#I love the idea of her having blonde hair

[kawoala]

I saw you wanted requests, went "I have so many!!", opened ask box.... brain goes blank. Basic ass rq incoming. College au perhaps? Tsukishima Kei who is nicer to you than most people but that still seems like he barely tolerates you. One day you overhear him (how? Girl idk <3) telling his friend(s) that he does wanna ask you out but he doesn't really know you or wtv and he thinks it's just friendly talk between you. Then you have to figure out what to do with this because omggggggg. I just love accidental confessions, I believe in you

𝐊𝐄𝐈 𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐌𝐀 cinnamon roll word count ; (919) content warning ; (accidental confessions, study buddies, flustered tsukishima, best friend! yamaguchi)

Tsukishima Kei is an enigma of a man. He walks around the campus, wearing those stupid, muted blue headphones, eyes dead set on his destination. He doesn’t talk to anybody, doesn’t stop for the dozens of people searching for signatures for baby seals, doesn’t even acknowledge that other people also attend this university.

And then he gets to his Art History class and all of that nonchalant aura is washed away by the carefree smile on your face. He even smiles back at you.

“Hi, Tsukki!” You greet through a mouthful of food, moving your things from the seat designated for him. He sits down and you push a pink box towards him, wiggling your brows. “How’s your morning been? I brought an extra cinnamon roll just in case it was bad. But I also brought it ‘cause you’re my favorite person in the world.”

He looks at the box suspiciously, eyes narrowed, then looks up at you. You almost start to sweat under his gaze. Finally, he shakes his head and takes the box. “You forgot to do the homework, huh?”

You jut your bottom lip out, putting your chin in your hand, elbow on the desk. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” you pout. You pause, then let your head drop down to the desk with a groan. “I had a really busy night, I swear. I had work and then my roommate wanted to— okay, that’s not the point.” You look back up at him and give him your best attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Please give me the homework, Tsukki. I’m dangerously close to failing this class.”

You know and Tsukishima knows that ‘dangerously close to failing’ means that you’ve gotten one grade below a ninety percent and you definitely freaked out over it.

“Mhm, I’m sure.” He rolls his eyes, but pulls his laptop out to pull up the necessary items that you need for the homework. “You know, you could just ask me for help, rather than copying off of me all the time.” He turns the laptop towards you, answers pulled up on the screen.

You perk up at this, homework already long forgotten. Leaning towards him, you smile widely. “Are you serious, Tsukki? You’d be saving my life, probably.”

“Not your life, but your education, for sure.” 

Later that night, as you’re getting ready to meet Tsukishima at the library, you can’t help the buzz of excitement that runs along your skin. You don’t know why, but you’ve always felt a pull towards him. As soon as he sat down next to you on that first day of class, you knew he wasn’t just going to be that blonde kid from your Art History class.

Thankfully, the library isn’t too far from your dorm. It takes less than five minutes to get there. When you walk in, you’re as quiet as possible. You realized a long time ago that college kids and libraries don’t mix, so you try to go easy on the probably overworked librarians.

Today, Sheila is working. She gives you a smile and points to a corner of the library, where you see a blonde head of hair. He’s not facing towards you, so when the bright idea of scaring him pops into your head, you smile wickedly.

As you tiptoe towards him, you can hear him talking. His phone is up to his ear. Who makes a phone call in a dead silent library?

“No shit, Tadashi. Have you seen her ex-boyfriends? They’re, like, pure muscle. And they’re all tall.” He pauses, then scoffs. “Yeah, I know I’m tall. No, that’s not the point. I just—” he cuts himself off with a sigh. “I’m an asshole, right? Don’t answer that. I just mean that I’m not her type.”

You tilt your head curiously. You wonder who he’s talking about— you hope he’s talking about you. A knot of jealousy festers in your stomach.  Your smile falls and you take a step back. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Yeah, she’s on her way right now. No, Tadashi, I’m not going to ask her out. Why? Because I don’t have a humiliation kink, that’s why.”

You blink a couple times. You can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up, spilling out of your mouth involuntarily. You smack a hand over your mouth just as Tsukishima whips his head around to look at you.

For a long, drawn out moment, you’re quiet.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Um, long enough?” You provide, shrugging with a smile. “I didn’t know the Tsukishima Kei could have a crush on someone.”

You can see his face get red. “That’s— I just— You’re—”

“Oh my goodness, relax,” you giggle out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I like you too. And, if you were to ask me out, I might just say yes.”

“I hate you.” He turns around and puts his head in his hands, groaning.

You skip around the table and sit across from him. “You like me. You like me so much it makes you dumb. You like me so much that you told your best friend.” You laugh again and lean forward, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you wanna go out with me, Tsukishima?”

His eyes dart to yours, brows furrowing. “You can’t ask me that. I’m supposed to ask you that.”

[celuere]

Have you ever thought of arle fucking milf reader? Milf reader dont have no spouse no more just her 1 kid(futa spouse is dead for the story) and arle found her shopping(finds her hotdamn ass) for food(or whatever type of first meeting you think would be a banger i suck at this). She saw the ring and thought shes taken but shes a widow and grabbed the opportunity. She ends up being the mother of the house of hearth. Lovemaking proceeds and baby #2 of milf reader is arle's kid its a win win. Thank you if youll ever reply to this request

okay anon, hear me out.

dilf arle with milf!reader in a modern setting.

cw: breeding, not proofread sob will maybe change a slight bit when i get to it

i will maybe expand this idea and its lore in the future because i actually LOVELOVELOVE this concept, anon i hope this satisfies you!

nsfw utc, minors dni

you meeting her for the first time after you enrolled your daughter in kindergarten. it‘s her first week and on thursday you get asked into the office of the head of the nursery and turns out your little girl accidentally spilled a whole bucket of sand over her playmates head. naturally she didn‘t get in any serious trouble but just for the formalities she needed to speak with you and the father of the poor victim.

upon entering the office with your daughter hiding behind your figure, you immediately spot a sobbing freminet who is still getting sand patted off of his blonde hair by none other than his fath- father? you only saw a rather broad shouldered woman with snow for hair and crosses as pupils fixated on her son as she knelt before him. but when her narrowed eyes met yours, she silently thanked your daughter for her small accident because she certainly didn‘t expect someone as beautiful as you to enter. while your children were busy with sobby apologies and forgivings, the two of exchanged pleasantries, turns out the woman herself is a divorced „father“ of three and picks up little freminet on thursdays and fridays, the reason why you didn’t met her until now.

she also tells you that she is in home office next tuesday. if you… happen to come over for a coffee that is.

now, freminet and your daughter would evolve into best buddies QUICKLY, always hugging each other in the morning, napping next to each other each day, you quite literally have no choice other than to accompany her on their playdates every week. with his father that is. you also get to meet her set of twins, lyney and lynette, who happen to be quite the energetic pack of eight year olds. well, lyney that is. you don‘t think that boy has ever known a moment of silence and peace with the way he is always off and about on the playground, dragging his sister behind him. quite the lovely family, really. but still… you don’t happen to miss the glance arlecchino is throwing you every once in a while,as if she wanted to ask you something.

maybe that is why you weren‘t surprised when you found a pair of lips clinging to your neck on a regular morning. you both just dropped both of your kids off at the nursery and decided to settle for some breakfast at arlecchino‘s house. or maybe you happened to be her breakfast with the way she devoured your mouth with her own. not like it was the first time. whenever the house was swiped empty of any kids, arlecchino just couldn’t simply keep her hands to herself. they were all over you. hips, ass, tits, stripping you bare layer for layer in her bedroom.

„sh-shouldn‘t you- hah… b-be working…?“, you asked breathlessly in between her almost aggressive kisses, your lips already swollen from how often she nibbled on them.

„i should… but i‘ve got some more important tasks at hand.“, with that she shoved your sweater over your chest, followed by a deep inhale from her side as she took in your figure.

ever since your late wife passed away two years ago in a tragic accident, the thought of letting another woman into your heart ever again never crossed your mind. until you crossed paths with arlecchino. or rather peruere. the woman herself has been divorced for a good three years but you couldn’t quite tell if you were just a temporary cure for her lonely heart or if she was being serious with you. you wanted her to be. you really did.

you gasped so softly at the tattooed hand running over your tummy, giving it a gentle squeeze as she leaned down to pester your still covered breasts in lovebites and tickling kisses. you used to be insecure about the stretch marks gracing the skin your stomach and the extra bit of tummy fat, but arle seemed to relish in the sight. never failing to pay them extra attention.

„you are so ravishing, dove…“, with your pants long gone, she only had to tug your already soaked slip aside.

„h-how could i forget that if you mention it every single time…?“, you gulped as peruere hooked her thumbs underneath the hem of her sweatpants to tug them down. seeing her in anything else other than in her usual elegant attire made her look utterly… normal… and attractive. one would think this woman couldn’t get any better at a certain point.

„you certainly make it very difficult for me to not mention it, gorgeous.“

and then she was all over you. hot lips clinging to your jawline like a second skin as she buries herself inside of you, her cock pumping into you felt like coming home after a long day at work to her. my, you are clenching so tightly around her as she finally bottoms out, squeezing her in an attempt to keep her dick deeply buried inside.

with her work now long forgotten, she began to set a pace with her hips. at first the rhythm was slow, almost agonizing until the first plea for something harder left your mouth. you wanted all of her. yearned for every single curve, every single inch of her as muttered something like „so impatient…“ underneath her breath when she angled her hips and hit that oh so beautiful spot right on her first try.

seeing you fall apart underneath her scratched a corner inside the woman’s brain she didn’t even know existed in the first place. the way you bit your lower lip whenever she pulled back. or how your hands grabbed into the pillow your were laying on. or how you looked at her through half-lidded eyes when she pumped her cum into your hungry cunt.

maybe you both „forgot“ about protection today. maybe she didn’t mind it when you locked your legs around her hips to keep her pressed up into you. to keep her seed from leaking out. the idea of you bringing a new addition to her family… so help this woman. and your poor pussy.

„there we go… my… didn’t come yet…? we can’t have that now can we?“

she still has some hours to spare until the kids need to be picked up.

[misseviehyde]

NAIL ME

Well, well, well.

If it isn't my old bully come here to beg for forgiveness. Not so cocky now are you?

Too bad it turns out you weren't the Alpha everyone thought you were. Who would have known it was your bitchy girlfriend who was pulling the strings and making sure you were popular?

That little slut had her manicured fingers in everyone's business. She was responsible for everything that happened around here. I have to admire the little genius for how devious and evil she was.

She knew which buttons to press to make everyone do what she wanted. Her advice helped you stay on top and be the Alpha male. She even goaded you into being more aggressive and masculine. You're nothing without her.

Not that she owes her powers to anything other than the magic nails she used to wear. Without those on her fingers, she's just some normal boring basic bitch.

Now I have the nails and that's why you've come here to beg. You want me to take her place and do what she used to do right?

I have to admit it's tempting. When I discovered the truth about the nails I only intended to stop your girlfriend from wearing them to weaken her and stop you bullying me.

I used my life savings to bribe the nail salon to give her ordinary nails the next time she went in, but then they tempted me by offering me her nails instead.

The nail technician told me if I let her fuse the nails to MY fingers I would become more powerful that I could imagine. It felt so fucking good to have my first ever manicure. As each nail was fixed perfectly into place on my hand - I felt my body and personality change.

My boyish body swelled and grew, female hormones pumping round my body as I transformed. I moaned and gasped in pleasure as my breasts grew and my cock shrunk to nothing so that my superior pussy could open up.

My hips widened, my hair grew longer and I became pretty and popular. I loved how it felt to be a teasing blonde minx and as the final nail slid into place I knew that I was born to be a brat.

When I returned home from the salon, I found that everyone remembered me as a girl. I was now the most popular bitch at school and your former girlfriend was now a nobody.

It felt so fucking good to be pretty and feminine. I had a room full of designer clothes and makeup and everyone was desperate to please me. The power was intoxicating. I love being popular.

I don't know why the magic didn't affect you too. I have no idea why you can still remember me as a boy... but it's actually kind of hot. It helps me to remember that this is all real.

Personally I think it's because you and I were destined to be together. You need me now to make you popular again and I enjoy the power that gives me over you.

I want you to worship me and make me cum like you used to make her cum. Fuck me with your massive bully cock and do everything I tell you. I wanna feel you deep inside me. I wanna know you are mine to command. A hulking brute of a boyfriend who will do anything to please me.

Fucking nail me and take your power back. Together we will do such naughty things together...

[synkqngel]

#resolutions.

pairing: non!idol winter x f!reader.

desc: 2 hours until midnight, 2 hours until you welcome the new year and 2 hours until minjeong’s 24th birthday.

wc: 1.6k

tags: slight angst if u squint; not proofread, minjeong seems like a red flag at first 💔

warnings: none really, maybe a SLIGHT implication of sexual encounters (not really but yk)

it had been aeri’s idea to throw a new year's party against your better judgement — after all, you're her flatmate, which also means you have a say on what gatherings can happen in this apartment specifically. “come on, yn, it'll only be a small gathering,” the pink haired girl had told you.

by ‘small gathering’, she meant her six of her colleagues, old friends from your high school, and her whole friend group. by no means was this considered large, but you worry about how everyone would fit in a 200sqm apartment. her friend group (which was coincidentally also your *only* friend group), consisted of jimin, yizhuo, and minjeong. you didn't hate minjeong, it's not like you weren't close or anything— you were, maybe just a little too much. unbeknownst to the other three, you had been stuck in a constant cycle of ‘will they won't they’, a cruel reminder of the nights you’ve spent in the blonde’s twin sized bed only to wake up without her.

kim minjeong is confusing.

you don't know where you stand with her. multiple times she has whispered you, ‘i love you’ underneath the covers; multiple times where she had almost slipped up and introduced you as her girlfriend in front of people she meets, only to act like she doesn't even *know* you later. confusion and hurt: the two words you would use to describe your relationship (or lack thereof), and intoxicating: the word you would use to describe kim minjeong— or maybe hesitant. countless of times you have fallen into this game of push and pull.

and it would take the heavens to keep you from doing so.

~

aeri snaps her fingers in front of your face, bringing you out of your daydream. “hellooo? aeri to n/n,”

you whip your head over to look in her direction, blinking a few times. “sorry, what’re you talking about?”

“you've been like this all day,” she continues, furrowing her eyebrows. “is something up? c’mon, spill it— im your best friend.”

a few seconds of silence follow, before you finally snap out of it for a second time. “nothing, i'm just tired, we've been cleaning the damn apartment all day long, aeri.”

the pink-haired girl began to laugh, seemingly relieved her best friend, the one she knew and loved was back. “there you are! you've been strangely quiet, i was getting worried.”

“i hate cleaning, you know that, gi,”

meaningless conversation followed, something the two of you had grown to love ever since you moved in together, before the sound of your doorbell ringing caught your attention. patting you on the back, aeri stood up, making her way to the door to see who it was. checking the front door camera, the familiar heads of wine red and black hair appeared at the door, you heard aeri animatedly greeting the two before the door shut behind them.

you stood up, moving to hug jimin and yizhuo with a grin plastered across your face. thank the lord the previous conversation with aeri distracted you from the thoughts of minjeong. “jimin, ning, thanks for coming,” you smiled, exclaiming into the material of jimin’s sweater.

the tallest laughed, fixing your top as she pulled away. “of course, if it's you guys, i'd come in a heartbeat.”

you'd always considered jimin to be the most motherly out of everyone, taking care of each and every one of you and your friends. turning to yizhuo, you find she’s already sat down at the kitchen island, pouring herself a drink as she gossips with aeri.

~

coats pile up on the rack as the night falls and the party stretches on, with more familiar faces and some unfamiliar ones, which you assume are aeri’s colleagues. however, when the doorbell rings again only to find minjeong at the door with a small present, all your emotions begin to flood your mind, the buzz of the party unable to distract your thoughts when you're faced with the root of your distress.

a beat passes.

“i didn't think you'd come. i thought you were in busan.” a mumble. you avoid her neutral gaze in fear of breaking down.

“i came back early,” she replies in a much softer tone. the short haired girl extends the gift box out to you. “merry late christmas, don't tell the others i didn't get anything for them,”

you let her in, watching as she goes through the process of hugging and greeting each one of her friends before walking off to talk to some other people. pocketing the small gift box, you slump down on the couch, watching the sky outside for a while.

“hey,” a voice beside you says. someone approaches you, glass in hand, and you recognise her from one of your classes. you turn to face her, sitting up offering a small smile. “yn, right? i'm natty.”

“oh, yeah, ive seen you around but we've never had the chance to talk before,” she smiles at your words, taking a sip of her drink. “nice to meet you.”

you return the smile; she's sociable, easy to talk to even. “nice to meet you, too.”

the minutes pass, and you fail to notice minjeong’s eyes boring into the back of your head from where she's sat on a stool. ryujin stops herself mid sentence, her eyes following the blonde’s trail of sight. “jealous, huh?“

the other whips her head around to face her. “huh? what do you mean?”

“never mind,” she smiles before changing the subject.

minjeong watches your conversation intently— just why was her face getting hot? her expression is a mix of frustration, bitterness, and confusion. just why was she feeling this way? she runs her hand through her short blonde hair, turning to ryujin. “i'll be back, i'm going to the bathroom.” the other gives her a nod as she basically dashes to lock herself in the bathroom. as minjeong stares at her reflection in the mirror; she grips the edge of the counter, her face red and eyes glossy. “fuck, i'm losing it,” she mumbles.

kim minjeong has never felt this way.

now that she has; she doesn't know how to handle it— and it's killing both you and her at the same time: two birds with one stone.

switching the faucet on, she splashes her face with the chilling water in an attempt to snap herself out of it; to collect and compose herself. minjeong looks back at her reflection in the mirror, face now dripping with water— her reflection scares her. “get it together, kim minjeong. jesus christ, what are you doing?!” she whispers before drying her wet face with a paper towel and making her way back to the party.

the time on her phone displays 11:53. 7 minutes until midnight.

after searching almost desperately for another three minutes, she finds you alone on the balcony, silently watching you as you stared at the skyline, the cold winter air blowing at your face and messing up your hair.

her breath hitches at the sight.

you turn your whole body around, leaning against the glass railing. “what?”

“we need to talk,” minjeong states, stepping closer.

“about what?” your eyebrows furrow and you look to the side briefly.

“our relationship.”

those two words hit you like a fucking punch to the gut. you freeze in place, looking her square in the eyes. your eyes widen and the words you're trying so desperately to say become trapped in your dry throat.

“you don't get to say that, kim minjeong.”

minjeong is taken aback. she furrows her eyebrows, her lips forming a slight frown. “what?”

“you heard me. you don't get to show up and tell me we need to talk about ‘our relationship.’” you scoff, stepping closer to the other. “because, let's be real, what fucking relationship even is there? we're friends, but you sometimes want to pretend we're dating for your own benefit— what's it going to be, minjeong, what am i?!”

a beat follows as neither of you talk, too afraid to continue.

those minutes feel an awfully lot like hours before she speaks again.

11:58.

“look, n/n,” she begins. “fuck, i never meant to make you feel that way, i'm- i'm just confused, and—”

“confused?“

“let me speak. now that i've gotten too close, i pushed you away in confusion— i don't know how the fuck to deal with shit like this,” minjeong continues, extending her arm to grab your hand— its cold against hers. “i'm so, so sorry, and i know you're hurt and pissed and you don't have to forgive me, but—”

the commotion from inside the party breaks the bubble surrounding the both of you, pulling you back to reality.

ten.

breathe in; breathe out. minjeong's breaths are shallow as she takes in your slightly confused expression.

nine.

minjeong swallows, looking you in the eyes before continuing.

eight.

“i'm so sorry,”

seven.

she closes her eyes for a half-second. “i really, really,”

six.

confused, you speak up. “minjeong, what the hells going—”

five.

“shush.” the blonde huffs. “let me continue.”

four.

“i really like you,”

three.

she tracks her words again, realising what she had just said. “no, i'm in love with you.”

two.

minjeong takes a deep breath, making eye contact.

one.

“i'm really, really in love with you,” she whispers, as if no one but you and her were to know it, as if it were a secret.

twelve midnight.

“minjeong, what—” you begin, only to be interrupted and caught off guard by the sensation of minjeong’s pink lips against yours. soft and gentle, she grabs the side of your face, pulling you in as you finally kiss her back, and it's all she's ever wanted. it's all *youve* ever wanted.

all the nights you've spent dreaming of this, dreaming of minjeong: dreaming of being hers, weren't in vain. no, not at all.

when she finally pulls away, she stares into your eyes, the city lights reflecting off of your irises. “happy new year.”

a few seconds of comfortable silence pass before you speak again, your voice quiet.

“and happy birthday, minjeong,”

~

a/n: HAPPY NEW YEAR AND HAPPY WJNTER DAYY (in my timezone atleast) i literally wrote this in like an hour while waiting for the fireworks so i'm sorry if it's trash 😭😭

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

snow birds.

‣ pairing — frank adler x f!reader

‣ contents — xmas/holidays, angst [referenced character death, grief], fluff, childhood frenemies in love, mutual pining, not actually unrequited love

‣ summary — frank thought he closed that chapter of his life on love and romance a long time ago, but a fateful reunion on the dirt paths of a christmas tree farm seems to reopen an entire book of possibilities.

‣ word count — 5.1k

‣ notes — okay, again i’m not exactly thrilled about this one and also the first half of this turned out way angstier than i’d originally intended… but hey, i can’t help the way these stories turn out (i say, as if i’m not the one actually writing them 🫣). i also left the ending kind of open, but i think it works and at least i’m finally finished with this one! another character to add to my roster 🥰 i hope i did our frankie justice!

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

The rusted pickup truck rumbles to a stop, its wheels crunching on the gravel parking lot. Outside, the rich scent of pine needles perfume the humid air. Festive red and green ribbons adorn the nearby farmhouse, strings of twinkling lights strung overhead, the atmosphere absolutely screaming Christmas despite the blazing Florida sun. 

Before Frank even puts the truck in park, the passenger door flies open and a little blonde blur is bounding out, a scruffy one-eyed cat leaping out after her. 

“Stay close!” He calls as he follows suit, sighing heavily. That darn cat goes everywhere with them now, even places cats have no place being—like a Christmas tree lot, for example. 

Frank had tried to convince Mary to leave Fred at home, but she just looked so reluctant to leave this morning. He ended up relenting, even though the idea of letting a cat have the final say in which tree they brought home was actually ridiculous, but he couldn’t say no to her this time; she’d been through a lot these last few months. 

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Mary shouts back as she reaches the entrance to the lot. He ambles after her casually before she can’t wait anymore, turning and running up the paths between rows of towering firs and blue spruces with Fred hot at her heels. 

Frank keeps a watchful eye on her as he trails behind, taking in the scene with a mix of nostalgia and bittersweet longing. The farm looks just like it did when he was a kid, and for a moment he could almost see Diane running ahead of him in Mary’s place, her blonde hair flying behind her as she wove between the trees. 

Come on, Frankie! She’d giggle, ducking into the next aisle. Before Dad finds us!

His throat tightens at the memory. It’s been years since he last came here with his sister, even longer since his old man was alive, but the ache of their absence never really fades. Especially not around the holidays, when every tradition seems to carry the weight of what he’d lost. 

But then he catches sight of Mary again, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she points out a particularly massive pine to Fred, tilting her head as she asks him what he thinks. Because again, Fred is a cat, he looks disinterested as he licks one of his paws. 

And just like that, the heaviness in Frank’s chest eases, replaced by a fluttering warmth he’s grown to recognize all too well. He quickens his pace to catch up with them, trying to ignore the way his heart stumbles when Mary looks up at him with her mother’s eyes. 

“This the one, kid?” Frank asks, hands on his hips as he regards the tree. He peers around it to the next row. “Or should we keep look—” 

But when he peeks past the spiky branches, he halts mid-movement, breath catching in his throat. For a minute, he thinks he might be hallucinating—because standing there, looking frustratingly gorgeous in a cream cable knit sweater and black leggings is a blast from his past. 

Or maybe he’s dreaming, he thinks as his pulse quickens traitorously. He hasn’t seen you outside of his dreams in years. 

“Look, mister, all I’m saying—” you huff, one hand perched on your hip, gesturing animatedly with your other hand while arguing with the middle-aged tree farmer who looks just as done as you do. “—is that if you’re going to advertise ‘tall, full, and handsome’ trees, you need to deliver, okay? Also, a hundred bucks?! This thing can’t be worth more than fifty, maybe sixty. Or does it come with presents already underneath it?” 

Some things never change, do they? You always did like to haggle. 

“Frank?” Mary asks, reaching up to take his head. You look over then at the sound of the girl’s voice, your gaze colliding with his. Just like when he was a teenager and he saw you for the first time, it’s like the ground shifts beneath his feet, the world tilting on its axis. 

It all started with a favour, more than half a lifetime ago. 

Frank remembers jolting awake to the shrill ringing of the phone, rubbing his bleary eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table only to find it was 2:17 a.m. in the morning. 

His sixteen-year-old self moved quickly, throwing the covers aside, running down the hall, and flying down the stairs to try and reach the kitchen before the phone could wake his mother. He picked up halfway through the third ring, his eyes closed as he held the receiver sleepily against his ear. 

“‘Lo?” He mumbled, his brow furrowing when he heard Diane’s voice on the other line. He tilted his head up in the direction of his sister’s bedroom, completely unaware that she’d even left the house. 

She needed a ride home, she said; she’d snuck out and went to Trish Aalerud’s party after all, the one their mother had expressly forbidden her from going to. There had been a big ensuing fight, one which he’d tried his best to mediate, but it ended with Evelyn once again laying down the law. 

Diane, once again, was faced with the choice to either obey or rebel. For once, it seemed, she’d finally chosen to rebel. 

A part of him was proud of her; they couldn’t live like this under Evelyn’s reign of terror forever. But on the other hand, he knew how their mother could be. Her expectations were sky high and her disappointment was even greater when her children failed to meet them. 

But another part of him wanted to slump over in dread. If he were being honest, Diane got the worst of it. For some reason, it was just easier for him to shake off his mother’s lectures, to shrug off her impossible ideals, and to take a path away from the one Evelyn had so calculatingly laid out for him. 

His sister, however, was different. Frank got good grades and was well-liked by his teachers, but Diane was downright brilliant, destined for greater and amazing things that Frank could only ever imagine. And somewhere beneath it all, she thought that maybe if she worked hard enough, if she were smart enough, maybe if she were the kind of genius Evelyn so desperately wanted her to be, then their mother might finally realize their worth. Maybe even love her. 

But, unfortunately, Frank knew better. 

So, despite being annoyed that he’d been woken up in the middle of the night on a school day, he shook off the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to his brain and promised he’d be there as fast as he could. 

They couldn’t risk Diane getting caught, because he knew what it would mean. Evelyn would simply double down, her punishment swift and severe, maybe even lock his sister in her room again for days at a time “until she came back to her senses”. Never again, not as long as Frank could help it. 

He hung up and dragged himself back to his room, pulling on some jeans and a hoodie, before grabbing his keys and carefully tiptoeing towards the front door. He listened for any signs that his mother had woken up, but thankfully only the sound of silence greeted him back. 

Satisfied, he slipped out into the humid night air, climbing into the beat-up Chevy pickup he’d inherited from his late father the moment he got his learner’s permit. It only took him fifteen minutes before he was pulling up to the curb outside a large house still pulsing with music. 

Frank remembers drunk teenagers in skimpy outfits stumbling around the lawn and pouring out the front door, their silhouettes illuminated by strobe lights flashing in the windows. He scanned the crowd for Diane, his jaw clenching before finally spotting her near the mailbox. 

And there it was, where it all began. 

She wasn’t alone. For the first time, Frank laid eyes on you, swaying uneasily on your feet beside his sister who looked on with sympathy. She made a move to touch your arm, but you twisted away from her and angrily began stalking down the driveway, swiping the back of your hand across your face. 

“Frankie!” Diane called, her eyes widening when she saw him. You paused briefly, long enough to look up so he could get a clear view of your face. It occurred to him then, as he took in the sight of the tear tracks on your cheeks, that maybe you were the reason Diane had called in the first place. 

“You’re both sitting in the back,” he said once he found his voice, looking away and feigning indifference despite the stuttering of his heart. “I don’t need anyone puking in the front seat.” 

“I’m not drunk,” you snapped, eyes flashing in a way he decided he rather liked. But then you turned around and addressed Diane, “and I don’t need your damn charity!” 

“Please,” Diane said, approaching you slowly and cautiously, as if trying to corner a hissing and frightened kitten. Frank could practically see your hair standing on end. “Just let us take you home?” 

“I can call someone else, Adler,” you scoffed, wrapping your arms around your middle even though it’s hot and sticky out, shivering as you resumed your descent down the driveway. 

“The hell you will,” Frank almost growled, a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making, placing the truck in drive and swerving to stop right in front of you and blocking your path. “It’s almost three in the morning. Both of you just get in the damn car.” 

“Please,” Diane implored again, opening the door to the backseat and waiting. After a few seconds of hesitation and a tense staring match with the siblings, you relented with a huff and slid into the truck. Diane followed suit and once she slammed the door shut, Frank peeled away from the curb. 

“You don’t know how to mind your own business,” you told Diane, the lot of you not even clearing the end of the street before you started in on her. You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the door, angling yourself as far away from her as you could. “You and your… whoever that is.” 

“This is Frank, my brother,” Diane tried to explain kindly, before locking eyes with him in the rearview mirror. Judging from the way you were speaking to her, it was clear the two of you weren’t exactly friends, but Diane didn’t need to say anything to clue him in that something must have happened back at the party. If anything, your drying tears already told him as much. 

“I think what you meant to say is ‘thank you’,” Frank scoffed however, unable to help snapping back. You were being a giant pain in the ass. 

“Frank—” Diane admonished. 

“Oh, right, thank you,” you began, your words soaked in sarcasm. “Thank you so much for practically forcing me into your car. You did everything but drag me in kicking and screaming.” 

“Just tell me where you live so we can drop you off and be done with this,” Frank fired back, “you ungrateful twerp.” 

“Sorry that sissy here interrupted your beauty sleep, pretty boy,” you leaned forward, eyes blazing as they met his in the rearview mirror. “But if I recall, I didn’t ask for either of your help. You insisted, remember?” 

Frank remembers that the bickering didn’t let up the entire drive to your house, barbs flying fast and furious, all the while Diane kept trying to play peacemaker without much success. By the time Frank arrived in front of your place, your tears were forgotten, sadness replaced by a fire he much preferred, even if his knuckles were white with irritation around the steering wheel. 

“Frankie…” Diane sighed disapprovingly from the backseat, once you exited the truck with a slam of the door and a final parting shot, along with an exaggerated flip of the bird. 

“Don’t start, Di,” he snapped, turning around in his seat to fix her with a glare of his own. “That girl is a menace. You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” 

“She’s had a rough night,” Diane smiled wryly, glancing out the window to watch you remove your shoes as you trodden up the driveway, dangling them by the straps at your side. 

“Join the damn club,” Frank shook his head, but he was watching too, making sure you stepped into the house and closed the door behind you before beginning to drive away. 

“They weren’t very nice to her tonight,” his sister murmured. Frank took a deep breath, something a bit like guilt settling like lead in the pit of his stomach, knowing very well just how cruel his schoolmates could be. And because Diane was always too soft-hearted for her own good, he knew what she was trying to say even though she fell quiet the rest of the ride home. 

They weren’t very nice to her, but maybe we could be. 

Frank remembers that it wasn’t long before the change, and he began seeing you with his sister more often than not. It only took a few more weeks before the two of you were inseparable, practically attached at the hip with Diane hanging off your arm with a big smile, bigger than he’d ever seen on her, and you letting her while looking only partially annoyed. 

You were seen together in the school cafeteria, Diane talking your ear off as you ate; in the library, Diane’s legs stretched across your lap as you took notes; or sitting at the bleachers with your textbooks open, quiet conversations punctuated by the occasional giggle or reluctant snort. 

What began as a random act of kindness blossomed into a true and rare friendship, much to Frank’s pleasure and dismay. Diane didn’t have a lot of close friends, or at all actually. Evelyn had made sure of that, but even she couldn’t keep you apart. 

Diane would lie and say she was going to the library to study when in reality she was at your house. You’d invite her to your family gatherings, where your parents plied her with food and affection. At school events, everyone just knew that you and Diane were a package deal. 

But you just got under his skin so easily, and he couldn’t resist the temptation to give as good as he got. The two of you would maintain a facade of civility in front of Diane, but the second her back was turned all bets were off. 

“Well, well, well,” you smirked as you passed him in the hall on your way to your next class, Diane up ahead and out of earshot. “If it isn’t dear ol’ Francis. I see you still have a knack for showing up where you’re least wanted.” 

“Nice haircut,” he retorted, unflinching as his own smirk rose to meet yours. “Did you lose a bet or something?” 

“Nah, just trying to keep up with your… ever-changing style,” you drawled sardonically, your eyes sweeping over his usual ripped jeans and button-up shirt over a white tee. “Is that really your only outfit?” 

The barbs were sharp but never cruel, the both of you committing to a strange dance of wit and veiled… 

Frank swallows hard. 

He can call it what it was now, even though it still hurts, even though he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Who would be there to listen, anyway? The only person he’d like to tell is long gone. 

Because it was affection. It was always affection. 

It was there in the quieter moments, tantalizing and unusually sweet, when his gaze lingered on you a little too long after a round of half-hearted insults, or when his hand accidentally brushed yours when he passed by. But he was always careful to stand behind that line, the one Diane had long ago forbidden him to cross. 

“I see the way you look at her, Frankie,” Diane had said softly, her eyes pleading. “And I don’t blame you.” 

Frank couldn’t look at her, his heart twisting in his chest. His first instinct was to deny it, to tell her she was seeing things that weren’t there. But he couldn’t lie to her, he never could. 

“But please… don’t go there. She’s my best friend and you’re my brother. If things went wrong…” she trailed off, but he knew the implications. He’d be putting Diane in an impossible situation, because the thing she didn’t say was that you were her only friend. 

And so he decided he wouldn’t ever make her choose. 

Besides, to you, Frank was probably just your friend’s annoying brother and nothing more. Repeating that to himself made it slightly easier to keep his promise for years after, burying those feelings deep and putting up a front of playful antagonism whenever he saw you. It had been torture, especially during the more genuine moments shared during a movie night at your house, Diane asleep on the couch, or under the bleachers at one of his soccer games. 

“I never did thank you for that night, did I?” You whispered to him, eyes bright, so close and yet so far out of reach. He swallowed down the words he really wanted to say, like—I’d go anywhere, no matter how far, to be your knight in shining armour. 

Instead, he joked, “Yeah, well, it’ll never happen again, all right? So don’t go around making a habit of stranding yourself at parties.”  

“Well, good,” you smirked, those walls going back up, the chasm between you once again opening up to something seemingly insurmountable. “Because your truck is an abomination. It’s, like, rolling probable cause with that illegal ass window tint.” 

“Take that back. That truck is a national treasure,” he hissed, and you threw your head back and laughed. It was all he could do not to close the distance between you and lay his lips on yours. 

It was torture, but he’d done it for Diane. He would’ve done anything for Diane. 

Frank remembers the sky wept the day they laid her to rest. He’d stood beside her grave, his face a mask of stone, but his eyelids were heavy and swollen with grief. You stood just a few feet away, clutching at a sodden tissue in your trembling hands, sobbing as your eyes fixed on the casket that held your dearest friend. 

As the service ended and the mourners began to disperse, Frank found himself face to face with you, the weight of your shared grief hanging heavy in the air. Words rose to his lips—confessions and apologies, longing and regret—but even then they remained unspoken. He couldn’t bring himself to reach out to you; he didn’t know how. Diane’s death had changed everything and yet nothing at all. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, your voice barely audible above the patter of rain on fallen leaves. You leaned forward to press a kiss to the tiny little bundle fast asleep in his arms—Mary, the only piece of his sister he had left. “I’m so sorry, Frank.” 

He wanted to ask you to stay, to navigate this dark and desolate new world without Diane with him. He wanted to say he’s loved you since he was sixteen, that Diane loved you too, and that like always he was here for you no matter how you needed him. He wanted to ask you to be in Mary’s life, because if she couldn’t have Diane then at least she would have you. 

But he couldn’t, the words once again stuck between his lips. Instead, his heart clenching, Frank forced himself to let that dream go. He watched you walk away, turning away reluctantly himself to begin picking up the pieces of his shattered life, with half a lifetime’s worth of unspoken words lodged in his throat. 

You would see each other around St. Petersburg every now and then, but then you took a job all the way across the continent. Mary had only been a year old when you came around to say goodbye, bringing toys and baby clothes, looking at him with all the silent apologies in the world in your eyes. 

And despite the lightheartedness of your voice as you joked about how much you were dreading your new life in Toronto, he could see how desperately you needed to escape the suffocating grip of Diane’s absence. 

“Take care of yourself, Frank,” you smiled, a sight so familiar and yet so foreign, the lines of your face tinged with profound sadness rather than the usual mirth and good-natured teasing. 

And that’s how it was supposed to be. Frank thought he would never see you again. You were supposed to remain firmly in his past, a distant memory he thought back on whenever he visited Diane’s grave, whenever a postcard arrived in the mail with a short cursory message written on the back, whenever he pulled out photos of his sister for Mary to look at whenever she wanted to see her mom. 

But six years later, after all that time telling himself that he was over you by now, that whenever he felt for you now was simply nostalgia, that the schoolboy crush he’d had was exactly that—fleeting and innocent and not at all life-changing, you’re here.

Years of history and unresolved tension zings up his spine like an electric current as his eyes find you again. Your expression mirrors his own, shock and awe rolled into one, and a flicker of something indecipherable in your eyes before your lips quick in that familiar smirk, a single brow arching in challenge. 

“Francis,” you say in a tone that brings back an unbidden rush of memories. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to steal my Christmas.” 

And just like that, Frank feels himself slipping back into old patterns, his competitive streak flaring to life as he realizes you’ve both set your sights on the same tree. Frank realizes right then, that no matter what he’s told himself these last six years, you’d never actually left him at all. 

“Please, I was here first,” he outright lies, “this tree clearly has Adler written all over it.” 

“You can’t possibly need a tree this big,” you scoff, falling easily back into that rhythm of banter, like no time had passed at all, like the two of you were still a couple of teens arguing over the last slice of pizza while Diane watched on with thinly-veiled irritation. “What are you decorating, a ballroom?” 

“Maybe I am,” Frank retorts, crossing his arms, stubbornly not wanting to admit that, yes, this tree is definitely way too tall for the modest apartment he shares with Mary. “What’s it to you?” 

“Don’t even,” you roll your eyes, “you wouldn’t know how to properly trim this thing down if your life depended on it.” 

He opens his mouth to deliver a blistering response when a small voice interrupts him, “…Frank? Are we getting the tree?” 

He startles, turning to find Mary looking up at him. He’d almost forgotten she was there and, judging by your bewildered expression, you didn’t even notice her until now. He hears the hitch in your breath as you drink in the sight of Diane’s daughter, the little girl you never really had the chance to know. 

She has Diane’s high cheekbones, her stubborn chin, her vivid blue eyes—and he knows it’s like staring at a ghost of Christmas past. 

“Mary, this is…” he says, resting his hand on his niece’s shoulder. Mary squints up at you, her brows furrowing thoughtfully before she grasps her uncle’s hand. 

“it’s the lady from Mom’s pictures,” she observes, recognizing you from the photographs currently tucked away in an old shoebox at the back of Frank’s closet. She turns to you and repeats, a bit quieter this time, “you’re the lady from my mom’s pictures.” 

You stare at her for a few more seconds, before a slow smile spreads across your face. “Well… yes. I, uh, I knew your mom a long time ago.” 

“And Frank, too?” 

You nod, your smile wobbling. “From way back.” 

“How far back?” She asks, her curiosity piqued as she twists her fingers around Frank’s shyly. 

“Oh, ancient history,” you laugh in a way that has his heart aching, your eyes glistening. “Back when your uncle was still cool.” 

“Frank was cool?” Mary looks up at him with a hint of a grin, slightly skeptical. He playfully pinches her cheek. 

“Actually? No,” your voice taking on that teasing tone he’s so used to. “I was only saying that to be nice.” Mary manages a tiny smile as a silence descends, like a quietly mounting blanket of freshly fallen snow. “You know what? You should take the tree.” You say suddenly, your voice falsely bright. 

“Really?” Mary asks, sounding hopeful. She picks up Fred, squeezing him in her arms. The cat meows indignantly, but allows her to manhandle him all the same. 

Frank frowns, “No, you don’t have to—” 

He feels you slipping away again as you shrug, your eyes still holding a glimmer of sadness despite your playful tone. “It’s just a tree, Francis. No big deal.” 

But this is a big deal, he wants to shout. It’s never not when it comes to you. But you’re already backing away, forcing smiles and your gaze darting between Frank and Mary. He calls out your name, but you don’t look back as you avert your eyes and turn to leave, a faint “Merry Christmas” vanishing into the warm Florida afternoon. 

“Frank?” Mary is tugging at his hand, but he watches your retreating form until the very last second, so many things bubbling up to his lips but going unsaid, held back by a childhood promise to a person who is no longer here. 

But he never did tell Diane, did he? What the thing she always saw brewing there whenever he looked at you was. 

He waits too long, and you disappear into the crowd, as if swallowed by magic, just as quickly as you’d reappeared. 

You sit curled up by the crackling fire in your childhood home, nursing a mug of mulled wine as your nieces and nephews chatter excitedly around the brightly decorated fireplace. A pot containing a mixture of cranberries, rosemary, cinnamon sticks, and cloves simmers on the stovetop, the oven baking away at a batch of sugar cookies, filling the house with the undeniable smell of the holidays. 

Despite the fact that you are thrilled to see all of your relatives after such a long time away from home, you have a hard time mustering up any holiday cheer. 

All you can think of is Frank, the way his eyes widened when he saw you, the way they softened when you said his name, and the way his deep voice rumbled through your body like that distant thunder of longing you could always seem to hear on quiet nights, hovering nearby like a persistent storm cloud. 

There was always a chance of running into him here, and you thought you’d been prepared for that possibility. And yet, your heart still soared at the sight of him, no longer that boy who had—albeit, reluctantly—come to your rescue that night of Trish’s party, but you’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere. 

The couch sinks beneath you, and you turn to see your mother settling down beside you with a mug of her own. “You okay, honey?” 

“Yeah, Mom,” you force a smile, tearing your gaze away from the fire. The twinkling fairy lights cast shadows upon your mother’s face, the lot of you having had to decorate the fireplace since you walked away from the tree farm empty-handed, almost running with your need to escape. “Sorry I couldn’t get you a tree.” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” your mother waves a hand, gesturing at her grandchildren who are screaming at each other as they play a board game, “they don’t even know the difference.” 

But she knows you, this woman. She studies you for a moment, her eyes soft with understanding. It’s a tough time of year for you; traditions feel somewhat incomplete when someone important is missing. 

“I miss her, too,” she says, grasping your hand as she leans back against the couch. You smile to yourself, swallowing past the lump in your throat. So many nights you and Diane fell asleep on this couch watching TV or studying, only to wake up to find a blanket thrown over you and the smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen. 

“I know,” you lean against your mom and she wraps her arm around your shoulders. You sit there in her embrace, enjoying the sight of most of your family all gathered together in one place, but a commotion erupts near the front window of the house. 

Your relatives are clamouring over each other, their excited shouts filling the air. You grin, their enthusiasm, even though you have no idea what about, is contagious. One of them calls out your name, beckoning you over. Reluctantly, you rise from the couch with a soft groan and make your way over to the window. 

You peer out the glass, pushing aside the curtains, thinking maybe—despite the impossible odds—that it’s snowing outside. But something even more inconceivable happens and there, at the end of the driveway, is Frank’s beat-up old truck, the Christmas tree you’d surrendered tied up in the back. 

Frank himself  is walking up the driveway, hands in his pockets, until he stops in front of your door. He looks hesitant, completely oblivious to the fact he’s being watched. One of your cousins elbows you, hard, giving you an incredulous look when you glare over at them, “What are you doing? Go!” 

This is a dream you’ve never dared to voice out loud, seeing Frank here again. But here he is, on Christmas, and you tell yourself that second chances like these are so rare. 

So you get up and open the door before he’s even had a chance to knock. 

He looks surprised, but you hold the door open and smile. 

We’ve lost so much time. 

I don’t want to waste another second. 

Frank steps closer. 

I fell in love with you when I was sixteen. 

I have loved you ever since. 

And he smiles back.

fin.

[misshoneyimhome]

I’m not sure if you’ll write this but I’m dying for it and your writing is incredible. Willy Nylander dating a Bruins fan PLEASEEE

Hey there, love 🤗

Alright, so this feels more like a blurb than a proper fic chapter, but I just wanted to say I absolutely love your idea—and I hope I’ve captured at least a bit of it 😘 I don’t know much about being a Bruins fan, so I just followed my intuition on that one 😉

I will say, though, I can definitely see the potential for a series here—not necessarily based on this particular one-shot, but in general, there’s so much to explore! It might be worth diving into - so many details I didn't include 🥰

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this as it is 😘

Tropes & Warnings: William Nylander x reader, enemies to lovers, rival teams, no warnings, just fluff

Word count: 3.2K

➼｡ﾟ

Rivals in Love I William Nylander

It had been a long day at work, and you were in desperate need of coffee before tackling the rest of your to-do list. The little café tucked on a quiet street near downtown Boston was your go-to spot. The place always had the best lattes and, more importantly, it was never crowded.

You pushed open the door, the tiny bell jingling to announce your arrival, and stepped inside. The smell of fresh coffee beans and warm pastries instantly soothed your nerves. But you were so focused on debating between a caramel macchiato or a cold brew that you didn’t notice someone walking toward you until—

Crash.

Hot coffee spilled down the front of your sweatshirt, and a sharp gasp escaped your lips.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” a voice said.

You looked up, your initial annoyance faltering when you saw the man responsible. He was tall, his blond hair slightly dishevelled, with bright blue eyes staring at you apologetically.

“It’s fine,” you muttered, though the sticky heat soaking through your shirt suggested otherwise.

“Here,” he said quickly, grabbing a handful of napkins from a nearby table and handing them to you. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. That’s on me.”

“No kidding,” you replied, dabbing at the mess. Then, as you glanced back up at him, recognition dawned. “Wait a second… I know you.”

He tilted his head, a small smirk forming on his lips. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You’re William Nylander.”

His smirk grew, but before he could respond, you added, “I guess it makes sense. Leafs players are used to fumbling.”

His eyebrows shot up, and then he let out a laugh—a genuine, hearty laugh that caught you off guard. “Wow. That’s the first thing you say to me?”

“Don’t take it personally,” you said with a shrug, trying to ignore how ridiculously good-looking he was. “I’m a Bruins fan.”

“Ah, that explains it,” he said, his smirk returning. “I’ve been told your kind can be… difficult.”

You rolled your eyes. “Difficult or honest?”

“Depends on the day,” he replied, and there was something in his tone—teasing, but also intrigued.

You expected him to brush off the conversation and move on, but instead, he stuck around, asking for your name and making casual small talk while the barista quickly made William a replacement drink.

“I’ll pay for hers too,” William insisted, handing over his card before you could protest.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said, meeting your gaze with an easy smile. “Consider it an apology. And maybe a peace offering? Even if you are a Bruins fan.”

“Fine,” you said, trying to suppress the small smile creeping onto your lips. “But this doesn’t mean I like you or your team.”

“Fair enough,” he said, grabbing his own drink from the counter. But as he turned to leave, he hesitated. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Will you be at the game tomorrow night?”

“Why? Hoping to convert me?”

“No,” he said, his grin widening. “Just wondering if I’ll have to skate extra hard to impress you.”

Before you could respond, he gave you a playful wink and walked out the door, leaving you standing there, completely caught off guard.

_

The next evening, you found yourself in a dilemma. You hadn’t planned on attending the Bruins-Leafs game—you usually watched from the comfort of your couch, where you could yell at the TV without judgment. But after yesterday’s unexpected encounter, a part of you couldn’t shake the thought of William Nylander skating with that cocky grin, wondering if you’d shown up.

Against your better judgment, you grabbed your Coyle jersey and headed to TD Garden, promising yourself it was only because your best friend, a Leafs fan, had an extra ticket. You weren’t going because of him.

Right?

The Garden was buzzing with energy. You cheered along with the crowd as the Bruins took the ice, booing extra loud when the Leafs players followed. Your friend rolled her eyes at your antics, but you didn’t care.

As the game started, you tried not to pay attention to the opposing #88, but it was impossible. William was everywhere—stealing pucks, setting up plays, and skating with an effortless grace that made you grit your teeth.

And midway through the second period, he scored. The Leafs bench erupted as the puck sailed past Swayman and into the net. You groaned, burying your face in your hands while your friend celebrated.

“That’s your guy,” she teased, elbowing you.

“He’s not my anything,” you shot back, though your cheeks burned.

As the arena quieted for the faceoff, you glanced down at the ice and caught him looking in your direction. He wasn’t even subtle about it—he skated slowly, his gaze locking with yours as he passed your section.

And then, to your horror, he winked.

You sank lower in your seat, cursing yourself for even being here.

After the game—a crushing overtime win for Toronto, much to your dismay—you were about to make your escape when your phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Enjoy the game, Bruins fan?

You froze, staring at the screen.

You: How did you get my number?!

Unknown: I have my ways. A little birdie at the café helped me out.

You could practically hear the smugness in his voice.

You: I can’t believe you’re this desperate for validation.

Unknown: And yet, you came to the game. What does that say about you?

You hated how much his teasing made you smile.

And a few days later, you were back at your favourite café, quietly working through some emails when a shadow fell across your table. You didn’t even have to look up to know who it was.

“You know, I’m starting to think you only come here hoping to bump into me,” William said, setting his coffee down across from you.

“I was here first,” you replied, glancing up at him. “Shouldn’t you be in Toronto or something?”

“We have a few days off,” he said casually, leaning back in his chair. “Thought I’d stick around Boston for a bit. It’s growing on me. Besides, my friend lives here; Pasta, you know him.”

“Careful,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like a Bruins fan.”

He chuckled. “Not a chance. But I could be convinced to stick around… if you let me take you out sometime.”

The audacity of this man. You should’ve laughed in his face, reminded him of the years of heartbreak his team had inflicted on yours. But instead, you found yourself smiling.

“Fine,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “But don’t think this changes anything. I’m still wearing my Coyle jersey.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said with a grin.

_

A couple of weeks had passed since your impromptu coffee shop agreement to a “date” with William. You’d been casually out together a few times since then—dinners at quiet restaurants, coffee runs, even a casual walk through Boston Common—but you still couldn’t quite figure him out.

William Nylander, the Toronto Maple Leafs’ golden boy, had women fawning over him wherever he went. Yet somehow, you, a loud, opinionated Bruins fan, were the one he seemed determined to spend his free time with.

So, when he casually dropped the idea of you coming to Toronto to watch a game, your first instinct was to laugh it off.

“Right,” you said with a chuckle, taking a sip of your coffee. “I’m sure I’d fit right in at Scotiabank Arena in my Coyle jersey.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’d be the most interesting person there. Besides, you’ve already seen us play in Boston. It’s only fair you experience it on my turf.”

You waved him off, brushing it aside as another one of his playful jabs.

But then, the next day, a notification lit up your phone: a plane ticket from Boston to Toronto, sent by none other than William.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity.

This had to be a joke, right? A Leafs player going out of his way to invite you, a Bruins fan, to Toronto? It didn’t make sense.

He had options—lots of options. The kind of options who probably didn’t wear rival jerseys to dinner or roast him about Toronto’s lack of playoff success. So why was he bothering with you?

Your friend didn’t help, either. “I mean, it’s kind of romantic,” she said, scrolling through Instagram while lounging on your couch. “Maybe he just likes a challenge.”

You rolled your eyes. “Or maybe he just wants to prove he can win over a Bruins fan for the fun of it.”

“Why does it matter?” she said. “He’s into you. Who cares why? Take the trip.”

But you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt in the back of your mind. What if you went, and it turned out you were just some fleeting distraction? What if this was all a game to him? A bet between teammates?

You almost cancelled the flight.

Almost.

The day of the trip arrived, and you stood at Logan Airport, suitcase in hand, still second-guessing yourself. But as you boarded the plane and settled into your seat, you decided to stop overthinking. Maybe this was a bad idea—but maybe it wasn’t.

And a few hours later, you landed in Toronto, where William himself was waiting at the arrivals gate, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“You actually came,” he said, his grin as wide as the Toronto skyline.

“Don’t make me regret it,” you replied, though you couldn’t help but smile back.

The night of the game, you were a bundle of nerves as you slipped on your Coyle jersey. True to your word, you weren’t about to switch allegiances, even for William.

When you arrived at Scotiabank Arena, the Leafs fans around you gave you a mix of side-eyes and incredulous stares, but William had made sure you were seated in a private box to avoid any real drama.

And from the moment the puck dropped, your attention flicked between the ice and William. He was in his element, skating with that effortless confidence, his hair slicked back under his helmet.

Every time he touched the puck, your heart raced, though you’d never admit it. And when he scored late in the second period, his celebration was as dramatic as ever—this time, pointing directly at you in the box.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. He was so infuriating.

After the game, he found you waiting near the locker room, his grin as cocky as ever.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, still catching his breath.

“You’re insufferable,” you said, crossing your arms.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he teased, his voice softer now.

You wanted to argue, to push back, but something about the way he looked at you made your walls crumble. Maybe he wasn’t just playing a game. Maybe this was real.

“Fine,” you said, your voice quieter. “Maybe I did enjoy it. Just a little.”

William’s smile widened, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours. “Good. Because I’m not giving up on you that easily.”

_

Over the next few weeks, your relationship with William started to feel… real. The texts, the calls, the late-night FaceTimes where he’d tease you about the Bruins while you fired back equally sharp chirps about the Leafs’ playoff history. It was comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected—like you’d known each other forever instead of just a few months.

He’d flown back to Boston twice since your trip to Toronto, once surprising you with tickets to a game that you’d begrudgingly attended (in your Bruins jersey, of course). And despite the growing attention from both your friends and random Leafs fans online—thanks to William’s not-so-subtle Instagram stories—it felt easy.

And that ease was what brought him to your apartment one chilly Thursday night, fresh off a practice in Toronto and desperate to escape the chaos of hockey for a few days. He showed up at your door with a crooked smile and a bag of takeout, unapologetically dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, as if he wasn’t one of the most recognizable players in the NHL.

“I told you not to come here empty-handed,” you said as he stepped inside.

“I brought food,” he said, holding up the bag. “And me. That counts, right?”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, leading him to the couch. The night unfolded in your usual way—dinner, teasing banter, and a ridiculous movie you half-watched while he tried to convince you to root for the Leafs just once.

“Never,” you said, nudging him with your elbow as the credits rolled.

“Not even if I score a hat trick in the playoffs?”

“Please. Like Toronto’s making it past the first round.”

He groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back against the couch. “You’re ruthless, you know that?”

“And you love it,” you shot back, earning a smirk that made your stomach flip.

As the room fell quiet, you realized how close he was. His arm was draped over the back of the couch, his body turned slightly toward you, his blue eyes soft as they studied your face.

“What?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

“Nothing,” he said, but the way his gaze lingered told you otherwise.

You felt your cheeks heat under his scrutiny, and before you could overthink it, he leaned in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. His lips brushed against yours, soft and slow, like he was giving you every chance to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as the kiss deepened. The world outside faded, the only sound the faint hum of the TV and the quiet hitch of your breath as his fingers traced along your jawline.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a small, almost shy smile playing at his lips.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“You’re one to talk,” you whispered back, your heart pounding against your ribs.

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the quiet intimacy stretching between you like a fragile thread. It was a different kind of silence—one that felt warm, electric, and charged with a million unspoken words.

“You know,” he said eventually, his voice low, “I don’t just come here for the food.”

You laughed softly, your fingers brushing against his jaw. “I figured as much.”

“Good,” he said, kissing you again, slower this time, like he wanted to savour every second. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, you believed him.

-

Until you didn’t.

The first crack came during a Friday night dinner at a cosy Italian spot in the North End.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, but halfway through your meal, the whispers started.

“That’s William Nylander…”

“…isn’t she a Bruins fan? What’s she doing with him?”

“…he’s always with someone new…”

You tried to brush it off, focusing on your pasta while William remained unfazed, casually twirling his fork like he didn’t hear a thing. But the longer it went on, the harder it was to ignore.

By the time dessert arrived, the insecurities you’d managed to suppress since Toronto had resurfaced with a vengeance.

“Do you ever… get tired of this?” you blurted, pushing your tiramisu around with your spoon.

William looked up, his brows furrowing. “Tired of what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “The attention. The whispers. Everyone thinking I’m just another one of your… whatever.”

His expression softened, but you didn’t stop.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had fun—really. But maybe this was just a thing, you know? A fun distraction for you while you’re on the road. I mean, you’re William Nylander. You could date anyone. Why me?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and the silence was deafening. You stared at your plate, feeling the familiar sting of regret creeping in. Maybe you’d gone too far. Maybe he’d been looking for an out, and you’d just handed it to him.

But then, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours.

“Why not you?” he said quietly, his voice steady. “You’re smart, funny, and the only person who makes me actually want to argue about hockey. You’re not afraid to chirp me when I deserve it—and even when I don’t. And yeah, the attention sucks sometimes, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is you.”

You blinked, your throat tightening as his words sank in.

“And for the record,” he added, a small smirk creeping onto his face, “you’re not a ‘fun distraction.’ If you were, I wouldn’t have flown to Boston twice in a month just to see you.”

Your lips twitched, a reluctant smile breaking through. “You’re really laying it on thick, huh?”

“Is it working?” he asked, his smirk turning into a full grin.

“Maybe,” you admitted, rolling your eyes but squeezing his hand back.

But the drama didn’t end there.

A few days later, an article popped up online: William Nylander Seen Cosying Up to Mysterious Bruins Fan in Boston.

The headline was bad enough, but the comments? Worse.

“She’s just another puck bunny.”

“Why would he date a Bruins fan? Total PR move.”

“She’s not even that pretty…”

You tried not to let it bother you, but when William called that night, you were unusually quiet.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Nothing,” you lied, staring at your laptop screen where the article was still open.

“Come on,” he pressed. “Talk to me.”

You sighed, finally breaking. “I don’t know if I can do this, Will. The articles, the comments… people think I’m just using you, or that I’m some… whatever they want to call me.”

“They don’t know you,” he said firmly. “And they don’t know us.”

“But they think they do,” you argued. “And it’s exhausting.”

He was quiet for a moment, and you braced yourself for the worst.

But then he spoke again, “What if I made it official?”

You froze. “What?”

“What if I posted about us?” he said, his tone calm but confident. “Let people see that you’re not just some random girl. That we’re serious.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but doubt still lingered. “Won’t that just make it worse?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I don’t care. I want to be with you. And if that means dealing with some noise, so be it.”

You were silent, his words hanging heavy in the air.

“Look,” he continued, his voice softening. “You can take all the time you need to think about it. But just know that I’m not going anywhere.”

A week later, you were scrolling through Instagram when you saw it.

A picture of the two of you at dinner, taken from a slightly awkward angle but undeniably sweet. The caption?

“Even a Bruins fan can’t resist a little blue and white 💙🤍.”

The comments were a mix of support, chirps, and Leafs-Bruins banter, but for the first time, you didn’t care.

Because when you texted him to call him out for posting it without warning, his only response was:

“Told you I’m not going anywhere.”

[crescenthistory]

hii! if possible, can I request narcissa black x reader with the prompt "you think (x) would kill us if we just eloped? + meeting the family OR secret relationship with a fem reader if you're willing to write for her ^^

thank you very much <3

i cannot believe i am finally biting the bullet and writing narcissa, i am so excited about this. i twisted the request a bit based on the secret relationship part, i hope you enjoy<3

Words: 1.6k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, implied secret relationship, allusions to the typical house of black abuse, negligence and discriminatory attitudes, narcissa has trouble with her sisters but is relatively cool with her cousins, sweet fluff, daydreaming, hurt/comfort for narcissa, doom on the horizon but with a mostly hopeful atmosphere, implied non-sexual nudity maybe

Your dorm had come to be a safe haven in these last few weeks of your final term together at Hogwarts.

Sprawled opposite you, laying on her side with her blonde hair splashing beautifully against your dark bedding, Narcissa had never looked more beautiful nor less like the noble and honourable member of the Black family she was. Exactly how you loved her, how you relished at being able to have her.

Her eyes were closed, fluttering open every now and then to let her gaze jump all across your face, closing with a satisfied smile whenever she found what she was looking for. She never did say what that was exactly, but you had a warm and sneaking suspicion you already knew.

You laid opposite her, bare legs entangled under the soft sheets, but with enough distance between your faces for you to regard her properly – and not far enough away that you couldn't tilt your head forward to press the occasional sweet kiss to her face. A content finger was tracing the sharp angles of her face, soft pad visiting the valley of her cheekbone, admiring the line beneath her eyebrows.

A beautiful girl. A wonderful girl. All yours and in your arms, regardless of what the world outside your little dormitory had in store for you.

"What are you thinking about?" Her voice was quiet, eloquent as always and soft in that way it only ever was with you. It made you want to tell her anything and everything she may want to know.

"You." The smile must have been evident in your tone, because she slanted her eyes to search for it, returning it in satisfaction when it shone up at her.

"Anything in particular, or just practicing gratitude?" Teasing, but vulnerable. Open, but unsure.

"Do you think Regulus would kill us if we just eloped right after Hogwarts?" you asked. Aware that it was a sudden question, yet knowing she would read the indirect answer in it: I’m thinking about wanting to keep you. I’m thinking about how to prolong this moment. Help me?

She tilted her head to the side, her usually perfectly styled and wispy fringe now messy and falling in her eyes as she hummed in consideration. Entertaining your idea – if she was thrown off by this line of questioning, she did not let it show. "No, I don’t think so. But Sirius might. And Bella, for wholly different reasons."

You laughed heartily at that, content with finding humour even in the difficult. "Ah, yes. The two most dramatic of the Black cousins."

Narcissa scrunched her nose up in a way that begged you to kiss it. "So you admit it's not me?" she asked teasingly. As she spoke, she scooted even further towards you, your chests now brushing. 

"Only for now," you relented to her. At the same time, you also relented to yourself and leaned forward, closing the gap between you to kiss her in a lingering, soft fashion.

She sighed against your lips in a way that ached softly in your hollow rib cage. It conveyed so much heaviness, but the sigh was her letting go, even if just for a moment. She was letting go because she was with you. That was enough motivation to keep you beside her forever. 

When your lips parted, you kept peppering soft pecks around her mouth, nose and cheeks. She laughed horsley, bringing her hand up to wrap around your back and hold you close. “Good,” she murmured. “Because I am growing tired of your accusations.”

“You could never grow tired of me, Black,” you volleyed, grinning at her with shining eyes.

Her eyebrows twitched but her smile didn’t falter. “Don’t call me that – I’m not a Black with you, I’m just Cissa. I’m just yours.”

You fought to make your smile only convey love and not the immense pity and empathy brewing in you, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it. “You are mine. My Cissa. My love.” Your voice was barely a whisper, but you stressed every word.

Her eyes fluttered back closed, forehead falling forward to thump against yours. “Eloping,” she said through a half-laugh, as if she was tasting the word, a foreign concept. “You know, it has a certain ring to it.”

“Oh yes,” you agreed in a conspiratory tone, hoping to brighten her mood. “A very drama-free-expectations-free ring actually. Though if we eloped, the rings would have to be rather cheap.”

A smile spread on her lips. “I wouldn’t mind that, you know.”

“My ethereal princess wouldn’t mind a cheap ring?” you teased.

She quirked one eye open to look at you in faux offense. “I resent that. I don’t need fancy rings. I just happen to like them quite a lot.”

You hummed a laugh, kissing her nose. “Lucky for you, I happen to like you quite a lot – if we eloped, I would have Pandora and Barty scrape together something for us. They’d be happy to help.”

Narcissa frowned at the mention of her least favourite one of your friends. “Junior would just love spending Senior’s money,” she huffed.

“Exactly! Win-win situation, really.” You nudged her nose with yours once you considered it throuroygly kissed. “If I was to elope with you, I would do it proper. All out. Ridding you of your oppressive family does not mean I have to rid you of other worldly delights.”

Narcissa opened her eyes, and you could tell some tears were brimming in the grey irises you so loved. “You’re too good to me,” she whispered. “With each day that passes, I fear you may be all I need.”

“My love,” you murmured in turn. You reached up to smooth your thumb in between and over her eyebrows, massaging out the tension carefully. “That is not a fear, it’s a promise.”

“And you do?” she asked then, baring a vulnerability she only ever showed you. “You promise?”

When your lips reached hers, the kiss was so tentative and cradling it could almost heal every scar on your bodies and souls. “I do,” you whispered against her lips before going in for another kiss. “I promise, Cissa.”

With a heaving sigh, Narcissa rolled you over onto your back so she could settle with her head on your chest and circle her arms around your stomach. She was clinging to you in a way she didn’t know how before you two first started opening yourselves up to each other a few years ago, clinging to every piece of safety and comfort you had built with each other. The room around you was tranquil despite the turmoils rolling around both outside its walls and inside the minds of its inhabitants – it was warm yet fresh and despite it being yours it smelled wholly of Narcissa from how much time she spent here. In privacy, just the two of you.

“I love you.” She had said it before and you hoped she would say it again. This time, she whispered it into your bare skin before pressing a kiss there, right above your heart. Her chronically cold fingers slid up under your soft shirt, splaying across your ribs and holding you to her. “You’re mine.”

“I love you too, Cissa,” you said, smiling at the ceiling. “We’ll take it day by day, but say the word and I’ll elope with you in a heartbeat. I’ve got it all planned, from the ring to the escape route. I’ll risk having Sirius and Bella after me anyday.”

Narcissa laughed wetly against you. “I’d protect you,” she amended, squeezing your flesh in support. “That’s what I’m scared of.”

“Protecting me?” 

“Having to protect you.” She tilted her head back to look up at you, encouraging you to crane your face down towards hers with a hand on your cheek. “I never want to have to protect you.”

You pressed your lips together in understanding. You never want to have to protect her, either, but unlike her, you know you have to one day, and you’re willing to face it. More importantly though, you love her too much to force her to do so before she absolutely has to. 

Thus; “We will make it work, my love. We will make everything work, you and me, yeah?” 

Narcissa breathed measuredly out of her nose and decided to resolve her crushing anxiety with another kiss. It was lazy, cold meets warm as lips part and hold each other with love. Just you two.

“Tell me a story,” she asked when you came apart. Her head dove right back into your neck, nose pressing against your pulse point, happily feeling your heartbeat. “Something to make me smile.”

“Yes, princess,” you responded, as if to a command. She laughed against you, and your mission was already accomplished.

If you did elope, her cousins or sisters never could get to you, because with Narcissa’s strategic love and your gritty determination, you covered all bases. And if you did have to face it, it would be alright — because you had each other through it all.

[justkeepshippingg]

Cherry bomb Part 4: a Caitvi Hate fuck fanfic

“Processing.” The word is way too loud when it bursts from Vi’s lips. “Excuse me?” Cait tilts her head, and her blue hair swishes over her shoulders. How the fuck does she look like she just escaped a shampoo commercial when Vi’s pretty sure she looks like she just got dunked in a gas tank and dragged through the bowels of hell?  “Lesbians love processing,” Vi says, nodding like she has any idea what she’s saying. She grins. A joke, maybe? Cait doesn’t laugh at all. Okay. Not so funny. “If I’m honest,” Cait says. “We can ‘process’ if you’d like. But I have other ideas.” Part one // Part two // Part three

The sun startles Vi awake.

Her back hurts. She shifts and removes a neon green bottle – empty, thank god – from under her low back. Okay. That’s a slight improvement.

Now, if she could only figure out WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON.

She’s naked. She knows that. She can see her binder flung over there. Her bare ass against the ground. Her mouth tastes like pussy (a blessing). And, christ, her wrists hurt. So she’s been fucking. Okay. Cool. Cool.

She turns her head. A pile of hair pools in her mouth. Wait. What?

Blue. Blue hair. Dark, inky hair. Silky. 

A sigh. A shift. A body next to hers. A long leg thrown across her knee. Baby-soft hairs tickle her calf.

Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit.

Vi’s entire mind is rolling. A memory: she looks down at Cait, who’s still seated in her lap, her entire, perfect body curved down toward the ground beneath them. Her head rests on her forearms, her ass up in Vi’s face. She’s truly and utterly wrecked, her beautiful princess body a disaster.

Vi laughs, out loud, to herself. That can’t be real. She wouldn’t let me do that.

Would she? 

Vi pauses, blue hair still tickling her bottom lip. She reels as she recalls the sting of Cait’s wet, waiting cunt against her palm. No way would Cait let her smack her right in the cunt. 

Or… Wait. Vi’s in shock, and she’s hornier than she’s probably ever been in her life. She begins piecing the evening together. Ghost Cait. Fucking herself sober. Kissing. Shit. She meant not to do that. The kissing.

The fucking, however, she meant.

And, real or not, Ghost Cait is very naked, and very much acting as Vi’s baby spoon.

Aw. Fuck her waist is tiny. The curve of her hip… man. The soft sound of her breath, a happy hum.

Hmmm. So. Okay. Perhaps this is real.

Memories fall into place. Vi’s never taken control at this level. She isn’t sure how many times Cait came last night, but she knows she’s still soaked all over and that the entire place smells like a brothel (in the best possible way, of course). She also didn’t know she could come from humping a girl’s ass — who knew, she thinks, pocketing that fun fact for later — but it’s no surprise that it was Cait’s.

She glances down. If any ass was gonna make her come, it was going to be this one, round and lush and full and newly marked from Vi’s teeth and nails.

She can’t help it: she laughs again. This is nuts.

A shift. Hips press into her front. Vi flinches. A roll, and bright teal eyes lock on hers. A soft tummy settles against her abs. Vi has to hold back a moan. Shit she’s missed Cait’s softness. 

“Hello,” Caitlin says, and fuck if she doesn’t sound every bit like a magical princess.

It makes Vi’s heart pitter-patter and she’s embarrassed but she can’t deny the blush that blooms across her tough-guy cheeks. “Uh,” Vi says. “Hi.” For a moment she wishes she hadn’t smashed her mirror in one of her rage-y fits. She knows there is no way she looks good right now. She can feel the grease in her hair, made greasier by the, well, grease she added last night before she went out. A flicker of blond hair makes its way into her mind and she realizes she maybe fucked.. Two girls last night?

Her stomach turns. But it feels empty. Did she puke last night? Fuck, did she PUKE IN FRONT OF CAIT?

“Are you okay?” Cait’s eyes are searching.

A bush. A stumble. Fuck. “Did I barf in front of you last night?”

“Yes.” A smile.

“And maybe make out with a blond right… in front… of you?”

Goodbye, smile. “That would be affirmative. Lovely experience for me, if you’re wondering.” Cait looks like she kind of wants to fuck her up, and Vi can’t entirely blame her. 

“Fuck, Cait.”

“Yes,” Cait says. The smirk returns. “We did quite a lot of that, too.”

Vi pauses. She closes her eyes as the evening continues to fall into place. It wasn’t like she was just so beyond fucked up; she was definitely sober enough to have consented to every. Single. Thing. That happened between her and Cupcake last night. But she’s been, uh, dealing with some hallucinations lately? So a part of her is kind of still not convinced this lanky, naked woman is actually right here in front of her, staring at her eyes and starting to lower her hand, one finger at a time, to her cheek.

But if she was fake, how would she feel this real?

“Processing.” The word is way too loud when it bursts from Vi’s lips.

“Excuse me?” Cait tilts her head, and her blue hair swishes over her shoulders. How the fuck does she look like she just escaped a shampoo commercial when Vi’s pretty sure she looks like she just got dunked in a gas tank and dragged through the bowels of hell? 

“Lesbians love processing,” Vi says, nodding like she has any idea what she’s saying. She grins. A joke, maybe?

Cait doesn’t laugh at all. Okay. Not so funny.

“If I’m honest,” Cait says. “We can ‘process’ if you’d like. But I have other ideas.”

Vi’s eyebrows raise. What? She wants to yell at her some more? Her thoughts are still rolling, and she feels that sad little pit in her stomach get bigger. They aren’t together, after all. No way does Cait want to be here. Or to stay. She probably only came because she felt bad for Vi. She was worried. Worried about crazy, angry Vi, busy fighting strangers in the under city. And, okay, she’s not wrong. But Vi doesn’t want to be worried about. She doesn’t want to even be thought about.

She’s spiraling.

Cait can tell, and Vi knows it because suddenly two lanky, creamy limbs are on either side of her and she’s being pushed onto her back.

Vi’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.

“Stop it,” Cait says, her voice soft. “What do you need? Right now?”

It’s like Cait reached inside of Vi’s head and gave her brain a little shove. The spiral grows quieter.

Now, all she can think about is how hot Cait’s cunt is against her low belly.

“I mean…” Vi pauses. Is she reading the situation correctly? Cait wants to fuck, right?

Cait squeezes her thighs together, and her pouty mouth curves upward.

“You’re fucking with me,” Vi says.

“I’d like to be,” Cait says. She shrugs her shoulders as if this isn’t affecting her at all, but Vi can feel the truth damp against her belly.

She can match her energy. “You’re not satisfied yet?” Vi says.

The fire dies, suddenly, behind them. Their eyes settle on the ashes at the pit. Without the fire, Cait is perfectly basked in sunlight, her delicate features glowing, eyes flashing. “Who said this was about my satisfaction?” Cait says. “I haven’t gotten to fuck you yet, Violet.”

Oh.

OH.

It’s fucking on.

Vi followers Cait’s lead and acts cocky as fuck. Two can play this game. She reaches over – and yeah, her shoulder is tugging a bit and it kind of fucking hurts but she is NOT leaving her spot crushed under Cait’s dripping cunt – and she tugs. A magical box appears from under the table.

In it, a harness. Thick and leather. Vi tosses it, and Cait catches it.

A smirk. “Grab the blue one.” 

[sarastellasari]

New Years Kiss (Part One)

part two, part three (they’re also at the bottom!)

@123letsgobestie @haniya1234, Im pretty sure u guys wanted to be tagged!

ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂

Grayson Hawthorne sighed as he stared at his brothers' expectant faces. 

“For the last time, no, I will not find a girl so I can get a New Year's kiss.”

“But Grayson!” Xander pouted, giving the blonde-haired boy puppy eyes,  “You’re the only one of us who won't get one!” Xander had very good puppy eyes, but Grayson had become resistant to them over a lifetime.

“There’s not even a single girl?” Nash asked curiously, frowning. Grayson shook his head, face turning hot.  

“Gray, we're worried.” Nash sighed, patting the spot between him and Jameson on Grayson's bed. Grayson did not sit down.

“You've barely ever been with anyone!” Xander sighed, flopping down empathetically. Jameson nodded in agreement. 

“Emily died years ago, Gray, it's time to get over her.” Grayson jerked his head up, startled. 

“You think this is about Emily?” Jameson frowned. 

“Is it not?” Grayson hesitated. Was it about Emily? No, he decided firmly, he just hadn't had time to date between college and helping Avery. He only had so much time in a day, or a month, or a year after all. 

“My dating life, or lack of one, has nothing to do with Emily.” He confirmed. Nash frowned. Jameson raised an eyebrow. Xander grimaced.

“What caused it then? Please explain in great detail,” Jameson said, lacing his fingers together as though he was one of Grayson's professors. Grayson frowned.

“I don’t really know, I guess.” He admitted. “I guess I just don’t really have time for dating.” Xander frowned. 

“No time for dating? Man, sounds like college sucks. Even though you don't date, do a lot of girls like you, since you’re a Hawthorne?” Grayson flushed, thinking of the stampedes, the sunglasses he had to wear, the love notes slipped under his door, and his singular kiss while he was away. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. Jameson and Xander grinned, no doubt thinking of what was going to come in only a few years.

“Guys, you all have girlfriends.” Xander smiled dreamily at the thought. Jameson smirked.

“Yes we do,” he agreed. “And we have people we’re gonna kiss on New Year's.” Grayson scowled at his unsubtle attempt to steer the subject back to their original topic.

“Enough, Jameson. And the rest of you as well. I will not be kissing a girl on New Year. End of discussion.” 

Grayson pretended he didn’t notice the looks his brothers were exchanging, the matching smirks on their faces.

Let them try, He thought. But no girl will be kissing me. 

No matter what devious plan his brothers came up with.

ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂

“Heiress, I’m gonna need you to invite Lyra to our New Year’s party,” Jameson smirked, walking into Avery’s room, completely shirtless.

“O-okay?” Avery said, looking up from her book and raising an eyebrow. “Why?” 

“Oh, you know. She’s our friend. And stuff.” Avery set her book down. “Grayson needs a New Year's kiss.” Avery grinned.

“Aww, and you wanna be his wingman! How sweet!” Jameson scowled. Avery laughed internally.

“No it’s just- have you seen the way he looks at her?” Avery nodded. 

“And the way she looks at him?” The couple exchanged a look. 

“Reminds me of us,” Jameson added, stalking towards the bed. Avery laughed.

“I’ll go call Lyra.” Jameson cheerfully tossed Avery her phone, Lyra’s numbers already punched in.

“How did you- never mind.” Jameson wandered to Avery’s closet, pulling out a shirt. Avery absentmindedly watched him. Jumping when she heard Lyra answer.

“Hello?” 

“Hi Lyra, this is Avery,” Avery responded, eyes still on Jameson's back muscles. He had very nice back muscles.

“Hey, Avery. What’s up? Is everything ok?” 

“Yeah, everything is fine, w-“ Avery smirked as she got an idea. “Grayson was wondering if you would like to attend our New Year’s party. It’s at our house on… New Year’s Eve” 

“I assumed,” Lyra responded. Avery cringed, glowering at Jameson who was shaking with silent laughter, his shirt now on but unbuttoned. “I would love to come through. What time does it start?” 

“Uh, 7?” Avery guessed. She didn’t actually know, but seven seemed like a plausible time. 

“Great. I’ll be there. Tell Grayson I say thanks for the invite. Bye, Avery!” And she hung up.

“Yes!” Jameson cheered. Avery high-fived him, grinning. The brothers' plan was working perfectly. 

ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚ ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂ੈ✩‧₊˚🥂

part two, part three (again)

[akhillaous]

thetis, a nereid sea goddess. portrayed by arwen undómiel and eärwen from the lord of the rings & the hobbit.

[nattikay]

OC lineup! All the characters that currently exist in this "story"

[callsthefaithful]

b4 death B) - angel w a little hat below cut <3

tried to stick to their death dates a bit but. idk i only googled for like 5 mins. also i wanted those old news print colours 😌

[lemongogo]

i need to cosplay elendira so bad rn rn idfc its happening .umms do any of u .. if you have experience making cosplay props HELPP how might one go ab making a gigantic fucking nail please and thank u 💕

[tears-of-xion]

Hello I have made another twst OC. :3

This is Aria Frosset, a 3rd year Pomefiore student!

I do plan on doing a full-body art of her with one of those student-info-thingys, but I needed to get her design to a place I liked first (which took me several months lol). ^^

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Aria is owned and designed by myself. :3

Please do not use or re-post/re-upload my artwork without my permission. Thank you! (reblogs, however, are welcome and appreciated)

I do not own Twisted Wonderland, nor it’s characters. All rights to their owners.

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Also have some bonus extra drawings of her that I made when I was figuring out her design:

This one was the first drawing I actually lined and rendered of her! While I did end up keeping her hair-style the same, I did end up making her hair shorter, so the drawing is 'non-canon', but I still love how it looks!

I drew this when I was still deciding what hair-style I wanted her to wear when in the dorm uniform. I ultimately decided that the bun, while cute, was too similar to Vil's look, and thus changed it (she still gets to wear it while in her labwear, though!)

I am super proud of how the rendering looks in this piece, and I love the make-up look I gave her (she looks so pretty!)

[gibblegabber]

last KB oc i swearsies. this is Glory!! she’s an up and coming daredevil who focuses on idk, air-related stunts. she jumps out of planes. yea.

[joshuamj]

guhoghgjj i have so many art ideas but so little time;;; the eternal curse