#th55 x reader

[harleybrini]

hiiii congrats on now 300 followers! i would love smut prompt 13 on list 2 with either harley or wyatt (your choice!!). tysm 💞

thomas harley + smut prompt thirteen (0.8k words)

boy who runs warm 🤝 girly who runs cold 

pnv unprotected, fire analogies, most annoying and cheeky bf ever eye roll

It was bound to happen.

The weather was anticipated to turn bad hours ago; it was your fault you were so overconfident. All flights out of the town were grounded. The roads were closed, and the pavement was milled over with so much snow and ice you could slip over by taking one step out the door. Now you couldn’t even make it out the door. The snow is close to reaching the handle at this point; the lock is likely frozen shut. You mentally commend your genetic ancestors for discovering and harnessing fire, because without it you surely would’ve frozen to death. 

And of course, Thomas is fine. 

He’s hardly said a word since you got to the rented cottage; he just watched. Watched with those slow-blinking eyes, spectating you like it was funny, like your frustration was the most amusing thing there was to do. That only ended up with you growing more annoyed, less at the snow entrapment and more at your oh-so-quiet boyfriend who sits awfully content on the sofa. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you step around the couch to tower over him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks with his arms crossed over his chest. The woolly sweater he has on nearly breaks you, but you stay strong. 

“How are you fine right now? It’s freezing.” 

He nods in agreement, your statement just serving as a way to contract noise in the space. You grumble and fall down onto the cushion besides him. His arm folds from his chest and coils around your shoulders, tucking you nicely into him and the crevice of the seat. It’s then that you understand why he’s so zen. He’s warm. Skin tepid with natural heat that wafts off of him like the fire stoking in the place in front of you. You crawl deeper into him, hands slipping under the edge of his sweater and splaying across the firm plains of muscle where his stomach is. How rude is that? He’s been withholding his own body heat from you this whole time. Instead of sharing it with you, he’s been watching you struggle like it’s his favourite movie. 

“I hate you," you lie, burrowing into his chest while swinging a leg over his lap until you fit right into him like a puzzle piece. He scoffs, tucking a hand between your thigh and his. 

“Liar. You love me.”

“Barely.” No, entirely. He just doesn’t need to know how much. You pick at the pilling of his sweater; he rubs his hand down your shoulder in slow currents. It’s quiet for a moment, but then he pokes his finger into the fat of your thigh hard enough to make you squeal. 

"Quit," you glower, kissing him once on the scruffy skin of his chin. You kiss him again in the corner of his mouth, and then again, and again, until you're wrapped up in one another and can’t even remember what he did to annoy you. It happens lazily. At a natural speed, you don’t even realise your top is peeled off until you feel his hands reaching for the clasp of your bra. Despite how cold the weather has turned outside, the space between you is warm. The fire blazes; wispy flames dance in the blackened space, and wood crisps up and leaves an orange glow through the room. Tom is cosier than any flame, though. He ignites the distance that’s inevitable and pulls you in like it’s the easiest thing he can do. 

"Tom," you whisper into his mouth; he bites at your skin until it stings. “Keep me warm." He will; you don’t even need to ask because you know it’s the one thing he’ll always do, “Safe.” 

Every mark he presses into your skin burns with that aching need for something more. He dips his head lower until it can rest freely on your collarbone; auburn curls graze over your bitten flesh. There’s reason in his hands, and it finds purpose by swirling deep flourishes over your clit until you're shaking. There’s habit in the way he doesn’t stop no matter how badly you try to buck away, because he knows. 

His cock pushes into you slow, every ridge and vein gliding over your spongy walls until he’s at the hilt. He still doesn’t say much, but his breathing pattern grows uneven the more your hips move over him. His hands don’t stop moving all over you, down your back, over your waist, through your hair. It’s never-ending and overrides all of your senses until all you can focus on is him. 

Your pelvis grinds down on him until it leaves that sticky sweaty residue on his inner thighs. It’s gross and makes a crude sound each time you bound down onto him, all squelchy and wet. His cheeks heat up, bright red over his nose. You guide his head to rest on your sternum by his hair; he lets it happen. 

“Oh—” You don’t let him finish the muddled train of sounds. You tug at his dampened tresses hard enough to release a pained noise. 

It’s hot. Sweat beads on your temple as your movements turn sloppy. The fire burns brighter, literally or figuratively; you don’t know. There’s not much room left in your resolve to be caring about the fire behind you; all of it’s on the one in you. 

[wannabehockeygf]

Omg, can you write some thomas harley fluff? I got a crush on him after his 4 nations interview where he said sidney crosby is like a god, his voice was so nice and gravely. And he's so pretty when he smiles and runs his hands through his hair.

the afternoon sun spills through the living room window, golden and warm, dust particles drifting lazily like tiny stars. you're curled up on the softest corner of the couch, knees pulled up beneath a fluffy knit blanket. your eyes have barely left thomas all day—not that he notices. he's sprawled out across the floor, legs stretched long and crossed at the ankles, a mess of hockey cards and team photos spread out around him.

every few minutes he sits up straight, tugging thoughtfully at the sleeves of his oversized hoodie as he organizes his collection, making quiet little humming noises that melt you completely. you watch, utterly captivated, as he leans back against the coffee table, sunlight touching him just right—making the soft brown waves of his hair glow gently. it's too tempting; you want nothing more than to weave your fingers through it.

“baby,” you murmur softly, smiling as his head jerks up, eyes wide and blinking with surprise. his hazel eyes catch the light, all greens and golds and browns mixed together, shining like honey.

“mm?” his lips lift in that sweet, innocent smile you adore so much, dimpling slightly on one side, eyes crinkling. it's that smile—the one he saves just for you—that always has your heart tripping over itself.

“c’mere, you’ve been down there forever,” you say, voice gentle but needy. "miss you."

thomas laughs softly—soft and bashful and boyish—shaking his head fondly as he pushes himself to his feet. his socks glide over the polished wood as he shuffles toward you, cheeks pink with warmth and affection. he sinks down beside you, one arm immediately slipping behind your shoulders, tucking you neatly against him as if you're made to fit there. you nestle closer, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the slow, comforting rhythm of his heartbeat.

“better?” he whispers, lips brushing lightly against your temple, fingers tracing gentle circles along your back.

“so much better.” you tilt your head up, capturing his chin between your fingers, pulling him down softly until your lips press tenderly to his. the kiss is easy and warm, slow like honey. when you break apart, his smile grows wider, shyer somehow.

"you're distracting me," he says, voice soft and teasing, thumb gently brushing your cheekbone.

“am i?” your smile grows mischievous, fingers wandering up to thread through his soft hair, tugging gently and reveling in the feel of the silky strands between your fingertips. god, he's pretty when he runs his hands through it—always absentmindedly, a soft sigh escaping his lips, eyes half-closed. like right now, as your fingers soothe through his hair, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, a faint blush coloring his skin.

"mmm, yeah. now i'll never finish organizing," he murmurs, halfheartedly pretending to complain, though the way he presses closer says otherwise. “it’s all your fault, eh.”

"good." you press another kiss to his jawline, giggling softly at the way he ducks his head bashfully, a warm breath escaping him, tickling your skin. "you've got plenty of time. i think this is much more important."

he chuckles again, gentle and deep, the sound vibrating pleasantly through your chest. “you’re right. you always are.”

you watch him quietly as he tilts his head back slightly, eyes softening under the golden afternoon glow, the flecks of amber in his irises sparkling faintly. your heart swells achingly in your chest—sometimes you can't believe how lucky you are. thomas is the softest, sweetest soul you've ever known, endlessly patient and unfailingly kind, even in moments like these, quiet afternoons tangled together without a care in the world.

“you know,” he whispers, almost shyly, lips brushing feather-soft against your forehead, “i really, really love you.”

your heart melts into a puddle in your chest, warmth spilling all over, making you feel liquid-soft. “i love you too, pretty boy.”

his cheeks flush a brighter pink at the nickname, but his grin widens, his fingers gently squeezing your shoulder. there's no place you'd rather be, nothing you'd rather do than sit here forever in his embrace, soaking in his sweetness and warmth and affection.