#hi av

[howldean]

i can never go home (summer 2021)

[wolfythewitch]

one last job

[mizuhashi-parsee]

[captain-hawks]

hiiiii dee !! omg i was so excited to see you have a drabble event. oliver w wake him up, if you please?

— ave

oliver aiku x reader — 18+, morning after

Can a pro footballer not afford fucking blinds?

It’s the first thought that stretches awake in the shallow sea of your sleep-addled brain as you find yourself bathed in what’s quite frankly an obnoxious amount of early morning sunlight. 

And this is what naturally leads into your second thought, one that clicks into place with unnerving clarity mere moments before your gaze falls on the sight of a football jersey hanging over the back of a chair. 

You let out a quiet, resigned exhale before carefully turning your head just enough to see the culmination of last night’s collective assortment of bad decisions: a shirtless Oliver Aiku, fast asleep and snoring softly on the pillow beside your own.

He’s facing away from you, dark grey sheets pooled at his waist, and you have to mentally slap yourself for the way you find yourself suddenly distracted by the smooth, wide, muscled planes of his back.

You’re only wasting time letting your traitorous eyes sweep over his sleeping form, tracing a map along the source of each tender, pliant, well-fucked ache that lingers across your body. 

You really need to leave—

But the sheets shift with you as you go to extricate yourself from the tangle of them, and the mattress groans in protest as Oliver rolls over and slings a heavy arm over your hip. And it’s infuriating, the magnetic pull of his body heat as he curls around you. 

“Are you sneaking out?” he murmurs in a sleep-rough voice against the nape of your neck.

You try not to shiver at the sensation.

“Oliver,” you sigh. The exasperated way you say his name is answer enough. 

His hand slips up beneath the shirt you’re wearing, his shirt, and he slowly strokes your hip, thumb catching against your underwear.

“I drove you here,” he reminds you, and each word feels like a kiss.

“I can get a Lyft home,” you reply mildly. 

Oliver huffs in amusement before he rolls you over onto your back, and you resolutely stare at the ceiling as he rests his chin in the dip of your collarbone. The scruff of his beard is scratchy against your skin, and you’re unreasonably annoyed by how much you don’t hate the feeling of it. 

You swear you feel him smiling, even if you’re pointedly not looking at him. 

“Let me make you breakfast, and then I’ll drive you back to your apartment. And we can both pretend you snuck out and left me high and dry without saying anything, if that’s what you really want.”

You sigh, turning to look at him and hating the way your heart fumbles around within the tight confines of your chest cavity when your eyes meet his. 

He grins.

Twenty minutes later, you come hard seated atop the cool marble countertop in his kitchen with Oliver's face buried between your spread thighs, your fingers tangled in his messy hair, and the scent of nearly-burnt bacon wafting out of the frying pan.

He cajoles you into a shower after, and it’s a lost cause trying to muffle the desperate, needy moans that echo off of the bathroom walls when he fucks you deep and slow up against the tiles under a hot spray of water.

And even if he keeps his promise not to walk you to your door, he still hooks a finger in the back pocket of your jeans and tugs you back down into the passenger seat when you go to get out of his car, his mouth catching yours in a soft, tender kiss.

–

Later, with a clipboard in your hands and an ID tag hanging from the bottom of your track jacket that reads ‘ASSISTANT MANAGER - UBERS’, it’s all you can do not to deck Oliver in the head with the former when he has the gall to blow you a goddamn kiss as he jogs out onto the pitch.

[holyjost]

Luke Prokop scores his first AHL goal with the Milwaukee Admirals (making him the first openly gay AHL goal scorer, for those keeping track)

[yescking]

changing fate

[aveskeep]

I can be your angle...or yuor devil

[doughnautts]

he was born in a wet cardboard box all alone

[freddieanderscn]

Happy 12th annual Them Day to those who celebrate

[mattymartin]

↳ MIKKO RANTANEN PREGAME | DAL v. EDM | 3.8.25

[saetiate]

which of your favs could you get into the worst fight imaginable with and still never break up. like one of you would sooner kill the other or someone gets cuffed to the bed or simply that the love keeps you there

[back-to-rose]

New Hairstyle Kakashi!

[eeriemortis]

Pater noster satanas

[samgirard]

└ nate gets his 1000th point (real) | col vs. chi | 3.10.25

+ bonus nate gets his 1000th point (fake)

[helloarchivist]

You'd been deep in conversation with Beckman for the better part of an hour when your lover sidles up behind you, leaning into the sound of your voice. Shanks says nothing, doesn't interrupt, simply presses a lingering, tender kiss to the crook of your shoulder, the scrub of his beard warm and familiar as he settles in against your back to listen.

You hum contentedly and lean back against him, hand dropping to rest over his when he wraps it around your waist; Beckman responds to you, the gruff man betraying nothing of his reaction beyond the slight glimmering of warmth in his dark eyes--he'd never admit it outright, of course, but he dearly loves seeing his captain happy like this, loves that his friends have found such joy in each other.

Behind you, Shanks shifts, something light like laughter rumbling through his chest and against your back at something you said. You smile and nestle into him a little more tightly, that seed of contentment blossoming into something more steady and full when he squeezes you a little tighter in return. His chin shifts against your skin until you can feel the softness of his cheek resting further out against your shoulder. When you turn your head slightly to kiss his chin, Shanks sighs softly, almost dreamily, breathing the same contentment you feel out into the air between you.

Beckman, sensing the impending loss of his conversation partner for the evening, lights another cigarette, hiding the curve of a smile behind filter and flame as Shanks lifts his hand from your waist to tuck your hair back behind your ear. Affectionate, gentle.

"Everything alright, love?" You ask him softly, sweetly, turning to properly look at him at last, sinking into the endless deep of his warm, brown eyes.

Shanks smiles at you, wide and easy, and nods against your shoulder before turning his head slightly to press another kiss there.

"Just wanted to be able to see you while you're talkin', darling," he says earnestly, unabashedly, complete adoration etched across his beautiful features. He feels it when you blush, even before the heat rises to your cheeks, laughing as you grin; he watches the way your nose crinkles in giddy affection, commits to memory the little peek of your tongue between your teeth and the way your brows draw together just before a soft peal of laughter escapes you.

Beckman kicks his feet up on the table and leans back in his chair, exhaling a plume of smoke up at the sky to give you a moments privacy when you turn in Shanks' grasp to kiss him, to slide your palms against his cheek and into his hair, to really hold him for a moment the way he's always holding you.

The conversation dies then, for a time, but not unhappily so, the silence and warmth that ensues just as comfortable as the talking had been. When Shanks folds you in against his chest, mission accomplished and well pleased, the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear sings to you a familiar song.

You're home, you're home, you're home.

[marcandreyuri]

Mikko Rantanen's first and final goals as a member of the Colorado Avalanche

11.11.16 - 01.09.25