A/N: Wow, so I totally should have done this a long time ago. Apparently I’m under the impression all my works can only be written on my phone. So, the blog is a bit more organized now and the format of my imagines should be a bit neater now. Thank you all so much for the support, happy reading!
Hi love, I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you’d be open to writing a Tangerine fic where he finds out the reader has a crush on him by the way she reacts to his words/pet names & he decides to tell her he feels the same?😭
A/N: OKOKOK I love what you've done here. I was at work when I read this and it sparked an entire idea. I'm thinking this'll be a blurb, though knowing me it'll be an entire story. (Update; did in fact become an entire story.) I did stray a bit from what you asked and I hope that’s alright. Enjoy!
Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of violence, sexual harassment
Summary: Boxer! Tangerine seems to sense his effect on you, and has become increasingly impatient with the gym's creepy regular. (Character are in their 20s btw)
You're re-racking weights when the unwarranted approach occurs.
Spending the summer months working at your Uncle's boxing gym has been a sort of tradition. You practically grew up here. Relishing in the three months spent at his and your Aunt's brownstone since you were in highschool. As the final year of college approaches, the familiar smell of sweat and sound of victimized punching bags was honestly welcoming.
"Need a little help with those, hun?" You tense at the unsurprisingly patronizing tone, facing the stranger who pretends to have not been caught checking you out with a wry smile.
"I've got it. Thanks." You offer your most forced customer service voice, eyes scanning the room for a female comrade or coworker. Unfortunately, the lot of your customers are mid-set, headphones in.
"Awe c'mon." Despite your frame's obvious tensing, the man reaches across and takes the dumbell from your grasp. "They're making you do all the heavy lifting 'round here?"
"Hardly that strenuous." You can't even try to conceal your disdain, though he laughs as if the irritated furrowing of your brows is in jest.
"Didn't know they had such good looking staff round here. I usually go to Golds, but this just might be my new spot." You try not to audibly cringe at the confession. Any half-wit could have guessed this piece of shit regulared Golds.
"Right. I should get back to it, then." You're halfway through turning away to head across the building to find another task when he takes hold of your forearm. Instantly, you're facing him with a deadly expression. Sparing any and all commonalities as you rip your arm from his grasp.
"Easy there." He chuckles as if you're vehemently overreacting in response to a complete fucking stranger touching you. "Maybe I could grab your number? Get a friendly discount on a new membership?"
"They'd be more than happy to help you with that at the front desk."
"For personal reasons, then?" You take a step back when he leans closer, as if the presumptuous prospect is anything less than appalling. Small gasp escaping your lips when your back makes contact with something solid.
"Oi, sorry for the sneak up." You don't even have to turn around before you recognize the voice. The boxer your Uncle introduced you to last summer. A regular at the gym, with an esteemed reputation for winning. You've talked maybe a handful of times, though you've fawned over him with just about half of your coworkers.
Tangerine's at least head taller than you, taking a step back to give you more space. Giving the man behind you a curt head nod before looking to you again, smiling as if he's known you the better half of his life.
"Hate to bother you, love. Locker won't open again, if you can believe it. Bloody thing's been a right pain for the longest time." You catch on immediately, eyes offering a silent load of gratitude as you nod.
"Right. I've been meaning to change it for you." You face the shorter man adorning a buzz cut and obnoxiously small cut-off tee with a tight-lipped smile. "Duty calls. See you around-"
"Mike." He answers, though you hadn't asked. "You'll see me soon."
"Looking forward to it, mate." Tangerine sounds less than pleased, staring the man down with unbridled disgust before side-stepping and allowing you to pass. The pair of you headed toward the lockers on the far side of the gym.
"Jesus Christ, sorry about that." You run a hand down your face, missing his displeased expression.
"What are you sorry for? Could sense the twat a mile away." You can't help but laugh, eyes meeting his for only a moment before you're turning your attention elsewhere.
"Seriously though. Thank you." The pair of you stopping when you're far enough to be out of the asshole's eye-shot.
"Don't mention it, love. Honestly." He shrugs, head cocking when you tense at something he's said. Though you don't seem uncomfortable. "It's y/n, isn't it?" You nod, feeling like a elementary schooler when your skin heats at his recognition.
"Yes. Yeah. And it's Tangerine, right?" Hopeful to come off inconspicuous. He nods too, ghost of a smile crossing his face again.
"Right. You must be one of the only people I've met where the 'like the fruit' question didn't immediately follow my introduction." This has you laughing again, and Tangerine decides just then he's quite fond of the small triumph.
"But it is..." You can barely conceal the smirk as you tease. "Like the fruit, isn't it?"
He rolls his eyes, surprising even himself with how much he's entertained by the jest in your tone. "Hilarious, darling. I can see why they keep you around." He senses it again, the succinct tightening in your frame at something he's said. Though you collect yourself as soon as it starts. "I'll see you round, then?"
"I'll be here." You cringe at the corny reply, though the brunette seems to be preoccupied in thought to notice.
"Y/n." It grabs your full attention immediately. Spinning on your heel to face him again. "If he bothers you again..." He trails off to gauge your reaction. "Or any bloke, for that matter. You just come get me, yeah? I'm here more often than not, and it'd never be a bother." Too forward, he thinks. Just as assuming as any creepy twat in this place.
Though you're smiling. Soft and genuinely pleased with the gesture.
"I will, thank you."
***
You're acquaintances from then on. Friends, even. Tan insists on walking you to your car the nights you close up. Greets you each morning despite his grumpy exterior.
The small gestures have granted a practical scandal between your coworkers. Teasing after he exits a room and crowding around to scrounge any and all details of your interactions. You brush them off, optimism is too much an ego killer and distraction for you to allow.
You're re-racking weights when the much-wanted approach occurs.
"Have you ever sparred before?" You hadn't been expecting it, muffling a squeal when your startled form warrants the weight pinching the skin of your forefinger. You grasp it instantly, offering a sweet smile despite the oncoming pain.
"Alright?" He reaches toward you, halting instantly when you shrink.
"Fine. Totally fine." Despite having totally embarrassed yourself.
"I'm sure that hurt, darling." He feigns amusement, despite concern overcoming him. Jesse passes, a particularly obvious shit-eating grin across her face as she mouths 'darling' in your peripheral. Your skin flushes tenfold.
He insists, taking gentle hold of your wrist and inspecting the injury in a horrifying display of softness. It must surprise even him, as he lets go as soon as he's sure no skin has been broken.
"You were saying something." It's a feeble attempt to redirect this humiliating encounter.
"Yes, right." He straightens, gathering his usual brooding demeanor. "Have you ever sparred before?"
You scoff at the prospect, not unkind. "My Uncle's ensured I'm familiar with the basics, sort of unavoidable all these years. Though I haven't really done any more than that."
"We could." He fumbles, suddenly unsure. "I mean, I could show you a few things. If you like." You cock your head, ghost of a smile passing your lips as your brows raise.
"A gym full of professional fighters and you’d prefer me?”
"Coach says if I do a bit of instructing, it might help me hone in on the basics. That my form gets sloppy when i get too..." He searches for the right wording in place of 'frenzied and enraged' as coach had put it. "Enthusiastic."
You laugh, finishing up your task whilst weighing your options. Unable to stop yourself from speaking your mind.
"Why me, though? I mean, there's plenty of other people here with actual experience." Luckily, he doesn't take the brutal honesty as impolite. Knowing you well enough by now to read your tone.
"Truth is, he says I'm insufferably impatient. You're not...I don't-" A deep sigh escapes him. "I find myself considerably less so with you around." He's unsure where he's typically confident. Fumbling over words like a fucking schoolboy. It's infuriating. "And besides, this might provide both of us peace of mind." Unknowingly, his gaze flickers to the one time asshole turned regular. Obnoxious grunts escaping him as he completes a set. (Half of Tan's usual weight, though whose counting.)
"Let me clock out, then. And please, spare me a black eye over my lunch break."
***
"Your stance is off again. Feet shoulders width apart, remember?"
"Hardly. I thought you said it was a right left left right combo?"
"Left right right, dodge, left." His brows furrow when you throw an ill-executed punch into his chest. Barely phased. "And put some strength behind it, will you?"
"Figured you'd want me to go easy on you-" A small umph escaping your lips when you're suddenly on your ass. Dizzied with the speed of his gentle sweep of your legs.
Tan crouches down, much too cocky for your liking. "You were saying?"
"Fuck off." Your scrambling up again, evading his bright eyes and other disgustingly handsome features.
"Attagirl, just the attitude I'm looking for." You stutter in place, swallowing hard. Skin singing with heat at the platitude. He nudges your shoulder with his glove, even more self-satisfied as he takes in you in. "Something I said?"
"Have you been reminded of your brooding arrogance lately?"
"Not until now, no." He clutches his chest, wounded. You take the opportunity to aim a much harder punch to his shoulder. He's quick to block, knocking your arm with his own and landing an intentionally weak hit to your waist. "Oi, that was a good one! There was strength that time."
"Don't patronize me, asshole." You hold a hand up to signal a pause. Ridding yourself of the oversized gloves to redo your updo. Considering all the activity, unruly strands and other flyaways have begun sticking to your skin. Tan opens his mouth for another witty remark when his bright gaze turns colder. All amusement escaping him as a wolf whistle pierces through the sound of weights racking.
Of course, the tosser from before ogles as you complete the final twists at your hair tie. Hands on his hips as he looks up at the pair of you in the ring.
"Would have asked to go a few rounds with you ages ago, sweetheart. Had I known you were interested."
You feel bold. Partly because you're so fed up with this prick, partly because of the fuming man behind you. "Would you please take a hint and fuck off, Mark?"
"It's Mike."
"Riveting. Get lost." The amused man whistles again, looking around for support from the other gym rats. Who collectively take one look at the boxer behind you, and quietly go back to their workouts.
"Like to take 5, love?" Tan tears at the velcro around his wrists, swiftly discarding his gloves.
"No. Im good, let's keep going." He only shakes his head, holding up a 5 in your direction before he reaches toward his bag. Beginning to tape his knuckles. "Oi, dickhead." Of course, Mike turns his head in the fighter's direction. "Care to go a couple rounds?"
"Listen man, just letting the chick know I'm appreciating what I see." Tan clicks his tongue, freshly wrapped fists clenching tight at his sides.
"See, where I come from, that type of talk about women gets your ass beat, man." There's an evident mockery of his American accent at the nickname. The dig draws the attention of some of the other fighters, ceasing their training to watch the scene unfold.
"Alright," Mike beams brightly at the prospect of a challenge. "Let's see what you got, pretty boy."
"This is ridiculous." You cross your arms over your chest, unappreciative of the testosterone battle.
"Nonsense, sweetheart. How about we make this a little more interesting? Say...Winner takes you on a date? Been dying to get to know you more." He bites his lip as his eyes rake over your body, making a show of his obscene behavior.
An ear-piercing smacking sounds throughout the building. The fabric of Tan's gloves colliding together. Oddly enough, he's gone silent. Practically seething. Without speaking, he closes the space between you. Striking blue eyes boring into yours. A silent plea for permission. Your gaze averts to the other gym-attendees, awaiting what's to come next eagerly. Some amused with Mike's advances, others paying close attention to the enraged man in front of you.
"Knock his fucking teeth out." It's for only Tan to hear, exiting the ring as soon as he lifts the rope for you.
"Game on, then." Mike rolls his his head side to side, calling over one of his buddies to play cornermen. "Sweetheart," he addresses with another sickening smirk. "You wear something pretty tonight, yeah? Show off those legs."
"Shut your fucking mouth and get in the ring, fuckin' tosser." At that, anyone who hadn't been paying attention is fully invested now. surrounding the platform and talking amongst one another. A few even exchanging bets.
Your fight-hungry coworker, Santos, is more than happy to referee. Eagerly instructing the two men to touch gloves and begin.
Mike's fast, undoubtedly. He dodges initial advances from Tan with a self-satisfied chuckle. Dancing around the ring to taunt his opponent. Tangerine's eyes never leave him, muscles taught with adrenaline and anger.
He reminds himself to be focused. Utilize his techniques but dependent on his instincts. Where Mike makes up in speed, he lacks in fundamental skill. His form is sloppy with narcissism and inconsistency.
Realistically, Tangerine could knock him the fuck out right now. But would that be nearly as fun?
Instead, he taunts the misogynistic prick. Beckoning advances, dodging, and landing sharp hits to his midsection. Sure enough to leave a multitude of bruises for weeks to come. Any amateur can notice the shift in the spar instantly. It's turned from a 50/50 to an imminent defeat. Mike's losing wind, taking punches like it's his day job and growing more frustrated each time.
Tan's having a blast, mouthpiece revealed with his unconcealable grin. This is feeding his ego more than he'd like to admit. It's why he can only laugh when Mike does what any exhausted fighter facing loss would do. Grapples onto his opponent and holds til Santos calls break.
"You gonna let him out of his misery now, or should I grab a stool?" Tan's got the same devilish grin as before. Reveling at the sight of Mike's spit, full of crimson blood.
"Now where's the fun in that, Dove? I've only just started." He accepts the water you offer swiftly, eager to get back to it. He's almost frenzied with adrenaline, sweat trickling down his toned skin in steady streams. Veins prominent with the activity. The brunette dips his head down to meet your wandering gaze, eyes twinkling with playful arrogance. "Have I lost you, love? Isn't the cornermen supposed to be keeping me with it?" You hope you don't look as flushed as you feel, though his grin suggests otherwise.
"You seem to be doing just fine without me." You press at a reopened cut in his brow, frowning when the pressure does little to cease the flow of blood.
"That's where you're wrong, love." He rolls his shoulders, tossing a curt nod to Santos at his five second warning. "Much easier winning when you have something to fight for." He's silenced when you force the guard back into his mouth. Brows narrowed in playful disdain despite the wink he sends your way, turning round and facing the center of the ring once more.
They tap gloves for the second time and Santos counts them in.
Mike's on the floor before anyone has a chance to register it.
There's only a beat of silence before the gym erupts in cheers. Astonished at the immediate knockout. Tan ignores it, smug attitude escaping him as soon as Mike comes to. He rips his glove from his hand so he can grab the man's jaw, yanking his gaze away from your direction. Santos is unable to pull him off as Tangerine pushes his face less than an inch from his dazed opponent, eyes full of a fierce sincerity as he mutters something unintelligible to Mike.
With a bare-fisted punch to the mat just beside the pricks' face, Tan is backing off and headed toward you. Casually leaning against the ropes as a couple more bystanders flood in to carry Mike out of the ring.
"Threaten his bloodline, Rocky?"
"Something like that. Let's just say he probably won't be training here for the foreseeable future."
Tagging ppl who seemed to like my last one: @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @ilovelotsoffandoms @wee-little-mouse @blueallover @dontknownameauthor @stevesharrlngtons @
I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm With; Anthony Lockwood
A/N: HEYYYYY. Well if it isn't another six-month hiatus...I fear I've done this too many times to keep apologizing. There are some long-overdue requests in my inbox, and for that I truly am sorry. With college, work, family, I'm not sure how you guys keep up with finding the time or motivation to write. Nonetheless, I just recently re-watched this amazing show, and I'm yet again horrified Netflix canceled it. I put a holiday spin on this and I hope you all like it!
CW: Characters are aged up. I wouldn't be comfortable w/ this if they were played by minors but that's not the case. Let's also pretend ppl don't typically lose their gift til their mid-20s
You're getting ready on the floor of 35 Portland Row's master bedroom. Makeup is littered all around you as you add the finishing touches. The smell of cookies flows from the kitchen all throughout your home, ones you'll decorate later upon Lucy's request. Christmas music sounds from the record player in the living room, crackling every now and again with its age.
Lockwood's leant up against the door frame, moving silently to the worn armchair across you. You can feel his eyes on you, quietly admiring, yet still brooding from a recent look at the newspaper. Kipps and his team were beaming brightly across the front page, having just solved yet another notary case on behalf of Fittes.
"I've told you not to read the papers on our day off, haven't I?" He's pulled out of his trance then, adjusting his slouched shoulders as though he's been caught.
"A bunch of posh showoffs, think their ridiculous uniforms and bureaucratic nonsense makes them superior. I swear-"
"Anthony."
"Yes, darling?" It's through clenched teeth, blinking hard to regain his composure. You brush on your mascara, still chastising when you face the mirror once more.
"It's our day off, isn't it?"
"Because we have yet to find another case-" He stops himself under your look of warning through the glass, fiddling with his rings and straightening. "I suppose it is our day off, yes."
"We don't have much of those, do we?" You approach him, then. Voice soft and sweet, unknowingly easing his tense stature with each syllable. He only hums, forehead pressing into your stomach as you run gentle fingers through his hair, careful not to disrupt the intricately combed strands. "We need this. You need this. So let's make it a good one, yeah?"
"Tell that to George. Why must we do the holiday card today?"
"We're all available, Scrooge. And if I'm not mistaken, this was your idea. Something along the lines of 'it's good for business, people are seeking a company with a personable image, clients need people to relate to-" You only stop your mimicking when he pinches at your side. The overly-posh, deep reenactment enough to bring a reluctant smirk to Anthony's lips.
"I do not sound like that." He tugs at your hips so you'll sit on the arm of the chair he's rested in, keeping an arm wrapped over your stomach and knees to settle you against him.
"Bunch of bureaucratic-" Your own yelp ceases your teasing, the arm that's snaked around you tugging hard enough to have you fall into his lap and victim to his incessant poking at your stomach and sides. Your squirming is no use, both of your laughter echoing throughout the room as you hopelessly swat at his hands.
He stops his torture eventually, avoiding an oncoming lecture on how he's ruined your neatly done hair with his tickling. You're breathless under him, stretching out over him to glance at the other mirror just above the dresser. Even with the reflection upside down, you're able to tell you'll have to redo multiple curls. He's grabbing at you before you can scold him, hand under your head to pull your faces just inches apart.
"Stop it. You look lovely." He's pulling out the charm, of course. Voice low and hoarse, the tone that he knows damn well well sets your skin on fire. He's smug then, knowing smirk playing over his dark features as his eyes dart to your lips and then to yours.
"Looked lovely." You correct, breathless all over again. His eyes narrow, incredulous.
"Can I prove it to you?" He moves only slightly closer, swallowing thickly as his thumb traces your bottom lip. You almost let him, nearly succumbing to his enchantments. Only when his lips are nearly on yours do you turn your head, keen on revenge for his sabotage.
"You've already toyed with my hair, I'll send George spiraling if I had to redo my makeup."
Lockwood, genuine betrayal littered across his face, can't even plead his case before your roommate takes his cue.
"Oi!" His shout rings from downstairs, tinged with impatience and growing irritation. "You two better be fully clothed and picture-perfect in five minutes. The camera's ready!"
Anthony can only bury his face in your neck, sore attitude overcoming him all over again.
****
"Wait!" Lucy exclaims just as the flash of the camera ensues, voice strained with exasperation. "I wasn't ready!" There's a collective groan from the lot of you, George shuffling past the redhead to reset the camera. You take the time to fix Lockwood's collar, dodging his swatting, grumpy hands.
"I assume ghost touch is a more amenable torture than this," he mutters pointedly.
"You wanted the bloody holiday card, Lockwood. And I'm the only one with enough creative vision to make the lot of you look remotely presentable." There's a collective sneer toward him, though he doesn't notice with all his tinkering with the outdated lense. Of course, George had insisted using film would make the photos hold a 'certain sense of novelty' that couldn't possibly be reproduced with less difficult equipment. "Take five, this might take a while." He waves you all off, adjusting his glasses and muttering a string of unintelligible curses as he works.
Lucy turns to you then, biting back a smile as Lockwood flushes under your doting hands, trying desperately to maintain his grouchy disposition. "Where's your chapstick, the strawberry one-"
"You always steal?" You cease grooming your boyfriend, to his relief, in order to tease her. Smiling when she only sticks out her tongue in mock disdain, already headed for the stairs and presumably your bedroom. "Right side of the bureau, just above Anthony's sock drawer." Your tone grows into a shout to accommodate her distance, grabbing onto Lockwood's wrist so he can't escape away to the study.
"Love you lots!" She calls from upstairs, most definitely making more of a mess of the bedroom in her search.
"Would you unhand me, dove? Pretty sure you're cutting circulation." He's got your attention again, face pulled with irritation. The bags under his eyes look particularly apparent this close, a dull ache in your heart at the sight. It's apparent the attitude is only due to all the stress he puts himself under. The pet name a clear sign the animosity is by no means directed at you. You smirk despite him, digging into your back pocket and ignoring his then curious expression.
Only when you get closer does he catch on. Socked feet clumsily stepping on his boot-covered ones to attempt to gain height, your arm reaches up above both your heads. Letting his eyes follow yours, Anthony can't help but let a dazzling smile spread across his features. Stubborn nature no match against the warmth and adoration overcoming him at the slightly crumpled branch above him.
"Is that-"
"Yep." You mutter, straining under the effort to reach above his head. His gaze is on your face then, arm snaking around the smalll of your back to keep you steady. "You're supposed to-"
"Oh, I know. But I'm having so much fun watching this." A small pout puckers your lip at his teasing, tone filled with the familiar mirth and smugness you hadn't known you missed so much with his solemn mood.
"Forget it then, Grinch." Your reaching arm falls to your side, attempting to push at his chest to force distance between you.
The camera flashes just as Anthony pulls you in for a kiss. Soft and sweet, each of you eventually smiling into it.
"I'm not developing that one." George frowns, adjusting the lens before shooting a pointed look to Lockwood, who loosens his hold only slightly on you. "You've got shade 205 right here, mate." The curly-haired boy draws an imaginary circle around the entirety of his mouth. Anthony scrubs his sleeve across his face at George's comments. Flushing as you laugh into his chest.
i loved loved LOOOVEDDD the way u wrote lovesick lockwood ugh🤧🤧 the tooth rotting fluff was great but i need to see how well u write an angsty lockwood
Ask and you shall receive, anon. (Albeit weeks later I’m so sorry). Finals have been kicking my ass. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!
A/N: An anon requested angst, and who would I be not to deliver? This one took a while, apologies for the wait. Thank you so much for all the recent love, it means so much. I hope you enjoy.
TW: Descriptions of injury, arguing, suicidal ideation(?), Lockwood being a self-absorbed prick :)
Summary: The one where you and Anthony are at odds, and there seems to be little room for reconciliation.
Taglist: @sunshineangel-reads @fox-bee926 @helpmelmao @galactidiot @soupsaurus @nekee-lilac02 (Tagged ppl who seemed to like my last story, lmk if you want to be removed <3)
Lockwood isn’t accustomed to your anger.
Well...That’s not entirely true. You have a bit of a short fuse, sometimes. Accustomed to your occasional irritance, sure. He fancies teasing you, pushing your buttons for the sake of admiring the way your nose scrunches up, how you huff that ever-stubborn strand of hair from your vision.
This, though. Whatever this is, it’s different. You’re practically seething as you search around the lamp-lit kitchen. Booming thunder and relentless London rain the only noise accompanying your movement. That and the boot shackled around your left foot, which thumps pitifully as you rummage the first aid kit. He feels like a disobedient child sat in the headmistress’ office. Ragged hair still damp from the rain after a grueling mission. One that’s left a nasty gash across his forearm, having been forced into a picture frame in the midst of fighting a vengeful type two.
George and Lucy had long gone off to bed. A brisk debrief over a final cup of tea before slugging off to their respective bedrooms. Luckily, your bastard of a boyfriend had suffered the only injury. You’d missed all the action considering your current state, though that hadn’t ceased the fierce beating of your heart as you slumped into the seat in front him. Drawing the oil lamp nearer for better light as you motion for his arm. He obeys immediately, silently, face pulled with the kind of tension only present when he’s really worried.
Good. You honestly hope he’s terrified. Serves him right. Your tense mood is not only due to his ailment, but the lingering frustration from your argument earlier in the evening.
**************
“Absolutely not. You’re not coming along on any missions ‘til that boot is off.”
“Anthony, I’ll be alright. I’ve been getting around the house just fine so far!”
“You shouldn’t even be on it as much as have been.” He’s got the audacity to scoff, almost amused. “More stress will only make the healing process longer.” You cross your arms, looking toward your bag-clad friends for support.
“We should check on the cab.” Lucy offers a tight-lipped smile as George nods, ushering her out the front door before you can direct your anger toward them.
“You said yourself this case is going to be especially touch sensitive. That the client reported how evasive the problem was. Sight and sound won’t be as useful.”
“Precisely. Perfect that George is coming along, yes?” Your eyes narrow at his condescension, you’d grown tired of his babying ever since your incident two cases ago. It felt like ages since you’d been in the field.
“George will be too preoccupied with all the evidence! I won’t even go further than a few feet from the threshold. Just let me get a feel of things so I can-”
“I said no, y/n. It’s final.”
“Says who?”
“Says the leader of this company.” You choke a laugh, tossing your bag onto the floor with a heavy thud.
“Right, yes. The one who makes all the calls?”
“Sounds about right.” His brown eyes narrow in challenge, frustrated you’re failing to understand he’s only trying to keep you safe.
“Same one who made the call we go into the Hope residence without well-rounded research? The case we rushed into without enough information and it ended with me on house arrest?” It’s a low blow, undoubtedly. A twinge of wounded guilt flashes across his face before the venom seeps back in. Lump in his throat burning horribly before he swallows it to dissipation.
“Same one who knows if things go South this time ‘round you’ll only slow us down.” Your stomach twists with the distaste in his tone, vision blurring with tears as he turns toward the door. Jumping as it slams shut and takes him with it.
********
“Won’t need stitches.” You note simply, surveying the wound gently. He nods, shoulders straightening in preparation for the oncoming pain. “Still some glass debris, I’ll have to take it out.” He’s lucky, from what it looks like the gash could have been much worse.
“I can manage it just fine on my own.” You bite your tongue. In the year’s biggest plot twist, Anthony Lockwood insists on suffering alone in lieu of his own pride.
“You can’t. You’re not risking any more damage to the arm that wields your rapier. Just let me.” He doesn’t listen, of course. Pinching the tweezers in his grasp and looming forward to get a better look. Dizzying at the sight, he’s not strong enough to prohibit you from taking them back. Pushing at his shoulder so he’ll relax against the chair.
It’s not your typical bedside manner. Usually when injuries happen its gentle touches and muttered sorries or other affections. Soft and kind.
The intruding thought pulls Lockwood’s frown deeper. The throbbing in his arm practically minuscule to the war zone in his mind. It’s awful...He misses you and yet you’re a mere foot away.
His fist clenches as the tweezers near his skin once more, hand taking hold of your wist to cease the uncontrollably trembling of your appendage.
“Love-”
“Shush, I can do it.” You take a deep breath. Wordlessly combatting your conflicting emotions with slow, calculated inhales. You’re an agent. You’ve trained for this. Though the textbooks help little with the patching up tactics when it’s someone you love, when you’re at such odds.
You approach again, steady this time. He sucks his teeth at the particularly intricate extractions, but remains still for you. You move with as much efficiency as possible. Trying to remove the person from the wound, just as the books suggest. Though it’s nearing impossible with his eyes trained on you. Trying to steal every thought from your mind as if they’re his own.
When you’re applying sterile gauze after thorough disinfection, he finds the courage to speak.
“Thank you.” He clears his throat after it falters...From emotion or lack of use, you aren’t sure. Doesn’t matter, honestly. You’re still keen on grilling him.
“George said you followed it up the stairs without telling him and Luce.”
“I was in a hurry. Wouldn’t have found its’ source in time if I hadn't.” You don't event try to conceal the roll of your eyes. Anger sinking back in as you collect the wrappers on the table and toss them into the bin.
“So you’re allowed to be reckless on the job as long as nobody else is?”
“Reckless. I’d argue, is an exaggeration.”
“Exaggeration? Christ, you’re impossible.”
“Yeah?” He stands as you do, holding his wounded arm to his stomach as he leans against the counter. “How’s that?”
“You’re fine with breaking protocol so long as you’re the one doing it. Putting yourself at risk any chance you get without a second thought. It’s maddening!”
“And how do you suppose you got yourself in that boot?”
“Not by beckoning death! Mine was an accident, Anthony. I swear, sometimes it’s like you want to get yourself killed!”
“You don’t-”
“No! I’m not finished.” You step toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest to accentuate your wrath. “You have people depending on you. People that care about you, love you to bits. And you’d rather spend the better half of missions taunting death than preventing it. If you wanted to be so fucking careless, you shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you. Now here we are, both vexed and in varying casts because of you can’t seem to understand the sanctity of your own life.”
He knew that much had been true. Lockwood would risk just about anything in a case so long as it granted him victory. Hadn’t that been in the fine print, though? Guaranteed in this line of work? So long as you were granted this talent, this curse, you had a responsibility to utilize it to the best of its ability.
“Sweetheart.” It’s strained, nearly a beg with the amount of exhaustion ridden in his tone. “We can continue this tomorrow. Let’s go to bed, please.”
“I can’t,” his knuckles go white with their grip on the cold countertop as you hurriedly wipe at your eyes. “I can’t go to bed angry with you.”
“Then don’t.” He takes one, two careful strides toward you. Fingers pinching at your elbow in an attempt to satisfy the burning need to hold you. “Let’s forgive each other for the next seven hours. Then you can go on hating me, okay?” You huff a laugh, forehead instinctively pressing to his chest. He bathes in it as long as you’ll allow, pulling back seconds later and headed toward your room with him in tow.
********
Anthony’s eyes follow your frame as you approach the stove. Taking the cup of tea he’s prepared for you and taking your usual seat between him and George. He pushes your chair out with his foot to allow you easier access, nudging a plate of buttered toast your way. It’s not an apology, not even an olive branch. Lockwood simply refuses to cease these small acts of service no matter how angry you are with one another. It’s practically instinctual at this point, second nature. His brows furrow when you let out a relieved exhale once sat. Joining along your accomplices’ conversation about your ongoing case he’s drowned out momentarily in order to observe you.
“Only a bit. Just this morning.” It’s a meek defense. An evident dismissal so as not to prove his bench-warming call the right one.
“You’ve been on it too much.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine.”
“You’re not. And if you had just listened-”
“Are we really starting this up again, right here?” Your eyes bore daggers into his frame. Doing your best to conceal your rage in leui of your dear bystanders beside you. Theres a few beats of silence, a moment of peace before the sorry fuck plates the nail in the coffin.
“George, any word of upcoming cases? The sooner we leave for the day, the better.” Your chair scrapes against the hardwood as soon as he’s finished, silverware trembling as you force yourself upward.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” It’s practically a whisper, ridden with rage and overwhelming upset. His brown eyes meet yours, cold and distant. Completely unfamiliar.
“So you like to think.” He quips, eyes following your form as you exit the kitchen twice as quick as you came in. There’s silence again, impossibly more awkward than before.
“Dick move, Lockwood.”
“Stay out of it, Luce.”
“She’s right. Real dickish move there.”
“George-”
“Right. Staying out of it.”
*******
Lockwood prides himself for a lot of things. Communication, definitively, has never been one of them.
How’s he supposed to explain it’s easier to put himself in front of the all the danger you face? That the rest of you need each other much more than you need him.
That he’d rather die than lose someone again.
He’s quiet as he creeps in, the usual love-lorn quip forgotten as he enters your shared bedroom. You’d been laying in bed, had been since breakfast. You weren’t usually one to sulk, but you were still in pain and definitely still angry. At your boyfriend, this damned boot, the world.
“Word is your boyfriend’s been a right prick, lately. I’m hoping this can be my opportunity to stake my claim. If you’re cutting him out, that is.” He’s kneeling at the bedside, chin pressing into his forearms as he supports his head. You can feel his heat from here, hate how it weakens your cold resolve. His fingertip traces the skin on your back where your shirts ridden up, a ghost of a small passing his lips when you shudder. You’re pulling up the duvet, ceasing his touch while a trace of you wishes it hadn’t.
You can’t see any hint of amusement leave his features. The dim of his eyes and the stutter of his heart. He swallows, subconsciously shuffling nearer. The need to be close growing tenfold.
“Lovely, will you look at me?” Lockwood can’t help but cringe at how desperate it sounds. Whispered, rushed, fragile. Every indication he cares much more than he’s used to.
He almost wishes he had’t asked. Dread consuming him when you turn to face him, tear stained cheeks and blotchy eyes. Lashes stuck together with moisture, blinking slow and strained. “Darling.” Is all he can manage, wounded and hushed. It makes you want to cry even more.
“Why can’t you see I’m worried about you?” You croak out, voice strained and scratchy. His knuckles brush the moisture from under your eyes, brows furrowed with an expression you can’t quite read.
“I do.” He wets his lips, “I see that.” An implication of I see you and I’m sorry. He’s never been good at apologies, but this time you need one. You need something, anything more than the breadcrumbs he drops. The urge to invite him in plagues your mind, broken expression tugging at your heart strings. You know better than to brush this one off, it’ll only have the same conflict arising again and lead to resentment. The realization reforms the burning lump in your throat, vision blurring with fresh tears.
“I just-we need space.” Don’t we? Lockwood rears back, mustering up resolve he doesn’t have. You don’t mean indefinitely, you don’t mean a breakup, he knows that. Doesn’t make the words burn any less.
“Okay, fine then.” If that’s what you really want.
He’s grabbing the dog-eared magazine at your bedside before you can say anything else. He hesitates at the door knob, begging to force himself to turn around and plead. Anthony Lockwood’s ego is somewhere near the sun, but its no match for how he feels about you.
*******
You know when you suddenly become conscious of blinking? And it starts to feel a little odd, manual instead of automatic? You can almost forget what it was like to not have to consciously do it...
Breathing is kind of like that too
At least, that’s what Lockwood thinks when he’s sure he’s suffocating.
His heart thrums so roughly against his chest he’s sure it’ll burst. He wonders who’d find him, huddled in the corner of the library. Cold and lifeless. He must be trembling, it feels as though the whole ground is vibrating, or-sinking. Swallowing him entirely.
Then there was the pounding. His head, yes. There’s a dull throbbing at the base of his skull. But this is different. A rhythmic thumping approaching. Closing in on him, eager to push him into the sinking floor to meet his imminent demise.
You’re in the kitchen. Leaning over the sink, eyes trained on the tap filling up your glass. The bed feels empty without him. And sure, you’d probably sent a clear ‘fuck off to the couch’ message with your latest conversation...But it hadn’t made falling asleep without him any easier.
You’re taking a deep breath in, preparing for a right pitiful sigh when you hear it. Some sort of squeaking. Your head cocks to the side, discarding the glass in search of its origin. Surely one of the sources wasn’t acting up, that’d be right terrifying when you’re alone. It leads you toward the study, louder and more frequent as you draw closer.
It’s when you cross the threshold do you see him. Tall frame curled into the corner as hiccuped gasps rack his frame.
He scoots impossibly closer to the wall as you approach. Dropping to your knees and lifting his face to study him. A foreign sheen of panic clouds over his eyes, sending your stomach turning.
“Anthony, it’s me. I’m here, I’m right here.”
You’ve coached him through as many panic attacks as he’s allowed throughout the years. The first time, in academy, you were sure he was choking. A plate of biscuits strewn over the floor as he gasped for breath.
They’re unpredictable, no matter how many times you’ve handled them. He needs something different almost every time to snap him out of it. Though it’s mostly physical touch.
“C-cant breathe.” Your boot thumps as you draw closer, eliciting another wince from him. Clutching into the fabric of his shirt as if trying to pull it free. You undo his tie and the first couple buttons, grabbing at the sides of his face in a desperate attempt to get him to focus on you.
“Anthony please, listen to me. I’m going to try something. If you don’t like it you just push at me, alright?” A curt, gasping nod in understanding before you’re enveloping him in an embrace. Squeezing so tight you can feel his panicked heart thrumming against your chest. It makes you want to cry and scream and hold him even tighter. Willing his pain away with all of your might.
It’s not working this time ‘round. He can’t seem to collect himself despite your efforts. You pull away, fearing your persistence will only send him further spiraling. But he’s tugging you to him again. Arms tight around your waist as he buries himself into your neck.
“Dont. D-don’t go. Don’t leave.” The usual cool and collected tone is manipulated to something unrecognizable. Rasped and unsure.
It’s then you remember the look in his eyes when you’d dismissed him. The abandonment he’s feared his entire life. The little boy who forced himself to stay awake all those lonely nights, just in case he heard the lock turn and the front door open to bring them home. His adamant refusal to ignore your connection for years in lieu of protecting his broken heart.
“Hey, look at me.” You’re pulling him back by the sides of his hide, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Lockwood, I’m not going anywhere. Doesn’t matter how angry I am,” you wince when he hiccups a sob. “Doesn’t matter how much you try to push me away.” He shakes his head, something short of a disbelieving chuckle passing his trembling lips. “I’m not leaving. I’m staying right here. With you, always. You understand?” He manages to nod, an inkling of solace flashing across his form.
“Just breathe, Anthony. In…and hold…and out”
Your words sound a mantra in his mind. Your scent flooding his senses, skin on his bringing him back to reality. A morsel of relief prodding its way in as you caress the sides of his face and up into his hair.
“I’m sorry.” He swallows, focusing on formulating the words. “I know I haven’t said it. Never say it enough.” Shaky arms wrap tighter around your waist, keeping you close. Afraid you’ll disappear despite your affirmations.
“Consider yourself forgiven.” You bite back a smile when the tension unknowingly spills out of his body. Frame drooping with undoubted relief at the simple words. “I love you. Even when you’re a right prick.”
“I know.” He pulls you so you’re between his legs. Your back against his bent appendage and your own pair over his other outstretched one. Right side of your body pressing against his chest. You try to push away, unable to fight his affections off despite his weakened state.
“See? Right prick, you are.”
“Shush. You know bloody well I love you.” He presses a kiss to your temple, smoothing over your hair and gaging your reaction. Still catching his breath from before. “I know I don’t say that enough either.” He’s quiet then, brown eyes looking to yours with such sincerity your breath catches in your throat. “I’d do anything for you, you know that.”
“That’s sort of what I’m afraid of, if you don’t recall.” You’re both solemn then. Your fingers intertwining with his in a familiar dance. He can only hum, swallowing thickly.
“What if,” his eyes rake your frame. Studying you again. “What if you came along the next assignment?” You light up at that, searching his features for jest.
“Really?”
“Just outside. Making sure we’re all alright. And I don’t go off getting myself killed.”
“But-”
“Dove.” The nobility in his tone finds him again. A subtle warning. “This is me. Anthony Lockwood, attempting a compromise.” You bite back an abashed smile at his raised brows, urging surrender.
“Noted.” You fiddle with the cool, silver ring adorning his index finger. “I get to select the case, then.”
sirius would always take the teasing shy!reader too far, till she’s slammed the door behind her and he’s on the other side like a little puppy
yeah 😭 he riles you up and then gets all pouty when you hide from him. I hate him (no I don’t)
shy!fem!reader 0.6k words
“Darling,” Sirius whines, fist banging on the door. “Open up.”
You don’t say anything. You’re annoyed at him. He’s been teasing you all afternoon and maybe it’s your fault for getting so flustered but he just wouldn’t stop. It was all too much and now you’ve locked yourself in his bedroom.
“Y/N, please,” Sirius begs, taking your silence in his stride. “I promise I’ll stop now, really.”
Somehow you don’t think that’s true. Somehow you think he’ll leave you be for the rest of the day and then go right back to his teasing self tomorrow.
“No,” you say quietly, not sure he can ever hear you through the door. “Leave me alone.”
Sirius groans dramatically and you think you hear his forehead thump on the door. You try not to smile at his dramatics. You fail and end up smiling anyway. You’re lucky he can’t see you, he’d poke fun for sure.
It’s not that you don’t like the teasing. It’s that you do like it. A bit too much. It makes your skin all tingly and your heart go berserk and you can’t stand him, you swear. You’d let him do it more if you thought you could handle it. You want him to do it more but you can’t handle it.
“Honeybee,” comes Sirius voice again, much quieter this time. Softer. “I’m really sorry.”
He’s buttering you up, you know, and it’s working. The pet names, the soft tone he only ever uses with you. The apology that really, he shouldn’t have to give. It makes you want to wrench the door open and kiss him on his pretty mouth.
Instead you turn the lock and open the door very slowly. Sirius straightens where he’d been moping with his forehead on the door. You open it just wide enough so he can see you.
“Sweetheart,” he says, looking one part sorry and two parts relieved. You’d think he’d kicked your dog, the way he’s looking at you. “I’m sorry.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say softly. “I, um. I’m sorry. I just got …” Flustered. Shy. Sick with love.
Sirius nods vigorously. You know he can hear the words you’re not saying. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
You smile despite yourself. “Stop saying sorry. S’not your fault.”
“No, but it is,” Sirius says, insistent. “I know I take it too far sometimes. It’s mean.”
He’s undoing you with his gentle apology. So, really, it’s his fault when you blurt, “Who says I don’t like mean?”
Sirius’ eyes go wide as saucers. “What?”
Now you’ve really put your foot in it. You duck your head and stare at the floor so you don’t have to look at him. Wishing it would swallow you up. “Um,” you say.
Sirius laughs, loud and startling. “Darling,” he says through his ridiculously delighted fit of laughter, his tone near chiding.
You grumble at the floor, refusing to look at him because you know he’ll make you smile as soon as you do. You don’t want to smile. You’re embarrassed.
It takes him a while to stop laughing. It fills your ears and creeps into your chest and vibrates around your heart. You enjoy it more than you should. Especially since he’s totally laughing at you. When he’s finally done he steps into your space and hooks a finger under your chin.
“Look at me, will you?” He asks softly, smile evident in his voice. It’s more of a plea than a question. You really can’t not do what he’s asking.
You look up. Sirius beams.
“There’s my lovely girl,” he says, dripping in a fondness that almost has you shutting the door in his face again. “My lovely shy girl.”
You want to duck your head again but he’s got his fingers around your jaw, stopping you from moving.
“Can I have a hug?” He asks softly, all puppy eyes and pouting lips, and you hate him, you swear.
cake — send me in a character and a prompt and i’ll write you a blurb!
sirius black + showering together for the first time? maybe?? you’re definitely super shy and he softens you up with compliments and washes your hair (and he lets you was his)
suds
summary you and sirius have your first shower togehter
content sirius black x fem!reader
note mal ur so real for this
You stand behind the curtain to Sirius's shower, still in your underwear. He waits on the other side, warming up the water for you. He'd been fine with being the first to get undressed and you really appreciate him for it.
You've been naked around each other enough times for you not to be as nervous as you'd been the first time. You've never showered with him and you're thankful you're doing it before you take it further eventually.
"You coming, baby?" he asks gently, just loud enough so he's heard over the splash of water.
You blink, eyes heavy, head even worse. Despite the nerves, you really want to get under the warm water. You take off your bra and step out of your undies and feel a little better seeing yours piled up next to his boxers. Yours blue next to his grey. It's strangely calming.
You nudge the curtain with your shoulder, hands too busy crossed over your chest, folded in on yourself when Sirius opens it up to let you in.
"Darling," Sirius says, more than elated to see you. He keeps it hidden, voice soft and gentle. He can't hide it entirely too well with his little smile and sparkling eyes. "C'mere," he says, arms open and glittery, "you'll get all cold."
Sirius ushers you under the stream and not once has he stopped looking at your face. It relaxes you more than it should and you feel almost bad about it. Sirius is allowed to look at you, you like it when he does because he always looks like he's about to crumble. You don't make it easier with your hands tucked under your armpits, but you think Sirius knows you'd rather him not look down. He knows how to pace things.
Sirius is the most patient person you know and you love him for it.
"Sorry, I took so long," you say despite yourself. You share the stream with him, almost chest to chest. Your arm nudges his chest and you almost want to apologise but you can hear his response already.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he touches your shoulder. His fingers drip water in places that are still half dry and you shiver. He touches you as soft as you'd expect, maybe worse. Gentle fingers against gooseflesh skin.
There's a silence. Only running water and your breathing. Sirius's feet as they squeak against the tile below the both of you when he moves. You stay still and really don't know what to say. How much does someone's shower routine change when you have to reach around the other person's hip to grab your soap? Should you ask him to move?
"Sirius," you say. You're so close you wouldn't be surprised if he felt it against his dewy cheek. "I'm so nervous."
His bottom lips juts out and despite yourself, you want to kiss it. All slippery, kind kisses that feel warmer than the water. "It's okay. You're okay."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be," you apologise.
"It's just me, yeah?" he says. You watch the water that sprays on his shoulder as it pushes his hair down and into his collarbone. He's so pretty and you're entirely silly.
You reach out to touch him and are hesitant with it. Your hand stops before you reach him.
"You can touch me lovely." You hate that he knows what you're thinking, and you hate yourself more for thinking it in the first place. You're not assuming, you shouldn't be, Sirius has his own boundaries. But, he's your boyfriend - you can touch him. Especially in the shower. It leaves no room for modesty.
"Yeah," you say, a little breathless, a lot giddy.
You reach out and trace his tattoos. Down the stem of a pretty, inky flower - the points of a group of stars. Sirius grabs you by the hips as you do so and it startles you how much you like it. How much you want him to pull you closer.
He tucks his head down to watch you with the prettiest smile he's ever given you. He's enraptured. It melts his silly little heart to watch himself make you so calm.
"Can I wash your hair, baby?" he asks, selfishly he might add.
You look back at him, embarrassed at your glossed-over eyes and the nibbled lip you'd tucked between your teeth. "Would you want to do that?"
Sirius seems like he's been burned. His eyes widen and he squeezes you harder by the hips. "Of course, I would," he laughs.
You reach up and hold him by the cheeks. Water rushes down your hands and your elbows into heavier streams that point towards your thighs. "Can I wash yours first?" you ask and push it behind his ears in soaked strands.
"Yeah?" he says, more excited than you're expecting.
You stare into his eyes, soft blue until it bleeds out into a sparkling grey that makes you feel weak. His heavy eyelashes that clump up under the water that drips from his hair. "Yeah," you smile.
He grins back, much worse than yours, and reaches down for your shampoo to hand to you. "Be gentle, yeah?"
You roll your eyes and squeeze a bunch into your open palm. He stares at you as you work it through his hair and you squirm under his gaze. You know he's aware of his effect on you. He smiles and has to bite it back. You stare at his scalp and pretend you're too busy to look him in the eye.
"Stop staring at me," you say, shy laughter hot in your throat.
He leans his cheek on your arm where you've got it next to his head. "I don't think I will," he smiles, the chub of his cheek slips against your skin as he goes.
"Stop," you say and don't mean It
"No," he says seriously. "No, I'll only stop when you stop being so fucking gorgeous."
"Sirius."
"Really," he laughs now.
"No."
"You're fucking amazing." He's so genuine about it, you wish you weren't trapped in your tiny studio apartment shower.
"Tilt your head back," you say instead of what you want to. Something like Sirius, if you don't stop I'm going to pass out right here in the shower.
"Beautiful."
You tilt his head under the water before he can wax poetic any longer. He laughs and his mouth fills with water. He splutters and scrunches his eyes shut, face bright with boyish glee. You think he might spit it out at you but he lets it dribble out and down his chin - much to your delight. It's daunting how pretty he looks as he does it. Suddy face and hair in his eyes.
"All right," he says, pushing his hair from his face. "Turn around, it's my go."
"Be gentle, please, Sirius," you say, and tilt your head up.
Sirius groans from the back of his throat. "God, honey, when you say it like that, I'd be an ass not to, huh?"
Hi love, I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you’d be open to writing a Tangerine fic where he finds out the reader has a crush on him by the way she reacts to his words/pet names & he decides to tell her he feels the same?😭
A/N: OKOKOK I love what you've done here. I was at work when I read this and it sparked an entire idea. I'm thinking this'll be a blurb, though knowing me it'll be an entire story. (Update; did in fact become an entire story.) I did stray a bit from what you asked and I hope that’s alright. Enjoy!
Warnings: Mentions and descriptions of violence, sexual harassment
Summary: Boxer! Tangerine seems to sense his effect on you, and has become increasingly impatient with the gym's creepy regular. (Character are in their 20s btw)
You're re-racking weights when the unwarranted approach occurs.
Spending the summer months working at your Uncle's boxing gym has been a sort of tradition. You practically grew up here. Relishing in the three months spent at his and your Aunt's brownstone since you were in highschool. As the final year of college approaches, the familiar smell of sweat and sound of victimized punching bags was honestly welcoming.
"Need a little help with those, hun?" You tense at the unsurprisingly patronizing tone, facing the stranger who pretends to have not been caught checking you out with a wry smile.
"I've got it. Thanks." You offer your most forced customer service voice, eyes scanning the room for a female comrade or coworker. Unfortunately, the lot of your customers are mid-set, headphones in.
"Awe c'mon." Despite your frame's obvious tensing, the man reaches across and takes the dumbell from your grasp. "They're making you do all the heavy lifting 'round here?"
"Hardly that strenuous." You can't even try to conceal your disdain, though he laughs as if the irritated furrowing of your brows is in jest.
"Didn't know they had such good looking staff round here. I usually go to Golds, but this just might be my new spot." You try not to audibly cringe at the confession. Any half-wit could have guessed this piece of shit regulared Golds.
"Right. I should get back to it, then." You're halfway through turning away to head across the building to find another task when he takes hold of your forearm. Instantly, you're facing him with a deadly expression. Sparing any and all commonalities as you rip your arm from his grasp.
"Easy there." He chuckles as if you're vehemently overreacting in response to a complete fucking stranger touching you. "Maybe I could grab your number? Get a friendly discount on a new membership?"
"They'd be more than happy to help you with that at the front desk."
"For personal reasons, then?" You take a step back when he leans closer, as if the presumptuous prospect is anything less than appalling. Small gasp escaping your lips when your back makes contact with something solid.
"Oi, sorry for the sneak up." You don't even have to turn around before you recognize the voice. The boxer your Uncle introduced you to last summer. A regular at the gym, with an esteemed reputation for winning. You've talked maybe a handful of times, though you've fawned over him with just about half of your coworkers.
Tangerine's at least head taller than you, taking a step back to give you more space. Giving the man behind you a curt head nod before looking to you again, smiling as if he's known you the better half of his life.
"Hate to bother you, love. Locker won't open again, if you can believe it. Bloody thing's been a right pain for the longest time." You catch on immediately, eyes offering a silent load of gratitude as you nod.
"Right. I've been meaning to change it for you." You face the shorter man adorning a buzz cut and obnoxiously small cut-off tee with a tight-lipped smile. "Duty calls. See you around-"
"Mike." He answers, though you hadn't asked. "You'll see me soon."
"Looking forward to it, mate." Tangerine sounds less than pleased, staring the man down with unbridled disgust before side-stepping and allowing you to pass. The pair of you headed toward the lockers on the far side of the gym.
"Jesus Christ, sorry about that." You run a hand down your face, missing his displeased expression.
"What are you sorry for? Could sense the twat a mile away." You can't help but laugh, eyes meeting his for only a moment before you're turning your attention elsewhere.
"Seriously though. Thank you." The pair of you stopping when you're far enough to be out of the asshole's eye-shot.
"Don't mention it, love. Honestly." He shrugs, head cocking when you tense at something he's said. Though you don't seem uncomfortable. "It's y/n, isn't it?" You nod, feeling like a elementary schooler when your skin heats at his recognition.
"Yes. Yeah. And it's Tangerine, right?" Hopeful to come off inconspicuous. He nods too, ghost of a smile crossing his face again.
"Right. You must be one of the only people I've met where the 'like the fruit' question didn't immediately follow my introduction." This has you laughing again, and Tangerine decides just then he's quite fond of the small triumph.
"But it is..." You can barely conceal the smirk as you tease. "Like the fruit, isn't it?"
He rolls his eyes, surprising even himself with how much he's entertained by the jest in your tone. "Hilarious, darling. I can see why they keep you around." He senses it again, the succinct tightening in your frame at something he's said. Though you collect yourself as soon as it starts. "I'll see you round, then?"
"I'll be here." You cringe at the corny reply, though the brunette seems to be preoccupied in thought to notice.
"Y/n." It grabs your full attention immediately. Spinning on your heel to face him again. "If he bothers you again..." He trails off to gauge your reaction. "Or any bloke, for that matter. You just come get me, yeah? I'm here more often than not, and it'd never be a bother." Too forward, he thinks. Just as assuming as any creepy twat in this place.
Though you're smiling. Soft and genuinely pleased with the gesture.
"I will, thank you."
***
You're acquaintances from then on. Friends, even. Tan insists on walking you to your car the nights you close up. Greets you each morning despite his grumpy exterior.
The small gestures have granted a practical scandal between your coworkers. Teasing after he exits a room and crowding around to scrounge any and all details of your interactions. You brush them off, optimism is too much an ego killer and distraction for you to allow.
You're re-racking weights when the much-wanted approach occurs.
"Have you ever sparred before?" You hadn't been expecting it, muffling a squeal when your startled form warrants the weight pinching the skin of your forefinger. You grasp it instantly, offering a sweet smile despite the oncoming pain.
"Alright?" He reaches toward you, halting instantly when you shrink.
"Fine. Totally fine." Despite having totally embarrassed yourself.
"I'm sure that hurt, darling." He feigns amusement, despite concern overcoming him. Jesse passes, a particularly obvious shit-eating grin across her face as she mouths 'darling' in your peripheral. Your skin flushes tenfold.
He insists, taking gentle hold of your wrist and inspecting the injury in a horrifying display of softness. It must surprise even him, as he lets go as soon as he's sure no skin has been broken.
"You were saying something." It's a feeble attempt to redirect this humiliating encounter.
"Yes, right." He straightens, gathering his usual brooding demeanor. "Have you ever sparred before?"
You scoff at the prospect, not unkind. "My Uncle's ensured I'm familiar with the basics, sort of unavoidable all these years. Though I haven't really done any more than that."
"We could." He fumbles, suddenly unsure. "I mean, I could show you a few things. If you like." You cock your head, ghost of a smile passing your lips as your brows raise.
"A gym full of professional fighters and you’d prefer me?”
"Coach says if I do a bit of instructing, it might help me hone in on the basics. That my form gets sloppy when i get too..." He searches for the right wording in place of 'frenzied and enraged' as coach had put it. "Enthusiastic."
You laugh, finishing up your task whilst weighing your options. Unable to stop yourself from speaking your mind.
"Why me, though? I mean, there's plenty of other people here with actual experience." Luckily, he doesn't take the brutal honesty as impolite. Knowing you well enough by now to read your tone.
"Truth is, he says I'm insufferably impatient. You're not...I don't-" A deep sigh escapes him. "I find myself considerably less so with you around." He's unsure where he's typically confident. Fumbling over words like a fucking schoolboy. It's infuriating. "And besides, this might provide both of us peace of mind." Unknowingly, his gaze flickers to the one time asshole turned regular. Obnoxious grunts escaping him as he completes a set. (Half of Tan's usual weight, though whose counting.)
"Let me clock out, then. And please, spare me a black eye over my lunch break."
***
"Your stance is off again. Feet shoulders width apart, remember?"
"Hardly. I thought you said it was a right left left right combo?"
"Left right right, dodge, left." His brows furrow when you throw an ill-executed punch into his chest. Barely phased. "And put some strength behind it, will you?"
"Figured you'd want me to go easy on you-" A small umph escaping your lips when you're suddenly on your ass. Dizzied with the speed of his gentle sweep of your legs.
Tan crouches down, much too cocky for your liking. "You were saying?"
"Fuck off." Your scrambling up again, evading his bright eyes and other disgustingly handsome features.
"Attagirl, just the attitude I'm looking for." You stutter in place, swallowing hard. Skin singing with heat at the platitude. He nudges your shoulder with his glove, even more self-satisfied as he takes in you in. "Something I said?"
"Have you been reminded of your brooding arrogance lately?"
"Not until now, no." He clutches his chest, wounded. You take the opportunity to aim a much harder punch to his shoulder. He's quick to block, knocking your arm with his own and landing an intentionally weak hit to your waist. "Oi, that was a good one! There was strength that time."
"Don't patronize me, asshole." You hold a hand up to signal a pause. Ridding yourself of the oversized gloves to redo your updo. Considering all the activity, unruly strands and other flyaways have begun sticking to your skin. Tan opens his mouth for another witty remark when his bright gaze turns colder. All amusement escaping him as a wolf whistle pierces through the sound of weights racking.
Of course, the tosser from before ogles as you complete the final twists at your hair tie. Hands on his hips as he looks up at the pair of you in the ring.
"Would have asked to go a few rounds with you ages ago, sweetheart. Had I known you were interested."
You feel bold. Partly because you're so fed up with this prick, partly because of the fuming man behind you. "Would you please take a hint and fuck off, Mark?"
"It's Mike."
"Riveting. Get lost." The amused man whistles again, looking around for support from the other gym rats. Who collectively take one look at the boxer behind you, and quietly go back to their workouts.
"Like to take 5, love?" Tan tears at the velcro around his wrists, swiftly discarding his gloves.
"No. Im good, let's keep going." He only shakes his head, holding up a 5 in your direction before he reaches toward his bag. Beginning to tape his knuckles. "Oi, dickhead." Of course, Mike turns his head in the fighter's direction. "Care to go a couple rounds?"
"Listen man, just letting the chick know I'm appreciating what I see." Tan clicks his tongue, freshly wrapped fists clenching tight at his sides.
"See, where I come from, that type of talk about women gets your ass beat, man." There's an evident mockery of his American accent at the nickname. The dig draws the attention of some of the other fighters, ceasing their training to watch the scene unfold.
"Alright," Mike beams brightly at the prospect of a challenge. "Let's see what you got, pretty boy."
"This is ridiculous." You cross your arms over your chest, unappreciative of the testosterone battle.
"Nonsense, sweetheart. How about we make this a little more interesting? Say...Winner takes you on a date? Been dying to get to know you more." He bites his lip as his eyes rake over your body, making a show of his obscene behavior.
An ear-piercing smacking sounds throughout the building. The fabric of Tan's gloves colliding together. Oddly enough, he's gone silent. Practically seething. Without speaking, he closes the space between you. Striking blue eyes boring into yours. A silent plea for permission. Your gaze averts to the other gym-attendees, awaiting what's to come next eagerly. Some amused with Mike's advances, others paying close attention to the enraged man in front of you.
"Knock his fucking teeth out." It's for only Tan to hear, exiting the ring as soon as he lifts the rope for you.
"Game on, then." Mike rolls his his head side to side, calling over one of his buddies to play cornermen. "Sweetheart," he addresses with another sickening smirk. "You wear something pretty tonight, yeah? Show off those legs."
"Shut your fucking mouth and get in the ring, fuckin' tosser." At that, anyone who hadn't been paying attention is fully invested now. surrounding the platform and talking amongst one another. A few even exchanging bets.
Your fight-hungry coworker, Santos, is more than happy to referee. Eagerly instructing the two men to touch gloves and begin.
Mike's fast, undoubtedly. He dodges initial advances from Tan with a self-satisfied chuckle. Dancing around the ring to taunt his opponent. Tangerine's eyes never leave him, muscles taught with adrenaline and anger.
He reminds himself to be focused. Utilize his techniques but dependent on his instincts. Where Mike makes up in speed, he lacks in fundamental skill. His form is sloppy with narcissism and inconsistency.
Realistically, Tangerine could knock him the fuck out right now. But would that be nearly as fun?
Instead, he taunts the misogynistic prick. Beckoning advances, dodging, and landing sharp hits to his midsection. Sure enough to leave a multitude of bruises for weeks to come. Any amateur can notice the shift in the spar instantly. It's turned from a 50/50 to an imminent defeat. Mike's losing wind, taking punches like it's his day job and growing more frustrated each time.
Tan's having a blast, mouthpiece revealed with his unconcealable grin. This is feeding his ego more than he'd like to admit. It's why he can only laugh when Mike does what any exhausted fighter facing loss would do. Grapples onto his opponent and holds til Santos calls break.
"You gonna let him out of his misery now, or should I grab a stool?" Tan's got the same devilish grin as before. Reveling at the sight of Mike's spit, full of crimson blood.
"Now where's the fun in that, Dove? I've only just started." He accepts the water you offer swiftly, eager to get back to it. He's almost frenzied with adrenaline, sweat trickling down his toned skin in steady streams. Veins prominent with the activity. The brunette dips his head down to meet your wandering gaze, eyes twinkling with playful arrogance. "Have I lost you, love? Isn't the cornermen supposed to be keeping me with it?" You hope you don't look as flushed as you feel, though his grin suggests otherwise.
"You seem to be doing just fine without me." You press at a reopened cut in his brow, frowning when the pressure does little to cease the flow of blood.
"That's where you're wrong, love." He rolls his shoulders, tossing a curt nod to Santos at his five second warning. "Much easier winning when you have something to fight for." He's silenced when you force the guard back into his mouth. Brows narrowed in playful disdain despite the wink he sends your way, turning round and facing the center of the ring once more.
They tap gloves for the second time and Santos counts them in.
Mike's on the floor before anyone has a chance to register it.
There's only a beat of silence before the gym erupts in cheers. Astonished at the immediate knockout. Tan ignores it, smug attitude escaping him as soon as Mike comes to. He rips his glove from his hand so he can grab the man's jaw, yanking his gaze away from your direction. Santos is unable to pull him off as Tangerine pushes his face less than an inch from his dazed opponent, eyes full of a fierce sincerity as he mutters something unintelligible to Mike.
With a bare-fisted punch to the mat just beside the pricks' face, Tan is backing off and headed toward you. Casually leaning against the ropes as a couple more bystanders flood in to carry Mike out of the ring.
"Threaten his bloodline, Rocky?"
"Something like that. Let's just say he probably won't be training here for the foreseeable future."
Tagging ppl who seemed to like my last one: @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @ilovelotsoffandoms @wee-little-mouse @blueallover @dontknownameauthor @stevesharrlngtons @
You and James have found more than friendship on the ice. When you’re afraid to flub a jump and take the leap with him into something more, he finds a way to convince you. [4k]
hockey player!james, figure skater!reader, shy!reader, fem!reader, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, confessions, first kiss, idiots in love, james is tall pretty and extremely in love, sometimes shy!james <3 requested here
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
You're used to the skin tight costumes of figure skating, and have accepted the fact that they show the entirety of your thighs— that's sort of the point. What you're not used to, however, is having the hockey team see you in said costumes.
James is thrilled. "Look at you, angel! You're in costume!"
He holds the sides of the rink in his hands, leaning his weight toward the ice. You wrap your arms around yourself self-consciously.
"I was hoping you wouldn't see me," you admit, though you can't help smiling at him anyhow.
You're usually very happy to bump into him, and your body reacts like it's been conditioned to. James leads to good feelings.
"I bet you were," he says.
James reaches out for you, and you skate to the end of the rink despite yourself. He doesn't touch you when you're close, you weren't really expecting him to, only inclines his head inward to tell you something quietly, all secretive like.
"Your skirt’s tucked in a little bit. On the left," he says.
"Oh, how," you grumble, twisting your torso to try and see what he means. A leaf of your skirt has managed to fold itself into the fabric that covers your butt. "That's so embarrassing."
You were likely trying to unstick a slight wedgie when it happened. It's mortifying, but James probably doesn't know how it happened… probably. You yank the skirt out and hope he can't read what you're thinking off of your face.
"Thanks, James," you say quietly.
You say his name with altogether too much affection, considering you're friends. Acquaintances, even. You know James within these walls and nowhere else, like work colleagues, and you'd die if he knew how close you felt to him. In fairness, you both spend the majority of your free time within these walls, but still.
He's probably the best friend that you have. Which is pathetic. But between skating and your nervous disposition, this is as good as it was ever going to get. And you don't mind.
All of the time.
"You're welcome. If I knew we were dressing up today, I would've worn something nice." He has his jogging bottoms on and not his big bulky kit. You try not to stare at the more tight-fitting form of his hoodie sleeves, but it's hard. His biceps are ridiculous. "Are you staying?"
Sometimes, if the boys are practising you'll stay. It's free entertainment — and it is incredibly entertaining to watch. James and his friends are a semi-professional team, which means they're a mixture of good and fun. They play because they love it, and they all have their night jobs to go back to after. It makes it easier for you and James to get along: you're semi-professional too. You're never going to the Olympics, you know that. You skate because you love it.
There's a clock steadily ticking down on your skills. Every year you get older, heavier, a little more inflexible. The more intense sportsmen and women fight this, revile this, but you've accepted it completely. Skating is for fun. The competitions are to see how far you can go, and it sucks to lose, but the chance that you might win means you keep trying.
If James and his friends are doing laps, it's a mock punishment from their coach. In half an hour they'll be playing a friendly match against one another like nothing happened.
"I have to go take this off but… yeah, I'll stay. Is Sirius here today?"
James leans back and you follow his turned gaze to a lean figure across the way. As soon as you spot him, your ears tune in to his raucous laughter.
"You won't let him see me, will you?" you ask gently. "He'll never let me hear the end of it."
James shakes his head. "Of course not. I'll go distract him, alright? You run away."
You give him a very grateful nod. James turns away. You almost miss it, the double take that he does, like he wants one last look.
You skate off to the other side of the ice where your skate guards, water bottle and hoodie sit waiting. The guards snap on easily. You throw your hoodie over your arm and make a break for the changing rooms, Sirius’ incredulous voice tailing your retreat at the last second.
Once you've changed out of your costume and packed it away neatly in your locker, you walk back to the main auditorium, freaking out as gently as you're able to. You keep having conniptions about James, because James keeps looking at you like he has something to say. You've never been the object of a pretty boy's affections. You're worried that it's all in your head, and that you'll make a fool of yourself if you try to flirt back, but his face when he'd seen you in your costume gives you a terrifying new confidence.
James had been ecstatic. His eyes had roved all over you and he hadn't tried to hide it. His smile was huge and one hundred percent genuine: appreciative. Like he couldn't be happier to see you.
Is it wrong, then, to assume he likes you? No. You’ve known for a while.
"Oof," you mutter to yourself, stepping back into the general chill of the rink and its surrounding stands.
As you predicted, laps are over and the boys are in the thick of it, protection on, sticks shivering across ice with a sound like sharp blades. You stand behind a plexiglass screen and follow James' darting figure from afar. He's recognisable to you from the way he pulls back his arms, and the slight lean of his torso when he's standing still. You've spent too much time watching him.
Too much time, and yet the rules are still complicated in your mind. James and Sirius are arguing with Frank on the opposite side about icing, passionate enough that James pulls his helmet off and begins throwing threats at his friends.
"Mate, I'm actually about to drown myself," he warns, laughing through each word. "Are you listening to me? Take the penalty before I scream. Good god, man."
You laugh. James' head almost snaps clean off his neck with the speed at which he turns to look at you.
Sirius' head follows.
"Hey!" Sirius calls immediately, abandoning his skirmish to skate towards you. "What the fuck! I wanted to see the dress, you let James see it! Go put it back on right now."
"How'd you even know I was in a dress?"
"How did I know? James lit up like a Christmas tree, that's how I know. He's disgusting all the time and it's your fault."
"It's not really a dress," you say. Sirius is as nice as James but he's intimidating where James isn't. He's less smiles, more barking laughter. Less compliments, more playful chastisement. It's not his fault in any shape or form that you find his personality hard to respond to, but you do. "It's a bodysuit with a skirt. But sometimes… sometimes the girls do wear dresses."
"Yeah? I think he might pass out," Sirius says. Then, with a neater smile. "He told me to be nicer, I didn't know I was being mean, sorry. I really do wanna see your 'bodysuit with a skirt'. A little to make fun, but I bet you look good."
James sweeps in and promptly knocks Sirius sliding sideways. "She looked amazing, now stop antagonising her."
"I wasn't flirting, Jamie, no need to worry–"
"Be gone, you beast." James' voice is tight with an emotion you can't name, lest you have another ruinous conniption for all to see. "Fuck off."
Sirius snorts. There's a commotion, their unprofessional coach shouting about idiocy, a lack of commitment, and more laps if there isn't an improvement in team cohesion. James rolls his eyes at you as the coach drones on. You feel guilty for giggling.
"Sorry for Sirius." James puts his hand on the top of his stick, bottom lip sticking out a touch as he grimaces. "Sorry for me, I'm sorry. I was hoping he'd use, like, a modicum of subtlety, but he's a dickhead and I know that. He's also a sweetheart. I should've guessed he'd rush to apologise."
"No, don't be. He doesn't need to be sorry for anything, and you don't have to be sorry for looking out for me."
"I'm not. Definitely not sorry for that."
James pushes a curl behind his ear. His hair is lusciously shiny under stadium lights, dark dark dark and curled, sweet and thick.
"You're in trouble."
James looks over his shoulder toward his coach's booming disbelief. "What, with him? We're in the off-season right now, he needs to relax… I'm sorry, I feel like I'm not talking like a real human being right now." He laughs, awkward and charming at once. "Do I sound weird to you? Don't answer, that'll make it worse," he adds, his voice dipping into a genuine sadness. "Awful. Well, I'm going back over there to finish. Can you stay?"
Not do you want to. Can you? It feels incredibly intimate, his easy assumption without a lick of expectancy. If you said no, he'd frown and throw his chest back, hand over his heart like he's been shot in one of his dramatics, but he’d understand.
"I'm staying," you say.
"Brilliant. Okay."
James Potter visibly flusters, tucking that same rogue curl behind his ear. You want to offer him something, a tight braid or one of your headbands from your bag. He skates off and you don't get the chance.
You're a vestibule of conflicted emotion. James has been acting so unlike himself lately. He's shy at odd moments and quick to fluster, scratching at his neck or his biceps or his nose in what you've identified as his nervous tic. And you might be shy yourself but you're not stupid, he's practically a mirror.
Knowing James has a crush on you and accepting it are wildly different tasks.
What if you date and he realises it's a mistake? You'll lose your only good friend. No more practices with James on the sidelines shouting stories across the rink for you to hear. No more pep-talks on hard days, a big hand on your shoulder and his lilting superlatives in your ear. You're going to smash it, shortcake. No more half sandwiches when he forgets his lunch. No more laughing until your stomach hurts. No more of his cologne lignering on your shirt from a quick hug, the smell indescribable even now. Sandalwood? Dewberry? Something sweeter, fuller, bourbon vanilla?
James clatter off of the ice after a tremendous loss with high spirits. His helmet under his arm, mouth guard in hand, he walks on his skates to your bench and sits down with a smile. “That sucked.”
"It was a good game," you say.
"Can't win them all. You going home now?"
"Work. Gotta work my arms out too," you joke weakly, curling your arm inward.
"Can I walk you? I can change quickly."
"You don't have to–"
"Please?" he asks.
"Yeah," you say, feeling sick. "Yeah, okay."
James guards up and leaves for the changing room. You sit on the bench tapping your knees together, wondering why it feels so awful to like him so much. Sirius and some other friends pack up soon afterward, and a few of them are nice enough to say goodbye as they pass.
"See you tomorrow," Sirius says warmly.
You grimace at him. You'd been attempting a smile, but that hadn't really panned out, meekness and nerves combined pulling the corners of your lips down.
He wavers.
"You know," he says, paused half a foot from you, "James is a big boy, he can handle rejection. He wouldn't be cruel to you, if you weren't interested."
"That's not it."
"No?" he asks, slim eyebrows raised.
"It's the opposite of that. He's my friend." You admit it to yourself as you admit it to him. James is not an acquaintance. "Do you know what I mean? I don't want…" to lose him.
Sirius nods. "You won't." His teeth flash as he smiles goodbye.
James looks gorgeous when he emerges, his brown face framed by thick, dark hair, the strands closest to his face damp from a quick face wash.
"You could put your hair up," you say, standing. "It's getting so long now."
"Is it awful?" he asks, hand moving to the longest pieces at his neck. It's above his shoulder, but only just.
"No… no, it's not awful."
You both start walking towards the exit without another word. You should've said how you really feel about his hair —how it's gorgeous, and you'd like to run your hands through it, feel the softness for yourself and see the look on his face as he's touched with care— but you're worried one thread of honestly will pull at the rest, unspooling your innermost thoughts for him to see. You aren't ready for that.
James puts a hand behind your shoulder as you pass out of the exterior glass doors and into the street. The rink isn't far from your work, only a ten minute walk, and the first two pass in silence.
"You really looked lovely, in your costume. When is that, the competition?"
"A week and two days."
"Are you travelling?"
You nod. "Not far, but." You wrap your arms around your front to stave off the cool chill of the whipping breeze. James' hair gets pushed into his eyes. "I have a bobble if you want it."
"I can't do anything with it. It's not long enough for a ponytail, and I can't plait to save my life. I wouldn't know where to start."
You're glad to be looking at the pavement in front of you rather than his face as you say, "I'd do it for you, but…"
James' shoe hits a pebble.
"I know," he says. "We're going down a one way street."
"Right." Your heart soars, your chest lightens, so glad he understands where you're coming from. "If we keep going on like this there isn't a way to move back if it doesn't work, and I just… don't want to lose you. I can't, James. You're my– you're my only real friend. I like you," you confess, heart pounding in your throat, under your tongue, all the worst places it could stand to be. "I do. And I know you'd still be nice to me if I didn't. Um…"
You flush with heat, realising what you've admitted, and what he hasn't.
Like he can read it on your face, James' walking slows, and he turns in to face you.
"I like you, too," he says. "I'm a bit mad for you, actually."
You'd known that. Hearing it is something else. You hadn't realised how strong the pull would feel after he said it aloud. You look up from his broad chest to meet his eyes, and see the magnetism you feel reflected in his gaze. His hand breeches the gap between your two bodies first, his fingertips and then the flat of his nails smooth as they slide across the top of your thigh. Careful, slow.
James puts his hand on your waist.
"You're worried we won't be friends, if we try to make whatever this is," —he smiles gently— "work, and we can't."
"Exactly. I… you're…"
James takes your upper arm into his free hand. "I promise it will work," he murmurs. He looks at you with a steadiness bordering on stern. "Why are you so sure it won't?"
"I'm worried," you say.
"You're always worrying. But…” His hand flexes around your bicep. “You told me before, the reason you keep skating in competitions even though you don't win many anymore, do you remember that? You said you keep trying because the thrill of almost winning is nearly as good as the real thing."
James' smile turns sheepish. "I'm supposed to say that I don't know if this will work. That the thrill of almost making it together will be worth it if we don't, but I already promised you we will." He leans in a little. You don't think he means to. "And won't that feel better than almost?"
You look up into his handsome face, feeling your heart reach flat out, might as well be running full tilt speeds of beating. Your breath catches.
"I don't want to end up alone," you confess on an exhale.
"You won't. I'll make sure you won't."
Wind curls his hair into his eyes.
You reach out, your shaking index finger skirting over his brow bone as you tuck the runaway strand behind his ear.
His grip grows tighter at your waist. Never cruel, but insistent, desperate almost, in the way that his thumb shudders across your hoodie. You can’t feel his skin over the thick layer of cotton and polyester but you can feel the heat, like a star blistered against your hip bone, like a begging wish. You want him to touch you more than you can stand — you’re pleading with him in your head to do what you can’t do.
It must show in your eyes, the pained pinch of your brow.
“We’ll take things slowly,” he says. “We won’t do anything we can’t undo. All you have to do is trust me. If… if you want to.”
You lick your lips. Taking things slowly. You can’t kiss him, can’t trick yourself into the gratification of having someone so darlingly gorgeous put his hands on you. If he kisses you now, you’ll forget all the reasons why this is a bad idea. You won’t be able to test the waters. If you kiss him, you can’t take it back. For either of you.
James’ hand smooths down the length of your hip as he pulls it back. The other falls toward your hand. Your mourn the loss of his touch, but he’s offering you his hand, his long fingers separated, gaps waiting to be filled.
“Slowly,” you say, putting your hand in his.
He gives your joined hands an experimental squeeze. “We’ve all the time in the world.”
James starts walking back the way you came, pulling you with him down the road.
“James, where are we?”
“I told you. We went down a one way street by accident. Or, I tried to tell you, but you started talking.” His smile says he knows exactly what’s happened, the nature of your misunderstanding. “You were distracted.”
You’ve confessed on the basis of a misunderstanding. “This is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me,” you utter.
James swings your hand lightly.
“And the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says. “Since you’ll be late now anyhow, maybe we could go get a hot chocolate.”
You gawp at his pleased smile. What have I gotten myself into? you think. And then, louder, Wow, he looks so happy.
—
James strangles the neck of a bulging bouquet in his hands, green stems wrapped in cellophane choked between two stressed palms, ten rigid fingers. The smell of fresh pollen and something sweeter awakens at his abuse, but James can’t make himself put them down.
You may not care if you win or lose the competition today, but he does. He hasn’t actually ever been with you during one, and he wasn’t supposed to be here today — he had a game, and as soon as it was over he piled into Sirius’ car with his kit on and had his friend break a couple of road rules (read: not laws, but guidelines) involving trampling a garden and a precarious not u-turn. (Sirius may have broken a law or two, but they were daft laws, and James didn’t get anybody hurt.)
He knows it doesn’t matter. He said you’d take it slow, and you are. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he worried. It’s enough to know you’re his, exclusively if tenuously, that he can find you at the rink or walk you to work and not need a reason anymore, because he wants to see you, and that’s enough. He’d even taken you out on a date, a proper one after the hot chocolate, with nice clothes and wine and champagne at a weirdly intricate restaurant that served foie gras and played classical music in the background. It was cute, and James adored being able to pull out your seat, take your jacket off of your shoulders, kiss your cheek goodnight just a little further in than a friend might.
You’ve finished the jumps in your program now, and James is relieved and gutted at once. Relieved, because they hadn’t quite scared him so much on TV, and gutted, because you look beautiful every time. It’s insane to see your body twist and turn, land and leap with that level of precision. All that's left for you to do is dance. He likes the way it looks, eyes focused on the pull and fall of your arms, how you smile, and in that last moment, where you pull your body in as tight as you can and spin until James is sure he’d see stars.
You skate to the centre of the ice and bow to the judges, and you don’t notice James is standing there waiting for you until you’re off the ice completely.
“Oh,” he sees you say rather than hears. When you’re just close enough to hear, you say, “Jamie, hi. I thought you had your game,” and throw your arms around his shoulders. James is very tall and very wide, and there’s a bouquet of flowers between you, but it’s a great hug.
He hugs you so hard you start to bend backward under his weight, the soft material of your bodysuit so soft it feels wet under his hands. Your face is hot, and you're still trying to catch your breath after your program, quick breaths like small gusts of wind against his neck. He feels your arms tighten incrementally, impossibly, and he closes his eyes for a lavish second of burying his nose in your hair.
“I played, we lost, it was good fun. Now I’m here to watch my girl win big.”
You laugh and pull away, your eyes shimmering with joy, post-competition adrenaline. “I flubbed my first jump, did you see? I almost hit the ice.”
“You pulled up amazing,” he says.
He spies your coach (who isn’t so much your coach as a friend, Mel, from the rink who goes with anyone who can get far enough into competitions to need one) with your jacket standing a little ways away.
“Hey, Mel, could I have that?” James asks.
Mel gives him a knowing look. She hands it over and he shoves the flowers at you without waiting for a reaction, wanting to get you wrapped up warm again as fast as he can. You slide one arm at a time into the sleeves and don’t say a peep when he zips it closed.
“James,” you say. Your cheek dips a touch toward your shoulder. Fondness lined each seraphim feature. “Sirius is calling you.”
He frowns. He’s been hoping for a little thank you kiss (cheek or chin, whatever you could reach), and Sirius is neither. He turns to where you’re looking at Sirius standing a ways away with some other spectators.
“You have absolutely no game!” Sirius shouts. “None!”
“What’s your problem?” James shouts back.
“You’re supposed to kiss her now? You twit!” he shouts, vehement.
James turns away from him, “God, I’m sorry, he’s such a fucking idiot, he…”
You’re looking at him. Quiet, face turned up and eyes squinted, eyelashes kissing in the corners, your glossy lips turned up like you want to be kissed. He feels it like a cheesy movie and he doesn’t care, every moment spent with you condensed as his hands come alive and cradle your face of their own accord.
He isn’t expecting you to lift up on your skates and kiss him first.
He does get fireworks, thank you very much. James Potter has been waiting to kiss you since the very first time he saw you, on ice, curling out of a tight spin with a deliriously happy laugh. It feels like an explosion, and the crowd cheers behind you for a jump he can’t see and it doesn’t matter, it fits, it makes perfect sense that a whole room of people would be up on their feet as he presses his lips to yours.
“You looked so pretty,” he tells you, nose sliding against yours as he holds himself back.
You kiss his bottom lip, another burst of floral scents erupting between you as you try not to slip back on your skate blades. “Thanks, James.”
He smiles into your mouth, melts into your hold, and takes another heart-thrumming kiss.
You’re runner up in the competition. You’re the only girl who isn’t on the pedestal that gets a bouquet of flowers, and likely the only one who doesn’t care, not one bit. You smile at James like you’ve won the gold on the way out of the centre, your hand latched firmly around his.
“Sirius.” You stop in the car park, flowers pressed to your chest. James stops beside you with your skate bag swung over his shoulder. “What happened to your car?” you ask.
Sirius kicks a new dent. “Friendship,” he says grimly.
James leans toward you, his lips at your ear. “Bender. Best not to ask about it. He’s sensitive.”
“Oh,” you murmur. “Okay.”
He kisses your temple. “Thanks, angel.”
･:*:｡･:*:･ﾟ
thank you so much for reading! please reblog if you enjoyed, it makes such a difference for me <3<3<3<3<3
I didn’t know about New Jersey’s law so imagine my shock when a pump jockey sprinted at my car and kicked my door shut when I tried to get out to get gas. I rolled down my window and asked him “Is there a law against pumping your own gas or something?” And he looked at me like I’M nuts and just said “…yes?”
I have lived in Jersey all my life and nobody told me they’re called PUMP JOCKEYS. Also I have absolutely no clue how to pump my own gas id probably blow something up if I tried. Essentially, WaWa saves lives
JADE MY BB MY HEART JUST BROKE A LITTLE SEEING SOME OF YOUR POSTS
i am so so sorry you have to go through that as a writer, whether it's the writing which is the cause of all of it or smth else. as a fellow writer, i agree that it is stressful but for other more so. ily forever love, take care of yourself <3
oh no pls everything’s okay! you don’t have to be sorry, nobody does! I like writing and I can’t wait to have some time to do some again when I have some free time and a little more energy, though I have to admit I’m very worried about my work ‘flopping’ which makes me a little reluctant to try sometimes. I know nobody really minds or cares but sometimes I worry I’ll embarrass myself when my work doesn’t get much traction, but that’s just how it goes. For me I think posting fic is like spinning a wheel and hoping it reaches people . I love you, I hope you’re taking care too ♥️
If it’s any consolation I have the same irrational fear 😭. Like sure my writings are for myself at the end of the day but the added encouragement doesn’t hurt. It’s a toss of the dice sometimes and that’s intimidating no doubt. Sending love💜
A/N: Hello again! This took forever, I know. Writing has been taking me so much longer lately. What used to be single sit downs has become a three week mf process. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. This one was based of a request so feel free to keep flooding the inbox.
Summary: The one where you finally meet James’ best friends
Bro. Your writing is immaculate.. I started with James X reader and then ended up reading EVERYTHING you have written. Seriously I mean this when I say, when is your first book coming out?
Omfg this is the sweetest message ever. Messages like this make my entire day you have no idea. Thank you so much for the love, I appreciate it more than you know and it encourages me to keep writing. Lots of love to this messenger and anyone who’s found some solace in my silly little writings💜💜
