#scrum questions

[kayfabe-is-king]

Reporter: So Tony, how do you manage not to be a fucking asshole?

[scoringeffects]

.

[biancabelairs]

folks, i am getting the vibe that the ppv was not a good time

[nymphbnny]

adrenaline

────── ryomen sukuna

⤷ formula one driver!sukuna who takes an interest on a shy reporter.

tw: doggy, daddy kink (slight) oral (male female receiving), mating press, breeding kink, spanking, not proofread, MDNI

got inspired by this beautiful work here, go show some love <3 @to00fu

it was loud — overwhelmingly so. the roar of engines echoed off the narrow streets of monte carlo as you arrived at the circuit de monaco, badge swinging around your neck, notebook clutched to your chest. your team had sent you to cover the monaco grand prix, one of the crown jewels of the formula 1 calendar. it was your first time at a live event of this scale, and your assignment? try to score an interview with none other than ryomen sukuna — two-time monaco winner, three-time berlin champion, and the most elusive driver on the grid.

he wasn’t known for giving interviews. in fact, most in the press pen described him as cold, cocky, and unreachable. but still, if you could manage to get him to speak to you — really speak — it would be a game-changer for your career.

“hey, you ready?” your coworker called from the media shuttle. “we’ve got to be in the press briefing before the pre-race prep starts.”

you nodded quickly, adjusting your press lanyard, and followed the flow of reporters into the media center. inside, the buzz was palpable. you took your seat, legs crossed tightly, foot tapping against the floor. you were trying to calm your nerves, but your eyes kept drifting toward the door.

and then, the room shifted.

cheers and whistles broke out as sukuna entered. you stood instinctively, craning your neck to get a glimpse — and there he was. tall, broad-shouldered in his fitted team suit, race cap pulled low over his sharp eyes. he didn’t wave or acknowledge the room, just walked in with the quiet authority of a man who knew he didn’t need to try.

your throat dried. he was stunning. the kind of stunning that made your cheeks burn as you forced your gaze back to your notes. inappropriate thoughts crept in anyway. you pressed your knees together, trying to shake them off.

one by one, the journalists posed their questions. sukuna’s replies were short, clipped, sometimes sarcastic. he didn’t suffer fools — or flattery. and then it was your turn.

you stood, heart hammering. he watched you as you rose — not dismissively, but with interest, eyes following the way you clutched your notes like a lifeline.

“i was wondering,” you began, voice just steady enough, “about the profile picture you use across your social media — the one with you and your father in the small f1 kart. was he your inspiration to race?”

there was a beat of silence. a few reporters chuckled. someone scoffed. but sukuna didn’t. instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. he twisted the cap onto his water bottle and looked straight at you. “my dad was everything. i learned to race to make him proud,” he said, and for a second, his voice softened.

you nodded, lips curling into a smile, and sat down — your heart doing laps faster than any car on the grid. the rest of the questions blurred together. you could feel his eyes on you now and then, sharp and unreadable.

engines revved in the pit lane as the sun dipped lower over monte carlo’s harbor. the race was chaos and choreography all at once — twenty cars weaving through the tight hairpins and unforgiving chicanes, the scream of the v6 turbo engines reverberating off the grandstands.

you watched from the media zone, gripping your headset as the final laps unfolded. overtakes were rare in monaco, but sukuna was a master of precision. when he made his move into the nouvelle chicane, it was clean and lethal — the kind of move that made commentators lose their minds.

and then, the checkered flag waved. sukuna had won.

the crowd erupted. flares lit up. and the press surged forward.

“come on!” your coworker shouted, already pushing toward the media scrum gathering by parc fermé. reporters crowded around the victorious driver, shouting over one another. microphones flashed. cameras clicked.

you tried to move forward — but it was impossible. the mob was too thick, too loud.

“watch out!” someone yelled, but too late — another reporter shoved past you, knocking you off balance.

you stumbled forward, straight into someone’s chest. strong arms steadied you. a hand curled around your wrist. it was him. security started to react, but sukuna raised a hand, waving them off. his eyes — sharp and amused — scanned your face.

“you again, sweetheart?” he said low enough for only you to hear. his thumb brushed gently across the inside of your wrist. or maybe you imagined that part. you weren’t sure. he was close — so close it was dizzying.

he leaned in, lips near your ear. “if you’re serious about that interview,” he murmured, “meet me at the hotel hermitage. room 1801. nine o’clock. reception will let you up.”

and just like that, he walked away, ignoring the press, his team, everyone else.

your coworker caught up to you, wide-eyed. “what did he say?!” you blinked, still stunned. “he said… my questions were soft.” you lied, smiling to yourself.

you didn’t know if you’d go, but it might just be your shot.

you stared at the clock in your hotel room: 8:52 p.m.

you had paced the suite five times, changed your outfit twice, and debated texting your editor a dozen more. was this a mistake? would he even remember he invited you? your press pass lay on the nightstand, staring back at you like a dare.

by 8:57, you were in the elevator heading to the 18th floor of hotel hermitage. the hallway was quiet, plush carpet soft under your shoes. everything smelled like expensive cologne and fresh linen. it felt like the kind of place where secrets were expected — and kept.

you knocked on the door marked 1801.

no response.

you hesitated, lifting your hand again — but the door cracked open.

he stood there, Ryomen Sukuna — hair still wet, towel slung around the back of his neck, a few droplets of water catching the light as they slid down his bare chest. tattoos sprawled across his torso, wrapping around his arms, ink trailing over defined muscle and disappearing under a pair of low-sitting black lounge shorts. no shirt. just heat. and skin. and ink.

he looked completely unbothered by his own state of undress.

“you’re early,” he said, voice gravelly — not annoyed, but amused.

you tried to say something — anything — but your words got lost somewhere between the towel on his neck and the line of his collarbone.

he tilted his head slightly. “you coming in or just going to stare?” you stepped inside before you embarrassed yourself further.

the suite was dimly lit, with soft light coming from the floor lamps and the glow of monaco’s coast beyond the balcony windows. there was a half-open bottle of wine on the table near the couch, two glasses already waiting — like this had been a plan from the beginning.

you turned back toward him just as he closed the door. he didn’t move to get dressed. didn’t apologize for it, either.

“so,” he said, walking over to the wine. “you’re here for your big scoop?”

“you invited me,” you managed to say, even if it came out smaller than you intended. he poured the wine slowly. “i know.” he stated lowly, his eyes casually drifting at you, his muscles flexing with every move.

he handed you a glass, and when your fingers brushed his — warm skin, damp from the shower — it felt like a jolt of something you couldn’t name.

“well?” he said, lowering himself onto the couch. “ask your questions.”

you sat across from him, notebook in your lap more for show than purpose. your pen hovered midair, mind trying to chase the professionalism you were supposed to have walked in with. he sipped his wine, eyes never really leaving yours — studying, waiting.

you cleared your throat. “okay. first question… you’ve raced this circuit five times now. do you still get nervous before a big start?”

he leaned back, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the towel shifting slightly on his neck. “not really. nerves are a waste of energy. you either trust yourself, or you don’t.”

you nodded, scribbling something down even if it was just to give your hands something to do. “right. uh… who do you think your biggest rival is this season?”

“depends. on paper?” he took another sip. “probably hajime. but mentally? no one.”

you smiled despite yourself. “cocky.”

“confident,” he corrected smoothly. “if you don’t believe you’re the best out there, you’re already behind.”

you made a small noise of agreement, then flipped the page — pretending you weren’t hyperaware of the way his muscles shifted every time he moved. “okay, let’s talk personal life.”

his brow lifted. “now we’re getting interesting.”

you hesitated. “are relationships hard for you, given the lifestyle?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he let the silence settle, then said slowly, “they’re not hard. they’re just not built to last.”

you glanced up at him. “why not?”

“because most people don’t want the truth,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “they want a version of you that makes them feel better about themselves.” your pen paused.

he leaned forward slightly, gaze sharper now. “you ask a lot of curious personal questions.”

“it’s my job,” you replied, trying to match his tone.

“sure,” he said. “or maybe you just want to know what kind of women i like.” your breath caught — not because he was wrong, but because of how plainly he’d said it. your silence stretched too long, and his smirk deepened.

“want me to answer that?”

you swallowed. “wouldn’t that be off the record?”

“maybe,” he said, voice dipping low. “maybe not.” your fingers tightened slightly around your pen. “i’m not uncomfortable.”

“didn’t say you were,” he murmured, leaning in a little more, elbows resting on his knees now, glass dangling from one hand. “but you haven’t moved since i brought it up.”

you met his eyes — steady, unreadable. “so? what kind of women do you like?”

he smiled, slow and deliberate. “ones who ask bold questions with their voice shaking.”

you exhaled — not quite a laugh, not quite a breath — and before you could respond, he tilted his head, voice dropping even lower.

you couldn’t seem to tear your eyes away from him. his gaze was magnetic — intense, and unwavering.

“you sure you’re still here for the article?” his voice was low, but there was no mistaking the challenge in his words.

you blinked, caught off guard. “i’m… i’m here for the interview,” you said, trying to steady your nerves, but the line between professional and personal was blurring fast.

he didn’t smile this time, his gaze sharpening as he leaned in, his voice dropping lower. “you know,” he said, his tone almost teasing now, “i don’t usually invite people to my room for just a ‘chat.’”

your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the weight of his stare. you weren’t sure if you wanted to step back or closer, but his next words made it all the more complicated.

“tell me,” he murmured, his voice rough but controlled. “after all the questions you’ve asked about everyone else, you haven’t told me much about you.”

his eyes flicked to yours, dark and assessing. “you want to know what kind of woman I like? it’s simple: someone who knows what she wants.” his words were heavy with meaning, lingering in the air.

you swallowed hard. you had no idea where this conversation was going, but you felt your body respond to the shift in energy. it was no longer about the interview, or the questions.

“maybe you’d like me to show you,” he said, leaning closer. there was no mistaking it now. his breath was warm against your skin, and the air felt thick, charged with something undeniable. “or do you prefer to just keep asking?”

this was it. this was the moment you’ve been fantasizing about ever since you’ve laid eyes on him. you lean closer to him, his winey breath on your skin. “i guess, no,” you took a small breath, “i want you to show me, what you like.”

he smirked, his hand removing your glass from your trembling fingers. his face was closer to yours, his other hand wrapping itself around the back of your neck pulling you closer as he captured your lips with his. your stomach erupted, goosebumps rising on your skin as you found your brows furrowing into the kiss.

you placed your hands on his cheeks pulling further toward you, his body lying you down on the couch as he took place above you, careful with his movement without breaking away.

“tell me what you want beautiful and it’s yours,” he whispered into the kiss, “it’s all yours, god.”

you wrapped yourself around him, separating your face from him, face red and flushed. “i want you, please, sukuna,”

without a second wasted, sukuna grabbed your body pulling you up from the couch, his bulge rubbing against your clothed cunt. your hips attempted to get a better feel, pressing yourself closer to him but it was all cut to an end when you were thrown onto his bed.

“so needy,” he chuckled throwing off his towel with a tug, “you want me that bad huh?” he grinned removing his shorts, revealing his swollen tip. your mouth drooled at the sight, his inked body, his beautiful muscles and his aching cock. you couldn’t help but crawl to him, your bottom lip tugged under your teeth as you reached to grab him.

you wrapped your lips around the tip, tasting the salty pre-cum, and he groaned, one hand tangling in your hair. you took him deeper, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing as you worked him, but he wasn’t patient. how could he when your throat felt so good. he thrust into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat, making you gag. tears pricked your eyes, but the sound of his low, filthy moans made your cunt drip onto the sheets.

“fuck, that’s it,” he moaned, fucking your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts. “take every inch baby that’s it.”

you moaned around him, the vibrations making him curse, his grip tightening. he pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping, spit dripping down your chin. “not yet,” he said, hauling you to your feet and pushing you back . “i wanna feel that tight little pussy first.”

he shoved your body to his liking, face-down, ass up, pulling down your skirt and panties down. the cool air coming from the open windows hit your slick folds, making you shiver, but then his hand cracked against your ass, the sting blooming into heat that made your clit throb. “look at this perfect ass,” he muttered, spanking you again, leaving red handprints. “begging to become one of my trophies.”

“please,” you whimpered, spreading your thighs wider, desperate. “sukuna…”

he chuckled, caressing your soft skin, leaning down to kiss it. “you gon’ be a good girl and take all of daddy?” he taunted. your cunt throbbed, giving him all the answers he needed. sukuna teased your slit with his tip before thrusting into you, one long stroke that stretched your pussy to accommodate his girth. your lips parted, letting out an ecstatic gasp as your gripped onto the silk sheets. his balls were slapping against your clit, the trimmed hair brushing against your skin.

“you feel so good, mhm so fucking good,” he grunted, hands gripping your hips as the wet, obscene sounds of your pussy taking him filled the suite. sweat slicked your skin, his chest pressing against your back as he leaned down, biting your shoulder before kissing it, his mouth trailing from your blades to your neck.

his thrusts pushed you over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you, your cunt spasming around his cock as you screamed his name. he couldn’t stop, fucking you through it, chasing his own release. “gonna fill you up sweetheart,” he mumbled almost whimpering, his cock rubbing against your warm insides before spilling himself inside you.

your head fell heavy on the pillows, body trembling as his weight pinned you to the bed, his cock still buried inside you. your breaths were ragged, the room spinning, cum and sweat staining the sheets.

you whimpered painfully as he pulled out, cum leaking from your tired pussy. a sight for sore eyes, he thought.

it wasn’t until you felt his tongue on you that you realized he wasn’t done yet, lapping at the mixture of both his and your orgasms, moaning as he made out with your folds.

“couldn’t help but have a taste, fuck” his voice sent vibrations to your clit, your hand grabbing his head from behind as best you could to guide him through your climax.

he chuckled at your attempt, “don’t got anymore questions f’me?” he spat on your folds before plunging his fingers, toying with you. “don’t get all shy on me now, not after how you treated my cock,” a trail of moans was your answer, hips bucking as you rushed yourself to come.

“oh yeah i can feel that, gonna come again for daddy baby? yeah?” your nodding was rapid, toes curling as you allowed yourself to be overwhelmed by your orgasm.

“daddy… coming,” you whispered, breath shaky. he would be lying if he didn’t enjoy seeing you like that, calling him daddy, letting him do as he pleases. but then it hit him, he still hasn’t seen your fucked out face.

he smeared your juices all over your cunt, lubing you to prepare you for his hardened cock again. with a simple tug he flipped you over, legs on his shoulders as he dug in, capturing your yelp in his mouth, this time going faster.

you grabbed onto his shoulders, legs wrapping around him to keep him close. he knew he wouldn’t last long, how could he when you were squeezing him like that. he reached to your buttoned shirt, ripping it open, the sounds of your buttons scattering on the floor.

sukuna looked down at you, your soft voice expressing how good he is making you feel. he smirked, his fingers pulling down your bra to be mesmerized by your tits, his hungry mouth unable to resist latching on them.

“oh my god fuck, sukuna… sukuna shit!” your fingers were now in his hair, your nipples respectively getting sucked and played with. “fill me up again, felt so good to have your cum,” you begged, eyes filling with tears.

“never say no to a win,” he chuckled, his face dropping next to yours as he buried his face next to yours, your legs unconsciously letting go of him as your body began shaking, vision getting cloudy.

he moaned in your ear, his skin slapping against yours a few last times before he let himself loose inside you once again.

“you better mention how much i love the adrenaline rush i get in your article sweetheart.”

[be4chywritez]

trophy boyfriend | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x actress!reader

rec: can you PLEASE do like a actress!reader x quinn hughes and like hes just a dork around her

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The hum of soft jazz plays in the hotel suite as your glam team moves around you like a well-oiled machine. A makeup artist dabs at the corner of your lips, a stylist adjusts the sparkling hem of your designer gown, and a hairstylist puts the final touches on your updo.

Across the room, Quinn is struggling with his cufflinks.

You glance at him through the mirror, watching as he frowns down at the small buttons, his fingers fumbling slightly. It’s adorable, really—the way this man can maneuver a puck at lightning speed but is absolutely defeated by formalwear.

With an amused sigh, you wave off your team.

“Okay, okay, I got it from here,” you say, standing up and making your way over.

Quinn lets out a breath of relief. “Thank god.”

You shake your head, taking his wrist in your hands. “You are an Olympic athlete,” you tease, carefully fastening the cufflink. “You have literal hand-eye coordination of steel. But this? This is what beats you?”

He huffs. “These things are impossible.”

You smirk, moving onto the next one. “They’re not impossible, babe.”

Quinn just watches you, his expression softening. The way your fingers move with ease, the way you’re so gentle with him, the way you look so stupidly beautiful up close.

And then, before he can stop himself—

“Jesus,” he breathes, low and awed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your fingers pause.

The words hit you straight in the chest, so raw, so genuine that it makes you blink up at him.

A slow smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah?”

Quinn nods, completely transfixed. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing over the fabric of your dress. “Like—so beautiful. I don’t even—” He exhales, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. “—I don’t even have words for it.”

You bite back a grin. “You just said a whole sentence, love.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “You know what I mean.”

You do. And the warmth in your chest tells you it’s mutual.

The luxury black SUV glides through the streets of Los Angeles, the distant flashes of cameras already visible as you near the venue.

Quinn shifts slightly beside you, adjusting the cuffs you helped him with earlier. He looks perfect—classic black tux, tousled hair, sharp jawline that’s gonna make Twitter implode in approximately thirty minutes.

But you can tell he’s a little on edge.

“You okay?” you ask, placing a hand on his knee.

Quinn glances at you, then lets out a small huff. “I just—” He rubs a hand over his face. “I feel like I don’t belong here.”

You tilt your head, squeezing his knee. “Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “I mean, look at me. I play hockey. My idea of a big night is, like… eating pasta before a game and going to bed by ten.”

You smile. “Sounds like a riveting lifestyle.”

“I’m serious,” he mutters, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

You soften, lacing your fingers with his. “Quinn, you do belong here. I wanted you here, with me. No one else. Just you.”

He glances at you then—really looks at you. The sincerity in your voice, the way you’re still holding his hand even when the cameras outside are waiting to catch every move.

And maybe… maybe he does belong here.

Or at the very least—he belongs with you.

The second your car door opens, the lights and noise explode.

You step out first, flashing an effortless smile, moving through the flashing cameras like second nature.

Quinn follows.

And immediately freezes.

The sheer volume of photographers, the shouted questions, the flashes—it’s all so different from the controlled environment of a post-game media scrum.

His expression doesn’t change, his posture stays stiff. He doesn’t react.

Except—when he looks at you.

You turn back, reaching for his hand. The second he takes it, his fingers curling around yours, something shifts. His shoulders drop slightly, his face loses the blank tightness.

The cameras eat it up—Quinn Hughes, usually stoic, softening the moment you touch him.

But the second you turn away to answer a question, he’s back to looking completely out of place.

The interviewers try.

“So, Quinn! How does it feel being at the Oscars with Y/N tonight?”

He blinks. “Uh… it’s cool?”

A beat of silence.

The interviewer laughs politely. You don’t even try to hide your smirk.

Quinn, to his credit, doesn’t crumble. But you can sense it—the way his hand tightens slightly in yours, the way his jaw tenses.

He’s not freaking out, but he’s not loving it either.

You make a quick decision.

Instead of lingering for more interviews, you squeeze his hand and lean in. “Let’s go inside.”

Quinn doesn’t hesitate.

As you lead him through the last waves of flashing cameras and into the safety of the venue, you feel it—his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

Like a silent thank you.

And when you glance up at him, finally out of the public eye, he gives you a small, private smile.

It’s the first real one of the night.

The theater is breathtaking—warm lights reflecting off golden décor, a hum of energy rolling through the crowd, the biggest names in Hollywood all gathered in one place.

At your table, Quinn sits beside you, his hand resting casually on your knee under the table. His touch is warm, grounding, everything you need to keep yourself from overthinking.

The show moves on, category after category, but as the night stretches on, so do your nerves.

And then—

“And now, the nominees for Actress in a Leading Role…”

Your name flashes across the massive screen, the camera cutting to you at the exact moment your heart slams against your ribs.

You don’t move.

You’re hyper-aware of the way your breathing slows, of how the applause fades into a quiet hum in your ears.

Then—Quinn’s hand tightens around yours.

You glance over.

His thumb sweeps over your knuckles—soft, steady, like he’s reminding you that no matter what happens, he’s right there.

"You got this," he murmurs. So sure.

Your pulse steadies. You squeeze his hand back.

The presenter opens the envelope.

“And the Oscar goes to…”

The pause stretches.

Your stomach flips.

And then—

They say your name.

For a moment, the world stops.

Your mind blanks, heart hammering, ears ringing. You barely register the way the crowd erupts, the way your co-stars cheer.

But Quinn?

Quinn is already on his feet.

He’s not over-the-top, but he’s clapping immediately, beaming. It’s pure instinct—his entire face lit up, dimples deep, eyes wide with pride, awe, love.

You push your chair back, standing on shaky legs, but before you go anywhere—before you even think about stepping onto that stage—you turn to him.

You throw your arms around his neck, holding onto him first.

His arms wrap around your waist without hesitation, his grip strong, his warmth grounding you.

And just as you pull away, you press a quick, breathless kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Then you’re moving—up the stairs, onto the stage, into the blinding lights, the golden statue placed in your hands.

You thank your director, your cast, your team. You keep it short, simple, heartfelt.

And then, just before you finish, your eyes drift back to where Quinn is still standing.

He’s still clapping, still smiling. Like you just hung the stars.

“And, of course,” you add, a small smile pulling at your lips, “to the person who reminded me every day that I could do this. Who never let me believe otherwise. Thank you, Quinn.”

The second you step behind the curtain, Oscar clutched in your hand, your heart still pounding, your eyes immediately scan for him.

It doesn’t take long.

Quinn is waiting just a few feet away, standing with his hands in his pockets, his smile so big it’s practically blinding.

And before he can say anything—before he can even move—

You run straight into him.

He barely has time to react before you throw your arms around his neck, jumping up slightly as his arms come around you.

He catches you with ease, his laugh warm against your ear.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands cradling his face. His skin is warm, his smile softer now, his hands still holding you tight like he’s not quite ready to let go.

“You did it,” he murmurs, voice full of something so deep, so real. “I knew you would.”

Your fingers brush over his cheek. “You sure?” you tease. “Because I seem to remember some panicked, middle-of-the-night doubts.”

Quinn huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, and I seem to remember talking you down from every single one.”

You grin, pressing your forehead to his. “I guess I should start listening to you more often, huh?”

He smirks. “You definitely should.”

A photographer calls your name softly, reminding you where you are, but neither of you move just yet.

You look at Quinn. He looks at you.

And then—

You kiss him. Soft, sure, just enough.

And when you pull back, he just grins, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Before you can say anything else, a stage manager ushers you onto a small carpet where reporters and interviewers lined up.

"How are you celebrating tonight?" the reporter asks, microphone extended toward you.

You barely hesitate. "Probably get In-N-Out with my boyfriend."

The press room bursts into laughter.

Quinn, just a few feet away, shakes his head but can’t hide his smile.

-

The smell of fresh burgers fills the car, the golden statue sitting between you in the backseat.

Quinn takes a sip of his drink, glancing over at you. "So, this is how an Oscar-winner celebrates?"

You tear open a packet of fries. "This is how I celebrate."

Before he can respond, your phone starts buzzing.

Jack.

You roll your eyes and answer, putting it on speaker.

Jack’s voice immediately fills the car. "HOLY SHIT."

Luke’s right behind him. "SHE ACTUALLY WON."

You laugh, reaching for your burger. "You guys stayed up to watch?"

"Duh," Jack says. "Quinn, dude, how the hell did you pull this off?"

Quinn groans. "Good to hear from you too, Jack."

Luke is still processing. "I mean, we always joke about you being the most unexpected couple ever, but like… you really went and did it."

Quinn just shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

And you?

You just squeeze his hand, because you wouldn’t want to be celebrating with anyone else.

You’re back home, fresh out of the shower, warm and sleepy as you crawl into bed next to Quinn.

The Oscar sits on the dresser.

Quinn rolls onto his side, watching you as you settle against the pillows. His hand drifts across your hip, his touch absentminded, lazy.

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “You tired?”

He hums. “Not as tired as you.”

You yawn—completely proving his point.

Quinn laughs, tucking you closer, his warmth melting into yours.

“Night, Oscar-winner,” he murmurs against your hair.

You smile against his collarbone. "Night, Hughes."

[enterprisetrainingexperts]

Top 25 Frequently Asked Scrum Master Interview Questions for 2023

Have a Scrum Master interview coming up? It's natural to be nervous. But worry not! We've got you covered.  Scrum has gained popularity and is being adopted by companies worldwide. As a result, there's an increased demand for Certified Agile Scrum Masters. Read More:

[jonquilyst]

My sims' takes on this debate

Megyn: "I don't think cereal's a soup, but the only reason why I think that is because I've just always considered it to be its own thing. I think soup has to be cooked anyway."

Eva: "Cereal's a soup! It might be cold, but it has a liquid base, complementary solid pieces, and you eat it with a spoon. Just because it's not hot doesn't mean it isn't a soup!"

Jayden: "I think cereal can definitely be a soup. The first thing that comes to my mind when I think of soup is "liquid plus any solid stuff within in that you eat with a spoon." Cereal is just that."

Wyatt: "Culinary-wise, cereal isn't a soup. It's just a breakfast food that happens to be similar to soup when you pour milk over it. You can eat cereal plain or use it in recipes, like if you're using corn flakes for chicken. You can't really do that with actual soups."

📩 Simblr question of the day: Your sim is having a heated discussion with someone about whether Cereal is a soup or not, what side are they on? 👀

answer in whatever way is most comfortable for you and feel free to share this SQOTD around, make sure to use the hashtag SQOTD and tag me in separate posts ~ 💛

[incloudcity]

could you write a fic with quinn where he's dating a reporter but they keep the relationship in secret specially because of her carrer but accidently in a post game interview he slips a "thanks princess" or any other cute thing, while they are on live, n that makes her blushes and suddenly the whole hockey world knows they are together

off the record | qh43

requests are open

a/n: guys i’m sooooo sick i think im dying so this is all you get for tonight. hopefully i can catch up on drafts and requests in a little bit once im better

You’d been covering the Canucks for just over a month when Quinn Hughes became your problem.

On camera, he was a dream for a reporter — short answers, eye contact, always polite. Off camera? A menace. Quiet, smirky, and way too comfortable leaning just a bit too close.

“Nice question,” he said under his breath one night, handing back your recorder. “You practice in the mirror, sweetheart?”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “Do you actually answer the media’s questions, or do you just flirt with them until they leave you alone?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Depends. Is it working?”

You walked away without replying.

He caught up with you later with a cup of coffee, one you hadn’t asked for, in his hand.

“Two sugars, no cream, right?” he asked.

You stared. “That better not be a guess.”

He just smiled, leaned against the hallway wall like he had nowhere else to be. “I’m observant.”

“Uh-huh. And completely unprofessional.”

He tilted his head. “So are you saying you want me to stop?”

You took the coffee. Didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t say no, either.

Over the next few weeks, the game continued. Quinn made it subtle — he never crossed the line where someone else might catch on. But you noticed. The playful jabs. The way he’d tap the table once for everyone, then twice more just for you. When you asked something tough in a presser, he’d sigh like you were personally attacking him — but always with a glint in his eye.

“You’re ruthless,” he said once after a particularly pointed question about power play production.

You smirked. “Maybe stop turning the puck over and I’ll go easier on you.”

“Ohhh,” he groaned, clutching his chest. “Brutal. And you still won’t go out with me?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re exhausting, Hughes.”

“You’ll miss me when I stop trying.”

“Looking forward to it.”

But you weren’t. Not really.

The night you finally caved, it wasn’t a grand moment. Just a quiet run-in after practice, late, both of you tired. He looked at you for a second too long. You looked back. No one else was around.

“You wanna grab something to eat?” he asked, softer this time. No smirk. No show.

You hesitated.

“Just dinner,” he added quickly. “No pressure.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded him that if anyone found out, you’d both get torn apart.

But you didn’t.

After that, everything changed — and nothing did. You kept it private. No one knew about the way he pressed kisses behind your ear when you were brushing your teeth. Or how he’d text you “media availability just got way more interesting” before games.

He never said anything on the record. Until he did.

It was a standard post-game scrum, packed with reporters. You were in your usual spot, notebook in hand, asking about third-period adjustments.

Quinn glanced at you, gave his usual answer — then added, too casually:

“We adjusted in the third, like you said, babe.”

Babe.

It was a split second. One syllable. But it echoed.

Your pen paused mid-sentence. The PR guy blinked like he’d misheard. A few reporters looked around.

You didn’t flinch. Your voice was even. “Noted. Thanks, Hughes.”

But inside, you were screaming.

Later that night, Quinn was pacing your apartment like he was being traded.

“I can’t believe I said that,” he muttered. “I’m so—so sorry. You’re gonna get in trouble. Shit, I didn’t even think. It just—slipped. Like an idiot.”

You sat on the edge of the couch, arms crossed, watching him spiral.

“I literally train my whole life to stay calm under pressure and I blew it with one word—”

“Quinn.”

He froze. His face glazed over with panic.

You stood, walked over, leaned against the counter, and gave him a slow once-over.

“I’m not mad.”

He blinked. “You’re… not?”

“No.” You cracked a grin. “But you should be. Twitter thinks you’re engaged now. You’re a whole meme.”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “Oh my god.”

You pulled out your phone. “Someone edited your post-game quote over a Bridgerton clip.”

“I’m never showing my face again.”

“You’re adorable when you panic.”

He looked up at you, exasperated. “Why are you not freaking out?”

“Because if you think I didn’t screenshot the second it happened, you don’t know me at all.”

He groaned again — and this time you reached up, pulling him in by his hoodie.

“I’ll handle PR,” you said, brushing a kiss over his jaw. “But you’re doing media training again. Just in case.”

He smiled, finally, against your mouth. “Worth it.”

[slut-for-slutty-fictional-men]

Pole Position

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Journalist!Reader Genre: Enemies-to-Lovers, Flirty Banter, Tension → Explicit Summary: You're a sports journalist known for your sharp questions and no-nonsense energy. Charles is famously charming but not used to being flustered—until he meets you. Interviews become a game of flirty deflections and increasingly inappropriate tension. Word Count: 925 Warnings: Explicit sexual content, power-play dynamic, dirty talk, strong language, consensual manhandling, one (1) cocky Monegasque driver getting emotionally wrecked by a journalist

Masterlist

Charles Leclerc made a career out of staying calm under pressure.

Which is why it drove him insane that you, of all people, could fluster him with a single look.

You were new to the grid this season — a sports journalist with a sharp tongue and zero patience for PR fluff. Within a month, you'd become known for calling out bullshit mid-interview, dragging drivers with surgical precision, and, most dangerously of all, not falling for Charles’s charm.

Not even once.

And he’d definitely tried.

Melbourne, Race 1

You leaned forward during the media scrum, recorder out, voice cool.

“Charles, any regrets about that overtake attempt on Lap 19, or did you just fancy a little lawn mowing?”

The other journalists chuckled.

Charles blinked. Then grinned slowly.

“Are you always this mean,” he asked, “or is it just when I’m sweaty and out of breath?”

You didn’t smile. “Let me know when you're ever not those things.”

He coughed — actually coughed — and the clip went viral by sunset.

Baku, Race 4

“Nice save in Turn 3,” you said, cornering him in the paddock afterward.

“Thank you.”

“Shame about the rest of the lap.”

He exhaled, smirking. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you wear that same shade of lipstick every race weekend, and it makes it very hard to focus on your questions.”

You blinked once. “Try focusing on your braking instead.”

He burst out laughing — and still didn’t stop staring at your mouth.

Barcelona, Race 7

He found you alone by the coffee cart, scrolling on your phone.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he said, unprompted.

You didn’t look up. “I’m obsessed with data. You just happen to be a cautionary tale.”

He stepped closer.

“You know,” he said, voice soft, “you’d be a lot less stressed if you let me take you out.”

You finally looked up, slow and deliberate.

“And you’d be a lot faster if you stopped thinking with your dick.”

His jaw dropped.

You walked off with your coffee, sipping like you hadn’t just ended a man.

Silverstone, Race 10

The tension finally snapped.

It started like always — a simple post-quali interview, you cornering him after a P2 result, microphone in hand, your smirk just this side of cruel.

“You were a tenth off pole,” you said. “Heartbreaking.”

He gave you a look. “I’m still on the front row.”

“But not the front front,” you teased. “Max beat you. Again.”

Charles smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Careful,” he murmured. “Keep poking me like that and I’ll bite.”

You leaned in, dangerously close. “I dare you.”

Something shifted in his face — a flicker of hunger, of impatience finally boiling over. The look he gave you wasn’t flirty. It was a warning.

“You want me to lose control,” he said, low and private.

You smiled. “I want you to admit you’ve already lost it.”

And just like that, the game was over.

Ferrari Motorhome — 6 Minutes Later

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his hands were on you.

No more banter. No more teasing. Just heat.

Your back hit the wall, hard, and his mouth was on yours in the next breath — hot, demanding, all tongue and frustration and finally.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growled, voice muffled against your neck as his hands dragged your shirt up. “Every time you open your mouth—”

“Then shut me up.”

He did.

His lips were everywhere — jaw, collarbone, down your chest — his hands rough, greedy, like he was trying to prove something.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathed, sliding a hand between your legs, teasing over your clothes.

“I want this,” you said, breathless. “I want you.”

“Fuck.”

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, setting you on the low desk behind him. Papers scattered. His fingers were already pushing your underwear aside.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped, eyes dark as sin. “When you taunt me on camera? When you make me think about fucking you right there in the paddock?”

You gasped when his fingers slipped in — slow and deep.

“Say it.”

You whimpered, legs spreading wider. “I wanted it.”

“More than pole?”

“More,” you choked. “More than pole. More than anything.”

That broke him.

He kissed you like he was devouring you — mouth hot and slick, grinding his hips against yours like he couldn’t wait another second.

“Condom,” he muttered, breath ragged. You fumbled to find your bag—he found it first.

And then he was back — rolling it on, lining up, eyes locked on yours.

“You still want me to shut you up?”

“Yes.”

He thrust in one smooth, hard motion and you saw stars.

No teasing now. No performance. Just pure, blistering want.

He held your hips like a man starved, fucking you into the desk hard enough to shake it, your moans swallowed by his mouth, your name muttered like a prayer against your skin.

“Can’t believe you made me wait,” he growled.

“You deserved it.”

“You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He groaned — a desperate, broken sound — and came seconds later, hips stuttering, jaw clenched against your neck. You followed with a cry, nails digging into his back, everything going white-hot before it dissolved into aftershocks.

[whitecherrylavender]

Okay so @royaletigertowelpapertowelpp mentioned an article about this so I went looking.

It sounds like Sadia Kabeya has talked a lot about this topic in particular to silk being added to the caps for protection but also racism she has experienced as she moved into more elite levels of rugby.

She wrote an article about this topic for the BCC, which you can find here:

And this CNN article talks about it as well in addition to other issues with rugby and diversity.

If you’re anything like me you want to see more of Sadia Kabeya so make sure you look at her Instagram! It looks like she might also be on a podcast and I love a good podcast to tell me about sports.

https://www.instagram.com/sadiakabeya?igsh=MWgzczZ4Y2Z4OXFmOQ==

New question. I know helmets historical have not been made for people with black hair in mind, and that makes things very difficult for people in sports like horse back riding and even bike helmets. Because scrum caps are made of foam and rugby is suppose to be more diverse do they run into the same issues?

I’ll have to try and see if I can Google an answer.

[captain-bubble-wrap]

can u do auston matthews and (slightly) younger gf and lkke players on the other team chirping at him abt her and he gets all like protective

[This was a little borderline "hockey romance" instance for me, babes. I didn't want to be mean, so I did what I could with your ask.]

"Come on, Matthews! Thought you'd have a little more to play for! Robbed the cradle for that new piece of ass you're running around with, right? I know she's watching. Bet she just watched me beat your ass!"

Both Auston and the other player were escorted to their respective boxes, both firing quips back and forth following the opening instigation. Things remained heated between the two men, well into their corresponding penalties. Auston kept his eyes forward, watching his players produce the plays without him, while his competition had his eyes affixed on the Leafs' captain.

"You're a pussy, Matthews! Y|N will realize it soon enough! Bet she leaves your ass before the end of the season!" The mouthy forward just laughed as Auston continued to look on. That last forty-five seconds would tick by so slowly.

There would be numerous scrums between both teams until the final buzzer sounded; retaliation from Toronto for the mistreatment of their captain earlier in the period. The Leafs would go on to win at home, but for one player in question, you may have thought they lost the way his expression came across on film. Auston joined the rest of his team in the dressing room, did his interviews, and expressed his happiness over the win, and the comeback that had taken place. By the time everything was said and done it was late into the evening, and soon time to merge into the post-game Toronto traffic and head home.

"What's wrong, baby?" You asked, seeing Auston shuffle into the bedroom.

"Hm? Oh-- nothing, just tired."

You just looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed because you felt like there was something more he wasn't telling you, so you pressed him again. "Auston?"

"I'm alright, mama. Just some bullshit you don't need to be bothered with."

As he removed his clothes, you watched him, but not in any sort of sexual way, but more out of concern. He looked troubled and it showed through his movements as well as the expression on his face. There was something big beneath the surface and all you wanted to do was help him in any way that you could.

"Come here, baby," you motioned as he made his way to your side of the bed.

Auston said nothing, just pulled back the covers and made himself comfortable on top of you. With his head against your stomach you'd brush his hair back until his eyes fell closed. The way his hands held your body silently conveyed the weight of whatever it was that was holding him back. What could it be?

"Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Auston sighed, "I don't know why it's bothering me so much."

You'd stay quiet for a second before it dawned on you. "Is this over your fight with Connor?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "I didn't care too much what he was saying about you."

"Well, he's an ass. You know that. I wouldn't waste any time on what that asshole says."

"I know, mama, it's just... it was you he was talking about."

You frowned, still playing with his hair. "Well, I appreciate you being my white knight, though. Next time you play them, high stick him in the neck for me, or spear him in the dick,"

Hearing your sweet voice say such things made Auston laugh genuinely this time around, "I'll see what I can do."

"Can we stop talking about him, please?"

"Oh, absolutely," Auston confessed. "Gladly."

The two of you would spend the next hour with Auston asking you about your day and apologizing for his lack of attention to you lately. You'd reassure him that you understood the late-season struggles and knew that if he had the ability to be with you more, that he would. The fact that he even had the thought to apologize touched your heart.

"Have I told you how much I appreciate you being so understanding and that you don't pick fights?" Auston asked. "It's so refreshing."

You smiled, "No sense in being a drama queen. I'm not you-know-who!"

[alltimecharlo]

would love a teacher au with hockey player!mack and kindergarten teacher!will where mack goes to will's school for some charity thing and proceeds to fold the second he meets will

(also i'm the anon who sent in the sidgeno prompt - thank you SO much for it, it's everything i could have wanted and more!)

awhh thank you so much, i’m glad you liked it!! this au is soooo cute and if i could scrounge a plot together i would absolutely write more 🩵 fic under the cut :)

Macklin Celebrini has faced hostile away crowds and playoff overtimes, but nothing prepares him for this: a classroom full of five-year-olds and one kindergarten teacher who looks like he stepped straight out of a goddamn dream.

He’s barely made it five steps into the classroom when one of the kids barrels into his leg yelling, “You’re a Shark!”

“Uh. Yeah. That’s me,” Mack says, blinking down at the kid and then looking up—

—and promptly forgetting how to breathe.

Will Smith—not that Will Smith, but still, the name caught him off guard when he heard it—is crouched at a low table, gently helping a tiny girl tie her shoe. He glances up when he hears the commotion. Their eyes meet.

Will smiles.

Mack folds.

“You must be Macklin,” Will says as he stands up, brushing his hands off on his soft blue slacks. His voice is warm and low, calming like ocean water lapping at the shore. His curls are a mess and his sweater has glitter stuck to the sleeve. Mack wants to drown in him.

“Just Mack is fine,” he manages. He takes Will’s hand when it’s offered and shakes it like he’s never touched another human before. Which is embarrassing because he does, all the time. On the ice. In post-game scrums. At team events.

Not like this, though.

“Thank you for coming. The kids are so excited,” Will says, and it’s that kind of genuine, effortless kindness that makes Mack’s chest tighten. “They’ve been drawing Sharks logos all week. You’re a bit of a celebrity.”

Mack glances around. There are crayon drawings taped all over the walls: slightly lopsided sharks, some with smiley faces, some with teeth as big as their tails. One of them has #71 Macklin scrawled across the top.

He clears his throat. “They’re better artists than I am.”

Will chuckles. It’s a light, sweet sound. Mack’s ears go warm.

Will gestures for him to follow. “We’re doing a little Q&A and then the kids can ask for autographs if that’s okay. We’ve also got some snacks after. Goldfish crackers and juice boxes.”

“Goldfish for a Shark,” Mack says.

Will grins. “Exactly.”

Mack doesn’t even remember the Q&A. He sits on one of those tiny plastic chairs, knees practically up to his chest, answering rapid-fire questions about hockey and skating and whether or not he’s friends with Sharkie. The whole time, he keeps sneaking glances at Will, who’s leaning against the bookshelf, arms crossed loosely, watching him with this amused little look on his face.

After, while the kids color and chatter excitedly, Will comes over and offers him a juice box.

“I like your crowd work,” Will teases.

Mack snorts, takes the juice. Their fingers brush.

“They’re a tougher audience than media scrums,” he says.

Will tilts his head. “But less likely to grill you about defensive zone turnovers.”

Mack groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Will laughs, softer this time. “You’re good with them.”

“With the turnovers?”

Will nudges him with his elbow. “With the kids. They liked you.”

Mack shrugs, feeling suddenly shy. “I like them too.”

Will’s smile goes soft, warm around the edges. “They’ll be glad to hear that.”

Mack wants to say something else—anything, really—but a kid tugs on Will’s sleeve and he turns away, crouching to their level. Mack watches him, heart thudding unevenly.

He doesn’t believe in love at first sight. Or he didn’t, until twenty minutes ago.

Before he leaves, Will walks him out.

“Thanks again for coming,” Will says, standing just outside the front doors now, sun glinting off his curls. “It meant a lot to them.”

“Yeah. Of course. Anytime.”

They linger. Neither of them seems to want to move.

“You’re not that scary,” Will says suddenly.

Mack blinks. “What?”

“When you’re on the ice,” Will explains. “You look so intense. But here you’re just… soft.”

Mack’s brain breaks a little. Soft?

“I can be soft,” he says, a little helplessly.

Will gives him a smile that could power a city. “Yeah. I can see that.”

There’s a beat.

“Would you—” Mack starts, then swallows. “Would you wanna maybe get coffee sometime?”

Will’s eyes light up. “I was wondering if you’d ask.”

Mack grins, dizzy with it. “Then yeah. Cool. Okay.”

“Cool,” Will echoes.

They exchange numbers.

As Mack walks away, he hears one of the teachers behind him say to Will, “He’s cute.”

Will just hums. “I know.”

Mack can’t stop smiling the whole way home.

♡

[friedbelievercomputer]

The Scrum Master Certification Test: A Gateway to Mastery

As the demand for skilled Scrum Masters continues to rise, obtaining a Scrum Master certification has become a valuable credential in the Agile community. This article delves into the significance of the Scrum Master certification test, the topics covered, and its impact on a professional's career.

The scrum practice test serves as a validation of an individual's understanding of Scrum principles and their ability to apply them in real-world scenarios. It is typically based on the Scrum Guide, which outlines the fundamental concepts and practices of the Scrum framework. Successfully passing the certification test demonstrates a candidate's proficiency in Scrum and their readiness to take on the role of a Scrum Master.

The test covers a range of topics, including the Scrum framework, its roles, events, and artifacts. Candidates are evaluated on their knowledge of Agile principles, the ability to facilitate Scrum ceremonies, and their understanding of collaboration and self-organization within a Scrum team. Additionally, the test may assess skills related to resolving conflicts, removing impediments, and fostering a culture of continuous improvement.

Obtaining a Scrum Master certification can have a substantial impact on a professional's career. Many organizations prefer or require Scrum Masters to be certified, considering it a reliable indicator of their skills and expertise. Certification can enhance career prospects, open doors to new opportunities, and increase earning potential. It also provides a common language and framework for Scrum Masters, fostering consistency and alignment in Agile practices across organizations.

Preparing for the Scrum Master certification test involves studying the Scrum Guide, engaging in practical experience, and often participating in training programs. Practice tests and sample questions are valuable resources for candidates to familiarize themselves with the format and difficulty level of the actual exam. Additionally, many certification programs offer workshops and study materials to support candidates in their preparation.

In conclusion, the Scrum Master certification test is a crucial step for professionals looking to establish themselves as competent and knowledgeable Scrum Masters. It not only validates their understanding of the Scrum framework but also enhances their credibility in the Agile community. As organizations increasingly adopt Agile methodologies, the demand for certified Scrum Masters is likely to grow, making the certification test a gateway to career success in the dynamic field of Agile project management.

[hearts4hughes]

DON’T BLAME ME | MARK ESTAPA

nora’s bday celly | fem!reader x mark estapa

summary: in which someone runs there mouth about you on the ice and mark doesn’t let him get away with it. (1.0k words)

warnings: mentions of fighting/blood, injuries, angst with an adorable ending

author note: i love mark estapa!!

A roar of cheers erupted from the crowd at YOST Ice Arena. Your brows furrowed as you stood up, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the ice. People crowded around you in the suite— Mark had gifted you the tickets before the game.

“Is that Mark?” A boy asked, turning to his friend. His friend nodded with a chuckle in response.

Your heart dropped.

You pushed to the balcony of the box as your eyes widened. On the ice stood Mark and a player from Michigan State. Mark held onto the boy’s jersey whilst he threw bare knuckle punches at him. The camera of the jumbotron zoomed in which only emphasized Mark’s furious features.

“What’s going on?” Alison asked from behind you. Her hand rested comfortably on your shoulder. “Oh my god.” Her voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” your voice was barely above a whisper as you responded.

Blood dripped from Mark’s nose— the Michigan State player had caught him square in the nose with a strong fist. However, the rest of the blood splattered on his face and jersey was from the player below him. Viciously, he hammered his fist into the boy’s face repeatedly. Referees and players from both teams crowded the two, tugging at Mark’s jersey in an attempt to stop him.

Finally, one of the referees planted both of his hands on Mark and forcefully pulled him away. As he was escorted towards the penalty box, he began shouting at the player who was uncontrollably bleeding.

“Don’t you ever talk about her again!” His booming voice reverberated throughout the arena. Everyone fell silent.

“He’s talking about you.” Alison said. You both exchanged a shocked glance at each other.

Your ears began ringing and the hair on your neck stood up. You couldn’t help but blush something fierce as you avoided the judging eyes of everyone around you.

You weren’t embarrassed of Mark fighting— honestly his fighting flicked on a switch inside of you that you recognized all too well- you were merely shocked that he was fighting over you.

What had the Michigan State player said about you?

Luck had seemed to be in your favor as the game had less than two minutes left in regulation. As the buzzer sounded throughout the arena, declaring a 4-2 win for UMICH, you let out a breath that you’d trapping. Quickly, you fled the arena’s suite and into the open halls of YOST.

The echoes of the crowd's cheers were now replaced with the hushed murmurs from individuals waiting outside of the team’s locker room.

You had convinced Alison to head home after the game with many reassurances that you were ok to wait alone. Now you leaned against the cold, painted brick of the arena, picking at your nails in an attempt to silence your whirlwind of thoughts.

“Y/N,” Ethan called out. You picked your head up and sent Ethan a smile.

“Good game!” You cheered as you opened your arms, allowing Ethan to give you a quick hug. “How’s Mark?” Your tone was laced with urgency and anxiety. Subconsciously, you picked at your cuticles, ignoring the burning sensation of pain as you ripped at your skin.

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head with a tight lipped grin. “He’s fine, don’t worry.” His words were assuring and comforting. “But I can’t say the same for the guy he was fighting. He managed to skate to the bench, but he looked pretty banged up as he went down to the locker room.”

“God,” you mumbled. Mark’s gotten into his fair share of fights and scrums, but never one that has injured a player this badly.

“I know. I was surprised they didn’t eject Marky, he dodged a bullet with that one.” he said.

“What happened that made Mark so mad?” Your question hung in the air. Ethan’s face revealed his hesitancy to tell you.

“You should ask Mark that.” He shrugged. With that he nodded his head and left you standing there. It wasn’t his place to say what had happened.

As Ethan’s figure disappeared into the sea of people, you were left to ponder over Mark’s actions. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you waited for Mark to emerge from the locker room. Finally, the door swung open and out came Mark. Small cuts adorned his flushed cheeks as well as a dark bruise around the bridge of his nose.

“Mark.” You called out as he locked eyes with you. As you stood before him, your eyes scanned his face. “Oh, babe, you’re all beat up.” Your lips dropped into a frown.

“You should see the other guy.” He smirked, his voice laced with pride. He wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into a bone crushing hug. On your tallest tiptoes, you melted into his embrace.

“Mark,” you began, your voice hesitant, “what happened out there?” He hummed, nuzzling his face deeper into your neck.

“Just some douchebag talking shit.”

You pulled back from the hug, staring deeply into his eyes. “I know there’s more to the story. Everyone heard what you shouted at him.”

He sighs, shaking his head and looking upwards towards the ceiling. “He said something about you that he had absolutely no right to say. It was disgusting and I couldn’t stand there and let him get away with it.” His jaw was clenched as he looked at me with fiery eyes.

You were taken aback by his confession. Mark put himself in harm's way to defend you. Your heart melted into a puddle while your limbs felt like jello.

Suddenly, you grabbed his shirt, pulling him down into a passionate kiss. He slowly began kissing you back, smiling ever so slightly into the intimate kiss.

“Thank you.” You pulled away from the kiss breathlessly.

He grinned in awe of you. His features softened as a pink blush painted his cheeks. “I’d do anything for you.” He admitted quietly.