#t. frederic

[happilysmythe]

❥ 𝙥 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧

trent frederic.

word count: 4.2k

warning: explicit content

"she wet in the shower" — gunna

A/N: this was an anonymous request for trent smut w/ a college student. so of course, i had to add some angst—makes it more fun. not to mention how much i love him, so who am i to deny it?! hope you enjoy! :)

- - -

“Do you think you’ll be able to come out soon?”

Trent’s hopeful tone of voice rang through the phone as you held it up to your ear, sitting comfortably in the quiet bedroom of your apartment. A pang of guilt washed over you. You already knew the answer, and it wasn’t the one he was looking for.

He and you first met when you were a freshman in college. He was a sophomore. You started dating quickly after. Now, you were a senior and he was playing in the NHL halfway across the country. But you lived in Wisconsin, so it wasn’t often that you got to see each other. It was difficult for him to visit during the team’s breaks, especially when the rest of his family was based in St. Louis. And you, on the other hand, were far too busy with work and school to make the extensive trips out.

“I don’t think so,” you finally sighed, pulling your knees into your chest. “I’ve been so busy, and I just—fuck, I miss you, but I can’t. And I’m so tight on money right now.”

“I’ll pay for it,” he pushed.

“Trent, I can’t,” you frowned, resting your chin on your knee. “Believe me—if I could, I’d already be there by now. It’s just…too much.”

A beat of silence followed, and you could practically picture the dejected look on his face. You knew he was still there—the soft noise of his breathing that came through the receiver told you so—but he waited to speak. He was running through any possible solutions in his head, yet not a single one was worthy of voicing.

“I want to see you,” he finally spoke. “I’m sick of only talking to you through the goddamned phone. It feels like this isn’t even real anymore.”

“Not real?” you asked, lips parted in shock. “Trent, what part of this isn’t real?”

“I—I don’t know. Look, I,” he breathed, “it’s just hard to watch all of the guys have their girlfriends here while mine is eleven hundred miles away and has barely even met any of them, alright?”

“Oh,” you spoke quietly, nodding your head as you took in his words. “So that’s it, huh? That’s the problem, isn’t it?” You fell back against your headboard, “You finally admit it, then. It’s because I’m not like them.”

“I never—”

“Oh, save it, Trent!” you shouted. “We knew this was what it would be like when the time came and we agreed to stay together. We agreed to make it work. Do you have any idea how much I’ve sacrificed to even be able to visit and see you when I do?”

You swallowed thickly, “I have juggled so many things in the past year and all I wanted was a little bit of sympathy from you. Christ’s sake, Trent, I know it sucks. I know, okay? But I am trying so goddamn hard to find the time to just talk to you like this right now!”

“That’s my whole point,” he retorted firmly, his voice irritated. “It’s like I never see you anymore. And when I come back, I have to decide between seeing you or my family, and you always make me choose them. So it’s pretty fucking frustrating to see everyone else have their girlfriends or their wives there when you barely get to talk to yours,” he took a breath. “This barely feels like anything anymore.”

“What, so you’re just going to act like I’ve never done anything for you? Like I haven’t been working day in and day out to make as much time for you as I can? I did everything for you when you still went to school here and this is the thanks I get?” you firmly stood your ground. “Yes, Trent, I know I’m not there. I know that. And god, I miss you more than anything—”

“Then come.”

“Jesus Christ, Trent, I can’t!”

You shook your head and sat up on your bed once more. You could only be thankful that you lived alone in your off-campus apartment, with all the back and forth you were having. “You can’t come here, and I can’t go there. That was the understanding when we agreed to make things work,” you lectured. “And trust me, it hurts me too. Fuck, it hurts to see people I don’t even know with their boyfriends. So don’t act like you’re the only one who’s hurting from this.”

“If this is making it work, then I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Trent—”

“I’m just,” he shook his head, “god, I’m tired of this.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, the fear of what he’d say next slowly beginning to tear at your heartstrings. Although you hadn’t seen much of each other in recent years, Trent meant the world to you. He’d done just about everything in his power to keep you happy before he moved. And even after, he tried to see you as much as he could; as much as time would allow.

So the thought of what he might’ve been getting at made you sick to your stomach.

“You cannot put this on me,” you told him through the phone, fingers tightly gripped around the metal as if dropping it would make you lose him for good. “You have no. Right,” you swallowed, nostrils flared and teeth gritted. “It’s so fucking unfair.”

“You know what’s unfair?” His question lingered in the air, and you kept your mouth shut. It wasn’t something that you were meant to answer. So you waited.

“Being forgotten.”

And that was your final straw.

“Fuck you,” you sobbed, a tear cascading down your cheek. “If this whole long-distance thing wasn’t enough for you, then you should’ve just broken it off before.”

“I just wanted to see you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one that left you, Trent.”

Your phone was face down on the bed almost instantly after you hung up. Any emotions you were desperately trying to suppress came to the surface, bringing you to tears as you buried your face into your knees. It all finally came to a head, and you couldn’t bear the outcome. Heavy sobs left your lips, pried relentlessly from your throat as guilt ripped through you. Your body refused to let up for even a second; not until every last drop of emotion was ripped from you.

And finally, once it was, you lay restless in your bed until morning, mind unable to escape the intruding idea of never seeing him again.

Hours turned into days, days into weeks of not hearing from him. Since that night, you began to work yourself harder, picking up hours to fill up the time you’d be alone. You couldn’t let yourself think about it, or else you’d break.

It had been almost a month since. You heard a knock on your door as you were headed for the bathroom, about to shower after another long shift. You were prepared for it to be another one of your friends. They’d been showing up at your door for days, trying to break you out of your funk, which only irritated you further. You sighed and tightened your robe, then walked to the door and swiftly opened it. 

“For the last time, I’m fine—”

It wasn’t your friends.

Surprise laced your expression. Trent was standing on the other side of the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets. His body was tense as he stood silently.

“Trent,” you finally whispered.

He stepped closer, eyes boring into yours when your head tilted back to look at him. His lips parted to speak, but you gave him no such chance when you threw your arms around him. Any emotions that you’d suppressed immediately surfaced, tears streaming down your cheeks as you buried your face into his chest.

“Shh,” he cooed, hands rubbing gently up and down your back.

His hand came up to your cheek when you pulled back, using his thumb to gently wipe it dry. The warmth of his touch radiated through the skin and you felt a sense of familiarity, of comfort being in his hold again.

“I’m so sorry,” you cried softly, your arms tightening around his midsection.

“God, no, don’t,” he hesitated, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “please, don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.”

He frowned, “It’s mine. I shouldn’t have acted like such a baby.”

“But I just got angry. I didn’t even consider how you’d—”

“Hey,” he sternly interrupted, pulling your body into his. “This was on me. I knew how busy you’d be when we decided to stay together. I was upset that I couldn’t see you and I blamed you for that,” he breathed. “You didn’t deserve that. Not after everything you’ve done to make this work. I didn’t do my part.”

Another tear fell from your eye, burning the skin in its path. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel like this wasn’t real anymore,” you frowned.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just…dumb.”

“And I blamed you for leaving when you had no choice.”

He sighed deeply, urging your head to his chest. “It’s only a month left until you’re out, right?” he asked and you nodded, confirming his inquiry. “Okay. So we only have to tough out one more month of this…And then it’s over.”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s okay,” you finally spoke, leaning into him. “I am, too.”

You finally leaned up to kiss him and he quickly reciprocated, pulling your chest flush against his. His head craned to the side, deepening the kiss and turning it into something more than just making up lost time. You jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. He hummed against your lips, fingers gripping the underside of your thighs to support your weight.

“I was about to,” you muttered between kisses, “shower.”

“Explains the robe.”

He began walking forward, carrying you down the hallway as you remained perched on his waist. The soft material of the robe slid off of your thighs, exposing them to the cool air and allowing you to feel his bare palms around them. The ring that sat on his right index finger dug into the soft skin as he reached the door to your bathroom. 

“Got room for one more?” he teased as he lowered you to your feet.

“Maybe,” you giggled in response, hands resting atop his shoulders. “Who’s asking?”

His fingers toyed with the belt on your robe, slowly beginning to loosen it around your waist. He lowered his head, forehead nearly touching yours, and softened his voice, “Someone who hasn’t been alone with his girlfriend in a long time.”

“Hm,” you considered, fingers dancing along the back of his neck, “I think something can be arranged, then.”

The robe’s soft fabric fell open as he let go and brought his hands to his shirt, removing it in one go. With that, you slipped the rest off and stepped into the shower, then quickly turned on the water as he rid himself of the rest of his clothing. As you waited, you shampooed your hair, thoroughly rinsing it out and basking in the warmth of the water over you.

It wasn’t long before the curtain opened and in stepped Trent, who had discarded all but his silver chain, including the ring he wore just moments before.

“God, have you gotten bigger?” you asked, hands traveling up his arms. “Or has it been that long?”

“Maybe you’ve just gotten smaller.”

You rolled your eyes promptly, chuckling softly before leaning up to kiss him again, allowing the hot water to cascade slowly down your back. You flipped your bodies around and his hair grew darker as it slowly dampened, curls dissipating as they flattened atop his head. You were quick to run your hands along his upper body, palms grazing the skin of his chest down to his stomach. Your touch earned a groan of approval from his lips as you and your body swiftly moved down.

Down to your knees, even, right in front of him.

A few soft, teasing kisses were pressed to his tip before you drew his cock into your warm mouth. A large hand snaked into your hair, roughly gripping the wet strands as he turned just slightly, back now facing the wall. The hot water coated his body, allowing your lips to glide smoothly along his length, teeth lightly grazing the skin.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he drawled, hand setting your pace as the steam from the water rose up around you.

Slowly, he began to pump his hips, tip hitting the back of your throat with each gentle thrust. His head drew back, pressing against the cool, wet tile as he sucked air through his teeth. Your nose nearly came into contact with his pubic bone as you took as much of him as your mouth would allow. But as much as he would’ve wanted to, he refrained from forcing you down.

Instead, he relished in the feeling of your pretty little mouth wrapped around his cock again for the first time in months.

Deep breaths left his mouth in the form of groans, his lips parted and face contorting with pleasure. Soon his head was off the wall again as he looked down, driven wild by the sight before him—his girlfriend on her knees in front of him, looking back up at him through tattered lashes, sporting stains of mascara that ran down her cheeks. 

It was nearly enough to send him over, and you felt him growing more tense. The grip on your hair tightened as he sped up your pace just slightly, a choked moan escaping your lips and humming against his skin. His free hand darted out and pressed firmly against the fogged glass door, aiding him in maintaining any sort of composure he could conjure up.

Just as he was about to warn you of how close he was, you slid him out of your mouth. When your eyes flitted up, they were met with his disapproving glance, chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply.

“Why did you stop?”

“To irritate you,” you scrunched your nose. “But mostly to tease you.”

Light kisses were intricately pressed to his tip, the action just perfectly denying him enough sensation to fulfill his needs. But enough to make him ache with want, with need; the need of release. Of breaking the taut line holding him together. He was on the brink, and you knew it, but you were denying him.

How cruel.

Maybe it was a form of payback for the argument he started a few weeks before. For making you think you were broken up for all that time. Something like that, he convinced himself. All he knew was that you had every intention of making him wait, and he had no choice but to accept it.

“Mm,” you hummed, the fingers of one hand curling around his length and the others around his thigh as your lips trailed the same torturous kisses down to the base and back up. His hand brushed through the dripping wet strands of dark ginger hair atop his head, feet planted deeply into the floor below him.

Unfortunately for you, he wasn’t the only one who craved his release. And fortunately for him, you were finally willing to give him the satisfaction.

So you drew just the head back into your warm mouth, tongue swirling around the swollen area tactfully. Soft lips glided along his skin as you slid them further down on him, and the line finally snapped like a twig. The aftermath flooded your senses, his taste gathering on your tongue as the sound of his groans filled your ears.

And his traces went smoothly down your throat with a prompt swallow.

“Fuck,” he finally managed, eyes following you as you rose to your feet.

“That,” you started, licking the remainder from the corner of your mouth, “was for that phone call.”

“Yeah?” he asked, a smirk settling in on his face.

“Mhm,” was your sharp-tongued response, bringing a grin to his lips. You reached for the conditioner, “And you deserved it.”

He nodded as you squeezed a bit into your hand, afterward lathering it in your hair. He brought his hands up to your head and tilted it back, using his fingers to rinse out the cream gently.

“Maybe I did,” Trent hoisted you up, an involuntary gasp falling from your lips.

“—But now it’s my turn.”

Your back pressed against the cool tile as he turned your bodies to the side, water now hitting him at an angle as he pinned you up. You breathed out sharply from the force at which you hit the wall, lips parting as your gaze fell on his grin-inhabited face. 

The heat formed beads of sweat on both you and Trent’s foreheads, mixing with the hot water as it continued to fall behind his body. He leaned up and connected his lips with yours, a hand running through your equally wet strands before sliding down your tense figure. The other locked fingers with your own and roughly pressed the back of your hand against the tile above your head, drawing a needy moan from your throat.

Your free hand slid up his front and came into contact with the cold, wet metal of his chain. God, you loved it. And he knew it, which was why he never took it off at moments like this; whether it was the tag tapping against your cheek as he thrust into you or it pressing into your skin as your back arched against him, or even just the sight of it poking out from under his shirts, it set you ablaze, similar to many other things about him. Like his hair. Or his hands.

Or the head of his cock as it dragged along your soaked folds, teasing you until you begged for more.

Which, oddly enough, was exactly what was happening to you then. 

“Trent—fuck,” the words weakly fell, “please.”

His lips were at your neck, working the soft, damp skin just as you did to his body just minutes before, only now the added pressure of him at your entrance came into play.

“What is it, hm?” he mumbled, trailing down to your collarbones and back up.

“Need to feel you,” you breathed heavily, “now.”

Lips stretched into a grin against your skin just before he pushed himself into you, allowing you to sink down onto him properly. Your hands quickly lifted and tenaciously gripped his shoulders for stability. His head lifted from your neck and fell back, mouth open as he exhaled deeply from the pressure of you enveloping him. He was hardening at an unfaltering rate from the sensation, and his mind was running a mile a minute.

Because no effort he made to relieve himself when he was alone could ever replace the feeling of your inner walls constricting around him.

And fuck, did he miss that feeling.

Finally, your boyfriend was buried inside you again. Finally, he was stretching you out again, occupying every last inch of space that your body would allow. The feeling was all too familiar, but that was what you loved most; how perfectly he fit you, and how it was still able to make you see stars, regardless of how many times you’d felt it before.

His hips instantly moved in a controlled rhythm, leaving no time to exchange pleasantries. Hard thrusts drove your vulnerable body up the wall, large hands now having moved to your hips, fingers pressing firmly into the wet skin. 

He wasn’t going to waste any time taking things slower, softer as he normally would. Oh, no—there was no time for that. He needed you oh, so desperately at that moment—to take you. Hard. Fast. That’s what months of deprivation did to a guy like him; a guy who hadn’t felt the touch of his girlfriend in so long that it hurt.

Luckily for him, he wasn’t the only one starving with want.

So the payoff was all the sweeter for the both of you as each torturous thrust forced the tip of his strained, desperate cock to brush just against the right spot within you. Various expletives filled the fogged air of the bathroom, sounding in the form of your weakened voice. Nail-shaped craters formed on the skin of his back while he roughly pistoned his hips forward and back, relentlessly pushing your back against the slick wall behind you.

“So glad you live alone and not on that fucking school ground,” he mumbled, pressing kisses to your exposed shoulder.

Usually, he was more gentle with you, and you’d grown accustomed to that. You liked it that way. But you couldn’t deny how much you loved, in contradiction, the times he decided that gentle wasn’t enough. That it simply wouldn’t do. When all he could think of was the burning desire to pin you to the wall and fuck you dumb with pleasure because he was so damn starved from not seeing you as often as he should. Because he knew better than anyone else that you could take it.

You’d no doubt have prints on your back from the incessant pressure of him pressing you against the tile behind you, and you briefly considered the thought. It left your mind quicker than it came, however, because it wouldn’t be the only thing left behind on your body from the exchange that night. 

They’d pair nicely with the marks that extended from your neck to your collarbones.

“Close, Trent,” you muttered, head falling forward and resting atop his shoulder. “I’m…fuck, I’m close.”

A phrase that had become so familiar to him, so routine, as if it were some sort of perverted Bible verse you’d been trained to memorize. One that he’d never get sick of hearing because he knew that every time he was the reason for it.

Of course, you didn’t have to say it, because he already knew you were there. And if you weren’t, someone ought to have explained to him why you felt so tight, all of a sudden.

“Come on, baby,” the words rolled off his tongue languidly, “let go.”

So you did, clenching around him and crying out with a weakness that laced your voice. White hot pleasure surged through your body as he fucked you through it, his thick cock continuing to provide you more pleasure with each calculated thrust than any store-bought substitute could manage. Calloused fingers grasped urgently at the swell of your hips, the hold on you firm enough to keep you stable as you shattered around him for what felt like the first time in years.

Not a moment was wasted before ropes of hot liquid emptied into your stomach, thoroughly coating your waiting, sensitive inner walls. A satisfied groan exited his lips, the sound low in your ear, and you were sure it was the hottest thing you’d ever heard. A hand traveled up to his wet locks, pushing his head forward and allowing your mouth to envelope his in a deep kiss as his hips slowly, carefully came to a stop. 

His tongue explored your mouth as if it had never been in its vicinity before, head tilting to give himself easier access. Meanwhile, he pulled out and began to lower you down, the muscles in his arms straining as they held you up for support. Your feet were once again planted on the wet, slippery floor of the shower as your spent body remained still between his large frame and the tiled wall behind you.

He pulled away and stepped back, sliding his hands off you as he turned the knob behind him to increase the water’s temperature. Then, he moved in the stream’s direction, arms reaching outward and pulling you toward him. Your back quickly came into contact with his firm chest, metal pressing against the now patterned skin as his hands placed themselves atop your slick skin.

A pair of soft lips peppered gentle kisses from your neck down to your shoulder, fingers rising to brush your hair away. The scalding hot water hit his back and extended to your exposed shoulder blades, effectively relaxing the tense muscles of your worked bodies. After all, it had been quite the bit of time since either of you had been in such a position.

“I love you,” he murmured, lips brushing against the skin of your ear as his hands ran down along your arms beside you.

Your head fell back against his chest, “I love you, too.”

He leaned down to press another kiss to your lips, arms wrapping around your waist and his hands finding purchase on your stomach, allowing him to inch your body closer to his. Both his and your eyes then fell shut as you settled into him.

It was all so…intimate; intimate in large contrast to the last time you spoke to him before he showed up at your door looking for forgiveness. And of course, he received it, because the whole disagreement was fueled by the sole fact that he simply missed the woman he loved.

The same woman who stood in his embrace as they fell into a comfortable silence, minds focused only on the sound of the water and the steam slowly rising around them.

#trent frederic #trent frederic fic #trent frederic imagine #trent frederic smut #trent frederic x reader #boston bruins imagine #boston bruins #hockey fic #hockey #fanfic #t. frederic

[puckgoss]

One of the girls in the photo of Trent you just posted has the wags following her so apparently he really is taken!

ah yes he is dating anna frick! sway's gf is following her. good detective work team 🫡

here's her ig (priv)

#a. frick #t. frederic #ask!

[thenhlteaissuperhot]

Trent Frederic?

His girlfriend was supposed to be Presley Norby (the streets are saying they are no longer a thing, though they still follow each other on social media so perhaps they are still a thing or just friends).

Last year, Maggie MacDonald was another name surrounding him - once again, they still follow each other on social media, but that doesn't really confirm anything relationship-wise.

The conclusion - no public relationship as of right now.

Surprisingly, he actually doesn't follow as many random girls as one would have expected, considering he follows more than seven hundred people on Instagram.

#nhl gossip #t. frederic

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Herman Riffel, Morton T. Kelsey, George Bird, Frederic Groetsema - Dreams: Gateway to Your Inner World - Creation House - 1977

#witches #dreamers #occult #vintage #dreams #gateway to your inner world #creation house #herman riffel #morton t. kelsey #george bird #frederic groetsema #1977

[thehierophag]

the bacchanal

the secret history by donna tartt / bacchante by frederic leighton / on typos by elizabeth robinson / howl by florence + the machine / the secret history by donna tartt / le cerf forcé by gustave courbet / dancing maenad from a red-figure skyphos made by asteas & python / the bacchae by euripides trans. t. a. buckley / spring rut, battle of the stags by gustave courbet

#the secret history #donna tartt #bacchanal #dionysus #deer #camilla macaulay #web weave #maenads #bacchantes #henrymilla #henry winter x camilla macaulay #the bacchae #euripides #greek tragedy #charles macaulay #francis abernathy #richard papen #stags #ancient history #camilla macaulay aesthetic #greek mythology #tsh #webweaving #florence and the machine #deer tag

[fatehbaz]

In January 2023, ProPublica has published a new and detailed report on the failure of United States museums and universities to repatriate human remains of Indigenous peoples, even when required by law.

Just ten institutions “hold about half of the Native American remains that have not been returned to tribes” as required by the 1990 law Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. As of December 2022, about “200 institutions [...] had repatriated none of the remains of more than 14,000 Native Americans in their collections.” ProPublica has investigated whether or not these institutions have complied with the 1990 law, and, in their opening paragraphs, they have “found that a small group of institutions and government bodies has played an outsized role in the law’s failure.”

By the 1870s, as the academic field of archaeology soared in popularity, some of the most prestigious institutions in the US were relying on the US military to extract Indigenous items for their collections. For example, “the Smithsonian Institution struck a deal with U.S. Army Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman to pay each of his soldiers up to $500 — or roughly $14,000 in 2022 dollars — for items such as clothing, weapons and everyday tools sent back to Washington.”

Meanwhile: “Frederic Ward Putnam, who was appointed curator of Harvard University’s Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology in 1875, commissioned and funded excavations that would become some of the earliest collections at Harvard, the American Museum of Natural History and the Field Museum. He also helped establish the anthropology department and museum at UC Berkeley — which holds more human remains taken from Native American gravesites than any other U.S. institution that must comply with NAGPRA.”

By the beginning of the 20th century, local museums in the Midwest and Southeast (Illinois, Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee) were obsessed with acquiring “moundbuilders” artifacts and initiated another wave of extraction. For example, most of the collections of the University of Kentucky’s William S. Webb Museum of Anthropology were taken during excavations funded by the federal government in the 1930s as part of the New Deal’s job-creation program, and although more than 80% of the museum’s holdings are “subject to return under federal law,” the museum “has yet to repatriate any of the roughly 4,500 human remains it has reported to the federal government.”

While the “Smithsonian Institution today holds in storage the remains of roughly 10,000 people, more than any other U.S. museum,” the Smithsonian actually “reports its repatriation progress under a different law” and therefore “does not publicly share information about what it has yet to repatriate with the same detail.”

According to ProPublica’s analysis, a major excuse given by institutions is that their collections are “culturally unidentifiable.” They report that “many institutions have interpreted” the words cultural affiliation “so narrowly that they’ve been able to dismiss” tribes’ claims. In other words, these museums claim that, because they cannot reliably trace a lineage between the original source of the remains and contemporary recognized tribes, they therefore cannot return remains. In this way, ProPublica says, that “[t]hroughout the 1990s, institutions including the Ohio History Connection and the University of Tennessee, Knoxville thrawted the repatriation process by categorizing everything” as “culturally unidentifiable.”

However, many tribes and their advocates claim this is a silly excuse. For example, the “University of Alabama Museums is among the institutions that have forced tribes into lengthy disputes over repatriation.” And tribes “had tried for more than a decade to repatriate Moundville ancestors.” By “October 2021, leaders from the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, Chickasaw Nation, Muscogee (Creek) Nation, Seminole Nation of Oklahoma, and the Seminole Tribe of Florida brought the issue to the federal NAGPRA Review Committee” and the “tribes eventually forced the largest repatriation in NAGPRA’s history” when “the university agreed to return the remains of 10,245 ancestors.”

Quoted excerpts above, and all graphics and excerpts below, from the report:

Logn Jaffe, Mary Hudetz, Ash Ngu, and Graham Lee Brewer. “America’s Biggest Museums Fail to Return Native American Human Remains.” ProPublica. 11 January 2023. (Illustrations by Weshoyot Alvitre for ProPublica. Design and development by Anna Donlan. Asia Fields and Brooke Stephenson contributed reporting.)

[ahockeywrites]

the assistance part one

pairing: trent frederic x aurelia mcavoy word count: 1k warnings: probably swearing knowing me, authors note: decided to split this into two parts so I can get one out to you guys today masterlist

David Pastrnak’s car had a problem. And he had no fucking clue how to solve it. He thought that he was skilled with his hands. On the, 100%. When it came to cars, 0%. If negative percentages existed, that would be how good he was at fixing cars. YouTube couldn’t help him this time.

The team were over at his place for a barbecue as he had the best grill and hosting facilities. David knew that he should have called a mechanic but he also knew that Charlie’s cousin was a mechanic and that it might be easier to get them to fix it. 

The Czech player walked over to Charlie with a beer for each of them before sitting down in the chair next to him. David ran a hand through his hair and he didn’t know why he felt so awkward asking a friend for a favour, but he did. It wasn’t the thing he usually did.

“You know your mechanic cousin,” David started, getting over the awkwardness and just saying what he needed to.

“Yes, I do know Peanut,” Charlie replied, he had to refrain from rolling his eyes. Everyone knew that he had a cousin who was a mechanic but it was only Trent who had actually met her. He didn’t even know if the rest of the team knew that the mechanic was a woman. 

“Any chance he could come and take a look at my car? I’ll pay him for the trouble, I’m just driving around and something sounds wrong,” David explained, hands gesticulating.

“Yeah, I’ll drop Peanut a message and hopefully they’ll swing by today,” Charlie pulled his phone out and composed a text to his cousin. Charlie knew that Aurelia was at a race day but she was usually done by 3PM and, he checked his watch, it was half past two. She should be done soon.

His phone vibrated almost immediately after putting it down.

Peanut 🥜: will swing by, race has just finished. ya gal won again ✌️

Charlie: was never in doubt! see you in an hour or so

Peanut 🥜: 👍✌️

Trent wandered around Pasta’s garden after chatting to a few of the guys and their partners. He had a beer in his hand but something was off. He didn’t feel right but that could have been related to the punches he received in his abdomen the afternoon before. Saturday matinee games had gotten a lot more feisty than he remembered.

The can of beer in his hand was finished so he crushed it before walking inside to find the recycling bin. Trent knew where the glasses were so he quickly grabbed one and filled it up with some water. He wasn’t drunk by any means but he was dehydrated.

Three quick knocks on the front door took him out of the trance he was in. His hands didn’t move quickly enough as he spilt a large portion of his water onto his shirt. A few expletives left his mouth as he put the glass down and pulled his T-shirt off. 

Charlie had just got Aurelia’s text saying that she was here so he walked to the front door but was greeted by a half naked teammate. 

“Please put your shirt back on, Aurelia doesn’t need to see that,” Charlie groaned when he realised that it was Trent who was shirtless.

“Aurelia’s here?” asked Trent. As far as the St Louis native was aware, she wasn’t meant to be coming to this event. But it wouldn’t be unlike Charlie to change who he invited last minute. 

“Yes,” Charlie wandered through the kitchen to the hallway of Pasta’s house. “So please put a shirt on, she doesn’t need to see your chest.” Trent thought about his request but had to ring out his shirt in the sink before he put it back on because the sensory overload of a wet shirt was not fun.

Trent’s back was to the hallway so Aurelia wouldn’t be able to tell who it was. This was a good compromise between putting a shirt on whilst it was still wet and not wearing a shirt at all, he thought.

A wolf whistle from behind him was unexpected but Trent thought it was one of his teammates so turned around to explain why his shirt was off.

“Frederic!” Charlie shouted. “I told you to put your shirt back on.” In front of him was a fuming Charlie McAvoy and a staring Aurelia McAvoy.

“Not complaining at all Chucky,” Aurelia grinned as she looked Trent up and down. Charlie playfully hit the back of her head and then shouted for David.

Pasta walked into the kitchen with a beer in his hand, which he thought he was going to hand off to the mechanic who was going to fix his car. Instead he was greeted by a shirtless Trent, an angry Charlie and a girl. 

“David, Peanut,” Charlie pointed between the two of them. “Peanut is going to fix your car then go home.”

Aurelia raised an eyebrow towards her cousin. “And what if I don’t want to go home after?”

“You’re welcome to stay-“ David started but was cut off by Charlie.

“Peanut,” Charlie sighed, “you’re working tomorrow and you raced today. You should get some sleep.”

“Who are you, my dad?” She questioned back. “Let me take a look at the car and then I can figure out how long it’s going to take me to fix it. Then I can see if I’m going straight home.” She mumbled something that only Trent caught as she walked past him to the garage. “Stupid fucking cockblock,” was what he heard. 

Did Aurelia McAvoy like him back?

#ahockeywrites #nhl imagine #hockey writing #nhl fanfiction #nhl writing #hockey fic #hockey story #trent x aurelia #trent frederic fic #tf11

[mamaholligay]

Day One

So, the first full day in NYC was a sheer delight! It started out with the most amazing breakfast sandwich known to man. Now, if one does not eat pork, breakfast sandwiches are often not worth the pain and suffering attached to trying to find a meat product that goes into said breakfast sandwich that does not contain pig. I usually do not go there! This place had turkey ham and turkey bacon and never once said…. We don’t do pig…Clearly pig was not available anywhere on the entire menu. The whole thing was piping hot, melting cheese and totally delicious. We then took a beautiful walk across Central Park to arrive at the MET. This museum is so big, there is no way you could even begin to see everything. I think my favorite things were the rooms that they have set up all over that show what rooms would look like for a particular time period. The furniture, the walls, rugs and the whole bit. There were so many of them and it made history come alive. Doc has a museum game that was really fun. When you are looking at things in a museum, think about,

“What would I steal?”

“What is super ugly?”

“What is something that I learned?”

I came up with a new category called, “What would I steal for Doc?” 

So we got the point where we were all museumed out and Doc says, there is another place I want to take you, bu. t if you don’t like it, we can leave. So off we go, again walking as that is what we do. We go down this street and Doc stops and says, “Well, it says we are here. I was not sure what was happening, but we open a door and step into a little shop/room sort of situation. I about lost my mind! We were in the Frederic Malle perfume shop. Now bear in mind that I started to lose my cool. I was so excited. It was like a little cozy place with a couch and a desk with a couple of chairs. Roberto asked if he could help and I turned to Doc and just about screamed how excited I was! This is my favorite perfume house and I had no clue they had one in NYC. I got the full exciting experience, we bonded with Roberto and he brought me around to loving a perfume I never would have tried. We won’t talk about how much money I spent, but Roberto and I are besties for life! He is also shipping my perfume home, so we don’t have to deal with it on the rest of the trip. I am still telling Doc how much I loved the experience! 

After such a wonderful day, we went back and changed for dinner. I didn’t know where we were going, which was hilarious, since apparently I was the one that picked the restaurant many months ago. It was super delicious! We went to Momosan, which is a ramen place. This place is owned by Mori Moto, which if you don’t know, was on Iron Chef! The Chicken Ramen was super good and I found some Sake I actually liked! After dinner we killed some time, walking about the streets of NY. It is definitely an experience! Then it was time for the show. We went to Drunk Shakespeare. The show was so good and fun and crazy! They get one of the cast members drunk and then they do an abbreviated, often hilarious version of a Shakespeare play. They actually did Macbeth, which is my favorite Shakespeare play. It was audience participation and it was a super fun night! That wraps up our first full day. I can’t wait until tomorrow as I have no clue what we are doing!

#day one

[three-atoms]

Aurora Borealis (1865), oil on canvas by Frederic Edwin Church

A masterlist of my completed HDM fics (mostly Masriel):

The Day Before (M, 12 100 words) A Nutcracker-coded Chaos Family Christmas story The Space Between (E, 12 300 words)

The only thing more destructive than Asriel and Marisa going up against each other is them collaborating. (The Magisterium has a new research station in the North and Asriel is curious.)

There is a Sea (M, 79 100 words)

Marisa centric. Marisa's childhood backstory

Memento (E, 28 000 words)

How Asriel lost Lyra / why Marisa started wearing a locket for Lyra (Plus lots of Masriel being dysfunctional soulmates)

Son of the Dawn (M, 63 100 words)

Asriel centric. Asriel's backstory, from his childhood to the airship crash that took his brother's life, with prophetic dreams/a thread of destiny throughout. (He was always destined to change the world, just not in any way he would've imagined.)

In Winter, in Oxford (T, 47 600 words)

How Asriel and Marisa met

Unholy (E, 24 800 words)

Masriel Affair Era. Lyra is conceived in the North

A Nativity Scene in Late Summer (M, 7 900 words)

Baby Lyra's arrival, from Asriel's POV

Clemency (M, 11 400 words)

Why Marisa spared Thorold's life at the end of S1, from Thorold's POV, with an appearance by baby Lyra

Your Fortress (E, 17 100 words)

Based on book canon: Asriel and Marisa's missing scenes in the Adamant Tower

In-progress fics and any new fics I write will be added as they're completed

#hdm fanfic #masriel #asriel x lyra #lyra x marisa #asriel belacqua #marisa coulter #masriel fic #chaos family #my fic #hdm fanfiction #his dark materials #🌌🌌🌌

[pearlsoflongago]

Looking into the Garden

Life and Love

Geraniums by Childe Hassam

Portrait by a Neighbour

Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun!

It’s long after midnight Her key’s in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke Till past ten o’clock!

She digs in her garden With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce By the light of the moon.

She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s lace!

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Paysage au Bord du Lez by Frederic Bazille

Heartsease Country

TO ISABEL SWINBURNE

The far green westward heavens are bland, The far green Wiltshire downs are clear As these deep meadows hard at hand: The sight knows hardly far from near, Nor morning joy from evening cheer. In cottage garden-plots their bees Find many a fervent flower to seize And strain and drain the heart away From ripe sweet-williams and sweet-peas At every turn on every way.

But gladliest seems one flower to expand Its whole sweet heart all round us here; ’Tis Heartsease Country, Pansy Land. Nor sounds nor savours harsh and drear Where engines yell and halt and veer Can vex the sense of him who sees One flower-plot midway, that for trees Has poles, and sheds all grimed or grey For bowers like those that take the breeze At every turn on every way.

Content even there they smile and stand, Sweet thought’s heart-easing flowers, nor fear, With reek and roaring steam though fanned, Nor shrink nor perish as they peer. The heart’s eye holds not those more dear That glow between the lanes and leas Where’er the homeliest hand may please To bid them blossom as they may Where light approves and wind agrees At every turn on every way.

Sister, the word of winds and seas Endures not as the word of these Your wayside flowers whose breath would say How hearts that love may find heart’s ease At every turn on every way.

—Charles Algernon Swinburne

Picking Flowers by Auguste Renoir

The Flower's Name

Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you 't is that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle— Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June 's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! —Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces— Roses, you are not so fair after all!

—Robert Browning

Still Life with Flowers by Edouard Manet

#literature #poetry #dark academia #light academia #classic #inspiration #books & libraries #classic academia #pierre auguste renoir #childe hassam #algernon charles swinburne #edna st vincent millay #robert browning #edouard manet #frederic bazille

[happilysmythe]

❥ 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧

trent frederic.

word count: 5.0k

warning: explicit content

"can you blow my mind?" — tyla

A/N: i recently received a request for trent and a leafs fan. i was given creative freedom and this is what i came up with. hope you like it, nonny <3

- - -

Bruins win Game 7 in OT.

The headlines came out at a rapid rate, informing the rest of the world that the Boston Bruins made it out of the first round and turned the Toronto Maple Leafs into mulch. Again.

Trent Frederic, along with a few teammates, were on too much of a high to return to their rooms at the hotel they’d been staying in just yet. Though they were home in Boston, coach Jim Montgomery thought it would be smarter to have the guys stay in a hotel instead of going back to their homes and apartments. Team bonding, he said.

The bunch set off for the bar inside the hotel, only a few blocks away from TD Garden, waiting a few hours before slipping in nonchalantly. They weren’t trying to get outed too fast, and they usually didn’t. Even once they were recognized, not much came of it. Most people were too drunk by then to make a scene, anyway.

So they sat down at the bar and ordered a few beers, celebrating accordingly and talking amongst themselves. They would finally let loose for just a night before the inevitable start of round 2 in just two days. They’d be having practice the next morning and flying down to Sunrise, Florida to face the Panthers, who were on their extensive break after knocking the Lightning in just 5 games.

Trent decided he’d had enough after his fourth beer, so he left his share and stood up to make his way out. As he turned around, his body hit something with a thud. He looked down and saw what it was that he came into contact with; a thin blonde woman with her arms out, jaw slack, and an empty hand that once held her drink.

Oh, and a Maple Leafs jersey.

“Oh, shit,” Trent muttered, compressing his lips.

You scoffed, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I can get you a new one.”

You looked up, a look of guilt on your face as your hands fell back down to your sides. “Shit, I’m sorry. I should’ve been looking where I was going, too—”

You paused.

“Where do I know you?”

He remained silent, shooting you a look as if to tell you that it should be obvious. It wasn’t long before your face dropped and it hit you. He suppressed a grin at your realization and parted his lips to speak.

“Name’s Trent,” he spoke smoothly, “but something tells me you already figured that out.”

“Well, you’re one of the last people I’d like to see right now,” you rolled your eyes, arms folded. “What’s a guy like you doing at some random bar at,” you looked at your watch, “12 in the morning after the game where you just knocked my team out of the playoffs?”

“Had to celebrate somehow,” he winked.

“Oh, god,” you grimaced. “I really do hate you guys.”

“Well, aren’t you a little ray of sunshine,” he laughed, putting his abnormally large hands on his hips. Your eyes subtly followed their path.

“Lighten up,” he teased. “C’mon. What’s your name? I know you’re not a,” he pinched the fabric of your jersey and pulled it to see the numbers, “Marner. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

You sighed at his remark and told him your name, but he made a face afterward.

“Too long.”

“Too long?”

“I think I’ll stick to Marner,” he told you, much to your dismay.

“Gross,” you replied irritatedly. “I don’t particularly feel like giving you the privilege of using a nickname. Just use my real name like everyone else. ”

“I’m all set, actually. I think I’ll stick to mine.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“You gonna let me buy your drink or keep bitching about who I am?”

“Fine,” you sighed, “buy me the damn drink.”

He and you made your way to the other side of the bar, far enough away from the rest of the guys and the few friends you went with that you wouldn’t be noticed. You sat next to each other on the bar stools, Trent talking your ear off and you reluctantly replying with mostly one-word responses.

“You can’t be that angry with me,” he finally spoke, breaking another silence. “I’m not the whole team, you know.”

“I can and I will,” you shrugged, sipping your almost-empty drink.

“If you won’t talk, then I’ll just have to make you talk.”

He put his elbows down on the table and turned his head to face you, “Why’d you decide to come out in public after that game? I wouldn’t have even bothered to show my face in a bar wearing that. You here with other people or something?”

“I came with a couple of friends.”

“Doesn’t answer my first question.”

You looked down. “They wanted to come down here. I told them it was probably a bad idea because of the fact that we’re, you know, Leafs fans. They did it anyway so I just tagged along.”

“Bet you didn’t expect to run into me,” he nudged you with his shoulder, bringing a faint smile to your lips. “There you go,” he teased when he noticed your expression. “See? I’m not so bad.”

“Fraternizing with the enemy is a bad look for a woman like me,” you retorted, a playful undertone to your words. It was uncharacteristic compared to the closed-off manner you had with every other response. You wouldn’t admit that, however.

“Oh, she jokes,” he took the final sip of the drink he’d bought himself upon sitting with you, even after deciding he’d had his last beforehand.

“Shut up, Frederic.”

“We’ve regressed to my last name now? Can’t even call me by my first?”

“But you won’t use mine at all,” you rolled your eyes, “Trent.”

You looked at him for maybe a tad longer than you should’ve, eyes slowly moving down his body. He wore a white collared shirt that hugged his arms and gray dress pants that looked awfully tight around his thighs. You couldn’t help but notice the facial hair he’d grown since the start of the round, giving him a gingery mustache with a somewhat patchy beard. You’d seen what he looked like before that and were undoubtedly intrigued by it, regardless of whatever grudges you held against him. But you couldn’t let him know that.

So you turned to face the television above the bar, watching the commercial in a quiet trance as if nothing happened.

“Hey,” he tapped his finger on the bartop, diverting your attention back to him. “Tell me something,” he softly requested as you looked back, adjusting his body to face yours. “Why did you let me buy you the new drink if you weren’t going to talk to me, hm?”

You swallowed, “I wasn’t going to be rude.”

“The real reason,” he pressed.

“There is no real reason.”

“Alright,” he nodded, “so why were you staring at me before?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lowered his voice and brought his face just slightly closer, a faint grin tugging at his lips. “You’re not a very good liar, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I mean,” he laughed, shrugging his shoulders, “unless I didn’t see you looking for a while there. But I’m pretty sure I know what I saw.”

“Just…just shut up, Trent, alright?”

“Sounds like I hit a nerve,” he noted and you rolled your eyes. “You know, you’re cute when you’re irritable.”

His grin widened when you shook your head again, promptly informing him of how annoying he was once again. “But if I’m really being honest here,” he lifted his fingers and gently brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, “I think you’re pretty.”

At this, your hardened exterior softened. Your head turned just slightly so that he was in your field of view and you sighed gently. “Thanks.”

“Mhm.”

“I, um,” you cleared your throat, taking a breath, “I was looking before.”

“I know,” he softly responded, hand slipping down until his palm rested on your thigh. Initially, you flinched at the contact, but your muscles relaxed when you realized it was a warm gesture rather than one with malicious intent.

“You don’t have to be so cold,” he told you. “No matter who I play for, I’m just a guy.”

You were more attracted to him than you wanted to let on, and it surely didn’t help that he was being nicer to you. You suppressed a smile and faced him fully.

“It’s not that, it’s—it’s the point,” you flatly responded.

“You can look at me again,” he teased, thumb rubbing your thigh. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Don’t count on it.”

Your gaze lingered on him again, eyes flitting down to his lips before you looked away. It wasn’t hard for him to see through you—after all, you allowed him to keep his hand where it was, even after refuting his words. He took notice of your wandering eyes and finally pieced it together.

“Like the new look, eh?”

Your brows furrowed and you swallowed, “What new look…?”

“I think you know what I’m talking about,” he replied with certainty. “You have a thing for the scruff?”

“Please. I don’t even know what you looked like before that,” you lied, taking an unsteady breath.

“Doesn’t change that you were looking at it, does it?”

“Well…” you trailed off, lips parted as you tried to think up an excuse. “No,” you finally gave up, letting your head hang down. “It doesn’t, because I have seen you before and I do have a thing for it. For you,” you shook your head, laughing at the reality of how weak you truly were. How stupid you must have looked to him. “So tease me all you want, say that you told me so—you’re right.”

A ringed finger slipped under your chin and tilted your head toward him, his face mere inches away from yours.

“I’m not going to tease you.”

You swallowed, expression falling as your eyes locked with his. They were brown, you noticed. And they were…warm. They largely contrasted how he looked at you previously. It brought you to an entranced sort of state.

His touch was soft, comforting. But in a way that made you want him more. Caused your mind to wander to places you knew it shouldn’t have gone. It felt good. Really good.

And you had no business wondering what the rest of him would feel like on you.

“Where are you staying?” you blurted out.

“Upstairs.”

“Take me,” the words left your mouth before you could protest.

An eyebrow raised and his grin turned to a smile. “Gladly,” he whispered, lowering his hand and standing up.

He held his hand out and you hesitantly took it, allowing him to discreetly walk you toward the exit of the bar. You ducked when you saw your friends, praying that by some miracle they didn’t see you walk out with Trent Frederic.

“Trent,” you whispered, clutching onto him harder now that you couldn’t be hidden by the darkness of the bar any longer. “What if someone saw?”

“You would’ve known by now. Trust me,” he reassured you as the elevator doors slid open. You walked in and the doors shut, enclosing you in the small space. “And if anyone did,” he started, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck, “it’s none of their business, anyway.”

“Mhm,” you agreed softly, eyes beginning to close when you felt his warm breath on your neck.

“See? Not so hard to agree, is it?”

“Mm…no…”

He laughed softly in your ear and pressed a tiny kiss to the skin behind it. He intricately placed a few more on the exposed skin, prompting a faint hum from your lips as the doors slid back open. His hand found its place on your waist as he gently pushed you out, guiding you down the hallway and finally stopping in front of his door.

By now, you’d become urgent—urgent to feel his lips on yours no matter how much you told yourself it was a stupid idea. You lived in Toronto; a whopping 500 miles away. And he played for Boston, the team you hated with a passion so strong that you vowed to never let yourself be endeared by them. Yet there you were, standing next to the forward who contributed to your favorite team’s loss, wanting nothing more than for him to make you feel oh, so good.

And he would.

The door clicked open and he pushed the lever down, stepping aside to let you in. He was quick to pin you to the door with his body, arm coming up behind your head to lock it and toss the room card to the side.

“I can’t believe I let you charm me.”

“What can I say,” he rasped, leaning in closer, “I know how to get a girl in my room.”

His lips finally connected with yours and you immediately reciprocated, hand flattening against his chest and gripping the material of his shirt. You pulled him closer, slipping your free hand around his neck before tilting your head to deepen the kiss. The hair above his lips rubbed against your skin, the feeling eliciting a faint hum from your mouth into his. He grinned at this and hooked his fingers under the blue jersey you wore, pulling away promptly and carefully lifting it up.

“Taking this shit off,” he mumbled, pulling the fabric over your head and discarding it to the floor. “You’d look much better with mine.”

You rolled your eyes, “Not going to happen, Trent.”

“We’ll see,” he grinned, moving his lips to your neck and marking up the skin, drawing whimpers from your mouth.

Your hand snaked into his hair, fingers threading between the dusty ginger strands as you pushed his head closer. He kissed up to your jaw, sliding his hand up to your neck, the other placed on the bare skin of your hip. His fingers pressed into the nape of your neck and his thumb rested just under your chin, hand pressing the back of your head against the door as his lips kissed a path down your jawline.

“Shit,” you moaned breathily, reaching for the buttons on his shirt as his mouth returned to yours hungrily.

You worked your way down, the material of his shirt parting and exposing his skin as each button fell open. His tongue slipped between your lips, grazing your teeth before rolling over yours languidly. Soft fingers untucked his open shirt from his pants and began to trace his stomach, moving slowly up to his firm chest. The action caused the large hand around your neck to tighten its hold, prying a moan from your throat.

“Didn’t know,” you panted, “—didn’t know you wore a chain.”

“Like it, mm?”

The way he grinned down at you brought a lump to your throat. He made you nervous. Weak, even. And the height at which he stood compared to you surely didn’t help. So you nodded curtly in response, hoping he’d take the hint and not press you further.

But he took it and instead removed his hand from your neck to slide it down and meet the other at your lower back, promptly hoisting you up. Your hands moved to his face and held it while you continued to kiss him, him walking the two of you away from the door and in the direction of the bed. You kicked your shoes off just as he grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall outside the bathroom and laid it lazily atop the sheets. He then lowered you onto your back and let go, allowing you to lie comfortably on the bed as he remained on his knees in front of you.

He quickly shed himself of the torn-open shirt and tossed it toward the empty bed on the other side of the room. His body soon hovered over yours, an arm on the bed on each side of your head as he kissed you again. His lips moved to your neck once again, working the skin until soft moans slipped through your parted ones.

“Trent,” you exhaled, chest rising and falling deeply, “isn’t…isn’t someone else staying here with you? There’s—mm—two beds.”

“There was,” he mumbled into your skin, moving down to your collarbones.

“So couldn’t we get—”

“Was,” he repeated. “He already went home to his girlfriend. And I have both room keys.” He chuckled softly and reached around your back to unclasp your bra, the fabric coming loose on your chest. “So relax.”

You nodded and lifted your arms for him to pull it off, him letting it fall from his hand before kissing a path down the valley of your chest. His body moved down as he continued down to your stomach, then to your waist where his fingers hooked in your pants and slid them down your legs.

You kicked them off and opened your legs, allowing Trent to slip between them. He gently kissed your inner thigh, slowly working his way up until he reached the lacy fabric that covered your skin. He looked up, making and not breaking eye contact with you as he took the waistband between his teeth and tugged the fabric slowly down your legs. As he rose upwards, they and your pants were dropped to the floor.

Warm breath fanned the skin between your aching thighs, awaiting his touch oh, so impatiently. His fingers brushed the area, dragging themselves slowly up and down. His eyes flitted up to you, a faint grin playing on his lips before focusing back down.

“God, you’re wet,” he rasped, leaning down and settling his face between your thighs, your legs atop his shoulders. His hands wrapped around your outer thighs and gripped them, pulling you in promptly.

“Especially for someone who claims to hate me so much.”

You rolled your eyes and groaned, “Think that’ll make me like you any more?”

“No, but maybe this will.”

With that, his mouth wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling around and eliciting a gasp of shock from your parted lips. Your eyes widened as he sucked gently, hands kneading the warm flesh of your thighs.

He then trailed downward, planting small, light kisses on the sensitive flesh, all before his tongue carefully parted your folds and delved slowly inside. Your fingers gingerly threaded into his strands, palm flattening itself on the back of his head as you pushed him down, your body weak with the need for more friction.

The hair that had recently grown above his lips brushed against your skin, rubbing back and forth forcefully and bringing meaning to the term, ‘hurts so good.’

“God, fuck,” you groaned, hands tenaciously gripping the sheets and his curls as his tongue moved in a rhythm that was just enough to make you long for more.

He lapped at you mercilessly, expert movements of his tongue coaxing soft moans from your mouth. A cocky grin stretched across his lips as he brought you to the brink, then pulled away, forcing a whimper from you at the loss of contact.

A large hand was removed from your thigh and brought between your legs, knuckles once again dragging lazily along the sensitive, needy skin, but refusing to give you the satisfaction of doing what you wanted most. He was teasing you; punishing you for the way in which you treated him earlier without giving him as much as a chance to prove himself.

“Trent,” you whined impatiently, hips writhing involuntarily against his bearded face.

“Mm…what?”

You refused to admit the irrevocable attraction you had to him because you didn’t want to let him win. And now he was being a bitch to you, just like you were to him. He chuckled softly and pressed the tip of his finger to your entrance, allowing you to feel the small bit of pressure that came with it. 

“Please,” you whimpered, fingers tightening in his curls.

Enough was enough and he pushed the finger in, drawing a moan from your lips before adding another and thrusting them in and out with no room for complaint. The cold metal of his ring brushed against your sensitive inner walls and you gasped at the initial contact, your rampant mind having forgotten about the jewelry to begin with. And deep down, you loved it.

His mouth returned to your skin, tongue licking small stripes on the mound of flesh above his fingers, the scruff on his chin rubbing roughly against it. You knew you were going to have burns on your skin caused by his facial hair but you didn’t care; you just wanted to keep feeling him.

“Trent, don’t stop.”

He laughed quietly and sped up the pace of his fingers, urging you even closer to the edge. Your thighs closed in around his head, hand still pushing his head down. He hummed in satisfaction, the noise vibrating against your skin as he felt you clench around his long fingers.

His lips sucked on your clit in a steady pattern, causing your release to rip through you, prying a moan from deep within your stomach. You fisted the sheets tighter as your hips writhed against his face and fingers, legs beginning to shake from the pressure. Trent continued to work you through it, tongue lapping up the wetness that accumulated until you sunk back down into the mattress, spent.

Slowly he removed his fingers, first bringing them to his lips to lick them clean before rising back up. You inched backward on the bed until your head pressed against the pillow, Trent following and planting himself on his knees between your legs. His fingers reached down and fumbled with the buckle on his belt, eyes never leaving your body in the process. It wasn’t long before his belt haphazardly hit the floor, then his pants and his painfully hard cock was freed from its constraints. A rough palm placed itself on your knee, rubbing it slowly.

“Trent,” you swallowed, drawing his attention back up to your face. “Con—”

He raised his hand to cut you off, a gold wrapper resting comfortably between his index and middle fingers. The action having rendered you silent, he promptly took the foil between his teeth and pulled, spitting out the excess before taking out the latex and rolling it onto himself. You soon felt the pressure of him at your entrance, legs subconsciously widening to let him slip between them further, then heard the sound of him groaning as he pushed into you.

You swore it was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard.

He leaned forward slowly, giving you just a moment’s time to adjust to his size as he stretched you out. Your breaths were unsteady, eyes screwed shut as your fingers maintained their forceful grip on the sheets around you. Your mind was racing, but you knew one thing for certain—the man was about to fucking blow it. His body hovered above yours as he kissed a path from your stomach up to your neck, hands pressing into the mattress on each side of you.

“Where did you,” you breathed, “get that?”

“Pocket,” he rasped, mustache brushing against your neck.

Eyes wide, you responded, “That’s not—”

“Relax,” he mumbled, the corners of his lips slightly upturned. “I put it in there today.”

Then you impatiently lifted a hand to the back of his head and pushed his lips onto yours, kissing him urgently and wordlessly telling him to just move. He obeyed your silent command and pushed his hips into yours, burying his dick into you before pulling back, leaving only the tip inside. He repeated the process at a steady, slow rhythm—tortuously slow, at that—until your back was arching, hand in his hair sliding down to his shoulder blade as the long, coffin-shaped nails dug into his soft skin. The chain that you’d noticed earlier tapped against your cheek, the feeling provoking you to throw your head back against the pillow.

His hand slid up your front, fingers curling around to the nape of your neck and thumb resting under your chin once again, pulling your head back up as he quickened his pace, driving into you with more force. Every inch of his thick cock slid smoothly along your velvety walls, your mouth frozen in its open state as his lips worked at your neck again. And god, you just couldn’t understand what made you hate that guy in the first place. It must have slipped your mind completely.

Upon the first thrust of his hips, he felt just how tight you enveloped him. The immense pressure of you wrapped around his strained length, practically squeezing it. The age-old trick of conjuring up the most repulsive of thoughts seemed nothing but moronic to him in the past, yet for some reason he found himself naming off presidents in his head to prevent from coming so fucking soon. He only wished that he could feel it; really feel it, if it weren’t for that godforsaken rubber that separated him from you.

And he’d make it his mission to do so, whether you lived five hundred miles away or not.

He just hoped he’d last when he finally did.

The hand around your throat closed just slightly, using just enough pressure to threaten your intake of breath without causing any pain. It was delicious. You didn’t have the will to fight it—your body had already submitted to him long before, and there wasn’t much that you could focus on other than the feeling of him roughly thrusting into you, lips marking up one side of your neck while his hand firmly gripped the other.

The sounds of your mixed moans bounced off of the walls and you began to wonder whether anyone could hear it or not; if any of his teammates were close by, walking back to their rooms from the bar. The thought instilled enough fear for you to weakly voice it.

“What if—ah—what if someone hears us?”

“Let them,” he rasped, kissing behind your ear.

“But—”

“God, shut up,” he pushed his lips to yours, swallowing your words, moans, and expletives that threatened to destroy your mediocre attempt to stay quiet. His tongue rolled over yours, low hums reverberating in your mouth and filling your ears.

Finally, he released his hold from your neck, allowing the air to flow smoothly into your lungs once more. The hand reached for yours, roughly threading his fingers between yours before pushing the two forward and pinning the back of your hand to the headboard behind you. You let out a whimper at the sudden contact but quickly gripped his hand with a matching force to his as he hit the sweet spot inside you and a familiar pit in your stomach formed.

“Close,” you panted, back arching off of the bed and forcing your front to press firmly into his.

“I know,” he told you, grip tightening as the taut line in your stomach snapped.

His mouth enveloped yours again to swallow your noises, tongue swiping against your bottom lip. Your inner walls constricted around his length as you hit your climax, nails digging into his back as you grasped desperately at him for stability, support—any sort of strength that he could provide you with. And he did, grunting sporadically as he fucked you through your second orgasm, thrusts growing sloppier.

It wasn’t long before he twitched inside you, hitting his own peak and letting out a deep moan. Your name—to your surprise—left his lips in a slurred form, repeating it softly as if it were a hymn. Sweat coated your forehead, droplets dripping slowly down your face, and the frontward strands of your hair had grown wet. His curls dripped with his own sweat as his lips hovered just centimeters above yours, warm breath fanning your face and gaze aligning with yours.

You finally swallowed, “Wow.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, hand letting go of yours and gently running up and down your side.

He waited a moment and carefully pulled out, the action drawing your eyes shut before he slipped off the used latex and disposed of it. You adjusted yourself as he did so, ridding the bed of the towel and briefly cleaning yourself up before you felt a piece of fabric hit your arm. You looked down to see a large, black t-shirt on the bed and grabbed it, quickly slipping it on as he walked back over. He motioned you under the sheets and you silently obliged.

Your back pressed against his chest, chain pressing into the skin as an arm wrapped around you and a hand flattened on your stomach. His other fingers pushed your hair to the side, exposing the skin to his eyes, and he saw the faint marks his fingers left on your neck. A pair of lips brushed against your ear and the soft rasp of his voice returned.

“You know, that’s a Bruins shirt,” he teased, scruff grazing your damp skin as his lips connected with your shoulder.

“Mhm,” you flatly responded.

“Going against your word pretty fast, eh?”

“Yeah, well,” you started, nuzzling back into him. “I told you I hated you and ended up in your bed, so,” you turned to him slightly, “unreliable source.”

He chuckled softly and brought his fingers up to brush your hair back, pressing a light kiss to your cheek. “Night, Marner.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, and he laughed one final time before closing his eyes and relaxing into you.

So, against everything that you stood for just hours before, you fell asleep in Trent Frederic’s arms without much forethought. In his shirt and his bed, effectively leaving your friends behind because they’d for some odd reason just slipped your mind completely.

And when Trent woke up the next morning, he was no longer in your company, much to his dismay. Any trace of your presence the night before had perished, down to the towel on the floor. But there was one thing—one saving grace that caught his eye as he scanned the room.

A piece of paper on the nightstand with a phone number scribbled on it and a small note below it that read,

“For the next time you’re in Toronto.”

#trent frederic #boston bruins #fanfic #hockey #trent frederic fic #boston bruins imagine #hockey fic #trent frederic imagine #trent frederic smut #trent frederic x reader #toronto maple leafs #t. frederic

[puckgoss]

I think Trent Frederic is/was taken! This was a while ago like around Halloween I saw him at a restaurant in Boston with a girl getting brunch and I think she was in one of his summer photo dumps on ig

thank you anon! omg these photo dumps will be the death of me, i swear they hide their gfs in there like where's waldo. was it one of these girls you saw?

#t. frederic #ask! #a. frick

[lisutarid-a]

[Gakuen K] Extras Translation

Special Club Quiz Championship

LIST OF CHAPTERS

[Translation under the cut]

Anna: [Ladies and Gentlemen. Now, we are going to have a special club quiz championship. Applause]

 *lazy applause*

Anna: […]

Anna: […Those of you who didn't clap, next time be prepared to get horrible grades on your final test. Applause]

*heavy applause*

Anna: [Now, here are the clubs that have entered the quiz competition…]

Anna: [Under the leadership of Mikoto with a beautiful Red -- The Red club]

Anna: [The first ones whose uniforms you'll want to paint with ketchup -- The Blue club]

Munakata: I don't like that catchphrase…

Anna: [Those whose presence is unnoticeable -- The Silver club]

Shiro: T-that's not true! We have traditional club activities!

Anna: These are the three teams. Which team will win?

Anna: So, let's start. The first question…

*sound signal*

Anna: …

Anna: …Yes, the Silver club.

Shiro: Uh…

Anna: First question, answer.

Shiro: Ahaha, sorry. I was wondering what the button was for and accidentally pressed it.

Anna: It is a button for a quick quiz. It's what you press when you answer the quiz. Didn't you listen to the explanation before we started?

Munakata: I guess the Silver club pressed the button because they knew the answer. Please go ahead and answer.

Shiro: Ehh! I just made a mistake. Oh well. Never mind. The answer is "rice"!

Anna: Wrong...Continuing with the first question. A "bun" is a piece of bread, but…

Anna: …Which composer has a word "Bun (パン pan)" in his name. Answer with the full name.

Kusanagi: What's with that question? That's a pretty difficult quiz.

Totsuka: Fufu, not really.

Munakata: Frederic Francois Chopin(ショパン, Shopan)

Anna: Correct. The Blue club gets 10 points.

Munakata: Plump bun!

Anna: Correct. The Blue club gets 10 points.

Totsuka: Munakata-san is amazing. He has been answering correctly from the first question. No wonder he wears glasses!

Kusanagi: I can't believe how many questions he answered correctly. I'm sure he's actually smart, but…Our king doesn't move an inch.

Totsuka: That's right. Shiro-kun pushing too fast for no reason and keeps getting penalties…Hm?

Kusanagi: What's going on? Someone went up on the stage.

Kuroh: Shiro, switch with me.

Shiro: Okay,but…Weren't you uninterested in the quiz competition?

Kuroh: I was uninterested. …But I can't sit silently and watch this situation.

Kuroh: Why do you push the button before the question is asked?

Shiro: I figured if I didn't push fast, someone else would beat me to it.

Kuroh: Do you really think you can say something random and get it right when you don't know the question?

Shiro: I thought if I hit enough times, I'd get one right~

Kuroh: …By the way, how many scores do you currently have?

Shiro: 0 points!

Kuroh: It's beyond appalling. Switch.

Shiro: Okay-okay, I got it. Kuro, I wish you good luck.

Kusanagi: Oh, a change of players. I think the Red club better do something too. --Yata-chan.

Yata: What is it?

Kusanagi: Get up on the stage and switch with Mikoto.

Yata: Me!?

Kusanagi: Mikoto not answering the questions at all. If it continues like this, we'll lose to the Blue club.

Yata: …I hate losing. I'm going!

Totsuka: …Yata don't look like a strong quizzer.

Kusanagi: It's feels like clinging to straw. I hope for a miracle.

Kusanagi: …Eh, you should have come out. You're strong at trivia.

Totsuka: But look at Yata. He's all fired up.

Kusanagi: Please, a miracle. Just for a moment, take the stupidity out of Yata!

Munakata: The answer is "Docosahexaenoic acid".

Anna: Correct. The Blue club adds another 1O points.

Kuroh: Damn, as expected of the school's most smartest…

Yata: W-what is it? Doco-something acid. What language is this…?

Munakata: …Fushimi-kun, are you there?

Fushimi: What is it?

Munakata: It would be no fun at all if we keep winning like this.

Munakata: Please switch with me and participate in the quiz competition as a representative of the Blue club.

Fushimi: Wouldn't it be better if we just win?

Munakata: There is nothing more boring than a game you know you are going to win.

Fushimi: …Understood.

Fushimi: Hi, Misaki.

Yata: Saru…

Fushimi: How did you decide to come out in Mikoto-san's place?

Yata: For the sake of the Red Club's victory!

Fushimi: And you, with your thick brain, are the one saying that? …Hehe. Isn't this funny? I'm gonna beat you, Misaki!

Anna: …Saruhiko, refrain from private conversation. Now, the next question.

Anna: The greatest calligraphers of the "Three brushes" are Kukai, Emperor Saga, and who?

Yata: It's obvious! It's Mikoto-san!

Anna: Wrong.

Fushimi: Mikoto-san is not a master calligrapher, is he? You don't know that even though you've spent so much time together? That's why you're an idiot…

*sound signal*

Fushimi: Tsk…beat me to it.

Kuroh: It's Tachibana no Hayanari.

Anna: Correct. The Silver club, 10 points.

Yata: Don't be so slow at pressing the button, Saru!

Fushimi: Shut up. It's just a coincidence.

Fushimi: I'd rather correct the mistake than be an idiot who thinks he answered correctly.

Yata: What?!

Kusanagi: That's bad. Those two have started fighting.

Kusanagi: Hey, President-san. I'll stop Yata, you take care of Fushimi.

Munakata: It's funny, why not leave it as it is?

Kusanagi: …You're The Head of Student Council. Isn't it your job to do something about student problems?

Munakata: Look at the audience. It's getting quite lively, isn't it?

Munakata: The main purpose of the school festival is to entertain everyone. They are making a contribution, I'm not going to stop them.

Kusanagi: Eh…He's gone. Is it really okay?…?

Shiro: I think it would be fine. I'd like to visit the food stalls. I think the booths are open right now.

Mikoto: …Let's go.

Kusanagi: Even Mikoto! What the heck, everyone's acting too freely!

Totsuka: Well, now as it turned this way, there's nothing we can do about it, right?

Kusanagi: Is is all right? This school festival…

Totsuka: It's fine, it's fine. Everything will work out somehow. Let's follow King too!

#k project #gakuen k #gakuen k wonderful school days #otome translation #suoh mikoto #kusanagi izumo #totsuka tatara #munakata reisi #yata misaki #fushimi saruhiko #yatogami kuroh #isana yashiro #kushina anna #just another extra because i felt like it today #this one was quite hard to tag hope i didn't miss anyone 🤭 #munakata is just a walking encyclopedia #they didn't even stand a chance against him #love how everyone was so desperate to win #“just for a moment take the stupidity out of yata” #sorry darling i think even gods are powerless here xD

[supercalloutfragilistic]

Zone used a real child’s voice in his pedophile porn

Imagine you have a twelve year old child. Now imagine an adult man who draws toddler rape porn takes a recording of your kid’s voice, alters it so it sounds like your kid is giving a blowjob, then adds the recording of your kid to one of his childporn animations so pedophiles can masturbate to the sound of your kid choking on dick.

Now imagine the guy who did that to your kid gets hired by Cartoon Network to work on Ok Ko, and also gets roles as a character in popular games like Indivisible, Skull Girls and Friday Night Funkin’ because he’s buddies with the pedophilic developers. Would that be cool with you?

That’s Zone for you. If you don’t think it would be cool if Zone released a porno of your kid sounding like they’re choking on dick, then don’t support him. Because he did that to at the time 12 year old Jessie Flower in his Toph from Avatar porn animation.

Also, five minutes into this video Zone says he loves Shadman:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2X3ssgLP9Cs

The guy who draws porn of real children.

(is shitman gonna be the next pedo to get hired by cartoon network? who knows lol not like they have any standards.)

Zone also jacks off to toddlers and has drawn porn of Rugrats and Lisa Simpson, along with Potemayo (sourced from rule34).

Zone himself stated that Peter Murray Hill was his name on his website, that’s why some of his porn is signed PMH.

Egoraptor and Harry Partridge are both giant fans of Zone, despite Zone being a pedophile who sexualizes real children, and have been featured on his youtube:

https://youtu.be/b3WlUWF3TS0?t=237

https://youtu.be/3VqHam7nOR0&t=354s

Vivziepop is also friends with Zone (credit to Wubboboi11 for alerting us to this):

https://archive.ph/DFsRq

https://archive.ph/AQcTH

The voice actor for Charlie from Hazbin Hotel, Elsie Lovelock, is also a Zone fan (again, credit to Wubboboi11):

https://archive.ph/bWa5N

Wubboboi11 writes that Joel Guerra, creator of the ENA series, also follows Zone and has drawn some weird stuff involving minors.

As of December 2022 Frederator (makers of Adventure Time) are still partnered with Zone and promoting him to children, despite Zone’s pedophilia and how they got called out as far back as 2017 by this blog for it:

https://supercalloutfragilistic.tumblr.com/post/161931813304/fucking-sick-of-pedophilia-in-the-animation

https://youtu.be/Ib2piJO39zI?t=1144

Zone depicts himself as a young girl of indeterminable age and hires a pedophile approving woman to voice him. He’s not trans, he’s just a revolting adult man who knows he’ll get more attention for his pedophile art if he pretends he’s a girl who looks underage:

Zone-tan is just his shitty original character, it is not Zone. Zone himself considers them separate people, note how they have separate twitters and how he refers to Zone-tan as his mascot:

#callout #zone #zone sama #skullgirls #indivisible

[fatehbaz]

It took a lot of effort to get ice around the globe. [...]

This guy Frederic Tudor, he basically dominates the American ice trade across the nineteenth century. He develops technologies for insulating ice in the hulls of ships [...]. So he’s harvesting pond water from the American northeast in Massachusetts and Maine. Typically, he’s using sawdust as just a byproduct of the Maine lumber industry [...].

The majority of the ice trade goes to cool down sweltering British colonialists who are in Bombay and Calcutta and really desiring a nice cold drink.

Speculative shipments go off to South America, to the Caribbean, to the American South. [...] Not a ton of it goes to Hawai’i. But to get ice to Hawai’i from the East Coast required going all the way down the east coast of South America, [...] back up to San Francisco [...] and then across the Pacific Ocean to Hawai’i. [...] Probably took at least 3 to 6 months. [...]

But what really blows my mind about these particular shipments and these journeys is that you kind of think that they would be going through all of this effort to preserve something, right? To keep maybe a particular product cold and fresh on the way across.

No. They were going there to make cocktails. [...]

---

So basically, it’s arriving speculatively. [...] That means, folks are sending ice across thinking that there might be a market, but not having previously established a market [...].

Tudor, when he first came up with this business idea, he was trying to send it down to places in the Caribbean, particularly Cuba. And sending it to, like, bars and saloons to be served. And actually nobody had developed a taste for it yet, and nobody particularly was interested in having cold drinks. So he had to bribe bartenders to automatically start putting it in peoples’ drinks and did that for several months before folks developed a taste for it.

So we have these ideas that, like, it’s inherently refreshing to have these things, but it was actually a learned social practice and he had to bribe people to start to like it. [...]

---

So ice kind of shows up to this particular social landscape of elite businessmen [...]. [T]he consumption of cold, alcoholic drinks really got attached to ideas of leisure and implicity, and adversely, ideas about race and labor. So if we think about the plantation industry, ice and iced drinks come to refresh the plantation overseer, but not the plantation laborer. And a lot of ideas about Blackness and brownness, at that time, were correlated to who was best adapted to work in the hot sun and who was best adapted to sit in the shade, have a drink, and oversee that work.

---

Words of Hi’ilei Julia Kawehipuaakahaopulani Hobart. As interviewed by Jonathan Van Ness. “What’s The Cold, Hard Truth About Ice in  Hawai’i? with Hi’ilei Julia Kawehipuaakahaopulani Hobart.” An episode of Getting Curious with Jonathan Van Ness. 7 December 2022.

[ahockeywrites]

any prompt with Trent literally anything. I BEG U🙏🏼

warnings: explicit fem!reader, smut! unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it hoes), cream pie bc I can’t be tamed

authors note: so this isn’t from a prompt BUT it’s still Trent and it’s still smutty. Basically, I can see him buying you a necklace with a t on it. t as in Troy? No t as in Trent Frederic 😡😡 like the one pictured below

And then when you’re riding him and hits him in the face, he becomes very possessive and yeah… urm… those are my thoughts and more are below

you ground your hips into trents as you stabilised yourself on his hardened cock. both of you were naked in all your glory except the ring on each of your hands and the silver necklace that trent had bought you a few months ago.

his hands rested on your hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles as you got used to the feeling of him inside you. if you had your say, you’d be going on all the west coast road trips to make sure your fiancé was ready and raring to go for all the games via a pre game blowjob. but that was solely reserved for home games.

when the stretch turned from a burn into pleasure, you knew that you could start moving up and down. large hands gripped your hips tightly, tight enough that there might be red marks if trent removed them, but he didn’t. he let you move at your own pace until you asked for more.

adjusting yourself slightly, you leant forward to rest your arms on trent’s muscular chest, encouraging his hands down to grab the muscle of your ass. he couldn’t help himself if it was offered, could he? his hands wandered over the muscle, helping you move up and down.

his eyes didn’t know where to look. where you were joined, your face as it contorted through your waves of pleasure or your tits. sweat started forming on his brow as he keeps switching between where he was looking.

it wasn’t until your pace increased and something metallic hit him in the face, that he got distracted. fuck, it was the necklace that you wore daily to let people know you were off limits. a simple t necklace sat just above your breasts and it made him almost come on the spot.

he adjusted himself this time to sit up so your chests were flush. the cool of the metallic necklace on your flushed chests was a strange sensation but it warmed up quickly as trent held you up, an inch or two up his shaft, wrapped his arms around your waist and thrusted with passion.

the friction from his lower abdomen on your clit was perfect and brought you to the edge faster than you thought it was. you had held back from release, knowing that it was always better with trent.

“can feel you sweetheart,” he mumbled into your ear as you rested your head in the crook of his neck, squeaks and moans escaping your lips. “come for me, you’re there, i know you are.”

you obliged him as your walls began to tighten around him and the waves of pleasure turned into ecstasy. your teeth dug into the ivory skin below you and it didn’t even cross your mind that someone might mention it at practice tomorrow. eyes rolled back in your head as you started moving your hips once more to prolong the sensation.

trent twitched inside you and you kept the movement of your hips until he thrusted once, twice, three times, spilling his seed inside of you.

“im never going on a road trip again,” he spoke breathily. “pussy too good to leave alone.”

he was pussy drunk, again.

#ahockeywrites #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey story #hockey fic #nhl writing #nhl fanfiction #hockey writing #smutty sunday #spicy sunday #tf11 #trent frederic fic