#he literally was wrapped up in a colourful cloth in one of my old boxes xkkffkf keep him safe
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allmyandroids · 1 year ago
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LOOK WHO I FOUND AGAIN!!!
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duskholland · 4 years ago
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Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut
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ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.
summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around...   word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni.   a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3   —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!
extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand​ also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’) 
*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧
extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)
✧ *:・゚Crash Into You ・゚:*✧
“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”
You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.
“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”
Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.
Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.
“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”
The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.
“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”
You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”
She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”
“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”
“No. What happened?”
You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.
“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”
Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”
You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”
Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.
“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.
Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.
You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.
There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.
“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.
Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.
A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.
Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.
Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”
Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.
“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.
You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.
Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.
“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”
The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.
“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”
You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.
“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”
“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”
You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.
Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?
He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”
You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.
“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”
You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.
“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.
“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”
You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.
“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”
The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.
“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.
You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.
The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.
For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.
You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.
He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.
“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”
You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”
You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”
Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.
“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”
He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.
“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”
You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.
“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.
“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.
Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”
Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.
You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”
“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”
“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”
Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.
“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”
You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”
Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”
It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”
Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.
“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”
You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”
There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”
You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.
“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”
“Mhmm.”
“3, 2, 1, go!”
It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.
“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.
You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”
Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”
“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”
You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.
“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”
Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”
You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.
“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”
You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.
“There!” you announce, smile on your face.
Tom gulps nervously.
“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.
Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.
“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”
His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”
You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.
“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”
Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.
“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.
“Not properly.”
Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”
You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.
“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”
You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”
You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.
Tom cackles.
“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.
“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.
Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.
He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”
“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.
Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.
“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”
You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”
You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.
“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”
He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.
“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.
Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.
“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Follow my line in.”
Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.
It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.
“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”
You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.
“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”
“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”
He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.
You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.
“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.
Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.
“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”
All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.
“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”
Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?
“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”
Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.
“Me too.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.
One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.
It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.
His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.
Tom follows you…?
Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.
Interesting.
After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.
“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.
“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”
“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”
“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”
He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.
“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.
Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”
You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.
Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.
“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”
Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”
Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”
He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.
He’s cute.
“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”
You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”
Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.
Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.
Y/N: hey x
A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.
Tom: hi xx
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.
Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.
Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.
“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”
You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.
“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”
You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.
“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”
You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.
“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”
It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.
Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.
“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”
“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”
“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”
You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”
Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.
“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”
“Wait, is it a home game?”
Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”
You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.
“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”
You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”
He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”
It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.
“Absolutely.”
You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.
“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.
Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.
Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.
“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”
Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”
You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”
“Give me a spin, darling.”
You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.
“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”
It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”
He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”
Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”
Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.
“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”
He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”
“Dutchy?” you question.
Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”
You coo. “That’s cute.”
Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.
“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.
Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.
The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.
And Tom… Tom.
Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.
Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.
The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.
He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.
The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.
The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.
“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”
You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.
“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.
“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”
Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.
“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”
A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.
Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.
You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.
“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”
Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”
You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”
He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”
It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”
Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”
“Hmm?”
“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”
You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”
Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.
“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.
You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.
The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.
On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.
“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”
The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.
“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”
You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”
“Yes, coach.”
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.
“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.
There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.
“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”
Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”
You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,
“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”
He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”
The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.
“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”
Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”
You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”
“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.
“Yeah. Friends.”
He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.
“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”
Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.
“Did you?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you think I was hot?”
It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”
Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.
“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”
“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”
His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.
“Thanks, darling.”
Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.
“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”
“What, sweetheart?”
Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.
It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.
You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.
“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.
There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.
“D’you want to—”
“Oi, Dutchy!”
You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.
“What?”
You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.
“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”
Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.
“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”
He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”
“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”
You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.
Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”
“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.
“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.
“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.
You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.
Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.
Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.
“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”
It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.
“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.
“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”
You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.
“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.
“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.
Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”
Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”
“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”
A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.
You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.
…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.
You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.
“What— Tom?”
For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.
“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”
You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”
Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.
“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”
“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”
“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.
“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”
Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.
“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.
Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”
You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”
He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.
“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”
You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.
“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”
Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.
By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.
“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”
You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”
He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.
“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”
Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.
“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”
You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”
Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.
You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.
“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.
The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.
“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.
“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.
He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.
“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”
You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.
“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”
His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.
“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”
Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.
“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”
“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”
He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.
Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.
“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.
“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”
Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.
“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”
You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”
Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.
“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”
You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”
Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”
You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.
“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
It’s noisy in the arena.
With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.
The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.
You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.
He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.
It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.
“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”
Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.
“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”
Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.
“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”
You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”
Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.
Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.
Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.
“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”
Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”
You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”
Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”
You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.
The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.
You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.
“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.
“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”
“Yeah. Penalty.”
“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”
“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”
He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.
“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”
“Mmm. Harry said so.”
Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”
You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.
“Funnier than me?”
“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”
“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”
“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”
Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.
“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”
He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”
“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”
Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.
It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.
You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.
“Y/N!”
You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.
“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.
“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”
Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”
Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.
You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.
“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”
A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.
“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.
“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”
Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”
He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.
“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”
You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.
“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.
A smile breaks out across your face.
“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”
Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.
“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.
His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.
“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”
You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.
“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.
“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.
You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”
Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.
It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.
“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”
“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.
Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.
His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.
“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”
The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.
“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”
“Overnight?”
“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”
You roll your eyes.
“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.
Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.
“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”
*:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧ *:·゚✧*:·゚✧
There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.
You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.
Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.
The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.
You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.
“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.
Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”
You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.
“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”
“Close your eyes first.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.
“You can open them now.”
It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.
“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”
You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.
“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”
Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.
“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”
You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”
Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”
“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”
Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.
“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”
Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”
The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.
“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”
Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”
You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.
“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”
His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”
Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.
(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)
*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧
*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧*:・゚✧
*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧ *:・゚✧*:・゚✧
i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!
mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!
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rek1s-headband · 4 years ago
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hi! figured i’d drop a request for you :))! Maybe some general bf hcs for reki and langa? Just in general how they would be as a boyfriend or how they would act in a relationship?
Hi!! Thank you so much for your request, I’ve been excited to do one of these. I hope you enjoy it!
➯ random boyfriend headcannons
➯ characters: Reki Kyan and Langa Hasegawa x gn reader
➯ warnings: none! Just some fluff for these two boys:)
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Reki:
-Literally the most enthusiastic person you’ve ever seen. He’d be happy to just sit in silence with you because come on, it’s YOU. There’s no one he’d rather be wasting the hours away with.
-Your biggest hype man, EVER. You post something on Instagram? Get ready for a flood of comments, all from him. You could put your phone down for two minutes after posting, and you’ll come back to 99+ notifications of just reki commenting along the lines of “woah suddenly I’m on one knee” “DAMNNNN” and many, many more.
-Never leave your phone unattended around him. He won’t snoop, but be prepared to come back to your camera roll flooded with just zoomed in pictures of his face, his mouth, his eye, ANYWHERE. Mf is spamming your whole phone with pictures of him for you to come back to.
-He has to always be touching you in some way. Whether it’s holding your hand, your waist, a casual arm around your shoulder, there has to be something. He’ll put his hand on your ass sometimes while you walk in public.
-Honestly doesn’t even think PDA is anything out of the ordinary. Like, you’re his s/o??? Yes you’re in his lap, yes you’re in the middle of the skatepark, so what? You’re his, and he’s happy he can make everyone aware of that.
-I saw a post on here that said he would peel stickers off fruit and stick them to peoples’ foreheads, and I fully stand by this. However, it doesn’t just stop at fruit stickers. Anything remotely sticky, whether it’s tags from clothes, tape from a food box, even random sequins and bits of glitter he finds around, it’s immediately being stuck to some part of your face.
-Loves casual dates. Stopping by food stalls, browsing in clothes and game stores for a few hours, and skating around with you until it’s time to go home is a dream for him. Be prepared for day-long dates, because he will clear his entire schedule just to spend the day with you.
-His family adores you. His mother is always goading him to bring you over more, complaining that she misses her "honorary son/daughter/child". His sisters love you too. Any time you come over there’s immediately three tiny bodies shooting at you, grabbing you by the waist and dragging you over to wherever they’re playing. Reki tries to drag you away, wanting to have you for himself, but you always try and stay for at least five or ten minutes. Secretly, he loves that you get along so well with his siblings, going soft at the thought of how you would act with children of your own.
-He loves playing video games with you. Sitting in his lap, the two of you could spend hours switching from game to game. One minute you could be burning down a village in Minecraft, the next complaining while Reki whoops your ass in Mario Kart. His mom brings you food for your breaks between games, and she’ll even stay for a few minutes to talk to you while Reki shifts underneath you, glowing red from embarassment.
-If you can’t skate, he would beg to teach you. If you accept, he goes all out. He’ll make you your own customised board just for practicing, making sure it’s absolutely perfert for you to learn on. But if you can skate, get ready for endless races and competitions to see who can nail a new trick the quickest.
-Adores when you come to S to support him. He loves looking into the crowd and seeing you there cheering him on before he goes into a beef. If he wins, he’ll race over to where you are in the crowd, picking you up and spinning you around, kissing you without a care in the world. However, if he loses he’s thankful you’re always there to pick him back up and make him feel better afterwards.
-Loves cleaning you up after a big fall, kissing your bruises and cuts better. He’ll carefully wrap each injury with care, telling you how brave you are, no matter how small the cut. Secretly, he loves when you baby him after he falls himself. Seeing you wipe away the blood from a new cut and place a small plaster on it with such tenderness melts his heart in a way only you could.
-Speaking of plasters, this man has one for every occasion. Princesses, pirates, aliens, cats, dogs, sparkles, stripes, you name it, he’s got it.
-The type to sneak you out at two in the morning to get a slushee with him. Honestly, he’s up so late making boards for people he just has no perception of time.
-Spams your phone with TikToks or other funny things that reminds him of you. It could be a very specific thing, or a flower or cloud. If he thinks of you when he sees it(which is fairly often), it gets sent to you.
-Talks with his hands a lot. He’s a very expressive talker, so when he’s telling you a story it feels like you’re right there in the story with him.
-Please just kiss him. His cheeks, his forehead, his hand, his shoulder, his temples, his lips. Anywhere, he’ll melt under you. Mf is touch starved to the max.
-Always knows how to make you laugh. His laugh is infectious, it could get you out of your darkest moods.
-Sleeps with his head on your chest, and one hand in your shirt little perv.
-His social media is like a SHRINE for you. His highlights, his posts, his stories, EVERYWHERE. He’s just so proud to be able to call you his that he wants the whole world to know.
-Kisses in the rain while you run home, skateboards in your hands after the weather forecast failed you once again. He’s just so happy in the moment that he can’t contain himself, so he’s pulling you into him in the pouring rain, kissing you hard while your hair gets drenched.
-You don’t need to steal his clothes, he will literally give them to you because “you just look so cute wearing them”. Occasionally, he’ll take one of your hoodies, and even if it doesn’t exactly fit him, he’ll still keep it near him while he sleeps so he can keep your scent close to him.
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Langa:
-This man is so oblivious to obvious hints, but still manages to pick up on the smallest of details? It’s incredible, honestly. He could describe the exact colour of your eyes with the most insane detail, but he still won’t notice when you try and hint that you like him in the first place!
-You two have a bit more of a low-key relationship, but you’ll make your usual appearance in his Instagram posts, or on his Snapchat story with a casual caption like a simple heart, or “my love<3”
-Not very big on PDA, not because he doesn’t like it, but because he doesn’t think of it. However, when he does feel like he’s being too physically distant, he’ll link pinkies with you as you walk along, or rest his head on your shoulder while you watch a video on your phone.
-His mom adores you, which is why Langa despises bringing you to his house. You always seem to leave with seven of his baby photos from his time snowboarding in Canada, a new recipe from his mother that you complimented, another one of his hoodies, and more miscellaneous stuff that you don’t even know how it ended up in your bag. He has a little shelf in your room specifically for this random stuff, and he always adds to the collection when he comes to your house. He’ll leave a keyring, a small toy, a Polaroid, anything honestly.
-Loves dates that you can experience. The movies, aquariums, museums and the zoo are common dates for the two of you to go on, but other than that, he adores going skateboarding with you. He’s been improving, and he loves when you notice little things he’s been picking up on, whether it be a new trick or simply how he balances himself on the board.
-Adores old Disney movies. Yall will binge a ton of them in one day, having full-blown musicals in Langa’s living room. When any of the romantic songs come on, like “So this is Love” from Cinderella, Langa will stand up and offer his hand to you, as the two of you waltz around his sitting room, humming the tune of the song.
-Study dates are frequent with the two of you. If you happen to stay up late studying and fall asleep on each other, his mother will cover the two of you with a blanket, tidying some of your books and leaving with a smile, happy with the knowledge you were making her son the happiest he’s been in quite a while.
-Slow dancing in the kitchen while you cook is a regular. When a particularly sappy love song comes on while he stirs the pot, he’ll turn around and hold you close to him, twirling you around the kitchen.
-Reki constantly jokes that he is a third wheel, poking fun at the two of you, Cherry and Joe, and Shadow and “his little girlfriend back at the flower shop”. He’ll hang out of Miya, whining about them having to stick together since they’re the only two “lone wolves”. He’ll usually get a well-earned thump into the back of the head from Miya, but it’s still funny to watch the whole thing go down.
-Tends to be shy when giving you clothes, so instead of asking you to wear them he’ll leave them out in places he knows you’ll find them, or he’ll come up behind you and plop it in your lap, murmuring about how cute it would look on you.
-Please do this man’s makeup. He will sit so still for you, waiting patiently while you dab eyeshadow at his eyes, trying not to blink so you don’t mess up his mascara. He’ll sit there mesmerised for a few minutes, taking in how he looks, and simply whisper “you do this every day?”
-Evem though he’s not a very openly affectionate person, he is stuck to your hip behind closed doors. He’ll lie in your lap for hours, staring up at you while you mess with his hair, pulling it into little plaits and pigtails.
-I can’t even describe how the two of you sleep. It’s simply a mass of limbs, and no one knows exactly what belongs to who. Somehow one of yall will end up upside down, and-why is Langa on the floor??
-He could talk about his time in Canada for hours, and you’d just lie on his chest and listen to him. Every once in a while he’ll look down at you to see if you’re still listening, and his heart will melt a little every time he sees you staring back up at him, eyes wide with interest.
-This man NEVER gets jealous. You’d literally have to cling to another man for it to click in his brain that Oh. He doesn’t like that.
-He’s not big on texting, but if you call him he will stay on that call with you for hours, even after the two of you fall asleep.
-Whenever he falls(which is quite often), you’ll always have plasters on hand to help fix him up. He always flushes bright red when you kiss his cuts better, and never knows just what to do with himself afterwards.
-When he skates against tough opponents, you’ll always give him a kiss for good luck. Of course, this doesn’t stop you worrying, but you know Langa wouldn’t go out of his way to get injured. And if he does, well, at least he’ll have you there to kiss his bruises better.
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volkswagonblues · 4 years ago
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a lil guide to the Fire Nation for the ATLA fic writers out there
(aka. a no means exhaustive primer on east asia by an asian person)
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This is a guide for fic writers want to write a canon-era story set in the Fire Nation, or featuring Fire Nation characters. A quick little primer on the tiny details of everyday life that you might not think about, but certainly stuff that would make me, an asian person, wince if I were to encounter it. BRUSHES, not quills. CHOPSTICKS, not forks. 
(note #1: this was partly inspired by a chat with @elilim​) 
(note: #2:  I originally intended it for zukka fic writers before realizing that other writers might find it useful. so apologies for a slight Zuko-bias for that reason)
(note #3: this is all stuff i was thinking about when writing firebender’s guide, in case anyone was wondering)
1. CLOTHING
Okay, I think the most straightforward way to describe what everyone’s wearing most of the time is “tunic”. They’re all just...tunics of different colours and varieties. Later when Zuko’s the Fire Lord he wears robes. The show provides a better visual guide than I could, here are a few notes to keep in mind:
a) Japanese people wear their collars LEFT crossed over RIGHT
I don’t think this would come up in writing as much as it would in art, but it’s considered bad luck to do it the wrong way because that’s only for dead people. Let my boy Zuko demonstrate:
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b) There are no buttons
This is picky, but Wikipedia says “Functional buttons with buttonholes for fastening or closing clothes appeared first in Germany in the 13th century.[6] They soon became widespread with the rise of snug-fitting garments in 13th- and 14th-century Europe.” I kinda believe it. If you look closely, characters’ clothes are always tied together or wrapped in some way with a belt. If there are fasteners, they’re braided frog closures that go into a little loop, like the qipao-style dresses women wear in Ba Sing Se, or Zuko’s casual prince’s clothes in the topmost image. Anyways, I don’t think Zuko or Azula or the Gaang would technically button or unbutton anything when they’re changing clothes. Clothing is designed to be tied, not buttoned.
[so much more under cut]
c) This isn’t a real rule, but there’s something called koromogae, or the seasonal changing of clothing in Japan.
This is something I learned when I was writing firebender’s guide, and I just liked the fun detail about there being a strict calendar for when to wear something. I liked the idea of someone like Zuko, who actually spent most of his formative years outside of the Fire Nation, coming home and just suffering mutely through the summer heat because upper class etiquette says no changing into cooler clothes until August 15. 
From My Asakusa: 
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And this website:
Generally, people change from thick, heavy, dark-coloured clothes for winter to thin, lighter, bright-coloured clothes for spring and summer. In traditional Japanese culture, particularly in formal settings such as tea ceremony, it is important to acknowledge the changes of seasons—in such circumstances, not only the patterns and colours of the kimono that are worn but also the utensils and furniture that are used are required to change. By changing their clothing, people notice and appreciate the change of seasons. [Japan Foundation]
Here are some visual guides from the official creators for clothes: (notice how it’s pretty much always left over right)
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2.FOOD AND EATING
a) Traditional cuisine
It seems like the most common foods in canon are Fire Flakes and meat, to the point where poor Aang had to eat lettuce out of the garbage at some point.
HOWEVER, the Fire Nation seems to basically a big subtropical archipelago, so I would guess that seafood and rice are common. If you want to write about characters eating, a. quick google for “traditional japanese cuisine” would help you come up with a menu really quickly.
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Wikipedia says:
The traditional cuisine of Japan, washoku (和食), lit. "Japanese eating" (or kappō (ja:割烹)), is based on rice with miso soup and other dishes; there is an emphasis on seasonal ingredients. Side dishes often consist of fish, pickled vegetables, and vegetables cooked in broth. Seafood is common, often grilled, but also served raw as sashimi or in sushi.
But before we get too serious, at one point the Gaang eats a “smoked sea slug” (Sokka’s Master) 
Oh ATLA, never stop being you.
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b) Utensils
One thing to keep in mind is chopstick etiquette. Someone like Zuko or Toph, for instance, would have completely internalized all of these.
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Another thing is that there are no glasses. Cups and bowls are made of ceramic or clay. Let the Gaang show you:
And another note: characters won’t eat “bread” in the European sense, ie. a baked lump of dough. Steamed buns, yes. Fried pancakes made from batter, yes. Flatbreads, okay I’ll give it a pass. Rice or noodles should be the most common carbs of choice.
3.ETIQUETTE
“In the homeland, we bow to our elders” - angry schoolmistress in The Headband.
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Japan Guide has a list of etiquette rules for visiting Japan, which is interesting but not too necessary to read. In general, based on what The Headband tells us, Fire Nation characters would have been raised with a strong nationalist curriculum that values communal contribution over individualist expression. Even someone like Zuko, who openly rebels against that, probably couldn’t help but be affected by it. In general the Fire Nation seems to have an East Asian-ish set of values. It’s patriarchal, all the positions of authority are filled by men; there seems to be a strong emphasis on patriotism; there’s a sense of diffidence and respect towards one’s elders; and finally, there’s an emphasis on “knowing” one’s place in society and fitting into what’s expected of oneself.
I don’t really know how to describe it, but in China and Japan I sometimes feel like there’s rules for everything, and even people born and raised there acknowledge it could be stifling at times. You could go down a rabbit hole researching points of etiquette (for instance, rules on who has to sit where in group dinners...), but to me the most important thing is acknowledging that Fire Nation has a rigid system of etiquette, and also, they’re an imperialist power who’s pretty prejudiced against foreigners. Poor Aang/Kuzon gets called “mannerless colony slob” just for being slow on the bowing action (!!!)
(in firebender’s guide I had a lot of fun imagining the stupid microaggressions Ambassador Sokka has to face in the Fire Nation, so obviously I’m just biased)
4.WRITING AND DESKS
Characters would probably write on paper, with a calligraphy brush. Not quills or pens -- a brush. Technically, old Japanese and Chinese texts should be written top to bottom, right to left, but the show itself doesn’t do this, so I think you’re fine. 
One fun thing about traditional calligraphy is that you don’t use bottled ink. You have something called an ink stone, and then you grind your ink yourself by rubbing the ink stone in a special little dish with a bit of water. In my (very few) encounters with this stuff in the calligraphy lessons of my youth, the ink stones can be plain or have beautiful designs on the side. It looks something like this: 
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ATLA is an East Asian-ish universe, so characters are likely to be kneeling at a table, not sitting. To demonstrate, here’s my boy Sokka doing his famous rainbow at Piandao’s:
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and here’s the war chamber meeting when Zuko speaks out against a general’s plans to sacrifice some soldiers:
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THERE ARE EXCEPTIONS: This is Zuko’s cute little setup when he’s writing his goodbye letter to Mai. In this case he’s writing in a chair and table. It’s possible that some furniture items, like a sitting desk and a bed in a bedframe (not a bedroll or futon) are special royal palace features. Normally in a private setting we see characters sitting on the ground or on a slightly elevated platform with a low table. Maybe Caldera is just different? Or rich people are just different: the Bei Fongs also have a sit-down dining table + chair setup.
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(That little rectangular box is his ink dish!!)
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5.A NOTE ON GENERAL CULTURE
It’s worth talking about a few general points of East Asian culture. I can’t claim to speak for ALL of Asia, and I don’t think I should. But I do think ATLA fic writers who want to set something in the Fire Nation should take a few moments to at least skim the wiki pages for filial piety and Nihonjinron (literally, "theories/discussions about the Japanese"). There’s a certain...vibe to...asianness... that I’m not sure I can explain without like, a doctorate degree in sociology. 
It’s a bit like gender, I guess. There’s no definitive checklist to what is a woman and what is a man, and we can argue that gender is performative, that it’s a construct, but at the end of the day gender is still (tragically) real in the sense that it still shapes people and affects how we walk and talk and dress and think. Nationality is the same. Obviously, the Fire Nation is a made up place in a made up show, but out of respect to the cultures that inspired it, I do think it’s worth familiarizing yourself with some of these cultures’ codes and values.
Also, ahem, if I can direct you to war crimes in the Japan’s colonial empire. Again, worth remembering that the Fire Nation was an imperalist colonizer too.
I might do a continuation of this post and talk through my more abstract takes about Fire Nation culture - Is Zuko an example of filial piety gone right or filial piety gone wrong? Why I think Zuko’s flashbacks are like, at least part teenage melodrama bullshit (the reason is son preference), how someone like Sokka might be treated once he’s openly Water Tribe in the Fire Nation (probably with racism...), specific aspects of asian homophobia and racism, etc. We’ll see.
This is not a definitive guide. Comments and critique welcome.
If you think there’s a factual mistake, PLEASE hop in my asks and let me know. I also think there’s a huge blind spot in ATLA for South and Southeast Asian representation, so I acknowledge that I can’t speak for all Asians, and there is no such thing as a “pan-asian” identity.
If there’s something else you’re curious about, I’m not a historian or anything, but I like research. Ask me and I’ll try to answer the best I can.
And oh, one last thing, this is how I do research when I wrote firebender’s guide, in case anyone’s interested in learning more (LINK)
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creativeashproductions · 4 years ago
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Lost Time // Luke Patterson
Summary: Things changed since Sunset Curve fell apart literally as three out of four members died before a gig. Leaving a sad girl behind Luke by chance runs into the reader with someone else. Death tore the couple apart, and time can’t fix this.
Warning: Talk of death, depression, angst and fluff
Words: 2.2k
Might as well join the Julie and the Phantoms fan club!
*For the sake of the story the time frame has been altered, it takes place in the mid-2000s. Also! I tried to make the reader as generalized as I could to make sure that everyone can relate. The reader is Alex’s sister, for inclusion that can be biological, adopted, half or stepsiblings. I want to make sure all people can be the reader.
Masterlist
THIS IS FROM MY SECONDARY BLOG! REPOST!!
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The 1990s was definitely some of the best years of your life watching your brother grow more comfortable in his identity. Alex had kept his sexuality secret, taking the frustration of the secret by learning how to play the drums. You would often be found curled on the chair listening to his growing talent; Alex was a great brother.
Alex found friends in three local boys Reggie, Bobby and Luke, even a little more than friends with Luke briefly. By 1991 the boys had formed a band Sunset Curve with each other and a loyal fan in you. By mid-1994 the band had a fanbase and some gigs, but playing The Orpheum was the goal.
Luke had admitted to Alex, he had feelings for you, and with a lot of encouragement from Alex, he approached you. Luke had been focused on music since his parents gave him his first guitar, so relationships weren’t even on the backburner.
“Hey.” Luke spoke, pressing a kiss to your cheek backstage, “Missed you.”
His hair tickled your skin, bringing a bright smile from the teenage boy and a deep blush from you, private time wasn’t as often as it once had been. After Luke’s fallout with his parents a few months back, he had couch surfed between Reggie and Alex’s rooms; he wasn’t allowed in yours.
“You saw me last night.”
“A monumental time.” Luke bent his bend to place a lingering kiss on your bare shoulder, his jacket having fallen down, “Three years together and a bright future ahead.”
Last night had been the third anniversary of your relationship and hopefully the previous night worrying on parents walking in, cheap dates Luke often felt guilty about. Luke knew in his bones playing The Orpheum tonight would open the door to a legendary future. A future where money wasn’t tight and he could you on dates he deemed acceptable for the love of his life.
Bobby voiced brought Sunset Curve’s lead singer back to that moment, you dropped from the stage to settle in the empty audience to watch the soundcheck. With a wink from Alex, he started making the beat to Now or Never, you beamed as they poured their souls into the song. The four were talented and made to be in a band together even if you didn’t really like Bobby.
Cringing at the awkward wink Bobby sent you turned on your converse to head to the bar for a glass of water. Thanking the bartender, you tuned out the conversation with the waitress and the band only jumping when arms wrapped around your waist.
“We’re getting street dogs.” Luke spoke, bringing your body to rest on his chest, “Do you want one?”
The thought of those street dogs honestly horrifying given they were cooked in some random guys car. The one time you tried, it had permanently tattooed the taste in your memories forever, and just remembering was vomit-inducing.
 “I’ll pass.” You wrinkled your nose, turning to wrap your arms around his neck, “I don’t know how you guys like those.”
“Tradition.” Luke shrugged caressing your cheekbone with the pad of this thumb. Gazing at features he wanted to wake up to for the rest of his life, “Still down with the plan?”
“The minute I’m eighteen, we go to the nearest chapel.” You grinned playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, “I’ll be waiting Rockstar.”
Luke pressed a long passionate kiss on your lips, pulling away to jog over to Alex and Reggie waiting at the door. Bobby having declined the street dog invitation to flirt with the waitress Rose. Alex waved before the door closed. Little did you know that would be the last time you saw them alive.
1995 was the worst year of your life. 1996 was the hardest, especially with the forever reminder of your love. You wouldn’t trade 1996 for the world however, only wishing for one change.
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Los Angeles, 2004
Alex, Reggie and Luke had learnt a mere few days away from that life had drastically changed forever. Firstly, the three boys had died from eating the street dogs mere hours before performing on the stage of The Orpheum. Secondly, it was no longer 1995 but instead nearly ten years had past bringing the three ghosts into 2004.
The most jarring wasn’t being able to be heard playing music with a random girl named Julie but that the most constant part of the band no longer was there. You hadn’t died that night, and Alex was pretty sure you were still alive. Luke felt lost waking up without you beside him and the deep regret of not reconciling with his parents.
It would be a week before Luke would swallow his pride enough to orb himself into his unchanged childhood home. Emily, Luke’s mom, was in the well-worn chair knitting a scarf Luke recognized as his favourite colours. Mitch was in the kitchen, putting the groceries away. It was heartbreaking being invisible to his aged parents.
“Hey, Mom.” Luke sniffled sitting on the couch nearby staring at his silent mother, “Sorry for not visiting sooner.”
Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes feeling hopeless, not being able to ease his parents’ pain, the regret and guilt bubbling to the surface.
“How is Y/N? I bet she’s living in New York of London now. We promised to travel the world together. Part of me is guilty of wishing she had eaten a street dog that night so we could be together.” Luke sobbed, wrapping his arms around his midsection reminiscing on the beautiful girl he had unwillingly left.
“Hey.” Mitch spoke, kissing his wife’s forehead. Her eyes closing in contentment.
“I wonder if you know where Reg and Alex’s parents are. Reggie’s neighbourhood was torn down who knows when. It makes me scared to see if Alex and Y/N’s parents still have their place. I don’t think so. They lost their son.”
“Hey Luke.”
Luke glanced over his shoulder to see Alex at the door, reluctant to impose of Luke’s privacy.
“Yeah.”
“We’re rehearsing.” Alex spoke, smiling as the other teenager took one more wistful look at his parents before orbing out of his house to the Molina family’s garage. Minutes later, the front door opening and feet thudding brought the noise to the Patterson home.
“Grandma!”
A four-foot blue of green and black blur covered the room in seconds nearly sprawling Mitch to the floor. Why was that 1996 year difficult? Well, ’95 was when Sunset Curve tragically died, and a stick changed your life. ’96 was spent going through the last five months of pregnancy without Luke.
October 1995
You kept your lips pressed tightly together, unable to look at the smooth, shiny mahogany rectangle surrounded by flowers. Looking up meant the reality kicking in. Funerals sucked. Especially the third funeral in the last handful of days. It was surreal thinking that one week ago you had kissed your boyfriend and hugged your brother and now they were dead. Gone. Not even a goodbye.
“Are you okay?” The broke voice asked, gaining your attention. Swollen red eyes matching yours held unimaginable pain. While the last few months had been icy with your parents, it didn’t mean losing one of their kids didn’t sting.
“I will be.” You whispered clasping your hands over the scratchy black velvet dress, one you had worn three times too many.
The sobs broke out seeing the best picture Alex had taken in his life, it encapsulated his best features; his beaming smile and kind, caring eyes. Alex was gone. Your brother was gone because he ate a bad hot dog with his friends. You would never see your boys again. Never feel Luke’s skin or share a laugh with Alex or complain about things with Reggie. You wouldn’t get to meet in the chapel with Luke wearing second hand ‘fancy’ clothing. In one night, your life changed.
It changed further seeing the two lines on the test later that night. The heartache growing. The baby you carried would never meet his uncles and his Dad. Would never hear them play or learn to play. ’95 and ’96 sucked ass.
You sighed, closing the door to follow the rambunctious ball of energy into the living room where he entertained Mitch and Emily. Some days it was difficult to stare into the green eyes he inherited from his father.
“Benjamin Lucas.” You spoke crossing your arms, meeting the gaze of the eight-year-old boy, “What did I say?”
“To not runoff.” Ben quietly replied, playing with his hands. His messy brown hair, in need of a trim, falling into his eyes, “Sorry Mom.”
“Please don’t do it again.” You gently told the little boy elated as he quickly found the toy box in the corner of the room.
Ben was loved deeply by Mitch and Emily, who had stepped up when your parents made the decision to sell your childhood home. Wanting Ben to know his paternal grandparents, you had struggled to find an apartment and job to say in the neighbourhood. Since the baby was the last part of their son, the Patterson parents’ had welcomed you into the home where you stayed until Ben was two.
“Do you want us to come around for Luke’s birthday?” You questioned sitting on the love seat, the same love seat you had made out on with Luke many times during movies.
The room turned sad at the question and reminded that for the ninth year, you would celebrate Luke’s birthday without him. A day where Ben wouldn’t fully understand. Emily simply nodded her head.
 “Have you met anyone?” Mitch asked, leaning over to clasp his hands together. For the last few years, they had been pushing you to date. They wanted your happiness and for Ben to have a father even if Luke couldn’t be it.
“Mama can we stay here tonight?” Ben’s innocent voice cut the tension, saving you from answering the question again. Mitch and Emily each nodded their heads at the question, unable to tell the young boy no.
“Have you ate?” Emily asked, turning to look at you in concern. The chuckle left your mouth at the question she frequently requested, she missed cooking for more than two.
“We had pasta before we came.” You replied, turning to gaze out the window to the dark sky, “I should put Ben to bed.”
The soft whine from your son and denial was a nightly routine and very much a mirror image to Luke’s character as well. With a smile, Emily held out her hand to her grandchild, she was notoriously the only one able to get Ben to sleep fast.
 “Come on Bug.”
It seemed the universe was keeping Luke from seeing you and discovering Ben, but when that night came, he was shocked. Emily was curled up on the patio couch, watching Ben in the newly bought sandbox. The patio doors opened. Inside, Mitch had invited a stranger who knew his son into the house.
 “I think I heard the doorbell. I’ll be right back.” Emily called out to you. You had found shade under the tree reading a new book.
The soft cry had you up and running to Ben before you even realized, on his knee was a bleeding wound. You had already scooped the boy into your arms to quickly get into the kitchen. The moment your foot stepped into the home, the sound of a familiar voice and song filled the house.
Gently placing Ben on his feet, you followed the sound to the living room. Across the room behind a young girl stood a boy.
“Luke.” You breathed floored at the sight of the teenager who looked exactly like he did back in ’95. The ghost singing widened his eyes at yours, taking in the mature features and change of fashion.
He continued to sing the song Unsaid Emily he had written as an apology to his mom following the last big fight. The song he never got to show her. His voice faded as the ending of the song came around.
“Mama!” Your attention broke from Luke’s when a tiny hand reached for yours. The pain in his voice bringing you back to the most important part of your life, “It hurts Mama.”
Despite being sad, Mitch was the one to cross the room to lift the little boy into his arms. Placing the little boy on the counter, the man gently wet a paper towel to wash the area.
“I think he needs stitches.” Mitch sighed, furrowing his brows.
“Who is that?” Luke asked the Molina girl. The girl shrugged taking in the features she could recognize. Julie asked Emily.
“That’s Ben.” Emily beamed, looking over her shoulder at the little boy that filled the void of Luke’s death. It didn’t fix the wound or erase the pain, but Ben’s existence helped with the loss as he was a precious gift, “When Luke passed away his girlfriend Y/N found out she was pregnant with Luke’s baby.”
The choked sob fell from Luke’s mouth echoed by the thud of his knees, hitting the floor in the pure shock. The heartbreak painted so clear Julie was sure she could feel Luke’s agony.
God, why did Luke have to eat that fucking street dog. Fuck his band dreams. Nothing hurt as bad as finding out about Ben and Y/N having to be a single parent.
“I have a son?” Luke cried, orbing himself as far as he could from the Patterson home and his most tremendous loss.
Part Two
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discoscoob · 4 years ago
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Fires of Pompeii | Loki x Female Reader
Loki (Marvel) x Doctor Who
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You and Loki meet each other while you’re both running for your lives through the streets of Pompeii.
Part Two | Chapter Index
Words: 10k +
Warnings: blood and injury
Read on AO3: here
You huddled under the arch of an abandoned doorway just off the high street, it provided you suitable enough shelter from the miserable rain which pathetically drizzled down from the night sky. The light from the street lamps, traffic and shop fronts reflected off the soaked concrete while in the distance you could hear the laughter and chatter of groups of people as they made their way to the pubs and the clubs, the night was still early for them but you intended to be home and curl up in bed within the hour but first, dinner.
 You warmed your frozen fingertips around the paper wrapping which contained a piping hot portion of golden chips from your favourite chippy. Just as you were about to pop one of the steaming chips into your mouth using one of those tiny wooden forks you only ever find in chip shops, something caught your attention and you paused.
 “You’re not mating with me, sunshine!” A woman gasped in a broad east London accent that you would recognise anywhere, it belonged to your auntie Donna, a fiery redhead with an unmistakable dialect. Reluctantly you dropped your wooden fork, with your chip still attached to it, back onto the pile of chips which sat on the wrapping paper cradled in your palm and you ran out from under the doorway to investigate.
 “A mate. I want a mate.” Came a reply and you turned your head in the direction the voice came from to find your auntie, half shielding herself behind the door of an old police box, while a man you didn’t recognise stood before her wearing a pinstripe suit with a pile of luggage gathered around his feet.
 “Well just as well because I’m not having any of that nonsense. I mean you’re just a long string of nothing, you know, alien nothing.” She asserted, now standing fully outside the police box.
 “Is everything okay?” You approached the pair, completely lost by the conversation or argument you had picked up on midway through. Upon hearing your voice Donna gasped your name suddenly looking like someone caught doing something they shouldn’t.
 “Oh chips! I love chips. Can I have one?” The man smiled and pinched a chip from your pile before you could even answer.
 “I can explain.” Donna offered and that is where it all began.
 Donna’s explanation had consisted of an elaborate story about how the man she was with, known simply as The Doctor, was the last surviving member of an advanced alien species which specialised in space and time travel and that he had offered to take her exploring with him through all of time and space. Naturally your initial response was one of disbelief, you questioned your auntie on how much she had to drink that night, then you quickly switched to concern wondering if this strange man had drugged her.
 Donna looked offended that you believed she was anything but sober while the Doctor was startled that you believed he had any ill intent and was quick to sincerely reassure you that he meant your auntie no harm and that he was more than happy to extend his invitation of space and time travel to you, either in order to prove what they were telling you was in fact the truth or to allow you to come along to ensure Donna’s safety.
 You were tempted by his offer until you found out that their mode of transportation was the cramped police box the three of you were stood in front of, the Doctor informed you that it was called a TARDIS, an abbreviation for something you were sure you wouldn’t remember, and that it’s appearance as a police box was merely a disguise however the function had stopped working several decades ago meaning it was stuck like that permanently. You questioned how all of you would comfortably fit inside, along with the huge pile of Donna’s luggage. Images of scenes from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure ran through your mind, the two teens faces pushed up against the glass of phone box which they were squashed into like sardines along with several prominent figures from history.
 Your concern soon developed into wonder after you were ushered by the pair into the box to find it was much bigger on the inside, and not in a ‘its size is deceiving’ sort of way where they cleverly maximised the limited space inside, it was literally impossibly bigger. You had to immediately step outside and circle the boxes perimeter to make sure it wasn’t attached to any walls but it stood in the middle of the street completely detached from any other structure or building. That is when you first started to believe that maybe what Donna had told you wasn’t so far fetched after all.
 Barely 10 minutes later you were rendered speechless as you were stood in the middle of a busy outdoor market, chippy tea long forgotten. Beneath your feet the ground was no longer covered in puddles or reflected the colours of the different city lights, instead you stood on cobble stone covered with dry sand and stray piles of straw. The black night sky was replaced by a flawless blue with not a single white cloud in sight as the heat of the midday sun caressed your skin. You were quick to unwrap your scarf from around your neck and shrug off your bulky winter coat and carelessly throw them back into the TARDIS without a care where they landed.
 “Ancient Rome!” The Doctor enthusiastically announced.
 Your eyes scanned around the bustling market once again and you took in the sight of all the people dressed in period typical clothing, tunics, sandals and such. The air way filled with the smell of fresh baked goods, scents similar to a barbeque and the faintest smell of horse stables. Some people who walked by were even wearing armour with long red capes draped over their shoulders, you eyed them cautiously as they passed.
 “Oh my god!” Donna gasped, grabbing your attention you quickly turned around. “It’s… it’s so Roman! This is fantastic.”
 You rolled your eyes at her dramatics as she threw her arms around the Doctors neck to pull him into a hug and he laughed happily with a proud smile on his face. You had to admit, you were impressed, more than impressed, you were astonished. You could hardly believe your eyes as you took in your surroundings, you would have believed you were on a film set were it not for the lack of a technology crew, cameras and director yelling at you to get out the way of the shot.
 “Hold on a minute, that sign over there’s in English. Are you having us on?” Donna spotted and you looked in the direction she pointed in to find a sign which read ‘TWO AMPHORAS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE’ and your shoulders sank and the prospect of being lied to this whole time.
 “No, no, no,” the Doctor calmly reassured her “that’s the TARDIS translation circuits, it looks like English. It works for speech as well, you’re talking Latin right now.”
 That certainly was very clever and convenient, you thought to yourself.
 The Doctor lead the way as you continued your stroll through the crowded streets in search of landmarks like the colosseum, the pantheon and the circus maximus. You were excited by the prospect of seeing these ancient landmarks in all their former glory but the Doctor appeared lost as he aimlessly wondered the streets with no sense of direction.
 A sudden deep continuous rumbling caused the ground beneath your feet to shake and vibrate, causing tremors to ripple through your entire body, almost knocking you off balance, while the pottery from the market stalls could be heard smashing as they fell to the floor and the scent of smoke in the air intensified. You panicked and grabbed onto Donna’s arm for balance, you caught her staring upwards her eyes transfixed on the sight before her. You followed her line of sight and your face dropped when you saw a mountain top standing tall over the small buildings which surrounded you, as black clouds of ash emerged from the top of it, your heart hammered against your ribcage and your grip on Donna involuntarily tightened.
 “Pompeii. We’re in Pompeii and it’s volcano day.” Your throat closed up as you heard the words leave the Doctors lips.
 Without another word the Doctor began sprinting back in the direction you previously came, you and Donna quickly followed on his heel. As all three of you dashed through the busy streets as fast as your feet could carry you, in an attempt to make it back to the TARDIS and escape the city before the volcano erupted, you collided into someone’s chest just as they were running in the opposite direction, your foot got caught on their ankle, causing you to trip and before you knew it you were heading straight for the floor with barely enough time to brace for impact.
 “Watch where you’re-“ You heard a raised voice behind you and cringed as you prepared to be yelled at on top of the humiliation of already tripping flat on your face, but his voice faltered mid-sentence and you cautiously looked over your shoulder to find a man dressed in modern attire staring back at you with a slack jaw and his brows pulled together as his eyes roamed over you. Obviously your modern clothes caught his attention, just as his caught yours and you could practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes, you were sure your expression mirrored his as you studied each other. You pushed yourself to your feet and glanced over his appearance from head to toe. His shoulder length dark hair was windswept indicating that he must have been running for some time, he wore a brown jacket with its collar pulled up, over a plain white dress shirt paired with a thin dark tie and matching straight leg brown trousers and on his feet he wore a pair of smart polished black shoes. He definitely didn’t belong here, you concluded.
 You barely noticed him take a quick glance over your shoulder before he grabbed a firm hold of your wrist and pulled you into a small nook hidden behind one of the market stalls and clamped his hand over your mouth before you could let out a single sound. You glared up at him to try and communicate how aggravated you were, only to find he wasn’t even looking at you as he was too occupied with searching the market with shifty eyes. So you gave up on your glaring in an effort to try and spot what he was looking for, that is when you caught sight of a man who stood out in the crowd, due to the fact that he, too, was dressed in modern attire. You could see he was searching for something, no doubt it was the man who had you pinned against a secluded wall with his hand over your mouth, for your own good you had to ignore the way your stomach flipped ever so slightly by that predicament.
 Once the man on the street was out of sight the stranger slowly removed his hand from your jaw and took a step back to give you some space. You were about to open your mouth to ask him what exactly that was all about when another rumble shook the ground beneath your feet and reminded you of how urgently you needed to catch up with Donna and the Doctor before the entire city was destroyed and you along with it. You had no time to stop and interrogate the stranger with all your questions such as where he came from, how he got here, who was that man on the street and why was he hiding from him and why volcano day in Pompeii was such a popular destination for time travellers. Perhaps you could bring it up with the Doctor later as he seemed to have all the answers. 
 You were about to step foot back onto the street and continue your sprint back to the TARDIS but the stranger had other ideas. He wrapped his large hand around your upper arm and tugged you back against the wall, with no concerns about being gentle and this time he managed to cage you in with both his arms placed on each side of your head.
 “Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was low and intimidating, as he loomed over you threateningly and stared at you from under his dark eyebrows but with adrenaline already coursing through your veins you were feeling bolder than usual and with your mind occupied by the imminent threat of ash clouds and burning hot magma, it would take a lot more than a deep voice and an intimidating stare to scare you into submission right now.
 “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you have somehow failed to notice that you arrived in Pompeii on the same day the volcano famously erupts and I think it goes without saying that I’m not too fond of the idea of being here when it does. So to answer your question I am trying to get back to the time machine that I came here in so I can get out of here before the city is destroyed. I advise you hurry back to yours and do the same.” 
 The man looked taken aback by your abrupt tone and you momentarily allowed a fluttering of pride to fill your chest but it didn’t last long before it was once again drowned out by the heavy feeling of anxiety caused by the life threatening natural disaster which lay just around the corner, both literally and figuratively.
 “The volcano doesn’t erupt until tomorrow,” the man finally explained once he regained his composure, dismissing your concerns. You blinked, contemplating whether or not to believe him. “But more importantly, I couldn’t help but hear the fact that you mentioned you have a time machine.” 
 “Of course. How else would I have got here? Don’t you have one?” Despite your positions you were beginning to feel less threatened by the man as your interaction shifted into feeling more like casual conversation.
 “It’s a long story.” He vaguely answered.
 “What about that man you were hiding from?” You suggested.
 “What about him?”
 “Does he not have a time machine?”
 “It’s a long story.” He repeated and you sighed with the realisation that this conversation was going nowhere fast.
 “Right. Well, it was... interesting to meet you but I need to get back to my aunt and the Doctor before I get left behind. Then I would be in trouble.” Donna wouldn’t leave you behind, you hoped, surely she was worrying about you right now, wondering where you were.
 “I need safe passage on your time machine away from here.” The stranger rushed to explain before you could duck out of his makeshift trap.
 “I mean... technically it’s not mine.” You awkwardly scratched the back of your neck, as you cleared up the misunderstanding.
 “You just said you have a time machine.” He narrowed his eyes as his expression grew dangerous.
 “I have access to one but it’s not mine. It belongs to the Doctor.” You quickly clarified.
 “Then you will take me to this Doctor.” He commanded, leaving no room for negotiations.
 “I don’t even know your name.” You hesitated.
 At this the man paused and finally took a step back once again granting you your personal space.
 “I am Loki of Asgard, God of Mischief and you will answer to my request.” Loki answered as he raised his head with pride and looked down his nose at you.
 There was a momentary beat of silence as you stared at one another before you couldn’t hold it any longer and you let out a snort of laughter.
 “I’m sorry, does that amuse you?” Loki look mortified and you quickly bit your lip to contain your giggles, realising he looked truly offended.
 “Wait, you’re being serious?” You paled.
 His quiet glare was enough to tell you he was not messing around and you looked down and awkwardly cleared your throat. Had you met this man yesterday you probably would’ve thought without a shadow of doubt that he was suffering from delusions of grandeur but today you were in Pompeii in 79 AD so your mind was beginning to open up to new possibilities, one of those being, meeting a God. Stranger things have happened.
 “Okay, Loki, God of mischief...” you began as you introduced yourself following the same format, telling him your name followed by the country you lived in and jokingly adding ‘mortal of existential crises’ at the end.
 “Don’t do that again.” Loki didn’t appear amused.
 ***
 “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.” You panicked when you returned to the exact spot where the Doctor had left the police box only to discover it had vanished, leaving no trace behind.
 “What? What can’t be happening?” Loki asked you from where he stood a few steps behind, his eyes were still shifty as he seemed paranoid about that man he was hiding from finding him.
 “The TARDIS, the time machine... it’s gone.” You could barely believe the words coming out your mouth, they couldn’t have left without you, Donna wouldn’t have left you behind. Unless the Doctor forced her, but no she would’ve fought him, you would never want to get on the wrong side of your auntie, she was a force to be reckoned with and the Doctor was no match, like she had said he was a long string of alien nothing. There had to be an explanation.
 “Are you sure that this is where they left it?” Loki impatiently offered.
 “Yes, I’m certain. It’s a big blue police box, you can’t miss it. He parked it right there.” You gestured to the empty corner with both your arms, before you brought one of your hands to your forehead while the other rested on your hip.
 “Excuse me.” You jumped when you felt a tap on your shoulder and turned around to find an older man with a head full of curly hair stood behind you. “I couldn’t help but overhear you’re looking for a blue box.”
 “Yes, it was stood right there,” you pointed behind you. “Did you see it?” 
 “I sold it. A young couple came looking for it not too long ago, I sent them to Old Caecilius’ villa on Foss Street, he’s the one who bought it, if you’re quick you might be able to catch them, I think they might try to steal it.”
 “Steal it? You can’t steal something that already belongs to you!” You complained.
 “Well, it belongs to Caecilius now, don’t it? After all he bought it off me fair and square.” The man haggled and you finally noticed that he was speaking with a rough cockney accent which was very fitting with his sleazy disposition, presumably the work of the TARDIS’ automatic translations, this offered you the peace of mind that it was still here along with Donna and the Doctor.
 “It wasn’t yours to sell!” You argued in return.
 “It was on my patch, weren’t it?” 
 You growled, ready to argue back but Loki quickly stepped in.
 “If you would be so kind as to point us in the direction of Foss Street and we will be on our way.” Loki charmed the older man with a polite smile and your jaw dropped at the contrast to the abrupt and arrogant attitude he had treated you with since your encounter began. 
 “Straight up there, big villa, can’t miss it.” He pointed to the street behind Loki.
 “Thank you, sir.” Loki slightly nodded his head before before he took a hold of the back of the shirt near the small of your back and began tugging you towards Foss Street, while you stared at him speechless.
 “What?” He finally snapped when you didn’t take your eyes off him.
 “What was that?” You asked as you shrugged his hold off your shirt.
 “What was what?” 
 “Back there,” you gestured behind you with your hand. “‘If you would be so kind... thank you, sir.’ What possessed you? You’ve been nothing but rude since I met you.” 
 “You we’re doing nothing but wasting my time by engaging in an argument with him and being polite was the quickest way to get the answer I needed so I could be on my way.” He curtly answered, never once meeting your gaze as he kept a vigilant eye on his surroundings.
 “Why is that man looking for you?” You wondered out loud a few moments later, finding his constant surveillance of the surrounding area concerning. If you were going to help this man escape, undoubtedly you had a right to know what you were helping him run from. 
 “He wants to erase my existence.” He answered so bluntly it stunted to silence for a moment.
 “Why?” You finally asked.
 “I’m a glitch in the timeline, I’m not supposed to be here.” He admitted but you were lost.
 “What does that mean?”
 “It’s a-“
 “Long story.” You rolled your eyes but you meant no harm, Loki realised, when he fixed you with a hash glare which softened when he saw your teasing smile.
 Your eyes quickly snapped away from Loki’s when you heard your name being called and found Donna running towards you, you left Loki to run over to her and she pulled you into a bone crushing hug once she finally reached you.
 “I thought you had left without me.” You admitted, as you snuggled into her embrace, all your emotions of the day finally overwhelmed you and you felt moisture building at the rim of your eyes. 
 “I’d never leave you behind, besides your mother would kill me if I let anything happen to you.” She assured you with a small laugh, she wasn’t exaggerating. “But where did you go? You vanished into thin air.” 
 You were about to answer her when her eyes fell on Loki who was quietly stood behind you with his hands resting in the pockets of his pants, his modern attire immediately making him standout to Donna as he did to you when you first laid your eyes on him.
 “Who’s this?” She asked, her interest clearly peaked.
 You invited Loki over by extending your arm and he stepped up beside you.
 “Loki, this is my auntie Donna. Donna, this is Loki. I crashed into him while we were running back to the TARDIS, he’s the reason I fell behind.” You glared at him accusingly and he rolled his eyes.
 “You found your very own time traveller?” Donna looked at you with genuine excitement, obviously putting two and two together from his outfit.
 “I am a God.” Loki narrowed his eyes, frustrated at his status being reduced to ‘someone’s time traveller’
 Just like you had, Donna burst into laughter and you awkwardly pulled your lips together while you waited for her to realise he was being serious.
 “He’s a bit full of himself but at least he’s easy on the eye.” Donna did a terrible job of trying to subtly whisper in your ear and you massaged your eyebrows in embarrassment.
 “I heard that.” Loki sighed exasperatedly, already finding your aunties lack of filter tedious.
 “Come on, let’s get you inside. It’s getting dark.” Donna put her arm around you and guided you into the villa, in an effort to run away from Loki’s glare. Loki followed a few paces behind the pair of you and he glanced over his shoulder one last time before he stepped through the entrance to the villa.
  ***
  As soon as you entered the villa you could see how grand it was compared to the other houses on the streets of Pompeii, it was obvious that the family who lived here were well to do. Everywhere you looked all you could see was marble, it covered the walls and floors and the room was decorated with various marble sculptures and other art pieces, Caecilius was clearly a collector. Sculpted pillars ran through the room, supporting the high ceilings and in the very centre of the room there was fountain. You thought it was a shame that it would all be buried under rocks and fire within less than 24 hours, but you tried to let yourself think too much about it as Donna introduced you to Caecilius, the man who bought the Doctors TARDIS, which you noticed was stood in the far right corner of the room, and Metella his wife, she explained that they also had two teenagers, a daughter, Evelina but she was sleeping and a son, Quintus, who was currently out with the Doctor.
 “The Doctor isn’t here? But we’re meant to be leaving.” You asked, your voice slightly raised in pitch due to your panic.
 “Something came up. Strange things have been happening, he just wants to make sure nothing untoward is going on.” Donna answered.
 “This Doctor...” Loki stepped forward. “He will return soon, yes? I am in quite the rush to leave.”
 “You’re coming with us?” Donna looked between you and Loki for an answer.
 “Yes.” He answered
 “I mean, if it’s okay with the Doctor.” You answered at the same time.
 Without warning the whole villa began to shake as tremors ran through the floor again, Caecilius and Metella held onto their valuables to stop them from smashing against the ground, it reminded you of the scene from Mary Poppin’s where Mrs Banks and the maids cling onto the furniture when the admiral sets off his cannon. You noticed that this time the tremors felt different, they weren’t continuous, they came one after another mimicking the rhythm of footsteps. Before you could question it, the Doctor came running loudly into the room just in time. A teenage boy, presumably Caecilius’ son, Quintus, followed close behind him.
 “Get out! All of you! Get out!” 
 “Doctor! What is it?” Donna yelled, she and the Doctor were holding onto each other for stability and that’s when you realised you had instinctively held onto Loki after the tremors started and he was holding onto you, the both of you stepped away from each other as soon as you realised. 
 “I think we’re being followed!” The Doctor explained, before his eyes landed on Loki and he took in his appearance.
 “Who are you?” 
 “Loki of Asgard-“ Loki started.
 “The God of Mischief?” The Doctor finished, his pitch raised several octaves as his face scrunched up in confusion.
 “Hold on, for real?” Donna looked between Loki and the Doctor, now realising Loki was serious about being a God earlier and in normal circumstances you would have face palmed.
 “You’re not supposed to be here.” The Doctor thought out loud and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a device the size of a pen and pointed it at Loki, the tip glowed blue and it emitted a high pitched bleeping sound as he scanned it over his body.
 “What is that?” Loki quickly jumped back, dodging the device in the Doctors hand and with a flash of emerald light he was holding a dagger in his hand, that appeared out of nowhere, causing you to gasp and Donna quickly pulled you to her side.
 “It is a sonic screwdriver.” The Doctor answered distractedly, not even noticing the weapon in Loki’s hand as he closely inspected the device with furrowed brows and mumbled something about not being able to get clear readings, but before he could allow himself to get too concerned over the matter, you were all reminded of the bigger problem by the sound of a loud clatter which came from inside the room, it was caused by the metal grid flying off one of the square grills.
 “Just get out!” The Doctor yelled at you all again, as he flapped his arms towards the doors but you were frozen to the spot, you could hear a sinister growling from beneath the floor, there was definitely something alive down there and from the cracks that were beginning to form around the grill, it was obviously trying to break out.
 Gradually a large creature made of magma and stone began to rise out of the ground, until it stood to its full height of about eight foot. 
 “The Gods are with us.” Evelina, Caecilius’ daughter, cried as she entered the room and her mother wrapped a protective arm around her.
 “That is no God! I am the only God present.” Loki seethed in offence.
 “Water, we need water. Quintus, Donna, all of you, get water!” The Doctor yelled above the growls which came from the threatening creature. 
 You were about to follow Quintus and Donna out of the room as they rushed to get buckets of water like the Doctor instructed, but Loki grabbed hold of your wrist and kept you by his side. You looked at him and pulled your brows together confused by his actions, but he offered you no explanation as he closely watched the beast which stood high above all of you.
 “Talk to me, that’s all I want! Talk to me! Just tell me who you are.” The Doctor cautiously approached the tempered creature, with his arms held out before him. “Don’t hurt these people.” He continued to try and reason with it, while it just continued to growl and snarl aggressively at him. 
 Quickly Quintus came rushing into the room with a bucket of water and threw it over the beast. A loud hissing could be heard, as steam evaporated around it, and the Doctor shielded Quintus with his own body as he backed him away from the creature which began to crumble to the floor into a heap of rocks.
 “Like I said, not a God.” Loki smugly remarked to no one in particular. 
 “What was it?” Caecilius shouted at the Doctor, quickly learning that he was usually the one with all the answers.
 “Carapace of stone, held together by internal magma, not too difficult to stop but I reckon that was just a foot soldier. Still... If there are aliens at work in Pompeii, it’s a good thing we stayed.” The Doctor pondered aloud. 
 “Excuse me, aliens?” Loki stepped forward.
 “Oh yes, I still haven’t figured out what you’re doing here.” The Doctor drew his focus back to the God, clearly intrigued by his presence.
 “It doesn’t matter why I am here, I only wish to leave.” Loki answered with a scowl.
 “Why don’t you just leave the same way you got here.” The Doctor challenged with raised brows.
 “I cannot.” 
 “Why not?”
 As you observed the exchange you saw Loki falter and his eyes cast downwards.
 “It would result in my death.” He answered truthfully.
 The Doctor suddenly looked upon Loki with eyes that seemed filled with familiarity and a hint of sympathy. 
 “You remind me of an old friend of mine, I think you would’ve liked him,” he paused as if imagining it. “Actually, perhaps not… your personalities would’ve probably clashed.” The Doctor digressed. “Since you’re not supposed to be here you’re welcome to join us on the TARDIS.”
 Loki’s brows shot up, as he seemed genuinely surprised that the Doctor agreed to let him travel on the TARDIS. 
 “We should be on our way, it will not be long before,” Loki glanced at Caecilius and his family who were all comforting each other after the ordeal they just witnessed, without wanting to mention the volcano out loud in case they might overhear he resorted to miming an explosion with is hands while adding a “boom” sound effect by blowing air through saliva at the back of his throat.
 “Not just yet, I need to- Donna?” The Doctor paused looking around the room in search of Donna and you began looking around for her too but she was nowhere to be found. “When did you last see her?” The Doctor looked at you.
 “She ran out when you asked for water, I didn’t realise she hadn’t returned.” You scolded yourself for not focusing, you should have noticed she wasn’t there.
 “Donna!” The Doctor shouted at the top of his lungs, as he began to run out into the street but before he could leave Evelina stopped him timidly.
 “I saw members of the Sibylline Sisterhood take her while you were confronting the beast.” She quietly confessed.
 “The who?” You questioned, completely confused, while the Doctor grumbled under his breath wasting no more time before he dashed out the door and you were quick to follow after him. Behind you, you heard Loki call your name as he followed after, but you didn’t listen, Donna had been taken and she needed your help.
  ***
  When you sneaked into the temple between the Doctor and Loki, who had caught up to you halfway, and saw Donna bound to a slab of stone, surrounded by a group of women dressed in red robes and one of them holding a dagger above her head ready to plunge it into your aunties chest, you were ready to attack, but the Doctor held you back before you could do anything rash and silent put a finger to his own lips to signal for you to keep quiet, his eyes silently assured you he had a plan.
 “Let me go!” You heard Donna yell above the voice of the woman who held the dagger. The Doctor quietly made his way across the room, ready to intervene at any moment while you stayed by Loki’s side near the back of the room.
 “This prattling voice will cease forever!” The woman yelled as she began to lower the dagger towards Donna.
 “Oh, that will be the day.” The Doctor casually commented, causing all the women around Donna to gasp in shock, while your auntie sent the Doctor and you a wide smile when she realised you had all come to save her.
 “No man is allowed in the Temple of Sibyl.” The woman who was clearly the leader of the group warned the Doctor, before her eyes also shifted to Loki.
 “Well, that’s alright, just us girls.” The Doctor joked as he made his way towards the women, while in the corner of your eye you caught a glimmer of green light only to do a double take when you found Loki had transformed into a woman.
 She sent you a proud smirk as you gaped at her with a slack jaw, your face full of confusion and astonishment.
 You turned your head back to Donna and the Doctor when you heard the sound of his sonic screwdriver, which he held above her restraints and they immediately fell lose, freeing her bound wrists.
 “I have got to get one of those.” Loki commented, her voice sounded more feminine to match her changed appearance, but it still kept that low and slightly intimidating tone.
 As soon as Donna was free she came running over to you and you gave each other a hug, when she pulled back her eyes were on Loki.
 “You’ve changed.” She stated the obvious as her eyes dragged up and down Loki’s new form.
 “I am respecting the sisters temple.” Loki raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest as she answered.
 “Respecting the sisters temple?” Donna sounded exasperated. “They just tried to kill me!” 
 “I saw.” Loki offered no concern.
 “I’m just glad you’re safe now.” You quickly interjected before the argument escalated, you put your hand on Donna’s shoulder and moved yourself between the pair while you sent Loki a disapproving stare.
 “Show me this man!” A voice echoed through the temple, startling you and drawing your attention back to the Doctor and the sisters. Immediately they all turned and fell to their knees and bowed their heads.
 “They dare kneel before another being whilst in the presence of a God?” Loki seethed as her brows cast a shadow over her eyes.
 “And after you respected their temple n all.” Donna poked from beside you, feigning sympathy.
 You placed a hand on Loki’s chest to hold her back when you heard her grumble under her breath.
 “High Priestess, the stranger would defy us.” The leader spoke, being the only sister left standing.
 “Let me see. This one is different. He carries starlight in his wake.” The voice echoed again, coming from behind a set of sheer drapes at the top of the temple.
 “Where do these words of wisdom come from?” The Doctor asked as he approached the voice.
 “The Gods whisper to me.” It replied.
 “If they’re hearing voices, it’s not mine.” Loki raised her hands innocently.
 “Might I beg audiences? Look upon the High Priestess?” The Doctor suddenly requested and the sheer drapes slowly pulled back to reveal a woman made of stone sat upon a bed.
 You watched closely as the Doctor inspected the Priestess’ condition, and inquired her about it to try and figure out the cause.
 “The people of Pompeii are turning to stone before the volcano erupts.” The Doctor observed. 
 “This word... this volcano... what is that?” 
 “More to the point, why don’t you know about it? Who are you?”
 “High Priestess of the Sibylline!” 
 “No, I’m talking to the creature inside of you. I demand you tell me who you are!” The Doctor commanded.
 “We... are... awakening!” The Priestess spoke, but her voice had suddenly deepened and multiplied, she sounded possessed.
 “The voice of the Gods!” The leader of the sisters cried, before those who were on their knees before the Priestess began repeatedly chanting ‘words of wisdom, words of power...’ your eyes widened at the scene before you, Donna’s jaw was slack with shock, while Loki just rolled her eyes and appeared bored.
 “We... are... rising!” The possessed voice of the Priestess grew louder as she rose from the bed and stepped toward the Doctor.
 “Tell... me... your name!” He yelled back, mirroring her tone.
 “Pyrovile!” The voice inside the Priestess roared.
 “Pyrovile, pyrovile, pyrovile...” The sisters chanted.
 “And the breath of a Pyrovile will incinerate you, Doctor.” The possessed Priestess threatened.
 “I warn you I’m armed!” The Doctor yelled as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
 “Is that... a water gun?” Loki squinted her eyes at the yellow plastic toy the Doctor held in his fist.
 You heard your name yelled by the Doctor as he instructed you and Donna to lift the grid off one of the grills, similar to the one the monster smashed through in Caecilius’ home.
 Without hesitation you followed Donna over to the grill and you both hooked your fingers into the holes on each side and attempted to lift it, but it slipped from your fingers since you weren’t expecting it to be so heavy and it crashed back into place. Loki quickly joined you and Donna to offer a helping hand and together the three of you lifted the heavy iron grid, while the Doctor continued to argue with the Priestess behind you.
 “Got it!” Donna yelled at the Doctor, once the grid was completed removed.
 “Now get down!” The Doctor quickly shouted back, and you looked down into the hole in the ground which hot steam was rising out of.
 “What, down there?” You asked, wondering if the Doctor had lost his mind.
 “Yes, down there!” 
 “Sisters, I see into his mind, the weapon is harmless!” The leader of the sisters yelled.
 “Yeah, but it’s gotta sting.” The Doctor shrugged before he began squirting water at the Priestess who groaned in pain as steam evaporated from where the squirts of water hit her stone surface and she stumbled backwards.
 “Get down there!” He repeated louder when he saw none of you had yet made a move to jump into the hole.
 Donna jumped in first.
 “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Loki spoke, her eyes almost looking spooked as she glanced down at the steaming hole.
 “It’s either climb in there or stay here and wait for the volcano. Your choice.” The Doctor told Loki as he urged you to climb in next.
 Sensing Loki’s anxiety you offered her an assuring nod. “You’ll be okay, look watch me and then follow right after.” 
 Once you joined Donna you found yourself in an underground cave, you could instantly feel the change in the temperature as the air was thick with heat. You looked back up through the hole to find Loki looking down at you.
 “See, perfectly safe.” You assured her.
 Hesitantly Loki climbed into the hole and you helped her down, once both her feet were on the ground she swayed and stumbled as if she was about to faint but you caught her with your arm around her waist and helped her regain her balance. She held your shoulders and shook her head and forcibly kept her eyes wide open before she looked back at you, suddenly aware of how close you were.
 “Are you okay?” You asked, concerned by her behaviour.
 A green light shimmered over her body and he returned to the form you had met him in, you noticed he instantly grew taller and you needed to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact, your arm was still wrapped around his waist but it was no longer holding him up as he was supporting his own weight now although you could still feel his body swaying slightly as it was pressed against yours.
 “I’m fine.” He answered curtly, before taking a step back to put some distance between the two of you.
 “This way!” The Doctor led as soon as he jumped into the cave.
 “Where are we going now?” Donna sighed.
 “Into the volcano.” The Doctor answered as if it were obvious.
 You failed to notice Loki’s face fill with dread beside you.
 “No way.” Donna challenged.
 “Yes way.” The Doctor smiled as he twirled the water gun around his finger.
 “Wait, for once I agree with her. We can’t go into the volcano. It could be dangerous.” Loki argued before quickly adding, “for mortals.”
 “It will be fine, it doesn’t erupt for another few hours yet.” The Doctor dismissed. “Now, come on!”
 Before anyone else could protest he had already turned on his heel and began leading the way through the cave, Donna followed behind him, you followed behind her and Loki was at the back.
 As you followed Donna and the Doctor through the winding path of the cave, you kept taking quick glances over your shoulder to check on Loki and you grew increasingly concerned as his condition appeared to deteriorate each time you looked. The further you walked into the cave, the hotter and thicker the air became, you were surprised to find Loki seemed to be the one who was most affected by the conditions out of all of you. While your breathing had become heavy and a thin layer of sweat coated your skin, sweat literally dripped from Loki’s forehead, he started using the walls of the cave to hold himself up as his legs barely carried him, the skin around his eyes grew darker and you could hear him straining on each breath. 
 Once you reached inside the volcano Loki rested his back against the wall and began to sink to the floor, his chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to shrug off his jacket, his white shirt clung to his body due to his sweat and he attempted to loosened his tie with trembling hands.
 “Doctor!” You called, as you rushed over to Loki who looked as though he was about to pass out. The Doctor quickly joined your side, as did Donna once her eyes fell on Loki’s condition.
 “What happened?” He asked you urgently.
 “I... I don’t know, he hasn’t been right ever since he entered the cave.” You explained.
 “Loki! Loki, can you hear me?” The Doctor tried, he gently tapped Loki’s cheek but his head just lulled to the side and he struggled to keep his eyes open as he mumble some incoherent in a cracked voice.
 The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver and began scanning it over Loki.
 “That’s not possible.” You heard the Doctor whisper to himself as he looked over the readings, he quickly gave Loki another scan and read them again and his face squished up in pure confusion.
 “What is it?” You urged him.
 “He’s... he’s Jotun?” The Doctor answered while sounding more like he was asking a question.
 “What’s a Jotun when it’s at home?” Donna asked.
 “He isn’t Asgardian at all, magic is suppressing his true form. He’s from Jotunheim, a frost plant inhabited by Jotuns, they aren’t designed to withstand heat of such temperatures as this. We need to get him out of here.” The Doctor quickly explained as he crouched down to scoop a barely conscious Loki into his arms and held him bridal style, once he knew he was secure he began running further into the volcano, leaving both you and Donna trailing behind after him.
 You all stopped in your tracks when you found more of the giant stone beasts roaming around inside the volcano. 
 “There’s tons of them.” Donna gasped. “You better hurry up and think of something, Rocky 4’s on its way.”
 “There’s an escape pod!” The Doctor noticed.
 “Maybe... it erupts, and they launch themselves back into space or something?” Donna offered, since obviously the escape pod belonged to the stone creatures which were currently invading Pompeii.
 “Oh, it’s worse than that.” The Doctor whispered.
 “How could it be worse?” You frowned.
 “Heathens!” You heard a man cry. “Defile us! They would desecrate your temple, My Lord Gods!” 
 “Come on.” The Doctor started running towards the escape pod, which looked like a huge hollow boulder with circuits inside.
 “We can’t go in!” Donna shouted after him.
 “Well, we can’t go back.”
 “Crush them! Burn them!” The man who you now noticed was stood on top of some rocks looking down at you as you tried to escape.
 A giant monster blocked your path to the escape pod and growled causing you all to slide to a stop.
 “Get the water gun, it’s tucked into the back of my pants!” The Doctor called your name, unable to get it himself as he was still holding an unconscious Loki in his arms. You wasted no time reaching for the water gun and squirted it directly at the creature and it stumbled back with a groan easily allowing you all enough time to rush past and continue your dash towards the escape pod.
 “There is nowhere to run!” The man screamed.
 “No. But if I might beg the wisdom of the Gods, before we perish, once this new race of creatures is complete, then what?” The Doctor yelled up to the man.
 “My masters will follow the example of Rome itself. There is heat enough in this world for a new species to rise.” 
 “Yeah, I should warn you, it’s 70% water out there.” The Doctor explained, nodding his head to the world which lay beyond the mountain.
 “Water can boil, and everything will burn!” The mad man argued.
 “Then the whole planet is at stake.” The Doctor concluded to himself. “Thank you. That’s all I needed to know.” 
 He quickly turned and gently lowered Loki to the floor of the escape pod then ushered both you and Donna inside before he squeezed in as well and used his sonic to seal the door shut.
 It was cramped inside of the small escape pod with the four of you squashed inside together, once you got inside you immediately crouched down beside Loki to check on his condition.
 “Loki, can you hear me?” You gently nudged his shoulder. His eyes fluttered slightly but he failed to open them and he let out a weak groan, but you were just relieved that he was still conscious. 
 You were conscious of the fact that inside the cramped space of the escape pod it felt even hotter, even you were starting to feel faint. You were still holding the water pistol in your hand and had an idea. You took a gentle hold of Loki’s chin in your free hand and encouraged his mouth open, in his weak state he didn’t fight you, and you pulled the trigger of the toy gun to spray water into his mouth. Once he felt the cool liquid hit his tongue he gladly accepted it as it provided him a little relief from the heat. Loki offered you a small grunt as thanks.
 “See? The energy converter takes the lava, uses the power to create a fusion matrix, which welds the Pyrovile to human. Now it’s complete, they can convert millions.” You heard the Doctor explaining how the Pyrovile planned to take over the human race to Donna, sounding completely horrified.
 “Can’t you change it? With these controls?” Donna tried, her voice filled with panic.
 “I can invert the system, set off the volcano, and blow them up, yes. But that’s the choice, Donna. It’s Pompeii or the world.” The Doctor revealed the heavy decision you were all faced with.
 “Oh my god.” Donna paled.
 “If Pompeii is destroyed then it’s not just history, it’s me. It was always meant to be me, I make it happen.” The Doctor realised. “Push this leaver and it’s over. 20,000 people.” 
 The pod fell silent as the Doctor froze with his hands held over the leaver, Donna watched him with tears building in her eyes and you looked at Loki who was barely unconscious and you made your choice.
You used the wall to push yourself back up to your feet and you stepped between Donna and the Doctor. You placed your trembling hands over the Doctors. You looked to your auntie when she whispered your name and saw the tears brimming out of her eyes your chest felt heavy. At first you thought she was going to talk you out of it but when you felt her hand rest on top of yours you couldn’t control the tears that threatened to fall from your eyes as well. She gave you a final nod and then you knew you could do it, all three of you pushed down the leaver and within seconds the entire pod was shaking, you braced yourself against the wall, careful not to trample over Loki and prepared yourself for whatever fate awaited you.
 Your body got flung around as you were pretty sure that the pod you were in was currently flying through the air, you could only pray you would survive the crash landing. A force pushed you to the ground and you landed on top of Loki’s chest, while the Doctor fell down beside you and Donna miraculously remained the only one standing. Your eyes snapped open when you felt the first breeze of fresh air brush your cheek and you saw the Doctor crawling out the pod. You felt hands wrap around your upper arms and you looked up to find Donna helping you to your feet and you both stumbled out the pod on shaking legs, while the Doctor lifted Loki back into his arms and you noticed that he had sustained an injury to his head during the escape.
 You didn’t have much time to do anything other than run when you noticed the heavy cloud of ash quickly heading straight for you and all three of you began running as fast as your legs could carry you, hoping you could make it to the city and into the TARDIS before it was too late.
 You and Donna held onto each other’s hands as you ran ahead of the Doctor who was slowed down by the extra weight of Loki, but he still managed to run pretty fast. You weren’t far from the city when the thick ash blocked out the light of the sun and plunged the city into darkness, though it was daytime it felt like night as you raced through the streets, trying to remember the direction to Caecilius’ villa. 
 Ash fell down from the sky like snow as the people of the town scrambled in different directions in attempts to make it out of the city alive, you could hear nothing but their cries and the thunderous sound of the volcano as it felt like the whole world was crumbling around you.
 As Caecilius’ villa came into view you pushed yourself to go even faster and you looked over your shoulder to find the Doctor not too far behind with Loki still in his arms, his injured head fell limp over the crook of the Doctors arm, revealing his long neck and prominent adam’s apple and dread struck through you, you had to remind yourself he was only unconscious.
 You pushed through the doors of Caecilius’ villa and headed straight towards the TARDIS but the sound of whimpering stopped you in your tracks, you looked to find Caecilius and his family crowded together on the floor, holding on tight to one another as they cried. 
 “God save us, Doctor!” Caecilius begged the Doctor when he came running in behind you, and he stopped beside you and Donna for a moment as you all looked at the family, you thought the Doctor would encourage them all to get on board his TARDIS but eventually he turned away kept running towards his TARDIS in the corner of the room.
 “No! Doctor, you can’t!” Donna called after him, you silently looked between the Doctor and the family, as he kicked the TARDIS door open with his foot and disappeared inside with Loki. You pushed away the feeling of guilt which fell heavy on your chest as you followed after the Doctor into the TARDIS.
 “Donna!” You pleaded with her when she remained frozen in place, she couldn’t look away from Caecilius and his family as they looked straight back at her, silently begging her to save them. The sound of one of the windows smashing through snapped Donna back into reality and she looked back at you before she hesitantly made her way towards the TARDIS, leaving the family behind. 
 When you entered the TARDIS, you saw the Doctor had placed Loki down onto the floor while he operated the console, preparing the TARDIS to leave. You rushed over to Loki and immediately checked his pulse and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when you found it still beating. 
 “You can’t just leave them!” You heard Donna yell as soon as she entered the TARDIS but you couldn’t lift your eyes from Loki, looking over his pale face and hovering your hand over the injury on his head, drops of blood had ran down the side of his sharp cheek and matted into part of his hair.
 “Don’t you think I’ve done enough? History’s back in place and everyone dies.” You heard the Doctor answer, as you checked over Loki for anymore injuries. 
 “You’ve got to go back. Doctor, I am telling you, take this thing back!” Donna demanded.
 The TARDIS shuddered and your whole body jerked letting you know the Doctor had sent it into flight, once the tremors subsided, the ship fell silent.
 “It’s not fair.” Donna whispered.
 “No, it’s not.” The Doctor agreed.
 “But your own planet. It burned.” Donna cried, and you finally looked up, you didn’t know what your auntie was referring to but you looked at the Doctor with sympathy. It suddenly made sense why he froze when it came to pushing the leaver, if he had already watched his own planet suffer a similar fate. 
 “That’s just it. Don’t you see, Donna? Can’t you understand? If I could go back and save them then I would, but I can’t. I can never go back. I can’t, I just can’t, I can’t.” His voice broke.
 “Just someone. Please.” Donna bargained. “Not the whole town. Just save someone.” 
 “You saved him,” you spoke, as you looked at Loki, who was laid out in front of you. “You can save them too.”
  ***
 The Doctor had returned to Pompeii and saved Caecilius and his family, he and Donna were currently outside bidding them fair well where the Doctor had safely dropped them off just outside of Rome, while you stayed inside the TARDIS by Loki’s side waiting for him to regain consciousness.
 You had cradled his head and moved so you could cushion it against your lap, since you imagined his head will already be hurting from the injury it wouldn’t be very comfortable for him to rest it against the hard floor of the TARDIS. 
 The first sign of Loki regaining consciousness was his eyebrows drawing together as a groan slipped out between his lips, no doubt quickly becoming aware of the pain in his head. His eyelashes fluttered against the top of his ash covered cheeks before his eyes slowly blinked open and the first thing he saw was your face above his.
 “Hi,” you began, unsure of what else to say.
 You barely leaned back in time to avoid his head colliding with yours as he suddenly shot up, so he was sitting up straight on the floor with his legs still lying out in front of him. This appeared to make his head rush as he moaned and cradled his head in the palms. You slowly shuffled up to him so you were at his side, careful not to startle him, you hesitantly placed your hand on his strong shoulder.
 “It’s okay, you’re safe.” You assured him softly.
 He lifted his face to look at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quiet put your finger on. 
 “Where are we?” He asked you, for the first time since you met him his voice sounded gentle.
 “The TARDIS.” You answered him, just as gently.
 He let his eyes roam over the room, taking in his surroundings, before they finally landed back on you. “Am I severely concussed or is this thing bigger on the inside?” 
 You laughed softly. 
 “It’s bigger on the inside.” You confirmed. “Don’t ask me how, I have no idea how it works, if you’d like to know I’d recommend asking the Doctor.”
 Loki nodded with a slight smile as his eyes fell to his lap and you both stayed like that for a moment, neither of you saying anything.
 “Thank you.” Loki eventually broke the silence.
 “What?” Your head shot up, afraid you had misheard him.
 Loki avoided your eyes and his dark hair shadowed most of his face, protecting him from your gaze as he continued.
 “For what you did in the volcano and for...” he cleared his throat, “for the lack of a better word... saving me, I guess.” 
 “I mean to be fair the Doctor did most of the heavy lifting.” You humbly joked.
 “Where is he anyway?” Loki asked, since he noticed it was only you and him. “Isn’t he the pilot of this thing?”
 “He’s just outside with Donna saying goodbye to Caecilius and his family, he dropped them off safely just outside of Rome.” You don’t know why your chest felt heavy as you asked Loki your next question, perhaps it was due to the fact that you had just started warming to his company and he would be leaving soon. “So do you know where you would like the Doctor to drop you off?
 Loki seemed stumped by your question, as if he hadn’t gave where he was going much consideration, instead he was more focused on just escaping Pompeii rather than where he was escaping to. When some time passed and had yet to answer, you decided to break the silence.
 “I mean, if you’re not sure where you want to go, you could always stay with us.” You offered, it was now your turn to avoid his eyes as he looked at you with as much shock as you had when he thanked you.
 “You think the Doctor would be okay with that?” Loki worried.
 “Sure, why wouldn’t he?” You now looked up at him with your brows pulled together.
 Loki opened his mouth about to answer you when he realised, you didn’t know him, you didn’t know any of his previous actions, on Asgard, on Jotunheim and on your very own planet. Then it crossed his mind, he didn’t know what year you were from, in his time it had been about a week since he attacked New York, he imagined his face would have been all over every media outlet after the attack but you hadn’t even recognised him when you first ran into each other.
 “What year are you from?” Loki quickly inquired out of nowhere and you were a bit confused by the random question.
 “2008.” You answered him anyway.
 4 years before he first stepped foot on midgard, 4 years before he attacked New York under Thanos’ control, 4 years before you would know him as the man who tried to take over your planet and rule the human race. Right now you only knew him as the time travelling God of mischief who you ran into while you were both running for your lives. He had anonymity with you, you offered the perfect opportunity for him to start a fresh. He could join you on the TARDIS for a while, with your auntie and the Doctor plus he imagined it would only make it harder for the TVA to find him if he was constantly moving through time and space.
 “I would like that.” Loki confessed.
 “To stay?” You asked hopefully, just to make sure you weren’t misinterpreting him.
 When Loki nodded you couldn’t hold back the smile that took over your whole face, you we’re excited to spend more time with Loki, learn more about him and explore all of time and space with the God of mischief.
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ronans-sepiaphotograph · 4 years ago
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Since @andrews-jort-loving-pipe-dream made the post of Andrew having hobbies and it's been a month that these have been sitting in my drafts so here you go-
Andrew and embroidery:
It's one of their sessions when Andrew eyes the plate of his favourite chocolate chip cookies and hot cocoa and Bee sitting with her eyes gleaming. Uh oh something is up, is what he says to himself.
"Come on Bee, say it" "what makes you think I want to say something?" "Bee" "well you got me"
She doesn't get to the point in the next half an hour or so. Yes, he's happy Bee. Yes, he did not forget to feed the cats. Yes, he still hates Neil. Yes, he talks about his feelings sometimes.
"Andrew, what do you think about doing something in your past time?" "I spend my past time being perfectly productive" "Watching Bake off while eating ice cream doesn't really count" "Fine, what proposition do you have?" "Embroidery" "what the fuck?"
Bee chuckles lightly as she hands him a package. There's various types of needles and colourful threads and a few pieces of cloth.
"what am I supposed to do with this?" "Sew things, whatever you like" "and who'll teach me?" "That's upto you. But I think it will help, and you can learn and knit whenever you feel anxious or not okay. Give it a try?" "Fine" "and you give the things you make to me or Neil or any of your foxes" "they're not my foxes" "but they call you theirs, don't they?"
Andrew doesn't know what to say so he just pops a cookie into his mouth, and eyes the box of colourful stuff Bee handed him. It's too much colour and he hates it already but he supposes he can try.
Bee wishes him good luck and Andrew leaves. If he Google's embroidery tutorials on YouTube while sitting in the Maserati, nobody has to know.
He secretly begins practising. And it's not hard because he lives alone and it's Neil's last year at Palmetto. But they visit each other often.
He's frustrated initially because the needle hole is so goddamn small and half the time when he's trying to sew he's just stabbing himself with the needle. It takes him a good two weeks when he can comfortably sew with a needle and threads. He's out of the cloth Bee gave him and he doesn't know anything about embroidery or whatever.
So he steals one of Neil's hoodies when he's visiting one time. Neil won't notice anyway because he wears Andrew's clothes most of the times. Andrew latches the chest of the hoodie into the wooden ring and locks it before turning to his box.
It's an old wooden box he's had for a while, which is currently filled with threats and some beads and needles, all neatly arranged. He had threads in a ton of colours but somehow he likes it.
He picks up the white, grey and pink and grabs a pen and draws rabbit ears on the hoodie. He secretly smiles to himself. He begins to sew and it's grey and white patched rabbit ears with pink in the centre. It looks entirely adorable. He's quite proud of it. He sends Bee a picture before keeping everything away.
He strategically nonchalantly keeps the hoodie in their room so Neil will pick it up.
He obviously does. He's beaming and smiling so wide when he sees the hoodie and the little rabbit ears on it.
"Andrew, did you learn to embroider?" "No" "Andrew" "yes" "I love it, they're adorable" "shut the fuck up"
Neil gives him a thank you kiss. Fucking junkie.
He now wears the hoodie most of the time. Andrew is so annoyed after a week or so he just grabs a couple more of his hoodies and attacks them with his needles and threads.
Soon, a key and then a fox and then a cat appear on Neil's hoodies. Neil can't stop beaming with happiness after Andrew shoves them in his face. Neil looks so happy, Andrew hates him more.
"you should do it more it's really pretty. We should get matching ones" "324% junkie"
He does not oppose the idea.
Renee is so proud of him when he tells her that he's doing this. She tells him to make patches and put pins on them so he can put them anywhere. He just hums in agreement.
After a month, he has a lot of patches made. He gives Bee a few, who instantly pins one of the smaller ones to her dress (it's a bumblebee) and one to her bag and neatly keeps away the others.
He makes little fox faces all while hating the foxes as he knits them aggressively. He has to remake one because it's eyes weren't placed properly.
The foxes meet at Abby's the following Thanksgiving and Andrew drops small packages in various places throughout the house, with everyone's name on the nearly wrapped brown bag.
It's like a game because he literally drops them anywhere. Kevin finds his on the lawn, Matt and Dan's is in the trunk of Matt's car (he finds it two hours later), Allison's in her bag and she searches the whole house because she's the last one who hasn't found hers. Aaron finds his in his coat and so on.
They all collectively beam at Andrew when Wymack tells them who they're from. Of course Bee had to tell her dear friend that Andrew embroidered now. He doesn't mind actually.
All of them get a common fox face and then other things that definitely did not remind Andrew of them. They absolutely geek over each other's patches
"Ally you got a heel" "And Boyd got boxing gloves" "And Kevin got a queen pawn"
He makes them their respective pride flags
Andrew hates them the most that evening.
They all post on their social media about their patches being pinned. Allison's dress, Dan's jacket, Matt's Bandana, Kevin's travel bag, Nicky's refrigerator (he stuck a magnet to it) and Aaron's goes on his phone (Andrew made it for him and Nicky, it's a bunch of Gardenias) (Gardenias symbolise family)
Andrew does not absolutely stop. He makes them when he's anxious and happy, and he enjoys it. Not that he would tell anyone. Bee is so proud of him that he threatens her that he'll stop.
Neil knows he's happy when he sees his foxes all proudly sporting Andrew's creations on their stuff. Neil's bag is covered fully. He actually whines to Andrew about where to put the new ones. They go into his binder that he made for his family of foxes.
For their anniversary (Andrew denies calling it that but anyway), Andrew embroiders two pairs of armbands with a garden of flowers.
They all mean things to him. Family. Friendship. Moving on. Resilience. Loyalty. Truth. Love.
Neil is speechless when Andrew gives them to him.
"I love it Andrew" "400%" "Wasn't it 324% last time?"
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joheun-saram · 4 years ago
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To Make A Power Couple (knj) | 8
Chapter 8: Housewarming
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Summary- Finally moved in together, Namjoon and Y/N relish their time together despite their schedules and stupid misunderstandings
word count- 8.8k
pairing- idol!namjoon x ceo!reader
rating- R
genre- series, fluff, smut, slight angst
warnings- extreme domestic fluff, mention of parental death, alcohol consumption, kink shaming (kinda? idk man), dom!joon, sub!reader, smut (unprotected sex, fingering, rough sex, marking, somewhat daddy kink, orgasm denial), safeword use (yellow), Namjoon being whipped but also being a dumbass, Y/N just trying to chill, Namjoon’s obsessed with her ass ig
a.n- apologies for this chapter taking literally forever! but i give you fluff for your patience. so much fluff omg. can i move in with joon already? but also we cant have this much fluff without a sprinkle of angst. 
special s/o to @himbojk​,  @pars-ley​, and @s0seo​ for beta reading parts for me  and easing my worries 💕
As always feedback appreciated. Send me an ask! 💌
taglist - @beach-bitch-bitch-beach, @sscheherazadee, @rjsmochii , @jinjccns​ , @joyful-jimin @sideblogger @agustdpeach @diamonddia-mond, @asdfghjklqwertyv, @cheesecakes-randomshitz​, @goldenjongho
-
“Are you sure about this? It’s only been six months honey.” Your mother looked at you through the screen and you felt your heart tighten. She had that worried look on her face, the one that tells you that she will respect your decision but isn’t too happy about it. She looked different too, the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced as she frowned and you wish you could convince her of your decision.
“Seven, actually. I love him, mom. I thought you liked him?” She had been nothing but supportive of your relationship, trusting you to make the right decisions. It had been the two of you for so long when you were younger that it always felt weird that you were on your own now. When your father had passed away when you were starting high school, she had done everything in her power to ensure you never felt like you were down a parent. As a senior partner at a management consultancy, she had long hours and business trips but she always picked you up from school and often took you with her on her business trips. Her trips are the reason that by the time you finished high school, you had been to pretty much every major city in North America. Not to mention that watching her working is the reason you were so good at what you did now. 
You remember when the first year after your father’s death you had to go to a father-daughter school dance and she donned one of his old suits to take you. You danced with her that night, surrounded by your peers and their fathers, but smiling at her as you nuzzled into her neck, her scent mingling with your dad’s on the clothes. You felt safe and you decided you never wanted to disappoint her. Maybe that’s where your drive to succeed came from - from ensuring that your mom, who worked long hours but still had a homemade dinner on the table when you came back from school, was proud of you.
“I do like him, honey. Namjoon is probably the best boyfriend you’ve had. I’m just worried you both are moving too fast.” She sighed as she sipped her tea. “He’s a rockstar, I just want you to be happy but what if things changed?”
“A rockstar?” You giggled. Sometimes you forgot that your mom was kind of old school, not beyond judging a book by its cover. “He’d probably die of embarrassment to hear you say that.”
“Y/N I’m just saying. Be careful with your heart.” Her voice was stern as she looked at you through the screen, her eyes narrowed with her warning.
“I know mom. I’m sorry. I trust him, you know. I don’t think I knew what love was till I met him. Having him around makes me feel safe, less lonely.”
“He’s still responsible for my daughter being in a cast.” After the incident, your mother had grown a bit wary of your relationship. She knew he was famous but she never realised just how many sacrifices the two of you had made to be together. You knew she was aware that Namjoon would never hurt you but you still felt bad that she was worrying over what was an anomaly. Speaking to Namjoon, you knew that something of the sort had never happened to him and his members, even to his other idol friends. The thought of it being such a rare occurrence had given you assurance and you hoped it would translate to your worried mother an ocean away.
“Mom! It’s not his fault. We’ve been over this!”
“I know, I know. I’m your mom. I’m just worried.” She sighed as she resigned from the conversation. You knew your mom had your best interests at heart but she didn’t know Namjoon like you did. She had met him twice over the screen and then had spent countless hours googling him and sending you clips of him breaking things with texts calling him out (“he better not be this clumsy with your heart”). You love her but you never know how to convince her that she had nothing to worry about. “Anyways, how’s my favourite son Harry?”
And so the conversation moved on from her qualms about your soon-to-be live-in boyfriend to your business as you told her about the plans you had for your company and talked about your friends. As you went to bed after hanging up, you looked at the empty side. It was the first time in weeks you were sleeping without your boyfriend but you were giddy as you thought about the morning when he would finally move in and you would never see that empty side again.
------------
“Baby why are all your shelves empty? Why have I never noticed this before?” Namjoon stood frowning in the kitchen with a box of his dishes and cutlery, something you made fun of him about since he notoriously lives on take out, as he placed his plates in the shelves above your kitchen counters.  
“Really Joon? Do you know who you’re dating?” You giggled as you hopped off the counter you were sitting at and stood next to him. Reaching up to extend your uninjured hand as far as it could, you looked at him as you just about reached the bottom shelf. You were not that short but whoever designed this apartment thought the shelves looked extra elegant if they were extra high. 
“Aw! You’re so cute!” He cooed as he patted your head condescendingly, causing you to scowl and narrow your eyes at him. Before you could retort, he put his arms around your waist lifting you so you were eye level with the shelves. “See? Now you can reach! Teamwork!”
You laughed as he put you down, turning around to wrap your arm around him. “Can’t believe we live together now,” you whispered into his chest as you felt him kiss the top of your head. Placing your chin against him you looked up, speaking in a hushed tone. “Promise me you won’t start hating me and my little quirks.”
“I could never hate you, as long as you promise not to get annoyed by me practicing in our living room.” Namjoon looked at you with a wide smile, as he cupped your face, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. You hugged him as you looked across the kitchen island towards your large living room. The large shelf in the corner that once only housed only your books and vinyls was now filled with pieces of your boyfriend. The top shelves had his books with his own organization system (apparently organizing books based on colours was too chaotic for him) as his little collectible figurines stood at random places. Not to mention the tiny baby shoes he had added on one of the shelves (“They’re just cute! I’m totally not picturing a cute fat baby with your doe eyes!”). 
You both had added another shelf near the balcony that now housed his extensive plant collection, in fact you had never seen this apartment more green, little plants scattered in the corners. In addition to your framed posters, there were now paintings from his collection, eclectic pieces that lit the blank white walls in color. You both had even moved the couch to the corner and added a mirror on the nearby wall that not only made the room look larger but would help Namjoon if he ever needed to practice his dances. 
You sighed contentedly as what was once your home now became the both of yours, your hobbies and tastes intermingling in a perfect union. The den was now a studio, soundproofed and full of midi boards and amps - it seemed like a piece of Namjoon had a place in your home. The two of you had gone back and forth over where to live, whether to move into his house or buy a new place completely, but in the end you had decided your apartment would be best since it was close to both of your work places and because it housed the most memories you shared.
“Oh! Or we can buy a new place?” You looked up at Namjoon’s profile from where you laid next to him, you head in the crook of his arm, his fingers tracing circles on your skin, right above where your cast ended. You were both in bed, a few days after he asked you to move in together, eager to figure out where you would embark on your latest relationship milestone.
“What about here? I like it here. This is our spot.”
“Really you wanna move in here?”
“Yeah this is where we had our first official date. This is where we found out that Ken Burns documentaries make you fall asleep-” He grunted as you smacked his chest at his comment, laughing before continuing. “This is where I first found out how much I love your food. Heck, that living room was where I knew I was in love with you!”
“Oh? You haven’t told me that before.” The two of you turn on your sides to look at each other as you grinned at him in anticipation.
“Yeah it was like a few weeks after we became official. I came over and you were at the gym and when you came back we ordered like a massive pizza and you were so giddy while eating it, I don’t know if you noticed but I’m sure I had literal heart eyes.”
“You know you really like me and pizza together,” you joked as you played with the necklace he had given you, his hand coming to fiddle with the chain as well.
“What can I say? I like you covered in sauce.” He laughed as he held your chin and brought you in for a kiss, humming gently when you separate.
“Be honest though, you totally fell in love with me when I agreed to recreate that porn you like, didn’t you?”
“Ah fuck! You’re right, that’s like the number one reason we should move in here. This is where we found out calling me daddy makes you gag.”
“Yes I’m sure it was just calling you that and not your stupidly big dick.” You both broke into fits of laughter holding on to each other, falling back into the comforting silence, before Namjoon broke it looking at you with a smirk.
“So how about we break out that riding crop again? Hmm? Get you in some of that sexy lingerie?” He moved his arm lower from where it sat on your waist to your hips, his fingers playing with the waistband of your pajamas.
“But baby you said you loved my batman underwear,” you whined jokingly, giggling with your arm around his neck as you looked at him coyly.
“Honestly? I love you in anything.” He said earnestly as he captured your lips in a searing kiss, moving his body to lay on top of yours carefully avoiding your injured arm. “Or nothing…”
------------
The first week of living together was odd. The two of you had spent the month after deciding to move in together planning so much, even buying new furniture, but now that you were living together it was weird. It wasn’t a bad weird, in fact it was a very, very good weird. You and Namjoon had never lived with a partner before and much like when you first got together, it felt easy. Maybe it was practice from when Namjoon was over all the time, but it just felt so effortless being with each other.
You would be lying if you said your mother’s words hadn’t opened up an insecurity within you. You were messy, sure it was an organized mess, but you were messy. You tend to forget where you put things, and when you’re stressed even the smallest of inconveniences make you snap. However, somehow Namjoon just slotted himself into your life so seamlessly, you were finding it hard to believe how lucky you were. 
On Monday, you came home and as usual threw whatever jacket you were wearing on the floor, he followed, silently picking it up and hanging it. Namjoon was organized and that made you remember where you left your keys on Tuesday, because now they were always in the cute little crab shaped plate near the foyer. On Wednesday you were infuriated with work and when you went to pee when you reached home, the toilet seat was up causing you to nearly topple in. But unlike usual when you would’ve torn whoever did that to pieces, you broke into a laugh, dialing Namjoon at practice and telling him you missed him. On Thursday, you had your doctor’s appointment to finally get the cast off, and when you returned home to excitedly show off your new arm, Namjoon frowned at the large scar before kissing it repeatedly and spending the night worshipping you. On Friday, the two of you saw the smog warning and donned some masks going to Yeouido Hangang Park, melding in with the mask-wearing strangers enjoying convenience store kimbap and beers as you read your book aloud to him, lounging on the sloping greens. That was also when he learned you didn’t know how to ride a bike, making it his responsibility to teach you.
“I still can’t believe you don’t know how to ride a bike!” Namjoon laughed as he held onto the handlebars. You struggled to keep the balance, your feet resting lightly on the pedals of the rented bike as he slowly pushed you. 
“I skateboarded instead! You tell me that once you land an ollie!” you huffed, now pushing on the pedals, albeit gently. Namjoon found your hesitation adorable. He loved discovering these different sides of you. The fact that his always confident girlfriend seemed scared of something as simple as a bike when she was apparently doing tricks on a skateboard, made his heart swell. It was like you kept all your embarrassing secrets for him, you told him things that no one knew about you, and he couldn’t wait to discover more. 
For Namjoon, moving in had been as easy as breathing, even though it had barely been a week. On Monday, he took a homemade lunch to work for the first time in a year. When he opened the box, the smell of your stew lingered in his studio and every time he returned from a meeting that day, the scent made him smile. On Tuesday, you came by his building to pick him up, waving excitedly as he wrapped up a livestream and tried not to giggle like a fool in love, which he very much was. Wednesday, he was having a tough time getting the new dance routine down, but then you called him out of the blue and it made his heart flutter, reenergizing him to finally nail the steps. When your cast came off on Thursday, he was again filled with guilt about his part in your attack, but your assurances helped him ease his mind. However, not as much as you screaming his name when he made you cum for the third time on his tongue. Namjoon had never felt so connected to someone before. Usually he would be scared to share so much of his life with another person, but with you he couldn’t wait. He felt extremely lucky just to be in your presence, soaking in the determined look on your face as he taught you how to ride a bike.
“Okay shit. Nevermind that’s really hot. Let’s go skateboarding next time,” he smiled at you mischievously, knowing that he was going to let go of the bike any second.
“I haven’t done that in ten - Oh my god! Don’t let go! Why are you letting go?” You looked behind you to see Namjoon put a thumb in the air in encouragement.
“You’re a big girl, you can do it. I believe in you!”
“I hate you! I’m gonna fall! How do I stop?!” You could feel the wind blowing through your hair as you steadily picked up speed, and you were terrified. How did you let your tree of a boyfriend talk you into this? There was a reason you had legs, why did you need these stupid wheels?!
“Just push the brakes and put your leg out.”
“Joon! Namjoon! I’m gonna fall!” You watched your life flash before your eyes as you cursed, falling on to the grass, your bike between your legs. Namjoon jogged up the few meters to stand above you, almost doubling over in laughter, causing you to cross your arms where you laid pouting at him. “Stop laughing at me!”
“Sorry! I just - you were going so slow! You literally fell in slow motion!” He continued laughing, even having the audacity to wipe a tear off his eye as you glared at him, before moving the bike and helping you up. “Come on up. There we go!” He beamed at you making it much harder to be mad at him when his eyes squinted in that adorable way they do when he’s extra pleased.
“If I break my arm again it’s your fault.” You leaned into him as he put an arm around you, the other walking the bike back to its station. 
“Sorry, sorry! Okay I think that was enough practice. Let’s go home.” He pulled you closer, the bike now firmly locked and no longer charging him through the app. With your arms around his waist, you kind of felt bad giving up on learning so easily. He had seemed so excited when he suggested biking around the river.
“Sorry I can’t bike with you. I wanna share your hobbies!” You pouted, making Namjoon swoon.
“Baby we literally share like seven million hobbies. It’s okay if you don’t like biking. I hate all the Shark Tank episodes you make me sit through.” He laughed as you looked up at him, even with the mask covering half his face you could tell how his dimples would be poking through his cheeks at your comment.
“You said you liked them!”
“It was a month into dating you. I lied.” You rolled your eyes at his nonchalance as he smiled smugly. You knew he hated that show, he would always be getting up to go to the bathroom or get snacks during the pivotal moments. Well at least he was committed enough to not be on his phone when you watched together. Now that you think about it, he must really love you to sit through the marathon you had of it last month.
“So what else do you hate?”
“Arthur C Clarke. I don’t get why you love 2001 so much. It’s so pseudo philosophical and the sequels suck.”
“But the monolith Joon! The spark of curiosity and ambition! And like the combined consciousness! Come on!”
“Eh. Pretentious. Douglas Adams did it better.” He shrugged.
“I can’t believe you! Those are like two different concepts!” You laughed as he dissed one of your favourite books, enjoying his warmth against you as the two of you waited for the car to pick you up in the parking lot.
------------
Saturday would mark the first weekend of you both living together, and so it was time to celebrate. The two of you had taken the day off in preparation for the first party you would host together, in the apartment you lived together. Just the thought made you giddy. You walked around the grocery store, stocking up on snacks and alcohol as Hayoon, Namjoon’s favourite security personnel, helped you carry the basket that kept getting heavier. You still found it weird walking around with the 195cm, extremely buff older man, but with the attack still fresh in your head, it was comforting having the looming presence. You had noticed that people didn’t even look twice at you, when in the past your foreigner status would have had at least a few staring at you.
Thanking Hayoon for carrying your supplies and bidding him a goodbye, you walked into your living room to find your boyfriend dancing to music playing from his earphones. Somehow in the midst of cleaning and moving furniture to make room for the twenty something people you both had invited, he had started working. You couldn’t blame him when you yourself had taken the time in the car to answer a few emails. It gave you the perfect opportunity to share your present with him.
“I’ve got a surprise for you!” You walked over to block his view of himself in the mirror as he rolled his body to some unknown tune. It was quite funny watching his concentrated scowl turn into confusion, barely hearing you.
“Hmm?”
“Stop dancing! I’ve got a surprise!”
“Can’t stop babe I have to get this down before Monday.” Namjoon looked over your head into the mirror as he continued practicing his choreography, making you roll his eyes.
“Hmm maybe Kook would wanna go instead,” you said nonchalantly as you turned around and started to slowly back away, before Namjoon’s arm came around your waist, stopping you.
“Ah baby don’t do that. See, airpod out, I’m listening!” You grinned as Namjoon pulled his earphone out, stopping the music but continuing to dance.
“You know you look like one of the sims just dancing there without music,” you joked, giggling.
“Babbbbbe! Where are we going?” he whined.
“So you know how your favourite rapper is Nas?”
“Yes I’m aware.”
“I got backstage passes!”
“What? For me?” Namjoon stilled, a dopey grin on his face as you walked closer to him to show him the tickets on your phone. It wasn’t a huge present but when one of your clients had asked if you wanted to attend, you couldn’t refuse the tickets. It helped that your client owned the stadium the performance was at and had accommodated your special requests for privacy.
“And you get to watch from this barricade so you don’t have to worry about paparazzi or fans and you can just enjoy the show!” Namjoon’s heart swelled as he heard your words. You never failed to surprise him with how much you went out of your way to make him comfortable. Lately, you’d been making him want to declare your relationship to the world. It was a dumb fantasy and the two of you had talked (argued) about going public, but between the two of you it seemed that you were more against it.
“You’re coming with me right?” He put his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him.
“I don’t know, I know I just said you’ll have privacy but what if someone sees us together? Maybe you can take Yoongi.” You look up at him with a frown, your hands on his chest, as you assessed the different ways the concert could affect your privacy. He hated how you had to overthink such a simple outing, mirroring your frown as he reached to relax the crease between your brows before placing a gentle kiss on your lips.
“Shut up. I’m only taking you. The whole world can watch!” He grinned making you roll your eyes. 
“You scare me with how easily you just said that.” You swatted at his chest. It really did scare you with how easily he’d been saying that lately. He wasn’t really an impulsive person, he usually thought everything through to the utmost detail and so his recent exclamations were worrying you. It’s not that you wouldn’t like to post one of the thousands of couple photos on your social media, it’s just you were worried about how toxic some netizens could be.
“Would it be so bad if everyone knew?” He pulled you closer, arms circling your waist as he pressed his forehead against yours, looking into your eyes with a little smile, wanting to play out his fantasy.
“Joon I’m not risking your career so we can go on a few dates.” You sighed, picking at his shirt at his chest where your hands laid.
“My fans will be happy to see me happy, baby.”
“Ugh let’s not argue about this right now. Do you like your surprise?” You put your arms around his neck as you peck his lips.
“Only if I get to enjoy it with you.”
“Yes yes I guess I’ll go see one of my favourite rappers with you.”
“I love you,” he whispered, bringing his lips to yours to kiss you gently. You returned it equally gently, getting lost in the warmth as he molded his lips to yours, tilting his head to get a better angle and squeezing your ass as he brought you even closer in his embrace. Before things could get heated, you pulled away, smiling as he followed your lips, eyes still closed. You pecked his lips a few times before moving away completely.
“Hey don’t let me distract you. Practice!” 
“You’re such a tease. Meanie.” He pouted as you walked away with a wave in his direction, smirking at his petulance. 
“Love you too Joonie!”
------------
Namjoon was drunk. He promised himself at the beginning of the party that he would stay sober to ensure his first party with you went seamlessly, but then the Ilsan boys showed up. The Ilsan boys were his high school friends, dubbed so by you. To say you liked them would be a stretch, since he always got too drunk when they were around, but he couldn’t help it. They made him forget all about being an idol and let loose. They were some of the few people beside you and his family that had that effect. Sitting on the couch that was pulled up to the window, he felt the alcohol race through his veins, and he was in his feelings. Beside him, Harry talked to Sehun, one third of the Ilsan boys as they talked about some tv show. He was happy, so happy he was smiling to himself as he rocked his feet on the ground, a beer in hand. He was happy and as he watched you across the room, he was also a little annoyed.
You were talking to Kang, another one of the Ilsan boys, as Jungkook stood with his arms on top of your head for support and Hoseok laughed at some joke you made. Before the party the two of you had decided not to be the couple that only hung out with each other, and since this party was literally just your closest friends, it was not that hard to do. But right now all Namjoon wanted to do was be petty and shove Jungkook off of you, wrap his arms around you instead and tell you how horny your skinny jeans were making him. Alright, correction. Namjoon was drunk, happy, and horny. 
He bit his lip as he followed your curves with his eyes, watching the way your chest rose as you laughed, and the way your throat moved with each sip of your whiskey. Okay, that’s it. Screw the decision, he was walking over. Plus, he had stayed away for the past three hours, even had to watch you belt out his favourite My Chemical Romance song as you wiggled your butt, that had to count for something. He made his way to your little group, swaying a little as he shoved Jungkook a little too aggressively off you, making him protest over his spilled beer, before putting an arm possessively over your shoulder. He grinned as you leaned in, continuing your conversation.
“As I was saying there is no way Y/N is a sub. No fucking way!” Kang bellowed from where he stood. Namjoon’s brows furrowed at his comment. Why was he talking about his girlfriend this way? He felt an irrational surge of anger through him. He knew Kang was crass, his talks often devolving to his sex capades a few shots in, but did he really not respect Namjoon enough to be talking this shit in his own home about his girlfriend during their housewarming party?
Namjoon’s grip tightened around you protectively as Kang kept talking about your sex life. You only hummed, seemingly bored as you drank. Turns out you were playing a game, instigated by Kang of course, where you had to guess the other person’s kink, and if someone guesses correctly, you drink if not then the guesser drinks. Apparently you were in the spotlight for the moment.
Namjoon tilted his head, eyes narrowed at his childhood friend and raised an eyebrow. Kang, luckily for him, got the hint, shutting up with an apologetic glance at Namjoon. However, everyone else in the little group seemed to have missed this little interaction.
“I don’t know… I’ve seen hyung’s porn collection. He definitely has a daddy kink.” Jungkook scratched his chin as he slurred out the words, like he was trying to decipher a difficult math problem. 
“Dude Y/N would rather puke than call Namjoonie daddy.” Hoseok laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you with a knowing smirk. You laughed, a little too hard in your tipsy state, and Namjoon felt his blood run cold. You had definitely said those words to him, even pretended to jokingly gag when he brought it up the first, and only, time. He stood straighter at Hoseok’s comment. Had you told him about this? Why would you tell Hoseok of all people? You weren’t even close! 
His jaw ticked as the group laughed, oblivious to the sudden hurt he felt. He felt exposed, naked and vulnerable, all because of you. He didn’t know if his feelings were elevated with the alcohol in his body, but he suddenly felt like he was losing all trust in you. You didn’t even seem phased, not noticing that his arm was no longer around you as you giggled at their antics.
“Okay. Time to reveal the winner!” You started, your arms wide and voice low as Jungkook used Hoseok’s chest as a makeshift drum, tapping at it lightly in a drumroll.
“Nope.” Namjoon couldn’t help but cut you off. There was no way you were sharing intimate details of your sex life with these idiots. He didn’t know how things worked in Canada, but here in his house he sure as hell was not hearing his friends talk about your kinks. He grabbed your wrist, taking the glass from your hand and placing it on the table before dragging you into the guest bathroom by the kitchen.
“Aww Joonie! Now I have to do three shots!” You pouted at him, oblivious to the storm brewing in his head.
“No.”
It was all he said before he crashed his lips to yours, taking your surprised yelp as an opportunity to roughly press his tongue to yours. He didn’t know what overcame him, he initially wanted to talk to you but something about the utter lack of remorse on your face snapped something in him. Oh those guys didn’t think you were a sub? He was going to prove them all wrong and make you beg for him while no one outside had a clue. It was his biggest turn on after all, to see you confidently striding through every room demanding respect and attention, only to turn into an obedient little girl for him.
He had been horny all night, rocking a semi every time he looked at you, and your little moans as you wrapped your arms around him now only made him harder. He kissed you with more force, removing your hands from around him and pinning them to the door behind you as his lips ventured down your neck to where your blouse started.
He let go of your hands, pleased to see them remain immobile against the door, and reached for your jeans, the same jeans that had been taunting him all evening. Kissing down your body, he pulled the jeans off your legs, turning you around roughly once you stepped out of them. With your ass in front of his face, he couldn’t help himself, biting at the flesh, smirking at your surprised yelp.
He stood up behind you, bending you over the sink. Pulling your shirt up and gripping your jaw, he placed the hem in your mouth. He kissed your neck, keeping his eyes on yours through the mirror as his hands pulled the cups of your bra down to grope you firmly. You didn’t know what had gotten into him suddenly, but you were not complaining, your shirt getting wet as did your panties. Wordlessly, he continued, his hands roaming your body to reach your heat where he didn’t hesitate to slide your panties to the side and thrust two fingers in, making you moan loudly at the sudden stretch. 
At your moan, his lustful eyes met yours as he increased his speed, the sound of your squelching pussy filling the air. Namjoon couldn’t help himself anymore, he needed to be inside you, teach you a lesson for being so oblivious to him. Unbuttoning his jeans, he released his dick, already dripping with precum at how turned on he was at the prospect of one of your friends knowing what was happening behind doors. Without a second thought, he lined himself up at your entrance to plunge himself right to the hilt. 
You moaned at the sudden aggressive move, your skin tingling with excitement to see your boyfriend this needy for you. Namjoon didn’t usually get this aggressive right off the bat, and his rare sexual desire made you heat up, mewling at the stretch. You braced yourself against the counter as you watched Namjoon’s face contorted in pleasure, his jaw tight as he rammed himself into you again and again, leaving your breathless and with your legs shaking.
“Fuck… I can’t believe we’re fucking in the bathroom… at our own party!” you moaned at a particularly hard thrust.
“That’s what you get for being such a fucking tease all night.” Namjoon leaned closer to speak in your ear, his chest molded to your back as one of his hands pulled your nipple while the other turned your head towards him, leaving sloppy wet kisses on your neck. You need more, needed to kiss him, needed his fingers on your clit, anything.
“Joonie…” you mewled, looking at him pleadingly.
“Ah don’t try to get all soft on me now baby.” He smacked your ass, aiming right where his bite mark was visible, making you preen. “Did you think you were funny telling Hobi how you gagged on my cock when I called myself daddy, hmm?” His hips moved hard, pushing you further into the sink, your walls clenching around him and you were sure your hips were going to bruise from where they slammed against the counter. Your skin was pebbling with goosebumps and you felt like you could feel every vein on his cock as he continued to move in you. With his hand on your jaw, he moved your face towards the mirror, enjoying the way your mouth was held open and eyes wide with want.
“Answer me baby. Did you like embarrassing me in front of our friends?” Namjoon knew he really shouldn’t bring his issues into the bedroom, especially when you allowed and trusted him with how you gave up control, but the concoction of hurt, anger and beer in his veins overrode his rationality. 
You felt a wave of guilt wash over you at his words, finally realizing what had gotten him so riled up. Making eye contact in the mirror, you couldn’t tell if this was all part of a scene he’d come up with or if he was serious. Before you could say anything, he spanked you again, his thrusts slowing, but somehow getting harder. Although you were concerned, you couldn’t deny how you could feel your orgasm rising, your walls tightening around him.
“Do you like seeing me get hurt in front of my friends?” He gritted out, his gaze darkened.
“H-hurt?” you stuttered, alarmed.
“Yeah baby, hurt. You think I like you sharing our secrets?” He was back at your neck, nipping the flesh and soothing it with his tongue. “You think I liked you and Hobi laughing at me, pretty girl?” he sneered, but you could see past it. Behind the lust in his eyes, he was actually hurt, his eyes glistening, and although you were enjoying this sudden, surprise sex, your needs could wait.
“Joon… fuck… yellow. Yellow.” You grunted, despite your body begging you to let him continue so you could cum. Suddenly Namjoon froze, pulling out. His eyes softened immediately with concern as he ran his hands up and down your arms to comfort you.
“Shitshitshit sorry! Was that too much? Too rough? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He spoke fast, trying to gauge your expression in the mirror.
“Are you okay? Are you actually mad about Hobi?” You turned around, cupping his face as you looked up at him. He sighed, biting his lip a couple of times and contemplating if he should talk about it now.
“Yeah. I’m sorry I just - it kinda fucked me up.” He averted your gaze, opting to look at the wall next to the two of you, and you felt your heart ache at his words. “Like I was pretty vulnerable when I shared that kink with you and I get it - it’s cliched and basic and you weren’t into it but I feel like you guys were laughing at me. I don’t like getting laughed at by my girlfriend behind my back with one of my best friends.” He looked at you towards the end of his statement, the fiery look back in his eyes. You knew he was mad, but truly he had no reason to be. In fact, thinking more about it made you sad that he would think that you would purposely kink shame him or laugh at him for any reason.
“I’m so sorry Joonie. It’s not even like that. I’m so sorry baby. Do you wanna talk about -” But before you could finish your sentence, he spun you around again.
“No.” He spoke firmly, lining himself once again, fully back into his dominant persona. “Much. Rather. Fuck. My. Frustrations. Out. Colour?” He punctuated each word with a snap of his hips, making you mewl, your earlier lost orgasm revving back up slowly.
“Green. Fuck Joon!” He bent you over further at your words, holding tightly to your hips as he fucked you.
“Tell me when you’re close, baby. You don’t get to cum tonight.” He spoke, his voice strained from his harsh movements. Oh, he must be really mad. Namjoon took pride in making you cum, often overstimulating you, but this was new. He’d never flat out denied you an orgasm before, and the thought made you want to cum even more.
“Joonie. I’m sorry. Please... fuck! You feel so good.” You mewled, looking at him with puppy eyes. You didn’t know how long you could hold your orgasm if he continued, the coil in your stomach tightening at his every move.
“No can do pretty girl you gotta learn your lesson.” He smirked, spanking your ass for good measure, the slap ricocheting through the walls of the small bathroom. You really hoped nobody needed to pee, glad that the music was pretty loud, you could almost sing along to the SHINEE track in the background.
“Please daddy?” You knew he was mad at you for this, but in your lust-addled, desperate mind you just wanted to do anything to please him.
“Fuck off! Don’t make me ban you from cumming all week.” He gritted out, almost panting with how fast he was going, chasing his own release as he spanked your ass twice. 
“God. Oh my god, Joon!” You felt him get sloppy, almost on the brink of your orgasm. Namjoon could feel you tighten impossibly hard, and with one last thrust he pulled out, stroking himself before cumming on your ass with a loud groan. You whined, your head on your arms as you felt your orgasm ebb away, your clit throbbing in need.
Namjoon leaned next to you, catching his breath, as he looked at your wrecked state, legs shaking, hair a mess, your tits hanging out of your bra.
“Did you cum?” he asked, stroking your hair as you looked up at him.
“No…” He kissed you at that, gently and quickly.
“Good girl. Now let’s clean you up, we have a party to host.” He buckled his pants, as he handed you some toilet paper, fixing your shirt, and once you cleaned up, helping you put your pants back on. He was still hurt, but weirdly sated. He knew it would take time for him to get over this, but he still felt lucky knowing that you’d understand as he watched you fix your makeup in the mirror.
“Joon, are you still mad?” You spoke after a few minutes, voice uncharacteristically meek, making Namjoon wish he waited till after the party was over, so he could tend to you properly after being so rough.
“A little. It’s just kind of stings right now.” He spoke after a few beats of contemplation leaning against the sink. When in other relationships, he got used to just saying he was fine, with you he felt that he could be honest even if it hurt, and although he still felt somewhat betrayed, he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m sorry, truly. I swear it’s not what you think. We weren’t laughing at you, promise! I love you.” You looked at him with such sorrow that he almost felt stupid for having such feelings, wanting to pacify you, but he knew you’d hate it if he did so.
“Ah don’t make that face.” He pouted at you slightly, cupping your face in his hands.
“What face?” You ask, eyes wide, cheeks a little squished by his hands and he felt his heartbeat accelerate.
“That face! Makes me want to kiss you.” He whispered, before capturing your lips in a tender kiss, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“Joonie… baby, talk to me.” You pleaded, you hands on his, but he just leaned down to peck your forehead instead.
“Shh, yellow on this convo for now. Let’s just go back to the party. I love you too, pretty girl.” He smoothed your hair once again, before moving to the door. He paused at your lack of movement, turning around to see you frowning as you looked at him. He knew you wanted to talk it out, it was in your nature to solve problems immediately, but Namjoon needed time. If he talked about it now, he would probably get angry, or worse start crying. He needed to think things through. 
“Even when you’re mad?” you said quietly.
“Even when I’m mad. Now let’s go before anyone figures we’re missing.” He took your hand and walked you out, the party none the wiser of your little indiscretion. However, if anyone was paying attention, they would have noticed how off the mood was between the two of you, your smiles not reaching your eyes, and your cups always empty.
---------- 
You stared at the screen, the cursor blinking as you tried to put your thoughts together. This expansion into Japan was going to be the death of you. You had been working on the strategy for months now but nothing appealed to the board who never lost the opportunity to remind you of your age or lack thereof. With your combined shares Harry and you could technically override any of their decisions, but antagonizing the board further would only lead to more problems in the future so you just grinned and bore it. 
You had spent all day at the office trying to figure out the new strategy to beat out the competing company that already existed in Tokyo to get sufficient market share to make the expansion viable. Siwon had been kind enough to be your scribe while you word vomited at him but as you looked at the page now it made little sense. You were kind of embarrassed that he had to type out this bullshit.
Frustrated at your lack of progress, you looked at the clock, and reading the 11:34 pm displayed there with a grimace as you stood up to walk to the kitchenette on your floor. Starting a pot of coffee you talked to yourself as you fidgeted with the cups, stacking them this way and that. You kind of wished Harry would’ve stayed late tonight to talk through the strategy with you but apparently Jen had been pretty annoyed with all his late nights so you had no choice but to do it alone. You didn’t mind it as much usually, you enjoyed the silence of the empty building, enjoyed filling it with your favourite songs as you worked through your thoughts.
Tonight however you were pretty annoyed to be working late. After the party, Namjoon had spent Sunday sulking about, still refusing to talk out what you thought was a minor issue of miscommunication. If you were being honest, part of your frustrations tonight might be due to the fact that a part of your brain kept pestering you with the same thoughts. Mom was right, you moved in and look, already not talking to each other. If you can’t resolve this tiny fight, how will you have a future? He’s probably sick of you already.
Trying to practice your coping mechanisms, you let the thoughts pass through your head. They were just negative thoughts, they did not define you as a person, do not react to them. You took a deep breath, focusing instead on the task ahead.
As you walked to your desk with your third cup of coffee of the evening and thought about your business plans, you started resenting your board more and more. It was one thing to want a flawless strategy but they failed to understand that there was literally no strategy in the world that would be as risk averse as they wanted. They thought you too impulsive, too bull-headed to do something that was low risk. They had the audacity to think that you were building all the riskiest strategies on purpose when in reality to get the outcome you wanted there had to be an equal amount of risk to go with it. Sighing, you started typing your thoughts, bulleted, on the doc as your phone rang.
“Namjoon?” you asked as soon as you picked up the phone, a bit surprised that this is how he was choosing to break his pseudo silent treatment.
“Just called so you’re not startled.” You heard Namjoon twice, once in your speaker and once from right in front of you. Regardless of his efforts, you jumped in your seat to see him standing in front of you. Holding your hand on your heart, you looked up at your boyfriend standing over your desk in a matching pair of grey sweats and sweater, a black mask under his chin as he looked at you with amusement at your reaction. It never failed to endear him how you were easily startled at the smallest things. 
“Did you eat yet?” He asked as he leaned over the desk, his lips puckered. Sighing a yes, you kissed him, feeling your stress reduce at the touch, relieved that he seemed to be more open to communicating now.
“What brings you here?” You asked, reclining back in your seat as Namjoon pulled up a chair next to you.
“I just got done. Thought I’d pick you up.”
“How did you even know I was still here?”
“Boyfriend senses.” He winked, his arm resting on the back of his chair. You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, and really wishing he didn’t go all the way home to come back. “Fine. Siwon texted me. You know it’s bad form to worry your assistant so much he has to call your boyfriend for back up.”
“I’m sorry he texted you.” You leaned forward in your chair with a sheepish smile. Inside however, you were glad Siwon had given Namjoon a push to talk to you. Knowing Siwon you were sure it wasn’t a random concern but probably born out of your talk with him this morning.
He made a noise stating his displeasure at your apology and shaking his head, before reaching out to hold your hand where it lay on your lap. “So when’s this due?”
“Can we talk about Saturday night?” You answered his question with your own, dreading a mood swing, but impatient to explain your side and ease his worries. You really wanted things to go back to normal. Even though it had only been one day, you missed him. He had barely cuddled you in his sleep the last two nights, and you missed the intimacy, and as needy as it sounded in your head, you just wanted him to hold you.
He sighed deeply, leaving your hand to run his hands over his face. With his elbows on his knees, he hunched down, covering his face. He really should let you explain, but he was tired from practice and he didn’t know if he had the mental capacity to deal with an argument. “It’s okay. I’ll get over it.” 
“Please. Let me explain.” You stood from your chair squatting in front of him and pulling his hands away to make him look at you. With another sigh of resignation, Namjoon nodded for you to continue.
“Hoseok doesn’t know anything. He said that as a joke randomly.” You spoke carefully, watching Namjoon’s eyes widen as he frowned. “Honestly he’s been your friend for so long I just assumed you told him that’s why he was looking at me like that. You know I didn’t agree or disagree. I just laughed because of the memory.”
Namjoon felt like an idiot. It was such a simple explanation. He was kicking himself for not thinking about this earlier, for spending a whole day avoiding you. As he looked at the earnesty in your eyes, he wanted to go back in time and smack himself on the head for making you feel guilty over this non-issue.
“I’m a fucking asshole,” he groaned, covering his face as he rolled his chair away from you in shame. You stood, walking over to him before pulling his hands away yet again, sitting in his lap sideways. His hands instinctively went around your waist, making sure you didn’t slip off. 
“No I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed,” you whispered, frowning as you put your arms around his neck, playing with the hair on his nape.
“I’m such an idiot,” he sighed, rubbing his hand on your thigh, his touch sending a comforting warmth through you. “Also, I’m sorry for earlier.”
“For what?”
“Not letting you cum.” He looked so devastated, his lips pulled down by his guilt as he stared at you, that all you could do was giggle. It was silly that he thought some of the best sex you’d had was bad just because you didn’t cum.
“It’s fine you were in your dom persona.” You smoothed his hair as you kissed his cheek, making him shyly turn away from you, before he looked at you with a determination in his eyes.
“No it’s not fine. In all the research I’ve done one thing they always warned against was domming angry or like using it to resolve issues or punish your partner in a way they didn’t know what started the punishment, and I don’t know what came over me. I was mad and it was unfair of me to use our kinks against you.” He ranted, his frown getting deeper as his grip around you got tighter. With all his goofy antics around you usually, you forgot how serious Namjoon could get, and although the two of you had promised each other to be honest, it was still jarring to hear his rant. It meant he had been thinking about his actions and it bothered you that he was feeling guilty. When he stopped to take a breath, you brought his lips to yours, kissing him with all the affection you could muster. It wasn’t hard - showing him you loved him. In fact, it was the easiest thing to do, as you let your lips assure him and ease the storm in his head.
“I’m perfectly okay Joonie. It was hot.” You chuckled as you broke away and met his gaze filled with adoration. You felt lucky to have him in your life, and although this fight didn’t seem to have lasted that long, you missed him. Kissing him at midnight in your office, you felt content, your stress from the day melting away at his touch.
“Still. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you?” He said as he kissed you again. “Let’s go home, baby.” 
You stood and as you packed your stuff, he clung on to you, nuzzling your neck, equally missing your touch. Although you were headed home, you felt it in his arms already.
-
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The sigh of the weary
Tumblr prompt from @grilledcheesebandit of Lucien and Jean literally bumping into each other
“Oof!” Jean exhaled heavily as she collided with the person in front of her. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she cried as the gentleman’s paper bag broke and spilled its contents onto the floor. As she bent to pick up the dropped items she glanced up to see who she’d bumped into. The man hadn’t moved apart from turning to see who had bumped into him and now he stood staring blankly down at her and the scattered shopping. Jean frowned worriedly. “I really do apologise." She stood, her arms full of groceries.
“Yes,” the man finally answered, “I’m sorry, I’m not quite myself.” He retrieved some of the items from Jeans arms, dropping a celery in the process. The man sighed wearily and closed his eyes.
Jean bent to pick up the celery and shot a glance at the mans tired eyes as she heard his sigh. He looked exhausted, lost and sad.  She mentally changed gear and went into mothering mode. “Can I help you back to your place with these?”
The man held his eyes closed for a little longer, then opening them, fixed his red, watery eyes on Jean. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
She smiled at him gently and followed him out of the grocery store.
They walked in silence for a while and Jean wished she’d remembered her coat. A bitter wind blew, and with her arms full of groceries, she couldn’t wrap her cardigan around herself for warmth.
“I haven’t seen you around before?”
“I’m… I’ve been away,” the man said simply and the silence continued.
“What brings you back here, Mr…?”
“Blake. Doctor Blake. But I really would prefer you to call me Lucien. My father passed away recently. I’ve just arrived back in town today, and thought I’d better grab a few things on my way to his place to try and deal with things. I think he had a housekeeper, but who knows what kind of woman she is. Probably some fat old biddy who over boils the vegetables until all the colour is gone.”
Jean’s eyes had widened with every word the man had said and she stopped short and stared at him with a small smile. “You’re Doctor Blake’s son?”
“Oh did you know him? I’m sorry for your loss.” The man stuck his hands in his pockets and kept walking.
Jean frowned with confusion. “Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? He was your father.”
“On paper, maybe. But he never really acted like a proper father to me.” Lucien sighed as he continued walking. “And I’m afraid sometimes I didn’t really act like a proper son should. Part of the reason that all of this is so difficult.” Lucien glanced at Jean who was staring at him. “I’m sorry. Here I am rambling to a complete stranger.”
It began to rain. Not softly and light. But the big heavy drops that immediately soaked through clothing. It was slow and lazy at first, but steadily turned into a downpour, which quickly put an end to any conversation as Jean and Lucien ran through the rain.
Finally reaching the house they went in and after depositing the groceries on the kitchen table, Jean set about making them a pot of tea.
“Um, just how well did you know my father?” Lucien asked suspiciously as his eyes followed her around the kitchen. “You seem to know your way around his kitchen alright.”
“You remember that ‘fat old biddy’ of a housekeeper you mentioned?” There was silence as she smiled and pointed toward herself. “Jean Beazley. I live upstairs”
Jean saw his eyes widen in understanding. “Oh! I do apologise!” He covered his face with embarrassment.
Jean waved him away. “You weren’t to know. Now. While the kettle’s boiling I think we would both be wise to get out of these wet clothes, or we’ll both catch the influenza” She turned on her heel and left Lucien wide eyed and slack jawed staring after her.
As Jean peeled herself out of her wet clothes, she thought about the golden haired man downstairs. With his beard and casual approach he couldn’t be more different to the old Doctor Blake. He had hardly spoken of his son in all the years Jean had worked for him. But she knew Lucien had been in the army and had been taken as a prisoner of war. And it showed. Doctor Blake Junior was thin, his face was taut and gaunt as if he hadn’t had enough to eat and his eyes were bloodshot and sunken in. Jean wondered how long it had been since this man had had a good meal and a decent sleep.
Once dressed she headed back down the stairs to find the younger Doctor Blake still sat at the table in his wet clothes. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. Crossing to the kettle she called over her shoulder. “How do you take your tea?”
“White with two thank you kindly.”
“Ah a sweet tooth, like your father.”
Lucien said nothing as Jean spooned two sugars into his tea cup. She stirred it and placed it in front of where he sat at the table. She arranged a few pieces of her homemade shortbread on a plate and joined him at the table.
“Didn’t feel like changing into dry clothes Doctor Blake?”
“Ah, Well I don’t exactly have much with me right now. My trunk was delayed. And please, I thought I asked you to call me Lucien. It must be odd for you to have another Doctor Blake in the house.”
Jean ignored his correction. “Well you can’t be comfortable in wet clothes? Why don’t you go find something in your fathers room, for now.”
Lucien looked uncomfortable. “I haven’t set foot in my fathers room in over 20 years,” he mumbled.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid? I’m not afraid!”
“Doctor Blake…” He threw her a dirty look and she reached out to touch his hand. “Lucien" she spoke quietly and gently… "Your father is gone. He’s not going to tell you off for entering his room. You’re going to have to sooner or later.”
Lucien looked at where her hand rested on his. “You’re right Jean, of course you are. I just…” his voice trailed off.
“Shall I come with you?”
Lucien stopped staring at their hands and met her eyes, “You wouldn’t mind?”
“If it gets you out of those cold wet clothes I would be more than happy to.” Jean stood. “Come on.”
Lucien followed her down the hallway and they stopped outside a closed door. Jean turned to Lucien and was surprised to see his hands were shaking.” “You alright Lucien?” she closed a hand over his shaking one and somehow ended up with her hand enveloped in his.
Lucien didn’t answer, just took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Once inside the room he paused, and there was silence as he surveyed the room. Then all of a sudden he dropped her hand and started for the wardrobe. Pulling out a shirt he began to unbutton his wet one.
Jean's cheeks flushed and she instinctively looked away. “I’ll uh, leave you to change shall I?” But he didn't answer, or even acknowledge that she had spoken. It was almost as if he’d forgotten she was even there. She risked a glance back at him, as he pulled his wet singlet over his head and Jean gasped involuntarily as she glimpsed the silver criss-cross of scar marks over his back. Shocked, she turned her back to him and moved toward the door.
“Bring your wet things back with you and I’ll put them with mine to be washed,” she called over her shoulder as she closed the door and leant against it. ‘Were those marks from his time in the camp?’ Jean wondered. She exhaled heavily and tried to push the image out of her head. She headed back to the kitchen, where she warmed her cold hands on her tea cup and waited.
When he returned a few minutes later Lucien was dressed in brown slacks, a white shirt and a mustard cardigan that Jean recognised all too well. She smiled nervously at him after his erratic behaviour in his fathers room. But he didn’t seem to even think anything of it. “That cardigan was one of your fathers favourites too.”
Lucien looked down and picked at the cardigan but said nothing.
Jean sipped her tea and decided to change the subject. “So. What was the plan with the groceries?"
“I’m so sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to offend you. You’re obviously a capable cook.” He took a piece of shortbread from the plate she had prepared earlier and bit into it. “A very capable cook.”
“Thank you.” Jean looked again at the groceries. There was a celery, some carrots, a loaf of bread, a jar of strawberry jam, some apples, a box of tea, some eggs and a block of cheese.
“What on earth were you planning on making with all of this? It’s the most curious assortment of items.”
Lucien looked at the groceries. “To be honest I really had no idea what I was going to do with any of it. I just bought things that I wanted. I haven’t bought groceries for myself in years.”
Jean smiled “Well then, Lucien. Maybe a cooking lesson is on the cards for this afternoon. Unless you just want to eat cheese on toast for dinner?”
Lucien met her eyes and smiled softly. “It wouldn’t be the first time, I’m not ashamed to admit it. Nothing wrong with a good grilled cheese sandwich.”
Jean’s stomach flip flopped as she felt his warm smile flood her senses. The first true smile she had seem from him, one not tinged with sadness or exhaustion. She forced her eyes from his and drained her tea cup. “Well I’m sure that along with the cheese on toast, we could put together a soup from the celery and carrots, and I know there’s some leftover roast chicken in the fridge that could easily be added. And for dessert we could probably make a passable apple tea cake with a strawberry jam filling.”
“Mrs Beazley, you’re amazing. To create some kind of order from my chaos.”
Jean felt her face flush at his easy compliment. She’d have to be careful. Lucien Blake could be trouble.
Also on
Ao3 and ff.net
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e-milieeee · 4 years ago
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the stars know (you and i are meant to be)—ladynoir
Summary: Between akumas and school, Ladybug and Chat Noir find some time in between to sit back, have a picnic, and stargaze. And perhaps learn a little more about each other. 
Notes: happy birthday @edendaphne! your art was some of the first i saw when i joined the fandom and i love it sm (this oneshot is based off of this). i hope you have a great day <3 
written for day 2: stargazing and day 17: future for @ladynoirjuly2020.
Her mother tells her that preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.
Marinette begs to differ. It’s just a meal, after all. There are three meals a day, and she finds it pointless to assign some sort of underlying worth to all of them.
But now, painstakingly arranging the bento boxes she’d made for Chat Noir, she begrudgingly understands what her mother means. She wraps them in picnic cloth, shouldering her bag full of supplies, and then drops out from her balcony to meet Chat.
They find each other halfway; Ladybug spots a familiar streak of black darting between rooftops. She knows he sees her: he always does.
Sure enough, Chat Noir turns up behind her in the span of five seconds and shoots her his usual blinding grin. “Good evening, m’lady!”
His smile is contagious, and Ladybug doesn’t even try to contain her own. “Hungry?” she asks him as they start to move again, racing over buildings at a breakneck speed. “You better not have eaten dinner before this, because I cooked a lot.”
Chat feigns offence. “I can’t believe you would even suggest I’d do such a thing. I’d eat the food you cooked me even if it’s burnt and cold, you know that.” He pauses, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Though I am expecting some world class cooking.”
Ladybug thinks back to the five hours she spent cooking their dinner, and the careful arranging she’d done of the bento boxes and the wide array of food she’d made sure to cook. It’s a fusion of both Japanese and Chinese cuisine—Chat’s favourites. Preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.
Perhaps her mother is right, but it’s still just an intimate gesture between friends. Yeah, that’s what it is.
“World class cooking pales in comparison to mine,” Ladybug jokes, although she also feels obligated to add on, “don’t raise your expectations too high.”
“With you, my expectations are always high.”
She shoves him just for that comment, inciting nothing but a slight falter in his movements and a large grin. With a shake of her head, Ladybug moves on, if only to hide her own smile. 
***
They set up their picnic on top of a hill.
It’s secluded, and that’s the best part of the location. Ladybug unpacks her bag to start tugging out the blankets she packed: some to sit on, others to huddle under when the night starts getting chilly. Then, even more carefully, she begins to lay their dinner bit by bit in front of them, until she finally spreads the feast out in front of Chat.
His mouth drops open, and he does not even attempt to close it. Saucer-plate eyes blink at her.
“For me?” Chat finally manages after at least thirty seconds of gaping. “I mean… you made all of this for me?”
Ladybug has to admit she’s pleased by his reaction, and even more so pleased by the fact that their slightly rough journey hadn’t ruined the aesthetic appeal of most of her dishes.
“Well, for me as well,” she teases, reaching over to tap on his bell.
He’s undeterred. “This is unbelievable,” he whispers, more to himself than her. “M’lady, I can’t believe you made this to eat with me.”
Something about his tone tugs at her heart. In an attempt to snap him out of it, Ladybug points out, “It’s kitty themed.”
“I know.” His voice wobbles slightly. “Are those cat cookies supposed to be me?”
“Yeah. They turned out kind of ugly, though.”
“No, they’re beautiful. I wish I could look like that.”
“Chat, you don’t have a nose in those cookies. You really don’t.”
He sniffles once more, and Ladybug realizes belated that he has teared up. “Chat,” she tries, this time in a gentler tone. “Are you… crying?”
He rubs his eyes rather violently. “No.”
“Kitty…”
“Fine, yes. I’m just very happy. These are happy tears. It’s okay.” With one last painful looking scrub over his face, Chat Noir lowers his hands. “You can introduce the dishes and we’ll eat.”
Knowing better to push, she obliges the request, even if Ladybug has her doubts on happy tears. There’s a certain melancholy in his words, the sort that carries an old sort of pain. So instead, sitting side by side, their knees touching and sitting just close enough that she feels the warmth radiating off him, Ladybug starts to name the dishes.
“These are the appetizers,” she tells Chat, who listens attentively. “Those are pork potstickers—they might not be as hot as they were before, though. That one’s called… um, lang… liang ni?” The words don’t sound like how her mother says them, but her Chinese is lacking in more ways than one and Ladybug can’t remember the name of the dish for the life of her. “Honestly, I have no clue what it’s called. I think it roughly translates into cold noodles.”
Chat leans over to scrutinize the dish. “It looks familiar.”
“The noodles are store-bought, but I made the sauce. There’s carrots, beansprouts, and cucumbers. And those tofu things. It’s also spicy, but I put the sauce in a container so if you can’t handle spice, you don’t need to add it.”
Never one to admit defeat, he folds his arms. “I can handle spicy food easily.”
“Okay, tough guy, I’ll take you up on that later. Anyway, I made us both bento boxes for the main meal, and…” She opens the box, and Chat’s eyes practically bulge out of his head.
“Cats?” he demands. “Rice cats? Oh my god, Ladybug, you’re unbelievable.”
Cats, indeed. She’d spent an hour shaping them: sticky rice balls shaped into little kitten heads, with ears sticking out at the side. There’s one made from white rice and another from purple rice, and the faces are styled from carefully cut pieces of dried seaweed, then sprinkled with sesame seeds. Ladybug’s certain that beneath the suit, her hands still smell like the seasoning she’d rolled the rice with because of the sheer amount of time she had spent on them.
“I made both Taiwanese fried chicken and teriyaki salmon for meat, then fried some vegetables. For health reasons. And kimchi, because we had some in our fridge and I thought, why not?” With that, she sets his bento box into his lap and gestures at the cookies. “Dessert. And something else afterwards, if you’re still hungry.”
“Something afterwards…?”
“You’ll see later,” she mumbles. “Anyway, dig in before it gets cold.”
Ladybug’s never been that great at accepting compliments, and Chat doesn’t lay off on them today either. He picks up the chopsticks with care and carefully picks up a piece of Taiwanese fried chicken. He pops it into his mouth, chews thoughtfully, then swallows.
Ladybug is never not in awe of how Chat’s eyes can literally light up.
“You weren’t lying,” he gushes. “This is world class cooking.”
“You’re laying it on a little too thick there,” she laughs.
“I speak only the truth, m’lady. This is amazing. Just like you.”
“Chat…”
“Okay, okay!” He’s still smiling as he moves to the rice ball. “I almost don’t want to eat them. They’re too perfect.”
Ladybug reaches over with her own chopsticks, stabbing one of his rice balls to split it in half, also tearing off one of the seaweed-eyes in the process. “There you go,” she declares sagely. “Ready to eat.”
Chat’s mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“I-I didn’t even get a picture!”
Ladybug pats his back. “Life is full of disappointments, isn’t it, chaton?”
He stabs her rice ball just for the hell of it before returning to his meal.
***
By the time she and Chat have practically cleaned out all the food (how he’d eaten nine cookies after the meal is beyond Ladybug), she’s so full that any slight movement hurts.
“Oh my god,” Chat is saying, tilting his head back. “I don’t think I’ve eaten so much for years.”
“I feel like I’m going to die,” Ladybug agrees. She’s lying back on the picnic blanket, staring at the sky. The sun had set twenty minutes ago, but traces of its light still peek out at the edge of the horizon, dyeing the sky a lovely indigo colour. Only the brightest stars are visible right now, but the others start to blink into existence one by one as day rests and night awakens.
“I feel like I’m going to die too.” He props his chin on his hand. “But it’s the good sort of dying. How privileged I am to be able to die next to you.”
Laughing hurts, but she can’t help but do so anyway. “Drama queen.”
He bats his eyelashes at her. “Only for you, Bugaboo.”
Ladybug wrinkles her nose at him in mock disgust, but a laugh is threatening to spill yet again and she’s not in the mood for another stomachache. Instead, she turns her attention back to the stars. The breeze that breathes over them is soothing.
They don’t do much for the next couple of minutes, simply gazing at the stars, wrapped up in a thick blanket of companionable silence. It’s easy like this, next to Chat Noir: Ladybug doesn’t have to read into these gaps of quiet, instead settling into them—because with him, they’re simply natural.
When the dark settles in completely and the sky alights into a patchwork of stars, Chat speaks up.
“Ladybug,” he says quietly.
She doesn’t turn away from the sky. “Mm.”
“Isn’t it funny that we’re here because of Hawkmoth?”
She pauses her stargazing to look at her partner instead. “What do you mean?”
Chat gives a little shrug, slightly sheepish. “If this… if none of this happened, or if Master Fu ended up choosing somebody else, or a million other possibilities, would we have met? Maybe we’ve passed each other on the street a thousand times and never knew who the other was. That thought has always bothered me, but I’m just… I’m just so thankful right now I can sit with you like this, even with the masks between us. I’m thankful that every time I transform, I know that I’ll see you again. I hate Hawkmoth as much as any other Parisian, but perhaps I have him to thank, for letting me meet you like this. And I hope that no matter what my future will bring, you’ll still be there in it.”
Ladybug can handle the flirtatious remarks, the casual confessions he peppers her with. But this—this is much more intimate, something she can’t help but cradle close to her heart. “Chat—”
“I know you don’t feel the same,” he replies. “And that’s okay. But for so long, no one’s really cared about me like you have, m’lady, and you mean everything to me and I hope you know that.”
Words evade her for a couple of moments. Then Ladybug extends her hand to him, and Chat’s fingers slip around hers, interlocking. It feels right—it always feels right with him.
“Me too, chaton,” she whispers into the sky. “I’m so glad I met you, and I hope that you’ll be there too, in my future.”
She can see his smile in her periphery.
***
Her mother tells her that preparing a meal for someone is an intimate gesture.
Ladybug is inclined to agree, but she thinks that sharing that meal together (and what happens afterwards) is what really makes it so.
Notes: Fics masterlist here! 
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fereldenturnip · 4 years ago
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But Don’t You Ever Let Me Go (3)
Primo Nizzuto/Majid Zamari Sugar Daddy Fic
Part 3/ ?
(Parts 1, 2)
Plus @ournextdoorneighbor has done several arts for #TrustTheWolf! Go check that AMAZING stuff out! :D
Majid wakes up at 10:58 am, completely well-rested. The evidence of his stale pleasure is glued to his body hair. The odd prickling promptly jump-starts his brain straight into freak-out mode. 
The car ride. Primo’s dulcet tones. The smell of him on his skin. The pleasure of release after so long without.
Majid leaps out of bed. 
Last night was a mistake. A weakness. One Majid is embarrassed to have committed in the first place. 
What’s shocked him most is the ferocity of his swift libido. Majid’s had fantasies before, lurid wet dreams inspired by exaggerated magazine spreads. Hot chicks in nothing but lingerie and ‘come hither’ stares. He used to go through bottles of lotion and boxes of tissues like crazy before he finally started having sex for real. 
Sex with women. 
Because Majid likes women. He isn’t gay! 
…Or, is he?
Fuck! Majid squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know anymore! That tame, midnight fantasy was nothing at all compared to all his previous raunchy escapades, but it was also the most intense orgasm of his life. Primo’s very masculine body, his very manly voice, his very alpha-male presence awakens a dark need inside Majid. Hell, it knocked him unconscious for hours after emptying his balls all over himself. 
Still, Majid is confused. 
It’s the weekend. He’s off from work and that means no surprise visits from certain Mafia Dons. Hopefully. Just thinking about Primo overwhelms Majid and sends him into a wild frenzy around his flat. He spends most of his afternoon laundering his bed sheets and clothes, cleaning himself thoroughly in the shower…and then scrubbing down the tiles when he strokes out another Primo-induced orgasm. 
It’s absurd, but Majid suspects one look at him and Primo will know his shame. His cock gives a valiant twitch at that. 
Is this real life? Is Majid going to spend the rest of the weekend wanking off to Primo? He groans, flopping down on his springy mattress and hanging his head. 
What exactly is it about Primo that awakens Majid’s sexual urges when nothing else has? Objectively speaking, Primo is a handsome-looking older man. Any fool with eyes, gay or straight, can see that plain as day. After the first few encounters with the man, Majid scoured old newspaper clippings from decades past. Desperate to understand the gravitas behind the notorious Primo Nizzuto.
Gone is the ridiculous pornstache and bell-bottoms of his youth, exchanged for modern (albeit still flamboyant) facial hair and fashion. The floppy hair and thick thighs remain, plus the addition of one pierced ear that came about during the 80’s. In fact, Majid once spent an entire lunch captivated by a single teardrop-shaped pearl earring that swayed in time with Primo’s conversation.
He appears to have aged like a fine wine, hale and healthy, time only adding to his magnetic elegance. All that country air and good food is a testament to the wonders of Italian longevity. 
Add to that his influential power--and Majid isn’t that dumb not to notice the excited thrill he feels whenever Primo exercises said power on Majid’s behalf. Small, insignificant Majid, a real nobody that Primo pulls out all the stops for. Majid likes people watching? With a wave of his hand, Primo gets them a table with a stunning view for lunch. The gallery too crowded for Majid? One word and suddenly it’s just the two of them gazing at dusty old paintings. Primo could have literally anyone in the world, but instead he chooses to fill his days with Majid. 
It’s hot. 
It wasn’t like this with Hakan, who pranced around pretending to be his mentor so long as Majid continued making him money. Who coddled him while simultaneously collaring him. 
Yeah, but Hakan didn’t want to fuck your brains out, either. 
Oh, he knows exactly what Primo wants. Who he wants. Question is, is Majid willing to give it to him? 
Primo is sexually charged and aimed at Majid, ready to fire whenever he’s given permission. That the ball is even in existence and firmly in Majid’s court is pleasantly reassuring. Despite all his carnal hunger, Primo will wait patiently for his enthusiastic consent. In some small measure, Majid can exert his own special power over the man. That in and of itself is attractive.
It’s exhilarating and dramatic, daunting and intimidating. Has Majid been playing it straight this whole time because it was expected of him? 
Living in Italy only makes it easier to remove himself from the trappings of his old life and examine the bigger picture. For the first time, he’s outside of the rigid confines of tradition that mandated he be hard-boiled and repressed. Finally, Majid can breathe easy and freely explore what makes his cock throb without shame. Try as he might to abhor this “perverted” behavior, Majid not-so-secretly delights from the adventures, the conversations…the pampering. Maybe it’s alright to admit kneeling, crawling, and kissing Primo’s signet ring is exactly what he desires. 
However, if Majid capitulates to Primo’s wants and needs, what’s in store for him when he inevitably fucks up? What security is there that he won’t end up beaten into another bloody pulp, or worse--dead? Honestly, it’s the punishment that scares Majid more than the sex. He’s racked with crippling anxiety--pins and needles in his fingers and toes, air freezing inside his lungs, the memory of bone splintering while someone he trusted sits indifferent to his suffering. 
Surviving Hakan? Pure dumb luck. Surviving Primo? Not likely. Every moment spent with Primo is like lighting a matchstick around a puddle of gasoline. One wrong move and everything goes up in flames. Every nerve in his body is telling him to run, far away from Primo Nizzuto’s reach. 
Everytime he gets the itch to move, those damn captivating green eyes lure him right back again. 
You’re an idiot, Zamari.
++++
“Boss wants you to have this,” the man in the dark suit says.
It’s sunny as shit outside, enough that Majid squints an eye trying to adjust after spending so long in the auto shop. There’s a backdrop of power tools and air compressors whirring away behind him. In front, the Suit wears a thick pair of nondescript sunglasses over a neutral expression. He wiggles the package again.
Majid scrunches his face at the square box. It’s expertly wrapped in crimson paper that looks quite supple and expensive. It’s…a gift. A bloody gift, given the colour. Gulping, Majid wipes his hands off on a rag and clumsily accepts it. Suit goes absolutely nowhere, merely crosses his hands and waits patiently. Primo must have ordered him to witness Majid’s reaction and report back to him. Shit, Majid’s face burns hot and it isn’t from the sun.
The wrapping is just as buttery-soft as expected. It calms his initial, childlike instinct to rip and tear it open. Inside is a black box embossed with pale gold letters.
BVLGARI. 
Majid’s eyes widen comically. He stares at the box, then at Suit. 
Silence. Not even a shrug or head-tilt to acknowledge Majid’s turmoil. Nothing. Perfect, civil obedience. With his heart thumping loudly in his ears, Majid is almost envious of his observer’s detachment. His thumb edges the corners of the box and he immediately likens his situation to Pandora. What fresh hell is he inviting into this world by opening Primo’s gift? Just sign here on the bottom line...
Nestled on a cushion of creamy velvet is an all-black watch. The straps are a liquidy-soft metal of intertwining onyx teeth. The wide crystal face is ringed in matte black lettering (and fuck, it’s an actual Bvlgari) and tiny yellow-gold dials. Three perfect subdials catch a sunbeam and flare molten and golden, like miniature full moons in the midnight sky. 
Woof!
His brown eyes light up and dance at the superb craftsmanship. It’s edgy but sleek, confident and dangerous--whoever wears it will surely strike an intimidating figure.
Oh, who is he kidding? Majid is totally going to wear this. Already his wrist is heavy and itching with anticipation. It’s absolutely perfect and exactly to Majid’s tastes. It’s as if Primo saw inside his soul and plucked out all his wants and desires just to hand them back on a silver platter. A plume of heat rushes down his spine to settle in his extremities. 
Shivering, Majid reassembles the box and stares at the expectant Suit. He’s almost tempted to pass it back, refuse this precious (ludicrously expensive) gift, if only to gauge his reaction. The Suit wouldn’t mind, but he’d still have to deliver the news to the benevolent gifter. It’s already been well-established that Primo brushes off rejection like water off a duck. Or, in his case, a black swan. His first proffered gift was an entire damn vineyard. Dozens of meals and car rides later, a four-figure watch is innocent. 
His fingers trace the embossed logo. It’s such a thoughtful gift, too. 
“Please give Signor Nizzuto my sincerest,” apologies, “thanks.” Fuck. 
Suit nods stiffly, pivots on one polished heel, and returns to his nondescript car. 
Majid escapes the hot air outside and returns to the auto shop. The gift is tenderly tucked inside his personal locker, with the lock pulled twice just to verify it is indeed fastened. The rest of his work day is spent in a complete daze. Everything blends together--Majid can’t count how many car batteries and broken tail lights he replaces, his mind and eyes skittering back to bore holes into his locker. 
When he greets Primo outside his apartment for their usual Tuesday night dinner, Majid is clean of grease and clothed in his best black attire. There’s been an effort to tame his growing curls and trim his short beard. He looks handsome. 
The sallow streetlamp outside casts him all in shadow. Somewhere a dog barks.
This time, when the chauffeur opens the backseat door he lets Primo exit and meet Majid in the crisp night air. The two of them stand silently across from each other, only a scant few feet apart. Primo is dressed in a close-fitting red suit so dark it might as well be black. 
Beware, the devil wears red… 
Unabashed green eyes soak in his appearance, slow and sultry over all his edges and curves. Majid holds himself still, blazer tucked in the crook of his left arm. The purposeful posture highlights the gleaming watch adorning Majid’s wrist. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
Primo blinks once, tongue blatantly stroking along his bottom lip, “Do you like it, my boy?”
His husky words are a temptation, promising notes ringing in the air between them. Shuddering madly and unable to speak, all Majid does is nod. A smile carves its way onto Primo’s face, chiseling dimples in his cheeks. Those eyes of his are electric. He takes a step closer, bringing a cloud of that damn cologne with him--Majid inhales sharply--then promptly backing off to the side. A playful little dance that leaves Majid absolutely reeling. One gentlemanly sweep of his hand, Primo beckons him towards the belly of the rumbling car. 
…So tempt away, devil, Majid thinks carelessly and ducks inside. 
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scapegrace74-blog · 4 years ago
Text
Don’t Call It Love
A/N  With Saorsa done and dusted, it’s time to return to the Metric Universe.  When we last left Jamie and Claire in October 2017, they were sharing comforting silence and attending a Depeche Mode concert together.  Will things fall easily into place now that they have tripped over the line from being roommates to being friends?   Oh, hell no.  What would be the fun in that? 
All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.
The song by Zero 7 (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.
Winter, 2017 - London, England
It happened by accident.  Happenstance.  Serendipity.   Fate.  The words she used to explain the fact that she and Jamie started seeing each other outside of the flat in social circumstances that would typically be characterized as dates varied, but her opinion remained fixed.  They weren’t dates.  Jamie was her roommate, a good friend, a fellow enthusiast of the culturally obscure, and a brilliant pub trivia partner.  They had both agreed that a romantic relationship between them would be disastrous; ergo, there was nothing romantic about their increasingly frequent outings.  If she could memorize the names for the 206 bones in the human skeleton, she could certainly manage to keep her feelings for Jamie inside the tidy box she had built for them.
Non-Date #1
They crossed paths inside the massive Spittalfields Market, both of them with shoulders damp from the chilly November rain.  Jamie was on his way to the fishmonger, while Claire carried a cloth bag filled with late-season vegetables, determined to eat something other than take-out on a rare day off from lectures and the hospital.
“Are ye on yer way back tae the flat, then?” Jamie asked, physically fighting the urge to offer to carry Claire’s wee sack.
“No, I’m off to the charnel house first.”
“The what, now?”  Surely he’d misheard her.
“The charnel house.  Don’t tell me you’ve been living over top of a medieval burial ground all this time without realizing it?” Claire teased.
Intrigued as much by her beguiling smirk as the opportunity to explore a bit of London’s history, Jamie followed Claire to a commercial highrise near the edge of the market.  Descending a non-descript stairwell in Bishop’s Square, they came to a halt in front of a glass wall.  On the other side was an excavated ruin, the crypt of the long-vanished chapel of St. Mary’s Spital hospital, a quick scan of a nearby information plaque informed him.
“They only discovered it was here when construction of the office tower began,” Claire said, a wistful look on her face.  “For centuries, travelers and the victims of London’s many plagues were buried around the hospital, quite literally in the Spital fields.  When the graves overflowed, they brought the excess bones here and stacked them for safe-keeping until the Apocalypse.  Imagine, forgetting something so...fundamental.”
Jamie grunted in acknowledgement, seeing the reflection of Claire’s face superimposed on the glass.  He couldn’t decide if this human tendency towards forgetfulness pleased or disappointed her.
“Tis rather...”
“Macabre?” she suggested with a grin, turning away from the display and climbing back into the cloud-roofed square.
“I was gonna say morbid, but as ye like.”
“We build our present on the bones of our past, my Uncle Lamb used to tell me.  He was referring to archaeology, but I’ve found it to be true of life itself.”
They walked back to the flat, collars raised against the hastening rain.  Jamie had bought enough hake for two, so they shared the narrow worktop, dicing fresh vegetables and letting their shoulders bump together occasionally.
Claire ate at the two-person dining table while scrolling social media on her phone.  Jamie used the coffee table to hold his plate and the gaming magazine he was flipping through.
It wasn’t a date.
Non-Date #4
Her cellphone rang as she was leaving the bathroom, thoughts bouncing between her end-of-semester exams and her non-existent plans for the Christmas holidays.  She accepted the call with one hand while starting the tedious job of separating her soaking curls with the other.  At first there was only static.  She glanced at the screen, recognizing the familiar number.
“Jamie?” she tried.
“...mac na ghalla, Hamish...” followed by muffled noises and masculine jeering.  She switched hands and started to towel off, making certain first that the video call button wasn’t active.
“Hal-lo.  Paging Mr. Fraser.  You have a call on line one.”
“Ach, sorry Claire.  I didna mean tae... That is, the lads were just... How are ye?”
She giggled at his discomposure.  “I’m well, thank you.  And you?”  They had seen each other that morning, as he came off shift and she was leaving for her morning lectures, so she assumed there was more to this call than a polite inquiry into her state of well-being.  She had learned over their months as roommates that sometimes you just needed to wait for Jamie to get to his point.
“Braw, thank ye.  I was... weel, I’m at the park with some o’ the lads, tryin’ tae put t’gether a side, an’ we’re short a winger, an’ I was jus’ thinkin’, ye said ye wanted tae learn tae play an’...”
Another James Fraser quirk was that he rambled in broad Scots when he was nervous.
“Jamie, are you asking me to play rugby with you?”
“Aye.  Aye, I am.  If ye wish, o’ course.”
“I did just step out of the shower...” she mentioned, already peering outside at the threatening sky and mentally assessing her wardrobe for something suitable for a ruck and maul in the rain.  “Hello?” when there was no sound from the other end in some time.
“Aye, I’m here.  Nevermind, Claire.  I dinna consider, ye must be gettin’ ready to study fer yer finals, an’...”
“Where are you?” she interrupted, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of yoga pants.
“Victoria Park?” Jamie replied, sounding hesitant and hopeful.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
“Splendid!”  She could hear his smile down the line.
“I better not get mud in my hair, Fraser,” she retorted before hanging up, her own smile lingering on her face.
There was nothing romantic about rugby.
Non-Date #7
The flat was strangely forlorn, even with Christmas lights twinkling merrily in the living room windows and a tiny fir tree precariously balancing its five ornaments standing in the corner.  
They had exchanged their gifts on December 23rd, sipping on hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and grinning shyly at each other.  She’d bought Jamie the next Call of Duty game for his XBox.  Nothing intimate, just something he’d mentioned in passing he was looking forward to trying.  His boyish glee upon unwrapping the package warmed her more than her drink.   Hands shaking slightly, she delicately opened the tastefully wrapped rectangle he presented to her.  Inside was a cashmere scarf, luxuriously soft beneath her fingers as she stroked it.
“Is this?” she asked.
“Aye, tis the Fraser plaid.  Ye ken there’s no’ a clan named Bee-cham, right?”
She was deeply touched, and thanked him was a kiss against his scruffy cheek.
Jamie had left for Scotland the next day, having somehow managed to secure a week’s worth of leave from his uncle over the holiday season.   As was her wont, she’d put down for as many shifts as possible while medical school wasn’t in session, but by some fluke she wasn’t scheduled to work New Year’s Eve for the first time in recent memory.
Some of her classmates from nursing college had invited her along to a “raging party in Shoreditch”, but she’d made up some excuse.  The truth was, she wasn’t in the mood for loud music and over-priced drinks with a group of virtual strangers.  If Geillis had been in town, she would have allowed her friend to coerce her into whatever mayhem she had up her sleeve, but Geillis was still in Columbia and eight months’ pregnant with twins, to everyone’s collective shock.  Especially the mother-to-be.
No, what she really wanted was a quiet evening at home, snuggled under her favourite fleece blanket on their couch, the latest Ferrante novel in her lap and a glass of Pinot Noir at the ready.  Jamie had a turntable and a surprisingly well-curated selection of vinyl in his bedroom, but she didn’t like entering his domain without his permission.
Without giving it a second thought, she rang his cell.  It was only upon hearing the raucous sounds of a party in full swing that it occurred to her that just because she was spending New Year’s Eve alone, it didn’t mean Jamie was as well.
“Claire?” he yelled over something that sounded a lot like live music.  “Are ye all right, lass?”
“Oh!  I’m so sorry, Jamie.  I just wanted to ask... never mind.  It’s not important.  Enjoy your party...”
“Wait!” the background noise mutated, sounding like a riot underwater, and then there was a wooden slam.  Jamie huffed a sigh of relief.
“Mu dheireadh.   Are ye still there, Sassenach?”
“Still here,” she confirmed, suddenly feeling sorry for herself.  She might be the most pathetic thirty-year old in London.
“Did the hospital no’ call ye in for a shift, then?”
She tucked the blanket under her feet, warding off the chill that always seemed to creep in from the wall of windows.  The Christmas lights she’d strung reflected against the glazing in alternating colours: blue, red, green, blue, red, green.
“No. By some miracle of the festive season, I have the night off,” she joked halfheartedly.   “I’m sorry for interrupting your night out.  I wanted to ask if I could borrow your turntable and a few of your albums?”
“O’ course.  Ye didna need tae ask.  An’ I’m no’ out.  I’m at home, at Lallybroch.”  He pronounced the word with a guttural flourish that made Claire think of an exotic kind of pastry or a rare tribal custom.  Any time Jamie spoke of his family’s home in Scotland, he imbued it with an otherworldly quality, like a fortress in a fairy tale, a far away land of warriors and mist.  It was strange to think of him there now, while she sat alone in their flat.
“It sounds like quite the party.”
“Aye.  The Frasers take their Hogmanay celebrations verra seriously.  Ye shoulda come wi’ me.”  Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he added quickly, “We could use a doctor.  Dougal sprained his ankle doin’ a sword dance, and Angus singed his arse somethin’ fierce jumpin’ o’er the bonfire.”
She laughed, her mood suddenly much lighter, and asked for more particulars as to how his cousin’s naked ass came to be in close proximity to open flame.  Without either realizing it, the last minutes of 2017 crept by.
Fireworks erupted outside, followed by the tolling of bells and honking of horns.  On the other end of the call, she could hear cheering and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.  They were both silent, embarrassed to have been so caught up in their trivial conversation as to have missed the arrival of midnight.
“Happy Hogmanay, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came soft and sure over the line.
“Happy New Year, Jamie,” she replied.  “I should really let you get back to your party.   Your family must be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.”
He hummed noncommittally.  It occurred to her that had they been in the same place, they would likely be kissing right now.  It sent a shiver of want down her spine.
“Jamie?”  Her voice sounded thready, like she had just woken from a deep sleep.
“Hmmm?”  Shivers, again.
“What’s a Sassenach?”
He laughed softly, and she had to bite her lip.  What was the matter with her?  “Tis a Scottish word for a foreigner, particularly an English one,” he explained.
“You’ve never called me that before,” Claire remarked.
“I’ve ne’er spoken tae ye while on Scottish soil.  T’wasn’t an accurate description ‘til now.”
There was a long silence.  She could hear the sound of revelry through the door of whatever room at Lallybroch he’d hidden inside.  Outside the flat there were firecrackers.   They reminded her of mortar rounds heard from a distance in Afghanistan.
“You don’t like fireworks, do you?” she guessed.  It didn’t take an advanced degree in psychology to know that bright flashes and sudden pops of sound would trigger his PTSD.  They really were a mess, the pair of them.
“Nay.  Jenny an’ Ian’s bairns love them, an’ I told them no’ tae hold off on my account, but they insisted on a bonfire instead.  It reminds me o’ when I was a lad, a’fore ye could buy fireworks along wi’ yer ham at the local Tesco.”
Jamie launched into a long account of the significance of bonfires in Highland culture, and she let herself drift on the melody of his voice, the turntable long forgotten.
“Tell me about yer most memorable New Year’s,” he prompted after his cultural diatribe wound down.
“Oh, well, they all rather blur together, actually.  Too much drink, too much spent on the cover charge.  You know how it is.”
“Nah, I mean when ye were younger.  Ye must ‘ave celebrated in some remarkable places.”
She thought back to her time spent following Uncle Lamb around the globe.  Truth be told, traditional holidays weren’t something that stood out in her memory.  They felt like a foreign custom, a series of drawings taken from a picture book that showed a mother, father and children crowded around a loaded table while snow piled up outside.  They bore no relation to her reality.  It was no wonder Christmas and New Year’s left her feeling ambivalent.
Still, she didn’t want Jamie to feel sorry for her, so she launched into one of her favourite tales.
“One year, I must have been eleven, Lamb was leading an excavation of a Berber oasis town in northern Mali.  The site closed down for the Christian holidays, but Lamb decided to stay behind rather than travel back to England.  We ended up riding camels through these enormous sand dunes, following a local guide on an ancient caravan route.  On December 31st, just as the sun was setting and we had begun to make camp, the camel Lamb had been riding let out this infernal noise, leapt to its feet, and started to gallop away.  Lamb and the guide set off after it on foot, hollering and waving their keffiyeh in the air.  It was the funniest thing.”
“They left ye all alone in the desert?” Jamie asked, horrified.
“Oh, well, they came back eventually.  The camel had been stung by a scorpion, you see.  Once it got over the fright, they were able to catch it and bring it back to camp.”
“Were ye no’ scared, tae be out there in the dark by yerself?”
“No.  Not as I remember it.  The sunset was glorious, and little by little the sky came alive with a million stars.”
“Ye brave wee thing.”  Jamie sighed.  “I wish I was there wi’ ye.”
She didn’t know if he meant with her on that sand dune, or with her at their flat.  Either way, her answer was the same.
“I wish you were too.”
They finally hung up well past two o’clock.  It didn’t count as a date if the other person was five hundred miles away as you whispered goodnight.
Non-Date #12
The Royal London was expanding its pediatrics wing, and Claire was invited to a fundraising gala held, fittingly, in the Museum of Childhood.  The invitation included a plus one, and she’d been putting off asking Jamie if he could join her all week.  It wasn’t that she doubted his suitability as an escort.  Far from it.  But the gala was taking place on February 14th, of all nights, and the symbolism made her nervous.  Still, the alternative was spending the night being hit on by a drunken internist or hedge fund investor, and that was a headache she could do without.
“So,” she began casually a few nights before the event, “any plans for Valentine’s Day?”  If he said he was working or had, god forbid, a date, she would just have to go stag.
Jamie set down his gaming controller and turned to face her desk.  The pulsing  colours from the screen lit his curls like a neon nimbus in the dim room.
“Nah, nothin’ definite.  An’ ye, Sassenach?” he asked tentatively, as though easing himself out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the depth of the ice.  The nickname he had assigned to her during his holidays in Scotland had stuck.  She didn’t correct the inaccuracy, as she rather liked the idea of having a name that was only his.
“Well, I’ve been summoned to a fundraising gala for the hospital, and I was wondering... not that you need feel obliged... it’s black tie, which is really the height of pretension, if you ask me... anyway, there’s no way to decline gracefully short of an aneurysm, so...”
“Out wi’ it, Sassenach,” he prodded.
“Mightyouconsiderbeingmydate?” she blurted, before taking a large gulp of tepid tea.
“Yer date?” he asked as though he had never heard of such a thing.
She sighed, resigned to the fact he was going to make this difficult.  “Yes.  My date.  My plus one.  My social companion.  And hopefully, my defence against spending the evening being pitied and set up with someone’s second cousin, Nigel, the chartered accountant.”
“Do ye have somethin’ against accountants, then?”  The corner of his lip was twitching with the birth of a grin.
“Oh, very funny, you bloody Scot.  Look, I need a date on Valentine’s Day and you are the only man in the Greater London Area who won’t interpret that as an opportunity for a pity shag.   The offer is on the table.  Take it or leave it.”
Something flashed behind his eyes that she couldn’t interpret.  Then it was gone.
“Ne’er fear, Sassenach.  I’ll protect ye from all the wee Nigels.”
***
She’d forgotten to ask whether Jamie had suitable attire for a black tie event.   It was too late now, regardless.  They were meeting at the museum, since she was on shift until eight.  Using the nurses on-call room to get changed, she slinked into her burgundy chiffon gown, its gauzy layers wrapping around her like millefeuille.   Her hair was a lost cause, so she slicked it back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and hoped for the best.  Silver chandelier earrings and a dab of cologne below her jaw, and she was ready to go.  She carried a small beaded clutch and her dress shoes - there was no way she was navigating the Tube in stilettos. 
The museum was a single massive space, conversation and the tympani of glassware echoing against its high-arched ceiling.  She stood in the entryway after checking her coat, spinning in circles and trying to get her bearings.  More than one lascivious glance was directed her way, but she studiously ignored them in favour of looking for Jamie.  With his height and red hair, he shouldn’t be hard to pick out of the crowd.
There was an appreciative murmur from behind her, a gust of fresh air, and then a soft tap against her bare shoulder.  She turned around.
No.  Not hard to pick out from a crowd at all.  Standing before her was James Fraser in full Highland regalia.  He wore his family tartan, a black velvet waistcoat, brilliant white dress shirt and a black bow tie.  When her gaze fell to the floor, she noticed his polished brogues and white socks pulled up to his knees.  She’d never before considered how a man’s knees might be alluring, but there it was.   Jamie had very sexy knees.
“G’d evening, Sassenach.  Ye look... weel, ye look bonnie.”  Jamie’s normally deep voice was gruffer than usual, perhaps on account of the cold night air.  Or maybe his bowtie was tied too tight.
“Good evening, Jamie,” she replied once she found her voice.  “You look, well, if you were a Jacobite, I’d say you looked regal.”
The tops of Jamie’s ears went red, and he ducked his chin, his tamed curls falling briefly forward.  It gave him the look of a bashful child receiving unexpected praise, completely at odds with the strikingly masculine figure he cut.
“No’ a Nigel, then?” he teased.
“No.  Definitely not a Nigel.  Come, let’s get something to drink before all the top-shelf liquor runs out.  You wouldn’t believe how much some of these doctors can put away!”
Jamie was a perfect date.  He stood by her elbow as she mingled and greeted various colleagues and professors, nodding at their tales of medical misfortune and smiling at their awkward jokes.  He spoke confidently about his work and current affairs, and patiently tolerated endless jibes about what a true Scotsman wore beneath his kilt.
When she politely excused them from one such conversation, he leaned over to whisper in her ear as they walked away to fortify themselves with more alcohol.
“I’ve a mind tae lift my plaid an’ moon the entire assembly the next time one o’ yer wee doctor friends asks about my underthings.  Are ye sure they arena raising funds for a new proctology department, Sassenach?”
She snorted in a truly unladylike fashion and turned to meet his unrepentant smirk.  Just then, a figure approaching from the bar caught her eye.
Oh no.  It couldn’t be.  After five years, she’d finally relaxed her vigilance, had ceased anticipating his presence at every turn, and now, here he was.
“Sassenach?” Jamie was watching her with concern.  The blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her wine-stained lips and sintering eyes the only colour on her face.
“Claire!  Fancy meeting you here!”  Had his voice always been so nasal?  His eyes so glassy and vacant, like portals into nothingness.  He’d obviously been drinking heavily.  A blond woman half his age had her arm linked through his.
“Frank,” she uttered his name.  Jamie stepped into her side, his posture erect, somehow sensing that she needed his protection from this unheralded threat.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise.  I’d heard you’d gone into the army, or some such thing.  Afghanistan, was it?  Well, with your penchant for violence, I suppose that’s fitting.”
She breathed deeply through her nose.  She would not let him get the better of her.  She wasn’t that person anymore.  With a clammy hand, she grabbed onto Jamie’s fingers where they rested around her hip.  He squeezed back.  He was here.   She wasn’t alone.  It was all the strength she needed.
“Yes, that’s right.  I served overseas for a time, but I’m back in London now.  In medical school.   Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”
Focusing on each step, she turned towards the exit, Jamie’s hand now warm upon the small of her back.  Her chin wobbled, but she bit down hard to stave off tears.
“A doctor?” Frank taunted from behind her.  “Wouldn’t a demolition expert be more apropos, darling?”
She froze, spine trembling with anger.  Jamie made a questioning noise, asking without words if she wanted him to intervene.   She didn’t.
Glancing over her shoulder, she dealt her parting blow.
“Give my best to Amelia and the children.”  Without waiting to witness the aftermath of her pronouncement, she made her way out into the chilly night air, Jamie’s bulk a silent sentinel at her side.
It wasn’t a date if it ended on the floor of your bathroom, crying ugly sobs as mascara stained your cheeks, while your partner held your shoulders and made soothing noises with his throat.  
That wasn’t dating, that was survival.
***
mac na ghalla = son of a bitch
Mu dheireadh = finally
76 notes · View notes
cosmicclownboy · 4 years ago
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"Not that I don't mind our little bonding one to ones but may I ask why we are doing this again?" "So you know that my toxic masculinity bro days are over. Me and Rosa did a quiz today and turns out blue is my spirit colour so let's get to it, Manes". 
Excitedly clapping and inspecting the bottle with his fingers Kyle looks at peace so who is Alex to object to it. He can't say teen Alex expected this friendship to flourish again let alone be sitting in Kyle's apartment with a bottle of red painting Kyle's nails with a shade called Sultry Sapphire. But Alex knows more than anyone that adaptability is a huge part of life. Change is inevitable. And this is a change that he's glad for. It doesn't feel weird or out of place. It feels almost like he's slowly refinding everything he once lost. Jenga tournaments as kids turned into drinking games and poker and fishing turned into going to the same gym. Eventually, Isobel fishes out which gym and excitedly exclaims gym buddies. It's actually really fun even if he has to witness his training on her Instagram feed. Being in an alien exist clubhouse is difficult him and Kyle have pretty heavy-duty careers and having the most practical sense vs the people in said group who would prod a bear simply to see how it would react well their friendship blossomed. Finishing the last touches he goes for the wine in a latte mug.
"Right this will dry in a couple of minutes. Then it's my turn, Manes. I hope you're ready for iridescent fantasy 69". He almost groans at the choice in colour with swirls of blues, pinks and purples Alex is immediately taken to the pieces in Michael's bunker all shiny and beautiful. Judging by the smirk he gets the Ortecho Valenti sibling team-up happened behind the scenes. "Seriously where did Rosa get these from? there are two women on the front having sex" "Someone she met in rehab - don't ask"
"So....hows things in the dating universe?" "Forest and Liz signed me to Grindr without my permission.....and there's only so many times I can open up a message to see literal junk mail. I also went out on a date with a man who's fetish was sucking toes he seemed unnaturally interested in the prospect of banging a man with only the one foot. Four times. Four times I've been set up with someone with the oddest fetish". This seems to gage a reaction out of Kyle who rolls a little around the floor with a chuckle holding the brush from the nail polish close to his chest trying his best not to sour the rug. "Alex you've spent the last ten years fucking an alien. You have a rain fetish dude and don't even try it Liz told me about your rain scented angst candle sessions" Oh, he is going to have words with Liz. "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I got pegged behind a target" Alex groans heavily.
Liz feigns ignorance when Alex corners her in the Crashdown and she, of course, tries to bat her eyelashes at him thinking it'd affect him. He's a man of stone. He will not be immediately forgiving by a kind smile.Nope.Not happening. It at least has to include a free hug and the first round of drinks which occurs a week later dressed in his tightest jeans and Kyle moping because Steph left had him. Liz and Kyle made it to Planet 7 a place Kyle thrives in. "Look it's glitter night Kyle you love glitter night the shots are half off".Liz is doing her best to brighten the mood despite her own romantic failings anytime the name Max is spoken she looks haunted. And hey who is he gonna judge he knows how easy it is to get an alien under your skin he's hitting 12 years in a month and he's wondering what it would be in anniversary terms. Google tells him it's silk he almost laughs at the idea of giving Michael any clothing in that fabric the man was rugged jeans and t-shirts. When his phone is stolen by Liz who pushes a shot in his direction he remembers why he's here. Have fun with his friends. Solidarity in suffering. The drinks flow easily to the booth he's had a pina colada some other fruity drinks and a bunch of shots. At first, he didn't feel anything, not even a buzz but after twenty minutes he feels sluggish and slow. Everything moving at a different rate then it did before. You should call Michael" Liz is shouting it off from the dancefloor of which she's tripped twice on and yet somehow she's beaming. Everything just kind of blurs together after that doesn't even realise he's on his bed until his hands are grasping the pillow. And faintly he feels a kiss on his head.
Drinking is a fun idea until the Hangover hits. He's starting to remember why he doesn't usually drink. His head is just throbbing he's trying his best to turn on soldier mode darting his eyes around trying to survey the room. Okay, the only clothes by the bed are his that's good. That's great one thing he doesn't have to worry about. There are a couple of pills on a plate by a glass of water with the box to show him what it is. And he's pretty sure there's a bin by the bed and end table... Someone took care of him. Who? He takes a very long shower water hits his skin until he feels anew or at least a little more bearable. It's only when he's drying off and hearing a faint hum of music that he remembers. Oh god.
"Guerin, it's me, Alex ... shoul-should of probably said Alex first how can you know it's me it's unspecific. Can you come home now my beds all big and fluffy and I want your fluffy hair in it.I miss your hair it's soft. Can you come save me Kyle keeps waving me over to dance with a drag queen and a stripper and I don't want to- "MIKEY WE'RE AT PLANET 7 COME DANCE WITH US" He really can't catch a break. "You know every minute you stay in there is a minute longer the pancakes get cold. And you should know I make a mean stack of chocolate chip pancakes"
He doesn't know what he's expecting when he first leaves his bedroom. He's nervous. After the song, he promised himself he would not make the first move. If Michael wants him he's going to have to say it in words to his face and communicate it to him. He's tired of metaphors and unspoken words. Trust drunk Alex to immediately ignore what he wants and skip right to the stroking Michael's hair part. Which yes he wants to do all the time. He finds Michael in the kitchen using a metal utensil as a mirror checking his teeth, his hair before straightening his shirt and patting his jeans down. He's nervous too. His heart stutters a little at the thought. Michael places the table settings and looks up with a small smile. "Hi" "Hi" He gestures to the table. "It's not much I had to run to the store you have the cupboard of an 18-year-old student" Even hungover and tired he can't fight the smile on his face. "Between my work hours and alien scooby sleuthing don't always have the time or energy" "I'm sor "If you apologise I will steal all your pancakes, Guerin" Despite his head throbbing and his leg killing him it's probably the best morning he'd had in a long time. A bird is flying past the window. His dog is sleeping soundly in his bed. The smell of flowers from the vase in the middle of the table is melding with the smell of warm chocolate. And if he dares a glance from his plate he sees the man he loves chewing on pancakes slowly with a small smile on his face. It's peaceful like something out of a movie.
"I don't know if you remember the voicemail you gave me you were pretty wasted. I gave all of you guys a ride home. Valenti threw up on my sneakers I uh was glad I wasn't wearing my good boots" Michael looks the most vulnerable he's seen him in years moving his fork around the pancake in front of him. He drops his fork and squeakily moves his chair closer and reaches for both his hands. "I'm so sorry for everything. This past year especially" Michael is trying his best to hold back his tears sniffing trying to get whatever words he wants to get out - out. "You know I've uh been seeing a therapist the last couple of months and she's great you know she calls me out on my victim complex crap and gives me all kinds of homework that sometimes bugs me but it's been helping. She asked me to write a list of things I wanted and at first, I couldn't do it for weeks I just stared at the page and couldn't I didn't think I deserved to write one. Eventually, I did. Can I read it to you?"
He squeezes his hands briefly before bringing his hands to his cheeks softly stroking in encouragement.
"Number 1, Don't be angry anymore it doesn't make you happy it hurts you and it's hurt the people that you love. Number 2, Spend more time with Max and Isobel as a family. Number 3, Remember you are loved and wanted by Isobel, Max, Sanders and Alex make sure to let them know that they are your family. Number 4, tell Alex that you stole his guitar on purpose that day you heard him play at work once and you just wanted to know him. Number 5, tell Alex that stealing his guitar and falling in love with him was the best thing that ever happened to me. You can read the rest if you want" The list is the closest thing to a love letter he's ever gotten off of Michael and everything he reads is everything he wants for Michael. He wants Michael to be happy to love himself to know he's wanted and love. Even seeing minor things like I want to hold Alex's hand makes him emotional. He wants all those things too. He wants a life with Michael. He wants Michael. And everything he reads and hears as Michael reads out the lines without the paper has his heart racing.
There no longer are metaphors in the air it's words pure and simple.
He supposes he should kiss Michael but he chooses a different kind of embrace one he wanted to do for a while he wraps Michael in a hug it's warm and tight he hopes he knows in this hug how much he loves him. And if he doesn't know he can say he'll say it every day until Michael understands it. "Want to watch a bad movie on the couch and cuddle?" Michael's grip on his shirt lessons and a muffled chuckle and a nod is conveyed against his chest. Armed with coffee and a bag of chips they make their way on the sofa. The question of big spoon is gone straight away when Michael makes grabby motions with his hands. His head is pressed into his chest and Alex feels at home and at peace. They flick through the channels. "Have you seen this one?" "Have I seen a film about a flesh-eating octopus fighting a giant shark? no, can't say I have". The movie is terrible as expected laughably so but the thing that makes it one of his favourites is Michael's anger towards the films plot. "So the giant shark was actually a robot designed by a bored rich kid who wanted to prod fish which caused the flesh-eating octopus to become feral and murder a bunch of people? They didn't explain anything about the flesh-eating octopus the whole plot doesn't make any sense" Rubbing his stomach in low circles and dotting a kiss to his collarbone he smirks at Michael's investment. "And another thing -mmph" He leans back. Michael's eyes are closed his lips are puckered he pouts when he realises he hasn't come back up to kiss him "You were saying?" "I'm shutting up now....hey come back up here and kiss me"
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a-simple-imagine · 5 years ago
Text
Team Cap
Requested by Anonymous: “Civil war imagine with fem!reader and natasha where they're on opposing teams and there's some delicious angst where the reader says "the next person to ask me about Natasha is gonna lose their legs." A bit of established relationship.”
Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader
Words: 1.9k+
Trigger Warning - Swearing
A/N - I want to make it clear i was and always will be team iron man. 
Headcanon that Tony buys you iron man merch for every birthday, Christmas, etc.
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"If we sign these accords I'll never be able to use my powers again," You groan loudly as you pushed yourself up on the couch. Steve heading in your direction with two colourful mugs in hand. He sits in the armchair to the right of you, passing over the mug with Iron Man's face on. Tony had bought you it for your last birthday; God only knows why. Why would you possibly want a mug that had Iron Man's face on? In all fairness, though you did use it a lot.
"Then don't," Steve insists, his shoulders rising in a casual little shrug. You rolled your eyes completely dismissing his words.
"That wouldn't be an option,"
"They can't force you to sign. Do whatever you think is right," Steve replies. You blow softly on the top of your tea before taking a small sip. He was right, even if the accords came into play they couldn't make you sign it but then there would be a penalty. You'd be working outside the law. A criminal but a just one at that.
"I wish Nat could see it as clearly as you, I can't just sign my life away."
"Maybe if you explain it to her she'll listen." he suggests. You watch him as he takes a long swig from his mug, waiting until he's finished.
"Doubt it, my girl is stubborn as an ox. A real pain in the ass."
"You're right about that," there was a light-hearted chuckle from Steve. "But if there is anyone who can convince her it's you, Y/N. Natasha may not change her mind but you can at least try to get her to understand yours."
You take a long sip of your tea, a smile settling on your lips. "You're a very wise man, Mr. Rogers. Where ever do you get it?"
"When you live as long as I have, you learn a couple of things." He nods a little, a soft smile on his lips.
"Ah to be old and wise," you comment as you finish off your tea. Placing the iron man mug on the coffee table you rush off to find Natasha. You check all the usual spots starting with the shooting range but you eventually find her hidden away in a conference room alongside Tony. She's lounging on one of the chairs near the front with her feet up on the table. Tony is sat on the table next to her as they seemingly stare at the wall. You push the door open quietly coming to a halt when you hear what they're discussing. Luckily, they hadn't noticed you yet.
"-on Cap, that's not on me."
"I don't think I've ever seen the others so angry," Natasha replies almost absentmindedly. "This could really mess with the team."
"Don't be silly, little red. The rest of them will come to their senses and realize this is what needs to be done. It's for the best."
Natasha's head shakes a little. "Don't call me little red."
Tony laughs. "They may not see it now but they will. I still can't believe you're on my side."
"And so so close to deferring." Natasha leans down on the table with her elbow. Head resting in her hand. "It's not even about sides, it's about protecting people. At the rate we're going, we're probably doing more harm than good."
"...What about Y/N?" Tony asks cautiously.
"What about her?"
"I just... you two have been acting very weird lately and she's not gonna be happy about this. You heard the other day."
A sigh follows Tony's words and you assume it came from Natasha. You shift your weight uncomfortably, you had lingered too long at the door and now it's awkward. You could pretend you hadn't been spying but now you weren't too sure she'd listen anyway. "That doesn't matter now. Y/N is.... special to me but she's also dangerous. I can't risk everyone's life just for her and she's on the wrong side of this."
Dangerous. You're dangerous. You're on the wrong side. You quietly close the door, not wanting to draw attention before heading back down the corridor. You were never quite sure where you stood with Natasha but now it was pretty clear. Do the others think the same thing? That you're dangerous?
You didn't even try to convince her. You didn't let the others try and persuade you. Instead, you pushed everyone away. If they all thought you were such a monster, this was for the best. You needed a distraction from the avengers; from your own head so you threw yourself into training. Standing in the gym at the break of dawn, you jab the punching bag with your wrapped hands, pausing briefly when you hear the door open. You hesitated for verbal communication but when there wasn't one you just continue punching. That was until you saw Natasha out of the corner of your eye. Things had become tense between the two of you; overly so. Packing up your things, you leave. You don't want to deal with her right now. Every conversation always became about the accords and you hadn't scheduled in an argument today. With Natasha in the gym, you decide the next best thing is to go for a jog outside. You've never liked jogging. You only ever do it when something is wrong; like you're running from your problems. Literally running from your problems. Steve joins you not too long after. He's faster than you are. You think nothing of it until he tries talking to you. He asks about Natasha. Guess it's time to grab some breakfast.
After a quick shower and a change of clothes, you head for the kitchen. It's surprisingly empty. The only other person being Clint. You're grateful when the first word out of his mouth is "Good Morning" and not Natasha related.
"What are you doing up?" You ask, as you stroll to get a bowl out of one of the hanging cupboards.
"Couldn't sleep." He replies you take a moment to look at him. The tired eyes and messy hair were an interesting look. You place the iron man ceramic bowl on the counter; another gift from Tony. He gave you it for your 1st year anniversary of joining the team.
"I feel you," You comment as you collect a box of cereal and the milk. You'd make something more but you frankly couldn't be bothered. "You gonna be okay?"
He nods, as he takes a bite of the toast sat beside him and you take him at his word. Pouring Rice Krispies into the bowl before adding some milk, you grab your empty mug and sit beside him. "You want coffee?"
You give him a firm nod as you shove a spoonful of cereal into your mouth. He pours you some and slides the mug back over. "Thanks."
"What you up to today?"
You shrug a little. "Don't know yet. You?"
"Gotta help Cap out with a few things, you can come if you want?"
"No thanks."
You continue to chat with Clint as you enjoy your breakfast. And the rest of the day goes by smoothly, you even manage to talk to Natasha a little. Although it still ended the same way and you had to remove yourself from the situation. None of the others so much as tried to interfere, they were probably just used to it by now.
The entire situation escalated so quickly, you didn't have time to figure out what was going on. Everyone seemed to just divide right down the middle creating such a rift that you were now stood at an airport fighting the avengers. Bucky, Wanda, Cap, Sam and some guy you hardly knew names Scott all lined up alongside you. Directly opposite stood Natasha, Tony, Rhodey, Vision and a guy in a cat costume? A hand brushed against yours, and you look down as Wanda takes your hand.
"You gonna be okay?"
You look back to the others, nodding your head a little. "Why wouldn't I be?"
She gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go. "Well... Nat-"
"Don't." You state firmly. "We're fine. Everything is fine and I swear to god, the next person to ask me about Natasha is gonna lose their legs."
"I'm just making sure-"
"Stay out of my head, Wanda." You growl.
"What do we do, Cap?" Sam asks bringing you back from your anger. You take a deep breath.
"We fight,"
"Yay," you mumble sarcastically as you step alongside the team. The others start walking towards you as well. "This is a bad idea."
"There's no other way,"
The airport erupts into a war zone as you charge at each other. Your eyes fixed in on Natasha. Her punch collided with the palm of your hand. "Nice catch." You just roll your eyes at her comment, closing your hand around her fist, twisting her arm and dragging her to the floor. "Maybe we can work this out."
"Talk is cheap." You growl.
"Suit yourself." Her leg sweeps into your ankles, sending you falling to the ground before jumping to her feet. "I just don't want you to be mad at me over this."
You stand up, brushing yourself off. "It's not about the accords." It kind of was but not entirely. Taking a deep breath your fight becomes a series of equal parts action and reaction. You punch, She dodges. She grabs you and flips you onto the floor, you kick her legs to bring her down. You're equally skilled and aren't doing anything to cause any real damage. Pinned against the floor, Natasha holds you down.
"Then what?"
You struggle under her grip. "You think I'm a monster. You think the accords will protect people from me."
For a split second her stoic mask breaks. It takes a little help from Wanda for you to be set free. Natasha thrown against a metal container, she groans loudly. "At least, try to beat her."
You smile at Wanda. With her palms, Nat pushes off the ground with enough force that when her feet collide with your chest, you stumble backward. "I don't think you're a monster," As you punch, she twists and throws her legs around your neck, pulling you both to the ground. "You can manipulate reality that makes you dangerous. We all are. The accords will keep us in line but I understand why you went against it."
Trapped, you decide to use a different tactic. You sink your teeth into her leg which loosens her grip enough for you to pull away. "I'm not signing my powers away."
"You fucking bit me," she chuckles, running her hand over her leg. "I normally wouldn't object but damn, Y/N."
You give her a small smile. "You deserves it."
"Maybe I do,"
The fight seems to be never-ending. You're getting sore and out of breath, sweat dripping down your forehead. This was stupid and definitely getting out of hand. You throw Natasha over your shoulder, foot resting against her chest in an attempt to keep her down. "Friends again?"
"I think we're a little more than friends, don't you?" You let up and she sits up, leaning back on the palm of her hands. You sit down beside her.
"You wanna grab some ice cream after this?" You ask, falling backwards against the ground. She lays down beside you.
"Sounds like a plan."
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racebox-of-higgars · 4 years ago
Text
Christmas Kisses - sprace oneshot
It may not be Christmas anymore but I’m still gonna write it 
Crossposted on Ao3 at Racebox_of_Higgars 
Enjoy! 
“I think I’m having a feeling,” Spot groaned, flopping down onto Jack’s couch. “Make it stop.” Jack looked up from his painting, frowning at Spot.  
“How did you get in my house?”  
“I picked the lock,” Spot said simply, as if it happened every day.  
“As you do.”  
“Yes.” Jack narrowed his eyes slightly, then shook his head. Today was not the day for questioning things.  
“What feeling?”  
“Fuck if I know.” Spot gestured at the air in front of him. “ Racetrack! ” That only made Jack even more confused.  
Spot, he didn’t really do feelings. He would always bottle them up and ignore them until they became anger, which was far easier to deal with than whatever it was before. That earned him his reputation as the kid with the anger issues, which suited him just fine. It meant no one messed with him, or people around him, and as long as they were okay, he was happy.  
“You got a problem with Race?” Jack asked, turning completely away from his painting. He was invested now.  
“Yes! No! I don’t know.” Jack grinned, finally catching on to what Spot was getting at.  
“You like him, don’t you?” Spot screamed into the pillow and Jack snickered.  
Jack loved Race. Not in a romantic way, but Race was pretty much his little brother, and he would do anything to make Race happy. He had seen Race fall in love too fast then each time they would leave and he’d watch Race fall apart, each time losing another part of himself. Slowly, it had worn Race down, and though he didn’t let it show, he was always hurting. Every time he got into a new relationship, he would keep his distance, trying not to get too close Every time he would get his heart broken. Jack never liked any of Race’s boyfriends, but he liked Spot.
“So what do I do about it?” Spot asked. “Do I ask him out, or do I like stab him?”  
“You ask him out, dipshit!” Spot screamed again.  
“What do I do?” Spot sat up slightly, looking a Jack, and he actually looked worried. God, he was whipped.  
“Ask him on a date.”  
“What kind of date does one ask Racetrack fucking Higgins on?” That was a good question. Thankfully, Jack had known the fucker since they were basically fetuses, and therefore knew exactly what he would want.  
“Take him to the ice-skating rink, then get hot chocolate together and watch a Christmas movie.” Race was a sucker for Christmas, and it being just weeks away now, it was perfect timing. “If you’re feeling bold put up some mistletoe. He loves that shit.”  
“Race loves Christmas, right?”  
“Yup. If your house isn’t decorated he’ll fly through there like a glittery rainbow tornado.” Spot smiled at that. He could practically picture it, and he felt the blush creeping up his cheeks. “Dude, you’re fucking whipped.”  
“Shut the fuck up, I’ll still kill you in your sleep.” Jack just smiled and turned back to his painting.  
“Enjoy your date.”  
Spot knew what he wanted to say, but actually asking Race out was a whole other story. They were in the library together, a usual hangout spot (hehe get it), when it was cold, and Race was rambling on about some new thing he had grown obsessed with and Spot had listened diligently, completely enraptured by Race’s excitement. His sparkling eyes lit up with a childlike glee and a grin spread across his face as he looked out the window.  
“Spotty, look!” He cried. “They’re turning on the Christmas lights!” Race was entranced by the lights, almost like a child, but Spot wasn’t watching them. Spot was gazing at Race. He watched as the colours flickered over Race’s pale skin and the rainbow of lights reflected off his eyes. God, he was so in love with this boy it hurt, and if he didn’t get at least a date with him soon he was pretty sure he’d combust.  
Plans went out the window.  
“Go on a date with me?” He blurted, screaming internally the second it left his mouth. Race turned to him, shock written all over his face.  
“What?”  
“I-uh-I wanted to know if you, maybe, wanted to go on a date with me?” Spot stammered out, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Race smiled, somehow wider than he had when he was watching the lights.  
“Really?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Yes!” Race rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, like he always did when he was excited and Spot couldn’t help his smile.  
“Alright, uh, I’ll pick you up at 7, is that okay?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Oh, and wrap up warm,” Spot added, thinking about how cold it was likely to be on the ice later. Race nodded.  
“Okay, I’ll – uh – I’ll see you later?”  
“Yeah, see you.” Fuck yes!  
In Which Race Is A Third Wheel  
Racebox of Higgars:  GAYSGAYSGAYSGAYSGAYS!!!!
Mom:  Do you really need that many exclaimation marks?  
SantaGay: GAYSGAYSGAYSGAYSGAYS????
Mom: Don’t encourage him  
Racebox of Higgars:  GAAAAAAAAAAAYS!  
Mom:  What do you want?  
Racebox of Higgars:  SPOT ASKED ME ON A FUCKIN DATE!!!!
SantaGay:  HELL YEAH!  
Mom:  Finally
Mom:  It’s only taken him nine years.  
SantaGay:  what are you doing?  
Racebox of Higgars:  i don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me
SantaGay:  oooh, a man of mystery  
Mom:  Be safe.  
Racebox of Higgars:  i always am
Racebox of Higgars:  OH FUCK WHAT AM I GONNA WEAR
Mom:  Did he give you a dress code?  
Racebox of Higgars:  no, he just said dress warm
SantaGay:  black skinny jeans, that cream turtleneck you literally never wear, your fancy black coat, doc martens, a lil bit of eyeliner  
Mom:  Jack, you have fashion sense?  
Mom:  Why do you never dress up nice for our dates?  
Racebox of Higgars:  o shit
Racebox of Higgars:  thanks gays  
For the fifth time, Race examined himself in the mirror, scrunching up his face. Something was missing from his outfit. He had to admit, Jack’s taste was good (the eyeliner was amazing), but something was still missing. He rifled through his drawers, eventually pulling out the silver chain Spot had bought him when they were 14. It was simple, plain, but spoke volumes.  
Race had only just come out as trans. He was slowly swapping out his wardrobe for more masculine clothes, and they were going through his old jewellery.  
He held up  a necklace with a small owl charm at the end, grimacing. He hated that necklace. It wasn’t anything against it particularly, but more to do with how feminine it made him feel. He hated it.  
“Y’know,” he began absent-mindedly, “I used to love this necklace, but now I can’t stand it. It makes me really dysphoric for some reason, which sucks since I love wearing jewellery and stuff, but I can’t wear most of this.”  
“You can get more masculine necklaces,” Spot answered from where he was sitting at the foot of Race’s bed.  
“Well, yeah, but I can’t really afford it.” Spot frowned. “I don’t get any money at the moment, and I can’t work.”  An idea slowly formulated in Spot’s mind.  
“Race, I got you something,” Spot said sheepishly. Race turned, brow furrowing.  
“It’s not my birthday, or Christmas. Why?”  
“It ain’t much, but you were saying about it the other day and then I saw it and thought of you.” He held the box out to Race, who took it tentatively.  
“This isn’t gonna explode or anything, right?” Spot laughed, but shook his head. It reminded him of their prank war a month or so before, which only ended when Spot had broken his nose.  
“It shouldn’t do.”  
“Alright, good.” Race tore into the packaging with a newfound fervour,  dropping it to the floor because he was a firm believer that gift-giving should always be carnage, no matter what the occasion, then opened the lid of the box. Spot watched nervously, suddenly thinking that this was probably a bad idea, but Race’s face cracked into a grin.  
“You bought me a necklace?” He said incredulously as he carefully lifted it out of the box.  
“Well, yeah. I was out with Hotshot yesterday and I saw it in a window and it reminded me of the other day. If you don’t like it I can take it back I jus-“ Spot was cut off by a weight crashing into him, and arms wrapping tightly around him.  
“I love it, thank you.”  
Since then Race had kept it in pristine condition, carefully making sure it didn’t rust or otherwise get dirty or break. He carefully lifted the chain out of the box, much like he did all those years ago, and fastened it around his neck. Looking in the mirror, he smiled. It offset the outfit perfectly, matching with the silver buttons on his coat and just providing that extra little touch to the outfit. He took a quick photo and sent it to the group chat.  
In Which Race is a Third Wheel
Racebox of Higgars sent a photo  
Racebox of Higgars:  GAYS DO I LOOK OKAY  
SantaGay:  damn bitch  
SantaGay: if i wasn’t dating davey and you weren’t like a brother to me id tap that  
Mom:  He means you look good.  
Mom: He’s right, you do.  
Racebox of Higgars:  thanks gays  
Racebox of Higgars:  OH FUCK HES HERE  
Spot shuffled slightly outside Race’s door, flowers in hand. Were flowers too much? Fuck it, it was too late now. Race opened the door and Spot’s breath caught in his throat. Oh god, Race was gorgeous. Spot’s eyes slowly glanced over Race, taking all of him in, from stylishly messy curls, to his bright eyes rimmed by just a little bit of eyeliner to make them stand out, to his breathless smile, to the necklace at his throat, to those criminally tightly jeans, and Spot needed to stop staring.  
“Christ, you look gorgeous,” Spot breathed, still hardly able to take it all in. A blush crept up Race’s cheeks as his eyes skirted over Spot.  
“You can’t talk, you’re-“ he gestured wildly at Spot, “beautiful.” Spot had been called a lot of things, hot, sexy, handsome, but never beautiful. It surprised him, he loved the sound of it on Race’s lips.  
“I bought flowers,” Spot said, holding them out. “I hope it’s not too much.” Race smiled taking them from him.  
“Cyclamen,” Race pointed out with a smile, taking them from him. “You remembered?”  
“I’ve been doing some research into flower symbolism,” Race said, half hanging off the end of his bed. Spot looked up from his homework.  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah. It’s actually pretty interesting. It’s weird to think that plants have so much  meaning . Like, take hyacinth flowers. Apparently they were created when two Greek God’s were fighting over one guys love  and one of them got hella jealous so fuckin killed the guy cus if he couldn’t have him no one could. The other one created the flower from his blood.”  
“That’s fucked up.”  
“I know. It symbolises rebirth now.”  
“Huh, but the guy wasn’t reborn?” Race shook his head. “Fair enough. Do you have a favourite flower?” Spot asked, partly out of genuine curiosity, partly out of hope that someday he’d be the one buying Race flowers.  
“Cyclamen,” Race answered easily. “They symbolise love and tenderness.” Spot smiled. Of course Race would like something like that. He was a hopeless romantic at heart. “Do you have one?”  
“Not at the moment. I’ll have to do some research and get back to you.”  
Spot liked lavender roses – blossoming romance.  
“Of course I remembered. I, uh, I had some lavender roses put in too.”  
“Your favourite,” Race recalled. “Blossoming romance, right?” Spot nodded, embarrassed. Race smiled. “I’m gonna go put these in some water real quick, wanna come in?”  
Race couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he carefully organised the flowers in the vase. Spot had remembered the offhand conversation three years ago. Not only had he remembered, but he had gone out of his way to get the specific flowers Race loved. The blush on Race’s cheeks darkened slightly, doing a little dance as he placed the vase on the coffee table.  
“You’re wearing the necklace,” Spot pointed out. Race rubbed the back of his neck.  
“Yeah.”  
“You still have it?” Spot was genuinely surprised. That had been eight years ago now, and yet the necklace still looked like it did the day he bought it.  
“Of course I do. I’ve kept everything you’ve bought me over the years.” Spot laughed.  
“Even the stuffed dinosaur?”  
“Especially the stuffed dinosaur.”  
“You’re gonna think it’s stupid!” Spot cried, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Race laughed, holding Spot back with one hand as he clutched the wrapped gift in the other.  
“Nope!” He answered, popping the p. “I’ve never found anything you’ve bought me stupid, why would I start now?” Spot groaned and backed off slightly, rubbing a hand over his face. Race eagerly tore into the paper , throwing it onto the pile left by Spot. He grinned, laughing. “I love him!” He said, pulling the blue stuffed dinosaur against his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around it. “I shall name him Steeb.” Spot shook his head, laughing. He had genuinely thought Race would hate it or think it was stupid. Race had been going through an obsession with dinosaurs, and of course he was always a sucker for stuffed animals, and thus Steeb had been bought.  
“Steeb?”  
“Yup!”  
Race pulled him into a tight hug, still laughing. “Thank you.”  
“Where are we actually going?” Race asked as they walked outside onto the freezing street. Frost coated the grass, and their breath hung before them, pockets of heat suspended in the cold air.
“It’s a surprise,” Spot said simply. Race forced his hands into the pocket of his coat to shelter them from the cold.  
“You know I don’t like surprises,” he mumbled.  
“Yes you do, you just say you don’t to try to get me to tell you shit.” Damn Spot and damn the fact that he knew Race better than anyone.  
“You brought me ice skating?” Race asked, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  
“Yeah, Jack said you used to go a lot as kids.” Race grinned, kicking off his shoes and replacing them with skates, lacing them up tightly. Spot copied him, putting their shoes and bags into lockers.  
Race quickly made his way onto the ice, gliding like a pro and kicking off with a small spin, just to test it out. Spot got onto the ice and promptly fell on his face. Race, however, was lost in the moment, gliding and spinning and twisting, then leaping into the air. Spot watched in wonder as Race closed his eyes, lost in his movements.  
Race closed his eyes when he danced. Losing himself in the music, he would just close his eyes and let it take over. It would decide his movements for him, and he would follow along. Spot stood in the corner, mesmerised by the boy in front of him. A small smile crept onto his face as he watched Race. It was rare for Race to let Spot see him dance, so he took any moment he could. Watching Race, it was like he was made for this, with the way his body moved so gracefully, so purposefully. Spot loved every moment. No matter how hard he tried (not that he was trying), he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  
“Spot!” Race said excitedly, opening his eyes and pausing the music. “You came?” Spot smiled.  
“Of course I came, dumbass. I wasn’t gonna miss this.” Race bounced on the balls of his feet excitedly.  
“I’m on in half an hour. Just going through some basic stuff now to get ready.” Spot scoffed.  
“You call that basic?” Race ran a hand through his curls, damp with sweat.  
“I mean yeah, compared to what I’m doing in the show.”  
“What are you doing in the show?”  
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Race said with a wink.  
“Ever the cryptid.” They stood in silence for a moment, then Spot had to break it. “You’re not binding, right?” Race’s face fell and he subconsciously crossed his arms over his chest. “C’mon, you know it’s not good for you. Can we take it off before you go on?”  Race shook his head.  
“I don’t have anything else to put on.”  
“I brought a sports bra, could you change into that?” Race hesitated for a moment, before nodding. Race always struggled being safe when binding, so when he had events like this, Spot would always bring a spare sports bra and one of his hoodies for Race to change into. Just in case.  
He handed Race the sports bra.  
“I have a hoodie for you to wear after,” he said, handing him the hoodie too. Race smiled as he went into the bathroom to change.  
“Thank you.”  
“Spot!” Race cried, skating over to his side and offering out a hand. “Are you alright?” Spot shook himself out of the memory and took the hand, shakily getting to his feet. He immediately slipped again, but Race caught him, laughing. “You can’t skate, can you?” Spot shook his head. “Why did you bring me ice skating if you can’t skate?”  
“Because I knew you’d like it.” Race took both of Spots hands in his, so they were facing each other, then he slowly began skating backwards, locking eyes with Spot.  
“Thank you.” Spot tried his best to mimic Race, and soon they had a steady speed and rhythm going. “By the end of tonight I’ll have you skating on your own.”  
“I doubt that.”  
“Bet.”  
Race won the bet.  
“Wanna go get hot chocolate?” Spot asked. “Not the shitty watery stuff they serve here, we’ll go and get the good hot chocolate from the library.” Race rubbed his hands together to try to regain some feeling in them and he nodded.  
“Hell yeah.”  
The library’s café was a big reason why they always hung out there. They’d found it while studying one night, and it had slowly become ‘Their Spot’ over the years. All the staff knew them and their orders, and always greeted them with a smile. They knew all the staff by name too.  
“Thanks for this, Race.” Spot said, setting his books down on the table. Race smiled, setting his bag down on an empty seat.  
“It’s alright, don’t worry about it.” He glanced around. It was a cozy, quaint place. Squashy armchairs surrounded tables and the whole place was filled to bursting with old wooden bookshelves. Towards the back was the café, a large chalkboard with all the prices hanging above it. “Wanna grab food and stuff before we start working?” He asked, gesturing towards the café. Spot looked up, and nodded.  
“Yeah sure.”  
“I’ll pay,” Race said as Spot reached for his wallet.  
“But-“  
“No buts, I’ve got it.” Race tapped his card on the reader and took his mug of hot chocolate, laden with sprinkles, whipped cream and marshmallows back to the table. Spot sat down shortly after him, lifting the mug to his lips. Race took that moment to admire Spot, backed by the sunlight streaming through the large windows. His brow was furrowed slightly as he concentrated on his mountain of a drink, and the contended smile on his face brought out his laugh lines.  
There was whipped cream on his nose.  
Race burst into laughter at the sight of Tough Guy Spot Conlon with whipped cream on his nose. Said Tough Guy Spot Conlon looked up, brow furrowing more in confusion.  
“Is something on my face?” He asked.  
“There’s – there’s whipped cream on your nose,” Race said through laughter. Just to make Race laugh more,  Spot attempted to lick it off. He loved watching Race laugh. It was the most magical sound in the world to him.  
“Boys, can you quiet down a bit,” a waitress asked, “this is a library.” Race pressed his mouth shut to muffle his laughter and Spot wiped the cream off with his finger. That was the beginning of their library ‘study sessions’.    
They settled into what had become their corner of the library, curling up in two opposite armchairs, setting their drinks on the table. They had chosen a spot right next to a large window so they could watch people go about their days on the streets beneath them. Sometimes they would make up ridiculous stories about the people walking by, just to make the other laugh. Often, it would turn into a competition about who could come up with the funniest story. It would reach the point where they were howling with laughter, tears streaming down their faces, and the library staff would shake their heads fondly as they told them to quiet down.  
“Thanks for tonight, Spot,” Race said, a small smile on his face.  
“It’s not over yet.”  Race tilted his head. It had already been one of the best nights of his life, how on Earth was this not the end? “We’re gonna go back to my place one we’ve finished these, get takeout, watch a movie.” Race grinned.  
“A Christmas movie?” He asked excitedly.  
“Even better – a crap Christmas movie.” Race’s eyes lit up and he wiggled a little in his chair with excitement.  
“Oh my god, you are the best.” Race was obsessed with Christmas movies, but the shitty, cheesy ones that you laugh at because of how unbelievably  bad  they are, and Spot was his long-suffering companion who had put up with this bullshit for nine Christmases in a row now.  
“Can we watch a Christmas movie?” Race asked, draped over Spot’s lap. This was their first Christmas as friends, and Race was going to make it a good one.  
“Which one?” Spot smiled down at Race, automatically starting to run his fingers through his hair.  
“I dunno, something super cheesy. The kind so bad you have to laugh at it.” That was Race’s favourite kind of me. Probably why he enjoyed the Twilight Saga. Not because he actually liked the films (Edward was an abusive douche, he had physically fought someone on that before, and he would do it again), but because it was so easy to laugh at how unbelievably shitty they were.  
Spot nodded, opening Netflix and putting on some shitty movie.  
Neither of them actually watched the movie though. Spot was distracted by Race’s soft smile and how peaceful he looked. Race was distracted by the feeling of Spot’s hand in his hair and Spot’s arms around him.  
It had been a while since Race had been in Spot’s apartment, (they usually preferred to hang out at Race’s, he had a bigger TV for movie and game nights) and he looked around slowly. It wasn’t a big place, but it was still nice. He had a large, squashy sofa, plus an armchair, a coffee table that clearly had been cleaned recently. In fact, the whole apartment had that smell like it had been cleaned just a few hours before. Had Spot cleaned for him?  
“Do you want tea or coffee or anything?” Spot asked from the kitchen.  
“Coffee would be good,” Race answered, getting comfy on Spot’s couch. Spot set to work making it as Race glanced over the takeout menu. Then, he had an idea. “We should build a pillow fort!” Spot turned to face him, one eyebrow raised, a bemused smile playing on his lips.  
“A pillow fort?”  
“Yeah!” Race’s smile dropped slightly. “Unless you don’t want to. We don’t have to-”  
“Of course I want to.” Spot set the coffee mugs down on the table, plopping down next to Race. Race’s eyes lit up when he saw the mugs.  
“You still have those?” He asked excitedly.  
“Of course I do.”  
“Spot look!” Race exclaimed, pointing at a shelf. Spot put down the mannequin hand he was turning into a middle finger and turned to look at Race, who was holding up a matching mug set. They were plain white, except for black lettering. One said ‘his bitch’ on it, while the other said ‘his slut’. “They’re for gays!” Spot laughed, looking at the price tag.  
“And they’re only like, $3.” Race’s eyes lit up with mischief, the way they always did when he had a stupid idea.  
“We’re absolutely gonna buy them, aren’t we?” Race said.  
“Obviously.” Spot took them from Race and paid for them.  
Later, Spot handed Race the mug reading ‘his slut.’  
“Why am I the slut?” Race said indignantly.  
“Come on, we all know you’ve slept with like, half the guys in the school.” Race’s face fell a little.  
“You don’t mind, do you?”  
“You sleeping around?”  
“Yeah.” In truth, Spot did mind, but he wouldn’t say that. The only reason Spot had an issue with it was because of his  huge  crush on Race. But he supposed he had no reason to be jealous, it wasn’t like Race was his.  
“No, I don’t mind. It’s your body, you do what you want with it.”  
“Sometimes I worry if I’m doing something wrong. If, I dunno, whoever I end up dating doesn’t like it.”  
“Have you ever dated anyone long-term?” Spot asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. Race shook his head.  
“Nah. There’s people I’ve seen for a couple months or so, but never longer than that. They realise I’m fucked up and leave.” Race laughed bitterly, trying to add humour to the situation.  
“You’re not fucked up.”  
“Mhm, that’s not what they think.” Spot took Race’s hand in his.  
“Look at me.” Race hesitantly met Spot’s eyes. “You  aren’t  too fucked up. There’s no such thing as too fucked up to be loved.” Race blinked back tears.  
“Thank you.”  
“It’s alright, now shut up and take your slut mug.” Race laughed.  
“You do realise it’s gonna have to stay at your place, right? No home will let me keep this.”  
“We can keep it for special occasions.”  
They curled up together on the couch. Spot reached for the remote and started flicking through Netflix, putting on a shitty movie. Both pretended to watch the film, but they were both too focused on the close proximity. Both wanted to make a move, but neither knew the right moment. The distance between them was painful.  
Slowly, achingly slowly, Spot reached an arm around Race’s shoulders. Race wiggled slightly, getting comfy, before relaxing into Spot’s side, resting his head on Spot’s shoulder. Warmth spread from every point of contact, and he couldn’t believe he’d spent nine years missing this. He had spent so long pining for Spot, but never worked up the courage to make a move, instead throwing himself at any other guy who would take him to try to distract himself from his helpless crush, but nobody gave him the same feelings as Spot did. Spot was it for him, he had known for the last nine years, and he knew it now.  
Spot was screaming inside. Race was right here, in his arms, and he wasn’t pulling away. They were on a date, and it wasn’t painfully awkward. Since meeting Race, Spot had hardly dated anyone. He had a couple flings here and there, but none lasted long. None could hold a candle to the brightness of Race. Nothing could compare to the warmth in Spot’s chest he felt around Race, or the safety and comfort he hadn’t felt before, but with Race it seemed so easy. Everything was easy with Race.  
Race took the moment to look around the room. In the corner, there was a photo frame, with 9 photos in it. He looked closer at it, and realised it was one of the two of them together, each one taken a year after the one before. The first one was taken when they first met, before Race had come out, before he had cut his hair. The second one was just after he had cut his hair. He still remembered each one being taken.  
“Spot, can we take a photo together?” Race asked, fiddling with the ends of his hair.  
“Why?”  
“I like having photos with all my friends, I like keeping the memories.”  
“Sure. You want a selfie or are we gonna make someone take it for us?”  
“Should we get someone else to take it?” Spot nodded. “Can you ask them?”  
“Alright.” Spot took Race’s phone and walked up to a middle aged woman walking by. They spoke briefly, then Spot came running back, throwing an arm around Race’s shoulder. Race grinned, looking at the camera, wrapping his arm around Spot’s waist. A few seconds later, the woman gave them a thumbs up, and Spot ran back to take the phone back. Spot handed the phone back, leaning over Race’s shoulder to look at them.  
“Are they good?” Race nodded, smiling.  
“Yeah, really good.” Spot backed off slightly, wrinkling his nose.  
“Your hair got in my nose.” Race frowned.  
“Sorry. I’m gonna cut it shorter at some point.” Spot tilted his head.  
“Really? How short?” Now Race was gonna do a special trick called lying to avoid outing himself.  
“A bob, so around my chin length.” Spot smiled, picturing it.  
“Yeah, that’s gonna look good.”  
“You think?”  
“Yeah, it’s gonna be good.”  
Race pounded on Spot’s door, wiping the tears from his eyes.  
“Wha- oh.” Spot opened the door, face scrunched up in annoyance, but softening when he saw Race. “Oh, Racer, come in.” Race came in, sinking down onto the couch, fiddling with the strings on his hoodie.  
“Can I crash here for the night?” He asked, voice breaking. Spot’s brow furrowed with concern as he crouched down in front of Race.  
“Yeah. What happened?” Race hesitated, before pulling his hood down, revealing his messily chopped hair.  
“I cut my hair. I just- I couldn’t look at myself with long hair anymore. I got kicked out.” Spot frowned.  
“What do you mean you couldn’t look at yourself with long hair?” Race’s breath hitched and his heart hammered in his chest.  
“I-uh-I'm trans. I couldn’t deal with the dysphoria anymore. It hurts too much.” Spot’s eyes softened and he wrapped Race up in a tight hug.  
“It’s alright. I don’t care. Do you have a new name and pronouns you want me to use?” Race rested his forehead on Spot’s shoulder, trying to keep from crying.  
“Could you call me Antonio? I mean, I’ll still go by Racetrack and everything, but Antonio for my real name. And he/him pronouns.”  
“Sure, Antonio,” Spot said, trying the name out on his lips. Race’s face split into a grin at the use of the name.  
“Thank you.”  
“It’s alright.” Spot reached up to touch the choppy hair. “Now how about I sort your hair out?”  
“Please.”  
Race ran a hand through his freshly cut hair, examining it from all angles in the mirror, and he smiled brightly.  
“Thank you,” he said, turning and wrapping Spot in a hug. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”  
“Why don’t we update that photo we took last year?” Spot suggested, and Race’s eyes lit up.  
“Could we?”  
“I don’t see why not.”  
Spot threw his arm around Race’s shoulders, just as he had a year ago, and Race wrapped his arm around Spot’s waist, and they both wore matching grins as they looked into the camera. The woman taking the photo gave a thumbs up and Spot ran to take the phone. They looked at the photo, then back at the one from the previous year.  
“You look happier,” Spot commented. Race smiled.  
“I am happier.”  
“You kept those photos?” Race asked, nodding slightly to the frame. Spot tore his glance away from Race momentarily to look.  
“Of course I did. They’re my favourite pictures.” Race smiled, settling back on Spot’s shoulder. A blush rose in his cheeks as he felt Spot press a kiss to his hair, then his hand replaced his lips, fingers slowly carding through his curls. Race hummed contentedly, wrapping an arm across Spot’s stomach and leaning into his every touch. Now this, this was something he could get used to.  
The credits rolled, and by that point it was well past midnight. Race slowly sat up, regretting the loss of contact with Spot.  
“I-uh-I should go,” he said, moving to stand.  
“I’ll walk you home?” Spot offered.  
“Are you sure? It’s cold out.”  
“I’m sure, c’mon.”  
Somehow, the street was even colder than when they had gone out before, but neither of them seemed to mind. A snowbank piled up on one side, and Race struggled to contain his grin as the idea formulated in his mind.  
He knocked once, twice against Spot, playing it off as an accident, before shoving Spot into the bank. He erupted into laughter, but maybe it was too soon, as Spot grabbed his coat on the way down. Both of them shrieked as they landed in the snow, Race landing on top of Spot. They breathed heavily, making eye contact for a moment, faces flushed, but whether that was the cold or something else was anyone’s guess. Just as they had been staring long enough for it to become awkward, Spot finally made his move. He leaned in, like he had been longing to for years, holding the back of race’s neck and gently pressing their lips together. Electricity sparked through his body and he couldn’t quite believe he had spent years missing out on this. One of his hands subconsciously moved to tangle in Race’s hair, who tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss. The world around them seemed to melt away, and all that mattered was them, and this.  
“Fucking fags!” A voice yelled next to them. Spot was about to shake his head at Race, tell him to leave it, but Race was already on his feet.  
“Hey! What fucking century are you living in? So what I happen to be dating a man, please inform me of how I’m hurting you by loving him.  
“It’s against God’s will. You’re digusting,” the man said, rounding on Race.  
“No, I’ll tell you what’s disgusting – discriminating against people who have done  nothing  to hurt you, just because of a fucking book that was mistranslated. Wake the fuck up. People fall in love, they don’t hurt you by doing that, they just do it.”  
“Fuck you!” The man spat, turning to walk away.  
“I bet it’s fucking tiny!” Race yelled after him, turning back to Spot, who looked at him in amazement. “Sorry about that.” Spot shook his head, taking the hand Race offered to him and pulled himself to his feet.  
“That was amazing,” he said honestly, smiling.  
“I just- I couldn’t let him just  say  that y’know? I mean, I’ve heard shit like that for years, but I wasn’t gonna let him say it to you.”  
“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”  
“That’s not the point.” Spot leaned up to kiss him quickly.  
“Either way, that was wonderful.” Spot had never seen Race angry like that before. Not when the Delanceys had constantly torn him down, not when he moved from foster home to foster home, not when he had gotten detention just for trying to use the right bathroom. But one homophobic comment and he had gotten furious like Spot had never seen before, and god Spot didn’t think he could possibly love Race more.  
Race smiled, hesitantly lacing his fingers with Spot’s as they walked the last few blocks to Race’s apartment.  
“Your house wasn’t decorated,” Race commented.  
“Yeah, I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”  
“I’ll come over tomorrow and help you decorate.” Spot didn’t get a say in it. Race was gonna deck that apartment out in so much glitter and coloured lights it would be like a very gay tornado had gone through and left parts of itself all over. Not that Spot minded. He would take any opportunity possible to spend time with Race. “I expect you up early.” Spot’s face dropped. “I’ll bring coffee,” Race added, solely because he knew coffee was the only way to bribe Spot into getting out of bed before 10am.  
“Alright, I’ll be expecting greatness. It better live up to the expectations Jack’s given me.”  
“It’ll be worse, I promise,” Race said with a grin.  
“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”  
They slowed when they reached the door to Race’s apartment, lingering a moment before Race unlocked the door.  
“Uh, thanks for tonight, Spotty. I had fun,” Race said, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t really want the night to end, but at least he would see Spot tomorrow.  
“Yeah, so did I.” They shuffled slightly, neither wanting to end the night. “Are we- are we gonna do this again sometime?” Spot finally asked.  
“Are you kidding me? If we’re not doing this like, weekly, we’re doing something wrong.” Spot chuckled a little, before looking up. He laughed, seeing mistletoe hung in the doorframe. Race’s eyes widened, before he looked at Spot, blush rising in his cheeks.  
“Do you wanna-” Race’s question turned into a squeak as Spot crashed their lips together, pulling Race close. He was gonna take every damn opportunity to kiss Race that he could. He had already missed out on nine years, he wasn’t gonna lose any more.  
Slowly, they broke away, neither wanting to, but both knowing they had to. Their faces were flushed, eyes wide.  
“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, or would it be today now?” Race asked.  
“Technically today.”  
“I’ll see you later today then,” Race said with a smile.  
“Yeah, I’ll see you later.”  
They kissed quickly once more, then Spot disappeared down the street.  
In Which Race Is A Third Wheel  
SantaGay :  did you guys enjoy my surprise???  
Mom:  I told you not to.  
Racebox of  Higgars :  YES!
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thebluenebula · 4 years ago
Text
Masterlist
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4 (Part 1)
A New Bat: Day 4
(Part 2)
Honestly I didn't want to move but I did. We walked out of the range just in time to see Jay speed out of the cave, then we took a staircase back up and popped out from behind a bookshelf in a library. Dick was lying on a nearby chair talking to Babs. "Hey."
"Hey." Kate and I said in unison.
"What we're you two up to in the cave?" Dick asked, clearly suspicious.
"I don't think that any of your business Dick." Babs commented.
"I agree with Babs." Kate smirked.
Dick looked to me. "So, what do you think of the Bat-cave?"
"Its cool." I quickly replied. "Odd though."
"The Bat-cave is very odd." Babs agreed.
Dick's phone beeped and he looked at it. "Dinners ready."
"What is it?" Kate asked.
"Let's find out." He stood up.
As Kate and Babs headed for the door I whispered to Dick. "Would it be okay if I eat in my room?"
He smiled at me. "Of course. You don't have to ask, just grab a plate and head up."
"Thanks." I followed Dick out of the library.
We walked into the kitchen and saw Alfred preping plates of food. "Hello Alfred." Dick greeted him.
"Hello, I'm just finishing preparing the meals."
"Ashleigh's just gonna grab a plate and head to her room." Dick said.
"Of course, Master Dick."
Kate handed me over a plate. "Or you could come with me, if you want. I'm heading out to the gazebo. I've been cooped up in the cave all day I could use some fresh air."
"Yeah sure." I quickly agreed.
Dick looked at me. "I'll talk you later."
"See you later." Babs said.
I nodded at him. Kate grabbed her plate and put her hand on my shoulder and we headed towards the door. Kate stopped. "Oh Alfred, Jays gone out. I don't think he'll back anytime soon."
"Thank you, Miss Kate. I will leave his wrap in the fridge for him."
"Speaking of," Dick said. "Shouldn't B be home soon."
"He said he would be Master Dick." Alfred replied as Kate and I walked out.
We walked through the garden. It was beautiful. Everything neatly taken care of. We sat down inside a white painted gazebo, the sun shined in on us. Behind the gazebo was a large brick wall, largely covered in brightly coloured graffiti art.
"The sun's nice to see." Kate commented.
"Oh yeah." I looked up at the sky, quickly looking back down when the sun caught my gaze. "We never did see too much of it on Ireland."
"Is it a rainy as they say?"
"Oh yeah, but the rain can be nice." I shrugged. "At least I think so anyway."
"Then don't worry." Kate laughed. "It rains plenty in Gotham."
Kate took a bite of her food. A wrap. I looked at my own plate. A chicken wrap. Plenty on it. I took a bite. Gorgeous, same as all Alfred's meals it would seem.
"Do you need to go clothes shopping?"
"Hmm." Without thinking, I tried to talk but my mouth full of food. Kate giggled at my failed attempt to speak. I swallowed the food before trying to speak again. "What?"
"You said you only had a few skirts. If you need to go clothes shopping I can bring you." She gestured to herself. "I'm no style guru, that's Steph and Dick's department, but I like to think im not the worst."
"I like your style."
"Thank you. So how about it then? Clothes shopping?"
"I'd love to but I think Bruce is bringing me furniture shopping over the weekend."
"I could tag along and we dip into a clothes shop."
"I really don't have a whole pile of money." I said honestly.
Kate pointed to the giant manor. "You are literally Bruce Wayne's child."
"Adopted, and I can't just ask him for money."
"Yes. You can." Kate emphasised each of the words. "He'd be more than happy to give you money for clothes shopping."
"I don't know. It just seems wrong. I mean I've only been here less than a week. It'd be rude."
Kate sighed. "Even if he wasn't okay with it, which he is absolutely is, by the way," Kate took out her wallet and put a couple of bills on the table. "I am."
I looked at the money. Five one hundred dollar bills. "I can't-"
"Take it." She insisted and slid it closer.
I hesitantly took the money and put it in my pocket. "Never hesitate to ask me or Bruce for money." Kate insisted. "Even it's for something simple like fast food or a video game. We're happy to give you some."
"Thank you, Kate, but-"
Kate leaned in. "No buts. End of story." Then she leaned back out. "Just if you need money for bullets, ask me, not Bruce. Jays has been asking him since he came back from the dead. He's convinced he'll break eventually."
"Okay." I laughed, it took a minute for what Kate had just said to register. "Jay was what now?"
Kate laughed. "That's a story for another day. Don't worry he brings it up quite often."
"Okay." I sat staring at her blankly for a moment. My brain was still processing what she had just told me.
"So," Kate broke the silence. "How are you enjoy your meal?"
"What? Oh yeah. Its nice." I took another bite of my wrap. "Is there anything Alfred can't cook?"
"If there is, we have yet to find it." Bruce said as he entered the gazebo.
Kate and I looked at Bruce with surprise. She must not have. heard him approach either. "Hey." Kate and I said in unison.
Bruce looked to me."A couple more boxes of yours came." He gestured back to the house. "I just left them in the entrance but Dick and I can bring them up to your room if you want."
"No. That's okay." I stood up. "I'll just throw my plate in and I'll bring them up."
"There's a couple boxes. You'll need a hand." Bruce insisted.
Kate swallowed the last piece of her wrap. "I'll help." She said, standing up and grabbed my plate off of me. "I'll throw these in and meet you two in the main hall." She walked off towards the house.
Bruce and I watched for a second before he started walking as well. "Come on." He said. I got up and followed him. "So did you and Kate talk?"
I silently gulped. "Yup."
"I'm sorry about that. I know what you said but we thought it'd help."
"It did. Thanks." I said. "Anything else like that I should know about?"
"No." Bruce smiled at me as we reached the back door. We walked through the house to the entrance hall. A stack of boxes sitting by the door and by them, stood Kate.
"Let's bring these up then." Bruce said, grabbing a stack of boxes.
"So how was work?" Kate asked him, grabbing another stack of boxes.
I grabbed the last stack then we started up the stairs. "Not too bad. I got that business with Lex Corp sorted out. Thank god."
"So no more late nights for a while?" Kate asked.
"For a while." Bruce said.
"So what's in the boxes?" Kate asked as we reached the third floor.
"Lego, and books mostly, some clothes and other trinkets from my old room."
"Only some clothes?" She asked.
"Most of my old clothes were torn or too small so I left them."
"Definitely bringing you clothes shopping then."
"Speaking of shopping, you still want to go furniture shopping this weekend?" Bruce asked.
"Yes. Absolutely." I quickly replied.
"How's Saturday sound?"
"Great."
"I'll join you and we can go clothes shopping. If that's okay?" Kate asked
Bruce look to me. "Is it?"
"Of course." I responded quickly.
"Also Bruce," Kate said. "You gotta have a serious talk with Ashleigh about money?"
Bruce glanced at her curiously "Why?"
"She didn't want to ask you for money for shopping."
"Oh." Bruce sounded surprised, then he grinned. "Ashleigh never be afraid to ask me for money."
"It's just, I've only been here a week. I don't want to push my luck." I said.
"Trust me. My kids are experts at pushing their luck. You couldn't be worse." Bruce assured me.
We stopped outside my room. "So who's gonna get the door?" Kate asked.
Bruce shifted the weight of the boxes to one arm and opened the door. We set the boxes down beside my bed.
"You need help unpacking?" Bruce asked.
"No. I should probably wait till I get furniture to unpack."
"Yeah." The two agreed.
"Hey." Bruce turned to Kate. "Alfred said Jays gone out. Do you know where?"
"He went to pick up Artemis and Bizarro. Why?"
"Just wondering. Artemis will keep him out of trouble anyway."
"He's in his twenties Bruce. You don't have to worry about him everytime he goes out."
"Regardless of his age, he's my kid, it's my job to worry about him." Bruce stated. "Plus it's Jason."
"Valid point." Kate agreed, then turned to me. "You said something about Legos right?"
"Yes." I looked at her curiously.
"You got any superhero ones?"
"A couple."
"Any of us?"
"I've got you, I said pointing at Bruce." Who smiled back at me. "The third Robin and Black Bat."
"I feel kinda hurt you don't have one of me." Kate joked.
"I missed out on Batwoman." I explained as I sat down the bed.
"Too bad." Kate said leaning against the wall.
"I didn't know they made ones of Cass." Bruce looked at me curiously.
"Oh they don't. I kinda just pieced her together from other figures."
"So you dismantle the little guys you get and make someone new?"
"Sometimes. Yes."
Bruce nodded. "Cool."
Kate looked at us. "So if I wanted to make one that looked like me, not Batwoman, like me me, I'd have to buy the sets with pieces that look like me."
"There's a website where you can just buy the pieces on there own."
"Handy." She commented. I yawned. "Late night?"
I nodded. "We watched a movie last night."
"We?"
"Bruce, Harper, Carrie, Duke, Dick, and I."
Kate looked to Bruce. "Not like you to stay up late, if you're not on patrol."
"Got in from the office late. Sat down and watched a movie with the kids."
Kate smiled at him then turned to me. "You must be tired then?"
"Yeah." I agreed. "I should probably go to sleep."
Bruce nodded. "We'll see you in the morning." The two headed for the door but stopped. "I meant to say this before, my bedroom doors always unlocked if you need me."
Kate looked to Bruce then back to me. "While I prefer a bit more privacy, you can always knock, or call if I'm asleep. My ringtone never fails to wake."
I nodded. "Goodnight."
"Night." The two said in unison as the door shut.
I lay down on my bed. Jason seemed to be warming up to me, which was nice. Steph and her friend, Cass, seem sweet, and I really like Kate. She seems like someone I could talk to, about anything. As I ran through the day in my head, I couldn't help but smile as I drifted off to sleep.
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