#fractured ice au

[pastelcheckereddreams]

those prompts you reblogged are 😭💖💖 could I ask for some han(wen)zhou with "confessions when one character thinks the other is sleeping"?

Oh my god Sophie this just punched me in the chest with feelings 😭 Do you know how long I have been plagued by the idea of Zhou Zishu asleep in his loyal Ying’er’s arms?!

Han Ying looking down at his Lord as they recline together, Zishu’s cheek pressed into Han Ying’s broad chest. Han Ying feels his eyes prickle, brimming with too many emotions, as Zishu’s head lolls comfortably in the cradle of his elbow. His fringe is messy and whisper soft against the fingers Han Ying uses to gently brush it away from his Lord’s eyes.

He remembers a time many seasons ago when his Lord was tossing fitfully in a sickbed, lips ashen and eyes glossy with feverish heat. Han Ying had not known then that the cause of his sickness was an infection brought about by the third nail his Lord had driven into his own body. Delirious with heat and hacking on blood that had only just begun to fill his lungs, Zishu had shoved Han Ying from him, telling him to go, to leave, to save himself from the tragedy of being tied to one such as himself.

Looking down at his Lord now, cheeks flush with life and lips parted around deep, steady breaths, Han Ying feels tears finally fall. “I meant it,” he murmurs, thumbing the soft skin beneath Zishu’s bottom lip with quiet wonder at how deeply his Lord is asleep. How untroubled. He reaches down to gently clasp Zishu’s hand in his own.“-what I said then. I promised I would be by your side for a thousand lifetimes, if only you would permit it.”

Brushing a tender arc over the back of Zishu’s hand with his calloused thumb, Han Ying lets his gaze wander around their room, the deep shadows of the night kept at bay by the soft light from the flickering brazier, pulled close to the bed to keep them both warm through the autumn night.

The mansion is quiet outside their window, the moon shrouded by the thin clouds ushering in a morning frost that is still several shichen away. Wen-shixiong will be returning soon, and Han Ying knows he is out of time. He allows himself to bend and brush the ghost of a kiss to the back of his Lord’s hand.

“Zhuangzhu...” He breathes the confession across Zishu’s knuckles, eyes closed and head bowed. “...Han Ying must break that promise.” 

When Zishu wakes in the morning, both bed and brazier are cold beside him. He sits for a moment in the weak light of the overcast sunrise, before bringing his hand up to his own lips, recalling the fleeting press of Han Ying’s kiss.

“Foolish brat,” Zishu huffs, even as his brow darkens in worry. “Forget your next life, first walk beside us in this one.”

[stllmnstr]

every fragile thing

pairing: park sunghoon x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, figure skating au, college/university au

word count: 12.3k

warnings: alcohol consumption, jealousy, non graphic descriptions/depictions of injuries, use of the american (usa) university system, a kiss or five

soundtrack: get him back! / brutal / jealousy, jealousy / good 4 u / the grudge / bad idea right? / drivers license - olivia rodrigo

After an ankle injury lands you in mandated physical therapy sessions instead of on the ice where you should be training for nationals, you're absolutely certain you must be the most frustrated, emotionally volatile figure skater on the planet. Park Sunghoon proves you wrong.

or,

every fragile thing has one of two choices: become stronger or shatter into a million pieces.

note: hi hello yes this is me on a new blog with the same name. I deleted my old one and wasn't sure if I planned on remaking/reposting but here we are! if you've read this before, then I hope you enjoy just as much this time around. and if you haven't, I hope you love figure skater sunghoon just as much as I do! happy reading ♡

Silence. One word, two syllables. A fairly straightforward term with a meaning that can be easily deduced from a quick scan of its Merriam-Webster definition. 

But unlike many words, silence is one that’s typically learned through experience. Through stilted moments, pregnant pauses, dreamlike moments in the dead of night while the world around you is at a standstill. 

In the moments just before the music starts, when it feels as if the audience around you is holding their breath. And you stand at the center of it all, blades of your tightly laced skates against ice, chest rising and falling in time with your heartbeat, mind spinning with possibility. In those moments, your long trained muscles take over, following the memory of countless repetitions as your body prepares to do what it knows best. 

There’s a question in that silence. One that’s asked with baited breath. 

Will I land this skill? Will I go home with a medal around my neck, cold weight a familiar comfort against my skin? Will this be my best performance yet? Will they love it? Love me?

That, as you’ve come to learn, is your favorite kind of silence. The kind that’s filled with endless possibility, with the promise of something beautiful or disastrous or some odd mix of the two to come. 

The feeling of freedom, of flying as blade cuts through ice, as your body defies gravity with every jump, every spin. 

But that is very much not the kind of silence that greets you where Dr. Min eyes you warily over the top of his pristine clipboard, a crease forming between his dark eyebrows. Frowning, he glances at the paper once more before returning his gaze to you. 

“You’re sure you’ve been resting? No weight on the fracture at all?”

It takes a good chunk of your willpower not to roll your eyes. Mostly because you’re lying through your teeth, but who’s keeping track? 

“Yes, I’m sure.” Gesturing to the thick black boot the lower part of your left leg and foot have been imprisoned in for the better part of a month, you add, “This thing’s still coming off in two weeks, right?”

Two weeks is pushing it, but you’ve done more with less. Two weeks puts you exactly three months out from regionals, which gives you exactly ninety-one days to pull together the most jaw dropping program you or the judges have ever seen. One that’s certain to land you on the podium and secure a spot at nationals. 

Once again, you thank your lucky stars for Coach Lee. She’s been with you since you were still struggling to lace your own skates, and there’s no one else you’d trust to have you ready for regionals in such a short time frame. No one else you’d bet your fate on like this. 

“That was our original time frame, yes…” Dr. Min trails off, avoiding your gaze in a way that has your stomach dropping unpleasantly. 

“And we’ll be sticking to it, I’m sure.” You hate the way the end of your phrase turns up like a question. 

Dr. Min sighs. “Look, ___, our original time frame was ambitious to begin with, and I hate to tell you this, but your ankle is not healing as well as we’d hoped. Fractures don’t heal overnight, and the best thing for you right now is rest.” 

The argument is already forming on your tongue. “But—”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m not trying to ruin your life, ___. Truly. I’m saying this to you as the parent of an athlete and a former athlete myself. Pushing yourself now will only lead to reinjury in the future and will also very likely shorten your career. Your ankle needs to heal before you skate on it again. It needs to heal before you so much as put weight on it. And you need to let it heal completely.” The sincerity in his voice is hard to stomach when he says, “Believe me when I tell you that you’ll regret it for the rest of life if you don’t.”

And logically, you know he’s right. Know that this will be nothing but a minor setback if you allow it to run its course. If you follow his advice to rest and heal. But skating has never been something you’ve done with the logical parts of yourself. And Dr. Min doesn’t get it. You tell him as much. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to do. Regionals are in less than four months, and—”

“I hear you. Believe me, I do. But this is your third year of university, which means you have another shot at nationals next year. If you push it and try to skate before you’re ready, you may very well lose that chance too.”

“So I’m supposed to do what? Sit around and do nothing until my ankle decides to cooperate?” Even voicing the possibility has you suppressing a grimace. 

But Dr. Min has different thoughts. “Yes. That is exactly what you need to do.”

You don’t avert your gaze. Neither does he. Finally, after a moment, he sighs. “My recommendation at this point is still rest, but—”

“But?” Your excitement is impossible to contain fully. 

Dr. Min levels you with a cautionary look over his clipboard. “But, if you’re going to do anything, our athletics department does also run a physical therapy program, which I think could be beneficial. It would help to retain flexibility, mobility, and agility in the areas of your leg that support your ankle. It could help get you back on the ice faster and maintain the leg strength you’ve built. There’s a group session that runs on Tuesday afternoons—”

“Yes,” you nod, not bothering to hear the end of his statement. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I… okay.” As much as you want to hate him for it, Dr. Min has a point. And while you doubt physical therapy will be anywhere near as grueling as your usual workouts, it sounds a hell of a lot better than doing nothing. 

…

You’ve never liked hospitals. The odd juxtaposition of white, lifeless sterility and a culmination of some of life’s most painful moments has always left an unpleasant taste on your tongue. 

It’s one that has you double checking the address Dr. Min forwarded to you as you enter the oddly cheerful building that is apparently home to a renowned athletics physical therapy facility. Despite the medical purpose, there’s a distinct liveliness that envelops the space. 

The woman at reception informs you that this is indeed the right building and the session you’re attending has just begun in the room to your left. 

Pausing at the door, you’re struck with a sudden timidness. A physical therapy group for athletes will obviously be filled with, well, athletes. And although you can’t speak too harshly on that particular subsect of people, being one yourself, they can be intimidating. It must be the competitiveness, you think. The drive to push, succeed, win that gives off such a distinct aura.

Steeling yourself with one last breath, you remind yourself that’s why you’re here. To get back to that version of you that has everyone else feeling a little shier. That version of you that eats, breathes, and sleeps with ice skates laced on your feet and visions of the top of a podium driving your every decision. 

With determination straightening your brow, you push open the door. 

And immediately find yourself grateful for the mental preparation as three heads snap in your direction.  

Hitching your bag up an inch on your shoulder, you try not to melt under the sudden awkwardness. Thankfully, one of them is better at breaking ice than you.

“Hi,” the boy closest to you is the first to fill the silence. He’s all smiles where he gives you a friendly wave, moving a stray hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head as he tells you, “I’m Jungwon.”

You offer your name in return, trying on a smile to match his friendliness. You have a feeling it comes more naturally to him than it ever will to you, though. 

Regardless, he offers an equally cheerful, “Nice to meet you.” Glancing over to where the second boy is moving through a series of stretches, Jungwon makes eye contact, silently telling him he’s up next. 

Even mid-stretch, he acquiesces. “I’m Niki,” the second boy follows. 

“And I’m Jake.” The last boy doesn’t need any prompting from Jungwon. Nodding towards the walking boot that covers the bottom half of your left leg, he glances at a similar one that he wears on his own. “Looks like we’re twins. Tore up my achilles pretty bad in my last soccer match,” he explains. “What about you?”

“Fractured my ankle,” you return, a rueful smile dragging your lips up. “Figure skater.”

“Ah, man.” Jungwon winces. “That sucks.”

You shrug, forcing a nonchalance you don’t feel. “No worse than a busted achilles.” 

“That’s cool that you skate though,” Jake offers. “Kind of a funny coincidence, actually. There’s another—”

Whatever it is, he doesn’t get to finish the thought. At that moment, the door opens again, this time revealing a middle aged woman in a white physician’s coat. Her name tag reads Dr. Kim, and she introduces herself as such to you. 

“Looks like everyone’s here, including our new members.” She gives another cursory nod in your direction. “Welcome again.” Glancing around, the instructor pauses. “Oh, wait. Except for—”

“I’m here, I’m here.” For the second time in the span of a minute, the door behind you opens. You don’t miss the glance that passes between Niki and Jake. You turn to face the new arrival, but his back is to you as he sets his bag down and begins the process of switching his shoes. 

The way the new member enters with a dismissive wave of his hand and lack of proper greeting has you thinking tardiness is not an uncommon trait of his. Even from behind, you can feel the waves of arrogance he exudes. That seems to align more with your preconceived notions of athletes. 

Studying him for another second, a sinking feeling of dread begins to build in the pit of your stomach. Long, dark hair. Unnaturally graceful movements, even if all he’s doing is digging through his bag. Tall stature, broad shoulders, long legs. 

An athlete’s build through and through. Perfectly suited for the ice. 

“Great.” Despite the statement, Dr. Kim’s tone is flat. “Well, we were just getting started and introducing ourselves since we have someone new joining us today.”

“Hi,” he offers, still fixated on his bag, yet to offer as much as a glance in your direction. If anything, it only serves as a confirmation of his identity. “I’m—” You don’t even need to hear him say it. 

“Sunghoon?”

At that, he does finally look up. 

Gaze locking with yours, a moment of confusion is quickly replaced by a furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s not thrilled to see you either. 

A beat passes. 

Two. 

Neither of you break eye contact. 

The silence extends to the point of discomfort for all four onlookers, each of them hesitant to break the tension that’s rising by the second. 

Finally, Dr. Kim takes a knife to the tension. “Do you two know each other?” 

Park Sunghoon. Renowned figure skater at your rival university. Someone with such a natural knack for carving lines through ice that whispers of prodigy have been shadowing his footsteps since the minute he put them on a rink. 

Someone with his head so far up his own ass you’re not sure how he can see half the time, much less keep his hair looking so perfect. 

Oh, you know him alright. 

“___?”

And it would seem he remembers you as well. 

It also answers Dr. Kim’s question well enough. 

“Ah, good.” It sounds like a question, like she’s hoping your acquaintance will be a positive thing instead of a disaster. You don’t have the heart to tell her otherwise. “The figure skating community is tight knit, I suppose.”

You suppress a scoff. That’s one word for it, you guess. 

You remember when it felt that way to you, too. Before tight knit became too small. Back before university, when it felt like it was you and Park Sunghoon against the world, instead of against each other. Back when the two of you didn’t skate for opposing teams but instead were members of the same club. A time when you took the ice together, skated as partners until he—

You force your thoughts to stop in their tracks. Your blood pressure has spiked enough in the last few days, and thinking back on long days spent with Park Sunghoon will only send it skyrocketing again. 

If anything, you’ll use this opportunity to practice perfecting your poker face for when you inevitably run into him at future competitions. 

And future competitions means you need a healed ankle, not a bruised ego. And certainly not an unpleasant trip down memory lane. 

Turning away from Sunghoon, you’re the first one to answer when Dr. Kim asks if you’re ready to get started. 

“Yes,” you tell her, determination written across your brow, in the set of your shoulders, and perhaps most noticeably, in the way you avoid Sunghoon’s wandering gaze for the next two hours. 

…

Without the rink, days are quick to meld into one another. It may be concerning, considering that you still have a set schedule of classes and homework to follow, but your life has revolved around training for so long that it’s hard to tell Mondays from Wednesdays without a set practice schedule. 

Thankfully, you do still make it back to the clinic at the right time on the right day, this time for another session with Dr. Kim and your fellow band of broken athletes. 

Including him. 

Aside from the glaringly obvious exception, you’re not as bothered at the thought of returning as you feared you might be. 

Jungwon, Niki, and Jake have proven themself pleasant enough company, and Dr. Kim seems to have built an understanding of how difficult it is to be forcibly removed from the sport you love. As such, she’s one of the least aggravating medical professionals you’ve spent time around. 

“Hey,” Niki greets when you arrive. “Did you have a good weekend?”

You shrug. “Good enough. Mostly just catching up on homework.” Setting your bag down and switching out your shoes, you join him on the mat, beginning the series of warm-up stretches Dr. Kim instructed you through last week. “What about you?”

“Not too bad. I got some good news from my doctor, actually.” He switches legs in his stretch, and you’re almost envious of his flexibility. He’s a dancer, and an exceedingly good one at that. One with an unfortunate knee injury at the moment. “My x-rays are looking a lot better. He thinks I might be able to start easing back into regular use by next month.” 

“That’s great,” you smile, even as a pang of jealousy stabs somewhere near your gut. “I’m really happy for you, Niki.” 

“A month still feels like forever, though, doesn’t it?” He sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I was out of the studio for this long.” 

Jungwon slides down onto the mat next to you, joining in on the stretch routine. “Consider yourself lucky, man. They told me at my last check-up that I probably won’t be able to do any jumping or kicks again for at least three months even though the fracture is already mostly healed.” He shakes his head. “No jumping or kicking,” he echoes, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You know, things that are super easy to avoid in taekwondo.”

“If it’s any consolation, I just got told that I’m gonna have to sit out of regionals this year. Which means I’ll have no way of qualifying for nationals.” You wonder how many times you’ll have to admit that particular reality to yourself before the sting starts to fade. 

“That sucks.” Jake agrees, coming down to the mat and occupying the spot next to Niki. “I’ll probably have to sit for this entire season, too. I love my team, but it’s so frustrating watching them play when I know I could be an asset on the field.”

“That’s true.” You’re struck by a sudden wave of sympathy. “At least skating is an individual sport, so the only person I have to disappoint is myself.” 

“Speaking of skating,” Jungwon sounds hesitant as he approaches the subject. “Do you and Sunghoon, uh…” he pauses for a moment in search of a neutral way of framing the unmistakable tension that surfaced the last time he saw the two of you together. “Do you two know each other?”

Grimacing internally, you suppose an explanation was bound to be solicited after your icy reunion. “We skate for rival universities.” Your gaze fixes on a spot on the ground. “And before college we used to, uh, we used to skate for the same club.”

The three boys share a glance. It’s hardly an explanation for the venom you said his name with but before they can press you further, the subject in question enters the room. 

Again, he takes his time setting his bag down, getting his things ready. This time, he also pulls out an obnoxiously big pair of headphones, secures them over his ears before he bothers to turn around. Despite the fact that all three boys offer him friendly smiles and waves, he returns the gesture only with a tight smile, making his way to the mat on the opposite side of the room before he begins his stretch routine.

It’s a message that rings loud and clear. A frown passes between Jake, Jungwon, and Niki. It’s obvious to you, then, that you’re the reason he chose to set himself up as far away as physically possible. 

So be it, you think, letting the slight roll right off of you. It’s not the first time he’s given you the cold shoulder for something he plays an equal part in, and you doubt it will be the last. 

Besides, it will only make your sessions pass by quicker, if the burden of avoiding gazes and minimizing interactions falls on his shoulders instead of yours.

With nothing but a shrug, you adjust slightly, ensuring that the only view he has of you is of your back. 

…

It’s a pattern that continues as physical therapy sessions start to become a regular routine in your week. Sunghoon, with his apparent disdain for anyone’s time but his own, is always the last to arrive. He also continues his habit of picking the spot in the room furthest away from you. 

Despite the fact that you’d like to chalk it up to his social ineptitude alone, that explanation doesn’t track. Although there’s still a certain aura of aloofness that follows where he goes, it’s too often that you see him smiling at a joke cracked by Jake or sharing easy conversations with Jungwon and Niki.  

Hell, he even interacts with Dr. Kim with a level of warmth you didn’t know was possible coming from him. If there’s any disdain in their conversations, he directs it all towards his right wrist. It’s why he’s here, you assume. Encased in a brace similar to the one you wear on your left ankle, his right forearm seems to be the reason for his attendance. 

It’s hard to not be envious. While a wrist injury is nothing to scoff at, it doesn’t necessarily keep you off the ice. Not in the same way a fractured ankle does. 

Refocusing your thoughts, you push the boy across the room firmly out of mind as Dr. Kim helps adjust you into the next stretch.

“How about now?” Dr. Kim pushes your spine a fraction of an inch further, pressure light but demanding. Before, this much flexibility would have been an easy request of your body, but lack of use has your muscles feeling tight. “Any tightness or pain?”

“No.” The bead of sweat on your brow begs to differ, as does the way the negation slipped through gritted teeth. 

But you’re frustrated. Annoyed at the progress you’ve lost, at the new limits of your body, at the way you feel like a stranger in your own skin. 

Across the room, you miss the flicker of annoyance that flits over Sunghoon’s features. Headphones on as always, you imagine you’re nothing more than a blip on his radar, a pesky intruder that’s easily ignored as long as he has his back to you. 

“Hm,” Dr. Kim muses. “You’ve retained more flexibility than I expected.” She offers you a smile. “That’s a good thing, a sign of a quick recovery.”

You suppress a grimace. It should be a good thing. You should be recovering quickly. If only you could get your stupid body to cooperate. 

Stealing another glance at the boy across the room, you can’t help the way a small burst of rage bubbles in your stomach. Prodigy. Why does he always get to be the anomaly, the exception to the rule? His injury is already less severe than yours, and he’s probably recovering quickly, too. Without even having to fake it.

Easing you out of the stretch, Dr. Kim jots down a quick note. “I’ll have Dr. Min run another x-ray at your next visit.” Nodding towards your ankle, she adds, “I think there’s a good chance that things are looking a lot better, and updated x-rays will help guide our next sessions.” She pauses for a minute. “I don’t want to get ahead of myself or get your hopes up, but I think we might be able to start putting some weight back on it soon. Start getting it stronger again.” 

You’re hesitant to let your excitement grow too much. But it would be a lie if you weren’t already counting the days until your next visit with Dr. Min in your head. “Thank you,” you tell her. “I’ll hope those x-rays come back looking good, then.”

“Me too,” she smiles. “I’ll see you next week, then. Hopefully with good news.”

You nod, returning her smile before heading to the door to gather your things. Jungwon catches you on your way out. 

“Hey, ___, hold on a sec.” When you turn back towards him, he tells you, “The rest of us are gonna grab lunch at a place nearby, if you want to join.”

Your uncertainty must write itself across your features, because he’s quick to add, “Don’t worry. Sunghoon won’t be there. He’s got a class right after this.”

Slightly embarrassed by the way he read you so easily, you nod. “Sure. Lunch sounds good.” Despite their friendliness with Sunghoon, you’ve come to like the three of them. And it’s been far too long since you broke up the monotony of class, homework, and medical appointments with something as simple as lunch with friends. 

And as long as he’s not there, you imagine it will be nothing but pleasant. 

It doesn’t take long for them to prove you wrong. 

Niki barely lets you get one bite in before he asks, “So, what exactly happened between you two?” Even without the name, the question is obvious. 

Still, after choking on the sip of water you’d been taking, you answer, “Who?”

Jake just gives you a look. 

You sigh. “Like I said, we used to skate for the same club. We, uh, never really got along, I guess.” Avoiding eye contact, you add, “And now we skate for rival schools. I suppose it’s only natural to not like each other.”

Niki doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, that sounds made up.”

Jungwon swallows his bite, parts his lips like he has something to say. Internally, you heave a sigh of relief. If any of the three of them spare you, you have a feeling it would be him. “I mean, it does seem like something else must have happened.”

Or not. 

“You don’t have to tell us,” he adds. “But it’s just… I mean, the two of you can’t even look at each other.”

Sighing, you suppose the circumstances do look odd from the outside. “There was… an incident. Back when we used to skate together.”

“What?” Jake asks. “Did he steal your skates right before a show or something?” 

“No, no.” You shake your head. “It happened on the ice, actually. During a program.”

“Wait,” Niki interrupts. “You said you used to skate together. Do you mean like, as partners?”

The guilt on your face says it all. 

“No way.” Jake says. 

Jungwon’s eyes grow bigger. “What did he do?”

“Yeah,” Niki turns to face you fully. “Wouldn’t being his partner be a good thing? At least on the ice, I mean. I know he can be a little insufferable, but isn’t he some sort of prodigy—”

“Prodigy, my ass.” You’re so sick of that goddamn word. “Wasn’t a prodigy when he dropped me in the middle of our program at junior nationals, was he?”

The way all three or their jaws drop in unison is almost worth the admission. 

But the thing is, he was. No accusatory fingers pointed in his direction after it happened. No one blamed prodigy Park Sunghoon for the mishap. 

No, it was decided fair and square by the jury of public opinion that the mistake was entirely your fault, your burden to bear. And it’s not like you were immune to the criticism. Whispers followed where you went. And you always, always managed to hear them. 

Maybe if you’d trained a little harder, completed the second rotation a little sooner, the skill would have gone off without a hitch, they mused. Hell, maybe if you’d stuck to your diet a little better, those last two pounds would have spelled the difference between a perfect landing and your ass on frozen ground, program music still crescendoing as onlookers watched with horrified fascination.

“Oh,” Jungwon grimaces. 

“That’s rough,” Niki agrees. 

And they don’t even know the worst of it. Don’t know that back then, at fifteen, you’d had a giant, soul crushing, earth shattering, massive crush on your skating partner. That you searched for his approval just as eagerly as you’d sought out your coach’s. 

That you’d squeezed in as many extra practice sessions as physically possible for five months leading up to the routine just to make sure you were as close to flawless as possible, just to make sure you were chosen to be his partner on the ice. 

That you giggled, giggled, when you saw the matching costumes the two of you would wear for the first time. 

That you followed where he went with long sighs and lovesick eyes. That you looked forward to the grueling hours you spent on the ice with him, turning perfection into something even greater. 

That your heart skipped a beat every time you ran through your program, every time he caught you with sure hands and a strong grip. 

That Park Sunghoon never made a mistake, never let you fall, not once. 

Not until a spotlight was spinning dreams into reality and you were already anticipating the secret smiles you’d share with matching gold medals around your necks. 

Not until it all shattered in a single moment. 

It was cold, as you laid there on the ice, sprawled out and unable to move from the sudden shock of it all. Luckily, you’d avoided any critical injuries. You had staggered off the ice with nothing but some bad bruising, the worst of it staining your ego and your heart. 

And after it all, no matter how many times you passed him on your way to the locker room, shared the ice with him, or searched for the gaze he pointedly avoided across the room, Park Sunghoon never uttered the two words that just might have made you forgive it all. 

Instead of an apology or even the decency of an explanation, you got a cold shoulder and a lost friendship you were too confused by to mourn. 

In the end, you’d decided to turn it all into a blessing in a very thorough disguise. From that moment onwards, all of your time on the ice was dedicated to you and you alone. Never would you let anything but the sheer strength of your own will, your own goals, motivate you to become better, faster, stronger. 

And you found that victory tasted even sweeter, when the full weight of it could rest on your shoulders alone. When no one could whisper behind their palms that the only reason you stood on the podium was a prodigy of a partner. 

So fine. Park Sunghoon didn’t owe you shit. Not an apology, an explanation, or even a second glance. 

And if he was a prodigy, an ice prince or whatever stupid title he’d earned alongside his medals, well, you’d just have to be even better.

But now, sitting across from new friends with a fractured ankle and a ruined shot at medalling this year, a quiet part of you admits for the first time that maybe, just maybe, part of that resolve is nothing but spite in disguise. Part of the anger you’ve clung to for so long isn’t directed at him, but at yourself. 

That it was embarrassing to fall in front of a crowd, yes, but it was also humiliating to know that he was hearing all those little comments about your inferiority too. To realize that his silence meant he probably agreed. That you were a liability of a partner, unequal in both skill and importance. That he could move on from the incident, from you, completely unscathed. 

That your little crush was entirely one-sided, just like the respect and admiration you’d once felt for him. 

You stare at the half-eaten lunch in front of you, appetite suddenly completely gone. 

“What a coincidence that the two of you ended up injured at the same time,” Jake muses. 

“And in the same physical therapy group.” Jungwon nods. 

“Yeah,” you echo hollowly. “What a coincidence.”

…

When Park Sunghoon speaks to you for the first time in five years, it’s completely by accident.

As the weeks have continued on, you’ve fallen into a perfect routine during your shared physical therapy sessions. A routine of avoidance, ignorance, and as much space between the two of you as physically possible. It’s become so easy that the two of you navigate it with the kind of grace only two elite figure skaters could ever manage. 

If anything, it’s more awkward for the other members of your session than it is for the two of you. Jungwon, Jake, Niki, and Dr. Kim are the ones suffering as they try to stay friendly with both of you without icing out the other. 

It must be why he doesn’t even bother to check who it is that’s standing right next to him as he reaches for his bag on the shelf near the front door at the end of another session. Must be why he says it in a voice so casual you don’t think it’s him at first. “How pissed do you think Dr. Kim will be if I’m late again next week?”

Even though the voice doesn’t quite fit, you half expect to see Jake standing next to you when you turn to the side. 

Sunghoon realizes his mistake at the exact same second you do. You watch as shock flickers across his features, quickly replaced by something guarded, unreadable. Just as completely closed off to you as always. 

It pisses you off, the way he’s so utterly and completely unaffected by you. The way he can brush you off as easily as a piece of dust. Insignificant. Unimportant. Unwanted. It has you freeing the reins on comments you should bite back instead. 

“Hard to say.” Ice and resentment drip from every syllable. “Then again, I’m surprised you care about what she thinks. Doesn’t seem like something that would bother you.”

That at least earns you some of his emotion. Another bout of shock crosses his face before it shifts to confusion and falls finally to anger. You can see it in the furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw. The flare of heat in his eyes. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

If he falls to anger, you’ll rise above it. At least on the outside. There’s no accounting for the way your gut twists in rage. Still, you offer him a smile that’s almost as fake as it is sickeningly sweet. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out if you spend enough time thinking about it.” It’s patronizing, and intentionally so. You hope it annoys him enough to keep him up tonight. 

Reaching for the front door, you take your exit first. The hallways of this building have become familiar over the weeks. Even with anger clouding your vision and a bad ankle, you trace a steady path to the parking lot. You’re halfway to your car when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

You freeze for a moment, turning the sound of it over in your brain, stuck on the way it almost sounds like a plea, a prayer coming from his lips. The sound of footsteps draws nearer. They fall quickly, as if he’s running. Your indecision still renders you immobile. 

“Hold on a second. Did I… Did I do something to upset you?”

If you thought you were angry before, you’re surely seeing red now. How dare he. 

Spinning around, you only hope you sound as outraged as you feel. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“What? No.” His brow furrows. “I mean, I know our schools are technically rivals and all, but we haven’t really seen each other in years.”

“Right, because you’ve been so sunny and welcoming since I joined the group.”

“I was giving you space. You practically bolted like a scared cat when you saw it was me.” He runs a hand through his hair. You hate the way it falls perfectly back into place. And you hate the way he looks so good doing it. “But clearly you’ve got something against me.”

The audacity, the sheer, utter audacity. There’s no trace of humor when you say, “You’re hilarious, really.” And there’s no room for debate when you turn away from him again, continuing to walk towards your car. 

“Wait,” he tries, but it falls on deaf ears. “God, ___, would you just hold on for a second, I—”

You turn. To do what, you’re not entirely sure. But before you can decide, the grip he has on his car keys loosens, the fingers of his right hand less dexterous than usual thanks to his arm brace. He still has his reflexes though. With his other hand, he manages to stop them from falling completely. 

“Better take care of that.” You jerk your chin to where he awkwardly fumbles with his keyring, trying to find a better grip. “Wouldn’t want to drop those too.”

His gaze snaps to you, eyes wide, mouth slightly slackened. The keys fall from his grasp, metal clinking delicately on the pavement. A million questions swim across his features, none of which you’ll give the grace of answering. 

Instead, you turn around once more. You make it all the way to your car, all the way out of the parking lot, all the way home. 

And he never says your name once. 

…

The following Tuesday, you are the last one of the group to arrive. And while you would usually never pass up the opportunity to best Sunghoon at anything, including being the latest arrival, competition is not the reason for your tardiness. 

It’s avoidance. That, and the fact that you had to spend eleven minutes giving yourself a pep talk in the car before you could work up the nerve to approach the front doors of the clinic. In the end, it’s a glance down at the boot on your left foot that does it. You’ve let Sunghoon ruin your chance at a gold medal once, and you’ll be damned if you let him do it again. 

Besides, your last visit with Dr. Min was a good one. Your ankle hasn’t healed quite as much as Dr. Kim suspected, but progress is progress, and you’re making plenty of it, according to your most recent x-rays. 

You enter the session with an apology for Dr. Kim and concentrated efforts to not let your gaze wander to the back corner of the room as you make your way over to where Jake and Jungwon sit. Starting your stretches, you assume Niki is over with Sunghoon, but you can’t work up the nerve to confirm that. 

Despite her initial annoyance at your tardiness, Dr. Kim is equally pleased at your latest x-ray results and gives you the green light to switch out the resistance bands you’ve been using for the next level up. Just as you’re reaching for the set of red bands on the shelf next to the treadmills, a set of obnoxiously smooth hands gets there first. 

Turning to Sunghoon with narrowed eyes, you grab the end of the band set he just snatched out from under you, eyes ablaze. 

The little fucker has the gall to roll his eyes. “What are you doing?”

You yank on the band. He doesn’t even flinch, grip steady. “I’m trying to follow Dr. Kim’s instructions,” you inform, tone flat. 

This time when you yank again, he yanks back. Much to your annoyance, he’s able to exert enough force to have you stumbling forward. “You’re trying to provoke me.”

“And it’s working,” Niki whispers to Jake and Jungwon in the back corner of the room. Dr. Kim just shakes her head. 

“Just take the green bands,” Sunghoon suggests. 

“They don’t have enough resistance. I need these ones,” you argue. “Why don’t you take the green ones?”

“Pretty sure if one of us takes the lighter bands, it should be you.” Sunghoon tightens his grip. “Or are you seriously trying to claim that you’re stronger than me right now?”

“I’m using them for my legs, you absolute jackass. Which are definitely stronger than your forearms.”

Sunghoon cocks a brow. “Should we put money on it?”

“You are such a dick. Dr. Kim literally—”

“Has another set of red bands,” the woman in question interrupts. She levels the two of you with an exasperated look as she holds them out in front of her. “There’s another set of every color on the equipment shelf next to the door.”

“Oh, right,” you nod, pulling back a little on your end of the band before you release it, just to hear the small cry Sunghoon lets out when it snaps against the skin of his good wrist. “Thanks.”

And the satisfaction that comes from completing your usual number of reps with a higher resistance is almost as gratifying as when you see Sunghoon rubbing at the still reddened skin on his left wrist as you pack up to leave for the day. 

“Those two are gonna kill each other,” Jungwon tells Jake and Niki as the three of them walk to their cars, brow creasing in concern. 

“Or something,” Jake agrees. 

Niki hoists his bag up on his shoulder. “My money’s on ___.”

A contemplative look passes between Jake and Jungwon before they nod in unison, “Yeah.”

…

You’re in the middle of passing a medicine ball back and forth with Jake the following week when he asks, “Are your school’s finals next week too?”

And although it’s hard to believe, first semester is already drawing to an end as the days get shorter and assignments get longer. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’m up to my ass in essays right now.”

“Same,” Jake agrees. “Sometimes it makes me wonder how I do it when I’m training, too.” Although you agree, a pang of jealousy is the only thing his words inspire. Of the skaters on your team that are preparing to compete as you speak. That have already choreographed their routines and selected their music and are spending every waking moment perfecting each and every detail of their program. 

It’s hard. It’s brutal. You’d be the first to admit that. But you miss it all the same, so much it hurts. 

A moment passes before he continues. “Well, anyway, Jungwon, Niki, and I were thinking that since none of us are training right now, we should celebrate the end of the semester like everyone else does.”

You arch a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“Right, sorry,” he apologizes. “Consider this your formal invitation to get absolutely shitfaced with us next Friday.”

The laugh that bubbles in your throat is so unexpected you can’t quite bite it back. While you have your fair share of good, old-fashioned fun, he’s right. Every other semester, you’ve celebrated the end of finals season with a cup of hot tea and an early night in bed. Traded one source of stress for another as you woke up bright and early the next day to hit the ice. 

You send him a smile, tossing the medicine ball back in his direction. “Count me in.”

…

The following Friday night finds you double-checking the address on your phone before tentatively knocking on the front door of what you hope is Jake’s apartment. In the middle of the university district across the city from your own, you can’t say you’re familiar with any of the buildings outside of the athletic complex, which you’ve only ever visited for a handful of competitions. It strikes you then that this is also the university Sunghoon attends. And, stomach dropping, that you never actually asked who all would be attending tonight.

Before you have the chance to spin on your heel and high-tail it down the stairs you just climbed, the door swings open. It’s not Jake. 

“Oh,” you mumble. The boy who opened the door is not Jake, but he is very much attractive. “Sorry. I’m looking for Jake Sim’s apartment.” Your voice turns up at the end like a question. 

“You’re in the right place,” he smiles, and it’s gorgeous. “I’m Heeseung, Jake’s roommate. You must be ___.” He opens the door wider, allowing you space. “Come on in.”

“That’s me.” You offer him a grateful smile as you enter, hanging your coat and sliding your shoes off. 

The interior is surprisingly sophisticated, for a college boy’s apartment. It’s clean, for starters, and as you follow Heeseung down the hallway towards the kitchen, you can’t help but be impressed by their choice in decor. 

“Help yourself to anything.” Heeseung gestures to the impressive spread of snacks on the table. “But first, can I get you something to drink?”

“Um…” Your lack of alcohol-related knowledge is apparent, and the uncertainty must be obvious, because Heeseung just smiles again. 

“I’ve got you.” There’s an undertone of something in his words. Something playful, something bordering on flirty. But it’s too subtle to tell for sure, and you’re not one to bet on losing odds. He reaches for a glass and a handful of ice cubes. “Do you like fruity flavors?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “That sounds good.” Besides, it’s been a minute since you’ve been well and truly flirted with at a college party by a boy that looks like he could spell trouble in his sleep. This could be fun, you think.  

Glancing towards the adjacent living room, you notice the usual familiar faces. Jake and Niki are sitting on the couch while Jungwon chats with a pair of boys you don’t recognize. Eyes tracing the perimeter, you feel your shoulders tense when they land on a familiar silhouette. Sunghoon has his back to you, but his identity is just as unmistakable as it was on your first day of physical therapy. Like Jungwon, he’s talking to another person you don’t know. 

Oh, well. It’s too late to back out now and too early to make an exit. If you and Sunghoon can coexist in a room once a week without starting too many fires, you’re sure you’ll manage to get through tonight just fine. 

Heeseung hands you a full glass. It’s cold where it meets your fingertips. 

“Should we join them?” He inclines his head toward the living room and you nod. 

Following in his footsteps, you wave a quick greeting to Jake before taking a seat next to Heeseung, enough space between you and Sunghoon for you to relax slightly.

“How do you and Jake know each other?” You ask, searching for something to fill the silence, to keep the conversation flowing. “Do you play soccer together?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “No, we’ve been friends since elementary school. But I am on the basketball team, which helps. I feel like student athletes just kind of get each other, you know?”

You do know, and you tell him as much. The crazy schedule, the unwavering commitment. It’s much easier to explain to someone that’s living through the exact same thing. 

“Speaking of which, you’re a figure skater, right? For the university across town.”

You arch a brow. “I’m surprised Jake told you so much about you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he flirts, and this time it’s blatant. 

You take another sip of your drink with upturned lips, weighing a response on your tongue. Before you can decide how many cards you’d like to show, you make eye contact across the room with the one person you were hoping to avoid. 

Sunghoon looks equally—scratch that—even more displeased to see you. Jawline so taught you could cut your finger on it and lips drawn in a straight line, he’s pissed where he locks eyes with you from his seat. Sunghoon is the one to avert his eyes first. Throwing back whatever’s in his cup, he slices through the moment of tension with a knife. 

If Heeseung notices the way your breath splutters, he doesn’t comment. Thankfully, Jungwon chooses the next moment to say his hellos and introduce you to the boys you hadn’t recognized earlier. 

“Sunoo,” he nods towards the boy he’d been sitting with earlier, who offers a friendly greeting. “And that’s Jay, over by Sunghoon. And you’ve already met Heeseung.”

“And you all go to school here?”

“Yeah,” Jungwon nods. “Jay and I live together, and Sunoo is Niki’s roommate.”

“You’re deep in enemy territory,” Heeseung elbows you lightly, teasing. “What are we gonna do with you?”

You lift your now empty glass towards him, grinning. “Get me another drink, hopefully.”

Sending you a wink, he takes the glass from your outstretched hand before standing from the couch. “On it.” You watch his back retreat into the kitchen, oblivious of the second one that follows it a handful of moments later. 

Jay, as it turns out, is not an athlete, but does play guitar for a local  band your friend has been raving to you about for ages. He’s already promising you two sets of complimentary tickets to every one of their upcoming shows by the time you realize Heeseung’s been gone for a while. Too long. 

Excusing yourself, you head toward the kitchen. And it’s just your luck that you find the person you’ve spent the evening avoiding, instead of the one you’re searching for. Even with the buzz of your first drink fading rapidly, your inhibitions are feeling low. 

Sunghoon barely has the chance to register your presence before you’re laying out accusations. 

“I know you don’t like me, but do you really have to spend the whole night glaring at me like that? In front of everyone?”

Sunghoon’s shoulders tense, a confirmation that he hears you, but he says nothing. Instead, he just swallows the remainder of his drink in one large gulp. His eyes are still flaring, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think you did something to piss him off. 

But it’s just like him, to avoid conversations he doesn’t want to have with the end of another drink. To treat you like someone not even worthy of a response. You don’t know why you expected anything different. Scoffing, you notice the full drink sitting on the counter. Heeseung must have had the chance to refill it before disappearing. 

You move to step around Sunghoon and reach for it when he finally says, “I’m not glaring at you.”

The gaze you level him with is incredulous. “Do you think I’m stupid? I have eyes—”

“For all I know you are stupid!” Sunghoon sighs, drags an open palm down the length of his face. “I mean, are you really gonna let some guy you just met pour your drinks all night?”

“Heeseung?” You’re confused why all of his rage seems to be directed towards something so insignificant. “He’s Jake’s roommate”

“And a complete stranger to you.”

It’s infuriating, the way he assumes his opinion should hold any weight in your life. The way he thinks he has any say in your decisions. “So should I avoid all the food now too?” You’re being petty now for the sake of it. “I mean, since you’ve been in here unsupervised for quite a while now.” You take another step towards your drink and he moves, blocking your path with his body. 

When you look up, you find his eyes already trained on you, and there’s no ice in them now. Just pure, unadulterated heat. Fire. Flames that lick the base of your spine. “You’re so fucking agitating, you know that?”

“I’m agitating?” You take another step forward, hoping the proximity will force him away. It doesn’t. If anything, he leans into it. Into you. 

You reach for the drink again. This time, he stops you himself. Fingers of his unrestricted hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Yeah.” His words are low, voice a caress even as it drips venom. You feel his breath ghost across your cheekbone. “Real fucking agitating.”

Your eyes are still locked on his, and you search them for a hint of something coherent, something that makes sense. Every bone in your body drawn taught, it’s as if muscle memory reverts you to the last moment you were like this, the last moment he held you this close, body entwined with his own in a familiar embrace. Your wrist slackens in his grasp. 

Last time, he dropped you. Sent you scattering across ice until the only thing you could taste was the bitterness of defeat and the sharp sting of humiliation. 

Last time, he let you fall. 

You have no idea what he’ll do now. 

In the end, it’s the sound of approaching footsteps that has the two of you springing apart, your wrist falling from his grip. In the scramble, you remember your original target. 

Despite the long melted ice, this drink feels even cooler in your grip, a stark contrast to the simmering heat just beneath your skin. 

When Heeseung enters, he’s tucking his phone into his pocket with an apologetic look. “Sorry, I had to take a call. My brother gets chatty at the worst times.” Nodding to your hand, he smiles, “You found your drink.” 

“Yeah, I did.” You take a step closer to the living room, closer to Heeseung. Further from Sunghoon. 

Glancing between the two of you, there’s a hint of uncertainty when Heeseung asks if you want to rejoin the others in the living room. 

You put his worries to ease and your questions to rest when you agree easily, not even bothering to give Sunghoon a second thought. 

You do seek his gaze one last time, though, before you follow Heeseung back to the party. Looking directly at him, you raise your glass in a mock toast. Without breaking eye contact, you bring the cup to your lips, swallowing half the drink in one long sip. When you do finally turn away, it’s to find the empty seat next to Heeseung. 

The rest of the evening passes in a pleasant blur, trading stories and laughs with the people around you while Heeseung keeps the seat at your side warm. Sunghoon does you the favor of disappearing from sight after your stand off in the kitchen.

It’s easy to relax into the company of everyone else, so much so that you don’t see Sunoo until you’re running right into him, the contents of his cup saturating the front of your shirt. 

It’s a problem Heeseung is quick to solve, and the gray hoodie he offers you is cozier than any of your own with a scent that’s almost addicting. 

He’s sweet, you think. Sweet and charming and forward in all of the right ways. It’s solidified when he offers to join you on the porch when you tell him you’re stepping outside for some fresh air. It’s cemented when he accepts your refusal with nothing but a smile and the request that you “come back quick.”

Stepping outside, it takes you a moment to realize that you’re not alone. It would appear that your earlier assumption that Sunghoon must have gone back to his place was wrong. There’s no drink in his hand, but the way he sways with the gentle midnight breeze makes you think he’s still working through everything he downed earlier. 

Silently, you glance up at the cloudless night sky, at the way the stars seem to wrap around you. Gaze returning to Sunghoon’s back, you suppose the simplest course of action would be to leave before he realizes you’re here. You turn to do just that, to make good on your promise to Heesung, when the sound of your name stops you in your tracks. 

Or at least, you think that’s what he says. It’s hard to tell, with the way his syllables and sounds slur together. Turning back towards him, you find him already looking at you. He repeats your name, and this time around, it’s a bit clearer. 

His eyes trace a downward line from your face to your change in clothes. Something in his face crumples, withers. 

“‘M sorry,” he slurs, words not lining up quite right through the inebriation. 

“What?”

“That day.” The sudden onset of sincerity in his tone makes him seem more sober than he is. “I should have caught you.”

The stars in the sky suddenly don’t seem so far away. You must have heard him wrong. A crease forms between your eyebrows, eyes scanning over his features. They’re laid open in their honesty, no trace of deception. 

“I wanted to catch you. I tried to.” He sighs. “Was my fault.”

“I…” You search for words, for the vindication you’d always imagined you’d feel at his admission. In its absence, you find only confusion and an odd pang of regret. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

“Sorry for what? Why are you bringing that up?”

He just shakes his head, eyes falling to his feet. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Like a broken record. His pain is wrapped up in there too, trapped in a loop time has never quite let it escape. 

When you return to the party, it’s with a jumbled excuse of needing to check on a pet cat you don’t have. 

In the haste of it all, you forget to so much as exchange numbers with Heeseung. But you do find the time to pull Jake aside on your way out the door, to make sure that he helps Sunghoon get home safe. 

…

The next morning greets you with a pounding headache and an unfamiliar hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. It takes a moment of searching through hazy memories before recollection of that particular string of events finds you. 

With a sigh, you head out in search of water and Advil, sending Jake a quick message that you’ll stop by his apartment later to return Heeseung’s hoodie. 

Even a handful of hours later, you can’t decide if you hope Heeseung is home or not. It’s a Saturday afternoon after a long night, so you figure the odds are high. But you still can’t pinpoint whether that feeling in your gut is excitement or dread. 

In an effort to delay the inevitable, you take a detour before visiting Jake’s apartment again. Your rival university’s sports complex is just as nice as you remember it, large, pristine buildings that hold everything an athletics department could dream of. Fondly, you remember the first time you skated in this stadium, back in middle school. It had felt so big, then, so special, to be skating for such a large crowd. 

It felt even more special to be sharing the ice with someone who put dreams in your head and butterflies in your stomach. Still fairly new to pair skating, the two of you had put on a program with a less than favorable amount of deduction. 

But still. It was yours. It was special. It was shared. 

You wonder if he knew then, that one day he would be the reigning king of this very same rink. 

Probably, you think. Park Sunghoon never had the habit of letting things feel impossible. 

Looking down at the boot on your foot, you miss it, all of it, all at once. The late nights. The early mornings. The bruises and cuts and aching muscles. The determination after defeat. The elation after glory. The feeling of flying every time blade touches ice. 

The sign posted next to the stadium is an advertisement, a reminder, of the upcoming regional championships. There’s a pang of loss, a moment of grief, for your program that will have to wait for next year. 

But your x-rays are coming back better every time, and Dr. Kim is sure you’ll be back on the ice by the time spring comes. 

For the first time in a long time, you think it’ll be okay. You know you’ll be okay.  

In front of you, the stadium door opens, and you realize you’re standing right in front of the exit. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, quickly moving to get out of the way, but then you take a closer look. “Coach Kang?” you ask, just as she says your name with the same air of disbelief. 

It’s an odd feeling of synchronicity, to stumble into your childhood skating coach just as you’re reminiscing on the past. 

“It’s been so long,” she beams, pulling you in for a warm hug. “What are you doing here?”

“Just visiting a friend. What about you?”

“Coaches’ meeting,” she explains. “Trying to see if I can get some of my junior skaters in to watch a few practices before regionals.” Nudging you with her shoulder, she adds, “speaking of which, how’s your program coming along? Are you getting excited?”

You shake your head. “I’m actually off the ice for this one.” Glancing down, you lift your booted foot in explanation. “Ankle fracture has me out for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, no.” Coach Kang places a consolatory hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry. That has to be so hard.”

“It’s okay, actually.” You don’t know who’s more surprised, her at your admission, or you at the fact that you actually mean it. “Everything is healing up nicely, so I’m looking forward to an even better program next year.” 

“Well look at you, all grown up.” She smiles. “I can say that thirteen-year-old you would not have had such a good attitude about it. Honestly, I’m surprised a fracture was enough to stop you. You were always so stubborn about things. You and Sunghoon.” She lets out a short laugh as your shoulders tense at the mention of him. “I was just thinking about you two the other day, actually. We had a skater fracture his tailbone and argue until he was blue in the face that he still wanted to compete.” Shaking her head, she adds, “It reminded me of that time Sunghoon insisted on skating even though he’d just sprained his wrist.” She shakes her head again, releases a small laugh. “Never could keep you two off the ice.”

It all checks out, the stubbornness, the determination even when it was stupid. But you’re hung up on one detail. You’re sure you could list every one of Sunghoon’s skating injuries just as thoroughly as he could. But before the current one, you can’t recall any wrist injuries. “What? When did he sprain his wrist?” 

Coach Kang waves her hand flippantly, like the sinking feeling in your gut isn’t intensifying with every passing moment, like she isn’t about to confirm a realization you’re already dreading. “Oh, you remember. It was just a few days before nationals that one year.”

That one year. She skirts around it, for your sake probably. But you know exactly what she means, when she’s referring to. 

And suddenly, you’re falling through air again, plummeting towards ice as a hand makes a desperate attempt to catch you. As sheer will alone is no match for injury weakened bones and ligaments and muscles. As you’re sliding across frozen ground and he’s gripping his wrist with pain on his face and terror in his eyes. 

As your head spins, spots clouding your vision from the force of the impact. Before the world goes black, your eyes search for him. 

And in those last few moments of consciousness, you watch as his mouth moves to form words you can’t hear. 

“I’m sorry.”

…

Raising your fist, you pound at the door again. One, two, three times. At this rate, your knuckles will be bloody before you get a response. 

But before you can start your assault on the wood in front of you again, the door swings open slowly, revealing a familiar frame. 

“You absolute idiot.”

“Well hello to you too.” Rubbing at his eyes, you appear to have just woken him from a nap. If his head is feeling anything like yours was this morning, you almost feel sorry. 

But there are more pressing matters at hand. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That I’m an idiot? Probably not.”

“That you sprained your wrist three days before nationals? That you skated anyway? That you attempted to catch a person quite literally spinning through the air with a wrist injury?”

A beat of silence passes. 

And then another. 

Sunghoon suddenly looks wide awake. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. What the hell were you thinking?” There’s fire in your eyes, an anger that’s directed towards him but not in the ways he’s used to. 

He pauses for a moment, eyes searching your features for another beat. Finally, he sighs. “Would you have let me skate if I did?”

It’s not the answer you expect. And it’s just like him, to answer a question with one of his own. “I… what?”

“You heard me.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have let me get on the ice if you knew I was hurt?”

And what is it, him and his habit of asking ridiculous questions like they don’t have obvious answers. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. No one in their right mind would have let you do that program with a wrist sprain, much less your partner. And I love Coach Kang, but I’m about to file a negligence suit against her, because what the hell kind of—”

“Stop talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he grimaces, and you’re still getting used to the way apologies sound on his lips. “That came out wrong. What I was trying to say was that you… Well, I… I mean…” He trails off for the third time, casts a tentative look at the way your eyebrows only raise higher and higher every time he stops a train of thought in its tracks. His gaze falls down, somewhere between your nose and chin. An exhale passes through parted lips. Something in his resolve slips. “Oh, fuck it.”

And then he’s kissing you. 

Lips against lips and hands in your hair. It’s messy and awkward, and you can’t quite get the timing right. 

Sunghoon pulls back a fraction of an inch, catching his breath and letting you do the same. 

“What are you doing?”

There’s heat in his eyes and fondness too, a soft sort of expression that only melts further every time he looks at you. But now there’s anxiety in the mix, a crippling fear that he’s misjudged everything entirely, done something horribly wrong. 

“I’m sorry.” Before today, you could count his apologies on one hand. Now, you’re running out of fingers. “Did you not want—”

This time, it’s you that pulls him down, hands lacing around the nape of his neck, exhaling a soft sigh against parted lips that sends his mind spinning. 

And it’s only the second time, but it’s already better. Already a natural rhythm that the two of you seem to fall into with a little more grace. 

The expanse of his door is cold against your back when Sunghoon pulls you into his apartment with his good hand, and he’s a quick study. Attempt number three is an even greater improvement as hands search for new skin to discover and things start to fall into place, one at a time. 

Reaching for Heeseung’s forgotten hoodie, Sunghoon breaks the kiss only to toss it somewhere outside your current plane of existence. In this moment, you exist only within the space the two of you occupy, everything else an afterthought. 

And you have the feeling attempt number four will be your best yet. 

…

epilogue

“Are you ever gonna join me or do I just have to stay out here looking stupid forever?”

You don’t even take a moment to consider. “The second one.”

“Come on,” Sunghoon pleads, skating back towards you where you remain planted firmly to the bench on the perimeter of the rink. He moves towards you with a grace that used to inspire a raging, stomping green monster of envy. Now, you just admire the way he cuts across the ice with the agility of a dancer. “It’s fun out here, I promise.”

Avoiding his gaze, you let your eyes fall to your feet instead. They’re already laced up in your favorite pair of skates, black boot all but forgotten since you had it removed at your last visit to Dr. Min’s office. Since he gave you the green light to return to the thing you love most. 

You had been ecstatic then. Brimming with so much extra energy Sunghoon had to physically intervene to prevent you from accidentally knocking over an elderly lady on your way out of the hospital. But now, with the opportunity you’ve been dreaming of for long, hard months at your fingertips, something in you hesitates. 

Sunghoon says your name, and suddenly he’s serious. “This is all you’ve been talking about for months.” Sliding down onto his knees in front of you, you’re suddenly at eye level. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He casts a doubtful glance. “Really, I just…” It’s hard, to speak your fears into existence, to let them take flight. Even if the boy in front of you makes it a little easier. “What if it’s not what I imagined?”

It’s a million little worries wrapped up in one. What if your ankle isn’t the same? What if it’s never the same? What if you’re not as good as you were? What if you’re not good enough? 

Sunghoon hears them all, and puts them to rest with a smile, a gentle touch as he rests his forehead against yours. “You and that big brain. Always worrying about the wrong things.”

“Hey! I—”

“It won’t be what you imagined.” He draws back a few inches, and your eyes have nowhere to land but on his own. “It will be different. It will feel weird, and your legs will feel wobbly, your muscles will feel weak, and your ankle might give out.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, you’re doing a terrible job.”

Sunghoon just pinches your cheeks together, forcing your lips to purse. “So you’ll show up. Over and over again. Every day until your skates start to feel like a second pair of feet and the ice starts to feel like home again. Until your ankle and your muscles and your stamina are all built back up, in a way that’s different from before but will feel familiar before you know it.” He presses a single, delicate kiss to the tip of your nose. “Until I’m dragging you off the ice instead of onto it, because your boyfriend needs attention and is feeling a little jealous of all the time you’re spending here instead of with him.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so needy. It’s gross.”

Sunghoon only smiles. “Only for you.”

This time, when he gets back on his feet and extends a hand, you take it. You follow him onto the ice and headfirst towards your insecurities feeling a little bit like a newborn deer, a bike without its training wheels. 

He laughs when you stumble and brushes hair out of your face when you pout. 

After an hour, you’re already feeling more solid than before. After two, that feeling of flying is starting to return. 

It’s somewhere just before hour three when Sunghoon says, “Remember how I told you earlier that you’re worrying about the wrong things?”

“Yeah.” You drag the word out slowly, not liking the hint of deviousness in his sudden grin. 

“This is what I was talking about. Instead of worrying about getting back on the ice, you should be worrying about how long it will take you to be able to beat me on a lap around the rink.”

“You absolute asshole. I fractured my ankle!”

Already halfway around the rink, Sunghoon just laughs. 

…

outtake—five years ago. 

Sunghoon’s vision is blurry. It’s a terrible combination of things—the exhilaration of the spotlight, the pain in his wrist, the grief of an egregious error. The sudden onset of tears that sting in the corners of his eyes and fall without his permission. 

Despite all of it, he finds his way back to his dressing room. Choking back a sob, he reaches for the glass of water he’d left out earlier. It tastes acidic on his tongue, burns like regret on the way down. 

Stupid, he was so stupid. His hands tangle in his hair. He wants to pull it out. Wants to scream until his throat is raw and he can’t anymore. 

It was a terrible enough decision to gamble his own fate on an unhealed injury, but as the reality of the situation comes crashing down around him, he realizes he’s done something much worse. 

Eyes open, eyes closed. It doesn’t matter. All he can see is you, sprawled out on ice, limbs bent unnaturally, eyes dazed at the impact. 

The unexpected impact. Because you trusted him. You trusted him so much that of course you’d never considered what you would do if his hands failed, if his wrist gave out. If he decided to risk your program, your fate, you, all on a whim, on an inflated sense of self-importance and a lack of regard for the injury he was so certain he could power through. 

He couldn’t imagine it, three days ago. Telling you that he was injured, that he couldn’t skate the program. He couldn’t imagine watching as the features he bashfully considered so, painfully pretty twisted into disappointment. Into anger. 

So he turned his shame into resolve, into determination. One that allowed him to catch you with a fractured wrist in every practice run, every time, except for the time that mattered. Biting back grimaces and cries of pain all for the fool’s hope of seeing you smile in a few days’ time, a gold medal around your neck. 

Instead, he got to see you spinning through the air, slipping through his fingers, landing with a sickening thud. He wants to ask what hospital they took you to, wants to ignore the pain in his wrist a little longer and run there himself, just to make sure that you’re okay.

But then he imagines the way you’ll look at him when you see him. The way all that disappointment and anger he’d wanted to avoid so desperately will surely be all you have to offer him. 

He understands. He does. He wouldn’t want to see him either. 

Turning away from the mirror, he tucks away his shame for the future. But that only leaves his gaze landing on the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. The one he’d spent nearly an hour agonizing over, the one his mother had assured him a dozen times you would love. The one he made sure had all of your favorite colors. 

He snuck his own favorite in there too, in hopes of what exactly he can’t be sure, but he knows he likes the way they look together—your favorite color and the deep blue irises that represent his own. 

It seems to stupid now. After everything, after this, he can’t imagine you want his flowers, and even less his favorite color. He can’t imagine that you want anything to do with him. 

So he doesn’t seek you out. Not in the hospital that day, not when you’re cleared to practice and back on the ice again, not when chance has the two of you colliding five years later. 

Not until he watches you walk away from him with all that anger and resentment and disappointment he’s been so avoiding for so long. Not until it strikes him in the face and he realizes that he can’t live with it, can’t let bygones be bygones and hope time and the absence of him in your life have healed you for the better when it still hurts to even look at you. 

On a dressing room table, five years in the past, a bouquet of flowers wilts. 

And Sunghoon learns that with love and patience and a little bit of sunlight, beautiful things, even the fragile ones, bloom when you water them.

.....

note: thank you for reading! as always, comments, reblogs, and asks are very much appreciated :D

[moonstruckme]

Okay I’ve been thinking of request ideas for Thawing Out all day while I was at work 😂 What about if something happened with her on the way to practice (nothing serious but maybe it shook her up a bit) and she was late and clearly acting off? Obviously her boys are going to notice…

Love you as always, hope you’re doing amazing! 💖💖💖

Thank you Amber my love!!! Hope you like it <3

collab with @ellecdc

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5

cw: modern au, chronic pain, mention of harassment

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.6k words

You come into the rink with quick, determined steps, blitzing past every door in your path until you get to the bleachers. Sirius is already on the ice, Remus leaned against the boards while he watches. Both boys turn when you sit down. 

“Hello,” Sirius calls, clearly chuffed to have you here as a buffer between him and your bristly coach. “Where’s my latte?”

“No time today,” you say back. You jam your foot into a skate. 

Remus gives you a scrutinous look. “You alright?”

“Fine. Sorry I’m late.” 

You get your skates on in record time, laced up tight enough to hurt. Sirius is ready for you in your starting position, his hands firm on your shoulders. He gives a little squeeze, meant to coax a smile out of you, but you’re in no mood. 

“I was just fucking with you about the latte,” he says lowly. “I don’t need it to get through practice, though he has been especially insufferable this morning.” 

You glance at Remus. He looks the same as always, half relaxed and half watchful. He and Sirius have fallen into a routine of petty spats that you suspect don’t exactly make him look forward to practice every morning, and yet he seems to be getting used to the both of you. He’s less curt than he had been during your first few days together. 

“You only say that because you were here alone with him,” you say. 

“It didn’t help. Without you here he’s in his most unfiltered, fogey form.” 

Your skating is as near to flawless as it’s been in weeks. You throw yourself into each jump with everything you have, using the hot emotions simmering beneath your skin to your advantage. And it works. Remus looks caught offguard but directs several nods of approval your way, whereas Sirius is all untempered joy. His grin widens with each flawless landing, and when you finish your most difficult move in the routine he actually whoops. You think you see Remus’ lips twitch at that. 

“There she is!” Sirius grips your hand, squeezing tight as you go into a synchronized arabesque. His hair is pulled back into a bun, but a couple of loose pieces flutter around his face as he skates backwards. He looks so happy for you, and some of that tight feeling you’ve been carrying around all morning dissipates. You smile back at him. 

You both go into a lutz. It’s a jump you’ve done half a million times. It should be a given, perfect every time. And yet you catch your mistake in midair. 

You land on your hands and knees. 

You pant a couple of times, and your next breath scrapes on the way in. Tears press at your eyes horrifyingly fast, like they’ve only been waiting for their chance. You press your nose to the ice. 

Skates hiss until they’re next to you, Sirius’ hand on your back. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” 

You shake your head, humiliated by your fall and even more so by this fracturing, how easily it came on. You feel pathetic. 

“Where is it?” Sirius’ voice climbs, growing shrill with panic. “Let me see. How bad is it?” 

He’s trying to sit you up, hands cold and gentle and frantic, but his touch stills when a warmer one meets your shoulder. 

“Are you hurt?” Remus asks. 

“No.” You finally find your voice, but it’s pitchy and awful. “I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck. Fucking hell.” In the next second you’re smushed against Sirius, who hugs you tight as soon as he knows he doesn’t have to be delicate with you. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“I’m sorry.” Your face feels hotter than hot in the cold rink. You push into your eyes with your fingertips. “God, what the fuck! I thought I fixed it. I don’t understand why this is still happening.” 

You’re sobbing now, tiny explosions that start in your chest and ricochet all the way through you, but fuming all the same. 

“You were both right, I’m holding myself back. I thought I could stop, but it just keeps happening, and I can’t do this. I’m so incompetent I can’t even do a fucking lutz. We need to find Sirius a new partner. I can’t hold us back anymore, I—” 

“Hey.” 

Remus’ voice is harsh, but not as harsh as Sirius’ grip on you turns at the sound of it. Your partner’s face goes sharp and cruel in an instant, an animal bearing its teeth. 

Remus pays him no mind. He keeps his eyes on yours, firm and unrelenting. “Don’t speak about yourself that way,” he says. 

You feel Sirius’ hold slacken in surprise. 

Another tear trudges down your face, and Remus’ expression gentles. “Everyone falls,” he tells you. “You have been improving, faster than I thought was possible, but you can’t expect it to happen all at once. You’re still going to fall sometimes. It’s alright. We’re working on it, yeah?” 

You sniff, wiping underneath your eyes. “Yeah,” you squeak out. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t need to be sorry. Just give yourself some grace, yeah?” His lips press together in a little grimace that’s likely meant to be a smile. “It’s my job to be hard on you, not yours. You’re allowed to fuck up. It doesn’t make you incompetent, or unworthy of competing with Sirius. You are the best person to be his partner. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here, understand?” 

“Yeah.” You take a deep breath in. “Thank you.” It stutters a bit on the way out, catching on another tiny sob you can’t help. This one comes from a place of relief, but Sirius’ cold fingers dig into your arm anyway and Remus’ brows twitch slightly as though it hurts him, too. 

“No problem,” he says softly. “Are you sure you haven’t hurt yourself?” 

You nod, closing your eyes to will yourself calmer. 

“Good. Do you want to leave off early today?” 

You swallow and start to stand. “No. I’m okay.” 

“No.” Sirius’ voice is bemused enough to sound like a question. He rises beside you, looking at you like he’s trying to puzzle you out. “No, something’s up with you today. We should stop.” 

Remus seems to go along with him, starting back towards the opening in the boards, and you think wryly that if one good thing comes from all this it might be those two finally starting to get along. You also realize for the first time that Remus is out here with you on the ice. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so much as think about coming off of the bleachers, even if he is only in regular shoes and leaning heavily on his good hip as he makes his way back towards them. 

“I’m okay,” you repeat to Sirius. 

He shakes his head. “You’ve been weird since you got here. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” 

“Something did.” 

You push out a frustrated breath. “Nothing relevant.” 

“But something did happen.” 

He’s steering you towards the exit now. It feels petulant to rip away and stay on the ice even if no one else will, though that’s what you’d really like to do. 

“Are you actively trying to piss me off?” you ask him. 

Sirius shrugs, stepping onto the floor. “If that’s what’s going to work. I only want to know what got you so upset.” 

“Nothing.” 

“Here we are again. Back to ‘nothing.’” 

Remus is watching you both like you’re a show his TV has randomly flipped to. Tentative of where he stands, but definitely entertained. 

You hate that this has become such a big thing. “It’s really nothing,” you say, planting yourself on the bench with a force that perhaps belies your claim. “It was just some git on the way here this morning.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows go up while Remus’ come down. 

“And what did this git have to say to you?” Sirius asks. 

You sigh, starting to unlace your skates since apparently practice is over. “It’s not what he said. He only asked me out, which is fine, but then he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He, like, grabbed onto my arm and wouldn’t let go for a bit.” 

Sirius’ expression goes stormy. It’s almost as bad as the look he’d given Remus earlier, only without a target to be directed at. “Are you fucking joking?” 

“It was fine,” you say. “I made it here, didn’t I? It just freaked me out a little. And pissed me off.” 

“Yeah, you should be pissed!” Sirius starts pacing, mindless of the indents his blades are putting into the rubber flooring. “Who does that? Did he think—what, you were just going to have to go out with him if he took you captive?” 

“I don’t know.” You give him a dead-eyed stare. “I didn’t ask him.” 

“God, you should be able to walk to fucking practice in the morning without being accosted by—by some—”

“Do you need someone to walk with you in the mornings?” Remus seems uninterested in waiting to hear what creative insult Sirius comes up with for the git. He looks at you steadily, his jaw tight but ready to accept whatever answer you give him. 

“No,” you say. “Like I said, it was really nothing.” 

“It upset you,” he says matter-of-factly. “That’s not nothing.” 

“I can walk you.” Sirius plonks down beside you on the bench, seeming to have come to a decision. “Just wait for me inside tomorrow morning, and I’ll come pick you up.” 

You can’t help but smile at that. “If I leave it to you, we’ll never get here. There’ll never be another morning practice again.” Remus’ tongue pokes into his cheek like he’s repressing a grin. 

“Wha—so little faith!” Sirius sputters, straightening before he’s so much as touched his laces. “I’ll be there, okay? We will be needing to pick up my coffee on the way here, though.” 

You give him a skeptical look. “You realize I wake up a half hour earlier to have time to get those?” 

“Fucking hell! Do you really?”

[cordeliawhohung]

Touch Me 'Till I Vomit (pet!au) [12]

pet!au | ghoap x fem!reader | tag list

gentle

cw: angst, non-con touching, dub-con sex, smut, hate fucking if you squint

Click. Click. Click. 

Johnny won’t stop messing with his pen. Repetitive clicks echo in the small space in his art room as he hunches over his journal, shading away at some image just beyond your view. It’s distracting. That slip of plastic against plastic. It’s not as acidulous as a firing pin striking metal — nor is it nearly as dangerous — but it’s enough to get the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Enough to make you remember the weight of an empty gun biting into the palm of your hand. It’s unforgiving, like a bad dog. 

Brain too perforated to properly concentrate, you tap the eraser of your pencil against the notebook in your lap. The scrawlings of a madwoman taint the paper between its faded blue lines. It’s a gift from Johnny. Shoved it into your hands the other day because he said you looked bored. Told you that you fidget too much without something to busy yourself with, and he needs you to sit still in order to draw you properly. It was unusually astute of him to notice something so small about you. You’ve descried something more than just a lowering haze over the sapphire of his eyes, but you’re unable to put it into words. 

He’s different these days. You don’t know why.

Either way, you are grateful for the escape. You’ve repurposed this old, fading notebook into a diary of sorts. Some place to pour your thoughts out to something that has no other choice than to listen — something that cannot bite you. For so long you have carried so much inside of you; not just the pain and fear, but the little things, too. You nearly cried when you realized you finally had a place to put it — that weight — down. 

It wasn’t until you flipped to the first page that you realized you don’t know what the date is. Your passage of time has been warped again and again. A tablet dissolving in your drink made you lose days. Johnny taking you on the floor while a football game droned in the background made you lose years. You try to count the time in other ways. The length adding to your hair. Golden leaves catching fire on the fringes of the forest. An algid whisper on the wind dancing through the open window. The way summer dies with a sputtering pule. 

These days, you measure the turn of the earth by feel. Months. Hours. It doesn’t matter to you how long you have been trapped here; you only care about how much life you have left to live when you escape. 

Johnny. John? Soap. Like the bar. Never feels clean. Never makes me feel clean. Scottish. Tattoo on forearm. Coat of arms? Military? Wannabe? Scar on head. Shot? Simon said so. When? Who? Matching scar. No. Never. 

Simon. Simon. Just Simon. English. Manchester? Guns. Hunter. Big guns. Fucked up nose. Fucked up everything. Scars. One on ribs. Butcher? Smells like blood. Hate him. Animal. Lots of tattoos. Took me as a pet for Johnny. Mad man. Bad man. 

Me. Not Bonnie. Something else. Someone else. Bartender. How old am I? Need haircut. 

Miss my jumper. 

Miss my mum. 

Miss ice cream. 

Had an interview before I was taken. What day? Missing since… June. June. Summer. Hot. Did they ever call back? Needed better job. Wonder if they’re looking for me. Is anyone looking for me? Always called mum on Sundays. 

Does her phone ring now that I’m gone?

No. Not gone. Not yet. Not ever. 

I hope her phone rings.

Scribbles muddle the margins between fractured words and thoughts. You can conjure nothing more than empty, uneven eyes and dried flies lining burnt window sills. What creativity lingers in the fringes of your mind stays in the mess of grey matter; never something to brand the off white paper in your hands. Masterpieces cannot be created in a cage. You save what little energy you have for dreaming. You dream of a day when your teeth grow long enough they don’t whittle down to sand when you try to sharpen them. 

“Bonnie?” 

Johnny moves quietly. Or, your ears are growing old. Too busy trying to recall sounds you used to love; unable to make sense of the cacophony that constantly surrounds you in this tomb. He’s already eye level with you by the time you look up. Crouched next to your plushy chair, a wide hand sits on the armrest that props your elbow. He’s got his journal in hand, and you are very aware of the way he curiously eyes your own. You slam it shut with the pencil between the pages before setting it aside. 

His eyes follow your hands with question, but he says nothing as he turns his journal for you to see. Truly, Johnny has a talent you’ve rarely seen others show off. Meticulously crafted sketches brand the paper, etching your likeness in grey graphite. He captures every curve of your body as you lean in the recliner, eyes narrow with concentration. You’re drawn with a smile on your face, but those muscles in your cheeks have been dormant for so long you’re not sure you could conjure the expression if you tried. 

“That looks lovely,” you compliment. It’s not a lie, but it rolls off of your tongue like it is. 

“You’re lovely,” he fires back. Playful. Light. 

There it is again. That look. Heavy lids threaten to smother the blue hue of his eyes — heavy with a concupiscence so thick it’s palpable in the air that separates you from him. You hope one day it solidifies — turns into some protective barrier — but it never will. 

It starts like it always does. The slicing of the threshold, brittle like eggshells and bones. You don’t think about it as he presses his lips to yours. You keep your mind full of other thoughts because if it’s empty, there’s more room for worse things. Bitter things. A man can only stare at a meal for so long before his hunger consumes him. You are liquid. A flowing being molding into the shape of his body as his torso pinches your legs against the recliner. It’s easier to give in. Hurts less. Angers Simon less. Even with that monster gone you behave because the walls have eyes. Dark brown irises that do nothing but stare and smirk. 

“Ow!”

But you still have your limits, and your body aches more often than it is numb these days, and Johnny’s hands haven’t grown any softer. He paws at you with claws that can’t retract and you wince. Your breasts are sore from weeks — no, months — of abuse. They’re silent wounds that will not heal and always, always scream. 

Then, it stops. 

Johnny’s hands retract from your body at the same time as his lips do, leaving you breathlessly dumbfounded. Blinking away the confusion, your eyes settle on Johnny who retreats back to sitting on his haunches. Blue eyes shimmer in the late summer sun as he shifts. For once, you are the one above him instead of the other way around. He looks up at you as if you’re an angel—

—as if he’s begging for forgiveness. 

“Did Ah hurt you?” he asks. 

“Uh… a-a little bit,” you admit stiffly. 

“A’m sorry.” 

There’s something in his eyes that unsettle you. You think back to that night when his body thrashed and squirmed next to you on the bed, fear reverberating through the mattress. Panicked and screaming; unable to rip himself from some nightmare. How he screamed about wanting to go home. Your stomach twists at the very thought, and it only gets worse when you realize that — for once — he looks more human than mutt. 

“It’s okay. I… I know you didn’t mean it,” you whisper. 

“Never. Ah would never hurt you,” he concurs. A breadth of stillness freezes the room and for the longest time you hear nothing but the chatter of birds. Johnny reaches for you with a singular hand, and rests it on top of your leg, heavy and warm. “Bonnie, are ye afraid of me?” 

Vocal chords turning to stone, your throat seizes as you attempt to answer. “No,” you lie. Cautious eyes flicker to the walls around you like they’ll crumble at any moment. Something slices through the prostration in your chest, and a strange cogitation flickers in the back of your mind. It’s as strong as it is terrifying, but you find your body executing it before you’re able to stop it. “But… Simon does. He terrifies me.” 

Johnny’s mouth fills with well meaning mirth. “He’s scary alright, but he won’t hurt ye. Simon’s not like that.” 

“I’m still worried he might,” you admit. A hesitant hand reaches out and rests over Johnny’s. The smile on his face quickly melts away into surprise as he stares up at you with parted lips. “But you wouldn’t let that happen. Right?” 

“Never.” His response is quick. Sharp and eager as he leans closer. His other hand comes up to rest upon yours, sandwiching you into a small embrace. “Cannae ever let anythin’ bad happen to ye.” 

Something shudders in your chest. Your diaphragm, maybe. It quivers and quakes as if you hold a bird’s nest within yourself. Foreign words begin to scratch at the back of your tongue, tickling your throat. You know well enough to bite them back, but as you stare at Johnny’s smile — lips pulled wide — someone stronger chokes the words out for you. 

“You’re so good to me, Johnny,” you whisper, voice whiny as you scoot forward in the recliner. Slipping your hand out of his grasp, your palms instead reach up to cup his face. His smile fades into parted lips and bated breath as your thumbs rub against abrasive stubble. You don’t think you’ve ever seen his eyes dilate so wide before. “Such a good boy, aren’t you?” 

“Ah try tae be,” he swallows. 

“I know you do.” 

It takes an eternity for your lips to meet his. Just when you think you’ve halved the distance, it only grows, and you’re unsure if it’s because of the scream of betrayal in your chest, or something worse. He groans when your bodies finally reunite, and you play into the fantasy his sick brain is infested with. Precious Bonnie. So supple and pliant in his hands. If only he knew you were this soft because muscles cannot properly tense around broken bones. 

You pull Johnny onto the recliner by his collar, but you ensure you’re the one to land on top. Legs spreading wide to accommodate his thighs, your knees squish into the sides of the arm rests, sending journals and pencils flying to the ground. When he paws at your chest again, you bite back the urge to push him away. To slice your nails through the back of his hand. Fingers pressing into tender flesh, he stares up at you like he’s finally able to feel the heart beating beneath his palms. 

“You wanna fuck me?” Those words sting on the way out, but you attempt to distract yourself from the pain as you grind down onto Johnny’s lap. He nods, hips pathetically bucking up. “Yeah? Ask me, then.” 

Thick brows pinch together as he parts his lips. It’s as if his request is on the tip of his tongue, but his hands have a mind of their own. Wandering. Grabbing. Pinching. 

“No,” you chastise. “Use your words, Johnny.” 

“Please. Please, Bonnie.” It’s pathetic. He says the words like he’s speaking to Simon. 

“Good boy,” you coo. “Gentle now. Gentle, Johnny.” 

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, all too eager. His cock hardly has time to spring free before he’s already making a mess. Precum drips everywhere, staining the band of your shorts as his reddened tip slaps against you. Too worried about keeping your power, you don’t bother to properly remove your clothes. Instead, you move the gusset of your shorts and panties to the side before sinking down onto him. This has to be quick. You promise yourself it will be. 

All the while, you remind Johnny to be gentle, gentle, gentle.

Even when you’re in control, it still hurts. There’s that stretch and sting as you split yourself open, but you take it slow. Steady. Unlike Johnny, you allow yourself to adjust. He’s panting beneath you by the time you fully take him. You feel so full of rot it upsets your stomach, but you try to mask your trembling with a gentle rock of your hips. His moan is cacophonous, and your fingers itch to dig into his throat and render his vocal chords useless, but you relent. 

Always, always relenting. 

There is an intense appetency for blood that itches in the back of your mind. Even as you fake your moans and rock your hips, you want to take your hands and dig. Fingers piercing through flesh, cutting through bone; you wouldn’t stop until Johnny’s heart is in the palm of your hands. Still beating. Still fresh. You could squeeze it for an eternity and it still would only be a fraction of the pain you’ve been made to endure. 

You hate him. You hate him like a mother hates her daughter. Like how eyes hate mirrors. How the sun hates flesh. 

“Johnny?” you choke out. “Do you love me?” 

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, mouth stuck open as he stares up at you. “Aye. So much, Bonnie.” 

“Yeah? So you’d do anything for me?” you challenge. You try not to wince as he butts up against your cervix, but you know you can’t afford to stop. 

“Aye.”

“Anything I ask?”

“Anythin’ ye ask. Fuck, Bonnie A’m-” 

“I love you, Johnny.” It’s acid. Pure bile on your tongue. You nearly choke on the words, but you repeat them again. “I love you so much.”  

You hide your face in the crook of his neck when he comes. Thick fingers dig into your hips as you hold still, allowing him to spill his seed inside of you like he always does. His pulse throbs against your lips and you restrain the urge to take the artery into your maw and bite down. There’s nothing in your mouth but pathetic, brittle teeth. You don’t even think you could break through his skin. Still, you dream of it. Running the tips of your fingers along Johnny’s jaw, you yearn for a day when you have the weapons and tools to free yourself. It’s a long, agonizing process. One you’re not sure you have the patience for. 

And so, when you lean back to look at him, you stare at his lips. Soak up the way the delicate skin parts as he smiles up at you, allowing you to catch sight of his teeth. You might not have sharp canines, but he does. You know first hand the way they can dig into your lip and draw blood from skin. Fingers twitching, you yearn to pull the canines from his mouth, to wield them for yourself, but you know you’re not strong enough. 

But maybe, someday, you can be the guiding hand. Point a finger and say go fetch and have Simon’s head delivered to you. That day is too far over the horizon for you to view, but the vision of it is so clear in your mind that it’s enough for now. Right now, you’ve taken the first step.

“Good boy,” you croon as you thumb over his bottom lip. “Good boy, Johnny.” 

You’ll just have to keep walking.

[tojisun]

What’s Gaz like in your hockey au??

kyle garrick (#33) is a fucking beast.

the specgru are fondly called the leviathans of the hockey league, mostly because of how they were the team with the longest history of making it to the finals of the stanley, and when garrick was drafted into the team, he proved to the rest of the world that he was just as tenacious as the tenured players.

he was drafted third overall, and was later named as the rookie of the month, twice (december and march), during his first season.

kyle is the official captain of the team, four years in. off-ice, price still held influence but that’s only because he’s the longest seasoned player of the specgru, but the official leadership consists of: garrick (C), mactavish (A), and riley (A).

…he had to take time-off in the middle of his second season because of a clavicle fracture. it was a bad fall, and for a while many thought that was the end of budding player garrick’s career. but the surgery was successful, and after intensive injury rehabilitation, it was noted that his injury was not career-threatening and that he would be back for the third season.

and kyle garrick came back with a bang, with 75 assists and 26 goals in the 82 games they’ve played in the regular season. they won first in their division. that was a gruelling season for the specgru, but they made it to the finals after winning the game six in the semis, and then won the cup in game 7.

kyle was one of the nominee for, and later the winner of, the norris trophy (the award granted to “the defenseman who demonstrates the greatest all-around ability in his position”) that season, making it one of the most spectacular return from an emergency hiatus.

kyle garrick is undeniably one of this decade’s greatest players.

(“babe? did you know they make edits of you in tiktok?”

“they what.”)

sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au mlist)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

At First Sight 2

Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (Plus!short!reader) Please mind the warnings.

Note: Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.

Part of The Club AU

You struggle to focus on what Sy’s saying. The alcohol makes him appear double, a scary idea for a man his size. You’re overly aware of his hand on your hip as he stands close, his pint guzzled down to foam as you awkwardly hold a glass of melting ice.

Your eyebrows rise higher as you try to decipher his rambling. It almost hurts. You fix your face and shake your head. You sway and catch yourself, covering your mouth as a burp threatens to surface.

“Uh,” you murmur, “I need to use the bathroom.”

Your words are thick and fractured. You don’t think you’ve ever been this drunk. He slowly rescinds his arm and takes the glass from your hand.

“You done?”

You nod and hiccup, giving a small wave as you wobble past him, “I’ll be back.”

It’s strange. You don’t think you’re going to vomit. You’re just completely out of it. The lights swirl and the music sounds distant. Your body feels distant from your mind and your thoughts are so loud you’re afraid you might be saying them out loud.

You find your way down the back hall towards the restroom. You push inside and jump back as another woman exits. You let her through before you enter. You clamber into a stall, swinging the door with a bit too much force. You let out a belch as you unbutton your jeans.

You sit and break the seal. Your thighs tingle at the release of pressure. God, that feels good. You didn’t realise how much your were holding in.

You tilt your head up and nearly lean back completely, catching yourself before your eyes can roll into your skull. Fuck, you’re drunk. So drunk. You could pass out right there.

You should try to find Rhonda and Starla, maybe call a cab. You blow out a lungful and stand. You put a hand out to keep yourself steady as you button your fly with one hand. You slide back the latch and stumble out towards the sink.

The music swells through the walls and you hum along as you turn on the sink. You watch your hands lather up and rinse away the bubbles. You shake them off and lift your head, looking at yourself in the mirror.

You nearly scream as you find someone behind you. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes skitter around and you realise, you haven’t heard anyone else either.

“There you are, honeybee,” Sy snarls as he steps closer, crowding you against the sink until your stomach touches the wet porcelain.

“What are you doing in here?” You squeal as you push back against him.

“Lookin’ for you,” he snarls as he presses his front to your back, “thought maybe you were gonna sneak off on me.”

“No, uh, just…” your voice trails off as panic breaks through the drunken sheen. “We should go…”

“Where ya goin’?” He keeps you penned in as he bends to sniff your hair, “you smell as sweet as you look, you know that?”

“Thanks, but, er… we shouldn’t be in here…”

“Hush, honeybee, you fretting for nothing,” he snarls and loops his arm around you, tilting his pelvis into you, “you probably feel sweet too, huh?”

“Um, alright, uh, Sy, I appreciate the–” you hiccup and try to shake it off, “the attention but it’s late and I’m very drunk.”

“Just the way I like em,” he growls and gropes your chest, “beer-braised and thick.”

“Hey,” you grab his hand as you yelp, “please, don’t– I don’t want that.”

“Honeybee, you been sending me heart eyes all night, you don’t know what you want.”

He flicks your hand away from his, nuzzling your hair as he continues to fondle you. You pull at his large hand but he easily ignores you. You keep a hand on the sink as you try to push free of him.

“Stop!” You shout as loud as you can but the music easily smothers it. “I said stop!”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he snickers as his hand glides down to the top of your jeans, “I’m gonna make you feel real good.”

“Please, I’m scared,” you beg as you clutch his wrist, his thick fingertips trying to delve under the denim.

“Why? I told you. I’m gonna be nice, honeybee, take it easy,” he purrs, “you relax and let me take care of ya.”

“I want to go,” you plead.

“Shhh,” his hush tickles your scalp, “you’re alright. I’ma give you what you need.” His other hand slaps your ass so hard your stomach collides with the sink, “exactly what you came here for.”

You whimper, your eyes burning as tears glaze in your bleary vision. You’re too drunk to resist him. You’re stupid. You never get this bad. Why tonight?

He brings his arm back and grips your shoulder, urging you forward. “Bend over,” he growls as he shoves you over the sink, “mmm, I like this.”

He bends his knees and grinds his pelvis against your ass, “I think you’ll like it too.”

He reaches around you and fumbles with your fly. You’re frozen in shock. You can’t believe this is happening. Your legs shake and your stomach churns. You rest your head against the top of the cold metal faucet and shutter, jolting as he rips your jeans past your ass.

Your naked flesh stings in cool air and he slaps your cheeks roughly. You yipe and grasp the sides of the sink. You look at the door, not that far but far enough. He kicks your feet apart as his knuckles brush you. He spreads a hand across your back and pushes you even lower.

He rubs his tip along your bare ass and you lift your head, looking at him in the mirror, eyes round and streaming.

“Please,” you try one last time to get through to him, “I’ve never… I’ve done this before.”

He smirks and fists the back of your shirt, “good.”

[coolbattlegirl]

Based off my cryptid twst au post

Feverish coughing filled the dark cottage, its source coming from the small bundle hidden underneath the bed sheets. The monster that loomed over the bed cooed and hushed at the sickened child, “Oh, you poor thing…” It whispered tenderly, “How ill and frail you are…” 

Clawed fingers dips a small towel into ice cold water, mimicking the familiar actions the creature had seen the humans do numerous times when their offspring fell ill. Moving its now inky long hair away from its face, it delicately places the towel onto the child’s sweaty forehead, a small whimper escaping the child as it does so. 

Despite the help of the cooling towel, the feverish child still seemed restless. Now that wouldn’t do. The creature began to hum softly towards the ailing child, a song they sang many times in the past. His fingers caressed the child’s hair, as he did, careful to not scratch the soft skin underneath it. 

Lilia watches as the child’s face slowly begins to relax, letting out a content sigh as they did. Upon seeing such a simple action, he couldn’t help but feel a part of his heart fracture at the similarity. A memory flashes through his mind, the soothing sound of rain falling outside the cave, a small, warm, fluffy being nestled by his side for warmth as he diligently groomed his offspring dry. If he dared to close his eyes, he could almost delude himself into thinking the child before him was his own offspring. 

And in an instant, the skin of his new form feels too tight, too suffocating. He has to stifle the hysterical laughter that has now become trapped in his throat, because he knows those cherished moments are never coming back. No matter how much he tries to delude himself, his offspring is gone. They picked up their spears and swords and slaughtered his poor child. They took his child away from him. The child who had once been filled with life and curiosity now lies rotting in some unknown ditch. 

Rage still boils underneath his skin, burning at his veins, threatening to erupt. But he reels it in, because he got even with them. They took what was his, and in return, he took, no, claimed something of theirs. A smile creeps onto his face, looking too sharp and wide for his now human face. He nuzzles the child’s face, cooing tenderly into their now silvery locks, “It’s only fair for you to be by my side now...” A hand trails up the child’s neck, pausing before gently going to hold his face, “My sweet little prince…” 

[armysantiny]

12:44 – 재민 (Jaemin)

P: Jaemin x female reader | G: timestamp, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff | Inc: office au, lunch breaks, established relationship, descriptions of self-loathing, planning dinner, Jaemin offering to pick y/n up from work | Wc: 463 | W: self-loathing| R: G

Min's notes: fun fact I literally started the word doc at 12:44 on Thursday :D this whole fic is self-indulgent honestly, I needed this on the day, bc this was exactly how much lunch break went haha. Just without Jaemin.

There’s an ache in y/n’s chest as she slumps into the booth. The office is awash with conversation, her colleagues all walking past on their way to the cafeteria. She’d join them, on a normal day, and bask in the reprieve it grants her away from her desk. But today, she just can’t seem to bring herself to get up, to go and join the general office population. Not when her chest is tight and coiled with self-loathing, a thick sludge that coats every part of her brain and body.

She just can’t do it today.

Lunch itself doesn’t seem all to appealing anymore, and she sets her lunchbox aside, silently grieving the lack of appetite while she downs an iced coffee, the second caffeinated beverage she’s had today. Maybe that’s what’s toying with her, y/n’s mind supplies, subtle palpitations aching to prove her threadbare theory right.

But the HR admin’s had more coffee without any adverse effects, and the true culprit of her turmoil taunts her again. It’s almost pathetic, how easily her train of thought slips into cruel lies, reminding y/n by the second of her imagined incompetence.

Always bothering them, always wasting everyone’s time. Utterly useless human being.

Her phone’s ringing. Her personal phone. The call’s answered before y/n can think about letting it ring out, a whisper of desperate hope that wants whoever it is on the other line to either save her from her thoughts or put her out of her damned misery. One way or another. She isn’t picky.

“Hello, my love,” Jaemin hums, his voice bright and cheerful and undeserving of y/n’s inner misery, “I’m picking up some things for dinner tonight, how’s work going?”

“I..” and the words clog in her throat, suffocating her with the threat of burning tears until she can force them out. “I think I’ll head home early today; I need a break.”

And on the other end, in the middle of the supermarket, Jaemin’s face knits into a frown, concern making a home in his chest. Y/n didn’t sound like she was upset that morning, but now? Now it sounds like the love of his life is fracturing around the edges, desperate for salvation of any kind. He needs to get a move on, hurry home and make sure everything’s in place to give his girlfriend the tenderness she needs.

He can start with a simple offer, however.

“Do you want me to come pick you up when I’m finished with the shopping?” Jaemin offers, standing in line for the cashier. He waits for an answer, counting the seconds as they drag on, each long and—

“Please, Min. I miss you..” Y/n’s voice hovers through, and Jaemin’s plans are set.

“I’ll be over as soon as I’m done, my love.”

© copyright work of armysantiny 2024-2025

Networks: @kwritersworld, @kdiarynet, @ultkpopnetwork, @whipped-kpop-creators, @blankjournal

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading! Consider reblogging, leaving some feedback or donating to my kofi!

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[equallyshaw]

star crossed loves au | connor bedard x kailey hughes au ↳ slowly, but surely. ↳ au masterlist!

warnings: angst, anxiety attack, swearing etc. also this takes place in feburary after his jaw fracture! word count: 2.2k. - longer than i expected lol

"do you wanna come to my game?" was a simple question, and one of innocence. kailey would give it that, but the deep feeling of dread was felt rather too quickly for her liking. she looked away from connor as the two were finishing up breakfast, hoping he wouldn't notice the uneasiness that plagued her features. he did. the two had been inseparable since new years, and had became official only a few days afterwards. ofcourse, he'd see the tension that sprang up in her features, the inability to look at him - especially in the eye - and the way that he body seemed to be folding in on itself. she stood up abruptly, bringing the plate back into the kitchen, and connor watched with a million questions buzzing around. she came back in and sat down, swirling her lukewarm coffee. "i um, i cant go." she said staring down the place mat. his eyebrows furrowed, "can't or won't go?" he questioned, hoping for some clarification. she made direct eye contact with him and gave him a small frown, "i wish i could go, i really do. but i can't bring myself to." she said bringing the last of the once hot liquid to her mouth. he shook his head, "you have to tell me what that means kails." he said setting down his fork now.

she sighed, setting the mug down. "i vowed to myself long ago that i'd never go to another hockey game in my life, let alone step into a rink once more." she paused sniffling, "that game ruined my childhood and my relationships with the rest of my family." she said and it felt like a dagger piercing his heart. "then why, why did you agree to be my girlfriend if you can't stand what i do?" he questioned without a second thought, and he could see how much it hurt the blonde. she made a tsk noise, "i can respect and support what you do from afar connor. but y'know now that you say that, why did i say yes? why did i say yes when i knew that i wouldn't be able to listen to the sound of skates hitting the ice when it really mattered? even if it was the stanley cup final, i wouldn't be able to do it because of how much it would make me sick." she finished, standing up and heading towards his condo door. "wait kail-" she cut him off with the front door opening. she stood between the threshold, looking back at connor. "you're right connor, how can i support you when i cant even support my own brothers?" she asked rhetorically before stepping full into the hallway and towards the elevator. as soon as she hit the elevator, she quickly began to cry while hunching over with her eyes shut. connor stood with his mouth agape, unsure if he should go after her or let her go. how could he let her go, when besides hockey- she was the thing he was most sure about in his life?

_

becca kaileys roommate and longtime best friend, could tell something off that morning when kailey came back to the apartment in a fit of rage. "what'd they do now?" kailey questioned, thinking her brothers said something stupid. "not them, him." she responded beginning to pace. "but its my fault, im the one who said yes without telling him i cant watch hockey. im the one who has wasted his time because why the hell would he date somebody who cant walk into an arena without throwing up?" she blurted as becca stood up, concern lacing her gaze. "hey kails? wanna sit down?" she questioned softly, wrapping her arms gently over her the blonde's. kailey immediately began to break down again, completely folding into becca's figure.

hockey was something that was seldom spoken about in the apartment. it was not off limits per se, but it was to be treaded lightly. unfortunately, kailey held a great amount of disdain for the sport and if it was mixed in with her brothers, it was a double whammy and usually ended in an anxiety attack. sure, she'd been to therapy for her childhood, jack and the topic of of hockey had come up many times. it was the reason why she was plucked away from her budding life in toronto, because they wanted the family to be with jack and usa hockey. it was why everything and everyone that she adored, was taken away from her. so she set up boundaries, and that meant no hockey. besides quinn's debut, no debut for luke or jack. no playoff games, nada nothing. her parents had respected her choice, and with the backing from her therapist - so did the rest of the family. this was something she didn't tell connor when they were talking during break before new years, because she knew that it would scare him away. just like it had now.

kaileys thoughts were interrupted, by a loud knock on their apartment door. "ill be right back." becca announced, standing up and walking towards the door. "ill be in my room." kailey responded, barely audible but becca picked it up. as soon as kailey was out of view, she opened the door to connor. who looked distraught, angry and sad all at the same time. "um hello?" becca said and connor opened the door, pushing his way inside. "where is she?" he asked flustered, and becca sighed. he met becca's gaze and snapped in her face, "becca, where is she?" he repeated and becca stood their in a shocked state. before becca could respond, they both heard a sob or more like a wrenching cry from kailey's bedroom. connor wasted no minute shoving off his shoes and throwing his jacket on becca, before heading down the hallway. becca could only chuckle in response, before sending him a salute as a joke and one that he didn't see. "go get em." she mumbled, before putting his stuff down.

connor knocked on the door before opening it, and as he opened it he found kailey on her bed. her head was in her hands and hunched over. his heart absolutely broke as he walked over, and sat beside kailey pulling her into his body. "its ok kails, I've got you." he whispered, repeating it every few seconds. "im not mad or upset, i promise." he whispered after a few minutes. her sobbing began to quiet down, but her breathing was still too heavy for his liking. "but you were right." she said after about ten minutes. he looked down and shook his head, "i was not right." he stated boldly. she pulled away from his chest, looking at him properly now. "you were right, why should i be your girlfriend if i cant support you on a nightly basis? its not fair to you con, its not." she said running a hand through her hair. "so what?" he questioned, and she looked at him. "so what? you matter more than hockey. yeah we may have only known each other for a month now, but I've never been more sure about somebody or something in my life besides hockey. you and our relationship im so sure about, ask any of the guys. they probably would tell you that im so disgustingly annoying." he mused causing her to giggle softly. "i promise that just because you choose not to watch hockey, doesn't mean that im gonna break up with you." he argued and she chuckled. "you don't like me enough to say and do that." she said rolling her eyes, and he shook his head. "no, i love you that's why." he confessed and she slowly looked back towards him. "wait...what?" she asked, barely breathing. he grinned before smiling, "i love you kailey clara and what are you gonna do about that?" he mused causing her to blush. she breathed in heavily why playfully rolling her eyes, "i can either kick you out or tell you that i love you back." she hummed, leaning closer towards him. "thankfully for you, its the latter." she hummed staring down his lips before pulling him in for a passionate and deep kiss.

the two pulled away after about ten seconds, pressing their foreheads against one another's. "as long as you say you're my number one fan we'll be good. this cements everything." he joked causing her to giggle. "you cheeky boy! but yes, good thing ill be your number one fan as long as you have me." she grinned before they kissed once more.

later on in the afternoon as the two cuddled with one another after connor's nose found solace in kaileys neck, the blonde spoke up. "i promise connor, to open myself up to hockey. i promise im going to try, ok?" she questioned turning around to face him. he had a small hopeful smile grace his features, "slowly but surely kails." he hummed before pulling her into his chest and placing a kiss on her head.

_

it was two weeks later, and after a black graphic t-shirt of connor came in- her and becca were off to a game against the florida panthers. the two walked arm and arm towards the 300's section wanting to experience it in the 'trenches' kailey had always called them, and experience it with some die hard fans. and, far enough away that nobody on the team or their partners would recognize her. she wanted to surprise connor.

"i feel like i could vomit." she confessed, sitting next to becca who only gave her an encouraging smile. "the game's underway, maybe that'll distract?" she questioned and kailey could only laugh in response. the two's attention focused on the game, and some point during it she had sent a text to not only tessa, alex vlasics girlfriend but her mom as well, sealing it with a picture of her view. her mom and dad gushed and sent words of encouragement and tessa begged for her to meet them after the game in the wags and family box. to which kailey responded, was a tba. the blackhawks ended up wining 3-1 with connor getting a goal and two assists. and with being on somewhat of a high, she told tessa that they would meet her in the 200's section. tessa stood their waiting for them and as soon as she saw them, she began to jump up and down with excitement. "im so happy you're here!!!" tessa gushed, pulling kailey in for a huge hug. she then moved towards becca and the two of them hyped the youngest hughes up. "oh my god, stopppp." she said blushing. "can you not, were in public you two." as the two girls highfived each other. "what?! this is a big deal girlfriend. you made it through the entire game." becca said shaking the girl just a bit. tessa's phone dinged with a text from alex, him and connor were walking towards the box now.

"get your ass in there, now." tessa demand pointing back towards the box door and becca quicky pulled her inside. becca smiled and waved to some of the girl's she had met at new years with kailey, and they were all happy to see kailey. finally. "im nervous beccs." kailey said in a whisper and becca smiled, "he'll be happy to see you chica." she smiled down at her best friend who only nodded.

kailey heard his voice before she saw him, and once becca looked behind her she turned around. connor hadn't taken notice yet but once tessa made a nonchalant comment, he quickly looked around the now - desolate- room and then his eyes landed on her. she smiled softly, once their eyes connected. he smiled, and then made his way over ot the girl. he pulled her in for a big hug without a word, his nose finding the crook of her neck. "hi pretty girl." he whispered, and she found herself blushing like a fool. "hey superstar." she grinned, before he pulled back a bit to look at her. then he noticed the t-shirt and he smiled, taking a step back to inspect it. "oh, i brought it just for this occasion." she grinned making him chuckle just a bit. "its my face." he said a bit stunned, "it is your face." becca said monotoned which made kailey snicker. "its alright, he's got a pretty face." she teased, "a pretty face, huh?" they heard Phillip kurashev tease and that made connor roll his eyes. "pretty pretty connor!" kevin joined in causing more chuckles to arise, "lets go pretty boy!" mackenzie entwistle teased, and kailey smiled softly.

"come on pretty boy." she teased, beginning to walk out with everybody else. "i should put that as your new name in my phone." becca mused, typing away on her phone. "i swear to god becca if you do!" connor threatened playfully, "you'll what?" she grinned back. "ill tell your little secret..." connor began only for becca to hear and that made becca grow quiet. "you wouldn't dare,🖕🏻" she texted and connor only giggled in response as they walked towards connor car.

so what secret, connor baby? lmao

please like and reblog if you liked!

[nerdraging4point0]

Power Play // Chapter Four // Hockeyplayer!Noah AU

Tropes and tags: RPF:AU hockey player romance, angsty romance, hidden relationship, forbidden relationship, smutty, MF, multiple POV. 

Content Warning: angsty romance, hockey player shenanigans, locker room talk, smutty, aggressive hockey players, PinV, MF relationship, possessive male, protective male.

This work below is fictionalized ideas and stories involving real people but does not directly reflect their thoughts, feelings, or behaviors. Please keep in mind that this is a work of fiction.

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Two days. Forty-eight hours. That's all I get to train before they toss me headfirst into the role of head athletic nurse. Just a couple days shadowing Naomi and then - bam! - she's gone on early maternity leave. And if that's not enough, I can't find a single affordable apartment in this insane city. I was so determined to make it on my own, but after 24 fruitless hours of searching, Dad insisted I take an apartment in the complex where the hockey players live. Move in ready next week, free rent, close to the rink. I should be grateful, right? I mean, it gets me out of Dad's place at least. But now it's game day and I'm nowhere near ready. My head's spinning and my stomach's in knots. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into. This is way too much way too fast. Breathe, girl. Just breathe. You've got this. 

My heart pounds as I frantically take stock of my supplies. Tape, ice packs, ace bandages - check. It's not that I don't know how to treat injuries. As a nurse, wounds and fractures are second nature. But this - this is new territory. I didn't sign up for the intensity of trauma care on the sidelines. My expertise is in orthopedics, urology, neurology - slower paced clinic work. Not split second emergency response.

I sit on the sidelines watching warmups, taking in the sights and sounds of the rink. There's a smattering of early bird fans already in the stands, but more are still filing in, arms loaded with popcorn and hot dogs. The boys glide and weave across the ice, firing pucks into the gaping net, muscles coiled as they launch themselves into sharp turns.

McClain and Sanders emerge from the tunnel, bundled in pads and skates. They ease towards the goal, McClain positioning himself between the posts while Sanders hangs back, stick resting casually on his shoulder. The other players start peppering McClain with shots - his glove flashes out, quick as a cat's paw, snagging the pucks from the air. He drops into a butterfly, legs splaying wide to kick away rebounds. I can't take my eyes off him, enthralled by his reflexes and fearless focus. 

My stomach is in knots as the warmups wind down. One by one, the players skate over to tap fists with Coach and Jack before heading off the ice. Sanders, Dominick, McClain, Ruffilo - they all make sure to bump fists with me too. I force myself to take some deep breaths as the opening ceremonies begin. I watch anxiously as the puck drops for the first faceoff. The boys look sharp, moving the puck around cleanly, getting some good chances early. My nerves start to settle just a bit seeing them come out strong in these crucial opening minutes. But I'm still on the edge of my seat, ready to jump into action at a moment's notice.

I've got my eyes glued to the ice as the Avalanche roar down the rink with the puck, making a beeline for McClain's net. Sebastian bursts forward, moving in to intercept. Sticks clash and sparks fly as he battles for possession. With a mighty swing, he breaks free and shovels the puck away. But his opponent doesn't take kindly to being shaken off. As Sebastian streaks up the ice, the guy charges after him and slams their bodies together, crushing them both against the boards. The glass shudders from the hit - you can feel the aggression pulsating through the arena. 

My eyes are glued to Sebastian as he shakes off that nasty hit. The guy is seeing red, flexing out the arm that just got plastered into the boards. He's back in position now, still fuming, and drives hard to defend the net again. A few more plays and another try for a score but McClain is quick as ever and snags the puck. Sebastian eases up to circle back, but that same goon swoops in and crunches him into the wall again. Suddenly it's mayhem - helmets flying, sticks tossed, bare fists grabbing jerseys, going for faces. The refs dive in to break it all up. My heart's pounding as I take it all in. This game just got heated.

As the whistle blows, Coach bellows for Sebastian to hit the bench and sends in Dominick. My stomach drops. Sebastian's face is as red as his jersey as he skates over, and I shuffle closer, dreading what I'll see. His lip is swollen and split open, a trail of blood oozing down his chin. Coach grabs Sebastian's cheeks and gives him a stern once-over before nodding my way. Our eyes meet briefly before Sebastian clambers over the boards on wobbly skates, weighed down by pads and gear. 

My heart races as I rummage through my bag for the gauze and antiseptic. I gently dab the wet gauze on his rugged, battered face, taking care not to hurt him. He winces ever so slightly, pulling back as I tenderly clean the gash on his lip.

"This will need some ice," I murmur, transfixed by his mouth. The wound isn't deep, but it would still hurt if I tried to kiss it. Stop it, Sarah. 

"I could just lay on the rink, would that help?" he jokes, flashing me a roguish grin.

I can't help but smile, lost in his sparkling eyes. Even bruised from the game, he makes my stomach do somersaults. As I gently dab the last of the blood from his rugged face, I ask for his hands.

He turns them palm down, rough and shaking. I trace my fingers over the tattoos marking his skin, checking for any hidden injuries. Through my gentle touch, I feel his warmth, his strength. Our eyes meet and my heart flutters. I take his hand in both of mine, lightly pressing each knuckle, thrilled by his closeness. He doesn't flinch. If he's in pain, he doesn't show it. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline. 

"Looks good," I say, my eyes lingering a little too long on his handsome face. "Nothing too badly damaged."

He smiles, though it turns into a wince as the wounded side of his lip curves up. "Just my pride," he replies ruefully.

"Ah, pride," I tut, leaning in conspiratorially. "A tricky thing to find once lost. But if I happen to stumble over yours rolling around, I'll be sure to scoop it up and return it to its rightful owner." I give him a playful wink, unable to keep from flirting. Even banged up, he's cute as hell.

NOAH'S POV

As I hop over the boards and back onto the ice, my legs feel a little shaky. I skate slowly back to position,  my head still spinning. Man, her smile just melts me every time. So sly and sexy. And that hair... She's such a little fox. I can't stop thinking about her. I've got it bad for this girl. Focus, dude! Gotta keep my head in the game. The way her black and red scrubs hug those round curves of hers. Alright, deep breaths. Back to the action. 

I'm back defending our goal after that goon got himself tossed for busting my lip. The blood's dripping down my chin but I've got no time to worry about that. We're up 4-2 with the clock winding down. Karlsson and me, we go together like peanut butter and jelly defending our net. A winger tries to blow past me but I plant him into the boards. I knock the puck loose and pass it off to Karlsson but their center snags it. I shake off the winger clinging to me and slide across the crease to rob the center's shot. I scoop up the puck and send it flying down the ice. I'm throwing hits left and right, keeping their forwards outside our zone. The final horn blares and we've done it again - chalk up another W. My jersey's soaked with sweat but the pain doesn't matter.

I'm beat as we drag our battered bodies back to the locker room. My muscles are screamin' under these pads after the torture session on the ice. That bone-crunchin' check into the boards left my shoulder throbbing with a deep bruise. I grunt and roll my arm, trying to shake out the pain.

The locker room erupts when we stumble in. The boys are hootin' and hollerin', dancing around half-naked and drenched in sweat. I toss my stick and lid in my stall and collapse on the bench, rip off my gloves and gingerly touch my busted lip. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as I wince. 

I peel off my jersey, wincing as the sweaty fabric sticks to my skin. The pads come next, and I sigh in relief as my shoulders are freed from their restrictive embrace. The locker room falls silent as all eyes turn to me. I run a hand through my damp hair, pushing it back from my forehead.

As I sit on the bench, spent from the game, a shadow falls over me. I glance up to see Little Fox standing there, ice pack in hand, trademark smirk on her lips. She holds out the bag, ice cracking inside, and I take it slowly, letting my fingers brush hers. Her eyes trace over my bare chest and I see her throat tighten as she swallows hard. She wants me. My teammates watch us, eager for the show.

I stand tall in front of her, watching those dark eyes go wide. Her lips part slightly as she takes me in. "F-for your face," she stammers, pressing the ice into my hands before slipping away, a new bounce in her step. I grin as she goes. 

Game on, Little Fox.

We roll into Sully's still riding high after crushing Washington 4-zip on the ice tonight. 

That game was a brawl, I'm still aching all over. But hey, at least my mug is still pretty this time. The split lip from the last match is finally scabbing up enough that I can wolf down a burger without wincing. The shiner's faded and I clean up alright for a night out. The boys and I threw on our nicest threads, my black slacks and a soft navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off the ink running up my arms.

The second I open the door, this total dive hits me with that sweet stench of stale beer and chicken wings. Road signs and hilarious bar quotes plaster the walls from floor to ceiling. Three monster TVs behind the bar blast sports on full volume - college ball, NFL, and of course our boys lighting up the NHL highlights.

With the game pumping through the speakers and the home team plastered on every screen, Sully's is our scene tonight. Loud, messy, no pretensions - just how we like it after a big win.

We snag the biggest table in the joint and start pounding 'em back, one after another. The energy is through the roof thanks to that W. Jolly's already facedown in his third pint, trying to sweet talk the waitress in his sloppy Swedish. The swedish isn’t working but the way he is batting his eyes at her and has her laughing tells me she is into him. 

Sanchez is working his magic on a couple hockey bunnies in the corner, likely wanting to take both of them back to the hotel with him. Meanwhile, Nick and Andy are talking trash and seeing who can balance more empty bottles on their domes. As for me? I'm just taking it all in, boys - the brews, the brotherhood, that sweet taste of victory. 

"Check it out, McClain," Nick says, words running together as he balances a third bottle on his head, swaying to keep it steady. "It's all about that balance, bro."

Andy scoffs, clutching his six shot glasses in one hand and snatching one of Nick's to perch on his middle finger. "Balance? I'll show you balance, you little punk," he slurs back. 

The dim lights of this hole-in-the-wall bar make it tough to see much of anything. Shadows dance across dark wood as my eyes adjust. The dance floor packed tight with bodies grinding up against each other to the pulsing beat. Through the mass of writhing shapes, I catch a glimpse of foxtail curls swaying in time with the music. She's gorgeous, sipping a cocktail through a black straw, full lips wrapped around it. Hips swaying hypnotically in that little red dress that hugs every curve. She laughs, head thrown back in delight, and her friend with the messy bun joins in. 

I'm transfixed as I watch her move across the dance floor. The sway of her hips and bounce of her curls has me hypnotized. I down my drink in one gulp, no longer interested in anything else tonight. Pushing through the crowded club, I keep my eyes locked on her - my prize. A few eager ladies try to divert my attention but I'm relentless, driven by desire. I have to feel her body against mine.

Finally reaching her, I slide my hand across the curve of her hip, fingertips digging into the silky fabric of her dress. Pulling her into me, I bring my lips to her ear and growl, "Dance with me, beautiful." 

The bass is pulsing through my body as I sway my hips to the beat. Me and my bestie Marissa hit up Sully's after the Kraken game for some much needed drinks and dancing. She looks bangin' in her tight black dress, fending off guys left and right. "Not worth your time, honey!" she says with a flip of her hair.

I laugh but I'm feeling that itch, you know? It's been too damn long since I've felt those hands on me, those lips on my neck. I wore this sexy red number hoping to lure in a hookup, but with Marissa running cockblock patrol, doesn't look like that's happening tonight.

Then, I feel it. Strong hands grasp my hips from behind and pull me back against a hard chest. Mmm I can't help but melt into him as we sway together. Now this is exactly what I needed after that hockey game. Looks like Marissa can't stop me from having a little fun tonight after all.

"Dance with me, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice low and sultry against my ear. I feel the rumble of it through his chest pressed against my back, sending a shiver down my spine. His hands slide around my waist, pulling me closer as we sway to the music. I'm intoxicated by his presence, melting into his embrace. Our bodies move as one, passion smoldering between us. His breath hot on my neck, his touch electric. This dance is full of promise, an invitation to something more.

I'm swaying to the beat, drink in hand, when Marissa leans in close so I can hear her over the pounding music. "I want details," she says, planting a kiss on my cheek and taking the drink from my hand before disappearing into the crowd.

I close my eyes again, letting this mystery man's hands roam as we move together. When I finally open them, I do a double take - it's Noah! Those intense brown eyes boring into mine with that look of determination he gets on the ice.

His strong hands grip my hips, pulling me flush against him. I know I shouldn’t give in, but the heat radiating from his body thaws my resolve. If Daddy found out his little girl was messing around with a player, he’d blow his whistle for sure. Not that his rules have ever stopped me before. That goalie with the dreamy eyes almost made me forget curfew back in high school. But getting caught now might mean so much more than grounded from prom. Still, a girl’s got needs. And this player’s touch tells me he knows exactly how to satisfy them. 

"What's the matter, little fox?" His words are a sensual purr that makes my knees weak. The heady scent of beer, whiskey and woodsy cologne intoxicates me. I'm helpless against him, my body craving his touch despite the risk. My breath catches as his lips graze my neck.

[raisans-art]

Chucks pokemon-ified Emmet at you at Mach speeds

Never talked about this au at any considerable lengths but it’s an au @gender-nuteral-nut-boy and I made where Volo promised Emmet that he’d help him find Ingo but just used him in order to get the Azure Flute and open up the stairs to Arceus’ domain. Once the stairs appeared, Volo had Giratina drop him into the distortion world after taking his pokemon. With Emmet taken care of and the stairs to Arceus’s domain open, he also abandons Giratina, breaking the ball he had him in to leave him stranded in the distortion realm as well.

So Emmet and Giratina are chilling in the distortion realm. Emmet is pretty pissed at the betrayal and Giratina is not helping matters. Giratina is trying to relate to and sympathize with Emmet but ends up stoking the fires of his anger, riling him up further and further as he deteriorates in the distortion world. When Emmet passes, his soul is so full of rage he forms into a new pokemon, his memories left fractured and hazy.

Giratina manages to find a way to let Emmet out to Hisui in order to find Ingo and retrieve his pokemon from Volo. Though, maybe leaving an enraged, volatile pokemon alone in the hisuian wilderness with no supervision might not be the best idea.

Some notes about the design: I wanted it to be kinda banshee based with a bit of reaper/psychopomp too. He’s got permanent tear marks and a red stripe supposed to look both like his nose and like an exclamation mark. Little scythe fingers :) he keeps his eyes closed unless he becomes angered, where they open and his hair starts to flare out. He turns into his rage form if his team or trainer become injured at all. His typing becomes Ghost/Ice instead of Ghost/Steel, his scythes turning into ice claws and his hair looking like ice spikes. His chest is supposed to look like a rib cage and his eyes completely black out for “going into a blind rage”

Ok I’m done rambling -u-

Also I made shiny variations!

Enjoy =w=

[siriusleee]

vi. klaxon

Zombie Apocalypse AU | SIMON RILEY x f!READER

↳SUMMARY: The world is trying to knit itself back together after fracturing apart. You're trying to put yourself back together with it; Simon Riley is just trying to stay alive. ↳WORD COUNT: 1.6K ↳TAGS: mentions of cannibalism, mentions of shooting things, mentions of dying. smut to come. canon typical violence to come. additional tags to come as the story progresses. female reader. no mentions of "your name". reader is given a nickname later on.nc-17. ↳AUTHOR'S NOTE: Much shorter than usual, but hey, we can only do what we can do. ↳TAG LIST: There will not be a tag list for this story, as Tumblr has issues with letting me tag people. To get notifications of updates, please subscribe on AO3 or turn on notifications for my blog.

additional chapters | ao3

It’s like waking up in an alternative universe; it takes your eyes and brain a solid minute to remember that you shouldn’t be waking up to the sight of trees and clapboard buildings. Somewhere between awake and sleep, you’d started dreaming about your winter camp and everyone who used to travel with you. 

Darren. Alyssa. Trevor. Caleb. James. 

The memories of them push you out of bed. The concrete floor is freezing beneath your feet. The clothes you were given the day before are still folded neatly on the floor beside your pack; you were clean for the first time in years and you didn’t want to sweat in your sleep. 

You try to finger comb your hair, but it snags on the tangles; you give up halfway through and throw it up with a piece of elastic you ripped from a pair of old underwear you found in a pharmacy a few months ago. Someone around here must have a pair of scissors sharp enough to give you a decent enough haircut. 

Through the little window, you can see the sun is watery - you have to find your jacket despite how ratty it is. Winter is rolling in way too fast for you to be without one. The last time you’d seen it, it was at the end of the bed in the med bay - you’d left it behind in the sudden surprise at waking up in an unfamiliar location. 

The hallway is already empty; the sound of your boots reverberates off of the empty walls. It’s like walking through a crypt; you can almost imagine eyes peering down at you from the dusty corners of the place. 

Frost covers the grass and it crunches beneath your feet. Your stomach rumbles and you wonder if there’s anything for breakfast to eat in the mess hall. Just crossing the little courtyard turns the tip of your nose frozen, and your fingers stiff. The med bay is unlocked, and inside it's as freezing as it is outside. There are no lights on - no doubt that even though they still have electricity, it must not be able to run all the time. 

You prop the door open with a rock so that just a little bit of light filters into the room. Your breath fogs up around your face, and you do your best not to trip and fall. The medical equipment glows in the weak sunlight pouring in from the doorway. You retrace your steps from the day before. There, at the end of the bed you had been placed on, is your jacket. It’s still coated in dirt and mud, but it’ll keep you warm for the time being. You wrap it around your shoulders, the smell of the forest surrounding you. 

A choking shout cuts through the med bay, broken off after half a second. A sliver of ice slides through your veins - it came from behind the med bay, through the thick concrete wall. It can’t be the mess hall directly on that side - Ghost had taken you around the entire building to get there yesterday. There’s a set of double doors, thick, durable metal that leads into an unknown part of the building. In the past, it would have been something that would overtake you with curiosity, and you’d be compelled to open the doors, but now they give you the creeps.

There’s a crash against the wall, and it makes you jump. The doors at the end of the med bay open, and you scramble backward, dropping down to your knees. Heavy footfalls cross the concrete floor as you skitter beneath the medical beds, squeezing between the thick shadows between the two of them. You press yourself onto the floor, trying to blend in with the shadows. You press your mouth into your forearm to muffle your breath. You have no idea if it’s alright for you to be here, and you don’t want to find out. 

The person’s face is shadowed, but from the lilt of their body, you think it might be Doc. You watch them walk towards the front door; the sound of the rock you used to prop the door open being kicked out of the way fills the room and the heavy door slams shut.

The only sound in the room is your breathing as you wait to see if the door will open again, and if anyone will strut back through; the seconds into minutes and no one interrupts the silence. Scrambling to your feet, you jerk your jacket up and exit without a sideways glance to see if anyone's noticed you sneaking out of the Med Bay. You're alone in the little courtyard.

The Dining Hall is almost empty - the food is nearly gone as you grab a mismatched plate and try to even your breathing. Two women crowed in the corner together point at you without abashment, and you ignore them as you peer at the little breakfast: potatoes cubed and boiled, steamed cabbage, and some kind of white bean. Your stomach grumbles; it's no Belgian waffle with syrup, but you put just enough on your plate to carry you over and find a spot to sit out of the line of sight of the women who are still staring at you. 

You're spearing the beans one by one, trying to make their earthy flavor last on your tongue when the shape of Ghost fills the Dining Hall door. You do your best to ignore him as you move on to the potatoes, cutting the cubes into smaller pieces and thinking about how they'd taste drowned in butter. 

"You should have woken up earlier," he says, standing on the opposite side of the table as you. 

"I'll remember to tell the valet to wake me up earlier tomorrow."

The sarcasm feels good on your tongue - a weight you didn't realize you missed carrying. Ghost settles onto his heels; above the dirty white of the skeleton, his eyebrows crinkle. The wrinkle they form is natural like he was born with it. You can imagine him as a baby, soft and sweet with that little wrinkle between his eyes.

The silence is unnerving; you scrape your fork against the plastic plate just for a sound. The two women in the corner stare at the two of you, and you realize they're waiting for you to finish eating so that they can clean up. You scarf the last few bites down and resist the urge to lick the plate clean. You hardly have the last bite in your mouth before Ghost snatches the plate from the table.

He doesn't have to tell you to follow him, you just do. He hands the plates to one of the women: a pretty blonde who looks at him with barely contained awe. The look on her face irritates you, and you resist the urge to say something to her.

"I'm going to show you around," Ghost says, pulling you back outside. The mud on your jacket cracks and falls off in clumps as you slide it on to avoid the chill.

"How many people live here?"

It's a struggle to keep up with Ghost's stride; it takes two steps for you to keep up with his one. The soreness in your legs is still there, but the feeling of warm food and a safe night's sleep fills you enough to ignore it.

"Depends."

He doesn't finish his sentence, but his steps slow enough that you can fall into line with him. You follow him around the edge of the building to the part of the base you haven't been able to explore. To your left the gate the two of you arrived in yawns above the two of you; the fence disappears into the distance, behind more brick buildings. 

"The garden is over here,” he says, gesturing to a chain link fence in the middle of a grouping of squat buildings. Inside the fence, women kneel in the dirt. Burlap sacks cover some plants, and others are being pruned by a few men. 

“That’s the storage locker,” Ghost points at a building just on the other side of the garden. A pair in ratty black fatigues sit outside, guns slung across their shoulders. 

“It’s guarded at all times?”

Ghost nods, lifting one hand to wave in response to one of the guards who waves at him.

The rest of the tour is quick: a second set of unused bunks, a building full of cars and trucks that look mostly unused, and the generators (also behind two guards who look like they haven’t slept in years). The last place he takes you is the armory; you spot your bow locked up behind the iron bars, the few arrows you had left leaning against the wall.

“Can I get that back?” You ask, fingers lingering on the cold metal of the lock. Ghost shakes his head; you don’t miss the way his fingers roll together, and you wonder if he’s wishing for a cigarette. 

“When you need it.”

His replies are infuriating you; you envision yourself kicking him in the back of the knee as you follow him out of the doorway. The sun is directly overhead by the time the two of you make it back outside. You flex your fingers in the rays, drinking in the little warmth that it brings in. 

You’re going to ask Ghost what next - a question that you’re not sure borders on the philosophical or the practical - when there’s a sound like a klaxon that comes through the entire compound. Ghost’s shoulders stiffen, head tilted just so. A second alarm repeats through the compound, and he walks away from you without a word.

“What is that?” You ask, jogging to catch up to him. His steps are quick, and it takes the breath away from you to keep up with him.

“They’re back.”

[ilcantodelsoleil]

no powers highschool au satosugu but gojo feels the insane urge to defend bestie geto's honour every time he hears somebody badmouthing him no matter how much of a non-issue it is. because he has no infinity here he is just as susceptible to getting hurt as anyone else and geto tsks at him while he ices gojo's busted lip, chiding him because he can handle himself, but internally he's horribly endeared, thinking about all the ways he could absolutely devour the sulking cutiepie currently pouting on his couch.

gojo would most definitely use his bruised knuckles as an excuse to get geto to hold his hand. "isn't that antithetical to your healing?" "you're holding my HAND, not my KNUCKLES." "okay, but of what benefit is it to you?" "i thought you were a utilitarianist sugu.... c'mon just hold my hand... for the greater good. it'll fix me. You Could Fix Me."

geto gets secret basic first aid lessons from shoko because she got sick of geto's constantly worrying ass bringing gojo into the nurse's office to check for fractures and whatnot post-fights. now he can treat gojo to the best of his ability by himself, carrying around a box of digimon bandaids because gojo always be getting himself into situations fr. sighing exasperatedly when gojo gets minor scrapes and bruises and adamantly raises the site of injury to geto's lips because it's "scientifically proven that kisses heal wounds faster, suguru, why do you hate me, it's just a kiss–"

[outtoshatter]

Inspired (and enabled) by @raisesomehale and her awesome masterlist!

Completed Fics:

Be a Witness [104k, M] Witch!Stiles, Shifter!Derek, magical college, murder mystery No Mercy [64k, M] Royalty AU, King Stiles, Prince Derek, berserker Stiles Fractured Starlight [64k, M] witch!Stiles, amnesia fic, magical town Shifted [48k, M] werewolf Stiles, Hale pack, werewolf violence

Series:

Strange Young World [4 fics, complete, 350k total] magi-nuclear apocalypse au These Ain't Your Momma's Paperbacks [5 unrelated fics, incomplete, 319k total] romance novel based fics, the relationship is the main focus despite other plots within Whereabouts Unknown [2 fics, incomplete, 6k] monster of the week style fics where Derek and Stiles travel around hunting monsters after leaving Beacon Hills

Drabbles:

Sea || 100 words, witch Stiles Pyre || 100 words, werewolf Derek Breath || 100 words, raising the dead Troubled Waters || 100 words, monster of the week Casual [triple drabble] || 300 words, fluff

Event Fics:

Are You Ready? [135k, E] werewolf Derek, vampire hunter!Stiles, vampires are known au Well Traveled [62k, T] faerie shenanigans The Next Chapter [105k, M] bookstore AU, human, alive Hale family The Bright Side of Disaster [5k, T] witch Stiles, magic & werewolves are known, magical farmers market Pulling Strings [53k, M to be safe] horror comedy, BAMF Stiles

One Shots:

A Light for the Dark [3k, T] fairy tale theme Moon Trance [2k, T] monster of the week, pre relationship The Pumpkin King [4k, T] autumn theme, fluff, humor, pumpkin carving Love Don't Lie [2k, T] fake dating, established relationship Keep Moving [10k, T] post Hale fire, Derek & Sheriff friendship

Now with Podfic!:

Cold as Ice [10k, T] witch!Stiles, alive Hale family podfic here! On my Way [17k, T] fluff, snowed in podfic here! Art here! Brave Enough [6k, G] fluff, 5+1 Things, Derek deserves nice things podfic here! Forward Motion [9k, T] witches are known, magic shop, meet cute podfic here! Figure it Out [5k, T] cursed Derek, humor podfic here!

Originals:

A World on its Knees [1k, T] soft and quiet, apocalypse, witches, fantasy Alone They Fought the Devil [3k, T] demonic entities, fantasy world, magic, witches!

all of these are also on my ao3 page, plus the ones I couldn't fit on the list!

[gilly-moon]

For blackice specifically, might ask for:

47, 61, 72, or 84?

~harley

Hehe thank you for all the prompts!! This one's an AU where Jack remains stuck in the ravine in Antarctica, leaving the Guardians to fight Pitch alone.

⟡

61 : “I must admit, it would’ve been easier to get rid of you if you weren’t so beautiful.”

The stars had all been swallowed up.

A heavy blanket had been pulled over the world, manufacturing an unending night that even the moon was unable to illuminate. The empty stillness provided false comfort that let Jack forget about where he was and what he’d done. Darkness was the only forgiving thing around him.

Fingers wrapping one by one around a shard of ice, he tried to remember what it felt like to hold his staff. To be powerful. How long had he been stuck in this ravine, anyway? How many weeks since Pitch had flung him down here, taking the broken staff and box of teeth with him? It was probably in pieces somewhere now, buried in the earth or floating across the seven seas.

He squeezed the ice, and it glowed faintly with the last remnants of his power. Only the corner of the ravine he was curled in was visible by its light.

Baby Tooth had left him on his insistence that first day he was trapped down here. At least one of them could go to the Guardians and try to help. He hadn’t seen her since, and two days after she left, the sky had gone permanently dark. There was no way of knowing for sure what had happened, but he could assume. The despair was gnawing at his gut like maggots.

“Have you reconsidered your answer?”

The ice in his grip flared with blue light as anger rose into Jack’s throat, freezing the space behind his eyes until it burned.

“Leave me alone,” he grit out through clenched teeth.

Pitch paid him no mind, stepping close enough that the base of his robe was illuminated by the small circle of light around Jack.

“Pity,” Pitch sighed. “A little cold is all I need to make this new world perfect.”

“I thought you wanted me to be alone.” Jack glared up into the gloom, catching only the hint of a sharp jawline and two glowing eyes of silver. Everything else was darkness.

“For a time, perhaps. But now that this world is mine -”

“NO.”

Jack shot to his feet. He couldn’t escape this ravine - he’d already tried until his fingers and toes were bloody and raw - but he turned and walked for the other end of the narrow space in an attempt to at least put some distance between them.

He’d barely taken two steps before a hand lashed out from the shadows before him, grabbing him by the hoodie and slamming his back into the nearest wall. A web of cracks spread over its surface. His ribs ached from the impact, the glowing piece of ice falling from his hand and flickering out as he reached up to try and claw the hand off of him.

“Always so feisty,” Pitch muttered, almost as if to himself.

A second hand appeared at Jack’s neck, closing around it and pressing dangerously against his windpipe. Instinctively, he sucked in a breath, feet kicking out at empty air.

“In that regard, I suppose you and the Guardians really were alike. I almost regret that their fires weren’t burning as brightly that night after I left you here.”

Some of the fight drained from Jack’s limbs. A weak noise rasped out of him, mind running wild with images of the Guardians, falling one after the other to Pitch’s scythe. He thought of Baby Tooth, and his thoughts fractured apart, refusing to believe it.

“Everything’s gone so smoothly with all of you out of the way. Although…I must admit, Jack.”

Warmth closed in on Jack, trapping him against the wall as Pitch lined up their bodies to hold him in place.

“It would’ve been easier to get rid of you as well if you weren’t so beautiful.”

“Shut up,” Jack hissed, skin crawling from the supposed compliment.

Condensation was already forming against his brow from their proximity. The hand on his throat and the warm breath against his ear sent shivers down to his toes. He’d never known anyone who ran so hot that he actually felt like he might melt. He felt sick.

“There are other ways I could persuade you,” Pitch whispered against his skin. “Would you like to know how?”

I hate you, Jack thought desperately, but the words couldn’t get past his throat. In a last ditch effort, he tugged at the core of ice inside him, begging it to respond even without the staff to channel it. Ice crackled out along Pitch’s arm where his hands still rested, but Pitch merely released an amused chuckle at the pitiful defense.

“This was never your fight, Jack.”

But Jack had fought anyway. And like everything else, he’d screwed it up. Now there was no more Baby Tooth. No box of memories. No Guardians, and it was all his fault.

Pitch had been right all along.

“But we could be your future,” Pitch murmured, his threatening grip shifting into a warm embrace.

Jack’s hands fell limp to his sides, and he let the darkness consume him whole.

[theprophetsayeth]

More ideas to my batman AU The Devil in the Knight

A different take on the Joker's backstory.

rough draft

Jason Todd's first night out as the official robin.

Shots were reported around the recently shut down Ace Chemical Factory. Robin is the first at the scene and finds five gunmen chasing after man known as The Red Hood. The Batman and Nightwing aren't responding to back up. Robin is wounded and is cornered by three while the other two chase The Red Hood. Batman and Nightwing arrive in time to save Robin and took the fire away from him. While Batman and Nightwing handled the three gunmen, Robin ran toward the ditch behind the factory where the shots and cries came. The shots went quiet, and Robin thought the worst. However, when he stepped outside in the pouring rain, he discovered the horror of Gotham. The Red Hood had been caught between the overflowed river and the two other gunmen. And instead of shooting him dead, they traded their guns for a crowbar and pipe and beat him into begging. Robin threw a birdarang. It blitzed past one of their ears, catching their attention.

The gunman turned, shot, then saw The Batman and Nightwing approach behind Robin. "Fun time's over, Jack. Let's go." The one with the crowbar pulled off The Red Hood's fractured helmet and-

Bang! Bang!

The man fell into the overflowed ditch. The gunmen fired at The Bat and the birds in their flee. A hand breached out the raging water but Batman and Nightwing didn't notice and went on the pursuit. Robin froze, caught between saving a dead man and punishing the weak. To be a hero or a soldier. The hand reached out again. Jason wanted to save people. That's what heroes do. He dove into the black water. Ignored the eating sting. He swam through filth and murk and reached into Tartarus to catch the sinking man. One armed, with all his little might, he pulled the man toward the breaking moonlight. A hand swooped from the surface and hauled Robin and the man from the water.

But there was no glory in the rescue. Only more horror as the blood drowned the man's cries. His jaw leaned to the side like a drooling red sock. His brains dribbled and his contorted body sizzled white. Robin didn't know what to do. He tried to put a hand over the spilling head, but the man cried hell at a feather's touch. He then took his cape to cover him but remember the sensitivity of his skin. He could only watch and listen to the man howl.

Nightwing returned. The dynamic duo acted. They set the now John Doe into the batmobile while Robin watched and listened. They shot through Gotham to the only Doctor that could save John Doe's life.

"Kill me! Kill ME! It hurts! Please, kill me! Kill me!" John Doe screeched and thrashed all the way there. Robin could only watch and listen despite his eyes closed and Nightwing covering his ears. While Batman stared ahead, unphased, and unsympathetic to his tears.

Ivy's Account

The idea here is Joker taking Ivy hostage as blackmail to get Harley to return something he needed. As they wait for her, and unable to brush him off as usual, Ivy begins to get a heavy sense she and Joker may have met before. She listened to his rhythmical rambles, caught the tune he whistled, and the beat he snapped too. Then he sang and she remembered that night at the Ice Lounge in her partying days.

~

She stood at the bar, eyeing for a pretty cat, when the room darkened and a tall, dark, and handsome boy stepped out on stage. He stunned the crowd when he spoke, a voice so deep and rich it could swoon the angels. He introduced himself by his stage name, Johnny B. Robberts, then sang a ballad of his talent in blues:

Down in the bayou, where the river runs deep, Lived a young boy with dreams, while the gators sleep. He had a voice so pure, like the angels on high, Said goodbye to his mama, with a tear in her eye.

Chorus Oh, he sang with a heart full of fire, Dreaming of Gotham, rising higher and higher. But the Devil heard his song, and he started to scheme, Offered him stardom, in exchange for his dream.

Verse 2 He took a train to Gotham, where the lights shine bright, With his old guitar, and a heart full of fight. On the streets, he sang, caught everyone's ear, But in the shadows, the Devil drew near.

Chorus Oh, he sang with a heart full of fire, Dreaming of Gotham, rising higher and higher. But the Devil heard his song, and he started to scheme, Offered him stardom, in exchange for his dream.

Bridge The Devil whispered softly, "Son, I'll make you a star, You'll have the world at your feet, you'll go far. But when your song is done, and the curtain falls, Your soul will be mine, in the dark, fiery halls."

Verse 3 He sang on every stage, from the big city to the sea, But his heart grew heavy, with what his fate would be. He knew he made a deal, that he couldn't outrun, For when the music stopped, his soul would be done.

Chorus Oh, he sang with a heart full of fire, Dreaming of Gotham, rising higher and higher. But the Devil heard his song, and he started to scheme, Offered him stardom, in exchange for his dream.

Outro Now the bayou whispers of a boy with a song, Who danced with the Devil, and sang all night long. In the depths of hell, where the flames burn bright, You can hear him singin', every lonely night.

Chorus Oh, he sang with a heart full of fire, Dreaming of Gotham, rising higher and higher. But the Devil heard his song, and he started to scheme, Offered him stardom, in exchange for his dream.

Outro In the bayou nights, you can still hear the sound, Of a young boy's dream, now hell bound. With a voice so pure, and a heart so true, Singing forever, in the Devil's blues.

The boy bowed and thanked the cheering crowd. He stepped off the stage and joined The Great and Powerful Oz in his booth. They spoke long and a lot. Then the boy excused himself for a drink. As he waited, Pamela asked, "Did you really make a deal with the devil?"

The boy smiled, "The Devil has always been a sneaky one. He takes the form of many and plays with words with double meanings. But dreams do come at a price."

Pamela recognized that smile well. A smile she put on herself from time to time when things seemed rough. She took his hand and looked into his green eyes. "You're going to be a star, Johnny B. Robberts. With a God-given voice like yours, who needs the devil's help? The Devil only schemes when he's beat."

The bartender came with the boy's drink. The boy took it and smiled at Pamela. A genuine smile with eyes gleaming with new hope. He asked, "What's your name, miss?"

"Pamela Isley."

"Beautiful name. It was nice to meet you, Pamela Isely. Would you like to join me in toasting my name?"

"Of course," she said and raised her glass to meet his. "To Johnny-"

"That's just a stage name. I'd like friends to call me by my real name-"

~

"Jack," Ivy whispered.

Joker paused his whistle. It was the voice he heard before he came to the cruel world. All this time, he wondered why the voice sounded so familiar. He turned and somewhere in the depths of his ever-changing mind, he recognized her face while she knew his. Then he saw her eyes and the disappointment they conveyed. It hurt to see yet he didn't know why.

"Alright, here is your goddam radio!" Harley grunted through the doors, hauling a big radio box. She pushed and pushed until the radio was standing in front of Joker and Ivy. She panted, swiping off the sweat from her forehead. "Gee, what a way to treat a gal."

"I'm treating you by not sending you her head with her middle finger on top!" He shoved past her and inspected his radio box. "Goddam it! You changed the station! You know how hard it is to find the right frequency for the GCPD!"

"Oh my god, I'll find it for you if it'll shut you up!" Harley growled as she untied Poison Ivy.

After being untied, and after two hours of Harley searching for the right frequency, Joker let them go. Poison Ivy stopped at the door and gave Joker one last disappointed look.

"What?" said Joker.

And her words left him cold.

"You were going to be a star."

She joined Harley and off they went. Joker stood there a moment, watching the car screech into a dot in the distance. Her words rang in his madhouse engulfed by his nefarious schemes. They echoed loud. She sounded proud. But now... Joker went to the radio and changed the station then stopped at the crackling sound of a guitar. He sat and listened, muttering unheard songs to the melody.

a little note on Harley, she's undiagnosed and suffers from Anti-social Personality Disorder. She grows an obsession over the Joker as a project that would finally have her recognized. She throws herself into the chemicals to gain a better understanding of Joker when her thesis is proven wrong.