#I just know there was a team sweating blood and tears getting the perfect face models and I applaud them

[ryanthel0ser]

"but Vergil and Dante are identical twins they should have the same face mode-" shhhhhhhhhhhhhhshshhshshshhshshhhhhh

you cannot tell me that their face models aren't perfect. Like that IS Dante, that IS Vergil. The problem lies in that if you switch their faces it doesn't fit their characters. We can kinda see this when Dante does his taunt where he slicks his hair back so tease Vergil, his face model doesn't really work for Vergil.

So while they aren't identical, the Capcom team DID do a good job at finding face that look like they could be related. While Dante and Vergil may not be identical, they do still look like brothers, so you just have to have a suspension of disbelief for it!

#this is devil may cry after all we have enough wacky stuff that pretending they're identical seems reasonable #also applause to the people who chose the models for Nero Eva and V #cause they are also meant to look like Dante and Vergil to an extent #like V is meant to look closer to Eva because he's Vergil's humanity so of course he'd look more like his mom #and Nero is Vergil's kid so obviously he has to look like the guy #I just know there was a team sweating blood and tears getting the perfect face models and I applaud them #dmc5 #dmc #dmc dante #dmc vergil #devil may cry

[cowgurrrl]

La Golondrina

Pairing: Javier Peña x CIA!reader

Author’s note: oooooooohhhh bitch plus disclaimer: I do speak and write Spanish and have for several years and will do so as I see fit for this series!! That being said, it won’t always be a perfect translation as I’m working off my grammatical knowledge and handle of the language. Please be patient :-)

Summary: The prologue [1.1k]

Warnings: backstory before the story, canonical type violence, torture

The heat of the room is suffocating. There are no windows, no fans, no fresh air. Sweat rolls down your back and sticks to your body. It's dark and dank and smells like cigarette smoke and mildew. The only light in the room emits from the crack under the door, the only indication you have of how much time has passed. Your eyes have adjusted to the dark as much as they can, and you can just barely make out the blood slicking the floor and the stained tools in the corner. 

This has been going on for so long. Maybe a few days. A week? You're really not sure. You don't know where you are, but you know the names and faces of the men who've taken turns busting their knuckles across your face. They've taken their time with you just as promised, withholding food and water as they bleed you out. You've done your best not to scream and cry, to not show weakness, as they tortured you for information and shoved a camera in your face to taunt the Agency. You've stayed strong. You've relied on your training. You've done everything you were supposed to. But you're so tired. You want to be done. 

Your head feels like it weighs a million pounds, and all you can do is let it hang dejectedly with your hands behind your back, metal digging unforgivably hard into your wrists. You swear you're burning from the inside out, but that could be the circular burns pressed into your skin. Your ribs ache as your lungs rattle to fight for breath. When will they come back? Did they leave you here to starve? Where the fuck is your team? Are you about to become collateral? The room spins around you, and your stomach churns from the bright pain dancing up your body. 

Unconsciousness dangles in front of you like a shiny carrot, and you're about to make the leap when a loud bang sounds somewhere in the building. Automatic gunfire, screams, and loud orders called in Spanish follow closely behind. The cuffs on your wrists keep you from moving to a safer position to protect yourself from stray bullets. Of course, I would survive being tortured by the cartel just to catch an American bullet, you think. You try to shift your feet in a half-hearted attempt to get down, but the floor is too slippery. You'd laugh if your ears didn't feel like they were splitting in half and your sore body wasn't tense with fear. 

The gunfire gets closer, and you can barely make out a handful of different voices, but you don't know if you recognize any of them. You don't know when the last time you heard a voice that didn't belong to a loyal sicario. You don't know what the fuck is happening. You let your head loll to the side in defeat and wait for the scale to tip. However this ends, you hope it's quick. 

A few more rounds find homes in bodies and walls before the building goes silent. Ringing takes over your senses, and you're almost positive there's blood dripping from your ear. The doorknob jiggles, and you can feel yourself shaking hard. You don't try to stop the tears from rolling down your face anymore. You're too tired. Your body is too weak. You're too ready. Another boom, and you scream as the door crashes down and officers swarm the room. Sunlight floods in and nearly blinds you as you squint against its intensity. Golden bullets wink at you, and barrels swing past you as they clear the room. Nobody gives you a second glance as you sit there, bleeding and trembling. 

"Soy CIA! No dispares!" Your voice doesn't sound like your own, all crackly and deep. You repeat it over and over again and hope that you're not hallucinating when you catch the Colombian flag on someone's vest. A hand lands on your knee, and your body jerks painfully to escape it. You kick at the person kneeling in front of you and let out a choked sob, unable to distinguish if the hand is friend or foe. 

"Hey, hey," a familiar voice says. You blink through tears, find his brown eyes boring into yours, and slump in relief. "You're okay. We're gonna get you outta here." Javi murmurs. He moves hair out of your face and wipes blood from the side of your head. You lean into his touch and let out a shaky sigh. 

"Are they dead?" You ask in English, hoping nobody but him can understand the cruel question. He nods and glances at your own handcuffs, forcing your hands behind you. "Javi, I need you to say it. I need to hear the words. Please." You beg. His hands gently frame your face and make you look at him as his eyes scan your injuries.

"They're all dead. Every single one, okay? You're safe now." He says, and you nod. Steve steps into your eyeline just enough to show you the key in his hands before he moves behind you to unlock the cuffs. Everyone is silent as they watch you. Based on the looks on their faces and how bad you feel, it's a miracle you survived. 

"I'm gonna have to maneuver them to get you out. It's probably gonna hurt." Steve warns. 

"Just do it." You urge and clench your jaw. The metal starts moving, and a pathetic moan slips from your chapped lips. If it weren't for you crying in pain, you would be able to hear a pin drop. Javi keeps you upright as Steve works at the cuffs, and the second the metal drops from your wrists, you fall into Javi's chest. 

"I've got you. You're okay." The words are soothing, and the tone is kind, but you sob anyway. You cling to him like a liferaft as the shock takes over. 

You don't remember exactly what happened after that. You know what they've told you. You know what's written down in a classified folder postmarked for Washington and forever relegated to the White Room. You know what injuries sent you into emergency surgery and which would cause aches for years. But the only thing you can say for certain about that rescue is that you heard Javi's radio chatter in Spanish and English, demanding an update. Steve tried to say something, but Javi beat him to it. Your eardrum was perforated, but you heard his words loud and clear.

“La Golondrina está libre.”

#wanted #javier peña x female reader #javier peña x f!reader #javier peña x fem!reader #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena x reader #javier peña #javier pena x you #javier pena angst #javier pena series #narcos netflix #steve murphy

[jamminvroomvroom]

on the weekends.

gr x fem!reader

finally done with the george win smut! sorry it took ages but we made it lol - mentally i am still in brazil. lemme know what you think ily ily ily!!

btw this is not linked to the george fic, this is a standalone! dedicating this one to @wetforwolff and @lovely-leclerc - you asked, you shall receive <3

warnings: 18+!! it’s smut!! bit of fluff, bit of angst, language, alcohol

3.5k words

you’d anticipated this day for as long as you’d known george. he looked like a winner, walked like a winner, talked like a winner. he fucked you like one, too.

back when you were just getting toto his coffee and george was making powerpoints, you knew this day would come. when you were taking on a bigger role and he was dragging the williams into q3, you knew this day would come. when you were finally at the top of the job ladder, draped in merc team kit in the garage every weekend and he was pulling a top five out of the bag every single time he got in the car, you knew this day would come.

you’d been stood in the back of the garage biting your nails, trying not to draw attention to yourself and your nerves. the humidity drove you insane, but not as much as he did. no one needed to know just how close you and george could get after a long weekend, and now wasn’t the time to publicise it. toto was back at the factory, leaving you exposed; usually you’d hide behind him when things heated up on track. you weren’t supposed to care which merc brought it home p1. a win was a win, a one-two was a one-two, and lewis was on the hunt. fair game. you knew you were fucked when you prayed that car number sixty three would come out on top. you knew it was foolish and selfish but a celebratory night in the sheets boded better than a consolation fuck.

a mercedes one-two and a meltdown at redbull rounded off your weekend perfectly. george had done it, just like you knew he would. lewis had pulled off the recovery drive that added more flavour to his greatness. a perfect day in the office, realised by three trophies to tell the tale.

toto was blowing up your phone. you answered, trying to wade through the masses in parc ferme. you lingered by the scales, pressing the big green button on your phone, toto’s face filling the screen, aged by a lacklustre season, masked by the elation of triumph. you beamed as you rambled about data and upgrades and and told him that you’d try and find george. you didn’t need to look much further.

a large hand ghosted over your waist, a shiver running up your spine and back down again. you turned, breath hitching in your throat. he was breathtaking; sweating, blue eyes clouded red, veins prominent in his trembling hands. his hair was a mess, body shaking from the adrenaline and his smile was so wide, so emotional that you almost doubled over. you couldn’t help but stare at him, at the blood, sweat and tears that had made him great. beautiful bastard.

you very rarely felt small in the presence of a man. you refused to, taking up space was the key to survival in your line of work. but for once, you allowed yourself to shrink, to succumb to it, the size of george. the size of success. he looked different, powerful. your thighs clenched.

all he did was stare back at you, a telepathic communication pinging backwards and forwards.

he was going to ruin you, and you were going to let him.

“are you there? hello?” toto grumbled, too excited to be mad at your ignorance towards him.

“oh- um,” you fumbled, thrusting the phone towards george. “it’s for you.” you smiled. his fingers brushed yours in the midst of the transaction and you shivered again. “someone’s very proud of you.” you murmured, eyes never leaving his.

you let your tongue swipe your bottom lip, hoping he knew that amongst all the chaos, you weren’t just talking about toto. it was dangerous to be so obvious in public, you could do that later, on your knees. with toto harping away in the background, george’s eyes darkened; it was too much, the adrenaline and your double meanings. dark blue eyes mentally undressed you, glancing hungrily over your body, and you felt naked in parc ferme. maybe one day you’d let him fuck you in the garage, you thought. perhaps if he won a title.

“i’ll bet.” he mirrored your action and licked his lips, the quickest wink being thrown at you, the most carefree you allowed him to be in public, and he turned his attention to your boss, who was bellowing away like the world’s proudest dad.

tonight was the night. brazil never disappointed.

-

hours passed, the muggy afternoon blurring into the hazy night. the champagne flowed, as did a few tears, the man of the moment being carried around on anyones shoulders and hosed down with alcohol. the team had craved this, worked for it, earned it. it was a bit like your relationship with george, really.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him, your entire body tingling in anticipation for later. so when it was finally time to go, you tried to slip away, get back to the hotel as quickly as you could. but of course, nothing ever got past george. he was the right amount of tipsy to grab both of your hands in his, right there at the entrance of the hospitality suite, and insist that you just share his ride back. it was stupid, utterly reckless, but you were the right amount of tipsy to accept.

hands intertwined, you stared at each other some more, until someone cleared their throat and you were being ushered out into the exposure of the paddock.

he didn’t let go and you didn’t make him.

-

he didn’t leave you any time to go back to your hotel room, coaxing you easily straight back to his. the tension between you was suffocating, it had been all afternoon, but nothing beat the journey from the track back to his hotel.

you’d gotten stuck in traffic, just as you always did in são paulo, which sent hands wandering early, carefully hidden from the driver that had the misfortune of picking you up. he trailed his fingers from your knee and up, up, up, occasionally grazing the fabric of your panties. your thighs would snap shut every time he did, your face a flaming shade of red. you looked out the window with wide eyes, trying to mask the urge to roll your hips, and all he did was stare at you, a devilish grin spread across his face.

you’d hurried out of the car, stumbling into the hotel lobby. you both did your worst at pretending that you weren’t tipsy, straight faces wavering as his hand dipped too low on the small of your back. you gave in, foolish, letting yourself lean into his side, giggling up at him with your head rested against his shoulder. your were caught up in the moment, blindsided by lovesickness, as he guided you into the elevator.

your breathing shook, fingers balled up as you tried to resist the cliche make out session in the elevator. it’s as if he could read your mind, pulling one of your hands into his and intertwining your fingers. he didn’t take it any further, not yet, knowing that no matter what the pair of you may have wanted, there was a time and a place. both were rapidly approaching as the lift reached its destination and you were let loose into the corridor. suddenly, nothing was funny anymore. urgency takes over.

down the corridor, force the key into the slot, wait for the green light. your back is against the door the second it’s been slammed shut. you’re used to this, the sudden pounce of him. your relationship survived on stolen moments and hurried touches, rapid pleasure. it was intense and the need for more fuelled you both because once could never be enough. so when he kissed you, it was quick, carrying the force and speed of a race car. you found yourself realising that for once, there wasn’t a flight to catch, or someone just waiting to interrupt, and your hands flew to his face, taking control of the pace. you deepened the kiss, slowing him down and licking your way into his mouth.

he seemed to get the hint, and you felt the slow press of his body moulding against yours as your lips moved together, nice and deep. it was different. your heart grew about ten sizes, on the verge of exploding for him. you moved across the room in some kind of trance, floating to the bed. shoes were kicked off, merc embroidered shirts discarded in a painful reminder of a pile, unidentifiable fingers working in the darkness to undo his trousers, to tug down your skirt. in nothing but your underwear, you tumbled into bed.

you were a mess of touches in the dark, clambering on top of him, his hands finding your hips. he held you tight, close, encouraging the roll of your hips and you sunk into his body. you could make out his face in the dim light, his shadowy features contorting as he lost any remaining scrap of control.

you were on your back in a blink, kisses pressed to your sternum, over the lace of your bra, peppered down your navel. your panties were peeled off, flung behind him onto the floor, instantly forgotten. he’d been waiting to get between your legs all weekend, desperate for you after the sprint, forced to wait by the reality of your jobs. he couldn’t wait any longer, wouldn’t. he slung one of your legs over his shoulder, open mouthed kisses pressed from your knee, all the way down to your inner thigh, as his arm wound its way around your other leg, spreading you open.

he was ready to dive in when you pushed yourself up on your elbows, one hand reaching down to cup his jaw, making him look at you. his eyebrows furrowed, confused as to why you’d stopped him when he could see just how bad you needed him, the way you glistened for him becoming a familiar, welcomed sight.

“george,” you breathed, “supposed to be celebrating you.” all he did was smile at you, leaning in closer to where you were aching.

“couldn’t have done it without you, sweetheart.” and with that, he escaped your hold, licking a stripe through your folds.

you fell back into the sheets, eyes glazing over and quickly squeezing shut. george was messy with it, licking into your cunt with an enthusiasm that had you arching further and further into him. his large hands gripped harder on your thighs, tightening every time you moaned louder. his tongue swirled across your folds, alternating between long laps and featherlight flicks across your clit, the differing sensations having you embarrassingly close already.

“george, stop, i’m gonna cum. want you in me. please.” you begged, warning him of just how close you were to your undoing, desperate to feel him back on top of you.

he didn’t let up for a second, barely even acknowledged you. all he did was stare up at you, amused eyes twinkling through the darkness as he doubled his efforts. all of the sudden, you were numb with pleasure, writhing against the sheets. your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping at the dirty blonde locks so hard that it must of hurt, but just like everything else you threw at him, he seemed to be enjoying it, humming into your pussy as he helped you ride out your orgasm. it all felt too much, too overwhelming; you didn’t know whether to push him away or pull him even closer.

finally the pleasure began to subside, relief washing over you for barely a second before he was pushing two fingers through your folds. his tongue continued to curl against your clit as he slid his fingers inside you. you whined at the overstimulation, grinding your hips to meet his movements.

“george, i can’t-“ you started, panting, only to be cut off.

“you’re gonna keep coming for me, sweetheart. okay?” he told you bluntly, fingers working into you quickly. “do you know why? because i won.” he smirked, “i won and this is my reward.”

you could already feel your second orgasm building, his words along making you shake, his fingers hitting your spot each time with ease. you were dripping all over him, limp from the pleasure, desperate to cum just so that he’d put you out of your misery and fuck you.

“one more for me, yeah? one more, darling, and i’ll stop.” george murmured, thumb brushing over your clit, fingers beginning a deep grind into you.

“please, george.” you whined, eyes blurry with unshed tears.

he kept going, going, going, until you were shaking once more, seeing nothing but white, hips bucking wildly, uncontrollably. he had his mouth back on you, lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers buried inside of you, until he was sure that you were finished. you laid there lifeless, the aftershocks rocking your body while he licked his fingers clean. your mouth parted at the sight, eyes fluttering shut when you felt his lips working across your thigh, to the crease where your leg met your body, up, up, up, until he was hovering over you again.

your fingers interlocked at the nape of his neck, twisting in his hair to pull him close. he kissed you, ferocious, pulling your thigh over his hip to line himself up with your entrance. your mouths fell open as he slipped inside of you, broken moans tumbling from your lips and into his mouth. you could hear his breath stuttering as he sunk deeper and deeper into you, until his hips hit yours.

“how does that feel, darling? being fucked by the race winner?” george groaned lowly, lips skimming the shell of your ear as he spoke. you tightened around him inadvertently, feeling a rush of wetness at his words.

“so good, you’re so good.” you whimpered, absolutely pathetic beneath him. all you could do was give in, let him have his way with you. it’s what you both needed.

“i know, love. i know.” he muttered, his arrogance as he fucked into you making you weaker and weaker. it was obscene, the way his behaviour was such a turn on to you. if any other man dared to speak that way, so unsubtly cocky, you’d roll your eyes and find the nearest exit. but for some reason, when george did it, you were ready to fall to your knees; you got off on seeing him succeed.

“you feel like fucking heaven.” george sighed, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he slammed into you, rhythm never faltering, hard and deep into your dripping cunt. “all i could think about in the car when i crossed that line was you. knew you’d be soaked for me, darling,” he whispered. “knew it as soon as i saw you after the race, had that look like you were just waiting to be fucked. i would have done it right there, you know, in the middle of parc fucking fermé.”

you cried out, body shuddering at his admission, completely boneless on the bed as he rocked into you. you knew you were close, urgently approaching your orgasm, wanting to get him there too. you could tell he was getting closer to his end, breathing getting heavier, thrusts getting slightly more frantic.

“come on george, want you to cum for me. need it.” you pleaded, nails raking over his scalp and down across his shoulder blades, digging in to leave red tracks down his back. you could feel him tensing under your touch, chest to chest, breath mingling as he pulled away from your neck to look at you. to really, properly, look at you.

something happened, then, that you couldn’t quite grasp. it happened all at once, something changing in his eyes that you knew was mirrored in your own, something that you couldn’t articulate, that you’d never let him see before. you didn’t know if he was feeling it for the first time, or if he was like you, too scared of reality to let it slip through. as quickly as it happened, you were squeezing your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the pleasure of having him on top of you, your legs tightening around his waist, trapping him against you.

you fell apart, levitating somewhere above the clouds, seeing nothing but white. the only thing that brought you out of it, back to life again, was the feeling of his weight crashing down on top of you, not a millimetre between your slick bodies. the groan he let out was carnal, utterly delirious as he came down from his high.

when he kissed you after, making no effort to get off of you, you let yourself have hope for the first time ever.

-

afterwards, it was quiet. it usually was between you. sometimes there was only time for the quiet moments, no time for whispers across pillows or to be held in his arms. tonight there was time. you could hear his breath slowing, you own heartbeat still ringing in your ears. next, there was the crumpling of the sheets as he turned towards you.

you were laying on your side, facing away from him. you needed these moments after to compose yourself, to take it all in before it was over again, until the next time. his hand grazed your waist, down to where the duvet covered you, grabbing softly at your hip. you could feel his body heat, turning slowly to look up at him. he was resting on his forearm, fingers trailing over any bare skin he could find.

neither of you spoke yet, there was still no need. you curled into him as he laid himself back against the pillows, enveloped in his arms. your head rested on his chest, a sense of total calm settling over you. you dreaded these moments, because it always felt the same. he made you feel safe and warm and relaxed, and it was awful. it was especially awful when there was only one race left before he would disappear off on holiday, and then go back to his family, and you’d submerge yourself in christmas drinks in london and making sure that the w14 wasn’t as god awful.

then, you’d see him again in february wondering if he’d finally gotten a girlfriend, despite that inkling of hope, or if he was bored of your face every time he shut the door of a hotel suite. you were far too scared to broach either topic and somehow he always came back to you. what if he didn’t, though? what then? you’d never be allowed to enjoy him all the time because what if? what if? you were only allowed him on the weekends. he could only be yours on the weekends, when everyone else stopped paying attention. looks shared in the heat of the moment did nothing to change that.

“i meant what i said. couldn’t have done it without you, you know.” he broke the silence, and you were thankful that you didn’t have to do it.

you let his words sink in. you hadn’t been able to before, submerged too quickly into the white hot pleasure to form a coherent thought.

“it’s a team effort.” you whispered. you didn’t move to look up at him. you couldn’t bare it for some reason.

“no. that’s not what i mean.” his voice was somewhat even, only slightly laced with annoyance. george never liked having to over-explain himself, he was very good at making people understand the first time. apparently that had never quite translated to you, too much time spent second guessing him, and more importantly, yourself.

“what i’m trying to say is thank you. for everything. for believing in me.” he murmured, lips pressing against your hairline. his fingers found yours in the dark, lacing them together. “with you, it’s a different kind of team effort. always felt like you were on my side. when i was at williams, when i joined you at mercedes, you always had my back.”

you stayed silent, unsure of what this meant, words being spoken softly into the darkness. it was overwhelming, having him vocalise his gratitude to you, something he’d never really done before.

“always knew you’d do it.” you whispered, words fanning across his chest. it was all a bit too intimate, unfamiliar territory being explored for the first time.

he turned into you, your head no longer resting on his chest, the low visibility doing nothing to hide the desire in his eyes as he leaned in and kissed you. it was slow, soft, that feeling from before nagging at you as your naked bodies moulded together. one hand cupped his neck, the other still held tightly in his.

this never happened after. ever.

how long could it last? slow kisses turned into sleep, held tight against his chest as the night faded into the misery of monday morning, and the weekend was over.

-

we love an ambiguous ending lol

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @turningxstrange @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @yeolsbubbles @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @organasith @micks-afterglow @blueflorals @juno-1610 @lqvesoph

i’ve removed any tags that weren’t working! pls let me know if you wanna be added to my taglist or removed! <3

#george russell #george russell x fem!reader #george russell smut #george russell fluff #george russell angst #george russell imagine #george russell oneshot #george russell x you #george russell fic #george russell writing #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 fluff #f1 oneshot #f1 angst #f1 fics #f1 imagine

[cloudninetonine]

I LOVE anon’s idea of Player being a sort of guardian Angel type figure! The absolute audacity of unseen forces tearing away their one true shred of hope in their bleak world, and then having their minds wiped squeaky clean of their existence? Even more brutal than the OG chain.

Here’s that but with only one of the evil boys

—

The crackling light from the fire danced at the edge of Link- Hyrule’s vision. He had turned his back to the flames in favor of staring at you, their little prisoner, you who had decided to sleep as far away as possible from the campfire to stay away from at least (as some slept far off, not trusting their team members) the bulk of their ragtag group.

He narrowed his gaze, dark circles pronouncing themselves as they crinkled under the weight of his sneer.

Hyrule had asked for first watch that night, knowing he wouldn’t be able to get much sleep after a few things- regarding his… wingless condition- got brought up by yourself.

It wasn’t something he wanted any of his peers to be privy to, the more knowledge they had of him the more they could exploit. It was your fucking fault they even knew that he had a fairy form. At the very least, they didn’t know it wasn’t just his magic, and that he had actual fairy blood.

He grumbled as you shivered, curling in on yourself with your thin blanket. With a slight glance Hyrule noted that everyone was asleep, his keen sense of hearing confirming their even breaths, aside from the occasional flutter due to frequent night terrors.

Quietly, he stood, slowly moving across the dry, dead grass. He squatted beside you, hunching over you with a disgruntled countenance.

“I’m sure that dark creature won’t mind you having a blemish or two…” He whispered, pulling out his sword. “Just one little cut, a bit of discomfort to start your tomorrow with, think of it as a warning to leave my past in the past.”

Despite your slumbering state not being able to process his words to their fullest meaning, you shifted in a show of slight fear, lip quivering as sweat began to bead down your face. Your breathing kicked up a notch, and you began to mumble.

“Shh, can’t have you moving now, I might make a mistake, and the wound may be… a bit bigger than wanted.” He tried to gently put a hand on your shoulder to quiet your movements, which worked, but in response your mumbles turned to words.

“Link… Link it’s okay…” You muttered, faced creased in worry.

The sound of his real name sent a slight shudder down his spine. It shouldn’t even phase him, you were dreaming of those other versions of them, of him, it shouldn’t effect him at all.

“Link- Link you don’t need to fly… you’re still perfect to me…” Now that surprised him.

The other… the other him still had his wings, given what you had said today. Why would you be dreaming up such a scenario?

In his hesitation, his wrist was touched. He startled, noticing your hand gingerly grasping it. Despite himself, he felt no need to pull away, no burning rage at the sudden touch, no coursing fear that he had been caught and this was it.

“I’ve got you, I can’t hold you, but know that I’ve got you…” You whispered, wiggling closer to him despite being unconscious.

A numb film drenched his brain as his limbs seized up, goosebumps from the night’s chill melted back into his skin as sense of feeling drove away for comfort, and a wave of memory crashed over him-

“I’ve got you- it’s okay Link, I’m here.” You rapidly whispered to him, a warm brush caressing his cheek.

He pressed his knees further against him, sobbing violently into his legs. “T-they’re GONE! They clipped them gone! I-I didn’t e-even get a choice!”

He had slipped into his fairy form after jumping onto a desk so that he could drop into a small drawer, unable to simply fly up and into it like he normally could.

“I’m not even a fairy anymore, am I? What kind of fairy doesn’t have wings?” He cried, fruitlessly wiping at his red eyes.

“The one I hold dearly, Link.” It was like gentle tendrils of warm, golden mist curled around his legs, arms, hands, wrists, and entire body. A shield made of love and support in his dark world.

He hiccuped, “That’s stupid.”

You hummed, twirling your gentle feelings through his hair, like fingers carding through his wild locks. “Not to me it isn’t, not to me.”

Hyrule blinked furiously, tears marring his face. He pulled his hands away from you, throwing his sword as far as possible from your vulnerable body, it fell silently in the grass nearby.

He looked down at you in a whole new light, eyes sparkling as more and more came back to him. The noise of crickets and owls buzzed out of his hearing as you became the only thing in the world that mattered, the only thing he cared about.

Oh- wow, oh gee- you were even lovelier in person. How did he not realize that? How could he not realize that? How come he didn’t remember you? You were all he cared for, fought for!

No wonder he couldn’t remember where he found the motivation to keep moving, keep alive, keep going even when he craved death over all else. You were what kept him going- living! If not for you he wouldn’t even be here, he would’ve been dead if not for you.

You were right here, in front of him, and he had almost harmed you.

Hyrule scrambled back, not trusting his own hands. He had almost wounded his light, his wonder, his world. All for what? Your horror over his well being? Stupid stupid! He couldn’t, he couldn’t conceive the idea of ever hurting you-!

‘They might,’ a piece of him whispered. ‘They’ve already drawn weapons against them, threatened them, scared them’.

He looked back at the group, sleeping not-so-soundly as nightmares attacked their minds.

He could kill them now, just one little slice to the throat and they’d be too busy choking to scream, just one little slice…

‘They wouldn’t like it thought, they’d feel even more disgusted by you…’ a small part of his brain mumbled, referring to you.

But who cares? You wouldn’t be awake to know it was him. Besides, even if you had guarded the rest as well, you clearly didn’t recall. You hadn’t remembered him, given your surprise over his wings, so what reason would you remember the rest? If you hated them as much as you currently hated him, then it’d be a damn blessing that they had all mysteriously died in the night.

He has never been happy once in his life, and here was his happiness, sleeping on the floor, in danger. It didn’t matter that the rest may soon recall like Hyrule, or like your goody two shoes versions of them, couldn’t he be selfish just this once? Doesn’t he deserve to be selfish by now?

‘You once promised them a world where everything was better, you know…’

“…”

‘You said to be better, things would have to get better, and now, with these… people like you… that’s possible…’

“…”

‘If you’re selfish about this… will your guardian miss out on happiness too…?’

“…What if they hand them over before then…?” He whispered out loud to himself in abject horror, looking back at your rising and falling chest, needing reassurance that you were still breathing and alive.

‘…’

‘…Then we’ll cut, and cut, and cut, until their are no more pieces left…’

—

Inspiration hits when it hits, and it hit fucking hard.

I just want them all to cuddle and kiss and smooch and THESE VILLAINS ARE BAD, WHY DO I LOVE THEM SO MUCH?!?!

(I chose Hyrule because his OG counterpart was the first as well hehe)

ALSO! Do the villains and yanderes go by their new nicknames or by by the same ones? Or is stuff like ‘Conflict’ and ‘Shards’ and ‘Abyss’ out of world stuff? Or maybe later things? I need to know, it makes writing much harder not knowing

OIWEFHPIUERGRI FUCKING LOVING THIS LIKE USUAL BB, IT'S FUCKING AMAZING

#cloud answers #bloodybloob #BB

[animehouse-moe]

Bocchi The Rock 12: Making Anime History

So, Bocchi The Rock (hopefully Season 1) is now finished. I'm not great at rating things or keeping track of rankings and the like, but this show is one of my only 10/10 series this year. It's not in a "this is my favorite out of everything I've experienced" way, but just looking at what they've done. You just take a look at almost anything out there and try to find something that Bocchi is outright beaten in. Animation? Direction? Character acting? Bocchi has it all, and it damn well knows it because it put all of it on display in its finale.

Just take the opening music work for example. It's such a massive expectation subversion. The girls don't kill it, it's not stardom, it's hardly even really a focus on the surreal. It's the girls' perception of the talent show. Some of them are nervous, some of them are really into it, there's slight miscommunications and Bocchi is on edge. Just look at this, Ryou and Kita are both facing Nijika directly, while Bocchi is only slightly turned.

They're all on edge in their own ways, and the direction really shows that. There's not any crazy moments of animation or direction, it's an almost cut and dry musical sequence in comparison to what they've done before. But what really separates it is the crowd. You get to see the familiar faces, you get to see Bocchi search out into the sea of people and find those familiar faces. You get to see Bocchi's reactions to the cheering, to the smiles and enjoyment of everybody in the crowd.

It's an eye-opener that is there for one specific purpose. Comparison. To see how far they've come, they can't have perfect performances every time they're out and about, they can't have revelations every time they step on stage. Instead of that, it's showing how far they've come, even if they're nervous and slightly awkward, you get to see Kita's eyes dart around and make contact/sync up with Bocchi and Ryou, you get to see their response to the crowd, and how in tune all the girls are with each other. The songs weren't for showing off their ability or making it cool, they were to show that the girls have come far enough to see outside their stage, outside of their individual performances.

Of course, it's Bocchi The Rock, so there's a catch. And it works so incredibly well as a wake-up call and tonal shift to take the episode where it really wants to go

From here it plays out like typical Bocchi. The grand sense of tension and excitement evaporates and is replaced with the oddball humor and wild creativity of the staff in stuff like Bocchi going Super Saiyan, or the real photorealistic backgrounds and environments that the show is so well-known for, or even Nijika going to town on a drum set with a pair of guitars as drumsticks.

I could write about every last frame of Bocchi, and I'd probably love doing so. Every last detail, every little piece that forms this puzzle, all of it has intent, purpose, passion, behind it. It's not a half-assed "get it out the door" adaptation, and it's not a director trying to leave their mark on the work.

It is the insane love child of the staff that have worked tirelessly to make something that stands out as an incredible pillar of anime and animation. It is their blood, sweat, and tears distilled into a surreal and near indescribable adaptation that does leave the team's mark on the material. Not because they changed it, but because they nailed it.

Bocchi The Rock is more than what awards can give credit to the series for. This is a first time director. A FIRST. TIME. DIRECTOR. This is their first full anime project undertaken, and this is what they produced. This staff, on a short and somewhat tight schedule, produced this. The creativity of this team, and subsequently Cloverworks, is massively understated in the community.

This is a studio that's brought God knows how many stellar adaptations at this point. They brought us Bocchi and Spy x Family part 2 this season. They brought Shadows House S2 in Summer, Spy x Family Part 1 in Spring, and even though I'm a big Dress Up Darling hater, they did incredible work on it in the same season as Akebi's Sailor Uniform.

Bocchi The Rock is a reminder of what the anime industry is. Ever changing, ever evolving. The "best" studio, the greatest work never being chained down to a single name for a long period of time, never being able to dominate in all genres of anime. But more than how volatile the industry is, it reminds viewers of what anime can do. How far it can take itself, how thin it can stretch its reality, how wide its reach can be. It's a reminder of the limitless potential that anime and animation holds, and how much more we still have that we can explore.

Bocchi The Rock is a literal rock-star of anime and should be recognized as such. Incomparably incredible.

#bocchi the rock! #hitori gotou #bocchi hitori #bocchi #bocchi the rock #bocchi chan #bocchisweep #animation #anime and manga #anime recommendation #anime #anime review #ぼっち・ざ・ろっく!

[seagull-scribbles]

Lie Awake

A TMNT 2012 Casey and Raph ficlet [AO3]

word count: 1,191

just a small drabble focusing on Casey and his view of their relationship. I didn't write this as a ship fic, but I do ship them so you can interpret it as platonic or romantic

Casey hates people seeing him as weak. He wears every cut, bruise and mark like a medal, a badge of honour for a hockey game well played or a fight well fought. He hates when neighbours or the school populace look at him with pity in their eyes and sympathy coating their words like sponge covering a toddlers playroom or bubble wrap suffocating a porcelain doll.

So what if he doesn't have a mom anymore? Who cares about his deadbeat dad? Casey is keeping his promise and at almost 17 is protecting and looking after his sister, the best player on a hockey team within the region and a vigilante the purple dragons will write legends about. He is strong and brave. He bounces back from anything with a witty comment and a toothy grin. Missing incisors be damned.

So why is this different? Strong, calloused, leathery hands gently graze over fragile skin. Instead of the usual burn of anger such caution would ignite, Casey Jones feels a sense of calm and his breath almost gets caught in his throat. Almost. Arms he has seen tear robots to shreds, dislocate joints from vigilantes, break monstrous jaws are now delicately tracing over his pale soft surface, well- it should be pale but the current complection is primarily a mixture of injuries, marks and dirt. Purple, blue, green, yellow, pinks, reds- any colour besides a natural skin tone coats his body like a vandalised back alley wall.

The hand stops moving and instead a comforting weight is placed across Casey's chest and torso. The weight he has seen choke and crush wrong-dooers, crack brick walls and dent spaceship walls now comfortably rests along his side like a weighted blanket, the arm across his middle.

Awareness of his current location comes back. Why's the ceiling looking blurry suddenly? Casey realises his eyes are starting to water. These can't be tears of frustration though? Maybe these are not new tears but the remnants of the storm that leaked from those eyes earlier this evening, in the privacy of these four walls as his own inner walls crumbled in Front of his current companion. No mask or face paint or armour, no facade of cokyness and happiness. His emotions are raw and his mind is still screaming at him, maybe that's why he hadn't noticed the burning eyes. These tears can't be new. Definitely not! He's happy and safe now, why would they be? He is brought from his thoughts as a hard smooth surface buts the bottom of his jaw, sending a short vibration of pain through his skull.

"'Ya sure this is alright?" A gruff voice nervously whispers.

"Yeah, 's fine" he mumbles back before finally looking down at the friend pressed against him. His own voice sounds raspy and sore. Perfect.

Raph has put his head back down on the pillow, his beak fitting like a jigsaw puzzle in the gap above Casey's shoulder. The bolt he'd felt had been from Ralph bucking his head to hit his jaw with the top curve of his beak. It hurt a little but he isn't fragile. Raph knows that. All he can feel now is that comforting weight on his side. He's focusing on it. Raph certainly wasn't scared to touch him. Why else would he hit him to gain his attention?

Soft cold breath gently brushes against Casey's neck in delicate puffs.

"I can sleep on the floor y'know?" tiredly drifts out of the terrapin creatures mouth "This bed ain't exactly made for two"

"Nah it's your room, I'm the intruder"

"Hmm" Raph lazily hums and slightly squeezes his ribs, getting comfortable in his squashed position on the edge of the bed "a warm one".

Casey sits there in silence for a bit, his friend drifting off to sleep. The overwhelming smell of sweat and blood and the sewers clogging his nose. Raphael is the only person Casey talks to about his home life, the only one he talks about his troubles too. He knows Raph instils that same comfort and confidence in him as he tells the lanky teen his own insecurities and secrets.

Tender moments like these however? They usually proceed fights. Fights they start coated in darkness or just heated spars between friends who are shouting and blowing off steam. They'd collapse with exhaustion on some random rooftop and through jagged breaths become vulnerable, no eye contact, maybe a squeeze of the hand or a punch in the side to let the other one know they're there. Kind, soft and comforting pain. Like the kind you get from laughing too hard or playing a game. It is strange to think they are now squashed and laid across each other, even if the reptile insists the body warmth was an exciting upgrade to his sleeping arrangement.

Casey was kicked out tonight after a particularly bad fight at home, he limped his way to his usual meeting spot and a few texts later Raph was on his way. He's going to be staying here with his friend, just tonight... he'll go home tomorrow. No one else in the sewer family needs to know why, Raph will come up with a lame excuse to torment him with. The thought makes him smile a little. Raph is the epitome of masculinity. Testosterone coats his existence like a second shell. He's violent and abrasive and yet here he is, not throwing punches, but still being gentle. His body weight is not entirely on top of the teen, but it is there along his right side nonetheless. He wasn't repulsed by Casey and he hadn't tried sugar coating anything all night. When he 'picked him up' he'd joked at Casey's expense and made the boy laugh. Casey wasn't too sure how Raph managed to create such a strong positive moment up on that rooftop in those circumstances. But none of the Hamato clan followed logic by nature so maybe that is not so surprising.

Casey isn't sure why this isn't affecting him the way it usually does. He feels calm and safe, even stripped down to his boxers and pressed into an old smelly matrice and cold metal wall.

Maybe it's because he keeps reminding himself that Raph doesn't see the squishy, thin human as delicate. He knows the turtle enough to know he considers Casey a great enough fighter to stand amongst his brothers, without any formal training or skill.

Maybe that's why this tender moment is nice? Raph isn't scared Casey will break, he wouldn't touch him if he thought he'd be hurt. Raph wouldn't joke with him and invite him here like this. The ninja had seen the boy break earlier, as he broke down and sobbed on the bed when they first arrived at the decorated subway car. The weight against him now is heavy, not crushing. It's grounding him.

Why is being treated tenderly so nice right now? Maybe that's the kind of privilege having a best friend creates? He doesn't remember his childhood friend creating such a welcoming environment before though.

Casey hates people seeing him as weak. Raph doesn't, even now.

#TMNT #tmnt 2012 #casey jones #raphael hamato #casey jones 2012 #raph 2012 #seagull scribes #seagull squawks #its weird posting a fic when i havent like done art to post and can just hide it in the comments #also its been over a year since i shared any writing #you can probably tell by everything im not a writer #2012 rasey #so like i do ship rasey and i am only posting this cause they have no conent and there is deffo a fellow need out there also starving #but i didnt write this as a ship fic its meant to be platonic and i was just focusing a lot on a lot of my old bad teenage experiences #and how my friends and found family helped me and stuff but if you wanna be like lmao love does that im cool with that #totally open to you if you have a secret third interpretation #idk what else to say i have so many unfinished incomprehensible drafts of these for every fandom ive been in but yeah posting this one #oh because its kinda pulling references from my own experiences i put some references in here to my friends they nay recognise #but i also doubt they'd read it id be shocked if this got more than lets sayyyy 11 notes ahaha #ill have to learn to draw humans or continue learning i should say #i wanna deaw these dudes more #also if you see mistakes let me know i am so so bad and typing and English and writing in general

[somedayonbroadway]

I’d love to see your Criminal Minds Moodboard.

I hope you enjoyed them!

Here’s another Criminal Minds Scene :) please enjoy!

TW: bullet wound, stalker

Criminal Minds AU

Everything was a blur, a painful, shocking mess of colors and shapes above him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out a person standing. They were just standing there and David wondered for a long moment if they were just there to watch the light leave his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. Screaming was the first thing that came to his head, but no sound would come out. He tried to focus on anything but the pain, but it was overwhelming and all David wanted was to sleep.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, he would be able to see the stars. Somewhere in the back of his head he knew it wouldn’t work. There were blinking lights somewhere beyond his eye line that were messing with his view. It would’ve been so pretty. Maybe he’d be okay to sleep if he could see the stars.

That is, until a blinding light shined in his eyes. “Sir? Sir, can you hear me?” a stranger’s voice asked and David hated himself for wishing beyond anything that it was Jack kneeling above him. “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?”

“He’s not responding.”

“His name’s David. I think he works for the FBI,” the bystander insisted, sounding shocked but oddly calm. David had not made much of an impression on his neighbors. It was hard when he was barely home. He wanted his bubble right now, filling up and down with machines and computers and a door that locked behind him and a phone so he could hear the voice of the only people he wanted in that moment.

Now he was moving. He let out a strangled noise and realized he was biting down so hard on his tongue that he was drawing blood. A brace was secured around his neck and people were still talking to him. David couldn’t figure out why. “What’s your name, sir? Can you tell me your name?”

With wandering eyes, the young man managed a small, “D-David… Jacobs…” The words were barely a squeak. His eyes were beginning to fall closed but his heart was racing, like he was panicking.

“You’re doing great, David. Stay with us, okay? Stay calm and stay with us, you’re doing great.” Those words were repeated to him over and over again in so many ways as David was juggled into a smaller compartment. A car. What was the word? Ambulance. David swallowed hard as he lost sight of the sky. Maybe his soul wouldn’t get to soar. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. He shut his eyes. Just for a moment. “No, come on. Wake up and breathe,” someone encouraged. “He’s hyperventilating. Give me a mask!”

David let his mind wander a bit as his body freaked out. He could see their faces in his brain, Racer, Spot, Kat, Bryan and Jack, smiling down at him, hugging him, holding him, telling him they loved him and David unable to respond. He let a tear slip down his face, only for more to chase after it. That’s when it finally hit him.

He was dying.

—

The sound of the gunshot ricocheted off of the walls of David’s brain and he wanted to get up, he wanted to run, but all he could do was let his eyes flutter open. He felt disgusting, his forehead drenched in sweat and tubes pressing through his nose. But right in front of him were these perfect green eyes. Someone behind David called out to him. He could feel they weren’t the only two people in here but he didn’t dare turn his head. “Jack?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, I’m right here, princess,” he smiled sadly. “You scared us half ta death…” He was being so gentle despite the rage he was holding inside for whoever had done this. He glanced at his team and then back down at David. “Hey, can you tell us what happened?”

All David could do was sniffle. “J-Jack…”

“I’m here,” Jack promised again. “Davey, you’re alright. The doctors are calling you a miracle. You’re gonna be okay—“

“You were right,” David whimpered. “I sh-shoulda always just listened ta you.”

Spot squinted. “Davey, do you know who did this ta you?”

David sniffled, turning his head so he could see Spot and Race and Katherine standing over him as well. It was almost overwhelming. “Th-the guy f-from the coffee shop,” he whispered. “I… I was stupid n’ I let him—“

“Davey, stop,” Jack assured. “Hey, you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, okay? Can you tell us his name?”

With a small nod, David sniffled. “Vincent Larrings…” he whispered.

It was quiet for a moment before his team members began to brush through his hair and kiss his forehead, moving to leave. But David reached for Race’s hand. “Please don’t leave,” he begged.

Race had never been one for hospitals. But he nodded and held David’s hand tightly. “I won’t leave. I promise…” And he just sat at David’s side, holding onto his hand for dear life.

“I was so stupid, Tony,” David whispered, tears rushing down his face. “I j-just thought that he liked me.”

The young agent beside David shook his head. “You’re not stupid, Dave, you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

“I could hear him walking,” David whispered. “Wh-when he was standing over me, I held my breath to make it look like I was dead. A-and then he kissed me goodnight.” David almost laughed at that. It was all he wanted. This man seemed perfect. Too perfect. He made him forget about Jack and the world seemed wonderful for a moment and David had wished for one simple goodnight kiss.

“Oh, Davey,” Race breathed. “I’m so sorry…” David blinked slowly, trying to keep himself awake. It was excruciating. “It’s okay. I'm not going anywhere. Just rest,” the boy assured. And Davey had no choice but to obey. He was pulled into a deep sleep by the beeping of his own heart beside him.

—

It was all so real and David didn’t know if he was happy or terrified. It all felt off somehow. It was a beautiful place, so fancy and dimly lit. Romantic. David was supposed to be happy. Even in his memories, he couldn’t recall being happy. This wasn’t who he wanted to be here with. “We’ll have a bottle of Sancerre—“

“Oh, actually,” David called as he flagged the waiter back. “I never drink on the first date. I’ll take some water, please.” The man only gave him a small smirk that David could hardly resist.

“Please, bring the wine, and I assure you, you might be pleasantly surprised. You’ll love it,” the man winked. David smiled. The man was assertive. David liked it. “So, David, you work for the FBI? Sounds glamorous.”

A real laugh escaped David at that. “Yeah, if being cramped in a small room hidden underground for fourteen hours a day is your version of glamorous, then yes, it is Paris in the twenties,” he assured. He noted in his head that the man was checking his watch, as though trying to show it off. A fake Rolex. Fake. David didn’t dare say that out loud. He didn’t want to embarrass his date.

“You work murders?”

David nodded, feeling exposed for some reason. “All day everyday. I like to think of myself as a small part of the world’s karma,” he smiled. “What about you? What do you do?”

The man shrugged. “Grew up in New Haven, got into law school, you know the story,” he explained.

“Oh come on, there has to be more than that,” David smiled, biting a bit on his lip. “Handsome man like you doesn’t have any stories to share?”

“None that are as interesting as those beautiful eyes of yours,” Vincent smiled. And David blushed. “But, I was a city attorney , who went rogue and started his own practice. Just, I saw too many people getting away with too many things. I had a murder case dismissed for reasons I won’t go into now. But you know what happens with things like that.” Vincent raised his glass. “To karma?”

David smiled and melted a little bit. “To karma,” he smiled, clinking their glasses together before taking a long sip of wine their waiter had poured for them.

—

Jack was gently massaging David’s hands when Denton walked in. “Jacobs. How are you feeling?”

David glanced up at him before closing his eyes again. “I’ve had better dates,” he joked blandly, as Jack looked up at their boss.

“What’s going on, Denton?” Jack asked.

“There’s an encrypted file on your computer. I need the password,” the man insisted. David’s eyes opened up immediately at that. He didn’t respond immediately. “David. I need that code. What is in that file? Is it something that could connect you with Larrings—“

“I… I don’t think so,” David assured.

“Internal affairs have taken over this investigation. And until further notice, Jacobs, you’ve been suspended,” Denton explained. “The password.”

“T. S. Eliot,” David whispered. And Denton left. So David reached for the IV in his arm, moving to stand up as Jack pushed him back down. “I have ta get out of here,” he insisted.

“No, baby, sweetheart, you need to rest, look at me,” Jack insisted. “Look at me, I’m not going to let anything happen ta you.”

David shook his head. “I really screwed up, Jack..” he whispered. And all Jack could do was hug him. “You don’t know how I was recruited to the FBI and I was really messed up,” he continued. “I went through a lot after my parents died and I… I just kept teaching myself code. I lived underground. I was a hacker. I did really bad things and I… needed to in order to know the internet and computers inside and out—“

“Davey… what’s in the encrypted file?” Jack asked again, pulling away slightly.

With a small sniffle, David looked at Jack seriously. “I’m required to keep a record of everything the team does… but when my system got hacked, I didn’t want anyone else coming at you,” he tried to explain.

Jack just went back to hold David for a little bit longer.

—

When Jack took David home later that night he squeezed his friend’s hand when they were met with the blood on the steps to his door. David stared at it. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m gonna clean that off,” he promised.

David didn’t have the energy to answer as he shakily continued into the house, the only comfort he had in knowing Jack was right behind him. David turned on his lights and then he went for his old film, clicking the thing on and watching old home movies of him and his siblings and their parents.

“You were adorable,” he assured, smiling at the pictures on the wall as they played before him.

“You bet I was,” David laughed. Jack started exploring the room after that. He paused when he saw a volunteer schedule. “I counsel family members of murder victims once a week,” the brunette explained quietly.

“Baby, don’t you get enough of this at work?” Jack asked, almost sounding concerned.

“Somebody has ta help,” David assured. “People need closure.”

Jack turned back to him. “Alright, silly boy, you need to go to bed,” he smiled. “Want me to tuck you in?”

David blushed a little, resisting the urge to nod. “You should go, Jackie. I have my goon squad outside.”

“Excuse me, Jacobs, until we find the man who did this, that couch is gonna be my best friend,” Jack assured. “Now, go on, get some sleep,” he insisted, kissing David’s cheek.

So David nodded and turned away, falling into his bed and pulling the covers over his head, praying the monsters wouldn’t get him under there.

Jack just sat on the couch, gun in his hand, ready to protect the other man at all costs.

—

It was only a few hours later when Jack heard the gunshots outside. “David!” he called, sitting up immediately and rushing to the other man.

David sat up a little too fast, causing himself pain. “What’s going on?! What happened?”

Jack grabbed David’s wrist. “Come here! Come with me!” he insisted, pushing David so his back was to a corner. “Here, take this gun,” he insisted, pulling it from his ankle.

“I don’t believe in guns—“ David tried.

“Well, believe me, they are very real,” Jack insisted. “If someone besides me comes through that door, you pull back on this lever and pull the trigger. Do you hear me?”

With tears running down his cheeks, David nodded frantically. Jack rushed out of the room after that. And David heard a lot of gunshots. It felt like an eternity. And when someone came running towards him, David lifted up the gun. “Davey, it’s me! It’s just me!”

David screamed and rushed towards him. “Why is this happening to me?”

All Jack could do was hold him and kiss his head, wondering the exact same thing. “He was sitting in the corner,” David whispered.

So Jack pulled away. “What?”

“When w-we went to dinner, the waiter wanted to seat us at a window but he insisted on the worst table and he sat with his back to the corner.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Davey, what have you been doing that I don’t know about?”

“What? Nothing—“

“David,” Jack scolded, knowing the man was lying.

David bit his lip. “I… I flagged a couple of cold cases so the FBI would look into then—“

“You did what?” Jack hissed. “You are not authorized to do that!”

“I know! I just wanted to help those families, okay? I… wait, do you think it’s an agent?”

Jack bit his lip. “I’m calling Denton. You stay put,” he insisted, leaving the room.

—

Jack sniffled as David walked over to the room where the man who’d shot him was lying dead, murdered after trying to kill an internal affairs officer in the middle of the FBI’s BAU building.

David just stared at him, unable to move as he placed a hand over the wound on his chest. “Jackie?” he called.

Jack looked at him. “Yes, Davey?”

David didn’t have words, he just rushed to him and hugged him tightly.

And that was all they could do.

#prettyinlimegreenboots #newsies #newsies live #newsies musical #newsies au #newsies fanfiction #newsies fandom #modern newsies #modern era #modern au #modern #jack kelly #david jacobs #racetrack higgins #much love #spot conlon #katherine plumber #bryan denton #criminal minds #criminal minds au #stalker #bullet wound #fbi agent

[bl33dingm3mry]

Heist of The Heart || Chapter 3

Deckard Shaw x OC

Word Count: 1636

Summary: Secrets never stay hidden for long but as old foes threaten to ruin all she holds dear, Sterling Jones seeks help from the most unlikely candidate. Ex-British Special Forces member Deckard Shaw.

CHAPTER WARNING: Swearing (English and Spanish), Panic Attacks, Mentions of Abuse and Death, Guns

A/N: Big ole trigger warning, this chapter covers some really intense themes. If you are uncomfortable with violence and abusive situations please skip or read at your own discretion. Much love!

TAGLIST:

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the list!

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Sterling stepped into the shower letting the hot run over her shoulders and down her back, the heat easing her tensed muscles. She had needed some space away from the others, even if it was just twenty minutes for a shower and getting dressed. The ride back to her house had been awkwardly quiet like no one dared to break the silence. Sure Dom and Letty had seen her through a fair share of panic attacks, but Tej? The man's first introduction to Sterling Jones was her riding the hood of Dom’s charger to hijack a truck full of car parts.

She had spent most of her life crafting her personality to fit her double life. The sweet innocent little sister who worked a nine-to-five and volunteered at the local hospital in her spare time and the cold-blooded sharpshooter who had no fears and no hesitation. She did what needed to be done, and did it with precision. She was proud to be the dependable one the team could go to when they needed help, but her facade had cracked. Did Tej actually see her sobbing on the ground like a child? No. But he might as well have with the look of pity he gave her when the trio walked back to the shop where he had been left waiting.

She could only imagine how awful she had looked to him, her eyes red and swollen from crying, her face hot from embarrassment, tear streaks, and smudged makeup. Her clothes were dusty and disheveled, and no amount of dusting off was going to hide it. She avoided all eye contact for the ride and as soon as the car was put in park, she was walking to the front door, calling out behind her that she’d be in the shower, and there was beer in the fridge.

Having wasted enough water as it was, Sterling set about shampooing her hair and lathering a bar of soap. After letting the last of the suds glide down her body, she shut the water off, lightly wringing any extra water from her strands. Picking up after herself in case any of the others wanted to use it, she made her way back into her room, shutting the door behind her. Sweat pants and a red tank top were her choices of clothes, no need to be all dolled up in her own house. Her hair was messily pulled up into a bun, a wide clip holding it in place. Settling down on her bed, Sterling laid back, letting her body sink into the cloud-like mattress.

~~~~~

Opening her eyes, the room around her was dark, cramped, and had a musty smell, like old books and feet. Her knees ached from being scrunched up to her chest, and her throat ached for a sip of water or any liquid that wasn’t her own saliva. Cranking her neck towards the sound of heavy footsteps, thin lines of daylight filtered their way in through the slats of the closet doors. Her mother’s closet.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?!”

“She isn’t here! This is between you and me Nikolai, leave Camila out of this!”

“You can’t hide her from me bitch. Wherever she goes, I will find her, and when I do you can kiss any chance of seeing her again goodbye. Father will make sure of that. He will rip any chance of having a family from both of you and IF she is lucky she will become one of our best. Unlike you she won’t run away, won’t hesitate to kill. She will be perfect.”

A loud crash echoed from the end of the hall followed by multiple thuds and the hurried sounds of footsteps as her mother came running into the room, trying to push her dresser in front of the old wooden door. Angry stomps grew louder before the door to the bedroom shook, Nikolai's fist hammering down onto it.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

BAM. BAM. BAM.

“I SAID OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR YOU BITCH!”

Sterling shut her eyes tightly, her hands covering her mouth in hopes she wouldn’t be heard by the enraged man. She had promised her mother she would stay hidden no matter what happened, however, she wasn’t even supposed to be in the house. She was supposed to be miles away by now, running to the closest bus stop in town, with enough money in hand for a one-way ticket. Instead, she tucked herself into the farthest corner of her mother's closet, buried under old dresses and dusty textbooks.

Soon enough the man's barrage against the door was too much for her mother and the dresser to handle, sending her stumbling backward as the dresser toppled over. The next several minutes were a blur, her mother screamed, and several thuds and muffled noises echoed through the room as she tried to fight him off before everything went quiet. The man grunted as he pulled on the rope, hanging her mother's lifeless body from the ceiling fan.

Holding her breath, Sterling didn’t dare move a muscle as the footsteps drew closer, the first closet door opening with a stiff creek. Hangers screeched as they were shoved across the bar, each one drawing the man closer to finding her hiding spot. Just when she thought it was going to be all over, another voice sounded from the first floor. Hope surged through her at the familiar tone, Nikolai cursing in Russian before making his escape from the bedroom window in a rush.

“Maria? I heard a scream while I was in the garage, is everything alright?”

The older man’s footsteps were soft and cautious as he made his way to the second floor, checking each room on his way through. The footsteps stopped for a few seconds outside the bedroom door before he rushed in, the gun being placed back in his waistband as he cut her mother down from the fan above.

“Maria… Maria come on, you’ve got to wake up...”

One of the books that had been balanced on her foot started to slide off, panic rising in her chest as Sterling prayed she wouldn’t make any noise. She wasn’t supposed to be there, her mother told her not to stay. She would be so upset with her when she woke up. The closet was flooded with light however as the man pulled open the doors, moving the last few jackets and dresses out of the way, revealing her hiding spot. She bore up at him, her eyes wide with terror and shock, tears silently pooling before spilling down her cheeks.

“...Camila? Mija, what’s going on?”

And that's all it took for her to tumble out of the corner and bury herself into his arms, choking sobs muffled into his chest. Jack Toretto had always been a source of comfort when her mother got into arguments with the men that would stay with them but this was different somehow. They weren’t in his yard and Dominic wasn’t there to make a joke or use his special bandaids. The room was intensely quiet after the violent outburst from before and it terrified her.

“Hey…”

“Hey… Time to get up.”

Sterling bolted upright from where she had sprawled out on the bed, her leg swinging out, catching Dom in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs for a brief moment. Enough for her to get a solid punch to the temple before he grabbed her arms, pinning her down as she writhed under him, kicking, twisting, struggling to get free.

“SJ wake up. Snap out of this.”

It took a few minutes for her brain to catch up with what was happening, the rush of adrenalin subsiding as her eyes darted around the room, taking in the space as well as Dominic who was still holding her down firmly on the bed. His eyes were focused, studying her face looking for some form of recognition.

“Hey over here. Recognize who I am?”

“...Dom…”

“Good. You remember where we are?”

“My house.”

Knowing she was awake and aware, he let go of her, sitting on the side of the bed, watching as she sat up beside him. Sterling stayed silent for a few moments as she tried to think over what had just happened. She must have fallen asleep pretty quickly after laying down however judging by the setting sun outside it hadn’t been for more than an hour. She then took in her adoptive brother's appearance, noticing the cut that had started to bleed by his eyebrow, most likely caused by her ring when she punched him.

“Coño… Dom, you’re bleeding.”

“Doesn’t matter. You gotta talk to me Ster. What's going on?”

“Dom, I… It was about mom. I’ve been so stressed lately and then the team for the op quit when they found out the details. Haven’t really been able to sleep either.”

Sterling let out a defeated sigh, curling her knees up, resting her chin on them as her gaze rested on the scuffed wood floors. The room was silent as he listened to her before chuckling, nudging her with his elbow.

“You still have a hell of a right hook.”

She smiled back at him, softly laughing at his attempt to cheer her up. And it sort of did. It lightened the mood at least and made everything feel a bit more normal. Like she hadn’t just punched him in a half-asleep self-defense attempt. Dom stood from the bed and grabbed her hands lightly tugging her up with him. Sterling’s eyes once again drifted to the blood that dribbled down from his eyebrow and wiped it away with her thumb, shaking her head.

“Let's get you patched up and then we can make dinner. And Tej gets to say grace.”

#angst #graphic #fanfic #fast cars #deckard shaw #fast furious saga #please forgive me #i will die on this hill

[iwouldratherbeahobbit]

You’re on your own kid characters

Characters that I think radiate Yoyok vibes and why

Adam Banks - The Mighty Ducks

Adam was the new kid on a team who didn’t like him at first. Later during the biggest tournament of his life, he injured his wrist. He gets moved to the Varsity team when he wants to play JV with his team. “From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this”

Susan Pevensie - The Chronicles of Narnia

I feel as if the lyrics convey Susan’s desire to grow up to quickly. Susan grew up doing a war. She stopped use her imagination and stopped believing. “I hosted parties and starved my body like I’d be saved by the perfect kiss.”

Anne Shirley - Anne of Green Gables

the song just fit Anne. That’s all I’ve got. ”You're on your own, kid Yeah, you can face this”

Frodo Baggins - The Lord of the Rings

He wants to go destroy the ring all by himself in order that no one is corrupted by it. He forces himself to be own his own for the people he loves. ”Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned”

Katniss Everdeen - The Hunger Games

Katniss went through a lot, and this song just screams her. Manly because of everything she lost. “Everything you lose is a step you take.”

Annabeth Chase - Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Annabeth was on her own a lot before Percy came around. She left her dad behind. She was neglected. She strived for excellence. “Take the moment and taste it You've got no reason to be afraid”

Elsa - Frozen

She was cut off from the world; for her own good, and for the sake of others. “Something different bloomed Writing in my room”

Maribel - Encanto

Maribel could never live up to her abula’s expectations. She did not have a gift like the rest of her family. Or at least not the same kind of gift. “I play it cool with the best of them”

Ezra Bridger - Star Wars

Ezra was on his own for years, living in the streets. I feel as if his life and choices fit the song well. “You're on your own, kid You always have been”

Sabine Wren - Star Wars

Sabine is very closed off. She blames and will not forgive herself for her mistakes. She left her life behind to join the rebellion. “I didn't choose this town I dream of getting out”

Mon Mothma - Star Wars

Mon Mothma’s struggle to provide for the rebellion, and just her fight against the Empire screams Yoyok vibes. (To me at least) “The jokes weren't funny, I took the money My friends from home don't know what to say”

#you’re on your own kid #the chronicles of narnia #the mighty ducks #percy jackon and the olympians #encanto #star wars #anne of green gables #the hunger games #adam banks #annabeth chase #anne shirley #frodo baggins #elsa #mirabel #ezra bridger #sabine wren #mon mothma #lord of the rings #the lord of the rings #star wars rebels #andor series #katniss #katniss everdeen #frozen #annabeth #frodo #taylor swift

[corvlth]

Ya know what, fuck it, I'll be cringe on main and post it. This was initially supposed to be a comic, then i thought that'd be too much work, then I wanted to go through all the team and have a cool moment where Ash reveals their name that's borrowed from the childhood friend that died, but I'm not strong enough to write all that. So have this, make of it what you will. Idk what do people who actually know what they're doing put here?

Characters: Ash Miller, Erika Engels, Dima Romanoff (they're all ocs don't bother looking em up)

Warnings: blood, implications of abuse

Word count: 1246

    Noises of foreign words made them stir in their sleep. They didn't want to wake yet, their muscles were sore and tired. They remember... what do they remember? They were on the run. After Ceanu disappeared. Why did he vanish again? He... he was... they couldn't remember.

-

They ran away, just like that. Secured the border guard shift at night to the north, where the forests are thick and mountainous. They don't remember what possessed them to do this. Cowardice? Maybe. Maybe the fear of facing the death of the only loved one they had in their life drove them to run away like a coward.

    The memory of sweat beading down the side of their face, eyes darting about like a deer as they waited for a moment, a silent opportunity to book it, anything. It came, finally. Was it 3? 4 at night? Doesn't matter. The other guards were all quiet and distant. They took a sturdy wooden chair and broke the glass window, then jumped down and started running with no destination in mind. Not even daring to employ the wings. Flying would just give away their position and the forest was too dense for that. Paranoia set in. They've never been outside the border, were threatened plenty about that. Heard that it's even worse out there. Whatever abuse, overwork and fear was inflicted unto them here, it was for the good of the nat ion and everyone's safety, as to not end up like everyone else on the outside. Did they believe that? Yes, completely. Now they're taking their chances.

    They couldn't hear anything besides the blood rushing though their veins and their labored breathing as they ran, as fast as they could away from the wall, between the trees, through the brush, trying to make as little sound as possible, thinking about any possibility of getting tracked down, like the mechanism inside their chest cavity, but they might die if something there breaks accidentally, so...

    They hid behind a thick oak, heaving, and grasped the metallic ear tags on their ears, denoting their serial code. Serial code that marked them as the first of what was supposed to be many experiments to create the perfect super soldier in taking down the west. They yanked out the tags with all the force they could muster, tearing their ear lobes in a bloody mess and hid the metal pieces in the hollow of the oak behind them, hoping that'll buy them time from being found, before going back on the run.

    After that it has been... days. Maybe weeks. Just running, foraging and avoiding danger and human settlements. Catching a wink of sleep once in a while. In some abandoned barn, up trees, caves, wherever they found. What even for? What's even the point of this? Where were they trying to go? Their best friend is gone and now what? Into the loving arms of the enemy? They had close encounters a few times. Some farmers, dogs maybe. No idea who tipped their location off to the enemy.

    After weeks of sleeplessness, starved half to death and disheveled, they were too exhausted, too distracted, maybe, to notice the large net flying at them and taking them down. Large silhouette standing over their tangled up form writhing on the ground with a rifle, speaking in a language foreign to them, before hitting them roughly with the butt of the rifle over the head and knocking them out as the last thing they heard were the blades of a helicopter closing in. Did they not make it after all?

-

    And now, they stir again, slowly opening an eye, and then the other, taking in the bright lamp over their head. As their eyes adjusted, they take in their surroundings. A small, sterile that was made to look like the inside of a can by the shiny panels of the white walls. Looks like a medical clinic, and the screen next to them beeped in time with their heartbeat. Through the muddled glass on the door they saw the source of the previous noises. Two people arguing. What appeared to be a tall, muscular blonde woman and some doctor, judging by the lab coat.

    The woman raises her tone, saying something they couldn't understand, and gesturing threateningly to the puny middle aged man in front of her. At least that means they weren't taken back home, judging by the foreign language. They try to sit up, but their sore muscles give away from exhaustion, making them fall back on the bed with a thud. That seemed to alert the woman at the door, who barges in, looking them over with a distainful glare and barking something at them, some string of unknown questions.

    Another person enters, a behemoth of a man with a dark beard and equally cruel green eyes, who's face reminds them of someone from really long ago, not that they can recall exactly. The guy must be the one who hit them in the head back there. He exchanged some words with the woman before she sighs and seemingly agrees to whatever it is he said, and he approaches them, absolutely towering over at almost 7 feet tall. As he bent over to pick them up, the small but unmistakable colors of the american flag come into view in the form of a small patch on his vest. They've had their fair share of run-ins with the americans, when they came to attack.

    The guy kept a tight grip on them as he followed the woman, his commander probably down an equally white and sterile looking corridor, every other person wearing white coats was stepping out their way and whispering among themselves, no doubt about their arrival. They look up at the guy and he glances back at them with a threatening glare, as if cautious of them attacking him or something. As if they can in this condition. They look absolutely pitiful.

    They eventually come up on a round door and the woman raises a hand up to a panel in the wall, which makes a horizontal line of light go up and down the panel, scanning her palm, before another section of the wall opens up, revealing a numpad for which she inputs the code for. The door opens, revealing a small room. They've never seen anything like this before. The technology they had at home was all rusty analog dials and buttons. This was all so... Alien. Too clean for them, it seemed unnatural. The woman turns around, giving an order, to which the man grunts and steps inside, giving them a good view of the room, after they are placed on the bed. Small, white and mostly barren, in the shape of an L. Cold, geometric shapes all around, no windows. Another door to their left, a bathroom perhaps. Nothing much in terms of comfort.

    The woman says something to them, a threat. Not that they can understand, before turning around and leaving, along with her subordinate. A "don't you dare try to run away or break anything" perhaps. They do not know. But that matters little at the moment. At least they no longer have to run now. They got caught, and they will have to face the consequences. But not now.

    They heave a tired sigh and turn around to face the wall, falling back asleep and giving their sore limbs a chance to rest and heal.

#writing #my fic #oc #original character #ash #erika #dima #bleh idk what other tags to use #please be nice to me I'm new and also fragile

[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?

[gingersnaaps]

tetraphobia

maybe seijoh's revenge doesn't always have to be on the court. maybe seijoh's revenge can come in the form of fucking kageyama's sweet little girlfriend.

wc: 3.3k

tags/tw's(PLEASE READ): explicit n*fw, noncon, gangbang, mindbreak, victim blaming/guilt, forced infidelity, hints of sadism, anal, double penetration, deepthroat, cunnilingus, sorta overstim? idk this is very nasty, fem!reader with inner genitals, timeskip!characters

a/n: this is for @somecravings' gangbang collab! this work features the seijoh four.

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

“I wonder where Tobio-chan found himself such a cute girlfriend.”

The words freeze you in your tracks.

A tall, well-built, man leans against the wall of the hotel hallway, the cramped space making him loom large in front of you. You think he’s a stranger at first - but a closer look at the waves of his chestnut hair, his molten hazel eyes - and memories of the pictures Tobio had shown you flood back into your mind.

Oikawa Tooru, he’d told you. Teammates at Kitagawa Daiichi, and then rivals at Karasuno and Aoba Johsai. I took away his last chance to make it to nationals in high school. Now he’s on Argentina’s national team. Looked up to him a lot, but we had a… strained relationship.

His eyes flicker back to the faded yearbook photos, an unmistakable note of bitterness in his voice.

The very same Oikawa Tooru from his pictures stands in the hallway leading to your hotel room, arms crossed and eyes glittering with amusement.

Almost as if he’d been waiting there for you.

“He’s out celebrating his win, isn’t he?” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Along with the rest of his team.”

He steps closer, walking towards you until he’s mere feet away. You can see where the hem of his blue jersey peeks out from beneath his jacket, the white of his teeth glinting as he grins. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, and you suppress the sudden surge of discomfort that crawls beneath your skin.

Your eyes flit back and forth, eyebrows creasing in confusion. “Is there something you need?”

“Yes,” he says, his hand reaching out to stroke gently along your cheek. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor, sweetheart.”

Panic seizes you when his cold, calloused, fingertips brush lightly along your skin, your heart thudding as discomfort rips through your body. You don’t know what his intentions are, but his words scare you. There’s nothing genuine about his tone, nothing kind, and years of too-close encounters with men have left you wary and alert. His touch is invasive, contemptuous, mocking, and you jerk away from his hand in an attempt to backpedal-

Warm hands clamp down around your shoulders in an iron grip. Your heart sinks as you realize you’ve got nowhere to go, dread seeping into every vein in your body.

“I’m a little late. Sorry.”

The voice at your ear is a low rasp, his tone nonchalant, but you can hear the message that undercuts it as clear as day: you’re not going anywhere.

“Don’t worry about it, Iwa,” Oikawa says, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your face up forcefully until you’re staring directly into his eyes. “You got here just in time to help me out. She looked like she was about to run away for a while there. Can you imagine?”

The man behind you - Iwaizumi Hajime, you recall - chuckles. “Wouldn’t get very far.”

Your blood runs cold at the implication of his words. Your stomach churns, an awful, nauseous feeling that makes you feel sick, shoulders tensing as you struggle against Iwaizumi’s hold.

“Hey,” he warns quietly. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

His words almost make you want to laugh; he says them like he’s trying to help you, like he genuinely cares about your well-being. You remember the late-night talks you and Kageyama would have, the ones where he’d describe his days spent in middle school, secluded and walled off from the other players on his team. There was always one name he spoke with a particular reverence: Iwaizumi Hajime. Tough. Strong. Kind. A good man, he’d emphasized. I’m glad he was there during those years.

Well, this certainly was a reality check, wasn't it?

He removes his hands from your shoulders and wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you pressed close to his side, as if a reminder of you how powerless you are in this position. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“It’d be rude to keep Makki and Mattsun waiting any longer."

Oikawa slides his fingers into yours until the two of you are holding hands, humming happily as Iwaizumi escorts you down the hall towards your own hotel room. It takes every last ounce of self-control to stop yourself from crying and screaming on the spot, to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over, to save yourself the embarrassment of breaking down pathetically as these people - these assholes - watch.

You get the feeling that they’re not going to leave you alone out of pity.

They escort you to your hotel room, passing by rows and rows of rooms that blur as your vision tunnels. Their presence is suffocating; Oikawa’s fingers brush against your wrist, rubbing tender circles into your skin, and you can feel Iwaizumi's warm breath on the crown of your head.

Oikawa grabs the key card from your purse, sliding it into the scanner, and pushes the door open when it lights up green.

Your heart stills with fear as they drag you inside, flicking the light switch open until the room glows softly.

There’s two more people sitting in the bed.

A tall, lanky man waves in acknowledgement, nudging his companion in the side as his eyes flicker appraisingly over you.

The other man looks up, tossing his phone aside, blowing aside a stray strand of strawberry-pink hair.

“Hmm. I hate to say this, but Oikawa was right,” he says, a wry grin on his face. “What a pretty girl.”

You feel so vulnerable with four pairs of eyes roaming over every inch of your body, your mind running rampant with fear and anticipation as they admire and scrutinize. And you’d be right to be scared, because there’s so much they can’t wait to do, so much of you they’ve been dying to explore, so many of their little fantasies that they’ve been waiting for the right girl to help them act out.

You’ll help them out, won’t you?

Without warning, there’s a pair of hands on your waist insistently pushing you downwards, applying steady pressure until your legs collapse and you’re forced to your knees.

“So impatient, Iwa.” Oikawa clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You won’t even let her get settled in?”

There‘s a huff of annoyance above you. “The more you talk, the less I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Alright, alright.”

Oikawa slides a hand onto the back of your neck, the other moving to grip your hair. His touch is gentle, fingers stroking along your pulse point, but you know it won’t last if you misbehave. You have no illusions about the kind of person he is, not when his hands maneuver your mouth and throat into nothing more than a warm fleshlight for his friend.

Iwaizumi palms himself in front of your face, hands skimming over the bulge in his jeans as he groans in pleasure, and pulls out his half hard cock, veins throbbing and flushed with arousal. Cupping your face in his hand, he fits the tip to your soft lips and tilts your chin upwards to meet his piercing, lust-filled eyes, his gaze swirling with want.

“Open up for me like a good girl, okay?” he growls.

You can’t help the way your cunt pulses at his tone, an intoxicating rush of fear and desire that leaves your mind hazy and mouth dropping open. He doesn’t waste the opportunity, pushing his cock into your warm, wet, mouth, a moan falling from his lips as he thrusts his hips forwards. You retch at the intrusion, instinctively jerking your head backwards, but Oikawa’s grip on your neck tightens as he holds you in place. He crouches down, lips finding your ear as Iwaizumi starts sliding in and out of your mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “If you take it like you’re supposed to, he won’t last too long.”

At those words, his hands push your head forward, impaling your throat on his cock, holding you down as you choke and drool and retch. Your eyes redden as silvery tears drip through your lashes, panic rising, vision turning to static, the pain in your lungs growing unbearable as Oikawa’s smile turns razor sharp. “Atta girl,” he encourages softly, his thumb wiping away one of the tears running down your cheek. “I think he’s gonna cum soon if you keep this up.”

If you keep this up. As if you have a choice.

Iwaizumi’s thrusts grow more erratic, fucking you rougher and faster as he slams in and out of your throat. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Got such a - such a perfect little mouth, taking me so well,” he says, breath catching.

Just like Oikawa had predicted, he doesn’t last much longer after that, hips stuttering when he spills down your waiting throat. He tastes warm and slightly salty, the last few drops of his cum dripping down your chin as he presses a thumb to your lips and wipes away the drool collecting at the corner.

There’s a horrible, sinking, feeling settling inside you as he grabs the collar of your shirt and hoists you up with him onto the bed, your limbs going limp as you let him press an open-mouthed kiss to your trembling lips, his tongue slipping inside of your slack mouth.

You feel used.

Up close to Iwaizumi, you can see the flush of arousal coloring his bronzed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, all the physical evidence of just how good you made him feel, and your stomach churns.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel fingers softly stroking at your clit, light, teasing strokes back and forth that leave you whimpering. A twinge of arousal pulses in your cunt as you hear words murmured against your inner thigh.

“Didn’t even try to fight back, did you?” There’s a gentle laugh from the pink-haired man beneath you, soft and terrifying, and the light brushes turn into more insistent circles. “It’s almost like you wanted it.”

Iwaizumi’s tongue curls deeper into your mouth as he deepens the kiss, leaving you gasping for breath.

“I had no idea you’d turn out to be such a slut,” he hums, mouth latching onto your thigh. “Although I’m really not complaining.”

“C’mon, Makki, don’t be so mean to her,” Iwaizumi chuckles, his teeth scraping roughly against your lips.

“I’m only telling the truth.”

The fingers circling your pussy creep upwards, grabbing onto your hips and pushing you down against the mattress. “Keep those legs spread nice and open for me, okay?” Makki says, voice sweet and cloying.

When the flat of his tongue brushes against your clit, his breath huffing warm on your folds, your thighs twitch involuntarily. It’s as if he’s made it his mission to eat you out as slow and light as possible, his kitten-licks and teasing strokes sliding along your folds and circling around your sweet spots without ever truly giving you the satisfaction that your cunt craves.

And he can tell you’re starting to break.

As Iwaizumi’s mouth moves down to suck at your neck, lips brushing along the erratic heartbeat of your pulse point, your hips jerk upwards against Makki’s waiting mouth as a moan slips out from between your lips.

He sucks at your aching clit, the steady, constant pressure making you writhe in his grasp. “Cute little cunt wants more, doesn’t i?” he coos.

You don’t dare say a word, face flushed with embarrassment as you bite your inner cheek in embarrassment. Makki’s right.

He’s right, and you hate that he’s right, hate how good he’s making you feel with every long, languid, lick, with every brush of his lips that leaves your walls throbbing in search of more.

A hand picks up your limp wrist, guiding your fingers until they wrap around something warm and hard, something incredibly thick and so, so, long -

You freeze as you realize it’s a cock.

“Mattsun’s blessed, isn’t he?” Makki laughs from between your thighs. “Maybe now you’ll understand that I’m really trying to do you a favor. We want these sheets stained with cum, not blood.”

You swallow nervously. That monster cock, so big you can barely fit your hand around it, is going inside you.

You’re paralyzed with dread, not even bothering to fight back as he maneuvers your palm up and down along his length, wrapping his much larger hand around yours as he uses your fist to help jerk him off.

All the revulsion in the world can’t stop the slow, mounting, wave of pressure building inside your core, growing stronger as Makki sucks with more force against your clit. Crooked fingers push inside your slick, needy, hole, his nimble digits searching and prodding, the pads of his fingertips rubbing insistently at your g-spot.

“See?” he murmurs. “‘m making you feel so good. You’re gonna be nice and ready when I’m done with you.”

You want to scream. You feel like a whore for enjoying anything at all; bile and guilt rising in your throat as white-hot arousal throbs in your cunt.

You’re strung out along the edge when you feel another mouth descending on your body, a tongue flicking out to tease at your nipple. You see a flash of chestnut brown hair as Oikawa looks up at you, a smirk curving at the corners of his mouth, almost as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, knows where your limits are and how to push right past them.

It’s too much for you to handle, too much for you to take. Three mouths ravage your body, tongues flicking out to lick at your neck and suck at your nipples and drag along your clit, silky and sensual against your soft skin, all while your slack hand pumps steadily along the shaft of a huge cock.

When an orgasm rips through your body, it’s like something stolen, something taken from you, and as your hips buck and thrash wildly, an emptiness settles in your stomach after you’re all fucked out from their ministrations.

What’s wrong with you?

At this point, you don’t feel like much more than a sex doll for the four men, all spread out and useless as you lay your head in Iwaizumi’s lap. He strokes gently at your hair, brushing a stray strand out of your face.

You barely even react as Mattsun manhandles you up, large hands positioning your hips until the head of his fully hard cock sits at your entrance, sliding just the tip into your loosened, clenching, hole.

“Ready?” he asks, his half-lidded eyes glinting with amusement.

He doesn’t really care about your answer.

“One… two… three.”

He forces you down on his cock, pushing your hips further and further down as you squirm and struggle and moan from the stretch. Your mind goes foggy as you feel the drag of his cock against the front of your walls, burying itself so deep in your cunt you can almost feel it in your stomach.

Mattsun likes it when his dick makes girls feel good, of course, when he fucks them better than their boyfriends, when he makes them cream and gush after barely moving.

He likes it better when he makes girls go stupid.

As he looks down at you, a warm rush of arousal twists in his gut. Your eyelids flutter in pleasure, mouth open and panting, small hands fisting at his shirt as you moan softly. It’s just too big for you to take, isn’t it? You can't handle being used like a pretty fuckdoll, or eaten out until you cream, or to be impaled on a cock so nice and big you can barely think straight. A string of drool falls from the corner of your mouth, but he doesn’t bother cleaning it up. You look better ruined, he thinks.

You’re dragged out of your fucked-out daze when a voice crawls into your ear, taunting and cruel, and a warm dick presses and slides along your ass.

“Bet Kageyama’s never tried this before,” Oikawa says.

A spurt of terror grips you as you hear the thinly-veiled anticipation in his voice, his fingers trembling with excitement as they grope at your ass.

He holds back a laugh at the way you freeze, shuddering in a mixture of fear and pleasure as Mattsun rolls his hips up and thrusts his cock even deeper. He knows he guessed right, judging from your cute little reaction, a high-pitched, pathetic whimper dropping from your lips as brushes his cock against your hole.

He hopes it hurts.

When he presses in, it’s a slow, aching, stretch that leaves you feeling raw and split wide open. Unlike the dull pain from Mattsun’s cock, this one is a searing, brutal, torment, a stinging intrusion in your tight hole that forces a choked gasp from your lungs.

“Wish your boyfriend could see us right now,” he breathes, pressing a gentle kiss to the crook of your neck. “Feels so good squeezing my cock, so fucking nice and tight.”

Tobio.

Panic races along your veins. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, breasts bouncing slightly as your breaths come shallow and rapid.

“I can’t imagine how he’d feel - seeing his perfect little angel getting stuffed so full in both her precious holes.”

The tightness in your chest bursts as tears stream down your face, cries and moans coming out thick and stuffy as you sob. You know he’s right. It didn’t matter that it was forced, that you said you didn’t want it - you already came once, didn’t you? And judging by the tense pleasure pulsing at your clit, you were due for another sooner or later.

Oikawa laughs. “It’d be awful if he came back right now, wouldn’t it? Just in time to watch his precious little girlfriend getting raped by his former senpai.”

Mattsun snickers, bring a hand up to swipe at your clit. “Look,” he says softly, tilting your head until you lock eyes with Makki.

He’s fisting his cock rapidly, a hungry, predatory, expression on his face, tongue darting out to lick at his lips as he lets out a pleasured groan.

It’s better than almost any of his gross little fantasies. He’s not sure his favorite porn videos will ever be able to compare to the sight of you being fucked stupid and split in two by his friends, two cocks sliding in and out of your tired holes as you cry.

You squeeze your eyes shut as the first waves of the orgasm begin to roll over you. Mattsun’s deft, long, fingers toy with your clit, stroking you insistently through the wild jerking of your hips as he feels your walls fluttering and creaming around the base of his dick. The pleasure is intense, unbearable, almost impossible to hold back, even as disgust crawls beneath your skin at the feeling of being stretched wide open.

Maybe they were right.

All those times you’d thought about what you’d do if this happened, every single night when you’d lie awake and tell yourself, i’ll fight back. i’ll resist. i’ll make them regret ever forcing me -

They were all lies.

Oikawa feels a sick sense of satisfaction as he watches the turmoil in your expression. He can tell by the slump of your shoulders, the bitterness in your gaze, the way you turn over to your side and curl up into a fetal position - they broke you, turned you into a mindless, slutty, fuckdoll, showed you who you really were.

Kageyama can have you back now. He’ll come into this hotel room, horrified at the sight of you passed out and naked, and call the police. Maybe he’ll help wash you up, bring you a cup of tea as you sob and insist that it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll even believe you, despite the way you’ve stained the sheets.

But things won’t ever really be the same for you.

They made sure of it.

if you liked this, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! my inbox is always open :)

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #hq smut #oikawa x reader #iwaizumi x reader #oikawa smut #matsukawa x reader #hanamaki x reader #hq x reader #iwaizumi smut #matsukawa smut #hanamaki smut #yandere #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu x reader #yandere oikawa #yandere iwaizumi #yandere matsukawa #yandere hanamaki #haikyuu #hq #dark haikyuu #lin.n*fw #fem!reader #haikyuu imagines #oikawa tooru #iwaizumi hajime #matsukawa issei #hanamaki takahiro #hq yandere

[iwadori]

Getting hurt in argument PT 1 (Iwaizumi, Tsukishima)

hi!! so can i request a hurt to comfort with iwaizumi, tsukishima and any character that you want ? i saw you had reblogged a prompt list so you could us 18 for inspiration! @sheiscalling

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Word count: 2.1K

Genre: angst,fluff

masterlist

Tsukishima:

You and Tsukishima just moved in with each other a few days ago

Sharing a house has kind of put you at odds

As getting used to each others habits takes a while to get used too

You just hope that after a while things will go back to usual

Tsukishima has been conveniently busy since you guys moved in together, claiming he has to practice more since the Sendai Frogs have a supposed upcoming tournament. 

So he’s left you to your own devices unpacking boxes, picking out and buying furniture whilst working from home. Today’s task is choosing the wallpaper, which you wanted to ask Tsukishima’s opinion on (since he’s always been judgmental of certain colours, patterns and prints.)

Y/N: Hey Tsukki! You coming to *insert store that sells wallpapers here* today… it closes at 5pm??

Kei: Yhh practices finishes at 1 so I’ll probably run some errands get changed and meet you there for 3

Y/N: Okay! See you then <3

You were ecstatic, Tsukishima is finally going to do something for your new place and on the plus you get to spend time together. Maybe you’ll get to go to that new desert place across the road from your house.

2:45PM

You decide to get there a tad bit early so you can have a few options picked out (as you know how detailed and picky Kei can be.) As you picked out paints and swatches you noticed how time went by…

3:14PM

Surprised that Kei isn’t here right on the dot (since he despises lateness and on many occasion have reprimanded you when you’ve been just a tiny bit late) but just assume he’s stuck in traffic or something.

3:32

You’re still standing outside waiting, getting a tiny bit embarrassed of the looks of the passer-by strangers as if they could tell you’re desperately waiting for someone. You checked your phone, expecting a message from Kei explaining his lateness or saying he’lll be there soon.

4:00

He’s now an hour late, with no contact at all which got you frustrated as you really hoped that he would do at least one thing for you today. So you decided to go and choose what YOU want since it seems that Kei doesn’t seem to really care.

5:15

After nearly emptying the store with all your choices and additional furniture picks you finally make it back home with still NO word from Kei. You are completely over it! But he is now the least of your worries, now your current agenda is unpacking plates and cutlery (so you and Tsuki actually have something to eat of off and that’s if he ever joins you for dinner)

You’re washing and polish plates as you hear your front door open and shut with a slight slam. “Ugh practice was draining today” he said, tired 

You did not acknowledge his presence at all, you were beyond agitated that he made plans with you and then didn’t show up AND THEN didn’t even make sure the first thing he did was apologise. “Babe, whats for dinner” He asked entering the living room.

AN: Btw you have like a open kitchen type of thing so you can see the kitchen and the living room in the same room if that makes sense ://

You still ignored him, washing your plates annoyance slowly but surely building up inside of you the more he spoke “Y/N, did you hear me i asked what was fo-” Tsukishima stopped his words as he saw all the stuff you’ve bought for the house and before realising that he blew off your plans together he says,

“Y/N.. what the fuck is this shit”

That made you take a pause, and freeze ‘That is all he’s worried about’ you think. As you’re still ignoring him and he’s wondering why you decided to buy all this ‘crap’ (in his words not yours) he picks up one of the wallpaper designs and brings it to you.

“Y/N you really think we’re putting this shit on the walls..?” He asked 

You still ignore him, scrubbing harder and harder on the same plate you’ve been washing since he’s got here ( you definitely know it’s clean by now but who cares )”Y/N, are you listening to me” He then grabs your shoulders turning him to face you “Why the fuck would you buy this??” 

By now you were raged, “Is that ALL you care about!” You shout “You don’t care how I’ve been slaving away getting this place, our NEW place ready for us to live in but you don’t care you’re so self obsessed that all you’ve been doing is going to practice and complaining!”

He was about to speak before you stopped him again “Oh and by the way if you’ve got a problem with my choices for our walls then maybe YOU should’ve been at the store at the time we agreed upon! You dick.” after saying this his lips part in surprise, as he now remembers the promise he made you. 

You turn your body back to the sink, tears filling your eyes as you go back to ferociously scrubbing the plate again. 

“Y/N I’m sorry I-” He starts

“Oh shut the fuck up Tsukishima” You say a bit to agressively slamming your hands (and the plate) down on the counter, cutting your hand in the process 

“Shit” You say as blood starts to seep through your hand well there goes the clean plate you get a towel and hold it against your hand stopping the blood for a short while and you bend down to start picking up the plate remains as Tsukishima just stands there not really knowing what to say or do.

“Y/N i’m sorry about EVERYTHING” he says bending down to your level as you still pick up the plate remains. “What can I do to make this all better?”

“Just fuck off Tsuki” You say bitterly not looking him in the eyes

“I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay” he says grabbing your wrist softly to stop you from further injury “Just come sit down so i can atleast bandage your hands”

You finally look up at him, tears still in your eyes but you silently agree getting up and letting him lead you to the couch. He bandages you up, not saying a word as your sniffles and whimpers fill the quiteness in the room.

“Y/N. I am really truly sorry I-” He says

“Why don’t you care anymore?” You interrupt tears now streaming down your face “I know i can be overbearing at times, but I just wanted you to be excited about moving in with me as I was about you. Do you not want to live with me anymore” you cried

“I’m sorry i’ve been so busy it’s just practice and tournaments and … I was kind of nervous about moving in with you I just love you so much and I don’t want to mess anything up” he said “And I’m sorry about not coming to the store I just got tired up with practice and I’m just really sorry Y/N”

He goes over to the things you’ve bought and picks up one of the paint colours you chose (your favourite option) “This is beatiful Y/N you have such a great taste and I like anything that you like to be honest.”

He stares at you for a response as he noticed your tears have stopped running, which is a good sign. “I just want you to be more involved and show that you care about me about us “ you say

“I will and I do.. I always do” He said pulling you into a hug 

“I love you Kei” You say into his chest 

“I love you too” 

You spend the rest of your night unpacking plates, putting up wallpaper, painting walls and putting up furniture ending up on the couch with two slices of strawberry shortcake from the bakery across the street watching an episode of *insert your favourite TV show here* in your new place which you can finally call a home.

Iwaizumi:

You and Iwaizumi have been dating since highschool

You’ve had a past with anger issues but that was all sorted before you met Iwa

You’re very hard working and sometimes overworking but you have Iwa to always make sure you’re not too hard on yourself

You play volleyball just like your boyfriend, being the captain of your team is your pride and joy but sometimes you are way too hard on yourself trying to reach perfection. 

You’re in the gym way past normal hours setting to yourself against the wall with sweat dripping down your forehead breathing slightly more than usual

‘5 more minutes’ you think to yourself knowing damn well it’s going to be more than 5 minutes but you just have to perfect your form then you can stop.

You stop for a small water break and also to check your phone seeing 5+ messages from your lovely boyfriend Hajime

Haji: Y/N how was your day 

Haji: What do you want for dinner

Haji: I think we should get chinese

Haji: Y/N… you alive

Haji: https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMeffhpeE/

Haji: I just ran into *Insert Best friends name* and she told me you were last seen at practice I hope you’re not in the gym Y/N

Haji: I’m coming to the gym… you better not be there

By the time you start going back to set against the wall you look up to see a semi mad Hajime at the doors of the gym..

“Y/N.. I thought you said you wasn’t going to keep overworking yourself this term” He said slowly approaching you 

“Just” set “Gotta” set “Fix” set “My” set “Form” 

“Your set is fine babe, it’s perfect … you’re perfect” he says reaching out to touch you

“Well I guess perfect isn’t good enough then” you mumble

“Y/N that’s not what I meant” He responds touching your shoulder

Out of reflex, your hand flicks to his face your nail (which are amazingly sharp and long) catches him on his cheek causing a petite cut to now appear and small amounts of blood to come out of it. You both are frozen shocked at what just happened, you never meant to touch him like that at all. 

You quickly rush to your stuff leaving your volleyball in the gym running out the doors. How could you be so horrible, hitting your boyfriend in the face after doing so much work getting over all your anger issues. ‘Hes going to hate you now’ you think.

You stop at a bench trying to clear your head, crying softly to yourself worrying now about your relationship with Haji and where it stands now. Without you noticing, Iwaizumi sits down next to you, waiting for you to compose your self before speaking.

“I know you didn’t mean it Y/N” he said pulling you under his arm 

“Iwa, I’m so so sorry I didn’t mean to stay late in the gym it’s just that we have a competition next week and last time we lost because of me and I just … wanted it all to be perfect “ You said sniffling you look up at him and see the cut on his face that you caused making you even more upset “I am really sorry, I understand that you probably want to break up with me for hurting you which is completely valid”

You don’t want him to confirm your suspicions of him breaking up with you, so you abruptly stand up getting reading to move onwards again before he grabs your wrist “you’re not leaving till I know you’re okay” he says

which makes you laugh a bit “It’s crazy that I’m the one that messed up, yet you’re worrying about me”

“Well that’s my job Y/N, I always worry about you when you’re overworking yourself and being hard on yourself it’s not good” he said “accidents happen, I know you didn’t intend on me getting hurt and I know you’re going to do great in the upcoming game babe dont worry”

A week later, all was forgotten Iwa’s cheek healed quickly and he never blamed you for it all and reminded you that it wasn’t your fault whenever it seemed you felt bad about it.

You’re now playing your volleyball game Iwa in the stands cheering you on as loud as he could and of course you were doing your best because in Hajime’s words you are perfect.

AN:Thank you so much for my first request I hope you like it. I’m not really a fan of the Iwa one but the tsuki one i like the way it went even though I was meant to add a third character but got too tired. But thank for the request keep them coming!! 

#haikyu x reader #tsukishima x y/n #tsukishima x reader #haikyu fluff #haikyu angst #haikyuu x reader comfort #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi fluff #haikyuu-fluff #haikyu #tsukishima headcanons #tsukishima angst #haikyu scenarios #iwaizumi scenarios #haikyu requests #submission #signedwithane😌

[wonlouvre]

more for forever | k. mg.

pairing: editor-in-chief mingyu x female reader genre: fluff, a little bit of angst, cliché (in the sense that mingyu is rich and likes to spoil his girlfriend) warnings: mentions of insecurity, food word count: 2.8k

💌: this is just pure indulgence and i really hope you all like this! please wait for wonwoo because i have something in store for him too ;) again, this is cliché please forgive me. please tell me what you think about it hehe i love reading your comments, feedbacks and tags! also a big thank you to @minkwans​ for sharing their ideas and giving this oneshot life! <3

The name Kim Mingyu didn’t ring a bell before. Not until his executive assistant reached out to you because apparently, the photographer slash writer read one of your blog posts and wanted you to take part for their sixth year anniversary issue. You know the famous magazine and publishing company, which is why you thought it was a scam or a ploy to steal your money. It’s a stupid assumption but you can’t blame your mind imagining the worse because you are not a fashion blogger at all. Why would a fashion magazine want you to write an article for them?

Sure, you regularly write and post blog entries on your website. But you write about your dog, your recently bought tea coaster and sometimes your skincare routine. Okay, maybe your occasional outfit of the day as well but nothing in detail. Again, why do they want you to write for them?

Kim Mingyu answered your questions and uncertainties when he personally emailed his contact details to you. You didn’t have to bite, but it didn’t hurt to confirm at the same time. You dialed the number and he indeed proved you wrong. He invited you for a meeting at his office and you accepted. 

Your visits to high-rise buildings, much more to the luxurious office of an executive, is rare to never. You were jaw slacked when your eyes took in the crisp architecture. The design, the furniture, the color, the everything was beyond what you could have imagined a publishing company’s headquarters could be. 

The meeting was nothing but short of an interview. He asked about your blog (which does not even have its own domain by the way), he asked what else you write about, he asked about your desk job (which doesn’t pay much but enough for you to get by), he asked if you have any background about fashion and one last question about your dog, Max, before talking about his proposal. 

To be honest, Mingyu’s offer was tempting. For one article, the commission would be enough for you to move out of your current apartment and move to a brand new and fully-furnished one. But you remained true to yourself and without thinking twice, you declined. 

You can tell that the editor-in-chief and his assistant, who stood beside him all throughout, was surprised by the looks on their faces. But Mingyu respected your decision and didn’t pursue any further. You took your stand from the chair and sincerely thanked him for the time and opportunity. You thought that would be it but when he followed suit with your actions and reached his hand out, it was your turn to be surprised. 

You didn’t hesitate to mirror him and shake his hand, firmly. After that, you’d figure that it’s the end and that you’ll probably get to see a glimpse of him only through your television or phone. But Mingyu proved you wrong once again when he sent an unexpected email three days later asking why.

What might be the reason why you didn’t accept his offer? 

You believed he deserved an explanation of your personal reasons so you disclosed them. And just like that the conversation on that email thread naturally progressed and eventually deepened. The professional emails became casual text messages, the text messages became phone calls, and the phone calls became actual face to face dates at late hours of the evening because he usually clocks out at 9 o’clock. 

The rest, as they say, was in the hands of history. 

Your first date with Mingyu was particularly odd. It was at a traditional Korean restaurant owned by one of his friends who introduced himself as Angel even though his real name is Jeonghan. You didn’t question him or anyone else why because that’s none of your business. But back to the date. It was odd because you have never been to a restaurant that’s completely empty and dead silent before (aside of course, from the typical music played in the background). You asked Mingyu if such an occurrence is normal and he just plainly answered that he rented the whole place all to yourselves. You have always known he’s rich. However, you didn’t believe that booking the whole restaurant was necessary.  

Nonetheless, that first date, in some way, was special for you because there were no distractions. You enjoyed his company and you can tell he enjoyed yours too because he’s quick to mention a second date and it didn’t take a heartbeat for you to say yes. 

But, by far, Mingyu inviting you to the behind the scenes of the making of the sixth anniversary issue that you turned down writing for is one of the most memorable dates the two of you had. It was out of the blue and you two were having difficulty in syncing your schedules. He was beginning to get busier and busier as the anniversary neared and the only way he could think of still making time for you is inviting you to his office. He called you and asked if you’re free to have lunch together. And you, being attracted to the handsome and tall man, didn’t hesitate to say yes. 

He was in the middle of ending his morning meeting when you arrived and you were almost caught off-guard when all eyes were suddenly on you, making you feel small. But Mingyu didn't care as his smile beamed, immediately standing up from his chair to walk towards you. The rest of his staff were still in the midst of walking out of his office when he grasped your hand to pull you inside and you have never felt so shy your whole life.

Since then, he made you tag along to the creative process and you witnessed how hands on he was with every article, every photo, every brand, every trend and every detail that goes to the magazine that he has built and loved with his blood, sweat and tears. He’s beyond dedicated in finding and doing what’s best for the magazine and most importantly, its loyal readers. 

You can tell that he really is deserving of everything that he has and is still receiving.

Mingyu being perfect also applies to your relationship. He’s always present despite being booked with fittings, meetings, photoshoots and business travels twenty-nine days of the month. He never fails to call, never fails to answer your calls. He never fails to offer the warmest hugs and the softest kisses. Well, he fails to be on time during your dates sometimes but he never once stood you up and his cuddles when he sleeps over are enough to apologize for the lost time.

The only flaw he has is that he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Most especially at times where he wants to shower his love in ways that cost more than your paycheck in a year.

Here are some examples:

You know that Mingyu pays attention to every word you say. Even if you just mentioned a passing topic, he will do his best to keep those in mind. With that being said, you mentioned once that you want to renovate the extra bedroom of your apartment and turn it into a study where you could work someday. Your boyfriend, being the rich man he is, offered to hire and pay a team that could help you bring the design you envisioned into life. 

That was during the first few months of your relationship and you were flabbergasted by how easy it was for him to do or much less say. Needless to say, you immediately turned him down and he respected that (but of course, he pouted about it like a child all throughout the day). 

But wait, there’s more. 

Do you remember how you mentioned that Mingyu travels frequently? Yes? Well, Mingyu always books an extra ticket for you just in case you want to join him. Sometimes it’s not even about the flight ticket anymore. It’s about him stopping by your apartment to pick you up unexpectedly as if France is only a drive away. 

It’s unbelievable, really. That’s why you always close the door on his face. But of course, you don’t forget to give him a long kiss and “stay safe” or “I’ll miss you” farewell. Mingyu, ever the good boy he is, lets you win and just return your kisses a little longer for the days he won’t be able to do so. 

Mingyu’s intentions are pure and you’re well aware that the man that you love is only doing this because it’s simple, he loves you. He wants what’s best for you, he wants to give you what you deserve. You can never blame him for being out of touch from reality at times, but you can learn and grow with him. Although of course, he still needs a scolding and a wake up call every now and then. 

Anything else? Yes.

You didn’t take into consideration that he’d remember, but one night while the two of you were about to fall asleep, you sleepily mumbled about your dreams of attending graduate school. It was a mere whisper in the late night against his chest and you even thought that he wouldn’t hear you at all because his eyes were already closed. You honestly didn’t expect that he’d send you brochures of different universities who offer various programs the following day. You had to calm him down as he excitedly talked you through it. You even had to shut him up with your lips and explain that you don’t have the time to study at the moment with your current job. He tried to encourage you with praises and admiration of your dedication, skills and knowledge. But no, you didn’t buy it and that’s the end of discussion. 

The gifts, however, are something that Mingyu is not giving up on. The first few instances he gave you gifts whether it be a high-end handbag, shoes, clothing, and even jewelry, you allowed him. Because there were only a few. But along the way, the gifts got bigger and more frequent. You had to sit him down to set limitations. It was a long conversation of him trying to get the upper hand. But you didn’t let him outsmart you with his hugs and kisses. It was either he was going to tone it down with the gifts or no gifts at all. 

Sometimes, as much as you hate to admit it to yourself, you can’t avoid getting insecure and afraid that the euphoric time you share with Mingyu is not meant to last. At some point, the fact that he's one of the youngest successful editor-in-chiefs of a multi-million earning magazine got overwhelming. You can’t help but feel that you’re no match for him. And again, you hate that your mind gets clouded with ideas that you’re just a charity case he enjoys spending his money on. Of course, you believe that he doesn’t look at you in that way.

It’s you who thinks so. 

“Hey.”

You release the bite on your bottom lip at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. Your lost eyes shoot to the stove where he’s cooking and you notice that he’s about done so you should set the table. 

You didn’t even answer Mingyu’s call which concerns him. He wipes the sauce off his hands on the apron he’s wearing and holds your waist before you could even round the corner to the cabinets. 

His warmth snaps you out of your thoughts. Your eyes blink up to him and he just raises his eyebrows at you. 

“Is there something wrong?” He asks and lowers the heat of the conduction. 

“Nothing, nothing,” you lie, shaking your head, “Let me get the plates. I’m quite hungry.”

You try escaping his strong arms and gaze, but he doesn’t let you go. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist tighter. Your palms automatically land on his chest and the lean muscles make you gulp. 

“I’m going to ask again and this time, I want you to tell me the truth,” he says in a serious yet gentle tone. “What’s wrong?”

You sigh and lean your forehead against his chest. Mingyu also sighs and kisses the top of your head. It’s better to tell him now because you’re not going to get anywhere if you’re just going to keep it to yourself. It will be unfair for him too and that’s not what you want. 

“I just don’t feel so good about myself over the past few days,” you finally voice out. You sound weak, but Mingyu can hear you loud and clear. “I feel like I don’t deserve you.”

Mingyu had to pull away and hold your shoulders to search your eyes, his frown showing disbelief and sadness both at the same time. “Did I do or say something to make you feel this way?”

“No, no,” you quickly say and hold his cheeks. “You did absolutely nothing. It’s just all in my head.”

Mingyu becomes silent and you wish you could just drop it because the regret and embarrassment is slowly dawning upon you. You wish you didn’t bring it up anymore because why would you burden him with your problems? 

But Mingyu proves you wrong once again by holding your hand and carefully tugging you to sit on the dining table, saying softly, “Come on. Let’s talk about it.”

And talk you did. You let out your concerns, worries, fears and insecurities. You bore it all without hiding or masking anything. A tear or two slipped once or twice and some words were interrupted by your hiccups, but Mingyu was patient. He listened and held your hand, promising you that it’s okay. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be worried. It’s okay to be vulnerable in front of him. It’s okay to trust him because he loves you. 

Mingyu loves you and his words and actions assure you that it’s okay to love him too. 

When there were no more words left to say, the two of you shared a comfortable silence. The weight on your shoulders and the sick feeling in your stomach immediately vanished and you have never felt so relieved. You have never felt so free and loved. You can’t believe that Kim Mingyu is real. 

“I know that this is unwarranted,” Mingyu breaks the silence after a while, “but I want you to know that I don’t think of you in any of those ways. To me, you’re the person I love and I am happy with regardless of our different upbringings, different jobs. Those don’t matter to the time and love we share together.”

“I know,” you affirm and kiss his cheek. 

Mingyu nods and smiles against the palm of your hand when a memory suddenly pops in his mind. “I’m not sure if I have told you this already. But the blog entry of yours that caught my attention is about your first ever blog post.”

Your eyes widen at his confession. You have never heard of this before. “You mean the one where I talked about why I love writing so much?”

Your boyfriend smiles and nods. “That one.”

“Gosh. That’s so embarrassing,” you groan and palm your face. 

“What do you mean embarrassing?” He argues, taking your hand to hold again. “That post was one of the most genuine posts that I have ever read. You explained, word by word, your passion, love and dedication to writing in the most honest way possible. Who wouldn’t be moved?”

You pout and unbeknownst to you, that makes his heart squeeze in adoration. 

“It’s not that special,” you mumble, eyes on your intertwined hands. 

“It is to me though.”

Mingyu’s eyes are dreamy and glossy as you meet them again and you could never be more in love. He holds your arms, coaxing you to stand up to straddle his lap. You giggle when he protectively wraps his arms around your waist. His nose scrunches when it grazes yours, but upon meeting his lips you feel it exhale a breath of relief.

You kissed and kissed and kissed. But when Max barks at the two of you, reminding you of the dinner you’re supposed to eat and share with him, the two of you burst into laughter before reluctantly detaching from each other. 

“You doting over me with material things is a perk,” you humor him and he gives you his signature giggle. “But, I wouldn’t trade sharing the same bed, cooking meals or taking care of Max together over any of those.” 

Mingyu nods gives you one last yet long kiss, a promise that there’s more for later. 

More for forever. 

---

a/n 2: this was supposed to be the header/poster of this story but it was too big lol

#seventeen #mingyu #kim mingyu #seventeen scenarios #mingyu scenarios #mingyu scenario #seventeen scenario #seventeen imagines #mingyu imagine #seventeen imagine #mingyu imagines #seventeen oneshot #mingyu oneshot #seventeen fanfic #mingyu fanfic #seventeen fluff #mingyu fluff #seventeen mingyu #mingu seventeen #svt #fic: mff

[bokubonk]

the only certainty

warnings: angst, insecurities

content: hurt/comfort, angst, insecurities

characters: timeskip!Atsumu x reader

date: 2/11/21

word count: 1.4k+

notes: Okay so I know I said I wouldn’t be posting as much but I ended up coming with a ton of ideas so expect more updates soon lol. Also I just wanna know who tf hurt me because these ideas can’t be coming from nowhere. I’m really out here bawling while I write. Anyway, enjoy my blood, sweat, and tears :) 

You shifted on the couch, pulling the thin blanket up to your chest. 

Tears pricked at your eyes as you remembered what Atsumu said to you two days ago. The MSBY Black Jackals had a match against another team and you came to watch. 

You first met at one of his matches in high school and he began relentlessly pursuing you after spotting you in the crowd. Although you were determined to focus on school, you slowly began falling for him after seeing his passion towards volleyball and the kindness he showed you. 

Since the two of you met, you made an effort to go to all of his matches. After all, you wanted to support him and you knew how much volleyball meant to him. 

But, you were always bothered by how many girls were around him and how he seemed to thrive off of their attention. You mentioned it to him multiple times and he always reassured you that you were the only one for him. You would answer his reassurances with a smile that never seemed to reach your eyes because no matter how many times he assured you, it seemed like there was someone out there that was just better, prettier, smarter.

It was bad enough that you started off the day feeling insecure after you overheard Rina, one of his fangirls, talking about your relationship before the match and saying how Atsumu would be better suited with her. You glanced at her and her smile, noticing how tall she was, how confident, how different she was from you.

You only felt worse after seeing her walk up to him once the team won the match, and instead of finding you in the audience like he always did, he smiled at her. 

You watched from the sidelines, feeling your heart ache the longer he talked with her and your thoughts began to spiral. You couldn’t help but wonder why he chose you in the first place when it was clear he was better suited with girls like her. 

But you decided to say nothing, plastering on a weak smile and murmuring a quiet “congratulations” when he finally broke away from his conversation with Rina and approached you. 

Atsumu rambled on about the match as the two of you made your way out of the arena with the rest of the team and you could see that he was truly proud of how he played with the huge grin splitting his face. You felt your lips curling into a smile as you stared at him but your silence didn’t go unnoticed and he paused, his grin slipping from his face.

“What’s wrong?” his eyebrows furrowed, searching your face for any indication of what had happened. “Did someone say something?”

“It’s really nothing,” you shrugged, trying to muster up the strength to continue smiling to assure him you were okay but he cupped your cheek, leaning down to stare you in the eyes.

“C’mon, just tell me,” he frowned.

“It’s just-,” you started, biting your lip as your uncertainties began growing once again, “After the game, Rina went up to you and the two of you just looked so good together.”

Atsumu was expecting a real reason as to why you were upset but instead he got another one of your unnecessary insecurities and he just wasn’t in the mood after winning the match he had practiced so hard for. His hand dropped from your face and he ran it through his hair. “Stop making a big deal out of nothing. How many times do I have to tell you for you to get it in your head.”

You swallowed back your hurt and opened your mouth to change the topic but he rolled his eyes, “Why do you have to be so insecure? It’s not like I’m dating her.”

Atsumu waited for you to respond but when you answered with your silence, he sighed, “Look, can we stop talking about this? We just won and discussing how insecure you are is only going to ruin the mood.”

“Oh, um, okay,” you murmured, fixing your gaze onto your feet and blinking back your tears.

“Are you coming with us to celebrate?” he asked, not looking back while you trailed behind him and the rest of the team. 

“I’m not feeling too well so I think I’ll just go home,” you whispered.

“Whatever,” he muttered, too caught up in his own thoughts to realize just how much he hurt you. 

You went to bed alone that night, burying your face into your pillow to muffle your sobs. By the time you realized how late it was, you saw that it was 2:00 a.m. and he had yet to come home. 

For a moment, you wondered if he was out with someone other than the team but you quickly pushed the thought out of your mind once you felt your chest ache again. 

Thoughts of whether he still loved you consumed you and you felt the overwhelming pressure to do better and be better but you knew at the end of the day, it would never be enough. 

At the end of the day, you weren’t enough. 

You left the apartment early the next morning, wondering where Atsumu had stayed if he hadn’t come home to you. But you forced yourself to focus on your job, pushing all of your anxiety out of your mind, only to come home to an empty apartment. 

With a heavy heart you got ready for bed and set up a place to sleep on the couch, knowing that if he didn’t come home yesterday, it was most likely because he was drunk and stayed at a friend’s place and would be coming home today.

You laid there, waiting for the familiar jangle of his keys and pondered whether you were making the right decision. But when he opened the door and walked right past you, you knew there was nothing left to be done. 

“Hey, Atsumu.”

His eyes widened at your use of his name and he froze in place. You never called him by his name unless it was something serious and from how swollen your eyes were, he knew it was something you had spent hours crying over.

You took a breath, trying to keep your voice as even as possible, “I think we should break up.”

Atsumu stared at you, shocked. He didn’t expect you to want to break up with him but when he recalled the harsh words he exchanged with you after the match, he winced. He never wanted to hurt you and he opened his mouth to apologize but you began speaking, your chin quivering as you struggled to stop the tears from escaping.

“You deserve better than me,” your voice trembled. “I’m just going to bring you down with my insecurities and I don’t want that.”

You took a moment to compose yourself before continuing, “You deserve to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

“Baby, no,” Atsumu cried, shaking his head. “No, don’t say that.”

“It’s my fault. I’ll do better just tell me you don’t mean that.”

You choked on a sob, unable to bear the desperation in his gaze. He rarely cried and in the moments that he did, you always tried your best to comfort him. But now, you weren’t sure you were the right person to be wiping away his tears.

“Please, I’m sorry. I love you,” he whispered, walking over to the couch and grabbing your hands in his. “You’re it for me. There’s no one else that could ever compare.”

You stared down at your intertwined hands, “Are you sure? What if choosing me is a mistake.”

Atsumu’s heart clenched at your words. He hated himself for never realizing just how unloved you felt. How did he never notice how much you were hurting?  How much had you been holding back from him because you were afraid of making him unhappy?

“You’re the only certainty in my life,” Atsumu murmured, his gaze softening as you began tearing up again. 

“Well, you and volleyball,” he joked, making you smile. 

“I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you so you never feel this way again,” he vowed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I love you.”

You leaned into his embrace and whispered a quiet “I love you” back. 

You knew the road ahead would be far from perfect but you didn’t mind. Because as long as Atsumu continued being by your side, you had no doubt that everything would be alright. 

#atsumu imagines #msby black jackal #msby atsumu #haikyuu!! #hq #hq angst #haikyuu angst #atsumu angst #miya atsumu #timeskip atsumu #haikyuu imagines #hq imagines #atsumu x reader #timeskip atsumu x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #miya atsumu x reader

[wolferine]

Heart Skips a Beat

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha faces her worst nightmare when a rescue mission goes wrong…

Warnings: Violence, blood

Word Count: 1276

Even with your respirator, you still have a hard time seeing through the smoky air. You carefully wade through the uneven piles of debris while dodging the ceiling beams and cables hanging down like vines. Steve assigned you to search the 3rd floor of the 12-floor condominium, but so far, you haven’t located a single living person.

“Hello? Anyone out there?” you call. With your enhanced hearing, you hear something shuffle in the rubble. A hand pokes out, bloody and white with dust.

“Here!” a feminine voice responds.

“I’m coming!” You leap over holes ten-feet wide and balance on beams thinner than a windowsill to reach them. You kneel to brush some dirt aside and find a young woman lying beneath a large ceiling panel. You click the microphone button on your collar and tell your team, “I got a live one on the third floor.”

“So bring them down,” Clint responds.

“I was just getting to that, thank you for the suggestion.” You grab the ceiling panel and toss it aside, offering a hand to the woman. She accepts but cries out as you pull her to her feet. There’s a piece of rebar, nearly as long as your arm, skewered straight through her calf.

“Hold on, it’s okay.” You remove a tourniquet from your pocket and cinch it around her upper thigh. “Let me carry you. I’ll get us out of here.” You gently pick her up bridal-style and retrace your footsteps. Her arms wrap around your neck as she clings to you like her life depends on it.

Then you remember that the staircase had long ago crumbled, and you’d gotten up here by climbing. There was no way you were getting down the same way.

“Um, wait, I didn’t think this through,” you admit to the woman, but she’s in too much shock to catch your joke. “Hey, guys,” you address your team again, “There’s no staircase for us—”

“So jump.” Natasha’s voice crackles in your earpiece and you smile. 

“You are all so very helpful today.” You look around to find an alternate route. Two stories down, part of the floor is still intact. You had used it as a platform to jump up to the third floor—it should be able to take your weight coming down, right?

“Hey,” you say to the woman in your arms, “There’s no stairs, so I’m gonna have to jump. Just hold on to me and don’t look down, okay? I won’t drop you.”

She nods and tucks her head against your chest. You tighten your hold on her and take three great steps, pushing off into the unknown. You land on your feet harder than expected, but your enhanced bones take the impact in stride. From there, it’s just a simple path through the rubble back to the street.

“I’ve got a live one!” you shout, and paramedics rush towards you with a gurney. “She’s got some rebar through her leg, so be careful with her.”

“We got her,” the paramedics assure, helping you set her on the gurney.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you promise the woman, patting her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her hand lingering a little too long across your chest.

“You take care of yourself now.” You wave as the paramedics roll her away, then turn around and see Natasha walking towards you with an expression of jealousy. “What?” you ask, removing your respirator and wiping sweat off your forehead.

“Did you have to carry her like that?” Natasha says.

“Carry her like what?” you respond. “She had some rebar in her leg, Nat, I was just trying to—”

“We’re in public. You need to be professional.”

“No, you’re just jealous.” You step towards her, close enough to see the flecks of brown in her swirling green eyes. “Because I carry you like that to our bed all the time—”

“Don’t lead her on like that, you’re never gonna see her again.” Natasha steps back, but you see the blush in her cheeks and the twitch of a smile on her lips.

“I’m just doing my job,” you say. “Besides, I’m already in love with someone else.” You reach for her hand and squeeze it gently.

“Looks like Y/N found the last live one.” Steve comes up behind Natasha, his face streaked with soot and his hair matted just like yours.

“Perfect. So, we’re done here, right?” you say.

“Not just yet. We’re still not sure what caused the collapse—”

“Oh, come on, Steve, you know how these building owners are,” you interrupt. “They cut a bunch of corners, don’t build up to code, and then the whole thing comes down at the slightest—” Natasha shuts you up with a glare.

“How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” she asks.

“Could be a while. There you are, Barton.” Clint falls into place next to you.

“Well, if we’re here long enough, maybe we can hit up the nightclubs,” you say, throwing a glance at Natasha, but she doesn’t look at you. “Or, we can get some shawarma. That’s always a fan favorite.”

“Y/N.” Clint clears his throat.

“Sorry.” Sometimes you go a little too far, but that’s just how you are. Doing your line of work isn’t easy or normal, and you always try to keep things fun and light.

“We can celebrate after we’ve got this mess sorted out,” Steve says. “So what we need to do next is—”

BOOM.

BOOM.

You hear two gunshots; all of you do. But you’re the only one who gets hit.

The first bullet tears through your right shoulder and it feels like you’ve been struck with an anvil. Your body jerks upward and your blood sprays across the faces of your teammates. Before you even start falling, the second bullet spirals through your lower back and you swear you feel your organs explode. You stay standing, swaying slightly. You see the expression of shock on Natasha’s face, then the blood on her cheeks. Your blood.

“Shots fired, shots fired!” Steve leaps forward and slams Clint to the ground. Clint rolls out from under him and takes cover behind a car. Steve looks back and sees Natasha still standing, looking like a deer in headlights. None of your limbs seem to work. The respirator slips from your hand and your legs finally buckle to the right. “Get down, Nat!” He pushes himself up and tackles her to the ground.

“Everybody get down!” Clint yells. Paramedics and police officers scatter, civilians run in all directions.

Your right arm cushions your head from slamming on the asphalt and you hear your heartbeat in your ringing ears. The pain is dull, an annoying background sensation, and you’re not even aware of the blood pooling beneath you. Maybe you should’ve worn your bulletproof vest, but you hadn’t planned on being shot during a rescue mission.

Natasha stares at you helplessly, watching you gasp for air. Instinctively, she tries crawling towards you, but Steve flattens his weight on her.

“Don’t move, Nat!” he orders. “Stay down!”

But she doesn’t hear him. She only sees you. She sees your eyes glaze over, your fingers clawing weakly at the ground, trying to reach out to her. She sees the blood puddle forming around your body, practically drowning you in a sea of red.

Darkness pulls at the edges of your vision, threatening to swallow you whole. Your chest flames in agony with each shallow breath you take, and the darkness becomes more and more tempting. Your eyelids flutter; you don’t have the strength to keep them open. You don’t hear Natasha screaming your name as you blank out.

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Click here for Part 2!

AN: I never thought I’d write fanfics again, but this brilliant idea popped into my head when I was watching 9-1-1 and I just had to write it. This is also the first time I’ve written a reader-insert story and one with no planned ending, so we’ll see what happens!

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow fanfiction #marvel