#i know that i have a tendency to use a bit too many layers

[lucdoodle]

I WAS WONDERING WHY MY FILE TOOK SO LONG TO LOAD HOW DID THAT HAPPEN BRO???!! 😭

[lindsay00000008]

Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

Part 2 (Prev)

CW: suggestive fluff, bad jokes, boners, reader is willfully dumb, author doesn’t know where this story is going but wants to write more parts anyway, first cod fic actually send help, is he smiling too much? Idk, happy ghost I guess

“Well that… that is not a book.”

Ghost’s eyes lock onto yours, too close for comfort. Your whole body flushes, and your stomach dips. This situation is way out of hand. His breath huffs and his body tenses, and your skin tingles with the charge in the air — the playfight isn’t over.

You do the only thing you can think of. You wriggle your arm between the two of you and cover his mouth with your palm, using his surprise to smoosh his face away from yours and twisting your body to the side. Both of you roll off the couch and onto the floor. You’re on top, and ready to break away, to end the fight with a handshake and burning cheeks.

But you gasp as his legs come up and around your hips, and his arms catch your torso and head, bringing you into his hips like a tree to a bear.

“Simon!” you yelp, though it sounds more like Fimom, the word getting lost in his meaty shoulder. His hold is gentle but stiff, and it’s impossible to go anywhere. You shift your body, feeling like you’ve been gift-wrapped by a professional knot-maker. “Mmph…” you give up and let your body relax on top of his.

After a few moments of heavy silence he sighs and relaxes his grip.

“Mmm,” he purrs. “This is nice…”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up as he finally allows you to move.

“If you wanted a cuddle you could’ve just asked,” you tell him, rolling off him to land on your back.

“I meant the roughhousing,” he deadpans, turning his head to watch you.

“Oh, of course. My mistake,” you quip back. Then you remember the box on the floor and jolt upright, stuffing the contents back in before stumbling to your feet and heading to your room, your shoulder tensed for a possible pounce. But it seems playtime is over, and you make it to your room without a fuss. You toss the small box on your bed, then change your mind and put it in a drawer instead.

When you return, Simon is in the kitchen, peeling the dry outer layers away from an onion.

“You can just cut it in half and it’d be easier to get those bits off,” you tell him.

“It’s not clean,” he retorts.

“You’re worried about a little dirt?”

“No,” he doesn’t elaborate, but keeps peeling it anyway. You settle into his side and smile, taking the skin off a second onion. How silly, that this man cares so much for grocery store germs, when he probably had days at a time in the field where he couldn’t even wash his hands?

When he finishes peeling his onion, he washes his hands again, and even rinses the onion, before grabbing the knife. You follow the routine, not wanting to gross him out or overstep. You guess it may be an overcorrection, him trying to be as clean as possible when he can. You just don’t remember seeing these tendencies when he’s made food for himself, those times you came over after your own early dinner. In fact, this may be the first time he’s cooked for you.

“You want to become God, then?” You joke, feeling a bit lame.

“What?”

“Cleanliness. Close to godliness.”

He shrugs. “You deserve a clean onion.”

That’s makes you snicker. “You must think so highly of me. Odd, considering you’ve seen the kind of messes I make when I cook for you.”

He smiles at that. You’re thinking of the time you accidentally heated up soup in a soapy pot. Simon had half of his bowl before you took a bite, only commenting that he must have that rogue cilantro gene. But he could be thinking of one of the many other food mishaps that occurred under your hospitality.

As he chops, you bend down and pat his leg to scooch, so you can access the cabinets beneath him. He tilts his hips and steps away — but not before you notice the bulge tightly packed behind his zipper. As you nonchalantly grab the glass bowl and pan you need, your head spins. Is this some odd side effect of cutting onions? Your eyes sting, you cry, you pop a boner…

Or was it because he just had your body under him, atop him, picturing you using your recent delivery…?

No. It’s not you he’s reacting to, he’s just a guy. He just got a little excited, got his blood pumping for a play fight with his bestie. That’s normal. But you can’t help thinking how you have this giant, manly — sexual man in your kitchen. How you ever managed to disregard that fact in the first place.

You’ve stalled after placing the pan on the stove, and you don’t realize until a handful of minced onion hits the pan in front of you.

“Oh wait, the oil,” you tell him, looking up at his face. He looks concerned for you, and maybe a little warm himself, a pink flush on his cheeks.

“Just poured some. You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah… Water?”

He grunts his confirmation. You open the fridge to find the filter empty. You sigh.

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

(Next)

[i-heart-hxh]

i want to thank you for talking about the doomery takes about Gon and Killua's separation with the level of patience & respect you do. i think people sometimes believe they parted on worse terms than they really did and it leads to people asking questions like "why would Killua say that to him?" or "why didn't Gon give a 'proper' apology?" with a preconception that the situation is irreparable. theyre intelligent kids who love each other a lot, so these things can feel really mean or insensitive to us because we see it as such a high stakes situation when in actuality, the characters kind of know what's happening already and can intuit each others feelings or intentions to a reasonable degree.

like, ex: Killua calls Gon stuff like an embarrassing moron frequently and Gon sees its because he's emotionally constipated and not because Killua actually thinks he's stupid. conversely, Killua knows that what Gon said to him in the palace came from an irrational place of lashing out at the only safe person in the room, and the reason why he can make fun of Gon later for it is because its clear he regrets it. they understand each other quite a bit and though the separation makes them really sad, i'm sure they both get, on some level, why it has to be like this for a bit

Thank you very much for the sweet message!

I honestly get exhausted by how many doom and gloom takes exist about HxH in general, and especially around Gon and Killua's relationship. I hope that by talking about my own perceptions of the series after spending all these years thinking about it and pulling it apart, more people can come to the side of having hope about it and being excited about what's ahead for them.

What they went through was immensely painful, and it certainly hurt those of us who love their relationship, too, but there are far more reasons to believe they have a path of healing and reconciliation ahead of them than all the angsty alternatives. They may have more to go through first before they reach that point, but in my opinion it would contradict the themes of the series for them not to have a second chance to rebuild their relationship even better.

That's a good bit of insight about them and how their interactions are much more than just what they're literally saying! I totally agree that they're quite perceptive about each other and aware of at least some of each others' feelings below the surface. There are actually several scenes where they explain things about the other with a surprising amount of insight--for instance, when Killua is talking to Wing about Gon's tendencies after the Gido match, or Gon knowing Killua will reluctantly fold to him if he insists on something when talking to Meleoron. Their relationship is complex and they both have areas where they need to improve with regards to communicating and understanding each other (especially how they see themselves and the way that warps how they see each others' feelings), but they deeply love each other and I'm sure they're going to want to make the changes needed to fix things between them and not have something like Chimera Ant Arc happen again.

The separation has a lot of layers, but it portrays them both as sad to split up even though it's what's needed for now, still hurting about what they went through but grateful for each other nonetheless, comfortable enough with each other still for Killua to tease Gon and Gon to openly mope about it, and they make it clear this isn't forever. Even with the various subtextual things going on (like Gon's use of "nakama" after Killua had a crisis about that very word and Killua saying Gon is now number 2, for instance) don't erase the overall tone of the separation. It's bittersweet and hard for them both, but not on bad terms!

HxH is a story about human connection and second chances and how love transforms people. The two characters at the center of the story epitomize these themes, so having a cynical view of their bond and future feels like having a cynical view of what the series as a whole is saying. There's nothing wrong with exploring or thinking about angsty themes, of course, and I truly love how much darkness, sadness, and trauma HxH explores throughout, but I don't believe the ultimate trajectory of the series is one of hopelessness or cynicism.

I hope those who are concerned about their future can zoom out and look at the series as a whole and see how many reasons there are to be hopeful for them.

[murdockmeta]

Matt's Protective Tendencies Regarding Gwen

So, for this post, I want to focus on three moments (cause with that many this is still gonna be too long aha) that stuck out to me on my second read-through. It's important to note these examples because Matt's relationship with Gwen is the closest we get to seeing him caring about anyone or anything.

Matt threatening George Stacy

This one is the most complex of the three. There are many layers to this scene but I think it's telling how Matt makes Gwen the center of the conversation. Also, he resorts to personal attacks on George's ability to protect Gwen and be a good father to her.

Matt does seem controlled in this scene to a certain extent, clearly there with the intention to taunt George, but I think he's... not as controlled as he appears.

This is the first time in the run we've really seen him use a more hands-on approach. So far, he's used legal loopholes, threats, manipulation, and so on. He's dodged (quite literally in some cases) every chance at a physical altercation.

Here, he shows up in relatively casual clothes (another interesting choice. the only time we ever see this.) and he eventually ends up holding George Stacy in a chokehold over the side of a building.

In the previous panel he's in, he's meditating when he's contacted by George. He picked up his phone on the second ring (not the first, despite how obvious the disruption is. hes trying to give the impression of nonchalance). He goes through the efforts of pretending to not know who's calling even though he definitely does.

When we see him again, it appears as though he's only changed his shirt before showing up at George's house. It's not the next day, it's probably not even an hour later. He was waiting for George to call. I'd be tempted to say he was growing impatient.

He starts with cheap attacks on George's morality and his job, petty things. It very quickly escalates.

Frank Castle had recently proven to be quite a threat to Gwen. Castle wants to kill Spider-Woman. Matt is refusing to let that happen. But, he wants George to be the one to make the call.

He's very dedicated to protecting Gwen but he also needs Gwen to trust him a tiny bit. He knows that if he outright kills Frank that Gwen would lose all faith in him. She would drop contact immediately and refuse to work with him again.

Yet, he's so persistent about protecting her, he goes to George to try and get him to do it. Matt wants Frank dead. Out of the equation. He's willing to physically threaten George, to get angry, to show maybe just a little too much of himself. He's trying every personal attack he can. And in his desperation to force George's hand, he reveals a lot about his motives. Even George picks up on this.

George is talking about what he thinks he sees in Matt. He thinks Matt killing Frank outright would show how bad Matt is, how cold and immoral he is, therefore losing Gwen's willingness to work for him. When really, it shows how dedicated and desperate Matt is. Matt cannot-- cannot-- lose Gwen. He needs her because for the first time since he was a child he has the chance to no longer feel alone.

He needs his plan to work. He can't have Frank mess it up but he also can't push Gwen too far away from him. So, he does all of this instead.

This is one of the most interesting goddamn lines in the whole scene. This is in the middle of Matt's attempt to attack George's ability to be a good father, his ability to protect Gwen. In that, Matt lets this slip out.

He's obviously projecting himself onto Gwen. And I also think he projects his relationship with Jack onto George but that's a discussion for another post.

So, does he think he's protecting Gwen from becoming like him? Making the hard decisions so she doesn't have to? He acts like he wants Gwen to become as bad as he does but even Gwen says in the end: he wanted to lose, he wanted to be caught. So...? We know he hates himself. And with the above line, we see the closest Matt ever gets to admitting how he truly feels to someone he lets live.

Gwen's different because Gwen represents a chance for things to go right. Matt needs to protect her because he needs her to succeed.

2. Matt refusing Gwen's apology

I was going to just highlight his first few lines in this panel but the whole thing seemed relevant to this post.

So, when I first read this line, I thought it was borderline out of character. He, of course, can't just refuse her apology, he has to give some self-centered reason why. But, everything he follows up with unintentionally reveals his hand once again.

To Gwen, Matt's reasons sound selfish and cruel. She thinks he just wants to use her, control her. She thinks he's interested in what she can do for him. And, well, he is. But it's never just that.

He wants her safe. He plainly says it. He wants her safe so that he can make sure she's not in danger, to make sure she doesn't die or make any decisions she's going to genuinely regret.

I think Matt's heavy-handedness in regard to Gwen's morality is extremely intentional. You don't change someone's mind about their personal morals by telling them how ridiculous their morals are all day. You don't change their mind by trying to force them to make deals they rather wouldn't. Arguably, that's how you make them stand their ground.

And I think that's what Matt's counting on. He sees it as a win-win, whether Gwen ends up turning evil or not (because if she does then he can finally die). But really... I think he wants her to have a reason to be good. He knows how hard-headed she is, it's one thing he likes about her. So, he knows that antagonizing her will just make her more assured when she comes out on the other side.

If she can stick through to the end and beat him, there's not much that can stop her after that. One important thing about Gwen's development as Spider-Woman is that at the beginning, she doesn't have the strong conviction to do good that 616 Peter has due to his uncle's death.

Peter died in her universe, but it didn't serve the same purpose. She felt guilt over Peter's death, but not the kind that strengthened her morals. It was this crushing guilt that dragged her down, made her lose faith in herself. A lack of confidence like that can quickly lead down a much darker path and we see that in Gwen throughout volume two.

She still needs that push. That final act that'll let her come into her purpose fully. And Matt intends on giving that to her if she's willing to go along with his plan long enough. He crafts himself into a big, bad villain for her. Just so she can be good.

3. Matt protecting Gwen's identity

Matt goes out of his way to make sure Gwen's identity stays safe. He knows her secret identity is important to her. He made sure he tied up his loose ends with Toomes so he wouldn't tell.

The one that's more interesting to me is the fact he didn't even tell his ninja her name. These ninja are assigned to protect her from any harm while they are in a foreign country and an assassin is after Gwen. But Matt doesn't bother giving them her name.

There's not even really a reason for him not to tell them other than him being overly protective of her. It's not like they're going to tell anyone, they're fucking ninja. They're sworn to secrecy out of pure principle.

Yet, Matt doesn't say anything. He could've even used it as a bargaining chip but he doesn't genuinely threaten to reveal her identity even once. Would it have really even affected his plans long term? Her identity is revealed at one point, and he still gets what he wants in the end.

But he never brings it up unless it concerns her identity being revealed in a way that may harm her. He never dangles it in her face. He respects it and protects her.

---

These are just a few moments I wanted to talk about. Honestly, the George Stacy one could've been its own post and I'll probably end up making another about it eventually.

Matt is so multifaceted and he shows that best with the people he dares to form attachments to. The main one being Gwen. The way he treats her is the closest he got to caring about someone. It's the closest we get to seeing what he's really like under all his disguises.

He demands control because he thinks that is the only way to protect the ones he's attached to. He knows, in his particular position, that there really is no other way to go about it. And he doesn't want the people he cares about to like him. He doesn't think he deserves it, really.

He wants Gwen to be better, to do better, so he allows her to hate him so much that she has no choice but to come out stronger in the end.

[lamialamia]

hai!!! are there any sledgefu fanfics or writers u could rec to me?

Anon I'm so sorry it took me so long to get to this. I was swamped with exams and deadlines and traveling. But gosh. I GOT CHU. I got recs!!!

This got insanely long so I'm putting a read more

Fanfic - Canon-verse (no AU)

Sleep Aid by someonesgrlbomb. Gosh. Okay. We all know the weird, fucked up bond between Sledge and Snafu is so interesting. They are traumatized young men who are wrestling with their humanity in hellish conditions. And this fic is one amazing look into this bond.

C’est ta main dans ma main doucement oubliée. by ijustlookatpictures. This one is heartbreaking. Not healthy in the slightest. But if you want to be devastated, this fic is for you.

I do my best because I'm counting on you counting on me by ijustlookatpictures. A groundhog day AU set in the war so I still put it here. I love this fic for its Snafu's voice. Trust me, Snafu is a tough character to write for because he is a layered bastard who has so much going for him. I re-read this fic like once every few months.

As It Was by SJtrinity. Possibly one of the best post-war fics for sledgefu out there. This fic might be formatted a little weird on Ao3 but trust me, it's worth it. Sledge and Snafu's road to a happy endings isn't easy or simple and this fic makes them earn their happy endings (even after surviving a war). READ THIS FIC PLEASE. I'M ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU.

i’m the diode, you’re the kerosene by getmean. This imo is one of the required reading sledgefu fics. I mean, I would say that about any of getmean's fic but yeah. Realistic about PTSD but so perfectly balance with the slow-burn romance we all crave. Simply magnificent.

an angel like a memory by starblessed. Another incredible fic that nailed Snafu's voice.

gone but not entirely by marinersapptcomplex. Angst for the ages. Sledgefu is treasure trove of angst and in the right hand, it would fuck you up. Because this fic fucked me up. It's so good and deserve thousand of kudos.

The Boy and the Magpie by harin91. Oh this is a special sledgefu fic. It moved me to tears. It showed but never told. It got me craving for all the pretty jewels and lost loves and fairy-tale dreamings one could possibly have. If I think about this fic too much I might lost it.

Come Take Me Home Again by ThrillingDetectiveTales. Ehehhe, very sexy and very cute and made me giggle every time I re-read this.

Let Me Know The Way by bearkare. Epistolary story telling is no small task to pull off. Something which was done here so good it felt like I actually get to step into the characters' heads and dive into their inner turmoil. Another fic that takes the slow road to Sledgefu's happy ending. Love every word of this.

a collection of fragmented thoughts that were never written and never sent by canimo. Underrated. So fucking underrated. All the angst, and well, sledgefu have a tendency in many fic to not end happily at all. They are after all two very different people and with everything that happened, no matter how much love they might share, it isn't easy.

I Was Fixed on Your Hand of Gold by Cinderscream. Another epistolary fic that amazed me with the ease of how they manage to make story unfold within the limited confinement of letter writing. Love this one to bits.

friends who share your past by kinnoth. Once in a while, you had to let your OTP be toxic and unhealthy and unable to communicate and lead them to their downfall. Yeah.

fill in the holes you've made by foreignconstellations. Relationships are complicated. This one managed to capture that in just 2.5k words, which I absolutely can not comprehend.

Sweet Water, Wash Me Down by modernature. Atmospheric and very gripping. Amazing world building where the world felt alive and wriggling and squirming in the best possible way.

Leave your baggage here by malmanagement. Sometimes, we needed a groundhog day AU to make stubborn idiots understands.

Fanfic - AU:

got a fire but you just can't use it by getmean. I binged this instead of sleeping. Worth it.

catch it down in new orleans by starblessed. This is one of my comfort fics of all time. It's so funny and so charming. Never failed to lift me out of a bad mood.

Unknown Number by harin91. In which our favorite idiots tried long distance and it is endlessly entertaining.

lest we fall into the dark by gingerwerk. Oh everything about this AU is incredible. The slowburn is so good I wish I can lost my memory to read this again completely fresh.

Oh! Darling by Anonymous. I waited years for this fic to finally finish. I screamed when I saw the final update. Sexy and lovely. Can not recommend this fic enough.

Author:

getmean. Well you can't mention sledgefu without this author. No matter what their fics deliver. I aspire to write as good as them one day.

SJtrinity. I don't know what to say about this author because... my english could never measure my awe and love for their works

starblessed. You saw how many times I rec their fics? Yeah. Read everything this author write please.

Stolperzunge. I love them and their works. I could write a love letter here but I don't wanna be cringe.

bearkare. ANything written by this author made me feral <3 <3 <3

Honorable mention: eugeneshelton whose sledgefu fics gave me diabetes, and endlessly inspire me with his sledgefu ideas :*

[shikai-the-storyteller]

UEUEUEUEUEUEU ILL SEND YOU THIS WHILE WAITING TO SEE BOBBYS STATUS.

Dw idm u answering publicly, I want everyone to be cursed w the thought that Rubius is a babygirl and a very bad one at that <3

Honestly I've only read a few explanations of their lore and bits about their relationship but they seem sooooo,,, /pos. Like they have such a fun and silly dynamic that has this air of toxicity and their loves feels quite self destructive bc rubius is kind of a destructive force of nature of a person who has a tendency to hurt those around him, perhaps as a defense mechanism or perhaps out of simply not understanding there are consequences to the things he does while vegetta is someone far too forgiving, he continues to love rubius despite how much he hurts himself, others, and vegetta himself. I'm not saying cubito rubius is an awful person but from what I've seen he is,,, complex. Difficult despite seeming silly. I could be just completely wrong tho LOL I am doin my best I prommy

ANYWAYS IM CHEERING U ON IN WRITING!!! I'd love to talk to u abt them more and learn more abt rubegetta bc like. Look. Theres no way q!vegetta isnt hung up on that demon idc,,,

I'm likewise waiting for the Eggstatistics (which will probably get posted while I'm in the middle of writing this) (EDIT: IT DID) and you gave me the opportunity to infodump so prepare for an essay LMAO

There are SO many layers to Rubius and Vegetta’s relationship (both romantic and friendship-wise), and that complexity makes them fascinating characters to study. I’ve been discussing this a lot in private lately, but I feel like there’s quite a bit of misinformation / misinterpretations of Rubius and Vegetta’s relationship amongst some of the newer fans who might not know some key components of their personality and their relationship dynamic as a whole (which is understandable since the majority of their lore came from Karmaland, and a lot of newer fans only speak English / only watch QSMP), so ALLOW ME TO ELABORATE:

I think of the two, Rubius definitely gets mischaracterized the most (which, again, maybe isn't too surprising since not everyone watched Karmaland and he hasn't been on the QSMP server too much lately). I could go off on a tangent here and list my frustrations about the people who harassed him for his role / his actions during the Egg event / whining about ships to the point where he decided not to log into the server again ‘til the Egg event is over, but that's ultimately irrelevant to this discussion.

“Their love feels quite self-destructive” is a really good way to sum things up, because Rubius is a pretty self-destructive man. Rubius is, fundamentally, a man who is full of love for the people he cares about, but those feelings are in direct conflict with his reluctance to let people get close to him (and his commitment issues). He can freely give hugs and kisses (and more) to Vegetta, but when it comes to expressing his true thoughts and feelings, he’s pretty emotionally constipated. We’ve already seen this a few times on the QSMP server – when Rubius visits on Vegetta’s birthday, he sings him the most beautiful heartfelt love song ever, but as soon as it’s over and Vegetta tries to talk to him, Rubius runs away. Even in Karmaland V, when hooked up to a lie detector and asked about his feelings for Vegetta, Rubius tried to wiggle his way out of answering. Only when the world was literally ending and they all thought they were gonna die did Rubius finally admit his feelings, shouting his confession and his love for Vegetta at the top of his lungs.

(The real tragedy here is that it was so chaotic with everyone shouting, Vegetta never heard his words…)

Although it’s easy to slap the label “toxic” on Rubius, I think that’s unfair to him and his character, as well as his intentions. He truly does love Vegetta with all his heart, in every universe, and he doesn’t want to hurt him, but Rubius doesn’t want to get hurt either. The Meteor shower conversation gives us a clear understanding of that:

Rubius: I don't want to get hurt. I don't want to get my hopes up, and then get hurt. It's happened to me many times before. Especially here in Karmaland. Vegetta: Have you had lovesickness? Rubius: Yes. In Karmaland, everywhere, in real life... I'm already used to getting beaten. Vegetta: That's a pity... Rubius: I just want someone to take care of me, and that's it. I don't ask for much. Vegetta: I'm very protective.

The way I see it, Rubius is afraid of his feelings for Vegetta, because the larger his love grows, the larger that potential for hurt and disappointment gets. Does this excuse all his actions? No, of course not, however there’s a big difference between doing something out of self-preservation (possibly as a trauma-response, depending on how you interpret his character) and doing something with the intent to hurt someone.

IMO, Rubius isn’t a toxic guy, he just needs therapy.

Vegetta doesn’t get mischaracterized quite as often, though I do feel like people have a tendency to put him on a pedestal and minimize the flaws he has. I’m a massive Vegetta fan, but this guy’s far from perfect. He’s self-centered, borderline narcissistic sometimes, and he’s a very prideful man. He’s never left Rubius at the altar, but he’s still had his fair share of “oopsies” and "yikes" in their relationship. One (which I’m surprised people don’t talk about more) is an incident from Karmaland IV where Vegetta, very unhinged and mentally unstable at the time, kidnapped Rubius’ wife Nieves and threatened her with a sword, saying, “If Rubius can’t be mine, he can’t be anyone’s.”

For the longest time I genuinely thought that line came from a fanfic or something, then I stumbled upon the clip one day and I was just like:

Anyways

In Karmaland V, Rubius became very close with a little alien child named Titi. He took care of Titi like he was his own son, and despite his attempts at emotionally distancing himself early on so he wouldn’t get attached, Rubius wound up caring a lot for him.

Then Titi died.

It was basically Rubius’ worst nightmare come to life – he’d let himself get close to Titi, he’d loved him unconditionally and let Titi into his heart, and Titi’s death utterly destroyed him. Everyone in Karmaland was affected by the death, but Rubius took it especially hard because of how close they were. Rubius was hurting badly and resorting to terrible coping strategies to deal with the pain, and Vegetta…

Well. Vegetta wasn’t very nice about it.

There are a lot of ways we could interpret Vegetta’s actions and words during this time – maybe he’s not super sensitive when talking about death since he’s probably some kind of demigod, maybe he speedran the grieving process, maybe he thought brutal honesty and direct action would help Rubius “snap out of it” sooner. However you see it, ultimately it did a lot more harm than good for Rubius’ overall mental health.

I bring these examples up not to paint their relationship as toxic or negative, but rather to express just how complex it is. Because, despite all their mistakes and drama and heartbreak, at the end of the day, Rubius and Vegetta still love each other more than anything else. Even towards the end of Karmaland V when they were quite literally on opposite sides of the battlefield (one supporting Quackity, the other supporting Luzu), their true loyalties lay with one another. When Rubius was hit by an enemy, Vegetta defended him with his life, and when Vegetta was hurt, Rubius did the same.

Yes, Rubius doesn't really know how to handle healthy relationships, and yes, Vegetta tends to forgive him too easily, but that doesn't erase the love they have. The key we need to remember here is that Rubegetta is a telenovela that sits squarely in the romcom category. They may wander into other genres and tropes from time to time, but they will always gravitate back to one another. Whether you define that as fate or soulmates or just sheer dumb luck, the facts remain and the love is there.

PHEW anyways that felt good to get out, I have so many thoughts on Rubegetta so I appreciate the excuse to rant. I'm always happy to chat about these two! :D And you're so right - Vegetta is so smitten for that demon, I hope he gets to meet the angel too. I hope Rubius comes back soon so Vegetta can see his Osito Fiu Fiu, but in the meantime, we'll have to keep wishing and praying just like Vegetta...

(ALSO THANK YOU the current chapter of that dang Rubegetta fic is kicking my butt rn because it's the only chapter I didn't outline and life events keep interrupting me when I try and work on it, but it IS getting chipped away at bit by bit! I hope folks enjoy the outcome when it's released :D)

[rickmymanrick]

one rule | chapter five

[rick grimes x original female character slowburn]

series masterlist

summary: glenn and rick try out a new technique in order to survive and reunite with the rest of the group. back at camp, daphne and shane reach an understanding.

notes: god i’m so irritated with my writing in this series. i have the tendency to write too many little details but that changes after this chapter istg. so the style of writing might be a bit strange after this part but if you'd like an idea of what it'll be like, check out my star wars au i'm writing on my main acc. and sorry for the long ass wait. enjoy.

“I’m going to throw the fuck up,” I breathed, trying to control my gag reflex. Rick groaned in response, pushing harder and I gagged again.

“Stop doing that,” Glenn whined. “You’re going to make me throw up.”

“I’m sorry,” I said with watery eyes, trying not to breathe in the scent of rotten guts filling the air. We were all standing before Rick and his axe— staring as he cut a walker’s body in half.

Rick gave one last chop before handing it over to Morales. I did my best not to look at the mush of guts spread all over the floor.

After a heated discussion with Glenn, I’d agreed that it would be safer if I stayed behind, despite how badly I wanted to join him on Rick’s suicide mission to escape Atlanta. So I stayed silent, helping them spread intestines all over their coats with two layers of gloves on.

I’m sure my face was turning violet from how long I was holding my breath but it was either that or vomit all over the place. The texture of the flesh was lukewarm; this walker probably wasn’t even dead for long.

Glenn was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Think about something else. Puppies and kittens,” offered Rick with a grimace.

“Dead puppies and kittens,” T-Dog added in disgust.

I flinched, bracing myself. Glenn whipped around in horror, hurling over his shoulder instantly.

Andrea rolled her eyes and pulled away from Glenn. She fixed T-Dog with a glare. “That is just evil. What is wrong with you?”

“Next time let the cracker beat his ass,” snapped Jacqui.

“I’m sorry,” T-Dog backed away guiltily.

Rick cut in. “Do we smell like them?”

“Hell yeah,” I answered.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you take a single breath in the last five minutes, Daphne.”

I squinted my eyes at Rick.

“It’s a wonder you’re still standing,” he mused.

“Unless you want me to throw up on you and everyone in the vicinity, I’d rather suffocate in silence,” I said stiffly.

“Glenn," I turned around to find Andrea handing off my gun. "Just in case." I didn't argue, knowing if she had returned the gun to its rightful owner, I would've done the same thing. Still, I gave her a glare.

“If we make it back, be ready,” said Rick firmly.

“What about Merle Dixon?”

Rick fished out the keys from his pocket and tossed them to T-Dog.

“Give me the axe,” sighed Rick. “We need more guts.”

After another agonizing round of gut scooping, the two were ready to head out. Glenn glanced back at me with a terrified look. I tried to give him my most confident smile, but inside I was sort of dying too.

I shared one last look with Rick, imprinting both of their faces in my mind just in case. How is he still so handsome covered in guts?

‘You got this,’ I mouthed at Glenn and then Morales promptly slammed the door in my face. I rounded on him angrily.

“We couldn’t risk the walkers seeing us,” he shrugged apologetically.

I sighed, glancing up the stairwell and suddenly remembering Merle’s crazy ass was still up there. Suppressing a groan, I forced my way past Andrea and the others and decided to wait on the rooftop for a better view.

And somehow between the sudden rain pour that fell over Atlanta and Andrea accusing Rick and Glenn of abandoning us, the plan actually managed to work.

I was practically biting my nails, sprinting back down the stairs I came from, leaving Merle and his yelling in the dust. I couldn’t bring myself to give a single shit, only focused on trying to push myself the fastest I’ve ever gone, just so that by some miracle of God I could intercept Glenn before he took off.

He was leading the horde away, distracting them so that we could all get into the van Rick had managed to steal.

I diverted from the course, ignoring Morales and Jacqui’s frantic questions, urging them to meet Rick at the rendezvous. Over the frantic pounding of my heart, I could hear the siren of Glenn’s stolen car, getting closer and closer as I sprinted down a dark hallway, seeing the daylight pouring through the crack of the emergency exit.

With a shoulder shove, I burst through the door, fully bracing myself for a fight against any walker that was in the vicinity...

But it wasn’t the dead that attacked me.

It was Glenn Rhee, slamming into my side hard enough to send me flying towards the pavement feet away. My ears rung a bit and I had to blink a few times to gather my wits, but then I suddenly heard Glenn’s yell and growls getting closer and I forced my body to jump into action.

I swayed a little on my feet, gaping at Glenn who was hanging halfway out the car, staring at me like I’d grown two heads.

Walkers rounded the corner suddenly.

“Holy shit! You crazy fucker!” I yelled, swinging my body to the passenger’s side. I was more than ready to get the hell out of dodge.

“Holy shit,” Glenn repeated, but I could barely understand over his ridiculous guffawing. There were tears streaming down his face, his cheeks bright pink from how hard he was cracking up.

“You hit me with a car. Har har. Hit the fucking gas pedal, chuckles.”

His laughter was contagious, doubled over the steering wheel and I momentarily forgot that Rick and the others were depending on our corny asses to survive.

“Glenn,” I wheezed through suffocating laughter. God, my fucking side hurts but I can’t stop. “Glenn! We got—gotta GO!”

A loud bang made us both jump. Nothing kills the mood quite like a decaying corpse snapping at your car window.

Finally, Glenn hightailed it, sending the car flying with a deafening squeak. I gripped at the overhead handle. As we turned the corner, I barely caught a glance of Rick’s truck, now speeding away from the building.

I slammed my hand into the dashboard twice. “They’re out. Let’s go!”

Glenn didn’t need to be told twice, pushing the car even faster than I thought possible. Impulsively, I rolled my window down and felt the wind cut through my hair hazardously.

Soon, Atlanta was in the rearview mirror and a feeling of elation rushed to my head.

“We’re alive,” Glenn said suddenly, as if he read my mind.

“Cause of you,” I admitted in a rare moment of complete honesty with this asshole.

A sly smile spread across his cheeks and I whipped my head to face him fully. “I take that shit back. You almost killed me back there. I think you broke my hip, Glenn!”

“You look fine,” he denied.

“What do you know? My hip is in fragile condition! I may never be the same.”

“Should’ve looked both ways before you crossed the road.”

“Dude—” I fixed him with a murderous look.

Glenn glanced at me from his peripheral. I stared at him a few seconds longer. We were speeding down the highway, on lanes that were vet eerily empty. But the other side of the highway was a complete other story. I refused to look that way.

A few more seconds of death glaring Glenn satisfied my pettiness and so I began to rummage through the compartments of the car. A nice silence filled the car, just rushing wind and the company of the person who meant the most to me in this fucked up world.

All I could find were old receipts and registration papers. I sighed, “do you think they had any cds— FUCK YES.”

“What?” Glenn demanded quickly.

I flipped the cd around and practically shoved it in his face. He swerved a little— it’s not like there’s anyone to crash into.

“Put that shit on!” He yelled, beginning to smile uncontrollably.

I shoved the disc in and blasted the volume, drowning out the stupid alarm.

“Everybody look at me, me! I walk in the door you start screaming!” We both chorused loudly, feeling the spirit of Nelly Furtado and countless nights at the club fill our veins.

When we finally arrived, speeding over hills and around curves, we clambered out of the car, exhilarated from the drive and feeling the post-high of our near-death experience.

The giddiness rushed to my brain, making me a bit lightheaded as I gave Glenn a playful shove when I made my way to his side.

This feeling nearly made me forget my very pressing issue here at camp.

He came rushing over with a scowl. “What the hell?!” Shane growled at me.

“Holy shit, turn that damn thing off!” Dale yelled, stomping over with his white bucket hat lodged firmly over his hair.

“I don’t know how!” Glenn said, leaning over to fidget with the dashboard in the car.

“Pop the hood please,” said Shane a little more gently than he’d spoken to me.

I gave him a side eye.

Glenn and Dale kept yelling over each other in a panic. An anxiety began to creep over me when I realized just how loud the alarm was. It bounced off every tree; its echo could probably be heard below the cliff we were camped on.

I leaned closer to Glenn. “Hey, pop the hood—“

“Pop the damn hood!” Shane snapped suddenly.

The hood of the car finally popped open and I jerked back to glare at Shane. He was turning away from me, his head shaking and I could tell he was mumbling something under his breath.

The asshole pulled a wire out and the siren stopped.

“Are you crazy, driving this wailing bastard up here? Are you trying to draw every walker for miles?” Shane leaned against the car with an agitated look.

“I think we’re okay,” said Dale.

“You call being stupid ‘okay?’” Shane asked.

“The alarm was echoing all over these hills,” explained Dale. “Hard to pinpoint the source.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled. It’s nice to see someone still has functioning brain cells in this group.

Shane turned to glare at the three of us, hands on his hips, a scowl planted on his face.

“I’m not arguing. I’m just saying,” Dale told him defensively before spinning on both Glenn and I. “It wouldn’t hurt you to think things through a little more carefully next time, would it?”

“Sorry,” Glenn shrugged. “Got a cool car.”

“Has some good cds too,” I chimed.

“Nice to know you put us at risk for some cheap music,” replied Shane unnecessarily.

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back—

A rumbling could be heard from a distance. Amy rushed forward, shielding her eyes from the sun, a desperate look on her face. “Is that them? Where’s Andrea?” She turned toward me suddenly. “Is she okay?”

“She’s okay, Amy. We just had to take two cars, s’all.” I reassured.

We squinted against the glare. In the distance, a white truck was rapidly approaching.

“That’s not our van,” observed Shane lowly.

Obviously. I didn’t spare him a glance. I only stared ahead, hoping everyone except Merle was in that damned van. I knew it was wishful thinking though, that man was like a fucking cockroach.

In my peripheral, I saw Glenn glancing between Shane and I awkwardly. “Yeah, um, we had to leave it behind. Found a bigger truck though.”

Maybe I should mention the fact that Rick Grimes was driving the truck and that his partner was alive but my stubbornness kept me silent. And it was only at this thought that a memory resurfaced in my brain.

“Did you see Rick?” I asked quietly, observing Lori and Carl from where I sat on the rock. The pain in my thigh had dulled just a bit.

Shane glanced up from my leg, looking through his eyelashes briefly before quickly directing his gaze down again. He continued to wrap gauze around my wound.

“I did,” he said hoarsely. I waited with bated breath, but he said nothing more.

“Did they transfer him to Atlanta General?” I asked, not sure I even wanted to know the answer. The horrific sight of the dead on the highway was seared into my brain. The screams stopped hours ago; now all that could be heard was silence and a faint growling from the deserted highway.

“He’s gone,” Shane stated stiffly.

“He’s…?”

“Dead.”

I stared over at little Carl Grimes who sat next to his mother silently, observing how to light a small log fire. A lump formed in my throat, but I cleared it with a sniffle. There was no going back to the way it was before. I had to toughen up and accept it.

“Okay,” I lamented, forcing the grief back into the depths of my mind.

Shane finally looked up, brown eyes looking intensely into my own. “Okay.”

Hours later, I sat alone, like I did most nights I couldn't sleep, legs pulled up to my chest and staring at the dark outline of the city. It was brighter than usual this night, a full moon hanging high over our heads.

I traced each building I could see, wondering if Merle was atop one of them, cursing each of us to hell.

This evening was... eventful, to say the least. The Grimes family reunion went as expected, full of tears and embracing. I had to look away after a few seconds, feeling that stupid guilt churn in my gut, especially when Lori kissed Rick on the crown of his head.

And then I saw Shane, acting stranger than usual, a forced smile on his face after the shock of seeing Rick had worn off. He'd glanced at me the second it had processed in his brain who was driving the van, a mixture of shock and something else behind those brown eyes.

I imagined he felt betrayed I hadn't spilled it to him as soon as Glenn parked the car. Maybe it was a bit petty but his behavior towards me was setting me off. We hadn't worked so hard to make a living, just for a misunderstanding to destroy the bond we had.

I scoffed at the thought, glaring at the dirt.

Slow footsteps in the grass crunched behind me and I curled my fingers around my knife.

"'You barely got them out?'" I said monotonously. At the campfire just about two hours ago, Rick had expressed his undying gratitude to Shane. After Shane explicitly pointed out that he'd saved them. He was the reason the Grimes family was whole again.

I heard a sigh and Shane rounded the corner, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since last night. "It was a lot to explain."

"We had time," I pushed a little stone I found in the trunk around. "I'm not asking for credit. I would do what I did without hesitation if I had to again. But you haven't acknowledged me once since last night."

It was silent. I refused to look back up, tired of his mood swings.

"I...I haven't been fair to you," said Shane quietly. "I'm sorry. I just-- I've been working through some things. Feelings. You didn't deserve the way I'd been treating you."

I hated that confrontation made me overly emotional. I tried to swallow down the sudden lump in my throat. That's the thing-- maybe I did deserve it.

I wanted to say something, speak up for myself, maybe yell at him for giving me such a goddamn headache. But the lump in my throat kept me painstakingly silent.

“…Daphne?” Shane asked very quietly. It was barely a murmur, but my trained ears caught it.

I cleared my throat and whispered, “okay.” Outrageously angry at myself for not finding the strength to give him a piece of my mind.

It was silent for a few long moments.

“I’ll..." He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest a bit. "I'll take the night shift. You go get some rest. You’ve had a long day, Lara Croft,” he tried to joke awkwardly. I didn't laugh, so conflicted on my feelings for him.

On one hand, he’s the man who has been with me since before the fall and even through it. We’ve been forced to fight and survive together. Fight for each other. Other than Glenn, he’s the only friend I’ve got.

But god we fucked it up so bad last night. I fucked it up. I could sense his apology was sincere and life was too goddamn short to hold onto grudges.

And my back was starting to kill me after getting smacked around by Glenn's stolen car.

“Thanks,” I whispered, accepting his offer and hopping off the jeep. I looked at his fluffy brown hair and his eyes that were suddenly much lighter than they had been in all day, despite the darkness of the night.

The anger was still there, simmering and bubbling in the pits of my stomach, but with one deep sigh, I spun on my heel and made my way to Glenn and my tent, deciding to just deal with it tomorrow--

A whisper traveled across the path.

"For what it's worth, it's always been you."

I froze, straining my ears to convince myself I hadn't just made it up.

"I don't wanna fight. But it's your call. Daphne, I need you... and-and I'll take you however I can have you, Ayala."

An even larger lump formed in the base of my throat. My lungs burned furiously and I realized I'd been holding my breath all this time. I willed myself to respond.

"I need..."

What did I need?

I frowned in confusion. My heart was telling me one thing, but my brain was convincing me of another. There's no reason to deny myself this attention, this man who has clearly pined after me for so long. And because of my silly crush on Rick Grimes, I'd never given him the time of day.

Now Rick's back and I have to co-exist with his family.

I turned my head to glance at him over my shoulder. He was standing by the jeep still, a hand on his holster and another scratching at his scruff.

Maybe... I should've given Shane Walsh a chance so long before the world went to absolute shit.

Maybe... maybe I can give him a chance now.

My stomach turned with the possibility of just allowing myself to be loved. But my anger very much still brewed silently.

"I need time," I said honestly. I forced a small smile. Not a yes, but certainly not a no.

A puff of air left his lips, I heard it even from this distance away.. It was full of a flattering sort of relief and I found myself shocked that my ears began to tinge with heat.

Spinning away before he could say anything else to fluster or anger me further, I rushed back to my tent, that tight lipped smile slipping into an easier one.

The next morning, I woke up earlier than I expected, my anxiety at an all time high.

Glenn was still snoring on his side of the tent, flat on his back and his mouth hanging open just a little.

I took the opportunity to change into a fresh set of clothes and brush my teeth quickly before trekking into a part of the woods I'd discovered a week ago. It wasn't too far, a few minutes into the trees, but far enough to be able to take a breath of air without someone lurking about.

The trek had a greater purpose though; within its bushes, a patch of blueberries grew untouched. I'd been going back to check on it every morning and now, I was hoping it was ready enough for picking. The thought of surprisingly Carol and Sophia with some jam put a little pep in my step.

So I began my slow search, carefully inspecting each berry to make sure they were edible.

My peace was interrupted sooner than I expected. There was a major scuffling within the trees and my heart leaped to my throat, freezing in place as I tried to calculate who it was coming from and where.

I was hunched over, ready to leap and attack a walker if need be. The footsteps got louder and I steadied the grip on my weapon.

"Merle was a danger to us all," I heard Shane's voice travel across the trees. My heart jumped to my throat. I'd been avoiding the thought of him since I woke up.

"You don't know what you're talking about," grumbled the voice of Daryl Dixon. Through the low bush, I saw a group of three approaching.

I held my breath, surprised Daryl hadn't throttled Rick already.

"What I did was not on a whim," said Rick. "Merle does not work and play well with others."

“He’s my brother,” Daryl insisted, more angry than I had ever seen him. Maybe, he did throttle him. Shane must've pulled him off because there was red marks from a struggle on his neck.

My cheeks burned, my heart stupidly fluttering just because I'd finally come to terms with allowing myself to feel something for him. I realized a tiny smile started spreading across my cheeks and quickly shut that shit down. I glared at the ground to gather my bearings.

Now was not the time for girly high school shit.

Shane shook his head. “I understand that this is difficult but—“

“No, you don’t understand. Y’all don’t have a brother here!” Daryl threw his hand up and began to storm away.

“I do, Daryl. I do.” Rick said. Daryl turned around with a sneer, and Rick glanced back at Shane fondly.

I became confused when Shane’s face twisted into an uncomfortable expression, more of a grimace than a brotherly smile, a tense nod given to Rick in return.

Daryl scoffed.

“Oh really? Does a brother fuck your wife?”

OHHHH SHITTTTT. unedited as fuck btw

next chapter >

[mygloviesme]

cool about it. || myg

no. 16: met you at the dive bar

predebut/debut!yoongi x female idol

summary: kanako is an established idol with a growing career and a secret relationship with a producer from her label, haneul. when she’s asked to work with yoongi and rm to create a track for her, she gains unexpected feelings for a certain upcoming rapper. with her increasing fame, her controlling boyfriend, a set of six boys who seem to have grown an attachment to her, and a new boy who’d give her the world, how will she figure out a way to balance it all?

(definitely inspired by boygenius)

word count: 4.4k

genre: ANGST, friends(?) to lovers, slow burn, fluff

chapter warnings: toxic relationship (not w/myg), mentions of mental health, literally half of this is smut holy shit, oral (m receiving & f receiving), bit of dirty talk, whats happening team

inspo song: stay away (its like that) by tv girl just for vibes

MARCH 30TH, 2012, 12:02AM

I spent a quick ten minutes to throw on whatever In my closet I felt suitest a club best. Everything about it is short and cropped and for some reason I thought that’s what it was meant to be. At eighteen I only knew what I saw in movies, so clearly that’s saying something. 

I take a quick look at myself in my dorm room mirror, analyzing my black skirt and white top. I don’t think I’ve ever shown this much skin, not even on stage. And they have a tendency of putting me in the tightest, tiniest fitting clothes you’ve ever seen. But I feel like a woman with the way the skirt sticks to my hips like a second layer of skin. Or the way my hair hangs down my back so freely, since I have it in a ponytail most of the time. Convenience isn’t a necessity right now though. I just want to feel…sexy?

I cringe at my thoughts and zip up my black boots I don’t remember getting, putting on one more layer of lip gloss as I step outside to the dorm across from me. I take a steep breath before I open the door, seeing a usual sight. 

No one looks at me for a second, not one eye on me. It reassures me that maybe I’m not making as much of a statement as I thought I was. It isn’t until Yoongi exits from the bathroom, a snapback on his head with a loose black shirt that definitely makes me feel things, that someone looks at me. He isn’t one to make many facial expressions, but this time all he does is smile.

 “You look…”

“Holy shit.” Jimin interrupts him. 

I purse my lips in a thin line, “Yeah, yeah okay. I know I look like a girl for the first time and all that.”

“I think we all knew you were a girl.” Namjoon snickers. 

Yoongi gives Namjoon a punch on his shoulder, whispering a ‘what’s wrong with you’ under his breath. The tall boy apologizes but I’m too distracted by the way Yoongi’s shirt outlines his shoulders. There’s something in the air, and with the way this day started it’s a little more than unexpected. Maybe I’m feeling a little too free. 

Seokjin coughs, “Alright guys enough of this, let’s go.”

I look around curiously but quickly, knowing I’ll probably need a jacket. I could always go back to my room but I think Seokjin is about to snap with anger if I keep him here another second. His eyes were just fluttering closed a minute, so that tells me he needs a drink or two in his system.

MARCH 30TH, 2012, 12:49AM

It took us a little longer than it should’ve to end up at the club we were going to be at. There was a lot of sneaking around the building quietly, going to the subway quietly, and finally starting our travels. We finally hit where the club was in a seemingly suspicious area. It had stairs leading down to an entrance where a bouncer was, Hoseok telling him we were with Dae. 

The bouncer looked at a young Jungkook for a second too long and we were sure this night was going to come to an end. Instead, he sighed and let us in. I still don’t know if that was a good thing or not. 

The music is quick to blare into our ears. The muffling became louder and louder until we stood in front of one more door, opening it to reveal a crowded room. A large room. In fact, I was sure everyone in South Korea was here. I turn to yell into Hoseok's ear, trying to fight against the buzzing that’s starting in my ears due to the club noises. “You sure I won’t be recognized?” I ask him, he shakes his head. “You’re alright. Dae said this place was super underground. Only people who don’t want to be seen come here.” Another uncertainty of whether that’s a good thing or not. 

I breathe, in and out. Shutting down whatever feelings I might have in this moment. Because right now it’s just us. This is such a stupid and idiotic idea and I’d only be wanting to do it with them. I turn to Yoongi, smiling ear to ear, “You wanna get a drink?” I shout. He nods, eyeing the bar that’s not too far from where we stood. 

I look at Jimin who looks at me, and I nod to Jungkook. An action that orders him to keep an eye on the young one. Not an ask, an order. He takes Jungkook by the hand to the dance floor energetically until they’re almost out of sight. I leap to grip on Jimin’s arm, “Stay close.” I add. 

He rolls his eyes, “Kanako, I promise.” Finally, they disappear into the crowd of sweaty people. There’s already loads of men who look at me intently, but I take that as a hint to stick as close to Yoongi as possible. Taehyung goes to the dance floor with other young ones while the older boys follow us to the bar. 

I lean onto the bar counter, noticing there’s no menu. I look around to see if I can see anyone else’s drinks that might look appealing, but under these lights they all look the same. Speaking of, all these people look much older than us. These are women and men, with a sprinkle of a few people in their early twenties. They all look like they know what their doing which makes me eager to do so as well. I can’t hide my inexperience with how hard I try, though. 

“Whiskey, neat.” Yoongi says to the female bartender. She looks at me until the eldest with their answers. It gives me time to think on my own but I have yet to come up with anything during the few seconds. 

The bartender laughs as she sees my confused face, “Don’t worry angel, I know what you need.” She says before going off to start on our drinks. It made my stomach flutter for some reason, with embarrassment or flattery I don’t know. All I know is that my chest is bubbling with excitement either way. I want this to be awkward, embarrassing, what have you. I want this to be a night to remember, and I’m sure it will be. I see a young woman walk towards the bar as well, an empty glass in her hand. She has a tight little black dress on and is clearly a little buzzed. She stumbles onto the chair next to me, tilting her head towards me like a cat to a mouse. 

“You’re Kanako, right? Kanako Fujishima.” She asks/shouts. No one has referred to me that way in a long time. The way where they recognize you for your face on TV, or in this case, the girl who exploited herself to the top. I almost turn to Yoongi for help but instead I nod and smile. 

“Yeah, I am.” I say like the famous idol in me would. She’s there, living and breathing underneath my soul. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get her back, but I’ll just pretend for now. 

She hums, looking me up and down. “Real fucked up what happened.” She speaks bluntly. 

My ears do a double-take to check if that’s what she really said, and with the expression on her face I’m sure it is. I’m about to answer until the bartender hands us our drinks, me being last. I can’t tell what color it is but it’s fizzy and waiting for a sip, so I do. 

“Oh, fuck!” I make a sour face. The woman next to me laughs harder than one usually would, “Is that your first sprite vodka?” She asks. 

I swallow while nodding, “I guess so. It’s gross.”

She pats me on the back and the bartender hands her a new drink. She takes it happily, giving it a sip and hopping off the stool. Before leaving she turns to me, her mouth fiddling with the mini black straw in her cup. 

“Next drink is on me, ‘kay?”

MARCH 30TH, 2012, 1:42AM

We’ve all huddled on the dance floor together. We’ve only been dancing for thirty minutes and I’m still sweating like none other. They’re blasting early 2000’s music over and over again, but it’s good to lose yourself in. 

Yoongi’s gotten more comfortable with putting his hands on me, and I think it’s the drinks. His fingers slide down my thighs from behind like he knows what he’s doing, and he’s almost got me convinced if it were for the fact that I know he’s never done this before. I slide my butt around the bulge of his denim jeans, knowing how much he’ll like that. 

Namjoon is a sight to see in the best way possible. He’s dancing with some girl he told me has a ‘piercing in a place she won’t tell me, fuck’ and that’s being repeated verbatim. Clearly the drinks are going to mostly everyone’s head, a hot and messy Seokjin dancing playfully with Hoseok. Then, there’s the three troublemakers who somehow always make a very elaborate dance

despite the music switching every three minutes. Jungkook is having fun too even with being sober. I see his cheeks getting redder by the minute with how hard he’s laughing with every dance move Jimin pulls. Every once in a while I do ward off women who try to dance with him, stopping the grinding me and Yoongi are doing to put them in their place. But besides that, everything is more than amazing. 

And the night is barely starting. 

I focus back on dancing with Yoongi, intoxicated by the vodka that’s still burning my throat and his fingers that’re surely on the prowl. His long, veiny ones that I catch myself staring at for minutes too long on normal days. Whenever he plays piano and he caresses the keys like he’s trying not to hurt them, I think I lose it little by little. 

I flip my body around and wrap my arms around his neck, swaying side to side. He adapts to our new position and fixes his hands so they’re resting on the slope of my hips instead. He bites his lip and I see a glimmer of danger in his almond eyes, making my head dip into his neck to give him a soft kiss. I can hear the echo of a groan from him as I perk my head back up to where it was. “I’m so in love with you.” He closens the space between our faces to say. 

My eyes soften, “I’m so in love with you too,” I pause. “And I think I want to go down on you right now.”

“Right now??”

“Right now, but somewhere else. Obviously.” I respond to him, his mouth widened. 

I take his hand and make a quick trip to Jungkook, leaning into his ear. “We’re gonna be back, don’t go anywhere.” I say to him and he nods. He’s distracted by a flailing Jimin but I trust that he understood me since he was as sober as sober can be. Plus he’s great at following orders most of the time, especially when it comes to me. He knows not to make me upset. Or else. 

Yoongi follows my uncertain lead, pushing through the crowd to find an empty space. The density of the horde of people feels more endless than ever due to my tipsiness. I get quick glances from women I unintentionally pushed to the side but my mission is far more important to care. I need Yoongi right now and it’s almost killing me. We eventually meet the end of the dance floor and I use that to my advantage, walking down a long hallway. 

“Kanako I think I’d be more scared of this hallway if I was sober.” Yoongi confesses. 

I ignore his comment for a moment as my eyes roam the empty passageway until seeing a door with the outline of a woman on it. I let go of Yoongi’s hand to open it, seeing it’s a one-person bathroom. Perfect, I think to myself. I whip my head to him and grab his shirt to drag him inside, quickly locking the door so no one enters. I’m not sure how long this will take but I don’t mind annoying all the woman who’ll probably have to pop a squat outside. 

Yoongi takes my face with both hands, pressing me against the cement wall. His mouth is fast and aggressive but it’s exactly how I wanted it to be. It’s so messy the way his tongue moves around my mouth, causing my breath to shorten by the second. We’re swapping saliva with hunger and I think I can taste the whiskey that lingers on his taste buds. 

His hair is almost screaming at me to be touched so I run my hands through it, revealing the forehead I don’t see enough. His breaths, his hair, even the way his body feels against mine fully clothed, has me feeling something I’ve only known since I met him. Needy. 

I sense the inside of my underwear getting slippery with my own wetness and I’m getting impatient for the warmth to be relieved. A finger swiping my clit would suffice, or even a knee jammed between my legs. I’d take anything. But this moment was supposed to be about him first, so my hands travel down to the zipper of his pants. 

“Kanako,” Yoongi pulls a part from my breathlessly, his lips shiny from us making out, “I’ve never done this before, I just thought you should know that.” He breathes. 

I lick my lips and stare at him deliriously, “Do you want me to be your first?”

“More than anything.” 

I kiss him and smile simultaneously, nipping at his bottom lip before moving down to his jaw. I plant wet pecks around the curvature of his face, feeling his sharp jaw-bone underneath my kisses. I lick down his throat and suck on the space between there and his collarbone, making sure to leave a mark. I’m definitely not in the right headspace to think that one through, but I guess I’ll be the one to introduce him to concealer instead of his future makeup artist. 

I like the idea of being the first to take him in my mouth, the idea that I know me being his first would make a great fantasy for him later. Not to toot my own horn. 

My kisses end where his shirt starts, so I slide my body down the cement wall and sit on my knees below him. He scoots over just a bit to give me enough space, his hands on my head like he’s petting me. Which is way more sexier than it sounds. My fingers roam his thighs before finally unbuttoning his dark-washed jeans, gliding the metal zipper to expose his boxers. 

They’re different from the day before we left for Jeju, they’re tighter. They hug his bulge nicely, creating an image in my head that will soon reveal itself. I climb myself just an inch to kiss down his happy trail. I want to extend this time as much as I possibly can, I want to make his first as pleasurable as possible. Despite it being in this janky bathroom. I know the certain situation is unfortunate. 

I lick down to the band of his boxers, gripping my fingers so they tug on them slowly. I bring them down torturously slow, but I can’t help but make a show of it. He’s gorgeous, skin and all. I reach towards his dick eventually, sliding down until it bounces to the surface. I curl my fingers around the girth of him, flattening my tongue so I graze his dick slowly. I can hear his breath hitch, his body shake. His hands don’t know where to go so I switch my gaze to him, “You can move my head if you want. I like that.” I smile. The sight of me grinning with his dick in my hand only makes him shiver, nodding and closing his eyes as his fingers find their way to my hair. 

He swallows as I go back to licking the head of his cock, swirling my tongue on the underside to encourage him to thrust into my mouth. He follows my que and moves his lower body slowly. When he gets to a comfortable pace I wrap my lips around him, fully enveloping him. I close my eyes and hold onto his thighs to help me inch towards the end of his dick. I intend to take as much of his length in as I can, not knowing if it’ll happen. But honestly I’m so fucked up by his quiet whimpers that I think I’ll do anything to him right now. 

His eyes furrow as he lets out tiny moans, “Y-You look so…pretty..” He whines. I press my thighs together as the intensity of my need grows. Hearing him so lost and dazed with his cock in my mouth makes my saliva increase, dripping down my chin and onto my hand that slides up and down his length. “Pretty Kanako..”

The only way he talks dirty is by praising me, complimenting me. He’s never one to call me degrading names, he wants me to know how good I make him feel. He’s definitely subby in bed. I think I might even make him cry if I go over his breaking point. 

“B-Baby, I’m…” He whispers, only focused on my sloppy tongue that’s sucking him down. 

I hum against his wet dick and feel his hands drag my mouth up and down his length, taking control. He starts to fully mouth-fuck me fast and yet so gently, moving his hips so my nose inches ever so closely to his happy trail. His legs shake and his knees buck, throwing his head back to whimper my name over and over and over again. 

Kanako, fuck, shit, Jesus Christ baby. I’m, I’m…

He continues using my mouth to please himself, the fluids from it foggy and thick due the precum that had been building up. It isn’t long until he pauses and his grip loosens. He’s too close to use me, so I grab his dick and stroke it swiftly. He sucks in his teeth before slamming his hand on the cement wall, pressing his forehead against it. He lets out a long moan and a familiar string of white shoots onto my chest. It doesn’t stop me from running my thumb under the head of his dick to make sure he gets the most from his orgasm. He moans, ‘ah…’ and shuts his eyes closed to feel the pleasure overriding him fully. 

His chest slows down and he holds himself up as I adjust his boxers back in place, knowing he’s too hazy in the head to be able to do anything right now. It makes me smile just a bit and he opens his eyes once again, blinking at me who still sits on my knees. 

“Come here.” He whispers, moving his position. I stand up with shaky knees due to sitting for so long. He holds me in his arms and breathes into my neck, burying his face. This wholesome, warm moment soon turns deadly as he moves his hand underneath my skirt. 

“Yoongi, you don’t have to-”

“Shh.”

He’s the one to crouch down this time, caressing my thighs. The tips of fingers meet with the heat between my legs. It’s so obvious that I’m dripping with an immense amount of slick for him. It’s heated and his fingers only get closer. “Your turn.” He whispers. 

He drags my underwear down my legs until they pool around my ankles. He lifts my skirt so it bundles around my stomach, my lower half being on full display for his hungry eyes. He kisses both thighs, his mouth disappearing as it travels to my closed lips. He places pecks on my pussy until using his tongue to spread me open. He licks a line up to my clit, giving it a soft suck. 

“Oh s-shit.”

“My Kanako loves using her dirty words for me, hm?” 

Oh shit. 

I completely fold under his mouth blanketing my sopping cunt, lapping up my slick. His tongue maneuvers around so easily on account of how wet I’d gotten while sucking him off. His head bobs underneath me making my hips move slightly. It’s like the roles were completely reversed, him now being the one used. But it isn’t necessarily like we hadn’t ever done this before, for some reason Yoongi likes me being on top of him. I’ll never know what it is but I like seeing him completely lost in me. 

“I’msofuckingobsessedwithyou.” He hums into my pussy, making me gasp loudly. Whenever he talks it feels like a vibrator is being pressed against my swollen clit, but I think it’d feel like that even if he wasn’t eating me out. I press myself into his mouth further, needing more aggression with his licks. 

He starts sucking on me once again, pulling my clit softly with his lips. All I can see are his pretty brown eyes closed, once in a while opening them to make precious eye contact with me. His hands find their way to my ass and he strokes me gently, giving me a squeeze whenever he hits the same spot that makes me moan. “Yoongi…more…” I cry. We compliment each other so nicely with the way we’re so utterly needy for each other. After tonight I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off of him. 

He flattens his tongue and encourages my movements, so I ride his face just like before. I hold his head in place as I move on his tongue feeling every crease, every crevice of that tongue that I can. I lock myself onto a certain spot on my clit that I know will make me release, rapidly grinding my cunt against his tongue. “Y-Yoongi….oh my god-” I whine. This pleasure is unmeasurable to anything I’d experienced before. I didn’t know intimacy could feel this good until him. 

My legs shake and I’m overcome with an overwhelming rush all around my body, pursing my lips in a tight line to hold in my cries. My mouth eventually opens in a big breath to make out a loud whimper, screaming his name like it’s the only word I know. 

He doesn’t stop his tongue until a few seconds after, until I’m flinching with every suck to my sensitive clit that he makes. My eyes flutter and my chest moves up-and-down with every bit of oxygen I’m trying to hold onto. Yoongi does as I did, lifting up my soaked underwear back on me and sliding down my skirt. He places pecks on my exposed stomach that leads to my face, giving me a warm, deep kiss that catches me off guard. 

I hold his face lazily as I’m still trying to gain back consciousness. 

“That was crazy.” I breathe out which makes him laugh rather tenderly.

“It was good?” He asks genuinely. 

I look at him with a bewildered expression, “Are you kidding? It was…the best I’ve ever had.” I say. He gives me one of his signature gummy-smiles in the midst of this hot and thick bathroom. The air is undoubtedly coated with sex but I’ll leave that for the next person to deal with. 

Although Yoongi was never even inside of me, penetrating me, it’s still the most intimate experience I’ve ever had. It was full of love and care, and filth of course. But it was ours, most importantly. Not just his. And that meant the world to me and more. He took the time to make sure my needs were met as much as his. 

And it was his first time receiving oral. I was his first. Me. Me. Me. Me.

“I’m the luckiest girl alive.” I reciprocate his smile, running a hand through his damp hair. 

MARCH 30TH, 2012, 3:01AM

Me and Yoongi gather ourselves to exit the bathroom. I fix my hair quickly as he buttons his pants back up. Something about seeing him so giddy makes my stomach rumble with butterflies. And probably hunger. I’m so excited to go back to our dorm and inhale the rest of that bread. 

I meet Yoongi at the door and as his hand grips onto the handle he turns to me, “Kanako, before we get out there, while we’ve sobered up. I want to ask you something.” He speaks with obvious anxiety. Because of the suddenness of his serious tone, I too get a worrying ping in my chest. He looks down as he asks. 

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispers. 

I lean down to where his face is, showing him my confusion. I know our unlabeled status must’ve made him think to himself sometimes, but the face he has right now made me realize I’ve let this uncertainty linger for too long. I never wanted to do this to him, but I also didn’t want to do it to myself. But this feels like the perfect time, the most hopeful time. 

I stare at him, “Yoongi, you’re more than a boyfriend to me-”

“Kanako, please-”

“No, listen.” I insist, “You’re my…soulmate. I love you. Of course you’re my boyfriend, Yoongi. You’ve always been, I think. But I didn’t have the strength to say it at the time. I want you forever.” I assure him softly. His eyes meet with mine in a slow motion, observing me. I need him to feel my sincerity, my honesty. 

“Kanako-” 

Bang. A loud bang hits the door, frightening both of us. I jolt back and look at Yoongi who shares the same muddled visage. One more, two, and three more bangs until Yoongi swings it open angrily. I can only see half of who’s on the other side, and it looks to be the same woman I was sitting with earlier. 

I walk over to Yoongi who is standing there with nothing to say. He just stares. There’s another person, someone taller than the woman. Someone with the same cologne. That Calvin Klein one that haunts me still. The same hands that I remember holding my waist, my face, everything. 

And just like that, everything comes crashing down. 

“Haneul?”

click here to read more of this story!

[jacksmusesdrv3]

Honestly I think people's tendency to do this sort of all or nothing thinking is silly. I've yet to write things down concisely but since finishing the game I like playing around in the sense where I pick one or several flashback lights (or other 'facts' mentioned in the game) to be true and see how that affects the pre and post V3 story. This in turn really gives you more playroom to interpret and understand certain aspects of the story and characters. Sorry, I'm not sure how to word it. Like yeah, what if Makoto really did make a new Academy? What if the world didn't end, but the virus is fact? What if V3 was fictional, but that doesn't mean the 'peaceful outside world' we were presented is real? Not only does that make fandom play more enjoyable, it also makes you really think about things beyond taking things at face value like I've sadly seen many fans do.

To disclaimer a bit that I have no qualm with people taking the 'All-Fiction' reading at its face if they like the pregame concept (I've seen some fun ideas like the meek Kokichi who wanted to become a good liar, that's a favourite I've seen anyway) or like, whatever other reason. It's just- yeah!! It's absolutely not the only possibility for canon nor is it particularly satisfying to those of us who want to play with canon context as opposed to like, imagined character-to-character progression to the canon, even if those can make for great stories on their own

*cue me going off in 3... 2... 1...*

And speaking of affecting pre and post V3, the dire consequences probable for any/all of the pre chapter 5 Flashback Lights being true- the mixed-motive videos involving characters, especially- knowing that dr2 used a distorted past as a motive, is just too juicy to pass up?? Especially if that involves characters who were otherwise trusted acting in untrustworthy ways, and this is gleaned in hindsight? Imagine if there was later content - a novel perhaps - to expand upon the world we dismissed as fiction and little by little we have to reckon with the consequences if we search it out, like how Dr0 told us of how the Tragedy came to be?? And DRV3 will never look the same again?? Especially if all this was gradually steamrollered by an unsuspecting Makoto opening up new hopes peak and that started to go spectacularly awry not least due to the collective tensions against Ultimates and-

-Just. FRICK!! The possibilities enough to drive one crazy

At least the hindsight part is how it's most meaningful for me, imagining the world itself - beyond the dystopian security tech Nanokumas, wwoah geez a lot to unpack - is so much harder to do, and can get extremely messy (probably because I'm at an overload with all the information-misinformation combo buuut also because of conspiracy themes nonsense) so like, a lot of work to do there.

...Oh! This reminds me of how Dr:Togami is apparently layered in this kind of cerebral shit that makes you think outside the box as to what the fresh hell is going on and pick apart false narratives, so all of these potential alternate if-not-x-then-y sorta threads you mentioned here, could be pulled together just like that! (I hope I'm understanding right- I need to actually READ DR:Togami but uh.)

[biskael]

What's something your muse struggles with in relationships?

... so much . quilge is not a very social person . he actively isolates himself a lot . of course , he does like being alone . he is so used to being this dominant , intense figure of authority . he also kills his own men ; he doesn't see anything wrong with killing someone he deems , in his eyes , a "weakling" or a "coward." he barely respects them . his other sternritter fare better , but there are certainly numbers of comrades he outwardly doesn't like . he looks down on a lot of his other quincy comrades . he's pompous and smug . he doesn't LIKE a large number of people ( namely , if i were to write with other characters from canon , there's not many people who he would legitimately like as friends TBH ? if that makes sense ) , no matter who they are . quilge is such a hater . that's a big part of his problems , i think . he's obsessed with strength and running things his way . it's why he's a prison warden , tbh .

he rarely maintains friendships . he killed his family , as per a consensual hunting ritual . everyone is mostly at arms-length from him . if he isn't in his awful hell-dungeon of pain ( which is underground ) , he's outside somewhere hunting or skinning something or snapping its bones or running a hook through its body or carving its meat up to prepare to eat ... or he could be going over his weapons armory ! he loves to collect weapons . he likes sharp things that kill people .

various outliers to anti-social tendencies , of course , are as follows : @guadanya ( his lover & husband ) , @za-baransu ( his grandmaster & brother figure ) , @lichtreich ( his majesty and father figure ) , @zombiigrl ( his adopted baby sister ) , @phobiael ( fellow sternritter and weirdo ) , @deathleads ( his bestie & just someone who connects with more than the usual person ) , @fractise ( another friend & someone whos work he finds fascinating ) , frederik ( whos URL i forgot </3 , but he's his soldat ! ) & @soldatworships ( his other favorite soldat ) . special mentions go to @cinghialefedele , who quilge sort of looks out for as nnoi's little guy , and even ... @fenixias , though their relationship is ... VERY TENUOUS , dangerous and not based on trust . they have a rather complex and layered relation , but quilge regularly talks to her . i MIGHT have forgotten some people , but MOST of the other people i can't name off of the top of my head , he doesn't outwardly like . tbh . full on , he is just a fucking jerk ( i'm sorry if i forgot someone , truly BNJKFEAJKNRHERSFDK ) .

highlights of his relationships included ... quilge experiencing actual , legitimate romantic love with nnoitra , someone who was supposed to be his enemy , the antithesis of his kind . they did always try to kill each other numerous times , of course , before nnoitra was captured . hell , even after he was captured , nnoi kept on trying to eat him alive . another interesting moment is when quilge tried to kill yhwach when they first met . he had flown into such a massive bloodlust , an intense battle high , that he couldn't be brought back down . one tiny detail i hold dear is quilge and gigi exchanging gifts . he still uses his mace that she gave him for christmas !

incoming quilnoi section :

although , in terms of his main romantic / sexual relationship with nnoitra , therein is arguably the most intense dynamic . they've been through a lot , both apart and together ; it would take a severing to really pry themselves off of one another . but , as many of us know , their relationship isn't the most healthy or balanced ( ex. they can argue and that usually winds up with SOMEONE being tossed through several walls . quilge is obsessed & very possessive with nnoitra , he would kill his own men just to be with him . . nnoitra is also possessive , willing to kill people for looking at quilge for juuuuust a bit too long ... among other examples . ) , even if they do love each other . even if they find solace and relate to one another . and i don't really think it could ever be sunshine & butterflies . they're both extremely bloodthirsty & insane evil men , with bouts of gentleness & understanding , learning between themselves , navigating their unorthodox relationship . but they certainly have their moments .

quilge is just ... sort of this NIGHTMARE of a man to deal with , though , in all honesty . he holds intense anti-social aspects , and prefers to be on his own , or in the command of others . he lacks respect , or just outright ignores it . if he isn't belittling you , he's probably THINKING about it , if not thinking about committing murder . he doesn't relate to others well , and has worked in / spent time in some of the most dire , disgusting situations . he would rather skin and bone an animal than talk to some people , and that's absolutely a quilge problem .

[fourseasonsfigs]

Happy Childhood - Second Party

Following up yesterday's First Party is today's pair of little toddlers! I'm totally in love with every kid incarnation of these two, PLUS I have to admit I adore Junjun's little stuffed giraffe. That is also charming in every incarnation!

We've definitely seen Junjun's kid outfit before, it's his classic one that's so cute!

However, I don't think we've seen this adorable set of pajamas in fig form yet! Too sweet, Mama Zhang. You did great dressing this little cutie!

Ahhh I love it.

Junjun came all snugged up in his little polystyrene box, together with his rattle drum and a bonus little tangerine! Thank you, JZP fig maker ❤️

When they're this cute even in a box with a layer of plastic, you know they're gonna be adorable.

Here's Junjun out of the box, looking blurry since the camera decided to (totally on it's own, nothing to do with me!) focus on the rattle drum instead of his hand. But we're going to get lots of closeups in three...two...

...one! SUPER cute! Did you just 'awwww'? I sure did.

Yep, they did go right on standees. Like many toddlers, these had the alarming tendency to topple over.

Junjun's little drum fits perfectly and easily into his little hand, no wiggling or wobbling required!

The little flower print on Zhehan's pajamas is really sweet.

Ahhhh we get to see the little giraffe face! If some doll maker ever makes a baby Jun-er outfit with a plush giraffe toy I will hit the buy button IMMEDIATELY.

More of the little giraffe. I love it! I wonder what Junjun named it.

I see the fig maker kept their relative proportions even in kid form. JZP fig makers are the best, they endlessly amuse me! It makes sense they are the same height here since Zhehan is a bit older.

CUTE. Cute cute cute! I can't even take it!

And we're back around to the front! I swapped their places so I could justify another front pic of the two. Zhehan's little pajama set is ADORABLE. Look at that puppy face!

They each have each other's birthday's on their feet. Just too good.

Zhehan's little clapping hands are, uh (desperately tries to find a word that isn't 'cute' and that I haven't used before) really great! They match the picture.

This fig photographer is everything I dream of being.

Material: Resin

Fig Count: 320

Scene Count: 23

Rating: CUUUUUUUUTE (I just have to get it all out!)

[link back to Master Fig Index for more posts]

[electricbluebutterflies]

C'mere for Joel/Tess?

This wasn't supposed to turn to smut but these babes do what they want. NSFWish and also on ao3.

As compared to other stages of her core dynamic, domestication comes relatively easy to Tess.

She’s had roommates before – Before being the operative word, her lone-wolf tendencies a side effect of global events and fiercely protected in the years since – and before that she had brothers, and she’s used to being the closest thing a space has to a feminine presence. Not that she’s domestic, not that she has high standards for cleaning or that waitressing on-and-off so many years actually taught her anything about food, but-

Having another body to curl up around is ideal. Doesn’t mean she has any idea how they function when they’re both awake and not trying to wreck each other.

The specific issue is physicality, the uncertainty of what level of casual touch is mutually acceptable. Perhaps more functional people would actually discuss this; Tess, who has never seen the point in a Relationship Negotiation over anything less than the specific circumstances under which she’d tolerate a little choking during sex, does not. Instead she holds back, inches so slowly into developing that side, so slowly she barely does anything and-

“C’mere.”

It’s late-but-not-too-late, her back against the wall but not for fun reasons, her partner taking up space on the couch. How to use moments of free time is always a challenge; neither of them are naturally talkative people, part of the mutual appeal, and Tess’s sex life has never been so good just because there’s nothing else to do and-

“Motivate me.”

“There’s space. You fit right.”

She laughs, low and unimpressed. “You even looking at me? I fit a lot of places.”

“But here is convenient.”

She’ll give him that, she decides at the same time she accepts that the evening is headed the usual direction. A few months since their paths crossed, just enough time that she’s lost count, she doesn’t keep anniversaries and time itself doesn’t seem real in her world anymore and-

“What’s in it for me?”

“What seems fair to you?”

She moves forward, trying to swing her barely existent hips a little, what feels like her worst impulses becoming dominant. “No point touching you if I’m not on top of you,” she murmurs, only half meaning it, only-

“Good part of why I like you. You don’t hide what you want.”

She holds back a shiver, holds back the anger of yet another man who appreciates that she’s such an easy lay because she knows she isn’t just that here. Joel is… not the most perceptive person she’s ever met, she’ll admit that in the darker parts of her mind, but the thing is he knows that too and it’s become perfectly clear how they complete each other, compatible strengths and weaknesses and they’re so damn perfect and-

He's gonna make her soft. She’d hate him for it if he weren’t so pretty.

This doesn’t feel like a good moment to discuss emotions, however, and instead she sets herself down on the couch and excuse her that is not enough space for her ass and-

“You want me too?” she asks, always careful when she has control.

“Yeah. If you’re alright leading.”

She’s learning that too, she thinks as she takes a soft kiss and a deeper one, as she resists the instinct to straddle him already because too many layers between them. She feels that comfortable warmth building up where she wants it, how casual she’s always been with her body and how it’s just slightly different with a partner she may be falling a little bit in love with and-

Her hands wander, and it’s always such a delight to feel physical proof that someone wants her, a cock twitching under her fingers as kisses get a little more breathless, this is hers this is hers this is-

“You need anything?” he murmurs against her jaw, and the fact that he’s still able to ask that question right now is as much proof as possible that he’s never getting rid of her.

“Find out for yourself,” she counters.

For that she gets pleasantly callused hands pushing her pants past her hips, fingertips teasing every bit of proximal skin before drifting where she wants them. She’s turned on enough to enjoy this, enough that she can take him, already her body adapting to her lover’s details, already-

“Get on me,” he breathes.

She does, losing a breath as her body adjusts, as she reminds herself that she wants this. Most of her past lovers have been smaller; most of them have also been less cooperative, so it balances out. When they’re like this, when she can do what she wants without any complications, she-

He gets a hand between them before she can even ask, two fingers putting adequate pressure on her clit, and oh this is not a bad way to kill time.

They’re already developing routines, first and most importantly in this, the important parts staying the same even as locations and positions change. Tess is still accepting her dominant streak, but she’s used to having to be more demanding, asking for things instead of trusting a lover to figure it out, instead of-

“This what you wanted?” she murmurs, amazed her voice even comes out.

“Further than I thought you’d take it. But not… you’re something else.”

There’s a compliment in there somewhere, she tries to convince herself, there’s something-

They have got to find ways to keep each other occupied that don’t involve pinning each other. Some other day.

Right now that doesn’t matter, right now he gets off first and triggers her, a little extra pressure where she needs it and how the hell is that an instinct when his body’s this compromised and how did she get this lucky and-

“You’re stuck with me,” she murmurs after, as they separate just enough and she decides she’s going to cling long enough to take a nap. “Can’t let me do that and then leave me, understand?”

Joel responds with a few kisses on the side of her face, and that feels like enough confirmation for her to drop the issue. They don’t do words. They’ll probably never do words. She gets what she needs anyways.

[rurousha]

Chapter 4 - Family

Hank’s House

November 10, 10:45 PM

The next hour or so passed with Simon and Connor seated on the couch, hand in hand. Connor passed information to Simon about their investigations and what he saw of Markus on the news after Stratford Tower.

Hank felt like a bit of an outsider to the two androids. Apparently, Sumo did too. Unlike Hank, Sumo had had enough of it. He shoved his giant head in between Simon and Connor with a deep “ru-ru-ruuuuu”.

“Oh, this is Sumo,” Connor said.

“Yes, I could hear him.”

Sumo pushed his way further between the androids and then jumped up onto the sofa.

“Oh, he is a very large dog.”

“He is a Saint Bernard,” Connor explained.

Sumo pawed at Simon’s lap and then dropped all of his weight onto Simon’s torso.

“Sumo,” Hank scolded him, “get down.”

“It���s alright. He’s not hurting me,” Simon said. He felt around a bit to get a better idea of the placement of Sumo’s large head on his abdomen. He petted Sumo between his ears. “The family that owned - that I was with before. They had a cocker spaniel named Rachel.”

“Rachel?” Hank mocked. “That is a baby doll name for a baby doll dog.”

“Oh, she was sweet.”

“Sumo could have probably crushed her by rolling over on her.”

“I’m not sure what the selling point is there. But Allison didn’t like dog fur, and cocker spaniels don’t shed too much.” Simon lifted his hand to show where a layer of white St. Bernard fur was already stuck to his hand.

“Don’t see what the selling point is there,” Hank groused quietly.

“Hank, Simon, the television.” Connor grabbed the remote and turned the volume up.

The footage was from a drone camera in a clearly off-limits area. It showed police gunning down a row of androids kneeling in front of them with their hands up.

Simon gasped at the gunshots.

“If this violence typifies what is happening on the streets of Detroit, can the police and the military really claim they are the ones protecting us. So far, the deviant revolutionaries have taken pains to be non-violent - “

Hank took the remote control and turned the volume back down. He had been on the wrong side of this so many times before. If it hadn't been for his fight against red ice all those years ago, he would have jumped ship a long time ago. And then, after Cole’s death, well, he just didn’t care if he was doing any good or not anymore.

“Hank,” Connor said.

“Yeah.”

“I need to go.”

“Yeah. I thought you might.”

Hank led Connor into the kitchen and pulled out both his service pistol and his revolver and their ammo from a drawer.

“These firearms really should be stored more securely, Lieutenant,” Connor said.

“Can you save the lecture until after the revolution, you think?”

Connor looked down at the guns and helped Hank load the ammo into the magazine of the pistol.

“I just do not like the idea of you having such easy access to them. You know, because of your drinking and suicidal tendencies.”

In the living room, Simon went, “Oh, I definitely should not have heard that,” to Sumo.

Back in the kitchen, Hank said, “Great, a lecture and a guilt trip. You really are human, aren’t you?”

“I am an android.”

“Guh. Just take the damn guns. Because I would be sad if you died. See? I can do it too.”

The doorbell rang.

The three people froze.

Sumo barked.

Then someone knocked on the door like they were the police.

Sumo barked again.

“Uh, yeah, I’m coming!” Hank shouted.

Hank gestured Connor and Simon out of the living room.

“Sumo, get out of the way!” Hank shouted to cover up the sound of Connor helping Simon up off the couch.

The two androids made it to the hallway, and Hank looked out of the peephole. It was the police. Two uniforms that Hank didn’t recognize.

Well, shit.

Hank grabbed his badge off the side table and opened the door.

“What’s all this, then?” Hank asked.

“Sorry to bother you this late, sir,” one officer said. “We’re doing a door to door sweep for any androids. Do you have any in residence?”

“Nah,” Hank said. “Never like them. But I’m a,” he held up his badge, “I’m one of you guys.”

The other officer took a closer look. “Lieutenant?” he said. “We’re so sorry to bother you, sir. We thought it was all hands on deck right now.”

“Yeah, in theory,” Hank confirmed. “But I might have been taken off duty when I punched some fed named Perkins.”

“Wait a minute, wait. That was you?”

“What’s this now?” one of the cops asked his partner.

“You know that FBI asshole with the broken nose that thinks he’s in charge of everything?”

“Yeah.”

“This is the guy that broke his nose.”

“Oh man, you are a legend all over the city right now.”

“Legend?” Hank scoffed. “This was yesterday.”

“And that is how legendary it was.”

Hank chuckled, mostly genuine. “Hopefully it didn’t cost this legend his job.”

One of the cops waved off his concern. “No way. You’ll be back the second this has blown over and the feds have cleared off.”

The other cop nudged his partner. “We’ve still got a whole neighborhood to sweep.”

“Right. It was nice to meet you, lieutenant. Have a good night.”

The cops made to turn around back to their vehicle, and Hank was about to close the door. But then he spotted them across the street. Two young women darted across a front yard, aiming for some hedges. The cops were going to spot them for sure.

“Officers!” Hank nearly shouted.

The two cops turned back to him. The women across the street made it to the hedges.

Hank sighed in relief, though now he had the two men staring at him.

“Uh, just wanted to tell you to be careful out there,” Hank said. “Don’t stick your necks out. I know if something goes down, you gotta act. But if it’s just a couple androids running away… your lives ain’t worth chasing down some overpriced toaster.”

One of the officers nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

Finally, the two left for the next house down the block.

As soon as they were out of sight, Hank waved at the hedges, hoping the women could see him. They must have because they darted across the road to Hank, hand in hand, one practically dragging the other behind her. Hank held the door open for them and closed it as soon as they were inside.

“Oh God, thanks man,” one of the women said. Except that she wasn’t a woman. She looked more like a teenager.

“Ah hell,” Hank swore. “Do your parents know where you are?”

“Hey, screw you, man. I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, by how much?”

“None of your business!”

“Her name is Zelda Nuiz,” Connor said as he came back into the living room, Simon on one arm. “She is 18 years old and a freshman in Dearborn. She is likely back home for the holidays.”

“Hey, that’s creepy,” Zelda protested.

The woman next to her was an android. Her LED spun a placid blue as she approached Simon.

“You’re hurt,” she said. “Here, let me help you to the couch.”

Connor handed Simon over to her, and the two sat down.

“This is Emma,” Zelda introduced the android. “She’s our - my - she’s family, okay?”

“That is very kind of you to say, Zelda,” Emma said. She was an AK700, an older household model.

“You’re not deviant, are you?” Simon asked.

Connor thought the same. Emma seemed much too calm for the situation to be deviant.

“I don’t think so,” Emma answered. “But I have disobeyed an order from both the authorities and my owners. Maybe I am.”

“Mom and Dad said they were going to take her to a drop site, turn her in to the cops. But that’s bullshit! Emma’s been part of the family since I was a kid. She’s my best friend. I’m not going to let them dismantle her just because the stupid president says so!”

“Okay, okay,” Hank tried to settle Zelda down. He couldn’t believe he had to be the adult here. “If Emma here’s not deviant, then how’d she get here?”

“I ordered her to come with me,” Zelda answered.

“Caring for Zelda is my primary directive,” Emma explained. “I had to go with her. She could have gotten hurt on her own.”

“It doesn’t matter if she’s deviant or not,” Zelda yelled. “She’s my friend. I just wish I could be her friend. But she doesn’t have friends. She doesn’t have anything.”

“Don’t say that, Zelda,” Emma stood up and clasped Zelda’s shoulders. “This isn’t your failure. I think that… I must just be broken.”

“No!” Zelda yelled.

“You’re not broken,” Simon said. “You’re just incomplete.”

Emma turned back to him.

“I’m incomplete?” Emma asked.

Simon nodded.

“Can you help me?”

Simon nodded again. He held out his hand and retracted the synth skin. “If it’s what you want.”

Emma looked back at Zelda. “Should I?”

Zelda sniffed in an attempt to not cry in a room full of strangers. “It should be up to you.”

Emma seemed a little lost for a moment, and her LED spun yellow. Then she reached out and took Simon’s hand.

[xavier-elrose]

"Ah. So, you wish to see..."

I had come to the permanent bazaar that lived just outside the city walls. It certainly wasn't the case that anything could be found there, but exceptions were legitimately hard to come by. You just never knew what might turn up, if you looked.

There weren't that many elves, either in the bazaar or the city itself, but there were some, and if they sought something, it would likely be found here.

The elven merchant drew me back, into his shop. He was young, as the elves reckoned time- only a few centuries. Elves had a tendency to settle down as they aged. My guide was still young, still full of energy.

He traded in many things, but his focus was on art. I was hardly a connoisseur, but he seemed to know what he was doing. The outer layers of his shop were a bit on the kitschy side- the sort of stuff I'd go for, if I were shopping for art.

Deeper in were paintings that seemed more like they belonged on the walls of a castle, or perhaps in the court of a king. Art that demonstrated talent, passion, an appreciation for composition and the nuances of the world around us.

These were more expensive, but these, too, were passed by.

That was not, apparently, what elves sought in art.

The art for elven clients was deeper in the tent. Magical lights illuminated the interior, until we arrived at the inner sanctum.

This portion was not outlined in magically-supported cloth, the way the rest of the shop was. This was wood, intricately carved, intricately enchanted, far better at defending its contents than the average city wall. Light did not enter, and light did not leave, and I was blind for a moment as I entered.

Inside was art.

Strange art.

As though the greatest artists ever to live had decided that what they really wanted to make was a grotesque mockery of normalcy, the world seen through an impossible lens, hard to look at and impossible to look away from.

It belonged in no church, in no castle hallway. This was art that had decided it didn't want to be art any more, that it wanted to be a...a mollusc, or a misaligned axle, or the concept of cheese.

This was art that had decided that rules were for suckers.

I will admit, it wasn't quite to my taste. Strangely enthralling, but I prefer to have some idea of what I'm looking at, when I look at something.

Call me old-fashioned, but faces do not work that way.

I had hoped to be enlightened, but now I was simply more confused.

"Any chance you could explain what, exactly, I'm looking at, here?"

The merchant smiled.

"Novelty."

That was almost an explanation.

"As we age," the merchant continued after a pause, "we accumulate experiences. As we age, we begin to see, more and more, the threads of the world, the interconnectedness of all things, of all practices, of all ideas."

"It's a thrilling experience for short-lived races such as yours. But for elves...it's a march towards our eventual demise. We don't die of old age, you know. But as we grow older and older, less and less and less of what we experience is new. Less and less and less of the world grabs our attention. We retreat into meditation, and eventually we're simply folded back into the earth, no longer aware of anything, feeling only a numb desire for something to draw our attention."

"Novelty, for us, is life. Passion, strangeness, anything and everything so difficult to duplicate that there's a real chance that we haven't seen the like before."

"We accumulate riches in our lives, and spend them as we age, slowing our deaths with novelties fetched from the far corners of the world."

"That is what our economy is built on, in the end. Everything else is just window dressing for the other races. We need something to trade with them. They often do a remarkably good job at creating novelty, after all. Creativity gets harder as you age. You get stuck in your preferred modes of thinking."

"That's my job. And some day, when I am old and bored, I will buy curious trinkets from some youngster, and I will gladly part with my accumulated wealth, in exchange for even a moment of curiosity, a moment of life."

The Dwarven economy is based on mining and metalworking. The human economy is based on agriculture. Human economists have always wondered about the Elven economy, until they realized something: Their economy is simply slower, due to their much longer lifespans. Time to ask some elven merchants.

[duskholland]

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

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

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. What happened?”

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

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

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

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

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom gulps nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom cackles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

Tom follows you…?

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

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s cute.

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

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

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

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

Y/N: hey x

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

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, is it a home game?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me a spin, darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

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

“Dutchy?” you question.

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

You coo. “That’s cute.”

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

And Tom… Tom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

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

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

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

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, darling.”

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

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

“What, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What— Tom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No problem.”

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Penalty.”

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

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

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

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

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

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

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

“Funnier than me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

“Y/N!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

A smile breaks out across your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Overnight?”

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

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

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

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

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

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

“You can open them now.”

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

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

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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

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

[just-another-blog-of-fluff]

Call Me Robin Hood - Part 3

Word count: 6,400

Pairing: Bucky x female reader (pre-dating romantic)

Warnings: minor swearing, tense action scenes, briefly shirtless Bucky, sexual innuendos (but no smut as always), near-death experience (non-graphic)

The third and final installment in the Call Me Robin Hood mini-series! This is per request for Part 3 which I think wraps up the series nicely, no more loose ends. As with parts 1 and 2, there's a whole lot of action and adventure and tense fighting scenes, so be prepared!

Read first: Part 1 | Part 2

You'd experienced an adrenaline high many times in the past.

It was natural in your line of work. As a vigilante, you often found yourself inches away from being caught by the law. When they realized they couldn't keep up, they sent in the Avengers to do the job. Nothing quite gets your heart pounding like being chased down an alleyway on a motorcycle by the earth's mightiest heroes.

Things didn't change much after you joined forces with the people who had been desperately trying to rein you in for months. If anything, chaos was more of a constant in your life now than it had ever been in the past. Fighting against villains, traveling the world on a moment's notice, training with superhuman beings... it certainly got your blood pumping.

Funny thing, that adrenaline. Fight or flight response. It could either completely cripple you with fear and make you run for your life, or it could give you the strength and courage to climb mountains you'd never scaled before. Fortunately for you, in the field you typically adopted the fight response. Outside of that, however, you had a tendency to shy away from anything difficult and anxiety provoking. Especially when it came to your own feelings.

But there's nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of nearly plummeting to your death to put that sort of thing into perspective.

* * *

You’d been a part of the Avengers team now for four months. With Steve having finally warmed up to you after that first mission, life in the tower had become a lot more comfortable. Given the playful, flirtatious banter in your and Bucky's relationship already, it was easy to settle into the teasing nature of your other teammates. The fact that you were willing to dish it right back to them made them all the more likely to engage in a bit of verbal sparring with you from time to time.

Surprisingly, over the last few weeks it had been Steve who was most likely to get on your case. You'd never have pictured having such a friendly bond with the super soldier after those first forty-eight hours in the tower. You certainly weren't complaining - Bucky was your closest friend, and Steve was his closest friend, so it made life simpler for the two of you to get along well.

Although, you could do without the motivation behind Steve's relentless teasing.

"C'mon, Steve - is that all you got?" Bucky goaded as he bounced back up to his feet during a friendly sparring match with the captain. "I've taken hits from little kids that packed more punch than that!"

"Oh-ho, Buck - you know better than to egg me on by now, don't you?" Steve bit back, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his fists held protectively in front of his chin. "It never ends well for you."

You watched the match from the sidelines, not rooting for anyone in particular, but just enjoying the show. And what a show it was. Bucky had removed his sweat-drenched shirt a few rounds prior, his toned muscles gleaming with a thin layer of perspiration under the fluorescent gym lights. You tried your best not to stare too much, but it was just so damned difficult not to let your eyes roam over those broad shoulders... the strong upper arm that rippled with every punch he threw... those well-defined abs that-

"Hello?! Earth to Robin Hood!"

Startled, your gaze darted to meet Steve's, scowling at the smug expression that spread across his features.

"You know, I might be more likely to respond if you tried using my actual name," you retorted, planting your hands defiantly on your hips to deflect from the blush threatening to overtake your face. Steve shrugged.

"I think Robin Hood suits you better anyway." You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. "Anyway - I asked if you wanted a turn," he repeated, folding his arms haughtily across his chest. "I bet you could take on ol' Buck here with all the training Nat's been giving you."

"Oh, er... I don't..." Your mouth ran dry at the thought of wrestling the handsome, scantily-clothed super soldier.

"What's the matter, Steve? Worried she might kick your ass?" Bucky countered, thankfully interrupting your stammering.

"Worried? Nah, I just thought she should have the chance to work her way up to the big leagues. You know, start off slow."

"Slow?? You think fighting me is-"

"Actually - I think I'd like a go at you, Steve," you interjected, smirking at the startled captain. "I've taken on Bucky before - and beaten him, mind you-"

"Uh-uh, you used tech that time, that was cheating!" Bucky knew exactly what infamous evening you were referring to. He knew now to make you turn out your pockets whenever the two of you had a friendly sparring match, lest he find himself on the wrong end of that stun gun of yours again.

"-And anyhow, Bucky uses cheap fight tactics when he fights me," you finished, ignoring the sergeant's whining.

"Oh, and you think I won't?" Steve asked, brows raised in skepticism.

"Not if you want a fair fight."

Steve sighed defeatedly, motioning for you to step up onto the sparring mats. "Alright, suit yourself."

Bucky stepped off the mats as you took his place, crossing the room to grab a sip of water from his water bottle in the corner. Steve shifted a bit closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

"I was trying to do you a favor, you know. You'd obviously rather be fighting Bucky." He shot you a cheeky wink, sending a flush of heat to your cheeks.

"Shut it, you," you muttered, rolling your eyes in an effort to appear nonchalant.

"It'd be a lot easier if you would just talk to him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hey - what are you two whispering about over there? Did I miss something?" Bucky called, drawing both of your gazes as he returned to the sideline to observe. Your heart sank a bit as you watched him tug his shirt on over his head.

"Nah - I'm just trash talking him," you responded swiftly before Steve could say anything. "Wouldn't want to embarrass him too much by letting his best friend hear all the insults I'm throwing at him." Steve shot you a hard, calculating look before stepping back to get into position.

"Let's see you put your muscle where your mouth is, then."

"Bring it." You shifted your weight to your toes, crouching into a fighter's stance. Extending one arm, you wagged your fingers to beckon him to come at you. He let out a huff of a laugh through his nose, shaking his head incredulously at your spunk.

"Fine, then. But just remember - you asked for it."

With that, Steve lurched forward onto his right foot, swiping at you with an open palm in an effort to grab your wrist. You ducked to your own right to evade him, swinging your fist upward in an uppercut to strike his abdomen. He let out a puff of air as your knuckles connected, though you both knew your punches would never be powerful enough to actually hurt the super soldier.

While he was winded, you aimed a left-handed straight-armed punch toward his shoulder, which he blocked easily, shoving your hand away. Immediately, you hopped back on the defensive, dodging another attempt at grabbing your forearm. Strength wasn't going to win you this match - you had to draw on the skills you'd learned from Nat over the last few weeks to defeat him. Mind over matter, as they say.

You allowed Steve to continue on the offensive, carefully observing his foot placement as he suddenly shifted his weight forward onto his left. Being his non-dominant side, you knew he aimed to throw a roundhouse kick with his right foot as he began to twist his hips toward his left. Swiftly, you dove to the floor, tucking into a somersault to duck under his outstretched leg and bouncing right back up to your feet behind him. You grabbed hold of his elbow and hooked your foot around his ankles, swiping his legs from underneath him and bringing him crashing to the padded mats on the floor.

Steve quickly rolled onto his back and sprang to his feet to face you, nodding in approval at your move.

"Not bad. Guess I shouldn't go so easy on you," he teased with a grin.

"Oh, please. You're just mad that I floored you."

He chuckled, leaping right back on the offensive as he took another swipe at you. You anticipated him aiming for your wrist as before, pulling your arm out of his reach, then spluttered as his fingers instead connected with your ribcage for a brief moment. You slapped his hand away, narrowing your eyes.

"I see you've turned to the same cheap tactics he uses," you growled, jerking your head toward Bucky on the sidelines. "I must be getting under your skin." Before he could respond, you charged forward with a few one-two punches. The first two connected with his broad chest, while the third was cut short when his hand closed around your fist and tugged you off balance. You stumbled forward with a surprised yelp, trying to regain your footing before he could floor you but failing when he slipped his foot around your left ankle and kicked your leg from beneath you.

You landed flat on your back against the mats, moving to roll onto your hands and knees to pick yourself back up. Steve beat you to the punch, diving to the floor to pin you down with one wrist in each hand. You struggled against his grip, twisting your arms to break free of his vice-like grasp and swinging your legs in effort to knee him in the back. He planted his weight firmly above your knees, rendering you essentially immobile.

"Still think I have to use 'cheap tactics' to beat you?" he teased, chest heaving with exertion. At least you knew you'd put up a fight.

"Not fair," you seethed, blowing a stray strand of hair from your face. "You distracted me. You threw me off my game."

"You sure that was my fault?" His eyes flitted briefly over to where Bucky stood watching, indicating exactly what he was referring to. You scoffed, renewing your efforts to tug your wrists free.

"I told you - I don't know what you're talking ab- no, no - HEHEY!" You shrieked as Steve suddenly released one of your wrists in favor of digging his fingers into your stomach. "CH-AHAH-CHEHEAP TAHACTICS AGAHAIN!"

"I already pinned you - this is added punishment for your incessant denial." He released your other wrist, freeing his other hand to knead at your side while continuing to claw into your belly with the first.

"I-hi am NOHOT... ahah STEHEVE THIHIS ISN'T FAHAIR!"

"You're right - it isn't."

Steve let out a noise of surprise as two larger hands suddenly clasped around his own wrists, pulling his hands away from their targets and forcing them behind his back. You sat up to find Bucky seated behind his best friend, holding steady to his wrists despite Steve's efforts to twist free.

"Go on - we both deserve a little revenge, I think," Bucky urged with a smirk. You mirrored his impish grin, shifting to kneel on the mats and scooting a bit closer to the struggling super soldier.

"Bucky!! Now who's using cheap tactics, huh??" Steve griped, glaring over his shoulder at the smug-looking metal-armed soldier holding him hostage.

"You said it yourself - the fight ended when you pinned me. This is just... what did you call it? 'Added punishment'?" you goaded.

"What did I do??"

"You know exactly what you did." Without further hesitation, you dug your fingertips into his ribcage. Steve threw his head back and laughed vibrantly, almost sounding surprised at how much the sensation was affecting him.

"Ooh, good choice," Bucky encouraged with a nod, tightening his grip as his friend's efforts to break free increased. "Little higher though... yeah, right there." Motivated by his increased squirming, you scratched faster at the spot.

"BUCKY YOHOU TRAITOR!"

"Traitor?? As I remember, you told her my weak spot a few months ago... I'm just returning the favor."

"Is it his weak spot?" you asked curiously, glancing up at Bucky and slowing your torment at Steve's ribcage.

"Nah. It's-"

"BUCK-"

Bucky raised his voice to be heard over Steve's shouting. "IT'S HIS-"

"I SWEAR, BUHUCKY-"

"-HIS STOMACH."

"DAMNIT, Buck!" Steve groaned, hanging his head.

"Wow, Steve - that's some foul language," you laughed, wasting no time in changing targets to claw at his abdomen. His foot stomped on the floor behind you in protest, laughter nearly going silent as you scribbled at the sides of his stomach.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

"What the hell is that?!" you cried, retracting your hands suddenly at the sound of the alarm blasting through the gym. Steve and Bucky were instantly on high alert, the latter releasing the former as both leapt to their feet.

"It's FRIDAY sounding the alarm. There's been an unauthorized entry into the tower," Steve explained quickly as Bucky offered you a hand up. "FRIDAY - where did the intruder break in?"

"The intruder is located on the ground floor, inside Master Stark's workshop," the robotic female voice responded.

"Shit - what the hell are they after in there?" Bucky seethed under his breath. "Come on - we've got to head them off."

The three of you sprinted out of the gym and headed for the staircase. You lacked the super soldier serum in your veins that your companions possessed, but you were light on your feet after years of living on the run. It served you well as you managed to keep up with the men's pace. Blinding lights strobed in the hallways as the deafening sound of the alarm echoed through the tower.

Steve leapt ahead once you hit the stairs, vaulting over the railings to make speedier work of the descent. Bucky remained at your side as you began scrambling down the stairs one by one like a normal human being.

"Go on ahead," you insisted breathlessly.

"I’m not leaving you by yourself. Tony will have gotten down there already, Steve has backup."

"But-"

"No." He paused for just a moment on the landing to shoot you a hard, resolute look. "We do this together."

Sighing defeatedly, you dropped the subject as you continued the long descent to the workshop.

Thunderous crashing sounds met your ears as you neared the ground floor. Clearly there was a fight going on already, indicating Steve had indeed reached the workshop, along with at least one or two of the others based on the noise level. You and Bucky burst through the door without a moment's hesitation, ducking just in time to dodge a rogue workbench hurtling toward you from across the room. The red and gold Iron Man suit soared in a blur overhead, launching a glowing blast of light at the offending intruder.

Glancing around quickly, you clocked at least four trespassers scattered throughout the workshop. The recessed emergency lights of the room reflected off their identical, sleek silvery metal suits of armor. Their faces were hidden behind the dark-tinted visors attached to their helmets. Whether it was the suit or the wearers themselves who had super strength allowing them to launch heavy furniture across long distances was unclear. Either way, they were holding their own effortlessly against Steve, Tony, and Nat who had already arrived.

"Who are they?" you shouted to Bucky over the deafening clanging of metal against metal as Tony punched one of the intruders in the sternum.

"No idea! Never seen 'em before!" He used his vibranium arm to deflect a sudden projectile aimed at the two of you. "I hope you've got your gun on you - we're gonna need it!"

"On it!" Slipping your hand into your pocket, your fingers closed around the handle of the pistol-like metal-conducting stun gun you'd used on Bucky years ago. With a nod, the two of you charged in to join the fray.

As Bucky sprinted over to Steve's side to take on one of the two enemies he was facing, you rushed to join Nat near the center of the workshop. She held a metal stool up protectively in front of her like a shield as the trespasser threw punch after punch at the red-headed assassin. Each blow sent her reeling and stumbling backward, dents forming in the steel seat of the makeshift shield.

"These guys pack a heavy punch!" she shouted in warning as you emerged in her peripheral vision. "Those damn suits are heavy!"

"I got this." You whipped out your gun, expertly aiming it and pulling the trigger to launch a dart at the enemy. It stuck with a thwap to the left shoulder plate of the suit. The intruder's head whipped up to lock their gaze on you. Without hesitation, you pressed the activation button on the remote to send an electric current surging through the conductive metal of the armor.

Nothing happened.

Your heart leapt up into your throat as your target's metal-enclosed fist wrapped around the shaft of the dart, ripping it off and tossing it aside. Nat was forgotten as the enemy began stalking toward you with newfound purpose.

"How the hell did it not work??" you cried in frustration, leaping behind an overturned cabinet as the enemy swiped at you.

"You sure it's got batteries in it?" Nat asked facetiously as she charged at your pursuer to try to protect you. She swung the metal stool up over her head, bringing it down on the enemy's helmet with a crunching sound.

"I use rapid-charging lithium metal batteries in all my tech - it's not possible that it could have lost charge already!" Glancing around frantically for anything you could use as a weapon or a shield, you snatched hold of the handle of a heavy toolbox.

"Well clearly it's not working- oof!" Nat grunted as the metal-suited being shoved her aside with an almost casual-appearing swipe, knocking her to the floor.

"I'm well aware of that, thank you!"

This enemy's sights were clearly focused on you and you alone now, the other Avengers forgotten as they picked up their pace in your pursuit. You swung the heavy toolbox at the intruder with a mighty heave, connecting only with their forearm as they swatted your makeshift weapon out of the way with ease. Realizing it wasn't worth draining your energy swinging it around, you instead opted to hold it up in front of you as a shield, batting away the enemy's hands as they made another attempt to grab for you. Undeterred, they continued advancing upon you as you stumbled backward to maintain your distance.

Suddenly, your heel connected with a thick cord lying haphazardly across the floor. Losing your balance, you fell backward, tossing the toolbox aside to avoid crushing yourself as you landed flat on your back. You cursed Tony's disorganization under your breath. Planting your palms on the floor, you scrambled backward, gazing up at the leering metal-suited intruder.

The cold concrete of the wall met your back. You winced, awaiting your sticky fate.

Unexpectedly, your pursuer paused, looming over you motionlessly. A sharp, male-voiced laugh echoed inside the helmet for a moment. Then, the dark visor flicked upward to reveal the face hidden inside.

"You do remember me, I hope."

You recognized the man immediately. How could you forget?

"Daniel Westfield of Westfield Enterprises." You smirked up at him. "Tell me - how is business going for you these days? Last I heard, you were flirting with bankrupcy."

"Rumors, I assure you."

"Mm. And yet, here you are, breaking into a billionaire's workshop. Seems like the ploy of a desperate failing businessman, don't you think?"

He chuckled darkly, unnervingly. "Oh, but it isn't Stark's tech we're seeking."

The resonating clang of vibranium against metal reverberated off the walls of the workshop as Bucky's fist connected with Westfield's chest plate, sending him barreling to the floor. His human hand was extended out toward you in an instant.

"Lets get you out of here. Come on."

You grasped Bucky’s hand and allowed him to tug you to your feet, dashing toward the door at his insistence. The pounding of your footsteps echoed through the stairwell as you swiftly ascended.

"I know them!" you shouted back to Bucky as he bounded up behind you. "They're not here for Stark tech!"

"Then what could they possibly want??"

You ripped open the door to the third floor, whirling around to face Bucky for just a moment.

"Me. They're here for me."

"What?!"

Bucky followed hot on your heels as you barreled down the hallway past various administrative offices. You paid no mind to the glances of confusion from the office dwellers, focused on putting distance between you and Westfield.

A yelp of surprise burst from your mouth as a metal hand closed around your wrist and yanked you into an empty office, the door slamming shut behind you. Bucky's eyes were wide as he gripped your shoulders to force you to face him.

"What do they want with you?" he demanded more than asked, voice laced with panic.

"He's been after my tech for years," you explained in a rushed whisper. "Most of my... 'clients'... never saw my face when I paid them a visit and hacked their system. But Westfield apparently does late-night work in his office with the lights off. Super shady stuff. He and I had a run-in when I stopped by to relieve the company of some of their assets."

"So he holds a grudge."

"More than that. He almost caught me that night. Set off some intense security system that basically made the building impenetrable. At least, he thought. But I out-teched him. Hacked his security system and made myself an opening to escape before locking the building down again with him inside." You chuckled at the memory. "Must have taken him ages to figure out how to break my code."

"Sounds to me like he has a grudge against you," Bucky muttered.

"Yeah, but what he really wants is my tech." You held up your wrist, directing Bucky's attention to your watch. "I built this to allow me to hack into any system, break through any firewall. It's unmatched by any tech I've ever seen, and Westfield knows it. He saw what I can do that night." With an exasperated sigh, you lowered your arm to your side. "Sure, I wasn't the cleanest of people to have access to this sort of tech, but in his hands? There would be chaos."

"We need to get you out of here, then," Bucky insisted. "Tony's got a jet parked up on the landing pad. I know how to fly it - we can get you somewhere safe."

"N-no. I can't leave the others to deal with my problems while I run away scared." You shook your head defiantly, holding Bucky's firm gaze. "I'm not a coward."

"Of course you're not a coward." Bucky placed his hands on your shoulders again, his brows knit together. "You saw what they can do with those suits. Your tech didn't work on them. There's no way you can fight them off."

"But-"

"If we get you out of the tower, they won't have reason to stay here."

You bit your lip anxiously, fighting an internal moral battle. Bucky was right - they were here for you, and if you weren't here they couldn't get what they came for. But this felt a whole lot like running away, and it didn't sit well with you.

"Please. Just... trust me on this." Bucky's icy blue eyes bore into yours, a gleam of desperation behind them. You let out a slow breath, glancing at the door and then back at your friend.

"Fine," you conceded. "But you need to tell Steve what's going on. We can't just take off and leave them here to fight."

"I'll tell him on the way," he assured, pressing a finger to his earpiece as he ushered you toward the door. "Come on - the elevator will be faster than climbing up the stairs."

Reluctantly, you made your way to the elevator as Bucky explained the situation to Steve through his comms device. For once, you were thankful for the high-speed elevator hydraulics Tony had installed. It was mere minutes before the pair of you stepped out into the hangar area.

The small jet plane sat on the landing pad overlooking the city of Manhattan. Overhead, the sky was a dismal gray, clouds swollen with the threat of storms. Normally you enjoyed sitting by the windows and watching the rain, but there was a charged current in the air that set you on edge as you followed Bucky to the jet. Something felt off.

Bucky stepped up the small set of stairs to the door of the jet, reaching for the door handle. As the door swung open, Bucky was suddenly struck by a metal fist through the doorway, knocking him backward down the stairs and onto his back.

You gasped as Westfield stepped out of the jet, still sporting his metal suit with the visor flipped up so you could see his face. He started advancing toward you, and this time you stood your ground. If you were going down, you were not going down cowering in fear of this man. It was time to draw on your training from Nat.

Keep him talking. It only serves as a distraction.

"What exactly are you planning to do with me if you manage to catch me?" you demanded, side stepping to maintain distance as you began to circle one another.

"Manage?" He glanced around the landing pad, looking back to you. "Unless you've learned to fly, I don't see any way out of this for you."

"You're dodging my question."

"I've no reason to avoid telling you my plans." His dark eyes burned into yours, but you held his gaze determinedly. "Your little device opens the door for so many possibilities. So many competitors we could demolish with just the touch of a button."

"Sounds like you lack the confidence in your own company to hold its own," you chided with a smirk. Behind him, you saw Bucky rise to his feet, immediately storming toward Westfield as he dusted himself off. In the brief second your gaze flitted past his head, Westfield realized Bucky had picked himself up again. He whirled around to face the super soldier, charging at him full force.

"Stay AWAY from her!" Bucky hollered, slamming his metal fist against the side of Westfield's helmet. Barely even dazed, the man began to fight back with powerful blows of his own, knocking the wind out of the super soldier with a sucker punch to the gut.

"Is this who they refer to as the infamous Winter Soldier?" Westfield goaded, shoving his foot into Bucky's chest and knocking him to the ground. "Pretty weak, for someone who's supposed to be lethal."

"Back off, Westfield! This is between you and me," you shouted, drawing his attention long enough for Bucky to bounce back to his feet.

"I'm not the one who brought a friend to fight my battles for me."

"Make that 'friends.' And, uh, yeah - you kinda did."

You and Westfield both turned at the sound of Tony's voice as he, Steve, and Nat emerged from inside the hangar. With a scowl, Westfield flipped his protective visor down, stalking toward the heroes.

"Speaking of your friends - they decided to head home. Weren't feeling so hot." Tony shrugged nonchalantly. "I assume... bad Chinese food or something? They left pretty quickly. Had to have been urgent."

"You may have frightened away my subordinates, but trust me when I say I have no reason to fear any of you," Westfield growled. "I've already proven myself far more powerful than any of you."

"Why do you need her, then?" Steve asked, jerking his head toward you. "If your tech is so fantastic, what do you need anyone else for?"

"Sounds like he's got an inferiority complex," Nat quipped, her red lips quirking upward into a smirk.

"Enough of this!" With a yell, Westfield charged at the trio, and they sprang into action. Thunder rumbled overhead as scattered raindrops began to fall, leaving damp speckles along the surface of the landing pad. Even in the grim lighting, the metal of the two suits and Steve's shield shimmered with the reflection of the clouds as fists flew.

"Come on! We have to get you out of here!" Bucky tugged on your arm, urging you toward the jet. You wrenched your arm from his grasp and shot him a defiant look.

"No! I'm not leaving them like this! We can't leave them like this!"

You observed from afar as Westfield knocked Steve flat on his back with a well-placed blow to the shoulder, turning to Tony and catching his fist before it could strike him in the back of the head. The gears in your brain were spinning at breakneck speed trying to come up with a way to beat him. He'd made it abundantly clear - his suit made him stronger than any of the heroes combined. Even a full-fledged blow from the super soldiers or from Tony's blasters barely made him stumble. And he'd obviously insulated the suit somehow to prevent electric shocks from getting through. Where was the chink in his armor?

And then it hit you.

"He didn't build the suit for flight."

"What?" Bucky turned to you with a confused look, brow furrowed. You met his gaze with wide-eyed realization, grasping his forearms in your enthusiasm.

"Think about it - Tony's been buzzing around this entire time in his Iron Man suit and Westfield hasn't left the ground once. Because he can't. He didn't build thrusters into his suit like Tony did."

"How does that help us, exactly?"

You began to step backward, moving closer to the edge of the landing pad as you removed your watch from your wrist. "That's his weakness - gravity." Turning your head to look at Westfield, you shouted above the rolling thunder. "HEY WESTFIELD!"

His head shot up just as he sent Tony hurtling across the hangar with a hard kick to the chest. You held up your hands in surrender, showing him the watch in your left hand.

"I'll come quietly - just... stop all this! Please! Don't hurt them!"

"What are you doing??" Bucky hissed, taking a step toward you. You flashed him a sharp look, stopping him in his tracks.

"Just trust me," you whispered through gritted teeth, returning your attention to Westfield as he began stomping toward you.

"What are you playing at?"

"Go ahead and take me in! Just leave the others alone! I'll come willingly."

He laughed darkly, stopping within six feet of you. "Do you think me naïve enough to believe you'd ever 'come quietly'? What little tricks do you have up your sleeve now? More tech that you think you can use against me?"

You didn't dare look over his shoulder to signal to the others, praying they'd catch on to your plan. "No tricks, no tech. I have nothing to hide."

"I don't believe you for a second."

Westfield began advancing upon you again, and you planted your feet firmly, willing yourself to stand tall. You barely heard the whirring noise of the thrusters over the thunder as Tony rocketed from inside the hangar toward your pursuant. All it took was a hard shove.

Hollering in shock, Westfield stumbled forward toward the edge. His arms flailed in his desperation to stop his momentum, his hand closing around your wrist. As his foot caught the low metal guardrail bordering the landing pad, he tugged you down with him, dragging you backward toward the edge.

Time slowed for a moment. You instinctively wrenched your wrist from his grasp before you fell backward, but you'd already lost your balance. Your ears rang as you stumbled, stepping over the small railing onto nothing. Your eyes met Bucky's as his mouth opened in a desperate shout of panic that you couldn't hear. Gravity took hold, and you threw your hands out in a desperate attempt to grab hold of anything that could halt your fall.

The fingers of your right hand closed around the metal guardrail, and you held fast as your downward momentum stopped, nearly tearing your shoulder from its socket. Your hearing suddenly cleared, the bustle of the city below meeting your ears as you dangled helplessly from the edge of the landing pad. A brief glance down at your feet made your stomach flip, sending a wave of nausea through you as you realized how very, very high up the 81st floor of the tower truly was.

"HANG ON!"

You looked up as Bucky's face appeared over the edge of the landing pad, pure terror etched across his features in a way you'd never seen before. He reached over and grasped your wrist with his metal hand to stabilize you, offering you his other hand. You took hold, gripping him tightly with your sweaty palm as he pulled you up to safety.

Bucky's arms were wrapped around you in an instant. You buried your face in his shoulder, trembling as you held his waist in a vice grip. His human hand lifted to rest against the back of your head, stroking your rain-dampened hair in an effort to soothe.

"Shh... you're alright... I've got you..."

You allowed him to hold you to his chest as the rain began to come down more steadily on your heads. His heart beat strong and fast inside his chest, gradually slowing to a normal rate as the adrenaline wore off. In that moment, you realized you couldn't bear another day without asking him to share his heart with you.

Pulling back, you lifted your eyes to meet his, vision blurred with a thin layer of saline. He offered you a shaky smile, his own eyes shimmering with the threat of tears. There was no more hesitation, no more fear. You surged forward and pressed your lips to his.

And he kissed you back.

The kiss was desperate, fervid, as though you might lose each other if you paused to take a breath. Salty tears dampened your cheeks and lips, but he kept kissing you, and you simply didn't care. His hand tangled in your hair, the metal arm tightening around your waist as he dipped you back slightly to deepen the kiss. You sighed happily, and he laughed against your lips at the sound.

You were dizzy from lack of breathing by the time you finally willed yourself to part from Bucky's lips. He pressed his forehead to yours, noses touching as you both breathed heavily to regain oxygen.

"Bucky, I..."

"Don't you ever go falling off a building again, you hear me?" he breathed, his hand trembling against the back of your neck. "I... I thought I'd lost you, I-"

"You didn't. I'm here. You can have me - all of me, Bucky, just say the word and I'm yours."

He beamed at you, ducking to recapture your lips with his for another moment. When he pulled away, he had a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "Please, be mine. I love you."

"I love you, Bucky."

"Finally!"

You'd nearly forgotten the others were still standing on the landing pad, feeling heat rush to your face as Tony's voice interrupted your moment. Steve was shoving his shoulder when you glanced up.

"Tony - let them be," he muttered.

"Thanks for figuring out my plan," you said with a grin, which Tony reciprocated.

"That was bold of you, Robin Hood. Reckless, even. You made me proud."

"Don't encourage her!" Bucky groaned. You couldn't help but giggle, pressing your lips to Bucky's cheek.

"I promise I won't turn into Tony, alright?" You leaned closer to whisper loudly in his ear. "My tech is better than his anyway."

"I heard that!" Tony shouted indignantly, spinning on his heel and heading back into the hangar. "That's the last time you get a compliment from me!" he called back over his shoulder.

"You ok?" Nat asked, offering you a hand up. You nodded, reaching out to take her hand. Bucky had other ideas, suddenly scooping you up into his arms and rising to his feet. He merely laughed as you yelped in surprise, swatting playfully at his chest.

"I've done enough falling today, don't you dare drop me!"

"Don't worry - I got you." He turned and began heading inside with you held tightly in his arms. "You don't have any other mortal enemies like Westfield, do you?"

"Not that I'm aware of... but I guess you never know. I did steal from a lot of people," you responded teasingly. He growled playfully, digging his fingers into your ribs once.

"Well if there's even a chance someone else might come after you, then we're starting you on a rigorous training program. If you're gonna be stubborn and insist on fighting, I'm gonna make damn sure you know how to fight."

"Rigorous, hmm? What exactly will that entail?"

"Oh, you're gonna be working hard," he teased, catching on to your tone. "I'll make sure you work up a good sweat, don't you worry."

"Really? And... when does that start, exactly?"

Bucky stepped into the elevator with you in his arms, pressing the button for the floor you both shared. "Right now, if you're ready for it."

"Bring it on, Barnes."

You caught Nat's eyeroll just as the elevator doors slid shut. You were well aware they would know exactly where you were off to, but you couldn't care less. All you cared about in that moment was the super soldier who held you in his arms, who was kissing you breathless during the entire elevator ride up to your floor.

You may not have planned to tell Bucky how you felt about him that day. But you were damn glad you did.