#Behind the Hockey Mask

[starlightshadowsworld]

Behind the Hockey Mask

Casey being legitimately terrified that the fungus took out Raph.

Of course he knows the rest of the turtles are strong, but Caseys only ever fought Raph.

And he knows that if Raph wasn't holding back and wasn't a good person, he could have killed him.

So just the idea this thing took out Raph, genuinely freaks him out.

[brideofjasonvoorhees]

New York Has A New Problem

A rare behind the scenes photo of Kane Hodder and director, Rob Hedden!

[principiumindividuationis777]

[pocoslip]

I like to see Archie Raph and Casey Jones in Shredder's Revenge fighting and using their Wrestling Moves on the Enemies Together

(Now I know why Raph makes some Wrestlin Moves in TMNT Shredder's Revenge and Out of the Shadows the Game after I learn about his Black Suit)

[tokitooth]

got a part time job offer 👍

works with my existing work schedule well (pretty much only have to work sundays) 👍

it’s the football stadium where i’d have to work football games 😐

[uolarieclosed]

yang jungwon ☆ ! only about love

━━━ in which mr player decides to settle down with his one and only …

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who is the biggest player on the team, finding joy in messing with other people’s feelings for his own pleasure.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who became a player after you—the team’s manager rejected him.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who flirts with girls in front of you and gives them his number to see your reaction; but sulks when you don’t say anything.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who pretends to injure himself so you can be concerned for him.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who writes your name on his hockey stick before taping it up, knowing you��re on the ice with him every game.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who gets jealous when a player from another team tried asking for your number.

“don’t ever speak to my girlfriend again.” jungwon spits through his mask, allowing himself to be dragged away by the refs.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who waits with you while you fill out forms for the uniforms, equipment, next games etc so he can walk you home.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who sits with you on the bus to an away game. he brings snacks and earbuds to share on the ride.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who chooses a jersey number after your favorite number.

“why’d you choose 77?” you ask while giving him a new jersey, knowing his old number was 04. “i overheard you telling coach that your favorite number is 77.” he shrugs, grabbing his jersey.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who goes all out for his next confession, telling himself that this will be the last one if you reject him again.

“i know it may not seem like i’m serious about you but i am.” jungwon suddenly blurts out as you’re locking up the ice rink. he wanted to wait until he dropped you off at home, but it was eating him inside—and it was eating you up inside that you couldn’t hide your feelings anymore.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who blows you a kiss before every game, his smile evident even behind his mask.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who teaches you how to play hockey—his hands are around your waist as he steadies you. it was just you and him in the quiet ice rink spending time together.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who is upset about losing his game and finds solace in you. especially when you encourage him for his next.

“it was just one game, you’ll do better next time, hm?” you rub jungwon’s back, knowing he was pouting the whole time. jungwon nuzzles further into the crook of your neck, muttering a small ‘okay’.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who feigns an emergency in the locker room. in reality he just wants to see you before he has to play.

“you’re not slick jungwon,” you glare at him, crossing your arms. he’s currently shirtless, asking you to massage his shoulders because he’s tense. “if you don’t do it now i won’t play.” he pulls you into him, smirking.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who hates arguments, especially when they’re about his past relationships/flings.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who refuses to play when you’re mad at him. he won’t even change into his uniform, he remains seated next to you pleading for you to talk to him.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who locks you both in the storage room until you forgive him, which you last a lot longer than he thought you would—even his puppy dog eyes don’t work.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who comes to the terms that you’re not forgiving him, so he leaves you alone (which are the worst days of his life).

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who is in the worst mood ever everyday that he comes to practice.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who is extracted from the game because he took his anger out on the opposing team, giving him multiple penalties.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who completely breaks down in front of his friends, annoyed at your stubbornness and afraid that you’ll leave him.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who comes into your room late at night with tears staining his cheeks and with the effort of mending things.

“you’re the only one for me, you know that baby.” he gets on his knees practically begging you. “i never intended to hurt you,” his hands are gripping your thighs, eager to have you back.

HOCKEY PLAYER JUNGWON who wasn’t much of a player in the first place, he just wanted the girl he already had (you were playing hard to get).

© 2024 uolarie

[cece693]

Social Recluse (Jason Voorhees x M! Reader)

Just something that came to mind. Short.

Summary: Even if you accepted Jason and his 'hobby', he understood you didn't like interacting with people. Staying hidden in your cabin, luck isn't on your side when a camp counselor stumbles inside.

tags: the reader doesn't like people, comforting Jason, you get injured (small), short work

Jason was off doing his usual thing—taking care of the camp counselors—while you kept to yourself in the cabin, avoiding the social chaos that always made you uncomfortable. Suddenly, the door burst open, and a bloodied figure stumbled inside, immediately setting you on edge. You retreated into the shadows, watching as the girl frantically searched for something, likely a weapon, before flicking on the lights.

"Ahh!" she screamed, but her panic quickly shifted to relief. "Thank God you're not that freak!"

A frown crossed your face. How dare she insult your lover?

You remained silent, your eyes tracking the girl's every move as she nervously paced around the cabin. She tried to engage you, her voice trembling with fear. "Hey, are you okay? Did he…did he hurt you? Oh God, did he cut out your tongue or something?"

Her words barely registered. You didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. The quiet unease of the situation settled around you like a second skin. She probably assumed you were just another of Jason's victims, traumatized and mute, which suited you fine. You had no intention of correcting her.

Suddenly, the door crashed again, and he was there—Jason. Massive, imposing, and silent as ever. His machete gleamed under the dim cabin light, still slick with blood. Her wide, terrified eyes darted toward you, and in her desperation, she lunged, grabbing your arm. The sudden contact made you flinch, recoiling instinctively. You hated being touched, especially by strangers, but she didn’t notice—too consumed by her own fear.

"Come on! We have to get out of here!" she cried, her grip tight as she dragged you toward the door, pulling you along in her misguided attempt to save you both.

But you didn't want to run. You didn’t need saving.

Jason’s heavy footsteps echoed behind you, and you could feel him gaining on the two of you. The girl’s breath came in panicked gasps as she pushed forward, desperately trying to escape. Then, it happened. Jason struck, and the girl screamed as she fell, the force of her collapse sending you tumbling to the ground alongside her.

You hit the floor hard, your knee scraping against the rough wooden planks. A sharp sting shot up your leg as blood oozed from the wound. You winced but remained silent, even as the pain radiated through you.

Jason’s shadow loomed over the girl, and it only took one swift motion to end her cries. Her body slumped to the ground, lifeless. The cabin fell into a sudden, oppressive silence, broken only by the faint sound of your own labored breathing.

Jason turned toward you, his expression unreadable behind that familiar hockey mask, but his actions were anything but threatening. He crouched beside you, his presence calming rather than terrifying. His gaze fell on your bloody knee, and without hesitation, he sheathed his weapon and gently reached out. His large hand carefully touched the area around the wound, touch surprisingly soft, as if afraid of hurting you further.

You remained still, watching him work in silence. There was no fear, no hesitation in your mind. Jason was dangerous, yes, but never to you. He seemed to sense your discomfort with the blood, with the girl’s corpse still nearby, and he positioned himself between you and the body, shielding you from the sight.

With the worst of the blood wiped away, Jason helped you to your feet, his grip steady, never forceful. He lingered close, a silent protector, knowing exactly how much interaction you could handle without feeling overwhelmed. "Thank you." You murmured, leaning your head against his chest. You only received a grunt before closing your eyes and falling asleep. Social interactions always took a large toll on you.

[echo-riot]

On and Off the Ice

Synopsis: Dating Violet had always felt like a whirlwind—an exhilarating mix of confidence, chaos, and heart-stopping tenderness. As the star hockey player of Piltover High, she’s used to being the center of attention, both on and off the rink. But beneath her cocky grin and varsity jacket is someone fiercely protective, painfully loyal, and quietly vulnerable—someone who surprises you every day. From stolen moments in the locker room to after-hours skating dates under dim lights, being with Vi means navigating the highs and lows of teenage love: defending each other from bullies, learning t o trust in moments of vulnerability, and realizing that love isn’t just about grand gestures—it’s about the quiet ways you hold each other up when no one else will.

Warnings:

• Mild violence (fistfights, hockey injuries, tense confrontations)

• Flirting from third parties and minor jealousy themes

• Brief language (Vi has a mouth on her)

• Lots of softness hidden under layers of teen angst

• Sexual content

(Note: This story includes fluff, a pinch of angst, and a whole lot of protective girlfriend energy.)

•||——————————————————————||•

The roar of the crowd is deafening as you sit perched on the edge of your seat, your hands clenched around a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Piltover High’s rink is alive tonight—students packed shoulder to shoulder in the stands, stomping and chanting Vi’s name like it’s the only word they’ve ever known.

And there she is.

Violet. Your Violet.

She’s a blur of magenta hair, sharp turns, and calculated aggression as she skates past two opposing players, juking them out so hard one of them stumbles and eats ice. The puck is a silver streak as it sails from her stick and past the goalie’s outstretched glove, slamming into the back of the net.

GOAL.

The crowd loses it. The band strikes up the school fight song. Vi skates backward with her hands raised, smirking up at the stands until her eyes lock on yours. She points at you with her stick, then taps the tattooed “VI” on her cheek for emphasis. Your cheeks burn, and you’re grateful for the chaos masking how flustered she always makes you.

“She’s so damn cocky,” a voice mutters next to you, but it’s laced with admiration.

You glance over to find one of her teammates’ sisters sitting nearby, shaking her head with a grin. “Tell me about it,” you reply, but you can’t help smiling. She’s earned it.

When the game ends in a crushing victory for Piltover High, you find yourself waiting by the locker room doors, holding a paper bag of her favorite post-game snack: a massive soft pretzel covered in salt and cheese. It’s something you’d started bringing her after her first win during your relationship, and now, it’s practically sacred.

The door swings open, and Vi is the first one out, still in her pads but missing her helmet. Her grin stretches from ear to ear, damp strands of magenta hair sticking to her forehead.

“There’s my good luck charm,” she says as soon as she spots you.

“Good luck? Please. You were already a badass,” you tease, handing her the bag.

She takes it and immediately pulls out the pretzel, ripping a bite with her teeth. “Badass or not, I play better when I know you’re watching.”

Her teammates file out behind her, laughing and jostling each other, but their teasing stops when they see the two of you.

“Aw, Vi’s got her snack date,” one of the guys calls out.

“Careful, she might actually start smiling like a normal human,” another chimes in.

Vi flips them off without missing a beat, her mouth still full of pretzel. “Jealous much? Your girl bring you a snack? Oh wait.” She feigns an exaggerated look around before smirking at the teammate who’d made the comment.

The guy groans, waving her off, and they all shuffle away, leaving the two of you alone.

You and Vi walk home together, her arm draped loosely over your shoulders. She’s still buzzing from the game, recounting every play in vivid detail, her energy practically radiating off her.

“—and then did you see that block? I thought that asshole was gonna nail me into the boards, but nope! Too slow. And the look on his face when I scored after? Priceless.”

You laugh, tucking yourself closer to her side as the wind picks up. “I saw, Vi. You were amazing.”

“‘Course I was.” She winks, but there’s a soft blush on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold.

As you pass under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, she notices the way you shiver, your jacket pulled tight but still not enough to fight the chill.

“Shit,” she mutters, stopping in her tracks. Before you can ask what’s wrong, she shrugs off her varsity jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

“Vi, you’ll freeze,” you protest, though you don’t try to give it back.

“Please,” she scoffs, flexing her arms with a smirk. “You think these guns can’t handle a little cold? I’m fine. You, on the other hand, look like you’re about to become a popsicle.”

You roll your eyes, but the truth is, the jacket smells like her—a mix of leather, sweat, and the faintest hint of mint gum. You can’t help but pull it tighter around yourself, and Vi grins like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“And you’re adorable,” she shoots back without missing a beat, leaning in just enough to make your breath hitch. “But you knew that already.”

The walk back to your place is filled with banter, her teasing keeping the mood light. As you reach your door, she leans casually against the frame, her tank top clinging to her skin from the cold.

“You gonna invite me in, or do I have to freeze out here?” she asks, a playful lilt in her voice.

“You’re the one who gave up your jacket,” you point out, unlocking the door.

“Yeah, because I’m chivalrous like that,” she says, stepping inside after you. “And because I can’t let my girl turn into an icicle. Can’t have that on my conscience.”

Inside, she collapses onto your couch, sprawling out like she owns the place. Her long legs stretch across the cushions, and she watches you with that same cocky grin as you set her pretzel bag on the coffee table.

“You’re way too comfortable here,” you tease, plopping down next to her.

“Should be. It’s basically my second home,” she says, pulling you into her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her arms wrap around your waist, her hands resting on your hips. “And you… you’re my favorite part of it.”

Her tone is playful, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in her eyes—a softness she rarely lets anyone see.

“Wow, that was almost romantic,” you tease, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face.

“Almost?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave as she leans closer.

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to try harder if you wanna impress me.”

“Oh, I’ll impress you,” she murmurs, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m already planning on scoring my next goal—you just tell me what the prize is gonna be.”

Her words send a shiver down your spine, but you roll your eyes, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a blush. “How about bragging rights?”

“Bragging rights?” she repeats, mock-offended. “Nah. I want something better. Maybe a kiss. Or two. Or ten.”

Her hands slide down to your thighs, her touch firm yet gentle as she gazes up at you with a crooked grin. “What do you say, babe? Think you can handle rewarding me properly?”

You bite back a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” she counters, leaning in to press her lips to yours, soft but insistent.

~~~

The cafeteria at midday was a zoo. The roar of chattering students echoed off the linoleum floors, and the acrid smell of reheated spaghetti filled the air. You navigated the crowd carefully, tray balanced precariously in your hands. Across the room, Vi lounged in her usual spot—a corner table near the window where the hockey team had claimed dominion. She looked every bit the queen of her domain, legs sprawled out under the table and arms slung casually over the back of her chair. Her magenta hair was still damp from her morning workout, strands sticking up in unruly spikes.

Her laugh carried over the din, a low, rich sound that always made your stomach flip. You caught her smirking at something one of her teammates said, the sharp edge of her tattoo catching the sunlight streaming through the window. As you approached, Vi’s light gray eyes locked on you, her grin spreading wide.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite distraction,” she drawled, scooting over and patting the empty space beside her on the bench.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “That’s one way to greet your girlfriend.”

Vi leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I could think of other ways, but I’m trying to behave. For now.”

You huffed a laugh, nudging her with your elbow as you set your tray down.

The moment you sat, one of Vi’s teammates—some freshman you couldn’t remember the name of—leaned forward, blatantly checking you out.

“Damn, Vi, how’d you snag someone like that?” they asked, flashing a toothy grin that made your skin crawl.

Vi’s smirk dropped instantly. Her sharp gaze shifted to the offending teammate, and her voice cut through the air like a blade. “Careful, rook. That’s my girl you’re talking about.”

The freshman raised their hands in mock surrender, laughing nervously. “Alright, alright. No harm meant.”

Vi didn’t respond, but her arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer. The possessiveness in the gesture was clear, but there was also a quiet reassurance in the way her fingers traced idle patterns on your hip.

You glanced up at her, catching the flicker of irritation still simmering in her eyes. “You know you don’t have to defend me every time someone’s an idiot, right?” you murmured.

Her lips quirked into a softer smile, but her voice was firm. “Yeah, well, I don’t like idiots thinking they can talk to you like that.”

You sighed but leaned into her touch anyway, letting her protectiveness wrap around you like a shield.

Later, as you were walking to class, another girl—a sophomore with a reputation almost as bold as Vi’s—sidled up to her.

“Hey, Vi,” the girl cooed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “You coming to the party on Friday? I heard you’re single again.”

Vi didn’t even break stride, her hand finding the small of your back as she guided you through the hallway.

“Not single,” she said, her voice clipped but polite. “And not interested.”

The girl blinked, clearly taken aback. “Oh. Well, if you ever change your mind…”

Vi cut her off with a sharp laugh, glancing down at you with a wink. “Not happening. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The girl scowled, muttering something under her breath before stalking off.

You raised an eyebrow at Vi. “Everything you need, huh?”

“Damn right,” she said, grinning as she leaned down to brush her lips against your ear. “Though, if you wanted to sweeten the deal later, I wouldn’t complain.”

You shoved her playfully, but your cheeks burned all the same.

The tension hit its peak during lunch a few days later. You were sitting beside Vi, absentmindedly picking at your food, when a particularly smug classmate decided to make their move.

“Hey, Vi,” they called out from the next table over. “Didn’t know you were into charity cases.”

The words hung in the air like a slap. Your stomach twisted, and you felt the heat rising in your cheeks. Before you could even process what was happening, Vi was on her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“What the fuck did you just say?” she snarled, stalking toward the classmate.

The smirk on their face faltered, but they held their ground. “Relax, it was a joke.”

Vi didn’t relax. If anything, her shoulders squared, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Say that shit again, and I’ll make sure you’re eating lunch through a straw.”

“Vi!” you hissed, grabbing her arm. “It’s not worth it.”

Her jaw clenched, but she allowed you to pull her back, the fire in her eyes still blazing.

The classmate muttered something under their breath, but they didn’t push their luck any further.

By the time the final bell rang, Vi was in detention, and you were still fuming. When she showed up at your house that evening, her usual cocky demeanor was noticeably absent.

You opened the door to find her standing there, one hand clutching a hastily assembled bouquet of wildflowers and the other holding a pack of your favorite candy.

“Before you say anything,” she started, her voice unusually soft, “I know I fucked up.”

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your heart softened at the sight of her sheepish expression. “Vi…”

She held up the bouquet like a peace offering, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but they were talking shit about you. I couldn’t just stand there.”

You sighed, stepping aside to let her in. “It’s not about standing up for me. It’s about knowing when to pick your battles.”

She nodded, setting the flowers and candy on the kitchen counter. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Her sincerity was written all over her face, and it was impossible to stay mad at her.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, a small smile breaking through your stern expression.

Vi’s grin returned in full force. “Damn right I am.”

She closed the distance between you in a few quick strides, her hands finding your hips as she leaned down to kiss you. The kiss was slow and deliberate, a silent promise of her devotion.

When she finally pulled back, her gray eyes were warm and full of mischief. “So… am I forgiven? Or do I need to beg a little more?”

You laughed, swatting her shoulder. “You’re forgiven. For now.”

“Good,” she said, scooping you up into her arms with ease. “Because I’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

As she carried you to the couch, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the wild, fiercely loyal girl who’d stolen your heart.

~~~

The faint hum of your desk lamp cast a warm glow over the cluttered surface of your bedroom, illuminating a scattered array of hockey gear, notebooks, and half-written essays. Vi sat cross-legged in your chair, a pen stuck behind her ear, and her signature smirk plastered on her face like she wasn’t teetering on the edge of failing her English class.

You leaned over her shoulder, scanning the barely legible sentences she had scrawled out in her rough, jagged handwriting. The title at the top of the page read: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzjerald. You bit back a groan at the misspelling and turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow.

“Fitzjerald?” you teased, your lips twitching into a grin. “I know English isn’t your strong suit, but come on, Vi. You literally had the book right there to copy from.”

She shrugged, leaning back in the chair and propping her feet on your desk with zero shame. “Hey, close enough, right? My teacher’s too busy drinking coffee to notice shit like that. Besides, it’s not like I’m writing the damn thing for an award.”

“You’re writing it to pass,” you reminded her, plucking the pen from behind her ear and playfully tapping it against her forehead. “And if you fail, you’re benched for the next game. You really wanna sit there while Ryan screws up every shot?”

Vi winced at that, letting out a groan of protest. “Ugh, don’t remind me. The last time she tried to take a slap shot, she nearly took out the water cooler.”

“Exactly,” you said, shoving her feet off your desk and sliding into her lap without a second thought. Vi raised an eyebrow at your bold move, her hands instinctively landing on your hips.

“You know,” she began, her voice dropping into that familiar low, teasing tone, “I think this is the kind of motivation I needed. Keep sitting like this, and I might actually start paying attention to what a metaphor is.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your cheeks warmed. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And yet, you like me anyway,” she shot back, leaning in close enough for her breath to tickle your neck.

You tried to ignore the way her lips brushed against your ear as you refocused on her paper. Her handwriting was a mess, but you managed to decipher enough of it to see where she had gone wrong. “Okay,” you said, shifting your focus to the task at hand. “First of all, it’s ‘Gatsby,’ not ‘Gaspy.’ Second, your entire first paragraph is just you ranting about how you think Daisy is annoying. That’s not exactly analysis, Vi.”

“But she is annoying,” Vi argued, her hands tightening on your waist as she tilted her head back to look at you. “Seriously, she spends the whole book whining about how hard her life is.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at her blunt honesty, shaking your head. “Fair point, but you still need to back it up with evidence from the text.”

“Evidence, huh?” Vi’s gray eyes sparkled mischievously as her fingers started to trail up your sides, dangerously close to distracting territory. “Maybe I need some hands-on tutoring to really get the hang of it.”

“Vi,” you warned, though your voice came out more amused than stern.

“What?” she asked innocently, her lips ghosting over your jawline. “I’m just saying, you’re really good at motivating me. It’s practically a public service.”

You tried to keep your composure, but it was a losing battle. Vi knew exactly how to get under your skin—literally and figuratively. Her hands slipped down to your thighs, squeezing gently as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Vi,” you repeated, your tone a mix of exasperation and affection. “We’re supposed to be working on your paper, not—”

“Not this?” she interrupted, her voice a low murmur as her lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

You let out a shaky breath, your resolve wavering as her hands slid under the hem of your shirt, her touch warm and teasing. “You’re such a distraction,” you muttered, though you made no move to stop her.

“And you love it,” she shot back, her lips curling into a smirk against your skin.

Her hands drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants with a confidence that sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to focus on the stack of notes in front of you, but Vi’s touch was impossible to ignore.

“Vi, seriously,” you said, though your voice lacked any real conviction. “If you fail this paper, I’m not bailing you out.”

“Relax,” she said, her tone laced with amusement. “I’ve got this under control.”

You raised an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced. “Oh really? What’s a symbol, then?”

Vi paused, her lips hovering just above your collarbone as she considered your question. “Uh… like… a thing that stands for another thing?”

You groaned, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly into you,” she countered with a grin, earning herself another playful smack.

Despite her antics, you couldn’t help but smile at her. Vi might have been a pain in the ass sometimes, but she had a way of making even the most mundane moments feel electric.

“Alright, fine,” you said, leaning back just enough to look her in the eye. “If you can write a halfway decent paragraph about Gatsby’s green light, I’ll consider forgiving you for being such a pain.”

Vi’s eyes lit up with determination, and she reached for the pen you had been holding. “Deal. But don’t think I’m letting you off the hook either,” she added, her voice dropping into a playful growl as she pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, unable to keep the grin off your face.

As Vi turned her attention back to her paper, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for her. Sure, she was a handful, but she was your handful—and that made all the difference.

~~~

The hallway is loud and alive with the buzz of students between classes—shouts of friends across lockers, laughter, and the occasional clatter of someone dropping their books. You’re standing at your locker, minding your own business, when it starts.

“Hey, heard you’re dating Vi,” a sharp voice cuts through the noise.

You glance over your shoulder to see them—three of them, to be exact. The self-proclaimed queens of drama, all armed with smirks and matching sneers. You feel the tension in your shoulders immediately, a gut feeling telling you this won’t end well.

“Is that even a thing? You know, dating Vi?” another one pipes up, twirling a strand of overly straightened hair.

You roll your eyes, shutting your locker with a deliberate slam. “What do you want?”

The tallest one steps forward, crossing her arms. “Just trying to understand what’s going on. She’s not exactly… girlfriend material, is she? More like someone you hook up with and then pretend didn’t happen.”

The others laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard, and your hands curl into fists at your sides. You know Vi’s reputation precedes her—a bad girl, a player, a bit of a hothead—but they don’t know her like you do.

“Maybe you should keep her on a leash,” another one snickers, leaning against the lockers like she owns the place. “You know, so she doesn’t find someone else to mess around with.”

“Say that again,” you snap before you can stop yourself, voice sharp and full of anger.

“What’s going on here?”

The voice behind you makes your heart drop and rise all at once. Vi steps into view, her presence like a thundercloud rolling into a sunny day. She’s wearing her hockey jacket, the collar popped, hands stuffed in her pockets like she’s daring someone to test her patience. Her gray eyes are locked on the group in front of you, a dangerous glint sparking to life.

“Oh, look, it’s Vi,” the tall one says, her smirk faltering for a second before she doubles down. “What, here to play hero for your little—”

“Finish that sentence, and I swear to god, you’ll regret it,” Vi growls, stepping closer.

The girls shift uncomfortably, glancing between each other, but their leader doesn’t back down. “What? You’re gonna hit me? Right here, in front of everyone?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and you can see the way her hands twitch in her pockets, itching to do something. “Maybe I will. Might finally shut you up.”

“Vi,” you say softly, reaching out to touch her arm. She doesn’t look at you, her eyes locked on the group like a predator stalking prey.

The leader rolls her eyes, feigning confidence. “What’s your problem, anyway? We were just talking to your little plaything here.”

And that’s the moment. That’s when Vi snaps.

She pulls her hand from her pocket and slams her fist into the locker next to the girl’s head. The sound is deafening, metal denting under the force, and the entire hallway goes silent. Gasps ripple through the crowd that’s gathered to watch, and the girls stumble back, faces pale.

“Next time you say something like that,” Vi says, her voice low and full of venom, “it won’t be the locker.”

“Alright, alright!” one of them stammers, grabbing the leader’s arm and tugging her away. “We’re going!”

As they scurry off, you exhale a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The hallway slowly returns to normal, students whispering and casting glances your way as they disperse.

Vi turns to you, her hand still clenched into a fist, her knuckles already swelling. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

She nods, her jaw still tight, and you know better than to push her right now. “Let’s get out of here.”

Back at her place, the tension in the air is thick. Vi’s pacing, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, while you sit on her bed with the first aid kit open beside you.

“Sit,” you say firmly, and she finally stops, collapsing onto the edge of the bed with a frustrated groan.

She doesn’t look at you as you take her hand, turning it over to inspect the damage. Her knuckles are red and raw, already bruising, and you can’t help but wince.

“You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” you mutter, grabbing a clean cloth and some antiseptic.

“Don’t care,” she mumbles, staring at the floor.

“Clearly,” you shoot back, dabbing at her knuckles gently. She hisses but doesn’t pull away.

The silence stretches between you, heavy and awkward, until she finally speaks. “I’m sorry.”

You pause, looking up at her. “For what?”

“For… losing it. For embarrassing you. For not being able to keep my shit together,” she says, her voice low and full of guilt. “I just… I can’t stand it when people talk about you like that.”

You set the cloth down and cup her face, forcing her to meet your eyes. “Vi, you didn’t embarrass me. And I’m not mad at you. I’m… I’m grateful, okay? For standing up for me.”

Her eyes soften, the storm inside them calming just a little. “I just hate that they think they can say shit like that. About you. About us.”

“Let them talk,” you say with a shrug. “They don’t matter. You do.”

Her lips twitch into a small smile, and she leans into your touch, her forehead resting against yours. “You’re too good for me, you know that?”

“And yet, here I am,” you tease, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

Her hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re practically in her lap. “You’re the only good thing I’ve got.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you say with a laugh, but your heart flutters at her words.

“Not dramatic,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your neck. “Just honest.”

Your breath catches as her hands wander, and for a moment, all the tension, the anger, the hurt—it all melts away, leaving just the two of you and the quiet promise of better days ahead.

~~~

The faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead as Vi leads you through the back entrance of the rink. You’re not sure what you expected when she showed up at your place with that crooked grin and her car idling in the driveway, but the last thing on your mind was this.

The arena is quiet, a far cry from the deafening chaos of game nights. The chill in the air seeps through your jacket, making you shiver as Vi flips on a row of lights, flooding the empty rink with a soft, golden glow. The ice glimmers, smooth and untouched.

Vi turns to you, her hands jammed into the pockets of her oversized hoodie. “Figured you’d get a kick outta this,” she says, her voice casual, though you catch the flicker of nervousness in her eyes. “It’s kinda my second home, y’know? Thought I’d share it with you.”

You blink at her, a little caught off guard by the gesture. “You broke us into the hockey rink? Is this supposed to be romantic or just mildly illegal?”

She smirks, that signature cocky expression slipping easily onto her face. “Why can’t it be both?”

“Fair point,” you concede, fighting the grin tugging at your lips.

She bends down, pulling out a pair of skates from a duffel bag she’d brought along. “Hope you’re ready to bust your ass, though,” she teases, tossing you a pair of skates. “You can skate, right?”

You hesitate, holding the skates like they might bite you. “Define ‘can.’ If it involves flailing around like a baby deer on a frozen pond, then sure, I’m a pro.”

Vi barks a laugh, the sound echoing in the empty arena. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll catch you if you fall.” She winks, her gray eyes sparkling with mischief, and your stomach does a little flip despite yourself.

Minutes later, you’re on the ice, and you weren’t kidding—you’re terrible.

Your legs wobble uncontrollably, your arms flailing as you try to stay upright. Vi skates backward in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other gripping your hand firmly to keep you steady. Her movements are fluid and effortless, the years of practice evident in the way she glides across the ice like she was born to it.

“Relax,” she says, her voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to the usual cocky tone you’re used to. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m on ice, Vi,” you snap, though the panic in your voice undermines the bite. “Being stiff is the only thing keeping me alive right now.”

She laughs again, the sound warm and rich, and it annoys you how much you love it. “You’re fine. Just trust me.”

You shoot her a dubious look, but her grip is steady, her touch grounding. Slowly, reluctantly, you let her guide you, her hands shifting as she maneuvers you across the ice.

“See? Not so bad,” she murmurs after a while, her breath puffing out in little clouds in the cold air.

You’re about to argue when your skate catches on something, and you stumble forward, yelping. True to her word, Vi catches you, her arms wrapping around your waist as she steadies you.

“Careful there, Bambi,” she teases, her breath warm against your ear.

You groan, mortified, as you clutch at her shoulders. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she counters, her grin smug. “You love me.”

She says it like a joke, but there’s something in her tone that makes your heart skip. You look up at her, and for a moment, the teasing fades. Her gray eyes are soft, her usual bravado tempered by something quieter, something vulnerable.

Your breath catches, and suddenly, you’re very aware of how close you are, the heat of her body a stark contrast to the chill in the air.

“Vi…”

“C’mon,” she says quickly, breaking the moment. She takes your hands again, pulling you back upright. “Let’s try that again, yeah?”

By the time you’re done, your legs feel like jelly, and you’re pretty sure you’ve pulled muscles you didn’t even know you had. Vi helps you off the ice, her arm slung casually around your shoulders as you hobble toward the bench.

“You didn’t do too bad for a newbie,” she says, handing you a water bottle.

You glare at her, still catching your breath. “I fell six times.”

“Yeah, but you only face-planted twice. That’s improvement.”

You snort despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

She grins, leaning back against the bench. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it.

For a while, you sit in comfortable silence, the stillness of the rink wrapping around you like a cocoon. Vi leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and you catch her glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“What?” you ask, your brow arching.

“Nothing,” she says, but there’s a faint flush creeping up her neck, barely visible under the golden light.

You tilt your head, studying her. It’s rare to see Vi flustered—usually, she’s all cocky smirks and bold one-liners. The sight of her like this, vulnerable and uncertain, tugs at something deep inside you.

“Vi,” you say softly, scooting closer to her. “What’s going on?”

She exhales, running a hand through her magenta hair. “Look, I know I can be…a lot,” she admits, her voice quieter than usual. “But I—” She stops, her jaw tightening like she’s struggling to find the right words.

You reach out, your hand covering hers. “Hey,” you say gently. “Take your time.”

Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, she looks like she’s about to bolt. But then she sighs, leaning back against the bench.

“I just…I really like you, okay?” she blurts out, her cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. “And not in the ‘hey, you’re hot, let’s make out’ kind of way—though, you know, I wouldn’t say no to that either.” She smirks, though it’s more nervous than cocky. “But, like…you’re different. You make me wanna be better, y’know?”

Your heart swells, and you have to fight the urge to tackle her right then and there. Instead, you lean in, resting your forehead against hers.

“Vi,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I like you too. A lot.”

She blinks, clearly surprised, and you can’t help but laugh at the expression on her face.

“What? Did you think I’d come out here in the middle of the night and risk breaking my ass on the ice for just anyone?”

Her grin returns, brighter than ever, and she closes the distance between you, her lips brushing against yours in a kiss that’s equal parts sweet and electric.

When you finally pull away, you’re both grinning like idiots, the world outside the rink forgotten.

The moment Vi’s front door slams shut behind you, her hands are on you, pulling you in with a hungry, primal urgency. Her lips crash against yours, and the taste of mint gum and adrenaline courses through your mouth. Her teeth graze your bottom lip—a small tease that sends a shiver down your spine. You stumble backward, but she steadies you, her strong arms wrapping around your waist as she deepens the kiss.

“Christ, you’re fucking addictive,” she mutters against your lips, her voice low and rough like gravel. Her hands slide up your back, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra. She growls in frustration when it doesn’t give way immediately, and you can’t help but laugh into her mouth.

“Impatient much?” you tease, tugging lightly at the silver hoop in her ear.

She pulls back just enough to flash you that signature cocky grin, her light gray eyes glinting with mischief. “You try being patient when you’ve got this in front of you.” Her hands drop to grip your hips, squeezing possessively. “Now, come on, upstairs before I lose my damn mind.”

You don’t argue. Not when she’s looking at you like that—like she wants to devour you whole. The two of you barely make it up the stairs without tripping over each other, her lips finding yours again halfway up. By the time you reach her bedroom, your shirt is already off, tossed somewhere behind you, and her hands are working on your jeans.

Vi kicks her bedroom door shut with her foot, the lock clicking into place. Her room is exactly what you’d expect from her—messy, chaotic, and full of personality. Hockey sticks lean against the wall, mismatched socks litter the floor, and posters of bands you’ve never heard of cover the walls. But you barely have time to take it all in before she’s pushing you backward onto her bed.

Her hands are everywhere now, tracing the curves of your body with a kind of reverence that makes your breath hitch. She straddles you, leaning down to capture your lips again, her kisses softer this time but no less intense. Her tongue slips into your mouth, teasing and exploring, and you moan softly into her, your hands gripping the fabric of her tank top.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, pulling away just long enough to yank her own shirt off and toss it aside. Her muscles ripple under her skin, the tattoos and scars telling stories of battles fought and won. You run your fingers along the dark gray ‘VI’ on her cheek, and she smirks, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm.

“Like what you see?” she asks, her voice dripping with confidence.

“You know I do,” you reply, arching an eyebrow. “But aren’t you supposed to be doing something about it?”

Vi chuckles—a low, throaty sound that reverberates through you. “Oh, I’m gonna do plenty about it.” Her hands move to your chest, cupping your breasts through your bra before finally freeing them from the flimsy fabric. She leans down, her lips brushing against your collarbone, then lower, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When she takes one nipple into her mouth, sucking gently, you let out a shaky breath, your fingers tangling in her choppy magenta hair.

“Fuck, Vi…”

She hums appreciatively, switching to the other breast. Her tongue flicks over your nipple, and you squirm beneath her, the heat between your legs growing more insistent. Her hands slide down your sides, stopping at the waistband of your jeans. With practiced ease, she unbuttons them and yanks them down, tossing them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes.

You’re completely exposed now, and her gaze rakes over you hungrily. “Jesus Christ,” she breathes, her voice cracking slightly. “You’re perfect.”

Before you can respond, she’s kissing her way down your stomach, her lips soft yet demanding. Each press of her mouth leaves a lingering warmth, and by the time she reaches the edge of your panties, you’re trembling with anticipation. She hooks her fingers under the fabric, dragging them down slowly, and you lift your hips to help her.

And then she’s there, her breath hot against your most sensitive spot. Her eyes meet yours, and there’s a wicked gleam in them that makes your heart skip a beat. “You ready for me?” she asks, her voice husky.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

That’s all the encouragement she needs. Her tongue drags through your folds in one slow, deliberate stroke, and you gasp, your head falling back against the pillows. She repeats the motion, each lick sending sparks shooting through your veins. When she circles your clit, flicking it with the tip of her tongue, you whimper, your fingers gripping the sheets.

“You taste so fucking good,” she groans, her words muffled against you. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you open as she works you relentlessly. Her tongue is skilled and relentless, alternating between gentle licks and firm pressure until you’re writhing beneath her, desperate for release.

“Vi… please…”

She hums again, the vibration making you cry out. Her pace quickens, her tongue swirling around your clit as her fingers slide inside you, pumping steadily. The combination is overwhelming, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Come for me,” she orders, her voice rough and commanding. And just like that, you shatter, your body convulsing as pleasure floods through you. She doesn’t stop, drawing out every last wave of ecstasy until you’re boneless and spent.

When she finally pulls away, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she looks up at you with a smug smirk. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

You laugh breathlessly, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky.”

She crawls back up the bed, hovering over you with a playful glint in her eye. “Who, me? Never.” Her lips find yours again, and you can taste yourself on her tongue—a fact that only makes you want her more.

“Your turn,” you murmur against her lips, your hands sliding down her toned abdomen, pausing at the waistband of her shorts. “Let me—”

She catches your wrist, her smirk widening. “Uh-uh. I’m not done with you yet.”

Her hand slides between your legs, fingers grazing your slick heat once more. You gasp, arching into her touch as she teases you, circling your clit with a maddening lightness. “Thought I told you—I’m going to ruin you tonight.”

“Vi—”

~~~

You wake up slowly, the warmth of Vi’s bicep under your head a comforting weight. It’s the kind of peaceful moment you hadn’t realized you needed. The kind where time feels like it’s been put on pause, just for a few minutes, so you can breathe. You feel her chest rise and fall beneath you, the rhythmic pulse of her heart, steady and strong. You know she’s awake; you can feel her body slightly tensing, but she doesn’t move.

Vi never moves when you’re comfortable, even if she’s stuck. Even if her arm is trapped under your weight, and her body is probably begging for a shift. She won’t wake you. Not until you stir.

Her grip on you isn’t tight, but it’s firm, like she’s making sure you’re there, as if she might lose you the second she blinks. You never thought you’d be the kind of person to fall for someone like Vi. But here you are, head on her arm, wrapped in the warmth of her embrace.

You smile to yourself, stretching your legs out lazily, feeling the way her muscles shift beneath you as you move. She doesn’t flinch, just hums quietly, her voice low and rough from sleep.

“D’you know how cute you look when you’re all cuddled up?” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep, and a little playful. “I could just… y’know, keep you here forever.”

You chuckle softly, your breath tickling her skin as you shift, just enough to meet her eyes. Vi has the kind of look that makes you want to stay forever, too. Her hair is messy, some strands falling into her eyes, and she’s too stubborn to bother fixing it. She looks so damn unbothered, so… Vi. And it’s perfect.

“You’re not gonna wake me up just to stare at me, are you?” you tease, smirking.

Vi raises an eyebrow, her lips curling into that half-grin that always makes your stomach flip. The one she wears when she knows she’s about to say something that’ll have you questioning whether you’re about to get flirted with or threatened.

“You make it sound like I only stare at you when I’m about to do something mean,” she says, her grin turning mischievous. “I just like watching you when you look like you’re about to drift off into a world of dreams. Makes me think maybe I’ve got some kind of power over you.”

“Right,” you snort, rolling your eyes, but there’s a smile playing on your lips. You’ve never felt safer, more secure in someone’s arms. “If you have ‘power’ over me, I’m in trouble.”

Vi’s laughter is a deep sound, the kind that vibrates through your chest as she pulls you closer. Her arm slides under you, coaxing you to snuggle closer to her side, her hand gently cupping the back of your head. Her fingers thread through your hair, absentmindedly tugging at the strands. It’s a gesture so simple, but it sends a thrill through you every time.

“You’re always in trouble with me, baby,” she says, her tone low, teasing. “But I’m okay with that. You’re worth the trouble.”

Your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you’re at a loss for words. You’ve heard Vi joke about her feelings before, but something about the way she says it now—so easy, so sure—hits you like a freight train. She’s not joking. She means it. She’s always been the kind of person to keep her feelings close to her chest, to make jokes out of everything to hide her vulnerability. But right now? She’s open. She’s letting you in.

“You know, you’re not so bad when you’re not causing chaos,” you tease, poking her in the side. Vi’s grin widens, but there’s a softness in her eyes that you’ve never seen before, a quiet kind of affection.

She shifts slightly, making sure you’re tucked comfortably against her side, not letting you slip away. Her hand rests on your hip, fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin. “Maybe I’m not so bad when I’ve got the right company.”

You shift again, this time to look her fully in the face. Vi’s eyes meet yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat. That mischievous glint is still there, but it’s softened, replaced with something deeper. Something you’ve seen before but never this raw, never this obvious.

“I’m serious,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “I never thought I’d get to… feel this way, you know? I’m not the type for this mushy stuff, but when you’re around, it’s like everything else fades. Just you and me.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, your chest tight, emotions swirling in your stomach. Vi never says things like that. Not unless she means them.

“You’re hopeless,” you whisper, your voice thick with affection. “Completely in love with me, huh?”

Vi smirks, her lips brushing your forehead in a soft kiss. “You wish, babe.”

But even as she says it, there’s no hiding the truth behind her eyes. The way her hand tightens around you, almost protective, like she’s afraid to let go. And it hits you then, all at once—Vi’s completely, utterly in love with you. And for the first time, you realize it’s not just the kind of love that comes from adrenaline and rough edges. It’s not the kind that fades after a week or a few laughs. It’s real. The kind of love that sticks.

You reach up and cup her cheek gently, tilting her face towards yours. She doesn’t protest, just lets you guide her, her eyes softening, pupils dilating.

“You know, you can’t hide that from me forever,” you tease, grinning as she shifts uncomfortably under your gaze. “I’m pretty sure you’re head over heels.”

Vi scoffs but there’s no bite to it. She pulls you closer instead, her lips hovering near yours. “Fine. Maybe I’m hopeless. Maybe I’ve been completely wrapped up in you for longer than I want to admit.” She pauses, her eyes searching yours as if looking for something. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be all sappy about it.”

You laugh softly, pressing your lips to hers in a slow, tender kiss. The kind of kiss that makes the world outside feel like it doesn’t exist. Like there’s only Vi, and there’s only you, and nothing else matters.

When you pull back, Vi’s expression is unreadable for a moment, like she’s trying to figure out what just happened. Her hand slips from your waist to the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss, a little deeper this time. She’s not shy with her affection, not with you.

“Maybe you’ve got a point,” she mutters against your lips. “Maybe I am in love with you.”

You smile against her mouth, letting her kiss you for as long as she wants, before you pull back, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief. “I thought you said you weren’t sappy.”

She chuckles, rolling her eyes. “Shut up, smartass. I don’t do mushy, alright?”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, tough girl,” you tease, your voice dripping with amusement. “But you know you’re stuck with me, right?”

Vi smiles, a genuine, soft smile that makes your heart melt. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The moment lingers between you two, quiet and intimate, as if the world outside has ceased to exist. For once, everything feels right. You’re exactly where you need to be. And, for the first time in a long while, Vi’s walls are down. She’s not hiding, not pretending. She’s giving you all of her, every piece of her, and there’s no going back.

You’re not just in love with her. You’re both growing, changing, and figuring out just what it means to be together, and you know one thing for sure: No matter what comes next, you’re not going anywhere.

And neither is she.

[sheeple]

Puck you!

Genre(s): Modern!au / Ice hockey!au Fandom(s): Harry Potter Pairing(s): Ice hockey player!Mattheo Riddle x Reader Summary: You decide to go to an ice hockey game on your own and end up with a broken nose, a round trip to the ER, and a boyfriend. Warning(s): Broken nose (obvs) / kinda rushed A/n: Is it kinda inspired by a Saturday evening of mine? Who knows? [Masterlist]

It was stupid. Who goes to their very first ice hockey game all alone? Well... apparently you. You've tried to ask your friends and even your parents. But your friends were all busy and your father said, "I'm not going to spend my Saturday evening anywhere else except at home, on the couch." Spoiler alert: he and your mother went to a dinner with their friends that evening. Hypocrite.

So here you are, all alone and being very cold. You're having a great time nonetheless — even preferring ice hockey above soccer (don't tell your manager) — but even though you went with a sweater and one of your thicker winter coats, you are so damn cold! And seeing people pass by with steaming coffee you decide to get a hot beverage for yourself once the second break starts.

As soon as the buzzer sounds, you're out of your seat and off to the coffee corner. Smiling at the lady, you order a hot cocoa with whipped cream on top.

"How are you liking the game so far, dearie?", she asks with a kind smile.

Swallowing a big gulp of whipped cream, you wipe your mouth. "It's great! It's my very first one and way more brutal than I thought but it's so awesome. The cold's something I have to get used to", you laugh.

"Well then", she reaches behind the counter and pulls out a bright green beanie, "take this, love. Think of it as a welcome-to-the-sport present." She winks and you thank her profusely.

Seeing as the fifteen minutes are almost over, you quickly hurry back to your seat. But once you approach you see someone else sitting in it. No big deal, enough space. Moving further down, you spot an empty seat between two families and decide it's good enough for you.

Thanking the people who get up from their seats to let you pass, you quickly take place and put on the beanie. To your surprise the combo of beanie and hot chocolate does wonders.

The players skate back on the rink and the game starts again. Your hometown team the Green Snakes stand with 7 to 2 points before the Godrick's Lions and the crowd is electric. You know there's some age-old rivalry between the two teams — two cities really — that you never really understood. But hey, people need something to be competitive about.

For the so many-ith time, the game stops and number 86 is sent to the penalty box. Again. He's been playing rough all game, really firing his pucks at the opposite goal and knocking other players to the side. You pull up his profile on your phone to see who's behind the mask.

Number 86. Riddle, Mattheo. Hmm... he's rather handsome with his dark curly hair and, if you dare say, adorable smile. According to the Green Snakes' website, he's known for playing rough and getting up just as hard as he's knocking people down.

While you're distracted by your phone, you don't see how said player misfires a puck at the goal. It bounces off the sides before launching over the rink walls and into the stands. Straight at you.

With full speed, the black mini-missile lands right in your face. It bounces off your nose to be more precise. You feel it crack under the speed and pass out almost exactly directly.

Meanwhile, on the ice, Mattheo winces as the puck he shot hits the very cute girl straight in her face. He's been eyeing you the whole game that's also why he's getting so much time in the penalty box — to look at you but he won't admit that.

He wants to immediately rush off the ice and run over to the stands where paramedics are loading you on a stretcher. But the hand of his captain stops him and he shakes his head. "We can visit her after the game. It's only ten minutes left and then you can make sure she's fine."

Mattheo knows his captain is right but he can't focus on the game anymore. His coach switches him out for Malfoy and he sends the remainder of the time on the bench. As soon as the buzzer sounds the game is over, and he's off to the dressing room to have a quick shower before sprinting towards the medical bay.

When you came by, you were lying in a slightly warmer room than you remember. Wait... what do you remember? Hot chocolate, the beanie, 86, the puck. THE PUCK!

You shoot up and immediately regret it. The room spins around you and your head throbs. Your nose hurts like a bitch and you have an unrelenting runny nose. A nurse rushes over to you with gauze in her hands and presses it to your nose.

"Oh dear. Try to breathe slowly and through your mouth. I'm afraid your nose is broken. I've already called the doctor to set it straight for you".

"It's broken?", you say softly, not believing what you're hearing. Reaching up with a hand, you touch the tender flesh and hiss as pain flashes through your body. And now your head throbs, amazing...

As the nurse cleans up the bloody rags he turns towards you with a soft smile. "I'll tell your boyfriend that you're awake so he can come in."

"Boyfriend?", you echo perplexed.

That makes the nurse frown deeply and scribble something on the chard she's holding before exiting the room.

Since when do you have a boyfriend? You've surely hit your head pretty hard. How else could you forget a whole-ass boyfriend?

The door opens and a head with dark curls peeks around, scanning the room until his eyes fall upon you. As he closes the door behind him you recognise the guy. The one and only number 86 standing before you with a guilty look on his face. That puck for sure did a number on you.

"How are you feeling?"

"Considering I've gotten a puck against my noggin? It hurts and my nose is broken. And apparently, I've got a boyfriend in the time I was KO."

He sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the edge of the hospital bed pretty harshly. "Yeah... Sorry about that. They wouldn't let me stay if I wasn't family or involved with you." You can see him cringe with the way he phrased that. "I'm really sorry about the whole puck incident. Coach always says I play too roughly and this just proves it..."

Before you can answer, there's a knock on the door and in walks a doctor followed by the same nurse. "Good evening Miss, how are you feeling?", asks the doctor as she shines a light into your eyes.

You throw number 86 a glance. "Despite that my nose is crooked and my head hurts, pretty okay."

The doctor hums. "So no dizziness, vagueness, or forgetfulness?"

You shake your head, slightly regretting the motion.

"Good. Good. I'll grab a colleague from ENT to put your nose back how it belongs and then you are free to go home. Sounds good?"

You nod and soon you're left alone with number 86 again. Breaking the silence, you hold out your hand and introduce your name. Even though he broke your nose, you still have manners.

He's quick to take your hand to shake it. "Matt. Is there any way to make it up to you?"

"You could let me break your nose in return?", you joke, but quickly backpaddle as Matt legitly seems to consider it. "No, you're crazy! It was a joke!"

Matt chuckles awkwardly and scratches the back of his head. "Can I take you out to drink once your nose is fine again?"

A small smile grows on your face and you nod. "Yeah... I would like that."

Around an hour later you let yourself fall on your bed; your nose bandaged and yourself still a little woozy because of the anaesthesia they gave you. You hold your phone dangerously above you as you stare at the text that has come in.

Hey! Looking forward towards our date next week! I promise you we'll stay off the ice (for now) This is Matt btw :) Goodnight

[starlightshadowsworld]

Behind the Hockey Mask

Casey: I'm not here to make friends.

Also Casey:

Is absolutely crushed when April gets hurt and blames himself.

Bonds with Donnie over watching Space Heroes with their siblings.

Begrudgingly obeys Leo's orders and muses on how similar older brother mutants are to older brother humans.

Knew Raph for like 5 minutes and saved him from getting hit by a train.

... Yeah don't think so Jones.

[fatherbrat]

cw. prequel to this. college au hockey player!sukuna. fatherbrat’s 2nd hugh hefner costume mention. reader is drunk. crack-esque. sfw, 1.3k words.

the first time you meet sukuna is at a halloween party. 

(it’s technically your halloween party. it isn’t your house or anything, but the boys that live there are happy to let you host as long as it means a house full of girls and none of the responsibility of setting up. you're happy to fulfill their requests, since it means you can have things go your way and then dip at the end of the night, leaving the post-party cleaning up to them.)

needless to say, you and sukuna do not make good first impressions. you would blame the alcohol, but honestly, it wouldn’t have gone any different if you were sober. 

he arrives at the party in a group. you recognize one of them—the tall, smiley one with impossibly white hair who sits behind you in biochem. he’s dressed up like a character from an snl skit, clad in an ill-fitting suit and round sunglasses with a present box glued to his pelvis.

you don’t recognize the one who comes in behind him, but he’s sexy and tanned and has a mustache. he’s also wearing the same costume as the white-haired one. gojo, you remember. isn’t he on the hockey team?

you immediately pull out your phone, searching up the school’s official instagram page for the hockey team. there they are, front and center in the most recent post. the third guy with them—the one with black hair and the scar that runs through his lip—is in the picture too. he’s wearing a batman costume now, half-assed but recognizable enough. at least he has on the mask. 

you squint at the last man in the group and frown. your gaze drops back down to your phone. 

in the second row of photos is a carousel full of pictures of this pink-haired brute. sukuna, the apparent team captain. his personal account is tagged, but it seems too professional to you, public and polished to perfection for recruiters. 

anyways. he’s here. at your halloween party. wearing an outfit you deem completely unacceptable. 

you down the rest of your (sixth) drink and toss the empty can onto the kitchen counter before making your way towards the group of men, wobbly as ever.

gojo is the first one to notice you. “hey,” he beams, “cool party.” he puts his arm around the guy with the mustache—shiu—and wiggles his eyebrows. “you like our costumes?”

you ignore him, something you wouldn’t do sober, but you’re on a mission. 

you point at sukuna, jabbing your nail into his chest. “where the fuck is your costume?”

sukuna glances down at your finger, then your costume, then your face. “you don’t see the jersey? i’m a fuckin’ hockey player.”

you pull back your hand, disgusted. “first of all, drop the attitude, mister. second of all, that’s not a costume. you’re on the hockey team.”

someone snickers. the one dressed as batman, you think, but you don’t turn around to check. sukuna’s face morphs through a few different emotions—amusement, annoyance, astonishment. he eventually settles on agitation, pissed that he hasn’t even gotten the chance to get some liquor in his system before dealing with bullshit like this.

“you wanna talk about costumes? you’re wearing underwear and a robe,” he says, gesturing towards you with a dismissive wave. 

you gasp and plant your hands on your hips. “this isn’t just underwear, idiot. it’s lingerie. i’m wearing a garter belt, for fuck’s sake. and thigh highs! plus you forgot about my hat?”

you use your entire arm to point at gojo. “who am i dressed as, dick-in-a-box boy?”

his face is flushed from laugher. “sexy hugh hefner. obviously.”

you throw your arm up in the air and let it fall against your thigh with a smack, not noticing the murderous glare sukuna sends towards gojo. someone somewhere turns down the music a bit.

“see!” you exclaim, addressing sukuna once again. “this is clearly a Sexy Costume™. and you know what else makes it a costume? i would never just leave my house like this on a typical day. it’s not a regular outfit in the slightest.” you speak slowly, wanting to make sure he understands every word. 

“you wanna know what makes this Not a costume?” you continue, still talking slow as you wag your finger up and down sukuna’s body. “it’s a regular-degular outfit. literally anyone can put on that campus store-bought jersey and wear it with those jeans on a normal day.”

sukuna starts to speak, but you cut him off. “didn't you see the sign out front? ‘no costume, no entry.’”

his jaw ticks. his right eye twitches. “yeah, i saw the fucking sign. i don’t-”

“oh, great,” you interrupt. “so you don’t know what a costume is and you can’t read. perfect. that hockey scholarship must be doing a lot of heavy lifting, huh?”

even in your inebriated state, you immediately know that was the wrong thing to say. the little crowd that gathered to watch your back-and-forth takes a collective inhale. sukuna looks downright irate, fists clenched at his sides as a storminess settles over his face. 

gojo lets out a long and low whistle, the kind that cartoon bombs make right before they hit the ground and explode. he pats your shoulder twice before abandoning you altogether. the rest of the crowd follows, leaving you to contend with this bear you repeatedly poked.

the music returns to its original volume, but it sounds like the speaker has been moved. away from you and closer to the living room.

maybe it’s the alcohol in your system, but you swear you can see literal steam coming out of sukuna’s ears. you sway on your feet a bit, waiting for him to say something. a thought occurs to you as you watch him pinch the bridge of his nose and breathe deeply, but you keep it to yourself, screwing up your lips in a physical attempt to keep from digging your grave further.

sukuna didn’t even want to come to this party in the first place. he actually mentioned the sign out front to the guys before they came in, trying to use it as an excuse for him to go home. his plan was to make an appearance, drink a beer, and then escape after thirty minutes. but here you are, this drunk stranger yelling at him for being dressed like a normal fucking person. the urge to stay strikes him. he wants to linger just to piss you off. 

“are you done?” he asks you.

you cross your arms. “are you leaving?”

“no.”

“then no.”

just as you’re about to dig into him again, sukuna’s thinning patience snaps.

“stop being a fucking bitch about this, alright? just relax. you’re acting fucking crazy.”

your jaw unhinges itself and you stand there, gawking. sukuna seems about ready to walk away, cracking his knuckles and looking somewhere behind you. your eyes land on his cheek, reddened and ready for a smack. you draw your arm back, wanting to make sure you gave him a slap that stings—and he catches it mid-air.

“are you serious?” he scoffs. you glance at your hand, his fingers around your wrist, the scowl etched into his face.

he glowers at you, not letting go when you try to shake your arm free. so you do the next logical thing.

you spit on him.

a glob of your saliva lands just below his eye. you smirk, satisfied. he drops your arm and curses, lifting the bottom of his jersey to wipe his face. then you make your first smart decision of the night and turn around, running back to where the rest of the party is to hide amongst the bodies.

he yells after you, but it’s drowned out by your giggles and the sound of chatter as you get nearer, bumping into countertops and side tables on the way.

someone pats your back and puts a drink in your hand. you pray you never have to see the captain of the hockey team again. 

tags. @nonamevenus @lavenderdaydream97 @rinofcike @gdamnackerman

[iced-if]

⋆ DEMO: TBA (sory) || FORUM: TBA (follows demo release) ⋆

When a previously-cold case sparks once more, you'll take what you can get.

You live for hockey. The ice is your home. You know it, everyone knows it.

Friends and family back at home often joke about you skating your first steps before walking. Especially your parents—with them being your biggest fans, and the ones who ignited your fire—they were the ones who helped you take both. Even when you're off the ice, your hands fidget for your stick. You itch for the rebound of the puck. You crave the chill of the rink. There is at least some truth to their statements.

That day was supposed to be a celebration, to commemorate the blood, sweat, and tears. You were supposed to end the day with a celebratory dinner after bringing home the win for your school's hockey team, not provide a witness testimony for two dead bodies.

It's been ten years since then. Your dream of winning in the major leagues has dampened. You feel mediocre for a professional, always seeming to be middle-of-the-road with no progress in sight. Everything has just been so stagnant, and you're this close to throwing in the towel altogether. Little did you know, this year's about to be the best in a long time.

Try to stay afloat in the meantime.

Iced is a work of fiction aimed towards mature audiences, and contains themes such as explicit language, substance use, murder, descriptions of murder, sexually suggestive themes, that may be triggering to some. This list is subject to change.

Play as a semi-famous pro hockey athlete, with an immense love for the sport that surpasses none. Probably.

Solve a decades old mystery and finally put all those lost souls to rest, all while finally breaking out of your progress lull to achieve what was once a distant dream. Make your parents proud, and see how far you've come.

Choose your greatest asset, and fatal flaw, on the ice. Will you rank in the top six, or at the bottom of your team, as a center player?

Be the charming stoic, the team's quiet-but-deadly comedian, the fans' favourite haughty Samaritan, and more unique personality combinations to discover.

Become world renowned, or an infamous villain in the hockey world.

A wide range of customization to choose from, that do matter (or an option to randomize everything if ya don't care).

Romance 5 ROs, and get caught in a love triangle between two of them. Or, avoid romance entirely.

Jealousy and drama abound!

Participate in tomfoolery.

Find a family within your new team, or stick to purely colleagues.

Can you juggle the responsibilities of a professional hockey player, and find the murderer behind it all?

CHARACTER MOODBOARDS

THE SUCCESSOR OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

For a detective, they sure are dense...

HIRAN/HATHAI ANUMAN (m/f) is the one who you've reached through that window of opportunity for, and arguably the most important piece to solving this puzzle.

This disheveled, crabby detective likes to say otherwise, though. With a no-nonsense attitude, Anuman likes to live inconspicuously, using the quietness and mundanity of their life to help balance the crimes they investigate. They prefer staying in their court, picking up cases that helps keep them out of the limelight. With an eye for detail, they mainly use their skills to help determine the tax of their groceries.

As much as they like to keep everyone at an arm's length, there's a hidden part of them that pushes them to ask if you'd like some water, or if you need a break. Which, may be difficult to tell at times.

That mask of indifference and professionalism has a limit. Will you be able to take it off or break it?

THE ENIGMATIC POLITICIAN

Do politicians have the time to be a fan?

KELVIN/KELSEY WEN ZHONG (m/f) is one person you would never have expected to ever meet—especially at a hockey game.

Intertwined by a chance meeting, your first impressions of Zhong don't fall short to the real deal. Intelligent, personable, composed, likeable, they make for the ideal politician. Hell, even the way they carry themselves says important. The words they say make you nod along with them, and leave you agreeing with a new perspective you've never even considered. Unexpectedly, there are times where a spirited enthusiasm exposes itself in the midst of a goal.

You find it impossible to forget the look on their face when they watch a game. An expression so foreign and childlike, but maybe it's because you haven't gotten used to it yet. Although, it fits them more than you expected it to.

And, judging by their reactions, you might just have a new fan.

THE UNSTOPPABLE FORCE

Holy crap they're good. Personality could use some improvement though.

LESTER/LYDIA RAMIREZ (gender locked based on MC) would probably benefit from daily meditation. Although, with how physical hockey can get, one could argue that they've got the perfect temperament.

Unfortunately teammates, Ramirez is quite the character. They burn with a passion so hot and overpowering, it takes up everything they do. It's not an unfamiliar concept—after all, you're here too, but the way they go about it is not giving them the brightest reputation.

They aren't shy about getting physical themselves, making them popular among your fans and despised by the rest of the league—but even they have to acknowledge their skill on the ice. Although, their tendency of getting into fights can cause a bit of a headache for your coach and the team. For Ramirez, winning comes first.

If they're not going to do it, how will you preserve the team dynamic?

THE TOUGHEST LINE OF DEFENSE

Much tougher than you remember, or maybe you hadn't noticed until now.

ELLIOTT/ELLA LAMBERT (gender locked based on MC) was the best defenseman on the team, and the only freshman to make it on.

Back in high school, no one expected the short, scrawny kid to make it on back then, nor blow most of the competition out of the water. Lambert could steal a puck like no other, and weave through bodies as if it were just another warm up. Being a sweet kid with a cheery disposition, and a toothy smile to match, they were someone you wouldn't think would be able to stand getting bodied, and get back up like it was just a small rough-and-tumble.

Not much has changed since then, except for the height. No longer the freshman who admired you with wide eyes, they've grown into an even more skilled player, and an even tougher opponent.

You don't remember a stubborn intensity being there before, but now that you stand face to face, you have a chance of getting more up close and personal than you would have all those years ago.

THE HOTTEST SINGER OF MODERN POP

How the hell do they have a natural tan at this time of year???

CITRUS/CHERRY MOORE (m/f) is the newest pop singer on the scene, and they are crushing the charts with each new release.

Or, at least they should be.

Moore can command a stage with a presence that pulls you in by the collar, and a sound that rocks you to the core. They are charismatic, fun, flirty, and bring a new kind of energy to the table. Yet, here they are, singing their heart out in a dinged out bar, the rest of the patrons too busy wasting away to hear their soul hum.

Underneath all that magic, however, it's clear that the passion in their eyes has dimmed, giving way to cynicism. With long years passed, still living from gig to gig, they feel that the years yet to come will be even longer.

Will you be the one to realize their potential?

---------

Let me know about any spelling errors, grammatical errors, story inconsistencies, incorrect information/interpretations, coding errors, and choice suggestions/feedback in a google form I haven't implemented yet. Feedback is always appreciated.

Are you ready to shake the world?

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

Part 1 (Next)

CW: panty-thief, suggestive fluff

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley who just loves handling the frustrating, mundane, mildly-anxiety-inducing issues in JustAFriend!Reader’s life.

For a man who’s been through… everything, nothing phases him. Not the phone call to pressure your old landlord into giving you back your deposit, not the broken dryer and the giant pile of wet laundry that needs to be hung in increasingly ridiculous locations, not the stray cat birthing a mewling litter on your doorstep in the middle of winter, or the neighborhood’s package thief stealing your delivery of what may be something electric and flower-shaped.

If you didn’t know any better (you don’t), you’d say he gets a kick out of it, how easily he handled these things compared to you. His take-no-bullshit demeanor, coupled with the respect afforded to those who earn it, smooths things over fairly quickly with difficult people.

He’s handy and likes taking things apart — he’s sure you won’t miss the dusty lace panties he finds slipped under the dryer’s barrel when he bullies the metal frame open (they were your favorite, where on earth did they go??)

When the kittens are a few weeks old and Simon comes to visit with more supplies, they snuggle up under his chin as he slumps on the rug, the furious blush from your earlier teasing (“Daddy’s home!”) warming him from his cheeks to his toes and making him the most cozy spot in the room. He waves off the offer of a hot drink and tells you to “Open a window or sumin’, the lil’ bastards are smotherin’ me”.

When he catches the package thief red-handed on his way up to your door — a fourty-something woman who talks at him louder and meaner than anyone has in a long while — he gives his best impression of a bull at the edge of an unmarked field, making his territory known with a wild look rather than words. When he sets the package down on the kitchen counter, along with the ingredients for tonight’s Thursday Dinner Experiment, he prompts you to open it. “Wanna see what my hard work has earned ya.”

You slice the tape and pop open the cardboard before you remember — and slam the flaps back down. That has his attention. “Whatcha got there, lovie?” He crowds in behind you, looking over your shoulder and grinning, lopsided so you can only see the smirk on the left of his mouth when you turn your head to stammer, “uhh n-nothing, just this stupid book someone recommended me. Can’t let the gang know I fuck with hockey romance, haha.”

“Hockey, huh?” He huffs and leans his elbow on the counter, half of his body still behind you somehow. You pull the box close to your chest, hands shifting to best keep it closed.

“Lemme just take this to my room and we can start making-“

“You’d deprive a man of valuable literary experience?”

“No, nuh-uh,” you dance away as he grabs for it teasingly, fast enough to make you panic but not too fast you can’t get away. A play fight. Your pulse thrums fast in your chest, like it always does when he gets that calculating glint in his eye. It’s thrilling, the way his shoulders shift and settle low, and his touch comes gentle and fast, his face a terrifying mask with that piercing glint of playfulness just barely hidden. You usually love this game. But he cannot see this.

His hand rushes towards you as you skirt backwards into the living room, his fingers tangling in the tape hanging from the box. It tears away and you shriek a laugh at his efforts, leaving him with nothing but another opening as you twist to run to your room. But you don’t count on another opponent entering the ring: the rug — trundled up the stairs by the man himself, the previous one sacrificed to the God of Foster Cats — still new and curling at the edge.

He must not expect it either. Before you’ve fully turned you’re falling into the couch, catching his arm in a bid to save yourself. He goes down too, landing atop you. Your “Oomph”s mingle together in the suddenly still air. His big body makes it impossible to breathe until he lifts up on his arms and takes stock of the situation. He eyes snag on the box where it’s fallen, the shiny inner box and red packing grass spilled out on the rug. You attempt to wriggle out before he sees. Your legs are firmly pinned between his own. You wait for him to laugh.

“Well that,” he breathes, not a giggle in sight. He settles his eyes on you with a look of hot reproach. “That is not a book.”

He hopes it’s broken. That’s a problem of yours he’d love to have a hand in solving.

(Next)

[skeltnwrites]

happy friday the 13th lovelies! i have a similar friday the 13th themed steve drabble i'll try and finish tomorrow 0.5k words

“I think my tattoo is cursed,” Eddie grumbles from the kitchen table behind you. 

“I told you that place was sketch, Eds.”

“I made sure everything was clean! It was a good deal,” he whines like a child might– in this mumbly sort of way that he only does when he knows he fucked up but wants your consolation. 

You turn, abandoning the pot on the stove to lean against his chair. Eddie pokes at his wrist where pale skin has darkened into an angry shade of red. 

The tattoo was not your favorite choice to begin with. Jason’s hockey mask from Friday The Thirteenth– A random Halloween-themed, half-price piece of flash from a gumball machine. It’s slotted between the bats and the crease in his elbow, clunky and clashing art styles with his other ink. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, Eddie doesn’t even like the movie, he was just too embarrassed to chicken out once he pulled the piece of paper out of the machine. 

“Does it hurt?” 

He shrugs, “A little. Mostly just… like tingly, I guess?” 

“Itchy?”

“No, not itchy. Just feels weird– different than usual.” 

You tug his arm up to eye level. The ink twists and swells along some lines, as if a funhouse mirror has warped the image, distorting it into something you probably wouldn’t recognize if you didn’t already know what it was. 

“Probably infected, babe.” 

He reels his arm back in and deflates with a sigh. 

“Eddie, don’t– don’t pick at it,” you swat his fingers away before they can reach. “The ink won’t heal properly.” 

“It already isn’t healing properly,” he pouts, a weak glare attached. You cock your head, dissecting his expression, but his irritation softens into something else. Eddie presses his forehead into the meat of your upper arm. “I should’ve listened to you.”

You card through the knots in his hair, biting back an I told you so. 

“You can always get it covered up. Maybe it was just a different type of ink or something? An allergy.” 

“No, you were right about that guy. He was strange; gave me the heebie-jeebies as soon as we walked in. I think he did some fucked up, witchy voodoo magic shit on me.”

“Oh?” 

“He was all quiet and pale, like sickly pale– and his hands were fuckin’ freezing. Maybe he was a ghost?”

“Wouldn’t be the craziest shit we’ve seen,” the corners of your lips rise as you loop a curl around your finger. 

“Or Gandalf? With that beard. That’s what I thought when we walked in– I mean, if Gandalf was a tattoo artist, I’m pretty sure that’s what he’d look like,” he chuckles. 

You snort, because you thought the exact same thing, which has Eddie laughing twice as hard. And you can’t find the time to be embarrassed when your favorite pair of eyes are creased with glee and beam at you with more love than you can carry. 

When he settles, you hum. “So we’ve narrowed it down to a witch, a ghost, or Gandalf?” 

“Yeah, what do you think?” 

You hunch over the chair, angling his chin towards yours. “I think a kiss might break the curse.”

“Oh yeah? Like sleeping beauty?” 

“Exactly,” you whisper before pressing a slow kiss to his lips.

[schizosusie]

this one's dedicated to the freaks out there.

[image description: a digital drawing of kate the chaser. she's a buff woman in a transparent tank top, sport bra, and very ripped jeans. she has a burned and damaged hockey mask and wild greasy hair. she's kneeling on the floor, holding a knife. both her and the wall behind her are covered in blood. end id]

[oneforthemunny]

break the ice |hockey!eddie munson x reader|

prompt: a scheduling mishap leads you and eddie to meet. or how you and hockey!eddie's story begins lol.

contains: eddie au. fluff. that's it. happy one year!

The hiss of the puck gliding over the ice, skittering into the goal, skates whizzing to a stop. It was comforting to Eddie. He’d never really known what people meant when they’d say “get in the zone” growing up, until he started playing again, playing for real this time. It was easy to focus on the sounds, silence your brain by tricking it to listen to the claps of the stick on the ice, the pop of the puck soaring, the- 

“Skidamarink a dink, a dink. Skidamarink a doo.” 

A clean miss, startled by the sudden blaring of music from behind him. Skates wobbling, knees locking into place. Eddie turned, squinting towards the other end of the rink. 

“Hey, hey!” Eddie skated, shouting over the music- horrendous at that, what was this song? 

“Excuse me,” You looked up, adjusting the volume on your boom box. “Hey, uh, sorry this is a closed practice.” Eddie skated to you, hockey stick waving exaggeratedly behind him. 

“Yeah it is.” You nodded, head tilting to the side slightly. “Are you… here to drop off?” 

“What? No, no, I-” Eddie paused, brows furrowed at you lightly. “I- this is my practice.” 

“Your practice?” You repeated, pointing at the ice below you. 

“Yeah.” 

“You’re here for the Snowflakes?” 

“No, I play for-” Eddie shakes his head, hand running over his face. “Snowflakes? What-” 

“-The three to four year old class?” You press, brow raised, face contorted in what Eddie could only assume was your best judgment masking, though by the scrunch in your nose, it wasn’t working very well. “For ice skating lessons?” 

“Lessons? Sweetheart, c’mon, does it look like I need lessons?” Eddie grins, smug and sweet. His heart skips when you bite back a smile, lips twitching. “I’m- I rent out the time to practice.” 

“Oh,” You frown slightly. “I, uh, I did too.” 

“You know what, let me- let me just go ask Max.” Eddie flashes you a dazzling smile. “I’ll get it sorted out.” 

“You’re both right.” Max droned behind the desk, flipping through a magazine lazily. “Both of you have the slot for today.”

“What? Why-Why would Bobby book up both spots?” Eddie frowned. “That makes no fuckin’ sense. I’m here every Thursday-” 

Max huffed, snatching the scheduling paper off the back wall, slapping it on the desk. “Eddie Munson. Five to six-thirty. Left.” Her blue eyes raised in boredom. “That means, you’re on the left side.” 

“Left? This is- That’s fuckin’ ridiculous, Max, c’mon-” 

“-It’s Bobby.” Max rolled her eyes. “He’s trying to double book, make more money during the dead season. I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“So I have to practice with a bunch of fuckin’ kids running around?” Eddie huffs. “How the hell am I gonna do that? Huh? Do you hear the shit they’re playing in there?” Eddie throws a hand out towards the rink. “I’m already about to lose my mind.” 

“So get some ear plugs, Eddie, I don’t know.” Max huffed, throwing her hands up. “You know I can’t refund you, so either leave, or suck it up. I honestly don’t care, Munson, up to you.” 

Eddie’s tongue poked the inside of his cheek, rolling furiously. Bunch of kids skating all around him, screaming and shit, he’d never get anything done. 

Still, Eddie’s eyes wandered back to you. In your matching tracksuit, a powdery blue that seemed to shine even under the fluorescents of the rink. He supposed there could be worse people to share the ice with. He faced Tommy Raider again next season, and he’d rather be with a bunch of screaming toddlers anyday over him anyday. 

Besides, the kids weren’t so bad. The occasional screech or laughter when you’d have them do something silly. It was cute, honestly, Eddie decided, seeing these little kids wobble around on skates while you cooed enthusiastically at them. 

“Ok, my little flurries,” You grinned, cheeks aching from the amount of feigned enthusiasm you had to muster. “Next week we’re going to really work on our glide.” You pushed off dramatically, soaring a few spaces then stopping. 

It was so exaggerated, over the top and made the kids giggle; Eddie was sure he was in love. 

“So be sure to be practicing holding your arms way, way out!” You extended your arms, beaming at the few who mimicked you. “And I’ll see you all next week!” 

Eddie had spent the majority of the time practicing what he’d say to you, how he’d ask you out. A classic chat up line always worked at the bar, always helped him score. Still, his knees wobbled, tight and a little unsure as he skated over to you. 

You were waving goodbye to a student, stepping off to the bleachers to undo your own skates. “Hey,” Eddie’s voice cracked, wobbly and unsure in his throat, teeth clenching in a grimace.

You looked up, a tiny half smile in greeting. “Hi. Hope we didn’t bother you too much.” 

“What? No. No, no, no. No, you didn’t-” Eddie took a breath, heart hammering in his chest, ringing in his ears. “It was… Yeah, that was really fun to watch actually. The, uh, seeing the kids in their skates and shit. You’re-You’re really good with them, and, uh…” The fuck is that Munson? The fuck are you doing? Eddie’s mind raced, furiously. 

“Thanks.” You grinned, a wicked little smile that had Eddie’s cheeks flushing. He hadn’t felt like this in years. Felt like he was back in middle school, swooning any time Connie Donohue would swish her hair over her shoulder, letting it land on his desk and brush his hand. 

“They’re a fun age. Super sweet. Not like the asshole eight year olds.” Your finger curled under the untied laces, shimmying them loose. 

“Oh? Eight year olds, they're the asshole group?” Eddie grinned, leaning against the rink’s surface. He hoped you couldn’t tell how he was flexing, muscles protruding under the tight, black material of his shirt. 

“Total assholes. I had them last year, and that’s why I switched-” 

“-Excuse me?” A tiny squeak of a voice came from behind you. You turned, expecting one of your kids who had forgotten a mitten or jacket. 

“Are-Are you Eddie Munson?” The small boy with wide eyes gaped at Eddie. 

Eddie flushed, swallowing, eyes flickering to you. Your brows creasing, looking at the tiny boy then back at Eddie. “Yeah, yeah that’s me.” Eddie forced a smile, gripping the rink as he stepped onto the bleachers, settling on the ones across from you. 

“What’s your name, little man?” Eddie grinned. 

“Samuel.” The boy grinned, a little shyly. 

“Samuel, that’s a cool name. How old are you?” 

“Eight.” The boy beamed. 

Eddie’s eyes cut over to yours, lips twisting, fighting back a grin. You blushed, turning away from his glances, cheeks burning with heat you hoped he didn’t see. “Eight? That’s a… that’s a cool age, right?” 

“Right.” Samuel nodded. “I-I watch you all the time with my dad and my mom.” Samuel babbled in true kid fashion. “You’re my favorite hockey player.” 

“Me? No way, c’mon.” Eddie shook his head playfully. 

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re from Hawkins too.” Samuel nodded, matter of factly. “They said that on-on the TV one time when I was watching.” 

“Yeah, that’s right.” Eddie nodded. “Used to practice here when I was your age.” He nodded over towards the rink behind him. 

“We went one time to a game, and… and you lost a tooth!” Samuel giggled in true, eight year old asshole form. “The other guy knocked it out when-when you were fighting!” 

Eddie laughed, a howling of a cackle that bounced off the walls of the rink, over the hum of the electricity and heat in the stands.

You watched carefully, interest piqued. You knew he was good, you’d watched him practice, it was obvious he had skill. And the name did sound familiar, plastered across headlines and the local news, one of Hawkins’ very own made it big. 

Eddie signed Samuel’s jersey, left him scampering back to his awaiting parents with a triumphant grin. “What are the odds of that?” Eddie beamed, grinning ear to ear when he looked over at you. 

You laughed, knotting your own skates together, reaching for your snow boots. “I, uh, I didn’t realize you-you played for the… Played hockey.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie shrugged, inked hand running down his arm. You tried not to stare. “It’s alright, really. Not bad benefits, but work hours are a little crazy.” 

“Yeah?” You laughed lightly. “I would say so. Pretty demanding.” 

“Oh yeah. And you lose a tooth or two sometimes.” Eddie’s eyes cut to yours playfully, a dimpled grin that had your heart shooting with heat. 

“Yikes.” You sucked in a breath dramatically. “That seems brutal.” 

“You ever been?” Eddie asked, untying his own skates, letting the blade rest on the cement barrier in front of him. 

“To… what? A game?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No.” You shook your head. “Not, like, a real hockey game. Not… Not one of yours.” Your knee bounced nervously, a little unsure even in your own answer. 

“You should come.” Eddie shrugged cooly, hoping you couldn’t see the way his hands shook with adrenaline. “Come to the opener in a few weeks. I’ll get you tickets.” 

“What?” You laughed lightly. “You- No, you don’t even know my name, and you’re gonna get me tickets? Yeah, right.” You rolled your eyes at him. 

“Well, I was hoping I could get your name, maybe your number too.” Eddie’s lips pursed lightly. “Get to know you before the game. Can give you those tickets next time I see you. What do you think? You free Friday night? Saturday?” 

You blushed, looking down at your boots, fiddling with the laces to avoid his gaze. “Saturday. I don’t have to work.” You looked back at him. 

“Saturday it is.” Eddie beamed. 

You scrawled your name and number on the torn corner piece of the schedule. Eddie had snatched it and a pen from behind the desk, ignoring Max’s huffs of annoyance. He’d clutched it the whole way home, paper a little soft from the dampness of his sweaty hands. The tiny slip of paper was taped to his landline, staying there long after Eddie had memorized the number. In your pretty, loopy handwriting for Eddie to see each time he called you.