#I HOPE PEOPLE WILL CHECK OUT MY TOP POSTS (beneath the cut) AS 3 OF 5 ARE FICS

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

I posted 6,975 times in 2022

That's 1,720 more posts than 2021!

937 posts created (13%)

6,038 posts reblogged (87%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@doctorstrangeaskblog

@elennemigo

@strangelock221b

@ben-locked

@fanartka

I tagged 6,332 of my posts in 2022

Only 9% of my posts had no tags

#stephen strange - 925 posts

#strangebatch - 699 posts

#benedict cumberbatch - 694 posts

#doctor strange - 679 posts

#doctor strange in the multiverse of madness - 627 posts

#fanart appreciation - 532 posts

#trials & tribulations of a writer - 288 posts

#defender strange - 275 posts

#beautifullystrange - 256 posts

#loml - 244 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#at the end if the summer they used to give out tee shirts with that summer's theme on them to kids & adults alike - if you filled your sheet

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

She Wore Gardenias In Her Hair - chapter one

a Stephen Strange x Female Reader fan fic

summary: It's an historic day for Stephen Strange, and those that know him best. His wedding day. It must've taken a very special woman to capture the heart of this Master of the Mystic Arts--let's see if the day turns out as romantic as his fiancee is hoping for. And if this once very confirmed bachelor finds the sort of happiness he'd never dared to dream could someday be his.

characters: Stephen Strange, Female Reader/Y/N, Wong, Cloak of Levitation, more to follow in future chapters

genre: pure, unadulterated romance

rating: general...for now 😉

word count: 2.6k

Stephen hadn’t gotten quite the full night’s rest that he’d been hoping for. Well before midnight, he’d seen you to the door of the suite your parents and sisters had taken for the holiday weekend and had lingered as long as he could before kissing you goodnight--tasting your sweetness one last time before the vows to come, which would change both your lives forever. Then he had opted to walk several blocks downtown towards Bleecker Street, just to take the time to reflect upon the momentous step he was about to take. One which Stephen had never imagined actually taking place, either in his old or new life. But one he knew now was as wonderfully inevitable as the fate that had brought him to Kamar-Taj--a broken man who, by virtue of his once unbearable misfortune, had discovered that his true vocation was unselfish service to humanity. Well worth the price of the loss of both his hands’ utility as a surgeon par excellence—as well as the loss of most of his petty vanities.

When convenient, he’d ducked into an unlit alley and portaled the rest of the way back to the Sanctum. Cloak, along with Wong-- who took his responsibilities as Best Man with dedicated relish-- had been waiting up for Stephen in the small study attached to the Sanctum Master’s rooms. In lieu of a bachelor party—the groom had flatly rejected the idea of such an event at the very first mention of such—but knowing Stephen’s educated taste for bourbon, Wong had managed to purchase a seven-year old bottle of Maker’s Mark Weller Special Reserve (certainly with the proceeds from his Shanghai fight club wins, Strange assumed). “A toast to the bride, my friend,” his fellow master told him, cracking the seal on the bottle and pouring out into two antique crystal tumblers that had been part of a gift to the New York Sanctum from Benjamin Franklin--whom history failed to report, had dabbled in a bit of magic himself from time to time. 

“How you ever stumbled upon such a smart, gentle woman with a heart soft enough to tolerate your ego and overlook your usual rash behavior, remains a continual wonder to me,” he announced, and then chuckled warmly, slapping Stephen’s back for good measure, “But I’m damn glad you had wisdom enough to not look the Universe’s gift dumbly in the mouth, and took her up for all that she is worth!”

His glass still raised, Stephen nodded his head in unstinting accord. “I’ve never agreed with you more, Wong. As the most undeserving of men, I can only think I must have done something very right in my…” he framed his next few words in a one-handed air quote, “…‘in my youth or childhood’ to be given the mercy of her love. And I plan to give her every reason to stay by my side, every chance that I’m allotted.” He took a long quaff of the rich, amber fluid, enjoying the good burn as it went down.

“See that you do,” Wong grunted, before swallowing down his own.

Soon enough, Wong capped the bottle, telling Stephen he had promised you to make sure your fiancée’s sleep went uninterrupted; except for the most dire of emergencies, Wong would be taking up the mantle of Sanctum Master until the newlyweds returned from their too-brief honeymoon. Thus, he had practically ordered Strange off to bed, although Stephen was happy to oblige. He had already planned on meditating, hoping it would ease him into a night with dreams filled with only the best of things. With only you.

It wasn’t wedding jitters or a case of cold feet that had denied him his full rest. ‘Twas sweet anticipation of what had longtime been unthinkable for Stephen—pledging his heart in a lifetime commitment to a wonderful soul who understood him as no one in his past ever had and loved him without reservation despite the wealth of flaws he’d been working to overcome since he had had dedicated himself to protect and defend Earth as an initiate of the Mystic Arts. This night, his mind had wandered back to the lucky day he’d first seen you in Metropolitan General’s ER.

Stephen had been there to visit with Christine Palmer—their first face-to-face meeting since he had Blipped back into existence. Both their schedules had been hectic and overfilled. His with attending to shoring up the cascade of fissures in, and allaying the disruptions to, this reality’s stability, in the wake of his necessary tampering with the integrity of Space and Time to resurrect countless lives across the Universe. She with an overwhelming host of medical emergencies brought on by the sudden return of patients that had disappeared five years ago, mid need, and new ones created when those Lost tried to piece together their old lives in a world that had long since moved on. Watching Christine in action, confident, commanding, and compelling in her unique way, had left Stephen aching in places he hadn’t had time to even consider since his return. That old ache, which could never be satisfied, to be a doctor once again, and jump into the fray at her side. And the quiet ache of knowing that he had missed his chance to love her properly—as they both had deserved of him—and build themselves a life together.

Still, Stephen had hung back a while, envying the vital purpose of the doctors and nurses all around him. There were so many new faces since his tenure there had ended, some much younger and more fresh-faced then he ever remembered being throughout his internship and residency. A pretty, dark-haired nurse attending to a crying preschooler caught his eye. The little girl seemed to be lost, having apparently wandered in off the street. He found himself moved by how gently the woman took the child in hand and calmed her down, eventually making her giggles bubble forth amidst the hectic ER. There’s a special kind of magic in that, he remembered thinking; one I never mastered, nor even attempted. But this one makes it look effortless. Stephen had assumed correctly, that you had a background in pediatrics—and was doubly impressed when he went on to discover you were a board-certified midwife as well.

The next time he’d seen you, he’d stopped by the hospital cafeteria to grab a quick cup of coffee with Christine. Touching base only, for she had made sure that Stephen understood she was seriously involved with someone. She’d already been seated when he got there, with a large cup of coffee waiting for him, just the way she remembered he preferred—and was deep in conversation with the pretty nurse from that day in the ER. He ended up sitting opposite you, with his old flame making introductions, but having to dash off a few minutes later at the behest of her pager.

Left alone, the two of you had settled into a comfortable conversation, which went on longer than it felt—a good half hour until you had to excuse yourself to meet a laboring mother-to-be in Admissions. Before that, Stephen eventually mentioned having seen you with the crying child that afternoon—and you dared to ask if he was the Doctor Strange from the Avengers. The hero who had traveled through time to find the solution to set the world to rights. He’d been quite taken by two things at that first meeting: the honest respect in your eyes—not hero worship, but a smart appreciation for the work he did and the painful sacrifices you had intuited he had made in that arduous quest…and the pretty shape of your mouth. The easiness of your smile and the tender looking fullness of your lips. Lips that any man might speculate had been made especially for kissing. Even then, he’d been willing to wager your kisses would be as magical as your bedside manner with that young girl. So that as you rose to say goodbye, he couldn’t not ask for your number—eagerly hoping that you’d agree to see him again, and sometime soon.

Nineteen months later, you were practically living together, as well ensconced in his Sanctum quarters as in his life—and Stephen had never looked back. Not once. Your relationship had grown so naturally, and you had quickly acclimated to the magical aspects of life as a world-famous Sorcerer’s girlfriend, with your feet planted firmly in your work, and your arms ever ready to welcome him home from his extra dimensional travels and supernatural battles. You’d filled his heart with a happiness he had never anticipated could be his, and his bed with the warmth of being well and truly loved—and a passion that brought back the vigor of his youth. Forcing him to set warding spells to soundproof every room of his quarters; you might appear decorous to your patients and co-workers, but you sure knew how to let him know how much you loved him—and how very well he satisfied you.

For Stephen, your relationship was the one good thing that came out of The Blip. If not for those five years, you’d never have met—as you would still have been in training for your dual career. And likely with your age difference, he wouldn’t have given you a second look. The twelve-year gap was a helluva lot better than seventeen. You were mature enough to know what you wanted, without needing to compromise to get it. While being young enough to remind him that life didn’t come to one, hat in hand—one must pursue happiness with the gusto of youth, even with silver at one’s temples. As he had pursued you; as you had pursued one another.

Yes, the two of you were naturals together alright; your softness and compassion, your sly sense of humor and loving heart, the perfect fit with his sometimes snarky and tunnel-visioned angles and edges—and that the deep heart, which he had only come to realize was his since discovering the mystic arts, was most fulfilled when he was doing the right thing. No matter the personal cost.

It was your second Christmas Eve together when Stephen slipped a modest diamond ring upon your finger. By New Year’s Day, you’d set the date, and now it was here. Memorial Day weekend, late spring in New York City, a long weekend that would enable your far-flung family and friends to attend. Stephen’s guests were far fewer in number. Except for an estranged brother, he had no immediate family. He had never had the time or inclination to cultivate a coterie of friends in his old life, although those he’d made among his fellow Masters were loyal and true. He was glad to tailor the wedding plans to your needs, for your happiness had now become his own. Besides, Stephen firmly believed that he was getting the better end of the deal.

His trip down memory lane had soothed him enough to override the low-level beat at the back of his brain, which had grown more and more insistent in the past week. I’ve never been husband material…I’m too cocky and self-absorbed, too impulsive and sardonic, to be the life partner you deserve. And my life’s work now—it’s not at all conducive to domestic bliss. Not when I can’t say with any certainty where in the world, or worlds or dimensions, I’ll be at any given time—let alone the ordinary…tomorrow. Plus, he just couldn’t shake the overall feeling that he simply wasn’t good enough for you. Stephen knew very well how you would answer each of these justly arrived at estimations of himself, with a loving wisdom that dispelled his doubts and reservations as though there were as insubstantial as the ghosts of his past. Seeing himself through your eyes was the sole remedy that made him feel worthy of the love you offered him.

And so, sleep at last overtook him, and when Stephen awoke by habit, just a few minutes before his alarm, he couldn’t remember nodding off, but knew it was thoughts of you alone that had ushered him into his rest. Unlike habit, Cloak was hovering bedside, and even without the physical connection usually required for him to read its emotional state, Stephen could feel that its nerves were near as frayed—for his sake--as a typical groom’s on his wedding morn. “Everything’s going to be fine—I promise,” he chuckled as he swung his legs over the opposite side of the bed, “You know that. Besides, you’ll be with me the whole time, and no one besides Y/N and Wong will even have a clue.” Cloak approximated a nod, and then zipped over to the wardrobe, where Stephen’s suit hung waiting. “It’s hours until the ceremony—relax, please. Keep this up and you’re gonna make me nervous.” Cloak’s shoulders drooped a bit, and it floated over to the window, nudging aside the draperies to let in the sunshine and keep watch until Stephen would be suiting up for ceremony.

A knock upon his sitting room door spurred Stephen to grab his robe before padding over to answer it. He opened the door to find Adept Miriamme with a loaded breakfast tray. A vegetarian omelet, with sides of bacon and sausage, buttered toast, orange juice, and fresh coffee. He could smell the added chicory rising above the rest of the aromas, and his stomach rumbled. “Master Wong wanted to be sure you had a good breakfast, Doctor Strange,” the timid Miriamme squeaked, and Stephen had to refrain from chuckling again. The new initiates seemed to be getting younger and younger these days—or was he simply getting older?

“Thank you, Adept,” he told her, motioning her to put the tray on the end table beside the two-cushion sofa.

She nodded, looking very much in awe of finding herself in the Sanctum Master’s rooms, set it down and quietly headed to the door, before turning back. “Best wishes on the day, Sir.”

He grinned, “Thank you, Miriamme. It’s kind of you to say so.” She smiled back, looking a mite relieved her chore was done, and then left him to his breakfast.

Stephen was surprised at the hardiness of his appetite, grateful for Wong’s wise provision, and ate nearly every morsel--while realizing that the next meal he sat down to would be as a married man. So many firsts to come, so much to look forward to. And he planned to experience each of them to the fullest. Before his life in the mystic arts, he had sleepwalked his way through the simple joys and pleasures of life, always in pursuit of more spectacular things; of fame and accolades, and the considerable fortune that came with them. His vocation in the Mystic Arts had proven to him that a humble life of real service had so much more to offer than that of his medical career. While you had taught him that love—real, honest, head-over-heels, unselfish love—was the key to the exact happiness that had eluded him since he’d set out on his journey as an adult.

Enrapt in these pleasant musings, feeling the sweet butterflies of anticipation for all that he was gaining today, Stephen checked the time before jumping in the shower. He smiled to himself as steam filled up his bathroom, knowing that his wedding gift to you would be delivered soon. Imaging the beautiful smile that would light your lovely face once you finally opened it.

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215 notes - Posted April 25, 2022

#4

MCU Stephen Strange as a Dad:

with Peter Parker/a son: 

He’s sometimes gonna be a hardass because he knows how much potential Peter has, and he wants to nurture that for when he’s not around to look after him--but most of the time Stephen tries to calmly reason with him. He admires Peter’s big heart, especially because it couldn’t have been easy having lost his parents so young, and then his father figure, Uncle Ben, and his mentor, Tony Stark. 

And when The Kid does the right thing, all on his own (which Stephen quickly realizes is as natural to the young man as his brown eyes and fair skin)--and even more when he surpasses Stephen’s expectations--Dad!Strange is so flipping proud of his boy, to the point where he’ll get all choked up and instructs his son ‘just don’t tell Wong about this, he’ll never let me live it down’.

with America Chavez/a daughter: 

Stephen would start out all ‘okay young lady..’ and ‘you’re gonna get a stomach ache’ and ‘didn’t I try to warn you not to...’, but pretty soon he’d be all soft and doting and want to spoil her because she’s had a rough life, and he can see she’s much braver and stronger than she gives herself credit for. He’d be the Dad that waits up for her when she’s out late with her friends/gf, but pretends to be asleep in his chair when she comes home a few minutes past curfew, letting her believe she got away with it, while he’s just happy she’s home safe and tried her best to respect his wishes. He’d love to accompany her to the Father-Daughter dance, but only if she asks without any prompting, because to suggest it himself would be very uncool. 

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247 notes - Posted May 26, 2022

#3

Here is a Stephen strange prompt for you that I wrote down for my one shots thought it would be cool to see your writing for it. "Broken Cup" reader or character a coffee shop worker sees Stephen with his shaky hands struggling with the cup and he drops it breaking it. Or could be them two alone at home when she hears the cup break.

Hope you have fun dear!

I wrote this part before I got really sick--though it doesn't contain an actual broken cup, the spirit of it's there. Since I'm not sure when I'll feel up to finishing it, I figured I'd share what I already came up with. Hope you enjoy it @ravencatart xx

pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader

rating: wee bit of angst, mostly fluff

word count: 1.2k (so far)

His tremors were pretty bad today. She couldn’t help but notice-–and given the precipitous fall in temperature the past couple of days and the scent of the coming snowstorm in the air, she really wasn’t surprised. Because she’d been feeling it too. In the bones of both ankles, broken years ago and patched up with metal plates and multiple screws. And in scars of her own, which she painstakingly hid from the world, as they symbolized the weakest and most desperate time in her life.

Since mid-November, when the first serious frosts had settled over the Village, he had taken to wearing gloves with the fingers cut off at the second knuckle. She had guessed he chose to keep the ends of his fingers exposed to allow him better control in gripping things; it made sense that he would want direct contact with his skin to be certain he had objects well in hand. But even those gloves couldn’t hide the painful looking scars that ran the length of his fingers, and in the months since he’d been coming into the coffee shop (usually two or three times a week, and sometimes even four) whenever she got close enough, she made sure not to stare. It was more than common courtesy—her own scars, which she went to painstaking lengths to conceal, had taught her just how it felt to get the curious, and worse, pitying looks they summoned from strangers.

Silver Fox—that’s what she had named him, based not only on the white streaks of hair at his temples, but because he struck her as the embodiment of the word distinguished…and because he was the finest looking man she’d ever seen.

Looks that had a movie star quality about them. Cheekbones fine enough to out-pretty most super models. An endearingly crooked sort of smile, that started on the left corner of his mouth and—if he had reason to smile broadly--spread gloriously to fill his handsome face, like sunshine filling the sky after a sudden spring downpour. Plush lips, full and tender looking, like they were made for kissing, surrounded by a well-trimmed moustache and goatee. She often wondered how he managed that, with the way his hands trembled at times. Maybe he had a significant other who helped him with that; she knew he probably wasn’t married, as he wore no wedding ring.

And his eyes. Breathtaking, really. Pale, crystalline blue in the vivid sunlight that came through the plate glass window of the store front, though at times she could swear there were swirls of green and even gold in their depths. He seemed a keen observer of the world, like his exotic, mesmerizing eyes didn’t miss a trick. Sometimes she caught him watching her, and she always blushed, wondering if he discerned that she’d developed a wicked crush on him.

Today, Silver Fox had ordered a chocolate croissant (one of his favorites; he clearly had a sweet tooth) and instead of his usual black coffee laced with chickory, hot chocolate with a double shot of salted caramel. Elise—the new girl—had served it to him in a ceramic mug. She didn’t know any better, and apparently he hadn’t thought to ask for a disposable cup instead, as she herself would’ve known to fill out his order.

He had placed both palms around the mug, probably enjoying the heat of the beverage upon his damaged hands, and his eyes were closed, as though he was concentrating hard. She watched him take a deep breath and exhale hard, like he was bracing himself for a difficult task. And her heart went out to him as he lifted the mug barely an inch, lowering his mouth to the shaking beverage to take a single sip. That was never going to do. She just had to help him, somehow.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she set the slice of white cheddar-topped apple pie in front of another regular patron and turned without a word to grab one of the thick, cardboard to-go cups and filled it to the brim with the sweet chocolate, hit it with two shots of salted caramel, and then topped it with a generous spray of whipped topping, the finishing touch a drizzle of caramel over the cream.

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253 notes - Posted January 15, 2022

#2

Can someone please explain to me why my heart does a little lurch when I see him this way? I mean, I don’t even know 838 Stephen, and yet I love him and wanna protect and cuddle him. 

What is this power that Stephen and so many of his Variants have over me? Is it the witchcraft of Benedict Cumberbatch? Or perhaps because my love for Stephen Strange has taken on a life of it’s own?

259 notes - Posted May 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

For the Stephen Strange x Female Reader prompt: how about a cute fluffy little thingie where the question comes up whether Cloakie ever needs to get into the washing machine?

I hope you find this cute & fluffy, Nonny. Thank you for the prompt, it feels good to stretch my writing muscles, and I'm hoping it helps get me in the writing groove again!

pairing: Stephen Strange x Female Reader, established relationship

characters: Stephen Strange, Reader/Y/N (also a practitioner of the Mystic Arts), Cloak of Levitation

rating: general audience, fluff with undertones of mutual longing

word count: 1.5K

You had left Stephen to sleep in this morning. As happy as you were to have him safely home at last (and having proved both your relief and delight to him three times in all, throughout the very delicious, velvet dark of night) you had awakened to watch him sleeping peacefully (his battle wounds already on the mend from the healing spells you’d cast when he finally stumbled through the portal from Crete), and had resolved to make him take some much deserved downtime for at least a day or two.

And so, you had silently slipped from his bed, loathe to leave his warmth behind, but fully intent upon spoiling him rotten in even the most mundane ways. Sorcerer Supreme he may be and a heroic, selfless servant to humanity, but he was still a flesh and blood man, and he deserved every ounce of the love and attention you planned to lavish upon him. You soon had his favorite, non-magical, breakfast foods prepared and left warming in the oven for once he was awake.

Next, you had gathered his discarded, slightly bloodied but heavily battle-singed tunic and leggings from the bathroom floor (where they’d fallen when you’d peeled them off of him the night before) for a thorough laundering, and once they were clean and dry, you worked the restoration spell yourself, instilling each magical stitch with protective charms and all the love that bloomed anew within your heart each day you were blessed enough to call yourself his woman. Though Cloak was in obvious need of a good washing too, it had flitted off the very moment that Stephen had let himself sag into your arms, and you hadn’t seen a flash of it since. You decided to track it down later, determined to relieve its Master of that chore as well.

Tiptoeing into his bed chamber, you found that Stephen had flipped onto his stomach, his arms tucked beneath his pillow and the sheet nestled around his waist—so that you went all soft inside, biting your lip against a longing sigh at the sight of his warm, inviting flesh. His broad shoulders that carried so many thankless responsibilities. His perfectly toned expanse of back, marked here and there with battle scars, which ever drew your loving attention, as though you would give him the sweetest, most gentle gratitude, which an unknowing world owed him for the protection he provided it. Aye me, you thought; the lover’s sigh of Juliet often came to mind when you looked upon his beautiful form, amazed in knowing that his heart belonged to you as much as yours did to him.

“I can feel you watching me,” he mumbled into his pillow, his sleepy voice so rich and deep that a thrill ran through you and settled in your solar plexus. You had to tighten your grip on the laundry basket, defying the sudden urge to jump his bones.

“I wasn’t sure if you were awake yet,” you tried to reason, blushing as much from the fib as from the spark of desire he had conjured without even trying. “I didn’t want to disturb you, darling…”

Stephen gave a sinful sounding groan, and with some effort and a wince or two, turned onto his back. Obviously, he was still feeling the effects of his struggle to cast a trio of immature Lamias back into the Shadow dimension from whence they had escaped; likely he needed another rubdown with the charmed salve you had treated his muscles with last night. “I was hoping you had every intention of disturbing me, honey,” he replied, smirking wickedly and patting the mattress beside him.

“Stephen,” you tutted, setting the basket with his clean robes on the foot of the bed. “You needed your rest, and…well…” you shrugged, looking away from the warmth of his gaze, trying to maintain a semblance of decorum, “…so I decided to…putter…”

His smirk grew into his trademark, shit-eating grin. “Putter?” he chuckled, “Pray tell, my saucy sorceress, how exactly did you putter?”

When he looked at you this way, it got harder and harder to concentrate on whatever task was at hand, let alone expressing yourself cogently. You knew for a fact that Stephen enjoyed how flustered you got when he turned on the charm, and how easily you turned to putty in his hands. You squared your shoulders, trying your best to keep your cool. “I’ve got breakfast keeping warm in the oven, and…I took care of your laundry…”

“You didn’t need to do that, honey,” he replied softly, sitting up and patting the bed again, looking touched by that modest tender of your affection. “I don’t expect you to take care of me that way, sweetheart.” Stephen reached his hand out to you, the heat of the moment quietly banking, as a sort of wonder filled his gentle blue eyes.

Of course, that was enough for you to take a seat and slip your hand into his. “I know you don’t, but…but I like taking care of you, darling. It makes me happy. And since I can’t be with you when you go into those…dangerous situations…” Tears prickled your eyes, but you blinked them back, remaining as resolute as ever to keep him from seeing how much you worried about him when you couldn’t be there to protect him even a little. “Since I can’t help you fight your battles, the least I can do is make your life…comfortable, and…well, worry free.”

He raised your hand to kiss your knuckles. “You already make coming home the best part of any day, honey. Which is the surest motivation for me to give whatever enemy I’ve gotta face, a swift and mighty kick in the ass.”

Though you rolled your eyes, you allowed yourself to take his loving assertion to heart, then leaned in to brush your lips to his, lingering as you asked, “So, um…you ready for some brunch?”

“Not until you’ve given me a proper good morning kiss,” he husked, and cupped your jawline in his free hand. At his prompting, you parted your lips, allowing Stephen to deepen your connection, well beyond what anyone would consider ‘proper’. You hummed contently when he finally released you, and then opened your eyes to catch him grinning as he teased you, “Yup- I’m definitely…famished…now.”

You gave a little shiver at the innuendo, considering it a promise of later satisfactions, and stood up to hang his sorcerer’s kit in the closet and put away the rest of his clean clothing. Stephen slid out of bed, clad in his comfiest pajama bottoms, and pulled a well-worn, gray cotton tee over his head. You caught a flash of red out of the corner of your eye, as Cloak ducked its collar just inside the doorway. Noting your attention, it zipped away, leaving only a swirl of air in it’s wake, while you called after it, “Hey! I was looking for you this morning. You’re due for a good wash up before you leave the Sanctum again.”

Stephen came up behind you and planted a kiss just beneath your ear, while sliding both arms around you. “Yeah, not a good idea, sweetheart,” rocking you gently, “Unless you’ve got a degree in cat-herding I don’t know about…”

“I’m sorry- what?”

His breath tickled the sensitive skin of your neck as he chuckled, and you felt his amusement in the soothing vibrations of his chest against your back. “I discovered early on that Cloak prefers to see to its own…maintenance. Except when it’s experienced some kind of physical damage that requires magic—or a tailor—to repair…”

“Seriously?” You wondered for a moment if your boyfriend was teasing you again.

“Absolutely,” he assured you, “For some reason I haven’t been able to decipher—since it’s an open book about everything else—Cloak is a creature of privacy when it comes to…bathing.”

You had to giggle at that. “And I suppose it prefers to shower when you’re not around?”

“God, no,” he laughed, urging you into the hallway and on the way to the third-floor kitchen, where brunch awaited, “Once we’re out of the way, Cloak is gonna indulge in a good, long soak in my bathtub. So, we need to steer clear of my chambers for, um…about an hour…”

You smacked his shoulder lightly, “Now you are teasing me!”

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654 notes - Posted January 9, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #I HOPE PEOPLE WILL CHECK OUT MY TOP POSTS (beneath the cut) AS 3 OF 5 ARE FICS #in this year of extended writer's block I'd like to show I accomplished something #trials & tribulations of a writer

[fountainpenguin]

"He has more than nine lives, so he picks himself up and keeps climbing for the prize... again."

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Summary: If Cody's wheelchair falls off the Dock of Shame into the lake and only Chris and Heather are around, does anyone care?

"Sunk Too Deep"

Read on dA || Read on FFN || Read on AO3

[ Warning for canon bear mauling injuries ]

Originally posted on dA - July 8th, 2015! Happy 8 years!

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Well, I'm not planning to repost all my Total Drama 'fics on AO3, but "Sunk Too Deep" was always the fan-favorite of my gallery, so I want to add it for preservation reasons <3

Apparently the OG has 19.3k views, and I know they're inflated by dA's weird search system but... dang. Congrats to 2015 me.

If there are other favorites people would be interested in me porting over to AO3, let me know! :)

(First 1000 words under the cut)

I dragged Cody's wheelchair to the confessional instead of pushing it. The rubber wheels snagged in the untrimmed grass and sometimes made the whole thing tip onto one side, but I'd stopped caring. I had more than enough time to kill tonight. Leshawna had holed herself up in the bathrooms with Beth and Lindsay for the last hour, scrubbing out the paintball splatters until their skin turned red and lumpy. When I'd last checked, she'd been about to start on their hair.

"Well, here we are, dork." I righted Cody's chair again and parked it outside the confessional door. "You really think you're up for this?"

Cody nodded. He said something too, but the words died out behind his mask of bandages. I hoped that if he made any attempt to get me eliminated from the island tonight, Chris would drop his vote on the grounds that it was unintelligible.

"Courtney, are you still in there?" I gave the outhouse a swift kick, regretting it instantly when splinters jabbed my uncovered toes. "Your team didn't even lose the challenge. What could you possibly need to go on about for half an hour straight?"

"Okay, Heather, one minute! Just let me wrap up. What was I saying again? I was saying something. Oh, and I had to stare up his nostrils for twenty minutes as we struggled back to camp. And he made me walk backwards. I fell into the stream! Twice! And his pits reeked like sweaty socks dunked in split pea soup and left to molder. But that wasn't even the worst of it. Not three minutes in, he said to me…"

I sat down against the wall and emptied my shoes of pebbles as Courtney's complaints trailed into background noise. Wearing high-heel wedges to camp? Definitely not among the top ten decisions I'd ever made in my life. I should have expected Chris would lie about the five-star resort. Cody made muffled noises for a few minutes, and when I finally looked around for him, his chair had edged several meters down the slope. He fell over when one wheel sunk into uneven ground. I entertained myself by watching him squirm beneath his seatbelt, visible only by strips of gauze and tufts of brown hair. When he twisted just right, I could make out the purple around his swollen eye too.

The door opened. Courtney stepped out, her tan face flushed a deep pink that I could see even in the twilight. Between that and the way her fingernails were stuck in the wood, I took a wild guess and concluded that if I hadn't called for her to get out, she would have stayed in the outhouse listing slights against Duncan all night.

"There. It's all yours. Happy voting, Heather." A frown shot across her face. "Are you okay? Your eye is all red and puffy. That one, right there." She wrenched her nails from the door so she could point, in case I didn't know which one she meant. "And you still have paint in your hair."

I placed the back of one palm against my eye. "Yeah, well, I can't deny that I'm impressed with Leshawna's aim. Who knew those shampoo bottles could squirt all the way from the sinks to the door? I thought for sure that enormous backside of hers would knock her off balance."

A tiny smile twitched at one end of Courtney's mouth. "That's not very funny," she started to say, and then her eyes strayed past my shoulder. "Hey, is that Cody? He could be hurt!"

"Not more than he is already," I said, but Courtney bolted past me anyway. She pulled him from the ground, checked to be sure he was securely buckled in, and then turned a few puzzled circles.

"He's with me." I got to my feet and stretched. "Chris still wants him to make his vote tonight. Or give a valiant and hilarious try, anyway. I volunteered to keep him out of trouble."

Cody spat something beneath his bandages, shooting me a razor-edged glare as Courtney pushed him back up the slope.

"What's your problem, bear-bait? It's not my fault you fell down. That can't have hurt worse than your mauling."

Cody made a fair attempt at shaking his head.

Courtney pulled Cody's chair inside the confessional, even climbing on top of the toilet seat so she could ease him into position. His elbow knocked the camera from its straps on the door. I picked it up, silently cursing myself for not grabbing the opportunity to deliver my vote and take off while Courtney had been rescuing him. I was not looking forward to dragging him out of there.

"There. Nice and snug." Courtney squeezed around Cody's chair and stood back to admire her handiwork. "I'll leave you to it then. Good-bye, Cody. You never would have made it to the finals anyway, but it's awful to see you go out like this. Get well soon." She gave him a very gentle hug around the neck brace before heading off towards the Bass cabin. Cody made strangled noises like he was trying to call after her.

I furrowed my brow. Wait a minute.

I took my hand from the door and it swung shut behind me. "Are you- ? … Oh. Oh. You can still speak, can't you? Well, duh, of course you can still speak. I heard you trying for an hour. Er… do you want those off now?"

Cody rolled his eyes. A fly landed on his nose and started to rub its forelegs together.

In hindsight, the question was stupid. I don't know why I'd assumed that a bandaged face had left him without a working tongue. But I had. So it wasn't really the question that was stupid, it was me. At that thought, I bit hard into my lower lip.

"Here." I flicked out my nails. The gauze was tied in the back, so I twisted myself awkwardly behind his chair. A few slits, a couple of tugs, and I lifted the strips away and wrapped them around my wrist. Cody started coughing. Heaving. Breathing. I slipped off the toilet seat, expecting that his first words were going to be, "That's a relief," or "Sweet, sweet air," or something else along those lines. Even, "Thanks, Heather". But instead, he surprised me.

"Dude, why did Courtney tell me good-bye? We haven't even had the elimination ceremony yet."

I pushed open the confessional door, righting the camera as it swayed again. "Maybe because she knows you just rendered yourself useless in all upcoming challenges and it's clear that- Aaugh!"

I'd made the mistake of turning around, putting myself nose-to-nose with Cody's unbandaged face for the first time. Cody blinked at me for a moment, sending a fly on his eyelid into the air, then lowered his gaze to his lap.

"That bad, huh?"

[Cnt'd on dA / FFN / AO3 - Links at top]

#Total Drama fanfic #Total Drama Island #Total Drama #td Heather #td Cody #ridwriting #Sunk Too Deep #'Of Ants and Cartoon Physics' & 'Borderline' might make it to AO3 and maybe 'You're Not Okay' #but that's mostly because cartoon physics pills were also canon in ''Come What May'' and I miss them </3 They are STUPID but I laugh #'Borderline' is good because I wrote it to hurt me specifically #apparently art #fic announcement

[duskholland]

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.

summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around...   word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni.   a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3   —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!

extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand​ also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’) 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”

You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.

“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.

Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”

The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.

“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”

You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”

She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”

“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”

“No. What happened?”

You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.

“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”

Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.

Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.

You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.

There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.

“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.

Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.

A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.

Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.

Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”

Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.

“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.

You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.

Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.

“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.

“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”

You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.

“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”

“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.

Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?

He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”

You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.

“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”

You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.

“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.

“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”

The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.

You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.

The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.

For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.

You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.

He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.

“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”

You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”

Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.

“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”

He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”

You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.

“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.

“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.

Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”

Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.

You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”

“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”

Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”

You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”

Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.

“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”

There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”

You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.

“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”

“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”

You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.

“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”

Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”

You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.

“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”

You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.

“There!” you announce, smile on your face.

Tom gulps nervously.

“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.

Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.

“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”

His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”

You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.

“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”

Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”

You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.

“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”

You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”

You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.

Tom cackles.

“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.

“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.

Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.

He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”

“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.

Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.

“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”

You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”

You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.

“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”

He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.

“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.

Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.

“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.

It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.

“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”

“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”

He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.

You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.

Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”

All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.

“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”

Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?

“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.

One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.

It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.

His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.

Tom follows you…?

Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.

Interesting.

After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.

“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.

“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”

“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”

He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.

“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.

Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”

You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.

Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.

“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”

Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”

Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”

He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.

He’s cute.

“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”

You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.

Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.

Y/N: hey x

A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.

Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”

You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.

“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”

You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.

“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”

You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.

“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”

It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.

Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.

“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”

“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”

You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”

Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.

“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”

“Wait, is it a home game?”

Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”

You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.

“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”

It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.

“Absolutely.”

You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.

“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.

Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”

You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”

“Give me a spin, darling.”

You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.

“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”

It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”

Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”

Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”

“Dutchy?” you question.

Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”

You coo. “That’s cute.”

Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.

“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.

Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.

The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.

And Tom… Tom.

Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.

Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.

The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.

He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.

The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.

The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.

“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”

You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.

“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.

“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”

Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.

“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”

A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.

Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.

You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.

“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”

Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”

He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”

It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”

Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”

Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.

“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.

You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.

The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.

On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.

“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”

The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.

“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”

You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.

“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.

There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.

“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”

Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”

You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,

“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”

He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”

The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.

“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”

Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”

You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”

Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”

“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”

His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.

“Thanks, darling.”

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.

“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”

“What, sweetheart?”

Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.

It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.

There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.

“What?”

You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”

Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.

“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”

He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”

You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.

Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”

“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.

“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.

“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.

You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.

Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.

Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.

“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”

It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.

“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.

“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”

You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.

“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.

“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.

Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”

Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”

“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”

A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.

You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.

…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.

You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.

“What— Tom?”

For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.

“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”

You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”

Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.

“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”

“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”

Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.

Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”

You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”

He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.

“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”

You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.

“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”

Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.

By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.

“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”

You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”

He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”

Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.

“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”

You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”

Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.

You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.

The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.

“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.

“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.

He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.

“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”

You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.

“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”

His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.

“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”

Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.

“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”

He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.

Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.

“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.

“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”

Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.

“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”

You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”

Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.

“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”

You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”

Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.

“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.

The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.

You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.

He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.

It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.

“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”

Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.

“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”

You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”

Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.

Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.

Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.

“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”

Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”

You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”

Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”

You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.

The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.

You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.

“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”

“Yeah. Penalty.”

“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”

He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.

“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”

You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.

“Funnier than me?”

“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”

“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”

Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.

“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”

He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”

“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”

Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.

It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.

You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.

“Y/N!”

You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.

“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.

“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”

Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.

You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.

“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”

A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.

“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”

Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.

“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

A smile breaks out across your face.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”

Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.

“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.

His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.

“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”

You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.

“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.

“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.

You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”

Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.

It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.

“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”

“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.

Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.

“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”

The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.

“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.

“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.

You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.

Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.

The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.

You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.

Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.

“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.

“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.

“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”

Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”

“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”

Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.

“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”

Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”

The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”

You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”

His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.

(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!

mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!

#tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland fluff #hockey!tomfic #tblr....please let me in the tags...? please?

[matan4il]

Okay okay but the look on Eddie's face after Carla said, "Be sure to follow your heart, not Christopher's," and then the way they stared at each other after Eddie got shot. The fact that Eddie, after falling to the ground, automatically looked for and found Buck, and they way they reached for each other...I'm not imagining where its leading to, right? I swear this shit is right out of fanfic. I think I read almost the exact plot somewhere before 😂

jsdfhjsdgfhsd The way we were on the same wavelength exactly! XD If you’re imagining this, we ALL are, thousands of people in this fandom, at which point either we’re all suffering of shared psychosis or it really is right there. I feel exactly like I did after watching the kitchen scene only EVEN MORE SO. If either Buck or Eddie were of the opposite sex, NO ONE would doubt where this is leading to. I don’t remember anything shot like this between a man and a woman who are just two platonic friends with nothing raging beneath the surface between them! Thank you for the ask, love! xoxox

Your buddie 413 meta was absolutely gorgeous 

Nonnie! ;_; Thank you so much for the kind words! Every week I hope I’ll manage to produce something worthy of reading and worth the effort that I put into writing this meta and reaching out to have gifs made for it, doing my best to post it as soon as I possibly can. I’m so happy you liked it this week! Seriously, it makes my heart grow twenty sizes to know my words bring others joy, and that I didn’t disappoint! Thank you again! I’m sending you so much love, you wonderful person! xoxox

Not just this Nonnie, you were all so kind and sent a lot of asks. Thank you all for these! I will always try to reply to each one, but I got home not that long ago and I slept a total of 3 hours in the last two nights and my days are hectic, so... I’m going to try and reply to as many as I can under the cut and those I don’t get to today, I will reply to tomorrow. I hope you all understand! And please don’t hesitate to send more asks. Even if it takes me a moment to reply, I always will! xoxox

Why would the writers do this to Bobby and Athena?? They're literally the only straight couple I care about 😭😭

Oh Nonnie! I feel you so much, Bathena are wonderful together. But that’s the thing about a TV show, either characters/couples go through turmoil, or they’re pushed to the background and get minimal screen time. I think this is the show saying it cares about Bathena and hasn’t stopped just because these two got together, settled and are very happy together. I’m sure that they are being tested only to come out of this an even stronger couple! I think the show’s decision not to let Bobby fall off the wagon is in itself an indication that, just like him, they might come across challenge as a couple, but they will be okay in the end. I hope this helps, lovely! xoxox

the golden shimmery thing on the ground after Eddie fell down isn't his St. Christopher medal, is it? bc I feel like that'd somehow make it worse

also, was I the only one waiting for him to mouth Buck's name ?? idk, I feel like it would've fit the dramatics of the situation

@astronomicalflowers​ Thank you so much for this ask! I’m so glad I’m not the only one who thought of the medallion! :D I did check out that shot at the end of the ep, when Eddie’s on the ground and I don’t this it’s that necklace there, since it’s silvery rather than golden, but I do think the show wanted us to have the medallion on our mind, because there is a glimpse of it earlier in the ep, as I mentioned in my Buddie 413 meta. And you weren’t the only one waiting for him to mouth Buck’s name. I think the main reason we didn’t get this is because the show already gave us Eddie looking for and at Buck before and after he fell, reaching for him twice, and someone was probably worried about it becoming ‘over the top’. So the decision was made to make his calling out to Buck more through subtle gestures, which suits the sense of shock and paralisys that characterizes both Eddie and Buck in that scene! Thank you for sending me this ask, darling! xoxox

That episode was truly like something out of a fanfic, there's just one thing that I didn't get: the flirty vibe with Charlie's mother. Was it supposed to point out Eddie's lack of chemistry with Ana, do you think?

Hi Nonnie and thank you for sending this ask! I’m so happy we’re all on the same page, that this ep was straight out of a fanfic! XD As for her, I don’t think Eddie was meant to come across as flirty, more like friendly enough right away that it would be hard for her to object to him staying with Charlie while she’s being taken to the hospital, leading to the kid’s save... I hope this helped! xoxox

Just read your meta and an amazing analysis, I always look forward to it ☺️

You are so right about when one person is significantly injured we do get a look at their significant other - like Bobby and Athena last season. I find it interesting that in the bombing we even get a clip of Ali watching the news when Buck is under the truck, but we have nothing with Ana in this one, like not even Eddie messaging or calling her that it all worked out as she did help him find out about the scam technically, she isn’t a thought to him, he’s just focused on Buck.

So anxious for next week now and how this will all play out especially with Buck talking to Christopher!

@charlyrose94 Thank you so much for the kindness, lovely! *HUGS* And yes, EXACTLY! I was thinking of Ali in 218 (even though what’s notable about her is that in her case, she sees it in order to realize they shouldn’t be a couple... while Eddie is right there, tensely watching the wounded Buck and just waiting for the second he can rush to his side, and unlike her, we only see him more involved in Buck’s private life after the bombing, not less), as well as countless couples/destined-to-be-couples on other shows and movies, thank you for adding Bathena to this! And yes, it’s so freaking telling that once things really matter, Ana is nowhere to be seen... Like you said, there were ways they could have brought her into it (I could suggest even more), but they chose to leave her out. And I cannot wait for next week. I’m on pricks and needles for all of that, so it’s nice to know we’re in it together, hon! xoxox

#buddie #buddie meta #911 meta #911meta #9-1-1 #evan buck buckley #evan buckley #eddie diaz #edmundo diaz #ana flores #bobby nash #athena grant #ask #anon ask #brokenrobe #astronomicalflowers #fandom love #charlyrose94 #kindness #911 on abc #911abc #911 abc

[plant-flwrs]

christmas parties // draco malfoy

masterlist!

a/n: my christmas draco fic! i hope you guys like it! next up is george and then i have some wintery fic ideas for harry, ron, and hermione, among others ;) that should be out fairly soon if this motivation stays with me!! i’m honestly just happy to have some ideas back in me and to be able to post for you guys again <3 

(also, female implied reader in this one)

summary: You help Draco through his nerves about one of his parents’ Christmas parties.

(2.3k)

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There were some benefits of being a wealthy pureblood. For obvious reasons, but the only one you cared about was Draco Malfoy. 

Growing up with secret societies and odd loyalties sent you into a world of mistrust and anxiety. You never knew what was right and what was wrong, and you certainly knew you couldn’t always trust adults. 

The children you grew up with in this world were never one to share their secrets or trust, you included, but you lucked out. You met Draco Malfoy.

Once Draco realized he couldn’t treat you the way he treated others, he was at a loss with what to do with all the love he felt for you. He had never had someone so loving in his life, and he wanted to do anything he could to show you he loved you just as much. So, he opened himself up to you.

You saw it happening slowly over time. The moments he would confidently take your hand in the hall, the small amounts of public affection he found himself doing, the kindness he afforded others. You had changed him.

You had changed him into the person who could look at you with glassy eyes, clutching a tie in his hands with white knuckles, pleading you to attend his parents’ Christmas Ball with him.

You had been invited, your family had been invited. But what Draco wanted from you was something else. He wanted you on his arm. He wanted you to not leave his side. He wanted you to protect him. You swelled.

At some point, he had stumbled over to his bed, much too large for five people, let alone one teenage boy, and hung his head. His white hair fell over his forehead, blocking most of his face from you. The tie he held tightly just a moment ago was now falling from his limp hands. 

You moved over to him, crouching so you could see his face beneath his overgrown hair-no doubt his mother would want it cut soon- and placed your hands on his knees gently.

“I know it’s a lot to ask-” 

“No, no it’s not- of course I’ll go with you.”

Draco’s eyes finally met yours, and the moisture in them had trailed down his cheeks. Draco didn’t cry when he was angry or sad, he only cried when he was debilitatingly anxious. You lifted your warm palms to his cold and wet cheeks, letting your hands soothe away his tears.

He leaned down slowly as if he was afraid you were going to move away and fell into your shoulder. His head turned so his face was pressed against your neck and you could feel his breathing slow and his heart calm.

“It’s in a few hours,” he said, meeting your eye with a guilty expression, “I could ask mother to send for a dress back home, or if you’d like I’m sure she would have something you could wear.”

“Whatever you think is best,” you said soothingly, hoping he wouldn’t get worked up again about a detail as small as your dress.

Draco had decided to ask his mother for something for you to wear, which you were silently grateful for. Narcissa always liked you, and you always thought she had the most beautiful dresses. 

“Do you like blue, dear?” she asked you as you followed her into one of the many rooms in their house, one that seemed to be her closet.

“Yes,” you answered politely, finding yourself wanting to please her like any other child in your situation would. She was your boyfriend’s mother, but she was also a very prominent member of a very notorious family. She had standing in society with a husband who provoked fear in many, but her signature Black family eyes lingered on you as if she didn’t care about any of that. She looked happy.

“Ah,” she plucked a silky and fluid dress from a rack full of expensive dresses, handing it to you as if it were something as simple as a t-shirt, “this is the one.”

“Thank you,” you said, looking between her and the dress with wide eyes.

“Don’t tell Draco this,” she mock-whispered to you, leaning in with a smirk threatening her tight lips, “I had hoped he would ask you to this Ball. I bought that dress for him to give to you.”

Your eyes somehow widened and you closed your mouth when you realized your jaw had dropped. You swallowed heavily, trying to remember the years of wealth and poise that had been trained into your blood since you were born.

“That is-” you faltered, wanting to give in and throw your arms around her neck and wish her a merry Christmas, “-that’s incredibly kind. Thank you.”

You hoped your loosened smile showed her your true feelings, and she looked as though it had. She ducked her head for a moment, as if she was being watched and needed to compose herself, and gave you a wide smile. Her teeth were showing, and your eyes widened at the foreign look of happiness on her face. She was back to a tightlipped smile though, leaving you alone in the room and closing the door so you could get dressed. 

You folded your clothes, replacing them with the dress that must have been the most expensive thing you had ever worn. You were no stranger to wealth, but this was an entirely new sensation; you felt royal.

A house elf collected you, and once it opened the door, you heard the party in full swing. Draco waited at the top of the stairs, his back stiff and his jaw set. He had his finest robes on, making the already lavish robes he had worn when he took you to the Yule Ball look like nothing. Granted, you were also wearing something that couldn’t even compare to your Yule Ball dress. 

The elf left you once you met Draco, his eyes finding yours with a familiar urgency. He was still nervous. You smiled kindly as the elf continued down the hallway, knowing Draco wouldn’t say a word until you were both alone. The elf turned the corner, and Draco put his hands on your hips as if he was steadying himself. You put your hands over his, reminding him he was steady.

“You look-” Draco seemed to relax for a moment, taking a step towards you and making careful notion to not step on the dress, “-you look amazing. Truly, you look beautiful.”

You knew Draco had more he wanted to say, but couldn’t. You smiled softly at him, lifting one of your hands to fall on the collar of his robes. You straightened it gently, biting your bottom lip. 

“You look very handsome,” Draco flushed at your soft voice, his head falling foreword in a relieved laugh that sounded like a puff of air forcing itself from his lungs.

“Yeah?” he looked up at you, bringing his hands from your waist to the back of your neck.

His cold hands splayed across your neck, tucking under your hair and pressing into the back of your scalp. You gasped at the feeling, leaning closer to Draco. Your lips were closer, less than inches apart.

“Yeah,” you sighed, realizing Draco was closing the distance.

It was brief, like Draco only needed to remember you were real and not something he had made up, but it still made your head spin. You broke apart, the air between you warmer than the rest of the house.

Descending down the stairs, you straightened your back and stiffened all the right parts of yourself, knowing exactly how to survive one of these parties. The more Draco softened to you, it seemed he softened to the rest of the world. You were able to put up your mask around these people, but easily slid it off when needed. Draco didn’t have the same flexibility yet. So, you helped him. You adorned your tight-lipped smile and unnerving eyes, giving cold looks to strangers and intimidating looks to people you knew. It was how these people worked. You hated it, but you had to admit you were one of them.

You were on Draco’s arm the whole night, though sometimes it felt he was on yours. You took the hard questions about school, the sneers at the mention of Dumbledore and any other house besides Slytherin. You talked politics in a way that would be approved of and didn’t cast a second glance at the house elves serving food and drinks. You could tell Draco was itching to whisper them a ‘thank you’; it warmed your heart dangerously.

Eventually, Narcissa and Lucius found you both, as if they were checking that you and Draco were staying in your place.

“Draco,” Lucius sneered, though his lip relaxed when his eyes glanced over at you. “Y/n,” he said coldly.

Lucius had yet to fully approve of you, and you could tell you confused him. He saw you at social functions and knew you were just like any other pureblood, just as cruel, but he also saw your effect on his son. Draco avoided his gaze, his eyes cast downwards at your linked arms. You jostled him subtly, unnoticed by his parents, like a reminder you were still there. 

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” you said sweetly with the same cold eyes, no sign of warmth or happiness that would usually be there.

“Are you two having fun?” Narcissa asked, leaning forward to the both of you.

The question was unexpected, making Lucius and Draco look at her in surprise. Her eyes stayed on you though, the corners of her lips turned up in the slightest.

“I think we are, yes,” you said, looking at Draco with a small smile.

“We are,” Draco agreed, his tone dull but his eyes bright as he looked back at you. 

“I hope you’re mingling. It’s rude to stay to oneself at a party,” Lucius said calmly with a threatening tone, an eyebrow quirked as if he awaited his son’s smile to drop.

It didn’t, and he looked his father in the eyes, “We are, mingling, I mean.” Draco said confidently.

You noticed Narcissa’s smile grow the smallest bit. You wondered then how similar you were to her. Perhaps she had the same warmth you did, underneath the pureblood exterior. Maybe Draco was more willing to your warmth than Lucius seemed to be to hers.

“Good,” Lucius mumbled, walking away with his staff by his side.

“You two can sneak away early if you’d like. I know how boring these parties can get,” Narcissa whispered to you, ignoring her son’s rapidly softening face. 

You only smiled knowingly at her, hoping once again it communicated all that you couldn’t say at a party like this. She nodded and walked away, following her husband.

“That was-” you turned to Draco, smiling wider at his incredibly relaxed face, “-that wasn’t bad.”

Draco gave you a curt nod as if he hadn’t wanted to say much about it. You squeezed his arm comfortingly, pulling him along to another group of people to mingle with. 

Eventually, Draco’s mother’s words seemed to sink into him. He was pulling you away from the crowd, and you could see him trying to hide a wide grin. 

He lead you to the large French doors that gave way to the garden, not hesitating as he pushed them open. The cold winter was harsh against your exposed skin, and Draco looked worried when he heard you wince. He smiled again though, upon seeing your clutching at your arms, and slid his coat from his shoulders. He wrapped you in it, which you accepted gratefully, and looked admiringly at him in the white billowy shirt he wore underneath. 

His pale skin was bright under the moonlight, making his hair seem even more silver than blonde. His shirt complimented his skin too, bringing out the olive undertones. He wrapped an arm around your waist, bringing you closer to him. For once, he oozed warmth and you latched onto it, curling into his side as he walked you out into the garden.

You stopped at the center of it all, where a large Christmas tree had been planted. It was decorated with tinsel and ribbons and large glass ornaments. The colors varied from silver to green and black, a true Slytherin tree. You smiled at it, admiring the colors and swelling with house pride.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Draco whispered from beside you, his arm wrapping somehow tighter around you.

“I had a nice time,” you whispered back, tilting your head up and settling it on his shoulder.

“You’re good at these things,” Draco said thoughtfully, his hand tucking itself underneath the jacket on you and resting his hand on the bare skin of your arm, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d probably be miserable,” you joked, smiling.

Draco looked down at you with a funny expression you couldn’t read, but it looked sincere, “Yeah, I would be.”

You breathed deeply, realizing you could hear the music from inside. It was a slow classical song, similar to the ones that had been playing all night. Draco moved you so you were chest to chest, pulling one of your hands to rest on his shoulder while the other stayed in his. His free hand went to your waist, still under the jacket, and he began to move you both.

You danced, basked in the subtle light coming from inside with reflections from the glass ornaments and the tinsel reflecting onto you both. Draco had a flash of green across his face, and you saw a sliver of silver across your arm. 

He moved you slowly, holding you close to him. Your cheek rested against his chest, breathing him in and relishing his warmth.

“Happy Christmas, Draco,” you whispered, looking up at him.

“Happy Christmas, my love,” he whispered, his mouth moving against your forehead as he placed a sweet kiss there. 

#draco #draco malfoy #malfoy #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy christmas #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x slytherin #draco malfoy x slytherin!reader #draco malfoy x you #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfiction #harry potter #draco imagine #draco x reader #draco fanfiction

[ratsmp4]

holding myself accountable .

i would like to start off by saying that no one is required to forgive me for what i've done, both in the past and in recent weeks . depending on how long you've followed me, you may have seen this post from a few months ago . it was poorly worded and written in a moment of anger, where i was not thinking straight . i was in a very dark place when i posted it, and i was encouraged by one of my good friends, who will not be named for their safety . additionally, you may have seen this callout post made by one of my former mutuals . if not, i encourage you to read over it, as it could provide much needed context about what happened .

more about the situation will be included under the cut .

Garrett is the protagonist of the Thief games - a cynical master thief who wishes nothing more than to be left alone to steal in peace, but who unwittingly becomes embroiled in a series of epic events.

Garrett exhibits a strong sense of survival and self-interest. While on the surface Garrett is callous, cynical and sarcastic, with loyalty only to himself, he does seem to have deeper feelings for a few of his contacts: Artemus, the Keeper that recruited and trained him; Basso the Boxman, a fellow thief; Cutty, his fence. In extreme cases this seems to extend to even to past antagonists such as Viktoria, although that may be a result of Garrett's own self-interest.

Garrett also exhibits a strong sense of professional pride as a thief: he usually refuses to kill while on the job, saying that he's a thief, not a murderer,[1] though Constantine and Karras died as a result of Garret's actions only because he was able to sabotage their evil plans. Lotus was a mercy killing, as he begged for death due to the inhumane conditions that Garrett found him in. Other than that, Garrett has not killed any humans in the Thief canon. It is implied Garrett also never steals from his allies or the poor.[Fact Check]

Orphaned, Garrett spent his youth on the streets surviving as a pickpocket and message runner.

One night, he saw Artemus walking on the street as people, 'just passed him by like he wasn't there'. Thinking the man had some valuables, he decided to make a grab. However, he was caught, and Artemus, impressed with his ability to see a Keeper, offered Garrett a new life. Garrett was then recruited into a secret organization known as the Keepers, dedicated to observing and maintaining stability in the City.[2]

Not much is known about Garrett's education with The Keepers, except the fact that he was given initial training in the arts of stealth and subterfuge practiced by the Keepers. But, he found that it was much more profitable to make use of these skills as a thief than to continue working for the Keepers as an agent.[3] He was called "the most promising acolyte" in the Keeper annals, but left around the age of 20 due to his "imbalance." It was brought before the council to deal with him using the Enforcers, but Caduca informed the council that Garrett would be needed in the future.[4]

At some point in time, Garrett is now working as an independent thief in the City, making contacts with people such as Basso the Boxman, Cutty and Farkus Bernard. Garrett's first known large score comes from stealing an expensive scepter from Lord Bafford. After which, he breaks into the Hammerite prison to spring his fence, Cutty (who dies while still in prison). This leads him deep into the old Hammerite catacombs looking for treasure. Shortly after this thugs working for the local Warden, Ramirez, attempt to kill Garrett for non payment of tribute. Garrett turns the tables, escaping and going on to humiliate Ramirez by looting his mansion, even going on to rob the local thieves guild. This brazen display of skill attracts the attention of Viktoria, a somewhat mysterious independent fence. She contracts Garrett to steal a magical sword from the eccentric nobleman, Constantine.

Upon successfully returning from Constantine's bizarre mansion, Viktoria reveals that she and Constantine are old associates who were testing Garrett. Constantine offers Garrett a fortune for the job of retrieving the gemstone known as The Eye. Getting to The Eye means Garrett must venture through the abandoned and walled-off Old Quarter of the City to the old Hammerite Cathedral. A mysterious catastrophe, rumored to involve great fires and many undead, caused the area's abandonment decades ago. Garrett finds the cathedral sealed, but the Eye itself tells him of an old Keeper library hidden nearby. Writings there tell of where the talismans that open the cathedral are hidden and how the Keepers almost revealed themselves in order to assist the Hammerites and the Hand Brotherhood in containing a great evil. The first talisman was found in a place called The Lost City, the ruins of an ancient civilization buried beneath the existing city, its entrance hidden by the Keepers. To get the second talisman, Garrett enters a Hammerite temple in disguise. The third talisman was kept with a brotherhood of Mages. The fourth lay inside Keeper secured caverns. Unbeknownst to Garrett, the Talisman was recovered by the guards of the Opera House above the caves. Successful, he then returns to the cathedral and collects The Eye from amid the many undead, escaping with the help from the ghost of Brother Murus, a long dead Hammerite priest.

Garrett visits Constantine to hand over The Eye and collect his payment. Instead of paying, however, Constantine reveals himself to be the fabled Trickster (aka The Woodsie Lord), the entity worshiped by the Pagans, and Viktoria, his consort.

They bind Garrett in vines and Viktoria plucks out one of his eyes, using it to seemingly activate The Eye stone, and leave him for dead. Some time later two Keepers find and free the unconscious Garrett from the vines. The Keepers then leave Garrett to escape by himself through the caverns beneath Constantine's mansion and amongst some new and strange beasts. Once he reaches the surface Garrett decides the only thing to do is visit the Hammerites and tell them about what has happened in the hopes they would provide assistance. He heads for the temple but discovers that the Trickster's minions have gotten there first. Venturing inside he finds the remaining Hammerites in a hidden sanctuary down in an underground cavern. With stealth being the only hope against the Trickster's army, the Hammerites provide Garrett with a booby-trapped copy of The Eye. Garrett descends into the Trickster's realm, where he finds the Woodsie Lord performing a ceremony with the Eye. Garrett stealthily swaps the Eye for its trapped copy, which then explodes, thus striking down the Trickster as he attempts to finish the ritual.

The coda shows Garrett walking back to town alone through the snow. Life appears to be returning to normal. A Keeper approaches, Artemus. The two converse and The Keeper warns Garrett, telling him of a book he should read, and that he can't run away from life. Close observation reveals Garrett now has a mechanical eye. Garrett rejects the Keeper's 'help' in his life and says to tell the other Keepers that "I'm through. Tell them Garrett is done". He then walks away into the city streets. Artemus answers quietly "I will tell them this: Nothing is changed. All is as it was written. The Trickster is dead. Beware the dawn of the metal age.", foreshadowing the sequel, Thief II: The Metal Age.

Garrett's role in The Metal Age begins innocuously. Garrett provides a favor to an old acquaintance, Basso, helping him rescue his love Jenivere, so that he may retire from thievery and elope. Next Garrett breaks into the dockside warehouses to get some extra cash for rent. It soon becomes clear that the City Watch, lead by the zealous Sheriff Gorman Truart, is waging a war on crime, brutally persecuting thieves and conducting nighttime raids on the poor neighborhoods with the intent of rounding up criminals. Truart stages a sting operation in an attempt to assassinate Garrett, but he escapes by using a Flash Bomb. With the newly strengthened police force making burglary more difficult, Garrett begins to wage a personal war against Truart, attempting to blackmail him into loosening his grip on the City by exposing his corruption. In the process, Garrett acquaints himself with the Mechanist Order, a splinter faction of the weakening Hammerites led by the charismatic Karras, whose robotic security devices have begun to guard the City's wealthiest businesses and residences. In addition, he discovers that the Mechanists are manufacturing some sort of weaponized "Servant," made from a human body and emitting a substance known as Rust Gas, and that Truart has agreed to round up vagrants under false pretenses to be used for the project.

When Garrett confronts Truart, he finds that Truart has been slain by a strange creature. Trying to unravel the conspiracy, Garrett reunites with Viktoria deep in the Maw. Viktoria identifies the Mechanists as the true enemy, and the two form a tentative alliance. The combined skills of Viktoria's pagan operatives and Garrett's stealth abilities reveal that the Mechanists are gifting the Servants to the City's nobility, and that they are working on a top-secret endeavour known as the "Cetus Project." The Cetus Project turns out to be a gigantic submarine, the Cetus Amicus, and that the Mechanists are using it to access the remains of The Lost City in search of ancient artifacts. By interrogating the head of the Cetus Project, Brother Cavador, the pair discover that the Mechanists have recovered an object known as a Cultivator, and that they have already begun mass-producing them and installing them inside of the Masked Servants. While Garrett stakes out the Gervaisius Estate and steals a mask and the prototype Cultivator, Viktoria's agents observe Karras hermetically sealing Soulforge Cathedral. The pair conduct an experiment with the Cultivator, revealing that the Servants could be commanded to release Rust Gas, which would react violently with the plant matter inside of wealthy nobles' gardens, wiping out all life in the city, with Karras safe inside of Soulforge Cathedral.

Viktoria claims that there is no time to spare and proposes a plan: Garrett must gain control of the beacon controlling the Servants and command them to return to Soulforge and trick Karras into releasing the Rust Gas, while Viktoria fills Soulforge Cathedral with plants, to wipe out the Mechanists instead of the city. Garrett claims the plan is "suicide", claiming he will think of a better plan, and re-affirms that he works alone. As he leaves, a Keeper informs Garrett that Viktoria has begun an assault on the Cathedral herself. Garrett hurries to the Cathedral but is too late to save Viktoria as she is attacked by an onslaught of Mechanist forces. Her dying action is to fill Soulforge Cathedral with plants, as promised. Left with no better plan, Garrett proceeds to assemble a new guiding beacon and redirects the Cathedral's signal towers back to the Cathedral itself. The plan succeeds, and Garrett locks the servants inside the Cathedral. When the rust gas is released, Karras is killed and Soulforge Cathedral is left in ruins.

Garrett returns to the Cathedral after the reaction is complete and is met by a Keeper, who explains that the events of The Metal Age transpired exactly as written, and that the prophecies contain even more predictions. Garrett, previously skeptical of the Keepers' mysterious ways, reluctantly requests to know more.

#.text #posts that would be significantly funnier if i put them in a twitlonger instead

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [7]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: The reader finds herself busy.

Note: I have these chapters done so I’ll keep posting till the end.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Reader

You met with Rashida at the beginning of the next week. Only three days after your last encounter. Since then, you’d found yourself watching over your shoulder. As you left your building, walked to the station, passed through the broad doors of the tall tower where Motley’s offices resided... You were overly alert and entirely uncertain. 

Yet you didn’t see anything more than before. The man in the hoodie didn’t catch your eye and in a subway car full of the same dark sweaters, how would you even pick him out? You felt hopeless. Maybe he stopped. Maybe it was one of Fury’s men keeping tabs on you. Maybe he hadn’t been following you at all.

You shook away all those questions as you hit the buzzer and waited for the crackly speaker. Rashida was quick to let you up and welcomed you into an apartment as small as your own. The space was a cluster of children’s toys and mismatched furniture. You sat at the round table as she offered you something to drink. She brought you a glass of water and sat across from you.

“Maya’s at school til three,” She said as she leaned an arm on the table. “I’d rather she not be here.”

“I understand,” You took out your notebook. “Do you mind if I record this?”

She rubbed two fingers along the plastic tablecloth. “Recorded?”

“For me only. The audio won’t be released. And as before, this will all be on record until you say it’s not.” You coaxed. “We stop when you say.”

“Sure,” She nodded. “I do have a real job, you know. I work breakfast down at this diner.” She pointed at the window. “It’s just not cutting it.”

You set your phone down and hit the red button and took your pen.

“Do most of the women have other jobs?” You asked.

“Most, if not all. Some of them only come around when they finish down at the strip joints,” She leaned back, a little more relaxed. “I… Selene said she’d talk to you. If you wanted. I just don’t know how much she’ll talk. She still hasn’t told me everything.”

“Really?” Your lashes fluttered in excitement. “Yeah, anything she has-- Any other girls you know, I could use anything.”

She exhaled and ran her thumb along her middle finger.

“I wanna help them, you know? Not just me. Because I’m just one of a lot. A lot.” She shook her head. “And they get younger and younger. Used to be I worried about protecting the young ones, now we’re all just thinking about ourselves.”

“I heard about Saturday,” You said. “You know her?”

“No, but I found her. Arm broke, face cut,” Her fingers closed to a fist. “She fought him and he fought back but now she’s marked. Forever.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to redirect for a little bit.” You said gently. “I don’t want you to think about the attacks. I want to know about you. Tell me about your first night there.”

She squinted. “Why?”

“Because...you matter. And if people see that you’re human, that’s how they’ll see all the rest.” You shifted in your seat. “It won’t just be numbers printed beside some add for dry cleaning. It will be people.”

She thought and swallowed. She pressed her lips together.

“It was only supposed to be the one night,” She began. “Just needed to make up the last of the rent…”

🖋️

Poppy sat in her usual spot. Her desk was her throne and you were all just her subjects. He ashy hair was pinned up so only a single curl framed her face. Her structured blouse was a rich fuschia and the bow was much too big and tacky. You looked down at your tweed jacket with the three-quarter sleeves and a moment of doubt took you. You didn’t belong here with her.

You took a breath and approached her office. You knocked on the transparent door and she didn’t look up. She flicked two fingers for you to enter as she kept her eyes on the tablet propped up against her desk.

“What is it?” She asked, still scrolling through the black text.

“I’m… supposed to give you my pitch,” You looked at the clock above her head. “It’s noon.”

“Go on then,” She still didn’t look at you.

You glanced at the chair but didn’t sit. You hated the cold, hard seat. You neared her desk and laid down your single sheet. 

“In the last four months, there has been a string of assaults on a block which hosts a slew of prostitutes. The women who have been attacked all bear the same scars; from hairline to chin.” You said evenly. “I intend to write about these women who work there and get their stories and what is being done, or not being done, by the police.”

She slowly looked up through her half-moon glasses. She let the tablet lay flat and sat back in the tall white leather chair.

“Prostitutes? You mean the most common victims of assault? Hardly revolutionary reporting.” She sniffed.

“Think about it. Each woman who has been attacked in this manner has survived but she has been marked. It’s like… Jack the Ripper. He’s circling the block. Don’t you think one day he’ll get bored of just a slice? Saturday, a girl’s arm was broken too. It’s the first major injury beside the cuts.” You slid your printed pitch closer to her. “It’s only a matter of time before this is the new Whitechapel.”

She lifted a brow and reached to take the paper. Her eyes glossed over the text and she looked up at you again.

“This really what you wanna do?” She asked.

“Yeah, I’ve already have interviews lined up.” You assured her. “I think this could be good. It might even help stop these assaults before they cross that line.”

She chuckled and shook her head.

“We’ll see,” She set the page down. “I hope you don’t miss the mail room that bad.”

You withheld a frown and left her as she shooed you with her hand. Her confidence was disheartening. You wondered if maybe you’d taken a wild misstep. If perhaps you had gotten ahead of yourself. 

You sat at your desk and grabbed your phone. You took the folded paper beneath it; the list of names and numbers Rashida had given you the day before. Well, you had to make your shot and if you missed, it could be fatal.

🖋️

You spent the rest of your day calling the women and trying to arrange further interviews. Selene, though she sounded nervous, agreed and only one other; Tess. It was a start and a better one than you expected. Then you put in your earbuds and listened to the recording of your second meeting with Rashida. You transcribed diligently as you tuned out those around you.

You were spooked by a tap on your shoulder. You tore out your ear bud and glanced at Essie. She smiled as you closed out your work and turned to her. She had her Barbie pink purse on her elbow and her phone in her other hand. It must have been later than you thought.

“Hey, Rima and I are going for a drink. We were wondering if you wanted to come. It’s been a while.” She smiled.

Essie had started at the same time as you; she, an intern as you were relegated to the mail room. Still, you shared a sense of comradery as she had been a constant in your time at Motley. You peeked back at your screen and checked the time in the corner. You shrugged. There wasn’t much else you could do that night.

“I could do a drink.” You stood. “I heard you were doing a piece on some new designer?”

“Yeah,” She chimed proudly as you shut off your computer and grabbed your purse. “I’m hoping it can get me an interview at Elle or Vogue. You know this place isn’t really the height of fashion.”

“No, not at all,” You chuckled. “Surprising, given Poppy’s wardrobe.”

“The devil wears fake prada,” Essie snorted. A taller woman appeared at her side; Rima’s sharp bob highlighted the angles of her jaw.

“Hey,” Rima said as she pouted, her lips smooth beneath a coat of dark lipstick. “We aren’t going to that horrible Pop place again. Those lights give me a headache.”

“It was called Bubble and you didn't mind so much after that shot of tequila.” Essie chided.

“No tequila for me,” You intoned. “I’ve got an interview tomorrow.”

“We’ll see,” Essie said coyly.

You shook your head and even Rima’s dour sneer cracked.

“No dancing,” Rima declared. “It’s not even Friday yet.”

“Then you’ll owe me on Friday,” Essie countered as she led the way between desks. “And a shot.”

🖋️

You sipped your gin slowly. You didn’t need a hangover on top of everything else and you weren’t really in the mood for alcohol. Or the chatty New York barroom. As always, you regretted your inclination to be social. You’d rather be at home, hypnotized by a screen as you tried to decide what to order on your pizza.

You didn’t talk much, you didn’t really care about the new pop star or onset romance. Rima barely seemed to stomach it herself but indulged Essie in her tabloid dreams. The night wore on as you found your glass empty and hid it behind your arm as you smiled. You were eager to find an excuse to leave before midnight.

“Ugh, I gotta break the seal,” Essie whined. “Damn.”

“Too bad,” Rima said dryly. “Don’t fall in.”

“Wow, love you too,” She huffed. “I thought this was a girls’ night.”

“You’re a big girl. You can handle it.” Rima teased. “I’m comfortable right here.”

Essie frowned and looked at you. You shrugged. You had been avoiding the smelly bathrooms. She spun around sharply and marched away in defeat. It was quiet for a moment, then Rima’s voice pierced through those around you.

“I read your article. On Captain America,” She said. “Very… interesting. I hear he’s been in hiding.”

“Oh?” You blinked at her. “I haven’t really… been paying attention. Gotta keep up with my new story.”

“New story?” She mused. “You mean… everyone in town is talking about Steve Rogers and you have the scoop and you’re just going to toss it away.”

“What scoop?” You asked.

“Well, what happened off the record?” She snickered. “We are all so curious and our imaginations do get the best of us.”

“It was… I just left,” You said. “Really. It wasn’t that… dramatic.”

“Oh, but we all got a taste of that temper. You must’ve been terrified.” She prodded. “Weren’t you? A man that big--”

“Why are you so curious?” You wondered.

“Just… am.” She grabbed her drink and you glimpsed her phone behind her forearm. She drank and you saw the familiar red dot and ticking timer. “You were right. Those avengers, they need--”

“Are you recording me?” You asked. “What the fuck, Rima?”

“What, oh no?” She looked down. “I must have hit it by accident.”

“Bull shit.” You pushed away your empty glass. “I should’ve… I should go. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Really, it wasn’t--”

“Save it. You can find your own story. I’m not it.” You hissed and saw Essie emerge from the bathrooms. You grabbed your purse and stormed over to her. “I’ll see you at the office.”

“What? Wait? Where are you going?”

“Home. I’m too old for this place,” You stopped on your heel. “Have fun.”

🖋️

The next day, you chose to forego your check-in at the office. Your pitch was approved, you’d sent your transcription to the cloud, and you weren’t so eager to see Rima again. You would see Selene at noon and hunker down back at your apartment, hopefully with even more to work with.

You left at ten. Enough time to stop and grab a bite between transfers. At midtown, you got a bagel and tea and sat in the cafe that smelled of cinnamon and beans. You spread the cream cheese and the door opened and closed. The line was growing longer and longer and you thanked your luck at getting ahead of it.

As you bit into your bagel and a seed stuck to your lip, you were surprised by an unexpected figure before you. You looked up and nearly choked. Steve Rogers wore a navy tee and jeans; much more casual than the captain presented to the world. You grabbed a napkin and covered your mouth as you chewed and swallowed.

“Steve?” You blinked.

“Hey, I know this is…” He looked around. “Weird. I was just coming in to grab a smoothie and I didn’t think it was you.”

“Oh?” You looked at the green drink in his hand. “Yeah, uh, coincidence.”

“Well, I’ve had to kinda change things up lately. Not gonna lie, I had to outrun a man with a camera a few blocks back.” He raised his brow in exasperation.

“Look, what has happened, the reaction, it’s not what I meant--” You found it hard to speak. You imagined your last week and a half had been much easier than his; even with all the chaos. “I was trying to show that you were more than a shield. That you weren’t just the righteous war hero and I guess…”

“Do you mind if I sit?” He asked. “Just for a second.”

“Uh, yeah,” You said hesitantly. You folded the wrapper over the bagel as he took the chair across from you.

“I got angry. That’s on me.” He said and paused to sip his smoothie. “And you’re right, I’m not perfect. I think the world should see that. I’d… like to do another interview.”

“Steve, look, I understand what you’re trying to do but it’s already out there. It can’t be taken back, people have already decided on what they think. I’m sorry but I can’t undo it.” You said.

“I know,” He was on the edge of his chair. “I’m not looking to clear anything up, I know that can’t be done. I just want a second chance. To paint a clearer, fuller picture of myself.”

“I… I’m real sorry but I’m in the middle of something else and I just think it might be too soon for all that.” You rubbed your neck. “Steve, I really am sorry about how it turned out.”

“For me then. You don’t have to promise a story. If you think it’s garbage, toss it.” He pleaded. “But I’d just like to do it for me. For closure. And if it ends up on the newsstand, all the better. If not, well, I know I tried to fix things.”

“I… guess I could… it would have to be tomorrow at the soonest. I have another interview this afternoon and I’d have to prepare.” You explained.

“Tomorrow,” He nodded and stood. “Perfect.”

“Alright. Does one o’clock work?” You asked.

“It works. Um, come in the back?” He said as a wrinkle deepened in his forehead. “There’s a bit of an issue with the front door. It’s a bit crowded.”

“Ah,” You nodded, “Right.”

“If you’re coming from the subway, you want to turn down the little bike path off the street before. There’s a red ornament on my gate, a little star.”

“Alright. I’ll see ya then.” You tried to smile but found it hard.

“Oh, and…” He grabbed his cup. “I’m sorry too. I wasn’t very nice and I knew you’d ask questions. It’s your job. I’m better than that.”

“It’s really nothing. I’ve dealt with worse.” You assured him.

“Okay. Tomorrow.” He tapped the table top. “Thanks for letting me interrupt your breakfast.”

You watched him go and he passed the window without another glance. There was a pit in your stomach. A sudden guilt. You’d caused him so much trouble and you’d been so concerned with yourself. So bad he was practically begging to talk. 

You had completely misjudged him. He wasn’t an angry man, he was only human. He made mistakes like everyone else. He should, at least, be allowed that one flaw.

#Steve Rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #she #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #captain america #au

[scarletslippers]

I posted 1,783 times in 2021

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#i’m not going to tell you what to do because you’d be mad but i’m going to find a way to tell you what to do

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

For the touch prompts

Nace + Touching 9

With the whole FHK killer thing and Nancy’s nightmare, you know the one, I imagine you could create some real angst with that

Again, let it be known that the angst was requested. Just trying to give the people what they want!

This partially came from the idea that if Nace were together, Nancy’s comment about ‘instincts she hadn’t followed about Trott’ would be entirely accurate. Just me and my Established Nace Agenda™️ brain rot.

I hope you like it!!! The rest is under the cut, or Read on AO3

Touching #9 - Listening to the other’s heartbeat

She’s not expecting it, the first time. Ace running to her at her scream like his life depended on it. Not expecting to be tugged into an embrace so that he can hide her face in him, shielding her from looking at the body for too long. But he does it, and the sound of his heartbeat, pounding roughly and racing beneath her ear is surprisingly comforting.

The second time, because of course there’s a second time, he sweeps an arm across her shoulders to turn her away from the grisly sight. She’s seen many a body before, but something about Ace wanting to protect her from this brings tears to her eyes. She snakes one hand up in thanks to grip the one on her shoulder, thumb searching along his wrist until she finds it. His pulse. Finally, her breath starts to steady.

The third time, she’s all bravado, trying desperately to cover how she’s shaking like a leaf. That fall had taken everything out of her, and all she can feel is the imprint of Ace’s hands, under her arm, on her back, branded into her skin. All she can see is his eyes looking her up and down, checking for injuries. Hears his voice yelling her name, reassuring her I got you, even as he strains to pull her up. She’d wanted to collapse right there, drop her forehead to his collarbone and weep, be held. But that wasn’t really an option, so she’d dug into the facts instead, piecing together the life of a man executed 50 years ago.

They’ve taken two steps back out into the startling sunshine when Ace pulls her in, letting George go on ahead. He holds her tightly against her trembling and she fists her hands into the sides of his jacket. His breath is steady against her, and there. His heartbeat.

Later, when the day has more than caught up to them, she slumps against the side of Florence, spent. Sneaks her fingers around Ace’s wrists, and sighs quietly as she finds his pulse. “When were you planning to tell me you spent the day possessed by Joe Kelsey?”

“When were you planning to tell me you used yourself as bait to lure a serial killer?”

“I had backup!” She protests. “I had a plan!”

“I had backup too. Bess was on me all day.” He pauses to regard her, gently tugs his wrists out of her grasp to slide his hands into hers. “Does that make us even?” A squeeze of his fingers. “Truce?”

“Truce.”

The fourth time she’s never been more grateful to see him, to hear his voice calling her out of the hellscape in her head. Warm grasp delicate under her hands, plucking doom from her fingers. They just stand there, both breathing heavily with the realization of how close they came, how close she came to being gone.

Nancy feels she might break with the need to be held, stretching shaking fingers out to him, laying a trembling hand against his chest. His heart is quick and strong beneath her palm but it’s not enough. She grips his shoulders and replaces her hand with her ear, the rough rhythm soothing her shaking frame. It takes a beat but Ace’s arms circle around her, holding her there.

“You should change out of these wet things. I told Nick we’d meet at the youth center.”

“Yeah, okay,” Nancy murmurs into his coat, making no attempt to move. Almost unconsciously she tilts her head, presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Ace freezes under her lips and she does too, pulling away in embarrassment, unable to look him in the eye.

Ace’s hand grips her, doesn’t let her get far, and suddenly he's kissing her. Deeply and firmly. Pulling away only to press two more kisses quickly to her lips before settling one on her forehead. He pulls away and smiles, one thumb rising to push wet hair from her eyes.

“I’ll wait here for you.”

—

It’s too new and unspoken for the full truth.

Yes, he’d held her hand the whole ride over in Florence. Let her shift her palm slightly off of his so she could hold her thumb to his pulse. Dropped her hand before they entered so they wouldn’t get interrogated.

But being asked what was your dream about? Now is not the time or the place to unpack that. She settles on a version of the truth, one that explains her conclusions but not how she came to them. His eyes seem heavy on her like he knows there’s more to the story, but she knows he won’t push. Later, she tries to say with her eyes, pleads before she hides again in her coffee.

She does explain it later, the two of them curled up on the couch in a thankfully empty youth center. Her head in its now customary place on his chest.

“That was your dream? I thought you said it was about Trott.” He tugs her closer, unable to keep the amusement out his voice, lips to her temple. “That doesn’t seem so bad.”

“It was horrible,” she whispers, not done. “You pulled away or I pushed you or something. And it was you but you sounded like Trott. It was his words coming out of your mouth - I’m a part of something much bigger. And then your chest froze in front of me, opened up and your heart was gone.”

He gently shifts her off of him at that, tucking one foot under himself as he turns to face her on the couch. Gathers her hands in his large ones, staring down at them as Nancy’s fingertips instinctively flutter to his wrists. His voice is thick with pain for her, resigned realization she doesn’t quite understand. “So that’s why you’ve been doing that, then.”

See the full post

75 notes • Posted 2021-11-30 02:31:30 GMT

#4

Morning kisses for your 100th follower celebration ❤️

I feel like this took me forever to be inspired on - but I had a little idea this morning and ran with it!

All the kisses for you my friend - I hope you like it!! Read on AO3

Kisses #5 - Morning kisses

Nancy wakes early, knowing it’s 7:00 without having to check the time. Ace has been working hard to dismantle her internal body clock, but no success so far. Sleeping in is for when cases are solved. As a celebration of a job well done, but not before. 

She knows that Ace has already planned to sideline her as much as possible, scheduling all research to take place at her house, much, much later in the day. His foresight isn’t unwarranted - every part of her hurts after that run-in with the entity they’ve been tracking. Doesn’t mean she’s not annoyed though. 

Nancy stifles a groan as she rolls toward him, looping an arm over his sleeping form. She leans in close, pressing kisses to his jaw. “Ace,” she whispers. “Ace, wake up.”

Ace doesn’t move, which is impressive because jaw kisses are 100% her secret weapon. His only concession to being awake is the warm hand he settles over hers on his chest, eyes staying closed as he speaks. “You are supposed to be sleeping, Nancy. It’s too early.”

“But I woke up,” she whines. “You know I can’t sleep in.”

“You can when you choose to. I’ve seen it.” He shifts to face her then, leaning in to kiss her softly, once, twice. “Try? For me?”

She fixes him with a sleepy glare before making a show of trying. Tugs the blanket higher on her shoulder, closes her eyes in a dramatic fashion, presenting her face to him like, see? 

He rewards her with a kiss on the forehead like she’d hoped, then replaces his lips with his thumb. Brushes her hair back and soothes the crease between her eyebrows with gentle, rhythmic strokes across her forehead. 

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

When she does wake again, it’s to the quiet snick of the latch and the smell of fresh coffee. She lays still though, knowing if she bides her time she’ll get an even more pleasant wake up call.  

“Nancy,” he whispers, breath warm, but minty on her face. He presses a soft kiss to her lips first, then her nose, her cheek. “Wake up.” 

She hums contentedly. “So now is it an appropriate time to be awake?” 

“Yes.” He kisses her again before the bed dips under his weight, and she finally opens her eyes to look at him.  

“Hi,” she smiles, reaching for his hand. 

He laces his fingers through hers. “Hi. I brought you coffee.” 

“So I smelled.” She grins now, detangling her fingers from Ace’s to shift in the bed. Nancy pushes herself up to sit, unable to stifle the wince and hiss of pain that accompanies the movement. She waves away Ace’s concerned hands and leans back against the headboard. 

“I’m fine, just sore.” 

He’s obviously unconvinced, forehead creased and eyebrows furrowed in concern. She sighs as she looks at him, wanting to make him smile. 

After a moment of thought, Nancy settles on holding her hands out to him, begging like a child. “Coffee, please!” She draws out the please, wheedling until there - his lips turn up. 

Ace leans in to kiss her again, fondly, smiling into it before he leans back to retrieve the mug. 

Success.

79 notes • Posted 2021-11-20 18:52:54 GMT

#3

3x05 ficlet - me making sense of why Nancy didn’t help her boy. 

For @heartunsettledsoul who’s post about Ace calling Nancy about being at Nick’s inspired this, and for @eddiediaz who encouraged me in the discord to write this.

Now also linked on AO3

It’s her fathers voice in her ear that finally gives her pause. “Have you solved it yet?” 

She hasn’t actually. Keeping Trott in jail has seemed more pressing and she was sure Ace could figure it out. But if Carson is calling her, again, about Ace, something isn’t right. There are pieces of this puzzle she's obviously missing. 

Nancy’s already moving, digging in her bag for a pen and shouldering her phone to her ear. “Why are you worried about Ace?” 

“He’s in way over his head with Bertram Bobbsey.”

Nancy’s blood chills and if it weren’t for Temperance a half step behind her she probably would have completely frozen in her tracks. 

Ace. He was in trouble. That’s why he had asked for her help earlier. Shit. Why hadn’t he just said something? She closes her eyes in regret and sighs. Because she’d turned him down. Blown him off to focus on her own things and he never pushes her so of course he didn’t. But she should have. She should have pushed. Should have commented on why he was acting strange. 

But no, instead, amazing, wonderful, sacrificial, Ace had helped her talk through her problem, and clammed up about his own. Ace, who always helps her without a second thought and she didn’t help him. 

I’m not really in a position to judge other people’s gambits. 

She knew that had sounded odd. Fierce, hot anger at herself and her one-track on-a-case mind courses over her. She should have done something. 

All she can hear replaying in her mind is Ace asking her to be careful. All she can see is the look on his face when she’d joked about Temperance bathing in her blood. 

So clearly this has to be solved now. It’s an easy enough cipher, one that she’s sure Ace would have been able to solve on his own. But it would have been faster if she had just helped him. She tries to set aside her guilt for the moment, rattles off an address that only twists the knife. The library. It’s bad enough to know Ace is likely in danger, but his family? That would destroy him.

It feels like too little, but it’s what little she has to give, providing her father with enough information about Ace and his habits to track him down. Carson is usually as detail-oriented as herself, she’s surprised he didn’t catch the dishwashing thing. Then again, she’s always been very aware of Ace and his quirks. 

If he gets hurt. 

Nancy sucks in a breath, tries to force the fear from her mind by focusing on a task in front of her that she can complete - lock picking. Tries to trust that with this knowledge, her father can protect Ace. She’d rather it be her doing the protecting, but if she had to pick a Plan B, it’d be Carson. 

---

Later, she hesitates again, as her phone vibrates in her palm, takes a deep breath before she answers. “Ace? Are you okay?” She tries to force the tremble out her voice only to hear one in his. 

“Not really. No.”

“Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to come get you?” Nick had texted her that Ace was going to his place, but - 

“No, uh - Nick is letting me crash at his place. I’m over there now.”

“Okay, I’ll be there soon. Ace, I’m - I’m really sorry I didn’t help you earlier. I was so wrapped up in this Trott business, I was thinking only of myself.”

“It’s okay, Nance. I get it. Serial killer is pretty important.” Why is he always so damn reassuring? 

She swallows down the lump in her throat, trying to stall tears. “But not as important as you.”

“It’s okay. You did help. Your dad called me after, told me you gave him the address for the police tip off. Probably saved my life.” That does settle her a bit, knowing that between her and Carson, they were able to keep him safe. 

Still she worries. “Is your mom okay? I was so worried when I figured out the address, and with her heart, the stress.” 

“Uh, yeah, she’s okay. Physically at least. My dad and I were arguing though and she found out about Grant.”

Nancy winces. Arguments between Ace and his father are never pretty. Two people who love beyond measure but go about it very differently. 

“Ace,” she whispers, then trails off, unsure how to continue. Putting that information together with Nick’s text about Ace crashing at their place. 

See the full post

81 notes • Posted 2021-11-06 14:54:26 GMT

#2

Congrats on the 100 followers!! Am i too late to the request party? If not could you do Touch - 17? :)

Unashamedly used this is as an excuse to write something I've wanted to do forever. 2x08 kidnapping with established Nace (that moment was just crying out for a hug!)

Angsty, because, obviously. --- I hope you like it!!!

And I swear these just get longer the more of them I write. Rest is under the cut or Read on AO3

Touching #17 - Holding the other’s chin up

His heart has far surpassed his throat and is practically climbing out through his mouth by the time they reach the door. Nick smashes the glass before he can do it himself, and he’s practically bouncing on his toes, vibrating to get in and save her. 

“Be careful, there’s gasoline on the floor!” Nancy’s voice carries through the busted window and the sound of it makes him weak with relief. She’s awake, she’s alert, she’s calculating. 

He’s running as soon as the door is open, focus entirely on the flame. But he can’t miss her - the way she’s starting to struggle in fear against her bonds. The way she mutters oh god, like this is it. 

Fortunately, they are just in time, his hands stopping the skitter of the rope and the largest breath he can muster extinguishing the candle. He shudders out a shaky sigh as he shares a look with Nick, thoughts plain on their faces. What a sadistic bastard to set this up, and how close they came to losing them. 

Nick is frantic and honestly so is he but he knows what Nancy needs now is calm. Withdrawing his pocket knife, he moves in steady steps towards her.

“Hey, be careful - careful. They’re constrictor knots,” she warns. 

Ace wants to laugh and smile and kiss her because of course she knows that. 

“So if you pull on the ropes we’ll get strangled.”

And he wants to destroy the man who tied her in them. Put him inside this decrepit building and watch it burn. 

“Good thing you brought an Eagle Scout.” He aims for light, joking. Hoping desperately for that breathy, shaky, nervous laugh he loves but he misses the mark, coming off far too worried. 

She’s not panicking, yet. But there’s that wild edge in her eyes that tells him she’s on the brink, so he begins. Uses her Nancy Drew Mystery Brain against her to keep her calm. Both to instruct Nick on what he’s looking at and to fill Nancy’s head with visualizing how to untie this thing so she does not think about the way the rope is pressed against her throat.

But her breath is still stuttering and her eyes are closed tightly as he works. Clearly his steady stream of chatter about ‘riding turns’ is only half working. 

Finally his knife slices through the last thread of the rope and Nancy is scrambling to loose herself from it, coughing and choking a bit at the release. His hands join her trembling ones and soon she’s free. She shoots to her feet and he half pulls her up as she launches herself into his arms. 

They just hold each other for a moment, clinging tightly. Arms tight enough around her back that he can feel the hitch of one silent sob. Arms tight enough around his neck that he can feel the few tears that drop there. 

They’re forced apart to help calm George, making sure Nick gets her free. But he can’t stop looking at her, can’t stop looking her up and down to be sure she’s really unharmed. His stomach gnaws a hole in him when he sees her pull a hand up to brush lightly against her neck, and he makes a mental note to check on that later.  For now he slides an arm around her shoulders and pulls her to him again, lips firm against her temple.  

----

Later, at her house, she walks in front of him as they gather to comfort Bess, heading for the other armchair. He snakes a hand out to grab hers, tugging her to sit before she reaches it, needing her close. She settles for sitting on the arm instead, leg brushing his, entwining their fingers and settling their joined hands on her knee.  

Ace swallows thickly and closes his eyes as she jokes, wasn’t my first chloroforming.

That is not as comforting as she thinks it is. 

----

She’s seeing George and Nick out, closing the door behind them as he descends the stairs. Bess has been sufficiently comforted to sleep, at last. Nancy smiles when she turns, mouth opening to say something but he finds he just can’t. Suddenly feeling immeasurably worn and frustrated and so damn tired. Ace turns before he can see her face fall, heads to the kitchen and pours his frustrated anger into filling the tea kettle, finding the first aid kit. 

“Sit down,” he tosses over his shoulder, knowing she’s followed.

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. Cocks her hip against the table and crosses her arms and fixes him with a stare that shows she’s spoiling for a fight. 

Good. He is too.  

“I’m fine, Ace.”

See the full post

82 notes • Posted 2021-11-12 23:44:03 GMT

#1

goodbye/welcome home kisses but with Nace leaving/starting shifts at the claw

Some cute fluffy goodness for you Anon! Enjoy!!

Kisses #10/11 - Goodbye kisses/Welcome home kisses

Ace tugs her in one evening in the parking lot, pulling on her hand until she’s pressed against him. Cupping her hip and her head as he presses a quick, firm, kiss to her lips.

“What was that for?” She whispers, feeling like she shouldn’t break the moment.

He hums against her. “Just wanted to kiss you goodbye.”

“Okay.” She smiles shyly and lets loose a soft laugh that rings in the air. “I could get used to that.”

He smiles too, easy and warm. “Noted.”

A few days later she’s uncharacteristically, miraculously, purposefully early. She has to be in order to beat the ever-punctual Ace. She leans against her car and shivers slightly in the cold morning air, pulling her thin jacket closer in around her.

“What did you do? Turn around and sleep here?” He yells out the window as he pulls in.

“Nope.” She pops the ‘p’ and quickly closes the distance to Florence. Nancy curls her fingers into the open door frame - she knew he’d have the window down - and ducks her head in to kiss him. He’s surprised at first but enthusiastically reciprocates until she pulls away. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” he returns a little breathless and dazed. Then he grins. “I could get used to that.”

“Noted.”

That’s how it starts anyway, Ace delivering goodbye kisses, and Nancy the hellos. Mostly in the parking lot, but gradually moving to the locker room, the kitchen. Sometimes Nancy forgets, eyes bleary and mind foggy before her coffee that it’s all she can do to stumble in mostly on time and get changed. But Ace finds her, drops a kiss on whatever part of her is most readily accessible - ear, forehead, shoulder, cheek - and continues on his way.

Sometimes when she’s leaving she does the same. Ace never forgets, just ends up busy, dunking fries or elbow deep in dishwater. She never likes to interrupt but she feels bereft if she leaves without her goodbye kiss. So she’ll catch his eye, quickly kiss whatever he offers - usually his lips or his cheek - and head out the door.

Once, laughingly, it was an elbow. “You need to moisturize, Ace. You have old man elbows.”

“It fits my aesthetic!”

They don’t set out to hide it from the crew, but somehow it still happens. Because no one notices. Or if they do, they certainly don’t say anything.

The most Nancy sees is an eyebrow raise and a smile from Bess that day she’d been sick. She’d come in for her shift, distracted, tired. And as soon as Ace had kissed her forehead he’d declared her feverish and escorted her out, yelling to George his plans to take her home.

“Why do you think no one’s said anything?” Nancy asks one day.

“About what?”

“About us kissing,” she says as if it’s obvious. “I’d expected to be drowning in reprimands from George by now.”

“Oh, I mean Bess has noticed. She just doesn’t care.” Ace laughs. “George and Nick have no idea.”

“See, how is that possible? We kiss in The Claw all the time!”

Ace shoots her a look that clearly says I love you but you are very stupid. “Nance, I don’t think anyone’s noticed anything different.” He smiles smugly. “You’ve always been all over me.”

Nancy’s face crinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Personal space is not your forte. It’s okay. I like it.”

Finally, one day, Nancy, Bess, and George are crowded around a table, research notes spread across every available inch. Nick and Ace are heading out to pick up some more materials and he stops next to her. Skates a hand across her hair to cup her head, pulling her cheek up to kiss it. She’s distracted but manages to catch his hand as it pulls away. Tugs him back and tilts her face up expectantly for a kiss on the lips. This time Nancy feels George’s eyes on them but she just smiles contentedly and again buries her face in a book.

“Uh, how long has that been going on?” George asks.

Bess replies, shrugging. “I don’t know, a while?”

See the full post

104 notes • Posted 2021-11-07 02:14:24 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#the way that tag is about Ace neatly handling Nancy 😂 #I mean #for someone who didn’t start posting until july #This is pretty good #Honestly amazed i made 47 posts #Like how #Also very soft for the fact that all my top five are recent ficlets #My writing #about me #year in review

[animensfw-smut]

Mirio Togata x Fem! Reader

This was requested by @Mins000 on Wattpad.

WARNINGS: None.

Reader was meant to be based off of a character in SAO, but I’ve not watched it yet, so I’ve changed it up.

Reader’s quirk: Spells. 

Last name: Sasaki.

Hero name: Mother Rosario.

Known as: Undefeated hero of pro-heroes.

Reader is in Class 1-A. Reader has an illness that was incurable at first.

Also, there’s gonna be some major time skips in this. I don’t really remember what happens in the Overhaul Arc of BNHA some I’m gonna kinda make it a bit different from the original.

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*(y/n)’s pov*

My eyes sparkled as i watched his form, plowing through the sports festival. 

“He’s so cuteee....!” I squealed out loud unintentionally. The other people gave me weird looks before they focused their attention back on the festival.

Well, as for me, i was still paying attention to none other than Mirio Togata of Class 3-A. Today was the Class 3-A festival. The Class 1-A festival was yesterday and i had taken 1st place. I decided to work for Sir Nighteye’s agency as that was where Mirio worked~

That was the first time i saw Mirio. 

Time skip~ Class 1-A meets the Big three~

A smile lit up my face as the big three introduced themselves. I was happy since i was able to see Mirio again. 

“Mirio!” I called out as they were walking round. I had already changed into my pe uniform since we were going against Mirio. He turned around with a bright smile,

“(y/n), right?” I nodded.

“If i beat you, you have to give me your phone number. Deal?” Mirio looked surprised, but then nodded with a smirk,

“Bring it on.”

After everyone was done changing, we all stood in front of Mirio who had started stating the rules. As soon as the battle began, i closed my eyes, focusing on his presence. The others started screaming as he had phased through his clothes. He seemed to have a tendency to appear behind people... Concentrating, I ran with my eyes closed, sensing his presence beneath me. He shot out from under the ground and i jumped up, twisting to punch him. Mirio grabbed my fist, hurling me over his shoulder, mid-air. I turned back around, keeping a firm grip on his arm, and threw him over me. From there, we hit the ground, with me pinning him down. I smirked leaning down to his ear,

“I win. Tell me your number after we change?” He chuckled,

“Sure. How about you let me put on some pants first then?” I blushed brightly, getting off of him as he went to put on his pants. 

Everyone looked at me in awe, and Kirishima piped up with a bright grin,

“She’s not the ‘undefeated hero of pro-heroes’ for nothing!” i giggled as i walked to the changing rooms.

After changing, Mirio was outside waiting for me. 

“Wow. Didn’t really expect you to stay...”

“Who do you take me for? A deal is a deal.” He laughed, handing me a slip of paper.

“You’re so damn cute!!!” I squealed, hugging him. Mirio chuckled nervously, awkwardly placing his hands on my back.

“Are you going to Sir Nighteye’s agency?”

“Mhm.” I nodded, enjoying the sweet embrace.

“I’ll walk you back to your dorm.” 

The walk to the dorm was silent as we enjoyed each other’s company.

“Good night, (y/n).” He pressed a kiss to my forehead before walking to his dorm building. I stood there, shocked. My cheeks heated up as i processed everything whilst closing my door.

“AHHHH! HE KISSED MEEE!!!” I screamed with a bright grin.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU EXTRA!”

“Sorry, sorry.” I apologised through the wall.

A few days had passed and we texted each other a lot. It seemed like we had a chance of getting together, but then i was hit with the harsh reality. I suddenly started feeling pain all over my body, and decided to go to the hospital to check it out.

“I’m sorry (l/n)-san. Your illness is incurable. I’m afraid you only have weeks to live.” Everything froze. I still had a whole life to live, and it’s getting cut short?

That was yesterday. Today i was walking with Izuku to Sir Nighteye’s agency. We were meeting him for the first time. Mirio greeted us at the entrance with a smile,

“You guys are here early!” I smiled slightly,

“Yeah. We didn’t want to be late on our first day after all.”

Sir Nighteye was kind to me, but not to Izuku. We ended up having to leave Sir Nighteye and Izuku in the room. 

We sat on the sofa, and Mirio took my hands in his,

“Hey, you okay?” I bit my lip before smiling,

“Yeah, I’m fine. What about you? I didn’t see you at school yesterday.”

“I was finishing up some paperwork for Sir Nighteye. You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong, right?”

“Yeah... I know. Well... The truth is, i... Don’t have long to live.” His smile was wiped off his face,

“What do you mean?”

“I went to the doctors’ yesterday because my whole body hurt. They said i had an illness that was incurable... And that i only have weeks to live.”

Mirio wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me to his chest as he rested his chin on my head,

“Hey, don’t cry. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” My fingers wiped the liquid off my face. I was crying? I didn’t even notice. 

I closed my eyes, hugging him tightly. 

Time skip~ Overhaul incident~

I panted as u ran down the corridors to where Mirio and Eri were. As soon as i arrived, i noticed Overhaul about to throw a needle at Mirio. Quickly, i chanted my spell,

“Ek skýt fjórir ískaldur ör!” (I shoot four glacial arrows???)

I shot my ice arrows to deflect the needle coming to him. 

“Tch, annoying.” He spoke, glaring at me with hatred. 

The fight lasted for a long time, Sir Nighteye and Izuku joining us later on. I held my breath, reciting another spell,

“Þeír slíta fimm grœnn vindr!” (Tear them, five green winds.)

The wind blades deflected the spikes going towards Sir Nighteye. If they weren’t deflected, he would’ve died...

Time skip~ After the fight~

I closed my eyes as i lay on the ground of the battle. I couldn’t bring myself to move as every bone in my body hurt. I feel like I’m reaching my limit.

“(y/n)!” I weakly lifted my hand to show i was alive.

“H-Hey Mirio...” 

“(y/n)!!! Are you okay?!”

“Mm, i th-think I’m a-alright...” He picked me up bridal style, running towards recovery girl. After that, i blacked out. 

I woke up with a start before i slowly relaxed. I was in a hospital bed. I tried to my my hand but it felt heavy,

“Hah...” I smiled as i saw Mirio at my side. He really is so cute...

I placed my hand on top of his head, playing with his blonde strands of hair. His eyes fluttered open, and a grin found its way on his face as he saw me awake,

“You’re awake!” He glomped me with so much affection, i nearly suffocated. Laughing, I patted his back,

“Yes, i am...”

“(y/n)... I like you... I really like you...” Mirio whispered. I closed my eyes with a satisfied smile,

“I really like you too Mirio.”

He kissed my forehead before taking my hands,

“Recovery girl managed to cure your illness. Apparently, another country had just developed a new medicine for it. Anyway, mind getting dressed? I’m taking you somewhere.” Mirio gave me a bright smile as i nodded enthusiastically. 

I was blindfolded after i got changed not knowing where we were going. 

As soon as we arrived, Mirio took my hand before taking the cloth from my eyes.

“Remember the UA festival?”

“Oh yeah!” 

“Weren’t you in the special effects team?” My eyes widened,

“Damn, i forgot...” He chuckled,

“Of course, you did. But you can stay here with me, and watch... If you want, or you can join your class?”

“No, I’ll stay with you.” I gave a bright smile to him as he hugged me from behind. 

The show started, and it was as amazing as i expected it to be. At the end of the show, Mirio lifted my chin up, connecting his lips with mine...

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A/N

I hope i did well on this???

Anyway, hope you enjoyed this!!! The next request will be another fluff:

Class 1-A + The big three + Eri x Male! Reader. This will be posted sometime next week.

#Mirio Togata #togata mirio #mirio x reader #togata x reader #bnha #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader

[pixie88]

Delilah

Chapter 1 - Alone - Third A&E Series.

A/N: I originally posted this on a side blog but I was having trouble switching between the two and I also didn’t want to start again. As I said there this A&E series is a lot more darker, hitting RL subjects I have been through myself please don’t judge me as you can’t make me feel an worse than I have made myself in the past. The stigma around these subjects are real and so many people don’t speak out about them. Friends and family don’t even know the secrets I will reveal in these chapters as I am ashamed and worry about what they will think. I hope this helps even just one person realise they aren’t alone. I hope you like it 😘

I’m not going to annoy people with re-tags, so I’m not tagging in these first two chapters as most my usual tags have read it.

Find previous chapters HERE under Together - Adam & Ellie.

Word count: 1905

WARNINGS: ⚠️ Angst & adult language.

Pairings: Adam x Ellie.

Enjoy!

A Year and a half after the last chapter of A&E Together.

"She's beautiful, Ellie! A girl! We have a little girl," she looks over to him feeding their daughter. All the panic and worry was worth it! She thought to herself as she's getting stitched up.

16 week's earlier.

This pregnancy had been harder on her than Charlie's, her morning sickness had carried on until 24 weeks, she was in pain with her hips and back. Adam made her give up work at 32 weeks. She was reluctant, but knew he was right, plus at home, she could do more research on shops for sale in London.

By the time she had hit 36 weeks she had found the perfect shop, they had a cheeky weekend away in London to view the property while Ellie's mum had Charlie for them. Being heavily pregnant they didn't do much sight seeing, but they did spent a lot of time tangled beneath the sheets in the hotel room. This would probably be the last time in a long time they would have time alone, so they wanted to make the most of it. 

When they arrived back home Ellie had to sort out the internal and external work. She had put in an offer and was in the proceeds of owning the new shop being, so close to the end of her pregnancy Adam took over all the dealings of the new shop not wanting his wife stressed. 40 weeks Ellie woke on her due date irritated and fed up with being pregnant their little lady showed no signs of wanting to come out.

That afternoon Ellie was in the bathroom when she thought her water had broken, looking down at the floor, she was expecting to see clear waters but instead she saw crimson red puddles of blood. She calls out to Adam who was downstairs soon rushed up to his panicked wife. Shock grew on his face as he saw what had her so panicky. He quickly regained his composure, trying not to worry his heavily pregnant wife.

Adam quickly called her midwife who told them to head to the hospital after dropping Charlie at Elaine's door. He helped an hysterical Ellie into the car. On the way her contractions started they were very close together so when they arrived, he practically had to bridal carry her out to the car with her bag to the labour ward where they handed him a wheel chair. Once in the delivery suite and after a few puffs of gas and air Ellie start to calm down she was so mellow that she wasn't even bothered when the doctor took a sample of her blood, she usually hated blood tests but the gas and air had worked its magic.

When the doctor came in Ellie was completely out of it. Between contractions, she was drifting, those few seconds between each one felt like heaven "Sorry, did you say your name is Doctor Curry? I bet you had the korma taken out of you at school!" she laughs at her own joke, then apologizes when she realised what she had said "Don't worry, I know it's the gas and air talking believe me, I've had worse. We are just going to listen to baby and see how they are! OK?" She nods.

After 10 minutes whooshing the doctor and midwife didn't look very happy with the result "What's wrong?" She asked him. He had that look all doctor have when they're about to tell you bad news "You baby's heart beat keeps dipping" tears started forming in her eyes "Dipping? What do you mean?" He hands her a tissue "Mrs Barlow, we want to deliver your baby as safely as possible and with the fluctuations of their heart beat you have an hour to deliver this baby, or we will have to take you down to theatre for an emergency c-section" her heart sank "But how am I going to have a baby in less than an hour? She just said I'm only 3 centimetres" She looks up at Adam, he's calm which soothe her.

"Well, we need to first break your waters, hopefully that should speed things along a bit. So, I'm going to leave Charlotte here to do that and I will be back in half an hour to see how you are doing" DR. Curry makes his way for the door. "Ellie, after your next contraction I'm going try and break your waters. So, I need you to tell me when it's over, OK?" Ellie nods the next contraction comes and goes. Charlotte successful breaks her waters "That feels so warm!" Ellie laughs just as the next contraction starts to build.

"Oh my god! I feel like I need to push!" She screams as the contraction takes hold. "Ellie if you need to push, then push, but little pushes!" Scared her body is tricking her, she refuses "I can't! You said I was only 3 centimetres. I'm not ready!" She hisses at Charlotte "Hey Ellie, listen to me if that's what your body wants to do then do it. I will keep an eye if nothing happens we will stop! OK? You need to trust what your body is telling you to do!"

The next contraction build she begins to push... crashing Adam's hand in the process until it fades again "You're doing brilliant, beautiful" Adam kisses her forehead "Anything?" She asks her midwife "Well, I can see the top of baby's head..." She's cut off by the next contractions "There's the head" Charlotte tells her "With the next contraction she'll be here" another starts and Ellie pushes again "And here she is 7:43PM welcome to the world little one!" Charlotte says as she cleans her up.

"Ellie, you did it again! She's here!" Adam cups her face and kisses her lips "Skin to skin?" Charlotte asks, Ellie nods "I'll just get Daddy to cut the cord" she looks over to Adam and hands him the scissors. He proudly cuts through the cord before Charlotte moves her to Ellie's chest "Does she have a name?" Charlotte looks at both of them "We're still haven't decid..." she cuts Adam off "Delilah!" Ellie looks up at Adam as the brightest smile appears on his face "Aww that's lovely! Where did you get that from?" She asks the pair.

"It was my Nan's name" Adam says not quite believing she finally had a name and a name that means something to him. "That's sweet! Ellie do you want to give Delilah to Daddy while we get this afterbirth delivered?" Charlotte places Delilah in a towel passes her to Adam as DR. Curry walks in "How are we do...oh baby is here! Wow how long did that take?" He looks over to Charlotte "15 minutes after I broke her water. She had the urge to push right away!" He looks at her stunned "Whoa! That's amazing have you requested her IV drip yet?"

Ellie looks confused "IV drip?" He looks over to her "We estimated you probably lost just over a pint of blood. This will just stop anymore bleeding" Charlotte smiles at a worried Ellie "Nothing to worry about its just because you've lost more than usually. It's routine"

"I'll go and get what we need. While you finish up in here" DR. Curry says as he leave the room.

Later, Charlotte has shift had ended and a new midwife had taken over "When can I go for a shower?" Ellie asks her new midwife Demi she wanders over checks the IV drip monitor "You have another 45 minutes on this then you should be OK" another midwife walks in and calls Demi out of the room a few minutes later she comes back in "We are going to have to move you up to postnatal ward now" Ellie looked shocked with Charlie's Labour she was allowed to have a shower before heading up.

Her legs were still covered in blood as well as her hospital gown. She got off the bed with her IV drip and into a wheelchair, Adam close behind with Delilah. She gets into her cubicle and take a seat in the chair after the midwife leave, she bursts into tears Adam puts Delilah down in her cot and rushes over to his wife "Hey, what's up beautiful?"

She looks up at him "Everything I'm covered in blood, I'm still in this awful thing. I want get into bed, but I can't sit on there like this! I want to cuddle my baby, but my arms are cover in blood. I feel dirty like I'm a cast member of the walking dead! And from what it sounds like we have a snorer the other side of this stupid curtain" He lifts up his wife's chin "Watch Delilah I'll be back in a minute" he gets up and leaves the cubicle through the curtain.

10 minutes later he comes back with a wheel chair and a midwife "You help her into the chair and grab her bag I'll grab baby" the midwife tells Adam. Wiping her tears she looks up at him "What's going on?" He smiles at her "You'll see now come on!" He lifts her out of her chair and into the wheel chair. They walk down the hall and through a door. Once inside she spots another bed and a bathroom "Adam?"

She looks up at him "This was the last one they had!" She looks at him still confused, he laughs, "£90 a night for a private room with a bath in the bathroom and this lovely lady has said if you've had over 80 percent of that drip she'll take it off you, so you can go for a soak" her eyes well up and she starts to cry again.

"It suppose to make you happy not sad!" He laughs, "Happy tears!" The midwife smiles at them both as she catches sight of Ellie, she shook her head "Oh dear, look at the state of you! They let you come up here like that! You poor thing, let me put her next to the bed and get you off this. Even if I have to put you back on after you can't sit like that!" She puts Delilah next the bed and takes Ellie off the drip before helping her to the bathroom.

20 minutes later all fresh from her shower, she emerges from the bathroom in her own comfortable clothes. Adam is changing Delilahs nappy. He looks up "Feeling better?" She smiles as she nods at him before she gets onto the bed next him. She places a kiss on his cheek, "Thank you!" He looks over to her "Why are you thanking me? You did all the hard work!" He places Delilah back in her cot "You were calm while I was losing it! I crashed your hand and you spent money on a hospital room just to make me happy!"

He laughs, "I did have my own motives! No one, not even me was going to sleep with a motorbike snoring next door!" he pulls her to his chest and pulls over the blanket over the both of them "We better sleep while she does. So, night beautiful!" She kisses his cheek "Night! I love you!" She feels him chuckle "I love you more"

Continue reading this story here - Chapter 2.

#a&e #adam x mc #alone #fictionalstory #angst #child birth #pnd

[seriouslyhooked]

When We Collide (Part 5)

Emma Swan has always known one thing: trust no one but yourself. Unfortunately she forgot her one rule and now she’s paying for it. One bad decision led her to the monstrous ‘Crocodile’ a mobster in New York who goes by the name Gold. Hope seems lost until she meets another person in this underworld, Killian Jones. Despite the place they find each other, a true love blossoms, and they manage to get away. But what will happen when Emma discovers who Killian really is? Will love prevail? Um, yeah, I’m writing this, so duh – it’s all love all the time. Fic features motorcycles, hot guys in leather cuts, and a bit of action/drama. Will end happily, and despite the first chapter, will be light on angst. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. Available on FanFiction Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hey everybody! First and foremost, just want to thank those of you still on this journey with me. My motivation to write has been so much lower than I thought it would be, but I haven’t lost sight of what I want from this fic and I am happy to finally share a new installment. This chapter brings a last burst of road trip fluff and the build up to a big moment  – Emma’s introduction to Killian’s life in the MC. It’s going to be fun to explore these dynamics in the next few chapters, but for now I hope you will enjoy, and I can’t wait to see what you all think. Thanks so much for reading!

In the quiet, tranquil calm of a woodland morning, Killian watched the cabin bedroom fill with sunlight, bringing the softest golden glow to the rustic room where he and Emma had spent the night. Birds chirped to greet the new day’s light, and the gentle breeze among these mountains brushed branches from a nearby oak against the windowpane. The whistle of the wind and the gentle swish of leaves on glass melded together into something deeply familiar, a symphony of sound, the song of sunrise.

Sadly, this song was the last of its kind that Emma and Killian would enjoy on this journey. The final portion of their cross-country trek would come today, and when they arrived back home, a new reality would set in. Things would change drastically, Killian would have to reengage with a life he’d long ago left behind, yet despite the challenges that awaited him, Killian was astounded at the peace he could feel in this moment. Holding Emma as she still lay sleeping, he was filled with contentment, choosing to anchor himself to something that would be forever constant: his love for this incredible woman.

“You’re doing it again,” Emma murmured, stirring from sleep and already entirely aware of him before she’d so much as opened her eyes.

Killian let the sultry sound of her sleep-laced voice wash over him. It sent a similar sensation coursing through him as the soft brush of her fingertips over his chest. Strumming an unknown melody, her hands on his skin lit him up inside, and though he’d just taken her a few hours ago, he was already ready to devour her again. Strewn out like this, in the glow of early morning, Emma was a vision with gold hair and sun kissed skin. She was stunning, and through the grace of God and all good things, she was miraculously his. The thought of that gave him great comfort and his own hold on her tightened ever so slightly. In truth, he was so distracted he nearly forgot to answer her sassy statement, but the smile that appeared at her lips as her green eyes opened for the day demanded that he ask for more.

“Doing what, love?”

“You’re loving me so much that I simply can’t sleep through it.”

Another man would deny such a cheesy proclamation, or deflect from the depth of his feelings, but not Killian. No, his Swan had called him to the floor, and she was right. He was up this morning thinking only of his love for her, and while other thoughts may threaten to encroach on their time together, he had pushed them all aside. She was the best way to stay grounded and centered, and he was selfish, needing to soak up every last drop of their moments together just to keep his peace of mind.

“I’d offer some condolences, Emma, but I think we both know how you feel about my loving you.”

He murmured the words against her skin, taking advantage of her lingering drowsiness to pepper kisses on her lips, her jaw, and then the hollow of her neck. He hummed out a sound of sheer delight when he felt her shiver beneath him, and when she let out that perfect moan of hers, the one that was part gasp and part plea for more, he was lost. All conversation was behind him, and he knew the only thing left was to show her how much he loved her. Luckily for Killian, nothing had ever come so naturally.

The choice he must make this morning was between a fast and hard claiming, or a slow, steady savoring of two souls becoming one. The payoff for either was bound for greatness, but Killian was keenly aware of how everything would soon be different. Once they arrived back with his brothers, the solitude they’d cultivated would be encroached on, and though Killian had his own house, which could provide ample space and privacy, he also had a sneaking suspicion that his brother and fellow club members would be highly invested in him and his woman. After weeks of it being just the two of them, Killian knew he’d have to share Emma’s attentions, and that he too would have to interact with people other than his Swan. It would all be good in the end, but he wanted to make the most of these last truly secluded moments that they had together.

The teasing slowness of his ministrations became a torturous affair not just for Emma, but for him as well. He began by tasting her everywhere, tracing every line and curve of her, with extra attention paid to the places that made her blood sing. He hung on every breath she released, and every charged call of his name that whispered past her lips. When she came apart from his touch alone, his sense of pride surged dramatically, but the most beautiful sight was when she relaxed back into that post-climax moment, gazing at him with love in her eyes and nothing but a soul-deep contentment in her heart. It made a man feel worthy to know he had put that look on his woman’s face, and for Killian it was the closest he would ever feel to absolution. He’d done wrong in this life, made choices that veered well off the path of what was good or moral, but somehow, she still loved him, and Killian was better for that love.

By the time she was ready to be taken, Killian was so riled, his senses were frayed in all directions. Knowing that he was already worked up, Emma decided to push him further, murmuring that she loved him and asking him to make her his. The searing heat of his need for her was constant, but the feeling when he thrust inside and claimed her was the most agonizingly incredible feeling in the world. Nothing should feel this right, or this perfect, but with Emma it always did. Their rhythm was synced to perfection, their love palpable in the air around them, and though Killian did his best to savor every bit of it he could, it always felt like it was over far too soon. All it took was Emma arching her back, crying out in ecstasy, giving over to bliss, and he was right there with her, spent but saved and feeling like despite the uneasiness of this next moment, he and Emma could handle anything.

“Whatever happens today, it won’t change anything,” Emma said, her fingers running through his hair that was growing longer than he normally allowed it. She pushed it out of his face, before looking into his eyes and smiling in a way that melted his heart. “I love you, and I always will.”

“It’s the same for me, love, but rest assured, if you feel even the slightest discomfort, we will move on. We’re bound to nothing but each other.”

“Killian, this is your home -,” she began. He quieted her thought with a kiss before clarifying the truth to her.

“You are my home, Emma. Wherever you wish to be is where we will be, and I will be the happiest man alive just for being by your side.”

Emma readily accepted this promise from him, whispering that she felt the same as they continued to laze for a while more together, enjoying their connection and soaking in this last bit of privacy. Eventually, they had to get up and check out from this retreat, and they moved through the morning with a practiced precision of two people who had done this for weeks. Travelling had become second nature to them both, and the six-hour ride standing between them and his brothers would be easily managed.

For Killian, the journey honestly felt too short, though he made sure to stop and keep a steady pace for Emma’s sake. He knew she had never been to California before, and there was something magical about this place compared with every other. It was easily the most beautiful of the terrain they’d been in for weeks as well, and in Big Sur specifically, there was a natural beauty totally unique to this corner of the world. Giant forests rose impossibly high into the sky, a cross between the woods of the pacific northwest and the jungles of South America. Trees stood so tall the tops could not be seen, and even in patches where fires had blazed in seasons past, life prevailed, with green vegetation growing from ash and soot and dust. When they reached the ocean, Killian felt Emma’s hold on him tighten, an indicator of her excitement, but he still drove quite a few miles down the cliff-lined coastal highway before pulling off to stop.

“Now this is the kind of view I could get used to,” Emma murmured as he helped her off the bike, taking in the secluded patch of beach they’d driven towards where not a soul was nearby. With her hand in his, Killian immediately felt stronger, but the look on Emma’s face prompted a gentle, pleasant aching in his heart. She was happy to be here, in awe of this place, and to Killian that meant everything.

“We’re closing in on our destination now, love. We’ll be back well within the hour if we drive straight through, but there’s something I would very much like to show you, if you’re interested.”

“Lead the way, Captain.”

He led her down the pebbled path to the seaside, torn between watching her reactions and actually navigating their course. The best part of this was that Emma had no idea what was coming. They’d approached from the perfect angle, preserving a truly hidden gem from sight. Only when they rounded the corner would she see it, and as they made their move, he heard her gasp and felt her hand squeeze his tightly.

“Oh my God… I don’t even have words for how beautiful this is.”

Killian completely understood the feeling, though his own sensation of being struck speechless by something truly stunning often came directly from Emma. In this case, the beauty in question was an old, yet faithfully enduring shore house. It was painted white, weathered from storms, but still well-kept and largely preserved against the passage of time. The nearby community saw to it, since the owners of the home had long since gone. This shoreline was all public lands now, but the house remained, a testament to the man who once lived there, a gifted artist, and a natural born storyteller.

The remnants of his decades old art were painted, drawn, and constructed into the very foundation of this home and the mediums of expression were all treasures from the sea. Sea glass especially was plentiful here, drawing dizzying swirls of color along the house, the wood working and more. The glass had been cemented there for decades, but it shone with the same fervor and sparkle as ever. Shells of all shades, some whole and some not, were also used. Iridescent golden hued pieces, hewn from the mix of cold ocean water and warmer kelp garden pools were the stars of the show. They were each a small treasure uniquely found along these rocky coasts, often collected by the sea otters who called this sea shore home. This collection of the rare shells was astounding, and made all the more beautiful by being mixed in with others that were delicate shades of white and ivory and some that were a cooler oyster blue. They hung from wind chimes in the beach trees and off the lanterns, while some darker shells had been ground down to a painted stain that had been used in part to tattoo larger rocks that were too big for the sea to claim. Wherever the eye looked it was drawn to spiraling shapes and stories, never running out of objects to admire.

“How have I never heard of this? And how are we possibly the only ones here?” Emma asked, moving closer and looking at the intricate designs of shells and stones that had been added to the sands and earth more recently. A local commission of artists was in charge of these added displays of beauty, updating them occasionally, but usually waiting for nature to clear the slate. After a big storm where rainwater washed it all away, or higher tides than normal where the sea came just to the house’s front steps, new designs were created and enacted. But it was clear that there had only been sun for some time, and they were fresh on the heels of an exceptionally well-done redesign.

“Very few people know of this place, love. It’s a secret that is guarded by the people of this town so tightly you’ll find no books or blogs or trace of it anywhere. Liam and I are two very rare exceptions, outsiders with the good fortune to know it’s here.”

“How did that happen?” Emma asked, leaning into him and eager for the story from his past.

“My brother and I needed escape when we were here with our father, but we had little means of finding it,” he admitted, bracing himself for talk of that past life, and knowing he should get used to it now that they were nearly home. “The sea was the only thing of comfort for both of us, and we came to it as often as we could. We scoured every last bit of the coast, and I mean every bit. One day we landed here, and happened upon this house as we were searching the coastline for unknown coves. It was easily the best find we ever made. Of course, we nearly scared the life out of the woman who was crafting the shellscape that day, and once she alerted the other town’s people there was a big to do. We were sworn to secrecy and all the like. We never did tell a soul. It remained our secret – one idyllic hideaway from the world we lived in.”

“But now you’ve broken your oath,” Emma said, looking at him curiously, though she was clearly glad for his breach of that old promise.

“Some may believe that.”

“But you don’t?”

“No, love. I believe the promises I have made and will make to you supersede any others. Besides, I am fairly certain that the promise is null when it comes to my wife.”

“Funny, I don’t remember getting married,” Emma said, though her teasing was a front for the rush of emotions she was feeling. “In fact, I don’t even remember you proposing.”

Let’s change that, he thought to himself knowing he had the ring in his pocket right now, but reason won out in the end, and he remembered his plan. He wanted to get Emma totally settled into their new life first, and to make sure she was ready in all ways. He knew she loved him and that she would be his forever, but it was only right to ensure that he do things properly.

“Soon enough, love. You have my word on that.”

Emma grinned at his affirmation, pulling him down by the collar of his leather jacket and kissing him passionately. When they broke apart, she asked him to promise they’d come back here and he did, and after a bit more time in this private oasis, they headed back to the road, driving towards their destination once more.

The ride along the coast was quick, far quicker than he remembered, and when they pulled off the coastal highway and to the discrete exit leading to the town he’d once grown up in, Killian could sense Emma’s surprise. They didn’t need to share a conversation for him to gauge her apprehension and excitement. She was no doubt wondering if they were really going to be living amongst this dense and beautiful forest. It would be a big change from her life in the cities she’d always known.

Soon enough they made it to the town line, reading the hunter green placard that announced their arrival. Unsure of what he expected, Killian was surprised to see just how much improvement had been made in his time away. Their town had always been quaint, but it could easily be described as ‘down on its luck’ when he was a boy. He knew it was his brother’s hope to not only remove the stain of his father’s shady dealings, but to help revitalize this community in a way that had been lacking for decades. But when Killian departed to seek his revenge on Gold, those ideas were mere figments of a would-be dream.

Liam has truly made good, he thought to himself as they cruised down the main street. Here along the town’s center there were new businesses and old ones that had been repaired and shaped for competing in the world today. Things were still classic and beachy, but the energy around it all gave away two important facts: the first was that this town was being tended to and cared for by its tenants, the second was that it was also being protected, and that anything that may threaten this currently peaceful ecosystem would not be allowed.

In this stretch of the ride, Killian could see some familiar faces in the mix, people from his old life in this town who were going about their day to day none the wiser about his return. There were also quite a few new faces as well, but Killian could spot the tourists right away. Their biggest tell was their fixation on his bike. People who lived in this region regularly would be densensitized, and since Liam had imposed a safety parameter for the town from other gangs, they wouldn’t bat an eye, even at a biker without his cut.  

Not far beyond the center of town was the Den, the once large warehouse that had been reconfigured to fit the Land Pirate members and families when need be. When he was here last, the place was little more than a dump, with tell-tale signs of partying strewn about both outside and within. There was also a crappy, rusted gate around the perimeter that did the job of securing the place on some level, but had always been a huge eyesore. Gone was all of that, and in its stead was higher tech, better quality fencing. The Den was now fortified, and Killian could see the precautions put in place that passersby may not realize were installed. He also took note of the probie standing guard at the entrance.

Well this should be interesting, Killian thought as he drove up. He had no idea who this probationary member of the club was. Killian would have to explain who he was and that could get awkward. But before he had the chance the unknown man was speaking.

“Well I’ll be damned. Pres was right. Hook’s come home again.”

“Pres?” Emma whispered and Killian replied quietly.

“That’s Liam’s title here, love.”

“And Hook?”

“My road name.” Emma nodded, taking it all in stride as Killian turned his attention back to the probie. “So, he’s expecting me then?”

“Has been for weeks. You sure took your time getting out here, Hook.”

He looked at the probationary patch on the man’s Land Pirates leather cut and saw the stitched name ‘Mouse.’ Had to be a story behind that name. Didn’t exactly blend with the others who were patched in when Killian was here. “How do you even know who I am?”

“You kidding? You’re a legend, man, and so is she.”

For a minute Killian tensed up, thinking that Mouse was talking about Emma. He was feeling protective, and didn’t like the idea of other men looking her way unless they were going to show the proper respect. Only when Emma let out a laugh did he realize his mistake.

“Oh my God, you mean the bike! That’s classic. Please tell me it has a name.” Emma’s joking was incredibly apparent, and Killian was surprised at how nonplussed she was by their being on unknown turf.

“She,” Mouse stressed and Emma bit back her laugh, but her body still shook with it. “And yeah, bikes get names.”

“Wait don’t tell me. This will be way more fun if I can guess. Hmm, Harley? No that’s kind of obvious. Uh, I mean what do you call a gendered bike? Kind of a tall order… Oh I know, Lady. Kind of on the nose with the whole ‘it’s a she’ thing, but it works, right?”

Killian chuckled at the way Emma was enjoying herself, and he noticed the look of shock on the probie’s face. Clearly he didn’t understand the situation. This was no ordinary woman on the back of his ride giving him shit for having named his bike. This was the most important person in his world, and no one, club member or not, was going to question that.

“Look, kid, my woman and I have been on the road for awhile. We could use the rest, and it’s probably best not to keep my brother waiting anymore.” The overt use of the label for Emma created a total mood shift in Mouse. He had taken the hint.

“Absolutely, Hook. Ma’am.”

The change in tone as he nodded at them and buzzed them through to the compound was pronounced, so much so that Emma mentioned it when they parked and she stepped off the motorcycle.

“Is the somewhat caveman ‘me man, she my woman’ thing baked into this whole MC life?” Emma asked, her brow arched even as a smile teased at her lips. “I’m not complaining, per se. Just curious if I’ll have to announce my belonging to you everywhere I go.”

“Probies are probies for a reason, love, and the reason is they’ve got a whole lot to learn and more than one thing to prove. The men in this club with a patch, my brothers, they know better than to disrespect a woman, Old Lady or not.”

“Ah right, I forgot about that charming title. I don’t know who possibly came up with that one. ‘Old Lady.’ It’s so… unflattering. Had to be a man.”

“In this world, you can blame nearly everything on a man, love,” Killian quipped and Emma grinned at his assessment before continuing to lament the biker term for a man’s significant other.

“I honestly thought I’d have a few years before getting called ‘old lady’ and even then it would be by bratty neighborhood kids, not hot guys in leather who name their motorcycles.” Killian growled at the mention of men being hot and Emma teased him with a nip against his lips that was designed to have him wanting more but was only meant in jest. “But don’t worry, I’ll make up for all of this somehow. I’m gonna find you the perfect partner nickname that undercuts how irresistibly sexy I find you in all your leather. I just need a little time.”

“You can call me any damn thing you want, Emma. As long as you call me yours.”

The words were honest and immediately shifted the sass of Emma’s commentary to something softer. Instinctively, she placed a gentle and loving kiss on his lips before they both turned to the warehouse. Together they walked hand in hand towards the door, and when they entered, Killian held his breath. Would this place look like the nightmare of his youth? The place he’d have fought through anything to get away from? It took only the briefest moment to see those worries were unfounded.

Killian was utterly relieved at how normal the Den looked, and how the relic of old had been completely rehabilitated. The general concept was the same, starting with a vastness in the entrance that made it seem like this place went on forever. The entryway blended into a great room where club members and guests spent a lot of time, and in the back there’d surely be more changes to go along with these ones. Killian knew the kitchen and living quarters, the war room and Liam’s office all would have been revamped if this part of the warehouse was. But this communal space in particular held a lot of painful memories. The ghosts of this place had haunted him for some time, but they were nearly all cast away by the warmth and modern makings of this renovation. It made Killian want to see more, something he never truly believed was possible, but as curious as Killian was, there simply wasn’t time. Soon the renovation was forgotten, and instead he was faced with the all important figure standing there, waiting for him after years of no contact. 

“Liam.” 

…

Post-Note: So I know I have stopped it right at the start of a hugely important reunion, but I fully intend to make up for it in the next chapter. Introducing the actual MC is going to be such fun for me, but, as with this chapter, it may take some time before I have a next installment out. My muse has been tricky, but I am hoping to get a bigger chunk of my story, ‘Feels Like This’ written by the end of the year so I can hopefully finish it up. Anyway, I would love to hear what you all thought of this chapter, and as always, I really appreciate you all reading and thank you so much for the support! Until next time!

#captain swan #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #cs #cs fic #cs ff #cs fluff #cs smut #emma swan #killian jones #cs mc #cs mc fic #ouat mc #the whole storybrooke gang #when we collide #when we collide au #when we collide 5 #motorcycle club au

[readysetstarker]

Phone Sex AU: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

continuation of the above fic! thanks so much for the support on the original post! i apologize for any typos or mistakes; it’s late and i’ve got insomnia. this one is 3.7k words of filth for ya

Tag list: @strawberryparkers​, @hoe4parker​, @deliciousflapbanditfarm​, @idontfeelsogoodmrspock​, @srrnnrrs​

Warnings: 19-year-old Peter. Phone sex, anal fingering, masturbation, dirty talk, daddy kink, praise kink if you squint.

—

Peter bit back tears as he threw his backpack down hard onto his bedroom floor and locked the door behind him. The stain on his hoodie reminded him of his failure from that morning; mixing up chemicals in his lab had resulted in a full-building evacuation, and his entire chemistry lab had no problem letting everyone know he was to blame. 

It certainly didn’t help that Flash made one of his stupid livestreams wherein he broadcasted Peter’s fuckup to the entire school. He was a laughingstock, getting snotty remarks shouted at him all day while walking between classes.

Hey, Parker, where’s the fire?

Blow up any labs today?

Can you come to my 12 o’clock midterm and set fire to Professor Strange’s desk, too? I didn’t study for it and I’m totally going to fail.

Peter shed his dirty hoodie and shoes and tossed it across the room before flopping onto his bed and forcefully groaning into his pillow. He wanted to suffocate himself in it and scream so loud his neighbors would hear it. Every instance of mockery from the day stabbed at his ego like knives until he couldn’t bear thinking of it anymore.

He needed a distraction. Fast.

Studying? No, it just reminded him too much of his laboratory fuckup. He thought about working on his grad school thesis, but again, his mistake kept creeping up with each thought of schoolwork. Peter pulled his face out of the pillow only to pick it up and pull it over the back of his head. Smothering himself to death sounded as good a distraction as any.

The phone nestled in his back pocket vibrated, and Peter pulled his head out from beneath his pillow to check his incoming caller. Aunt May from her cell phone. He answered, giving her a greeting that easily covered up his frustration from the day.

“Hey, May. Are you on your way home from work?”

“Hey, Pete!” May said, and Peter realized he could hear a crowd in the background. “No, I got invited to dinner with some coworkers, so I’ll be late home. We’re getting Mexican. Do you want me to bring you home anything?”

“No, thanks,” Peter said with a small smile. At least May was having a good day. “I think I’ve still got some Chinese leftovers in the fridge. Have fun and call me if you need a ride home.”

“I’m not gonna drink, Pete. Night!”

Peter hung up and returned to his wallowing. At the very least, May wouldn’t be around to witness his lowest point in college.

He peeked out from where he had buried his face into the pillow and stared at his cell phone. His mind immediately supplied him with the memory from a few weeks ago of how he had jerked himself off while a complete stranger had cooed and called him pet names, told him how good he was, called himself Daddy. Peter had been completely blindsided by the things that phone call had done to him.

Not that he was complaining. The word felt so good rolling off his tongue.

“Daddy,” he murmured to himself, eyes slipping shut at the bloom of heat at his cheeks. 

Teeth sunk into his bottom lip. May wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, and the bottle of strawberry-flavored lube certainly wouldn’t use itself. Neither would the brand-new “realistically-styled” didlo he had bought online and hidden in his room when the package had arrived. He had yet to use it.

Who better to help me break it in than You-Know-Who?

It was a better distraction than studying, that was for sure.

Peter didn’t know exactly what his Daddy looked like. He was an older man, that much he knew, with dark hair that was going silver from stress at his temples. (He had called it “a curse of age” until Peter told him how much he loved his Daddy’s graying hair.) He kept his facial hair neatly trimmed and always drank whiskey when he worked on the hotline. Peter definitely imagined how his mouth would taste if he could get his tongue between the older man’s lips.

Not knowing what he looked like didn’t stop Peter at all from trying to imagine him. He had even googled celebrities that shared the sparse details he was given to see if he could conjure up a face that matched the voice in his ear. Nothing fit so far, but Peter wasn’t one to give up.

He did know the man’s real name, though: Tony. Generic enough that looking the name up on social media produced hundreds of millions of results, but personal enough that Peter could feel somewhat closer to the person on the phone.

His stomach climbed up into his throat as he found the hotline’s number in his call history and redialed it. This part was nerve-wracking. He had no problem moaning into the speaker and getting himself off with someone in his ear, but having the anticipation of waiting for the hotline operator to answer his call gave him restless butterflies in his stomach. 

There was a click on the other end, and the woman’s monotonous voice spoke through the speaker asking what “fantasy” he was looking for. It was maybe the fifth time he’d heard the cold open for the hotline and he still couldn’t get over how utterly uninterested she sounded while delivering it. 

“Um, I’m looking for a specific person, actually,” he said. “Extension forty-six?”

“Hold, please.”

Peter felt himself relax as the hold music began playing. Getting past her was the hardest part; here, he moved on to someone who didn’t judge him. Or, at the very least, didn’t sound like they were judging him. Peter didn’t have to hide. His Daddy let him be unashamedly himself while they fucked.

The line finally connected, cheesy saxophone music  abruptly cutting off in his ear, and Tony’s smooth voice purred at him through the earpiece. “Hey there, sweet thing.”

“‘Hey there’ yourself, Daddy.”

“Well, well, look who it is,” he said, laughing, while Peter bit back an excited giggle. “I haven’t heard from you in almost two weeks, baby boy. Where’d you run off to?”

“Just living life,” Peter answered. He moved to lay down on his stomach and prop his head on a folded arm, ankles crossed and resting on top of his abandoned pillow. “But I missed you.”

The growl that answered sent chills up Peter’s spine. His skin lit up. 

“I missed you, too, Pete. I’ve been rather lonely since our last talk.” Peter liked to think that Tony was sincere, that he genuinely looked forward to Peter’s calls. It certainly helped that he recognized Peter’s voice.

Peter sighed contentedly and relaxed into his mattress. This was exactly what he needed after such a shitty day.

Tony seemed to pick up on his uneasiness. There was silence, probably drinking from his glass, before he said, “Heavy sigh, baby. What has my boy so worried?”

My boy. God, Peter was so fucked.

Peter intended to lie to him, but he liked pretending that Tony worried about him. It was hard to deny the man anything when he spoke like that, right in Peter’s ear. He supposed he could be vague enough, not going into too much detail so as not to take up too much of Tony’s time.

“I just fucked up at school,” Peter said. He repositioned himself to run fingers through his hair. “It was a public fuckup, so it’s not like the only people who know are my labmates. Hell, my advisor probably heard about it, too.”

“I’m sorry you had such a bad day. Anything I can do to make it better?”

Peter had hoped he would ask, and even if he didn’t, he knew just how to segue their conversation in his favor. “There is one thing I can think of,” he said, then lowered his voice to add, “Daddy.”

“Yeah, baby? What can Daddy do to make it better?”

Peter chewed on his lip before answering.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He could hear what might have been a choking sound on the other end of the line and tried not to smile at himself. The thought of surprising Tony by making demands made him a little lightheaded, but in the best way. He pushed himself up to kneel on his mattress while waiting for Tony’s response.

Tony groaned once he got a hold of himself. “That what you want, huh? Want Daddy to fuck you so hard you can’t think of anything else but his cock inside you?”

Peter held back a whine and nodded before remembering Tony couldn’t see him. “Yes, Daddy, I want it so bad.”

He was already growing hard in his pants, and he put a hand over his crotch to palm at the bulge there. He gave himself a few gentle squeezes but nothing more than that; Tony liked control, liked knowing that Peter listened to and obeyed him, and he didn’t want to come too quickly. He did roll up into his palm, though, to keep the ache from overwhelming him.

“What do we say when we want something, Peter?”

“Please.”

“That’s my good boy.”

Peter scrambled across his mattress to the nightstand drawer where he kept his lube and new toy. The lube still had the plastic seal around the cap, and he had to stop himself from excitedly ripping it off with his teeth. He returned to kneeling on the bed, the phone pressed tightly to his ear while he waited for Tony’s instructions. 

“Tell me what you’re wearing, pretty boy. I wanna know what I’m tearing off you tonight.”

Peter looked down at himself, wincing at the shirt he was wearing. It was corny, a red short-sleeve shirt with the words If it wasn’t for physics and law enforcement, I’d be unstoppable written across the chest. Ned had gotten it for him for his birthday as a gag gift, not expecting Peter to unironically wear it in public. On his legs was a pair of dark skinny jeans.

He really didn’t have anything sexy in his closet.

Tony never seemed to mind. Even at Peter’s vague answer of just a t-shirt was enough to get a groan from him.

“I bet you’d look good in one of mine,” Tony said into his ear while Peter made quick work of removing his jeans and underwear. “You’d have it falling off your shoulder, barely fitting in it. God, you’d look so delicious, though.”

“Your T-shirt and nothing else?” Peter supplied, and he rolled his hips down into the mattress. “I wanna wear that instead. Can you imagine me like that?”

Tony hissed between his teeth and praised how good Peter would look in a black AC/DC number. Peter sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and ground against his bed again. God, what he would give to actually wear it, straddling Tony’s lap, with a hand larger than his climbing up his thigh and underneath the shirt’s hem. He whined at the mental image now seared in his brain.

“Yeah, baby boy, I definitely can,” Tony said, and Peter hoped he was getting himself off with that image. “Fuck, keep that shirt on, will you? Look so fucking good in my clothes. The only thing better than having you naked.”

Peter moaned and rocked down onto his mattress again, the black and red bottle of fruity lube catching his eye. His mouth watered at the sight of it. He needed something inside of him, and he needed it now.

“Daddyyy,” Peter whined. He reached for the lube. “I need you.”

“Need you too, baby. Want you so fucking bad.” Tony’s voice sounded so rough, so wrecked, and it was all because of Peter. That thought went straight to Peter’s dick. Peter was sure he could have come on that thought alone, no stimulation necessary.

“You got lube?” Tony asked, and Peter confirmed it, popping the cap open where he knew Tony could hear. “Get yourself nice and wet for me, baby. Open up for my cock. I’m gonna fuck you so good, it’s gonna ruin anyone else for you.”

Peter scrambled to get onto his back and set the phone by his pillow on speaker. The lube was cool on his skin as he dribbled it out onto his fingers; the artificially sweet smell of strawberries flooded his nostrils and aided in his hormone-drunk high. He licked a small stripe of it off his fingertip and hummed at the taste. It wasn’t as sweet as it smelled, but the flavor was there.

Unprompted, Tony’s voice came through the speaker: “Spread your legs for me, honey, let me see that sweet little hole of yours. Fuck, can I even get my fingers in you? You’re so goddamn tight.”

Peter’s mouth fell open when he reached between his thighs and the first finger breached through. Instead of a moan, a breathy, high-pitched noise squeezed itself from his throat. His head fell to the side, eyes locating his slim black cell, and he pressed the finger in all the way until his knuckles brushed against his ass.

Each breath was accompanied by a quiet exhalation as he slowly fucked his finger in and out of himself. He clenched his eyes shut. Maybe, he thought, he could pretend it was Tony’s finger pressing into him, another one sliding in beside the first to work him open, teaching his body to welcome the pleasant intrusion. But he knew it was his own fingers by the ache in his wrist and their slender and long size. He liked to think Tony’s would be bigger, thicker, much more pleasurable compared to his own.

Tony moaned next to his ear, and with his eyes closed, Peter could imagine the man was lying next to him and watching his face contort in pleasure from being fingered open.

“God, baby, you feel so fucking good.” Tony groaned on the last word. Was he working himself in his fingers or just acting? Either way, it set a fire in Peter’s chest.

Peter let out a desperate whine and bucked his hips up onto his fingers. “Please,” he begged, opening his eyes. He half-expected to see his Daddy there and was disappointed to find only his phone, still mid-call. “I’m going crazy, Tony, I need you.”

“Yeah, baby boy, I know. I got you.” Tony hissed, high and sharp. “You good to take my cock now? Let me hear you.”

A dejected whimper left his lips as Peter pulled his fingers out of himself. The empty feeling that accompanied their removal was an unfamiliar sensation. He grabbed for the dildo still at his feet and slicked it up quickly. Peter made no attempts to be quiet, and Tony chuckled.

“So eager. Tell Daddy how long you’ve been waiting for him to fuck you.”

“Day one,” Peter admitted as he moved to lie on his stomach and prop his ass up in the air on his knees, cheek now shoved into his pillow, with the dildo held awkwardly between his legs. The mattress dipped and bounced beneath his struggle to find balance. “I’ve wanted you since day one. Wanted you to pin me to the bed and fuck me until I couldn’t stand.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” Tony’s voice held a promise Peter could only wish to be kept. “I’m gonna put it in now. Slow and steady. I want you to feel every inch of it as my cock splits you open.”

Peter followed his instructions, pressing the head against his unused hole and prodding it with wet and sticky fingers until he could nudge it past the tight rim and inside. His breath caught in his throat with the initial penetration, and the pleasant slide and pressure of the silicone dick pushing further inside of him ripped a moan from him. A litany of Daddy, Daddy, yes, Daddy, please poured from his lips until the fake balls of the dildo laid against his own.

Peter let out a heavy breath muffled by the plush pillow on his cheek.

He’s full, so full. Every inch of it Tony’s.

His fingers curled into his bed sheets when he shifted, and the head pressed against something that sent liquid fire through his veins. Peter nearly bit his tongue from the shock of it.

“Daddy,” he cried, pulling the phone closer. On the other end, he swore he could hear Tony’s breath hitching as though he was working himself over, masturbating to the sound of Peter getting himself off.

“Good boy, taking all of Daddy’s cock,” Tony said into the phone, and the praise went straight to Peter’s neglected dick. He managed to resist touching it, ignoring that ache to shove his fingers into his ass. Now, he was so hard he hurt. “How is it, knowing only your Daddy can make you feel like this?”

Peter’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He moved his hips, not daring to do anything more without Tony’s permission.

“Fuck me, please,” Peter keened.

“I could never say no to you, baby boy. You want Daddy to be rough with you?”

“Yes!”

Peter’s fingers struggled to find a steady grip on the edge of the dildo; so much lube, the smell of strawberries permeating each breath he took, that he couldn’t get the silicone to move the way he wanted. It took some doing, but he managed to lock his fingers around the shaft and pull it out of himself slowly. With how awkward the angle was, his shoulder now digging into the mattress, he couldn’t manage to pull more than half of the fake cock out.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he shoved some of the dildo back into his hole. He gasped as it pulled at his rim. Some more lube slicked its way in and out of him, until he could start a steady pace.

Tony sat patiently on the phone and listened to each sound he made. In turn, Peter focused on the other man’s breathing and groaning. He worked himself up to a steady rhythm of the cock pushing in and out of himself, hard enough to make his bed squeak beneath him. He shoved the dick into himself hard, hitting his prostate with the head, and bucked his hips. 

His cock begged for attention. He kept his other hand clutching at his pillow.

The squeaky mattress, the sloppy squelching of the generously-lubricated dildo pushing into him; Peter wondered if Tony could hear all of it over the debauched moans and pleading. The word Daddy almost exclusively left his lips with each thrust. Pleas of harder, faster were met with permission to fuck himself that way.

Tony’s admissions were scattered amongst a nearly-endless stream of praise. “So tight, baby. I can feel every inch of you on me. Just for me, aren’t you, baby? You’re made perfect just for me. I’m going to come inside you and eat it out, watching you squirm on my tongue. You’d take it so good, baby boy, like you always take me, and you’d fucking love it. Every inch of you is so goddamn perfect.”

Peter thrust his hips again to seek some sort of reprieve from the endless throbbing between his thighs. The things those words did to him…

“D-Daddy,” he stuttered as a hard thrust sent stars blooming behind his eyelids. “Daddy, please, I’m so close. I’m gonna come.”

“Come for me, Petey,” Tony said. He sounded like he was straining to smother his voice, holding back. Was he trying not to moan into the speaker? 

Peter didn’t have time to dwell on that thought. His other hand gripped his dark cock so hard that his legs shook, and he was barely three pumps in before he spilled over his hand, strands of spunk tangling between his fingers and dripping down onto his bedsheets. Peter nearly screamed, Tony’s name on his lips as he buried his face into the pillow to drown out the sound so May didn’t get an awkward confrontation with the neighbors later.

He jerked himself furiously, the dildo pushed in as far as he could physically fit it, until the pain overwhelmed the pleasure. The sharp sting from the head of his dick under his fingers made him tear his hand away from himself.

On the phone, he could hear Tony had gone silent, breathing heavily. Peter frowned at having missed hearing his Daddy come, but made sure he was heard as he licked the sticky mess of seed and strawberries from his hand. That earned him a pained groan.

“Fuck, baby, I don’t have that kind of energy anymore,” Tony said, and Peter couldn’t hide his laughter. “But I appreciate the effort.”

The dildo took some work but Peter eventually pulled it out and tossed it onto the floor. He would have to remember to clean it before he used it the next time, and maybe find a better hiding place for it than his sock drawer. That one time May came close to finding it was the closest Peter had ever come to having a heart attack. He wasn’t looking for a repeat performance.

Peter laid on his side on the bed to purposely ignore the puddle of his release still resting on top of his bed sheets. Nothing grosser than laying in it, he thought.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he said after he caught his breath. “I needed that.”

“Anything for you.” Tony chuckled on the other end. “We should probably wrap this up. I feel guilty knowing you’ve paid a good chunk of cash for tonight.”

I want to stay, Peter thought, but he caught himself before the words left his lips. Instead, he just agreed with a quiet, “Yeah. You’re right. I’ll catch you later, Tones.”

“Hey, now, don’t sound so disappointed. I could never ignore your calls, my sweet boy. I’ll always answer for you.”

For once, Peter’s thankful Tony can’t see how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He bid Tony goodnight and hung up. One breath, and then two. He really needed to clean up; his sheets and toy needed to be washed, and he needed a shower. 

May still wasn’t home when he started the washing machine and when he finished bathing. He caught his wet-haired reflection in the mirror and tried not to cringe at just how disappointed he looked.

“He’s a sex line operator,” Peter said to himself while pushing wet curls from his forehead, “nothing more.”

#starker #ironspider #peter parker x tony stark #my work #nff #phone sex au #good night i need to try to sleep #i work this weekend #but i'm gonna work on my inbox prompts i promise

[chyrstis]

WlP Thursday

I swear, I’m not completing these late on purpose! I was this close to having it ready only to blink and realize that posting it around 11 PM wasn’t doing myself any favors. But this was a much needed break from any and all resume frustrations, and between that and wanting to pick every word apart right now, I feel like stress is definitely having a field day.

Tagged by a bunch of amazing people: @softmillers @sharky-broshaw @tommymillers @amistrio @teamhawkeye @scarlettkat86 @fadedjacket @fromathelastoveritaserum​ . Thank you all, by the way! <3

Tagging: @shallow-gravy​ @seedlingsinner​ @risenlucifer​ @tomexraider​ @redroci @finefeatheredgamer​ @geronimo-11​ @ma-sulevin @guileandgall​ @painterofhorizons @sneaky-apostate​ @ofravensandgenesis​ @dirtgirl​ @raisinghellinotherworlds​ @shelliechen​ and @ariestals​! I’d also love to extend the tag to anyone interested as well! If you’re excited about your work I don’t want you missing out on a chance to post it.

-

First up, I figure I should share some more Sharky/Hana, because it’d just be wrong not to. And this is immediately after the accidental kiss that they decided needed to happen which I’m 150% on board with

---

That should’ve brought his cheek in range. Instead, she got his mouth. Felt his comment as it cut off abruptly so his lips could press against hers, and it lasted all of two seconds before they broke apart.

“Oh, God. I-“  

Hana’s hands flew up. Not to actually do anything, but they hovered in front of her as she took a step back and kept her eyes aimed in front of her. Parked right on his chest, right on the words that stood out on its front, and felt her mouth open and close a good couple of times before anything actually came out.

Shit. Shit.

“You’re telling me,” Tracey replied, and dear lord, that had actually slipped out of her mouth without her meaning to.

From off to the side Hana could see Tracey stifling a laugh, and it took a Herculean amount of effort to chance a look up past Sharky’s chin. But seeing him wide-eyed and with his jaw hanging open at her killed whatever nerve she had left, and she started pointing towards the door.

“I’m just…let me get back to you on that.”

She was out before another word could be said, and tried not to stop until she’d cleared the hall and heard the door close behind her.

Stupid. Just… God, why would you-

She knew her face was burning, and couldn’t shake the feeling off. None of it, as it settled in her stomach, tying itself into a series of knots that never seemed to end, and knew that throwing coffee on top of that was probably going to be a disaster.

But she’d do it. All while knowing just how ridiculous she was being, and just how fast she was walking.

You’re an adult. Just cool it, take five to clear your head, and you can fix this. Talk your way through it, tell him it was an accident, and everything’ll go back to normal-

“Hey, H? Hana, seriously! Wait up!”

She cut into a side room and pressed her back to the wall. Didn’t move a single thing as her heart hammered against her ribs, and she listened. Running footsteps sped past that spot, Sharky’s voice following them through the hall, and she waited until both faded.

---

Second, I feel like I already posted this a while back, but I’m not about to check my tags from last year. Also from Hana’s next big fic and incredibly rough around the edges too, but let’s not worry about that right now, self

---

The roaring of the plane’s engine faded, leaving the immediate area. It would likely come back for round two, but for now it was far enough way for her to actually take stock of her current position.

She stood still, running through the past few seconds as they remained braced against the wall, and when she finally looked up at him, she noticed John’s sunglasses were missing. They had been knocked clear off of him sometime in the last minute, with no hope of ever being found at this rate. Even his hair was starting to look worse for wear, no longer fully slicked back and neat.

John, on the other hand had his eyes set right on her. So blue, and so damn perplexed it would’ve been hilarious in any other situation than this. But this wasn’t a one-off moment where they were messing with each other over the radio and he was miles away. No, he was right here in front of her, and rapidly looking more and more pissed off by the second.

Her mouth went dry. Fuck.

She scrambled to back off, but he kept on her, only a beat behind. Her revolver was right by her side. If he went for a gun, maybe she could swing it in front-

The floor ran out from beneath her before she could think to do anything else.

Part of the wall had been blown out in this area of the building, leaving a hole large enough for anyone to fumble through. Or in her case, to fall through, as she felt herself tumble backwards. She idly caught a second instance of confusion gracing John’s features, and wanted to laugh.

Two for two. For that she deserved a prize.

---

And finally, something from the No-Cult AU, because 1) the fic in question here’s one section short of being done and 2) it’s the kind of lighthearted nonsense I’m badly in need of right now.

---

“Having trouble?”

With his sunglasses still down, he’d angled his head just enough to be able to keep the lone eye he cracked open on him, and Sharky side-eyed him as he dragged his tank off.

“Yeah, it’s hot. I’m fucking swimming over here and you’re telling me you’re not?” He twisted it between his hands and squeezed, and John’s nose wrinkled at the gesture. “I’d have shed more than half of that shit after ten minutes.”

“Clearly, judging from your current state,” John said, opening both eyes to look at him. “But I wasn’t referring to any of that. It’s hardly been five minutes, and you’re all but vibrating in place. Is it really that difficult to stand still?”

Sharky gave him a withering look. “You kinda forget the part where I’m working to pay you off? And the longer I take, the longer I gotta do any of this?”

“You can take ten to rest. You can take fifteen even. If you’re tired you get injured, and if you’re injured you can’t work. Defeats the purpose of any of it, doesn’t it?”

“Well, yeah. But-”

“Believe it or not, I don’t want to see you hurt again.” John sat up, and leaned towards him. “And I’m in charge here still, aren’t I? I could order you to sit here for however long I wanted, but I won’t.”

A frown had crept in, but Sharky let it go. “Yeah?”

“Yes, because that won’t get either of us what we want, and right now I want you healthy and thinking clearly. You, on the other hand, want to be debt-free, and I think I may have found a compromise. Now, I did mention that I wouldn’t be throwing orders at you to sit still. That’s still true, but a bet? That might be more to your liking.”

“…A bet?”

John’s lips curved into a wicked smile. “That’s right. A bet. Interested?”

#wip #definitely late again but I can't help it #I have to try and tweak things if possible #I really do need to get some more work in on the Trap fic's outline #and my resume but that's an awful given #also I'd like to apologize to everyone that tagged me before (I want to say last week) b/c I didn't mean to be so late #but after Wednesday I was done

[vee-angel]

Non-consent Nancy (part 2, repost)

(Technically this is part 3, I just posted part 1 and 2 as a single post)

CONTENT WARNING: This story focuses on a lesbian black woman who fetishizes rape, misogyny, racism, and abuse. This section briefly checks in with her recently raped Jewish friend, but the bulk of this section will focus on Nancy violently abusing and raping a young female-to-male transgender person.

And if you happen to be the type of person who might feel bad about getting off to a hate-crime (or you’re just a decent person who enjoys indecent erotica), consider donating to Trans Lifeline at translifeline.org

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, part 3

Nancy got a warm, fuzzy feeling when a mutual friend texted her saying that Hannah had been attacked and was presently being treated for her injuries at the hospital. She rushed out the door, eager to see the damage inflicted on her close friend.

She headed to a room on the second floor after a brief consultation with the hospital receptionist,  Entering, she saw Hannah sitting in the bed; her spirit broken and so was her beak-like nose. The normally large protrusion that jutted from the center of her face was now swollen to even more ridiculous proportions. Nancy couldn’t help but let a laugh escape from her throat, but quickly stifled it, putting her hands to her face and passing it off as a cry of horror.

Hoping to add to her pain just a little bit more, Nancy rushed to her side and flung her arms around the little kike, squeezing her face tightly against her large breasts. She twitched and pulled away, obviously in pain.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have realized you’re not really touchable.” Nancy was proud that even now, she could drop subtle, subconscious jabs showing how repellent she thought Hannah was. “What happened, Hannah??”

“Somebody posted my pictures online. The ones I sent to you.” Her voice was even more whiny than normal; she sat hunched, staring down at her knees. “I don’t know how they got them, but they were giving out my address, too!” She began to weep. “Someone was pretending to be me, saying that I wanted to be… That I wanted this to happen. What’d I do, Nancy? I never did anything to anybody that would make them want to hurt me like this!” The sobs escalated to an ugly bawling.

Nancy sat, pulling her face into an expression of concern. She handed a tissue box to Hannah. “People will hate you no matter what you do. Some people just get off on hurting the weak. There’s not much you can do about that fact.”

Everyone hates you, you’re weak, you should give up hope; Somehow Nancy had managed to word those sentiments as though they were aimed to comfort.

After a few more moments of Hannah wiping the tears from her twisted, squealing Jew face, she turned back to Nancy, “I really appreciate you being here for me.”

“Of course! You’re one of my best friends. If you ever need to talk about what happened, I want you to know that I’m here for you, day or night.”

The two women spoke a few minutes longer, until Nancy elected to leave to make room for Hannah’s family, who had just arrived. She certainly didn’t want to get trapped in a room reeking so strongly of kikes.

She attended classes until late afternoon, at which time she popped over to her apartment to pick up the spy-cameras she’d had overnighted, then went back to the rape-crisis center hoping that Darla would return. She didn’t, but at least Nancy got some practice secretly surveilling some of the girls that came in.

That evening, she began to feel antsy. After all the delights she’d had the luck to witness in the last few days, she was starting to feel restless. She needed someone to rape.

She had a dating app in her phone that she’d set up under a fake name. She scanned through the few women who’d messaged or admired her, none of them were especially appealing. She decided to look at the males, thinking that maybe she could rape-bait one of them into assaulting her; it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but then again, the wants of a man, especially a would-be rapist, would always surmount hers.

That’s when she saw it. A little cuntboy who called itself Angelo. If this thing thought it passed for male, it was sorely mistaken. She scanned the confused dyke’s profile and found the term “f2m” hidden at the bottom. Based on the message she’d sent Nancy, it seemed the desperate little twat was a little girl-crazy.

Nancy had a plan. She wrote back to Angelo, saying how handsome ‘he’ was, and how she’d love for them to get together soon.

The next evening, Nancy made her way to the restaurant that Angelo had picked out for them. The tranny cuntboy was already waiting on a bench out front. It sheepishly stood and introduced itself with a voice awkwardly forced into a lower register, then gave a quick, awkward hug before beckoning Nancy to join it inside.

A few inches shorter than Nancy’s statuesque frame, dirty blond hair cut short and neatly parted at the side, freckled cheeks beneath green eyes, and rather stylishly dressed; a white button-down shirt whose top two buttons were flirtatiously undone beneath a charcoal suit that actually managed to fit over the freak’s boyish frame. Angelo was just her type, not that Nancy would admit to the attraction.

Nancy had leaned into her femme side. A short, flowy, scarlet dress adorned her dark-chocolate skin, accessorized with a layered gold necklace and a druzy ring carved from a single piece of amethyst.

Angelo seemed eager to please, though just slightly on the timid side. Nancy laughed at “his” jokes, touched “his” hand from across the table, and looked down with a demure smile each time their eye contact lingered. She hoped her flirtations would speed the evening along.

Less than ninety minutes later they were walking into Angelo’s third-floor studio apartment. The room was tidy, with a muted color scheme and modern decor seemingly devoid of a woman’s touch. With a giggle, Nancy was upon the little cuntboy as soon as the door closed behind them, pushing it invitingly toward the bed centered against the rear wall of the room.

“Hang on a second.” it said.

Angelo stood, taking a zippo lighter from the bedside table, and lit a series of scented candles organized neatly around the room. It then hung up its coat and laid on the bed. Nancy crawled on top, her toothy smile ravenous with a hunger for what was to come.

Nancy kissed the dysphoric dyke hungrily, her hands frantically kneading across the flesh, moving downward until she felt a large silicone cock-and-balls that cuntboys like Angelo sometimes wore inside their underwear to play at being real men. She let out a little squeal of delight, pretending to believe that the thing in Angelo’s underwear was its own and not some dress-up toy ordered from an online costume shop for freaks.

She moved downward, gingerly unfastening the button of the slacks and pulling down the zipper. She stood briefly to yank the pants off with dramatic flair before playfully hopping back onto the bed, Angelo’s feet straddled between her knees.

“Wow,” Angelo said, almost breathless at Nancy’s forceful passion. It reached toward a drawer at the bedside table, “Let me get the, uhh, ya know.”

“Mmm, of course. I bet you need the magnum size.” She said, rubbing the front of Angelo’s grey boxer-briefs. She dipped her fingers into the waistband and pulled down as her face descended.

Then suddenly her expression changed. “What the fuck is this?” she demanded as she seized the realistic silicone genitals and held them accusingly above Angelo’s suddenly confused face.

Nancy threw the fake cock forcefully onto the bed and yanked the boxer-briefs down to the knees. “Oh my god! You’re a fucking girl?!?” She shouted, her lips curling in disgust at the last word.

Angelo sat up, her hands darting to her underwear to re-dress herself, Nancy responded by slapping her hard across the face. Angelo looked scared, and helpless. “You lied to me, you tranny cuntboy freak!” Nancy spat the words at her, before literally spitting in her cowering face.

“Please don’t call me that!” Her voice was cracking.

Angelo yanked her feet out from under Nancy and crawled off the bed, pulling her underpants up in the process. He wiped Nancy’s saliva from her eye and tried to compose herself. With still panicked breathing, she pointed at the door and tried to sound authoritative. “You need to leave right now.” she was actually shaking, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

While Nancy hated the ghetto-monkey dialect she had grown up hearing, she found it useful when the occasion arose that she needed to assert a sort of primal authority. Still, she couldn’t help but speak with her erudite style of slow enunciation and clearly articulated consonants, “You had best get that base out of your voice before I shove that fake cock up your bitch-ass, you tranny, cuntboy motherfucker.” Nancy took slow, menacing steps toward her as she spoke. Angelo retreated.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police!” She hurried over to the slacks that had been tossed across the room, squatting down to reach into the pocket. At that moment, Nancy threw a meticulously practiced roundhouse kick that caught the little girl-faggot just below the ear. Angelo was left slowly writhing, half-conscious on the slate tile floor.

“I told you what was going to happen, didn’t I, cuntboy?” Nancy reached down and raked her fingers through Angelo’s dark blonde hair before her fingers formed into a fist; dragging her by her hair, she forced her back onto the bed before yanking her boxer-briefs down and off in several successive, violent motions. She continued holding the tranny face-down by her scalp with one hand while she grabbed the fake cock with the other. She drove her knee into the cuntboy’s ass to spread it wide enough to expose her tight, pink asshole. When she began stuffing the soft rubber cock into her, Angelo seemed to regain her senses. She started thrashing, but Nancy overpowered her and began shoving even harder.

“No! No please! You’re hurting me!” Angelo tearfully cried out as Nancy’s french manicure scraped against her anus with each push. Nancy smiled with satisfaction as the confused boy-girl begged for the violation to stop.

After several agonizing seconds, Nancy had finally stuffed the last of Angelo’s packer up her ass. She released her victim and stood back to take in the sight of the broken bitch. “Flip over and show me your pussy.”

The little cuntboy closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the world. Nancy grabbed her hair again, yanking her to her feet. She punched the girl hard in the face twice, the crystalline points of the amethyst druzy ring leaving deep wounds that would heal into permanent scars across her freckled cheeks.

“Lay down and spread your legs!” Nancy commanded. The terrified girl finally complied, blood dripping from her wounded face. The sound of whimpering providing soundtrack for the sight of the pink cunt, adorned with a neatly trimmed layer of wispy blonde fuzz.

“That’s fucking disgusting. If you don’t even know how to shave a pussy, than you don’t deserve one.” Nancy stomped over to the night-stand to grab the zippo lighter, then returned to the foot of the bed, pinning Angelo’s legs wide against the mattress with her knees. This ensured that the tranny wouldn’t be able to close her legs as she flipped open the lighter and ignited the flame. Angelo looked down in horror as Nancy brought the flame against her sensitive, pink cunt.

The bitter smell of burning hair filled the room as the boy-pussy went aflame. A panicking Angelo tried to sit up, but was met with Nancy’s strong, steely fingers clamping around her windpipe and pinning her to the bed. The pathetic twat thrashed frantically, she didn’t know whether to try to snuff the fire that was blistering the skin of her labia, or rip away the vice-like grip that was crushing her throat. In the end, she succeeded at neither.

The fire, thankfully for Angelo, went out after several seconds. The skin of her vulva was left bright red, with various round spots of white where the damaged skin was beginning to form blisters. “You know, if you just wore a skirt and shaved you cunt like a good girl, I wouldn’t have to do this for you. But you’re too fucked in the head to do that, aren’t you?”

Nancy released her throat, the tranny cuntboy had a coughing fit. Her legs were still pinned open, driven painfully wide by the pointed knees driven into the nerve-laden tissue of her inner thighs. She finally took a few gasping breaths as she realized that Nancy was still holding the burning lighter.

“I’m doing this to help you get better, you know. You’re probably going to be tempted to try to turn that little clit of yours into a full fledged dicklet sooner or later, so…” she paused for just a moment to forcefully blow out the flame of the zippo, leaving only the glow of hot-red metal where the flame had been, “let me remove the temptation.”

She drove the hot metal firmly against Angelo’s skin. She screamed as her clit turned to smoke; Nancy muffled the screaming, pressing her hand over the girl’s mouth. Even the half-silenced shriek was almost loud enough to drown out the wet, popping sound of boiling skin.

A few seconds later, she pulled the hot metal away, having left most of its heat in Angelo’s destroyed clitoris. Little bits of burnt flesh snapped off and stuck to the lighter. Upon examining the wound, she was satisfied to see a rectangular reddish-pink pit where the flesh had been, shiny-wet inside and wreathed with ragged black edges.

The toned, statuesque rapist needed to take a moment to catch her breath; they both did. She stood, closing the lighter and tossing it on the bed. She took a brief moment to stretch while she listened to the frantic screaming sobs as Angelo clutched her devastated genitalia. Nancy looked down with a smile to see the fake rubber penis peeking out of her asshole as she heaved with tears.

She had almost forgotten about that! She pinched the soft rubber tip and yanked the full mass out of the boycunt’s twitching asshole. Almost reflexively, Angelo seemed to reach out for it like a toddler who’s favorite toy was just stolen away. She watched as Nancy held the phony organ at arms length and walked over the the adjoining kitchen. There was a brief pause in the sobbing as Angelo tried to divine Nancy’s intention. A new wave of disbelieving shock came over her as she watched the piece that defined her identity dropped into the sink drain and Nancy’s finger moved swiftly toward the switch of the garbage disposal.

“NO! PLEASE!!!” She screamed like a little girl watching her teddy bear being eviscerated. Her voice was soon drowned out by the grinding sound as the only intact set of genitals she had left was turned into mangled rubbery slivers by the spinning metal blades.

“For someone who thinks they’re a boy, you sure cry like a little girl!” Nancy snapped.

The broken bitch-boy managed to whimper out “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry for lying to me, sorry for being a fucking pervert, or are you just a sorry piece of shit?” Nancy spat the words as an accusation.

“I’m so-oo-orry! Plee-heease! Please… just leave me alone.” Angelo barely managed to articulate the plea through the tears that streamed down her bloodied and battered face.

“You want me to leave?? I thought you wanted to get laid, you pathetic little dyke. What, am I suddenly not pretty enough for you anymore?”

“Why are you doing this to meee?”

Nancy rolled her eyes, “Okay, fine. You’re little pity-party worked. I’ll fuck you, you don’t need to beg.”

Angelo looked confused as Nancy advanced. She scrambled backward on the bed, leaving crumpled piles of sheets in her wake. Nancy grabbed her ankles and dragged her down forcefully before hopping onto the bed herself; her dense, muscular form crushing little Angelo beneath it. She began kissing the girl, tasting the salty combination of blood and tears as Angelo clenched her lips and eyes tightly. Undeterred, Nancy reached down and forced two fingers into the mutilated cunt below. Angelo twitched in fresh pain as she was roughly finger-raped. Kissing her way down the cuntboy’s neck and chest, she arrived once again at the mutilated pussy. From this angle she had the leverage to properly fist-rape the little tranny.

She added two more fingers roughly inside and began pushing. Angelo twitched violently at the painful new violation. Nancy encountered resistance when her bulky druzy ring pushed against the back edge of her hole.

“You’re ring! Please take off your ring!” Angelo regained her senses just enough to make the seemingly reasonable request not to be fisted by sharp points of rock. Unfortunately, Nancy didn’t feel very reasonable at the moment.

The fingers were roughly withdrawn, but only so Nancy could take a firm jab at Angelo’s mouth, splitting her lip and shattering a few of her teeth with the pointed formations of amethyst. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, faggot!” She jammed her hand back up the girl’s burned and blistered vagina, her ring slowly scraping its way inside of her with a series of sudden violent thrusts. Angelo began screaming again as Nancy buried her hand wrist-deep inside of her.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to slit your throat.”

Angelo quickly grabbed a pillow to scream into as Nancy resumed her violent assault on her cervix. She punched in and out, making sure to bruise and scrape every inner surface with the crystal shards she wore as jewelry. After a few minutes of vigorous thrusting, she heard the dyke-faggot’s voice give out. She withdrew her hand, now slick with crimson blood whose hue was deepened upon her chocolate colored skin.

She looked down at Angelo, still pouring tears and blood and snot into the pillow and asked, “Well? I need to get off, too. Come here and lick my pussy.” She lifted the front of her blood-red dress, the wet streaks on her hand leaving barely noticeable stains. Beneath was a form-fitting pair of white cotton panties.

“I said lick my pussy, Angelo.” She demanded with a sneer.

The defeated form slowly dropped down from the bed, walking on her knees over to where Nancy stood, waiting. Nancy dipped a finger down and pulled her underwear aside, revealing the firm, flawless skin of her coffee colored labia.

Angelo opened her mouth and hesitantly moved it toward the neatly formed, feminine flower. Just before her tongue made contact, Nancy shot a stream of pale-yellow piss straight down Angelo’s throat. She began to cough and turned away.

Nancy grabbed her head angrily with both hands, “Don’t you dare turn away!” She forced the tomboy’s face back into the path of her urine. “Open your eyes! Open your fucking eyes!” She pried her date’s eyes open and shot salty piss straight across the green irises. When she was finally done using Angelo’s face as a urinal, she threw her onto the cold tile floor and gave her a couple of firm kicks in the torso.

Finally satisfied, she looked down at the sad, tormented form. She listened to the small, heaving tears of the thoroughly raped woman at her feet, her ragged voice periodically went silent. It was as if she was having a conversation with some unseen entity, and responding only in the language of weary sobs.

Nancy smiled, “Thanks for buying me dinner, Angelo. I had a great time tonight.”

With that, she left.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

In So Deep [B.H. x you]

Series: part 2 of Without a Doubt

Summary: It’s Halloween, yet old wounds are peeled open.

Inspiration: What About Love by 'Til Tuesday

Word Count: 1721 Warnings: profanity.

Written Date: 11/20-22/2019 Posted Date: 11/27/2019

Parts: [1] [2] [3] [4] [MASTERLIST]

Every teenager in town could only be found at one place on this special night of the year, and that was at Tina’s dazzling abode where being “sheet-faced” is an absolute right to its underage attendees. That year’s Top 40s hits raged through her father’s beloved speakers while the spiked punch was made from her mother’s not-so-secret stash. Yet, Tina, who surprisingly got along with everybody, was nowhere to be found.

“She’s upstairs boning her second college honey,” Samantha closed her compact mirror with a click after checking on her Siouxsie Sioux styled make-up. “It’s like slutty witchcraft or something. I’m kind of jealous.”

“Way to go, Tina,” Y/n, dressed as a less revealing Mistress of the Dark, replied sarcastically. She didn’t even want to be at this stupid party, but Samantha, yet again, had somehow managed to drag her along.

Concerned, Samantha crossed her fish-net covered arms beneath her chest. “Hey, come on, now. None of that debbie downer crap, it’s Halloween.”

And it clearly was. Nearly everyone was donning at least some resemblance of a costume even if most were half-assed. A couple fake spiderwebs occupied the corners of the living room and white streamers hung down from the ceiling. It was minimal effort, but it didn’t matter once heavy liquor coursed through everyone’s veins and clouded their vision. Many were only here for two things: free booze and a hookup.

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks, loosen ourselves up a bit.” Samantha laughed as a thought popped up in her head, “Who knows, maybe one of us will get lucky with one of ‘em college boys.” And, she walked off chuckling to herself, leaving Y/n to stand by herself beside the banister.

Among the dense crowd of familiar and not-so-familiar people, and in-between drinking and basking in the presence of their respective company, two men have had their eyes on the unassuming girl from opposite ends of the house.

Billy Hargrove took turns chugging kegs in the backyard and making rounds inside the house so no one would forget who the new crowned kings was. This routine he established was ordinary; no one would suspect that the grin that would creep up his lips were because of the thought and sight of one girl in black. Even on a night like Halloween, Y/n was a fly among white china.

He has yet to see her tense muscles flail around the makeshift dance-floor without a care. At least she wasn’t glued to a window this time, though a railing that leads up to the less than innocent affairs wasn’t any better.

And then there was Steve Harrington whose sunglasses obscured the obvious staring from his end. He kept a close eye on Billy, whenever he got too close to Y/n for his comfort, making sure he wasn’t shoving some drink into her hand or getting her to venture up the stairs with him. But, then, his eyes would land on her and he’d stop what he was doing.

Guilt would wash over him like a bucket of cold water, and he’d stay like that until Nancy would either drag him out to dance when one o her favorite pop songs came on or sucker him in some conversation about college apps or the party. He couldn’t immerse himself into any of his girlfriend’s topics for he was a guy on a mission.

When Nancy went to get herself something to drink, Steve once again found himself looking across the room at the spot Y/n had been occupying for the past half hour but Samantha was nowhere to be found. This was all almost too good to be true.

Steve had promised himself that he’d just warn his ex-girlfriend about the son of a bitch and then back off. That’s it.

And before his mind could even second guess itself, his long legs strolled over to her on autopilot. Steve never thought he’d ever see Y/n in this light again, but the nostalgic sensation is over too soon when painted eyes land on him.

“What the fuck do you want?”

The sunglasses slid down the tip of his nose as he gazed down at her, and his fingers reached to pluck them off and hook a leg over the crew of his T-shirt. He was an idiot for not expecting Y/n’s hostility, but he tried anyways. “It’s been a while.”

A veil of wariness tightened around her features as she searched around the setting of the party for Carol’s smirking face, Tommy’s obviously feigned oblivion or others glancing over their shoulders, watching this screwed up encounter but she couldn’t even spot one of Nancy’s glossy brunette strands in the pack.

“What are you suppose to be? A vampire?”

Her eyes cut back to him as if he’s a carrot on a chopping block, narrowing down on his moving lips.

Steve sighed, “I guess there’s no beating around the bush, huh?”

The threat wasn’t anyone else, Y/n observed, but Steve. He has gone rogue.

“There’s something I should tell you…” her eyebrows knitted together as the boy she wished to never speak to again spoke, “How do I even go about this?”

“Easy. Don’t,” the wooden banister had begun to dig into her spine, “Ignore whatever thought is snaking through your head like you did with everything else.”

Samantha’s saving grace was nowhere to be found and everyone was either too high on coke or too drunk from too many shots to notice this tension between the once “it” couple of Hawkins. It was as if nothing had changed, as if she was still sixteen wearing corduroy skirts. This only made the suffocation worse.

Steve’s always been stubborn, and if it wasn’t for his longer hair Y/n would have been hook, line, and sinker back to those intimate moments of the past.  “Look—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Steve!” thousands of phantom pins pricked her nerves, “If it’s some bullshit from a year ago—”

“Okay. Okay,” Steve ran his fingers through his voluminous locks, “I get it. The past is in the past, but…”

As he peered into her eyes, time became nonlinear even though she no longer resembled the soft girl who’d be wrapped under his arms. His dimension warped, transcending back to 1982 when most of what he knew was her. But, Y/n wasn’t caressed nor suckled in by these old sensations. She was over the effects they had had on her, but to Steve, they were now almost pined for.

He blinked a couple times and took her silence as a means to continue. “There’s this guy. I think he has a thing for you; he had that band, you know, the one you’d sometimes play in my car, written on his hand,” Steve swallows the saliva on his tongue, “Billy’s not good news.”

“Billy?” Y/n asked incredulously. “The new kid? The guy who struts down the halls like he owns them like..like you once did?” Y/n scoffed, “You’re just playing me.”

“This isn’t a joke,” the desperation that laced his words tasted bitter, “Y/n, I just don’t want to see you hurt…”

“What? You mean—” she held back a sob and shook her head “—you mean, like you hurt me?”

Nothing else existed during this meeting between old lovers, only emotions that have been deeply suppressed under forced blindness and deafness. Like lava bursting out of a volcano, old emotions crumbled through the walls Y/n had spent months building around herself. She was pissed. Beyond pissed that Steve still had the power to make her cry.

But, then a soft whisper broke through the smothering music, swishing through her crumbling dam. “I never thought it was bullshit, Y/n,” his fist were kept clenched by his sides, oppressing their natural instinct to wipe away her tears, “even when I was acting like a dick, it’s not bullshit.”

Steve then realized he hadn’t done what he told himself he’d do—warn her, then go back to a thoughtless night with Nancy. His sneakers were glued onto the floor before Y/n and a part of him needed to know how this thing with the girl he had soiled would end. He was tipsy under Y/n’s teary gaze, though he had yet to enjoy a sip of alcohol, hoping for some deeper reconciliation between the two of them. Perhaps, involving the innocent molding of lips. However, he knew he’d be ashamed tomorrow if he did the same thing to Nancy tonight that he had once done to Y/n.

Y/n sniffled. “Go back to Nancy, Steve.”

Steve watched her go. Watched as she ran away before the cracks of her makeshift wall could lead to a bigger spill. Cutting and shoving through people who stared after her either in confusion or annoyance, Y/n didn’t care. She was alone in a house full of people she had grown up with in this town, and Samantha never came back to her with the drinks she had promised.

A beer can held up near his lips, Billy caught the pain on your features as you ran past him and out Tina’s front door. He didn’t know what was going on, but he soon found himself following Y/n’s tracks.

A/N: And then of course, the moment you walked away from Steve was followed by the scene in which drunk Nancy confesses that their relationship is bullshit, but hey, things will be looking up for you! ANYWAYS, there’s for sure gonna be another part to this. I had to stop here because I didn’t want this to be too long.

#Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove x you #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x you #stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things imagines #stranger things imagine #st #st imagine #st imagines #reader insert #billy x y/n #billy x reader #steve x you #steve x reader

[courtingstars]

Notes for The Vanishing Prince: Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight has been posted! I don’t have nearly as many notes this time. (Which is good, because it took me a lot less time to draft this post. XD;) Still, I did want to bring up a couple of things that I thought might be worth mentioning.

And as always, I updated the inspiration board for this fic over on Pinterest, so feel free to check out the new images if you feel like it/have access to Pinterest. (The most recently added images are at the top, so when you scroll down, you’re basically going backwards through the story.) And with that, onto the notes...

(Cut for the ramblings of a writer who overthinks everything, and also some very important notes about omurice, because I LOVED writing that part…)

Akashi and His Mom, Plus Heian Poetry

This is basically just a note to say that I really loved being able to write the scene with Akashi and his mom. <3 I think it’s the first scene of them together that I’ve posted online…? (Though I’ve written lots of scenes where Akashi talks about his mother, or has a very brief memory of her.) I wrote something short about them for Mother’s Day years ago, but I never finished it, sadly. So it felt nice to finally be able to include a glimpse of how I see their interactions.

Also, the part about Japanese poetry is indeed a thing! A lot of the Heian-era poetry in Japan revolves around themes of courtly love, and because of how courting worked in that time period, they often feature various forms of pining-for-your-lover-from-a-distance. So like Akashi says, there was a folk belief that if you were missing your lover enough, you would appear in each other’s dreams, so that you could at least be together in the dream world. Like this site about the poet Ono-no-Komachi explains, “the intensity of one's feelings for one's lover could induce him to appear in one's dream or could cause one to appear in his dreams.” I always thought that was a fascinating concept. (Also the idea that Akashi would be studying those poems at six years old is just really funny to me? But anyway. //laughs)

Akashi’s Issues, Poor Guy

I don’t want to go into too much detail here, but I thought it might be worth mentioning… One of the things I really wanted to explore in this fic (and the series as a whole) is the reality that working on mental health problems can be a very difficult and often nonlinear process. While it’s not the only plot line of the story—and I definitely don’t claim to have done a great job with it by any means, though I try my best!—I felt like it was important to take the time to show how a person’s struggles with mental illness don’t just get solved overnight. Akashi has been fighting a lot of the same problems throughout the series, because these kinds of emotional hang-ups and coping mechanisms aren’t easy to change.

To be honest, it felt somewhat counterintuitive to me as a writer, because back when I was trying to publish original stories, there was this idea that you weren’t supposed to write characters “brooding” for too long or repeat the same issues/mistakes over and over. Basically, the characters needed to show growth quickly, and passages that could be seen as repetitive should probably be cut, because they weren’t “progressing the story.” While I can understand that idea in a writing sense, I tend to feel like it’s not a very fair representation of what it’s like to struggle with mental health. (Which also applies to a lot of other kinds of personal issues/growth as well, honestly. Change is just hard in general.)

So I’m definitely trying to walk a balance between not writing the same scenes over and over, while also showing Akashi’s struggles as an ongoing journey for him. The latter was really important to me, both as a writer, and as someone who’s had cycles and setbacks with my own mental health stuff.

Bokushi Is Still Kind of an Asshole, Lol

On kind of a similar note… I have no idea how Bokushi comes across as a character at this point in the story? //laughs But if anyone finds him to be kind of a jerk, I will say that’s an intentional choice, at least. Ideally, I wanted him to be likable but still flawed, and I do find him hilarious personally, but… Hopefully it’s obvious that I don’t think he’s a perfect person, by any means. XD;

I think I’ve said before that I really want to use this storyline as a chance to explore my view of his character—and the why/how of how his personality differs from Oreshi—in as much detail as possible. Hopefully it ends up coming across as nuanced in the long run… But if nothing else, I hope it’s at least fairly interesting to read! Because I do find him extremely interesting as a character.

Omurice!

So here’s my major cultural note for the chapter… I’m guessing a lot of people are already aware of the fact that Furihata’s favorite food in canon is omurice, since it tends to pop up in AkaFuri fics a lot. For anyone who’s not familiar with the dish, omurice (a borrowed compound word for “rice omelet”) is a Western-inspired Japanese dish that’s extremely popular as a comfort food. (This type of Western-inspired cuisine is generally called yoshoku. Which I think I also mentioned in Storming the Castle, but… it’s been awhile? //laughs)

So basically, omurice consists of pan-fried rice that’s usually seasoned with either ketchup (often considered the more homey/classic version) or demi-glace sauce (more often seen in restaurants). Like in a lot of fried rice recipes, vegetables and meat are added to the rice, and then the whole thing is served beneath a super-fluffy egg omelet. It typically looks like this, or this. I’ve made it before, and enjoyed it way more than I expected. So while I was writing this chapter, I couldn’t resist preparing one of my own (for research purposes of course, lol):

I’m not a good cook, to put it mildly, but I was proud that this one came out a little better than the last time I tried it. XD

To me, the coolest thing about watching someone prepare omurice is the part where they plate the omelet... This can be done a few different ways, and some take more skill than others. (I totally cheat, by making a single-layer omelet and just setting it on top of the rice as best I can. XD) The most difficult way (and the way Furihata does it in the fic!) is to layer the omelet on top of itself while you’re cooking it, so that it becomes a kind of pouch that you can slice open over the rice. There’s a great animation of this process over on my Pinterest board, and I also really recommend two videos on Youtube if you’d like to see more… This clip features an amazing chef from the most famous omurice restaurant in Kyoto, and this one is an iconic scene from Tampopo, a classic Japanese film. To learn more about the context of those clips, and about omurice in general, I also recommend this really fun article about it.

The thing I find the most interesting about omurice is that it’s such a popular comfort food, so it’s often associated with home and family life. That’s why in The Fast Train to Kyoto, I was inspired to have Furihata’s mom make him omurice when he’s having a bad day. At the same time, though, the dish can also have a bit of a “lovey dovey” connotation to it? Like how in this survey it was one of the top foods that Japanese guys said they would like their girlfriends to make for them. (Hence the trope of decorating the omelet with a ketchup heart, as Bokushi mentions, in his extremely Bokushi way. //laughs)

For all these reasons, I tend to think of omurice as the perfect favorite food for a character like Furihata. It definitely inspired how I write about him, especially when it comes to things like his family life as well as his romantic side. <3

So How About All Those Storming the Castle References Huh

This is just a quick note to say that if anyone happened to be confused by some of the references in this chapter, a lot of them were referring back to events from Part Two of Storming the Castle. (Like the first time Furihata saw Akashi’s dad, the huge portrait of Akashi and his parents in the ballroom, the butsudan altar, the secret passage with the stairs, the ghost, etc, etc… Also the character of Ginhara, since he’s the butler who runs the mansion in Tokyo.)

I tend to be pretty indecisive about exactly how much detail I should use to explain something that happened earlier in the series… Since I know some people might not have read the earlier fics, and at the same time, I don’t want to be too repetitive for those who have? In any case, if anything was confusing/unclear, it was probably a callback to that story. (Oh, and there was also a callback to The Fast Train to Kyoto, about when Akashi and Furihata talked about becoming friends!)

Well, that’s it from me this time around. Thank you so much for reading, as always. As I mentioned in more detail over on Ao3, I really hope everyone is staying safe where possible, and supporting each other in this difficult time. I will do my best to get the next chapter posted very soon. <3

#the vanishing prince #kat writes fanfic #long post #text post #akafuri #I'm so glad I was finally able to share all those omurice notes lol #and also share the omurice cooking scene!! #I never thought that Furi would end up preparing a rice omelet for Bokushi haha #and I was just really amused by his utter disdain for the ketchup lol #definitely inspired by all my friends who were like why would you fry rice with ketchup and I'm like IT'S BETTER THAN YOU'D THINK IT'D BE #anyway #this was also a tough chapter to edit because it was SO LONG #and I felt bad for Oreshi #and these boys have complicated feelings #but I hope it was enjoyable to read because I did have fun writing it <3 #kat writes about basketball dorks