#hot gel pack

[six-of-ravens]

broke my "no black friday shopping" mandate BUT only to get T. Kingfisher books so. it doesn't really count does it.

[k12academics]

PurHeart espouses patient-centeredness baked into every fiber of the collective being. When we provide through the lens of the patient, all aspects of care improve at all levels. Our philosophy is firmly and deeply rooted in the belief that the patient comes first.

Ice Treatments Our ice gel pack treatments lessen swelling, pain, and inflammation. Following an injury, blood vessels and tissues swell so immune cells can get closer to the damage. While vital to healing, uncontrolled inflammation may cause extreme pain and disability: ice packs minimize swelling, reduce tissue bleeding, and alleviate muscle spasms and pain.

Heat Treatments Heat treatments help relax tissues, stimulate blood flow to the affected joint or muscle, and loosen stiff joints. Heat treatment is appropriate for chronic musculoskeletal conditions such as arthritis and old muscle strains.

Our Gel Packs

Reusable

Flexible

Comfortable

Eco-friendly

100% Recyclable

Freezer Safe

Leak-free

BPA Free

FDA Compliant

Please visit https://www.purheartcenter.com/our-gel-packs/ for additional details on applying the gel packs.

[plague-vulture]

TOPICAL PAIN RELIEF GEL MY BELOVED

[gamesetart]

sweet 'n easy

Art thought dating you would be enough. He's content to have your heart, wait until marriage to have your body, too. But it's proving really difficult when you look like that.

tags: art donaldson x fem! reader, open relationship, guided masterbation, reader's kind of messy in this one (corruption), religious themes/corruption of religious themes. nsfw. minors DNI.

a/n: this is part of what im referring to as the open relationship au and im more than expecting to write more about this dynamic! im also very open to suggestions about it

Art Donaldson is a Good Christian Boy. He's a good, smart young man. He wears his thin silver purity ring on his left ring finger. He wears a delicate silver cross on a chain around his neck. He used to sing in the church choir, and now he spends his Sundays volunteering with the children's sector and frequenting church picnics. If it wasn't for tennis, he'd probably be a priest.

You're not right for him, and he knows it. Guys like him aren't made to marry girls like you - girls with low-cut tops that show off the top hem of your lacy electric purple bra. Girls who wear low, low-cut jeans with your matching purple thong hanging out the back. Girls with butterfly-shaped tattoos hovering on your lower back. Girls who spend weekends drinking and clubbing and dancing with absolutely no room for Jesus.

But there's just something about you. Maybe it's your attitude, the way your hand flies up in class whenever you know the answer to a question, the way you speak, with such clarity, such conviction. Maybe it's the way you walk with your friends across campus, beautiful and assertive, a pack of wild hounds. You're terrifying to him. A force of nature, a thunderstorm. Art's managed to get caught up in your jet stream, but it doesn't mean he's any less scared of falling out. You and all your hot, brash, party-girl friends. You and the 'bitch pack', as some of his friends have taken to calling you and yours. The sorority girl, frat party, dim clubs, bitch pack. Girls like you don't give guys like him the time of day: you're too pretty, too powerful, far too high up on an entirely different social ladder.

But you're different. You're sweet. He's watched you stop to pet stray kittens. He's seen you volunteering to donate blood at the campus blood drives. He's seen you stop to help a girl pick up her books even though you were already late to class. He's seen your notes in his biology lecture, your cute, bubbled handwriting and your array of gel pens. He's seen you buy an extra coffee at the campus cafe for a friend. People contain multitudes, or whatever, right?

So maybe it's no surprise when you end up paired up on an assignment and you bring him back to your dorm room. Maybe he shouldn't have been so stunned by the boy band posters and the stacks of fantasy novels and the stuffed bear sitting on your bed. Maybe he shouldn't have been thrown off by your framed pictures - family, friends - and your collection of Beatles CDs. Just a girl. A normal, nice girl. Who lays out all her notes for him, glances up with a sweet smile, and asks,

"Where d'you wanna start?"

He didn't mean for it to go any further than that. For the study visits to start happening at night, after dinner. For you to start blowing off club nights to curl up on your plush blue shag carpet next to art, pointing out lines of text and highlighting things with a bright pink marker. For you to start eating with him at lunch, talking about your lecture, laughing over some stupid thing your professor said or did. For him to start seeing you, really seeing you, and liking that you saw him, too. It happened before he even registered it. Somewhere, somehow, Art Donaldson fell in love.

It's different than how he felt with Tashi. This isn't that painful, all-consuming desire to please, to have her notice him, the obsession with the idea of her and her tennis. This feels sweeter, kinder. This feels like what he used to read about: fireworks in his heartbeat, butterflies in his stomach, the giddy thrill of First Love. A slower, ennobling sort of love.

If he had it his way, he'd date you. Flowers. Expensive dinners by candlelight. Picnics. The works. Court you for the four years you were at Stanford together, then propose once you graduated. Spend a few years engaged so he could do his tennis, make a good amount of his own money. Save until he could plan a dream wedding. Honeymoon somewhere pretty and exotic, like Bali or Punta Cana. Then the country house and the kids, the white picket fence. Except, Art doesn't really ever get things his way, does he?

"I... I don't know," you say slowly, digging your heels into your carpet. You can't meet his sad blue eyes. You can't bear to. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. It feels alien, even in your head.

He stares at you, crestfallen. Your heart plummets and you race for an explanation, for some way to explain this without blaming him. Because it's not Art at fault, it's his Faith.

"It's not that I don't like you!" you scramble. "I do, really, Art, I do. I just... a girl has... needs, you know? There are things I'd want that I can't ask you to give me. Things I can't take from you."

You both know what it is. You'd never ask him to give up on or waver in his faith for you. Never. You like Art how he is. But you know you'd be wanting. You know you can't wait until your wedding night.

"I... I'm just not the dating type, Art," you explain mournfully. "And you don't want to date a girl like me, anyway, trust me. You deserve someone nice."

"But... you are nice," Art says, and he really does look like you've just torn his heart out and stomped on it. It's horrible. It's awful. And you feel like a monster for doing it, but what can you do?

He doesn't have a solution until a full week later. He pretends (to you, and himself) that he came up with it all on his own, when in reality it was Patrick's idea. Patrick's suggestion, murmured over the phone in cloying low tones, luring him in like sailor to siren, bee to honey, moth to flame. Art, for all his cleverness, for all his ability to read Patrick like a book, could not see it. He trusted Patrick. He should have, he's sent Patrick some of your pictures, talked about you endlessly. But Patrick was on tour, far, far away, where he could do no harm. And Patrick was taken, as he was so keen to remind Art all the time.

"She doesn't have to fuck you, man," Patrick muses. "Date her. Be her good boy, be her fuckin' sweetheart. She can get dicked down with someone else."

"You're suggesting my girlfriend cheat on me?" Art laughs, and even saying it, my girlfriend, even in hypothetical, makes his heart do a flip.

He can practically picture Patrick's face, screwed up with a mixture of pity and disdain. Poor Art. "Nah, man. I'm suggesting an open relationship, you know? Let her fuck who she wants, she's gonna come home to you."

The conviction in Patrick's voice makes Art's heart somersault. Because there's something about that idea that makes his pulse quicken. Patrick's right. You'll come home to him, your heart - the thing that really matters - will be his. He doesn't like the possessive thing that curls up in his chest and purrs at the idea. But he doesn't fight it.

"What if you didn't have to wait with me?" Art asks.

He's twirling a highlighter over his fingers. Cross-legged on your plush duvet, working at a piece of spearmint chewing gum. Gum you'd offered him, gum that you now kept a small stash of in your desk drawer for evenings just like this. The project you'd been paired up on was long over, the proud 96% sitting in your Stanford grading inbox. Now you're just regular homework buddies. Art sought you out for homework he missed because he was at practice and lecture notes he didn't get. You don't mind. You enjoy it, actually. You just wish you could give him more. Hate that you couldn't be what he deserved. It almost feels like leading him on, when he sits with you until the wee hours, sharing diagrams and passing your textbook back and forth. When he brings you your morning coffee before class, or you bring sandwiches and Gatorade to his practices.

Except now, apparently, he has a solution.

"What?" you ask, blinking at him. "What d'you mean?"

Art flushes. Soft pink. Mostly around the ears, you've noticed, red against the gentle gold of his curls. Evening rose.

"I mean, what if..." he looks away. "You know. You went out with me. Dated me. But you could... 'hook up' with other people when you needed to."

You stare at him. Dumbfounded. Art Donaldson. Is sitting on your bed, asking you for an open relationship? Are you dreaming? Has the world suddenly gone mad? Did you go to bed last night and wake up in an alternate dimesion?

"You... are you suggesting... what I think you're suggesting?" you ask faintly.

He nods, ears burning a truly impressive shade of crimson. You suppose you should be flattered, really, the lengths he's going to date you. Most guys would have given up by now, egos bruised, feelings hurt, hearts shattered. And with most guys, you would have been firmer, clearer, colder. Meaner. But Art isn't most guys. Art is sweet.

"I-- shit, Art, wouldn't you rather just date some other girl like you?" you say helplessly.

"I don't want another girl, I want you," he replies plainly. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like there's no other answer.

And that's all it takes for you to agree. It's impossible to say no to those baby doll eyes. The two of you set ground rules - you don't tell him who or where or how, just that it happened. He doesn't ask you any questions. No one leaves you any marks. Immediate friends, such as Art's tennis circle and his church friends, are off limits. And that's that. He's your boyfriend now.

Art thought it would suffice. He likes being with you. Holding your hand while you walk to class. Seeing you in the stands when he plays a match. Chaste little pecks here and there. But you're like a pit of quicksand, a hurricane. You draw him in quicker than he thought possible, and now he can't breathe, can't think, can't move. The corruption is slow, certain, and inescapable.

He starts to find himself wanting more.

A kiss in his dorm room that deepens instead of stops, one hand cupping your jaw, the other floating to rest on the small of your back, above the waist of your low jeans, on the warm, bare skin there. A glance that feels more than affectionate, his eyes roving over your collarbone, the glint of your skin in the sun, the line of your bra beneath your sheer, tight shirt. He sees you smile at another guy and a hot flash of jealousy surges through him as he wonders if this is one of the guys you're fucking, if that guy, that random piece of shit, gets to touch you, see you, feel you. He tamps it down, and it feels too little, too late.

You'd be a fool not to notice. Stupid, not to feel the press of his hard-on when he hugs you from behind. Not to sense the shift in the way he kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips, hands sliding down further than they usually do. He plays it off, always. An accident. The heat of the moment. But you know. And because you're weak, because you're a terrible person, because ruining Art Donaldson is the most beautiful thing to ever happen to you, you let him.

"Art, do you ever touch yourself?"

He falls off his chair in his hurry to spin around and look at you. From the floor of your dorm, he stares with wide blue eyes and pink cheeks. "Wha--"

You shrug. "You know. Do you ever..." you make a crude gesture with your hand, and he buries his face up to his nose in his collar.

"No," he says, muffled into his tee shirt. "It's sinful."

It takes every fibre of your being not to laugh. He's so precious, so pure, sometimes you wonder why a guy like him could ever be interested in you at all. Your looks are one thing - you know you're hot. But Art likes you. He likes you even when he can't fuck you. He liked you even when you told him you wouldn't date him. He likes you because you're you. Which makes you feel a little shitty about what you do next, but you can't help it.

"So, what, when you're hard, what do you do?" you press casually. "Send up a Hail Mary and wait?"

Art's ears, which peek out over his shirt collar, are so red they could have been on fire. He shakes his head, a little frantically. He flushes easily, you notice, blood flowing quickly whenever he's even mildly embarrassed. It conjures images of his cock, whatever it might look like, red and aching with need. And you feel a lot less bad, the mental image of Art's dick fuelling the way you lean over, sliding off your chair to join him on the floor. You kneel, hands resting on your knees, and you know he's getting an eyeful of your tits. You keep your eyes on his face.

"Show me," you murmur. "I won't touch you. I won't even touch myself. I just wanna see."

He stares at you like you've asked him for his social security number and all his credit card info. Which, honestly, he probably would have given up a little easier. And you're an awful person, because you know the effect you've had on him, especially these days, you know that Art will probably do anything you ask of him, just for the pleasure of pleasing you.

"Please?" you wheedle, cocking your head to one side lightly, staring up at him through your lashes.

And, really, how could he say no to that?

"I-- okay," he says, and he tries to pretend like he's relenting a lot more than he actually is. Pretends like he's doing you a huge favour, as if his cock isn't straining at the mere idea.

Art doesn't jerk off often. He's only ever used his hand once - the single time Patrick showed him. After that, he'd cried in the bathroom and washed his hands so many times he got a contact allergy. But he's figured out an alternative. One that doesn't involve him touching himself at all. So he slides off his sweats, all too aware of your steady eyes on him. You look at him like you've never seen legs before, as if you haven't seen him at a thousand practices. You look at him like you want to eat him.

He tries to tell himself that's not what's making his cock throb in his boxers. He keeps those on, more for his sake than yours.

"You can lie on my bed," you offer innocently.

Art almost moans. Because it's your bed. Because it's yours, and when he lies down it's almost like lying with you. When he buries his face in the pillow, he can smell you, your vanilla and roses body wash, and, beneath it, the gentle smell of you. It's your sheets he starts to cant into, hips rolling in a familiar motion as he starts to work away the desperate pressure in his cock. It's your pillow he bites in a futile attempt to muffle his moans. And when he looks up, eyes half-lidded, he can see you watching him. You're biting your lip, looking flustered, and it's the cutest he's ever seen you, and he moans your name without meaning you.

You keep your promise, hands folded neatly in you lap as you watch Art rut into your bed like a wild animal, like he's in fucking heat, like your sheets are a person and he's fucking it. Like your sheets are you, you realise, as his eyes meet yours and he whines your name. He's pretending he's fucking you. It's hard not to give up and shove one hand into your panties, but for his sake, you try. Art's moans are almost musical, and with a sharp slap of embarrassment, you're reminded of the sounds he makes when he hits the ball at practice. The same whining grunts of exertion, except now they're fuelled by pleasure, spurred on by the desperate grind of his hips into your sheets, not a fucking tennis ball.

"Oh, oh, fuck," Art's voice gets a little higher. "Oh, fuck, it's so good--"

You can feel yourself soaking through your panties, and you shift slightly. His movements grow a little more erratic, hands balling up into white-knuckled fists into the soft fabric of your sheets. You drink it all in while you can - his ears are red, his cheeks are pink. You follow the curve of his ass in his boxers. You stare at the muscles in his thighs. The bones of his hips.

Art gets breathy when he's about to cum. Breathy, very whiny, almost crying if you're being honest. You file that information away for later.

"Please, please, can I?" he gasps, staring up at you with pupils blown wide with lust. "Can I cum, please, fuck, need it, need it-- you-- fuck, please?"

It's surprising he can even string together a full sentence. "Of course, baby," you murmur, already resolved to not changing your sheets until after you've cum in them too.

Another nugget of information: Art favours a deep grind when he cums, like he's looking for a place to put it, to bury it, looking to breed, to mark, to keep. The sight of him pushing his hips as far into your mattress as he can before he cums, a cry of your name and a shuddering breath slipping from his lips, will probably fuel your nighttime ventures for the next few weeks. You'll use it when you find your next hook up, it'll probably send you right over the edge.

You don't know when you started thinking of Art while you fucked other guys. You just know that now, it's tricky to get off without it. It's hard enough biting your tongue so you avoid saying his name. Now, you'll have the image of his face when he cums locked in your brain forever.

"Shit," Art curses, still breathless, sitting up to examine the sticky mess soaking from the front of his gingham boxers, all the way into your sheets. "Sorry."

You just shake your head. "Don't worry about it. That was... really hot. That's actually how you get yourself off?"

He nods, embarrassed. When he shuffles off to shower, borrowing your shower caddy and a towel, you wait until your door click, and then you practically rip open your nightstand. It takes less than ten minutes with a vibrator and the memory of Art's voice moaning your name for you to add your cum to his. You imagine his hips fucking into you, not your sheets. You imagine pulling his stupid fucking purity ring off and wearing it like some fucked-up engagement ring. His hands are so big, you'd probably have to wear it on your thumb. His hands. You imagine them grabbing you, holding you, sliding up your skin. You wonder what it would be like to have him revere you, not his God. Worship you. You want him to, you think. The idea of him shattering every promise he's ever made, just to be inside you? It sends you over the edge with a muffled cry of his name.

It's that feeling, that messy need for him, that drives you to that frat party. You told him, obviously, and while he seemed sort of put-off when you mentioned you were probably going to sleep with someone, he told you it was okay. Told you to be safe.

You wish you could tell him, but you're worried it'll scare him off. Don't worry, Art, every guy I fuck, I pretend he's you. And now I'll have the knowledge of exactly what you look and sound like when you cum to help me out! Not exactly girlfriend material.

Still, you're thinking of Art when your eyes land on a boy playing beer pong. He's tall, all messy black curls and tanned skin. Handsome, too, if you're being honest, in a messy, frat boy-y kind of way. Hook up hot. You're thinking of Art when he waves you over, holding up a beer like it's a peace offering. You're thinking of Art when you give him your name and ask for his.

"Patrick," he tells you easily. "Patrick Zweig."

[girlyaps]

it girl winters

hydrating skincare routine for those dry-skin days

surrounding yourself with only positive + engaging people

cozy sweaters / sweatshirts

a workout routine that works to meet your goals

a go-to puffer jacket to throw on over everything

soft bound moleskines + black muji gel pens

ugg boots are a must

40oz hydroflask with straw for hot cocoa or ice water

fenty gloss bomb lip luminizers

glossier ultra rich moisturizer

baby long sleeves

cute matching workout sets

slick back ponytails or simple blowouts

shiny, healthy hair and nails

journaling, meditating, stretching

a favorite pair of staple mid-rise straight jeans

new books to devour, one per week

whole foods; eg solid, protein packed meals + produce

bluelight glasses > headaches + eye pain

either eight hours of sleep or two per night (no in-between)

phone screen time less than 1hr 30mins

glossier you solid or sol de janeiro '62 all day every day

body care forever... scrubs, washes, oils, u name it

signature simple jewelry

lash serum or extensions for an effortless glam

hot girl treadmill walks when you're too tired to run

studying and revising daily

homemade matcha or starbucks rewards

saving money for meaningful purchases

loving yourself & finding joy in everyday

BECOMING THE BEST VERSION OF YOU !! xx

please enjoy and feel free to send asks with more prompts/q's !! 🧘‍♀️

[krosiefics]

sunkissed • lee felix

WC: 556

Summary: felix and reader went on a beach trip and after a long day reader notices her sunburn

Tags: fluff, afab!reader, soft!felix, established relationship, semi-nudity(?)...idk reader takes off her shirt to put on aloe vera, reader is bummed about getting a sunburn, felix is honestly such a cutie :(

“Oh it’s so cold in here.” You shiver as you and your boyfriend walk into your shared hotel room after a long day at the beach. You and Felix had decided to take a fun trip to the beach, the two of you traveling to Incheon which isn’t too far from Seoul.

You booked a hotel near the area and after a tiring day of swimming and playing around in the water, you finally returned to their rooms. You decided to take a quick shower, once you were fully dressed, you started brushing your hair. As the brush bristles filtered through your hair a burning pain shot through your scalp, you realized your head was sunburnt from earlier. You flinched before placing the brush down and tried moving your hair around your head to see how bad the burn was.

Once you caught a glance at the part of your head that wasn’t burnt you could see the color difference from your head to the rest of your skin. You frowned realizing that you had only put on one layer of sunscreen today. Your body different shades of pink and light brown, parts of the skin peeling away already. You picked at some of the skin that's peeling, wincing when the pain hurts too much. You dig through your toiletry bag for some aloe vera that you packed but couldn’t find it.

“Baby?” You call out to your boyfriend. You were quickly answered by an acknowledged noise from him. “Did you bring any aloe vera?” You ask, opening the door with a sad pout on your face. Your freckled boyfriend chuckled at you before taking a bottle out of his bag. “C’mere.” He said, motioning for you to sit on the bed. Once settled on the edge of the bed, Felix tugs at the hem of your pajama shirt for you to take it off. Your cheeks flushed even though this wasn't going in THAT direction, it still flustered you. After ridding yourself of the article of clothing, now having your exposed back to him. Felix settled himself behind you, popping the bottle open.

“It’s gonna be cold.” Felix warned kindly before he placed his hands on your hot back. Your back instinctively arched at not only the cold but the pain of the sunburn. “I know, I’m sorry darling.” Felix frowned at your reaction. He continued applying the cooling gel to your back and arms, leaving you to do your stomach. “Thanks.” You turn around.

“What’s wrong?” Felix furrowed his brows at your small smile. “My skin’s gonna be peeling all month.” You scowl as you look at your skin, “It’s gonna look weird.”

“I think it’s cute.” You glanced at him with sad eyes, “Really love, it’s cute…think of it like you were kissed by the sun.” He pursed his lips at you playfully.

You giggle at his action, “Really?” Felix nods. Your eyes shift down his shirtless torso, you notice his skin is also slightly burnt, not to the same level as you but nonetheless burnt. “Now we both have freckles.” Felix giggled, pointing at the bridge of your nose, “Look!” He reached over to grab his phone, turning on the front camera to show you the scattered freckle-like spots that spread across your nose. You smiled at him. “My sunkissed beauty.”

[vilhelios]

-; LOOK AT THE HEARTS THAT YOU'RE BREAKING !

the world may scream and cheer for "crow", the silver-tongued and charismatic lead rapper of deepsp☆ce, but it is only in your arms, his place of rest, that sylus can just be… sylus.

CW: k-pop idol/group au! fluff, fluff and more fluff! slightly suggestive (because it's sylus); not beta read, small text, all lowercase letters.

there’s nothing quite as attractive as seeing sylus on stage. The l-netizens always comment on his stage presence, flooding his fancams with comments littered with little crows, heart-eyed emojis, red hearts, black ones, and— is that… just a series of typed out barking noises…?

alright, that’s quite enough for the night (although you still shamelessly liked, saved and downloaded that fancam for later viewing—though you’d sooner die than let sylus know about that). the video still plays on a loop as it’s loosely cradled in your hands, though you’re no longer paying attention to it. your head thumps down onto the pillow you’d been cuddling with a groan. damn him, damn that harness, damn his stage presence, damn that stupid gesture and that stupid smirk—! 

as you close your eyes, drink in the sound of your speakers blasting with the screams of the crowd and sylus’ echoing voice through the speakers (the audio quality of the video was absolutely busted with how the bass reverberates in that stadium), you can see it: the new concert fancam that the hunters have currently dubbed ‘the sylus fancam.’ how could you not, after replaying the damn thing who knows how many times, and with the audio still playing? the image of sylus (sweat-slicked from the ridiculously difficult choreography of his solo song, bathed in red and blue from the spotlight) flicking away his earpiece, cupping his ear… the crooked smirk on his lips as he clearly hears every hunter in that sold-out stadium scream his name… you feel your face grow hot just thinking about it!

you’re too busy groaning and toiling in your embarrassed, flustered plight that you don’t hear the shower stop running, and the telltale signs of sylus getting dressed. when the bathroom door clicks open, you practically yelp, scrambling to turn that damn phone off, and sheepishly look up at sylus. perhaps it’s simply because he forgot to pack his bathrobe, but he’s in the sweater you picked out for him to sleep in. it softens his sharp edges, making him look like the kind and sweet soul that his features don’t convey. it’s hard not to stare at him for too long when he’s like this: the grit and sharp edge of “crow” ripped away, and sylus left in its place. 

(sylus, who burns like a furnace on cold nights, warm and comforting and lulling you to sleep no matter how much tour jetlag gets to you. sylus, who understands the essence of every sonnet and every love song written in human history when he is allowed to be just him in the sanctuary that is your arms. sylus, who can’t sing for the life of him, but perfectly replicates those romantics of old with every track he produces meant for your ears alone.)

he raises an eyebrow at you from the hotel room entranceway, white hair still slightly wet and disheveled as he dries it off with a towel—it’s so soft and fluffy without all the hair gel to style it. “sweetie, you��re blushing.” he says, a lilt of amusement in it, and it takes only a few, long strides for him to cross the short distance between you on the couch. “whatever could be the reason, hm?”

“nothing!” you pout, a little too quick to answer him and clutching your phone tight. a huff leaves you as he ruffles your hair, and he only chuckles.

“could it perhaps…” he hums, a small smirk growing on his lips as he nods his head at your phone, “... be that my dear sweetheart was looking at something… appealing?” the smirk softens to something gentler as he sees you furrow your brows at being found out. “i could hear it from the bathroom. the walls are quite thin.”

“... i was just watching your fancam…” you admit, sighing and scooting over in the couch as he rounds it to settle beside you. when his arm is draped behind you on your shoulders, you practically melt against him and (with a hint of embarrassment) let him see what you’d been watching.

“ah.” sylus chuckles as he watches himself on the screen, red eyes glinting with amusement. even though the concert was a bit of a haze now, he clearly remembers the moment where the music guide in his ear fell away to the sheer noise of the crowd the moment he took the earpiece off. he honestly didn’t know what possessed him to do such a thing… but if it made you (and the crowd) all flustered, he wouldn’t question it. “i must say… their screams for me were… delectable.” with a final glance at the screen, your phone is clicked off and tossed to the other end of the couch.

“but… as sweet as their screams are…” he quickly adds, when he sees you huff and cross your arms. his arm gently draws you into his lap until you’re practically flush together.  the tip of his nose brushes against yours, and god he smells like the cologne he knows you like. his hand finds its way to your cheek, thumb brushing against your lower lip. sylus speaks in a hushed murmur, next, though it rumbles like thunder through your entire being. “... they are nothing compared to how sweet my name sounds on your lips, sweetie.” 

in another mood, those words may have made you splutter and grow warmer for entirely different reasons. but right now—with sylus looking down at you with the softest red eyes, the smallest smile upon his lips, and his heartbeat thrumming wildly against your hand and through the thick fabric of his sweater—all you can hope to do is grin up at him, and kiss the pad of his thumb. a giggle leaves you then, and his name comes tumbling out too, “sylus…”

“yeah, like that.” he chuckles (though it’s more like an amused huff). sylus plants a kiss to the tip of your nose, and then to the corner of your lips—it is a holy, reverent trail. “sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

a/n: idol au fun!!!! i have nothing to say other than ... sylus... large... looks larger in harness fit... heart eyes... also that i wanted to explore a softer sylus bc infold needs to show us more soft mr. crow man!

[luveline]

Hey jade, I hope you had a good Christmas,

Love your writing so much it brings me so much serotonin 🤣🤣 I have a request for hotch if you’d be up to it, I just love this man’s patience and understanding and would love to see him interact with reader who struggles with sex? Or just sexual stuff in general, like maybe she feels really embarrassed about it and doesn’t know how to talk about it with him? Idk if this is something you’d be interested in just thought I’d throw it out there. Regardless, I can’t wait to see what you post next ♥️♥️♥️

hotch lends you some comfort when a certain topic flusters you, 1.1k

cw adult themes, mdni 

“It's almost cheaper to have kids.” 

You scoop your gaze from the deodorants. “What?” you ask, looking first to Hotch, and then to his eyeline. “Oh.” 

The grocery store boasts a few rows of contraceptives. Condoms, dental dams, and under that, lubes and stimulants in candy rainbow colours. Thirty one ninety nine for silicone-free, aloe vera flavoured lube. Twenty seven for o-gel. 

You avert your gaze without fact-checking him on the condoms, laughing awkwardly as your heart races. “Right.” 

“I'm kidding. Just feeding Jack is a surprising expense.” He says surprising like it's delightful. “Good thing we have cushy jobs.” 

Oh, he's feeling funny tonight. Your laugh is authentic as he takes your arm, the basket in his other clinking as he starts forward again. You finish your quick stock up and Hotch pays for your things despite your protests, packing you and the bags into his ‘cushy’ car. 

You're a little embarrassed in the passenger seat. Your relationship with Hotch is complicated in that while you're in the official early days, you pined for a long time. You're undoubtedly in love with him, and though he's your boss and your senior, he seems to have taken a similar liking to you, hence another chilled out date night upon his invitation. And you've you've messed around like teenagers with kisses too hot and hands wandering, but you haven't fucked, and it's a problem, because your usual awkwardness around the subject grows bigger the longer you wait. 

Hotch can wait forever if he wants, you're not trying to rush him. If he wanted to fuck you tonight you'd probably be too nervous anyhow. 

You can't talk about condoms. How are you going to cope when you have to use one? 

Your stomach churns the longer you think about it. Hotch doesn't react at first, but you know he's figured you out when he covers your hand atop your knee and gives it a squeeze. You okay?

“Can we turn on the radio?” you ask. 

His hand lifts away slowly. He turns on the radio, and you think, oh, he's mad. No, not mad. Irritated, maybe, or confused. That's not fair to him. You think it anyway, sick to your stomach as he parks in the parking garage under his building and you make your way up. 

He doesn't pull any punches —as soon as you're inside with your shoes off and the door locked, he puts the groceries on the counter and looks at you until you meet his eyes. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. 

“What for?” you ask, startled. 

“I made you uncomfortable. I didn't mean to imply anything before you're ready.” He's handsome like this, earnest, his eyebrows raised and an inviting palm held open on the counter beside him. “It was a poorly judged joke.” 

“No, no, I,” —you bring a hand to your mouth, cover it, uncover it— “don't mind if you want to joke about it. It would be weird to care, right?” 

He hears an insecurity in your tone you don't mean to reveal, and he pieces it together swiftly. Understanding lines his eyes. “I don't think so,” he murmurs. 

You're embarrassed beyond words, but he is your boyfriend. He asked with a little expensive bracelet and your favourite baked treat from the bakery near work. You'd only ever mentioned it once, but he remembered. He knows you well, and he's never given you reason to be afraid of his reactions. 

“It's just so embarrassing,” you mumble, staring down at your socks. 

“What is?” he asks, crossing the kitchen to take your hands. “You don't have to be embarrassed about anything, you're perfect.” 

Your breath catches, your neck cracking uncomfortably as you look up. “I– I don't know how to talk about it. I know it's childish.” 

“No, it's not. It's a big thing, and it comes naturally to some people, but not everyone.” His brow furrows a little, the warm depth of his voice working to unspool the tight panic you'd been clinging to, “I'd never push you to do something you're not ready for.” 

“I know that. It's not you. And I don't know if I'm ready or not, it's just–” Your face is hot enough to boil rain. You shake your head. It's too difficult to explain. 

Hotch ushers you into his solid chest. “It's okay,” he says, patting your back gently. “Don't worry about it.” 

“I want us to be like everyone else,” you confess. 

“We are. You're not the first woman to get nervous about the idea of intimacy, sweetheart, I promise. And I'm not the first man to make a bad joke about contraceptives.” He laughs as you laugh, two huffing chuckles as he presses his lips to the top of your head. “You can take as much time as you need to get used to the idea, and if it's still weird when you're ready, does it matter? We'll be weird about it together. Or we won't be. Okay?” 

“Yeah, okay… thank you, Aaron.” 

“I waited a long, long time for this,” he says, giving your back a pointed little squeeze. “And it's more than I ever thought I'd get. I'm not worried about the rest. I'm in no rush, and you shouldn't be either.” 

You hide your face in his chest for a while, somehow more embarrassed than when you'd started. He draws lines up and down your back with his palm patiently. “It's okay,” he says again, kissing the side of your face. After a moment, he encourages your head back with a hand on your cheek, checking your expression carefully before leaning in for a kiss. His hair tickles your forehead. 

To your relief, it doesn't make you nervous. He probably never could, not when he's touching you so softly. 

You're feeling a hundred times better when you pull away. A tad mortified still, but relieved to know your struggle with talking about it isn't a turn off. If he can stick with you through this bump in the road, you can try, at least, to overcome it. 

“Is lube really thirty two dollars?” you ask in a whisper. 

“I don't know. I've never needed it.” 

He spends the next ten minutes laughing and apologising sincerely as steam pours out of your ears. 

[thestoryofella]

sunburnt

summary: after spending a day on the beach to take a break from London's constant noise, you end up sunburnt to a crisp. In an attempt to avoid Sirius's teasing, you desperately try to stay hidden. However, when you're finally forced to ask for help, you're reminded of the importance of choosing love over embarrassment.

warnings: fluff, swearing.

sirius black x reader ✿ 1275 words

After getting tired of the near-constant noise in London and the lack of scenery, you planned a solitary beach day to do nothing but read, lounge, and enjoy the nearly ice-cold pineapple you’d prepped the night before. You sprawled out under the sun from sunrise to near sunset, only dipping in the splashing, cold water when you woke up from a snoozy nap spent on a beach towel. Once the sun nearly set and you’d finished the book you packed for the day, you packed up your things and started the journey home.

When you reached the bus station to return to central London, you realized the issue, catching your reflection in the large, circular mirror near the bus driver. You had gotten burnt to a crisp during your beach day, and Sirius would never let you live it down.

Before you left in the morning, Sirius, ever the caring partner, had packed face sunscreen, body sunscreen, and aloe vera into your oversized tote bag. He had even checked if you had applied some in the morning before you rushed out the door. You, torn between the desire to lounge on the beach and the fear of missing the bus, had lied to him before planting a quick kiss on his cheek and dashing to the station. 

Now, you deeply regret not listening to him. In addition to your current appearance, your skin is inflamed, hot, scaly, and hurts to the touch. When you pressed down on your irritated skin, your fingers left an unmistakable mark associated with a severe sunburn. 

“Perfect,” you sarcastically muttered to yourself. 

When you finally stopped at the station closest to yours and Sirius’s shared flat, you walked quickly to get home, eager to shower with cold water and hopefully reduce the inflammation your sunburn caused. The plan was simple: you’d get home, dash to the shower, avoid Sirius for the rest of the night, and then what? After some consideration, you decide you’ll have to sleep with a paper bag over your head and in pajamas best suited for a nun. 

Once you reach your shared flat, you can hear Sirius inside cooking dinner. The low sizzle of sautéing vegetables and gentle humming is his giveaway. Quickly unlocking the door and tiptoeing inside, you sneak past the kitchen without detection until a creaking floorboard gives you away. 

Your heart lurches into your stomach. It’s no use being this sneaky over a sunburn, but you wanted to avoid Sirius’s teasing for as long as possible–even though you sometimes secretly loved it.

Sirius’s head turns to look at you, but you do not turn to face him. “Hi, dollface,” he says. You hear the words come out of his mouth, and you really want to turn around and greet him with a hug, but you are determined to avoid detection. 

You suck in a quick breath before tumbling out the words, “I gotta go hop in the shower before dinner, love you!” With that said, you run to the bathroom, your feet smacking down on the floorboards with each step before loudly closing the door. 

Great, that wasn’t suspicious at all, you think to yourself. You have the urge to facepalm your forehead before remembering the searing pain that would follow.

You hopped in the shower, sighing in relief when the cold water hit your inflamed back. Showering after days spent at the beach was the best. 

When you finally finished showering, you had devised a regimen to defeat your sunburn and hopefully avoid pain. You put thick lotion on every area of your sunburnt skin, planning to top it off with a layer of aloe vera gel for added measure. 

Things were going swimmingly. You’d lotioned every irritated limb and your unusually puffy cheeks–resembling a hamster with too much food in their mouth. That was until you tried to lotion your back and realized that your short arms and the searing pain of trying to stretch them due to sunburn would not make applying products easy. 

“No, no, no!” You exasperatedly muttered. You must swallow your pride to take care of your severely sunburnt back. The issue wasn’t that Sirius would be mean per se, but he would undoubtedly tease you before dotingly helping you. Plus, you really didn’t want him to know you had lied to him this morning, evading his attempts to prevent this in the first place. 

Defeat clouded your brain. Swallowing your pride, you peeked out the bathroom door before feebly calling, “Siri, can you help me quickly.” It wasn’t even a second later that you heard him set down plates and footsteps approaching your location. 

Now, face-to-face with your raven-haired boyfriend, you offered him a coy smile that silently said, please don’t be mad at me. His eyes slowly took in the sight of your sunburnt face. Unbeknownst to him, your back looked a lot worse. 

You stood in silence for only a second before he reacted exactly how you thought he would. He let a bellowing laugh escape his mouth before pressing a smiling kiss to your inflamed forehead. “What the hell happened to you? You look like a tomato!”

You were sure you did at this point. The combination of inflamed skin, paired with your now red cheeks from Sirius’s affectionate teasing, was sure to have reddened your skin. Honestly, you were surprised you didn’t look more like a beet. 

You playfully shoved his shoulder before cracking the door wide enough for him to sneak in. “Can you please just help me put some lotion and aloe vera on my back?” You tried to sound stern, but a smile still graced your lips. 

He let another laugh escape his mouth upon observing your sunburnt back. “I thought I packed your sunscreen, and you said you put some on before leaving.” 

You huffed in response, crossing your arms over your chest. “I know; I was just so eager to get to the beach and forgot to put some on,” you complained, slightly whining. 

“You know what I always tell you?” He asks.

“No,” you lied. You knew exactly what he was going to say. 

“Sirius knows best!” He nearly sings out before pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. 

“Sirius,” you whined out, not wanting to be reminded of your unfortunate errors. He usually knew best, but you would never in a million years admit that to him. 

“Okay, okay,” He laughs, holding his hands up in mock defense before gently lathering both lotion and aloe vera gel onto your inflamed back. 

You nearly sigh at the relief but hold your tongue, a feeble attempt to humble his enormous ego. Instead, you opt for a simple “thank you,” turning around to envelop his torso in a tight hug. He responds by kissing your forehead, not wanting to press his hands into your irritated back.

♡ ♡ ♡

By the end of the evening, you were honestly sure you had managed to avoid most of Sirius’s teasing. After he had helped you with your back earlier, you two had enjoyed dinner together and were currently cuddled up in bed, about to fall asleep. 

Leaning over to kiss under your ear–possibly the only part of your skin protected from the sun’s wrath–Sirius wrapped his arms around your waist and whispered, “Goodnight, tomato.”

You rolled your eyes, letting a noticeable sigh escape your lips. You felt Sirius’s chest move with gentle laughter as he delighted in your feigned annoyance. 

You truly were never going to live this down. But you realized you were willing to put up with it if it meant you could stay wrapped in Sirius’s arms forever.

[orange-demons-deactivated2024]

Luke s. x bimbo!fem!reader

not a luke girlie, but I think out of everyone in street fighter 6. he's the only one to fully appreciate a bimbo gf.

When Luke first sees you, you were being harassed by a couple of thugs near his gym. 

And of course, being an outstanding samaritan and having a chance to impress himself in front of a hot girl, he did what anyone would do and kicked their asses.

After he scared them off he went to check if you were fine. To which you wrapped your arms around him to thank him.

That’s how you met.

He likes to show off in front of you, whether in the arena or on the streets.

He also spoils you rotten, that Louis Vuitton purse you were eyeing, purchased. The Dior lip oil that was out of stock, yours. That cute mini skirt you pointed through the window, now lies in your wardrobe.

Luke loves it when you cling on his arm, it really strokes his ego.

When you told him you had a dog named Cupcake he fully expected a tiny spoiled chihuahua. The type that's way too pampered to move. Not a 100lb Rottweiler who serves as your attack dog. She scared the hell out of him when he first came over.

She's fiercely protective of you and only you, so she doesn’t take a liking to Luke no matter how much he tries. 

You like to see if your new lipstick is smudge-proof by kissing him. You would sit on his lap and pepper his face with kisses, not like he’s complaining.

You insisted on wearing matching lockets, so Luke keeps his on the chain holding his dog tags.

You made it a point to have your picture on one side and his on the other. So when you closed it, you both would be kissing.

Well...at least that's what you said.

Every time he enters a tournament before he goes into the ring, he kisses his locket good luck.

He’s the type of guy to say wear what you want, I can fight.

But if he notices someone who can’t take their eyes off of your low-cut top, he’ll pull you closer by your waist.

You randomly asked him one day how it feels to be put in a headlock, because you saw him do it to one of his students when you went to visit him at the gym. So he decided to give you a demonstration.

His forearms weren't tight enough to restrict your airflow, but you could definitely feel your cheeks squish and your lips puckering. Maybe dying like this wasn't too bad.

Luke laughs at you for liking this too much. 

You like to show him the cute charms on your nails every time you get them done.

One time when you both were making out, you noticed one of your gel nails was broken, and that was the only thing you could focus on for the next hour, despite him whining for you to keep kissing him.

He knows you don’t like it when he tries to hug you when he’s all sweaty because you don’t want his sweat to get on your outfit.

but he still does it anyway even after you push him away.

He's never cared much about the latest fashion trends or the makeup drops from famous influencers, but he’ll allow himself to be dragged to the mall if you beg him enough.

He’ll hold all your bags with no complaints.

He definitely gives you princess treatment. Like massaging your legs when your feet hurt from wearing heels all day, or even paying for all your shopping expenses when you refuse.

When you come home from a successful haul you're always eager to show him. And he will tell you which ones he likes the best.

He says to give him a little twirl.

You complain to him about how much you don’t want pizza because he eats it all the time.

Every time Luke is able to customize a character in game, he makes them look like you. 

He does his best to have them adopt your style and mannerisms.

Luke knows he doesn’t need to protect you 24/7 because you’re capable of handling yourself, but he still wants to teach you a couple of moves in case something does happen.

He taunts you a bit so you can pack more to your punch.

And let me say, you have a mean, right hook. Knocked Luke in his jaw.

He actually thought it was pretty hot, especially when you were fussing over him. 

When you guys travel, he gets to relax in your pink car. The seats are lined with fur and filled to the brim with stuffed animals. Fuzzy dice hanging from your rearview mirror and snacks in the hidden compartments of the car. 

He makes you drive because he can’t see through the gaps in the plushies like you do and gets too distracted by them. 

You text constantly since you both have different routines. But you mostly send pics of yourself when you're in dressing rooms. 

You: [sent pic] Does this skirt make my butt look big?

Luke: I think you should go shorter. 

So you do.

Playing co-op with this guy is easy for you. Mostly because he’s good enough to carry both of you through an entire game. 

It’s different if you're competitive, because he is too. So he won’t let you win so easily. 

But if you decide to opt-out, he’ll sit on the floor while you passively braid his hair. You even stick a couple of hair clips in his hair with small charms on them.

As much as you love Luke, you hate sleeping over his house. He doesn’t have anything to eat in his fridge other than protein shakes and red meat.

And showering was a different story. Body scrubs, lotions, scented shampoos, and conditioners are nowhere to be seen. You have to tuff it out with the 3 in 1 men’s shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.

But you do like snuggling with him in bed because he gives the best hugs, so you guess you can deal with it.

love potions (feat. princess paparazzi)

[cripplecharacters]

HI! i was wondering if any of you guys had any tips on writing a character with POTS?

Hi lovely asker!

Hm, I think just showing them and their condition is the basis of it all.

Don't be afraid to write them taking meds! A lot of people with POTS take meds, salt tablets, maybe potassium tablets. Often times a lot of us get the stuff that athletes or runners buy either those little electrolyte tabs, the gel packs, or the powder that you add to your water (I listed the brands I use that worked for me but I know a lot of people stand by Liquid IV, dripdrop, Nuun, or just Gatorade. But that's not important I'm off topic!)

If they're trying to keep their symptoms at bay they're gonna be drinking a water and electrolyte combo and maybe munching down on a salty snack

If everyone is standing, they're gonna be sitting whenever possible even if it's the floor, we're known to sit on the floor in the middle of anywhere

Heat is not our friend, a lot of people with POTS have trouble regulating our body temperature so umbrellas, hand fans, ice packs, ice in general is very nice

Also on that, some people also get hot flashes so that could be something also to include

Exercise can exacerbate POTS symptoms so if your character has to run for something it's gonna wear on them

Give them mobility aids! A lot of us use mobility aids usually like Forearm crutches or a wheelchair are the ones I see most but a lot of people use canes or walkers too

A lot of chronically I'll people carry a bag filled with all our emergency stuff we need and I feel like that's always left out in media depictions so I'm gonna include that here

Depending on how you want to depict it some people deal more with vertigo, dizziness, nausea, fatigue than with syncope (passing out). Some people it's equal, some people have really bad syncope to the point that they can't stand up without a fall risk. It depends on how you want to write your character but not everyone is the same

If your story is set during a historical period, they're not gonna refer to it as POTS, and actually the novel "One For All" by Lillie Lainoff does a good of example of this as the title character in this Gender-Bent retelling of The Musketeers has POTS (yay!) but in the story it's called "The Dizziness"

That is all I can think of for the moment but if you have any other specific questions let us know! This is just a vague kinda thing but more direct questions are usually easier to answer, but if this does help I'm glad! Happy writing!

~ Mod Virus 🌸

[radiant-cowgirl]

i saw a bunch of other people doing this so

random redacted headcanons!

- vincent can’t handle spicy food very well, even post-turning

- ivan hates fishing

- david loves egg salad sandwiches with hot sauce (it’s his favorite comfort food)

- caelum has never had cotton candy and freelancer is pretty sure if he ever did, he would implode

- gavin doesn’t like snow

- lasko on the other hand LOVES spicy food and testing his tolerance to certain things

- damien doesn’t drink coffee or tea or energy drinks, this man is just out here raw-dogging life

- kody still tries to look at all the damn crew’s socials, even though they all have him blocked

- huxley (opposite of damien) gets his caffeine anyway he can but his favorite are the caffeine pouches (similar to zyns (these are also my favorite))

- asher loves watching mma fights and tries (gently) to recreate the moves on babe (“i could have dropped you just then! you gotta keep your guard up!”)

- james “i’m exploding you with my mind” redacted

- marcus begged his mom for a mohawk in middle school but he didn’t have the right texture hair for it and she refused to buy him all the hair gel necessary to make it a real mohawk so they just had to shave his head (kids thought he had lice)

- anton loves sending and receiving physical mail. he knows it’s impractical in comparison to texting or calling, but he loves it

- ollie has a favorite blanket, pillow, and set of sheets. he’s very particular about his bedtime routine

- elliot however could drop anywhere at anytime. and that’s nothing to do with him being a dreamwalker. he’s just a fantastic sleeper

- brachium has never had candy, but he’s curious about it

- avior really really likes classical music and it’s brought him to tears multiple times (especially jupiter comp. by gustav holst iykyk)

- milo holds the door open for everyone whenever he can. sweetheart once thought he was following them for like fifteen minutes but he was still stuck at the door

- cam loves fresh produce and is a frequenter of any local farmers market

- blake had a phase in middle school and early high school where he was super patriotic and right-wing leaning and he hates when people bring it up

- aaron actually knows most of the shaw pack boys. he tried to hire them for an event before realizing they were an empowered company. david thought he knew

- sam showed pigs and sheep when he was younger. he kinda misses it but he doesn’t have the room for livestock anymore

- vega in all his years of existing both in aria and on earth has never been truly hugged

- before falling, regulus lived on earth with his charge. they had two cats

- xavier used to travel ridiculous amounts of miles to go to food festivals around the country. he took the team with him once or twice

- geordi never deleted any pictures of him and cutie. he’s still hopeful that things will work out and he doesn’t want to get rid of older memories with them

- guy was friends with a lot of the unempowered boys in school, but lost touch with them in college

- morgan is very into hair-care. his shower looks like an apothecary shop full of mystery vials and oils. he knows what everything is and how to use it though.

- porter loves classic literature and translating latin to english. it’s one of the few hobbies he allows himself to have

- hush once traipsed into doc’s apartment, mud up to his knees and all over his face and hands, holding a bull frog. he only came to ask what it was.

[vampyr3wife]

H y p e r m o b i l e E h l e r s D a n l o s S y n d r o m e

Survival Kit (:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅[̲̅:♡:]̲̅:̲̅:̲̅:̲̅)

c h r o n i c p a i n & s u b l u x a t i o n s

𓊔 joint support braces for like everything + athletic tape . self explanatory .. having them in your favorite colors is helpful, too

𓊔 ring splints . these go along with joint braces and are incredibly helpful, I made my own because they are quite expensive but I'd like to get a professional pair someday ♡

𓊔 heating pad .. heated blanket .. hot water bottle .. warmable stuffed animal .. warm kitty cat .. ice pack ..

𓊔 I find it important to mention that if you are going to use ibuprofen you MUST eat a meal or large snack first .. I didn't know this until recently but you can very easily ruin your stomach if you don't have food in your tummy ! Please always check the labels and full instructions for your medications, even over the counter !

𓊔 arnicare . it comes in tablet + gel form and helps with joint / muscle pain, stiffness, and inflammation . ( please be careful with the gel as it is toxic to pets ! )

𓊔 pregnancy pillows . these keep you so supported and personally it helps my shoulders, hips, and knees the most

𓊔 epsom salt baths . even warm water alone can help with soreness, but remember to hydrate n watch the temperature so you don't pass out T-T !!

d y s a u t o n o m i a

𓊔 ondansetron / zofran . this has been a lifesaver for nausea n vomiting, I genuinely don't know what I'd do without it

𓊔 electrolytes !!!!! they come in tablets, powder mix, sweet little drink form , and even electrolyte popsicles !

𓊔 compression garments . not only do they help with blood pooling + hypotension but they can also help with subluxations and improve your balance !

𓊔 mini blood pressure machine . anything lower than 90/60 mm Hg is the Bad Zone ..

𓊔 shower chair . nice to have around when you don't feel sturdy.. blood pooling also gets much worse while standing in warm showers so this can be quite helpful

𓊔 mini icepack . place on your forehead for nausea and migraines.. even better if you have one of those cooling masks or a hand held fan

𓊔 emesis bags . when worse comes to worst, having these by my bed is also a lifesaver for morning sickness .

[luveline]

Hi!! I was wondering if you could write anything else for the steve zombie au with the established relationship! It's seriously so good I can't get enough

hi I hope you don’t mind me using your request for the kidnapping fic! r and steve live inside a community during the apocalypse, and she gets kidnapped :( but he’s not gonna stop til he finds her :) pls forgive typos

steve zombie!au <3 fem!reader. tw abduction, drugging, mentioned SA (reader is NOT sa and there is no graphic imagery), guns, general violence. 8k words

When you get 'home' that evening, arms aching from a full day in the community pantry, there's somebody sitting in your bed. 

"Fuck, Stevie," you say with a flinch, hand hitting your chest with an audible thud. 

"Sorry!" he apologises immediately, springing up to meet you. He's in pyjamas, a foreign sight, freshly washed up. "I got home early and thought you'd be happy to see me." 

You reach for his wrists, relief that he's not a murderer or a zombie dulling the panic. "I am," you assure him softly, "of course I am. I missed you." 

He smiles and moves in for a hug, kissing your cheek quickly. "I missed you too." 

Missed isn't truly the right word. Steve goes out on scouting and scrounging missions for the community voluntarily, and every time he leaves you worry he's going to die, because it is a very likely outcome. There hasn't been a community fatality in weeks, but that doesn't help soothe the ache of his absence. 

"You smell really nice. Did you get a hot shower?" 

"Perks," he says, faking modesty. 

"Perks," you grumble. "I spent the whole day lifting canned tuna and I don't get a hot shower." 

His smile doubles in size. "No? Well then, it's a good thing you have such a nice boyfriend," —he digs in his pocket, unveiling a green plastic shower token with a smirk— "huh?" 

"Is that for me?" you ask, grumbling completely gone. 

"If you want it. There's a catch, though." 

"What's the catch?" 

You can both hear how in love you sound. In a world where hot showers are rare and valuable as diamond, his giving you a shower token may as well be an "I love you'. It's selfless. 

"Kiss before you go?" he asks. 

"That's not a catch," you say, taking his face into your hands. His cheeks are soft, stubble shaved away. 

You rub his bottom lip with your thumb. "Get into any danger?" 

"None. Not a geek in sight." 

"Good boy," you say, thumbs either side of his lips now, leaning in for a perfect, prim kiss. 

You move back and rake the hair away from his face, upward, and for a moment he looks as he did before again. His hair falls back down and he's still beautiful, the guy you love. 

"Are you sure I can have it?"

"I got it for you," he says, "but if you really don't want it-" 

"No, I want it," you deny quickly, eyes narrowed at his nearly ditzy smile. He can be so evil. 

Steve climbs into your bed, a myriad of blankets and quilts and sheets, anything to stay warm. Honestly, you and Steve are pack rats now you have a place to keep your things, and you love to be comfortable together. That means soft things and nice smells are a must. 

You turn to your bathroom hamper and pick up one of your two shower gels, a silver of soap, and the brand new bottle of shampoo you'd been given a few days ago. It's your prized possession. 

"Don't take that soap," Steve says, "there's a new bar by the sink, take that one." 

"We really shouldn't waste it." 

"We won't." 

You shake your head at him fondly. "It's fine, I'll use it. Keep the new one for cold, sad showers." 

His head sinks back into your pillows, his face turning toward your side. He couldn't be less obvious about it if he tried, pulling your pillow toward him until the pillowcase is rubbing his nose. 

You wrap your things in a towel, also nice and soft, and hesitate at the door. Steve's eyes have closed. You know he isn't sleeping, and that if you ask him to, he'll come and sit outside of the shower stall to fend off your paranoia. But you're trying to give life here a chance, a proper one. You have no reason to fear for your safety — the shower block is only five minutes away in the old College's gym. 

You put your stuff down at the end of the bed and climb on knees beside him. 

"I'm gonna go shower now," you say. 

Steve goes to sit up, eyes fluttering open, and you hold him down, peppering his cheek with three, four, five quick kisses. "No, stay. Love you." 

“You stay and sleep. I’ll be back soon. So soon.”

"You sure?" 

"Yes," you say, smothered against his cheek. You give him another kiss for good measure, a selfish one, as most of them are. You hope he enjoys receiving them as much as you love bestowing them. Your lips practically tingle. 

"Okay. Love you. See you in twenty." 

"Twenty," you promise. 

Another kiss sneaks its way in there before you're grabbing all your stuff; your bathroom necessities, your change of clothes and your room key on a string you hang around your neck. You slip out the door and down the hall of Little Hawkins, stepping over a hallway game of speed played by two opposite tenants you recognise from high school and slinking sideways round one of Mallory's huge art projects propped up against the wall. 

It's dark outside. To keep a low profile, the community you live in, sometimes called The College, or some variation of its real name, Valley Pine Community College, opts to keep the lights off at night. There are fairy lights strung up to gently guide anyone who needs to move around, and considering it's not even 7PM yet, there are lots of people outside. 

"Hey, kid." 

You hug your bundle of things closer. "Hi, Hopper." 

Chief Hopper is standing in the middle of the squad with Joyce Byers and Jeremy Livingstone, his second in command and his co-leader, respectively. 

"Shower?" 

You smile sheepishly. "Steve gave me a token." 

"How romantic," Joyce says sweetly. 

"He's a secret sweetheart," you mumble. 

"Could you tell him to be a little more secretive? He's setting a precedent here," Jeremy says. 

The three adults laugh. You nod politely and bid them goodbye with a smile, cutting over the grass of the quad where a path has been worn by shoes just like yours to the gym. 

There's usually someone there until 10PM. Everyone needs a shower after a long day, and lukewarm ones are totally free. It's hot water showers that need a token, because they need the generator to run. Jeremy does his best to keep the distribution of tokens fair, but people still use them to barter for other things. You imagine that's how Steve came to have two. 

Sure enough, a young woman you think is called Tori sits in a chair by the door to the shower room, foot propped up on another chair and crutches on the floor. 

She accepts your token and puts it in a basket with the others, all handmade and flimsy. "You need me to do it?" she asks. 

"No, that's okay. Stay sitting." She smiles gratefully. 

The shower room is clean and cool. You put down your towel, grinning at the leftmost shower. There you are, you think cheerfully. Then a sound behind you, the soft fall of one step. 

You don't remember much after that. 

— 

Steve falls asleep waiting for you. 

He wakes, reaching for your body in bed next to his, expecting an armful of your softness, your tummy or your chest. He opens his bleary eyes in search of you when he comes up empty, mumbling your name in the dark. His arm feels heavy as he lifts it to check the time. 9.44PM. He looks around the entirety of your small room. You're not here. 

He bolts up fast, bone deep nausea spreading and pervasive, his neck protesting the sudden movement with a twinge. Thighs swung over the sheets, he stumbles onto discordant footing.

You're not out on the quad, and neither is anyone else. He follows the string lights to the gym and there are no signs of life. He makes it all the way to the shower room before he sees somebody, a girl on crutches hobbling toward him with a flashlight helmet clipped over her forehead. 

"Hey," he says, slowing, "have you seen Y/N? She's this tall, wearing a royal blue hoodie? You can't miss her." 

She falters. "I- yeah, I saw her. Maybe an hour ago?" 

"Is she still here?" 

"The building's presumably empty." 

Steve skirts around her to look for himself, but she says, "Wait, wait." 

She readjusts her grip on her crutches. "I didn't see her leave, but she wasn't in the showers. I checked." 

"You didn't see her leave?" 

"No, I thought it was weird, but I figured she'd had too long in the hot water and felt guilty about it. I was gonna tell Hopper at the town hall." 

The town hall isn't a town hall at all, it's a space cleared in the cafeteria. Hopper lingers there most nights so people can talk to him without feeling pressured by their peers. You and Steve always call it the 'snitching hour', instead of the witching hour. 

"You're sure she's not there?" 

"I checked every stall." 

He doesn't believe her, because if you aren't in the shower, where are you? You haven't made any friends yet, you aren't situated, you have Steve and you have the older lady Mallory, and that's it. 

He's not too proud to admit he sprints to the shower room, calling your name and checking behind each stall door, each changing partition curtain. The only thing he finds is a slither of soap, the shard of bar soap he'd told you to throw away, lying on the floor. 

You'd insisted you wouldn't waste it. 

He picks it up and pockets it, throwing his gaze around the room in another circle to be sure. 

You aren't here. 

He runs back up the hallways and through the front entrance, where the girl on crutches is hobbling toward the main building that houses the cafeteria. His heart races with a strange adrenaline — he shouldn't panic, right? You could be anywhere, and anywhere doesn't have to mean somewhere unsafe. You could be with Mallory, with Robin. Hell, you could be with Dustin. He's half expecting to find you in the canteen, fresh and smelling sweet, sitting at one of the long dinner tables for club night. You'd said you wanted to learn gin rummy. 

You aren't in the cafeteria and neither are the cards club, but Hopper is. He has a paperback in his lap, and a cigarette is held between his lips pointing down, illuminated by a small lamp on the table behind him.

"Woah, where's the fire?" 

"Have you seen Y/N?" 

Hopper doesn't like his tone, the panic it's laced with. His expression hardens from surprise to concern, paperback closed. "Hours ago. She was on her way to the gym. She didn't come back?"

"No." 

"She usually stray?" Hopper asks. 

They both know the answer is no. You don't go anywhere that isn't scheduled work or the gym showers without Steve; while your distrust of this place and the people here has waned since you arrived, it's still very much alive.

"Never." 

"Don't panic," Hopper says, though he looks a little unsettled himself. He hides it swiftly. "Half the people here are your age, she probably just got to talking."

He stands up, shoving his paperback on top of the fold out chair and zippering his jacket closed. 

Steve rubs his mouth, in a daze, searching his thoughts for where you'll be.

"Harrington?" 

"What?" Steve asks, looking up. 

"You might want to get some warmer pants on. We'll start searching. Door to door. Wake your friends up." Hopper clears his throat. "She's here somewhere." 

His confidence eases Steve's roaring pulse. He looks down, finds he's still wearing the polka dot pyjamas he'd fallen asleep in. He'd been too worried about you to notice. 

— 

You feel majorly unwell. Eyes so sore they beg to stay closed, throat raw like you've been forced to eat sandpaper. Your hand knocks out and hits something solid.

"Stevie," you say. Your voice is patchy, frosted over. "It's freezing. Did you," —you cough as you raise your head from your pillow— "leave a window open, baby?" 

A cold gale of wind rushes over you. Goosebumps erupt down the lengths of your naked arms, and your eyes open finally, searching for the cause of the desperate cold. 

You fear for a moment you've gone blind. 

The sky is dark. A deep, formidable blue with a smattering of stars. Your breath catches as you take them in. They appear by the handful, flecks that well like drops of blood to pinpricks. 

You are not in bed. 

This is not your room. 

"You've been sleeping for hours. You're fucking heavy, did you know that?" 

You turn your head slowly, prey and predator, hoping your stillness will deter any sudden movements. 

"Where are we?" you ask, trying to get a good look at the body next to you. 

You're not sure if it's the right question. He likes it, though, and his hand squeezes yours where your fingers rest, intertwined, against his chest. Sickness wraps around your stomach and wrings it, a strange haziness concluding your thoughts.

"Don't worry about it." 

Panic lights every nerve ending and a wretched trembling runs down your arms, your legs. You try to make it stop before he can feel it. You know your fear is a currency.

"Are you cold?" he asks. His voice is neither warm nor frigid, each syllable said with an impassiveness that leaves little to be inferred. 

"I don't have my coat." The words don't want to be said. 

"We left in a hurry." 

"We did?" 

Your throat aches. You try to remember why you're here, fingers dead still in his hold. There's something soft behind your head, a throw blanket that scratches your cheek. You don't know who he is. You don't recognise anything about him, moonlight splashing milky light over his face and neck. He has a broad scar under his jaw, but beside that, this man is completely unassuming. 

"You don't remember?" 

You shake your head. "No," you say softly. 

"You fell in the shower. I helped you up. You told me you wanted to leave." 

"Leave?" you ask. 

"The College." 

"I said that?" 

"You didn't have to say it. I know you hated it there." 

You swallow, uselessly, over and over. The night sky pours Onto you. Your pulse bumps, bumps, bumps. 

"Who are you?" you ask. 

"You don't know me?" 

His fingers tighten around yours. 

"I- I'm new," you defend.

"Of course you don't know me. Nobody fucking knows me. I thought shit was bad before all this, you know?" His grip tightens worse. "Invisible at work, at home. And there were so many people, I mean, fucking thousands of people, I was a nobody. I thought maybe now I'd be somebody, but you don't know who I am." 

Please, you think, please. What's his name? 

"Connor," you say quietly, hoping to pass it off as nothing if you've gotten it wrong. 

His grip relaxes ever so slightly. "I knew you were different. You see me, and I see you." 

He moves toward you, and he must see you flinch backward into the solid, frozen earth behind your back. His smile flickers. He leans over your face, dark, long hair tickling your cheek. 

"I know you hated that place just as much as I did. So we left." 

Looking back, you'll wonder why you acted as you did. Acting into his delusion. That night, you wait hours for him to fall asleep. He never does. Each time you try to pull your hand from his, you're met with a fiercely suspicious look. You feign sleep. 

The sky slowly lightens. You stand when he stands and you pull your hand from his whether he wants it or not, so cold you feel like you've been burned all over, so tired you're surprised you have the strength to scramble backward. 

He turns, and you notice the gun tucked into his waistband for the first time. 

"Where are you going?" he asks, hand inching up his leg.

You take a step toward him, wobbly on purpose. "I think I'm stiff from the floor." You smile at him awkwardly. 

He sees bashful where he should terrified. "I will miss the mattresses. Don't worry, we'll find you something to lie on." Your skin crawls.

"Where are we going?" 

He points southward.

You're no genius, but you assume that means The College is northward. 

A bullet can follow you a hundred feet away. Running brazenly won't work. Though you're guessing he'll kill you outright rather than let you escape, which may not be the case. He's running on delusion — he has a saviour complex, clearly, to have stolen you like this. He wants you, and you have to assume he wants you alive.

"Can I have some water?" you ask. 

The ache in your throat is a burn. You imagine this is how it feels to have a geek maw deep in your flesh, a sizzling burn, a heated fear. 

He digs through his singular rucksack and pulls out a litre bottle of water full to the cap. You take it, guzzle it, and choke when he cusses. "Fuck- Stop! Are you stupid? We have to make it last." 

Water dribbles down your chin as he snatches it out of your hand. 

"Sorry," you say. It feels as though you've swallowed a stone. "Sorry, I didn't know. I couldn't know, I don't know any of your plans, Connor." 

He stuffs the water back into the bag and procures a white length of plastic. It takes you a second to realise it's a zip tie. Much less to feel terror reignite itself in the depths of your stomach. 

"Wrists together." 

"Connor, I don't think-" 

"You're smart, aren't you?" 

Quiet stretches. The sun leaks desperately needed warmth through the thick tree branches, sun rays painting his skin blazing white as he rags your wrists together and wraps the zip ties around them. The plastic bites into your skin unapologetically. 

"I wanted you to take me," you say. "What's the need?" 

He smiles. Teeth white, gums red. Stark. 

"You're smart," he repeats. "I'm smarter. Now come on. Walk." 

—

Steve doesn't find you. 

Hopper gives him invasive free reign over the community like a dirty cop. He tells everybody at breakfast exactly what's happening. He asks if anybody has seen you. He asks if you've made plans to run away. He says that, if you're in hiding, he'll protect you, even if that means protection from Steve. 

Steve's not even mad. If you are hiding from him (you're not, of course you're not, but if you are — Steve almost wishes you were, just so he'd know you were safe) you're doing an amazing job. There are no traces of you, and as the hours stretch into a full day without you, Steve's borderline homicidal. He has slammed on every door. He has checked every dormitory room, every public space. He has pulled boards from closed over windows, and kicked in weakened door jams of every building within the fences. 

Currently, though, he's having a breakdown. Tears, ugly and messy and loud, race down his face. He's running so hot they practically steam. Robin stands on the other side of the stall. He's really hoping she'll pretend she can't hear him, but she says, "Yikes, Steve." 

"Where the fuck is she?" he asks, sounding about as numb as he feels. 

"I don't know." 

Her response is softer. Robin knows Steve isn't angry at her, and doesn't take his scathing question personally. The fear he's feeling is overwhelming, hence his tears. (The tears are made of worry, too.) 

"Somebody-" God, the thought is like white hot heat cattle poked into his spine, anger wells to the surface. "Has her. Somebody's fucking done something to her. She wouldn't just leave." 

He stares at the stall door and wills tears away. This isn't helping you. 

"Steve," Robin says, "don't bite my head off. What if she did leave?" 

It hurts because it's what he's been asking himself. Under the anger and the fear for you, there's fear of you. What if you've abandoned him? Loved him this long to toss in the towel at the finish line? 

Still, he defends the you he knows you are. "Fuck off, Buckley. I love you, but fuck you." 

"No, listen to me Steve." 

"Robin-" 

"I believe she wouldn't 'just leave' but that doesn't mean she didn't leave," Robin says in a rush, fighting to be heard. "I know she's- I know you're both in that gross, disgusting, married for sixty years, buried in the same plot, holding hands kind of love-" 

"The point?" 

"So I'm agreeing with you, asshole. I don't think she'd leave of her own volition, but she's not here." 

"What if she is? What if I go look for her and she's here and Barney from the kitchen has her tied up under his mattress?" 

"We've looked," Robin says, anger colouring her own tone now. "We've fucking looked, Steve, you and me and Dustin, Mike and Hopper, we've been in every room and hashing this out won't make her magically reappear, we need to go look for her. Maybe she did fucking leave you, and maybe she's lost. Whatever it is, you're gonna kill yourself not looking.

"Time to make a decision," she adds. "The longer we sit here the further away she gets." 

Tears burst unbidden in a race to his jawline.

He knows you better than he knows himself. He knows you've loved him for a long time, maybe since the day you met. He's loved you almost as long, and he doesn't care how selfish it sounds when he says he loves you so much more. If the last time you'd spent together is it — sorry, but Steve can't accept it. A slurred out 'Love you' and your kisses warming his cheek. That can't be all there is. 

He'd spend the rest of his life looking for you, if only to feel the weight of your body between his legs, your sleeping face tucked under his chest. Your hands, forever cold, chasing the heat of his spine as you slip them under his t-shirt. 

Hopper looks reluctant at the suggestion. 

"Kid-" 

"I'm not really asking. I need permission to get my bat back from the armoury, and food. Or forget the food." Someone knocks into his back and apologises. The cafeteria is teeming with people. Steve doesn't stop to look back to see who it is. 

"It's not about supplies. Everybody is accounted for, we checked, do you know what that means? Nobody else is with her." Nobody took her, he implies. She left of her own volition. 

"That's exactly why I need to go." 

"She took a rucksack with her." 

Steve blinks. 

"Three litres of water. Enough food for a month, and a pistol." 

You're smarter than three litres of water. And—

Steve's heart skips. "She doesn't know how to use a gun."

He knows exactly what's happened to you. Even if everybody else thinks he's crazy, or stupid, or plain naive, he knows you wouldn't take a gun, so somebody else took one, and then they took you. He imagines you with the barrel pressed to your nape and brims with indignation. 

Hopper grabs Steve's arm tightly before he can turn away. He likely doesn't want a scene in the cafeteria, not when the arts and crafts club is sitting two tables away, a whole classroom of children with delicate dispositions. 

"You're sure you want to go out there and look for her? Kid, nobody saw her leave, there's no signs of struggle. Chances are she left willingly." 

"You really believe that? Honestly?" 

His expression says everything Steve needs to know. Hopper doesn't believe what he's saying — he's feeding Steve a narrative in the hopes that it'll spare him. His decision is a hard one to make, prioritising the lives of the many over the few, and it's noble, but Steve couldn't care less about the risks. 

Hopper realises his plan is not going to work. He roughs up his hair and sighs. 

"Can't work a gun?" he asks Steve, nearly defeated. 

"She would pick the knife." 

"Fine. Better round up anybody stupid enough to go with you." 

—

"I think you're handsome," you say. 

Connor glares at you. He'd been in the middle of a self-hating rant, how he's ugly and how girls are all shallow. He's not even that ugly, but his expression, so full of hate, makes him monstrous. 

"I do," you further.

"Yeah, right." 

Your wrists hurt. The zip tie cuts into your skin even in efforts to hold your wrists together. You're raw, almost bleeding. And you're so fucking cold; this guy's an idiot, and you're gonna die of hypothermia if you can't charm him into giving you his coat. 

Your plan is awful and it likely won't work. You're trying to seduce him so you can take his gun, and hope you don't have to actually fire it. You've never killed somebody before, but you're willing to do what you need to if it means you'll survive. Your thoughts won't stop spiralling about Steve. He loves you. He's looking for you. If he never finds you, his life will be more ruined than it is already, and you'd never forgive yourself for that. You care about him too much to want to put him through the guilt of losing you. How he'd been looking for Robin, you don't want him to be that version of himself again. Closed off to everything, and everyone.

Under all that you're still hoping he's going to save you. You're gonna hear him calling. You hope — you know — Steve won't think you've left. While you haven't been quiet about your doubts living in The College, you wouldn't leave without him. Steve is the safest place in the world. 

"Connor," you say, eyes on his face and unflinching, determined to lie well, "are you kidding? Out of everyone, I only showed you how I was feeling. Why do you think that is?" 

He stares at you. 

You make a show of shivering. It isn't difficult. 

"You're the kindest person there, I know that," you say. "Nobody else would risk what you are to help me escape. Nobody, not even-" You wince. "Not even Steve." 

"Ugh, don't talk about him," Connor says. "You won't ever have to see that mindless idiot again." 

"You promise?" 

He stops walking. "You don't want to see him?" 

"No," you lie. "I- look, Connor, I know it's not something to be proud of, and I'm not proud of it, but I knew he could take care of me, you know? We were all alone, and I just needed someone to look after me. I was so scared. And I felt like I owed him." 

"You could've left him the moment you got to The College." 

You put on a sad little smile. I'm sorry, you think desperately. I'm sorry, Steve. 

"He wouldn't let me."

Quiet prevails again, the only sounds the wind and your shoes over brittle foliage. 

"I wanted to talk to you, and I think he could tell. He'd always pull me away when we s-s-saw you." 

His eyebrows furrow gently, a softness on his face that might seem genuine if there were any light behind his eyes. Connor peels off his jacket and tries to help you into it. 

"My wrists." 

"Right," he says. 

He pulls out a penknife. You know what to do, planning how you'll enact your next move in your head as he cuts you loose and helps your numb arms and fingers into the sleeves. He zips you up. You try not to breathe.

He takes a half step back, and his breath turns to a grunt, hands cruel at your wrists when you throw yourself at him. "What the fuck are you doing?" 

"Trying to hug you…" You say, heart a hummingbird in your chest. "I'm sorry, I just- I just wanted to say thank you." 

"You want to say thank you?" he asks, 

You regret it. You've already decided, as horrible as it is, that if he tries to hurt you or force you to do anything intimate with him, you're going to run, gun or no gun. This decision changes every other second. Better to let him hurt you like that and live, or better to die? 

"Yes," you say breathlessly. "I want to say thank you." 

"There's a cabin not far from here. That's where we're going. I've been getting it ready for us. You can show me how grateful you are when we get there, so pick up the pace." 

"A cabin?" you ask, tripping over your untied laces in your hurry to do as he says. 

"I've been getting it ready for weeks," he says. "Sneaking back and forth hasn't been easy, you know? Fucking migraine." 

Sneaking back and forth.

Who is he? Sneaking? Why would he need to? Who the fuck is he? You know of him as you know most people, and you'd been lucky to remember his name. If he hadn't gone on supply and scrounging trips with Steve, you wouldn't have. 

A memory. 

He'd been with Steve. 

Two weeks ago, Steve had come home depressed. Deflated, he'd encouraged you down into bed and laid out on top of you, frown pressed to your collar. You'd drawn a confession from him in ribbons, one hand rubbing his back until the tension he'd carried slipped away, the other resting at the back of his head. He'd been on a scouting trip, and he'd lost his partner. No sign of him, no signs of a geek death, nothing. He'd disappeared. 

That had been Connor, and everybody thinks he's dead. 

If they believe you left, they believe it was by yourself. You have to hope Steve believes you'd never go without him. 

If he doesn't, you are completely alone. 

—

Robin ties her shoe laces tightly. They're new, and they're startlingly white. Nothing ever looks so white these days. Bleach is a resource they can't make, and it gets hoarded by the medical team whenever they find any. Clothes here aren't dirty, but they'll never be pristine. 

She puts her foot back on to the floor next to Steve's back, where he poked around under her bed for useful things to take. Her torch, her batteries, her rucksack. 

"Robin… is this a fucking illegal food store?" 

"That's blowing it out of proportion." 

He climbs out from under the bed and drops her armful of twinkies, moon cakes, and a single Hershey's cookies 'n' creme. 

"You can take that one," she says, pointing at the Hershey's. "A treat for lovergirl. You may need leverage to win her back." 

He takes it. At this point, Robin's sure he'd cut his own hand off to bring you back with them. She kicks the rest of her contraband haphazardly under the bed and gets into a sweater, then another sweater, before zippering a winter coat over top. Robin's young, and mildly fit, not in shape but not out of it, so she volunteers for supply runs when Hopper asks for them. She can climb, and she's skinny enough to fit into places that other people can't. She's ready to go look for you. 

Steve stands and makes his way to the door, swinging his rucksack over his shoulder. 

They move out to the quad, where a sad roster of rescue squad applicants wait. Jonathan Byers sits on the low wall of the fountain, with a girl called Vanessa on one side, and a guy called Christopher on the other. Dustin and Mike stand talking, and Steve is barely in hearing range when he says, "You aren't coming, Henderson." 

He stops in front of the fountain. "Are you ready?" 

They all stand. Jonathan, surprisingly, has a gun strapped to his hip. "Hopper's orders," he says, sounding how Steve feels. 

"Steve," Dustin says. 

"You aren't allowed to come, for starters." 

"I am, we're sixteen, we can-" 

"Can't. That's why Will isn't here, right? Or Lucas? Because they actually listen when Hopper says no." 

Mike glares. "I'm not here to go save your girlfriend." 

"Awesome." Steve relaxes the tiniest bit, slapping Dustin's arm as they pass. "Thanks, Henderson, but you can't come. Stay here and make sure nobody claims our room." 

Dustin shouts a string of expletives at their backs. 

They pass through the North fence checkpoint. They're trying to retrace your steps. There aren't many to retrace. They assume you've gone North of the camp because South of it is Indiana, and Steve can't see why you'd backtrack.

They walk for hours. The sun moves through the sky all lazy and slow, tortuously so, and the only thing Steve can think of is you. It burns. 

The first hint of you is a scrap of fabric. It isn't yours as far as he knows, but he and Robin look at it, look at each other, and then pick up the pace. A half hour later they almost miss it, a black button in amongst dry earth. An hour later, there's a water bottle cap. 

"Holy fucking shit," Robin says. "She's leaving us breadcrumbs." 

"She's a smart girl," Steve says, too defensive considering Robin's praising you. "Of course she is." 

"I've been thinking," Jonathan says, his voice low and gravelly from a long period of quiet. "The theory is that she's uh, been kidnapped, right?" 

"That's the theory," Steve says tightly. Trying his best not to be a dick, because Jonathan hasn't done anything wrong. 

"So who took her?"

Steve's migraine throbs. He has this tension like a knit behind his eyes. He doesn't know who took you, he can't work it out, and it doesn’t make any sense. Hopper checked the lists and everybody in the community had been accounted for, and Steve had seen nearly every face himself hammering on doors. 

"My mom poured over that list, she ticked everybody off," Jonathan continues. 

"It doesn't make any sense," Steve says, "I know that, but she wouldn't leave like that, not–" 

"No, I'm not saying that," Jonathan says quickly. "I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying we have to think outside of the box. Whoever took her isn't on the register." 

"But they somehow knew enough about The College to take her without anybody seeing them," Vanessa says timidly. 

"They took her from the shower room," Steve says quietly. "Her soap was still there, 'nd the girl on duty said she never came out of the first door again, so they took her from the back, and quietly." 

"Maybe she got lured out," Robin says. "Maybe they tricked her." 

Jonathan closes the small walking gap between himself and Steve, face earnest and concerned. He looks like a friend. 

"Remember Tina and Sadie, they left two weeks ago to look for their mom? They're not on the register, they could still be close." 

"But what would they want from her?" Christopher asks sceptically.

Steve feels an inkling of memory…

"Steve," Robin says apprehensively, giving him major side eye. 

"It's fucking–" Heat like nothing he's ever felt burns behind his eyes. If he could, Steve would squat down on the ground and just sit there for a while, until this rush of fire and fear and missing you had toned it down, but he can't stop moving, so he staggers to keep walking. "Connor. It's Connor." 

"The Creep?" Robin asks. 

"I thought he died?" Vanessa asks. 

Steve picks up the pace of his steps, and tries to explain coherently, though his voice sounds ragged as his thoughts, "He didn't die, he– he disappeared. And he was so weird, he kept asking me about my girl, and just thought he was a perv, he–" Steve looks at his small group. "He was too interested in her. I should've seen it." 

"So he's not dead?" 

Steve's thinking that might be up for debate. 

—

The cabin is a shit show. When Connor bragged about fixing it up, you'd stupidly believed he actually fixed it up. His delusion stretches beyond you. It's cold to the point where your worries of hypothermia are no longer worries but eventualities, especially now he's realised the same thing and taken his coat back off of you. It hadn't fit well anyhow. 

You huddle in the corner of the room where a small wood fire burns in the stove, not too shameful to hold your numb fingers over the flame. Connor rages behind you, grumbling hate to himself and slamming whatever it is he can find against other things. Door to the frame, chair to the wall, his bag kicked across the room. You know that, eventually, his anger will turn to you. Projection of anger has rules. The wall won't look nearly as satisfying as a bruise. 

You turn to look at him over your shoulder as demurely as you can. You've smoothed down your hair, wiped your dirty face, and while you're no angel, he chose you, right? You must at least be his type. 

Or maybe you'd been an easy target. 

You wish you'd listened to Mallory all those weeks ago when she'd told you that having only Steve was a terrible idea. Not because having Steve is terrible, having Steve is everything, but because you can't imagine many people who'd be willing to fight for you. If he's coming to find you it's likely all by himself. Can Steve overpower this guy? You'd thought you could but you're not so sure. He's a tall man, an easy six foot. 

He's scaring you. 

You would try to calm him down if you weren’t worried he’d want you to show you how grateful you are for being rescued. You’d rather he rail at the window than touch you.

A sound like splintering wood has you flinching forward and away from him, hands dangerously close to the fire. You pull them away with a gasp, reminding Connor of your presence. 

“What?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you say hurriedly. “You should come and sit down, huh? You’ve been walking all day.”

He sits down beside you after a pensive, dramatic minute rubbing his own head. He drops his bag by your feet and you take whatever warmth you can, hiding your shoes underneath it. 

When he puts his hand on your thigh, you try to pretend it’s Steve. Steve sitting next to you, warm and soft and ready to pull you into his lap, that place between his legs, chest to chest and eye to eye. You want his hand in your hair, and his hot back under your frostbitten fingers.even when you were new, not quite in love, he’d let you hide your hands under his t-shirt. He’s that kind of good, right down to the marrow in his bones. 

You wish you’d known what was going to happen. Not even to ask him to come with you. You think after everything the two of you deserve a proper goodbye. All that pain and all that affection and this is how it ends? 

Connor’s hand creeps further down the length of your leg. You think, alright. Alright. I’ll do whatever I have to do if I get to see Steve again. 

A sound like cracking wood echoes outside. 

Connor is up and against the wall in two blinks. You follow him, breathing shallow as you peer outside. You’d agreed to the wood fire, knowing you’d get irretrievably sick without it, but you hadn’t mentioned the rule. You and Steve didn’t have too many, just enough to keep you alive, and the most important was to know the area before lighting a fire while it’s still light out. The smoke is a dead giveaway every time. 

Another sound.  

Someone has seen the smoke. 

“What do we do?” you whisper. 

He holds up his hand. 

“What are we gonna do?”

“Let me think.”

“Should we put out the fire?”

“Shut up!” he says harshly. “Shut up, Jesus Christ. I can’t think with you jabbering in my ear.”

Connor opens his backpack and takes out a zip tie. 

“No,” you say, shaking your head emphatically, “no, you can’t.”

“It’s this or I handcuff you to the radiator,” he says. 

A silence stretches between you both. He grabs your wrists and closes the zip tie around your wrist until you’re sure your hands will fall off, plastic digging cruelly into the lines already there. 

“You’re evil,” you murmur. 

His eyes turn to frosted glass. For the second time, you think, There’s nothing there. Nothing kind. Obviously not: he’s such a loser he felt he had to take a girl captive to get some. Fucking freak. 

He takes your face into his hand, squeezing your jaw in his paw of a hand. You whimper, your teeth grinding and your bones creaking from the force of it. 

“Stay quiet.” 

You stare. 

“Say ‘yes’.”

His fingers dig into your skin so hard you know you’ll have fingernail welts. 

“Yes,” you say, feeling as though you’ve choked on your own tongue. “I’ll be quiet.”

He throws your face away and your head smacks the wall. No more happy families. You cringe and slide down into yourself, a curled ball as he leaves the room. The gun clicks in his hands as he switches off the safety, and another metallic sound follows. You know it isn’t good. 

You cower for a moment, freaked out beyond words, and then you pull it together. For Steve. You sit up and press an awkward hand to your aching, stinging jaw. There’s blood on your fingers when you pull your bound hands away. You slide onto your knees and struggle to stand, shoulders riding the wall. Your ears are posted for a sound. There are a hundred options and you don’t want any of them. Run away, get killed by whoever’s out there. Run away, get killed by Connor. Run away, get killed by a geek. Run away, survive, and never find a way to unbind yourself. Run away into the hands of someone crueller. Run away and never find Steve. 

A female voice calls out. 

“We just want to talk!”

That’s nobody you know. It’s not Robin. You try not to feel heartbroken, and when you do you try to hold it rather than have it drag you down. It’s not Steve, fine, but it’s a woman, and she’s probably a whole lot safer than Connor. 

“I’m armed!” Connor shouts. 

You walk slowly to the window and peer through. Down the cabin steps and in the grass stands a dark silhouette you know is Connor. Further along is a woman and another figure. You’re not sure who. 

“So are we!” she calls. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. What are you supposed to do? What’s the answer here?

The shouting out front continues, but that’s not what distracts you— there are sounds coming from behind. There’s someone at the back door. You cast your gaze around the room to look for something that can help you. There’s a fire poker on the floor near the wood stove. You rush to grab it, almost falling at the weight of your own head. 

The first pop of the gun makes you drop it. Tears roll down your cheeks as you scramble to grab it again, hands shaking hard as footsteps sound in the hall. Another gunshot makes you gasp, the third has you swallowing a sob. You press yourself hard into the wall with the poker held aloft. 

The door opens. 

For a second, a split-second, you don’t recognise him. 

“Steve!” Jonathan Byers shouts, grinning, “I got her!”

Thudding races from the kitchen and down the hallway. Steve appears behind Jonathan like a dream, a dizzying relief to see in all his pale sweetness. 

You drop the poker and a sob comes so hard you can’t keep your eyes open. You’ve never felt anything like this. A nightmare over so suddenly and all you can do is fight to open your eyes. 

Steve crosses the room, steps over Connor’s tantrum like it isn’t there, and wraps his arms around you. It’s a different kind of tightness, nothing like the cruel press of Connor’s fingers. Steve pulls you together, steadies you, cheek smashed into the top of your head and arms circling your shoulders. Your fingers shake, you can’t move your hands, and still you curl them around his coat uselessly. You can’t get a hold on him, but it doesn’t matter. Steve has you. 

“It’s okay,” he’s saying, strands of panic sewn between the reassurance in his lovely voice. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Come on.” You’re crying like a little kid. You can’t stop, and you can’t breathe. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

Steve draws away from you, barely an inch, to slide the blade of his pen knife between your wrists. The zip tie splits and you vy for him weakly, your hands to his waist. 

He shoves the pen knife into his pocket and grabs your arm. “I know, I know, but we have to go. We can’t stay here, the noise’ll draw company we don't want.” His hand roams up to your neck. He cups your face, his palm blistering to your chilled cheek. “Hey,” he says, smiling a rare smile. “My girl… it’ll be okay. I’m gonna fix it. Everything’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

He nods at you hopefully. You swallow your sobbing until it’s a wet gasping sounds and nod back. He looks at you for a charged second, before he wraps his arms around you again. Gentle, so, so careful. Your head rests in the crook of his arm, a crop of kisses laid over your cold cheek. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I’m okay,” you say. “I’m fine now.” 

—

Steve sits in the path of the window, afternoon light drizzling into his eyes and over your sleeping face. He squints against its brightness and stands to pull the curtains closed, fingertips on your shoulder. He has to stretch to reach, but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s worried you’ll disappear if he does. Contact keeps you here. 

Curtains closed, he sits back down tentatively, looking for your hand in the mess of blankets and quilts covering your body. He’s wiped the blood from your cheeks, tended to your small inflamed cuts with disinfectant. He’s wrapped your sore wrists, spent hours rubbing your frostbitten fingers, worried the cold killed your circulation. You’ve slept for hours now, only stirring when he had to use the bathroom. He’d been gone for less than a minute, a heart attack in sixty seconds, and you’d been awake and trying to get out of bed when he got back. 

He stays close. 

He just wants you to rest. 

Steve pulls back the blankets and slips in beside you slowly. You turn into his movements, and when he’s flat on his back you let your weight rest on him completely. Your breathing tells him you’re waking up, not quite slow, not quite deep. 

He takes your hand into both of his and hugs it. Found it, he thinks.

“Stevie,” you utter. 

“Yeah, I’m here.”

You smile and push your face into the juncture of his neck. 

There aren’t really words for what Steve feels. Relief like a hurricane. Guilt something worse. Love, anger, worry. It’s all mixed together and he can’t pull one from the other, but he knows one thing. 

“I couldn’t live without you,” he mumbles. 

“Good,” you say. You snort into his skin. “Not good, baby, that’s awful, but-” You pull your hand from his to wrap it around his shoulders. He pulls you up onto his chest. “Good, ‘cause I can’t live without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

Your voice is scratchy from a lot of tears. He never wants to hear you cry like that again. He’s only heard it once before, when you’d fallen through the first floor of a dilapidated house a hundred miles away, and after hours where he’d assumed you’d never wake up again, you did, and you’d been in so much pain you couldn’t stay still. You’d shook for days. 

“I would’ve looked for you until I found you,” he says, unsure what he wants. He thinks, selfishly, that he’d like some comfort. 

“I know,” you say, your hand moving up, up to his hair. 

You lean back to see him, the two of you nose to nose, and stroke his hair away from his forehead one strand at a time. 

“Will you kiss me?” you whisper. 

“Depends,” he whispers back. “What’s in it for me?”

“Anything you want.”

He smirks at you. “Already got everything I want right here.”

“In that case, you’ll have to consider it part of your philanthropy, handsome. I’m a charity case.”

“How dare you say that about my girl,” he says, his feigned indignation hard to believe with the mildness of his tone, and his lips so close to yours. 

He kisses you, worried you’ll fall apart. It’s a sad kiss, not what he’d expected, though it’s better than the terrified one he’d stolen before you fell asleep. That had been nervous energy and imprecise, all the urgency of your first kiss and none of the finesse. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, peeling away from his case to frame his face in your hands. 

He could say no. Tears burn behind his eyes, his nose stings, he could burst into tears in your arms. 

“How can you ask me that?” he asks, watching as your eyes pinch into a squint and all your eyelashes kiss. 

“I love you,” you say. 

He chokes on air. “I know that. I love you, too, but you’re the one who got hurt. You’re the one who’s hurting, why would you ask me how I am? You’re—“ Too good. Too good for me. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Steve.”

You have tears in your eyes and he’s flooded with guilt. He brought it up too soon, he knows. It’s barely over — you need to feel safe, and won’t if he keeps reminding you. 

“I’m okay,” he says softly. “How are you feeling, huh?”

“I’m actually starving,” you admit, squishing his cheeks with your hands. 

“You want me to go get you something?”

You look down bashfully. “I really need to shower, Steve. You might be blind to my grime but I’m gross right now–”

He kisses you to cut you off, a sharp, saccharine kiss that makes you giggle. “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about, idiot.”

“Your girlfriend is a creature.”

“A creature!” He uses his weight to push you onto your back, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re done. You’re done,” he repeats, beaming at your infectious laughter, “you think you can talk about yourself whatever way you like, don’t you? It’s not happening.”

“Okay, I won’t,” you say, your eyes locking with his. 

He watches your lips part, feels the rise and fall of your chest under his. 

I’m so sorry, he wants to tell you. 

You’re finally smiling. He won’t ruin it.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling his lips into a big smile. 

It’s easier than he anticipates to smile. You needle your arms over his shoulders and tug him to your chest, your own smile like a brand next to his ear. 

“I missed you,” you say. “I know it’s stupid.”

He exhales heavily. “I missed you too.”

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter four

check out the hockey glossary here (updated through chapter four)

Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

credit to weatherwaxed for the truly horrendous and accurate hockey nickname for Tommy

read Chapter Four on ao3

Tommy’s ears are still ringing.

Kane’s been sent off for a game misconduct, and Diaz’s nose doesn’t seem to be too much worse for the wear, although he’s going to have a nasty shiner on both eyes by the time this game is through. Hen’s done what she can to patch them both up, while Nash talks them through how the hell they’re going to come back from a four goal deficit in twenty minutes, in Edmonton, with McDavid on a hot streak and Hyman one goal away from a hatty.

Tommy’s already done his part — with the Oilers up by three Kane had taken a run at Diaz, elbow angled just right to get him right beneath the bucket, square between his eyes, and Tommy had almost jumped the gun trying to get on the ice before anyone could skate off to give him the opportunity. No call, of course, just the jeers of eighteen thousand or so fans while McKinley screamed at the refs, but the whistle had given Nash the opportunity to throw Tommy out on the ice, and Knoblauch had left Kane out to take his lumps, no doubt certain a fight would just keep the momentum rolling.

Kane had gotten his licks. It’d been a fairly evenly matched fight, right up until Tommy had squirmed his way out from the sweater Kane had been attempting to trap him in and gone full tilt with just shoulder pads for his opponent to try to get leverage with.

His knuckles are split. He can still taste the blood in his mouth. He’s running hot, even now, knee jumping up and down with no conscious effort as he listens to coach try to rally them, but Edmonton had scored almost immediately after Kane had been sent off for chirping a ref after serving his five, and they’re short on momentum, at the moment. It’s been a span of rough days — losing at home to the two-seed in their division, ending the home winning streak. Two new guys slotted into the lineup post-trade deadline who haven’t had the time to build up the chemistry they need. Two back-to-backs with travel time in a week and a half.

They’re tired. They’re annoyed with each other. They keep fumbling the puck in the neutral zone and giving Edmonton the chance to skate it in without challenge. Tommy’d won the fight and it hadn’t rallied shit, and honestly? Tommy’s a little annoyed about that. Kane’s not an easy down, and Tommy’d had him on the ice taking a fist to the gut before stripes had managed to separate them.

This is the point in the game where Tommy cedes his ice time to the skill players — the speedsters, the play-makers, who are all staring at Nash right now like they’re thinking about the mini-bars in their hotel rooms.

Tommy is annoyed.

Nash ends his spiel with five minutes left to go in the intermission and disappears out into the hallway. That’s not abnormal — for all his quiet confidence he’s rarely a hype-man. The problem is right now no one is a fucking hype man.

Tommy shifts his weight, eyes on Diaz as Panikkar mumbles to himself next to him. The ice he’s had on his hand is already too warm to be doing much, and he’s halfway to standing up and spending the next four minutes trying to convince Hen that frozen packs of peas are actually miles better than her gel-packs when he notices one of the new guys shooting him a shifty look.

“Skinner’s taking chances behind the net because he thinks we won’t take advantage of them,” Tommy says, just loud enough to lower the volume of the sporadic chatter. “Hyman’s been nursing his left side all game from the stinger in the first, and they’re leaving gaps in coverage all over the ice. We’ve played this game before. We’ve won this game before.” Two weeks ago, on home ice, with the ability to make the last change and a team fully refreshed after the All-Star break, but Tommy doesn’t feel like that part is necessary to point out. “We’re passing too much, and we’re spinning our wheels for the perfect shot when we should be shooting everything at the net. We’re not gonna get a lucky fucking bounce if we’re all doing geometry on the move trying to find a lane.”

“Great points,” Ravi says, the bratty little tone of his voice betraying him, and Tommy presses his weight down on the bench in an effort not to pick a fight. “Or maybe they’re on three days of rest and a heater.”

Tommy rolls his tongue over his teeth, darts a glance around the room. Three minutes to puck drop, and the room is ready to pack it in. “Anyone else gonna tell me why I wasted a fight on this?” Across the room, Diaz smirks at him, and a few of them shift in their seats. “Or do we wanna put on our big boy pants and play out the next twenty minutes like they mean something?”

As far as rousing speeches go, it’s no St. Crispin’s. But McKinley’s admonished look shifts into that blank-faced zen stare he gets sometimes, right before he runs it up, and the new guys seem to have a bit more energy.

The time ticks down, and they head down the tunnel, and Tommy takes a seat on the bench, fully prepared for his little pep talk to fall on deaf ears.

Buckley shifts closer to Tommy as they all scoot down the bench, three shifts into the third. "McDavid's injured," he says unprompted, and Tommy shoots him a look from behind his visor. "Listen, I know it sounds crazy but he's weak on his left wing right now, and I have a plan."

"You tell Nash this plan?"

"Next time you're out with us, just get to the net."

"Buckley, if I'm out for more than thirty seconds we've already lost this game."

"Just get to the net, Kinard."

Tommy can't help the snotty little salute he sends Buck's way, but three minutes later he's chasing down Ravi, for once grateful that his speed is shit because it means he's never in danger of an offsides call when Panikkar skates the puck in past the blue line. Diaz and Buckley aren't far behind him, so Tommy shoulders his way past two Oilers and plants himself in front of the net.

And then they're passing.

This shits not gonna work. He can feel Skinner behind him, trying to pick out the puck between the bodies blocking his view, and Tommy takes a moment to watch Diaz circling, and Buckley quarterbacking from the top of the zone, Ravi searching out a lane while Buck tosses it back to Landstrom, who returns it to Buck. Near the top of the circles McDavid is skating into the passes and nursing his left side.

Shit.

Buck's right.

Tommy shifts to the other side of the crease. He's got Hyman unknowingly screening the left side of the net, and if Buck can get some separation between Nurse and McDavid --

The puck comes screaming in on Hyman's right, and Tommy shifts his stick, angles it and —

He doesn't even fucking care if it hits Hyman or his stick before it tips into the net over Skinner's shoulder. The crowd noise drops off, and Diaz and Buckley are speeding towards him.

The three of them go slamming into the boards, Diaz and Buckley shouting incomprehensibly, and then Ravi and Landstrom are there too. One of them has a hand on his bucket, shaking his head indiscriminately back and forth, and another one is yelling, and over on the bench, in the sudden deadening of the crowd noise, he can hear Donato and McKinley both celebrating, sticks smacking against the boards.

Tommy’s already halfway to the bench when Diaz and Buckley both have to circle back and send him to the front of their line for glove taps, and as he clambers back over the boards to greet a full barrage of back slaps and bucket-smacks, the refs actually have to come over and warn them to cool it with the celebration.

Buckley settles onto the bench next to him with a bright grin as Nash sends out their second line. “Told you,” he says, the sparkle in his eyes almost cartoonish against the harsh glare of the ice, and before Tommy can think of anything clever to say, he’s turning back to Diaz and the iPad.

---

Tie game, with three minutes left, and the Bobby Blender has somehow worked well enough to give them a chance to win this game. Tommy’s been out for maybe a minute and a half of the last fifteen. He’s feeling pretty fucking good about both the fight, and the dubiously moralizing speech he’d made, when McDavid intercepts a sloppy pass and suddenly has open ice between the blue line and the net.

There’s a certain noise, that happens in an arena, when a particular player has possession of the the puck and speed on his side. A sudden hush, the air being sucked out of the room, before a wild roar taken up by thousands upon thousands of voices, and as Buckley and Diaz chase him down Tommy’s waiting for the inevitable sound of the goal buzzer.

Chim pulls off a stunner of a poke check half a foot outside his crease and while McDavid spins into the turn behind the net, looking about ready to break his stick on the boards, Buckley and Diaz have caught Edmonton in a change — it’s a dumb change, Tommy has no idea why they’d chosen a breakaway as the moment to swap out players, but Diaz has a sheet of free ice to pass it off to McKinley, who is screaming down the ice.

Tommy checks the clock. A minute forty, and McKinley makes a clean break between two Oilers down the stretch, and then he’s free as a fucking bird, ten feet between him and the crease — five, and Skinner miscalculates exactly how many dekes McKinley has in him; the puck slides in five hole and Buckley and Diaz circle up while the entire bench explodes around Tommy.

---

Across the table, Buckley keeps shooting him looks. He’s grown familiar with some of Evan Buckley’s looks, over the past month or so, but he can’t quite parse this one. Before he can raise a brow, tilt his head, try to figure out exactly what the look had all been about, Buck shifts his gaze to Nash, up the table, telling a story about one of his fights when he’d played for the Stingrays.

Next to him, Eddie taps at his shoulder again, phone out to show him yet another comment thread about Tommy’s fight. This one seems to be slightly less horny than the last one, but he’s still not entirely sure he understands why Diaz hops on there so often.

Eddie chuckles when Tommy gets three comments down and rolls his eyes before returning to his food, and across the table, Buck turns to look at them both again. When he catches Tommy looking back, his eyes swivel away.

“No, hold on, listen to this one: Nards could drop me like he dropped Kane tonight and I’d still beg him to —.”

“—Okay,” Tommy interrupts, and Eddie cackles, fingers darting across his phones keyboard like he’s about to do something Josh Russo will absolutely take umbrage with.

“Telling you not to send that reply is just an exercise in futility, isn’t it?”

Eddie raises a brow, lips pursed while he continues to type. He hums. “Josh is gonna be pissed I’m not using my burner account right now. Muy inapropiado.”

Tommy’s not great with Spanish, but it’s not really a stretch to decipher that one. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Buckley leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a look of consternation on his face, gaze focused intently on whatever story O’Connor is telling now.

“Don’t show it to me. I want to have the ability to claim ignorance.”

“Fine, but I’m tagging you in it.”

“The last thing I posted on there was three years ago.”

“Well, the fan who’s clinging to ‘Nards’ as your nickname is still gonna assume you saw it.” Eddie darts his gaze up with a grin. “Can I call you Cojones?”

“No,” Tommy tells him, but he can feel the lines around his mouth stretching almost to his ears as he shakes his head. “My nonna would rise from her grave to slap my wrist and yell stugotsa before she returned to her slumber.”

Buckley picks at his salad across the table, frown still prominent, and Tommy tries his hardest not to find the pout of his lower lip appealing. He’s not — they’re not — but he’s barely gone a night in his own bed without a phone call from Buck, who’d taken Tommy’s one call to him in the early morning hours before a meaningless exhibition game as blanket permission to spend an hour before sleeping every night talking Tommy’s ear off.

Tommy doesn’t hate it.

(Tommy is very aware that he’s treading a tight rope with too much slack, and can’t get a read on the end-game for the life of him.)

He’s intriguing , is the problem. Beyond the curls in his hair that always appear after twenty minutes tucked under his helmet, beyond the wine-dark splash of his birthmark, beyond the sea-glass gleam of his gaze and the gentle slope of his cheekbones, the frankly ridiculous cut of his Adonis belt and the ass that fills out his dress pants on game days, he is miles more interesting than any man Tommy’s met in years, and he knows plenty of interesting men. He knows more useless trivia than Tommy could fill a book with, and hires chefs to teach him how to make his chickpea pasta, has terrible opinions on Star Wars (according to Christopher Diaz), a codependent relationship with his partner. He’s absolutely obsessed with hockey lore, and on top of that he’s sweet, and kind, and so fucking generous with his time.

Tommy’d watched him spend forty-five minutes with fans in the parking lot outside their practice facility, signing pucks and sweaters and posters, talking to each individual kid like he’d known them for years, taking selfies and talking to parents.

He’d spent that evening under the hood of Diaz’ Chevelle and watching Eddie struggle to make any sense of his son’s homework while slyly derailing the conversation by mentioning Buck, and that night listening to Buck walk him through the history of invasive plants, with twenty minutes reserved for kudzu alone.

Tommy is, in all frankness, a little fucked. He’s well aware, at this point, how heterosexual all of Evan Buckley’s previous romantic entanglements have been, with the help of Christopher, and the fly-by from Eddie to bitch about the latest girl who’d apparently found his brush with death to be the most intriguing thing about him. (He still has the silvery wisp of the scar on his neck from where Kucherov’s blade had nicked him — half an inch to the left, a few millimeters deeper, and Buck would have bled out on the ice in front of eighteen-thousand horrified fans.)

Which isn’t even taking into account how insane Tommy would have to be to throw out twenty years of carefully curated lies about himself to even think about this in anything more than the abstract.

(And Buck is still young — Tommy’s almost out but Buck’s got years ahead of him, in a league so behind the times that Travis Dermott shooting a big fat fuck you to the commissioner by playing with colorful tape on his stick had been seen as an act of ballsy rebellion.)

It doesn’t stop him from thinking about the lingering glances, the flirty head tilts, the tone of Evan Buckley’s voice when he’s teasing.

“...hear her purr, now,” Eddie says beside him, with a smack to the meat of Tommy’s shoulder, and he glances up from his plate to find Buck staring at them both.

“Cool,” Buck says, a moment before he stands, dropping his napkin onto the table. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Eddie, apparently not catching the tone of his voice, just grins at his friend. “Yeah, you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

Coming from the man with deep purpling bruises blooming under both eyes, it doesn’t seem to hold much weight, but Buck scowls anyway, a moment before he turns to leave.

---

Tommy tosses and turns for an hour, unable to get comfortable, rolling over their next few opponents in his mind; thinking through the way Buck had looked at him in the moments before he’d walked out of the hotel restaurant; pondering the last thing his therapist had said to him, two weeks ago, when he’d been stuck on something he’d said to his father five years earlier; wincing every time he flexed his hand and was reminded of how sturdy Kane’s jaw was.

He’s contemplating popping one of the pain pills Hen had given him when he finally admits to himself exactly why he’s having trouble sleeping.

His phone has been dark since he passed Eddie’s door on the way to his own.

It’s not abnormal that he doesn’t talk to Buck, after a game on the road. It makes sense, in the context of the last few weeks — they’ve all been a little wired, with so little time between games, so much travel in between. They don’t have another game for three days and all of them should be resting, recuperating. Buckley’s played over twenty-five minutes the last two nights in a row, and less than twenty-four hours before that he’d played almost twenty-eight.

But the gentle hum of Buckley’s voice as it grew tired has become something of a white noise machine to Tommy, and... he’s missing it.

He rambles around his room for ten minutes, tosses a twenty on the desk when he finds the frozen peas he’d asked the concierge for chilling in the freezer of the mini-fridge, fluffs his pillows, contemplates trying to find a shitty rom com on his Netflix account.

When the peas sweat through the hand towel he’d wrapped them in, he tosses them back in the fridge and leaves a note for housekeeping and an extra twenty.

Tommy stares at the ceiling for another ten minutes before he picks up his phone and sends the most cliché text imaginable. You up?

The message glares back at him, mocking him, and Tommy contemplates unsending it while it sits unread for thirty seconds, a minute.

He’s hovering his finger over the message when he gets a read receipt.

A bubble pops up. Disappears.

Three minutes pass, and they appear again, and just as quickly disappear.

He’s just about to plug his phone back into his charger and call it a wash when the text comes through.

Sorry, talking to my sister. Get some sleep, man.

Buck follows it up with a gif of Stanley Hudson passed out in front of his desk, and Tommy takes it for the dismissal it is.

[marleysfinest]

nsfw! fem reader x reiner, smut drabble. minors dni

nothing, just daydreaming about reiner doing a full 180, switching from the sweetest, most gentle teddy to a fully grown bear as soon as he catches a glimpse of the lacy thong you purposely put on to flaunt in front of him. it's super hot outside, and so the short skirt isn't entirely a surprise, and he's spent all day making sure your sunscreen is topped up so you don't burn, and that you're hydrated enough with constant water bottle refills.

you've just spend the day running little errands; taking the dog to the groomers, cleaning the house, visiting your mom. last thing on the list was to stop by the supermarket so your fridge and pantry doesn't look so woefully empty.

reiner pushes the cart around as you browse the shelves, slowly revelling in the air conditioning that's cooling you down. you toss in what you need - juice, apples, those big tins of peanuts that he loves - until you just need to grab some cotton wool for yourself. it's up a little too high for you to reach without help, and he's a little distracted by the new shower gel on the men's side. you find a little footstool and kick it over to the shelf and climb up, and with a cursory glance to make sure he's noticed what you're doing, you reach up and slightly tip-toe as you reach for the cotton, making sure that your skirt comes up just enough to reveal yourself to him. once your feet are back flat on the ground, he's already wheeling the cart towards you faster than he had done all day.

"you done?" he asks quickly. you can't help but smile, chucking the pack of cotton wool into the cart.

"all set."

he nigh on runs to the checkout and pays without even checking the amount is correct. he throws the shopping into the back of the car and hits the road home. he's not mad, although an innocent onlooker might think he's a man made furious over something. no, he's just impatient, and desperate to get you home.

with blatant disregard to any order, he packs the shopping into the fridge as soon as the front door is shut, and within seconds his eyes are on you, looking you up and down like you're prey. you stand, fiddling with your fingers, ever the innocent. he slips off his t-shirt as he slowly pads closer to you.

"was that for my benefit?" he asks, his hands immediately lifting your skirt up as soon as he's in arm's reach, firmly clutching your ass.

"what?" you ask, as your fingers explore his muscled arms and chest in front of you, just slightly tinted with sweat from the heat. he's no longer willing to waste any time - that glimpse had sent him exactly where you'd intended, and the drive home had forced him to wait long enough. he grabs you up into his arms and throws you on to the sofa - no time to head up to the bedroom! - and he kneels in front of you, fingers gently tracing the lace of your underwear.

"these are some silly little pants," he utters, "are they for me?"

you nod, maintaining your silence and loving it. he gently nudges your legs ever so slightly further apart, and without warning leans forward and pulls the thong to one side with his teeth. before you can register what he's done, he's slipped two fingers inside of you and starts to gently massage you. you hear your wetness coat his fingers as he slams them in and out, immediately finding that sweet, sweet spot that makes your cheeks blush with pleasure. you're head is laid back against the back of the sofa, and you've been so busy letting him devote himself to you, not holding back your whimpers or moans that you don't even notice him slip his shorts or boxers off. without warning he removes his fingers, and as you lift your head to scold him for stopping, he flips you over and places your hands on the back of the sofa for support. your knees bury themselves into the cushions, and you don't even have time to breathe before he's sliding his cock into you, holding the strap of your thong to one side as he does so.

"I should've known you were up to something when you put on this skirt," he grunts, slowly but firmly fucking your pussy, "you like teasing me, huh?"

by now you're too pleased with yourself, and too engulfed with the pleasure of his cock inside you to answer. all you can do is let out a timid giggle.

"you know me so well, don't you baby?" he purrs, increasing his speed as he leans forward to wrap an arm across your breasts, pinning you against him, "don't you?"

he growls into your ear as he asks, one hand holding your tits and the other your ass as he fucks you mercilessly.

"yes, daddy," you whimper through your moans. without even looking you know he's smiling.

"that's it," he praises, "you're mine, baby girl."

you're no more than a mewling mess in his arms; he knows your undoing comes from his praise. he grips your tits harder, making sure you're as close to him as you can be, that he's as deep inside of you as he can go.

"that's it baby, all mine."

to your surprise, he lets you find your undoing, and he simultaneously huffs against your neck as he pumps you full. you both collapse onto the sofa, both breathless, sweaty messes.

"all that for a bit of cheek?" you ask. reiner laughs and hits you on the thigh.

"you know it, baby," he replies, "go get me some ice."