual worked. Casual was safe.

Most of the time, anyway.

But even as you told yourself that this thing with Quinn was simple—just hooking up, just having fun—you couldn’t help but notice the little cracks forming in your resolve. The way his laugh made something tighten in your chest. The way you’d catch yourself replaying the way his hand brushed yours in the middle of a crowded street or the soft, sleepy rasp of his voice when he called you late at night after a game. There was something disarming about him, something unshakable about the way he looked at you, like he saw more than you were willing to admit.

You weren’t sure if he felt it, too, or if it was just you overthinking things. After all, he’d never brought up the future, and you’d been careful not to either. That was the unspoken rule between you two: keep things light. But sometimes—when he was kissing you slow and deep, or when he let himself talk about the pressure of wearing the “C” on his chest, his voice quieter and more vulnerable than you’d ever expected—you wondered if casual was really all it was for him. Or for you.

The Canucks lost at home to the Bruins tonight, 5-1. You’d watched from your couch, wincing with every missed opportunity, every puck that found its way past the goalie. It wasn’t just the loss that stung—it was the way the team seemed to unravel by the second period. You’d seen Quinn’s frustration in the tight set of his jaw, the way he skated harder than anyone else on the ice, and the slump of his shoulders every time the Bruins scored. You hated watching him like that, knowing how much weight he carried—not just as a player, but as Captain.

When the final buzzer sounded, you’d grabbed your phone and sent him a quick text: Hey. You alright?

The message stayed unread for a while. And then, sometime after eleven, the little “seen” mark popped up. No reply, and in turn, you got the hint. He wasn’t in the mood to talk, and you respected that. Losses like this were hard on him, you'd found that out early on. Instead of pressing, you sighed, plugged your phone in, and climbed into bed, trying not to let the silence sting.

What you didn’t expect was the banging on your front door a little after one am.

The sound jolted you upright, your heart pounding for a moment. You threw on a hoodie over your nightgown and padded toward the door, trying to shake the grogginess from your head. The knocking came again, sharper this time. When you opened the door, you found Quinn standing there in the dim hallway light.

He was dressed in gray sweatpants and a hoodie, the strings pulled tight, but it did little to hide his messy hair and the lingering flush in his cheeks from the game. Your eyes immediately caught on his lip, the one that had been split a few games ago after a nasty high stick. The stitches still hadn’t fully healed, and the fresh redness around them drew your attention before you looked up into his face.

What struck you wasn’t the exhaustion that usually followed a loss. It was something heavier—a mixture of frustration, exasperation, and something else that made your breath hitch. His hazel eyes held a quiet intensity, a sharp edge of need that made your stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he rasped, his voice low and strained from the act of speaking to his teammates throughout the game.

You blinked, still processing the sight of him on your doorstep. “I texted you,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended, but the weight of his presence makes it hard to sound as firm as you want to. “You didn’t respond.”

For a moment, Quinn doesn’t answer, and his eyes meet yours briefly, before flicking away, as though searching for something in the shadows of your apartment. He doesn’t say a word, just steps forward, his broad frame brushing past you as he crosses the threshold into your space.

He lets the door click shut behind him, the sound heavy in the stillness of the room. Then, he turns, his eyes locking onto yours again with an intensity that sends your pulse racing. He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, his gaze sweeps over you, slow and deliberate, as though he’s taking in every detail: the loose sweatshirt you’d thrown on over your nightgown, the way your hair is slightly messy, your bare feet against the cool floor. His jaw tightens, and something about the way he looks at you makes the air feel heavier, thicker.

“I’m aware,” he finally says, voice clipped, almost sharp, but there’s something under them—something softer, quieter, that you can’t quite name.

“By all means, come in,” you say, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you cross your arms.

He doesn’t bother with a reply. Instead, something in him snaps—an instinct he doesn’t even try to fight.

His hands move fast, gripping your hips with a firm possessiveness that makes your breath hitch. His fingers dig into you just enough to let you know he’s not asking for permission. Before you can get another word out, he steps forward, backing you up with purposeful, controlled force. The edge of the wall meets your back a second later, as he presses flush against you. There’s no space, no hesitation—just him, all hard muscle and raw need, caging you in.

He leans in close, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your lips. You can feel the tension radiating off him, coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. “Need you. Now,” he whispers, the words vibrating between the two of you. It’s not a question. It’s not even a request. It’s a demand.

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your ears as the heat of his body presses harder into yours. His hands slide up from your hips, one settling at the small of your back while the other moves higher, his thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your ribcage. His touch is both possessive and reverent, as though he’s caught between devouring you and savoring the moment.

“Been too busy for me lately,” you say with a shrug, the casualness of your tone masking the twinge of hurt that’s harder to ignore than you’d like.

Quinn’s grip on your hip tightens at your words, his fingers pressing firmly against your skin as though he’s holding on to more than just you—maybe his own guilt, maybe his frustration. His jaw tenses, but when his eyes meet yours, you see the softness creeping in around the edges. He wants to say something; you can see it written all over his face, but the words don’t come. Instead, his grip loosens slightly, his hand dropping lower, brushing along your thigh.

Without a word, he lifts your leg, gently hooking it around his his. The movement is slow but claculated, sending a jolt of heat through you as his body presses closer, the fabric of his sweatpants brushing against your bare skin. He shifts his weight, grinding up against you with enough intention to leave no doubt about what he’s feeling—or what he wants. His hand rests at the back of your thigh now, his thumb stroking your skin absently, but his eyes never leave yours.

“You know how it is,” he mutters finally, his voice low and rough, an excuse and a half-apology tangled into one. “The team. Home games. It’s been… a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow, but don't push. “Yeah, I know,” you reply, your voice calm but edged with something sharper. “You guys got whacked tonight.”

The words leave your lips before you can think better of it, and the second they do, you see the change in his expression. His eyes darken, the dejection that was there moments ago replaced by something sharper, something simmering just below the surface. His jaw tightens again, the muscle there ticking as he presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn’t need the reminder. He already knows.

“Don’t,” he mutters, his voice low and strained, but there’s an edge in it that sends a ripple of tension through the air. You open your mouth, maybe to push further, maybe to soften it with a tease, but you don’t get the chance. Before you can say another word, Quinn’s hands are suddenly moving up to your waist. He grabs you with a firm, almost desperate grip, and in one swift motion, he lifts you clean off the ground. A surprised gasp escapes your lips, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders as he pulls you tight against him. The hard plane of his chest presses flush against your body, and you can feel the tension radiating off him—the frustration, the lingering adrenaline from the game, the sharp need to shut everything else out.

“Quinn—” you start, but your voice wavers, the rest of the sentence dissolving when his eyes meet yours.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he hisses, his voice rough, laced with frustration and something more primal. His words are both an explanation and a command. He doesn’t want to think about the game, the loss, the disappointment—it’s written all over him. He needs a distraction, and right now, that’s you.

He doesn’t set you down. Instead, he starts walking, carrying you through the dimly lit hallway toward your bedroom. The way he moves is deliberate, controlled, but there’s an urgency in the way his grip tightens slightly on your waist, as though holding you this close is the only thing keeping him steady. Your legs wrap around him, and you hold onto him instinctively, your heart pounding harder with every step.

When he reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. Quinn leans down, lowering you onto the bed with ease. The mattress dips under your weight as he releases you, but his hands don’t leave your body. They slide to your hips, pinning you in place as he hovers over you, his broad frame blocking out everything else.

Quinn’s eyes trail over you, unhurried, drinking you in like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. His gaze burns as it moves from your eyes to your lips, and then down, raking over your body like a slow caress. The heat in his expression makes your skin prickle, anticipation coiling low in your stomach. His body hovers just inches above yours, close enough for you to feel his warmth but far enough that it makes you ache for the weight of him against you.

His hands move slowly, his fingers grazing your sides as they find the hem of your hoodie. He pauses for just a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as though silently asking for permission. When you give a small nod, barely noticeable but enough, he takes hold of the fabric and begins to pull it up, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he lifts it over your stomach, then your chest. His touch is light, but the way his eyes darken as he reveals more of you sends a shiver down your spine. “Too many clothes,” he mutters, the words are more for himself than for you.

The black satin nightgown clings to you, its thin straps sliding slightly off your shoulders. The soft fabric shimmers faintly in the dim light, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat tighten. His jaw clenches, his hands hovering for a moment as if he’s not sure where to touch first. His fingers finally settle at the strap on your shoulder, pushing it down slowly, deliberately, his thumb brushing against your skin. The contrast of the cool satin and the warmth of his hand sends a jolt through you. "Gorgeous." He murmurs.

Your breath catches at his words, but before you can respond, his lips find the exposed skin just above the neckline of your nightgown, his breath warm and ragged against you. He presses a slow, open mouthed kiss there, his hands sliding down to your waist as he pulls you closer, his body finally pressing against yours. His lips trail lower, brushing along your collarbone, as his hands slide back up, slipping under the hem of your nightgown now. His fingers splay out against your bare skin, calloused from years of hockey but impossibly gentle as they explore. He pulls back just enough to look at you again, his gaze searching yours, a silent question lingering in the air. His thumb strokes your hip in small, absent circles, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop—or to keep going.

“Quinn,” you murmur. Your hands come up to rest against his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie. His heart pounds beneath your palm, fast and unsteady, matching the erratic rhythm of your own. “Please.”

That’s all he needs. With a low groan, he dips his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s slow and consuming, like he’s savoring every second. His hands roam your body now with more certainty, the hesitation from earlier replaced with an unrelenting hunger. The feel of him, the weight of his touch, the heat of his breath—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

He pulls away with a low curse, his breath warm and unsteady as he tilts his head back slightly. A wince flickers across his face, his hand instinctively brushing over the stitches on his upper lip—the ones cutting across the soft curve of his cupid’s bow. The kiss has aggravated them, pulling at the tender, partially healed skin. His jaw clenches, the frustration obvious in the tight set of his features, but he doesn’t move away from you. If anything, he lingers, his body still hovering over yours, his eyes locking onto yours like he’s grounding himself in the moment.

"Careful." You warn, your fingers reaching up to lightly trace the scruff on his jaw.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is rough, tinged with annoyance—not at you, but at the injury that’s getting in the way of what he wants.

Taking the opportunity, you tug gently at the hem of his hoodie, your hands curling into the soft fabric. He looks down, his eyes following the movement of your hands as you gesture, silently telling him you want it off. There’s no hesitation this time. He straightens slightly, pulling the hoodie over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric lifting to reveal the lean, pale skin of his torso. The garment lands somewhere on the floor, forgotten along with yours, as he leans back down, closer to you, his hands bracing themselves on either side of your head. “Better?” He murmurs.

Your hands drift to the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingertips brushing against the soft fabric. "Almost." Your eyes never leave his as you speak, holding his gaze with a quiet intensity that makes his breath hitch.

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, and without hesitation, he shifts, moving from hovering over you to falling back onto the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight as his hands go to his waistband, pushing the sweatpants down his hips with an easy, practiced motion. He kicks them off in one fluid movement, the boxers following close behind. The rustle of fabric hitting the floor is faint, but the sight of him—completely bare now—propped up on an elbow, looking at you, steals your attention entirely.

Leaning up to reach over, you place your hands on his shoulders, your palms firm as you give him a gentle shove. He lets out a soft grunt as his back hits the mattress fully, his lips twitching into a faint smile at the sudden assertiveness. You slip off your panties, before shifting your body, swinging your leg over him until you’re straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the mattress. His hands instinctively move to your waist, but you grab his wrists, pinning them lightly to the bed on either side of him. His eyebrows lift slightly, the hint of a challenge in his expression, but he doesn’t fight you. Instead, he lets you guide the moment, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch. The heat of his skin beneath you is intoxicating, and the way his body responds—his chest rising just a little faster, his hands twitching under your grip—sends a rush of confidence through you.

“Didn’t expect this,” he remarks, with a quirk of his brow. “Not that I’m complaining.”

You lean forward, your hands releasing his wrists as you plant them firmly on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “I figured you wouldn’t,” you reply, easygoing. Your lips hover just above his, close enough for him to feel your breath but not close enough to touch.

You pull back slightly, just enough to sit upright, your chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. Your hands move quickly to the hem of your nightgown, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion. The soft fabric slides over your skin before landing somewhere on the floor. Left in nothing, you feel the heat of Quinn’s gaze immediately, his breath hitching audibly as he takes you in.

“God,” he mutters under his breath, almost immediately. His hands are on you in an instant, strong and certain as they find your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin.

You lean forward, your hands braced against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. His breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven, as you dip your head, your lips brushing along the sharp line of his jaw. You move slowly, deliberately, your kisses soft and wet, trailing from the edge of his jaw to the corner of his mouth, then lower.

Quinn lets out a low, quiet hum, his head tilting back slightly as you continue your path. You stop at his chin for a moment, pressing a kiss there, before shifting lower, your lips grazing the stubble along his neck. He smells faintly of clean soap and something deeper, distinctly him, and the warmth of his skin beneath your lips makes your stomach flutter. When your lips finally find the hollow of his throat, just above his Adam’s apple, you pause. You can feel the way he swallows hard, the slight movement under your mouth making the corner of your lips curve into a soft smile. You press a lingering kiss there, letting your breath fan over his skin as he exhales sharply.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice breaking slightly as one of his hands slides from your waist to the curve of your lower back, pulling you just a fraction closer. His other hand remains firm on your hip, his thumb brushing small, absentminded circles into your skin. The way his body responds to you—the tension in his muscles, the slight tremor in his hands—sends a rush of confidence through you. You pull back just enough to look at him, your lips still close enough that your breaths mingle. His eyes are half-lidded now, filled with an unspoken hunger that makes your pulse quicken.

"Condom." His voice is low, more of a murmur than a demand, lips brushing against your ear. You freeze for a moment, your breath catching. The haze of the moment dims slightly as you wrack your memory. Had you restocked since your last night with Quinn? The answer surfaces slowly, and you wince.

"I think... I’m out?" you admit, the words hanging awkwardly in the charged air.

He lets out a deep, frustrated groan, his head falling back against the pillow with a dull thud. For a second, you catch the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his features before he covers it with a hand over his face, exhaling sharply through his fingers. “Dresser, bottom drawer,” he grumbles, his voice thick with both need and annoyance, one hand waving vaguely toward your dresser. His eyes remain half-lidded, trying to be patient, though the tension in his shoulders tells you how much it costs him.

You shoot him a questioning look, eyebrows raised, silently asking, “How?” When did he ever put something there? You search your memory, replaying countless moments, but you can't remember ever seeing him even glance at your dresser, let alone touch it.

“Get a move on,” he mutters, the rough edge of his voice slipping into something of amusing. Before you can say anything, his hand meets the curve of your ass with a sharp slap. The sound cracks through the quiet room, startling in the stillness. It doesn't hurt—it’s more of a firm tap than anything—but the unexpectedness of it sends a jolt of electricity racing up your spine. A gasp escapes you, sharp and breathy, your body jerking slightly from the impact.

Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from the sting of his hand and the sudden pulse of excitement that follows. You hesitate for half a second, feeling the lingering tingle on your skin, before he speaks again. "Now."

You don't have to be told twice, and slip out of bed, feeling the cool floor beneath your bare feet as you make your way to the dresser. With a small exhale, you crouch down and pull open the bottom drawer. There they are—just as he said. A small pack of condoms, tucked neatly beside a few of Quinn’s clothes—shirts and boxers, soft and well-worn—mixed in with your own things. You pause for a second, staring down at the sight, the familiarity of his clothes blending into your space, like they’ve always been there, unnoticed. When had he made this little home in your drawer, this quiet claim on your space?

Your fingers graze over the edge of the condom box as you take it, your mind lingering on the thought. You tear open the packaging with a swift pull, the soft crackle of plastic breaking the silence, and pull out one of the foil-wrapped condoms. As you close the drawer, you find yourself glancing back at the pile of his clothes, some hidden piece of domesticity that tugs at something inside you. A small smile flickers at the corner of your lips, but you push the thought aside. This was supposed to be casual.

Standing up, you turn back to him, the foil packet cool against your palm. He’s watching you from the bed, propped up on his elbows, his gaze heavy-lidded but intent, like he’s sizing up your every movement, reading your thoughts before you can voice them. His expression is almost lazy, but you catch the sharp edge of amusement in his eyes, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“When did you even do that?” you ask, your voice colored with curiosity, as you gesture slightly toward the drawer, toward his clothes.

“I’ve been leaving stuff here for weeks,” he adds, with a small shrug, as if it's no big deal. “Thought you might’ve noticed it by now.”

Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by how casual he is about it, and yet… there’s something warm beneath the surface of his words. Weeks? How had you not noticed before now? The thought stirs something in your chest—a mix of amusement, maybe a bit of something deeper—but you brush it off, again, focusing on the moment at hand. You could question him later. And you would.

You toss the condom onto the bed, watching it land beside him. “Well, I guess I was distracted,” you reply.

You walk back over to the bed, your steps relaxed, feeling the weight of his gaze on you the entire time. The air between you hums with tension, thick and electric. He reaches for the condom without breaking eye contact, tearing the foil with an effortless flick of his fingers. The soft sound of the wrapper splitting seems to echo in the stillness of the room. His gaze falls as he rolls the condom on, then it’s back on you, a heat in his gaze, the kind that feels like it's pulling you in, drawing you closer even before you move. His lips quirk into the faintest smirk, and he tilts his chin, nodding down toward his hardened length, silently requesting for you to come to him.

You swallow, feeling the thrum of anticipation in your chest, and climb onto the bed. As you move closer, he watches every shift of your body, the way your knees press into the sheets, the way your breath hitches as you settle over him. His hands find your waist, strong and sure, fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to ground you. The touch is possessive, and it sends a shiver racing down your spine.

With his guidance, you straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips. The heat of his body presses into yours, and you can feel his cock, warm and firm, grazing the sensitive core of your heat as you position yourself over him. The sensation makes you gasp softly, your body reacting instantly to the contact. His grip tightens, steadying you, his fingers flexing slightly against your hips as he adjusts you over him, his control over the moment palpable.

You begin to move, your hips rolling in slow, teasing circles as you grind against him, both of you feeling the sweet torment of the moment. The friction is electric, his cock sliding against your slick heat, but you’re holding back just enough to keep him wanting more. A quiet moan escapes your lips, your body already responding to the tension coiling tighter between you. You see it in his eyes too—the need, the frustration that’s been simmering all day. You can feel the way his body tenses beneath yours, his jaw tightening as he fights for control. His hands on your hips grip harder, fingers digging into your skin, trying to take control, but you resist for just a little longer. His chest rises and falls sharply, and you can hear the slight edge of desperation in his breathing.

It’s driving him mad, the way you tease him like this—hovering so close, yet not quite giving him everything. The heat between you is thick and tangible, and you can feel the pulse of his need pressing insistently against you. Finally, you let your hand slide down between your bodies, wrapping around him with a firm, confident grip. His breath hitches at the contact, and you catch the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, the last traces of his composure fraying at the edges.

With one fluid motion, you guide him to your entrance, the tip of him pressing against your wet heat. You pause for just a second, holding him there, and his eyes lock with yours, something raw flickering in his gaze—desire, hunger, but also something deeper, something that makes your breath catch.

Then, slowly, you start to lower yourself onto him, your body taking him in inch by inch. The sensation sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, a slow burn that builds as you sink down, feeling him stretch and fill you. The low groan that rumbles from his chest is primal, guttural, like he’s been holding it in for far too long. The sound vibrates through the quiet room, echoing off the walls as his head falls back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he loses himself in the feeling.

“Fuck…” he breathes, the word almost a growl, his voice thick and rough with need. His fingers tighten even more on your hips, almost bruising now, like he’s trying to steady himself, to keep from letting go completely. You can feel the restraint in his grip, the way he’s barely holding back, his body trembling slightly beneath yours as he fights the urge to move, to drive himself deeper into you. The tension in him is almost unbearable, a raw ache that’s been building all day, and now that you’re finally here, finally giving him what he’s craved, it’s driving him to the edge.

You pause when you’ve taken him fully, letting your body adjust around him, feeling the heat and intensity of him buried deep inside you. His breath comes out in a harsh, ragged exhale, and you can see the effort it takes for him to keep still, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to relax. But you can feel it—how hard he’s holding on, the way his muscles tense under your touch, the way every fiber of him is straining for control.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost broken. His eyes open, locking onto yours again, and there’s a fire in them now, a silent plea for more, for everything.

You begin to move, slowly at first, your knees pressing into the mattress as you lift yourself up, then lower yourself down onto him again, savoring the delicious friction. Your hands splay across his chest, fingers digging slightly into his warm skin as you steady yourself, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His heartbeat is strong and quick, a rhythm that matches your own building pulse.

As you start to swirl your hips, a soft moan escapes you, the sound almost involuntary. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you in just the right way, sends a ripple of pleasure coursing through you. You let the feeling take over, guiding the way you move, each rise and fall of your body becoming more fluid, more certain. Slowly, you find your rhythm, building up a steady, intoxicating pace that makes the heat between you grow even more unbearable.

Your moans become a little louder, a little needier, the pleasure mounting with every roll of your hips. You can feel his body responding beneath you, the way his muscles tense and flex as he fights to maintain control. His hands grip your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, but it’s his face that betrays him—the way his mouth falls open, lips parting as he lets out a low, breathless sound, his eyes locked onto you with a mixture of awe and lust. The moment your moans fill the space between you, something in him shifts.

He bucks his hips up into you, unable to stop himself, his need overriding his restraint. The sudden upward thrust of his hips sends a shock of pleasure through your body, making you gasp and falter for a second, your hands pressing harder into his chest as you steady yourself. His eyes cloud with hunger, and he lets out a sharp exhale.

“Good—mhm—good fucking girl,” he murmurs, his voice escaping as a strained groan, almost a growl. His hands slide up your sides, guiding your movements, urging you to go faster, to match the heat and intensity that’s starting to take over. His grip is firm but tender, the friction between your bodies building with each passing second.

You pick up the pace, letting your hips roll and bounce with more confidence now, losing yourself in the rhythm. The sensation of him deep inside you with every thrust is overwhelming, and your soft moans turn into breathy whimpers as the pleasure rises higher. His body moves beneath you, his hips bucking up into you more insistently now, matching your rhythm, sending waves of ecstasy rippling through your core.

Each time your body comes down to meet his, he fills you completely, hitting that perfect spot that makes your toes curl. The tension between you is almost unbearable now, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel his chest rising and falling faster under your hands, his breathing ragged as he stares up at you with a look that’s half-lost in pleasure, half in disbelief at how good it feels.

His name slips from your lips in a soft, breathless moan, and the sound seems to undo him even more. His fingers dig into your hips harder, his own breath escaping in harsh, uneven bursts as he bucks up into you with more force, more desperation. You feel the heat coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, the ache building with every movement, every touch.

"I'm... I'm close," you gasp breathlessly, your voice trembling with the intensity coursing through your body. Every movement, every sensation feels electric, pulling you closer to the edge.

Quinn’s eyes lock with yours, his own pleasure evident in the way his chest rises and falls unevenly. A low moan slips from his lips, almost as if in response to the desperation in your voice. He nods, his breath ragged, but before you can even process the shift, he’s already moving—gently, but decisively, sliding you off of him and onto the bed beside him. The sudden absence of his cock leaves you aching, but he doesn’t let the moment linger.

Without wasting a second, Quinn positions himself over you, his body hovering above yours. His eyes briefly flick over your face, as if to make sure you’re still with him, still as lost in this as he is. Then, with one smooth motion, he slides back inside you, filling you completely once more. The sensation of him re-entering your pulsing heat draws a sharp gasp from you, and your back arches instinctively off the bed, your body desperate to meet him.

His thrusts are deep, slow, and calculated, each one hitting the perfect spot inside you, drawing out soft whimpers that you can’t hold back. He leans forward, bracing his hands against the headboard behind you, giving himself more leverage to move freely. His body presses close, skin against skin, his muscles taut and trembling with restraint as he drives into you, deeper with every stroke. You can feel the headboard rocking slightly under the pressure of his movements, the soft creak of wood blending with the sound of your ragged breathing and the rhythmic slap of your bodies meeting.

His pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, more purposeful, as he watches you, drinking in every moan, every gasp that spills from your lips. The heat between you is unbearable, a fire that threatens to consume you both. Every stroke sends shockwaves of pleasure through you, your body tightening and pulsing around him, the pressure building higher and higher until it feels like you’re about to shatter.

Quinn’s breath hitches, and his low groans grow deeper, almost vibrating through his chest as he thrusts harder, the strain in his arms evident as he fights to keep control. You can feel the intensity radiating off him, the way his body trembles with the effort to hold back, to keep you both on this edge for just a little longer.

Your fingers grip the sheets beneath you, twisting them in your hands as you feel yourself spiraling closer, the tension coiling tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any second. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, and the sound seems to push him even further. His movements grow rougher, more desperate, his hips slamming into yours in a steady rhythm that pushes you higher and higher.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough, barely holding together as he lowers his face closer to yours, his breath hot against your ear. His words are a command, but they’re also a plea, filled with the same urgency that’s overwhelming both of you.

And then it hits—you fall over the edge, your body tightening around him as waves of pleasure crash through you, your moans turning into cries as your climax surges, overwhelming and blinding. The world around you blurs as every nerve in your body lights up, the release so powerful it leaves you quivering beneath him.

Quinn groans deeply as he feels you come undone, your body clenching around him, and his rhythm falters for just a moment before he drives into you again, harder this time, chasing his own release. His hands grip the headboard tighter, his knuckles white as he thrusts a few more times, his breath coming out in harsh gasps.

Finally, with a guttural moan, he shudders above you, his body tensing as he reaches his peak. His hips still as he pulses inside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he rides out the last waves of pleasure. For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your labored breaths, your bodies still locked together, hearts racing in unison. Quinn stays there, hovering above you for a moment longer, his forehead resting against yours, the intensity of what just happened still lingering between you.

Then, with a soft exhale, he gently pulls out of you, collapsing beside you. He pulls you close, your bodies pressed together as you come down from the high.

The two of you lie there in the quiet, the aftershocks of pleasure slowly fading as your heartbeats begin to sync. The only sounds in the room are your breaths, gradually evening out, and the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift slightly beside him. Eventually, you break the quiet, your voice soft but still a little breathless. "I’m gonna go pee."

Quinn makes a small sound in acknowledgment, nodding lazily as his hand slides from your waist. With a slight groan, he reaches down to take off the condom, hissing softly from the loss of contact, as he pulls it away from his sensitive skin. He ties off the condom and hands it to you, his fingers brushing against yours for a moment. You take it from him, and rise from the bed.

You pad into the bathroom, the cool tile underfoot a welcome contrast to the warmth of the bedroom. After discarding the condom, you use the bathroom, then and glance at your reflection for a brief moment in the mirror while washing your hands—your skin flushed, your hair slightly tousled from the heat of the moment. Reaching for a washcloth, you wet it under the warm tap, wringing it out just enough before heading back into the bedroom. The light is still dim, casting a soft glow over the room, and you find Quinn exactly where you left him, lying on his back, his eyes closed now, his chest rising and falling steadily.

His eyes flutter open as he hears you approach, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. There’s no need for words in this moment—it’s a kind of quiet that feels easy, natural, like the two of you have slipped into a space where every gesture speaks for itself. With careful hands, you lower yourself beside him and gently take hold of his cock, wiping him clean with the warm, damp cloth. His body reacts instinctively to the contact, a slight twitch beneath your touch, but not from arousal this time—more of an involuntary response, a shiver at the sensitivity of his skin in the aftermath. His eyes close again, his breath steadying as you rid him of the residual stickiness.

When you’re finished, your fingers brush over his thigh one last time before you pull back, standing up from the bed. After throwing the cloth in the bathroom hamper, you're back beneath the sheets, your body naturally gravitating toward Quinn. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his fingers lightly tracing circles on your back. You snuggle into his chest, exhaling a sigh of content.

There’s a long, comfortable silence between you, the kind that makes the world feel small and intimate. And if it weren’t for the absence of soft snores, you might have thought Quinn had drifted off, his breathing slow and steady beside you. The warmth of his body is a comforting weight next to yours, and you let yourself relax into it, your fingers idly tracing the soft flesh of his stomach, enjoying the closeness.

"My parents are visiting." his voice breaks the stillness, just above a murmur.

His words hang in the air for a moment, unexpected, almost hesitant. You hum softly in response, not looking up, your fingers continuing their gentle path over his skin, rubbing slow, lazy circles. "Mhm."

Quinn lets out a quiet sigh, one that feels heavy, like there’s more he’s trying to say but can’t quite find the words for. He shifts slightly beside you, the mattress dipping under his movement. "That’s why I haven’t been… over much," he continues, his voice a bit tighter now, almost apologetic.

You pause, your hand resting against his stomach for a moment before resuming its soothing motions. "You don’t have to explain yourself," you reply softly, keeping your voice steady. It’s the truth—you’ve told yourself that from the beginning. The two of you weren’t dating, not officially, not in any way that came with expectations or obligations. It was a casual fling, a connection that didn’t require labels or promises. At least, that’s what you told yourself when this all started. No strings. No expectations.

And yet, despite those rules, there’s a quiet ache that twists in your chest when he offers excuses. He doesn’t owe you anything—you know that. He’s free to come and go as he pleases, to keep his distance when he needs to, to disappear for days if he wants. But the explanation, the half-apology, suggests he thinks he does owe you something, or at least that he feels guilty about being away, and that stirs something complicated inside you—something you’d rather not look too closely at.

You glance up at him through the dim light of the room. His face is partially in shadow, his expression hard to read, but there’s a tension in his features that wasn’t there before. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, distant, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t want to talk about. It makes your chest tighten slightly, an involuntary reaction that surprises you.

"You’re allowed to have a life outside of this," you add after a moment, trying to keep your tone casual, unaffected. "Outside of us. We're not dating." The word us feels strange in your mouth, and for a second, you almost regret saying it, like it carries more weight than it should.

Quinn’s eyes flick down to meet yours, and for a second, something shifts in his gaze—something softer, maybe even regretful. His lips press into a thin line before he speaks again. "I know." His voice is quiet, thoughtful, like he’s processing something he hasn’t quite figured out how to say yet. "But I didn’t want you to think I was… avoiding you." His hand moves then, sliding up to rest gently on your arm, his thumb brushing against your skin in a gesture so small and tender it feels almost out of place.

You swallow hard, your throat tightening at his words. "I wouldn’t have thought that," you say, though you’re not entirely sure it’s the truth. The uncertainty in his voice has unsettled something inside you, stirred up feelings you’ve worked hard to keep buried, feelings you shouldn’t have in a situation like this. You were supposed to be fine with the distance, with the lack of commitment. But now, lying here in the quiet darkness with him beside you, it doesn’t feel so simple.

Another silence stretches between you, this one heavier than before. You let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the thoughts swirling in your head.

"You don’t have to explain anything to me, Quinn," you repeat, trying to sound as steady as you can. "I know what this is." The words taste bitter on your tongue, and you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince—him or yourself.

But Quinn doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand moves again, this time reaching up to cup your chin, gently turning your face toward him so you’re forced to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours for a long moment, making your pulse quicken in a way you don’t expect. The intensity in his expression catches you off guard, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

"I’m not so sure I do," he finally says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You blink, unsure how to respond, unsure if you even want to. There’s a part of you that’s terrified of where this conversation might lead, of what it might mean if you dig too deep into the feelings you’ve both tried so hard to ignore. But another part of you—a part you’ve kept buried for too long—is desperate to know what he’s really thinking.

His gaze is locked on yours, unwavering, and you can see the conflict flickering behind his eyes—like he’s fighting with himself even as he speaks. It makes your heart race, the intensity of the moment, the weight of what he might say next.

“What are you saying?” You ask, your voice quieter than you meant it to be, edged with a hesitation you can’t quite shake.

Quinn exhales a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost like he’s afraid of what he’s admitting. "I can’t stop thinking about you," he says, his words rushing out, unfiltered. "And I—I know we agreed to nothing serious, but I can’t help how I feel."

You nod, silently urging him to proceed. "I thought I was fine with no strings." he continues, his eyes flicking down for a moment, as if he’s afraid of what he might see in your reaction. "I really did. But… you’ve been on my mind. More than I want to admit. And every time I’m not here, I’m thinking about when I can be. Hell, I just played the worst game of the season, and all I could think about was coming over to see you."

You weren’t expecting this. You had convinced yourself that this was just a fling, a temporary thing that lived within the boundaries you’d both agreed upon. But now, here he is, confessing feelings that you’d told yourself neither of you were supposed to have, feelings you’ve been trying to bury since this started. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest as his words sink in. You don’t say anything for a moment, partly because you don’t know how to respond, and partly because a part of you had been waiting for this—for some sign that what you’ve been feeling wasn’t one-sided.

"Quinn…" you start, but his name comes out as more of a sigh than anything else. He looks at you, his eyes searching yours, waiting for your response, his vulnerability hanging between you like a thread pulled too tight.

He opens his mouth to speak again, his voice softer now, more tentative. "I’m not saying I want to change everything right this second," he murmurs, his eyes dropping down to the space between you, like he’s afraid to meet your gaze fully. "But I just—I had to tell you. I can’t pretend like it’s nothing anymore. Not when it feels like this." His words trail off, thick with emotion.

You can feel your heart pounding, a mix of relief, fear, and happiness swirling inside you. His confession is something you’ve thought about—something you’ve secretly wanted but never let yourself hope for. You know the risk of getting too close, of crossing that line, but the way he’s looking at you now, like he’s baring a piece of his soul, makes it impossible to ignore what’s been growing between you both.

Your fingers tighten on the sheet, your breath catching in your throat as you try to process everything he’s saying. You weren’t prepared for this moment, for the way your chest tightens at his words, for the way hope flickers inside you despite everything you’ve told yourself. Part of you wants to push it away, to keep things safe and uncomplicated, but the other part—the part that’s been secretly wanting more from him—can’t help but lean in.

"You weren’t supposed to feel this way," you say, your voice a little shaky, as if saying it out loud might make it easier to understand. "We weren’t supposed to let it get this far."

He nods, a half-smile tugging at his lips, but it’s filled with resignation, not humor. "I know," he admits softly, his gaze lifting to meet yours again, and for the first time, you can see just how much this is weighing on him. "But I did. And I don’t know what to do with it."

The honesty in his voice, the rawness of it, sends a wave of emotion through you that you weren’t expecting. You’ve both been dancing around this for so long, keeping things casual, keeping the walls up, but now it feels like those walls are crumbling, and you’re both standing there, vulnerable and unsure.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy in the space between you. You can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls unevenly as he waits for you to say something—anything—to break the tension. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, your mind racing. This was supposed to be simple, you remind yourself. No strings. No complications. But now, as you look at him—really look at him—you realize that it hasn’t been simple for a long time.

"I don’t know what to say," you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s the truth. You’ve been trying so hard to keep your own feelings in check, to convince yourself that this was just physical, but hearing him say what you’ve been afraid to even think makes everything feel so much more real. So much more dangerous.

"You don’t have to say anything right now," Quinn says softly, his voice gentle, almost like he’s giving you space to process. "I just… I needed you to know. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t mean something to me."

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as you process his words. You’re not sure what happens next—what this means for both of you—but as you lie there, tangled in the sheets, the air between you thick with uncertainty and unspoken emotion, one thing becomes clear: this is no longer just casual. Not for him. And, if you’re being honest with yourself, not for you either.

[buckyalpine]

Some shy Bucky with meddling Sam and Steve and a cute little baker. 

Bucky hummed at the warm drink that danced on his tongue, a new creation that the sweet girl at the bakery had insisted he try. He wasn’t big on experimenting but ever since he’d visited the shop, he couldn’t say no to the human form of sunshine that stood behind the counter, always offering him something new to she’d made. Today, the flavors of vanilla and praline were infused in his coffee, your latest combination you had made just for him.

“So, thoughts?” You smiled hopefully, the twinkle in your eyes making Bucky blush like a school boy. 

“It’s delicious doll, thank you” He slid you a 5, shaking his head when you tried to give him back change, “Keep it, if anything I should be paying you more for something that good”

You giggled, waving goodbye to the handsome super soldier as he left, the dainty bell to the door of your shop ringing on his way out. What started off as a one time thing became a daily occurrence; Bucky would go for a morning walk or run and stop by the bakery before making his way back. He enjoyed his new routine, getting a coffee, talking to the angel that worked there, grabbing a cookie, getting to see her smile, trying a new drink, fuck, that sweet laugh. 

Now that it was getting warmer, you’d started to introduce him to cold drinks with fruit flavors and different colors. It had been almost three months since he’d first visited; your bakery was a sold part of his day now and he going to change it any time soon. 

“I’ll be able to open a whole new shop with how much you keep tipping me Jamie” you shook your head while he chuckled, sliding the change back to you. 

“Well if there's anyone that deserves it, it’s you” The smirk he gave you caused butterflies to fly madly around your tummy; you had no business crushing on the handsome soldier but he made it so hard! 

Bucky couldn’t stop smiling as he walked back to the compound, humming to himself with another new creation of yours to try. He wouldn’t quite remember the name of what you’d given him but he loved it nonetheless, adoring the sprinkles you added on top just because. 

"I thought you only drank black coffee” Sam cocked an eyebrow from where he was sitting in the kitchen as Bucky walked in, seeing the bright pink and blue drink the brunette was holding. A shit eating grin made it’s way to his face while Bucky groaned.

“Don’t start-

“Who is she. C’mon, big grumpy, staring machine like you drinking unicorn in a cup?” 

“There is no she” Bucky hissed while Sam raised his hands in defeat, not the least bit convinced. 

“Whatever you say” 

One nosy, sneaky Sam and Steve mission later,

“For fucks sake, Dear God” Bucky groaned seeing his two best friends already sitting at the counter chatting up his angel, both men grinning when they heard Bucky walk in. 

“Hi Jamie!” you smiled while Steve chuckled to himself seeing the brunette glower at them. 

“Awww, hi Jamie” Sam cooed, making a kissy face that Bucky would’ve smacked off if you weren’t standing right there. “We didn’t know you came to this place” 

“Jamie comes here all the time” You smiled, making his regular order while Bucky huffed, his annoyance melting away watching you flit behind the counter, handing him his coffee and a fresh cookie. 

“Does he now” Steve snorted, looking at Bucky watching you with heart eyes, 

“Y’know, y/n was saying she wanted to see that movie you’ve been going on about” Sam stated, nudging Bucky’s shoulder, “You know the one you’ve been dying to see too? Maybe you could both go. Thanks for the coffee y/n” 

Bucky stared at Sam with panicked wide eyes, the pink on his cheeks spreading to his neck and ears. Sam and Steve made their way out while Steve gave Bucky’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze along with a knowing smile. 

Go for it. 

“You - wouldn’t-with me- would-would you want to?” He sputtered out while you giggled with a nod making him relax. “Sorry, it’s been so long” Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, collecting himself. “and my friends are idiots” 

“I’d love you” you whispered, leaning over to give he blushing soldier a peck on his cheek.

“It’s a date, doll” Bucky winked, loving the bashful smile you gave him, his charming self slowly coming back. He’d eventually owe Sam and Steve $20 each when they end up being the best men at his wedding but it would be worth it. 

[sammyluvr]

broken, fine for tonight — sam & dean winchester

cw : gn!winchester!reader, hurt/comfort, some angst, reader's the youngest sibling, injury/pain, nicknames (kid, bud, sweetheart), 1.3K words. requested !

summary : you break your ankle but your older brother's are convinced it's just a sprain and leave to finish up a hunt.

dean sounds all gruff and almost annoyed when he says you’ll have to stay in the motel while they take down this nest of vamps. “you’ll be no help with a jacked up ankle,” he grumbles, because it’d be easier with three than two. but his eyes are a little soft as they flick down to your injury and you know it’s just because he’s no good at dealing with being worried about you.

sam comes back from the bathroom, giving you a sympathetic smile as he sets another pair of pain pills on the bedside table next to your half empty plastic water bottle. “you’re good to take these in half an hour,” he says, “and we’ll grab you a proper brace on the way back, alright?”

you give him a tight smile, your breathing measured so it doesn’t come across as labored. “sure,” you agree, still fighting against the pain in your foot in order to appear as composed as you’re expected to be. when you twisted it earlier today, sam and dean brushed it off as a sprain and haven’t stopped to think otherwise since then. 

dean had hauled you back up with strong hands and a comforting pat to your back. you’re alright, he insisted, ‘s just a little sprain, you’ve dealt with worse. he wasn’t trying to be dismissive, but you’ve felt a sprain before, and you’re sure that this is worse.

it must be a pretty bad sprain, sam said with a soft frown when you let out a pained gasp after trying to put just the slightest bit of pressure on it. he looped your other arm around his shoulders, and the two of them practically carried you back to the motel room. they set you down on the bed, and you know that sam normally would’ve checked your ankle with a bit more precision and care most days, but you’re all pretty sure that the vamps have caught on to you, which means the faster they get into the nest, the better. so he simply propped your foot up on all the spare pillows in the room with gentle hands, cringing each time the movement made you wince in pain. he wrapped it in an ace bandage, and you nearly cried out loud as he did. mind otherwise occupied, he’d just told you the pain would fade soon enough.

you think that somewhere in the back of their minds, both of your brothers know that you’re in enough pain to understand that this is worse than they want it to be. their concern is easy to read, but sometimes they hate the prospect of you being hurt so much that they’ll focus that energy onto a different problem until they have to face this one. so they’re out the door before you know it. 

hopefully they’ll give you a longer look when they get back. you’d very much like to go to the hospital to get checked out and hopefully return to the motel with a cast and pair of crutches.

the pain only gets worse and the minutes just drag. time flows so slowly that you start to worry, just like you do every time they’re off on a hunt without you. if they’ve been gone this long, something must’ve gone wrong, right? you check the time and realize it’s been less than a full hour. the ibuprofen you took a bit ago does nothing to help. 

your ankle hurts so badly that you’re teary and sniffly and even though no one’s here to witness it, you’re embarrassed by it nonetheless. but you might as well get the tears out of the way before they come back.

you’re convinced that it’s broken, and by the time the headlights of the impala shine through the half-closed blinds of the motel, you’re in too much of a haze to notice the door unlocking and the boys tramping into the room.

sam’s through the door first, and the second he lays eyes on you, he knows something’s not quite right. he says your name, soft of course, but still loud enough for you to hear. you don’t look over, and he drops his bag on the floor to rush over. dean immediately picks up on the tone of sam’s voice, following close behind.

sam’s big hand on your forehead rouses you. “hey. you with us sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice quiet and clearly concerned. your eyes flutter open and the only thing you can think to do when you register the worry on his face is give him a rueful smile.

“i think it’s broken,” you mumble, voice quiet and tired. you’re somehow numb and still hurting so much at the same time. dean gives a little scoff, more so out of affection than frustration, and rounds the bed to look at your ankle. you wince when he moves it, this time not bothering to hide just how much it really hurts.

“you think?” dean repeats back to you, “jesus, kid, why didn’t you say something before?”

“you didn’t give me a chance,” you retort, frowning deeply but too tired to actually sound upset. “you both said it was sprained.” before dean can make some comment about how it’s your ankle, not theirs so how would they know, sam intervenes.

“we’re sorry, bud,” he murmurs, “we should’ve paid you more attention.” you don’t see the pointed look he gives dean not to argue with you right now, or the way dean puts his hands up in frustration, then softens when he looks back at you. he knows that sam’s right, it’s not fair to get all snarky with you. he’s just fueled by worry and he forgets that his worry very easily turns to anger and irritability. dean’s not upset with you at all, but he is at himself for not noticing just how badly you were injured.

the way that he gently carries you to the back seat of the impala is his apology, plus the promise to find your favorite food after you get checked out from the hospital. sam sits in the back with you to keep you steady. steady and held. his hand holds your head softly, his other keeping your leg still as the car rumbles down along the road.

tonight, everything will be fine. your ankle will heal and once properly treated, it’s true that the pain will fade. sure, they won’t pay the medical bills with real credit cards and the doctor might be impressed or concerned, or both, by your pain tolerance. because this certainly isn’t the first time you’ve been cooped up in the back seat of the impala, hurting and maybe even a little scared while sam holds you and dean drives.

he always steals glances back at you through the rearview mirror, making eye contact with sam to be sure you’re awake and well. but he has to be the one driving because he feels like that’s the only thing he has control of when you’re like this. he just absolutely horrified by the thought that there might be a dark night on empty roads after a hunt or a nearly world-ending event where his can’t drive fast enough. what if, someday, you die in his car and your blood stains the leather, because how could he wipe your blood from the seats like that?

and sam’s the one who’ll be holding you, staunching your blood with his jacket, whispering assurances that you’ll be alright. he’s terrified by the thought that there might be a night where, in the backseat of this car, the place you all silently call home, you’ll die in his arms.

those are the sorts of things they think about. they know that you think about your own nightmares of them dying too. but in this life, the only thing you can do is tuck those thoughts away, somewhere deep and hidden, because tonight, everything will be fine.