Would love to see Jack's jersey sales in 2 months. Pissing off your fan base of young women- who are the biggest growing demographic of hockey fans, tend to spend more on merch, and were the ones defending him most pre-Olynpics, is a choice.
Family meeting, everyone come in close. We're all angry and there are things we can do to make it felt. We together have power.
First, and most obvious, unfollow them. I know it looks useless with him gaining so much but that won't last. Athletes usually see a boost after a big win before mass unfollows start because people don't care about the sport or the player. Lando Norris, Formula 1 world champion, has been losing hundreds to thousands of followers a day starting about 3 weeks after his win.
Second, there are players who have begun to unfollow members of the men's team after the video surface. I know Peyton Krebs and Olen Zellweger are among them. Follow them. Consider throwing on a Ducks or Sabres game on in the background. Reward good behavior of players showing backbone and solidarity with the women's team, no matter how small of a first step it is.
No fan posting about Jack and Quinn. Obviously drag their asses and mentioning them in game live blogs is totally chill. They want to be the first family of hockey, they want to be standouts outside of the rink, nah. Women are the ones that really build notoriety for athletes in popculture because of the way our posting habits focus on hyping individual athletes outside of games and supporting them most. Cut them off. But do still drag their assses of course.
Lastly, support the PWHL! They livestream their games free on YouTube on Tuesday. Give them views and praise. Spread the word. There is a huge market for women's sports. The WNBA is having games match the view count of the NBA. We can give these ladies the bigger stage and respect they deserve.
An additional, more direct thing, is to message their sponsors that you won't buy their product if their ambassadors disrespect women's hockey. Many influencers rolled out the notes app apology because of this. They don't get to laugh at women's hockey, visit a rapist, and still do Bath and Body Works ads lmao.
Hockey is such a conservative sport it seems impossible to change but we can. Even in small ways of what players become the it boy. For my Americans, remember how Target ended their DEI initiatives right after Trump got back in office. They've spent the last year doing all sorts of discounts, promoting their pride and racial inclusion collections again, and basically begging people to come shop there because they are still having major losses from boycotts. They come crawling back.
We can do this. Go team! Alright ladies let's get to work!
This is so so important to share!!! Thank you so much for this. - I did hear someone say Larkin was supportive of the women being invited too, so we might be able to add Red Wings to our list!!
I hope that hockey in NJ is going to sack him now. Especially after seeing Jack Hughes be excited to go to the white house.
I will look out for the sales numbers as well, maybe i should also keep updating on what brands take action in the future👀
summary; you’ve had a sunday routine perfected for a few years now, a day to reset, just you and your dog molly. but when fraser comes into your life, slowly, you allow him into your routine.
tags; RATED G. fm93 x f!reader, autistic!reader, new relationship, some hurt/comfort, mostly fluff!!! cuddles & domestic stuff, coparenting reader's service dog :3
a/n; hi!! my first fraser fic!!! and its very personal to me!!! i've wanted to write an autistic reader for a long time but going thru my own acceptance/diagnosis journey blah blah blah it was just v personal to me. and it still is, but now i'm comfy w/ it and really excited to put smth out there that represents me and how i feel! and is also super cute! ok enjoy!!
wc; 3k
Your Sunday routine was perfected a long time ago, you start each one like any other day with morning stretches, skincare and brushing your teeth, then straight out for a walk with Molly, breakfast from the bakery, and a round of her favorite game—hide and go seek—at home.
Midday is for household chores, things to make the rest of your week easier. The mundane tasks that always dragged on in your earlier adulthood are made easier with someone on the phone. You start with your parents, they’re always up early after church, then you’d call your best friend, then return any calls you’d missed over the week. By the time you made it through that list your clothes had been switched into the dryer, you’d moved on to meal prep, then cleaned up a little in your kitchen, entryway, and living room.
After you tidied up it was time to fold your laundry, but first you’d sit out whatever little craft you’re working on that week, leaving it ready for yourself after your chore list was complete. The TV distracts you from the ever-changing textures on your fingers, and it only takes an episode before your basket is full of neatly stacked clothes, which you carry to your bedroom. They’re a problem for tomorrow, as your outfit for tomorrow is already folded on your dresser.
Around six you take Molly out for her evening walk, letting her run wild in the park for a little bit, a last hurrah before her bath tomorrow. You sit on a bench to people-watch, pink headphones slotted comfortably over your ears. On the way home you find somewhere close-by for takeout, bringing your food home to wind down for the night. You pick back up on whatever you were watching earlier, enjoying dinner and working on your craft of choice until you feel tired, usually around nine-thirty.
The feeling of laying in your freshly made bed in a clean pair of pajamas, and knowing you have everything in order for the week ahead of you, it’s like no other. You finish the night with a warm shower and cuddles with Molly, letting her on the bed for a little while before she tucks into her crate for the night, and you take one last lap around the apartment to make sure everything is off and locked. Your sound machine and soft, twinkling string lights set the scene for sleep, gentle thunder soothing your already lax nervous system until you drift off.
At the beginning of your relationship you’d stressed to Fraser how much you needed the day to prepare and reset yourself before a taxing Monday and a long week ahead. He often stayed the night on Friday and lounged around at your place well into the evening on Saturday, but he was always respectful of your boundary. You’d never had something like this. There just wasn’t time in your Sunday, no room in the routine for a boyfriend. Until you needed him.
It was about a month into the relationship when you found yourself rocking on your heels in the kitchen, staring in disgust at the tub of sour cream which had molded at the bottom. As if that wasn’t enough, there was something very suspicious looking in your vegetable drawer, and a very unpleasant smell emanating from the back of the top shelf.
It’d been one hell of a week preparing for the Playwrights Festival at your university’s theater, a two day showcase of one act, student-written shows. Months ago you’d agreed to work on costume design, not realizing you’d be sewing well past midnight for a week straight. By the end of it you were too tired to get to the grocery store, ignoring your list and flopping into bed to place an order for delivery. Only, you left off about five things, and didn’t have time to finish cleaning out the fridge, and all of it was piling up so high on your shoulders you felt like it would crush you.
Molly sits at your feet obediently, nosing at your hand every now and again to remind you she’s there, trying to soothe you. You’re muttering to yourself, repeating things about missing ingredients, trying to figure out the best plan of action to get yourself back on track with meal prep. But so much is wrong, and so much is missing, and you’re in no state to leave the house. With shaking hands you find your phone, dialing Fraser’s number and hoping he picks up.
Riiing. riiing. Riiiing.
The third one always feels longer.
He picks up on the fourth ring, sounding a little winded but pleased to hear from you. “Hi! Hey, I wasn’t, um, expecting—”
“Are you busy?” you interrupt, followed by a sniffle.
“No, no ‘m not busy,” he responds quickly, the upbeat tone in his voice dropping, laced with concern. “I’m just out on a run. What’s up?”
Your shoulders sag from the tension you’ve been holding there, and you inhale a shaky breath. “I-It’s just… that stupid fucking festival, I didn’t have time to clean out my fridge yesterday so I didn’t know—” you gasp, the tension and distress bubbling up again inside your chest. You’re met with patient silence from Fraser as you take a deep breath in, centering yourself and gathering your words. “I-I didn’t know some of my groceries had gone bad a-and ‘m not dressed to go to the store and–”
“I’ll go for you.”
You blink, his words pulling you away from your spiraling thoughts. “You…” you trail off, sniffling and wiping your eyes.
“I don’t mind, I’m out anyway. I’ll swing by the grocery store and drop off whatever you need. You can just text me a list, does that sound good?”
The tile floor is cold and welcoming as you sink down onto it, Molly quickly trotting over to lay her head in your lap. “Yeah,” you tell him weakly, “that would be really nice. Thank you.”
“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll be at the store in about ten minutes.”
“Okay,” you whisper, and that's all you can say.
“See you soon.”
The call ends with a beep. You let your phone fall from your hand, knees tucked up to your chest, and slump over with a loud groan. Molly paws at your hip, her nose poking your knee insistently until you look up at her. You press close, your forehead touching her brow as you stroke the soft fur behind her ears.
“Mama needs help,” you mumble. “Fridge?”
Molly wags her tail, heading directly to the fridge and jumping on her hind legs to push the door open. You peer in, reminding yourself what went bad and taking note of whatever else you may need, then quickly type up a list and send it his way. Molly gets a quick treat and a kiss on the head before another deep sigh leaves you, you rub your eyes with the heels of your palms, creating annoying little spots in your vision, and stay stationary hugging your knees until the pressure in your head starts to subside.
You’ve calmed down quite a bit by the time Fraser makes it back to your building. He knocks softly on the door, stepping in when you call out to him and immediately toeing off his shoes, always respectful of your rules. He doesn’t see you at first, but Molly comes trotting over with a wagging tail and he kneels down to greet her.
“I put your bags on the counter, I can stay to help put them away or I could just go back home,” he explains, hearing you shuffling around somewhere nearby. You appear in front of him shortly after, your fingers scratching under Molly’s chin.
“You… could stay?” You ask softly.
“Oh, um,” he looks a little shocked, not expecting you to take his offer, his icy blue eyes going wide, but a smile grows on his face. “Yeah, of course. I’ll stay for a bit.”
That was just the start. You started adding him into your rotation of Sunday phone calls, or meeting him for your morning pastries. It became hard to resist once you realized how easily he fit into your life.
Only a few weeks later Fraser finds himself woven into your routine. He departs Saturday evenings, then comes back over to keep you company, giving an extra hand in the kitchen and washing the dishes since he knows you hate it. He tags along on your evening walk with Molly, the two of you pulling up your shared note of restaurants you’ve been wanting to try for takeout, and deciding between those and your tried and true pizza spot. He pays for dinner with a kiss to your temple, smiles in the corner store when you insist on paying for a cheap bottle of wine or cheesecake for dessert.
He follows you up to your apartment, getting a plate ready for you, and secretly feeding scraps to Molly, always wanting to stay on her good side. In the meantime you get settled into your craft, laptop serving as your TV and background noise, smiling wide in your matching pajamas. Fraser brings you your plate and Molly follows, settling at your feet. The two of you talk and try each other’s food, and at some point you’ll migrate to the much cozier couch.
And that’s where you are now, spending a Sunday just like any other, just with a new edition. The curtains in your living room are wide open, blinds pulled up and out of the way to let the weaning sunlight filter in towards your couch. You sit tucked into the corner, knees pressed into the arm, with a sturdy sketchbook balanced across your lap.
“What’s this?” Fraser murmurs, his fingers brushing a dark bruise on your thigh.
“Oh, um,” you trail off a bit, glancing down at the spot. “From ballet, I guess. Or, maybe the end table. I moved it and now I keep running into it.”
“I’ve noticed,” Fraser returns, not rude or mean-spirited like you’re accustomed to, he isn’t offering up some sort of ‘gotcha’ moment. Instead, he’s simply noticing you; your habits, your little idiosyncrasies, the things that make you tick. He leans down, hunching over to kiss the spot, just above your knee.
You nod, returning to the paper in front of you. “Spatial awareness,” you mumble. There’s silence for a short moment, with Fraser just leaning into your side, tracing up and down your thigh. Then he hums, inquisitive, and turns to face you.
Your own hand finds the back of his head, twirling a loose curl around one finger. “Y’know, how I’m clumsy, and I’m always bumping into things. It all has to do with sensory processing. Like, when I was little and my mom and I would walk into the store, she’d have to keep her hand on my shoulder, otherwise I’d drift out into traffic or bump into her side. And I couldn’t do gymnastics ‘cause I could never quite twist right.”
“You’re really flexible, though,” he says softly, getting a little more comfortable under your arm. A smirk stretches across his soft pink lips, “full splits and everything.”
You swat at his head now, remarking, “Naughty,” and earning a wave of giggles from your boyfriend.
He smiles wider now, a playful glint lighting his eyes. Curious fingers wander across your thigh with a gentle reverence. He maps the space between your freckles, traces the tattoo on your thigh, all while keeping his touch respectful, he doesn’t want to start anything. But he’s thinking something, you can tell it when he looks up at you with that look you know well. “Do you think you could pass the straight line test?”
“Straight line test?” you return, scrunching your brow in thought. “What’s that?”
His voice is soft when he explains, “it’s one of the things the police make you do for a sobriety test.”
“Oh, um. I don’t drink.”
“Well, I know that,” he murmurs, rosy cheeks bouncing as he tries to contain a laugh. “But that’s not what I asked you. It’s ten steps or so, heel to toe in a straight line.”
You think about it for a moment. Fraser looks you over, his eyes lingering on yours for a second, moving to take in the flush on your cheeks, your soft pink lips. Then you give an exaggerated shudder at the thought. “Surely not.”
Fraser laughs whole heartedly at that, his shaking shoulders dislodging your case of markers and spilling them across the end table. “Shit—I’m sorry—jeez I wasn’t thinking.” He sits up straighter, leaning over your lap to gather the art supplies.
A deep, exaggerated sigh lets him know you’re not mad, though your hand squeezes anxiously at the squishy strawberry you keep by your side. Molly cocks her head from across the room, ears and tail standing at attention as she sits up, trained to pick up on little cues like your heart rate and breathing. You smile and coo to her, “mama’s okay,” letting her know there’s no need for help at the moment. “Our unpaid roommate just made a mess, that’s all,” you add, gently elbowing Fraser’s ribs.
“I know, I know,” he says, giving you an apologetic look.
“It’s alright, just put everything on the coffee table,” you tell him, stretching out your legs once he moves your sketch pad. Your jaw falls into a yawn, eyes slipping closed. The couch feels like heaven under your tired body, sleep was more difficult than usual last night and you were feeling it now.
When you open your eyes you see Fraser peering back at you. “You tired?” he asks.
“Mmhm,” you nod, slumping over sideways into his lap. He smells like a deep cinnamon cologne, and the book that’s been resting there in his lap, discarded long ago in favor of watching your drawings unfold.
His fingers find your hair, threading into the roots and massaging your scalp. “Bedtime?”
“Mm, nooo,” you whine, your nose digging into his stomach. Worn cotton hides his heated skin from you, but you feel the warmth anyways. “Cozy here. Wanna watch TV a little longer.”
“You’re not even watching,” he teases
“I will be,” you retort, fingers grabbing hold of his waist lightly. “If you lay over there, we can cuddle until I feel like going to bed? Yeah?”
Fraser can’t resist any request from you, much less one mumbled in such a sweet voice as you clutch onto him like this. “Okay, yeah. Jus’ move over for a second.”
Your lips turn upwards contentedly as you watch him scoot back into the corner of your sectional, laying his legs out forwards and beckoning you into his side. You lunge into him with a playful laugh, your head finding its home just over his heart. His legs are warm against your own as you tangle them together, and you whistle quietly. Molly perks up on her bed again, head cocked to the side and tail wagging, waiting for her sign to come cuddle. As soon as you pat the couch she jumps up, grabbing her stuffed bee and bounding over.
Just like her mom, she barrels into the two of you on the couch, squeezing her body in the small space between Fraser’s legs and the couch cushions. He huffs on impact, but scratches gently at Molly’s head. He draws you closer under his arm, watching Molly as she noses her stuffie between the two of you, settling her head in Fraser’s lap.
“You comfy Mols? Hm? Cozy little Molecule??” He asks, his voice pitching up high. Her jaw opens in a large yawn, almost as if responding to his question, then she tucks her snout under one paw. Fraser turns to you too, asking the same, “an’ you’re comfy?”
You nod along, eyes barely open while Scrubs runs in the background. Your hand finds Molly’s ears—your favorite spot and hers too—to rub soothing little patterns over her auburn fur. Seconds pass on into minutes, the TV plays on and you can’t help the smile that forms on your face.
Smiling like this wasn’t something you were accustomed to, you often had an ache in your jaw after interviews or pictures, and your resting face was… neutral at best. But right now you feel so content, like every aspect of the world around you is catering to the perfect moment, the perfect feeling. Warmth radiates from your middle, your arms feel loose and relaxed, and the tension has eased from your shoulders. It’s all blurring into a quiet haze, when silence falls over the room. You blink your eyes open lazily, noticing the ever-irritating ‘keep watching?’ screen. You take a deep breath and mentally count to five, preparing to stretch and look for the remote, when you hear Fraser’s soft voice.
“Molly,” he murmurs, and she looks up at him. “Remote?” Her tail wags and she stretches out, then climbs carefully over you both to retrieve the remote. When she returns, she gets ear scratches and sweet praise from Fraser, who presses play to keep the next episode going, and the room settles back into its gentle hum, Molly finding a new spot tucked against your hip.
“Sorry I don’t have a treat for her,” he says. “She usually gets one, right?”
Molly perks up, and you giggle, “she’s really smart, you gotta spell it,” you remind him. He laughs too, and you fall back into your cozy silence, your mind wandering. “You’re so sweet,” you murmur to him.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, not smug but curious as he always is.
“I dunno,” you respond, drawing it out. The words have slipped right from your mind, but you know he won’t care. You manage out, “You do such nice things for me, and you never make fun of me,”
“Why would I make fun of you?” he asks, and its so genuine your heart nearly breaks in two.
“That’s exactly what I mean, baby,” you sigh, your body melting into his further and further with each slow breath. “All my weird—”
“You’re not weird,” he interrupts, and you smile.
“My differences. They’re not really… anything to you. It’s almost like you like them, and not in a fake way.”
Fraser huffs out a laugh, turning his head to press his nose into your hair. He takes a deep breath, inhaling lavender shampoo and vanilla lotion. “I like you, that’s all.”
Summary: In summer, you and Lionel found yourselves on the beach and spending days and nights in and out of water.
TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Thoughts, Smut, Kisses and make out sessions, Semi-Public Sex (it is Lionel's private beach villa but setting is outside), Dry Humping, Unprotected Sex, Slight Overstimulation.
Hello, lovelies! This is for my OC, Lionel Hill! Once again, this is part of Operation: Fictional Men Do it Better by @/hat-trick-honey. Please check it out (linked in general masterlist). There are so many teams and players in this universe. Lionel/Stormy is only one of them! If you want to know about Lionel first or after you read this blurb, please head over to his masterlist! Thank you, lovelies. I hope you enjoy this first Lionel smutty blurb. 🥺🧎🏻♀️🧎🏻♀️ (Heavily no proofread it is 2:30AM)
Moon Harbor Otters List | Lionel Hill List | Taglist
Lionel had always have a thing for you in bikinis. He couldn't help it when they all looked so marvelous on you, no matter what the color or style. His hazel-colored eyes would always be burning on you skin, unable to look away, ogling at you so openly, his lips slightly parting, his heart hammering in his chest, his cheeks burning as his whole body starting to overheat. He wouldn't be ashamed in roving every inch of you skin, his gaze lingering on your chest, your tummy, then your ass. He wouldn't be wavered even if you glared at him while fighting your grin.
Like right now.
He openly stared at the indent of your nipples, his mouth watering, needing to take them in his mouth, wanting to suck them until you were whimpering on his lap, until you finally let him peel of that skimpy bikini top, until you—
"It is literally so early, Storm," you huffed, putting your hands on your waist, pressing your lips in a tightline to keep yourself from smiling. "You promised we'd swim before we do stuff."
Lionel always loved it when you called him by his second name. He loved it when you were were acting all annoyed with him when he already caught your legs rubbing together before you stood your ground. Oh, you were so cute as you were so beautiful.
He grinned, biting on his lower lip, his dimple showing, letting out a chuckle. He sat back, his legs spreading, drawing your attention to his situation, his tenting situation, his rock hard situation.
"You're hot, my Love," he confessed, his hand coming down to play over his waistband, his other stretching out for you to take. "Come here for a bit please."
He waited until you finally decided not to fight yourself from going to him. He waited until you take you take your slow and deliberate walk towards him, your hips swaying with every step. He waited until you finally reached him, your delicate hand landing on his calloused one. Then he pressed a kiss on your knuckles before pulling you to sit over his lap.
You were so perfect on his lap. He liked your weight on him. He liked your hands finding his shoulders, instantly rubbing and squeezing because you knew you owned him, your ass lifting before you basically sat over his cock, teasing him with a roll of your hips.
"Fuck," he groaned, not expecting that. His habd clutched your waist, gripping tightly but not fighting your next grinds. "Oh, fuck yes. Yes, fuck. More—"
You captured his lips, shutting him up, your fingers running through his hair, gripping his strands, tugging harshly, forcing him to crane his head upwards, as your tongue moved with his. You kissed him so roughly that your teeths were bumping, your exhales becoming his inhales, your end blurred with his beginning.
Lionel was getting so fucking lost that he had forgotten his need to suck on your tita, that his fingers played with the string of your bikini, that he undid your ribbon, that his other hand moved bwtween you to slide your bottom to the side so you could grind on him directly. He wanted your arousal to wet his trunks as much as his pre-cum. He wanted you to fuck him right on this bench of this fucking villa. Not like it would be the first time.
You had already fucked on this bench several times since your arrival. Whether it was him on top or you taking all of him. Whether it was him kneeling as he ate you out until you were shaking and pushing him off you with your foot on his shoulder or you teasing him with kitten licks on his tip until he comes on your face. Whether it was so rough that the bench creaked or so slow that it had both of you whimpering and sobbing from the torturous yet delightful sensation of you and him.
Just as he was about to push down his trunks, you stopped. You mercilessly sat on him, unmoving, and pulled away from the kiss with a tiny lick right over his scar causing him to shudder.
"Swim first, Stormy." You grinned, before getting off him.
Lionel couldn't believe it as he sat there with you fixing your bikini bottoms, not giving a fuck at your arousal dripping before fell into place. His cock ached, weeping and protesting, twitching as you dove into the water without care. His hair rustled with the breeze.
"You're cruel," he mumbled when you came up to the edge of the pool, grinning at him. "You're so—"
"Come here, my Love."
It was your turn to offer your hand.
And it was his to come to you.
So Lionel did. Shivers stabbed down his spine at every brush of his trunks against his senstive cock. He could barely breathe as he joined you. He was ready to swim around and to calm down his situation, but you were on him, hugging him, pressing your ear against his chest. He hugged your back, melting into you, kissing the top of your head.
You had him fooled. You weren't being sweet now. No. You were simppy tricking him because the next thing he knew was your hand slipping in his trunks, wrapping around his cock, jerking him off under the water.
Holy fuck.
"Dye your hair blue tomorrow, okay?" You innocently asked as if you weren't teasing his slit, as if you weren't gripping him like you were trying to squeeze his pre-cum out, as if you weren't exposing your tits for him, as if you weren't pulling him down to suck on them. "I want your hair to match my outfit."
"Okay," was his only reply before he licked your nipple. He greedily sucked and licked and nipped at your hardened peaks. "So pretty. Fucking delicious," he growled, groaning at your tiny mewls, cursing at your leg hooking ovwr his hip. He gripped your thigh harshly, grinding against your core. "Want you to come just like this, my Love."
He wouldn't relent. He would grope and tease your tits as he expertly grinded right against your clit. The water sloshed against your bodies. He would bite on your soft flesh until you stiffened and screamed your release. It was so cute, you coming without him inside you, you coming just from your tits, you coming and looking at him with so much need.
So Lionel took you out of water. He easily held you with your legs wrapped around his waist. He didn't even break a sweat as he pushed you against the wall, manuevering to push his trunks off, push your bikini to the side once more, rubbing his hard and aching length on your slit, teasing both your entrance and clit. He entered you, slowly, letting your cunt get use to the stretch that you thoroughly know.
"Oh, how are you so fucking big, Li?" You whimpered, sobbing when his thumb teased your clit. "Fuck, I can't."
"You are such a liar," Lionel laughed, giving you soft kisses on the corner of your lips, listening to your complaints as he sat all of himself in you. "My beautiful liar."
He would start fucking you in the pace that had you digging your nails on his skin, putting scratches right over his precious tattoos. He wouldn't stop until the lewd sounds of skin slapping and wet squelching accompanied your combined moans and groans. He would roll his hips only to see your eyes momentarily rolled up as you pushed up into a tiny crest. He would know to do it again, and again, forcing to come higher than that small peak. He knew you could give him more. He knew.
"Harder, Storm. Please—" you begged, meeting his thrusts as best as you could even if you didn't need to. "Please."
"I got you, my Love," he replied, giving you what you needed. His grip were bruising on your hips. His lips were soft on your neck. His thrusts were hard and unforgiving, his tip kissing your cervix, his cock twitching. "Fuck, you're so fucking perfect, aren't you? Leaking all over me—" he could feel your walls shaking, his own orgasm impending, "Oh, my good girl is gonna come, huh? You're gonna cream all over my cock while I fill you up, huh?"
"Stormy," you sobbed, shaking your head, your other hand gripping his arm. "Fuckfuckfuck. I'm gonna come. Please let me come. Please. I need—PLEASE!"
"Just let go, my Love. Fucking let go. Give everything to me."
You came with a silent scream, your pussy convulsing and pulsing as you reached your crest and tumbled down harder and harder with every thrust Lionel gave to ride the tide of your orgasm, with every spurt of his cum that followed after, with every fucking groan he let out as he tried to keep the pace while his cock ached with oversentivity.
"Fuck, stop, Li," you panted so he did. You could feel him shaking as much as you. Your hand softly carressed his cheek, finger grazing where his dimple was. "That was so good."
"Yeah?" He asked, blinking slowly, pulling you from the wall, torturing both of you with the feel of his softening cock sinking deeper in your pussy.
It took him a minute to recover from that jolt. It took him another to finally able to move to sit back on the bench while he was still inside of you.
It took him another to kiss you, praising you for taking him so well, complimenting how pretty you look with that fucked out expression, promising that he could go for another in just a frw minutes, laughing when you tried to runaway because you were so sensitive, reminding you that you probably couldn't walk because he knew how you were after a round of him.
It took him several more to spread your legs so he could push the cum that spilled put of you back in, so he could tease your red and fucked entrance, so he could fuck you with two fingers, so he could make you cry from needing a break while also needing more.
Something just happened....woops. Good night! 🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️🏃🏻♀️
Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated. 💙🩵🩷
His full name is Lionel Storm Hill. Hence, one of his nicknames is Stormy. Only the locker room knew about his full name, so it would confused fans when he's called Stormy. He also likes being called Li or Ly (Lie) or Nyel. He is not really particular about his name, so if someone mispronounce it, he'll just accept it.
Background:
He is born in Vancouver but moved to Ottawa when he is four. He learned to skate for figure skating before he got extremely bored—nailing some of the routines down faster than his peers—with it. He didn't feel challenged nor excited. He was easily getting overwhelmed with the loop of music for programmes. One day, at seven, he just went home and refused to to practices. However, after letting go of figure skating, he would still find himself asking to go to the rink, nagging his dad to build the rink for winter, showing extreme interest to the TV when a hockey game starts, so he was signed up for a hockey lessons.
As years passed, lessons turned into camps into official development camps. Skating has been second nature for Stormy, but hockey...it was more than that. He was having. He felt the rush for every game he played, win or loss. He found himself needing more and more. Hockey became one of his drives. One of his passions. One of his hobbies. Something he wanted to do forever.
His dad—being an avid hockey fan—was fully behind Stormy's decision and provided everything Stormy needed as best as he could. From commute allowances, a hefty hockey gear funds (Stormy fully utilized his equipment until it's dead so he didn't use the funds much), scheduling plan, to connections that his dad build slowly even for not having a hockey background beyond being a fan. His dad poured his attention on Stormy, not just because he was his only son, but also because he saw the spark in his eyes whenever he played.
It was Stormy's mom who was skeptic of his decision. Being Filipino and whose family was hellbent on a university degree in sciences rather than arts or sports, she didn't see much a future in hockey as a career. She was only afraid that he would be wasting his potential in sports despite seeing how well he navigated through his games and how he continued to improved. However, despite her fear, she was always the first one to knock on Stormy's door to wake him up for his game or to drive him when the commute would be horrible or to reorganized his properly aired-out gear. The first one to scream when Stormy got drafted 8th overall in the first round of drafts.
Now, Stormy plays for Moon Harbor Otters where he is adored, not only as a star defenseman who is seemingly so sweet and gentle until he checks another player against the board so harshly it might put a stop to the game just for it to marked a clean, but also also for his hair. There are frequent rise of discussion about it every week especially when his hair is getting less colorful. Bets are made whether he'll color the bleached tips with blue, red, purple, pink or a combination. No one seems to understand the pattern of his hair changes.
Fun Facts (in the picture):
He is a neckguard wearer because his mom always worries about the risk of not wearing one.
He tries his best to be more extroverted, volunteering for media content, but only ends up getting all shy that he mishears the question and answering the most random stuff like he heard it well.
He is a gifter, but not a good one (for his teammates and friends).
He likes to do random dip dye all over his hair. He is meticulous on keeping the colors vibrant. He goes from red, purple, blue, and pink almost weekly, but prefers the combo of red and purple for his headshot. There are summers where he'd dye his hair black then he'd crash out about it making him extremely pale.
He wishes he can adopt a dog, but he is slightly allergic to fur.
He likes coffee for the rush, but he swears the caffeine never hits when he doesn't become jittery.
He loves to cook but is horrible in baking.
He regularly calls his mom to ask for Filipino recipes for his meal prep.
He takes pride in his freckles and moles. He sometimes call them his stars, heavily implying that he is a galaxy.
He is big on sunscreen and using umbrellas. "Sun damage is not a joke!"
He likes his necklaces and his bracelets but hates feeling them during games. He gets overstimulated!
His favorite team night event is Pride Night! He goes all out: wrapping half of stick with pride tape, wearing his pride jersey and rainbow scarf over his neckguard.
He is slightly insecure about his eyebrow and lip scars.
Miscellaneous:
At nine, he had helped his mom do some Filipino dishes like wrapping Lumpiang Shanghai, Lumpiang Toge, and Turon. While it was only prep, he fell in love with cooking and had always find his way into the kitchen whenever he gets a chance to. At twelve, he helped create his mom's recipe book—providing accurate measurements that he also tend to ignore over time—to keep track of everything.
He had frequently invited his U-18 team over so he can cook donner for them. On time, he tried to make cookies to bring to a game, they turned out burnt on the outside and raw in the middle. Then the next he tried to make cupcakes, it melted into a puddle. Then the next he tried to make a loaf of bread, it became harder than a puck. So he concluded that baking is not for him.
Despite knowing a lot of dishes, he still tend to call his mom to this day to clarify some steps so he can prepare his meal prep properly.
At fourteen, while on he and his dad were on the way home from a late night game, they had been crashed into by a drunken driver. Luckily, the crash was aimed to the doors of back seat, but the impact had blown the airbags and had shattered the car windows, sending shards of glass to rain on Stormy. One particular glass had sliced through his eyebrow and his lip, deep enough that it had scarred unlike the other scratches.
In coping from the sight of bruises and scratches and the possible scars on his face, he gravitated to the sight of his freckles and moles. He looked and counted and appreciated. Then it click to him that he might as well be a galaxy for having so many beauty marks. His stars!
However, he really hated his scars and tried his best to hide them, but he tends to forget to put pimple patches or bandaids on them.
At sixteen, he got made fun of by his cousin, telling him that he did not look Filipino enough just because he is pale even when he resembles his mom greatly. He got so offended that he tried to tan, neglecting his sunscreen. He ended up having sunburn. So he would just not interact with that cousin at all. So he would continue his sunscreen routine and keep his umbrella. So he always gets annoyed every time he wants to dye his hair darker and ends up looking "pale."
At eighteen, when he moved to his drafted team, he discovered that he liked silence but he wanted to be outgoing and be participarive in whatever the media team asks of him. He....tries even to this day.
boldy’s statement, terrible. spending time with women does not equal respecting them. nor does attending their game. no apology in sight, no accountability of any sort. he’s right that it SHOULD be about the fact that both team’s won gold, but he fails to realize that the men are the reason it hasn’t been able to be about that. i need more team’s media to do what ottawa’s did and fully just say “ok so why did you laugh.” idk if there were further questions asked about the white house situation and all that, and i will NOT be subjecting myself to his full interview when it’s posted bc i don’t want to see his face or hear his voice. but i will say that MY big question i’d like answered by boldy specifically is “why did you laugh when a teammate said to close the northern border?” as a canadian who was formerly a fan of his, i would LOVE to hear his explanation for that. bc you can VERY clearly hear HIS laugh after that comment was made :)
I need someone in their investigative journalism era to find out what absolute dipshit is behind this pr “we love the women’s team we stayed on the same floor!!!” statement they’re all regurgitating so I can cyber bully them with cause
if you search for a team usa player who attended the white house today on moneypuck you'll be redirected to a really cool website :) and you can do something even cooler there :)
