What do you mean, 'no'?

Sorry I'm not sorry.

53 notes

svmadelyn asked: Hi! I am here to HELP you in your prompts-quest. How about a tried and true classic - pretending to be dating, Toews/Kane? Alternately, Toews/Kane, indecent proposal. I'm an equal opportunity prompts employer.

wolfieswords:

Soooooo … I know we don’t know each other yet, but HI, MY NAME IS MEL, AND I LIKE TO COMBINE FIC PROMPTS.  The result?  This weird “Indecent Proposal”/”Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!” AU.  Also, for some reason these keep coming out angstier than I intended.  IDEK.  I regret nothing.

"I can’t believe I actually agreed to this."

"Yeah, you said that last time, too."  Patrick sips at his wine—"I’m really more of a beer guy, but my agent says wine looks classier, so"—and grins, apparently unconcerned with the cameras flashing outside the restaurant window.  “But you came out with me again anyway.”

"Yeah, well, I still need the money enough to make it worth it."

"Hey," Patrick says, pressing a hand over his heart and staring at Jonny with an exaggerated pout.  "Feelings, man.  Words hurt."

"I’ve never understood why this many people even care about your personal life.  You’re a hockey player, not a movie star—isn’t this kind of paparazzi attention sort of overkill?"

"You know how people slow on the highway to stare at a car wreck?"  Patrick shrugs.  "I think it probably has something to do with that."

"So you think you’re a car wreck?" Jonny asks, eyebrow raised.  Patrick just looks back calmly.

"Don’t you?"

Honestly, Jonny doesn’t know what to think.  He’s a hockey fan, he lives in Chicago; of course he knows who Patrick is.  He knows what kind of a guy he is, sees the pictures in the tabloids and the stories on Deadspin, hears the rumors about whether or not the Blackhawks feel like he’s still wroth all of the negative press that comes with him.  The last thing he would’ve expected was to have picked up Patrick Kane at a bar for a one-night stand a couple of weeks ago; the idea of him showing up at Jonny’s tiny dojo a few days later with a charming smile and a truly fucked-up proposal wouldn’t in a million years have occurred to him as the remotest possibility.

Still, he’s got less than a month left to find the money for a down payment on the dojo’s building before the deadline’s up and his landlord takes the development company’s offer; he really does need the money.  And if pretending to date Patrick for a few weeks to help the guy’s public image will help him get it … well, there are probably worse ways he could be spending his time.

"I think," he finally says, pushing his plate back and placing his napkin on the table, "that you’re probably a better person than you want people to think you are."

"No?"

"No."

"Huh.  You know, that’s kind of a turn-on."

"Yeah well, I hate to be the one to give you the bad news, but you’re not paying me enough to whore myself out.  Sorry."

"That’s too bad."  Patrick leans forward, forearms braced against the table as he smiles, slow and thoughtful.  "One million."

"What?"

"I’m upping my offer.  One million dollars, if you go home with me tonight."

From the corner of his eye, Jonny catches the flash of another camera.  He can imagine the picture now: Patrick leaning over the tiny table with a flirtatious grin while Jonny stares in slack-jawed shock.  It’ll be in some paper or on some website by tomorrow morning, and the knowledge sends a hot rush of shame and anger through Jonny’s blood.

"Are you fucking joking?" he hisses, and Patrick shrugs.

"Not even a little bit.  Still think I’m a good person?"

"So what, this is about proving some stupid point?"

"No; this is about me really wanting to get laid.  Come on," he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial, cocky whisper as he winks at Jonny.  "Neither of us can get any anywhere else for the time being, and it’s not like I’ve missed how you’ve been looking at me.  One million, more than enough to keep your building from getting torn down, and all you have to do is something you want to do anyway.”

It’s tempting.  God fucking damn it, it’s so tempting.  One million wouldn’t just be enough for the down payment, it would be almost enough to buy the building outright.  One night, and everyone who’s counting on him would be taken care of.  One night, like Patrick said, of doing what he’s been wanting to do again anyway since he woke up the morning after the bar to find that Patrick was already gone.

"If this is some sort of attempt to keep me from actually liking you, you’re doing pretty well.”

"I don’t care if you like me," Patrick snaps back before he checks himself, defensiveness replaced with a smug leer as he sweeps his tongue over his lips in deliberate provocation.  "I just care if you sleep with me."

"I don’t want to sleep with you."  Jonny takes a moment of vicious satisfaction at the faltering surprise on Patrick’s face.  "I want to fuck you; there’s a difference."

"Hey, man."  Patrick sits up, breathless and dark-eyed as he signals for the check.  "Whatever you’re into."

Filed under THIS HURTS SO GOOD hockey rpf fic rec

13 notes

Wireless rack, a girl!Jamie ficlet

So. More girl!Jamie, as set in in this universe. Chronologically predates this and this.

The thing is, Jamie has a rack. Jordie says it’s an amazing rack which is: a) disturbing, and b) really fucking embarrassing. It’s not like it’s a surprise, what with her being oversized everywhere else, and her mom and sister just roll their eyes at her when she complains about it.

Read more …

Filed under hockey rpf girl!jamie my fic rule 63 pre jamie/tyler jamie benn tyler seguin

746 notes

jackscarab:


He’d be home in time. Would a minute have mattered? No, probably not, although his young son appeared to have a very accurate internal clock. Possibly even two minutes would be okay. Three minutes, even. You could go to five, perhaps. But that was just it. If you could go to five minutes, then you’d go to ten, then half an hour, a couple of hours … and not see your son all evening. So that was that. Six o’clock, prompt. Every day. Read to Young Sam. No excuses. He’d promised himself that. No excuses. No excuses at all. Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses.
He had nightmares about being too late.
He had a lot of nightmares about Young Sam. They involved empty cots and darkness.
It had all been too … good. In a few short years, he, Sam Vimes, had gone up in the world like a balloon. He was a Duke, he commanded the Watch, he was powerful, he was married to a woman whose compassion, love, and understanding he knew a man such as he did not deserve, and he was as rich as Creosote. Fortune had rained its gravy, and he’d been the man with the big bowl. And it had all happened so fast.
And then Young Sam had come along. At first it had been fine. The baby was, well, a baby, all lolling head and burping and unfocused eyes, entirely the preserve of his mother. And then, one evening, his son had turned and looked directly at Vimes, with eyes that for his father outshone the lamps of the world, and fear had poured into Sam Vimes’ life in a terrible wave. All this good fortune, all this fierce joy … it was wrong. Surely the universe could not allow this amount of happiness in one man, not without presenting a bill. Somewhere a big wave was cresting, and when it broke over his head it would wash everything away. Some days, he was sure he could hear its distant roar …
[…]
Young Sam pulled himself up against the cot’s rails, and said “Da!” The world went soft.
Vimes stroked his son’s hair. It was funny, really. He spent the day yelling and shouting and talking and bellowing … but here, in this quiet time smelling (thanks to Purity) of soap, he never knew what to say. He was tongue-tied in the presence of a fourteen-month-old baby. All the things he thought of saying, like “Who’s Daddy’s little boy, then?” sounded horribly false, as though he’d got them from a book. There was nothing to say, nor, in this soft pastel room, anything that needed to be said.


~ Terry Pratchett, Thud!

Image from Where’s My Cow?, illustrated by Melvyn Grant.

jackscarab:

He’d be home in time. Would a minute have mattered? No, probably not, although his young son appeared to have a very accurate internal clock. Possibly even two minutes would be okay. Three minutes, even. You could go to five, perhaps. But that was just it. If you could go to five minutes, then you’d go to ten, then half an hour, a couple of hours … and not see your son all evening. So that was that. Six o’clock, prompt. Every day. Read to Young Sam. No excuses. He’d promised himself that. No excuses. No excuses at all. Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses.

He had nightmares about being too late.

He had a lot of nightmares about Young Sam. They involved empty cots and darkness.

It had all been too … good. In a few short years, he, Sam Vimes, had gone up in the world like a balloon. He was a Duke, he commanded the Watch, he was powerful, he was married to a woman whose compassion, love, and understanding he knew a man such as he did not deserve, and he was as rich as Creosote. Fortune had rained its gravy, and he’d been the man with the big bowl. And it had all happened so fast.

And then Young Sam had come along. At first it had been fine. The baby was, well, a baby, all lolling head and burping and unfocused eyes, entirely the preserve of his mother. And then, one evening, his son had turned and looked directly at Vimes, with eyes that for his father outshone the lamps of the world, and fear had poured into Sam Vimes’ life in a terrible wave. All this good fortune, all this fierce joy … it was wrong. Surely the universe could not allow this amount of happiness in one man, not without presenting a bill. Somewhere a big wave was cresting, and when it broke over his head it would wash everything away. Some days, he was sure he could hear its distant roar …

[…]

Young Sam pulled himself up against the cot’s rails, and said “Da!” The world went soft.

Vimes stroked his son’s hair. It was funny, really. He spent the day yelling and shouting and talking and bellowing … but here, in this quiet time smelling (thanks to Purity) of soap, he never knew what to say. He was tongue-tied in the presence of a fourteen-month-old baby. All the things he thought of saying, like “Who’s Daddy’s little boy, then?” sounded horribly false, as though he’d got them from a book. There was nothing to say, nor, in this soft pastel room, anything that needed to be said.

~ Terry Pratchett, Thud!

Image from Where’s My Cow?, illustrated by Melvyn Grant.

(via rob-anybody)

Filed under discworld sam vimes illustration terry pratchett