They live apart three-quarters of the year, their physical sex life is basically nonexistent, so Jack and Bitty have a lot of pent up energy and bring all of their problems to the ice because where else are they going to hash things out? It’s a good thing they don’t play each other often, because every Falconers v. Schooners game is a nightmare of awkward chirps, agressive hugging and sexual innuendo. It’s like the worst form of couples therapy imaginable. ESPN stops putting mics on them because they can’t edit enough out to make it appropriate.
Bitty skates by, obviously furious at the call, but instead of turning on the linesman he hones in on Jack, snarling, “Seriously, a Ferrari? Trying to score some 80s side-action? I thought your whole thing was proving you aren’t your father.”
Bitty gets right up against him, pressing in tight but not moving to drop his gloves or grab at Jack’s jersey. They both know exactly what this is, and Jack pushes down the reflexive spike of want, grinning around his mouth guard.
“That’s rich coming from you – could you have purchased larger truck? Compensating for something, Itty Bitty?”
Bitty spits out his mouth guard. “After we kick your fucking ass, I’m going to take you home and remind you how ‘itty bitty’ I am.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time–”
“Enough. Save foreplay for bedroom.” Tater groans, yanking Jack away from his husband.
Jack yells, “Are we still fighting?”
“Yes!” Bitty shouts, skating backwards to his own bench. “I hate your new publicist and fuck you for approving that photo where it looks like I have two chins.”
“Fight or fuck. You do neither and ruin both.” Tater mutters over the roar of the crowd. “How you married I do not understand.”
“We only play each other a few times a year. If we get all the tough shit out when we play, we can leave it on the ice.”
From across the ice, Bitty mouths ‘love you’ and Jack blows a kiss in return. Tater gags loudly.
“That is not what ‘leave it on the ice’ supposed to mean, Zimmboni.”
He doesn’t answer him, typing away at his keyboard in a way that’s visibly agitated, or at least irritable. What are normally soft, smooth clicks against the mac’s surface are now harsh, broken-sounding; each near-slam of his slim fingers makes a sharp clack in the quiet of the haus’ living room.
“Nursey,” Jack says again.
The continued silence makes it clear that he’s being ignored. Inwardly, he sighs.
“Twenty-eight, your captain is talking to you. Answer, now.”
At this, the typing stops. Nurse looks up at him, slowly, and his face is so uncomfortably nondescript and blank that Jack cringes a little inside of himself.
Nursey hadn’t prepared for how weird this would feel. He
only played with Jack for one year, after all. He shouldn’t be that weirded out by seeing him across
the ice during warm-ups. He is, though, and he’s not quite sure why. Maybe
it’s because Jack was his first real captain, or maybe Jack had pretty much
become synonymous with NHL for Nursey
these past three years. Like playing Jack makes it official, like he’s really in the big leagues now.
He’s more nervous than he’d like to admit.
Jack talks to him a little during warm-ups, both of them
standing at center ice. It’s mostly terrible chirps on Jack’s end and then a
weird, tense moment where Jack had said “Welcome to the show, Nursey,” and
patted him on the back and Nursey had to remember that he’s not supposed to cry
on the ice, especially before the game even starts.
Summary: After being forced to shovel snow all morning a hot shower, massage and cuddles with Bucky sounds like possibly one of the best things on the planet.
A/N: Been having trouble getting writing out recently but @harleyqueen7 posted asking someone to write something like this and I was really feeling it so here you go! I hope you enjoy and feel better, love <3
Word Count: 1624 Warnings: none
You wanted to kill Tony Stark. Usually you adored the man, but his constant and unnecessary tinkering with his machines practically drove you insane. Especially during moments like these.
A few days ago, he’d taken it upon himself to reconfigure the landing pad heating and de-icing systems. Of course, you hadn’t realized that it was broken until today. Over three feet of snow had piled up on the surface and with only an hour before the team arrived back from their mission, you were left to clear it up all on your own.
You sighed, cursing under your breath as you dragged the large heavy shovel out into the cold.
With how little time you had, you focused on clearing the landing pad and a small path leading to and from the tower. That alone took an entire hour and as you leaned against the shovel in defeat you could see the quinjet beginning to appear through the thick clouds.
You took a step back, watching in exhaustion as it settled on the landing pad and the engines came to a halt. The snow was Tony’s problem now.
The doors slid open and you greeted the team as they piled out. Despite the dried blood and dust coating their bodies, they were all smiles.
-You live in the
United States ten months in a year. What do
you miss most about Russia?
- It used
to be difficult, my parents did not visit
that much. And now I’m comfortable, all who are
close and dear to me often visit Pittsburgh. I don’t worry about food, I’m not
fussy. What I miss the most is the Russian banya (sauna). Whenever I arrive in Moscow, I immediately go to
“Sanduny”. I like to hang out with
friends, sometimes in nightclubs too. You get tired of a year of matches and flights across the America, so you need some
time to relax.
I love the idea that a fey, unearthly Eric Bittle would skate because he has an affinity for ice, but have we considered the possibility that it might be metal? Like, skate blades and kitchen knives provide that little extension where he can stretch out his senses and brush against that endless stream of magic. You know that ‘satisfying feelings’ montage? Where people sink their hands into bags of beans or crack creme brûlée? That’s how Bitty feels when his skates cut into ice or when he slices apples.
(And then there’s a dark converse that he’s always got to be alert for, because he is a dangerous creature at his heart, where he longs for the metallic tang of blood freshly let by flashing blade, or a split lip from dropped gloves)
But he smiles and is kind like he was taught, and his teeth flash bright.
was close, 13—11, but the Foxes came out on top. Neil could hear the team
running to dog pile in the middle of the court, Matt dead center. Neil half
jogged toward them and stopped halfway to look back at Andrew in the goal. The
goal dwarfed him. His racquet was propped up in the crook of his arm, while he
pulled off his gloves. Something squeezed Neil’s chest tight when he saw Andrew
standing there in the goal with his racquet that was longer than he was tall.
Andrew dropped the gloves to his feet and Neil’s feet started carrying him
fingers were short and boxy, and he had calluses from holding his pens wrong.
His nails were probably bitten too short and his nail beds were more than
likely bloody on at least three of his fingers. His left index finger had a
burn scar that licked up the side, and he had a deep scar on his right thumb
from where he had accidentally grated it when he was younger. His palms were
wide and covered in calluses from lifting weights. Andrew’s knuckles were
chapped and split from a rough sparring session with Renee. Neil was a little
obsessed with Andrew’s hands; they were always firm but never restraining.
Andrew’s touch was insistent but gentle, and Neil loved the way Andrew’s rough
hands dragged across his skin. Andrew’s skin was so pale that it was easy to
trace his veins from his left hand to his heart. Neil liked to twist Andrew’s
hand so his arm showed the bright blue line that poked out of his armbands and
twisted to his chest.
Neil was a
short five feet away when Andrew fumbled for the strap on his helmet. Andrew
looked less tiny at a closer distance, but his goalie shorts did nothing to
accentuate his height. They dwarfed his short legs and he wore them higher than
he needed so his torso looked comically small with his jersey stuffed into the
waistband. Neil didn’t know whether to laugh or cry because Andrew was so small
and perfect. Bright orange was definitely not
his color, but Neil loved the look of him in it because bright orange had
started to symbolize family to Neil. Andrew
finished taking off his helmet and raised one eyebrow. Neil’s heart felt like
it was going to beat out of his chest. Andrew looked so good.
Neil replied, grinning, making Andrew to roll his eyes. Andrew’s face was red
from the heat of the game. Neil had asked him to close out the goal and Andrew
had delivered in a way that impressed not only Neil; he had also impressed
professional scouts. Neil felt resplendent.
a wicked case of helmet hair. It was partly tamed by the thick, black bandana
Neil had wrapped around his forehead. Neil had to smile at the look of the
white blonde hair flopping down onto the bandana. Neil liked to stand close
enough to Andrew to see the faint smattering of freckles that spread across his
nose and cheeks, where the sun affected him the most. They would become more
prominent in the summer when they went back to Columbia and if Andrew was in a
particularly accommodating mood he would let Neil sit knee to knee with him and
take a felt tip marker and connect the freckles on his shoulder. And in return
Andrew would write in boxy Cyrillic across Neil’s back to practice his Russian.
For the first time Neil wasn’t running and looking for the next place to hide,
he was looking forward to spending summer in Columbia with Andrew. He was
I hate when you look at me like that.”
know. Just as much as you hate me right?” Neil said.
eyes narrowed to slits, eyebrows slanted on top of them. Neil wanted to pat
Andrew’s hair back into place. His fingers were itching to slide through
Andrew’s sweaty locks. “Can I touch your hair? Yes or no?”
not…it’s not a not ever, it’s a not when you should be celebrating. It’s a
later,” Andrew clarified. Neil nodded and grinned before running over to the
rest of his teammates.
Sometimes Kent just shouldn’t say words. When he runs into a gaggle of Falconers out on an early morning jog, his only excuse for how he reacts is the lingering annoyance of yesterday’s loss and the fact that he still hasn’t had any coffee.
“Fuck you,” he says to Jack.
“Fuck you,” to St. Martin.
“Fuck you,” to Robinson.
“Fuck me,” to Mashkov, because goddamn.
And of course, “Fuck you,” to Goalie, so he doesn’t feel left out.
And then Kent goes on his way, only to have Mashkov catch up to him ten seconds later with a friendly, “Maybe you don’t hear me? I’m say okay, I fuck you.”
Before Kent can get out the words, It wasn’t an invitation!, Mashkov continues, “How far you run?”
“Now? Two k. I’m doing a five k total.”
“Ha, I am on four. I do last three k with you, is okay?”
Kent doesn’t know what’s happening. “Sure. If you want?”
It appears that Mashkov does want, because he runs Kent’s last three kilometers with him, doing fartleks and keeping up with Kent’s pace for a negative split at the finish. They walk half a kilometer for a cooldown and end up near Kent’s hotel.
“You are hungry?” Mashkov asks. “I know best sandwich shop in Providence, is very close from here.”
Kent looks down the road at his hotel, and then back. “You want to get lunch? Now?”
“Yes,” Mashkov replies. “Unless you don’t want?”
Kent jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the hotel. ”I was under the impression you followed me for different reasons. Like, dirty sex in my hotel room reasons.” Even though, I reiterate, it was not an invitation.
Mashkov scoffs. “I’m just go on run. I’m hungry. I don’t fuck on empty stomach.”
“Lunch first, fucking after?”
“Yes. Come on, shop is this way.” He waves for Kent to follow, and Kent does. “Also,” Mashkov adds, “I am pay for food. So you don’t say later I am cheap date.”
Kent barks a laugh. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do my best to put a dent in your wallet.”
“Good.” Mashkov’s smile is as bright as the damn early morning sun. “Is funny how life work, you know? Yesterday I’m dropping gloves for mess up your face, and today you ask for me to fuck you silly. Is funny, I’m never guess this is how today will go.”
Kent had not in fact meant to ask Alexei Mashkov to fuck him silly, but fuck it, it’s a new day and Mashkov is hot and Kent is starting to look forward to it. Plus, Mashkov is going to treat him to lunch. “You and me both, man,” Kent replies.
(Lunch is great. Mashkov’s right, it’s the best sandwich shop in the city. Possibly the country.)
(They go to Kent’s hotel afterwards and Mashkov does, in fact, fuck Kent silly. He also sneaks out while Kent’s in the shower, but not before leaving a note on the pillow with his phone number and a series of smilie faces. Kent takes a selfie of the hickeys blooming on his chest and sends it, along with the text, fuck me, you animal.
Keith unintentionally spies on Lance in the training room … (Fifth and Final Part)
… where the Blue Paladin is kicking ass. And Keith’s kind of mesmerized by it. Then he’s more than mesmerized — he’s freaking out because he’s actually kinda sorta into this brutally efficient soldier version of Lance.
Keith lets go of Lance’s hand, but only so he can wrap his arms around the Blue Paladin’s waist, reeling him in until there is no space between them.
Lance’s anxious expression begins to shift — confused wariness takes its place, then he seems to soften into pleased surprise. His arms come up hesitatingly, embracing Keith lightly in return.
Keith knows the other boy is going to say something soon, so Keith speaks quickly, “Is this sign clear enough for you? And if it’s not, can I do something else to make it … clearer?”
This has gone from zero to light-speed, and Keith has no freaking clue what he’s doing, only that he’s tired of fighting himself, and if his impulses are leading him down this road, then he might as well as follow — those same instincts have saved his skin in battle time and time again, so why ignore them?
“What are you …” Lance’s voice cracks. He looks horrified by this for a split second, but he pushes on regardless. “What kind of thing could makes this any more obvious? You’re into me. Oh wow, I just said that out loud and it doesn’t sound real. Keith, seriously, for how long —”
“Literally for the amount of time it took you to beat my time in this sim, plus you stripping off your top armour, and, uh, maybe this is the wrong thing to say?” Keith recalls Lance’s burst of sincerity, the way he spoke about Keith with admiration colouring every word. “I swear it’s not just your looks —”
“Are you worrying about objectifying me?” Lance laughs. “Dude, be as into my looks as you want. Me being all badass and stuff — that works for you? Good, since when you pull off a crazy stunt in your Lion, or on the ground, I kinda want to make out with you immediately after.”
“Since when?” Keith demands. How long has Lance been wanting to kiss him? Why didn’t he say so sooner? Actually, forget that second point — if Lance hadn’t said anything about Keith’s weird sudden hand holding, Keith probably would have pretended nothing was happening and gone on with business as usual.
“Uh, I’m not going to disclose that information. But I did just tell you that I didn’t realize I wanted more than making out until … yesterday.” Lance’s face falls a little, and Keith feels the slice of the blade into his back again. He vaguely remembers the screams of his fellow Paladins, and he tries to pick out Lance’s in particular — a desperate, rasping cry.
But no, not now, it doesn’t matter — he’s healed, and he’s here, in Lance’s arms, and this is a pretty amazing turn of events even if they happened faster than he can comprehend.
He grins a bit, trying for a lighter tone to bring the smile back to Lance’s face. “Your exact words were ‘head over heels’ and doesn’t that … that means you —”
“Hey, remember when you said you wanted to make things clearer for me?” Lance asks, sounding bright again, and somehow he manages to press in even closer — if there had been an infinitesimal amount of air between their bodies, it’s gone now. Their noses are brushing when Lance murmurs, “Wanna maybe do that now?”
There’s a note of challenge in Lance’s tone, and if there’s one thing Keith has never been able to resist in Lance, it’s the way he challenges Keith.
And so he smiles sharply, which Lance probably can’t see since his eyes are directly in front of his, and nods. “Stop me if this isn’t what you mean.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure it’s —”
And Keith presses his lips to that loudmouth.
His eyes fall shut after Lance’s lids flutter closed. The way Lance breathes out slightly through his nose, and then tilts his head so he can kiss more thoroughly — that breaks something in Keith. Specifically, the something that would have kept him silent about his newly discovered feelings. Keith’s arms tighten around Lance, and he decides to put his very limited kissing skills to the test as he parts his lips.
Lance makes a shocked little noise that Keith feels the vibration of, and then things get hazy.
All Keith knows is that somehow, Lance is against a wall now, his still-armoured legs are wrapped around Keith’s waist, and Keith is gripping his thighs to hold him up, and was this actually happening right now? What was his life even like before this? He hadn’t even known this was a possibility until two minutes ago.
Their mouths have barely parted except to gasp and then go back for more, and really, even though he’d banished the morbid thoughts from his brain (actually, most kinds of thinking were gone, away, on vacation, maybe never to return), he did have a fleeting impression of gratitude for not dying yesterday. Imagine never getting to have this thing that he hadn’t even known he’d wanted?
“Hm, Keith?” Lance breathes out when Keith has pulled away to inhale more deeply. “This is awesome, but, wow, uh, I’m sort of having trouble with reality right now. Could you just … say what you’re thinking so I know you’re not some weird fever dream brought on by hardcore training?”
“Can we train together next time?” Keith says instantly. “Running a few sims with you would be … cool. And we should totally come up with some programs together — we’d be unstoppable, with your sharpshooting skills, and then my melee —”
Lance dives in for another kiss — it’s almost ferocious, sucking the air from Keith’s lungs. When he retreats, Keith is left gaping, and Lance is grinning widely. “Yeah, that’s you all right. Wow, dude, your soldier brain is just never allowed to take a break, huh?”
“I wasn’t thinking anything until you asked me to talk,” Keith complains somewhat petulantly. “And why are we talking again?”
“You’re so right, except, no, wait —” Lance lets Keith interrupt him, but he ends the next round of kissing far too quickly, yanking his face back, nearly smashing his head into the wall. “Keith, I am so gross right now. My pores are screaming for relief, so let’s, ah, go our separate ways for cleaning purposes, and reconvene in the kitchen? Food would be good.”
“Right, you’re right,” Keith agrees hoarsely. He eases Lance’s legs back down to the floor.
They stare at each other for untold moments. It’s Lance who breaks the stalemate, reaching over to shove Keith gently. “Let’s say dinner in an hour. First date?”
He sounds and looks a touch anxious again, but his eyes are bright, his lips are painfully red, and he waggles his eyebrows with no shame whatsoever.
Keith walks over to where Lance had dropped his gloves, vambraces, and chest plate. When he hands them back to the Blue Paladin, who had been shuffling on his feet nervously, he says, “Okay. Sounds good.”
Lance’s relieved smile is making Keith feel more things. He lets that happen and it’s so easy, so ridiculously nice, that he sort of hates himself for being such a repressed jerk earlier, even if it was only briefly.
“Great, yes, okay, I’m … gonna go now. You, you don’t train. It’s only an hour. Take a shower, get my sweat off you … oh wow, that sounds … Crap. Okay, bye now, see you in the kitchen and please forget the last ten seconds, thanks.” Lance scurries off, but he still manages to get one last word in as he hits the door. He whips around and shoots Keith a confident little smirk.
“Remember, you have my permission to be all about my looks on occasion. Such as while you shower?”
And then he’s gone. Keith stands there, and he doesn’t even attempt to reason out what the hell just happened. He doesn’t try to rewind time and pinpoint the exact moment when this all spiraled out of control.
Instead, he nods to himself, licking his lips and feeling a smile, soft and happy, form afterwards. And he decides that just maybe, as he heads to his room, this won’t be a total disaster.
And even if it is, it may be the best disaster Keith’s ever been a part of.
Author’s note: And done — sort of ;) I’m gonna add a small epilogue — but it won’t be here.
I’ll group all the parts together, plus the epilogue, as a one-shot, and post it on my AO3 some time soon, hopefully.
Whether or not you join me there, many thanks to all of you that followed this story! *hugs*
Nursey is a professional hockey player. He has been skating almost as long as he’s been walking, and he doesn’t remember a time before he was playing hockey. He’s won a Stanley Cup. He’s won a fucking gold medal. He has an A on his jersey. He’s played a lot of hockey, is the point.
He should be essentially immune to hockey-related boners.
He shouldn’t be turned on by the smear of blood on knuckles. His breath shouldn’t hitch at the sight of a split lip. He shouldn’t squirm in his stall as he replays the memory of gloves dropping and fists flying.
Or maybe he should, considering the blood is covering up a pattern of freckles he knows too well, and the lip that’s split has been pressed against his neck too many times to count. It’s okay, he thinks, because the gloves that were dropped belong to his husband, and it’s okay to have husband-related boners.
It’s especially okay to have hockey-husband-related boners when your husband was fighting for you.
“My enforcer,” Nursey coos when he comes into the locker room, smiling at Dex sitting in his stall, pressing a bloodied rag to his lip. He can joke through the locker room and the media scrum until he can get Dex home behind a locked door.
“Prince Charming, over here,” Rhino laughs, hitting Dex in the shin when he passes. “You can tell Poindexter that he’s a scumbag and that a PeeWee could out-stickhandle him and he’ll take it with a smile, but tell him his husband’s not the prettiest person you’ve ever laid eyes on, and the motherfucker will rock your shit.”
“No fucking way you fought for this non,” Jase laughs, shoving a hand in Nursey’s face. Nursey’s happy that Jase is partaking in the chirping. Rookies being scared of Dex only inflates Dex’s ego.
“He had to defend my honor!” Nursey shouts. “What was it he called me, Dexy?”
“Twinkle-toes,” Dex admits, shrugging because at this point he accepts the chirping instead of fighting it.
The room explodes. It’s a good cover for the way Nursey can’t keep his eyes off the smear of blood on the shoulder of Dex’s jersey.
“Later,” Nursey whispers once the noise and attention has died down, “I’m going to thank you properly.”
Ok anon I wanted to do Auston, but he just doesn’t seem like
the type… so you got Tom instead! Hope you guys like this one! Enjoy!
Warning: Fight, cusses
Anon Request: hi i love your stories💓
if requests are still open could you do a tyler seguin one where like another
hockey player starts hitting on you and he gets jealous and during the game they
get into a scuffle? maybe the other guy could be auston matthews? tom wilson?
leaning against the wall, waiting for your boyfriend to come meet you before
the game. It was part of his game day routine and one you were happy to partake
Can you do one where you’re Mitch’s twin sis and like you’re at a game ‘cause you live in Toronto and Auston gets really hurt and Mitch gets attacked trying to defend him from more attacks and they have to get both boys off the ice (Mitch can still walk but Auston has to be carried) and you race there trying to find out if your brother is okay and Auston pretty much confesses his love for you to everyone in the room without realizing it because he’s pretty much knocked out? PRETTY PLEASE THANKS
You guys always have the best prompts and I love it !
Auston is a meme and I had to stop myself from writing ‘cash me outside howbow dah’
This took so long and i couldn’t figure out how to write the important bit.
Also focuses more on mitch than auston im sorry but sibling relationships are really important to me.
Pre-writing note: I bet this is gonna make me cry
Song suggestion of the day: Life worth living by Laurel
Warnings: I got no brothers but my cousin has acted as a stand in and I’ve been traumatised beyond belief so i think im good. He’s an embarrassment. LANGUAGE WARNING (its not that bad idk why i put it in caps).
“…and if someone in a Canucks jersey tries to talk to you, punch them.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief as you glanced across the living room at Auston Matthews, who was watching the exchange with an amused expression. “Mitchell, you’re only older by three minutes, stop trying to act like Chris.” you retorted indignantly, turning your attention back to your twin brother who was clattering around behind you in the kitchen.
“Well, in his absence his solemn duty, to protect you from all harm, now falls to me.” Mitch stated, a matter-of-factly as he walked into the room and plonked himself down beside you. Okay, you hadn’t been to a game in a little while, not everyone can have their dream job (or unlimited time off). That said, It wasn’t like you’d never been to a hockey game, you’d probably disowned (at least by your brothers) if you hadn’t. Still, Mitch was being a pain by trying to be overprotective and you hadn’t even left the house yet.
“That is not Chris’ job. At least he knows I can look after myself.” you muttered, throwing your legs over Mitch’s lap as you leaned back on the arm of the couch, watching him struggle with his tie.
“I’m being caring and brotherly.” Mitch whined, as you finally relented, sitting up to help him fix his tie.
“It’s a hockey game not a bar fight.” you retorted, glancing over at the only american in the room, yet again. “Auston, back me up here.”
“No, no, no. Illegal move. He’s my friend, you can’t use him against me.” Mitch protested indignantly.
“So I can’t be friends with Auston because you’re friends with him?” you retorted. “Sharing is caring, Mitch. Besides, your advice is stupid. I’d probably get more hurt than the person I was punching. It’s the easiest way to break your hand, you know.”
Mitch made a face. “You get my point though.”
You had to refrain from rolling your eyes again. “Well, Vancouver wouldn’t be so riled up if you would just shut your damn mouth sometimes.” you retorted. Although he was taller than you (just), on the ice, your twin brother was both tiny and annoying. He was also very good but there was no way you were telling him anything of the sort.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Mitch laughed.
“The fun is not getting ten million phone calls from mum every time someone tries to fight you.” you replied, with a hint of annoyance. Truthfully you were more worried than annoyed. Mitch might be a pain but if anyone so much as yelled at him, you were prepared to fight them yourself.
“Not my problem.” he teased, but sobered up under your frown. “Don’t worry, that’s why I’m friends with this guy.” he patted leaned across to Auston’s knee. “he has a scary war face. I saw it one time when we played the ‘yotes” Mitch faked a shudder. “I didn’t sleep for a week.” Auston shoved mitch lightly at that.
you rolled your eyes. “Auston’s the possibly one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met, he couldn’t hurt a fly.” You glanced at Auston. “No offence?”
Auston shrugged and shook his head lightly, his cheeks tinted a light pink shade. “None taken.” Mitch laughed at this,waggling his eyebrows and making you elbow his ribs.
you nodded appreciatively at Auston. “Also, do not fight anyone for him.” you warned, glaring at your brother.
Mitch shook his head. “Stop being annoying. We’ll be fine. Now where’s your jersey?” he demanded.
“Right next to you, doofus. Are we going or not?” you replied.
hey! Could you maybe write one with William Nylander where you act like you hate each other but you’re actually in love with each other and too afraid to admit it? Thanks!!💕 (you’re such an amazing writer btw)
Could you do #3 with William nylander please ❤
#3: “Come with me to the other room.” - “We’re not going to talk about this now.”
Word count: 1226
You don’t hate people.
Growing up, your parents always taught you that you never hated people, you just strongly disliked them. You took their advice; at least, you took their advice until you met William.
From the very moment that you had laid eyes on William, you had thought that he was really cute. Sydney Esiason, your best friend and the reason you were at the Leafs event in the first place, immediately started heckling you when she saw your face go bright red. When you had finally gotten up the courage to talk to William, though, things took a turn south.
William Nylander was a jerk. You hadn’t expected him to make a face when he saw you and comment about how it didn’t surprise him that Sydney had brought one of her puck bunny friends along. From there, the two of you had just gotten along swimmingly. Between the dirty looks thrown between each other to the little jabs about anything having to do with your ‘enemy,; you could say with ease that you hated William Nylander.
You still couldn’t manage to get over your crush on him, though. When he would glare at you, you couldn’t help but to notice how pretty his eyes are. Everytime he would get into an argument with you, his voice would send chills through you. However hard you tried to hate him, you also loved him, just a little bit.
Tony Stark wasn’t used to being told no. It would happen from
time to time, of course, but it made it no less tolerable with each time; in
fact, this time was quickly becoming his final straw as he stared back at the
Emergency Room receptionist like she was an alien with three heads, speaking in
a language that he couldn’t quite understand.
“Do you know who I am?”
Anonymous said: Can you write a zach werenski imagine about anything you want
A/N: so basically i watched the game where zach got injured and then after that i started to watch his highlights and now i’m defs a fan, reagardless i hope you all like this little imagine :) sorry it got pretty long
Word Count: 2,417
It was late into the second period, and time was only ticking by with a single goal lead. The Jackets were playing well but you were biased and your eyes were trained on one number on the ice, the one that matched the number on the jersey that was on your own back. The puck had turned back into the Jackets zone, you watched as Zach went up against Phil Kessel - body in position to block whatever shot was coming for him.