#But like my greatest fear besides everything else is how people think of me
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GEH I JUST REMEMBERED WHEN DURING THE END OF OUR TIME AT COMIC CON killing stalkking GIRLTRIED TO DIAGNOSE ME WITH ANXIETY. ONE YOUR PERCEPTION OF ME IS WRING AND TWO HAS IT EVER OCCURED TO YOU THAT PEOPLE CAN HAVE ISSUES OTHER THAN THE PALATABLE SANITIZED VERISONS OF ANXIETY AND DEPRESSION YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND??????
#jesse.txt#Just remembered that she tried this shit again#This shit being her trying to figure out why I take medication#I think she'd scream if she head that I'm a dissociative psycho#ofc I will keep my safety in mind an never tell her Yada Yada#But like my greatest fear besides everything else is how people think of me#Ugh whatever I just gotta brush this shit off her ideas and opinions don't matter because she sucks#I just am trying to put up with her cause our moms are friends and we both have the same life Yada Yada#And now I have to be EXTRA FUCKING CAREFUL because my mom talked to her about moving into the same complex#Fukicng kill me ARGH
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Welcome to my Mega Problematic Sylvie post
I wanted to make a list of everything problematic about Sylvie in s1 and s2 because she gets away with whatever she wants and it bugs me to no end that she never takes accountability for any of the pain she causes.
You have been warned. So let's get into it.
1. Sylvie’s way is the only way and she expects everyone else to just bend to her will without complaint
2. She is physically mentally and emotionally incapable of trusting anyone besides herself
3. She uses other people's emotions to manipulate them into getting what she wants
4. She refuses to even entertain the possibility that anything besides her own opinion is correct
5. She criticizes others' attempts to clean up the mess she caused while she herself does absolutely nothing about it
6. Always looking to ruin and run, taking the easy way out and avoiding any accountability
7. Puts her own need for revenge above the well-being of everyone else in the multiverse
8. Blames everyone else for the problems she herself caused
9. Insults everyone at the TVA for their lack of empathy despite it being the exact reason she didn't want to return in the first place. Every critique she delivers just illustrates how much of a hypocrite she is
10. Berates Mobius and all the people who are actually trying to fix her problem even though they never once blamed her for the mess they're in
11. Acts like she's doing everyone a favor just for being there and insulting everyone when in reality, Loki had to ask multiple times before finally getting her to return
12. Never willing to put in more effort than just destroying everything and walking away
13. Even when directly asked for her help, Sylvie straight up refuses. She couldn't care less about anything besides her McDonald's employee-of-the-month badge
14. Sylvie gaslights Loki into thinking they're the same, that she's not in the wrong because they're both only thinking of themselves. In reality, Sylvie is thinking only of going back to her own timeline, alone, while Loki is thinking only of making his friends happy, because that's what makes him happy too.
15. While being completely unsympathetic to Loki struggling with his greatest fear, Sylvie makes the decision that Loki's friend's are all better off where they are now. But is it really better for them, or just better for Sylvie?
16. And now, after 11 episodes and countless requests for Sylvie's help, she actually cares about the rest of the multiverse. And yet it's still solely because her own timeline is finally in danger
17. When Loki ends up sacrificing himself to solve the problem Sylvie created, her only response is a joyful shrug that she's now happy, alone, and responsibility-free.
Overall, I know Sylvie's only purpose as a character is to be a darker mirror of Loki and everything she does is understandably informed by her trauma. This is likely a result of having a limited-episode-series and having all male/not diverse writers creating female characters. Sylvie is used only as a comparison to Loki before he met Mobius, and unfortunately is never given any thoughtful character moments like Loki had showing how he was aware that his actions hurt others. In 1x1, Loki talks about how he doesn’t enjoy hurting people and only does it to maintain control. The only time we ever see Sylvie reconsider her actions is when she didn’t kill Timely, which I think is more because she saw herself in Timely as someone who didn’t want to be controlled by their ‘destiny,’ not because she developed any kindness or compassion toward him.
I understand the fact that Sylvie was never given someone like Mobius to allow her the opportunity to change like Loki did, but I don't think that should excuse her causing so much pain and being so self-centered. Sylvie never trusted or cared about anyone and that's also my biggest argument against Sylki; her loving or being driven by anyone besides herself is just so inconsistent with her entire character.
Anyway, my purpose here was not to be hateful or to search for any reason to criticize Sylvie, but instead to look critically at her character since I've seen a lot of people praise her as the strong, independent female Loki whose behavior can always be forgiven. Unfortunately, the way she was written is that Sylvie turned her own trauma into everybody else's problem and they all spent 2 seasons trying to clean up her mess. That's my take thank you and goodnight
#loki#anti sylki#this was so cathartic just let me have this#loki spends the whole season trying to save his friends and Sylvie blocks him at every turn#with her bad attitude and insults and gaslighting#it drives me irrationally bonkers#I’m not saying it’s Sophia’s fault or anything like that#I just wish they wrote her character better#can we get some more diverse writers#pls and thx#sylvie#mobius#loki series#loki tv#loki s2#loki season two#loki season one#loki s1#gifset#anti sylvie#thoughts-theories#loki-us blog
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Holding your hand- Nico Hischier
“ I could start fires with what I feel for you “
- David Ramirez
inspired by Grace by Lewis Capaldi
word count: 1k
I'm not ready to be just another of your mistakes
I can't seem to drown you out long enough
I fell victim to the sound of your love
You're like a song that I ain't ready to stop
I got nothing but you on my mind
Falling for Nico was all consuming, he existed in every crevice, every small crack, every minor detail of your whole being.
You’d tried to push him away. Keep him at a safe distance so he couldn’t reel you in but it was all in vain. The inviting look in his deep brown eyes and soft spoken words as he talked. How he carried himself when he walked into a room.
You tried and tried to not become another one of the girls who ultimately would get their hearts broken by beautiful men.
Every time you thought he’d given up he proved you wrong. He would show up at your apartment with a smile and promises of movie nights or takeaway from your favourite diner from the corner of your street.
“Whats your deepest fear?” He’d asked one time as you were laying in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin and phone beside you on speaker. Nico away on a road trip in Canada and even though he’s so far away he still feels as close as ever. Even from the other side of a phone call.
The question had caught you off guard, just a couple of seconds ago you’d been intently listening to the soft breathing of your -newly- boyfriend. Imagining him on his back in the hotel room, blanket up to his waist and one arm tucked underneath his head. Eyelids fluttering as he tries to stay awake just a while longer so he can continue hearing your voice.
“Being forgotten, never doing anything memorable with my life so that when I die people forget that I ever existed. Not leaving something behind that reminds others of me, that I was here once and now I’m not. I think that’s what scares me.” It’s quiet on the other end. Not even a ruffling from Nico moving on the bed or sounds of breathing. It makes you wonder if he hung up while you were talking.
“You’re not forgettable.” The response is simple but you understand the underlying meaning behind them. I will remember you, I won’t let others forget you existed once, I’ll make sure you’re not forgotten.
“What’s your fear?” Trying to push down the growing lump in your throat it’s easier to place the focus on him. On his thoughts and not yours, so you won’t feel as bare as you are feeling in this moment. Like you’re showing him every worry and anxiety you try to hide from everyone all the time. To not make people worry.
“Not being what others expect me to be. The whole idea of what a first round hockey player should be and making everyone disappointed.” His voice is whispering, like you’re two little kids in a blanket fort telling each other secrets nobody else can know.
And you suppose you are those two kids in that fort, hiding in your own space just the two of you whispering things nobody else will hear. Sharing things you’ve been scared to tell somebody else. Finding comfort in each other and the fact that you aren’t alone in your fears.
You tell him that he’s not making anyone disappointed, that he’s a great hockey player.
What you’re dying to tell him is I love you, I know you’ll become more than what anyone could ever think you would. You’re the greatest player I’ve ever seen. I believe in you.
Don't wanna let the pieces fall out of place
I was only just a breath removed from going to waste
Till I found salvation in the form of your...
Your grace
You’d never been religious but began to question the whole idea that people come into your life when you need them the most. That someone out there in the universe sends them your way because they know they’re what you need.
That someone out there gave you Nico when everything felt like a bottomless pit. A gaping black wormhole just waiting for the right time. Waiting for you to slip on that thin ledge and fall into it.
The hand that reached out and grabbed you right as you were about to stumble and fall. Saving you from the figurative monster that’s wanting to sink its claws and teeth in you. Rip you apart from the inside in the form of depression and loneliness.
He didn’t know it yet, you haven’t told him about that part of your life before he came into it. You aren’t sure you’ll ever tell him. It feels so long ago now, a million light years away. A distant memory of the past that you’d rather never think about again.
Not now that he’s here and he isn’t going anywhere. He’s here and he’s pulling you further away from that ledge without even knowing it.
You remember the first time he told you he loved you. It’s still unsure if he even meant for the words to slip out.
He says it was on purpose but the pink tint on his cheeks when you bring it up tells another story. You said it back without even think about it. It felt like second nature to say you love him out loud. Because you do, so much.
Nico’s lips had pulled up into a goofy smile before he’d grabbed your cheeks and pressed a hundred kisses on your lips. Repeating I love you breathlessly when you pulled back for air. Brown eyes shining brighter than the stars and sweaty hair falling over his forehead. Still dressed in his gear but it was perfect.
You aren’t religious but you thank god every single day for bringing you Nico. For the stars aligning and bringing you the person meant for you, giving you the sunlight that shines over the darkest shadows and that keeps on shining.
Keeps on holding you away from that invisible ledge.
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9 people you'd like to know better
tagged by: @funshinebf woah!! hey!! hi!! :3
a) three ships:
DELLUMBRA. my beloveds forever and ever and ever. an animator put della and penumbra holding hands in the chibi valentines day thing and its the only thing that matters for the rest of time. seeing them never fails to make me the happy smiler
spova... HRHGHGHHGHGHHHHH (STARTS CLAWING AT THE WALLS) im getting a bunch of my irls to watch the show with me and like how do i explain why sparx catching nova in circus of ooze makes me actually start howling in pain. the slow burn... the trust... the botched confessions the loss the self blame. oh god its all just so fucking painful forever ill never be over them
tomshiv :) theyre the perfect eternal punishment for each other and i love seeing them make each other suffer. the dirty talk scene in season 3 permanently altered my brain chemistry and tom wambsgans mr brightside is the greatest video of our generation
a1: bonus ships:
SERIREI :) save me serirei... serirei save me... such a classic i love those crazy businessmen. 2018 serirei was literally the perfect era like you had to be there
joongdok. thousand yard stare. ive been coming around to yoohankim lately too but i feel like a lot of content doesnt really capture what i like about orv so i dont look at or like a lot of the shippy content in the first place
gibotto
also gibson/sparx
b) first ever ship:
...... :( it was grey/juvia from fairy tail. yandere x tsundere was like elite to me. if i close my eyes and pretend im in a universe where fairy tail is good i can honestly see the vision. the first one that made me really crazy crazy about shipping though was germany and italy from hetalia unfortunately. sorry. and sometimes i fear i may never escape the annoyingly optimistic x grump who secretly likes it trope and its all their fucking fault
c) last song:
hello, i love you by adore delano. SHE JUST GETS ME
d) last movie:
uuhhhh fuck i watch a lot of movies absolutely baked with my friends so its hard to remember. i think everything everywhere all at once :) i sincerely believe it is one of the best movies ever made. STEPHANIE HSU WAS ROBBED AT THE OSCARS
e) currently reading:
cirice by madeline miller, i havent picked it up in months tho... and i keep telling myself im going to start one piece and dungeon meshi but i havent yet #laziness
f) currently watching:
sooo many things but im currently keeping up with season 16 of drag race with my friend. besides that primarily trigun stampede and hannibal because im watching those with my friends. and i count srmthfg again. but also dungeon meshi is on the backburner too. and a million other things like the boys and interview with the vampire... GOD THERES TOO MANY SHOWS GUYS
g) currently consuming:
idk waht this means. if its about eating then i have a big tub of cocktail peanuts that im munching on right now
h) currently craving:
DAVES HOT CHICKEN. SAVE ME DAVES HOT CHICKEN
9 people to tag:
um uh um uhhh @godza @morguerue @irradiatedsnakes @faglagomorph @treecakes @itaots @soulreaper @puppetlooselystrung @vampirewings and also anyone else who wants to talk about themselves yay!!! i hope its okay i tagged you heart emoji <3
easily copyable version under the cut for joy and prosperity yay
9 people you'd like to know better
tagged by:
a) three ships:
a1: bonus ships:
b) first ever ship:
c) last song:
d) last movie:
e) currently reading:
f) currently watching:
g) currently consuming:
h) currently craving:
9 people to tag:
#he is typing#tag games#tagged in#HI. HELLO MUTUALS. IM NOT NERVOUS TAGGING PEOPLE AT ALL AND I BEHAVE NORMALLY
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━━ ❀ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒 by 𝕿𝖊𝖗𝖗𝖞 𝕲𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖉 ❀ ( contains various quotes from the novel series. some of these quotes are long, please keep in mind. feel free to change the pronouns as you see fit ! )
❛ People are stupid; given proper motivation, almost anyone will believe almost anything. Because people are stupid, they will believe a lie because they want to believe it's true, or because they're afraid it might be true. Peoples' heads are full of knowledge, facts and beliefs, and most of it is false, yet they think it all true. People are stupid; they can only rarely tell the difference between a lie and the truth, and yet they are confident they can, and so are all the easier to fool. ❜
❛ The greatest harm can result from the best intentions. ❜
❛ Passion rules reason. ❜
❛ Mind what people do, not only what they say, for deeds will betray a lie. ❜
❛ The only sovereign you can allow to rule you is reason. The first law of reason is this: what exists, exists, what is, is and from this irreducible bedrock principle, all knowledge is built. It is the foundation from which life is embraced. ❜
❛ Life is the future, not the past. The past can teach us, through experience, how to accomplish things in the future, comfort us with cherished memories, and provide the foundation of what has already been accomplished. But only the future holds life. To live in the past is to embrace what is dead. To live life to its fullest, each day must be created anew. As rational, thinking beings, we must use our intellect, not a blind devotion to what has come before, to make rational choices. ❜
❛ Willfully turning aside from the truth is treason to one's self. ❜
❛ Knowledge is earned not given. ❜
❛ You can destroy those who speak the truth, but you cannot destroy the truth itself. ❜
❛ There have always been those who hate, and there always will be. ❜
❛ In this world, everyone must die. None of us has any choice in that. Our choice is how we wish to live. ❜
❛ Trouble sires three children. ❜
❛ Nothing marks a ( man / woman )'s character better than ( his / her / their ) attraction to intelligence. ❜
❛ Nothing is ever easy. ❜
❛ There is no such thing as pure good or pure evil, least of all in people. In the best of us there are thoughts or deeds that are wicked, and in the worst of us, at least some virtue. An adversary is not one who does loathsome acts for their own sake. He always has a reason that to him is justification. My cat eats mice. Does that make him bad? I don't think so, and the cat doesn't think so, but I would bet the mice have a different opinion. ❜
❛ When you are out numbered, and the situation is hopeless, you have no option--you must attack. ❜
❛ Fate does not seek our consent. ❜
❛ Don't shed tears for those already in the ground, until after you have brought vengeance to those who put them there. There will be time enough, then.. ❜
❛ Don't worry about what might be…Worry about what is ❜
❛ One must observe before one acts, or more harm than help can be the result. ❜
❛ Sometimes, in madness resides genius. ❜
❛ If the road is easy, you're likely going the wrong way. ❜
❛ Everything is valuable under the right conditions. To a man dying of thirst, water be more precious than gold. To a drowning man, water be of little worth and great trouble. ❜
❛ Cut. Once committed to fight, Cut. Everything else is secondary. Cut. That is your duty, your purpose, your hunger. There is no rule more important, no commitment that overrides this one. Cut. ❜
❛ Everyone makes mistakes. How a person deals with their mistakes is a mark of their character ❜
❛ If we all knew each other's secrets, it would prove a very strange world. Besides, it would take all the fun out of the telling of them. But I fear no secret of a person I trust, and ( he / she / they ) has no need to fear mine. It is part of being friends ❜
❛ Reality is irrelevant; Perception is everything. ❜
❛ Dance with me, Death. I am ready. ❜
❛ I am the bringer of death, I have named myself so ❜
❛ Blade, be true this day. ❜
❛ I will remember only that I loved ( him / her / them ), and could never tell him. ❜
❛ ( muse name ), is a pebble in the pond - an individual at the center of so many things. ( He / She / They ) touches so many things. ( He / She / They ) has turned out to be a core element in all our lives. Everything turns on what ( he / she / they ) does, on the decisions he makes. If ( he / she / they ) takes a wrong step, we all fall down. ❜
❛ We'll fix it. Together. Always together. ❜
❛ I'm not here to smile and look pretty for the men, General ❜
❛ If someone is trying to stick a knife in your back, closing your eyes does not make you safe. ❜
❛ A place this big must have something to eat…. ❜
❛ I dislike riddles. They leave too much room for misinterpretation. ❜
❛ If you get yourself killed trying to rule the world, I will personally break every bone in your body. ❜
❛ Be proud you made right choices, ( muse name ) , the choices that allowed to happen what came about, but do not call arrogance to your heart by believing that all that happened was your doing. ❜
❛ Hesitation can be the end of you…..or those you care about. ❜
❛ Hurry up and torture me before I fall asleep and miss it. ❜
❛ You actually read the reports ? ❜
❛ You want to be healed, now? Or would you prefer to bleed to death so I can try my hand at resurrection ? ❜
❛ For a dragon, it is better to die than be ruled ❜
❛ There is magic in forgiveness. In the forgiveness you grant, and in the forgiveness you receive ❜
❛ Only a fool walks into the future backward. ❜
❛ Do you know, ( muse name ), that it's the weight of one flake of snow that is one too many, and causes an avalanche ? Without that one, last flake, the catastrophe would not happen. When using magic, you must know which is the one snowflake too many before you add its weight. The avalanche will be out of all proportion to what you think the weight of that flake could invoke. ❜
❛ It does the sheep no good to preach the goodness of a diet of grass, if the wolves are of a different mind. ❜
❛ Once lucky, twice confident, and thrice dead ❜
❛ I wish people had half the honor of dragons. ❜
❛ You could die this day, so you should strive to do your best while you still lived ❜
❛ Don't lay a cloak of guilt around my shoulders because others are evil. ❜
#✧ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄 ┊ meme resources#the sword of truth sentence starters#rp meme#inbox memes#sentence starters#askbox meme#tw: self harm#tw: depression
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I Am The Ghost That Hide in the Night Chapter 2: It's a Cold, Cruel, Harsh Reality
Also on AO3 || Ko-Fi
This couldn’t be happening.
What the hell was Yor, of all people doing here? Why was she holding a bloody weapon?
He had been compromised, and worse, it had been by his wife. The woman he had been lying to for over a year now in an attempt to seem like a completely normal Ostanian man, and not Westalis’ greatest weapon.
Fuck. Calm down Twilight. There had to be a reasonable explanation for this, right? Then again, Yor had said there was stuff she needed to finish at work. And Twilight could not figure out what that was supposed to be if she was here covered in blood and holding some very sharp looking weapons.
Still, he needed to figure out what was going on, so he took a slow, deep breath. “Yor… I thought you said you were behind on your work at city hall.” His voice was colder than he normally used with anyone outside of missions. He couldn’t muster up the airy, laid-back voice of Loid Forger. Not now.
“And I thought you were supposed to be helping some patients. I’m not a doctor but I’m pretty sure murder goes against your code, even if concussive therapy for some reason doesn’t!”
If he’d been anyone else, he might have missed the shudder that went down her spine before she spoke. But he saw the slight quiver of her arms, and while he normally felt good about making people fear him, the sour feeling that had vanished with each death blow of these awful scientists, was beginning to return.
“Clearly… we both have skeletons in our closet. Why don’t we talk about this calmly? Let’s… put our weapons away.”
Yor made no movement to do so. “DId you kill all those people?”
Or… they could just start asking questions with little to no fanfare. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Human experimentation is barbaric. I wanted to stop these people from starting it back up.”
Yor’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know about that?”
“How did you?”
Yor’s weapons quivered, and the gun suddenly felt so heavy in Twilight’s hand. A stalemate. How long had it been since he’d been in a stalemate with someone?
“Let’s put our weapons down and talk about this calmly,” Twilight said. “But I have to know I can trust you.”
“Well so do I!”
She was scared, he realized. Scared and flustered over seeing him here. He couldn’t blame her - he felt the same way, even if he was doing his best not to show it. How much had they gone through together while trying to act like a totally normal family? And yet it seemed all three of them had secrets they’d been keeping.
“I’m here because of Anya,” he settled on. She deserved to know.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Anya is not my biological daughter, Yor. I adopted her. And recently I came across some information that told me she was one of the children experimented on here.”
Yor grew paler, which Twilight would admit was rather impressive given how fair her skin usually was. “She… these people hurt her? They hurt our daughter?! And you didn’t leave any of them alive for me to take care of except one?!”
Okay, good. She still trusted him, and was just as angry as he was over what happened with Anya.
“I didn’t know you would be coming tonight, Yor. How could I have left some alive for you?” he asked with a frown.
“I guess so…” she agreed. “But what I don’t understand is how you know how to kill people with such precision.”
“I would like to know the same thing about you. How do I know you aren’t a member of the Secret Police come to take Anya away?”
“I’m hurt you’d think that after everything we’ve been through! Besides, I’m not with the secret police! Besides - ” she lowered her voice, like she was hoping he wouldn’t hear her, but he distinctly heard the words “Shopkeeper hates them.”
He believed her, of course, because he knew it was Yuri who was on that path, but still, it was good to hear her say it. “I believe you. And I want you to know I’m no fan of them either.”
Yor sighed, her shoulders relaxing. “Good…. Then who are you?”
Twilight glanced around, then shook his head as he approached her, dropping his voice low. “I shouldn’t tell you here. We trust each other, and our house is secure from any traps or listening devices. We can talk more there.”
“Okay,” Yor agreed. “I’ll meet you there.”
He nodded once and turned back to the files he’d been collecting before Yor came into the room. “RIght, I’ll be off with these.”
“But won’t the government realize some documents are missing?” Yor questioned.
“It’s hard to tell if something is missing or if it got burned away in an explosion, isn’t it?” he asked, sliding his hat back onto his head and putting his gun back in his inside jacket. “You have five minutes to get away from here as quickly as possible.”
Not that he doubted she would, now that he knew she was apparently harboring a secret the same as he was. All of her random acts of strength were suddenly becoming clearer - he just didn’t know who she worked for, which was an issue Twilight intended to solve tonight.
Yor nodded and bolted from the room. Twilight followed, but by the time he’d gone outside, he couldn’t see her anymore. Oh well.
It was done. Those people would never be able to harm Anya ever again.
Twilight turned the key to his van just as the warehouse exploded in a brilliant flash of light.
“Excellent work, Agent Twilight. It seems Mr. Franklin’s handiwork once again paid off,” Handler said with a smirk when he returned to headquarters and dropped records on her desk. “Though I will admit, I was expecting you back sooner.”
“It appears we were not the only ones aware of that organization and aiming to stop them,” he began carefully. If he could avoid telling them about Yor, he would be satisfied with lying to his superiors.
Handler, though, sat straight up, alarmed. “What? Who else was there?”
“Someone who planned to do the same thing I was.”
“Twilight.”
He wouldn’t be able to get out of telling them the truth. He expected it, but he was hoping to not put a target on Yor’s back.
“Before I say it, I need your assurance that WISE will not go after them.”
“I can’t promise that, Twilight. If you were compromised - ”
“Operation Strix will be compromised if any harm comes to the one I ran into in that building,” Twilight said simply. “I am not asking for assurance, Handler. I am expecting it.”
Those words seemed to get her attention, and she leaned over in her chair to make sure the door to her office was locked. “What exactly do you mean?”
“Because I ran into my wife there. She had also been sent by someone to eradicate the scientists.”
“Your wife? You ran into Yor Briar at that warehouse?”
“I did.”
“And she was tasked with killing the scientists?”
“Correct.”
“Who tasked her with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Twilight!”
“We didn’t have much time to talk. You are the one who told me to blow up the warehouse after I grabbed the information you requested,” he pointed out. “The only thing I heard her say was ‘Shopkeeper hates the SSS.’”
Handler frowned. “I’ll look into it. For now, this stays between us. We cannot jeopardize Operation Strix. How did she seem to react to your presence?”
“Shocked but she didn’t seem interested in harming me. She was, however, enraged when I told her Anya had been one of the children there.”
“The fact that she still cares for the girl is a small comfort,” Handler said. “Fine, I won’t report it to the superiors, but I trust you understand why we are going to have to keep a close eye on her from now on.”
That was the best he knew he was going to get, so he nodded in agreement. “Very well, Handler. I understand.”
“Good. Now get home, it’s late.”
Right. The neighbors had already suspected Loid Forger of cheating several times by now. It was best to not let them think it was happening yet again.
“Thank you for your understanding, Handler,” he said.
“You better hope this doesn’t end poorly for you, Twilight, because if it does… Operation Strix is finished and you will be assigned another mission somewhere outside Ostania.”
It wasn’t the first time she used that threat, but it was the first time Twilight actually felt worried and angry at the thought of it coming to pass. He couldn’t let Anya go back to the orphanage, not now. Not after knowing she’d been experimented on.
“Hey Loid,” he heard Yor’s soft voice call as he approached a corner. “Shall we walk home together?”
The City Hall uniform, once so innocent and unassuming, looked wrong on her now.
“Of course, Yor,” he said with a gentle smile. “How was work?”
It was odd to Twilight that moving into step with Yor as they walked the familiar Berlint felt totally normal, despite what they’d found out about each other.
“So… how are things with work? Did you manage to smooth things over with your patient?” she asked quietly.
Interesting. She knew to keep things normal and unassuming while they were walking home surrounded by other citizens of Berlint, even if many of them weren’t paying attention and were instead glued to the shops that sold TVs, news about the explosion having broken while he’d been at WISE headquarters.
“Things are stable for now,” he said. “And what about you? Is everything okay at City Hall?”
“For now.”
They were in another stalemate then, it seemed.
When they entered their building, they greeted the neighbor ladies with a smile before entering their apartment. He distinctly heard one of them comment how nice it was to see the two of them obviously coming home from a date night, and while he was glad they appeared to be giving off the appearance of a normal couple, he wondered how much longer it was going to last.
“Wow, I wasn’t expecting you two to get done at the same time,” Franky greeted, looking up from the magazine he was reading. The TV was playing the news report about the explosion, and if Twilight had been a lesser man, he wouldn’t have caught the giddiness in Franky’s gaze. He supposed everyone got pride out of something, even if it was creating an explosive. “Pretty crazy about that warehouse, huh? Good thing you two were nowhere near!”
Yor managed a nervous cough. “Nope! I was all the way at City Hall and Loid was at the General Hospital!”
Franky gave her a confused look as he shoved the magazine into a bag, leaving an inconspicuous Berlint General Hospital folder on the coffee table where he’d been. “Right, yeah, obviously you two were. Anyway, Anya finished her homework, ate, watched Spy Wars, and passed out after trying to re-enact the episode with Bond. He’s also in her room. I’ll get out of your hair now. See you tomorrow, Loidy-boy, Yor.”
When the door clicked closed behind Franky, he heard Yor’s soft giggles from behind her hand. “I’m glad you have a friend like Franky, Loid,” she said. “Now… I don’t want to make this difficult, so you’d better spill who you are.”
Loid turned in surprise to find his wife standing behind him with her weapons limply at her side. Clearly, she hadn’t deemed him a threat… yet.
He kept himself calm as he considered the best way to get out of this situation. “Let’s make this easy on each other. On the count of three, we say what our professions really are, okay?”
She nodded slowly. “Okay. One - ”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Spy.”
“Assassin.”
They each stared at each other in shock. An assassin? That made sense, given there had been a rash of killings linked to assassinations lately but who in politics would want to assassinate those scientists? Perhaps the current political leaders? If Desmond was linked to the scientists in the warehouse, that was the only group he could think of.
“You’re a - you’re a spy?” Yor asked, her voice quiet. “What are you doing in Ostania? What do you want?”
“I want to stop Donovan Desmond.”
Yor’s shoulders dropped in relief. “You want to stop him? You don’t support him?”
“Of course not. We’re concerned he’s planning to reignite the war with Westalis. We want to intercept him before he can.”
“That’s why you were so interested in me becoming friends with Melinda… because it would get you closer to Desmond.”
“Exactly.”
Yor sighed and ran a hand down her face. “I can’t compromise myself by killing you or divorcing you. Yuri would be too worried.”
“And I can’t compromise myself by killing you either. Eden already looks down on me for having a second wife.”
“Am I really your second wife?”
Ah, right, they were supposed to be telling the truth now, so Twilight cleared his throat awkwardly. “In the eyes of the Ostanian government, yes, you are.”
“And in the eyes of Westalis’ government?”
“To them I’m just a weapon. I gave up any chance of a normal civilian life long ago.”
Yor frowned. “Then what about Anya? Is she just a tool for you to use while you try to get closer to Desmond? What about me?”
Twilight sagged onto the couch, his head in his hands. “At first, yes, that’s all either of you were. But as this mission has gone on, the more I feel like I genuinely care about you both, and your safety. That’s why I have vowed not to turn you in. And when I first started storming the warehouse, I had every intention of taking some of the scientists back to headquarters so our people could interrogate them, but when I got there and realized I was at the heart of an operation that allowed Anya to be hurt, that could try to find her again and take her away from me - us, I knew there was no sense in leaving any of them alive.”
He heard the zip of Yor’s bag open and glanced over at her. She put her weapons in her bag and set it down next to the chair, then took a seat in it, her hands clasped in front of her as was typical.
“I - I see,” she said with a frown. “I’ve grown to care about you too, Loid, and Anya. In fact… since we’re being truthful, I may have lost Anya the day we adopted Bond… and when I found her, I ran into a couple of those student terrorists. They were threatening to kill her. I don’t know why.”
Twilight frowned and looked down at the folder, thinking back to what Handler had shown him back at headquarters before he spoke to Yor. “It’s possible she overheard something she shouldn’t have after she got separated from you. What happened to the terrorists?”
“I managed to knock one of them out cold, but the other one escaped. I think he must have been the leader since he had another dog with him besides Bond. Anyway, I ran into him again while I was looking for Anya. I called the police, but I don’t know what happened after that because I was too busy trying to find her other than he was taken into custody.” She frowned and sighed. “Do you know if those students had anything to do with the people who hurt Anya at the lab?”
“No. My intelligence agency confirmed they got the dogs from the black market.”
Yor sighed in relief. “Good. Then at least we know the people who hurt Anya are dead.”
Anya Willians, Anya Levski, Anya Roche… Surely Anya had been hurt by those people too. Maybe not physically, but it couldn’t have been easy to be returned to an orphanage four times. No wonder she never said anything to them.
“Loid?”
He glanced up, shaking himself free from his thoughts. “Yes, Yor?”
Her hands, while still clasped, had tightened around themselves in the way they did when she was uneasy about asking him something. “Do you know why those people hurt Anya? Or… what they did to her?”
“I can’t answer either of those for sure, but… Anya is a telepath, Yor. They were going to use her for their own gain.”
Yor’s head bowed, but he saw a glimpse of anguish on her face before it was hidden by her hair. “Our poor daughter… I just want to go into her room right now and give her all the hugs I can.”
“Anya doesn’t know that we know about her, Yor. It would be best to not even think about it until we can figure out how exactly to bring it up,” he said. While her head was down, he took a moment to peek into the folder Franky had left. More information on the scientists, it looked like. Good. He’d read that later.
“Oh… wait, does that mean Anya knows about who we really are too?” Yor questioned, running her hands down her face. “That explains a few things…”
“Yeah. I had that feeling too,” Loid said. “A spy and an assassin are raising a telepath. How in the world did we get here?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a shake of her head. “But I’m glad it’s you who found out about me and not Yuri. But there’s something else that’s bothering me right now.”
“What is it?”
Yor furrowed her brow. “Why would dogs be on the black market? That’s usually reserved for drugs, or poison, or other things that are illegal in Ostania. But dogs? Are they the same dogs these people experimented on?”
“So your boss knows about the experimentation too?”
“He’s very well-connected to the black market.”
Twilight knew he should press for more information, but on the other hand, with he and Yor being having a truce, he didn’t want to ruin the fragile trust they had in each other. “I see. Yes, you’re correct. Those dogs were part of an experiment called Project Apple that the Ostanian government’s old regime started. But from what we’ve been able to find, it didn’t seem like the experiments were ever successful. The dogs disappeared after that, until they showed up with the terrorists.”
Yor nodded in understanding. “Yeah, okay. If that’s the case, then… does that mean Bond - ”
“Borf?”
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𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗟𝗘𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 . ♡ *
change any pronouns to your own liking! ^____^ warning for violence, blood, strong language, and nsfw themes. *
passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience.
you will no longer be the person you believed you once were.
to hear her laugh like that really fucked me up.
you might try then, as i did, to find a sky so full of stars it will blind you again.
it may be the wrong decision, but fuck it, it's mine.
little solace comes to those that grieve.
we all create stories to protect ourselves.
this is not for you.
you got a death wish, [name]?
why did god create a dual universe?
no one ever really gets used to nightmares.
i am not a fool.
i miss you.
be not like me. i am alone.
there is only science.
prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
your mate’s dead.
i felt like such an idiot.
fuck you. fuck me. fuck this.
not all complex problems have easy solutions.
some people reflect light, some deflect it. you by some miracle, seem to collect it.
hey, at least you’re alive.
of course, there always will be a darkness.
since when did you bring a gun?
i guess i’m hoping the weapons will make me feel better, grant me some kind of control.
here then, at long last, is my darkness.
what can i say, i'm a sucker for abandoned stuff.
the greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.
let the world be yours.
i’m always as full of wrath as i am full of fear.
you like that crap because it reminds you of you.
it won’t matter.
forgive me, please.
how then do you fly from that path?
there is no such thing as the last straw.
there’s no second i’ve lived you can’t call your own.
no weapon, no blood, and no body.
picture that. in your dreams.
god, i’ve never been afraid like this.
if not, let me offer you some instruction.
stars to live by. stars to steer by. stars to die by.
do you believe in god?
how the fuck did i end up here?
i felt like i was losing control.
something terrible was going to happen. eventually, something terrible did happen.
there's only one choice now: finish what [name] himself failed to finish.
perhaps you will even prosper.
i ask only that my name take its rightful place.
does that scare you?
is it possible to love something so much, you imagine it wants to destroy you only because it has denied you?
i had a nightmare.
and to think my day actually started off pretty well.
you won't have time to even scream.
what do you want to play?
behold the perfect pantheon of absence.
why not someone else?
he will fulfill a promise i made years ago but failed to keep.
the game is set. we’re fucked.
do not entrust your future to the limits of your stride.
look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only god’s echoes and god is narcissus.
why won't you listen to me?
besides, i can always burn it when i’m done.
not a bad way to respond to this whole fucking thing, if you ask me.
don't be ridiculous. you're not gonna go to jail.
i’m sorry, [name.] i don’t know what to do.
scars are the paler pain of survival, received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.
she could have laid this world to waste.
i should be dead.
it depends on what you need.
are you okay? what happened?
it’s impossible to deny.
i keep asking myself: what have i done?
i’m not alone here.
everything falls apart.
i killed it.
who has never killed an hour?
our secret will be safe.
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How irony that she always joked about being p*ndan. Not knowing I was the one who ended up acting like one. So weak so coward.
Day 98.
I know I should have stopped the count. The 86 must remain 86. Where would I be the moment you read this? Alive? Or didn't really survive? We're like a bushel of hedgehogs during the winter. Have you ever heard of the dilemma? The fight to either stay warm or to stay safe. Too distant they'll freeze from the cold, while too close they'll get poked by each other's spines. Either way would still hurt them somehow, in certain degree. So what did they do? They dig burrows deep in the soil and live alone.
At least they knew what to do to survive, even in solitude. What about me? What should I do? I neither want to be alone nor I want to keep hurting you. But I want you. I always want to be with you.
And wallahi I miss you so much. I always miss you. Be it the hundredths or thousandths day, I believe I will still miss you like the very first time when I was in the car, driving back home after subuh. That was the moment when I realised how important you're in my life. I prayed harder (I actually still do) for us to get together in both worlds as husband and wife. Then I miss you more and more ever since. The feeling couldn't stop from growing. My heart is so full of love for you alhamdulillah. And your name has become my favourite word. Of course you yourself is my most favourite person.
You're so funny I'm not sure if you know that. When you been dreading and gave excuses to postpone taking shower but spent hours to get done anyway. When you told me you just woke up and suddenly was on the train a minute after. When you asked me to rate my sleepiness while you would only sleep 37 hours later. Where did you get so much energy when day was about to end, I wonder. Also all of our inside jokes, emojis and exaggeration of everything. You're so good at teasing and I couldn't help but to fall in love with you over and over again, each time. I never smiled and laughed that much before I knew you. You've made this sick world so much a better place to live in.
Thank you. I must thank you.
People would definitely make fun of me if they knew the way you cared for me. Apply sunscreen it's hot outside. How's the weather should I ask Google to check? Don't forget to bring your umbrella. Don't talk to strangers - jangan pandang perempuan. You drive today? So can you take your phone with you? Don't eat anything sour. Don't lock the door. Where are you now? Don't you want to go home yet? Did the mosquitoes bite you? Did you get to meet the imam and sit beside him? Have you eaten? Are you in pain? Banyak selawat dan zikir. It's getting late, can you rate? See who's the p*ndan one here. Haha
Anyway, yes the grammar is highly inaccurate here and there. This is not the language I prefer to use to utter my emotions. I doubt to let it be either in the present or past form. I just don't want us to end. I would rather endure the pain for hundred more years than to be separated from you for one whole day. It may sound cheesy and cringe but wallahi I mean what I said.
The thought of losing you enough to be my greatest fear. To be left alone in the middle of a crowded mall. To continuously searching for you but to no avail. So many faces with staring eyes and deafening mumbles, but all are complete strangers. It's so scary to think that one day I couldn't find you anymore. That I have to carry this fear all alone. That you my safe and comfort place, has finally disappeared.
Where else can I find a person who would encourage me to cry. Who convinced me that there's no shame in crying. That it's alright to complain how unfair this life has been treating me. That I'm not any less a man to be weak sometimes. Where else can I find this kind of a person that stays proud of my tiny effort of standing strong despite my shaking legs. Soaked in tears, dripping blood and sweat.
You're the one person that I can go to for absolutely anything in the world. Every tears and happiness, every pain and peace, I know I will always have you to go to, to seek for comfort and courage, strength and solace. I will always in need of you. True, Allah should always be made a priority. But we're human too. It's by nature to want to have a companion, to not be alone while walking through this path of trials and tribulations.
I'm so sorry. I can't do this without you.
...
I'm going to the mosque now insya Allah. Indeed life is so full of surprises. For everything that's good for us, may Allah ease our journey to reach to that. Maybe once I'm back later insya Allah, you'd be here and never disappear.
Wallahi I love you so much, now and forever.
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“I know it sounds silly… but I don’t know what else to call it besides a curse. This can’t just be bad luck, you know?” Farrah to Dustan
Dustan didn’t want to make light of what Farrah was saying. He knew it was obviously a very heavy topic for her. He was taking her seriously, he really was, and his heart just kept on breaking with everything he heard. He hates that she thought this way about herself. That she had this much doubt in life, that she thought she could possibly be something negative in his and their daughter’s lives. He desperately wanted to ease her fears and promise her she never had to be scared again.
“I don’t think it sounds silly,” Dustan began, his tone soft. He reached out to squeeze her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. “I think the universe has just unfairly given you a harder life than most people should have so young. I can’t even imagine going through everything you have and still being here, still being strong enough to keep fighting. And you aren’t just fighting for yourself anymore, but for our girl, and I like to think for me too. You know how much I love her…and you’re doing all the hard work here.”
Dustan really wasn’t good with words. He couldn’t remember the last time he had worn his heart out on sleeve like this, but he wanted Farrah to believe him. He wanted her to finally be happy. Beyond that, though, he wanted her to see herself how he saw her. Just because she had been dealt a shitty hand so far didn’t mean that the rest of her life has to be that way. As long as he was around, he would make sure she wouldn’t suffer the same way again.
“The way I see it, my life has only gotten better since you’ve been part of it. Not only that, but you’ve given me the greatest gift ever of our daughter.” Dustan vowed. There wasn’t a promise in his life he had, or possibly would ever, take more seriously then this one. “And as far as I can help it, no curse - real or not - is going to get in the way of me making sure the two of you are the happiest girls alive. See here? Baby and I broke whatever spell was on you and cast a whole new, even better one on you and this whole family.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her as close against him as he could muster.
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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?
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dynasties & dystopias || silco x gn!reader || pt. 3
Underground utopia, dynasties and dystopias
Fear is never an option, so dying's not a real phobia
Synopsis: You are stunning, the most sought after escort in all of Zaun. When you stumble into Silco's inner circle, you barely expect to survive, much less be stuck in a sexual stalemate with the kingpin of the Lanes.
Masterlist
Trigger Warning: none for this chapter
"Leave us."
Soon after Silco's announcement, the meeting had adjourned after going over figures for each business, and the upcoming shipment out of Piltover. After Jinx's previous mishap, she was currently "banned from topside." You didn't think that would stop her, but who were you to judge Silco's parenting? It's not like you had seen your own parents in over a decade. Besides, you had more pressing issues at hand - like how to murder the man on the other side of the desk.
"I think that you left some information out of our original terms, Silco."
He let out a low chuckle. "Ridiculous. Did you think I took you in out of the goodness of my heart?"
Silco sat in his chair and lit a cigar, puffing on it slowly. "You won't actually have to run any of the businesses, I just needed-"
You marched up to him and, in a moment of bravery or sheer stupidity, grabbed the cigar out of his hand.
"No, I will actually have to step in. Do you know why, Silco? What you've done to me? Now I've not only got a target on my back because people think I'm from top side, but because I am on your petty little council and I'm engaged to you."
Silco tried to speak, but you cornered him in the chair. "You know just as well as I do that you have just burned my reputation to the ground, and I will never work in Zaun again unless it's for you. No one else will touch me, unless it's to get at you, and that rules out my entire clientele besides an arrogant, handsy, jealous little worm. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
You hoped he would incinerate by the power of your stare alone. The man was still in shock, and you momentarily questioned your resolve. No one talked back to him and lived to tell the tale, aside from his daughter. His blue eye hardened again, the black one as empty as ever.
"What is it about your other work that you will miss so much, exactly? You have more than enough time to yourself, far better accommodation and pay. I have done you a favor."
"A favor?" You puffed on his cigar. You didn't like them, but you could tell it irritated him. "Hah. A favor, drag my reputation through the mud. For all I know you're about to use the city's sex trade to traffick kids. No one else puts it below you, you fucking prick."
Silco moved in a flash you thought him incapable of, and slammed you into the wall, a hand around your throat. You just smiled - weakness spotted.
"If you wanted more, you only had to ask, sir. After all, we are betrothed!"
He sneered at your words, leaning closer and increasing the pressure on your throat. You must've gone mad from your life's plan going up in flames around you, that was the only explanation your logical brain could provide. You laughed in his face, your body shaking against his hand with the movement. His eye was angry, confused, calculating, and for the first time, you saw lust underneath it.
He may think he knew all of your weaknesses, but he underestimated your greatest strength, the only one that mattered in your industry.
Soon, you would be able to read him like a book.
***
Everything in Noxus was tinged red.
Your humble home was in flames, your parents long since gone to war for the Queen, leaving you behind.
You weren't even sure who was burning your house down, this time. Was it Demacians? Did Piltover get a taste for war? Strays who wanted to bring their bloodlust to the city known for it?
You couldn't stomach it anymore. You had to get out.
You tried to make your way to the docks, but you felt something pulling you down. Hands made of blood sprung from the ground, and as you tried to run faster, they pulled harder, harder, harder, until you were dragged from the land and pulled down into the river.
You tried to scream, but the water that filled your mouth tasted coppery. Your whole world was bathed in blood.
But then again, that's how your parents raised you to live.
You jerked awake, looking around your bedroom to ground yourself. You were in your private quarters, above The Last Drop. Still in the Lanes, where you ran to escape Noxus, to escape war, your parents, the bloodshed, the everything.
You had tried so hard to bury yourself in your work, learning the people around you, never letting them get close. You had done well, moving on from Piltover when the Noxian counselor started sniffing around too close. You had done everything you were supposed to, even losing your passions of painting, of inventing, of magic, and now a man had outmaneuvered you. In the age of magic being harnessed by science, of the orb that you saw him send Jinx off with, you were already in enough danger if anyone found out there was magic in your blood. Much less if they knew anything more about your backstory.
Your sea of praise and worship was drying up, and he had made you reliant on him during a time that it was almost impossible to run due to the Zaun/Piltover tensions. If you weren't still so angry, you'd be impressed.
Two loud knocks shook your entire apartment.
"Boss wants you."
"Thank you, Sevika. I'll be right there."
You took your time getting ready for the day. You had played the role of the demure escort for long enough, and instead of Silco believing it was a role you played, he had taken you as naive, stupid, and easily manipulated.
That stops today.
***
"I need a list of every known brothel and club in the Lanes, and a bodyguard with me to meet with the heads of the establishments."
"I didn't -"
"You will give me expendable income or protections to bribe them to heel. Fear doesn't work for sex workers, we live in a constant state of it. If you want loyalty, you buy it."
"Now wait a-"
"I'm willing to take a temporary cut to my payments, in order to supplement the money being given to establish me the baron of the sex trade. After, we will renegotiate terms, depending on the situation."
Silco was seething in his chair, which was oddly attractive. You loved seeing him angry, you wanted to see how far you could push before he was trying to kill you again.
That line of thought should probably concern you more than it did.
"Do we have a deal, sir?" You bat your eyelashes at him, as you held your hand out over the desk. Silco's glare deepened, but he took your hand and forcefully pulled you to stand over the desk.
"Just because I gave you the title, doesn't mean I can't take it away."
"Then you shouldn't have announced it in front of my greatest admirer. He'll be checking to see that you were telling the truth, we have to put on a better show now."
With the mention of Finn he released your hand and leaned back into his chair, calculating.
"Why are you so willing to help now?"
Your eyes twinkled. He was treating you as a person now, no longer an instructable subordinate.
"I don't like you. I don't like your operations. But you announced me as your fiance, and gave me a position that didn't exist before. I'm not stupid."
"What do you know about Finn?"
You rolled your eyes. "What do you know of my interactions with Finn?"
He shrugged. "He's a regular of yours, you may have information on his whereabouts. Jinx said she overheard him talking about you."
"So that meeting wasn't by chance?"
"It was, but it certainly sped up the process."
You paused. "Finn was… possessive. More so than someone should be over a working escort. He wanted me to leave the life to be with him, but gave me no guarantees that I would be taken care of."
"Has he mentioned me at all?"
"I doubt he was thinking of you while getting his dick sucked, sir."
Silco's blue eye widened at the crass language before returning to his normal, detached expression, a slight smile pulling at his lips.
"It seems that I was right in making you my fiance."
"Why did you do that? It would've been enough for him to see me with you."
"It is none of your concern."
Your anger flared up again. Just when you thought you were getting somewhere, he clammed up again. There was a book laying to your right, and you threw it at him. He barely flinched as he walked around his desk, resting his hands on your chair as he bent over you.
"It became my concern when you dragged me into it, sir."
"You are to sit on our unofficial council. You are to back what I say, and argue my case where you see fit. You are good enough at reading situations to understand when that is needed. You would never be promoted so quickly if you were still just an escort."
So it was exactly what you thought was happening. "Their respect was slipping, and you needed a status symbol as backup."
He narrowed his eye, but you stared right back. The tension in the air was palpable, and you wondered if he saw out of his right eye. By all accounts, the scarring should have made him completely unattractive. For some reason, it didn't.
Silco stood, fixing his tie. "I trust that I can now expect you to know how to dress and act in meetings. With your promotion, you are no longer expected to be at all of them."
You nodded, also standing.
"Have a good day, sir."
tag list: @ichigomiluku
#silco#silco x reader#arcane#league of legends x reader#daddy silco#lol arcane#arcane silco#arcane x reader#league of legends arcane#reader insert#gender neutral y/n
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Just Know It Takes It From Me To End This, Darling
Bruce Wayne x Reader One-Shot
Word Count: 1.2K
Warnings: Angst
Author's Note: First day back done and I am exhausted :') Enjoy! -Thorne
**********************************************************************
She frowned as she held the phone to her ear, sniffing slightly to pull off the “I’m sick” fake; she’d taken the day off too, just so she didn’t have to see him, hopefully it had helped her with her façade. “I’m really sorry about dinner tonight, Bruce. This all just hit me out of nowhere and I’m really not feeling to hot right now.”
His smile was heard even through the phone. “You don’t have to worry about dinner. I’ll come by and drop some off. We could watch some—”
“No!” she panicked. “The last thing you need it to get sick too. Just—just gimme a day or two to get over this and I’ll see you again.”
“Are you sure?” he worried. “It’s not bother to me if I get sick. I want to take care of you, darling. You know when you feel bad, so do I.”
Oh, it tugged at her heart to hear those words. To hear that promise and she smiled tightly. “I’m sure, Bruce.” She coughed a little, hoarsely clearing her throat. “I’ll see you sometime soon. Goodnight Bruce.”
She didn’t wait for his response, pulling the phone from her ear to end the call. Her gaze shifted from the screen to the dark sky outside and a heavy-hearted sigh escaped her as she shoved her phone into her purse and left her apartment, bundling in a coat against the Gotham snow.
***
Another plop sounded from the stone dropping into the water and she propped her chin on her elbow atop the railing, gazing disinterestedly at the ripples. All she wanted to do was crawl into bed but her sheets, no matter how many times she washed them, smelled like his cologne, and the last thing she wanted to do was think about him. It’d been pure luck that Bruce had met her, and unfortunately fallen in love with her. A hopeless romantic more familiar with unrequited loves than anything else being wooed by the biggest playboy in Gotham City.
She sighed again, tossing another stone and someone coughed behind her; she jumped a foot in the air and gasped like a horrible protagonist in a cheap eighty’s movie, spinning to see Gotham’s Dark Knight before her.
Pressing a hand to her chest, she breathed, “Holy shit, you scared the crap out of me, Batman.”
“It’s not safe to be out here alone.” His voice was gruff and quiet.
She shrugged, turning back to the water. “Yeah, well, I needed to think.”
Feeling him beside her, she listened as he asked, “Is something the matter?”
“It’s nothing you should be concerned about, Batman,” she murmured. “Nothing important, at least.”
He watched her. “You’re (Y/N) (L/N). Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend.”
A loathing smile crossed her lips. “For now.”
“You’re going to leave him?”
She shrugged again. “I don’t know if I can. He’s…too sweet for me to bring it up.”
“How so?”
(Y/N) looked over, brows furrowed as she questioned, “Isn’t Bruce your benefactor? Why on earth do you want to know why I want to break up with him?”
Batman merely answered, “Because you seem like you need to talk it out.”
Her eyes darted to the water and all the emotion in her chest started to well up again. “It’s stupid.”
“Try me,” he encouraged. “Is something bothering you in the relationship?”
“No. Bruce he’s…he’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a man. Kind, attentive, funny. It’s just…”
“It’s just?”
(Y/N) met his gaze once more and whispered, “I don’t think I’m what Bruce needs.”
Even Batman seemed confused. “What do you mean?”
She gestured to herself. “I’m not a beautiful model that stars of the cover of the world’s greatest magazines or some super smart influential socialite. I’m a nobody from Gotham City and I feel that one day—” (Y/N) swallowed thickly against the lump in her throat, hand moving up and down in front of her chest as if it’d speak the words for her and pushed out, “One day he’ll wake up and realize there’s more for him than me.”
Letting out a shaky breath, she huffed pitifully, “Hell, I’ve never even been with anyone before Bruce. I was like a fumbling teen virgin the first time we had sex and honestly, I think I hid it well enough, but I’ve never been in a relationship before.”
(Y/N) wiped her face. “I’ve always chased love and tried so hard to be what people want but even then, I always got the whole, ‘I like you, but I just want to be friends’ spiel and just when I thought about giving up on love, Bruce Wayne walks into my life and says he’s in love with me.” She glanced over, voice soft as she whispered, “I dread the day he knows there’s someone better than me. Because I know there is and I feel like if I leave him now, it won’t hurt as bad as it would if it were however long down the line before it happens.”
Her fingers were shaky. “It’s embarrassing, this anxiety and lack of confidence but I’ve never known love like I have with Bruce. It’s everything you read about in those stupid cheesy romance novels, and I love every moment with him.” She shook her head. “But I can’t wait for him to break my heart.”
Batman took it all in, the tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, the fear yet love in her voice, the obvious feelings she had for him, and he smiled, reaching out to take her hand. “I’m not going to break your heart, (Y/N).”
She gaped at him. “Excuse me?”
“I love you, (Y/N).” he thumbed her hand. “And I don’t want a model or another socialite.” Bruce leaned forward and took her chin in his free hand, tipping it up as he murmured, “I want you.”
“I’m dreaming,” she blurted out. “I’ve obviously been hit by a car and am currently in some type of coma dream.”
He snorted. “No, I watched you leave your apartment and come here.”
(Y/N) frowned. “You were watching me?”
“You were faking sickness. I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Bruce replied defensively. “I worry.” She went silent. “Darling?”
“So, all that?” she whispered. “You…you’re not upset?”
“Darling,” Bruce admonished, taking her into his arms, wrapping her in the long Kevlar cape; she pressed her cheek to the bat symbol, his familiar cologne wafting up her nose. “I knew something was bothering you…but I didn’t know it was this that was upsetting you.” He caressed the back of her head. “I’m not upset with you. I was just waiting to see if you were going to voice it.”
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just horrible anxiety and ill confidence.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, (Y/N),” Bruce said. “If anything, I should be apologizing for not reassuring you sooner.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” He pulled back slightly and gazed at her, and even beneath the cowl, she could tell his eyes were full of love, only because the smile on his face told her so. “Would you like to get dinner with me?”
(Y/N) smiled tearfully. “Yeah…I’d love that.”
#bruce wayne x reader#bruce wayne x reader one shot#bruce wayne x reader oneshot#bruce wayne x reader imagine#bruce wayne x reader imagines#bruce wayne imagines#bruce wayne imagine#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman x reader imagines#batman x reader imagine#batman imagines#batman imagine#batman#batfamily x reader#batfamily x reader imagine#batfamily x reader imagines#batfamily imagines#batfamily imagine#batfamily#dc imagines#dc imagine#dc comics#dc
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death of a poet
for @whataboutthebard september 16 whump prompt: major character death || geraskier, T, 1.8k, angst, implied/referenced suicide (kind of)
ao3
The greatest act of love, they say, is to die for it.
Jaskier laughed, always laughed at this concept. There’s no doubt, of course, one’s whole life lost as a declaration of love, the highest sacrifice. But not the only one. And it amazed him, how people never seemed to acknowledge anything else, how fairytales of noble knights ended with them throwing their lives away, and for what? For love. Always for love. There was no doubt, and if there was, who was he to utter it?
Still. He wondered, the roots of the poet he was meant to be growing inside him, blooming since childhood. And he wondered, why, why die for love, why not live for it? Why waste this blooming of hearts in the eternal darkness, in grief and the wailing complaint of what could have been? Why, when there is so much beauty in the love of living things? He wondered, always wondered. And his mother smiled, with this faint bitterness of unexpected knowledge, and whispered, you can live for love if you want, sweet child, but one day you’ll understand.
Yet he didn’t understand. And he hated it, hated that he didn’t. Hated that he couldn’t find anything to try and understand in the first place. One day he would understand, yet people smiled at him, flowers bloomed in spring, birds sang on the branches, the wine tasted so sweet and the strings of the lute sounded so magical in the evening hush. And he wondered, always wondered, when would the day come, and what greater love there is, that you’re willing to die for it, even if you don’t lay eyes upon it ever again?
The fire in the hearth suddenly goes out.
A tragic fate, the mage had laughed. True love’s kiss. No one could ever love a monster.
I love him. He’s not a monster.
He’s not?
Geralt’s eyes are glowing in a light Jaskier hasn’t seen before, in a light he never wishes to see again. They’re glowing, and something unworldly glows with them, laughs with the evil memory of fairy tales, and evil sorceresses and true love’s kisses. As the blade glistens dangerously close to his eyes, as he walks backward in trembling steps, he thinks they’re so far away from what would make a beautiful fairytale to tell children before sleep. There will be no happy ending here. Somehow he knows.
There’s a tickle on his fingertips, burning.
The sword whips beside his ear and he stumbles back once more, panting, breath coming out strained. He raises his head, looks at Geralt. Or what he remembers was Geralt. Because now what he sees seems foreign, cold, and the amber in his eyes doesn’t warm him like the sun anymore, instead burns, like a fire which he willingly, inevitably steps into. There’s a lump caught in his throat, a sob screaming to get out. And, as though on instinct, with the strongest pang of guilt numbing his bones, he has to remind himself. He’s not a monster, he’s not a monster. He’s not Geralt. Geralt is not a monster.
For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he meets Geralt’s, no, the man’s eyes and, like the fool, like the poet he is, he hopes. “Geralt,” he says and his voice shakes weakly with the terrifying hint of denial, “Geralt, it’s me, please.” The air is ripped by the blade once again, he steps back, eyes still locked with amber. A whimper. “Come back to me, love, please. I love you, come back.”
For a moment, for the barest of seconds, the sun entering from the narrow, stained window reflects on Geralt’s eyes and something familiar glints behind them, a distant scream of a heart wailing to get out. But it’s only for a moment. Because Geralt growls and lowers his sword again with maniacal force and Jaskier screams, ducks and falls on his knees in an ironic parody of a plea for mercy. There’s a feeling of wetness on his bicep and he hisses as crimson blood stains the white sleeve. Not his fault, Jaskier reminds himself, not his fault.
It’s not his fault, yet he wants to cry as he stares into his eyes, cold like the blade that threatens to tear him to pieces, cold like the countless winter nights he’s spent without him, cold like his hand as he grasps it desperately, pushes him back in a failed attempt to trap him, in a foolish, hopeless hope of making him throw the sword away.
A true love’s kiss, he thinks, and almost laughs, because it sounds more like a death wish. And he’s starting to think it will be.
And then he sees Geralt raising his hand and before he has time to think about it, he’s being swept back with the most violent wind, and falls head first on the wall behind him. And slumps to fall on his knees. But there’s a sudden sting on his abdomen and he opens his eyes just in time to see the silver blade pointed on tender skin and jolts back with a gasp, stuck on the wall. “Fuck, Geralt,” he pants and looks at him and, for some reason, he expects his stare to be requited. It is. But it’s empty. It’s empty, and the sword on his stomach tickles painfully and the room is whirling. He blinks hard, gasps again. He can’t hold on, he knows.
And as he gazes at Geralt, he remembers. Warmth. Faint smiles, fingers down his back. Lips tasting of sweet wine, and flowers on his hair, and sleepy eyes staring at him before dropping, and love, and safety, and home . And finally, finally he understands.
He hates that he understands. But then again, the blade is cold like a hug full of regrets and Geralt’s eyes are empty and, oh, what he wouldn’t give to see those eyes, familiar and warm and looking at him again, even if it’s for the last time. He hasn’t much left to give, truth be told. Only his hope, and his life, and he feels them both competing for which is going to reach the end of the line.
“Geralt,” he whispers, again, and that spare root of hope he had starts to rot. “Geralt, please, don’t...” Are those tears? His eyes are burning. “Wake up, love, it’s me.”
What hope? He knows there is not. He knows, because it’s empty, forever empty, and the blade stings deeper and he pleads, Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, as if it means anything anymore, as if it’s Geralt.
He understands. And knows, if he’s to die, he has to die the way he lived, by love, as a poet. For love, then. As a poet, and for love.
So he straightens himself, eyes steady on Geralt. And takes a step forward against the blade.
It’s numbing, the pain. Another step. He gasps, chokes on his own blood. Another step, and Geralt stares, empty, blade steady in place as though on purpose, but there’s a familiar glint somewhere in there now, a familiar fear. Jaskier is close. His feet are giving in, his breath is shortening, and it’s a pity really, such a torturous death.. He’s close. So close that he can rest on Geralt’s shoulder, and he feels the blade ripping his flesh, his insides, his everything. He coughs up blood, chokes, eyes rolling to the back of his head. And he feels the blade dripping behind him. And he feels Geralt’s breath on his skin. So he cups his face in a shaking hand, and leans in.
It’s nothing. A brush of lips, tender in all its agony. It’s nothing. The world is blurring. It’s love.
It’s nothing.
The sword slips away as he falls, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of unending blood and slowly consuming darkness and he thinks, it’s supposed to be bright, it’s supposed to hurt less now.
He thinks, he’s supposed to spare himself from Geralt’s anguished look when he comes to, and realizes.
Instead.
“Jaskier!”
He doesn’t feel the pain. Only his body, lifted from the floor, and the scorching blood and the arms, those arms that hold him so tight he wants to scream all the apologies, all the regrets of the world. He doesn’t need to. They all echo in Geralt’s eyes.
It’s sweet, the pain. It’s melodic, the plea. Jaskier, please, stay with me, you fool, you’re alright, stay with me.
He wants to laugh. He’s long gone.
The greatest act, to die for love. A fitting ending, for a poet. He wishes someone will write it, this story, their story, and maybe give it a happier ending. Maybe they will go to the coast. Maybe they’ll end up closing their eyes together, holding each other tight, and maybe there’s no blood, only bitter tears of happiness.
It’s a fairytale. It can’t be tragic.
I love you, you’ll be alright, please, please don’t leave me alone.
A forehead pressed against his and he stares at Geralt and, oh, how he misses him already, and how bright he looks in his sorrow, how beautiful behind the veil that slowly falls between them. Jaskier parts his lips, chokes. “Geralt,” he croaks and it sounds like a sob uttered by every single wilting flower in the world. “Geralt, look at me.” He raises a trembling hand on his face, his fingertips leaving smudges of blood over the falling tears.
Geralt doesn’t look. Only stares at the wound, and back at Jaskier, unfocused, horrified, numb, as though it won’t happen if he doesn’t acknowledge.
It’s darker now, and there’s a last grip holding him back, and Jaskier knows it’s the warmth of Geralt’s hug, always is. “If I die for you, will you live for me, love?” he whispers and finally, finally Geralt turns at him, eyes wide, and Jaskier smiles, something close to a wince, as though it’ll hurt less like that, letting go.
Geralt shakes his head. “If I refuse will you stay alive?”
A huff. Painful. “No. No, I don’t think so.” It’s silent like the breeze now, his voice. Jaskier wipes the rivers of tears on Geralt’s cheek and smiles again, and this time it’s genuine, probably because it’s the last one. “It’s alright, hush. You’re not alone.” Shaking, he removes silver strands away from Geralt’s eyes, and slumps, leans on his shoulder as though finally resting. “Hush now, my love. Let me look into your eyes one last time.”
He does. He looks. It’s the same eyes, same as always, warm and loving, like a tender caress.
To die for love. How tragic. But what is a poet’s love, if not the most heart-wrenching tragedy?
The bloodied hand gently falls on the floor.
There’s a streak of red light coming through the stained window, and rests on blue eyes, mistaking them for the peaceful sea after a storm in their stillness.
They stare, forever open, and somehow forever warm.
They stare, and Geralt finally stares back. And slowly, agonizingly, like a sob echoing in eternity between the pages of every promised fairytale, he screams.
#the witcher#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#geralt x jaskier#major character death#cursed geralt#chrysa writes#what about the bard#watb#fic recs#angst#you know i had to do it to em#i don't really like this but ehhh
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The Royal Ball
The Royal Ball
Loki laufeyson x Fem!reader
Summary: There is an Asgard ball being hosted in the palace, Y/N is yet to find a date to accompany her. She’s disappointed when a certain God doesn’t ask her, however, what happens when he sees someone else getting a little too close for comfort throughout the night?
Warnings: lil bit angsty, self doubt, JEALOUS LOKI, fluffy ending
Word Count: 3.3k
Message/ask if you’d like to be added to the taglist!
Requests are open loves <3
Y/F/N - Your Friend’s Name
It was a beautiful autumn’s day, crisp brown leaves were falling off of the large trees in the courtyard and scattering the cobbled ground. Loki and I had been wandering around for some time now, discussing everything from the books we’ve been reading to the dreams that have come to us in our sleep.
“And then this huge ghost thing was chasing me around the halls! and if that wasn’t weird enough, you popped up-”
“Ah, seeing me in your dreams are we, darling?” Loki chuckled, taking great pleasure at the fact that he had made an appearance in my subconscious, completely ignoring my distress at being chased by a supernatural being.
“Funny you should say that, right after seeing you, I woke up. The sight must’ve given me quite the scare.” I scoffed, a smile unable to stop itself from making its way onto my face, eyes meeting his, face etched with shock. With a hand to his chest, he spoke again in disbelief.
“You have truly offended me, love. I never knew you had this side to you.”
“What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.” I winked, nudging his side slightly with my elbow.
“Really? Can you produce illusions?”
“No.”
“Look inside other people’s heads?”
“Well, no, but-”
“Turn yourself into a snake to scare your eight year old brother?”
“I still can’t believe you did that”
“My greatest achievement yet.” He smirked, the memory never failing to amuse him.
His stories always had me in awe of his capabilities, even if it was to give his brother a long-term fear, it was still an incredible talent. Whenever he tells me of his latest adventures or tricks, I always think of how well his title fits him. God of Mischief. Maybe that’s why I liked him much more than what a best friend should, not that I'd ever admit it. Not to him anyway.
We soon found ourselves standing next to one of the windows of the hallway, the crystal clear glass giving a beautiful view of the city of Asgard. From here, you could see the Queen’s gardens, full of flowers in all different colours and types, grass cut to perfection. You could see the families in the town, walking around the different buildings, children playing. It was lovely to watch, seeing everyone enjoy the seasonal weather and the light bounce off of the windows, it was ethereal.
“I never get tired of this.” I sighed, voice only slightly above a whisper
“Tired of what, love?”
“Just, this. This view, this kingdom, it’s incredible.” I looked up at Loki, trying to see if he was seeing the same beauty that I did. He was already looking at me when I met his eyes and upon seeing the way they sparkled, I assumed he did.
“Actually, speaking of the Kingdom, I have something to tell you. There’s-”
Abruptly stopping him from continuing his sentence, voices were heard from the other end of the hallway, though we couldn’t make out the words until they came closer. We gave each other a quick look of confusion before turning to see where the commotion was coming from, hearing the quick and heavy footsteps before being able to put names to the faces.
“Loki! Y/N!” A deep voice bellowed. Was that Thor making all of that noise?
Before I could process any more information, a blur of a pastel pink dress was in my face and hands were placed on my shoulders. I smiled down at the slightly out of breath figure using me as a support stand, it was Y/F/N.
“Wow, Y/F/N, you sound much different than when I spoke to you yesterday, did you drink something funny?” I chuckled, receiving a glare from my friend and a quiet laugh from the God beside me. Thor soon appeared next to Y/F/N, hands on his hips and head thrown back as he tried to compose himself.
“My God, Y/F/N, you run fast.” He pants.
“Care to tell us why you’re both running like madmen through the palace?” Loki speaks, one eyebrow raised in curiosity and what looked a little like concern.
“We..had to..tell you..there’s a ball..next week.” Y/F/N spoke, a bit more stable now, but still in between breaths.
I felt my eyes widen, a ball? I didn’t know Asgard held balls.
“Father is opening up the palace next week to neighbouring kingdoms, in hopes to be closer with them, open Asgard up to more trade opportunities, build relationships and whatnot.” Thor explained, emitting a loud sigh to come from Loki.
“I was just about to tell her, brother. Thank you for interrupting.” He rolled his eyes, half joking, half serious. I reached up and patted his shoulder gently, a small smile on my face.
“Maybe next time Lok” He nodded in response, I didn’t get a chance to comfort him much more before I was being pulled away by Y/F/N. With a small huff of surprise, I gave Loki a glance, silently apologising for our conversation being cut short, receiving a shake of his head in reply, affirming me to not worry about it.
“So.” she begins. “We need to find you a date and a dress. I’m thinking blue. I’m wearing purple so it’s probably best to avoid that one. Hmm. let’s see..oh! I know! we could- Y/N? You listening?” I snapped my head around, not missing the sly smile that was plastered all over my friend’s face.
“Y/F/N, don’t-”
“Loki! He has to be your date. You could wear green and match! If he’s even going to wear green, I'm sure I can get Thor to find out, I assume they’ll get ready together. And black accessories! I have so many ideas.” She clapped her hands, over-excited about the opportunity to plan this evening for us. Except for one minor detail.
“That sounds great, Y/F/N, it sounds wonderful, you’re just missing something.”
“Missing something? Oh, if you mean our hair then i’ve already-”
“No, not our hair. Loki hasn’t asked me, and I doubt he will.” I spoke, the second half coming out more as a whisper, my heart dropping a little at the thought. He’d never really expressed having those kinds of feelings for me and I'd always seen him be close with different girls around the palace, he’ll probably ask one of them.
“He might ask you, you never know what’s around the corner.”
“I guess so, we’ll have to wait and see.”
And that was the last we spoke of it before she went into full planner mode again, while I continued to ponder over all of the thoughts running through my head. I mean, he could ask me, right?
--------------------------
He didn’t.
After talking about it with Y/F/N, I had a glimmer of hope that maybe I was wrong, maybe I hadn’t noticed something that she had, that Loki would approach me and ask me to be his company for the evening.
I spent the next couple of days with him, hoping he would ask me, everytime a pause would appear in conversation, maybe he was finally going to do it. And everytime, a little bit of the hope I had, had fizzled out.
I’d even considered other reasons as to why he hadn’t asked, maybe the King didn’t want him and Thor to have dates so that they could mingle with members of the other kingdoms. Of course that theory had flown right out one of the Palace’s windows when Y/F/N told me that Thor was going to be her date. I was right then, he wasn’t wanting to go with me.
I guess I understood, I’m the best friend, we’d always been that. I think a part of me just thought that maybe he, like me, wanted something a little more. Clearly, I was mistaken.
Y/F/N and I had been getting ready for a while now, our hair was styled to perfection, our dresses were on and both of us were fully accessorized. We were looking at ourselves in the mirror, doing spins and curtseys and gushing over how good the other looked.
“You look amazing tonight, Y/N, really. Loki is missing out.”
“Thank you, and I'm sure his date is beautiful.” I spoke, fidgeting with the fabric of my dress, trying to avoid the subject and the twisting knot in my stomach at the thought of him with someone else all night. “You look incredible! You were right to pick purple, it’s definitely your colour.”
“Y/N’s right, you look gorgeous.” Thor declared, leaning against the doorway sporting a black suit and a dark purple tie, the perfect match with his date’s dress. I could feel my eyes light up when seeing how happy the simple, yet effective comment had made Y/F/N. Rushing over, she engulfed Thor in a hug before leaning up slightly and giving him a peck on the cheek.
“Ah and can’t forget, Y/N, you look stunning tonight.” He gestured to me, arm almost scanning me up and down.
“Stop, you’ll make me blush.” I laughed. “You both head off, I’ll catch up.”
“Are you sure? We don’t mind waiting?” Y/F/N questioned.
“Don’t be silly. You guys go on ahead, I'll meet you there.”
With a nod and a wave, they were off. They really did look like a perfect match tonight. I continued to look at myself in the mirror, fixing any stray hairs, flattening any kinks in my dress. Realistically, I was probably trying to prolong leaving for as long as I could. I was excited, but I was turning up on my own while everyone else had someone, it was a bit nerve-wracking. I still wanted to look my best though.
“Stop trying to convince yourself that you look good, you could literally blow an army of men away by looks alone.” A voice spoke, I spun to see who was speaking, the flash of green was enough to decipher who it was.
“You look lovely tonight, darling.” He grinned, the pet name had set off butterflies in my stomach.
“Thank you. As do you.”
“Well, I did put in an effort, nice to know it’s appreciated.” He joked, a breathy laugh left my lips, entertained by his words.
“Yes, well, I'm sure plenty of others will too.”
“The eyes will never leave me, I'm sure. Unless they’re on you, then I'd be surprised if I get even so much as a glimpse in my direction. Someone is a very lucky guy tonight, that’s for sure.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, confused by his statement.
“Well, they get to be beside you all evening, it’s a beautiful view.” He winked.
It could’ve been you, I thought. I knew he was joking, however that didn’t stop the fire in me from igniting.
“I could say the same for you, someone is a very lucky girl.”
“I’ll be sure to let her know if she ever thinks otherwise.” Joking, again.
So he had asked someone. Albeit disappointed, I'm happy he’s happy. Though I still wish I was the girl in question, I couldn't stop him if he was interested in someone else. That wasn’t fair.
Giving him a brief nod and a tight lipped smile, I picked up the front of my dress a little bit and made my way out of the room and downstairs to the ball. I could still enjoy myself, the night is young, I've got this.
------------------
“It was crazy! And let me tell you, my dad was so angry with me. He didn’t let me serve Turkey again after that year.” Charlie, a guy that I had met an hour or so ago, finished his story of the Christmas horror he had, allowing me to relax for the first time that evening. Up until now, it had felt like all I’d seen was either happy couples, or stares from across the room. Usually the second and usually Loki. The same Loki who had a girl’s arm linked with his and was looking at him like he held the world in his grasp.
I broke the gaze, finding it difficult to look at the pair for any longer, as I turned back to Charlie so he could have my attention again, a lazy smile was present as he took a sip of his wine.
“I don’t blame him, really, it sounds like you started a riot!” I exclaimed, sending us both into a full on belly laugh, thinking back to the story. This continued for another five or so minutes, laughter turning into a low chuckle, as if we were about to be told off for how loud we were being. Just as my hand had reached his arm to help hold me up, saving me from laughing myself into the ground, Loki and his date had made their way over.
“Enjoying ourselves, I hope?” He beamed, taking one look at me before giving his full attention to Charlie.
“Yes, yes we are, thank you. How about the two of you?”
“Ye-”
“It’s been fine, yeah, good. So, what’s your name then?” Loki interrupted, his date having no choice but to leave him to respond instead.
“I’m Charlie Fernsby.” He held his hand out, greeting Loki. A gesture that was very awkwardly not reciprocated as he let his hand fall back to his side before Loki spoke up again.
“Charlie..Charlie, now, isn’t that a girl’s name?”
“Loki!” I scolded, giving him an evil side glance, what was he doing?
“No, no it’s okay. Yeah, it can be used for girls too, but it's common for boys to have the name Charlie.” Polite as ever, he responded. A mischievous look made its way onto the God’s face. Oh no.
“So, I take it your parents wanted a girl?”
“I- I’m sorry?”
“I assume your parents wanted a girl, considering they’ve given you a girl’s name?” I rolled my eyes, this teasing was unnecessary.
“Charlie, let’s go and get a drink.” I tried to tug him away, only to be halted by another sentence leaving my best friend’s mouth.
“It was only a question, I'm sure he doesn’t mind answering, do you Carl?”
“Charlie.”
“That’s what I said.”
“You said-” I tried to interject, but he was quick to stop me
“I know what I said, Y/N, but I'm speaking to him. Let him answer the question.”
Loki’s date was long gone by now, she’d left to speak to another group of people, presumably another few couples, leaving us three to have this discussion, thing, whatever you would think to call it.
“I’m just saying, maybe they would’ve preferred a daughter, seeing as they’ve very obviously made that clear.” He beamed, expecting me to join in and agree with him, I don’t find this funny. At all.
“Can you excuse us, Charlie? Loki, A word.” I pointed to the door, giving him a look implying for him not to test me.
“I’m in trouble. Wish me luck Carlos.”
“Charlie.”
“I know, that’s what I said.”
I pushed him all the way out the door, into the hallway and round the corner so as not to disturb everyone else’s evening. When I’d made sure there was no one else around, I looked up at the Asgardian, my arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed, I wasn’t impressed anymore.
“So, are we out here for some hide or seek, or?”
“What the hell was that in there?!” I raised my voice slightly, his need to always make everything a joke wasn’t working this time. He had his night, his date, he didn’t need to come over and insult mine.
“What was what, darling? I was making conversation.”
“You were making fun of him.”
“No, I showed some concern about his parents choices, that’s all. Friendly advice if anything.” He looked a bit more frustrated with me now, as though he was stating the obvious and it was going over my head. I wasn’t having it this time.
“No, Loki. You weren’t and you know you weren’t. You had your date, she was fine, you were fine-”
“Well-”
“Let me finish. Everything was fine. Until you caught sight of me having a friendly conversation with another guy who wasn’t you. But guess what Lok, I’m allowed to do that! I’m an adult, I can speak with whoever I like!” My arms were all over the place now, my frustration was starting to show itself, it seems I had a bit pent up.
I saw his lips move, I heard something, but it was so quiet I couldn't make it out.
“Speak up, Loki. I can’t hear you.”
“I said, if you think he was just being friendly, you’re clearly out of your mind.”
Is he serious?
“Are you- Loki, you have no right to make a judgement on who and how and why I interact with other people. Not that it should matter to you anyway, you’ve spoken to other women before and I've never said a word or tried to stop you. Why does this matter so much?”
Silence.
“No, please, go on, tell me, enlighten me as to why this bothered you so much tonight, because trust me, I'm dying to know, truly.” I was shouting now, I just wanted answers for his behaviour, I didn’t think it would be this difficult.
His hands had made his way into his trouser pockets, eyes looking everywhere before settling on mine. He looked conflicted, I wanted to drop it when I saw his troubled gaze, but I couldn’t go back in there without an explanation.
“Ple-”
“I like you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear, love? That I was so uncomfortable seeing some you get close with some guy that I had to embarrass him in front of you? Something I'm sure my father won’t be so impressed to hear, but there, you’ve got your confession.” His voice had gone much louder than mine, taking me by surprise, so much so that it took me a minute to process what he had said. He liked me?
He turned to leave, I assume because I hadn't said anything for a matter of minutes, but I gently grabbed his arm, tugging him back towards me. I looked up into his eyes again. I was so close that you could see the specs of different colours spotted in them, they were flawless. This view beats the Asgard view anyday.
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
He shrugged, “I don’t know. Worried I guess. We’d never spoken of moving past friendship and I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
���I’m more than interested, Loki.” I grinned, my smile meeting my eyes, never leaving his.
“Not Chelsey?”
“For the love, it’s Ch-”
I couldn’t say his name, a certain pair of lips had stopped me from doing so. As they molded against mine, my hands went up to tangle themselves in his hair, his hands falling to my waist and pulling me closer, I didn’t even think that could be possible. We pulled away when we needed to catch a breath, foreheads falling against each other, smiles painted on both of our faces.
“I bet I'll be in your dreams again tonight.” He whispered.
“I bet I'll be in yours.”
“Always are, Darling. Always are.”
taglist: @horrorxweasley
#loki#Loki Laufeyson#Loki Laufeyson x Reader#loki x fem!reader#loki x reader#loki x y/n#loki odinson#loki odinson x reader#loki odinson x y/n#loki smut#loki x reader smut#loki fluff#loki angst#loki laufeyson smut#loki laufeyson x reader smut#loki laufeyson oneshot#loki laufeyson imagine#loki laufeyson x y/n#thor odinson#loki fanfiction#loki fan fiction
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l’amore de ma vie | fred weasley
Summary: When Fred invites you to Bill and Fleur’s wedding, your feelings for your best friend are stronger than ever before. What happens when you realize just how much you love him?
Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 2.8k
Warnings: Fluff...i-is that a warning?? Anyway buckle up for some sickly sweet goodness....
A/n: I know, I’m terrible. It’s been a little while longer than I’d intended but I hope this makes up for it! Feedback is very very much appreciated! I love seeing what all of you think of my writing! Without further rambling from me....enjoy!
Sidenote: This is a total AU. It completely deviates from canon, as Bill and Fleur’s wedding goes smoothly in this version. No violence here haha...only happiness! (I guess what I’m trying to say is, in no way shape or form is this an accurate recollection of the books, this is purely from my imagination...)
• • • • •
“Fucking weddings...” you mutter as you walk through the massive white tent that adorns the front lawn of the Weasley residence. Everything is perfectly displayed, tables meticulously set, with delicate flowers littering the venue.
The romance of it all makes you want to throw yourself into Bill and Fleur’s masterfully crafted, six-tier cake. And watching as Molly rushes in and out swiftly with the brightest smile on her face, it all reminds you of how you should be getting ready right now. But you just can’t stomach that.
It’s not that you’re not happy for Bill....you’re ecstatic and you absolutely adore him. He’s been a role model for you almost your entire life. And it’s not like you’re not an absolute romantic, because you are...but weddings always make things complicated. They manage to dig up feelings that you’d rather not confront.
Feelings for a certain Weasley twin...
That’s why when he (said twin) and George invited you to the wedding, you were reluctant to say yes. It’s hard to pin point exactly when you felt your friendship with Fred (at least on your end), morph into something more, but you’ve managed to keep your feelings for him locked away for the better part of four years. And as far as you’re aware, the only person that’s truly caught on is Hermione...because you’re convinced at this point that she just knows damn well everything.
“Something on your mind?” A voice startles you, bringing your attention back to the bustling world surrounding you.
Turning around slowly, you’re greeted with Bill’s towering figure. You huff out a quick, teasing laugh. “You know, it’s not nice to interrupt a lady’s thoughts.”
“Forgive me,” he chimes with a chuckle of his own.
Bill knows your humour, and he knows you well enough to recognize when you’re using it as a defence mechanism.
“It just looks like you’re about ready to make a run for it,” he continues, “and I wanted to make sure my favourite guest doesn’t ditch me on my wedding day.”
“You know I would never ditch you.”
Bill sends you a look, clearly not impressed by your jokes. You can tell he knows something’s wrong, but you don’t want to be the first one to bring it up.
“I’m fine.” You reassure with a soft smile. “I promise.”
He only nods at you, and he’s not quite sure if he’s convinced, but he’s confident things will work out in the end. “You know, I best be getting ready.” He grins wide. You reciprocate his grin with an additional giggle.
“You best be. Or else Fleur might divorce you on the spot.”
“Wouldn’t that be a shame.” Bill shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I’d have the record for the shortest marriage in wizarding history! Mum would have an absolute shit fit.”
You both burst into a fit of laughter, before you’re nudging him out of the tent and towards his home.
There’s a comfortable pause of silence as Bill thinks to himself. He can see it in your eyes exactly what you’re thinking about. Having been around you for years and Fred even longer, and watching the two of you grow up together, he knows what’s troubling you. Bill Weasley is not a stupid man, and he knows love when he sees it. Better yet, he knows the fear of losing that love that runs rampant in your mind. If Bill has learned anything in his years on this earth, it’s that love allows for the greatest of happiness but it also allows for the greatest manifestation of fear. Unrequited love can be more painful than the relief of returned feelings, but Bill Weasley knows you both well enough to know that these feelings you and his brother share, they’re anything but unrequited.
“I should probably be getting ready too.” You break the silence and remind yourself of the upcoming event as you step through the front door of the Burrow.
You both turn to each other, acknowledging your parting of ways. You hear Arthur shouting for his oldest son from above. “I guess that’s my cue.” Bill simply nods in the direction of the staircase, taking a step towards it. You stand still, just watching him for a moment.
He leans his head over his shoulder for a brief second, already a few steps up the winding stairs. “Oh and (Y/n),” he breathes, “my brother may be an oblivious twat, but to give him some credit, I see the way he looks at you, and I’d be blind to say he isn’t in love with you too.”
In love with you too....
And as soon he’s said it, the cheeky bastard’s disappeared up the stairs, leaving you dumbfounded and completely still.
Fucking hell. Your mind wanders, his words at the forefront....so apparently Bill knows and surely if Bill knows, George must too. Are your feelings for Fred that obvious?
• • • • •
You step through the doorway to Fred and George’s room hoping to find a certain twin. You spot him sitting cross legged on his bed, fiddling with a prototype for the shop that you’re sure you’ve seen him working on before. His ginger hair is messily in his face, his tongue sticking out in concentration. He’s the picture of a working artist....pranking materials being his art. You heave a sigh. Like you, he’s nowhere near ready for the wedding that is going to take place in a few hours.
“Do you know?” His head whips up at the sound of your voice. It’s such a vague question, one in which a normal person would question what it itself is in relation to, but George knows exactly what you’re getting at. But maybe he’ll screw with you a little first....
“I know lots of things love. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
A groan passes your lips. Maybe he doesn’t know....but the way his lips are turned upward, the smirk that seems to be growing on his face tells you otherwise. You’re not blind; you know the games George Weasley likes to play.
“Don’t be coy asshole.” You send him a look that says ‘try me.’ “I know you know. My question is, why haven’t you told me that you know?”
“I haven’t a clue what you mean.” He continues testing the waters of your frustration, seeing just how far he can go before you snap.
“Oh fuck me!” You exclaim, hands thrown up in the air. You point at him, eyes narrowing in his direction. “You’re a prick George.”
His grin only widens. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong twin (Y/n). Last time I checked, Freddie’s the one you want to fuck.” He says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
And....Bingo. There it is. The exact confirmation you wanted and feared.
You recoil, eyes widening at him. Your voice goes soft, serious. “Why didn’t you tell me that you knew?”
His warm eyes meet yours, a calmness to them that is surprisingly reassuring. “I’ve made a living out of not taking things seriously and meddling in other people’s lives (Y/n), but what you and Fred have, I won’t meddle in that.” He pauses for a moment, his voice softening. “It’s not my business to push you two together. You’ll realize it at your own pace.”
“Realize what at your own pace?” Fred leans his body against the doorframe. He’s dressed in a suit, his hair done up nicely, and unlike his twin, he looks entirely put together. The irony almost makes you laugh. You’ve always known George to be the prepared one, ready hours before he needed to be. And Fred a scambler, leaving everything to the last second, to be fashionably late was his life motto.
“Just how stupid the two of you are going to look all dressed up with no dates.” George answers for you, keeping the true nature of your conversation a secret. “Even Ginny’s managed to catch the chosen one.”
You huff out a laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
“Ah,” George muses. “But I am an idiot with a date.”
Fred grins at the two of you and your banter. “Angelina’s better off without you as her date.” He jokes.
A laugh passes your throat, Fred joining in with you. “Oh, sod off!” George pipes before shoving the two of you out to get ready.
• • • • •
Hours later you find yourself ready on time, a shocking revelation to you and each of the Weasley’s. And George is too. He sits beside you grinning like a mad man. Fred is on your other side, smiling all the same.
The ceremony is wonderful and quaint. You knew the moment you saw Fleur all those years ago, just how beautiful she was, but you never could have imagined just how much you’d grow to think of her like a sister. And it’s funny because you’re neither a Delacour nor a Weasley, and yet you feel like you belong. It’s different from the love you know Harry and Hermione feel for the Weasley’s, because ultimately, they’ll both marry in and it will be official, and as much as you love Fred, you know that will likely never be the case for you. But that’s the thing you love most about Molly and Arthur and their children: you don’t have to be related by marriage or blood to be a Weasley.
And seeing Fleur and Bill smile, seeing the pure happiness that they exude in this moment, it makes you forget why you ever questioned coming. It makes you hope that one day you can find what they have. You’d spent the last few minutes mesmerized by their first dance as a married couple. You’re so caught in a trance that you don’t hear the clapping when they’ve finished and stepped off the dance floor.
Your eyes snap up at the clearing of a throat beside you. George nudges you and you turn to look at him. He points at Fred who’s gazing at you curiously. You must have looked like a daft idiot, an utter love struck expression on your face.
“I’m sorry.” You laugh. “Did you say something Freddie?”
“Dance with me?” He asks.
Fred’s question lingers as you contemplate whether or not to accept his outstretched arm. But then your eyes drift up to his, and you catch the mischievous glint that rests in them. It’s in that moment that you know there is no turning back.
Groaning, you relent into his touch. “One dance.” You say, but you know that if he asked, you’d dance the night away.
The grin that spreads onto his face is nothing short of beautiful. It’s unmistakably perfect the way the light catches his features, his ginger hair glowing in the overcast moonlight, and an ethereal aura glistens from his skin. Fred looks youthful...and he looks undeniably happy.
Gripping your hand, he leads you to the dance floor. You catch a brief glimpse of Bill whose lips are tugged into an encouraging smile. Fred snaps your attention back to him as he pulls you into his body, bringing your arms to rest around his shoulders. You can hear the faint thrumming of the slow and melodic music drifting towards you, but all you register is the sound of Fred’s heart beating against yours. Wrapping yourself in his embrace, you allow yourself one second to believe that he might feel the same.
Your feet move in sync almost flawlessly, and it’s as if you’re reading each other’s movements without any effort. (Despite being known for your clumsy nature). But if you’re being honest, it’s always been like that with Fred....easy that is. Easy to read each other, easy to be with each other. It’s just natural.
“You’re quite graceful Freddie.” You nudge him playfully, breaking the silence between you.
“And you’re quite...” his voice drifts softly, “something.”
The half scoff, half laugh you let out rings in his ears. “Are you implying that I’m not a good dancing partner?”
“You’re a formidable partner love, just a shit dancer.”
Your eyes light up in amusement. “Well we can’t all be as graceful and beautiful as you Fred Weasley.”
He plays along happily. “No.” He agrees. “I guess we can’t. But I reckon everything else about you, your beauty, your wit, your affinity for kindness, makes up for your lack of dancing skills.”
It’s that self assured attitude that draws you to him. Yet he’s not the slightest bit arrogant. He simply believes in himself, knows his strengths and his weaknesses, is completely aware of his self worth, and he won’t let anyone tell him otherwise. It’s addicting to be around, and a quality so desperately you wish you could find in yourself.
And when Fred compliments you, you can believe that he’s telling you the truth. He makes you believe things about yourself that you would never dream to think about on your own. As cheesy as it sounds, he makes you feel seen. He makes you feel special. And it’s so strange because for as long as you can remember, everyone has always thought of you as merely the best friend of the infamous Weasley twins. Hardly to anyone had you been your own person with your own identity. But Fred never made you feel like that. You’ve always been someone to him, not just a product of who you chose to be friends with.
“You shouldn’t say things like that you know.” Your voice goes quiet.
Fred notices the change in your body language as you begin to close yourself off from him. “Why not?” He asks. “It’s the truth isn’t it?”
Your eyes catch his and your breath hitches. This feels like something. It feels like a moment, the moment that you’ve been waiting for. You never believed Fred could ever feel the same for you, but the look he’s giving you feels so so real.
“Fred, do you-“ You start, but he cuts in for you.
“Feel it too?” He finishes.
“Yeah.”
“I do.” He replies.
Your heart races in your chest as he pulls you closer into his embrace. This confession of feelings is nearly wordless, and yet it feels perfect. You’ve never needed to say a lot to Fred for him to understand you.
You’ve always just had that kind of connection.
You barely notice that you’re still dancing, your bodies moving on autopilot. And the people around you fade to nothing. Your focus is solely on the man who holds your heart in his hands.
Your movements slow as Fred tilts your chin towards his face. “I’ve been in love with you since we were 11 years old.” He says. It’s nearly impossible for your mind to process it. “I’ve known for so long, I just didn’t want to ruin what we have. But I reckon if there’s ever a time to do it, now seems pretty good.”
A gentle smile rests on your face, your heart warm at his words. “Now is perfect.”
Fred hums softly, his warm brown eyes searching yours for any sign of regret. He sees nothing but adoration staring right back at him.
“Can I kiss you?” This is the first time you’ve seen Fred so timid.
You smile coyly, nodding your head. “Such a gentleman.” You tease, pulling him gently towards you. Your lips meet so softly and briefly that you almost miss it.
But no matter how brief, it’s a feeling you’ll never forget. You both want more of each other, but you also know that standing in front of Fred’s immediate and extended family and friends, you can’t simply put on a show for the world to see, as much as he wants to.
You pull back for a moment only to find yourself wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying to the music. Most people in your situation would say something. Maybe they’d profess their love, or whisper sweet nothings into their lover’s ear, but right here, right now, words don’t need to be used.
You don’t need to say I love you to feel that you are loved. And you know Fred feels the same.
• • • • •
Off to the side, Bill takes a moment to part from his wife, approaching his younger brother with a shit eating grin.
“Bloody hell.” George runs a hand through his hair, spotting Bill striding towards him.
Their eyes lock for a moment and George notices his oldest brother’s lip quirk upward. “You owe me 20 galleons.” Bill states matter-of-factly.
George grumbles, reaching into his pocket to pull out the payment. Handing it to Bill, he smiles. “Get back to your wife you tosser.”
Bill nods, taking a step towards Fleur. He turns to face his brother, eyes glinting with mischief. “Just know, when they get married, I’m telling everyone I won.”
///////////////////
Taglist:
@amourtentiaa
#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley x you#fred weasley imagine#harry potter x reader#harry potter imagine#harry potter imagines#fred weasley imagines#fred weasley x y/n
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sub!azriel but the reader and him aren't together yet and she keep teasing him without knowing until he finally has enough and goes and begs her
Pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)
Warnings: smut, sub!az, slight degradation, lotta fluff tho
A/n: so i kinda did the ending of this drunk while watching pulp fiction so if it’s confusing that’s why and I apologise lol
——————————————————————————
He had first met you while training the priestesses. You were a friend of Emerie’s. A fae woman that almost brought him to his knees with a single look.
You had nervously spoken to Cassian about joining in the training and had progressed past his group and into Cassian’s within two weeks.
That was probably for the best.
Besides your original nerves, you had thrown yourself into training - eyes always on him as he spoke and went through moves, moved which you copied with the precision of a ballerina.
He had withered under your kind gaze, soft eyes making him want to fall into you and let you fight away all his fears. And whenever you had spoken to him it was with undivided attention, always listening carefully and providing whatever he needed - whether it was someone to complain to or someone to laugh with.
The night he fell in love with you however was different. He had gone into the library searching for Nesta and found her with Emerie, Gwyn and you, all relaxing in soft clothing.
He had almost fallen over when he saw you in an oversized hoodie with tight shorts and baby pink toenails, your face clean of makeup and still somehow the prettiest he had ever seen.
You had smiled brightly when you saw him, patting the empty space beside you and - unable to deny you - he had come to sit beside you, shivering when you lay your head on his shoulder with your book abandoned in you lap.
As he sat, Gwyn carried on explaining a new concept she had been exploring with her tutor when you spoke up, “But you’re basing that hypothesis presuming the butterfly effect doesn’t exist.”
He tilted his head down then, as you sat up, frowning at the loss of contact while Nesta barely hid her smug grin behind her hand as she watched the interaction.
“The butterfly effect?” Gwyn asked, grabbing a notebook as you smiled.
“We’ll you’re talking about fate, saying that everything is predetermined. But the butterfly effect proposes that anything, even something as small as a butterfly flapping it’s wings, can change the whole course of the future and can split reality into different pathways. This creates alternate realities, one were the butterfly flaps it’s wings and one were it doesn’t, and even such a small change is still a change.”
He didn’t really understand your concept but Gwyn was furiously scribbling things down and scoring things out as you continued.
“So yes, there is a large chance that maybe once there was a predetermined set of events, but as things change and as people are born and stray from these paths, there is no feasible way to ensure everything goes exactly as determined.” You spoke with your hands, something he had never noticed before. You explained the concept slowly and clearly to Gwyn as you discussed the topic in depth, your face lighting up as you spoke about the unknown.
He fell in love then, when he watched you speak so enthusiastically about a topic he had no idea about. But even with a lack of knowledge he wanted to hear all about it - wanted to become so well versed in it that one day you might look at him the way he looked at you.
The problem there was that in his love drunk state, subtleties went out the window. You’d had suspicions before but now, with him blatantly staring at you, you were sure.
You had spoken to Nesta about him before and discovered he didn’t have the greatest track record of admitting his feelings so you decided to step it up a notch, ready to bust out all the tools that would make him confess.
You decided to start simple; removing your top during training and continuing in your sports bra, leaving lingering touches on his shoulders or hands, turning on what Emerie lovingly deemed your ‘sex eyes’ when you spoke to him. And it seemed to be working, he started avoiding your gaze and would pause speaking whoever you touched him, subconsciously leaning into your hand or gently laying his head atop your when you placed yours on his shoulder.
It wasn’t for a couple weeks however that you made a startling discovery. You had decided to make some cupcakes and Azriel had run into you in the kitchen - accepting your offer to help. He had been doing an amazing job delicately filling the cases with batter and you smiled when he finished without spilling a drop.
“Ugh perfect! You did amazing Az!” You had exclaimed, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before opening the over with one hand and balancing the tray in the other.
He had made a sound under his breath and when you turned back you found him bright red and looking down with a shy smile on his face. Then it clicked why your beautiful, strong spy always seemed so nervous around you. He was a sub.
You were ecstatic the rest of the day, having hit the jackpot with Azriel and with a plan forming in your head. He wasn’t likely to admit his feelings to you but you had an idea that would make sure he had them before you did anything else.
The next day you saw him at training, smiling warmly at him as you usually did and hopping over to speak to him before you got started.
“Hey Az, did u get a cupcake last night?” You asked, smiling brightly when he blushed bright red having run off soon after receiving your praise with a half assed excuse about finding Cassian.
“Yeah they were amazing,” he said, finally meeting your eyes as you looked up at him expectantly.
“Ah couldn’t have done it without your help,” you praised and he blushed looking down again. You heard Cassian call your name impatiently and turned to stick your finger up at him, “Gotta go but we should hang out again tonight.”
He nodded with a smile, equal parts delighted and terrified at the idea of spending so much time with you.
“That’s a plan! See you tonight pretty boy,” you said, walking away while he stared dumfounded at your back. That - that was new.
He fumbled his way through training the priestesses, maybe pushing them slightly too hard because it meant he had plenty to do that didn’t involve thinking about you or about what seeing you tonight entailed.
Or that you thought he was pretty.
You on the other hand, couldn’t get through training quickly enough. You were finishing moves and sequences before Cassian even said them so used to his rhythm that he ended up just letting you leave when you were finished before everyone else - not without rolling his eyes dramatically however.
As you walked out Azriel couldn’t help his eyes from following you as you sauntered away with flushed, glowing skin and your hair swaying with every step as you shook it out. You shot a final look over your shoulder as you left to go shower, waving at him when you caught him staring with mischievous eyes.
You left quickly to go shower and get somewhat ready, ensuring you smelt good and pulling on your favourite underwear. You then decided to fuck with him and pulled on an oversized t-shirt that you kept from an ex-boyfriend on account of how soft it was and your smallest, softest shorts. You had finished getting ready and were making yourself an ice coffee when Azriel walked in with flushed cheeks, wiping sweat from his forehead with his shirt.
You whistled when you saw him and his eyes met yours, widening comically when he saw your bare legs - shorts barely visible beneath your large shirt.
“You alright hot stuff?” You asked as he moved to grab some bread from next to you. He inhaled sharply when you spoke and you barely contained your giggle,
“Want an ice coffee babes?”
“Um sure I don’t I-“ he stumbled over his words as his brain slowed trying to form a single thought other than your soft legs and even softer lips.
“I’ll make you one,” you said with a laugh, “so what do you want to do today?”
“I really don’t mind,” he muttered, watching as you mixed the drink for him and pressed it into his hand with a smile.
“What about a spa day, when was the last time you got to relax?”
“Cauldron I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” he joked and you smiled.
“Let’s do that then, I’ll get you so relaxed your bones will liquify,” you grabbed his hand as you pulled him out of the kitchen and started leading him to your room.
“Do- do I want that?” He asked and you squeezed his hand,
“You’ll understand soon,” you laughed.
You started with face masks and manicures, conversation flowing easily between the two of you despite Azriel’s nerves and the electricity that shot through him every time you touched him.
You were sitting reading together a while later when you shoved your book down and turned, your eyes focusing on him. He felt your heated gaze and tilted his head to meet your eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.
“What?” He asked,
“You’re pretty,” you said suddenly, reaching a hand to trace his jaw gently. He went comically red and you smiled.
“What? I- you think I’m,” he stuttered and you giggled, nodding.
“Yeah you’re so pretty,” he could feel himself grow hard, blushing impossibly hard at your words.
“Say it again,” he forced out and you smiled - reaching a hand to rest on his thigh, stroking it gently as you spoke again.
“You’re so pretty, and I’m sure you’d be so good for me would you?” Your voice got lower as you spoke, Azriel whimpering as you slid your hand up his thigh. “Do you want that? Wanna be my good boy?”
Azriel’s eyes widened and his hips bucked up slightly as he nodded, movements small and insecure.
“Words sweet boy, I need you to say you want this,”
“I want this!” He practically shouted and you laughed sweetly,
“I’m so glad baby, I’ve wanted you for so long,” you confessed - stroking his face gently as you moved to straddle him.
“You- you have?” He was confused and feeling a million feelings at once but so happy with the position he found himself in.
“Mhm and if I’m correct I think you have to,” he nodded quickly underneath you, his hands flying up to grab your hips as you started slowly rolling your hips over him.
“I have,” his voice was already so desperate and you had barely touched him, smiling as you leaned down to press kisses gently into his jaw.
“Mm good boy,” you whispered, “would you like me to touch you now?”
He shook his head and you furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at him with concern filled eyes.
“Wanna touch you instead,” he whimpered out and you cooed stroking his hair.
“Awe baby, go ahead,” you giggled, climbing off his lap as he crawled off your bed and kneeled on the floor - eyes wide as you spread your legs in front of him. He gently removed your shorts and panties, inhaling sharply and your pretty pussy was revealed to him. He looked up at you with his doe eyes, whispering as he silently begged you for permission - but you just smiled and laughed at him with a gentle hand stroking through his hair.
“Please miss I’ll be so good for you, please just wan’make you feel good,” he begged and you relented.
“Okay baby boy,” he swung forward so quickly and buried himself into your pussy, spitting on it before devouring you. His long fingers spread your folds open and he probed your tight hole with his tongue, thumb coming up to rub circles on your clit as he moaned against your heat.
He ate you out like it was his sole purpose in life, putting all he had into the task - almost delirious as he finally got what he had wanted for so long. The days he had spent daydreaming about your soft legs that were now wrapped around his head, the nights he had spent thinking of your pillow lips and how sweet you would sound as you told him what you wanted him to do.
“Oh baby you’re doing so well for me, so good baby. My good boy,” he moaned loudly against your pussy, hips rutting into air.
“M’ yours, all yours,” he cried, pushing two long fingers into your tight pussy and twisting them as he looked up, meeting your eyes as you tangled a hand in his hair.
“Make me come then baby, prove you’re my good boy,” he nodded against you - desperate to make you happy as he worked with renewed vigour. “Azriel baby you’re so good at this.” Your moans were like music to his ears as he scissored his fingers inside you, sucking on your clit hard enough to make you see stars. You swore - hand tightening in his hair - as he pressed into your sweet spot and sucked particularly hard on your clit at the same time, coming hard with an arched back as Azriel stared up at you. Awed at how he had tamed the goddess above him.
You ended up having to pull him off of your pussy as he whined, wet lips pouting as they tried to get back to you.
“No baby no more,” your voice was stern and he whined as you pulled him up to his feet, standing with him and spinning the two of you around.
He was considerably taller than you but even the height difference didn’t negate the power you had over him and when you shoved him down onto the bed and straddled him - kissing him harshly with your fingers squeezing his cheeks together.
“You’re so good baby, so good,” you whispered into his mouth.
“Did I do well?” His voice was so soft that you cooed and kissed him again.
“So, so well that you deserve a reward,” he looked up at you with those hazel eyes you loved so much, “do you want that, want to fuck me?”
“Yes miss, yes please wan’ fuck you so bad. S’all I think about,” you could never resist Azriel and now he was begging, you couldn’t deny him anything.
You reached down to pull his cock out of his pants, choking on a breath at his size. “Fuck baby, you’ve been holding out on me,” your hand moved on its own accord, pumping him slowly - needing two hands to hold him.
He was moaning lowly as you pumped him, precum leaking out the tip and making it easier for you to slip onto him, sinking down until you were fully seated and you could see a faint bulge through your belly.
“God you’re so big baby, filling me up so well.” You moaned as Azriel tried to form a single coherent thought other than how tight and wet you were.
“Do I feel good baby? Do you like having me wrapped around you?” You asked and he simply moaned in reply. You continued bouncing as you waited for a response but when he didn’t reply you slapped his cheek lightly.
“Words Azriel I asked you a question.” Your words were harsh but you spoke with a sickly sweet tone.
“You feel so good, didn’t know you could feel this good. So tight,” he moaned loudly when you clenched down on him, his words making a new gush of wetness coat his cock.
You smiled, drawing a hand over his hair as you bounced in his lap, the strength in your legs only letting you lift yourself halfway up his cock before you’re sinking back down.
“Fuck Az, baby you’re so big,” you whined into his mouth as you kissed him and he responded with a low grunt - his mind and body completely under your control, despite your intentions.
“I’m gonna come miss, please please let me come,” he begged after a few minutes of your hips rolling slowly over his and you laughed, holding him in your arms.
“Awe such a needy baby,” you cooed, “gonna come so early baby, needy slut.”
He whimpered underneath you, hips rutting into you as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise - desperately trying to stop himself from cumming as you were yet to give him explicit permission.
But that was a losing battle as he lost himself in the warmth of your cunt. He was throbbing within you, pulsating as you clenched around him, the sounds your pussy made as he pushed into your body. He was addicted to the small whimpers leaving your mouth and as he watched you move he knew he would never be able to let you go. He had fallen so hard over the short time he had known you and now he watched you take over his body when you had already taken his soul.
“Please can I come miss, please,” his begs were so soft that you nodded, kissing him again.
“Let go for me baby, show me you’re mine,” you commanded and he shook underneath you, coming with a string of curses.
“‘M yours miss, all yours please,” his eyes were teary and voice broken, but he looked so happy as he stared up at you - mouth hanging open in a silent sob.
He reached a hand between you rubbing your clit gently as you came all over his cock with a loud moan and shudder. He guided you through your orgasm, refusing to take his eyes off of you, completely entranced with you.
When you had both come down from your powerful orgasms, you climbed off him and stood to retrieve a wash cloth and to relieve yourself in the bathroom. When you returned Azriel was staring up at you with tired and nervous eyes.
You cleaned him up gently, pressing gentle kisses into his face and lips as you did so.
“You okay baby?” You asked when you were finished, pulling him into your arms as you lay back down - his head on your chest.
“I’m so good right now,” he whispered, propping his chin on your chest and looking up at you, “was that- was I alright?”
His voice was so small and you furrowed your brows, “baby you were so good, perfect.” You promised, stroking his hair and leaning to kiss his head gently.
“Are you sure cause I-“
“Baby,” you cut him off, “you’re all I want, I’ve wanted this for so long and you were so good. Was it good for you?”
He nodded furiously and you laughed as he came up to kiss you, “then we’re all good baby.”
“I think I love you,” he whispered into your mouth and you smiled.
“I think I love you too.”
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