#here they overcome the black and white views of each other

[shallowseeker]

Sloshing through the muck of purgatory

They should've done this (14x19) x via @spnscripthunt

Season 16 could do this. SPNwin could've done this. Forever shaking my hands at the sky.

[dawnoftime22]

for the loss of my life.

| W.M -> N.R

Undeserving of a Love Like Yours, Chapter 11

Chapter Warnings: One swear word, overthinking.

Summary: Making yourself at home with someone else's heart but holding no communications of the love clear between you two, has a chance for consequences to happen. What will the outcome be if you speak up about it?

Series Summary: When you're stuck in a complete hole of confusion and hurt with the one you thought you loved most, a certain redhead finds her way into your life.

Word Count: 3.3k

Category: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst

A/N: I hope you're all taking care of yourselves <3

Series Playlist

| Started on 07/05/2024, 2:02 PM |

| Finished on 11/05/2024, 10:53 PM |

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | N.R Masterlist

<- Chapter 10 Final Chapter ->

"Run yourself in a circle, bury yourself a deeper hole, but it won't end unless you stop and take control."

Started with a kiss, oh, we must stop meeting like this!

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

It was an early day at Nat's place. You were hanging out in her room, taking a look through physical photos she's taken that had been retrieved from a dusty box, sitting under her bed, along with some cassettes.

Meanwhile, she was going through the photos on her digital camera and clearing some accidental takes. her lips raises up when sees the photo you had taken of her, the day you first came over to her apartment. She didn't ever delete the picture.

"Hey, you have any batteries?" You ask, gently breaking the comforting quietness that had overcome the two of you. She looks up, taking her gaze off the camera screen.

"Yeah, there should be some in the top drawer." She nods towards her chestdrawer, and you get up, going off to open the top one, inside holding a small pack of batteries.

You grab two, then slide them into the battery slot for the cassette player, making sure it was properly inside before closing it and turning back to her.

Her eyes watch you as you picked up a cassette tape, placing it inside to play it. You already had your headphones on your head and connected to the output.

With some faith and a miracle, the player works after you heard some white noise. You hoped it'll last that way.

Nat tilted her head, and peeks to see the wheels of the player spinning, a clear indication it was working. When you turn up the volume a little, she could hear the music coming out from the old headphones she kept.

Thank everything the dust hadn't gotten into the box. Although there was a dead black spider within it just earlier and you had jumped when you saw it. She took care of it though, after also making sure there wasn't anything else, especially things such as...spider eggs.

You nod your head to the music as you sat back down on the bed, your hand going back through the photos scattered in a pile atop each other and every now and then petting Liho, beside you. It was all indeed scenery, and no portraits, selfies, or even people at all.

A specific one that was a bright glow of a sunset with water reflecting its own beauty had caught your attention, your eyes focused on it before your hand reached out.

"This one's pretty," you said, holding it up before leaning closer to Nat and tilting it to show it to her. She looked at it, and her eyebrows raised.

"Oh, I took that one a while after I saw the orca." She pointed out, and you realize how familiar it did look. The grass below, the rocks just ahead. It was the same spot as the pictures and videos she had showed you before. You guessed she wanted a physical memory of it too.

"There should be a picture of the orca here somewhere, but I think the film got a leak..." She murmured with a tinge of sadness as her hand ruffled through the pictures slightly, some with dates on them and some having nothing.

"I love that you waited for the sunset," you said, still staring at the shot she took in your hand. The sun was a bright orange, nearly similar in color as her hair.

"Well, the view was too pretty not to." She looked at you. You were also too adorable for her to not further fall in love with you as she saw you admiring the photos she took. That's what she thought, but it was never said out loud.

Liho, was laying down and purring between the two of you. She was quiet, and unmoving, too comfortable to do anything else but sit with the two people she liked the most.

When Nat's eyes went down to the pictures closer to your crossed legs, she spots the photo that had the orca, although just barely visible through the orange light leak that covered nearly the entire photo.

"Here it is," she said, her hand carefully taking ahold of it to give to you. You gently grabbed it, rotating it when you realize she gave it to you in the opposite way.

You raised your eyebrows, taking in the picture. It took a few seconds, with some squinting, but you soon see the orca jumping from the water, although small. "I think it looks prettier with the light leak."

She hums, taking another look to the picture in your hand. You smiled softly, and her eyes flickered up to your lips for a small moment before she turns back to her camera.

You notice the way she goes back to her camera, almost as if she was distracting herself, but you hadn't seen the flicker in her eyes. Tilting your head, you check the cassette player for a bit before looking up at her.

"You wanna listen?" You asked with a soft gaze, taking off the headphones on your head and holding it out to her.

She raised an eyebrow, but took it from you, putting it on. "Sure." the music was already flowing through her ears. 'American Pie'. She remembered this album. It was what she had listened to whenever she was alone, in the car peacefully. But it was different with the headphones-- capturing more details she hadn't noticed. Or, maybe, she just hasn't listened to it in a while and had forgotten.

You smiled as you see her involuntarily moving her head to the song, her attention going to inspect the cassette player, either watching the wheels turning or putting the volume up.

Soon after, you finish looking at every photo and get out of bed, deciding to walk towards the bathroom, but was too close to the bed, causing you to accidentally hit your hand against the wooden bedframe, it making a loud sound echo through the room.

"Ow, fuck!" You winced and cursed, grimacing at the pain. Both Nat and Liho looks at you, shocked. You were focused on your stinging hand though, shaking the pain away. It took everything in you to not crumple up like a shrimp to the floor.

"Are you okay?" she asks quickly, her eyes filling with concern. But you nod repetitively, unwilling to admit it still hurt. Your other hand was firmly gripping your wrist, as if it would help.

"I'm fine. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine!" you say, most probably trying to convince yourself, too. She lets out a small laugh when she sees you wave her off and struggle as you moved to take a step forward.

"Sure you are. Come here." She says quietly, but you still heard her. You purse your lips and your eyes travel to her, but you follow nonetheless, two pair of eyes watching you.

"Which hand?" She asked gently, looking at your hands. You hesitate for a moment, but stepped closer, holding it out.

"Right." She grabs your hand and rubs her thumb on the skin slightly to where you held it, knowing thats where the pain is. She blows a little, as if you would magically take pain away from a child.

"There. Better." She says, and a red tint goes over your face. The redhead cheekily smiles. Just when she was about to pull her hand away from yours, the cat sitting in her lap had been looking at you two the whole time, and it decides to lean up, going up to your hand.

Both you and Nat watch curiously as to what it was doing. Liho's yellow eyes were focused before a paw gently lands on your wrist, her face going closer to lick on your skin, making the pain slowly go away even more. You chuckled, both at getting your skin tickled and the fact the cat tried to help ease the pain.

Then you see Nat's eyes travel to her cassette player, concern growing in her face as she heard some warbly music. She takes off the headphones, feeling uneasy at the sound.

"I think it's breaking." She said, looking at the headphones in her hands that you now heard the messed up music from. Pulling your hand away from the cat's face, your eyebrows furrowed as your attention moved to her.

"Why, what happened?" You check on the cassette player, seeing that it was slowing down or speeding up, changing its pace however much it wants.

Nat stops the player with a click and hands both items back to you. The feel of her skin brushing with yours glided over for a mere second, but you try to focus on the player in your hand. Changing its batteries after taking the tape out, rewinding or fast forwarding a bit. But nothing other than a broken noise.

You sighed softly, knowing you'll need to open it up to check its insides. "It probably needs a new belt..." You murmured, turning around while Nat blinked at you and tilted her head, probably unfamiliar with the workings of a portable player.

"It's what makes the wheels spin. I'll search for one," you explained, then left the player on the chestdrawer to deal with later before storing the tape and sitting down on the bed once more, helping her sort the pictures. Nat nods, leaning closer to show you some things on her digital camera.

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

It was one of the many times once again, you were sitting in Natasha's apartment, and it was the beginning of something you were starting to get lost in.

The city bustles. Sounds of car tires, motorcycles revving, a nearby cat somewhere in an alleyway, and most of all, the birds chirping in the skies.

The wind was gentle as it glided against your skin, the chair you were sat in being a wooden one. You should get up from it. It was starting to make your body sore. But you couldn't help but stay, the balcony being peaceful.

Every thought in your head floated on by, with some sticking, being nothing but damaging. You still haven't gotten a belt yet for the cassette player. Kate's been just here and there, keeping a natural presence in your life. You haven't seen Wanda at all since. But your mind questioned if she was still waiting on you, lost too, or had moved on after your rejection.

A sigh leaves your mouth. To put a pause on all of it for however long you'd want would make you be able to relieve your body of any exhaustion it held. But would it really? Perhaps for a moment. Moving forward would have you release the things from before and have the opportunities to experience things in a better way.

And what about Nat...? You've been growing close, closer to going over the line you weren't sure you were ready to cross. And it seems like she wasn't either. The many touches you've shared, the months and months that held the many times you've visited her. And the kiss that you couldn't shake off...were you actually falling in love with her?

You shook your head, not wanting to even think about it. But you should. The longer you leave it be the more it could lead to torment and perhaps worser consequences. Problems don't fix themselves...most of the time.

Suddenly, you feel arms go around your waist, and you take a breath in, gasping softly in surprise, then turning your head to look behind you. The familiar touch was recognized soon enough, but seeing the redhead you cherished dearly makes you relax and lean back into her.

"I'm home." She said, resting her head on your shoulder as she gazed at you from behind, looking adorable. How can you not absolutely fall for this woman? You smiled softly, feeling your heart grow a little lighter, now that you weren't alone.

"Hi," you whispered, your hand gliding to your front to put over hers that was still on your waist. You hesitated on your next words, but the connection you felt with her urged you to. "I missed you."

Her eyes went to yours, but she didn't question it, replying back quietly, "I've missed you, too, любов." There it was again. You weren't imagining things when you had gotten drunk just a few days ago.

Wanda always said things in Russian, such as малыш (baby), but you've never heard of that word. Or maybe it wasn't Russian at all, and you were mixing up languages, but the accent made it lean towards being so.

You were going to ask her what it meant, but she spoke first. "You been okay?" She asks, her hands slipping off your waist as she pulls herself away from you and stood beside your standing figure. You watched her, seeing her gaze off to the view you've been staring off at the past hour.

"Yeah...I..." The words utter from your mouth quietly, then you licked your dry lips, diverting your own gaze. Should you tell her about the encounter you had a few days ago?

There was no harm in it, but your fingers fiddle with your pocket, the jean fabric rough against your skin before you slid your hand in the pockets. A sound of an ambulance siren sounded out distantly from the city, and you wait until it fades further away before talking.

"I saw Wanda a few days ago," You said, within a breath that could be counted as a sigh. At the mention of your ex's name, her eyes flash with surprise for a moment as she looks back to you, but she regains her composure fast enough.

Nat's head goes through her own thoughts, wondering if you meant intentionally or accidentally. Surely, accidentally. Or she hoped so. Why was she hoping so? She didn't know. Maybe simply because she was worried you'd fall into a dark hole, and not because her own heart was aiming for you...surely.

"Anything happen?" She asks, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. The redhead also leaned on the balcony rails beside you, feeling the gentle wind. The sun was falling down, so the skies were colored with gentle hues of orange and purple.

You didn't say anything back for just a few seconds, staying quiet as you were lost in decision, your eyes focused on a space elsewhere that wasn't her own eyes. Her face soften when she notices, and her voice was somehow gentler. "...That you're comfortable of sharing?"

Your lips raise up in the smallest smile for a moment, the swell in your heart obvious due to her thought to care in such a way. But the smile slowly fades as you remembered the memory.

"She wanted to get back together..." You start. Already, Nat raised a brow, a frown on her face. The metal rails of the balcony was cold on your skin when you stepped forward to lean against it.

Your shoulders were tense. When you realized they were, you let them relax and fall down just slightly with a quiet breath. "I didn't want to though." You whispered.

"I just can't get it out of my head." She didn't really know what to say to anything of it, afraid to touch on the sensitive subject. For you, it did some small damage, your head possibly going overboard with its roaming thoughts.

You can tell she had hesitancy to respond, but you didn't mind. Who could ever come up with a reply to that anyway? But Nat was kind, that was for sure. She just has some walls you just can't yet break through. Yet, how caring she's been, and gentle...you almost couldn't help but feel you're not half as decent as her.

You inhaled. "...What if she was just too good for me?" The words were under your breath, your gaze distant as you watch the city lights turning on with the growing darkness of the skies. The shops had a glow to them, almost alluringly.

"What if I don't deserve any of it?" Your hands gently gripped the metal it was against, but it slowly loosened when you feel the cold going too much against your skin. Nat's breath gets caught in her throat at your sentence, and she kept her eyes on you.

"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice gentle as her concern grew. She knew exactly what you meant, but she hoped she just imagined it. You turned to look at her, worry deep in your eyes that had her heart clenching.

"This. You...anything good in my life." Your volume lowered to a slight murmur, your hands going to run down your face when you rested your elbows further on the rails.

"I mean-- I've...done some good things but so...many horrible things." You said slowly, and she analyzed your movements and words. She knows it herself. She's accused herself of such a thing too, having gone through the same thing your mind is going through.

"Y/N." When she says your name with a serious tone, everything stops, as if the world freezes along with your mind, and only she was the living thing beside you. She had put one of her hands on your shoulder nearest to her, making you look at her again.

"You deserve everything. Please, don't think any less." She shook her head lightly, honesty in her eyes. Your heart stutters at her words as you swallowed a lump in your throat.

"She didn't..." she trails off, thinking her words carefully. She was going to say Wanda didn't deserve such a love like yours, but it simply sounded...wrong.

"You deserve a love that makes you happy and...makes your world feel like sunshine or just...takes the weight off your shoulders after a long day." The redhead explained slowly, making sure you were hearing her. Really, she was speaking a description of you. Even if she wasn't trying.

She had gotten home, saw you in her apartment, and any heaviness in her body had lightened, even if just slightly, your presence did a great deal.

Nat took a moment, gathering her words. "And if you're not enough for her, then she's not enough for you," she gently added, but anxiety was creeping in her heart.

You processed her words, your heart surprisingly steady, but that may be the cause of her very own calm presence beside you. At least, on the outside. She was right. The situation of the brunette was basically done and over with. You had to focus on yourself. But now stood the question right next to you.

"...And what are we?" You asked slowly and quietly, looking up at her. Your eyes met her green ones, the ones that look like a forest, but inviting, soft, as if they'd keep you safe.

She searches your pupils, taking a deep breath as her eyebrows furrowed, trying to think it over. Her mouth opened to speak, but she only ended up taking another breath in.

"I don't know." She whispers. Sounds of birds were heard flying over in the distance. She was right there. She was so close. But she couldn't say it. Not yet, not just yet. The light and hope in your eyes dimmed, a breath slowly and quietly exhaling out your lips.

"Well, it's getting late," you said. You weren't really disappointed, more so just...sad. You pushed yourself back from the rails. She saw the words that was coming next, but she almost didn't want to hear it.

"I should...probably get back to my place." You whispered under your breath, turning around to face the entrance of the balcony, where you could see her familiar furnished apartment. She nods.

Steps were taken, shots in the dark had gone, the only thing left was to sit and think. But you were getting bored of doing such a thing. Just as you stepped a single foot inside again, she turns her body calmly.

"Text me," she said suddenly, her eyes hesitantly traveling to yours. You stopped in your tracks and looked at her from over your shoulder, a somber look in your eyes she could just barely make out.

"...When you get back home," she continued, her voice quiet, but it held care. Your shoulders went down. Your home was her, where her heart was. There was something else, but you couldn't quite reach to whatever it was.

"I will." The words left your mouth softly, but it seems no tears had pricked your eyes at all. Maybe it was because you couldn't seem to form any at all anymore, or was it the fact she even cared to know you arrived home safely?

Your steps were quiet as you went out the apartment, Liho meowing softly before you closed the door. You don't want her like a best friend. Or just someone you could love without anything connected. You wanted more.

And you wondered if she thought the same.

end of chapter 11. <3

Series Masterlist <- Chapter 10 Final Chapter ->

to mend a broken heart is to restart.

"I don't truly deserve a love like yours." W.M

"She doesn't deserve a love like yours." N.R

"What if I...don't deserve anyone's love?" R.

------------------------

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[rhiafayee]

Hello! I was wondering if you could write some form of our Captain coming home unannounced after a long stint in the field? (Take creative liberties). Reader doesn't know that he's coming back, but she's been on tenterhooks the entire time throughout, wondering when he will, so it's a massive surprise when he does (dare I say it's mostly horny Price?)

If this doesn't work for you, please let me know! Thank you :) 🧡

OMG my first ask 🥹 this literally means the world to me you don't understand, I appreciate you so much for being here 🫶

I know I've said i'm an NSFW blog, but just incase anybody here just wants to read good ol' fluff, I did label in this fic where it becomes NSFW! The last thing I want to do is make anyone uncomfortable or left out because they don't care to read smut! Reader has female anatomy but I did my best to not include pronouns just incase! I really hope you like it 🫶

Pairings: Husband!John Price x AFAB!Reader

Summary: After a long, dreadful period of time awaiting your husband's return from deployment, he shows up when you least expect it.

Warnings: Blood mentioned, non-severe injuries, afab, p in v, unprotected sex, just your casual smutty fic!

Thick, whitish-grayish clouds blanketed the sky, rain falling heavily from the base, an ombre effect forming as you viewed farther into the distance, watching the sky go from a shade of slate to a hue of black. The sound of the rain against the window caused you to curl up on the couch, a movie on in the background with the volume low enough to the point that you can hear the chatter of voices, but not enough to make out what is going on, and your favorite book seated comfortably in your hands. Next to you on the coffee table stands a hot mug, filled to the top, with only a quarter of an inch of space left to avoid any overflowing, of earl grey. A comforting blend that you find yourself pouring on rainy days like this. Adjacent to the mug was a picture frame, of you and your husband on your wedding day. Picking it up, you start to reminisce on the memories of your beloved, who is somewhere a thousand miles away right now.

He's been gone for what felt like years, but has really only been 4 months. The marriage was hard, to say the least. Drawn out periods of time where you aren't sure if he's even going to come home to you anymore, late nights arguing about how he's never here to spend time with you, thoughts of separation swarming your head at the lowest of points during your relationship. But every time he sees the doubt in your eyes, the realization that his work takes priority, he manages to ground you, tell you that one day he'll be home for good, and that he's never leaving again. The words start to feel empty after hearing them one too many times, now simply used as a way to comfort you; an empty promise. At least, that's what you've concluded as shortly after you make up from said arguments he's leaving you again. Missed birthdays, anniversaries, valentines day, Christmas, any calendar holiday you could think of, were rarely ever spent with your partner.

Snapping out of your thoughts, you put your book down, running your thumb across the glass of the picture frame where the polaroid of you in his arms, a white gown adorning your body, his ceremonial dress uniform on his, your lips attached together, just like your souls. A warmth overcomes you, a fuzzy feeling when you think of everything you've been through together. The late nights slow dancing in the kitchen, baking pastries together in the morning, attacking each other with the dry ingredients, making a mess of the floor and counters, as well as each other, everything now coated in flour. The small moments like this is what makes every argument and make-up worth it, knowing that the love you harbor for each other is inseparable, no matter the distance between you two.

Glancing at the clock, it reads 1406, 24-hour time becoming a usual part of your life, living with a military man. Taking out your grocery list, you figure now is a good time to knock out some errands to prepare for the upcoming week. After getting dressed and applying some of your make-up, you slip your shoes on and head out the door. The drive to the store is calm, the rain pattering against the roof of the car, the refraction caused by the rain water making the headlights in the distance slightly blurred.

Walking through the store, shopping cart in front of you, list in your left hand, your pen in the other, you slowly make your way through each aisle, scratching a line through each word in the list as the corresponding item makes its way into your cart. Strolling the cart to the front of the store and making your way through the checkout line, you grab your bags, pay the amount ringed out by the cashier, and make your way out. Upon placing all of your grocery bags in the car, you make your way towards the cart return. Glancing down to your phone to recheck the time, you feel a change in the texture of the ground below you, before you get the chance to process the difference, you feel a sharp pain in your ankle, jolting up your calf into your hip, and then a wave of agony hits you when your head eventually makes its way onto the pavement as well. Sitting up on your knees, you grab your nose. Blood. A lot of it. Pouring out as your eyes tear up and your ankle becomes numb.

Slowly making your way back into your car, you assess the damage. One, you're now soaking wet, and so is your car seat now, two, you seem to have sprained your ankle and broke your nose. Great. Right when you need your husband to take care of you, he's nowhere near to take action. Though your head feels dizzy, and you probably shouldn't be driving in your state, you realize that you need to get home to patch yourself up. As you start the ignition to your car, a check light comes up. Of course it does, you think. Low tire pressure. Just what you need right now on top of everything else. Taking a deep breath, you pull out of the parking lot and pray you make it home safe.

Limping your way into the house, not caring about the groceries now sitting in the car, an overwhelming feeling of dread and pain comes over you. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, everything hits you at once. The searing pain in your lower leg makes it hard to stand, and the dizziness in your head makes it hard to fight the pain off to at least limp your way to the couch. Letting your back hit the- now closed- front door, you sink to the ground, a fit of tears and sobs erupting from your body.

"Y/n?" A familiar gruff voice echos off the walls of the house. At first, you think it might just be your delusions from the injury and yearning, and then you feel a pair of warm hands on both sides of your face. Shooting your eyes open, you see the face of your husband, kneeling down to your level to look directly into your eyes. "Sweetheart, what happened?" John calmly spoke, wrapping his arms around you as to not panic you even more. A sentence of broken words and mumbles leaving your mouth, the struggle to breath growing. John doesn't speak, rather he comforts you by increasing the strength of the embrace, running his hands through your hair, soft "shhh's" leave his lips. Finally catching your breath, you feel your heart rate slowing down, but the pounding in your head getting more prominent. You look up to him, a defeated look in your eyes that breaks his heart into pieces, "I didn't think you were coming home." Your broken, hoarse voice breaks the silence. He feels his heart drop again at those words. "I'll always come home to you. You know that." He gives you a soft smile, kissing your forehead. "Now, why don't you explain to me what happened while I patch you up, yeah?" A soft smile forms on your lips, slowly nodding as to not aggravate your headache even more.

Picking you up, Price sets you down on the kitchen counter to grab some medical supplies, as well as pain medicine to soothe the pounding in your leg and your head. Filling up a small glass of water, he lifts you up once again and takes you to the bathroom to get some better lighting to patch you up.

-NSFW below-

Soft laughter fills the bathroom as Price listens to the day you've had. "So you're gonna tell me you let a puddle of mud ruin your day?" He chuckles lowly. You glare at him before sending him a cheeky smirk. Lifting you up carefully as to avoid hurting you, he lays you down on the bed. "You wait here while I go get everything from the car. Why don't you get yourself ready for me, love?" He finished his sentence with a wink that made your abdomen flutter. Months of being away from him, months without the ache in your nether regions being resolved, only relying on a couple videos shot by the two of you while you had the chance. Nothing you've tried could compare to him, though. Stripping down to nothing but your panties, you hear his loud, heavy footsteps booming through the hallway. Nervousness fills your body, the hairs on the nape of your neck standing at attention due to the anticipation of what was to come next.

You feel your clit throb, your subconscious becoming aware of the situation. His tall, broad figure enters through the doorway. Flicking the light switch down, the only light in the room coming from the storm still going outside, the gray tones flooding into the room and making your body look euphoric. The little light that is reflected into the room makes your eyes appear darker, the curves in your body more defined, the perkiness of your tits more delicious. Price feels his body relax at the site of you, his bright blue eyes turn into a shade of navy, making him appear more dominant and full of lust. Stripping his shirt off and disregarding it on the hardwood below him, you take in the sight of his hardened body, extra buff from the recent deployment, demanding strength for months on end. Stopping at the edge of the bed, above where you lay, you can make out the bulge in his jeans more clearly, your pussy throbbing with need as you realize just how long it's been since he's been inside of you.

"You're more gorgeous than the last time I saw you, you know that? You just keep getting prettier and prettier with time, darling." His voice laced with desire and need, thick like honey, his accent more prominent. You sit up, shifting your weight on your arm, as he leans down, meeting you in the middle to connect your lips together. The feeling of your tongues dancing together, the mixture of your saliva, his hand hard around your throat, it feels better than ever. Your sure your panties are soaked, you can feel your inner thighs get coated with your slick, your body preparing for him. Disconnecting your lips, you lean back down, mouthing his cock through his jeans, running your teeth across the outline. He groans, tangling his fingers through your hair with just enough pressure that you can feel it, but not enough to bring back any pain from earlier. After a long, hot make-out session, Price pulls away from you, a trail of saliva leaving the two of you connected.

Untangling his hand from your hair, he slowly repositions himself on top of you, kissing your neck, down your body until he reaches the elastic of your panties. He takes the band in his mouth, his teeth slowly taking them off of your body. You stare at him, your mouth agape in shock and need. After discarding your undergarments to somewhere on the floor, he spreads your legs, leaving a trail of kisses on your calf, up to your inner knee, when he reaches your inner thigh he becomes more rough, sucking and biting at the skin there, leaving purple bruises along your flesh. Keeping eye contact with you, he lays a light, feather-like kiss on your clit, making you gasp with pleasure, but not enough. Interlacing your fingers in his hair, you push his head down, an unspoken way of asking for more. "Greedy, are we love?" Price chuckles, now licking your clit. Rolling your eyes with a small giggle, "It's been 4 months, John, can you blame me?" Your voice is laced with desire and impatience as you speak. After what felt like an eternity of teasing, Price brings up two of his thick fingers, circling your entrance with them, his middle finger catching on your labia. Inserting them in, the stretch making you arch your back in pleasure and slight discomfort, "You're so tight baby, seems you haven't been takin' care of yourself down here." His fingers start moving in and out at a slightly faster pace, but not too much to make you fall apart already. He moves his mouth back to your clit, continuing his actions from earlier. With a loud moan and your back arching even more, you cover Price's fingers in your come, making him groan at the sight, his cock growing even harder.

Sitting up, the unbuckling of his jeans sparks a nervousness and excitement in your lower abdomen, a feeling you haven't felt in a long time. You stare as he unzips his jeans, taking them off along with his boxers. His thick cock bounces as it's freed from confinement, the heaviness of it making it droop down. You take it into your hand, slowly stroking him before taking it to your entrance. Price looks into your eyes as he slips it into your hole, making the both of you gasp at the intrusion. As he buries himself as deep as he can go, John waits for a moment to take in the feeling of you after such a long time, and to stop himself from coming too soon. The feeling of him stretching you open and the tip of his cock pressed against your cervix puts you in a state of nirvana. Circling your hips a little to create some sort of pleasure on your end, Price decides he won't make you wait any longer.

Slowly pulling his cock out until just the tip is inside, he smiles at you before slamming his length all the way back in. The feeling catching you off guard, you roll your eyes to the back of your head, letting out a loud moan "Oh my- fuckk." "You didn't think I was gonna be gentle did you?" Price lets out a low chuckle before repeating the same action. Lifting your legs up so your ankles are adjacent to his head, he goes faster, pounding into the back of your pussy like his life depends on it, hitting the same soft spot that you're convinced nobody else could reach. Reaching his hand down, John starts to rub your clit at the same pace as his hips, making you moan louder and louder. "Oh fuck, oh fuck, don't stop doing that" you whine out, making Price's lips curl up in a cheeky smile. "Yeah, you like that? Am I gonna make you come, baby?" He teases you, letting out a low groan. Nodding your head, Price feels your walls tighten around him, making his hips stutter and his moans slightly louder. "Oh shit baby, fuck you're so tight. You like coming 'round my cock, love?" You don't respond- you can't- not in the state you're in right now. You just hold eye contact with him while nodding your head.

Price's hips falter as you feel something warm inside of you all of a sudden. He stays there, his cock acting like a plug to keep his come pushed inside of you. Coming down towards you, Price leaves a kiss on your forehead before slowly pulling out, watching some of his come leak out of you. Looking up at your worn-out figure, he gets up to start a bath for you. Slowly unwrapping the bandage he skillfully placed on your ankle to prevent any unwanted movement, he places you in the warm body of water, making your eyes slowly close. The smell of lavender and vanilla fills your senses, the only light in the bathroom being from your favorite candle. Price cleans you up, making sure to be careful around your nose and your ankle, before picking you up gently to wrap your body in a towel.

He takes you back to the bed, which is now covered in a fresh pair of sheets, he lays you down gently before getting you dressed. Going to the bathroom to clean himself up, he decides now is a good time to tell you the news. Moments later he comes out, preparing himself for any reaction that may come out of you. Before he can speak, he hears your soft snores and sees your eyes glued shut, overtaken by a deep sleep. His lips form a soft smile, a feeling of warmth filling his body, feeling his heart skip a beat. He guesses he'll just have to tell you about his retirement in the morning.

[lenaellsi]

starting to get frustrated with the whole "the end of good omens 2 is just a miscommunication" thing like. okay, that's part of it? but it's not all of it?? like yes, they are both taking things the other is saying the absolute worst way they could and not communicating vital information but. this would not be fixed by them having impeccable communication skills. it's a conflict of morality. because that's a thing that happens to them? all the time?? you could even call it one of the main conceits of the show??? (thoughts under cut to save a dash)

like. aziraphale literally still thinks heaven and angels are inherently better than hell and demons. he says that. full stop. that's not a miscommunication. i am bemused by the idea that aziraphale just wants to make heaven good enough for crowley because...no? yes, he wants to make heaven better, and yes, he wants them both to be safe, and crowley to be happy. but entirely apart from that, he wants crowley to be an angel again. he does not like that crowley is a demon. this is textual. "like the old times," and "you're the bad guys," and "not even demons are that stupid," and "you, unfortunately, are evil," and "i know the angel you were," plus all of the stuff from s1. he's been saying this with his whole chest for the entirety of two seasons. this isn't JUST a miscommunication. it's a mistake, born out of the same black and white thinking that led to aziraphale trying to teach the virtues of poverty in episode 3.

it doesn't mean he's "bad" for thinking it (because actually, it turns out that people aren't inherently good or bad, even when they make mistakes that hurt others! and that's! the point! of the show!) it just means he needs to learn and grow next season. right now, he thinks of crowley (who he adores) as the exception to the general rule that Heaven Is Good and Hell Is Evil, when what he really needs to do is throw heaven's rules in the garbage. we, the audience, know that, because we're watching from an objective point of view and have more information than aziraphale does. crowley knows it, because he learned it the hard way. we've seen crowley succeed in talking aziraphale around before--see armageddon, the arrangement, food and drink--but honestly, i do think that this is something aziraphale has to decide for himself, in the same way he was the one to ultimately make the choice that he would not fight in a war again.

and crowley needs to do some major growing too. his urge to run away and hide from problems, his inability to look inward and recognize his own feelings, his temper, and his fear of being seen as weak or soft were all explored at length this season, and those issues resulted in him really bungling the argument at the end. the main problem at the center of this--the destruction of the universe--is a fight they have been having, literally, since time began. crowley has tried to fight for earth in the past (see: the antichrist plan) but again, his instinct to jump ship when he thinks things are hopeless is something he needs to overcome.

i think you can reasonably debate whether aziraphale's choice to try to change heaven from the inside has merit. (not because heaven will listen to him, but because he'll have the opportunity to mitigate their influence at a crucial time.) there's an argument about institutional corruption and harm reduction at the heart of this that i, a tumblr user with a good omens fan blog, am not going to argue about in a text post. but i just want to recognize that this is not ONLY an issue of crowley and aziraphale talking past each other. there is real conflict here, and real character growth at stake, and it HAS to be resolved before they get their happy ending.

[sad-girl-hours23]

Long rambling incoherent post ahead:

The executives are not functioning right now, so I don’t have my thoughts all together (they are currently scattered in my notes and voice memo apps 🫣)

But I really want to talk about Buck’s reaction to Josh’s speech, or at least how I view it and I am probably wholly projecting onto Buck here 😅 but —

Obviously Buck still has Tommy on a pedestal (though I never got that vibe in 8x05; they seemed smitten but seemingly comfortable being themselves) and I think that finding out that Tommy (whom he cares about, obviously admires, and maybe even loves) hurt someone Buck really cares for and suddenly Buck’s experiencing this disillusionment that he doesn’t know how to cope with and I fully believe Buck needed to hear Josh’s perspective (and it could have generated an actual meaningful conversation about what Tommy personally experienced *sighs*), but I think it gave Buck an easy out so he could stop feeling the discomfort and put Tommy right back on that pedestal (higher up, even!) instead of seeing a more dimensional view of him and being able to hold disappointment in Tommy’s past actions and the care Buck has for him at the same time (I struggle with this myself, I’m not sure if there is a name for it, but yeah, projection 😅) but I do think this is truly an issue for Buck because he can absolutely stand up for the people he loves, but I think he has a hard time standing up to the people he loves*,at least not without still holding that love at the same time (re: Buck lawsuit era) and I think it’s a bit of a mix of all-or-nothing/black-and-white thinking and conflict avoidance because of rejection sensitivity. Yes, Buck clings but he does so after the fact.

I want to point out that Maddie rightfully assumed that Buck was afraid that Tommy would hurt him and that’s why he was so distraught, but he brushes it off and I don’t think he actually was afraid of Tommy hurting him, I think it all comes down to Buck having to face down his own idealism and his being unwilling to do so.

And instead of telling Tommy why he was so thrown off (after the initial ‘we dated the same person’ awkwardness), he decides for himself that the matter is resolved and gives no indication there even *was* a hurdle to overcome because he feels good and justified about his feelings for Tommy.

All that being said, Buck definitely has some issues and I would love to see him address them and understand what he was communicating in his own speech to Tommy (and it certainly wasn’t `I love you’) and that he put him on a pedestal but I sincerely hope if so, it won’t be at the expense of Tommy.

*I should make it clear, I don’t think Buck needs to stand up for Abby, just that he should have made his conflicted feelings clear to Tommy so they could have a discussion instead of monologuing at each other

[fantomette22]

(For Bloodborne)

10, 16, and 18?? 💀

I answered 10 here ! As for the rest it is quite long so putting it under there. Hope you ready 😅

16. you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

Hm... wait I need to remember all the things I don't appreciate... and try not to make ennemies 😓 (it's really not my goal it's just personal preference mostly. Seriously depending how things are explained and presented there's lot a thing I can actually enjoy! While I would dislike when it's just throw and spam without context.)

Hm well you know as for characterisations when it's reduced to like 2 traits or extreme good / extreme bad it's hm... yeah. I mean I know I ain't a good exemple but I barely share dark headcanons 😓 but they do exist hehe.

Of course absolutely don't mind and love silly shenanigans (when you're hanging with your friends and having fun it's not always very serious) and also more dark and matures ideas. When people share it doesn't mean it's all they think to the characters! Gotta take the all picture!

But it does bother me when people believe in almost caricatural interprets like it's canon and talk down on others with different views. Somehow like they are the worst thing...like wtf.

Also well typical extreme talk about Gehrman, Maria and mostly Laurence I suppose (maybe a bit Lulu aka the holy blade but it bother me a bit less because people are generally not spamming to or being annoying as much as the others. Oh Micolash too). When people reduced them to just 2 things or an extreme. I feel it really doesn't fit with the infos within the game. I'm not a fan at all. They are all morally grey and humans. They are not clearly all black or all white. they are morally gray, they are humans!

In more details now. Well for Gehrman you know my stance already. Clearly yeah he had some issues in his life and did bad things but clearly I don't think he was a misogynistic asshole and all the stuff. Like it just don't make sense to me. I don't even wanna vent about it today XD

As for Maria well. Look I don't have a problem with the headcanon of her being a butch lesbian. I mean it's even one of my AU actually. (to put it really really simply. Bc I like having several interprets disconnect to each other in their own settings). It can be very interesting in an overall big story I think. The problem I have is when it's apparently her only unique traits and if you think or headcanon otherwise for any reasons you are apparently the worst shit to exist and getting block. Being labelled as sexist, homophobic etc. Well idk but that kind of reaction kinda tell me who the real -phobic one is 😕 really that is sad like wow who hurt you people?! to have this much anger to people just trying to have fun. Thankfully it's clearly just a minority of people who are agressive like this. And I hope they will grow, gain maturity and realise there's really no need to be that mean about such a thing. But it's been a while saw smt like this so I prefer to put this behind me there's hope.

As for Laurence I'm not really a fan of him being the ultimate bitch devil (or angel but nobody has that take almost. That would be a change. the tragic vicar who only had good intention but accidentally fucked up and try his best until the end😔 I mean I don't agree with that either but that's a change). I mean by this, that I think he did both. Good and bad things. That he had honorable intentions at first but overcome by a bit of ego and pride he fucked up really bad. And then realised his mistake but it was too late to correct it... his theme inspire great strength but who end in tragedy and pity. So overall tragic these too. Him being depicted as just a smug unlikable bitch is something I have a hard time with. I mean yes I like to imagine him being a smug bitch too at times for sure! it's fun but not like all the time and making it his entire personality. If that make sense. I don't see how he could be an important religious figure, doctor and having so much support by just being a manipulative ass all the time. Especially if he start from ground 0.

And hm... i have nothing again it and people so that we're clear but hm EXCEPT in certains very specific context* I am not personally a fan of Laurence being drawn with horns on his head. It just isn't my cup of tea. I'm not sure to understand what's the interest don't make sense to have Laurence looking normally human + just horns but it's just me.

*EXCEPT WHEN : symbolism and symbolic art (no prob I like those actually. Horns + when he's burning in human form for exemple onlooking like religious symbolism) ; "decoration" like lil detached horns, like you would put flowers or sparkles or little emoji next to a portrait of a characters ; before he transformed but with other signs of beasthood (actually him human with horns can be nice but I prefer when it's like mini horns not full cleric beast ones + idk a giant arm with claws and fur growing, eyes looking weird, teeth growing, his hair being longer and messy etc).

Now last I will stop after...

I think a whole fic or interprets on a really dark and realistic Bloodborne universe like our world can be super interesting! But I don't enjoy when people seem to think Bloodborne is 100% our 19th century with just a couple of eldritch things in it? Ok it's closer to us compared to medieval fantasy like DS or elden ring. But I feel it's fantasy too. if we had a map I won't be surprise if that's not Europe or a map that existed in real life. Lot of things don't fit to be actual victorian era. It's just inspire by it : invention and technology aren't on the same lvl. Either they are missing important inventions or are too advanced. (Molotovs appeared during spain war and were named like this during WWII) people don't seem to have 10 children working in factories or mines as well. Women are doctors, academic, hunters etc No steam machine or electric bulb but who knows. I could make an entire things... Looking at all the real life inspirations for the game is great! Create a very realistic story is very cool! But I would personally be more on the side that's it's more of a victorian fantasy. Like Sekiro can't be in our world or how Dark souls is a medieval fantasy as well and isn't medieval age accurate.

Oh boi i forgot about victorian london. Jokes are fine but bloodborne is more inspired on Prague and eastern europe i feel. You and Katy developed it more anyway

18. it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

Ok I don't know how to answer this so have a list (of ideas in my head I need to share /write one day lmao) :

Maria backstory (no seriously I want stories on her childhood, her family, what happened, how she felt toward them. Conflicted? Good terms but separate ways? Actually work for them for a while? Disowned? I wanna know! If she's actually close to Annalise ? More important in royal family that we know? Or really a random noble related to them?) Is her pyromancer real?! why she dislike blood blades?

How she got her Rakuyo

How she met Gehrman? her training? WHAT HAPPEN I NEED TO KNOW uxkcblkDOLFMBOEAMl: (sorry XD) work for Laurence & co too

Important lore Charcacters backstory before this whole mess (Laurence, Gehrman, Ludwig, Willem etc yeah basically everyone lol I won't do the entire list XD but how did they meet each other what bound them what happen.)

Stories how the healing church + blood transfusion actually came to be?

Byrgenwerth era (yeah sorry I love it XD)

So yeah overall timeline before the hunter arrive (help)

Cainhurst, Annalise, vilebloods, potential KING of Cainhurst

So yeah Logarius too

Loran, Isz and pthumerians lore??

Dores and Gatekeeper my beloved

Caryll (yeah just Caryll)

Izzy and bestial hunters. How the bestial rune was forbidden, why Laurence had it etc

Ok is everyone except 5 persons gonna ignore the fact freaking Gehrman can make more than just weapons?! well wood stuff are oblivious but how did bro can make such refined clothes hello?!?!

Religion practise how it works in Yharnam, how citizens and clerics actually practise it.

What's their history, their legend, how the geopolitic within the country is and others XD (it's more a critic about the game in itself than fandom really) In truth I'm a bit sad we know lot of countries and regions within Dark Souls but almost none with Bloodborne! Like many people are from foreign countries and we have 0 names compared to the dozens in DS. we just have like vaguely Yamamura asiatic country, Eileen's one, Valtr's city, Loran and Isz. As for Gascoigne Gilbert Brador and all the others we don't know anything. In Dark Souls we have names and we know where people came from : Catarina, Astora, Forossa, Mirrah, Carim, Vinheim, Lordran etc)

Event being seen by random citizens or young characters growing up could be interesting!

I mean many characters again

I might stop here or it will never be over sorry... I'm not even sure it's really slept one but I wish we have more. There's just so many possibilities and things that can be created!

[yellowflowerbub]

II, I

꒷︶ ̇ ̟ ෆ ‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿ ෆ ̟ ̇ ︶꒷

summary. opening night emotions with megumi

wordcount. 1k

pairing(s). megumi x fem!reader

tag(s). drama and theater, tension, admiration, somewhat angsty, reader plays a wife

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Brutus, my lord!” You call, stumbling into view.

Megumi, who’s attention snaps to you, looks confused, furrowed brows with his lips barely apart. “Portia! Why are you awake?” The countenance he holds is no longer confusion but mounds of worry. He ushers toward you and his hands find your shoulders to lead you away but your legs do not move to comply.

“You shouldn’t be up! At least, not so early, especially in your condition.” He reasons.

“Neither should you! Last night you awoke and paced around our room like a mad-man. Yet, when I ask what is the matter you look at me with disdain.” You exclaim. “Even so, I continued to question you but you impatiently stamped your foot and refused to answer me clearly! You’d even requested I leave you and though I may have respected your wishes, my heart aches with unease. Confide in me, Brutus! What troubles you?”

Each of your lines are delivered in heaps of breath, desperation enveloping the tone. The garments you wore flow and drift dramatically to match and the laced frills at the end of your wafer-thin gown wisp over the strained wood floors of the theater stage. Your thoughts, however, are set and steady. You know and could never forget, even in a moment as dire as this, the next set of words you’ve studied.

His hands fall from your shoulders and are tucked into his crossed arms, “I’m not well in health. That is all.”

“The Brutus I know is wise. If he were sick he would go by the means necessary to overcome the virus.” It feels strange having to adjust how you address Megumi on stage. Where the spotlight shines on you, he’s Lord Brutus, a husband with questionable morals.

“Why so I do. Go to bed, my dear.” On stage, his deep black hair is no longer spiked but carefully raked into place. As he moves, strands become loose and slump over his forehead. You now notice, with the glaring white lights pointed to yourself, Megumi, and the other props accompanying you on center stage, how well-pampered his hair is. Perhaps the makeup artists backstage made a few spontaneous decisions opening night. It fits him. Not that many things didn’t.

“No, my Brutus.You have some sickness within your mind. Which, by the right of my place within your life I ought to know of; and upon my knees I charm you by my once commended beauty,” You take his hand and kneel before him, “Of all your vows of love, a great vow which did wed us–that you open up to me, your self, your half. Why are you heavy?” 

His face shifts once more, now to one of sympathy. There is no pity written across his features nor is there anger in his eyes. Instead, he feels guilty for letting you fall to the floor for the sake of some conspiracy, “Please, do not kneel, dear Portia.” His hands come to cup your face.

“I would not need to if you were kind, Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, should I know no secrets that appertain to you? Am I some pet you keep with you at meals, comfort in your bed, and talk to you sometimes? If I am no more to you, I’m your harlot, not wife.” Tears pool at your waterline and spill over down your cheek. Megumi’s thumb swipes the tears away away as quickly as they fall. He kneels to meet your eyes but doesn’t dare to remove his hands from your cheeks.

“You are my true and honorable wife, as dear to me as are the ruby liquids that visit my sad heart.” 

“If this were true, then should I know this secret!” Your own hands now find his face and you passionately hold his jaw, “Tell me your worries, I will not disclose them. I have made strong proof of my reliability, giving myself a voluntary wound here, in the thigh. How can I bear that with patience, and not my husband's secrets?” The only noises that come while you both speak are the echoes of your own voices. Despite many people gathered in the abyss of the audience, not one person dared even to breath loudly during your time with Megumi.

“O ye gods, let me be worthy of this noble wife!” A knock sounds and Megumi’s breath hitches, “Someone knocks. Portia, leave for a moment. The secrets of my heart. All my worries I will admit to thee, all the cause of my sad brows. Leave me with haste.” 

You give a final look into the depth of his iris before gathering yourself and scattering behind the curtain, out of view from the eyes of spectators. The crew awaiting you quietly compliment you, “I’ll never get tired of watching you and Megumi act together. The both of you are outstanding!” 

“Right? They’re amazing. You guys make the relationship between your characters look real. I swear I saw some people in their seats wiping their eyes.” 

“Thanks. It means alot.” You turn to watch Megumi finish out the scene. He’s now accompanied by a few other actors and they talk and interact as practiced. Even with so much else going on, quick changes, costume and makeup retouches, and actors going over everything they’ve studied a final time behind stage, it doesn’t bring your attention off of your fictional husband and how well he sells his character. He’s made it his own, stamped the character in everyone’s minds that it’d feel sinful to have another man play conspirator Brutus. 

Maybe it was your ego growing two sizes too big but you were skeptical all the emotion he put out during your time together had been a mere fallacy. His eyes held boundless emotion and when he held your face while you held his, those cobalt colored iris’ held a spark of sincerity you’d never seen.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

a/n: i absolutely love portia and brutus’ dramatic relationship in julius caesar. I reread it a shit ton

Feedback and Reblogs are Appreciated!

[rainstormcolors]

Which ygo major antagonist works best for you and why?

Thank you for the ask. This is an interesting and complex question.

I think for the most part, most of the primary YGO antagonists are meant to be dark mirrors and foils in differing ways to the characters we’re following. The darkness and angry emotions within Malik that he feels he can’t control and that he feels haunted by and battles within himself taking on a life of their own mirrors the darkness within and trying to be contained by other characters --- although the criticisms of how Malik and Yami Malik are handled are very fair and I do think Battle City has issues. And it’s pretty fair to note the ableism here. But I do think the story was clumsily attempting to tell a story of Malik fighting, surrendering to, and then overcoming the internal darkness he’s struggled with and how we can feel there are different versions of ourselves, ugly versions of ourselves within. Seto in his villain phase is enthralled by death games as Atem had been and explicitly seeks to mimic the penalty game Atem had inflicted on him as he struggles and self-destructs and has been hurt and thus hurts others as he seeks to feel something, anything, in his hollowed-out heart. The confusion of youth and loss and pain heightened to an extreme within these characters as they struggle to understand who they are.

I think Seto Kaiba and Malik Ishtar and the Thief King, in differing degrees, are all characterized by self-destructive hatred and the confusion of youth. I feel Atem had entered the story as characterized by destruction and the confusion of youth, struggling to understand who he is, emerging as a void.

Pegasus might be the most solidly constructed villain in YGO though inside what I feel is YGO’s most tightly written arc. He’s entertaining and has fun charisma with genuine cruelty. I also stand by feeling that Pegasus’ story is meant to illustrate the dark path of the Millennium Items and their holders, and meant to illustrate the cold uncaring nature of destiny. That the darkness inherent within the Millennium Items can be seen in how the Items view and treat human beings as their tools just as much as the humans try to treat the Items as their tools. They are two-way relationships. Pegasus is thrown away by destiny and the Millennium Eye when his purpose has been served and Pegasus doesn’t care to fight it.

I’ve said this before, but I don’t personally mind the mixed messages within YGO about seeking light within life but also how some characters surrender to darkness and face death, because I find this messiness true to life and feelings (though it’s certainly heightened in YGO). We fight to survive but sometimes we fail and what we want can be confusing and emotions layer on top of each other or sometimes we can’t feel anything. I also think it’s fair to criticize the story for this messiness and to ponder how it could be tighter, but stories feel more organic and human to me somehow when there are some contradicting messages. It’s also that I don’t feel like the story is trying to preach a message to me --- it becomes a story about characters surviving and trying to understand and sometimes failing. I don’t mean to comment this in a black and white way because I do think there are issues in YGO’s writing in places but it’s more complex than “I want there to be a clear firm message.”

But to finally answer this question clearly, I would say Pegasus is the most strongly written villain-as-villain character in YGO, where all the threads meet in a satisfying way for the arc he centers in.  And whereas Seto and Malik are a match for only Atem, Pegasus works well as a match for both Seto and Atem. He cruelly forces Atem and Seto to face themselves as they are forced to face each other in what might be YGO’s very best duel.

I also like that Pegasus is chasing a ghost through his story --- something he wants but can never recapture and how he is haunted as well and how his goal is and always was empty. I like the way the themes of death and grief linger quietly throughout YGO like a murmuring heartbeat, messy and shadowy. And while I think it’s fair to want to understand more about Cyndia, Pegasus keeping his thoughts on her private from Atem also feels real to me.

I also must give a shout-out to Noa Kaiba of course for a solid anime-exclusive villain and how his story is also one of self-destructive hatred, confusion, an aching search for revenge and love and meaning, and the coldness of how life can play out and the themes of living vs death, memories and the self.

[adamwatchesmovies]

Men of Honor (2000)

If Men of Honor feels familiar, it’s because we've seen a lot of movies like it before. This is a historical, inspirational biopic engineered to make you feel good with recognizable actors that ultimately, doesn’t try anything new. You won't dislike it, but you're sure to forget it.

In 1948, Carl Brashear (Cuba Gooding Jr.) joins the United States Navy. His swimming skills get him sent to the Diving and Salvage School in Bayonne, New Jersey. Despite the grueling exercises by Master Chief Petty Officer Leslie William “Billy” Sunday (Robert De Niro), Brashear is determined to overcome the persistent racism at the school and become the first black American Davy diver.

From the premise, I bet you can foresee many of the important scenes in the film. When Brashear arrives at the school, you know there will be - at most - one other classmate who will agree to sleep in the same quarters as him. Everyone else will pick up their stuff and leave. You know there will probably be some nasty hazing, accompanied with threatening notes that make it clear he can’t be flunked solely for the colour of his skin but that the instructors will do everything they can to make Brashear quit. Of course, all of these will only make him more determined to succeed, but can one Black man really be expected to change the whole system by himself?

We’ve seen this sort of movie before because Men of Honor is a story Hollywood is comfortable telling. It’s set in the past, allowing white audience members to see the injustice Brashear faces while distancing themselves from the people who are prejudiced against him. The villains are simply one-dimensional racists who come from a bygone era. The movie is being made so Brashear’s victory over these bigots is assured and that makes us feel good. We're not going to be challenged by this content. Of course, this is a very cynical way to view the film. It's equally plausible that writer Scott Marshall Smith and director George Tillman Jr. were inspired by Brashear’s story and it’s simply that some people’s lives - while inspirational - just aren’t that cinematic. This picture might've needed the tropes (or things might have actually gone the way they did as seen here) to tell a story that yeah, I'll say is worth telling.

Men of Honor has a big obstacle to overcome: diving itself. The film calls for quite a bit of underwater photography and unfortunately, this means a lot of murky underwater shots where you can sort of tell what’s going on but not clearly. There’s also a throughline that’s missing. I suppose in theory, the film is about more than Brashear’s career, it’s also about the relationship between him and his teacher. It begins with Sunday under arrest, looking fondly at some footage of Brashear diving, then flashes back. Brashear decided to become a master diver because he saw Sunday heroically dive with little regard for his own personal safety. During the second half, the two become closer, as an injury threatens to prevent Brashear from ever diving again. The problem is that while the two share a good amount of screen time, you don’t feel like they know each other. You don’t feel like you know much of Sunday at all for that matter. He’s married to a much younger woman, played by Charlize Theron (wasted in this film). What happened there? How do they feel about each other? We don’t know anything except that apparently, she has problems with his drinking. Or maybe it’s just that he chose to go to a bar on their anniversary? There’s a piece missing.

Men of Honor tries to juggle too much with the overcoming of institutionalized racism, the diving, Carl Brashear’s career, his romance with his future wife Jo (Aunjanue Ellis), his relationship with his mentor, and said mentor’s personal life (complete with demons). This amount of content still doesn’t help distinguish a familiar story from all the other similar tales we’ve seen before. That said, these sorts of stories have an audience and there is something inherently watchable about them. Maybe you haven’t seen this template before or something about this particular story will resonate with you. This prevents Men of Honor from being bad, though at best, it’s a middle-of-the-road movie. (On VHS, August 18, 2022)

[labyrinthoftartarus]

Omori- The Trauma Experience.

Please play audio and video at the given stanzas for the entire experience. Each video and audio contributes heavily to the content. If viewed without them, the content can be confusing/unreadable. You must view the videos of the photo albums. TW- Discussions about mental health, depression, suicide, and death.

Please play music in the given stanzas for a better experience.

Close, your eyes, you'll be here soon.

onetwothreefourfiveminuites sometimes I really want to sleep but I can't do it.

Close your eyes. Everything is going to be okay.

How do you overcome trauma when you are constantly reminded of the experience?

Over

And over again?

How do you overcome the trauma of a situation caused by you when the mere thought of it

Absolutely breaks you?

It is simple. You forget.

You forget it ever happened. You sink into everlasting grief with no recollection of what had transpired. You are at peace. You do not fear the consequences of being reminded of what you have done.

But really, is forgetting...worth it?

Or should I remember my trauma to overcome it?

Omori is a game about remembering when you are trying to forget.

It forces you to accept your trauma and not hide from it. You don't expect anyone to forgive you for your mistakes because the greatest thing you have done is forgive yourself.

Omori aptly captures the psychological effect of trauma and depicts mental illness perfectly. In the gameplay, Omori incorporates visuals, audio, and other elements to make it seem like it was happening to us. Every mental stab at Omori feels like it is directed toward us. Omori perfectly captures how mental illness is experienced through its immersive gameplay, creating an outstanding masterpiece.

In Omori, just like in the real world, you navigate through the real world and your mind to uncover bits and bits of your trauma while going through intense repercussions. You persist along with Omori and overcome your trauma.

You overcome something.

The gameplay works in both the mind and real life of a boy named Sunny, the protagonist in the game.

The truth about his trauma is hidden by Omori, his alter ego. Omori tries to "protect" Sunny from his trauma by never allowing him to think beyond his comfort zone.

Omori is a figment of Sunny's brain, represented by a 12-year-old version of Sunny- when Sunny encountered his trauma. Omori travels in the various parts of Sunny's mind-

The Whitespace is a safe space made by Omori to escape when something triggers Sunny's trauma.

The Headspace- A place in Sunny's imagination wherein he finds the old version of his friends.

███ Space, █████ Space 1 and 2, where █████ ██ ████████ ███ ████ █████ █████ ████████ ███ ██████ █████ █████ █████ ██ ████ ███ ████ ████████ █████ ██ ████ ██████

And, without further ado, let us begin our journey.

Welcome to White Space.

You have been living here for as long as you can remember.

Omori starts off by introducing a pixelated, intriguing figure named Omori. Omori is a young boy confined to a dull, ominous room called the White Space. This room seems like a void, except with this seemingly mundane yet disturbing setup of basic necessities- a laptop with all your entries, a sketchbook containing a few of Omori's artworks, a box of tissues to wipe away all your tears, a black lightbulb, Mewo the cat and a locked door.

The White Space is an unsettling room you are first introduced to in this game. It is an empty space wherein you simply exist. That's it. You stay alive in the white room- not live life.

An emptiness, a home without warmth. A place to survive but not to live.

To leave this infinite space of nothing but white matter, you search around and get a shiny knife. Interesting. It could be a weapon! You happily exit the locked door, which seems to have unlocked once the blade miraculously finds its way into your hands.

White Space isn't reality. It is a corner in the protagonist's mind that is restricted from other parts of his brain and reality. It is a hiding place where he is protected from his troubling past. Nothing can get him here.

White space, Omori.

As soon as you leave Whitespace, you arrive at this new fabulous world decked with neon colors and vibrant hues.

Aerial map of Headspace.

Unlike bland and boring whitespace, Headspace is happy, cheery, silly, and fun. Omori meets up with all of his friends here in Headspace. We meet Mari, Omori's older sister. She's kind, thoughtful, charming, and sweet. We meet Hero, the 'brother' figure- a good-natured, patient guy who happens to be Mari's boyfriend. We meet Kel, Hero's younger brother, a silly little goofball who is fun and energetic. We meet Aubery, a feisty, adorable little girl(Omori seems to have a soft corner for her- I wonder!). Finally, we meet Basil, a shy, sweet and sensitive guy who adores nature.

Omori and his friends. Top(from left to right)- Mari, Hero. Bottom- Kel, Basil, Omori, Aubery.

In Headspace, Sunny's dream world, everything is perfect. You and your friends go on adventures and defeat monsters with your teamwork. In a world with your multi-hued friends, even Omori, the depressing black-and-white personification of a younger Sunny, appears happy.

Basil's photo album, headspace.

Or so, you thought.

Sunny in the real world, haunted by something.

Welcome to reality.

Mari is dead. Hero, just like Sunny, is depressed and hasn't left his home in ages. Kel tries his best to be optimistic and persuades Sunny out of his house for the first time in four years. Aubery isn't the sweet kid anymore but a bully with new friends. Basil is still shy yet depressed.

Basil's photo album in the real world, before Mari's death.

Everything changed ever since Mari committed suicide. Everything has broken apart. Sunny truly cared about his sister, Mari, who was gone forever.

The sun shone brighter when she was here.

Sunny lost everything from the moment Mari committed suicide. He also started to get haunted...by something.

Throughout the game, Sunny(and Omori) stumble across various absurd entities labeled by something each representing one of Sunny's fears(stairs, drowning, spiders, etc.). Sunny uses tactics such as breathing, calming down and persisting, to get through his fears.

3 DAYS LEFT.

In headspace, Kel and Aubery get into a fight and accidentally knock out Basil's photo album, comprising the photos Basil took of their friends. As they group the photographs together, Basil suddenly panics, and upon taking one photo, his eyes fill with intense fear. A black shadow forms behind Basil as he screams out and disappears into the void.

Mari!

Omori and his friends search for Basil, occasionally battling villains and exploring headspace. However, as time goes on, Omori's friends slowly forget Basil.

No bandage can stifle an eternal wound... And there will be a time when its influence will bleed through.

Omori hides the truth, the truth behind this fabricated world of Headspace, and the truth behind his past. However, no bandage can stifle an eternal wound, and there will be one day when all will fall apart.

What happened to Sunny?

What happened to his friends?

Why is Omori living in a fabricated lie in Sunny's mind?

What happened? What is the truth?

███████ to Black Space.

The whole of headspace is a representation of Sunny's mind.

The Headspace forms Sunny's imagination, dreams, and wishes, built specially by Omori to hide his trauma. It includes the conscious part of Sunny's mind.

The Whitespace forms the part of Sunny's mind where he can isolate himself from any potentially disturbing thoughts.

As Omori ventures into headspace, we often stumble upon more intriguing, morbid segments of Sunny's mind. We see strange creatures, strange entities, trying, trying to tell us the truth.

We reach Blackspace, the subconscious of Sunny's mind. This is where the truth about Sunny's past lies.

However, blackspace is neither friendly nor easily navigable. It is an intangible, absurd world with zero coherencies whatsoever. It simply does not make any sense. It is a bizarre reality, composed of fragments of the truth.

Black Space.

The doors in Blackspace are non-linear and have a warped existence, interconnecting and often "seeping" into Headspace. Each room holds a personification of Omori(Sunny)'s deepest, darkest fears.

Strange, bizarre creatures are found in Blackspace.

Above are just a few examples of Blackspace rooms.

In Blackspace, we can see cryptic forms of Mari(popularly known as Hellmari), disembodied versions of Omori's friends, harmful signs and symbols, and yet, the most disturbing thing would be Omori constantly brutally stabbing a shadow Basil when he attempts to tell the truth.

But...what is the meaning of all this?

Sunny's Trauma.

As we move further into the game, we realize how there is something, something dark and horrifying trying to tell us the truth. However, no matter how close we get, we are teleported back to White Space, the supposed safe spot, wherein nothing can potentially harm us.

PTSD

Omori is Sunny's guardian from the truth regarding his trauma. It is, without question, that Sunny suffers from PTSD. Omori experiences several flashbacks throughout the game.

In most cases, people with trauma experience its repercussions not by a fully-fledged memory but by flashes or fragments of the memory. It can appear in form of reminders of the event, noises, short memories, etc.

Memories, dreams, and flashbacks – You might have distressing memories, dreams, or nightmares about the event. You might also experience the event as if it is happening again (this is known as a flashback). Sunny often has flashbacks and flashes of the event. Feeling upset when reminded of the event – You might feel particularly upset when you are near where the event happened or in an environment that reminds you of the event. Sunny has major emotional outbursts(he attacks Basil in real life) when reminded of his trauma. Avoiding feelings and situations – You might avoid memories, thoughts, feelings, things, people, and places associated with the event. Sunny avoids thoughts or events that remind him of his trauma by forgetting his memories deliberately and living out a fantasy. Loss of memory – You might be unable to remember parts of the event. Sunny has an evident loss of memory(dissociative amnesia). Difficult feelings – These can include: feeling negative about yourself, others, or the world blaming yourself or others for what happened negative emotions like fear, horror, anger, guilt, or shame being unable to feel happiness, satisfaction, or love toward others Self-explanatory. Changes in the way you act – These can include: not doing or being interested in things you used to enjoy feeling detached from other people acting in ways that are reckless or self-destructive being angry and aggressive towards people or things being hypervigilant, or ‘on guard’ This includes not spending time with friends, acting destructive(trying to hurt Basil), and not playing the violin he used to play.

Depression

Sunny undeniably suffers from Depression, as shown by his refusal to leave his house and the violently horrifying thoughts(especially in blackspace) we witness during our journey with Omori.

Anxiety

Sunny also suffers from severe anxiety, as depicted by encountering spiders, staircases, and water bodies in the gameplay. Sunny sort of seizes up, and we have to...

Persist, breathe, and overcome.

Dissociative Amnesia

Sunny seems to be suffering from Dissociative Amnesia, a condition wherein you forget certain parts of a traumatic event. Omori shields Sunny from the truth about his trauma, making him completely unaware of it.

Dissociative amnesia is a condition in which you can't remember important information about your life. This forgetting may be limited to certain specific areas (thematic) or may include much of your life history and/or identity (general).

Dissociative Identity Disorder(DID)

Sunny might also be suffering from DID, which is apparent in the "split personality" Sunny seems to have- one of the real-life 16-year-old Sunny and the other of a 12-year-old avatar of Omori.

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is a mental health condition. Someone with DID has multiple, distinct personalities. The various identities control a person's behavior at different times. The condition can cause memory loss, delusions, or depression. DID is usually caused by past trauma.

Omori enters a Red room filled with arm-shaped thrones, where he sits, ruling over Sunny's consciousness. This is when the truth about Omori slowly dawns on us...

Omori is Sunny's guardian, the mastermind behind this whole world. He attempts to protect Sunny from the repressed truth about his trauma, mercilessly killing those who wish to tell the truth to Sunny, like Basil, for instance. Omori is not a friend but the final boss, and if Sunny succeeds in defeating Omori, he can finally realize...

The truth.

Headspace was built over Blackspace by Omori to seal up its influences. Sunny, who dwelled in Blackspace for a while following his traumatic event, chose to "forget" himself and create a new version of himself who'd protect him-Omori.

The onset of war within oneself.

The final battle between Omori and Sunny heavily symbolizes something we all struggle with- a conflict within oneself.

When Sunny demands the truth, Omori refuses, as the truth could hurt Sunny. However, only with the truth can Sunny move forward, forward from his 12-year-old self and his friends from four years ago.

The fight between Sunny and Omori represents two sides of the same coin- a part of Sunny wants to know the truth, while a part of him wants to escape from it. Part of Sunny desires to grow, while the other part wants to stay 12 forever in his fantasy world.

To recover from trauma, the best way is to remember and learn how to live with it.

Acceptance – Learning to accept that though you can’t change what has happened, you can think differently about the event, the world, and your life. Remembering the event – Remembering what happened without being overwhelmed by fear and distress. You will be able to think about what happened when you want to, rather than through intrusive thoughts or flashbacks. Putting your experiences into words – Talking about what happened so that your mind can store the memories away, and move on to other things. Feeling safer – Helping you to feel more in control of your feelings. This can help you to feel safer, so you won’t need to avoid the memories as much.

Sunny uses his innocent and younger self to feel secure. His 12-year-old self, hurt excessively by his trauma, is now embodied as his protector, who still dwells in his childhood world.

Using his tactics, Sunny defeats Omori in the end by persisting, focusing and breathing- finally overcoming his phobia and trauma. He smashes the black lightbulb in Whitespace and there, he realizes.

The truth.

Ever since Mari started playing the piano, Sunny felt lonely and separated from his older sister. He decided to learn the violin gifted to him by his friends in order to spend more time with Mari.

Soon enough, it became tiresome. Sunny felt like a burden on Mari with the constant mistakes he made. His violin practice made him spend less time with his friends, which made him feel miserable.

Mari and Sunny were about to perform a duet together when they got into an argument at the top of the stairs. Sunny threw the violin in rage, breaking it into pieces. When Mari argued, Sunny pushed her off the stairs.

Mari broke her neck and lay at the bottom of the stairs in a huddle, dead. Sunny, in a panic, dragged Mari to his room. Basil, who arrived at the right time, on witnessing this situation, decided to help Sunny frame it as a suicide and help Sunny out, who was racked with guilt and fear.

They hanged her limp body on a tree. Sunny looked back and saw dead Mari's eye, staring into him. It quickly transfigured into the something he always feared.

Do you want to continue? Yes.

Sunny performs his last duet with Mari. The piece starts off with a beautiful piano serenade and ends with a weeping, shivering, imperfect melody of a violin, indicating the sheer perfection Mari had, while Sunny lacked.

The final duet(Enable Audio).

Sunny forgives himself.

In the ending hospital scene, a very bruised Sunny and Basil meet each other, ready to admit the truth. How does it matter, truly, if others forgive him and Basil when they both forgive themselves?

In the end, Sunny and Basil accepted their fate and decided to forgive themselves and each other. They overcame and moved on.

Sometimes you do a bad thing, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. Forgive yourself.

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed it, make sure to watch this video. I have taken most of my inspiration for this project from here.

[summeroffice]

Israeli radio Первое радио with Марианна Беленькая

21:50 We are starting to receive questions from our radio listeners. I, well, if you allow me, I'll also ask my question and I ask a personal one. If you answer [Podolyak looks as if he couldn't be less interested]. On the stream of Евгений Киселёв, former Russian Deputy Prime Minister Koch said that your brother lives in Moscow and works for the ФСБ. You later refuted the ФСБ [he smirks] and said that you don't communicate with your brother. But I'm just wondering, did the war divide you or is it something completely different? 

No [shakes head]. That's completely different, these are stories of 40 years. They left already during the Soviet Union. Our family is divided. So, there is no philosophy of military subjugation here. But yes, in fact, for a long time I perceived this as ? because to prove something that does not exist or to refute something that does not exist, it looks very strange. Of course, I don't have, and I have never had relatives neither in the system of the State Security Committee, nor in the system of the Federal Security Service of Russia. It is so obvious that it seemed to me that there was no need to talk about white white or white black and so, and that's all. There is no background here and there is no subject ever for-- 

I asked only because there are a lot of families that turned out divided by these wars, including, as I understand it, the family of the new, Oleksandr Syrskyi [he nods] and a lot of people are worried about this. From your point of view, in general, can this split someday be overcome, including a split in families? 

No. No [shakes head].  

That is, Russia, Ukraine, two nations have separated forever.  

Let's do it correctly here. Look, everyone in the family-- Yes, we were in the Soviet Union, of course, right, and for example I was born in the Soviet Union in 1972. Of course, it was a slightly different system but from the point of view when states started to become independent, a very important sense of identity started to form who you are. It was also present in the Soviet Union, but they attempted to erode it through this fictitious internationalism, that is, there was a feeling that you, remember Alexander Zinoviev had "Homo Sovieticus", right, this attempt to blur all this.  

In fact, identity, it is very important, that is, who you are from the point of view of how you perceive yourself in this world, how you perceive social connections, horizontal or vertical, attitude to power, all this was also different in different republics of the USSR. It disguised, I emphasise once again, the general Soviet ideology. But as soon as the countries got the opportunity to express their identity, national, ethnically oriented or not, or state-oriented, it all began to sharply remove Ukraine from the Russian Federation.  

And here there are two differences. In families, that unfortunately were intertwined in the Soviet Union, each family member will decide for himself where he is, what values are a priority for him, how he perceives these values, where he wants to live, how he feels about such concepts as freedom, self-determination, and in general, competition as such. This will be everyone's choice and of course, but it will not be related to other things to choose from, let's say a state. 

34:15 If we have already started talking about war, about military actions, today, for example, the agency Bloomberg wrote that Russia regained the initiative at the front and put Volodymyr Zelenskyy at a disadvantage. In this context, don't you regret, I mean President Zelenskyy's team, that you had to change Valeriy Zaluzhnyi to Oleksandr Syrskyi? 

[Some of what he said:] I don't see, let's say, a fundamental change on the front line. I don't know what Russia's initiative is. There is no progress. We did not change Mr Zaluzhnyi for Mr Syrskyi. It was the team that was changed. It was updated.  

50:05 Compromises are always the road to weakness, no matter how hard it may sound. By making compromises, you give hope to your enemy that he will always have the opportunity to put pressure on your weak points, and accordingly, will always take advantage of this and will always scale up the search for these places and will always find them. And sooner or later the amount of pressure that he can provide on these weak points will be excessive and this can lead to the collapse of the defensive formations as a whole.  

47:11 could be a random look aside but 49:52 it seems as if he's looking at someone. 

[jacks-tracks]

Blog Blah

Nothing exciting to report which is actually good. Dengue recovery complete, mind returned from dopey ville, and getting back to walking,shopping, eating. See/ Blah... So.. odds and ends.

Butterflys: Most of them here a re small, pale colours and very fast flitters. Erratic flight patterns foil predators. What eats butterflys? Did have a medium sized(4 inch wing span) mottled brown land on my cabina thatch. Had i not seen it land I,d never have found it, the four shades of brown overlaying each other in a camo pattern that perfectly blended with the old tan coloured palm thatch.. Was it a monarch that cruised the bouganvillea? Vivid yellow background with sharp black markings, about 6 inches across. Oddest one was an all black, huge (8 inch) flapper that very lazily hopped from flower to flower in the red blossom bush over my outdoor bathroom.

What I was calling the pea tree had the same creamy white frilly blossoms as the roadside tree, but in fact grew long pods like a pole bean. Old pods, new forming pods and flowers all at once. Very popular with the hummingbirds,both jet blacks and grey shaded zippers. Growing on a steep slope below the lookout(Ok it,s the sewer transfer box, but the town built a shaded set of benches, and it has the best view of the beach and sea horizon), so the flowers are at eye height, right next to an acacia(long reddish brown seed pods that make rattles).

More trees seen. African tulip(orange trumpets against a lush deep green foliage), red bouganvillea covering a big tree and flooding across a steep valley, a tall slim tree covered in what look just like cherry blossoms, a shrub with upright candelabras of mixed orange, red and cream, unscented, and a stunning cream coloured, pink edged frangipani that had 10 times the scent of the usual reds, quite overcoming to sniff.

And a new bird,,shaped like a skinny upright sparrow but with tangerine breast and tail feathers and black chest , throat, and back. Perky, silent,alert. of course there are the usual pelican fleets, line astern over the waves, gliding on ground effect until the wave breaks,then soaring sharply on uplift, only to dipdown and scud along the wave face. They hardly ever flap, and seem to be going somewhere. this is not feeding formation, where they break column and dive perpendicularly into the ocean with a mighty splash, emerging beak first to gulp down the captured fish. There seem to be 2 kinds of buzzards here,the familiar turkey vultures we see at home, and the all black buzzards(zopilotes). The turkey vultures a re better fliers, rarely moving a wing,soaring on imperceptible updrafts, tilting with the gusts and manoevering around buildings and upright unfinished rebar. the zopilotes are less steady, lighter, tilting with any change of breeze, but like wise rarely flapping. Cormorants seem to travel in flocks. There are also gulls, medium size , black marked, on a white colour so bright it looks almost blue, who like the pelicans plunge suddenly into the sea and emerge fluttering to shake off the water, often with small fish in their beaks. They gather in flocks(packs?) on the foreshore, just a t the edge of the surf surge, and all face the sea breeze ready to launch when disturbed.

Many of these things were seen during a road trip to roca blanca beach with 2 friends. 1 hour by rocket ride van up coastthan a 1 hour stroll through a tiny village(people are friendly here), then a flat walk passed cow pastures , across a crocodile swamp, and out to an very long gold sand beach which runs for miles undeveloped towards Puerto. The beach terminates a t a rocky point, forming a small curved bay suitable for swimming, and backed by an iguanerium(sp?), brick walled with internal fences where iguanas are fed and protected. While there are 8 palapa restaurants, only 2 were open and we went to Lulu and jose Galivans, where the ebullant and very friendly Lulu cooks the fresh fish that Jose skindives for.. Large palm frond thatched palapa right on the sand crest above the beach, endless view, Roca Blanca rock white with bird poop, and warm water surf. the usual plastic chairs which are surprisingly comfortable and a few hammocks for post prandial lounging. After some swimming and reading we ate a fine lunch. the girls had shrimp, i had Lulus reccomendation, a long snouted fish, deep fried(but not too much) with garlic and rice. tender white mild flavoured flesh, easy to peel off the few bones. Yum! Hammocks, books, swim, loaf, perhaps snore, this was the way i remember Mexico from the 90,s. So nice that e lingered all day, only walking out when the sun was low and the heat abated. Dirt road, kids on bikes , roadside houses, pretty pleasant.

The return van had a big TV screen facing the passengers blaring the adventures of Scoobie Doo which was intrusive. what was scary was that the dangerous driver tailgated everything in order to pass on blind curves and jam up behind the next pickup, all the while watching the movie on his dash mounted phone. Sheesh!

My friends from St Albert Alberta a re staying near the beach. Sadly Jim has dengue(not from me!) and is very sick . They will go home early. At casa Dan one guest left early to go to his sick wife, and 3 people just left to go tend a sick husband. We are all aging out, and illness really cramps ours styles. I never considered going home early, having lots of ongoing plans, and really the medical care here is excellent, neighbours solicitous, and the treatment is rest and fluids best done in a comfortable place with tropical climate. Always an option to bail, and next year I may just take evacuation insurance rather than the increasingly expensive comprehensive medical plan. Medicine is cheap here, and if I,m really sick i want the plan that flys me home in a Lear jet direct to nanaimo hospital.

Blah, blah, blah blog. Finis!

[whatib]

10 people can't even agree

The promotion of Racism, now it's own industry, has made for a very ugly society. If anyone discriminates against another person for their race, creed or color, they are harming the World. Any white, black, or person of color that discriminates, takes part in Racism and Hate. BLM and the Proud Boys are one and the same. They make money off of promoting Racism. Every black person I know said they don't support BLM, every white person I know wants nothing to do with the Proud Boys. Every good hearted Democrat that I know would prefer not to have BLM a Hate group in their party, every good Republican I know would prefer not to have the Proud Boys in their party.

Those two groups are fueling Hate between us all. I'd estimate that 87% to 93% of us are good people at heart. But the small groups seeding Hate in our society are driving good people to have bad thoughts. We need to either create a new party that promotes Tolerance and Kindness in society, or we need to remove those groups from our party system.

We're infected with a disease that has no part in society. If we don't remove the disease, then it will run amok and bring us crashing down. We're already at a point where we can see the decay all around us.

I myself do not understand racism. I've met black people I do not like, I've met white people that I do not care for, and there are Asian people and French people and South American people that I do not like. I've met many men and women who I do not get along with, but it's because of their attitude. I still love them as people here on Earth, but I avoid building relationships with people that spread Hate. It wasn't the country that they're from or the color of their skin that made me not fond of them, it was a poor attitude. I keep away from people who are aggressive. I prefer people who are kind and respectful of others. My very best friend is a black man, my wife is Jewish, and I have two special needs daughters. My previous coder and good friend is Asian, my new coder and good friend is Pakistani, my mobile team is from India. I cherish the relationship with every one of them. I care for them and love them all very deeply. I do not spread bad Karma or hateful words upon anyone that I may not get along with. I leave them to their own choices. It's mathematically impossible for us to all get along, but we can leave each other in Peace. That is the only avenue that we can pursue to create a better World.

Most people can't even get along with their own family members, and can't get 10 people in their own family to agree on something, yet they want to Hate people all around the world for not agreeing with their point of view. As I said before, I don't understand that kind of thinking. So we create our little bubble of Hope and Love, and we live one day at a time, caring for each other and working to make for happy times together. That's all you can do. Blessings to you and your family, we hope you can overcome your Hate for the World, and be Kind and Tolerant of others.

God bless the World

[windcarvedlyre]

This got out of hand and turned into a writing experiment lol. Also fleshed out the AU a little in the process. Enjoy. No on-screen explicit content.

---

"Why are you like this?"

Komaeda said nothing, expression blank as he stared at the bridge in front of them. Sauntering forwards as if he hadn't just ruined everything. Again.

His shitty coat was even more tattered than usual. He sighed as he pulled a still-smouldering leaf from his hair and flicked it into the abyss below them. Hinata's fists tightened at his sides.

"We got through the door, didn't we? I don't understand why you're still upset about this, Hinata-"

"You set fire to a government building!"

Komaeda turned back to face him, tilting his head. "And?"

"With people inside!"

Komaeda smirked. "People?"

This again. Hinata inhaled and exhaled through gritted teeth. "Look, I know they had staplers for heads and their fiscal policies made zero sense, but-"

"But what, Hinata-kun? They were shallow characters in a weak story. How could budget debates be an adequate stepping stone for your hope to shine? How could they get you off this train?"

Something tight in him snapped. "How do we know they wouldn't?"

He stormed in front of Komaeda, stopping just before the bridge, whipping his hand into the other's view. The number was unreadable as always. It reshuffled from static into a random assortment of kanji. "It keeps changing, right? But I have no idea if that's good or bad, or if there's something so wrong with me that I'll be here forever!"

Komaeda winced, so subtly that Hinata almost missed it, but quickly plastered over it with his trademark infuriating smile. The one that said he was about to-

"Don't worry, Hinata-kun! If we persevere I'm sure we'll find a challenge great enough to solve this!"

God damn it.

He giggled wheezily, eyes wide, gripping his sleeves now, knuckles of his non-prosthetic hand white as if he'd crumble without holding onto himself. "The length of time it's taken to overcome this only means the payoff will be spectacular!"

"You've said that for the last 50 cars. But nothing. Has. Changed. We've even lost our guide- which you're also at fault for, by the way. Do you actually want to help me or are you trying to keep me here!?"

"That's not-"

Bang. The ground lurched beneath them as the train suddenly halted. Hinata's foot slipped, his limbs flailing for purchase they couldn't find- oh god, why didn't the train have guard rails-

But his fall was halted. He choked, something tightly gripping his shirt collar from behind, before he was yanked backwards and away from the edge. His back collided with Komaeda's chest.

Both of them stood there, breathing heavily. Hinata stared into the abyss he nearly met his end in, barely registering as the bridge retracted and a new car crashed into place in front of them. When did Komaeda's hands start gripping his upper arms? Was he shaking?

Suddenly they remembered themselves, jolting apart from each other.

Hinata stood there awkwardly, fidgeting with his tie. "Uh... thanks."

Komaeda was avoiding eye contact. He opened and closed his mouth as if hesitating to say something. "Sorry, I-"

"Let's just go."

Hinata was so tired. Maybe the next car would give him a break.

-

He hated this fucking train.

The new car was a hotel room, soft carpets trailing towards a large, plush bed against one wall, exit door embedded in the opposite end of the room. That was fine. The problem was the decor. Everything was either black or neon magenta, obnoxious heart patterns smeared across every surface that could carry them. Soft saxophone music played from a similarly garish speaker in one corner. Komaeda cracked open a chest at the bed's foot, winced, let it fall shut again, and stared at a particularly tacky carpet as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Glancing inside himself, Hinata only got a glimpse of some bottles and straps before he quickly concluded the same.

The exit door was locked. Of course it was.

The two of them sat on the bed for a while, feet apart, neither saying anything, until Komaeda awkwardly cleared his throat.

"Surely the train wouldn't... want us to... uh..."

He should have let him fall.

"Stop talking. Please."

Komaeda clammed up again, tightly folding his arms around himself. Hinata glanced around for the twentieth time, hoping that maybe this time it would reveal something else, but the room had no mercy. The wall patterns taunted him.

He looked at Komaeda again.

Hinata was not going to do that. He had not been thinking about that alone at night. He was not staring for too long at that prick, picturing himself shoving him against the bed, pinning him down by his wrists, leaning in and wiping his insufferable smirk off his face by-

Okay, maybe he was picturing that. But nobody had to know, and nobody ever would, because he was not going to act on it.

He wasn't.

Komaeda stared back at him. He glanced down at Hinata's lips. He swallowed, larynx bobbing in his pale throat.

He wasn't.

--

Two hours later, the door of the car's opposite end closed behind them. Its locking mechanism's click echoed in the cavernous silence between them.

Komaeda shuffled awkwardly where they stood. Hinata couldn't look at his face. A scuff on the floor seemed much more interesting.

"Komaeda-kun! Hinata-kun! There you are!"

Their heads whipped upwards in unison. Usami stood on the bridge ahead, waving enthusiastically and beaming as if they were the best thing she'd seen all day.

She paused, staring at the door behind them. "Oh! Is that the love car?"

Hinata paled. Did she- did she know that they-

"Did you talk out your differences after all?"

Both of them spluttered.

Hinata composed himself first.

"What... do you mean, exactly?"

"The train sometimes sends that car to people who can't get along! You just have to let out the feelings you've been keeping from each other to leave! I'm sure you worked that out, though... I'm so proud..."

She wiped a cartoonishly round tear from one eye. A choked, almost hysterical laugh escaped Komaeda.

"Right! We did that! Talk!"

Hinata barely restrained himself from throwing himself off the car as Komaeda leaned closer to whisper in his ear.

"Let's never speak of this again."

Hinata tried to ignore the way his breath tickled his neck. "Agreed."

I was talking about infinity train with a friend last night and... god, komahina infinity train AU.

Hinata starting off with amnesia and a pretty average number. He runs into Komaeda- who has a number large enough to trail up his forearm, but covers most of it with his jacket sleeve- and they normally work pretty well as a team but can't deal with disagreements or more social challenges for shit. Maybe dealing with a ghom attack would make them realise how much they truly care for each other.

Usami is the mandatory NPC sidekick. She's really going through it.

[duskholland]

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.

summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around...   word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni.   a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3   —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!

extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand​ also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’) 

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”

You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.

“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.

Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”

The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.

“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”

You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”

She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”

“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”

“No. What happened?”

You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.

“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”

Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.

Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.

You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.

There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.

“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.

Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.

A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.

Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.

Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”

Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.

“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.

You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.

Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.

“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.

“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”

You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.

“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”

“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.

Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?

He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”

You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.

“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”

You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.

“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.

“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”

The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.

You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.

The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.

For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.

You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.

He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.

“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”

You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”

Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.

“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”

He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”

You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.

“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.

“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.

Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”

Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.

You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”

“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”

Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”

You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”

Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.

“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”

There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”

You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.

“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”

“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”

You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.

“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”

Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”

You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.

“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”

You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.

“There!” you announce, smile on your face.

Tom gulps nervously.

“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.

Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.

“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”

His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”

You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.

“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”

Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”

You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.

“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”

You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”

You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.

Tom cackles.

“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.

“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.

Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.

He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”

“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.

Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.

“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”

You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”

You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.

“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”

He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.

“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.

Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.

“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.

It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.

“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”

“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”

He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.

You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.

Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”

All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.

“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”

Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?

“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.

One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.

It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.

His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.

Tom follows you…?

Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.

Interesting.

After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.

“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.

“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”

“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”

He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.

“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.

Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”

You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.

Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.

“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”

Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”

Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”

He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.

He’s cute.

“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”

You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.

Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.

Y/N: hey x

A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.

Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”

You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.

“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”

You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.

“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”

You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.

“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”

It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.

Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.

“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”

“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”

You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”

Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.

“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”

“Wait, is it a home game?”

Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”

You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.

“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”

It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.

“Absolutely.”

You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.

“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.

Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”

You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”

“Give me a spin, darling.”

You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.

“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”

It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”

Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”

Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”

“Dutchy?” you question.

Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”

You coo. “That’s cute.”

Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.

“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.

Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.

The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.

And Tom… Tom.

Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.

Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.

The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.

He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.

The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.

The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.

“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”

You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.

“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.

“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”

Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.

“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”

A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.

Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.

You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.

“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”

Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”

He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”

It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”

Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”

Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.

“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.

You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.

The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.

On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.

“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”

The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.

“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”

You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.

“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.

There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.

“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”

Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”

You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,

“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”

He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”

The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.

“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”

Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”

You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”

Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”

“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”

His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.

“Thanks, darling.”

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.

“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”

“What, sweetheart?”

Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.

It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.

There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.

“What?”

You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”

Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.

“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”

He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”

You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.

Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”

“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.

“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.

“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.

You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.

Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.

Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.

“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”

It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.

“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.

“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”

You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.

“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.

“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.

Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”

Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”

“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”

A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.

You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.

…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.

You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.

“What— Tom?”

For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.

“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”

You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”

Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.

“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”

“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”

Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.

Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”

You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”

He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.

“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”

You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.

“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”

Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.

By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.

“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”

You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”

He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”

Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.

“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”

You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”

Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.

You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.

The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.

“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.

“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.

He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.

“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”

You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.

“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”

His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.

“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”

Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.

“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”

He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.

Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.

“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.

“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”

Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.

“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”

You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”

Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.

“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”

You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”

Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.

“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.

The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.

You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.

He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.

It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.

“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”

Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.

“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”

You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”

Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.

Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.

Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.

“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”

Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”

You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”

Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”

You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.

The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.

You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.

“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”

“Yeah. Penalty.”

“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”

He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.

“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”

You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.

“Funnier than me?”

“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”

“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”

Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.

“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”

He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”

“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”

Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.

It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.

You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.

“Y/N!”

You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.

“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.

“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”

Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.

You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.

“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”

A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.

“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”

Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.

“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

A smile breaks out across your face.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”

Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.

“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.

His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.

“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”

You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.

“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.

“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.

You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”

Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.

It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.

“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”

“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.

Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.

“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”

The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.

“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.

“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.

You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.

Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.

The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.

You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.

Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.

“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.

“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.

“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”

Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”

“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”

Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.

“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”

Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”

The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”

You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”

His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.

(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!

mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!

[dreamcatcherrs]

what catches their eyes/attracts them?; mcyt x reader

+ this is in no way factual information, only my very weird and specific opinions :)

dream:

free-spirited people

someone who isn't afraid to speak their mind

confidence, to a certain extent

someone he can be loud with

someone who will wake up in the middle of the night with him to go on a car drive to nowhere

the colour blue (dnf👀)

clean and fresh-looking clothes

satin fabric

big height difference

the smell of citrus fruits

large smiles

silver jewellery

small hands

smart people who aren't afraid to show it

george:

calm, laid back people

someone quiet, but still able to have a laugh

very friendly vibes - even when first meeting them

the colour blue (literally the only interesting colour he's able to see lol)

bright eyes

lip gloss

flower print

slightly shy people who are actually easy to interact with once you start a conversation with them

pastel-coloured nails, not too long

pink-tinted lips

ponytails

the smell of vanilla

puppy eyes

sapnap:

energetic people

someone who can hype up their friends no matter the situation

the colour red

like, a bloody red

soft skin

full lips

loose shirts over skin-tight tops

when shoelaces have a different colour on each shoe

corsets

a very subtle scent of perfume

thigh highs

someone who just wants to enjoy life with the people they're surrounded by

badboyhalo:

large, bright smiles that spread up to your eyes

freckles

button noses

rose-gold jewellery

french manicures

bangs

slightly shy people

genuinely sweet people

not the fake type that talks shit about people behind their backs and then will compliment them a few seconds after

someone who when they enter a room feels like a breath of fresh air to everyone else

someone completely selfless

the smell of lavender

shiny hair

technoblade:

people who aren't afraid to take the lead

glasses

intellectual people

like, for example people who know a lot of random stuff from a bunch of different things that they're interested in

or also just book smart people

slightly clumsy people (finds it cute)

gold jewellery

someone with some mystery to them

refreshing scents, like clean laundry or shampoo

cat eyes (eyeliner)

wilbur soot:

long legs

chokers

shy people

someone who gets flustered easily

glasses + thin bangs

the colours brown and beige together

baggy, comfy clothes

the smell of newly baked cookies

beanies

the kind of person that makes him feel like he can always talk to them - someone he can feel safe with

birth marks

accents

jschlatt:

smart people

the way they speak is just so clean without even noticing

fox eyes

people who aren't afraid to wear sweatpants in public

generally just someone who isn't afraid to do, say and wear whatever they want

someone who stands for what they think and have the balls to say it when needed

nose rings

simple yet flattering pieces of jewellery

long nails

someone who he can stay up all night with and never get tired of them

high heels

hip dips

corpse husband:

fishnets, of course

someone who give 0 fucks about what everyone else thinks of them

unique people

wether that be physical features or straight up the personality, it draws him in

chokers

chunky, black sneakers or boots

someone who can make him happy without even trying

a positive aura for the most part

as in he doesn't want to be surrounded by someone who’s negative or dragging everyone else down with them

the colour yellow

rings - lots of them

karl jacobs:

a walking ray of sunshine, basically

tbh, karl has a couple of things in common with what corpse is attracted to;

positive energy, uniqueness and rings

a palette filled with bright colours

like, almost rave style colours

that could be clothes, makeup, hair, nails, accessories

chunky, white shoes

selfless people

someone who as each day goes by becomes more charming to him

he likes the smell of candles from bath and body works, as we all know

the colour purple

skeppy:

big eyes

someone who’s able to make him laugh without even trying

tooth gaps

someone who has very playful, innocent vibes to them

and someone who can take jokes and pranks

people who walk confidently

the smell of strawberries

long eyelashes

someone who collects things others usually wouldn’t

someone who is very respectful to others

a mix between really comfy clothes and really feminine clothes

fundy:

someone who comes across as “different” than others

and don't you dare think of ✨I’m not like other girls✨ (I know you did -_-)

he just thinks people who think and act very different than others are very interesting

beauty marks

nicely shaped eyebrows

someone who finds mystical things interesting

fox eyeliner (yes, I put this in here because: furry)

someone who has unusual, yet surprisingly good taste in music

people who are constantly warm

red lips

the colour light brown, almost beige-like

quackity:

someone who gets his humour

someone like him, but more quiet and slightly shy

especially when on screen in front of an audience

sliver necklaces

the smell of flowers

dark, extreme eyeliner

loose clothes

freckles

piercings

someone who teases others and who can handle to be teased by others

the colour dark blue

punz:

the colour grey

a fresh fashion sense

yet still very comfortable fits

messy buns

someone who he just knows will be a cool person before he even talks to them

someone who just has that kinda vibe, y’know?

glossy lips

independent people

someone responsible and caring to others

tattoos

navel piercings

awesamdude:

cropped jackets

the colour neon green

hair put up in a bun

someone with a free nature

someone who is a complete wild card

like, someone who will jump over a fence just to get closer to a bunny they think they saw on the other side of it

loose strands of hair

clear nail polish

cargo pants

the smell of chocolate

slimecicle:

people who have comfort items

someone who knows random facts that no one else usually knows

people who have a unique way of thinking

passionate people

and when they talk about what they’re passionate about, they talk for hours

shorter hair

sweet and nutty scents

natural beauty

fluffy hair

honest people

but not brutally honest

the smell of coconut

eret:

eye glitter/shimmer

silky clothes that shine in the moonlight

platform boots/heels

long, flowy dresses

someone who does whatever they want

and who doesn't like being told what to do by others

the colours pink and dark purple

the smell of the ocean

someone who already knows how to live their life

stretch marks

foolish:

low-cut jeans

someone very silly who knows how to have a good laugh

someone very supportive of their friends

curtain bangs

long-sleeved sweatshirts

someone who loves food

puppy eyes

straight, white teeth

someone who is willing to help others in need

someone who doesn't talk badly about others behind their back

someone who knows what they want

jack manifold:

confidence

white, wide-legged pants

the colour light blue or just pure white

people who are very easy-going and fun to be around

someone who can fit into and understand anyones humour

an open-minded person who likes to hear from other people’s point of views when they have a different opinion than them

butterfly patterns

crop tops

oversized t-shirts

hair beads

tommy:

people who are just as loud as him

and at the same time knows when to be serious

the colours yellow and grey

people who are kind to everyone

creative eyeliner

fluffy hair

people who can get so lost in their own world, they almost forget about their surroundings

colourful accessories

someone who isn't afraid to be who they are

someone who has many passions and loves to talk about them

oversized hoodies

tubbo:

hoodies layered over skirts or dresses

frilly socks

people who are very adventurous, and wants to make their life as interesting as possible!

someone who can help him overcome some of his fears

charm bracelets

cute habits

the colours yellow and orange

dimples

the smell of almond milk and honey

people who twirl their hair unknowingly when bored or unfocused

ranboo:

someone who looks intimidating at first (he thinks people like that are cool as fuck)

but then is, like, the sweetest person he’s ever met

loves someone who can speak fluent sarcasm, just like him

he likes sass

glassy skin

fingerless gloves

people who act cocky for the fun of it

but actually don’t care about winning or losing or proving anything

simplistic earring placements

people who have hidden talents, and the more you get to know them, the more talents are revealed

people who don't gossip

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