#over ice

[azsazz]

Over Ice

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: I think we could really have fun with the different courts and Illyrian values on a thematic basis but ALSO if the reader is in something very artsy and hasn’t really been into sports and then 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!!! She decides to wear Cass’ jersey to make him mad and when he finally gets a hold of her after the game: *cue innocent shrug* he asked me to!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3032

Notes: While I work on a plot for an azzy hockey x figure skater au, please enjoy a rhys hockey au 🤪

This was originally an Az idea but I thought it fit better for Rhys bby so here we are. I feel like I've forgotten how to write and this is shit (dont judge me im going thru smthin rn)

_________________________________________

A giant FU stares up at you.

Well, actually, it’s only an F, but it may as well be the former with the way it’s circled in thick, red ink.

Three. Fucking. Times.

Tears sting the back of your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. It never feels good, failing, and even if you’d gotten a C+ like you hoped, you would’ve still beaten yourself up over the grade because plain and simple: that’s who you are.

Two months ago, at the beginning of the semester, psychology had seemed like a breeze. The lectures were easy to listen to and intriguing, and you had no trouble following along with the professors’ slideshows as you took detailed notes of everything on the screen. Your assigned readings were completed in a similar state, though they weren’t graded but included important information you’d find on the tests.

Somewhere along the line, your grade slipped, and you don’t remember if it had been between studying for Biology or reveling in your newfound freedom away from your parents, partying and enjoying a true college experience with your roommates.

Whatever happened, the repercussions are hitting you right in the face, the taunting letter you have never seen before on any of your assignments throughout all your years of learning.

If your parents saw this, they would bring the entire house down with their scolding.

It’s not like you didn’t try. You studied, even if the word is a loose term for what material you used. Things started piling up this month, with it being a new semester and all. You didn’t schedule out the time to focus on psychology when the classes you were really interested in—Introduction to Nutrition and Kinesiology—took first and second place for your attention. Plus, with the number of social events your best friends—who are also conveniently your roommates—invited you too, it was almost impossible to say no. Friends are a vital part of the college experience and you were in desperate need of some fun after having spent the summer lounging at home with your parents.

You found a psych support group that met at the library once a week to study together. It wasn’t anything like you thought it would be, a bunch of clueless students with grades similar to yours. All they seemed to want to do with your precious time was bitch and moan about the professor instead of actually trying to conquer the areas of study for the upcoming test.

And now the consequences of your actions have made themselves known.

Grumbling, you shove the test into your binder before shutting it with a snap that does nothing to ease your frustration. A few students still trail from the room, though most bolted right after being released. Some linger at the bottom of the lecture hall where the professor sits, answering their questions.

You have about a million-and-one of your own but you’re too worked up about your grade to go down there and hash it out with Mr. Hybern. His peppery colored hair is perfectly coiffed on this terrible day, his beard trimmed close to his jowls. His gleaming, golden skin makes you think that maybe he’d spent his weekend grading tests out in the sun, and you have half a mind to stomp your way down the stairs and demand a second review of your test.

It wouldn’t solve your irritation, and it would certainly be embarrassing if in fact your F is correct.

Placing your binder, notebook, and pens back into your bag, you zip it, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way to the exit, holding your chin high because if there’s one thing you’re not going to do, is cry over your terrible, awful grade in public.

The waterworks will just have to wait until you’re locked in your private bedroom in your shared dorm.

There is good news. It’s Friday, which means you can snag the pint of your favorite ice cream that your roommates won’t dare touch because ‘no ice cream that’s worth it should have fruit in it, that’s like asking for a steak on your spaghetti.’ You have no idea what Mor—one of your roommates—was on about when she brought up the awful comparison, and in reply all you’d done is scooped out a chunk of cherries embedded into the creamy, pink goodness and stuffed it into your mouth.

With it being the weekend, you can also wallow well into the night without having to worry about hiding your puffy eyes in the morning. You’ll have all day tomorrow to figure out a plan of action, once you allow yourself the time to properly grieve and process…and maybe have a drink or two.

You shoulder through the heavy lecture hall door with your head down, hiding the red stain to your cheeks. So, maybe you’re not going to hold you head high as you trail back to your dorm, but you will not cry.

The door swings open and you barely catch the noise of surprise before you’re barreling into something that’s akin to a brick wall. Your breath leaves your body in a whoosh and your balance slips out from under you, arms flailing as you fall.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for impact, but it never comes.

Slowly, mortified because you know exactly what’s cushioned your fall, you peek your eyes open, carefully meeting a sapphire gaze that surely would take your breath away should you have any left.

This close, you can see the perfection of his angular features: a long, straight nose, high cheekbones under the dusting of pink that caresses his own face. His lashes are dark as charcoal, the same color of his hair that looks as soft as silk.

Whatever it is that has you entranced by his beauty, the sentiment seems to be mutual. Those bright eyes trace across your features, carefully drinking you in. You don’t know if you’re thankful that your face is already as red as the marker on your test or if you want him to see the way your cheeks go molten.

There’s a warmth against your hips that you don’t notice until he speaks, his hands that have a solid grip around you, keeping you steady to his chest. His whispered breath brushes across your lips. “By all means,” he teases softly, “Take your time.”

“Oh, my Gods, I am so sorry,” you squeak, rolling off his chest. You can hear his chuckling as you scramble to climb to your feet, but your knees are so weak at the sight—and touch—of the most handsome man you’ve ever seen lifting gracefully to his feet, holding a hand down to help you up.

You try not to notice just how big his hand is in yours, and for the second time today, you fail.

“Don’t worry about it, darling,” he says, displaying an easy grin that makes your heart stutter in your chest. The door opens with a loud click and the both of you startle. His hand comes down warmly on your spine, ushering you out of the way of the student that’s beaming grin falters into apology at the idea of almost running you down, already on the phone with someone and gushing over their test result.

It’s hard to reign in your glare.

The student’s conversation seems to jolt the man out of his stupor. He blinks, shaking his head as if to rid him of a spell you might have cast on him, or maybe he’s testing to see if he has a concussion from the fall.

When he returns his attention to you, it takes everything in your power not to melt into a puddle beneath that gaze.

“Is Mr. H still passing out tests?” he asks, and you swallow the sourness that accompanies the name of your professor. You and he are not on good terms right now, not that this boy knows that.

“Yeah,” you answer, remembering you saw him sitting on his throne (desk chair) with his loyal citizens (students) kissing his feet (talking through their tests). “I think so.” Then, because you’re pretty sure you would remember a face like his if he were in your lecture, you ask, “Are you in this class?”

“No,” he answers with a scoff that tells you he breezed by this class. “I took Psych 101 freshman year, but I have Professor Hybern again for Cognitive Psychology and I need to turn in my paper early.”

Turning in a paper early? What is he, some kind of genius?

“Oh,” you answer lamely, “Cool.”

His answering grin cracks open the casing of the butterflies you didn’t know were living in your stomach, taking off in a flurry of emotion.

He shrugs like he couldn’t really care less about any of it, but to you, the fact that he’s managed to pass Psych 101 at all is an impressive feat, though you don’t know why he’d sign up for even more torture. “Sure. Look, I’ve got to run, but are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s nice of him to ask if you’re okay when he’s the one who had his back painted to the floor only moments ago. “Yeah, I’m fine, but I should be the one asking you that. Are you okay?”

His laughter is rich and warm, and you want to melt into it. Before you have the chance to make even more a fool of yourself in front of this handsome stranger, he answers. “I’ve been checked harder, darling. You have a nice day now.”

“Thanks, you too,” your words trail off as he catches the door on its next outswing, ducking inside without waiting for your response.

Jeeze, he must really be in a rush, then.

It’s when you exit the doors to the psychology building that you curse yourself. You should’ve gotten his number, his name at least. You could’ve invited him over for something more distracting and yummier than the ice cream you’d planned on demolishing.

At least you have something better to think about tonight than your test.

With a heavy sigh, you allow your backpack to fall off your shoulder. Now that you’ve arrived back to your dorm, you’re suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever.

The walk home from class had been nice, your time spent thinking about the boy you’d run into. The broadness of his shoulders you didn’t seem to notice until he turned away, stretching wide beneath his tight t-shirt. The bulge of his biceps beneath said t-shirt, flexing as he pulled the door open for himself. The shape of his ass in those snug jeans.

The sight of that is what had your eyes nearly popping from your head. What’s he doing that gives him such a bubblicious ass? Squats? Lunges? You can do those. You choose not to, but if there’s a guarantee that you’d have an ass like that, you’d start right this second.

Tucking your lip into your mouth in concentration, you plant your hands on your hips, making your way to the refrigerator that your ice cream is housed in, lunging your way there.

It’s not that far, the communal space in your shared dorm is small, but your heartrate is elevated by the time you’re two lunges away from your prize: your ice cream.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Mother!” You shout as the voice of your roommate breaks your concentration. Your knees wobble and your thighs shake, unable to hold you up from the burst of exertion you used. You clearly need to get into the gym more, another thing to add to your already busy schedule. “You scared me!”

Mor rolls her chocolate-brown eyes, sliding into one of the stools at your counter. It’s not built for it, the laminate countertop doesn’t hang over the island far enough for your legs to fit, but you and your roommates thought they were cute, nonetheless. You can suffer having to hunch over your knees to reach your cereal bowls in the mornings in favor of having more space for company to sit.

When you haul yourself off the ground, you take in your roommate. She’s wearing some kind of jersey, one you’ve never even seen in her wardrobe before, and you probably spend more time in there than her because she has every item of clothing you could ever imagine. The top she’s wearing now totally clashes with everything that screams Mor: silk scarves, tight bodice tops, leather pants, and what she has on now isn’t even red, a color that’s a staple in her closet.

“Well, if you were paying attention,” she scolds playfully, flipping open the compact in her hand, checking her makeup in the tiny mirror. She makes a few faces that would make you chuckle if you didn’t notice how she looks like she’s ready to go out, and that means she’s going to try to drag you with. “You would’ve heard me walk into the room. I am wearing heels, you know.”

Of course you know. Mor doesn’t do sneakers, only when it’s five in the morning and the sun is still sleeping, the perfect time for working out where nobody will catch her. Maybe I should join her, you think, mind wandering back to that boy’s butt.

“Why are your cheeks all red?” She asks, planting her palms on the counter and leaning towards you, eyes narrowed in inquisition.

“Nothing,” you wave her off, reaching for the door to the freezer. It’s the last thing between you and the cherry chunk ice cream calling your name.

Before you can open it more than an inch, it slams closed, Mor’s sharp, bright red fingernails splayed out to stop you.

Damnit, how does she move so silently?

“What do you think you’re doing?” You question each other at the same time, biting back your smiles at the mistake.

She answers first. “Why do you look like you’re about to get the ice cream, put your pajamas on, and wallow in bed all night?”

“Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” you cross your arms over your chest defiantly. “So, if you’ll excuse me…” You trail off, hoping she’ll step away and leave you to your peace.

She doesn’t. That’s not Mor.

“I had a rough day!”

“You say that every day,” she whines, stomping her heel-clad foot. “Don’t you even want to know what I’m inviting you to tonight?”

“From the look of your clothes, no, I don’t want to know what you’re doing tonight, Mor, and no, I don’t want to join you, either.”

Your roommate scrunches her nose, tipping it towards the ceiling. “I’ll have you know that this outfit is cute.”

“Yeah, if the definition of cute changed to ‘not pleasing or appealing to look at.’”

“You take that back,” Mor shouts, full naming you.

As your lips part in apology, because that was rude of you, your other roommate pads out of her room. Her reading glasses are perched up on her nose, blue eyes round and wide, and it always looks like she’s looking around the room in wonder. She has a blanket thrown over her shoulders and looks every bit of cozy you wish you were.

“Gwyn,” you sigh in relief at the sight of her. “Please, help.”

“I already said no,” she offers you a sympathetic wince. “I don’t think there’s any getting you out of the hockey game, sorry babe.”

Now it’s your jaw that falls to the floor. No, it falls through the floor and about five more floors down, hitting the lobby with a crack that echoes through the building.

You whirl on Mor. “Hockey game? Since when have you been interested in hockey?”

“Since my cousin got named team captain this year,” she says smugly, and you don’t know why she’s acting vain, it just means that he’s captain of the douchebags now, even you know that. Mor turns, showing off the back of her jersey. The number one stands out like a beacon, and you brush her blonde hair over her shoulder to read the smaller patches spelling out what is in fact, her family name.

Cunningham.

“Think of all the parties we’ll get into,” she says over her shoulder, and she does have a point there. The athletes at your college are a group of students that you don’t ever interact with, nor do you care. Mor is all about connections though, and if she wants to go to the hockey game, then it looks like you’re going with her.

You wonder what excuse Gwyn used to get out of it. She looks mighty comfy right now, slinking over the plop down on the couch and turn on a movie.

“Why do we have to go to the game? Can’t we just go to the parties?” You ask, grasping for anything to get out of this. You don’t want to go sit in the cold arena and watch a bunch of guys wearing full-body padding slide up and down the ice. Why couldn’t her cousin have been on the baseball team? They have nice, tight uniforms.

“Because,” Mor emphasizes with a glare, spinning to face you once more to give you the full effect of her irritation. “I’m a good cousin, and if we don’t attend the games, we’re going to be blacklisted from the parties,” she grumbles, the fight leaving her a little bit. “I’ve already argued about it with Rhys, I don’t want to have to argue with you too.”

It’s with your sigh that Mor brightens. “Fine. I’ll come with you, but I’m not going to be happy about it. And don’t expect me to cheer.”

Her squeal pierces the sound barrier. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

Mor grabs your hand, dragging you towards the empty single room that’s left in your dorm. She uses it as an extension of her closet until someone else gets placed with you. So far, you’ve been lucky, living here since freshman year, just the three of you. “Great! I got you a shirt!”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

[thatgayballerina]

Best way to drink Gatorade

[sanctus-ingenium]

the second coming

[ditzybat]

just imagining a teeny tiny tim being absolutely devastated about jason’s death, that he manages to get on to dark forums to contact a mercenary for a hit on the joker’s life.

and who happens to be that mercenary? deathstroke.

tim wires money from his (admittedly very high) allowance to slade, who finishes the job within the week — news outlets are going crazy as nobody knows who pulled off such a stunt — bruce is confused, and dick is both grateful, that someone took the bastard who killed his baby brothers life, and angry, because bruce wasn’t the one to do it.

slade however? wants to investigate, someone finally had the gall to order a hit on the joker and he’s a little curious to see who it is.

only come to find a little boy all alone in a big house who spends his nights following around a vigilante in a furry suit.

and, well, slade hasn’t been the best parent, and probably doesn’t know how to deal with an average kid, but who can blame him when he begins to train tim into becoming a mercenary just like him — after all, how else is he gonna defend himself on the streets of gotham when he gallivants around with an expensive camera, a sign basically saying ‘kidnap me!’ strapped to his chest?

so what if the kid becomes robin and uses those skills in the cape? that’s batman’s problem to figure out.

[hinamie]

surprise it's yuri!!!in 2024

[lukitua]

She stroked Rhaegal. The green dragon closed his teeth around the meat of her hand and nipped hard

Decided to make matching portraits for the remaining of Dany's children, so here's Rhaegal

[thunderpot]

It's been really hot these last couple days so, with you: recently appointed peak lord Shang Qinghua, trying not to melt while enjoying the view of his new leisure house (bonus for visible baizhan peak in tbe bg too)

[shotmrmiller]

getting a cute mistletoe navel ring because 'tis the season except ghost saw it so naturally he's shoving you in a broom closet to uphold tradition of kissing under it (just last week he said he strongly disliked yuletide) and before you can tell him to lock the door, he's tossing both your legs over his shoulders and eating pussy like he gets paid to do it then tugs his mask back down as if it isn't sopping wet with your come and leaves you behind sans the underwear you saw him pluck off the ground and stuff into his vest pocket.

(then price catches a glimpse of it too then tells you to stay behind for a sec only to simply hook his fingers into your waistband, murmuring something about not wanting bad luck. maybe enforcing the mistletoe rule that one time with kyle had been a mistake.)

[shapelytimber]

You'll never believe who just spent a week doing pixel art...... Did the classic "let's take a 3d horror game, turn it into a 2d more cartoony (relatively speaking) style"

Pathologic's shitty DS port, to walk you have to drag the stylus across the touch screen and to attack you just have to circle your enemies a billion times :))))

[COMMISSIONS]

Yapping and close ups below vvv

Oh my god pixel art is hard- it's the second time ever I've tried it, and boy oh boy I was not expecting to spend a week on this fjfj But I had fun ! Especially with the small sprites ;w; they cute ! But yeah next time I won't bother with line art- that was a nightmare

Frankly I've played The Void (Tension) way more than Pathologic, but I can't say I'm not hype for patho 3 fjfjjfj can't wait to play the pompous bitch :))) only downside is that they didn't keep his platforms from the original </3 heartbroken- give me the angel with a shotgun ass paintings and demonia Dankovsky

Also the fact I discovered hbomberguy because one afternoon in 2021 I stumbled upon his pathologic video and went "oh a video about the other big games from this studio I love ! Let's hope it's good :)" kfkfjfjfj Great stuff indeed

Bonus close ups I made for insta but there is no reasons you can't also see them !

PS : The software I used for this is called Aseprite ! You can dl it via steam and it's really easy to figure out :))

[ranticore]

what is that thing and why did it come out of me: my experience as a first-time parent

i was thinking a bit about manticores being soo solitary that they barely even raise their kids. baby gets born tiny and premature, immediately goes into the pouch (they are marsupial), and emerges when its more or less ready to take on the world, oftentimes without the parent even noticing. but i think u would be pretty freaked out if you did notice

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 6)

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: Mentions of reader's fictional father passing away.

Word Count: 3678

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5)

Notes: Lowkey feel like I'm losing the plot here but we'll see what happens. 🤞🏻

_________________________________________

“You should’ve dressed up as a naughty schoolgirl, show him how bad you really are,” your roommate, Gwyn, teases softly while Mor finishes the artwork that is her hair in the bathroom.

You snort, readjusting the top of your strapless green dress Mor forced you into. Dress being the relative term because this is no more than a scrap of silk with lace lining the hem. The bottom of the dress hardly covers the tops of your thighs, and if you drop something tonight, there will be no picking it up, lest you flash the entire hockey house your panties.

You don’t know how you’ve managed to get invited to another party. Of course, Rhys is Mor’s cousin and you’re sure that he had more than a little to do with you and your roommates attending this evening, but you’re surprised that Mor actually agreed to going. Usually, she’s up for any sort of antics that don’t revolve around sports, like frat parties or bars that don’t check ID’s, and you can’t help but wonder where this change of heart has come from.

Gwyn looks surprisingly chipper for someone who barely leaves the apartment, even more so for someone who has held strong on her stance never to attend a single hockey game nor party during her time at Velaris U. Another one with a harsh rule, you think, her determination reminding you of Rhys and his law that you and his teammates don’t mix.

Pfft, and here you are, getting ready to attend their Halloween party.

You’re not sure what Gwyn has against hockey, but right now, you appreciate that she’s coming more than she could ever know. You’re glad you missed out on whatever method Mor used to get her to come, but she looks cute in her pink dress. Her long, auburn hair is tied back with a big, red bow, and she has clip on bangs in for her costume as Blossom from the Powerpuff Girls. Mor claimed Bubbles, though you were hoping she would want to be Buttercup because her attitude more than matches the little green girls’.

You suppose you’ll need Buttercups strength tonight, because you’re more than determined to piss Rhysand off.

“He’s seen my psych grades, I think he already knows how bad I am,” you answer carefully, slipping your thigh-high white socks on. There’s an intricate lace fringe at the top, and you must admit, Mor picked out the perfect attire for your costumes. She’s somehow managed to give a children’s cartoon the perfect amount of skin for the occasion.

The only thing you’re not looking forward to is the tall, chunky boots she somehow managed to sneak into your dorm two weeks ago. You’ll never underestimate your best friend’s ability to curate the perfect costume.

Neither Mor nor Gwyn know that your tutor is Rhysand Cunningham. You haven’t had the guts to bring it up to Mor, even though your relationship with her cousin is nothing short of formal. Okay, so his teasing texts earlier and having to pretend to be his girlfriend in the presence of his ex weren’t keeping away from each other by any means, but there’s nothing going on between you two, so there’s no need to worry your friend.

You’re strapping your feet into the platform pumps when Mor emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of hairspray. Her pigtails are much more adult than her character in the cartoon, mostly because she has much more hair, nearly reaching the curve of her ass on a good day. She’d never let it cover one of her best assets.

“Oh my gosh, you two look so fucking good!” She squeals, jumping in place. The guys at the party are going to love this look on her because even you can’t stop staring at the way her breasts jiggle with her joy. That pushup bra is doing wonders for her already perky tits, and you’re going to have to ask her where she got it because you need to order one as soon as possible.

“You look amazing, Mor,” you compliment, pushing to your feet. You wobble a little but manage to gain your balance quickly enough. You take a tentative step towards the counter where you left your pre-party drink.

“I know,” Mor grins, flipping one of her pigtails over her shoulder. Her brown eyes sparkle with pride and a little bit of tequila. “We’re killing these costumes.” She walks in her boots like she was born in them. She flicks at Gwyn’s fake bangs with a snicker. “Gwynie, you look hot.”

Gwyn’s cheeks turn as red as her hair. “Thanks,” she shrugs bashfully. “But do we have to go to the hockey house tonight? I heard it’s going to be bumping at Rita’s tonight.”

You wonder if Mor is going to ask what the both of you have been dying to know since Gwyn’s sour reaction the first time hockey was ever mentioned under this roof. You don’t know what kind of beef she has with the sport, or maybe one of the players, but she’s made it more than known on multiple occasions that the topic is taboo, and she’ll never attend anything that has the slightest correlation to hockey.

Your gaze flicks to Mor. Her brows are furrowed and she’s not normally one to give pause, opting to blurt out whatever comes to mind, but right now she’s giving Gwyn the benefit of the doubt and thinking through her options here.

In the end, she goes for pouting, because she knows that neither of you can resist. “But you promised you’d come!”

You don’t know how Mor made that happen, let alone Gwyn promising to join, and you really want to know. Gwyn sighs in a defeated way that makes you ache for her. It’s hard to get her to come out to a non-hockey related event this semester, and that’s also something you’re going to have to talk to her about sometime because you miss your friend on nights out.

Maybe you can stay in one weekend with her, too.

“I know, I know,” Gwyn says, pouring a shot of vodka into a cup. She slams it back and you can see the way that she’s working through the battery acid-like taste, the way she builds herself up before she continues. “Let’s go.”

“You ready?” James asks, trying to smother his amusement. You’re hardly even touching him as you dance together, and yet you can still feel Rhys’ harsh glare from the center of the makeshift living room dancefloor.

“Not a chance,” you respond, and your palms are damp just thinking about it.

“Good, because here he comes,” he warns, right before you’re ripped away from him.

Rhys stands like a raging bull, complete with nostrils flaring, and you’re pretty sure he’s digging his foot into the ground like he’s about to charge. You can’t help but to giggle at his antics, and you can’t wait to see how this plays out.

James swallows harshly, all of the amusement washes from his face as he pales. He’s still too green on the team to really know Rhys all that well, and right now, he’s regretting deciding to tease his captain, even if it is for the greater good.

You and your classmate had come to an agreement. Your roommates didn’t question you when James appeared at your side with a shot in hand and a question to dance. In fact, they all but shoved you into his arms, giggling and whispering to each other before you’d even had the chance to turn around.

They’re somewhere around here, and hopefully, they’re not close enough to watch how this plays out.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, cap.”

“James,” Rhys grits. He looks like an avenging angel, except that he’s dressed as a vampire. You can’t tell if the cape tied around his neck is sexy or not, but his white button down that shows off the top of his chest most definitely is.

It’s offset by the plastic fangs poking out from his lips is most definitely cuter than anything.

Everything you notice about him is a confusing jumble.

“How are you enjoying the party?” James all but squeaks, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing. You feel kind of bad for your new friend, putting himself in the line of fire like this, but as soon as your bargain falls into place with Rhys, you’re going to try your best to make it worthwhile for James.

“Scram kid, before I make you do laps the entire next practice,” Rhys grunts and you can’t control yourself, you burst into laughter.

Rhys turns towards you, confused. You straighten, wiping pretend tears from your face. “I’m sorry, did you just fucking say scram?”

“So, what if I did?” Rhys asks, and he’s clearly enjoying that smile he’s put on your face. His chest puffs with pride, but he pouts and your grin widens.

“I just didn’t know we time-traveled back to the 1900’s.”

Rhys makes a face at you that is all too endearing. He pokes you on the arm and you jerk away before retaliating.

“Hey!” You whine when he traps your wrists in one large hand, poking you in the sides with the other. The way you’re squirming makes him wonder if you’d be moving like that in his bed. He immediately releases you and you straighten your dress, feeling the shift in the atmosphere. “I’m, uh, going to get a drink,” you mutter. Finding the roommates you’d abandoned might be helpful as well.

Just as you’re about to spin on your heel, Rhys’ groan of agony stops you.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” He curses, and his entire playboy protective captain aura goes up in flames. Now he’s a frustrated, annoyed boy whose clingy ex won’t take a fucking hint.

“Who?” You question, rolling cautiously onto your tiptoes to try and see who Rhys is talking about. You can’t see a damn thing in the darkness of the house. You’re not even sure where your own roommates are.

“Amarantha,” Rhys sighs, then, more frantic. “Fuck, we made eye contact. Hold my hand.”

You hide your excitement. This is perfect. Not planned, by any means, because you’re not evil, but it will further your plans. Just after you play with Rhysand a little bit longer. “What? No way!”

Rhys shoots you a dry look. “Jesus, (Y/N), don’t spare my feelings, or anything.”

“Sorry,” you grin, sheepishly.

“Please,” he begs, and you try not to let it show how much him pleading affects you. You thought you were hot before, but now you’re fucking dripping. “I’ll do anything.”

You try not to let your mind wander into what anything could mean. Maybe you need another drink to cool yourself down, or make your mind a little more imaginative.

Rhys’ gaze flicks worriedly to where his ex is stalking your way with a purpose.

Right, back on track.

“Fine,” you hiss, mostly because you can’t stand those sad eyes he’s giving you. You know it’s a ploy, but if it gets him to stop pestering you, you’ll do it. Plus, if Rhys sees that you’re willing to play his little game, it’ll be much easier to bring up the internship you want with the team. “Put your arm around me.”

He does much more than that. Rhys throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you into his side. You jump at the warmth and ignore the look of confusion he shoots you.

“If you don’t put your hands on me, she’s not going to believe that you’re my girlfriend.”

“And why is that?” you mutter, scouring the crowd for his ex-girlfriend. She shouldn’t be so hard to find with her bright hair and menacing presence, but there’s no sign of her yet, even with your sky-high heels on.

“Because, you’re supposed to be my girlfriend,” Rhys growls, but his unhappiness isn’t directed at you. His violet eyes dark with violence. He looks like he could still hunt James down and strangle him just for dancing with you.

“But I’m not, really,” you counter, trying to keep up your withering façade. Truth is, you’ve done exactly what you set out to do, prove to Rhys that his rules mean nothing to you and that you’re never going to be one of those girls who lets a man tell her what to do.

When you step closer to Rhys to better berate him over the loud music, you barely notice James slinking back into the crowd. He uses you as a distraction for his captain, just like the both of you planned.

“But you are,” Rhys hisses, and you refuse to like the way your body reacts to his words. His arm is a warm weight around your arm as he guides you in the direction of the living room. In the threshold, he stops you, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to be focusing on when his front is pressed up against your back like this and there’s a hardness pressing against you that you’d never be able to ignore.

“When she’s around,” Rhys starts, and his breath against your ear makes it difficult not to shiver. He nods toward the crowd, right to where his ex is oblivious, dancing with her friends. She’s dressed as some kind of sexy witch, which is fitting, since you’ve met her and know her attitude is worse than nice. “You’re all mine, (Y/N). If I want your hands all over me, you’ll do it. If I want to kiss you, you won’t pull away,” you clutch the drink in your hand tighter, and your thighs mirror the motion. “And if we get a little carried away…” he trails off. His hands resting on your hips curve around your front. You can feel him like a brand through the thin fabric of your dress. Your breath hitches in your throat and you can’t help but to lean further into him. “Well, I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

You glare, but he’s right. The only reason you’re so vehemently against this idea is because Mor could catch you at any second.

“Fine. But I need your help with something in exchange.” It hurts you to admit it, but James said that there wasn’t much he could do to guarantee you an internship with the team, and you can admit that it would look really good on your applications to say that you aided in athletic training for Vulcan U’s hockey team.

Too bad you know exactly who does hold sway with their coach, and he’s also your tutor.

And an arrogant asshole.

“Oh?” He quirks a cocky brow and you regret asking him immediately. You don’t like that spark of intrigue in his eyes. “Now I have something that you want?”

You grit your teeth and shove at his chest. His hands don’t move from around your waist, keeping you pressed tightly against his body. To the other partygoers, you pushing at him might look playful, and, reading the smug smile on Rhys’ face, he thinks the same.

“Yes,” you admit, shoulders dropping. You don’t know why you’re finding it so difficult to look at those sparkling violet eyes of his, but you drag your gaze across the party, taking in the different costumes and couples gyrating in the middle of his living room. Rhys allows you to find you words, and when you return your eyes to his, you find him staring down at you with a soft look on his face.

“I was speaking with James,” you start, and his grip tightens on your hips. Rhys’ mouth flattens and his eyes sharpen, jerking from yours to scour the crowd for his teammate. “Hey,” you swat at his arm, gaining his attention. “I didn’t think you needed the reminder that I can speak to who I want.”

“And I didn’t think you needed the reminder that you can’t put moves on any of my players,” Rhys says, leaning down to growl in your ear. His lips brush the shell of your ear, sending a shiver up your spine, and your fingers tighten in his shirt. Hopefully he reads it as your annoyance and not because you don’t trust how wobbly your knees have just become. “Except for me, because I have a feeling that we’re about to make a deal. Isn’t that right, (Y/N)?”

You lean away from him, just enough to meet his eyes again. They’re as intense as they are playful, and when his thumb strokes your hip, you all but cave.

“A deal?” You echo, because they’re the only words in your vocabulary that haven’t disappeared from your mind.

Rhysand’s lips tug into the biggest self-fucking-satisfied smile you’ve ever seen, and that’s when you realize that your gaze has wandered down to his perfect, kissable lips.

You shove against his chest again and this time he relents, allowing a few inches of space between you. It’s barely enough, though. Every exhale has your chests brushing, but you manage to wedge your arms into the space and cross them over your chest.

You definitely don’t miss the way Rhys’ eyes flick down to your breasts that you’re conveniently pushing up for his viewing pleasure.

“What do you want, darling?” He purrs, and damn him for being so fucking sexy. And the fact that he’s dressed as a vampire…gods, he’s every woman’s wet dream. “Do you want my hands?” He drags his palms across your hips and it feels like there’s no fabric between his hands and your skin at all. “Do you want my brains?” He waggles his eyebrows, grinning when you break into a smile against your will. Rhys leans in closer, too close. You can’t breathe. “Or my blood?”

You squeal when he latches himself to your neck. The plastic vampire teeth poke into your skin but all you can focus on is his lips on your skin, the way you’re about to fucking combust—

“Incoming,” a voice shouts and Rhys rips himself away from you. He winces as soon as he straightens and sees his roommates charging toward the both of you with drinks in their hands. Thankfully, Cassian and Azriel haven’t seem to have noticed whatever was just happening between you and Rhysand, which is good, because you don’t know what the hell that was, either.

You don’t even have the time to think about it because the hockey players are infiltrating your space, and you lose your breath at the sight of them.

Azriel’s dressed as Nightwing. You thought Rhys was every woman’s wet dream, but Azriel, Azriel is wet dream fuel. His black hair hangs across his forehead. A black eye mask covers most of his face, but it’s the skin-tight pleather bodysuit that really does the costume in. There’s a blue bird with its wings expanded across his chest, and the costume does nothing to hide how muscular he is.

You wonder who the hell got him into that costume, and if they’re even still alive because the look on his face is set so harsh that a single glance might just make you drop dead.

Or your panties drop.

Rhysand coughs and nudges you in the shoulder, snapping you from your trance. He’s frowning down at you in disapproval, and it takes little effort to grin back up at him, annoying him further. If he really didn’t think you wanted to fall into bed with any of his teammates, he’s sure thinking it now.

And he doesn’t like that one fucking bit.

Cassian’s costume is some sort of sexy chef, sans shirt, but he dons an apron that reads, ‘this guy rubs his own meat’ with an arrow pointing south. He has a chef’s hat on and is carrying a spatula that you know can only spell out trouble, and you barely even know the guy.

Mor and Gwyn plow into the circle as well. Mor slips between you and Rhys first, and it’s really for the best, but you’re already missing his warmth, despite the mugginess in the air. He shoots you a look that tells you you’ll be finishing your conversation later and you nod softly, loosening your shoulders and focusing on the conversation at hand.

Gwyn follows, so she’s wedged between you and Mor. She looks entirely uncomfortable here, eyes downcast to the floor, avoiding any and all eye contact. Her fingers are white-knuckled around her solo cup and you worry that she might crack the thing any second, so you silently wind your arm with hers and give her a reassuring smile that she can barely return.

You think you need to get her home soon. She’s clearly not having any fun at all, and Mor’s too busy taking over the conversation to notice.

“We need to play a game, or something,” she whines to her cousin, who rolls his eyes in response. For whatever reason, Rhy is not impressed with the idea, most likely because all of the games his cousin likes to play at parties involve touching or secrets or kissing…or drinking so much that he doesn’t remember what happened and wakes up regretting his entire existence the morning following.

What Rhys wouldn’t mind would be actually kissing you, and if he indulges his cousin, she can’t be mad should fate pair you and him together for an innocent kiss. He wants to know if you taste just as sweet as you smell, because the nip to your neck was nowhere near enough.

The only problem is, his ex is lingering around his house somewhere. He can’t join the game lest she join or, even worse, out you as his fake girlfriend in front of Mor who made it more than clear that you are completely off limits to him.

It only makes him want you that much more.

“Okay,” he answers, and your head snaps to his in surprise. “Let’s play a game.”

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

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[berriesandcherry]

Jon and Cat every time they thought of Theon

[sanctus-ingenium]

meeting the great wyrm

this was a little brush test i accidentally merged with the sketch layer in like april but i put him back together

[obsob]

oooooooooough i love you i love you i love you!!!! hand in loving hand !!!!!!

[omgrandomwords]

november 5th’s grandchild

[duckdodger]

bro thinks he’s in dr stone 🤣