#long sleeve T shirt V neck

[rose9875]

[impossiblepluto]

I wish polls could have photos because then I’d do like “choose your favorite Mac hair” just to watch the world burn

[creativesnehalshop]

NYC Tee

All tips t shirt available

[painted-bees]

A quick, sloppy little comic about Magritte

[OC's]

(image description under the cut)

[Image Description: It's a vertical comic strip of 14 panels arranged one under the other. The style is realistic, done with sketchy lines in a dark burgundy. It is not colored or shaded and there is no background. The comic features the interactions of a couple, Magritte (also called Margie) and Rafael (also called Raf). Magritte is a young woman, she is wearing a baggy armhole tank top with a tight fitting black top underneath, shorts and boots. She has a messy bun and a small messenger bag slung over her left shoulder. Rafael is her partner, wearing baggy pants, sneakers, fingerless gloves, V-neck t-shirt and an open button-up jacket with a hoodie and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair has short side with long top bangs and a short goatee.

 (First panel): There's only Magritte visible from the waist up. Off screen, Raf says to someone else: “Magritte has our tickets.” Magritte is excited, looking straight forward. Her left hand in on her bag's strap, her right hand rummaging inside her bag. Magritte says: "Yeah! Even made sure to put them in my wallet so that I wouldn't- uh..."

 (Second panel): She is beginning to look concerned, now with her face turned to her back, both left hand holding the lip to open the bag wider and her right hand still rummaging inside. Magritte says: "wouldn't forget.... Hang on, it's not on it's usual pocket. Haha." The last is a nervous laughter.

 (Third panel): Magritte is kneeling on the ground. Rafael is standing to the side and behind her, only his feet visible. Magritte looks frantic, searching inside her bag. Her right arm is forearm deep digging in her bag. Magritte says: "It's definitely here-! It's the one thing I never forget 'cus I never take it out of my bag!" Rafael says, firmly: "Margie, when you took it out to put the tickets in, did you put the wallet back in the bag?" The letters are bolded, with the word "back" underlined for emphasis. Magritte says: "Give me some credit, there's no way I'm that stupid." The last three words are underlined for emphasis.

 (Fourth panel):  The scene has changed and now Magritte and Rafael are in a car. We see them from the passenger's side. Rafael is driving, looking straight ahead at the road. Magritte is hunched forward, hugging herself with the left hand. Her right hand is holding her head. She is looking out the passenger window, avoiding Raf.

 (Fifth panel):  Rafael turns slightly to look at Magritte.

 (Sixth panel):  The point of view is now a side profile view from the drivers side. Rafael has his left arm leaning on the open window, his right hand on the wheel. Magritte is hunched over facing the passenger window. Rafael says: "I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're worried about." Magritte says: "I can literally feel your disappointment."

 (Seventh panel): Back to the passengers side, Rafael is looking at the road. Magritte is frustrated, no longer leaning her head against her right hand and instead her hand is palm upwards. Rafael says: "Well, yes. It is a disappointing situation, but-" Magritte interrupts: "You'd think I'd be able to do the one thing I was asked to do-! That I'd at least learn from the last billion times I forgot shit. Rafael says, quieter: “that's not where I was going with this...”

(Eighth panel):  Magritte has her right hand holding her face with the palm on her cheek, left hand placing the tips of her fingers on her left temple and eye brows. She is frustrated and angry. Magritte says: "It's not like I've got anything more important rattling around in my brain.  But, for some reason, if it's not my music, or like.... food or something, then it's just not a priority. I can't make myself care enough to make it a priority!"

(Ninth panel): She now has both hands in front of her, elbows bent, finger extended in a vague hand gesture as if there was something in front of her. Magritte says: "I'm an adult in my 20s and I still manage my responsibilities like a child. I'd be more dependable if I could just stop and think for a second, but I'd probably forget to even breathe if it weren't for the..."

 (Tenth panel): Her frustrated expression turned to confusion. Her hands are still in the air in the same position as before. Magritte says:"... why are we parked?" Her noticing this stopped her rant.

(Eleventh panel): Magritte straightens up and faces the window entirely, left hand crossed over her body to lean on the car door. Rafael, off screen: "Margie." Magritte says: "Oh." Magritte's inner thoughts are written around her. "He stopped the car to scold me. No, not ‘scold’. Don't be a child about this. He's disappointed and just needs to make sure you understand so you can do better next ti-"

 (Twelfth panel): Magritte is still looking out the window, but now with a shocked expression. Rafael reached with his right hand, and its now resting gently on her upper back. Rafael interrupts her inner monologue with "I need you to stop repeating the shit your parents and teachers and such yelled at you growing up. They were wrong, and nothing you just said makes sense."

 (Thirteenth panel):  The perspective switches back to the driver's side profile. Rafael says: "A poor memory isn't synonymous with poor priorities. Nor does it speak to a lack of maturity. The priority was there, we just have to build a better habit of checking things before we leave the apartment. Both of us. It's gonna take time. You afford everyone else a ton of patience, all the time. Can you please afford some for yourself? The situation sucks, we were both looking forward to this. But it's not the end of the world. We didn't forget things on purpose. So let's take it easy and try to end the day on a good note. Alright?" Magritte says: "Okay... c-can we um...."

 (Fourteenth panel): Magritte has turned to face Rafael and her eyes are filled with tears and they're running down her cheeks.  Rafael looks startled, lifting his arm off Magritte's back. Magritte says: "Can we get some ice cream on the way back?" Rafael says: "O-of course!" End of description.]

This description was written and provided by Hiwi.

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[jobean12-blog]

The Last Time We Say Goodbye

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 1,604

Summary: It's only recently that you and Joel have been more that just friends so when he has to go out on a search with Tommy it leaves you with nothing but time to think...

Author's Note: I missed him and wanted something desperate but soft! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you sweet Daisy!

Warnings: some light angst at Joel being away, tension, soft sweetness, soft smut, oral (f rec), p in v, a curse or two

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

The time away had only made things more complicated.

You felt frustrated. You were spending far too much time thinking of him. Missing him. Worrying about him.

Your time together was always on your mind, and you had dreams of him almost nightly, none of them satisfying enough.

There was no way he could ever give you a precise time for his return. You couldn’t even be sure that he would return. But somehow, on that cool summer evening, while you’re sitting on the porch, mindlessly swaying back and forth on the rocking chair he built, you hear  a commotion by the gates and you know the group is back.

You can only hope he’s with them.

Standing, you take a deep breath and try to calm the butterflies in your stomach. The sound of pounding hooves has your fingers twisting and you stand on your tippy toes to get a better look at the riders.

You don’t see him and you’re breathing quickens. Starting to pace back and forth you will your mind to stop racing and your heartbeat to calm. Without thinking, you stop mid step and turn toward the oncoming group, searching through the familiar faces for the one you want.

Your breath catches in your throat when a head of familiar, gray-streaked brown hair appears. There he is, looking better than you’d ever seen him. How…after two weeks on the road does someone come back looing better?

His hair is a tousled mess of curls as usual, no doubt from his large hands running through it regularly. His long legs hang over either side of the horse, muscles flexed and straining against his tight jeans. In the warmer weather, his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck and his sleeves rolled up over his forearms.

He looks tired and his beard is more unkempt than usual, but that’s not what has your body thrumming. His eyes have been searching the area, but the moment they meet yours, his lips lift into a smile and before you can stop it, you feel your own grow, wide and relieved.

With ease, he slides from the horse and takes a few long strides to meet you out in the middle of the road. His features grow tense while you both wait for the other to speak.

“Hi,” you say quietly, trying to ease some of the apprehension between you.

“Hiya darlin’,” he answers.

“Are you ok?” you ask, letting your eyes roam down his body in search of injuries.

He pauses for a moment before answering.

“I am now.”

There are people bustling around you, loved ones searching for each other and cries of greeting ringing out, but the only thing you can focus on is the growing tension and every inch of space that separates you.

Someone rushes by and bumps into you, pushing you toward him. His hand instinctively lands on your waist to steady you and you look up to find him staring.

Your skin heats at the familiar look of hunger in his eyes. You mutter “thank you,” and look away.

“You must be thirsty? Hungry?”

He nods and makes a gesture toward his horse. You watch as he walks over and starts to lift his belongings from the saddle, distracted as the muscles of his back tighten his shirt.

Tommy yells something and he answers, breaking you out of your daze.

“How ‘bout that drink?” he asks when he’s standing close once again.

You move around your small kitchen in silence, trying to busy yourself with making him a small meal. All you want to do is reach over and touch him, to tell him that you need him to touch you.

All your thoughts make it impossible for you to concentrate on the task, your time apart having done nothing to lessen his hold over you. If anything, it’s stronger.

With a sigh you reach for a plate, too distracted to react as it slips free from your hand and crashes to the ground.

He rushes up behind you, taking your hand in his and checking it for any cuts. His calloused fingertips search your skin, and you feel every sensation. His scent fills the space you occupy, and he surrounds you completely.

“Are you okay, darlin’?”

You turn to face him, your lips parting at the intensity in his gaze.

“It’s just been a long day,” you say, searching for any excuse.

“Hmm,” he muses, continuing to study you.

His gaze flickers to your mouth and you need him to kiss you. As if drawn in, you lean closer as he leans in to meet you.

Suddenly, a knock sounds at the door and Tommy comes in, his smile fading when he realizes his obvious interruption.

“Sorry big brother,” he mutters. “But you forgot this.”

He holds out Joel’s knife before looking at you with an apologetic smile. Joel takes it and then carefully slides it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Tommy disappears out the door as quickly as he had come in.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly and when you look back at Joel you have no time to react as he grips your face between his hands and pulls you into his chest.

When your lips meet, you make a strangled sound of surrender, immediately combing your fingers through his hair.

He holds you steady, pulling away to press a kiss to one corner of your mouth, then the other before he lingers in the middle.

You press your curves into him and he bumps into the counter, then the kitchen table as you shift and finally meet the wall as he pins you against something solid.

You can smell, taste and feel him but none of it is enough.

He grabs your ass, your thighs, slides his hands along your waist and up over your breasts, seeming to need to touch every part of you simultaneously. Your hands roam his body frantically, yanking on his shirt until the buttons pop off and it falls from his shoulder to the floor.

His fingers trace the hem of your dress, and you moan, bringing your hand to rest on his, guiding his movements.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs in a voice rough with need. “Tell me the things you want me to do to you.”

“Everything,” you whisper against his mouth.

He groans your name and slips his hands under your dress.

“I need to see all of you,” he says, teasing your mouth.

In one swift movement he has the dress up and over your head and stops dead at the sight of what’s been hiding beneath.

He takes a step back, leaving you pressed against the wall.

Your matching satin and lace set has him licking his lips and he pushes a restraining hand through his hair.

“Fuck, you’re stunning,” he says, moving closer again and running his fingertips along the swell of your breasts.

A visible shiver runs across your skin and his hand travels upward, tracing the outline of your collarbone, along your neck and finally to your jaw.

He drags your mouth to his and you fumble clumsily with his pants. His hands wander down the curve of your spine, back up again along your sides to your breasts, and feel every inch of your skin.

The kiss never breaks as you stumble back toward the couch and pull at his remaining clothes.

He stops just when your calves hit the cushions, slowly tracing your ribs with his knuckles before sliding to the clasp of your bra to release it.

Pulling you closer, he groans into your mouth as your soft breasts graze his chest and your fingers slide lower, circling his cock and lightly squeezing.

He spins and sits down, resting his hands on your waist and holding you still in front of him. Reaching down he slips his thumbs under the fabric at your hips and delicately drags it down your legs.

With soft kisses to your stomach, he moves downward, continuing to taste until you coat his tongue and erase everything else.

“I’m fuckin’ losin’ my mind darlin’,” he whispers against your ear as he drags you into his lap. “I need to be inside you.”

Your hips rock over him, his cock sliding against your wetness as your sighs and moans fill the room.

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Please Joel. I can’t wait any longer.”

He brings his eyes to yours, his lips hovering just an inch away as he holds your gaze and guides himself deep inside you.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Say it again,” he demands, breathless.

“Please Joel.”

He starts to thrust into you more steadily and you brace your hands on his shoulders, easily meeting each movement.  

“I can’t get enough of this,” he whispers against your lips. “I want you like this every day.”

His name leaves your lips like a prayer and his grip tightens.

“Come on darlin’. Let me see you come all over me. It’s all I’ve thought about.”

Your thighs tighten around his waist, and you squeeze his cock, your breath hitching before you muffle your cries against his neck. He follows right behind, hips stuttering and breathing ragged.

He slumps back against the couch and cradles you to his chest, his arms secured around you.

He moves his face close to yours, noses brushing and lips delicate.

“Stay with me,” you whisper.

His lips trace your jaw and stop just below your ear. He places a soft kiss to the spot before whispering, “I’m not goin' anywhere.”

@lizette50 @hiddles-rose @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989

[lucysarah-c]

“It’s the only extra shirt I got here,” Levi’s voice returned to its natural stiffness as he handed her a V-neck long sleeve grey t-shirt.

“Thanks,” she said with a shy smile while accepting it. Levi nodded as he drank from his canteen. Once she was dressed, he offered her some water, which she accepted.

Exhaustion washed over them as they lay down. His eyes focused on the ceiling, his arms bent behind his head. She lay on her side, watching him.

“What?” Levi's fierce eyes looked askance at her as she admired his side profile.

Her humming negative reply was all he got at first, and then, “Was it… was it enough for you?”

He turned his head to his left. “I came, didn’t I?”

His bluntness was sometimes a blessing and sometimes not. She pouted at the idea. “But… we didn’t…”

“I said we wouldn’t,” Levi quickly picked up the meaning behind her lack of conviction and rushed to reply. “Besides, even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t have gotten my dick in. You’re in your fertile days.”

The knowledge of that affirmation eluded her completely, to the point that she didn’t even know what to inquire about first. She also felt extremely tired as she scooted closer to his frame. Levi took the hint and embraced her with one arm as she rested her head on his chest.

Humming again, this time affirmatively, she somehow understood his point. .. she believed.

“That’s scary…” she whispered after a few minutes, and his attention returned to her.

“What?”

“I don’t know if I’ll do it,” the words had no meaning to Levi, who was trying hard to follow her train of thought as she rambled. “I feel my legs tremble.”

Silence, as if she could hear the gears of his head working to comprehend. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“About jumping,” she said casually.

“Huh?” he insisted, slightly raising up to hover over his left arm to have a better look at her face.

They were both confused—him because he didn’t even fathom what she was talking about, and her because she couldn’t believe that someone as street-smart as Levi didn’t know about it.

“That…” she started her explanation, slightly ashamed like a kid afraid of answering a classroom question wrong. First confidently, then doubts sank in. “That you have to jump ten times after it, so… so you don’t get pregnant?”

Confusion, then realization. Levi’s frowning face as he tried to process what she had just said turned into his normal stoic one, and then he bit his bottom lip. His chest began to shake as he inhaled rapidly through his nose. He began to chuckle, and when his weight fell back onto the mat, he was loudly laughing.

Her disbelief at seeing him genuinely laugh for the first time was mixed with offense. ‘What’s so damn funny?’

Levi kept trying to control his reaction, stopping momentarily, but then he remembered it and laughed again. Covering his eyes with his forearm, he insisted on forming a sentence, but it was just too hilarious somehow.

“Let me get this straight,” he chuckled, “you thought that jumping ten times, not nine, it has to be ten, would magically prevent you from getting pregnant?”

At this point, she was heavily offended. “Well yes!” Her enthusiastic affirmation only made him more entertained.

“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard,” his declaration between chuckles made her pout heavily at him, feeling the embarrassment quickly washing over her. “If it was that simple, brat, I wouldn’t have been born.”

His hand ran through his features as he calmed down, slightly shaking his head with closed eyes as he processed the idea. “God, how fucking bad are surface bastards that women have the energy to be jumping around after getting fucked?”

“Well, that was my question! Because I’m tired!” she complained loudly, feeling she finally had a fair point in this conversation.

To her surprise, Levi rolled to his side and grabbed her face. Her resistance due to her petty anger was pointless because he easily held her. Both hands on each side of her head, he then planted a kiss on her forehead.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” his whisper was fully covered in a thin layer of tenderness.

The pout on her features didn’t cease as his fingers ran down the side of her face; it felt insulting that he was looking at her with such appreciation after laughing in her face. His knuckles caressed her cheekbone so gently.

“Who told you that shit?”

“The girls in the barracks always talk about it,” she confessed, hoping that common knowledge among her companions would erase her ignorance.

“I’ll pull out and we’ll count days, that’s what we will do,” Levi explained.

Probably my favourite scene ever from Holy Ground.

Link to my masterlist and my other works if you feel like checking them out.

Tags!: @nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @angelofthorr @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @l3visthighs @hum4n-wr3ckag3 @hannieslovebot @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 @levisfavoriteteashop @katestrophes @levistealeaf @an-ever-angry-bi @youre-ackermine @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @trashblackrainbow @flxrartsstuff @katharinasdiaryy @kikarouflames @levisecretgfblog @searriously @blackdxggr @ackermanswifee

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[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 2)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3122

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

“When you said you got me a t-shirt,” you sigh, once again adjusting the hem of the jersey Mor provided you. Notshirt; jersey. The bottom of the Velaris Bats uniform has been trimmed—startlingly low. Or is it cut too high; you wonder with a swallowed curse. The damned thing nearly shows off your entire midriff. “I thought you meant, like, a normal fucking shirt and not whatever this is.”

Mor scoffs, shoveling a handful of popcorn into her mouth as she weaves her way through the throng of people towards your seats. Her long strides in her black heels hard to keep up with. “That is a Mor Original, and I only made it cuter,” she huffs indigently, like your discomfort is the sole inspiration behind her “designs.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed Mor to pick out your outfit, but it’s definitely going to be your last, you try to remind yourself. The handful of times you’ve thought this exact thing before is laughable, and you’ve never once remembered. She’ll continue to cut the hems of shirts and alter skirts into even shorter skirts until the end of time, probably.

She’s been the crafty type since you first met her. Anything that she could add personality to was subject for a good old shot of “Mor’s Touch:” clothing, home décor, even the cocktails she mixes—which often go from something as simple as a Dirty Shirley and turning it into a cherry-passionfruit with a hint of lime drink, mixed with tonic instead of Sprite and garnished with a frilly umbrella stuck through three Maraschino cherries because “one is simply not enough.”

You agree, and you’d never admit to your eccentric roommate that it’s the most delicious drink you’ve ever had. Goes down like lemonade and has you going from a corner-stander to someone in the center of the dancefloor in two drinks flat.

You wish you had one right about now to get you through the night.

Your mind wanders to Gwyn back at the dorms, wondering what she’s going to be getting up to tonight. You don’t need to wonder, you know how your red-headed roommate prefers to spend her nights, curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels within reach, and her laptop in her lap, creating fantasy worlds for her characters to live in some day.

A surge of pride for your roommate fills your energy tank. Sometimes people truly do find exactly what they were made for in life, and Gwyn was born to write. You’ve only read a few snippets she’s been willing to share, but you can’t fathom forming sentences the way she does, creating worlds and characters from her mind alone, seeing a vision in your mind so clear that it would be a crime not to share it with the world.

You’re not sure you’ve ever loved something that much, but Sports Medicine is pretty damn close. Psychology, is not.

You shiver as the cold of the arena hits the sliver of skin that’s exposed itself once again while you were taking a sip of your drink. Goosebumps pebble in response, coursing over the entirety of your body within seconds, causing you to shiver.

You should’ve fought Mor harder about bringing your jacket, but at least she left you sleeves, her shirt has been cut into a tank that hardly reaches the bottom of her ribs, and there’s a deep cut down the collar, creating a perfect ‘V’ that shows off her incredible tits.

You’d know, you’ve seen them before.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You two look so good,” a girl gushes, steps into you and Mor’s path, halting you from your first steps down the stairs to your seats. She’s chipper, a camera poised in her hands, the thick strap around her neck. He shiny, chestnut hair is braided into two tails, draped across her shoulders.

Behind her thin-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement as she peruses you and your roommate up and down, admiring your outfits.

“I told you,” Mor murmurs, elbowing you in the side before raising her voice to answer. “Thank you so much! I spent all day on these, and this one doesn’t appreciate my hard work at all. It’s a refreshing change of pace to hear a compliment instead of ‘Mor, don’t you think this is a little too much?’” You scrunch your nose at Mor’s terrible impression of you. Too nasally, too annoying.

The photographer laughs like it’s her full-time job, and you scowl.

Way to throw me right under that speeding bus, Mor.

“Do you mind if I take your picture for the team’s social media account? You two would make a great first slide in a carousel for school spirit,” she gets this faraway look in her eyes as if she’s picturing it now. “The interaction you’d get us,” she sighs dreamily. “I might even get promoted.”

You groan internally when Mor perks up even further. “I think I love you,” she blurts, pupils heart-shaped. “Do you want to sit with us? We have an extra ticket.” She’s bought one for Gwyn, hoping she would join in on this sporty girl’s night, but your other roommate had been adamant about her dislike of the sport, and had gotten a pass while you were dressed up like a doll and dragged out of the dorm.

The girl’s laugh is like a windchime, soothing and melodic. “I wish I could, but duty calls,” she waves her camera around in answer. “Maybe I’ll catch you at one of the after parties, though. Here, you can give me your Instagram and I’ll DM you after tagging you in the photos.”

She and Mor exchange socials and names. Feyre. It’s unique and suits her well.

After adding your own Instagram on her phone, you hand the phone back, posing with Mor. Of course, knowing your roommate as you do, it’s not just one picture that Feyre takes. They’re both beaming, and one picture turns into ten. Ten poses, nine sips of your drink because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Eight frantic smiles, seven internal sighs, and six side-eyes from passerby, trying to find their seats. Five giggles from friends, four embarrassed blushes, three warnings that you are so done with this, two people ignoring you, and one announcement overhead signaling the start of the game in a few minutes.

“So nice to meet you, Feyre,” Mor calls as you begin guiding her away. You have no clue where you’re going, but any movement closer to any empty seat is better than the photoshoot you just had in the middle of the walkway. With a parting smile at the photographer, Mor continues, like she’s all for standing there all night instead of supporting her cousin on the ice. “Message me!”

“Clingy, much?” You grunt at the poke to the arm that gets you.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I’m going to replace you,” she scoffs with a brush of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. You swear, the guys sitting in the front row swoon. “Besides, you can never have too many friends. It’s not possible.”

You’re pretty sure it is possible to have too many friends, but you keep that thought to yourself. You suppose you have one more spot in your life for a friend, but if the pictures turn out terrible and are blasted on the Bat’s Instagram, that spot might disappear. You’re already feeling mortified enough from the public display of taking photos.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what you decide to go with. “Now, where are our seats?”

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mutter wearily, squinting to see what’s happening on the ice. You might not know anything about hockey, but you know malicious intent when you see it. It’s in the way that the Penguin’s player leans closer to the Bat’s center, nudging his shoulder as he speaks, his slimy grin growing with each jab.

The game’s been fun so far, much to your surprise. The crowd surrounding you is all for the team, chanting songs that you need to learn immediately because they’re so much fun. The music that blasts around the stadium during every break is on-point, not too old of songs and not too overplayed like at the one football game you’d been dragged to last year (also by Mor, but not because of a family member on the team, because of an entirely different member.)

“Is that my cousin?” She asks, brown eyes sharp as she examines the players. Their fronts are to you, no seeing the names painted across the back of their jerseys. You refrain from mentioning how Mor should at least know her own cousin’s number—since their written on the sleeves—but you keep that thought to yourself when her red painted nails tighten around the box of popcorn, crushing the flimsy cardboard. The strain of the muscle in her jaw matches the boy on the ice’s, you notice with a fleeing glance at your roommate.

Tension coils your gut. You find your fingers wrapping around the edge of the seat you’re perched in, gripping the bleachers so tightly that you swear you feel the cool metal warming and warping.

You’re not the only two who have noticed the shift in the moods of the players on the ice, parts of the crowd are beginning to rise from their seats, cheering growing from a low rumble to a thunder of screams, caws, and jeering.

The puck is barely a millimeter from the referee’s hand before sticks are thrown to the ice, gloves following as the two players slowly begin to circle each other. It looks like something out of an animal documentary: two predators about to snap at each other’s throats in a fight for the territory.

The anticipation of them going blow for blow lights a fire deep within your belly, your core perking up for attention.

You shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t get getting turned on by the idea of two boys about to knock each other’s teeth out. Should be thinking about your best friend’s cousin like this at all.

Shooting a guilty glance at your roommate, you breathe a soft sigh of relief that’s swallowed by the shouts of the crowd when you see that Mor hasn’t picked up on your sudden shift in mood—both mentally and physically.

All the players on the ice slide back to make room for the brawl that’s about to break out and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, almost overpowering the arousal as you wonder why no one is attempting to stop them.

There isn’t time to voice your concern, isn’t time to do anything except bolt to your feet with a gasp so harsh it sears your lungs when the Penguin’s player is the first to swing. Your heart is lodged in your throat, your breathing holding in your throat as you watch in anticipation. He lashes out with a curled fist so fast that by the time you blink, it’s over.

His hit doesn’t land.

There’s no time to feel the relief trying to rush through your veins because the Bat’s center is retaliating, throwing himself forward after swiftly dodging the attack. He grabs the other boy by the collar of his ice blue uniform and hauls him into his closed fist.

His opponents helmet goes flying off with the snap of his head backwards. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright, snagging a handful of the Bat’s jersey to try and steady himself.

You look to the benches flanking the ice, wondering why no one is joining the fray. It’s now that you realize it’s not that they don’t want to help their teammate who is quickly ducking away from another fist, it’s because they can’t.

There’s a boy standing nonchalantly, hazel eyes pinned on the scene before him. He looks eager almost, leaning so casually against his stick, chin propped on the edge of it like he’s watching the newest action movie from the best spot in the house.

Even the goalie seems to be unconcerned, taking the few moments he has to take a swig of water and adjust his helmet, squatting low and shooting side to side in his box, as if trying to keep limber for when the game resumes.

One of the refs is attempting to hold back a burly boy who seems much too large to be skating at all. His helmet has also been shucked off, revealing long, shoulder length wet hair that clings to his face and neck like a bee on honey. His gloves are abandoned on the ice too, and his stick has skidded to a stop upon hitting the sideboards nearby. You can’t make out the words he’s shouting, but with the feral grin you make out, you know they’re fighting words. With each bark he seems to be inching closer, like the full-grown man in the stripes trying to hold him back is nothing more than a soft breeze, and his is a twister barreling right through.

When he shakes his head, you catch sight of a bloodthirsty grin that has a shiver sliding up your spine. He’s enjoying this?

“Mor,” your worry tries to escape, only for the words to stick in your throat as more noises join the fight, loud as gunshots. Both the Bat’s and the Penguin’s players are rapping their hockey sticks against the boards separating their benches from the ice, war cries falling from their lips.

They’re all enjoying this.

“That is my cousin,” Mor screeches, her perfectly plucked brows pulled tight as she tries finally makes out the number on the back of the jersey that’s gripped so tightly in the offending players grip that you’re pretty sure the stitches are popping with the force. “Kick his fucking ass, Rhys!”

Casting a frantic look to your roommate, you realize that not even she seems to be fazed by the fact that her cousin is in the middle of a fight that could very seriously end badly, especially with the knives on the bottoms of their feet.

But, if everyone’s rooting for their player to win this battle, you can too.

As gruesome as the scene before you is, you wish you had a better seat, somewhere with a better viewpoint than all the way on the other side of the ice. You can’t to be able to hear the threats they’re growling at each other, your attention completely enraptured now that you’ve shoved your worry to the wayside.

With his newfound hold, the Penguin’s player strikes again, and this time, his hit slams across Rhys’ jaw. His head snaps to the side with the nasty hook and his helmet slips to the ice, the sound eaten up by the goading of the crowd.

They swing around, unsteady on their skates as each of the boys tries to topple the other over. You catch a glance at his face. It’s hard to see, and his shaggy black hair is splayed across his face like a spiderweb, keeping you from making out his features. You catch the blood dribbling down his chin, the anger etched in the clench of his jaw as he grits his teeth, managing to twist himself into a position where he has the upper hand on the Penguin’s player: a headlock.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Rhys pound his fist into the other boy’s face once, twice, three times before his opponent’s feet fall out from under him. Rhys releases his hold, allowing the boy to slip lamely to the ice.

“Atta boy, Rhysie,” Mor shouts, once again shoveling popcorn into her mouth with a grin so bright it could melt the ice in the rink before you. She turns to you, golden brown of her eyes glowing with excitement. “Our parents would be so proud.”

She turns back to the scene before you can voice your confusion on that statement, tucking away the information that if you win a fight in hockey, it’s a great accomplishment.

You watch Rhys as he’s escorted by referees who guide him towards the penalty box. He’s examining his knuckles, not caring that he’s abandoning his equipment as he goes, grimacing as the adrenaline begins to fade. He pokes at them, frowning at whatever he feels.

You pray they’re not broken.

The rest of the players seem to be getting back to the game, like one of their teammates isn’t being casted away on an island across the ice. Okay, so it’s just another bench and he’s not that far from them, but you’re shocked that this is the end of the fight, both players carted into separate timeout boxes away from their teams.

Rhys plops down on the bench, pulling a water bottle from a hidden holder, washing the blood from his knuckles before examining them for a second time. You watch him flex his fingers, twist his wrist this way and that. You can’t seem to keep your eyes off him, even with the game picking back up and Mor shouting cheers when the Bat’s manage to steal the puck right from the drop, carting it down the ice with a speed that rivals a racecar.

He must be satisfied with his examination because Rhys is throwing his head back, and it’s almost as if he’s squirting the water from the bottle directly onto you with the way that the apex of your thigh’s wet at the sight of him. He sips the water, holding the bottle a few inches from his face, and you watch the water cascade down his chin and over his throat, bobbing with each swallow. It mixes with the blood from his split lip and slides into the collar of his gear.

You swallow harshly, suddenly parched.

When he’s had his fill of the drink, he moves the bottle further back, using the spray to wash his hair away from his face, and your breathing shallows. It’s as if the hand he’s using to squeeze the life out of the bottle is constricting around your throat, because suddenly, you recognize the sharp of that jaw, the curve of those eyebrows and the straight of his nose. All his angular features come together in the perfect picture of hotness, knocking the breath fully from your chest when he straightens his chin, looking out onto the ice to watch his teammates score the last goal of the second period.

He's the boy from this morning: the overachiever, the one who called you darling.

Mor’s cousin.

Rhysand Cunningham.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125

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[cocteaucherry]

fuckboy!suguru x reader

a/n-something I wrote in like two days, :p

cws- geto is fr a douche, nipple play, nipple piercing, tongue piercings, unprotected p in v, 18+, geto with tattoos, mention of bodily fluids, slight coercion, reader uses she/her pronouns

fuckboy!Suguru who was the sweetest boy through your years of high school.

His hair was relatively long and his face was still developing, he’d offer to help you study for upcoming quizzes and would often invite you out for coffee study dates.

The summer after graduation Geto had cut contact with most of his friends (other than Gojo and Shoko) you didn't look too deep into it, I mean he was cutting social ties starting fresh, turning over a new great leaf. Oh how wrong you were

That fall you attended your local college excited to enter a new chapter, a few weeks into your first semester everything had gone calmly until you saw him.

He was more sculpted, his raven hair cascaded down his back and, how did he get jacked in a matter of months? Although to be fair he always wore baggy clothes. To add onto his new look was a long dragon sleeve tattoo and a cool metal ball pierced through his tongue.

You wondered where this pivot came from until the rumors and whispers began, many people regaling with tears how he fucked, led them on then broke it off with swift quickness.

A pang of disappointment rang through your body, over a boy you hung out with a few times was crazy your mind told you but you couldn't care.

fuckboy!Suguru who approached you in the dining hall with a sickeningly sweet smile and his usual hushed tone, “Y/N, long time no see.” a fake smile generated on your face as you listened to him try to powder and egg you on.

“I think we should catch up this weekend whaddya’ think?”

“I don't know..”

“Come on pleasee, it'll be like old times.”

“Fine,”

“Saturday at five good?”

Fuckboy!suguru picking you up in his surprisingly nice black Jeep, for being a douche he had a suspiciously clean car. He wore baggy jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his muscles looking as if they're trying to bust out the tight fabric but your eyes are brought to his chest.

Four small metal balls on either side of his nipples and you were gobsmacked.

“It's rude to stare, angel.”

You were bought out of your gaze, a heat creeping up your neck, you hadn't registered the nick name he gave you.

The date with Suguru had gone surprisingly well, you held your breath for the level of sleaze he could give off but so far nothing came.

So how come you found yourself on his couch sloppily making out with him?

His lips attacked and bruised yours aggressively, his large hands running over the slight exposure of your skin, small grunts came from his mouth as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

In the back of your mind this went against all your morals but at the moment you didn't care.

Fuckboy!Suguru who had you ride his thick, aching cock in the comfort of his bed, you whimpered as you struggled to slam your hips down completely on his length.

His amber eyes scanned your body as his muscles tensed as he felt you clench around him. Rough hands came to your soft bouncing breasts as he squeezed a nipple aggressively in-between his fingers, “Feel how hard you make me angel?” he cooed using his other hand to slap his hand harshly on the fat of your ass.

“Letting me fuck this tight pussy on our first outing too? tch.” he clicked his tongue latching his mouth onto your erect nipple, he swirled the tip of his tongue around purposely moving the cold metal around the space.

Whines escaped from your mouth as you pleaded, “S-Sugu, let me cum please,” you moaned continuing to bounce off his cock.

“Mm should I?” he mumbled pulling off your nipple to smirk at your sweaty face, “Don't know if you earned it,” the grip on your ass getting harsher each second.

Fuckboy!suguru who edged you for about two hours that night but came about four times all over your face, tits, and ass.

Fuckboy!suguru who left you naked in his bed to smoke outside as he ran into his white haired roommate hair tousled, “Suguru, do you always have to do this shit here? I'm not getting any sleep.” he groaned, rubbing his eyes.

Suguru smirked, holding a cigarette in hand as his sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, “You'll be fine.”

“Who’s on the roster tonight?”

“Cute girl, met her in the dinner hall.”

“Huh, might’ve been the quickest fuck you've gotten usually you wait a week or two what's different?”

Suguru shrugged while walking towards the balcony, “No idea, just met her this week.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow with a grin, “Sugu~ y’know you're a terrible liar right?”

I feel like I could've gone a lot more extreme but I didn't wanna hurt my own feelings)

[rottenpumpkin13]

How do you think ASGZ and the Turks+ Rufus would dress if they were ordinary people living in the real world? (My personal guilty pleasure head cannon is Sephiroth loving leather jackets and V-necks… imagine him in all black, leather jacket, dog tag, some bracelets, black jeans and combat boots… ahem sorry it’s late at night and my thoughts are going weird places)

Sephiroth's go-to outfit: All-black and minimalist is his go-to style, so he does like leather jackets, long coats, and black pants. He wears v-necks sometimes, but prefers button-ups so he can alter how constrictive his shirt is (not the case when he's at home because this man lives for comfortable clothes).

Angeal: I told you this event required you to wear a shirt.

Sephiroth, wearing a button-up that's only fastened at the bottom last button, leaving his whole chest exposed: What's wrong with my shirt?

Angeal: WHAT SHIRT?

Genesis' go-to outfit: Red leather jacket (he has so many of them), a button up/turtle kneck, and knee-high boots. All designer. He accessorizes with jewelry (all gold) such as necklaces, bangles and tons of rings.

Angeal's go-to outfit: sleeveless tee, jeans, boots, and a flannel he either commits to wearing or ties around his waist. All thrifted. Bonus points if the top is DIY'd or tie dye. He's a compulsive tie dyer.

*Zack leaves one of his white shirts out and walks away*

Angeal: Hm.

*Zack comes back and his shirt is tie dye*

Zack, alarmed: MAGIC

Zack's go-to outfit: A fitted tee, baggy pants, fingerless gloves and combat boots. He wears his dog tag as an accessory and hates jackets unless he can roll the sleeves really high.

Zack: I'm ready to go!

Angeal: You cannot wear that shirt out. Go change.

Zack, wearing a shirt that reads "DYSLEXIC WITH TICE NITS": Man, why you gotta be so judgemental?

Sephiroth, still wearing his chest out: Genesis claims he is allergic to good taste.

Angeal: I'm leaving you two at home.

Rufus' go-to outfit: It's a designer suit or nothing; preferably white and pristine, preferably custom-made. He's also likes to wear a kimono and hakama sometimes.

Reno's go-to outfit: A leather jacket, gloves, a button up that's either red or white, gold chain, and jeans, and combat boots.

Rude's go-to outfit: A leather jacket (him and Reno are matching), gloves, wearing all black, usually a button up since he's not a fan of t-shirts, and dress shoes. He likes to accessorize with chains.

Tseng's go-to outfit: No one has ever seen Tseng wear anything other than a suit. Work? suit. Party? suit. Beach? suit. Reno nearly died on the spot the day he and Rude ran into Tseng at the local coffee shop and he was wearing a t-shirt beneath his blazer, no tie, and a silver chain.

Reno: WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH TSENG? Tseng: Why are you and rude wearing matching couple's t-shirts?

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