#and this is something i will be saying every season

[rafes-slut]

Self control

Summary: rafe is bored and he wants to test eachoters self control by cockwarming you to see who can go longest without moving

Warnings: NSFW, cockwarming, sexual tension, teasing, dominance/submission themes, power play, heavy temptation, loss of control, season two Rafe energy, mutual torment.

----

The weekend had started off exciting, but by the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, boredom settled in like an unwanted guest. You and Rafe had spent the past few days holed up in his house, doing a whole lot of nothing—lounging, eating, watching random TV shows that neither of you really cared about. The rain outside made sure you were stuck inside with no distractions, no plans.

You were sprawled across the couch, scrolling through your phone, while Rafe lay beside you, lazily running a hand up and down your thigh. His touch was absentminded at first, but then it turned deliberate. Slow, teasing strokes that made you glance at him, catching the way his blue eyes darkened with something dangerous.

"Got an idea," he murmured, his fingers dipping under the hem of your shorts.

You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

He smirked. "Mhm. Something to make things… interesting."

You could already tell by the way he was looking at you that whatever he was thinking had nothing to do with movies or playing cards. Rafe never handled boredom well. When he wanted something, he went after it with a single-minded determination, and right now, you had a feeling that you were his next source of entertainment.

When he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, his voice dropped to a low rasp. "How much self-control do you think you have?"

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

His hand on your thigh tightened. "I mean…" He kissed just below your ear, dragging his lips along your jaw before pulling back to look you in the eye. "Think you can handle sitting on my cock without moving?"

The bluntness of it sent a jolt of heat straight through you, making you tense.

"Rafe," you muttered, but the way he was looking at you made it impossible to say anything else.

He grinned, knowing damn well he already had you. "What? Scared you'll lose?"

That did it. You never liked backing down from a challenge, and Rafe knew it. Which was exactly why he said it.

"Fine," you said before you could second-guess yourself.

And that was how you ended up here—straddling him on the bed, completely bare, his cock buried deep inside you. The stretch was almost too much, your body clenched tight around him, but neither of you had moved.

You were supposed to be winning this, supposed to be showing him that you had all the restraint in the world. But the way he was looking at you—eyes dark, jaw clenched, his hands gripping your hips just to keep himself from fucking up into you—made it so hard to focus on anything but how badly you wanted to move.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

You swallowed, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your spine.

Rafe smirked. "Starting to squirm, baby."

You narrowed your eyes, forcing yourself still. "Not even close."

"Liar." His hands slid up your sides, slow and deliberate, making goosebumps rise on your skin. He traced your waist, up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing just under your breasts. "I can feel how bad you want it."

You sucked in a breath, digging your nails into his shoulders.

His voice dropped lower. "Be honest. How bad do you wanna move right now?"

"Not at all," you lied, even though your body was screaming otherwise.

Rafe chuckled darkly. His grip on your hips tightened before he shifted the slightest bit underneath you, just enough for you to feel it.

Your breath hitched.

"Oops," he said, all fake innocence.

You clenched around him instinctively, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, his fingers twitching against your skin.

The tension between you crackled like fire.

It was only a matter of time before one of you gave in.

Every passing second made it harder to breathe. Harder to think.

The ache between your legs was unbearable. Rafe filled you up completely, stretching you in a way that left you dizzy, and the worst part was that you couldn't do anything about it.

Your thighs burned from holding still. Your hands clenched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin just to ground yourself. But the worst part? You could feel him. Every twitch, every subtle pulse of his cock inside you, making the heat between you even more unbearable.

Rafe wasn’t doing much better. His jaw was locked, his fingers flexing against your hips like he was moments away from snapping.

Still, you refused to give in first.

But God, it was so hard.

Your body was betraying you, your hips twitching the slightest bit no matter how hard you tried to stay still. The more you resisted, the more desperate you became. You could feel yourself soaking him, your arousal pooling between you, making it impossible to ignore just how much you needed him to move.

A whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Rafe let out a low groan, his hands tightening on your waist. "Fuck," he muttered, head falling back against the pillows.

You clenched around him at the sound, another soft, helpless noise escaping your throat.

His grip on you turned bruising. "You're making this real fuckin’ hard, baby," he rasped. His voice was deeper now, rough with restraint. His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath you. "You're so wet—fuck."

You could barely form a sentence. "Rafe—"

Another needy sound tore from you as he twitched inside you again.

His hands flexed, and then his control snapped.

With a growl, he grabbed your hips and thrust up into you.

The sudden movement made you gasp, a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine as your hands flew to his chest.

"Fuck, baby—"

He didn’t stop. His fingers dug into your skin as he fucked up into you, the slow, torturous game you’d been playing thrown out the window. He was done holding back.

"You wanted to play, huh?" His voice was breathless, low, dangerous. "Now you wanna get all fuckin’ whiny, like you're not the one who started this?"

Your head was spinning. All you could do was feel—feel the way he filled you, the way he hit deep, every movement sending sparks through your body.

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your gaze down to meet his. His eyes were dark, wild, hungry. "Look at me when you come," he ordered, thrusting up into you harder. "I want you to watch who won this fuckin’ game."

And just like that, you shattered.

[thezerotry]

I think a big part comes to formatting

years ago, before Netflix n stuff, you had to wait for weekly releases, like 1 episode per week, 22 episodes per season, so things took a looot longer

and fans had much more time in between to process stuff, discuss and create fan content, and there where a lot less channels to watch stuff on, time slots were limited

now you have seasons that come every 2-4 years (if at all in some cases) and you can binge watch in a week or two, like, there's a reason Netflix only uses the first month as base for data comsuption, and there's a ton of series, movies or wtv coming out, you can access more stuff than ever before from all across the globe and it's never been easier

so yeah, no, there's over abundance, a lot of ppl don't give a crap about fandom stuff, cause they can jump to the next thing right fucking now

I feel like a lot of fandom content was generated to fill that vacuum between releases, now that it's not longer a need, some ppl just cross the bridge and get interested in something else, and hey, that's fine

and of course platforms like twt, ig, tiktok, help with that, you constantly see things trending, and hashtags, and reels and challenges and wtv the fuck else kids do these days, and media gets vastly affected for it

I'm not saying it's worse or better, just different, on one hand, yeah fandom spaces are fickle and have huge fluctuations, but I feel like the ppl who stay are the ones that would engage and create more content anyways

on the other, the sheer amount of stuff you can watch is amazing, like 15 years ago was a pain in the ass if you wanted to watch a, idk a Thai series, now you can just pressing a few buttons and that's beautiful

and hey, if you are worried about consuming media like fast food, then... don't, that's up to you, but you can't change how others engage with content, and if you wish for more fan content? well, that's up to you too, might be kinda lonely sometimes, but with enough digging any fandom can have a few deranged passionate fans

personally I think it’s a shame how fandoms “died” too soon these days. I’m not talking in literal sense and I know there are people who stay passionate about their fandoms long after the hype is gone. I’m talking about the “popularity” and how people in general engage with a piece of media they like and how fast they let the hype die down? I don’t know if I’m making any sense, but what I’m trying to say is a fanfic or a fan art of a show that is recently released will get tons of likes, comments, reblogs which is great. but the engagement for fan made content about that same show usually drops drastically — and I mean drastically — once the show is no longer “recent”. and I’m not even talking about when the show is several years old. because you can see the significant drop of engagement a fanfic or fan art about that show receives once the show is like a month old or two. it’s discouraging how most people tend to lose interest and stop engaging with fanfic / fan art once its source material is no longer “new and shiny”.

especially when writing fanfics and creating fan art take time. writers and artists often receive less engagement / appreciation for their works if they take “too long” to create and the source material is no longer “new and shiny” and so people move on to something else that’s new and shiny. it’s heartbreaking to see.

obviously this is in no way to manipulate or guilt trip people into engaging with anything. because yeah you can do whatever you want. this isn’t to force, manipulate or guilt trip anyone into liking or reblogging a fan work or anything. this is just me hoping people will one day take things slower and enjoy things they’re passionate about longer like how we used to in the past.

[alicentsgf]

we talk a lot about shauna losing jackie and her baby boy and yes those are major traumas. however, i think the moment that truly changed her fundamentally was butchering javi. that moment is truly symbolic of what shes sacrificed for all of the others. she let him die to save nat and then his blood was literally on her hands because no one else could handle the burden of butchering him. this is a kid she LIKED. that she had some small bond with. she had to pull her headband over her eyes because she couldnt bear to look at what she was doing. and the others just left her alone out there cutting up his body because none of them could bear to even watch it. so shauna shoulders it alone. how does the human brain even cope with that experience? especially since every single time gen brings back a kill, shauna has to butcher that animal and relive that moment in some way again and again

and whats crazy is yes shauna resorts to violence easily, shes impulsive and deeply angry, but she doesnt enjoy killing. when she threatened the carjacker her words were much more about the power she felt over him, enjoying the fear of someone who'd wronged her, than actually threatening his life. shes willing to kill for power and control, but her relationship with the actual physical act is complex. sometimes trauma can become strangely familar and soothing, maybe thats why shauna butchers the rabbit in season 1. its like a fucked up coping mechanism based in her need to feel a level of control. and it was okay in her mind, because the rabbit had wronged her, ruined her flowers. but when gen comes back from a hunt with nothing, dont you think shaunas the one who chooses which innocent duck or rabbit has to die so that everyone can eat? like why do you think she cried over the goat? It was probably the first time in her life she was handed something innocent and told, very explicitly, that she was not going to have to hurt it.

essentially what im saying is you dont have to agree with shaunas actions to see her point of view. all she does is feed them. she told them it was what jackie wanted. she told them to wait for javi to drown. each time shes shouldered the actual burden of the choice. and all whilst not even having any faith, in the wilderness or otherwise, to alleviate her guilt. pregnant and starving and she never took extra, she makes sure everyone eats to the detriment of herself, and what does she get in return? shes left alone. in pain. she lashes out at anyone who comes near her and because of it they give up on her, like she isnt what they made her. reliving her trauma every time she peels the skin off a stag. her baby is turned into a diety for a faith she doesnt even believe in. jackie and javi too. the others take her real, human losses and make them mythology, stake a claim on them before shes even had a chance to properly grieve. and ofc these are just kids in an impossible situation needing something to believe in, so you cant even rly judge them for it. but that doesnt make shaunas rage any less understandable

[lilbabypanda-blog2]

Mydei x (fem)reader x Phainon

The training grounds were unusually quiet for a place that had just hosted one of Mydei and Phainon’s legendary competitions. A few scattered weapons lay forgotten in the dirt, the telltale signs of yet another impromptu duel between the two warriors. And right in the middle of the chaos, Phainon lay sprawled out on the ground, one arm draped over his forehead like a fallen hero.

The culprit? Mydei, according to Phainon.

When Y/N walked in, her footsteps light but quick with concern, her eyes immediately fell on the dramatic scene before her. Phainon, unmoving, save for the occasional twitch of his fingers, and Mydei standing over him with an expression that was caught somewhere between frustration and complete indifference.

Y/N’s brows furrowed as she rushed forward, kneeling beside Phainon. "What happened?" she asked, voice laced with worry.

Phainon, with all the grace of a seasoned performer, lifted a weak hand and pointed directly at Mydei. "The culprit… is him."

Y/N sighed, already knowing that the two had likely been at each other's throats over something incredibly stupid. Still, she was nothing if not caring, and seeing Phainon so pitifully sprawled out on the ground tugged at her sense of concern. She gently reached for his wrist, checking for any injuries, then brushed his hair from his forehead. "Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked softly.

Phainon peeked one eye open, barely suppressing a smug smirk at Mydei before shifting his expression into something far more pitiful. "Everywhere… Mydei was ruthless. I barely stood a chance."

Mydei scoffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "You lost because you’re an idiot who doesn’t know when to quit."

Y/N shot him a disapproving look, one that made Mydei’s jaw tighten. She turned her attention back to Phainon, who took the opportunity to let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. "I don’t know if I’ll ever recover…"

Mydei exhaled sharply through his nose. "Oh, give me a break. You were fine two seconds ago."

Y/N, ignoring him, gently helped Phainon sit up, her hands steady on his shoulders. "You should have told me if you were training. I could’ve made sure neither of you got hurt."

Phainon grinned through his supposed agony. "That’s why you’re the best, Y/N. Always looking out for me. Unlike some people."

Y/N smiled softly, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Meanwhile, Mydei’s fingers twitched at his sides, his patience hanging by a thread. His jaw clenched as he glared at Phainon, who was now leaning comfortably into Y/N’s support, milking every ounce of sympathy he could get.

Then, just to drive the dagger in deeper, Phainon turned his head slightly and shot Mydei a triumphant smirk.

That was it.

Mydei’s eye twitched. He gritted his teeth, barely suppressing the urge to throw Phainon right back onto the ground where he belonged.

"Oh, come on," Mydei finally snapped. "He’s faking it! He’s not hurt. He’s just putting on a show so you’ll dote on him."

Y/N frowned, looking back at Phainon with concern. "He looks hurt."

Phainon sighed dramatically, resting his head against Y/N’s shoulder. "I appreciate you believing in me, Y/N. Some people just don’t have a heart."

Mydei let out a low, annoyed growl. "I swear to—"

Y/N turned back to him with a pointed glare. "Mydei, you should be more careful. You’re both strong warriors, but that doesn’t mean you should be reckless."

Mydei groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t used to being the one scolded, let alone over something this ridiculous. Meanwhile, Phainon basked in the moment, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Fine," Mydei muttered, looking away. "Next time, I’ll let him win."

Phainon snickered. "You say that like you could."

Mydei’s eye twitched again.

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she helped Phainon fully to his feet. "Just promise me you two won’t go overboard next time."

"Of course, Y/N," Phainon said, flashing a charming grin. "Anything for you."

Mydei resisted the overwhelming urge to tackle him right then and there.

As they walked off, Phainon still leaning against Y/N for support, he took one last glance at Mydei over his shoulder and mouthed, "Jealous?"

Mydei exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.

Next time, he was definitely throwing Phainon into the dirt—whether Y/N was watching or not.

[bitchinbarzal]

400 Reasons to Celebrate | N Hischier

You don’t usually go all out for hockey milestones—Nico would kill you if you made a big deal out of every goal or point. He’s modest like that, always brushing off his accomplishments, always putting the team first. But 400 points? That’s not small. That’s a testament to everything he’s put into this game.

So, while he’s on the road, you make a plan.

It’s nothing crazy—just something to show him how proud you are. You decorate the apartment with red and black balloons, a little “400” banner you found online strung up near the kitchen. You pick up his favorite dinner from the Swiss restaurant downtown, the one that makes rösti just the way he likes it. And for dessert? A cake, simple but heartfelt, with Congrats, Captain written in careful icing.

When Nico finally gets home, he looks exhausted. It was a long road trip, and you can see it in the way his shoulders sag as he drops his bag by the door. But when he takes in the decorations, his tired eyes widen.

“Was ist das?” His voice is soft, a little bewildered.

You step forward, grinning. “A celebration, of course.”

“For me?”

“Who else?” You roll your eyes, grabbing his hand and tugging him inside. “400 points, Nico. That’s a big deal. I couldn’t let it go uncelebrated.”

He shakes his head, clearly embarrassed, but there’s a smile pulling at his lips. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“No,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his waist. “But I wanted to.”

He melts into you, burying his face in your shoulder. You feel him exhale, the weight of the road trip, the season, the responsibility he carries as captain settling for just a moment. Then, he pulls back, his hands gentle on your hips.

“I love you,” he says, quiet but certain.

You smile. “I love you, too. Now sit down before the food gets cold.”

And as you lead him to the kitchen, you think—maybe 400 points is just a number. But it’s also 400 reasons to be proud of him. And if you have anything to say about it, you’ll be celebrating all the milestones to come.

[moriwood]

Flower Puff Boy — p.js

park jongseong x male reader fluff with very lil angst 2.3k words

Over the past year, people have come to know you as the guy who always gives flowers. You’ve used every occasion as an excuse to purchase flowers from Jay, your neighborhood florist, and each time you walked in, you always ended up with a free flower from him. As Valentine’s Day nears, you realize what flowers truly mean to him and you.

includes: flower language! (might be wrong, i’m not good with flowers myself); a call back to my other xo era-inspired fic (pls read it too if u haven’t yet :’3) warning: n/a

You were never well-versed in the language of flowers. No special fascination, no favorite blooms nor scents growing up. But over the past year, you have come to be known as the guy who gives flowers. For friends who started new jobs, relatives who celebrated their birthdays, and even your coworker who merely complained about the blandness of her beige desk, flowers had become your go-to gift.

You first stepped into Flower Puffs on a whim, a small shop tucked into a side road with little traffic. Despite its humble appearance, its color always stood out against the dull low-rise apartments beside it. The chalkboard outside boasted seasonal arrangements and flower meanings scribbled in neat, cursive letters. It started simple: a gift for your mother on Mother’s Day.

—

Behind the counter, a young man arranges a bouquet. His sleeves were rolled up, and the veins along his arms were like vines growing on a trellis. He glances up at the sound of the bell jingling above the door. His eyes lock onto yours, lips stretching into a smile as charming as the flowers that surrounded him.

“Hey there. Mother’s Day?”

You hesitate by the entrance. His directness catches you off guard, though it makes sense—most of his clients for the day were probably here for the same reason.

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Good call,” he replies, his smile reaching to his eyes. He wipes his hands on his apron and steps around the counter. “Something classic or something unique?”

You shift on your feet, glancing at the rows of flowers neatly arranged on wooden displays. “Uh… I don’t really know flowers.”

He chuckles softly, approaching the nearest display to you. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

He hums as he gestures at his different floral arrangements, voice filled to the brim with enthusiasm. It’s quite captivating—the way he spoke about flowers—detailing their scientific properties, from colors to scents, then unraveling the messages they somehow conveyed without words.

He picks up some delicate stems, their green, fuzzy leaves adorned with tiny yellow flowers that spiral upward along its length. Oddly, they remind you of the herbs you use to season food. “Agrimonias mean gratitude and protection. Old legends say that if you sleep with agrimonias under your pillow, they ward off evil.”

He then picks up another few bright yellow flowers, bigger than but as slender as the agrimonias. “These hawksbeards here mean something similar—protection and contentment.”

“And some Peruvian lilies,” he says, picking up some flowers in a darker shade of yellow, with lines of purple decorating its petals. “They mean a lot of things: wealth, fortune, and devotion. If it’s for your mom, you probably want the most for her, right?”

You nod. There’s a strange intimacy in the interaction, listening to someone speak about something they’re clearly passionate about in such a quiet environment. You reach out to take the bouquet he’s begun assembling, and for a split second, your fingers brush. 

He doesn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his eyes flicker to your face in amusement then he steps back with a grin. He plucks a white flower from one of the nearby displays and twirls it between his fingers.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to you. “A calla lily. Consider it a welcome gift.”

“What does it mean?”

“Magnificent beauty,” he replies smoothly, “like you.”

You freeze, caught between surprise and amusement. The confidence in his delivery makes you think that this is a regular schtick he does with his customers; however, for a beat too long, you consider if he could be as genuine as the flowers that he sells. 

A laugh bubbles up in your throat as you notice the board on the counter that reads Flower Puffs in colorful chalk.

“Well, thank you… Flower Puff Boy,” you finally reply.

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that,” he cackles, slapping a hand over his eyes. “But Jay would probably be better,” he corrects. “And you?”

—

It all began there, and you kept on coming back. Every occasion has become a perfect time to come visit Jay’s shop.

And each time, he gives you a flower. Even on days where you decide not to purchase anything and just pass the time at his shop, you always leave with a single flower in your hand. You keep them all, pressed in between pages of your books, tucked into vases by your windowsill, like tokens of each visit. In your mind, you’ve authored a tiny dictionary of all their meanings.

Wood sorrels for joy, when a childhood friend came to visit you in the city.

Mayflowers for perseverance, when your boss just recovered from a major surgery.

Lemon geraniums for unexpected meetings, when you welcomed a new guy in the workplace.

Then he gave you a lily of the valley for the return of happiness, because he hadn’t expected you to come back so soon.

Then milkvetches, because, as he put it, your presence softened his pains��something he didn’t explain further.

Then French marigolds for jealousy, after you mentioned to him how attractive the new guy at work was.

He didn’t seem to lie about what his flowers meant, yet you never took the time to question if the flowers really meant anything to him—to you. After all, he’s just a merchant, and you’re just a customer. Assuming otherwise would be foolish, especially when, after nearly a year of frequenting his shop, you knew nothing much other than his name and his line of work.

What do you do outside the shop? What else do you like other than flowers?

Were those even questions you could ask?

And yet, you still return. Not exactly for him, but for the giddy feeling you get when you learn something new about a flower—or so you tell yourself.

The bell rings as you step inside, and as always, the familiar florist stands behind the counter, carefully arranging a bouquet. He’s leaning over the counter, speaking with a customer—a guy around your age, donning an oversized sweater and smiling brightly. Jay notices you, glancing at you, but his attention is swiftly drawn back to the man he was talking to.

You really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the shop is too small not to overhear everything. Turning to the wooden displays, you pretend to browse through the flowers, testing yourself on the meanings you’ve learned.

“With a love letter and everything,” the guy says.

Jay chuckles. “Sounds… romantic… Who’s the lucky guy?”

Mustards. Greenish-yellow, as in the plant with the seeds that are used to make the condiment with the same name. It meant indifference, Jay said, when you wanted to buy something for a leaving coworker who you really didn’t care about.

“No idea. The flowers had me thinking they got it from you.”

Jay hums. “Sunoo got one. Then I think Heeseung?”

Cobaeas. Large, bell-shaped, and violet. Gossip, like you tuning in more to their conversation. Who are these people that they’re mentioning?

“Heeseung?” the guy repeats.

“Said he’s getting ‘em to cheer someone up. Maybe it’s him?”

The guy laughs. “I don’t think he swings my way. If it’s Sunoo or Heeseung, then this person probably bought it elsewhere.”

Goldenrods. So small, Jay just uses them to fill up his flower arrangements. He said they could mean precaution, but for what exactly?

“I hope you find out soon, or maybe not. Then I’ll make you a better bouquet. No secret messages though, just a delicate arrangement of flowers from your favorite florist.”

French marigolds. Jealousy. Huh.

You turn back to the couple by the counter, finding the guy chuckling and shaking his head. “I’ll take that offer when the mystery turns exhausting. But I’m pretty invested right now.”

Jay smiles at him, all easygoing and warm as usual. “Let me know how it turns out then.”

The guy waves goodbye, taking one last look at the bouquet in his hands before heading out. Jay then exhales, fingers tapping against the wood. He notices you again, now with his full attention, and grins.

“What’re you doing over there? Come tell me your excuse for visiting today. Don’t tell me it’s Lunar New Year.”

You force a chuckle, stepping closer. “Birthday of a friend. Was just testing if I remember the botanical stuff you’ve taught me.”

Jay tilts his head. He points to some oxeye daisies, petals white with a yellow center. “What do those mean?”

“Patience. Purity. The he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not flower.”

“Correct,” he replies, picking one and twirling it between his fingers. “Is this friend you’re talking about a friend-friend or…”

“Or?”

“Friends with ulterior motives,” Jay laughs. “Friends from a different dimension.”

You shake your head, chuckling. “No. A real, very existing friend.”

Jay studies you for a moment, an embarrassing warmth creeping into your face. You might make every occasion an excuse to visit Jay, but you won’t stoop so low as to invent stories about imaginary people. 

“You have to stop giving out flowers on a whim like that, your friend might misinterpret,” he says.

You hesitate briefly, then you roll your eyes in realization. “I could say the same thing about you giving free flowers to all your customers.”

Jay furrows his brows. “I don’t?”

“Huh?”

A beat passes.

“I don’t give free flowers to all my customers,” Jay repeats.

“Just me then?”

If not all customers, then maybe just the ones who buy a lot. That makes sense. Definitely not just you, don’t be delusional.

“Just you, yeah.”

“Oh.”

The guy from earlier left with his bouquet and nothing else. Another beat passes. Then Jay claps his hands together.

“So! A birthday bouquet. Got flowers in mind or you want my floral magic again?”

You blankly nod, mind still reeling from what Jay has just told you. “You do your magic, I’ll watch.”

Jay begins to work, slow as he selects the first few flowers, then fingers moving more efficiently as the flower arrangement grows into something more colorful and “meaningful.” You shift your weight from foot to foot as you watch him, letting the faint snip of scissors and rustling of wrapping paper fill in the silence.

After a moment, you find yourself asking: “Do you really believe in it?”

Jay glances up, pausing from cutting a length of pink ribbon. “In what?”

“Flowers and their meanings,” you clarify.

“Well, they mean something if you want them to,” he replies, before resuming what he was doing with the ribbon, gently tying it around the bouquet. “I mean,” Jay hesitates. “Flowers are just like any other gift or gesture. They only matter as much as you let them.”

He pushes the finished bouquet towards you, giving you a warm smile. “Or maybe you just like giving beautiful people something beautiful, and that’s as valid as any other reason,” he adds. “I’ve never been good with words anyway, so I’d appreciate flowers even if they really meant nothing other than pretty, colorful things.”

You nod, smiling back in understanding. Then the words tumble out before you can think too hard about them, a joke too sincere, a humorous statement that’s been stripped of its humor. Because you’re just that good with words unlike this Flower Puff Boy.

“Would it be fraternization with the enemy if I brought you flowers for Valentine’s?”

Jay stills, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then he catches on. “I guess I’ll give you white catchflies then. Betrayal!”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, prodding at the bouquet on the counter. “Have to check out the competition.”

Jay gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “After all the free flowers!?”

Your lips twitch. “Wasn’t exactly a fan of such a manipulative business tactic,” you joke.

He clicks his tongue in mock offence. “Guess I’ll have to stop the freebies then.”

The playful banter comes easily, but your heart stutters, thumping in your chest and wavering your voice in the process. For almost a year, you thought that Jay’s easy charm was just part of customer service. Maybe it was, but now, it definitely doesn’t feel like it.

“Valentine’s, huh?” Jay grins. “Receiving flowers on that day instead of selling them would be a change.”

You glance at the long-forgotten bouquet for your friend, your fingers idly brushing over the brown paper wrapped around the flowers.

“Actually,” you start, voice a little quieter, “could you make another bouquet for me? To pick up on a different day? Forgot something.”

Jay lifts an eyebrow. “Oh? What occasion?”

You smile, keeping it light. “Secret.”

Jay playfully narrows his eyes. “Am I gonna be jealous of another ‘friend’ of yours?”

“Should you?” you laugh, making Jay grumble in fake frustration. “I’ve got specific flowers in mind.”

“Okay, tell me what flowers you want,” he sighs. “I’ll prepare them by the date you need them.”

White chrysanthemums. Moss rosebuds. Peach blossoms. And lastly, yellow jonquils.

“Do you know what these flowers mean?” Jay slowly asks, as if he’s still processing the list of flowers you just gave him.

You nod, heat once again rushing to your face. “Do you?”

Jay shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “We might have different dictionaries. Spell it out for me, please?”

You take a moment, the words spilling as if it came from a script, though your voice shakes. “I’m not lying when I say that this is a confession. You have captivated me and I desire a return of this affection.”

“That’s quite a specific message,” Jay replies, exhaling. “Who’s it for then?”

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of what this scene means. “You.”

Jay shakes his head, but you see the fondness in his expression. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters. “When will you be picking it up?”

“On Valentine’s, of course.”

He laughs. “I’m a florist. Wait for my reply in flowers by then.”

A sense of ease washes over you. “I’ll see you by then, Flower Puff Boy.”

Jay watches you with a smile as you turn toward the door, the familiar chime ringing once again.

For the first time, you leave the shop with no free flower to take home. And for the first time, you’re comfortable admitting that it wasn’t just the flowers that you were always looking forward to.

author's note: it’s over 2 weeks too late for valentine’s but hey i made it! would y’all believe me if i said i broke my arm a few months ago and it stalled everything for a while 😭 i hav a lot of drafts ongoing so let’s hope i don’t disappear for another few months ADF:gpzicvbpzpvo sorry for always slacking y'allllls

references: Flower language taken from the 1867 book “The illustrated language of flowers” by Mrs. L. Burke: https://archive.org/details/illustratedlang00burka

— moriwood.

[kxsagi]

"𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞"

a/n: includes three different alternative endings!

the moment yoichi isagi stepped onto the pitch, he felt the familiar heat rise in his chest, not just from the roaring crowd, but from the sight of him. 

michael kaiser. 

the guy had been a thorn in isagi’s side since their blue lock days. now, playing for rival clubs in the german league, their rivalry was a headline every season. their clashes were fierce, their words sharper than any referee’s whistle. 

but neither of them knew how much worse it could get.

until you.

you weren’t just beautiful. you were brilliant, an up-and-coming fashion designer whose work was making waves in elite social circles. you had designed custom suits and jerseys for some of the biggest names in sports, and somehow, both isagi and kaiser had ended up on your client list.

at first, it was harmless. just fittings and polite conversation. but then kaiser started noticing how isagi looked at you. how he lingered after appointments, how his usual tough demeanor softened when you adjusted the collar of his jacket.

it became a silent war, more ruthless than anything on the field.

kaiser would "coincidentally" schedule fittings right after isagi’s, ensuring you had to compare their styles, his tailored elegance against isagi’s effortless confidence. isagi countered by requesting custom pieces on short notice, forcing you to spend extra time working with him. if isagi sent you flowers to congratulate you on a successful fashion show, kaiser sent a limited-edition designer handbag.

the rivalry bled onto the pitch. if kaiser dribbled past isagi, he’d smirk and tug at his jersey, the one you designed. if isagi scored, he made sure kaiser saw him pointing toward the VIP section where you sat, elegantly unimpressed.

you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly what was happening.

and then came the night that changed everything.

a high-profile charity gala. both men, suited up, courtesy of your designs, having a stare-down. you, in a sleek black dress, looked between them with an exasperated sigh.

“you two are ridiculous,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass.

kaiser leaned in. “ridiculous? we just happen to have –”

“– great taste,” isagi finished, smug.

you rolled your eyes, then took a sip of your wine before smirking. “so, you both like me. that’s cute.”

kaiser and isagi exchanged uneasy glances.

you set your glass down and grinned. “and it’s a shame, really, because i don’t date clients.”

silence.

then, your laughter, soft and amused.

you walked away, leaving two of the league’s fiercest competitors standing dumbfounded.

isagi exhaled. “we’re idiots.”

kaiser nodded, rubbing his face. “yeah.”

for the first time in years, they had something to agree on.

and the rivalry continued. just, perhaps, with a little less venom. 

a/n: alternative ending: instead of saying you don’t date clients, you say you’re dating rin itoshi

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

you had been around footballers long enough to know that rivalry ran deep. you just never expected to be part of one.

isagi and kaiser were both your clients, both infuriatingly charming, both unbearably competitive. for months, they had turned your fashion studio into a battleground, one-upping each other in ridiculous ways.

but kaiser was different.

it wasn’t just the grand gestures or the sharp suits he requested. it was the way he lingered after fittings, asking about your designs with genuine curiosity. the way he brought you coffee without asking how you took it because he already knew. the way he listened, really listened, when you talked about your dreams of launching your own boutique.

so when he showed up at your studio one rainy evening, you weren’t entirely surprised.

“hey,” he said, leaning against the doorway, looking unsure for the first time since you’d met him. “i know you said you don’t date clients.”

“i did,” you said, crossing your arms. “still true.” 

kaiser exhaled, then stepped inside. “then let’s change that.”

you raised an eyebrow. “how?”

he pulled out a neatly folded contract, sliding it onto your worktable.

“i’m officially switching to another designer.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i already talked to someone else. from now on, i’m just michael.” he smiled, slow and confident, the way he did right before scoring a goal. “not a client. just a guy who really wants to take you out to dinner.”

you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. the idiot had actually fired you.

you shook your head. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re beautiful.” he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “so… what do you say?”

you pretended to think about it, even though you already knew the answer.

“i say,” you said, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, “you’d better not be late picking me up.”

and just like that, the rivalry was over.

at least, for one of them.

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢'𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

you had dealt with egos before, but nothing compared to isagi and kaiser. the two were locked in an endless game, using you as the unwitting referee.

it was exhausting.

but isagi… isagi made it fun.

sure, he was cocky. but he was also the one who showed up unannounced with dinner when you were working late. the one who made you laugh with ridiculous impressions of his teammates. the one who, despite all the posturing, always looked at you like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet.

so when he walked into your studio one evening, drenched from the rain, his usual bravado stripped away, you knew something was different.

“i’m done,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “i’m tapping out of this stupid game with kaiser.”

you raised an eyebrow. “game?”

“the competition. the ridiculous stunts. the flowers, the bags, the suits, the –” he exhaled. “i don’t want to win against him. i just want you.”

you stared at him, your heart hammering.

“so,” he continued, shifting awkwardly. “if you don’t feel the same, tell me now, and i’ll walk away. but if you do –” he paused, then smirked, some of his confidence returning. “then i’d really like to take you to dinner.”

you bit your lip.

isagi was bold, relentless, and sometimes infuriating.

but he was also standing in front of you, completely vulnerable, offering something real.

you stepped forward, slowly, until you were close enough to hear his breath hitch.

“dinner,” you murmured. “no competition?”

he grinned. “no competition.”

you smiled. “then pick me up at eight.”

and just like that, isagi had finally won… without even trying. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[thomaskong]

I was afraid I’d lose him. So I got there late. And… as I entered, I saw him about to take pictures by himself. The first thing that I felt was… I wanted to hug him. No matter how bad I was to him, he’s still there for me. Every time that I’ve fallen or torn apart, he always runs up to me. He’ll come running and hug me. The same goes for this time, where he shows up. Am I happy? I’m really delighted. I really am. I’d like to thank Save for always being by my side till this very day.

DMD Friendship the Reality: It Takes Two EP. 5

[lover-of-mine]

I'm gonna piggyback on Lizzie's article to say something. The thing about buddie canon now, or like, soon, is actually about the way that s4 happened, and the shooting created a setup that never went anywhere and then s6 happened and added a lot of space between Buck and Eddie. So they had a chance to do something, fox didn't let them, and up until s6, it seemed hopeless, like it was never gonna happen, that they were gonna permanently separate the two. Like, the s6-7 hiatus was rough on that front because realistically with what we were left with during 618, going canon was a distance fantasy. BUT s7 looked at the space they had forced between them and said "Space? There's no space here? What do you mean space?" and just completely ignored that to get them, in the words of Ryan Guzman, "closer than ever". I know I made posts about this before (read more on their screentime and my thoughts on that, including some graphs I made based on my supercuts here here and here), but the fact that we got at least one little moment every episode they were both in since the switch to abc is kind of insane considering they were actively separating them during s6. If the show wanted to keep them apart, s7 started on the perfect spot, but instead they smashed them closer together and made Buck bi. The whole thing here is that they tried to create a setup, weren't allowed to follow through, actively separated them, went on record on how that hurt the show, and now they are closer than ever before and in the perfect spot for them to get together. And it was intentional. Because if the goal was to make them best platonic buddies, they were in the perfect spot for that to happen. It would've been so easy to fully separate them during s7. But they didn't do it. Before 701 their average screentime per episode was 4:23. For season 7 and 8 it is 5:28*. It went up over a minute, which may not seem like a lot but considering that there are actually 3 episodes in 6a where there are less than a minute and 5 seconds of screentime (11 in the whole show all from 6a or before), this is massive. The show has 7 episodes where their screentime is over 10 minutes and 3 of them are in s8. The setup is there, the hype is there, the chemistry is there, the plot seems to be going that way, so seriously, what are they waiting for? The window to make it happen is now. And they made a conscious effort to set it up again.

*some individual episode stats for you to get the perspective of how insane that 5:28 average actually is: 305-06 combined have 6:07 (lawsuit arc), 210 has 5:13, 310 has 3:47, 510 has 4:04 (Christmas episodes), 511-13 combined have 5:18 (Eddie's breakdown), 610 has 5:23 (lightning).

[cherrygarcia-07]

I like picturing Spencer Reid in silly, ridiculous little scenarios.

I had the hilarious mental image of Spencer having a girlfriend who makes him watch Glee with her. He would pretend to hate it but lowkey secretly be feeding on the drama, but he totally would point out every illegal/morally grey thing that happens that characters get away with (Will planting drugs in a students locker, Rachel sending someone to a crackhouse etc.)

Him and his girlfriend would be lounging in the apartment, sitting in a comfortable silence as they just co exist together. Spencer would be pouring over a crossword book or reading a stack of books when his girlfriend would suddenly perk up, straightening in her seat with a glimmer in her eye.

‘Blaine singing It’s Not Right But It’s Okay.’ She would say. Spencer would sigh, deep and heavy, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘season 3, episode 17 titled Dance With Somebody’ he would say monotonously. It’s a game she’d play with him often, finding the idea of filling his genius brain with Glee songs of all things absolutely hilarious. ‘Come on, what else is an eidetic memory good for?’ She’d tease. ‘Oh, certainly not this.’ He’d say back, hiding a smile as he’d shake his head and pretend to be bothered.

I think it would be funny if he was in the bar or something with the team at a quiz night and he’d shock them all by getting a round on guessing pop music correct, because we all know he doesn’t touch that stuff with a 10 foot pole if he can help it. When they’d question him about it he’d shrug and absentmindedly say ‘it was on Glee’ because OF COURSE his ass would become one of those people- he just can’t help make it known when he knows something! This obviously would lead to way more questions and teasing and shocked laughter and I think it would be even funnier if the team didn’t know he had a girlfriend and he had to scramble for a reason as to why on earth he would be watching GLEE.

Also the idea of them just sat on the couch watching glee and his girlfriend tilting her head and saying ‘don’t you think Sue Sylvester kind of looks like your mom?’ just makes me chuckle.

[lv9su]

Everything inside me is stone.

Levi Ackerman x reader

I’ve wanted to write for him for so long this man is so fine💆🏾‍♀️ also this is based on the earlier seasons of aot

Age gap!!! Slightly toxic.. Angst, Forbidden Love (sorta) lots of sexual tension, always use of y/n, Levi being stubborn and you being stubborn back. 💋

~

Right now you weren’t in a.. strange predicament. Were you on top of Eren on the training grounds? Yes, but not in the way you might think. Why? Because you paired up for sparring, and you were very annoyed before this session started.

Let’s take it back to the reason why. The last conversation you had before everyone met for training. Maybe the word argument would be more fitted.

“Why do you keep on pushing me away?” You asked, getting frustrated at the sight of Levi getting out of the bed, cleaning the room you two had left a mess and finding clothes to get dressed. But you were having none of it.

“I’m not pushing you away, I’m protecting you.” Levi said, his back turned to you.

“Yes you are!? You know I can protect myself? You don’t need to isolate yourself from me.” Your voice began raising.

“I’m not the right person for you y/n. Since you’re so smart you should understand the risks of us! Whatever this is.” He turned around, pointing his finger between the both of you. He was self sabotaging because he felt you could do better than an older emotionally scarred man who just so happens to be the leader of your squad.

You felt the anger rise inside, and sure you could’ve screamed and yelled in his dumb face for saying what he said. Instead you were so angry tears pooled in your eyes, and you tried to hide it. Messily putting on your clothes you mumbled enough for him, to aggravated to speak normally.

“Fine.” You pulled on your white jeans.

“Whatever.” You began buttoning up your shirt.

“Just fuck off.” You hissed as his hands reached to help you button up since you being frantic.

You put on your socks and boots, the rest of your uniform in your room. “Leave me alone.”

He knew he’d fucked up. But seeing tears in your eyes, and your bottom lip quivering, he realised that was something he never wanted to see.

But why? It was so wrong. But when it was just the two of you it was so right.

It all started one drunken night three months ago began a kind of relationship you would’ve never ever expected to happen with Levi. Ackerman. Your. Captain.

I mean sure you always found him attractive, and he seemed to tolerate you more than anyone else in your scout group. He definitely did call you a Brat pretty much every day, but he didn’t ever insult you. Everyone else figured it was just favouritism when he’d tell everyone to fuck off and figure out their own shit except when it came to you he spoke in a normal tone. Needed help with the gear? He’d be behind you, guiding your arms and showing you what to do. Wanted to spar with him? He’d teach you new moves and would be very physical but not enough to hurt you, just for the sake of touch. You were thirsty? He’d make tea for the both of you. And so on.

You pretended to be oblivious to all of this, but in your mind you couldn’t help but daydream and zone out imagining what it’d be like with him.

“Thinking about the captain” Sasha nudged your arm as your hand rested on your face. She giggled as she sipped her alcoholic beverage. Yes, would absolutely were.

“No!!!! Shut up.” You slightly chuckled and rolled your eyes, as you began drinking a little more.

“Y’know y/n, if you change your mind and want someone your own age im your perfect match.” Jean winked at you, slurring his words and wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

“You need to sit down.” You grinned at the sight, standing up and sitting him down where you were sat.

You walked out of the tavern and sat outside in the dark, kissed by the moonlight and wrapped around the late night breeze of the summer. Everyone was here celebrating the recent mission, less people killed by titans and an increase in the titans being killed. That’s what it’s all about right? Until the next mission there’d most likely be some intense training so the plan was to try and have some fun while you still could.

“I’m surprised you’re with that lanky piece of shit. Out of everyone.” You heard from behind, not needing to look behind since you recognised the voice right away. He sat beside you, and you hummed questioningly.

“Tch don’t play dumb brat. Jean. The lanky horse-” you laughed and cut him off.

“I’m not with Jean. And it seems, someone was stalking me.” You smirk, speaking with the liquid confidence.

“I’m taking you back to headquarters. You’ve had too much to drink.” He rolled his eyes at you.

When you got back, one thing led to another and the next morning you were tangled in his sheets naked. Before you woke he left to make tea, except you woke while he was gone and assumed he’d just left. So you did too. And when he saw you were gone from his room he realised you might’ve thought it was a mistake. But he couldn’t blame you if you did.. he was older, there was a pretty big power dynamic and he came to the conclusion that is was for the good that he was alone. If he formed an emotional attachment there was always the chance he could lose you.

But you ignoring him? He didn’t like that. He tolerated 1 day of being ignored by you before he hollered you into his office and well.. let’s just say this time you were both sober when you did it.

After that you both said that it wouldn’t continue.. but it did. More often than not. You had fucked in his office, his room, your room, the stables, in the shower, in the forest and empty rooms. But as much as there was lust, there was sweet moments that were dates in disguise. Long talks, walks, rides, play fights, sparring in feilds and then having a picnic, slow dances and admiration. But hey what was more romantic than slaying titans together.

Back in the present.

“Cmon y/n, are you even trying?” Eren mocked as the two of you sparred, except you were thinking about the argument you’d had with him this morning.

So after a swift kick to the legs - which Levi taught you how to do - dropping him to the floor within seconds. And in that amount of time you’d began throwing punch after punch after punch. Poor eren. Too bad he underestimated you at a time like this.

“OKAY MISSY!!” Hange shouted in a high pitched voice as she grabbed the back of your arms and pulled you off of him. “You doin’ okay up there sweets?” She raised a brow moving closer to your face and tapping your head. You nodded and she rubbed your arm before you walked away.

Levi watched you the whole entire time.

Hange walked back over to where they sat. “You outta go get your girl short stack.” She smirked.

He went silent for a second, unsure of how to respond “what’re you talking about four eyes.”

“Oh don’t play dumb. I see that look in your eyes, I know you put up this cold front but seems as though she’s melting it down.” She readjusted her glasses “a little young but hmph! I get it. Better go get her before someone else does.”

“Tch. Shut up.” he abruptly stood up and followed in your footsteps.

Eventually catching up as he found you walking in the hq. “I told you to leave me alone” you frowned.

“I’m the one who gives orders around here brat.”

“Go boss around someone else then” you went to walk away and he grabbed your hand.

“No. You’re gonna stay and listen to me.” He began to get annoyed now. “And drop the attitude brat. You know i care, probably too much so quit acting like I don’t. I shouldn’t have pushed you away but I was trying to do what’s best for you. If I keep you to myself you don’t get a chance with any other guy your age.”

“But that’s my decision Levi, and I don’t want any other guy. I want you.” You interrupted, looking into his eyes. He now grabbed your face, and leaned closer “I didn’t say you could talk.” He then glided his thumb over your lower lip.

“It’s dangerous to live in a world like this.” Her brows lifted then caressed your jaw.

“I don’t care about that.” You batted your eyelashes up at him and he kissed you.

~

[rgwriteshockey]

side by side w/ quinn hughes ⇒

quinn hughes x gf!reader

summary: quinn hughes gets named captain of the vancouver canucks, and his girlfriend of five years, y/n, is right there with him. from the hype of the announcement to the pressures of being captain, she’s his rock. as quinn steps into the role, he juggles the weight of leadership and the challenges of the season, but with y/n’s support, he stays grounded. they continue to grow together, face tough moments, and celebrate the good ones. through it all, they prove that they’re stronger together—both on the ice and off.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mild language, happy relationship

a/n: fic #2!! hope yall enjoy and don't forget to like!

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

quinn hughes had always rolled with the changes. from the days he spent watching hockey games from the sidelines, dreaming of being in the nhl, to getting drafted by the vancouver canucks, and now, stepping into the role of team captain. it felt like all those late nights, tough games, and moments of doubt had led him to this point.

but the one thing that made all of this feel even more meaningful? you being there right beside him.

you and quinn had been together for five years, through all the ups and downs that came with being in a relationship with someone who lived such a high-profile life. you’d been there for his breakout moments, when he nailed an insane assist or made a game-saving play. but you’d also been there when things didn’t go right—when the team wasn’t performing well, when he got hurt, or when the pressure of living up to expectations seemed like it might break him.

through all of it, you’d been the person he could lean on. and now, as he stood at the threshold of a new chapter—becoming captain of the canucks—it felt surreal, but it also felt like something he truly deserved.

────────────────────────────────────────────

it was a crisp morning when quinn was officially named captain of the vancouver canucks. the press conference was packed with reporters, cameras flashing, and everyone eager to hear what quinn had to say. the excitement in the air was contagious, but you could tell that quinn was feeling a bit of the pressure too. he stood there, looking calm on the outside, but you could see the nerves in his eyes. this was a big moment.

you sat in the front row, next to his family. jack, his brother, had flown in to support him, and you could see the pride in his eyes every time he looked at quinn. you weren’t the only one who was proud—everyone in the room could feel the weight of this moment. but even so, quinn’s demeanor was humble as ever. he didn’t seem to let the spotlight rattle him.

"thank you all for being here," the canucks' gm said from the podium. "it’s an honor to introduce the new captain of the vancouver canucks: quinn hughes."

the room erupted in applause. quinn gave a modest nod as he stepped up to the microphone. you could see how much this meant to him, but he kept his composure as always. he adjusted his tie, took a deep breath, and started speaking.

“it’s an honor to be here today,” quinn said, his voice strong, but there was a bit of a nervous edge to it. “being part of this organization has been incredible, and it means the world to me to have the chance to lead this team. but none of this happens without the people who’ve been there for me along the way—my teammates, my coaches, my family, and, of course, my girlfriend, y/n.”

your heart skipped a beat as quinn’s eyes found you in the crowd. the moment felt surreal, as all the eyes in the room turned to you. it wasn’t something you expected—being called out like that. but there he was, giving you that soft smile, the one you loved so much, as if to say, “I wouldn’t be here without you.”

you quickly wiped a tear from your eye, feeling all sorts of emotions hit at once. quinn wasn’t just a hockey player to you—he was your partner, your best friend, the person who made all the long nights worth it.

“y/n has been there for me through everything,” quinn continued. “She’s been my biggest supporter, my rock. I’m proud to share this moment with her.”

the room erupted in applause again, and you felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on you. it was overwhelming, but in the best way. quinn’s words made everything feel like it was meant to be.

after the press conference ended, reporters started to trickle out, but quinn didn’t rush. he made his way to you, his family following behind, and you met him halfway.

"hey," quinn said, his voice low, as he wrapped you in a hug. "thank you for always being here. for everything."

you hugged him tight, your heart full. “you deserve this, quinn. I’m so proud of you.”

he pulled away, looking into your eyes. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

you both stood there for a moment, away from the chaos, just the two of you. no words were needed. you both knew this was just the beginning of something huge.

────────────────────────────────────────────

the next few weeks flew by in a whirlwind of excitement and adjustment. quinn was officially the captain now, and it came with a lot more responsibility. he was taking on extra meetings, spending more time at the rink, and handling pressure that he’d never had to before. but through it all, he kept his calm. he took the responsibility seriously, but he didn’t let it consume him.

you saw the subtle changes in him—he was more focused, more aware of how his actions affected the team. he was always the first one on the ice, pushing the younger players to work hard. but he also made sure to check in with everyone, making sure the guys knew they had his back. he wasn’t just the captain on paper—he was earning the respect of his teammates every day.

at home, it wasn’t much different. after a tough game, where the canucks had lost in overtime, you found quinn sitting on the couch, staring out the window. the city lights below twinkled, but he seemed lost in thought.

“rough game?” you asked, walking over and sitting beside him.

quinn let out a long breath, rubbing his temples. “yeah, we just couldn’t get it together. I made that last pass, and I messed it up.”

you gently squeezed his hand. “you can’t win them all, quinn. you’ve been killing it all season. one mistake doesn’t change that.”

he gave you a small smile, but you could tell he was still frustrated. “I just hate feeling like I let everyone down. I’m supposed to be the leader.”

“you’re doing great,” you reassured him. “nobody expects you to be perfect. your team knows you’re doing everything you can, and they look up to you for it.”

quinn looked at you, his eyes softening. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, y/n. you make everything easier.”

you grinned and gave his hand a soft squeeze. “I’m always gonna be here, quinn. don’t ever forget that.”

he pulled you into a tight hug, and for a while, that was all you needed. just to be there together, away from everything. the world outside could wait.

────────────────────────────────────────────

as the season wore on, quinn settled into the role of captain. the canucks started clicking as a team, and with quinn leading the charge, their play was getting better and better. he seemed to grow more comfortable with each game, more confident in his leadership abilities. but despite the growing success, he stayed grounded. he was still the same quinn you’d known from the beginning—humble, hardworking, and always ready to laugh at the little things.

one night, after a huge win, quinn and the team went out to celebrate. you stood at the back of the room, watching him interact with his teammates, joking around and laughing. he looked like a natural leader, fitting perfectly into this new role. but it was when his eyes found yours across the room that your heart skipped a beat. you could see the pride in his gaze, the quiet appreciation that you were there, supporting him every step of the way.

later that night, when most of the team had left, quinn pulled you aside in the quiet of the hallway. he looked at you with a mix of exhaustion and contentment.

“you’ve been with me through everything,” he said quietly, taking both your hands in his. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I’m so thankful for you, y/n.”

you smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’m proud of you, quinn. you’ve earned this.”

quinn stepped closer and pulled you into a kiss��gentle, full of meaning, and everything you’d ever needed. the world outside seemed to disappear as he kissed you, and for a few moments, it was just the two of you. the pressure, the expectations, the challenges—they didn’t matter. you were together, and that was enough.

and as the season continued, you both knew that this was only the beginning. quinn’s leadership was just taking shape, and with you by his side, there was nothing he couldn’t face. the road ahead was full of possibilities, and you’d be there with him every step of the way.

[ikkyfics]

𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞

Carmy Berzatto x f!reader

Summary: It’s ridiculous how much this has become a habit. Your eyes turn toward every new movement in the crowd, trying not to seem obvious, but also unable to help it. He always shows up. Always buys something, even if it’s just a handful of rosemary. Always stops.

Warnings: fluff, pre relationship, no use of y/n, carmy berzatto cooked for you, reader works selling herbs at the market

A/N: my first work with Carmy (internal screams) i basically watched all the seasons in three days (who needs sleep?) and it's all thanks to my mom @gingerteafairy. i'm obsessed and it's all thanks to you

The market has a rhythm that has become familiar to you. The strong scent of cilantro and mint mixed with the dry aroma of freshly harvested oregano, the sounds of people haggling, the warmth that spreads slowly as the morning progresses. You’ve been there since early, your hands still damp from the last restocking of cilantro, your fingers sliding through the green stems as you arrange the bunches on the stall.

And, as always, you look for him.

It’s ridiculous how much this has become a habit. Your eyes turn toward every new movement in the crowd, trying not to seem obvious, but also unable to help it. He always shows up. Always buys something, even if it’s just a handful of rosemary. Always stops.

The problem is, today, he’s taking longer than usual.

You’ve already caught yourself checking the clock more times than you should. He never comes at exactly the same time, but by now, he should’ve been here. Maybe today’s the day he doesn’t show up.

That thought bothers you more than it should.

You try to keep busy, try not to think about it as you sort through some dry leaves, as you arrange the small sprigs of thyme. You’re about to accept that it’s not happening today—when you feel it.

That subtle shift in the air.

The space feels different when he’s there. It’s not like people stop or the world changes, but you feel it. The weight of a gaze, the awareness of a presence. Your heart skips a beat before you even turn to make sure.

He’s here.

Carmy stops on the other side of the stall, one hand in the pocket of his dark pants, the other holding something you can’t quite see yet. His hair is as messy as always, curls out of place, and his blue eyes scan the products in front of him before lifting to meet yours. His gaze has a way of pinning you in place.

"Hey."

You feel your heart stumble over its own rhythm, but you try to act normal. You grab a sprig of rosemary just to keep your hands busy because, if you don’t, you know you’ll end up fumbling.

"Hi."

Carmy keeps his eyes on you for a second longer than necessary before looking away, as if he’s checking the products. But he doesn’t reach out to grab anything, doesn’t ask about fresh dill or if more tarragon has arrived, like he usually does.

You wet your lips, trying not to seem so aware of his presence. "You don’t need anything today?"

He exhales through his nose, an almost laugh. "I always need something." He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze returning to you. "But, uh… I still have a good stock from the last batch."

"Oh." You nod, not quite sure what to do with that information.

It’s ridiculous how your brain seems to work differently around him. You’ve interacted with dozens of customers, demanding people, cooks, even other chefs who show up from time to time, but with Carmy, it’s always different. You’ve felt it since the first time he stopped by, since the first exchange of words, the attentive way he has when he picks the products, always testing the scent of the leaves between his fingers, analyzing the details as if he’s cataloging everything mentally.

He never says more than necessary, but he never leaves too quickly.

And his eyes always find their way back to you.

You don’t have the courage to look directly at him for too long, so you let your gaze fall to his hands. The fingers marked by old cuts, the tattoos scattered across his skin. The strength in his forearms, the way the tendons move under the skin when he clenches his hand, as if he wants to do something but hesitates.

He clears his throat.

You force yourself to look up before he notices where your attention went.

"So… Did the basil from the other day work out?" you ask, just to say something.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah. It was good." He gives a half-smile, seems genuinely pleased that you remembered. "Used it in a new dish. Gave the sauce the right touch."

You feel a silly pride at that.

Carmy looks to the side for a moment, runs his tongue over his teeth as if considering what to say next, and then… hesitates. His fingers tighten around what he’s holding, and only then do you realize it’s not an ingredient.

It’s a package.

He exhales again, this time through his nose, almost as if he’s trying to decide if he should really do this.

"Uh… I made this for you."

You blink. "What?"

He holds up the package for you to see better. Brown paper folded precisely, tied with a thin string. It’s a small package, but not tiny. It doesn’t look like something from the restaurant. It looks personal.

Your brain tries to process what’s happening as your hands accept the package almost automatically. The paper is warm to the touch.

"I just—" He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, looks away quickly before turning back to you. "You always help me here. Always get me what I need, even when it’s crazy busy. I wanted to, uh… return the favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Carmy Berzatto cooked for you.

You hold the package more carefully, your breathing a little shorter than it should be.

"What is it?" Your voice comes out a little softer.

Carmy doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as your fingers slide over the brown paper, undoing the knot of the string with more care than necessary. You feel your movements a little more hesitant than you’d like, almost trembling, and you hate it—hate how much he affects you without even saying anything.

You unwrap the package slowly, the warmth still trapped in the paper, the aroma starting to escape into the air before you even see it. And when you finally do, your chest tightens.

It’s a tartine.

The bread looks perfect—crispy on the edges, golden just right, holding a generous layer of fresh ricotta spread with precision, topped with caramelized figs and a thin drizzle of honey glistening under the light. There’s something green on top, small leaves, carefully placed. Basil.

The same basil he bought from you.

You inhale, smelling it before even tasting it. The subtle sweetness of the figs mixed with the tangy touch of the ricotta, the bread lightly toasted. It seems like a small thing, but it’s a thoughtful dish—an exact, balanced combination of flavors.

And he made it for you.

You look up slowly, and Carmy is already watching.

The blue in his eyes seems more intense now, locked on you, attentive in a way that makes something in your stomach twist. He wants to see your reaction. He wants to know what you’ll think.

You swallow hard.

Your fingers tighten around the bread for a moment, as if they need an anchor before moving forward. Then, you take the first bite.

The crust breaks under your teeth, crispy but yielding easily to the soft center. The flavor spreads warm and fresh in your mouth—the contrast of the sweet honey with the slightly tangy cheese, the caramelized figs bringing a buttery touch, and, finally, the freshness of the basil cutting through everything in an unexpected but perfect way.

The perfection of that flavor hits you like a punch to the stomach.

You let out a sigh, a sound that Carmy hears. You feel it in the way he subtly shifts in front of you, as if your pleasure in eating this has struck something inside him.

You’ve never tasted anything like this.

It’s not just good. It’s not just something someone cooked.

It’s art.

You take a deep breath, blinking, trying to formulate something, but the words don’t come.

And Carmy… Carmy is still watching.

His expression has changed, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. He seems disconcerted for a moment, as if something has just hit him hard and he’s still trying to understand the impact.

He wanted to surprise you, but now it seems like he’s the one who’s been surprised.

Because a thought hits Carmy with force.

He’d like to cook for you every day.

The desire is sudden and visceral, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He feels his chest tighten at the idea, something warm and strange spreading under his skin. Because it’s not about impressing. It’s not about showing off what he can do. It’s about wanting you to taste. To feel. To like.

And that’s dangerous.

You lick a trace of honey from the corner of your mouth, and he has to look away.

"So…?" His voice comes out a little rougher than usual.

You swallow, still tasting the basil on your tongue. Your eyes return to him, shining in a way you don’t notice, but he does.

"This is… perfect."

Carmy lets out a short, low laugh, looking at the ground for a moment before turning back to you. "It’s just a tartine."

"No." You shake your head, still holding the bread in your fingers, still feeling its flavor in your mouth. "It’s not just a tartine."

He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches. You feel his gaze locked on you again, that intense way he has of paying attention, as if he’s analyzing every tiny detail of your reaction, every nuance on your face.

You lower your eyes to what’s left of the tartine in your hand, hardly believing that something so simple can have this impact. That someone can make something like this.

You swallow hard, your mouth a little dry before you blurt out, without thinking:

"This is, like… the best thing that’s ever been in my mouth."

And then you realize what you’ve said.

The realization hits at the same time a palpable silence settles between you.

The heat rises up your neck like an uncontrolled fire. Your heart stops and then races.

"I mean—" Your voice stumbles, desperate to correct, but it’s too late.

Carmy blinks.

The corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile, and he lets out a low, quick laugh before wetting his lips and rubbing the back of his neck, looking away for a moment.

"Good to know," he says, and the casual tone of his voice only makes it worse.

You feel your face burning, your eyes darting to anywhere but him.

But Carmy is still looking at you, and there’s something different in the way he’s doing it now. As if something has snapped inside him.

As if he likes it.

You shift, restless, and Carmy tilts his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on you, as if he’s memorizing this moment.

"If you want, I can make something else for you someday."

Your stomach tightens in a different way now.

You feel the weight of what he said, the way he said it, the way his eyes are on you, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. As if cooking for you were something natural.

As if he wanted to do it.

The word "yes" almost slips out of your mouth without you realizing it, but you manage to hold it back for a moment, blinking a few times before letting out a small smile, trying not to seem so affected.

"I… would like that."

The corners of his lips lift slightly, almost imperceptibly, but you see it.

He lets out a short sigh, looks away at the rest of the tartine in your hand. "Then finish that before it gets cold."

You laugh, and Carmy can’t help it: he memorizes that sound.

[supernova2205]

A Recipe for Trouble

Chef Gaz x reader

Summary: What starts as a simple cooking class to cure boredom quickly turns into something more when your charming instructor, Kyle, challenges you to a final test cooking him dinner at your place. With your track record in the kitchen, success isn’t guaranteed, but maybe the real lesson isn’t about cooking at all.

Boredom had a way of making you do questionable things. Like signing up for a cooking class despite your well-documented history of culinary disasters. You had scorched eggs, burned pasta, and once managed to set toast on fire. If there was a way to ruin a dish, you had found it.

So, naturally, a cooking class seemed like a logical next step.

The only thing that stopped you from bolting right out of the class on the first day was the instructor himself, Kyle.

He was confident, charismatic, and, unfortunately for you, devastatingly attractive. That last part made focusing on anything remotely related to food prep significantly harder.

Your first lesson began with an introduction to knife skills, and you quickly realized that chopping onions was its own form of torture. Your hands fumbled, your slices were uneven, and at one point, you nearly lost a fingertip.

Kyle chuckled as he slid a cutting board in front of you. "Alright, let’s slow down before we end up in the emergency room, yeah? Hold the knife like this, firm grip, but relaxed." His hands covered yours, guiding you through the movement. "There you go. Now try again."

You tried to ignore the way his touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, focusing instead on not making a fool of yourself.

That resolve lasted about three minutes until you managed to send half a tomato flying across the room.

Kyle blinked, lips twitching in amusement. "Well, that’s one way to do it. Not exactly the right way, but you’ve got enthusiasm."

"Enthusiasm won’t stop me from burning the kitchen down," you muttered, shaking your head. "I’m hopeless."

"Nah," he grinned, leaning against the counter. "Just need the right teacher. And lucky for you, I happen to be the best."

The lessons continued over the next few weeks, each one filled with equal parts disaster and progress. You learned how to knead dough without it sticking to everything in sight, how to properly season a dish without making it taste like pure salt, and, most importantly, how to not set things on fire.

Every lesson was a battle between your growing skills and your natural inclination for chaos, but Kyle never lost patience. If anything, he seemed to enjoy watching you stumble through the process.

"Alright," he said one evening as you both hovered over a pan of sauce that miraculously hadn’t turned into charcoal. "Moment of truth. Taste test."

You hesitated, scooping a bit onto a spoon. Your track record with homemade meals wasn’t exactly great. But as soon as the flavors hit your tongue, your eyes widened. "Holy—this actually tastes good."

Kyle grinned. "Told ya. You’re getting the hang of it."

You turned to him, a slow smirk forming. "So, what you’re saying is… I’m a natural?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re better, but let’s see if you survive the final test."

Your stomach dropped. "Final test?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Cooking a meal all on your own. No help. Just you, the ingredients, and your questionable decision-making."

You groaned. "You’re trying to kill me."

"Nope, just makin’ sure all this hasn’t been for nothing. I’ve got faith in you."

And damn it, with the way he looked at you just then, soft, encouraging, like he knew you could do it, you almost believed it too.

Then he smirked. "And, since it’s your final test, I think it should be a special occasion."

You raised an eyebrow. "Special how?"

Kyle leaned against the counter, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself. "How about this you cook me dinner. At your place. Just us."

Your heart did a weird little flip. "Wait, is this part of the test, or are you asking me out?"

He chuckled, tilting his head. "Little bit of both."

You stared at him, trying to find the catch. "So, you want me to cook for you, knowing full well that my kitchen skills are questionable at best?"

Kyle shrugged. "I like a little danger. Keeps things interesting."

The teasing glint in his eye made your stomach do another flip. You exhaled, dramatically wiping your hands on your apron. "Alright, Kyle. You’re on. But if you die from food poisoning, that’s on you."

"I’ll take my chances."

The next evening, you found yourself pacing your kitchen, trying to remember everything Kyle had taught you. You had picked a simple dish, one you had actually managed to cook successfully under his watchful eye. But without him hovering nearby to save you from disaster, your nerves were getting the best of you.

When the knock came at your door, you took a deep breath and opened it to find Kyle standing there, dressed casually but somehow looking effortlessly good. He held up a bottle of wine with a smirk. "Figured we might need this."

You let him in, and he surveyed your kitchen with an amused glance. "So, what’s on the menu, Chef?"

"That… is a surprise," you said, nudging him toward the counter. "No interfering. You’re the guest tonight."

"Alright, alright," he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "I’ll just sit back and enjoy the show."

Despite a few near mishaps, the meal actually turned out well. You plated everything carefully and set the table, feeling ridiculously proud of yourself. Kyle took a bite and let out a satisfied hum. "Look at that. My star pupil actually pulled it off."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made your face heat up. "So, does this mean I passed?"

Kyle leaned in slightly, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Oh, you definitely passed. But I think we might need a few more lessons. You know, just to be sure."

Your heart raced as you met his gaze, realizing that maybe, just maybe, this had never really been about cooking at all.

Authors note:Hey everyone! Just wanted to share a little fic for all my fellow Gaz fans out there. I still have more ideas brewing about him because I absolutely adore his charm and sass! Enjoy and stay tuned for more!!!!$

[xxbrightshadowxx]

I think the thing I hate the most about Caitlyn is her stans. They preach about how people can’t handle morally gray characters but when someone points out something they didn’t like about Caitlyn they will bend over backwards to try and defend her. You say you don’t like how she gassed the chembarons or hit Vi and they will throw excess after excuse to show that she’s innocent or worse, just insult you or call you racism for having a different opinion. You can have a well-written morally gray character(and in my opinion, Season 2 Caitlyn isn’t) and still have people dislike them for valid reasons. I would legit have more respect for Caitlyn fans if they actually accept that yeah, Caitlyn did bad things and owned up to it instead of trying to examine every corner that she did no wrong. Because like the morally gray character you say she is, she did do things wrong.

[syrma-sensei]

→ Godless.

Pairing: William “Billy” Butcher x Fem!reader.

Summary: In his godless world, he yearns for something divine.

Rating: Mature.

Setting: Season 4.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Angst, angst, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional agnst.

The night shift at Starlight House is supposed to be quiet. Kids are already asleep, the halls dimly lit, and the only sounds are the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You are just finishing up—shutting off lights, making sure everything is locked up—when a familiar knock echoed through the front doors. Hard. Impatient.

You already know who it is before you open it.

Billy Butcher stands there, looking every bit the man who doesn't belong in a place like this. He smells like whiskey and gunpowder, his knuckles bruised, his jaw clenched tight like he’d just come from a fight. And, as always, Terror is right beside him, wagging his tail.

You crossed your arms. “Jesus, Butcher. You could’ve just texted.”

“Ain’t got the patience for that.” His eyes flicked over you, taking in the soft Starlight House sweatshirt you wore over your tank top, the hint of warmth and comfort he probably can't stand. “Terror needed a walk. Figured I’d let ‘im see his favorite bird.”

You roll your eyes but reach down to scratch behind the dog’s ears anyway. “You mean I’m your free dog sitter.”

Butcher smirks, stepping inside without asking. “That too.”

You shake your head with a small smile.

You've known Billy for almost five months now. You met him at the Filtatron Building when you had to drop by to give Annie some paperwork for the shelter’s funding. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed, looking about five seconds away from bashing someone's head. You hadn’t thought much of him at first. Just another gruff asshole with a chip on his shoulder. But you're nothing if not curious. So, you asked Annie who the hell he was when she visited the House the other day, and she told you his miserable story.

You still get sick in the stomach when you your mind puts you in his shoes.

You sigh. “You wanna tell me why you’re really here?”

You know why he is here.

Butcher gives you a look—half amusement, half something else you couldn’t quite place. “What, a bloke can’t drop by for a friendly visit?”

You snort. “You don’t do friendly visits. Are you here to help?”

Terror woofs at you, demanding more headpats which you give him. Butcher, meanwhile, scans the quiet, dimly lit space from his spot.

“Still reckon this place is a waste of time,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, already used to his shit. “Because helping kids is such a terrible thing?”

He does answer right away. Just shrugs, stepping closer. “World’s fucked, luv. You can’t save ‘em all.”

“Maybe not,” you shoot back. “But I can damn well try.” Like how you're trying to save Ryan. You think but you bite your tongue. You learnt to. It gets ugly when someone reminds him that his wife's son prefers Homelander over him. The boy is oblivious to his father's true nature, and Billy wasn't really kind to him the last two times he saw him. The first he told him to fuck off for killing Becca, and the second he literally was going to kill his fucking dad in front of his eyes. Which didn't settle well with the kid.

“Be that as it may…” Billy clicks his tongue, “Can we skip to the part where we fuck eachother’s brains out, luv?”

In another time, his crass words would've made you flinch. But not anymore. You’ve grown accustomed to his rough edges, even found a strange comfort in them. There’s something about the way he says it, something in his voice that makes your pulse pick up, makes your skin tingle with that mixture of irritation and desire you can never quite shake when he’s around.

So, you comply. You check on everything before you're off with him to your place.

Sex with Billy Butcher is never sweet. He fucks you with raw, desperate, almost angry need. When he manhandles you, his touch is rough and bruising and demanding like he's taking it out on you as if you're the one who killed his wife.

Why do we do this if you love her so much? You want to ask him, but you never do. Because you know that would screw it up on you.

Afterwards, Billy lays on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to the shitstorm in his head. You can still feel his heartbeat slowing beneath your palm, his skin warm from the afterglow.

For once, he isn't in a hurry to leave. He doesn't usually stay after sex. But you won't complain.

Billy keeps his gaze on the ceiling, his mind drifting away from the intimacy of the moment though he grows to love it.

God, the fucking cunt. Did He really place you in his way to discourage him from pursuing his path of vengeance any further?

He scoffs, well He’s doing a shitty job of it. Because he doesn't, by any chance, harbour any ounce of emotions for you. Aside from your sex appeal, he has nothing to do with you.

Then why do you keep wanting to see her?

A voice akin to Becca's taunts him.

Well, I'm fucking dying anyway. He tries to justify. Might as well fuckin’ enjoy the hell road.

But a knife of guilt stabs his chest. He uses you for pleasure but he knows you're more than that. He finds serenity within his soul when he's with you. For brief, fleeting moments, the searing fire in his heart that urges him for a revenge smoulders away when you beam at him and he hates you for that.

He gazes down at you while you trace lazy circles over his chest.

Such a sweet little thing, he thinks. But sweet things break easily in this world. Like it did his brother. Like it did his wife. Like it did him.

He doesn't deserve you. He isn't worthy of an angel, a goddess like you.

Then why am I here? He asks himself.

“Do you ever think the big cunt is somewhere up there?” He mutters absentmindedly.

You chuckle, looking up at him, “I don't know…”

He snickers, “You don't believe in the invisible cunt, I take it?”

You snort, “I don't really care if He or She or They exist.”

“Then why do you have a kind heart and do what you do?”

You prop yourself up on your arm, “I do it because I believe it is the right thing to do, not because some bearded old daddy in the sky says what I should do.”

He raises a brow, “Well, here's what I think, luv—”

You silence him with a finger on his lips, “I know that the world is cruel and meaningless, but it is also…” You smile, eyes holding his, “A beautiful place…”

Mine was beautiful when I had Becca. He muses, and an inner voice adds, Is beautiful when I have you.

He shakes his head.

“Might as well you enjoy the ride, Billy.” You pat his chest gently.

Before he can push the subject, a wet, sloppy sound fills the air, followed by a familiar snuffling noise.

You both turn your heads toward the bedroom door—where Terror is sitting, watching you with his big, dumb dog grin, happily licking his own balls.

Butcher groaned. “Christ, mate, bit of fuckin’ privacy?”

Terror, completely unbothered, lets out a contented huff and plops onto the floor, still going at it.

You bit your lip, trying to hold back a laugh. "You sure know how to ruin a moment, huh?"

Butcher grumbles something under his breath, shoving a pillow over his face. "Next time, we’re locking the bloody door."

Unable to withhold it, a roaring chortle bursts out of your lungs. Your lilt sound caresses Billy’s ear like a feather.

You sigh against his chest, your body warm and relaxed, but he feels anything but.

He should leave. Should throw on his clothes, mutter some half-assed excuse, and get the fuck out before this turns into something it shouldn’t.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets his fingers trail absentmindedly down your back, feeling the slow rise and fall of your breath.

“You always this cuddly after sex?” you murmur, voice teasing but laced with genuine curiosity.

Butcher snorts. “Yeah, ‘m a real softie.”

You hum, tracing lazy patterns over his chest. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Silence settles between you, heavy with unspoken things. He can feel you watching him, waiting for something he can’t give.

So he does what he does best. He deflects.

“Reckon Terror’s traumatized now,” he grumbles, jerking his chin toward the dog, who has finally abandoned his self-care and curled up on the floor.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “You think this is the worst thing he’s seen? He lives with you.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You notice. Of course, you do. You always fucking notice.

“Billy…” you start, voice softer now, like you’re stepping carefully around whatever mess is inside his head. “Why do you keep coming back?”

He stiffens.

Because it’s easy? Because you’re good at what you do? Because he likes the way you feel, warm and alive beneath him?

All bullshit.

The real answer sits heavy on his tongue, bitter and unspoken.

Because when he’s with you, the fire in his gut—the one that’s been burning ever since Becca died—dims just enough for him to breathe.

And that scares the fuck out of him.

You let the silence stretch between you, waiting, hoping he’ll say something. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he pulls you closer, his breath warm against your temple, his arms a little too tight, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip.

Your fingers skim lightly over his side. “You never answer the hard questions, do you?”

Butcher huffs, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Don’t see the point, luv. Ain’t gonna change a damn thing.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. “You sure about that?”

His jaw clenches. He hates when you do this—when you peel back the layers he’s spent years building, exposing the raw, ugly things underneath. But he can’t bring himself to push you away.

Instead, he sighs, his fingers trailing up your spine, slow and deliberate. “What d’you want me to say, huh? That I like this?” His voice drops, something dangerous curling at the edges. “That I like you?”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting him to say it, not out loud, not like this.

And for a second, you see it—the truth he’s been trying so hard to bury.

But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. His expression shutters, that familiar guardedness slipping back into place.

He shakes his head, scoffing at himself. “Don’t mean a bloody thing.”

You exhale sharply, rolling onto your back beside him, staring at the ceiling. “If it doesn’t mean anything, then why are you still here?”

Because you're a good fuck and I'm much of an arsehole to take advantage of it. He wants to crudely tell you, to convince you, to convince himself that you're nothing but that.

But the words don’t come out.

Instead, Billy lies there, jaw tight, staring at the ceiling as if it holds all the answers he doesn’t have. He wants to say it—wants to be cruel, to shut this down before it turns into something he can’t control. But when he glances at you, at the way your brows pinch together, at the soft rise and fall of your breath, something in his chest pulls tight.

He swallows hard, lets out a low, bitter chuckle. “Fuck if I know.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s humorless. “Bullshit.”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk, but the weight in his chest is too heavy. He shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, watching you. “You really wanna have this chat right now?”

Your eyes flick toward him, searching, challenging. “I just wanna know why you keep coming back.”

Billy looks at you for a long moment, like he’s trying to piece together an answer that won’t make him feel like a fucking idiot. He could lie. He should lie. But something about the way you’re looking at him makes it impossible.

Finally, he sighs, running a rough hand over his face. “You make me forget.” His voice is quieter now, like he hates admitting it. “For a little while, anyway.”

You hold his gaze. “Forget what?”

His throat bobs, his expression unreadable. And then, finally, he mutters, “Everything.”

The weight of that single word settles between you like a heavy fog. You should say something, maybe press him for more, but you don’t. Because you get it. Maybe more than he realizes.

So instead, you shift closer, resting a hand against his chest. His heart beats strong beneath your palm, steady but guarded, just like him.

“You don’t have to forget,” you say softly. “You just have to stop running.”

Billy scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what happens when I stop?”

You give him a small, sad smile. “Maybe you finally start living.”

He exhales sharply, his hand coming up to wrap around your wrist, holding you there against him. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, the way his fingers tighten just slightly—it says enough.

He’s not ready. Maybe he never will be. But for now, he stays.

By morning, the world outside is just as godless and fucked as ever. And yet, you both step back into it, knowing full well that Billy will find his way back to you—sooner rather than later.

⚜ The Boys Masterlist

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⚜ Main Masterlist

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