#(i really need to stop leaving stuff just hanging like that christ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonyslove78 · 2 years ago

Text

Soooo, I'm going to try to power through this one because it was a rough one for me. It being the "finale" already had me in shambles and then to top it off, the way the last chapter ended, I wasn't sure I was ready to see what happened yet. But I did it and I'd do it again with no regrets! 😅

This one I tried to take it easy on the screenshots but there's still a bunch, so I'm just going to get right to it! I'll leave my blubbering praise for you at the end of the Epilogue reblog because I really want to go ham and give you all the compliments because you deserve them! 😍🥰❤️

🕸️SPOILERS FOR CH. 23 UNDER THE CUT!🕸️

The way you set the stage for a scene is incredible. I always feel like I'm right there, like a fly on the wall or something. It's astonishing how little words thrown together correctly can make you transport to another universe. Your descriptions are always so spot on and to the point that I can't even help it anymore. 👏🏼

Fucking Carter! Agent 13 making a cameo! I love how you are inclusive of so many of the Marvel characters and how their roles are strewn about in the most organized way! It's amazing!! I love having that reaction to each one where I'm like "Holy shit! 'SoandSo'!!"

First of all, I love that Peter is so fucking resourceful when it comes to stuff like knowing the scent of the cologne Fisk gifts to his "friends". Like someone tell me that boy hasn't done his homework! And the fact that he knew the commissioner wasn't intending on letting Peter have a trial... that part gave me pause for sure! I was like "now wait, hang on there Comish! You're going to give my man an equal chance at a fair trial or I'm gonna come dow--" Yup, see, I'm in Mob universe now and I wanna fight the law! 😂😂

This is only part of the reason I loved that Matt was his lawyer. He has that perfect air of professionalism but with the insane amount of sarcasm built in with it. I couldn't help but snicker at his backhanded comments!

I love how he has to fight down that possessive, protective side and find the ability to reason with himself as to why it was the right thing to accept that it was her who did it. She deserved the chance to do what she had to do to get John out of her life permanently. Though he was fighting with himself here, he still knew that it happened the way it needed to and she was the one to take care of Walker.

😭😭😭

This part made me feel so proud of Peter. He's come such a long way from the man who "kidnapped"/saved Honey. That Peter would've probably compared everything happening to what happened with Gwen and he'd have probably been going out of his mind about it. But now he realizes she has been through some shit in her life and she can handle the pressure she's put under. He's just going to make sure she doesn't go down for it.

I read this and thought, damn... if Peter's intimidated... 👀 Frank may be a bit more dangerous "legally" than I expect. 😅

The power moves going on here is incredible! I can feel the utter tension flowing between them and it's suffocating! But oh so perfect for this conversation between these two specifically!

Fuck! I mean it when I say this confrontation couldn't get any better! But when he said "Punish me, Daddy." I lost my fucking mind! 😂👀🥴 Like Jesus Christ, Liz! This may be Top 3 of my favorite lines of his! And the fact that he's saying it to Frank Castle! 😅

AKSJKSJKSKSAJKJSKAJSKJKSJ--

"MY TITS ARE REAL..."!!! 😂😂😂 God, I love this man...

His morbid metaphors are the greatest. I had to stop myself from laughing at this in such a tense and critical moment! 😅

God the parallels in this scene between the two are so amazing! The fact that it's "in reality" the complete opposite and we know what happens when, what happened to Peter's family, actually does happen to Frank's and I just love the thought process behind this! It's the kind of thing that goes to show your talents in writing. The change in perspective is such a great addition to this plot!

Well now you've peaked my interest, Frank... keep talking...? 🤔

I meaaaaaaan, although I'd agree... I kinda just want you to take the high road here, Peter! I'm gonna need ya to stay out of jail and back with Honey. 😅

DO IT PETER!! DO IT NOW! AND GET BACK TO YOUR HONEY!! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

What happens next is he better get his ass back to Honey and apologies profusely for all the pain she had to endure listening to him and Matt talk down on her! 😫

He knows she's his world and the light to his darkness and with her he can do all the right things to save the world from assholes like Wilson Fisk and John Walker. He just needed someone to see that within him! 😭👏🏼

I was beginning to wonder what Peter had done with her apartment.... I guess now we know! 😭 I was not ready for this! I really had hoped he'd just gotten rid of her apartment and she'd just be staying in the Penthouse while he was "going through the motions". But this was just my wishful thinking, because deep down I knew that that wouldn't be the case. 😫

The way you described this was absolutely perfect! I could feel that emotion that she was feeling. As if she didn't belong there anymore. Because she doesn't! She belongs back in that Penthouse with Peter! 😭

Damn it! Give her her spider decal back now, Karen! 🕷️

This is where I went... "...a new job?! This IS only temporary, right?!" 👀 Peter wouldn't want his Honey working if she didn't have to or want to!

"WHAT THE FUCK!? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE I NEEDED?!?!?! Yeah! My Mob boss boyfriend, future husband/father of my children, love of my life, my whole damn universe, PETER PARKER! Ring any bells??"

That's it, Karen!? "We'll be in touch."!? Like c'mon, toss the poor girl a bone here! Her whole world is crumbling, her heart is broken and she's hurting! And they were so happppyyyyy!! 😭😭😭

"Whatever I want?? WHAT I WANT IS MY MAN, KAREN!!!" 😫💔

Sorry, Liz, I think at this point I was just yelling at my screen and hating Karen Page with a passion. 😅 So that last half was just a whole lot of yelling obscenities and demanding Peter's presence. 😂😂

Also, that ending! 😭 I was losing it because I knew he was released, so like...where was he for all that time? Whyyyy did you not rush right to her, Peter?! It was even more painful when I realized this sentence was included previously in the chapter....

"And every second in that room, he felt like he was getting further away from her." 😭😫💔

I honestly started to get a little worried! 😅👀

This had to be one of my favorite chapters, as far as complexity goes! I still can't believe how incredible you wrote this part of the plot! The way that Peter and Frank interact! Was 😚🤌🏼 perfect! The dialogue and confrontation between the two of them was something I didn't realize I needed until it happened! And the emotions I felt during Honey's half... Ugh!! I've never wanted to punch Karen Page in the face before now! 😅

Now that we're through chapter 23, I'm going to start working on the reblog for the epilogue which I hope to have done here shortly! It's been a rough day and I needed to get my mind right and off of what's going on, so I knew Sugar and Vice would be exactly what I needed!

Side note: I may be needing Matt Murdock's firm's contact information for my poor mom! (per -@blooming-violets'- suggestion 😅😫)

Anyways! I love you and I'll see ya on the other side of the Epilogue!! 😬😬

sugar and vice, pt. 23 [mob!tasm!peter x fem!oc]

summary: in the beginning, there was darkness...

words: 5.1k

chapter warning: gratuitously deep philosophical nonsense.

series warnings: mob-typical bang bang violence, hurt/comfort. smut. Spicy situations. spousal / domestic abuse. family trauma. verbal abuse. PTSD, psychotic breaks/episodes, drug use. coercion. manipulation. kidnapping. gore. blood. possessive!peter, protective!peter. toxic/yandere!peter (maybe, sorta), negative self-talk, shameless forced proximity trope. ‘only ten one bed oops’ trope, imprisonment. slowest burn. a dash of questionable and/or morally grey intentions. extremely toxic relationships. having happiness ripped away from you.

This version of TASM Peter is not canon. The relationships and characters here are not healthy.

Don't date a mob boss.™️

18+ You’re responsible for your own media consumption, but if you think that this symbol

is the logo of some off-shoot programming block on Nickelodeon, then you're wrong. But are you? Regardless, live a little and come back later.

Part 23

Tick... Tick... Tick... Tick...

Peter thought of the elements.

Tick... Tick... Tick... Tick...

The Greats. Earth. Wind. Water. Fire. Space. Born out of Hinduism’s sacred literature. Also, Captain Planet’s sidekicks.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The Chemical Elements. Only 118 of them have even been discovered. Only 95 of those are primordial, whereas the rest are man-made.

His dad used to talk for hours about this stuff.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The interrogation room he was in was dark, despite the flickering fluorescent bulbs. The buzz of the lights sounded like a buzzsaw. The air was cold, too. The thin NYPD-branded, crew neck tee that Peter had been given to wear didn’t help much.

Tick... Tick... Tick

The lights flickered again, this time with a greenish hue.

Argon. Symbol: Ar. Number 18. A noble gas. Mercury. Hg, number 80. Also known as quicksilver. Highly toxic. Phosphorous. Number 15.

In his class, he was Number 2.

Atoms aren’t even as old as people assume. After the Big Bang, the universe was still nothingness—white, hot light that scorched everything out of existence. The heat was uninhabitable. Hydrogen didn’t make its appearance until roughly 370,000 years later.

370,000 years of hot, blinding nothingness.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

Hour after hour, they came at him like waves of radioactive light.

First, there were two detectives—both a bit too junior to be assigned to such a high-profile case, but Peter figured that they didn’t know that. A reserved Eagle Scout named Sousa and a snarky blonde female named Carter.

Or just ‘Sharon,’ as her boss Alexander Pierce referred to her, to her thinly-veiled ire.

The Commissioner waltzed into the room mid-interrogation and essentially asked his naive detectives to go back to coloring while the adults talked. Both detectives walked out of the interrogation room with a scowl on their faces.

They probably didn’t know it, but Pierce wasn’t concerned about their abilities as detectives, or the integrity of the case. All he needed was to get Peter behind bars, where crooked guards and violent inmates could take over. Where he could give Peter the same welcome that Miguel had.

They probably didn’t know it, but Peter could tell by the scent of Pierce’s cologne: a $1,200 bottle of Bond 9 Dubai that not even New York’s police commissioner could afford.

Peter recognized the scent. It was Wilson Fisk’s favorite gift to give his friends.

They probably didn’t know it, but Peter did.

Pierce had no intention of letting him make it to trial.

Peter was disconnected. Drained. Eventually, even Matt’s voice became static which blended into the tone of the room, and droned beneath the ticking of the clock and the god-awful buzz of the lights.

“—he’s in’a world’a trouble...”

“... absolutely no evidence —not even formal charges have been presented...”

It might not have been productive, but Peter allowed himself to tune out. Matt was a good lawyer.

“—lucky we’re not pressing charges against the department after Captain Stacy’s unwarranted attack on my client, whom he’s been stalking for years—”

Oh man, that’ll piss George off when it gets back to him. A very good lawyer.

Despite his earlier act, he still felt a great amount of sorrow for George Stacy. Not exactly sympathy... and not quite guilt. Just sorrow.

Looking into his eyes was like looking down into a sinkhole. Or passing a destroyed car on the highway. Unidentifiable. Cold. Hollow. Empty. Somehow the emptiness in Gwen’s father always triggered an empty feeling in him. It was a secret weapon that George had over Peter that his estranged father-in-law didn’t even know he had.

On the outside, Peter could wear a mask that projected cockiness and make lewd comments about the man’s wife. On the inside, George could eviscerate Peter with a look.

370,000 years of nothingness. Nothing but white, hot rage.

Peter tuned back in for a moment when Pierce said the name Walker. He hadn’t even heard the question fully and already his blood was boiling. He wished that he was guilty of that bastard’s murder. He wished that he had killed him. He tried to focus on something that Felicia said months back which resonated with him: about how Honey needed a chance to stand up for herself.

Maybe Felicia was right. Maybe it was just a terrible thing that needed to be done, and Honey was the one that needed to do it.

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

The history she shared with that dead asshole was a far cry from the tragic turn of events that led Gwen to shove a man off the ledge of a clock tower.

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

The look of heartbreak in her eyes. He’d never forget it.

George looked at Peter that way once, too—after a closed-casket funeral when he laid his daughter in the dirt.

They looked the way Peter felt all the time. Devastation. Ruin.

How could Peter possibly be capable of such cruelty? The world was full of monsters. Sometimes Peter was one of them.

Honey wasn’t Gwen.

In the beginning, there was darkness. Then, there was an explosion. Then there was an inferno that burned so hot, even the basic building blocks of the universe could not begin to form.

Honey wasn’t Gwen; she was Peter’s universe. The stars in his sky. She was a vast, endless expanse that surrounded him. That held him in an ever-growing, outwardly-expanding gravitational orbit. She was everything, and outside of that, there was nothing.

And every second in that room he felt himself getting further away from her.

Peter’s bones hurt. His back was in so much pain it was difficult to sit still. On top of that, he was weary. He was traumatized. He was grieving the loss of his security, his home. Grieving Eddie.

Despite that, Peter could toss the table like a Coke can. He could punch a hole in the wall and stroll out if he wanted to. Or crawl across the ceiling, to Pierce’s astonishment and horror.

Pierce was staring at him again. This time, there was a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Even if Peter did escape, he had too much to lose. Peter knew it. Pierce did, too.

In all the ways that mattered, he was trapped in his own web.

After several more minutes (or hours, maybe) of grandstanding on both sides, the door to the interrogation room swung open. A stocky figure silhouetted the doorway. Intense features, sharp lines in his jaw, brow, and aquiline nose, as much shadow spilling over him as there was light.

The temperature of the room shifted. Matt and Pierce stopped talking. Peter froze, lifting his chin as he met the dark glare of Manhattan’s district attorney.

“Frank,” Pierce said with a tinge of discomfort. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining us so soon.”

Matt’s voice warmed but maintained a snarky edge. “Ah, is that the Honorable Francis Castiglione?” he bitingly beamed.

Despite the smile on Murdock’s face, Peter could hear the pace of his lawyer’s heart pick up. Which... wasn’t a great sign. Even Pierce started to sweat.

“Mr. Murdock,” New York’s toughest DA replied without batting an eye. Unswayed. Uncompromising. Undefeated. He held a stone, straight-laced expression. Even beneath a conservative black suit and tie, he was one of the most intimidating men Peter had ever laid eyes on. He was at least a solid 170 pounds, Peter supposed, of solid muscle and righteous fervor.

“Just having a little fun, Mr. Castle,” Matt charmed with obnoxious flair. “How could I forget your name with all of the posters still hanging around? ‘Stand Your Ground.’ Great campaign slogan, by the way. Especially for a pacifist who managed to ban every firearm in the five boroughs. Although, I’m certain you won’t be getting any gift baskets from the gun lobby—”

“I wanna speak with your client alone.” Frank’s deep voice rolled through the room like the first tremors of an impending avalanche. The other men stared back, blinking silently.

Matt’s sunny disposition dimmed as his jaw tightened. Pierce’s hackles were raised, although he tried to suppress it. Wordlessly, they blinked and flinched and tried to wrap their heads around the request.

A humorless laugh left Matt’s lips. “Yeah. That’s not gonna happen—”

“That’s fine,” Peter answered. He and his lawyer spoke simultaneously, their voices crossing each other in converse directions.

Matt turned his head towards Peter’s side of the room, his whole body going stiff. The flesh behind his light stubble turned pale. “Um,” Matt subtly cleared his throat while his heartbeat hurled alarmed profanities at Peter. “Uh, that is... not advisable.”

“S’okay, Matt,” Peter calmly replied, keeping his eyes locked on Frank. He could hear the sounds of his lawyer’s brain overheating while trying to reboot. Pierce pinched his lips in an anxious pout, avoiding looking directly at the district attorney.

Matt gripped the head of his cane tight enough to nearly break it. “Uh... Um. Oh-okay.” Awkwardly, Matt pushed his chair back as he came to a stand, shuffling to his feet.

Leaning back into the chair rest, Pierce visibly relaxed until Frank sternly added, “You too, Commissioner.”

The irritation in Pierce’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Shoulders tensed, teeth gritted, the man stood from his chair. He mirrored Matt as he sidestepped from the table and towards the exit.

Matt lingered for a moment at Peter’s side while his nails anxiously scored the cane. Peter noted the pinched expression behind Matt’s ruby-colored glasses.

“It’s okay,” Peter murmured under his breath, repeating an earlier sentiment that Murdock was skeptical to believe. And with that, Matt was powerless. Hesitantly, he gave them a parting nod, and followed Pierce out of the room.

The metal door echoed as it slammed shut, leaving the two of them alone in the cell.

Peter threaded his fingers together, the metal in his chains clinking, and leaned back as far as his restraints would let him. Thighs spread and chin tilted off axis, he fixed Frank with an unimpressed glare as a smirk played on his lips.

The prosecutor shifted like a monolith unearthing itself. Frank measured the cocky, sharp-tongued mafia ringleader with eyes colder than steel as he strode to the table. He pulled out a chair across from the prisoner and lowered himself down into it.

The two of them sat quietly for a moment on opposite sides of the room. But it was their positions on opposite sides of the law that created friction.

Frank was at least a decade older than Peter, but Peter seemed even more juvenile by comparison. The mob boss looked and acted like a young prince, leaned back in his seat with a smug face. Alternatively, Frank glowered down at him with the authoritative scrutiny of judge, jury, and executioner.

“Hot daaamn,” Peter said, mouth curved into a smile. “You put on some weight since I last saw ya, bub.” Waggling his eyebrows, his eyes flicked over the other man’s form. “You been workin’ out? Crossfit, maybe?” He let out a mirthless laugh. “Forget bein’ the scourge of New York’s underworld— Bro, you must be killin’ it in the gym.”

Unfazed, Frank disregarded the remarks without a single blink. His dark eyes bored into Peter, and he remained more than comfortable with the uncomfortable silence that followed.

Peter glared at him with darkening eyes, balling his fists against the table. “Is it safe to assume the cameras are off at this point?” Animosity sharpened his voice to a razor’s edge. “I mean, that’s the only way you’d ever allow yourself to be seen fraternizing with a criminal like me, right?”

The temperature of the room pitched downwards even further. Icy waves surged off of Peter. Frank was a stone wall, letting each wave crash over him and fall back into the surf.

“I’m not the one who put you in those cuffs, Peter,” Frank answered, nonconfrontational. “I’m not the bad guy here. And I never wanted to be your enemy.” He kept his voice soft and respectful, wisdom shining from his eyes. “You and I—we’re not so different. We’re not monsters; we’re men. We’re bound by the law. Both of us, judged by the law.”

The smile faded from Peter’s lips. “Well," he glowered, bitter frost in his bite, "aren’t you a modern-day Moses on the Mountain.” His words were punctuated with ire as he scrutinized him with disdain. “Y’know, they told me ya caught religion, but I didn’t realize what a holy roller you were. When we’re done here, I’ll give ya Matt’s number. Give ya tons to talk about. Bet'chu two would be a hoot at parties.”

Peter sneered at him a moment longer, then let out a bored, depreciating sigh. “M’not much of a Bible thumper, myself,” he half-shrugged. “Only verses I know by heart are Ezekiel 25:17... and, uh... whatever that bullshit was in Shawshank.”

Frank glanced down, deep in thought. “‘His Judgment Cometh and That Right Soon’,’' he said, recalling the prop he referenced. It was a tapestry embroidered with the Bible verse hanging in the corrupt Warden’s office—a MacGuffin in the film’s plot.

“That's not a real verse,” Castle noted, matter-of-factly. “You’re probably thinkin’ of Psalm 98:9—’Let them sing Before the Lord; for he cometh to judge the earth: With righteousness shall he judge the world and all of its people equally.’”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “Well.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue as resentment spread through his chest like a tumor. “I’m Jewish. And even then, I never drank the Kool-Aid. S’not really my thing.”

He waited, expecting Frank to take offense. To Peter’s dismay, he remained as peaceful as a lake on a windless day.

“I get that,” the older man mused somberly. Contemplative, he looked up at Peter with sympathy coloring his face. “If what happened to you, happened to me,” he said, “I don’t know if I’d like who I’d become either.”

As he said it, his gentle eyes settled in on Peter with a knowing expression. Pity. It made Peter's teeth grind and his temper burn. It took all of his self-restraint not to break out of his chains and (re)break the prosecutor’s nose. Indignation writhed inside of his chest, souring his face and his stomach.

“Heard you were gunnin’ f’me real hard, too,” Peter muttered bitterly, tossing words like daggers. “Really put the heat on me— M'actually flattered.” Salaciously, he flashed his canines with a wink. “But ya didn’t hafta go to all that trouble, Frank. If y'wanted to get me alone in a dark room, y'coulda just hit me up on Grindr.”

“Are you done?” he replied witheringly.

“Oh, c’mon,” Peter taunted, equal parts threatening and scandalous. “I mean—they don’t call ya ‘The Punisher’ for nothin’, right? Well, go on. Punish me, Daddy. Why doncha just bend me over your knee?”

Frank’s eyes flicked to the black, mirrored glass window, shaking his head in frustration. “Always a comedian,” Castle huffed, annoyed. “Between you and Wade Wilson, it’s like watchin’ a hundred-car pile-up of clown cars. Can’t even be just a little real, not even for a second—”

“That’s not true,” he pouted. “My tits are real...”

Fed up, Castle shook his head and grumbled, “Y’think everything's is a joke! Can you at least pretend like you give a shit about any of this—?”

Peter’s temper flared suddenly, hitting a flashpoint that boiled the humor out of their rapport. “Y’know what I think?” he snapped back, eyes dark with rage. “I think you’re a God-damn hypocrite! That’s what I think! You and this whole corrupt, bullshit organization. That’s the joke.”

Frank shook his head, grinding his teeth. “There you go. Always a martyr.”

“Again, with the religious talk?” Peter rolled his eyes into the back of his head while letting out a dramatic sigh. “Look, ‘m’not interested in joining your little MLM cult-club, alright?”

“‘Mob Boss,’ my ass,” Frank scoffed. “Ya act like a fuckin’ child! Always whining about being the victim! Like you’re the only one in this city who's ever lost somethin’! Arrogant prick, I did three tours in Iraq while you were doodling in your diary! I was washing the blood of my brothers off my uniform while you were crying into your pillow at night! People die! Thousands of ‘em, every day! All tragedies, all the time, yet— somehow—yours is special!”

Frank’s voice boomed off the concrete walls, patience shattered. “You wanna talk about hypocrisy?” Castle said sharply. “Punishment?! How about three weeks ago in Forest Hills? Right in your backyard. Cops got a call about a domestic dispute. When they got there, the perp somehow ended up with a bullet hole in the back of his head, even though no one in the house owned a gun. You know anything about that?”

Peter straightened his lips into a thin line, lifting his chin. “Sounds like the dispute was resolved.”

“How about that hedge fund manager that committed suicide last spring?” Frank said, skewering him with his gaze. “The one that decided to swallow a container full of gasoline and light up a cigarette before jumpin’ off a roof on Park Avenue?”

“Tragic,” Peter replied, deadpan. “I read about it in the news. Guess the shame of stealing $8 million dollars of pension money from a firefighters union must’ve really burned him up inside.”

Agitated, Frank scowled with his eyes narrowed into slits. “How ‘bout in Brooklyn last fall? How do three seasoned drug pushers end up OD’ing on half their own supply of Fentanyl?”

Peter remained expressionless. “Dunno, Frank. Guess the Lord works in mysterious ways." The attorney huffed with nostrils flaring. By contrast, Peter idly see-sawed his head. "Rather poetic," he said, "as far as justice goes.”

“That’s what I call ‘punishment,’ Parker. Not justice! Vengeance! Plain. Simple. And cold-blooded.”

Peter sat up, leaning forward as his colorless eyes flashed with rage. “Before you accuse me of anything else you can’t prove—especially the messes that New York’s Finest shoulda handled—how ‘bout you explain to me how two innocent women were butchered and burned to death in Midtown and not a single arrest has been made?”

Frank turned silent.

“How ‘bout the dozens of immigrant families who’re bein’ forced against their will to launder the Mayor’s drug money so he can spend it on campaign ads?”

The other man’s jaw clenched while Peter continued his attack. “Let’s keep goin’ shall we?” he hissed. “Tell me how a Russian oligarch and his buddies park a yacht in the harbor—filled with stolen girls—children, practically—and somehow just... get away?” Veins protruded from his neck as anger rippled through his chest.

“Got any answers for me, Counselor?” Peter spat harshly, jabbing his index finger at Castle as far as he could while in handcuffs. “Wanna phone a friend? How ‘bout you call your boss, yeah? Why don’t you ask Wilson Fisk? Ask yourself! If you’re such a holy man, then how can you work for the Devil?! How can you even sleep at night, huh?I”

Outwardly, Frank was stoic with nothing but a crease between his brows to telegraph his thoughts. Inwardly, Peter could hear the attorney’s heart rate drumming up as Peter relentlessly dressed him down. Castle’s jaw was locked tight, holding his breath.

“And tell me one more thing,” Peter added, eyes flashing with rage. “How many times do you think about what woulda happened if I hadn’t been in the Park that night?” He blurted out the statement with a livid snarl and a dry throat. “What if I hadn’t intervened in the Blacksmith deal? What woulda happened if I hadn’t gotten your wife and kids outta there before the guns started goin’ off? You ever think about that!?”

Peter’s voice buckled on the last word. Memories of the violent night in Central Park five years ago flooded them both, bringing a tidal wave of conflicting emotion that swallowed him up.

It was Peter that covertly led the FBI to a plan to eliminate several gangs (and Peter’s enemies) at once. Practically a gift from the gods, it seemed, to take out all of Peter’s competition in one swoop.

Once it was clear to the young mob boss that the FBI cared more about making headlines than making sure the park was clear of innocent people, Peter chose to intervene. In the end, it was a disaster anyway.

When the other gangs realized they were being set up, a shootout erupted. Lives were lost. Peter saved as many people as he could, including Frank Castle and his family. For everyone else, it was still a tragedy.

Gwen included.

It was the first and last time the two men had met. And subsequently, a night that neither of them ever talked about.

Until now.

Peter’s eyes glazed over, tortured by the consequences of his choices. A tidal wave of conflicting emotions swallowed him up as his mind flooded with horrible thoughts. Betrayal, and resentment, and bitter, evil, disgusting jealousy that Peter could save Frank’s family but not his own.

Peter looked contemplative, then. Haunted. He fixed his weary eyes on Frank, continuing to unravel.

“And I’m gonna level with ya, pal,” Peter said in an unnervingly soft tone of voice. “Fuck. You. If you think that you and I are the same. You and I are not the same. Never will be.” Heartache pierced his throat, compressing his voice. He jerked his thumb toward himself. “Because somebody saved you.”

Tears glistened as Peter breathed hotly through flared nostrils. “Fuck your judgment!” he growled. “Because if what happened to my family happened to your family—ya wouldn't last a goddamn day! You’d be a nut job! You'd be beggin' for a bullet in ya head, rather than see what I’ve seen!”

Fury vibrated through the younger man’s being, indignation piercing each sentence. “I don’t give a shit what nickname they call you,” Peter seethed, “in the media... in the Marines... not even in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade! When it’s your family filled with bullet holes—believe me— that shit hits different.”

Peter’s eyes were wild—black with anger, wet with tears. “‘You wouldn't like who you'd become either?’” he repeated, muttering spitefully. “Fuck you!" Peter’s voice echoed, bouncing off the walls and reverberating in Frank’s chest.

He took a measured breath. His throat bobbed, cords pulled tight. "I may not be a religious man," Peter added as his chest heaved, "but I pray you never have to find out.” His volume abruptly dropped, adding a foreboding sentiment to the words. Like whispering a dark secret. A warning.

Blinding, white hot rage obliterating everything in its path. Scouring any sign of life before its existence.

Castle sat stoically with his arms crossed. Breathless from his outburst, Peter slowly retracted himself back into his seat. Frank studied him with a contemplative gaze and a tight-lipped mouth.

Until he broke his silence. “Every night.”

It was barely a whisper. Peter blinked at him with a crooked brow while the other man held Peter in his gaze.

“Every single night,” Frank answered, a little louder, “I think about what would’ve happened to my family if you hadn’t been there.”

Peter pressed his lips together, jaw flexing stiffly. Mist gathered on his lashes. He drew a shaky breath, lip trembling. To keep his eyes from betraying him further, he hardened his brow.

“You’re a hero, Peter,” Castle said simply. It was just a fact. “And a good man.”

Peter averted his gaze, casting it down while he swallowed a thick lump in his throat.

“You have the power to do good,” he said. “So much more than you realize.” Frank’s eyes swelled with something like reverence and admiration for his antithetical counterpart. “And yeah,” he noted matter-of-factly, “I do pray." He watched him placidly and empathetic. "And when I do, I pray that one day, other people will see you for the man you really are. And maybe... just maybe—you'll see it, too.”

Shooting pain in his fingers alerted Peter to the fact that his knuckles were clenched white. He kept his head lowered, eyes hidden and fixed on the shackles around his wrists.

“I pray that you find faith in yourself,” Castle said, then. His soft voice sliced through Peter’s toughened heart. The older man’s lip tightened into a line, his deep voice thick with sorrow. “And salvation... from yourself.”

Peter looked upward. The attorney gazed back at him in earnest. The silence which followed felt like the end of an era.

“You and I want the same thing,” Frank then said, returning to a sense of formality. “You want to expose Wilson Fisk as the Kingpin. So do I.”

Peter studied Frank’s heart—and his own. Steady. True.

“The only difference,” Castle added, “is I want to do it right: by the law. Justice. Not revenge.” Peter couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Because if we can’t do this right, then it’s not worth doing at all.”

“The only difference is,” Peter countered, “when I take Fisk down, he’s gonna stay down.”

Frank gazed at him incredulously. “That’s nice. Good stuff. You want me to write that down and read it at your funeral?” Peter glared bitterly but had nothing to say.

“Cards on the table,” Frank explained. “I don’t have enough evidence to charge you. Not today. Now you can walk outta here, go back to your old ways. End up in a casket, or in a jail cell sooner or later. Take my word, there are plenty of people in this building that want you dead. You won’t last a night at Ryker’s without someone tryin’ to stab a broken toothbrush through that giraffe neck of yours.”

“Sounds like it’s gonna be painful,” Peter muttered in a low voice. “For them.”

Frank fixed him with a stern glare. “Alright, smartass. Then what? These people are comin’ for blood. And they’re not going to stop with just yours.” He paused, then added, “You should know that, more than anybody.”

Peter had nothing to say to that. The thought alone stole his breath.

“You wanna fight the system?” Frank said. “You wanna take down Fisk? Then you bring me proof to put ‘em away. All of ‘em. Fisk, Pierce, his little ‘Shield’ SS hit squad. Every last one of them.”

Peter bit his tongue, contemplating the idea.

“And most importantly, you keep your hands clean,” Frank declared sternly. “No more dead car thieves in the river. No more pimps gettin’ scraped off the subway tracks.” His tone was cold, eyes sharp as he skewered Peter threateningly. “There’s enough killing in this city as it is. You cross that line, and I will come for you, you understand? Deal or no deal, our history be damned—you are not allowed to take the law into your own hands. You got that?”

Peter raised his chin, peering at him through the fringe of his slitted eyes.

The clock ticked on. Primordial elements as old as time surrounded them. And for reasons that Peter could not fully understand, he walked into a coffee shop one day and walked out with hope. A dangerous seed.

A force that could save the whole city. The world.

Maybe even his own soul.

The district attorney came to a stand, holding the mob boss in his stare. “You’re a free man, Peter,” Frank said. “What happens next is up to you.”

After another moment, he headed for the door. As soon as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back at the man who he owed his life. With a stone expression, Castle made one final plea.

“Whatever you do... Don’t let me catch you.”

It was half past noon when Honey walked into her modest apartment in the Theater District off 45th Street.

Flipping on the lights, she peered hesitantly inside. Stepping through the threshold felt like tumbling down a wormhole through time.

More or less, the studio apartment looked exactly the same as it did nearly a half-year ago, when she left for work at the coffee shop.

It was a bit tidier than how she’d left it—her cheetah print throw blanket neatly folded on the edge of her thrifted loveseat. The smell confirmed that all the perishable food had been discarded. An empty vase sat alone on a scuffed, white, gateleg table that was crammed into a corner of her kitchen. The daisies that it once held had wilted and been tossed long ago.

The world was alien to her. It was like walking through a dream, or onto a theater set piece constructed for a play about her life. These were the possessions of a person she didn’t know anymore.

“We had someone come by earlier with groceries,” a voice said from behind her. She turned as Karen Page strolled into the apartment wearing camel wide-leg wool trousers and a matching double-breasted blazer from The Row paired with Salvatore Ferragamo Vara-bow pumps. “A maid came in once a week to tidy up, but other than that everything should be as you left it.”

Honey blinked with wide eyes as she watched the strawberry-blonde haired woman breeze through her home—former home. She pulled a rolling carry-on case behind her filled with a small portion of Honey’s wardrobe. Karen came to a stop in the center of the apartment. With neatly manicured nails, she produced a keyring from her blazer pocket.

“New keys,” she explained, handing it over to Honey. “Any pertinent mail has been left for you on the counter. The new wifi password is on the sticky note next to it, along with your new cell phone number.”

She had almost forgotten. Honey reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the latest model of iPhone. She stared down at the foreign object queasily. This one had no spider decal, she noted.

“There’s also a debit card, too,” Karen explained methodically, as if reciting a monotonous dialogue. “New bank account information is in the folder. We’ve made a small deposit to compensate you for your troubles, at least until you find a new job. But you shouldn’t have any more problems from here on out.”

A few seconds of silence passed as Karen eyed the peeling paint on the walls. “Well. I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said, straightforward.

Honey’s eyes darted over to Karen as the woman turned to leave mouth “Wait!” she called out, her forehead creased and mouth hung agape. Karen stopped in front of the doorway. “Wait... is that it?” she said, dismayed.

Karen blinked her radiant blue eyes. “Was there something else you needed?”

Her nose crinkled at that. “What about Peter?” Honey said, almost in a demanding tone. “What happens to him?”

Karen cast her eyes to the floor, sighing uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for that.”

Honey glared at her crossly. “Well, can I at least talk to him—?”

“It would be best to limit contact at this time.” The pleasant formality of her voice made Honey want to punch her.

“For how long?” she scoffed.

Karen gazed at her for several moments of silence. Which continued on, until Honey realized that an answer wasn’t coming.

“We’ll be in touch,” Karen added gently.

As the woman stepped out into the tenement corridor, Honey nearly jolted after her. “Wait... M-Ms. Page?”

She waited.

“What do I do now?” she asked meekly. Her voice sounded timid to her own ears.

Karen stared back at her then lifted up one of her shoulders. “Whatever you want.”

And with that, Honey was left alone for the day.

And the next.

Continue to Epilogue

#I can't believe I only have the epilogue left!! 😭😭#I'm going to need to book a therapy appointment afterwards!#But it was worth every second!#my love for these two characters runs deep #💬 sugar and vice #lizzy writes.#review angels 💜#mob!tasm peter parker #peter parker smut #spider man #peter parker #andrew garfield

77 notes · View notes

1-800-imagines · 2 years ago

Text

our little secret part 8 | nate jacobs

masterlist of series

nate was worried that he hadn’t heard from you. it had been a full day. especially after maddy’s texts. those had also suspiciously just stopped.

nate hadn’t tried calling a bunch because he knew you needed rest and limited screen time as per doctors orders, but the thought of maddy turning you against him made him sick with worry.

so when his mom made your favorite brownies and soup, he had the perfect excuse to come over.

he tried to pick a time when your brothers would be at the gas station and it’d just be you at the house, but it was ash who opened the door to him, “why are you here?” ash asked bluntly.

nate looked down towards the to-go containers he was holding and shrugged, “i have her make-up work from some classes.” that part was a lie, but he needed in the door somehow, “and rue said she likes brownies.”

ash raised an eyebrow. he knew damn well nate jacobs and rue bennett did not speak, but he opened the door for nate to walk in, “she’s in her room. 2nd door. leave the door open.” nate nodded and walked to your room, pretending to not know where it was.

you hadn’t been listening to the exchange as you had your headphones in and were listening to a sad playlist. you didn’t know why you were so upset, you just were.

you looked up to see a big shadowy figure and nearly jumped out of your skin, “jesus christ, nate,” you swore, taking off your headphones and sitting up.

“sorry, i knocked,” nate said, sitting next to you and presenting you the brownies and soup. he really didn’t know what to say with how he was trying to make things up to you.

“your moms?” you said with a small smile. his mom’s cooking was your favorite thing, especially her brownies.

he nodded, “we’re both worried about you.” his voice was quiet, “i was worried something happened or maddy did. she had texted me all this shit.”

you cut him off, “she did come to see me,” you cleared your throat. “it made me question us.” most of the small happiness of him showing up, drained out of you.

nate’s heart plummeted. his worst fear was coming true. anger slowly started to boil inside of him.

“but not for reasons you think,” you whispered and grabbed his hand, “i don’t get why you won’t show me off? why aren’t you fighting for us to be public? shouldn’t you want to be able to parade me around? you loved doing it with maddy, you always made her seem so fucking special…” your voice drifted.

“are you ashamed of me, nate? because of where i come from?” your voice was now barely above a whisper.

and with those questions, nate’s world shattered. he grabbed your hand and held it, “how could you think that? i want to show everyone that you’re mine and no one else’s.”

you could tell he meant it by the way his pulse quickened as he spoke about making you his, “do it then, consequences be damned.” you spoke, leaning into his ear.

nate snaked his hand into your hair to pull you closer and kiss you, but you heard footsteps coming towards you. you pulled off of him, caressing his jaw. you moved to the opposite edge of the bed so it would look less suspicious and then yelled, “hey ash! nate’s gonna hang with me for a while and catch me up on some school stuff if you wanna go help fez.”

you released hands with nate as ash walked to the doorway, “you sure?”

you nodded and stood up so you could talk to ash alone, when you were out of the door, you whispered, “it’s fine. he’s going through something right now, okay? we’re just gonna watch a movie after, okay bub?”

ash nodded and looked up at you, “you promise you’ll call if anything happens?”

you nodded, “i promise. don’t tell fez, but nate and i are kinda friends. so it’ll be okay, kiddo. i trust him.” you kissed his forehead and hugged him, “i love you.”

“just coz y’all are friends don’t mean i trust him anymore,” ash tutted.

“i’m not askin you to, dummy. now tell me you love me, or else.” you smiled and stood back to look at him.

“i love you too.” he said rolling his eyes and walking out the door. you heard the front door slam and lock which meant he was actually gone.

you walked back into your room with a grin on your face and looked over at nate sitting on your bed, “well we’re alone now.”

“come here and let me really show everyone how you’re mine, angel.” nate said waiting for you to join him back on his lap.

#nate jacobs imagine #nate jacobs x reader #nate jacobs x you #nate jacobs imagines #nate jacobs euphoria #nate jacobs #euphoria nate #euphoria imagines #euphoria fanfic #euphoria fanfiction #nate jacob fanfiction #nate jacobs fanfiction #nate x reader

451 notes · View notes

luxeavenger · 3 years ago

Text

Thank You For The Tragedy. I Need It For My Art [Kurt Cobain]

Part 2: You're The Queen Of My Heart

Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x female!reader Summary: You find out exactly what happened with Peggy Carter

Warnings: Weight loss/talk of weight loss, talk of food/eating, talk of regaining lost weight, fighting, canon-typical violence, wounds/wound care, polyamorous relationship, needy Bucky (this is definitely a warning), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m and f receiving), deep throating, face fucking, analingus, anal fingering, anal sex, choking, name calling (slut—affectionate), pet names

18+ ONLY PLEASE! MINORS DNI. If you hit Keep Reading you agree that you're 18 or older.

I do not consent to having my work copied, translated, or posted on any other site. The ONLY places my work should appear are@luxeavenger on Tumblr and Ao3

Backstage Pass Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-fi

Please reblog if you enjoy!

| Part 1 |

You’re somewhere in Montana when Clint and Nat drag you to Denny’s after a show. It’s the longest you’ve been out of the bus since everything happened five days ago. You’ve been hiding too much, and turning down meals, so they stuff you full of food: pancakes with syrup and whipped cream, hash browns, sausage, bacon. They shove dishes at you until you beg them to stop. They scarf down everything you don’t finish.

On the way back to the bus they find a dollar store that’s open all night. Clint and Nat want you to come with them, but you tell them to go on without you and you head back to the RV. The lights are all out when you get back, so you walk in without engaging your new habit of checking for Steve or Bucky first.

You open the door and flip the overhead light on, and let out a yelp, because Bucky is sitting on the couch with an acoustic guitar on his lap. For a fleeting instant you consider leaving, but then you take in how haggard he looks. He’s got purple circles under his eyes, his hair hangs in greasy clumps, and he’s lost weight. The super soldier serum jacked their metabolism way up, and they have to eat a lot just to maintain their weight. You can tell just by how thin he looks that he hasn’t been taking care of himself.

“You don’t have to go,” he says quietly, moving slowly like he’s trying not to spook you, “I’ll leave. Just gimme a minute to grab-”

“I didn’t know you played guitar,” you interrupt softly.

He looks down at his lap and absently plucks out a few bars of an old Pearl Jam song called Jeremy. “Not as good as Steve, but…” he trails off. “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I told Steve she was trouble, and I didn’t want to see her.” He says it all in a rush, and when he looks up at you tears are pooling against his bottom lid. “And I was right.” He blinks and a shimmering drop slips past his eyelid and disappears in his beard. “Because she might have cost us the best thing that ever happened to us,” he finishes from behind a curtain of hair.

You sigh and sit down on the steps. “Bucky, look at me,” he’s full-on crying when he tilts his head up, eyes red, cheeks shiny with moisture. “What the fuck happened? Clint told me she’s your ex, so why the fuck were you guys getting all cozy with her that night? I thought you loved me. You told me-”

He tosses the guitar aside unceremoniously, and slides off the couch to his knees. He crawls toward you, stopping halfway. “Jesus christ, Y/N, we do. More than anything. You’re everything to us. This week has been hell without you. Please believe me.”

You’ve got tears skating down your cheeks now, “Then tell me what happened, Buck.”

He sags with the relief of finally being able to speak to you again. “Peggy is our ex. But, the truth is, she’s more Steve’s ex than mine. We met her in Cali back when we were getting the band together. Steve and I were a couple by then, but we met her and we both kinda started to fall for her. It took a few weeks for it to come up, but we finally talked abut it, and we were both open the idea of a polyamorous-type situation.”

He sits back on his heels and looks at his hands, “Peggy knew we were together when we met. She knew we were a package deal. We talked to her about it, and she agreed to date both of us. She said she was fine with it. She acted like she was fine with it. We-”

He lets out a shuddering breath, and a muscle in his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “We fell in love with her. We fucking fell hard for her. Then, just when I thought everything was going great, she tells us it’s not working for her. That she’s only interested in Steve. That it was always just Steve she was after. She went along with dating me because Steve and I were inseparable.”

You feel sick to your stomach at how someone could dismiss Bucky so callously.

“She said-” he swallows hard, and you interrupt him,

“Bucky, you don’t have to tell me this if it’s too much.”

“No. I want you to know who she is, and what she did to us, because I want you to know that she is nothing to us anymore. And I want you to understand why. Just, please don’t leave, okay?”

You nod and his relief is palpable. He shuffles forward, closing the distance between you a little more.

“She told me I was too rough around the edges for her. That I was too hard, too dark. I had pretty bad PTSD then, and I had nightmares. I—uh, I’d wake up screaming sometimes. She didn’t like that I had been a soldier, even though she didn’t mind that Steve had been one too. And she hated that I was an amputee, that I wasn’t ‘whole’ anymore. Shit, she even hated how my prosthetic arm looked, and the way people stared at me because of it. She said it was dangerous, and she was scared of it—of me—thought I’d hurt her with it. She didn’t like how much I meant to Steve, or that he was doing something as stupid and useless as starting a band with me.

“She was dead set on dividing us. Separating us. She wanted him to be a normal, hetero, straight-laced, nine-to-five, husband, kids, and minivan kind of man.”

Hearing this makes you furious. This time you crawl over to Bucky, and take his hands in yours, rubbing his palms softly with your thumbs. Gently you tell him, “You aren’t any of those things, Buck. You’re kind, and caring. You’re protective of everyone on this bus. You’re wicked smart, incredibly funny, and you are easily one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. You take care of all of us. You always get Clint the root beer he likes when you run to the store, even when he forgets to ask for it. When Natasha is sad you let her tickle you until she’s laughing hard enough to pull a muscle. You help Scott change his damn hair color every two weeks when he can’t make up his mind what color he wants it to be. You’re so gentle and loving with Alpine, and she adores you so much she’d follow you anywhere. And jesus Buck, you’re everything to Steve and I. I’ve never had someone that cared for me the way you do, who loved me so wholly and completely, not my parents, not my friends, not people I was dating. You and Steve make me happier than I ever thought I could be. And Peggy is an asshole of mythic proportions if she can’t see that.”

He lets his head drop again, “She broke my heart. I felt completely worthless. I told Steve to go. To leave me. To go and be happy with her, and stop wasting his time with me. He refused. Said there was no Steve without Bucky. It was him and me until the end of the line. And that was that. He broke up with her, and we picked up the pieces and moved on.

“Then she shows up to the venue on the night of the last Cali show. She claimed she just wanted to talk. Said she wanted to make amends for what she did to us, but especially for what she did to me. I didn’t want to hear it. I’ve had enough of Peggy Carter’s shit to last several lifetimes, but Steve talked me into it. Said clearing the air would be a good thing.

“Well, she showed up and starts acting like an ass as soon as we’re offstage. We had to drag her back to the green room. That’s the only reason I even touched her in the first place. Once we got there she starts hanging off Steve like the breakup never happened. She tried to sweet talk him into taking her back, kept snuggling up to him like it was going to make him change his mind. She didn’t say a word of apology like she claimed she wanted to. Didn’t so much as look my way once. It was just a ploy to get Steve to see her, because she knew there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d talk to her any other way.

“Well, Stevie told her to fuck off. That he didn’t want anything to do with her after the first breakup, and he sure as fuck didn’t want any part of her now. She started throwing a tantrum. And, knowing how toxic she is, rather than get into it with her, we left her there for arena security to deal with, and we went to a bar around the corner.

“I'm sorry we didn’t tell you that. We should have stopped by the bus, or called, or texted, we shoulda let you know what happened. She got us both fucked in the head, and the only thing we could think to do was to get drunk.”

You interrupt him, “I didn’t even know you guys could get drunk.”

He laughs softly, “It cost us almost five hundred dollars to do the job, and I’m pretty sure that poor bartender is going to have nightmares for the rest of his natural life, but, yeah, we got drunk. Then when we came home, we realized what that little talk with Peggy cost us.”

“Almost,” you say quietly. “Almost cost you.”

His ocean eyes are drowning in tears when they snap up to meet yours, “Does that mean… are you staying?” His voice breaks on the last word, and it nearly rips your chest open to hear it.

You fling yourself at him, “‘M not going anywhere, Buck.”

Bucky wraps himself around you like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. He shakes with sobs, and thanks you over and over again.

After his tears subside you jiggle his shoulder to get his attention. “Bucky. Hey, when was the last time you ate a good meal?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t remember.”

“Okay, babe, I love you, but you’ve lost weight, and you need to eat. There’s a Denny’s two blocks thataway. Please go get some food. A lot of it. Oh, and on the way there’s a dollar store. Clint and Nat are there and probably raising all manner of hell. Get them out of there for me, will you?”

“You’ll still be here when I get back?”

“Yes babe. I’m not going anywhere. I’d go with you, but I need a shower. Clint and Nat spilled syrup in my lap, I think it’s in my hair too. The bottom line is: I'm sticky. I promise I’m not going anywhere, as long as you go and eat for me.”

When he stands, you notice his belt is cinched down past the holes it came with, and his jeans still hang loose on his hips.

He kisses you and you worry that he won’t do what you asked him without fussing, but eventually he lets go and heads in the direction of the Denny’s and promises to eat.

The beautiful smile he’s wearing is full of gratitude, and a comfort to you both.

You shower, and take time to dry your hair, relishing the way your body feels loose with a reduction of the tension that’s been singing through your muscles for the past five days.

When you step out of the bathroom you’re hit by the smell of whiskey, and the copper-penny tang of blood.

Steve’s sitting on the couch, legs spread wide, elbows on knees, hands clenched together. His head hangs down between his shoulders, and his honey-blonde fauxhawk is messy with wet splashes of crimson.

“Steve,” you gasp.

He looks up at you, and you feel the world tilt under your feet.

Steve’s face is a mask of bruises, swelling, and blood. Both eyes are ringed with aubergine bruises, and there’s a deep gash intersecting one eyebrow. His right cheek bears a series of directional scratches, as if his cheek had been drug across gravel. His lips are split in several places, and his nose looks broken. There’s a notch missing out of one ear, like a stray cat.

“Jesus, what the fuck happened to you?”

“I, uh, got jumped,” his voice is thick and wet, like something’s broken inside of him too.

“By what? A semi truck?” He shakes his head. “Steve, there’s not a person on this planet whose ass you can’t kick. So, I’ll ask again, what. the. fuck. happened?”

“Got jumped,” he repeats stubbornly.

“Bullshit.”

He sighs wetly, “Seven guys.”

“You can take seven guys without getting this beat up, Steve.”

He rises and walks to the sink, holding his left arm against his ribs, and limping heavily on his left leg, and spits blood into the drain. He leans against the counter, looking down at Alpine when she starts winding through his legs. He looks up at you again and his blue eyes are empty. Clearing his throat he spits again, and, with a stronger voice, says, “I let them beat me up.”

“Come again?”

“I said I let them beat me up. I’ll be fine. I just need Bucky to pop my shoulder back in place. If he’ll even speak to me, that is.”

“Why the fuck would you let someone beat you up?”

He sighs and sits down on the couch again. “Did you talk to Bucky yet?” You give him an affirmative. “Did he tell you what happened?” You nod. “Well, he never wanted to talk to Peggy in the first place, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I pushed and pushed until he agreed, because I thought it would be good to clear the air. But you know how that went, obviously. So the night you quit speaking to us, he quit speaking to me. He started sleeping on the couch. The only thing he’s said to me all week is that he noticed you were coming to the shows again, and that we should add the All Apologies cover to the set. For you.”

He sits back with a pained grunt, but you see the splits are already starting to heal. “Losing both of you is killing me. I literally feel dead inside,” he croaks, his voice breaking as his eyes fill with tears. “I can’t feel anything except this soul-sucking hopelessness. Then the first night we were in Seattle, I ran into a bunch of drunk assholes in an alley, and they wanted to start shit, so I just… I just kinda laid down, and let them. It was the first time since I fucked up everyone’s life that I felt something. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, but I just wanted to not feel dead inside for a little while.”

“Steve, I-” you start, but he interrupts you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whimpers. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I hurt the two people I love most in the world over some woman that doesn’t even matter to me anymore. I was an asshole, I hurt Bucky, pushed him into doing something he didn’t want to do, and I hurt you, and I’m sorry. If you and Bucky will let me, I’ll never stop trying to make it up to you.”

You sigh and step beside him, laying your hand on the shoulder that isn’t dislocated. “Oh Stevie,” you sigh, “what am I going to do with you?”

He wraps his good arm around your waist and buries his face in your hip, “Just please don’t leave me.” His voice cracks, and you can feel warm tears smearing over the bare skin between your shorts and shirt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, stroking over his neck.

He breaks down then. Sobbing against your hip, saying I’m sorry again and again. You let him go on for a few minutes, then shake him out of it. His blue eyes are wet and sad when he looks up at you. “I know you heal fast, Steve, but some of this may take awhile,” you gesture to the pie-slice notch that was taken out of his ear, “so why don’t you let me clean you up while we wait for Bucky to fix your shoulder?” He nods.

The first aid kit in the RV is basically a Care Bears lunchbox, with some alcohol, gauze, tape, and a ridiculous amount of cartoon character band aids that Clint keeps stealing more of everywhere he goes. You use all of the gauze and most of the tape on his ear, leaving nothing for the rest of his wounds, so when Bucky comes back with Clint, and Nat in tow, Steve is covered in Hello Kitty, Pokemon, and rainbow glitter band aids. Clint and Nat see you talking to Steve, then giggle and dive into their bunk with their dollar store haul. Bucky walks in and looks between you and Steve.

“Did you make up?” he asks. Then, “Shit, what happened to Steve?”

“What did you eat?” you counter with your own question.

“A five egg omelette, four pancakes, chicken and waffles, bacon, three biscuits, and a bowl of Lucky Charms.” In any other situation it would be a comedic amount of food, but for Bucky it just barely chases away the sallow tone of his skin. It would take a few days, and a lot more calories to get his weight back to normal.

“Why are you so thin, Buck?” Steve asks curiously.

“For the same reason you have cartoon character band aids plastered all over your dislocated shoulder. You’re both ridiculous,” you grumble. They at least have the decency to look chastened.

“Yes, Bucky,” you answer, “we made up. The two of you need to make up too, but Steve’s dislocated shoulder needs to be popped back into place first. And do something about his nose before it heals like that.”

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to fix Steve’s shoulder, the ball and socket joint settling into place with a meaty pop and a groan of relief from Steve. His nose, on the other hand, straightens up with a sickening crunch that had Steve cursing passionately.

With the doctoring done, Bucky plops down on the coffee table opposite Steve.

“Goddamnit, Buck,” Steve starts, scratching at the dried blood caught in the peach fuzz on the side of his head. “I’m so fucking sorry. You told me talking to her was a bad idea, and I didn’t listen. I was stupid, and an asshole, and I’m sorry I caused all this shit.”

“Can we just agree to never, ever talk to her again, for any reason?” Bucky asks. “She hasn’t brought us anything but pain, and she doesn’t want anything but to start trouble. This one here,” he points to you, “is worth more than a billion Peggy Carters combined, and I won’t lose her.”

Steve nods, “Agreed.” He holds a hand out to you, you take it and sit on the couch next to him. He strokes a thumb under his name, etched indelibly under your collarbone, “I fucked up. I hurt you, and I hurt Bucky. You are the most important people in the world to me, and I’m so goddamned sorry I almost ruined it.”

You sigh heavily, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have reacted how I did. I shouldn’t have hid. I made it worse, and I should have let you explain. Seeing her curled up next to you—touching you, kissing you—-it broke me, Steve.”

“I’m sorry,” he hangs his head, “I really am. I know exactly how I would have felt had the situation been reversed. Your reaction was totally justified. I can’t imagine how betrayed you felt.”

“Stevie, it’s okay. Now, I’d really love to hug you, but you’re icky,” you crinkle your nose at the blood all over him.

Then Steve smiles radiantly, and the vice clamped around your heart finally disappears. He kisses you and Bucky on top of your heads and goes to get cleaned up, peeling band aids off half-healed wounds as he goes.

Bucky offers to help you move your stuff back into the bunk, but you tell him it can wait, and you climb into the bunk that smells blissfully like the men you’ve been missing all week, dragging him behind you.

He wraps his arms around you and squeezes, burying his face in your neck, taking deep draws of your scent, filling himself with you over and over again. You turn his face to yours and press your lips together. When you part your lips and lick your way into his mouth, Bucky whimpers.

It occurs to you that, because Bucky’s been sleeping on the couch, both of these boys have been touch-starved all week. While you’ve had the constant support of Clint and Nat, and lots of hugs, holding, and touch, neither Bucky nor Steve has had any of that.

“Oh, Buck,” you breathe, “I’m so sorry.”

He presses your foreheads together and shakes his head, whispering against your lips, “‘s okay, just, please don’t stop.”

Your lips find his again, and you tangle your tongues together, pushing him down on the mattress. Bucky’s soft whimpers raise goosebumps on your skin. Your fingers dip under his shirt and he breaks the kiss with a strangled sound, racing to pull it off. You tug on his belt, “These too.”

Desperately, he pleads, “You too. Gotta see you princess. Missed you so much.”

You get as far as your shirt, then Bucky impatiently rips the rest off of you.

His cock is straining against his belly, already leaking a puddle on his colorful skin. “Please, kitten,” his voice low and rough, “Please. I can’t wait.” You throw a leg over his hips to straddle him, and he grips his cock so you can lower yourself onto it. He’s desperate to fill you, but you’re so tight around him, he whines fuckfuckfuck as you work him into your cunt. His head falls back on the mattress with a thump, and he struggles to breathe.

“God I missed you so fuckin’ much. Fuck, you feel so good. ‘m not gonna last long.”

You already feel tension building in your belly, and you know it’s not going to take much for you either, you lean down to brush your noses together, and reassure him, “It’s okay Buck. I just wanna feel you. After that, we have all the time in the world.”

His vibranium hand gently cups your cheek, pleasantly cool against your heated skin, and draws you in for a deep, greedy kiss. His other arm circles your back, and holds you in place so he can grind into you. It’s slow and dirty, like now that he’s inside of you he’s planning on staying there until the sun goes supernova.

His metal hand cards through your hair, fingertips skimming softly over your scalp, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Looking into your eyes he sighs, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Bucky,” you hum. “You’re filling me up so good. I’m so close.”

“You gonna come for me, princess?”

“Yeah. Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he huffs against the shell of your ear and fucks you harder.

The pressure in your core crests, and you spill slick over his cock whining his name against the damp skin of his neck. Your tight channel squeezing around him is swiftly his undoing. His strong hands press your hips against him, whining your name, digging his fingertips into your soft skin as he fills you so full of come it leaks out around his cock.

“Promise me?” he pants.

“Anything Buck. Name it and it’s yours. What do you want?”

“Promise you’ll never go?”

You lift up enough to take his face in your hands, and shake it gently back and forth, “Bucky Barnes, I’m not going anywhere. Ever. You’re never getting rid of me, not even if you hire an exterminator. I’ll just hide in the walls.” You giggle, and the sound makes his body break out in goosebumps.

“Perish the thought,” he chuckles, kissing you all over your face until you giggle for him again.

The curtain opens, and the smell of Steve’s body wash rolls over you both when he climbs in. His breath catches on an inhale and he swears quietly. He stretches shaky fingers toward you until they graze over your hip. They follow your leg down until he comes to Bucky’s waist, and traces lightly over his side.

“Shit,” he says, his voice tight and gravelly, like he’s on the edge of tears, “I missed you both so fucking much.”

You sit up, and drag Steve in for a kiss. “Hey, hey. We’re right here, Stevie,” you reassure him, “not going anywhere.”

Impatient and greedy, Steve swats your ass until you roll off Bucky. “C’mon. Need to taste you both again.” He runs a couple fingers through your folds, and pops them into his mouth, tasting Bucky’s come and your juices. “Seems like all I gotta do is get my tongue inside this pretty pussy, and I can have both of you in one lick.” He cages you between his arms, hovering over you.

“Well, come get it, big boy,” you whisper with a smirk.

Steve growls, and dives between your thighs. He wastes no time getting his tongue into you, lapping at your cunt like it contains the nectar of the gods. He groans, “Jesus fucking christ, doll, you taste like heaven.”

You’re about to lift your head up to watch Steve, but Bucky’s tattooed, CUNT PUNCHER palm falls over your throat, and pushes your head down to the mattress. You tilt your chin up, an open invitation to squeeze, and he does, until the little whimpered noises you’re making are cut off. Then he licks his way into your mouth, exploring you with his tongue.

He releases your throat at the same time he breaks the kiss, and the first thing to squeak out of your mouth is, “Fuuuuck, Bucky.”

It’s something so simple, but the wrecked way you say his name makes him groan. Steve’s head pops up from between your thighs and asks him, “What do you need, Buck? What can we do for you?”

His eyes dart greedily between you and Steve, and he finally says, “Wanna fuck you, Stevie. Need to feel you too.”

Steve hums, “That sounds amazing. It's been a bit, so I need to warm up for you a little. You’ve gotta take over for me here,” he says, sliding from between your legs.

Bucky sighs dramatically, “Someone has to tongue-fuck her within an inch of her life. I guess I can make the sacrifice,” he smirks at you until you kick out at him. He snatches your foot out of the air and nibbles your arch until you squeal.

Bucky settles in between your legs, hawks a wad of spit onto your clit, then dives into your pussy like a man possessed. The wet, messy slurping noises are obscene, and god damn it feels good. He slips two fingers inside of you, and you’re on the verge of begging him to make you come, but he curls his fingers against your sweet spot, and fuck, stars explode behind your eyelids. You seize handfuls of Bucky’s hair and he drinks you down as you gush over his face.

You eyes find Steve’s where he’s propped up, against the wall. He’s stroking a tight fist over his dick, eyeing you hungrily.

“Stevie,” you call sweetly, “come stuff your cock down my throat.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Before you can blink, his knees are framing your face, and he’s tugging your mouth open with one hand and feeding his cock to you with the other. He doesn’t hesitate, breaching your gag reflex with one smooth push. The ring through his cock head tickles at the back of your throat when he starts fucking your mouth.

Suddenly he groans loud, and rests a hand on your throat when his dick is making it bulge out with every thrust. “Fuck, doll,” he groans, “can see my cock in you. Right here,” he squeezes the column of your throat over your stretched esophagus. Squeezing your throat puts extra pressure around his cock, and his eyes roll back in his head while he chants oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He spills deep in your throat with a ragged growl, pulling out halfway through so the last few spurts of come paint your tongue, and rest on your bottom lip like pearls.

“So gorgeous with my come on ya, princess,” he purrs. You suck your lip between your teeth and he groans.

“Taste so good, Stevie,” you coo, “not done with you yet.”

“What’d you have in mind sweetheart?”

“Let me get you ready for Bucky,” you tug on his arm, “sit on my face.”

“Jesus, doll. Trying to kill me. Fuck.”

You pull his arm until he moves up to straddle your face. You pull his hips down until he’s close enough that you can thumb his cheeks aside and lick a wet stripe over his hole. His whole body shudders, and he groans a curse.

Bucky works your cunt over with a fervor that leaves you breathless. His fingers fuck you relentlessly, and his tongue is inexhaustible. He pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine, and replaces them with three chilly metal digits, and an unyielding thumb grinding against your clit. His vibranium fingers are colder and firmer than his human fingers, so they hit a bit differently, and being suddenly stuffed with three of them sends you plowing over the edge. He coaxes your orgasm out of you, urging you to come for him.

“Come on, princess. Come for me. Fucking soak me like a good little slut. There you go. Oh, fuck, there you go. What a good girl you are. See your hungry little cunt squeezing around me. She’s so fucking pretty when she comes for me.”

You gush hot and wet around his fingers, your cries muffled by the meat of Steve’s ass. He grinds down on you, because even as you writhe and groan through your orgasm, you never stop working his tight ring of muscle.

Steve takes your hand and pops three of your fingers into his mouth. Swiping his tongue over the pads of your finger tips, and soaking your digits with spit. He gives your hand back groaning, “Get your fucking fingers in me. Be a good girl and stretch me out. I wanna fucking feel it.”

You rub the pads of your wet fingers against his puckered hole until it flutters against them. Then you push all three of them in at once. Steve’s back bows, and he groans loudly. “Oh, fuck me, that’s perfect. You’re perfect.” You rock your fingers shallowly, curling them to drag over his prostate. Steve starts chanting mindlessly, yesyesfuckyesrightthereyeahfuckme.

Bucky pushes your legs up until your ass is in the air and your knees hit Steve’s thighs. Steve grabs your legs, holding them open for Bucky, who growls, “Come on my wet little slut, gimmie one more. Your pussy’s hungry for it, she’s fucking dripping for it” before he drives his tongue into your cunt.

Your body writhes away from Bucky’s tongue—or it tries to. Between Bucky’s hands on your hips, Steve’s on your thighs, and the way Steve’s legs are caging your upper body, they’ve got you on lock-down. Bucky chuckles against your folds. “You’re not going anywhere, kitten, so you might as well give it up. All you gotta do is come for me, that shouldn't be tough for a good little slut like you.”

Bucky spreads your lips with two fingers, and spits on your pussy, pushing it into you with his fingers. You whine and clench around his digits when he starts finger fucking you and assaulting your clit with his talented tongue. Your climax hits you hard, you back bowing up off the mattress, keening as your cunt flutters around Bucky’s relentless fingers. He groans long and low as he laps up your slick.

He eases you down from your orgasm gently, until all that’s left are the tremors that shake through your thighs when Bucky noses softly over your clit. His breath ghosts over your cunt, soft puffs of air when he speaks, “Fuck me, princess. That was so sexy. You’re beautiful, so good for us. Love you so much.”

Bucky rises to his knees, and takes Steve’s hand. You gently take your fingers back and give Steve’s butt cheek a playful kiss. Bucky lays Steve on his back next to you and swipes a tongue over Steve’s dick, just for a taste.

“Buck,” Steve asks quietly, “please don’t try to be gentle. I miss you. Want it to hurt, want to feel you for awhile.”

Bucky nods at his request, throwing Steve’s legs over his shoulders, lining up, and pushing in right to the hilt. Steve gives a strangled noise of pleasure and yanks Bucky’s face down to his with a handful of hair. Bucky hisses and thrusts into Steve as they start to kiss.

There’s a savagery in the way they reacquaint themselves. Feverish touches, nails digging burning furrows in tattooed skin, raw animal noises, biting marks in each other’s tender spots. But there’s also beauty in it too. Deep kisses, words of worship whispered in each other’s ear, the way Bucky gently cradles Steve’s head in hands, the way Steve’s fingers trace gingerly over Bucky’s features, as if to memorize them all over again.

The primal noises of them fucking make you ache. You must make a noise, because Steve looks over at you, your face resting right next to his.

“Kiss me, princess,” he says, desire thick in his words. You roll over, and he guides your lips together, feeding you the gasps and moans and grunts that Bucky’s cock pushes out of him. His knuckles graze softly over your features, his hand curling to drag nails over the tender skin of your back when Bucky shifts his hips just enough that he’s hammering against Steve’s prostate.

The kiss breaks when Steve throws his head back with a deep groan. “Shit, Buck,” he rumbles, “keep doing that. Fuck. Gonna make me come.”

“Do it, Stevie,” Bucky husks out, “lemme feel you come on my cock. Already squeezing around me, know you’re close. Feels so fucking nice, makes me wanna fill you up. Remind you what a slut you are for us.” Bucky’s head dips down and he takes Steve’s nipple in his mouth and rolls it between his teeth, the barbell faintly clicking against his pearly whites.

Steve makes a strangled noise as the first warm splashes of come touch down on his stomach. Bucky studies Steve’s features, as if to re-memorize each and every crease in his brow, whisker in his beard, and sound he makes when he falls apart.

As soon as the last of Steve's orgasm has spilled across his chest, Bucky is done for. He lets Steve’s body take hold of him, draw him in until he’s packed in deep, and that’s when he starts to spill. Steve feels every twitch of Bucky’s cock and the spreading warmth of come deep in his guts.

Steve’s head rolls in your direction. He’s confronted by your lust-blown eyes, and your bite-swollen lips. “Did that turn you on, pretty girl? You like watching our boy fuck me?”

You whine, “Yes, Stevie. I do.”

“You want me to fuck you? ‘s that little pussy of yours still fucking hungry?”

“Stevie, please.”

Steve’s already hard again by the time Bucky heaves him over between your legs, “You heard the lady. Don’t make her beg,” he says, swatting Steve’s ass.

Steve gives you a wolfish grin, “Well I guess it’s up to me to feed this hungry little kitty, isn’t it?”

He sinks into you with one swift stroke. Your eyes roll back in your head, and Steve’s hand is on your jaw, squeezing tight. Your eyes fly open and he growls, “Look at me while I’m fucking you.”

“Sorry, Stevie,” you whisper.

He dips his head to kiss you. His hand is still squeezing your jaw, limiting your movements, so he bites and sucks at your lips until you whine his name. “It’s okay, princess. You’re so fucking beautiful.” The filthy squelching noises his cock pushes out of you is a perverse contrast to the words of love that drip from his lips like honey. “You feel so good. So tight and wet for me. God you’re such a good fucking girl for me. You’re gonna come for me one more time.”

It’s not a question, but you shake your head and whine, “I can’t Steve. I can’t do it. ‘s too much.”

His big hand gently shakes your jaw, fingers hollowing your cheeks, big silver rings digging into your jawbone. “You can, and you will, because I fucking said so. You wanna be a good girl for me, don’t you?”

He ends with a tone that is soft, and encouraging, and you want, more than anything, to be good for him, so you nod.

His hips speed up, and your bodies are slapping together hard. His large hand leaves your jaw to wrap around the base of your throat, his palm resting right over the shield inked on your sternum. He presses against you, and Bucky’s metal hand slips stealthily around your neck under your chin and squeezes, the plates and gears whirring quietly as his grip adjusts.

“Come on, kitten,” he purrs in your ear, “Come for Stevie. It’s been so long. Let him see how fucking pretty you are when you come apart for him.”

You sob as your orgasm sweeps over you, your pussy squeezing Steve’s cock, as you cling desperately to his shoulders. Tears squeeze out of the corners of your eyes as you keen weakly.

Steve comes when you do, your walls squeezing him tight sends him over the edge. He showers you with praise as he fucks you full of his come. “My good girl. Fuck, I love you so much. Always so good for us. So sexy. You’re so perfect.” He babbles as his body stills against yours.

He lifts up a little to thumb the tears off your face. Suddenly you break out into real sobs. Steve and Bucky are both immediately concerned. Steve sits you up while Bucky supports your back.

“What’s wrong doll?”

“Did we hurt you?”

“What happened?”

“What can we do?”

“Guys, I’m so sorry,” you hiccup, “I’m such an awful person for giving you the silent treatment for so long. I feel terrible. It’s all my fault-”

Bucky shakes you gently until you stop babbling. “Listen to me. What happened was NOT your fault. You had every right to feel how you felt. But it doesn’t matter now.”

“Yeah, doll. It’s all water under the bridge. Please don’t cry. And please stop thinking that this was your fault.”

Bucky mops at your face with a soft flannel shirt. “There’s my sweet princess,” he smiles at you. They’re both smiling at you, and there’s a chorus of angels in those bright, beautiful smiles.

You grab them both and pull them to you. They crowd together until you’re engulfed in their heat and their strong arms. “I love you both so much. I can’t lose you,” the last words are barely a sigh, but both of your super soldiers hear it crystal clear.

Your ear is pressed against Steve’s chest, and his words rumble through it when he speaks. “You can never ever lose us. Do you hear me? It’ll never happen. It’s impossible and just absurd to even consider. We love you. You belong to us just as much as we belong to you, and we won’t go anywhere without you.”

You nod, feeling reassured by their words. Bucky starts acting like a mother hen, cleaning everyone up, until you and Steve wrestle him to the mattress and clean him up in turn.

Alpine’s muurp comes from just outside the bunk. Bucky slides the curtain open so she can jump in. She tackles Bucky with relentless headbutts, rubbing her head all over him, and rolling onto her back so Bucky can rub her tummy.

You and Steve curl up comfortably and watch Bucky pamper Alpine for a while. Eventually you both tug him over to you sleepily. You tangle yourselves together, getting as close as it’s possible for three bodies to be. Once you’re all comfortable, words of worship taper off into soft snores as you nod off in each other’s arms, while Alpine curls up against Bucky’s feet and falls asleep too.

676 notes · View notes

snoopdoodle · 3 years ago

Text

hot damn- most I've written on this account yet at 2.1k words- Jesus christ thats a lot-

=======

Dad, but not // pt. 3

FIRST PART \\ SECOND PART

platonic!benchtrio x male!reader, platonic!philza (&mumza) x male!reader, platonic!wilbur x male!reader

pronouns: he/him

summary: randad about to leave, what with phil and mumza do? Stop him, of course.

------

You laughed softly as Tommy yelled into the camera. “What is up, boys!?” He yelled, his voice a bit hoarse from crying. “You've been crying, man?” Tubbo asked, sniffing a bit. “Oh, shut up! You’ve been cryin’ too!” Tommy yelled at the 2. Ranboo had not let go of your hand for a while, and you could tell he was trying not to cry. “Ok, Ok, this is fine-” He spoke, chuckling a bit as he had to take his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Ok, so, we’ll just go do something fun together, all of us, then you go home,” Ranboo spoke, his tone saddening at the end. The mood sort of depressed after he said this.

He didn’t want you to go, none of you did. Tommy scoffed into the camera, trying to hide his tears. “Alright, you sad-sacks. Let’s get moving. Randad leaves at 6 and it’s 11 o’clock right now! Meaning we still have… 1, 2, 3-” [Name], or ‘Randad’ as he was called by the fanbase, interrupted him. “Eight hours, Tommy. Although, it’s probably less than that since we’ll have to drive. But, let’s not dwell on it. Let’s just have some fun,” You spoke, Tubbo nodded in confirmation as Ranboo squeezed your hand. “Jeez, that was inspirational,” Tommy muttered with sarcasm dripping through his voice.

You cackled, finding what he said funny. Your [___] accent was shining through in that laugh. Ranboo patted your back, well tried to, as he was also giggling like a maniac. You smiled at the gesture, chuckling to yourself. “I’m here!” a voice yelled, and you all turned to find Wilbur, in all of his 6’6 glory, running toward you all. You smiled and nodded to the man as he slowed his pace. The morning sun shone down, giving his eyes a shine and making them pop. You pat Ranboo on the shoulder, signaling for him to let you go. He sighed sadly but complied. You just pat his back as a small thanks.

You all got on the ride, it was a type of roller-coaster, so Ranboo could barely fit in the seats. You think that the little kids who saw you all and didn’t know who you all thought you were giants. You smiled at the thought. Sure, you were a father, but come on- it was fun to scare kids who didn’t know you! You looked at your hand when you felt someone holding it, it was Ranboo. You grinned at him as the ride went up. Tubbo looked at your hands and stared at them, before deciding to link his pinky with one of your fingers.

Before the ride went down, Tubbo had to make his thoughts known to you both and the camera. “Ya’know, if people didn’t see you both up there and just saw all of us holding hands, they might think we’re a polygon couple, like Big Q, Karl, and SapnNAAPP-'' He was almost able to finish, but the ride started up and left his ideas in the dust. It also cut your laughing fit. The ride shot off down the coaster, and you could hear Tommy’s screams from behind you. You smiled, knowing this day would be great, even though it was your last. The rollercoaster came to a stop as the metal belts came undone. Ranboo’s hair was frizzy and uneven, along with your [color] hair.

You started laughing as you remembered Tubbo’s previous statement. Ranboo and Tubbo began laughing as well. “T-Tub-bo-oh-oh- that was so wrong- hehHAH-” Your son spoke between laughter, and you nodded along to his words. Wilbur looked to you confused as Tommy looked confused and terrified. Your laughter died down, but you knew you would have the giggles for the rest of the day. “Heh heh heh-” You chuckled as you walked through the hall from the ride. Tommy looked at you and gave a lopsided smile. “So, what was the joke-” He wasn’t able to finish as you burst into a peal of wheezing laughter. Your laughter filled the room, and soon enough the others were laughing as well.

You then went past a gift shop, where Tommy promptly stopped and then turned to Wilbur. “Please, Will. I want a gift,” He spoke, one hand pointing the camera in his face and one pointing to the shop’s doors. Wil shook his head with a small laugh, acting as if he would say yes, but what came out caused you to laugh again. “No, Tommy,” You cackled again as Tommy held a pleading look to his face. “Oh, Oh but that’s bullshit, Will! I want a gift!” He slightly yelled at Wilbur. You sighed and slipped away from the group. Hopefully, they wouldn’t notice. Looking on the colorful shelf of the gift shop, you stopped seeing the toys. You saw three stuffed animals and you knew, that’s what you’d get them.

“Dad?” Ranboo asked, stopping the small argument between Wilbur and Tommy. They looked up and craned their heads around for you as Tubbo giggled. He saw you slip into the gift shop but didn’t say anything. You stepped out, the jingle of the bell alerting the four. You smiled as your saw the relief and confusion contort onto their faces. “Look, today is my last day, and I wanted to get a little something for all of you to remember me bye,” You spoke, a small gin coming onto your face. You pulled out a small bee plushie and handed it to Tubbo, who happily took the gift with a grin spreading across his face. You then pulled out a small raccoon toy, which you gave to Tommy. He huffed in annoyance at the gift, but a small smile graced his face at the toy. And last, you gifted Ranboo a small cat plushie. You had always compared him to a cat, so he got the inside joke and gave a little smile under his duel-colored mask.

Wilbur gasped at you in mock shock and frowned. “What about me, Randad?!” He yelled out, causing a tiny scene. It made you chuckle as you pulled out a slinky. “A slinky for you, Wilbur,” You spoke, acting as if he was royalty. He gave a large smile and held his hands out, waiting for the gift to grace his skin. The boy laughed at your antics and started to walk along. You all continued your day, watching as the sun went over your heads. It was around 3:40, and you had to start getting ready to leave. “C’mon boys, let’s go. It’s 3:37,” You spoke, making their smiles and happy faces turn sour. Wilbur gave a small pout, but complied with your request. Tubbo and Tommy huffed out and frowned as Ranboo just made a sad noise.

You all got into your car, heading off to the Airport. Wilbur, Tommy, and Tubbo sat in the back of your car as you and Ranboo sat in the front seats. The car was silent with a hint of sadness all around you. A wave of tears passed over you as you turned the corner. You weren’t an ugly crier, but you sure weren’t a pretty one. Your tears came crashing down onto your face as you stopped the car. You tried to be strong, you really did, but this hurt. You were leaving your son! In Britain! It hurt so bad. Ranboo gave a sniff and pat your shoulder. You smiled as you tried to get out of the car. The airport was less crowded then it should be, but you were still going to have to walk through a crowd.

You felt your phone buzz in your pocket. You looked to Wilbur who gave an ok before he went to get your stuff. It was Kristin. You smiled, wiping your tears a bit and answered your call. “Hey, Kris,” You spoke, adding in the little nickname you had thought of. Your voice was shaky and she could tell you had been crying. So could Phil, who was also in the car. “Hey, [Name], how are you? We’re almost to the airport to say bye!” Kristin spoke, her American accent shining as she yelled into the phone. You smiled at the joy in her tone. “I-I not holding up as well as I wanted to, but hey, I’m happy you're coming here. Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo, Ranboo and I were just out having a fun day together.. And now that fun day has ended, heh,” You spoke, your voice still shaky as more tears overwhelmed you.

She gave a sad ‘awe’ and you could hear the pout in her voice, “Well, I know how that feels. Wait for up at your port spot, and we’ll all meet up, alright?” You nodded into the phone, and a sniff could be heard on Kristin and Phil’s side. “You got it,” She smiled at Phil and looked at him. “H-Hang on- I need to mute for a second,” She spoke, you sighed and gave your phone to Ranboo who was sitting down, not helping at all. He was still trying to take in the fact that his dad would be leaving him. Kristin turned to Phil after muting. “We have a spare room, right? It has a bed. He’s been over here. He’s a good guy, and you hear how sad he is to leave-” Kristin’s rant was cut off by a chuckle from Phil.

“Sure, hunny, he can stay,” Phil smiled and Kristin gave a joyous nod to her husband as she unmuted the phone. “Hello?” She asked, but she was met with some mumbling. “Ranboo?” It was Phil this time. “Phil? O-oh, hey. Yeah, dad’s doing some stuff right now, you need him?” Ranboo asked, trying to cover his tears. “No, don’t worry, Just wanted to say that we were almost here. Tell your dad, alright mate?” Phil informed. Ranboo gave a small alright and hung up. He stood up and stretched out, walking over to you to tell you that Phil and ‘Mumza’ were almost here. You gave your son a small smile and all of you walked to your gate. It was a hassle, walking through the crowds, but when you got to your gate, Tommy pulled out his camera and started vlogging.

“Randad’s about to leave. Unpog,” He spoke into the camera, tears filling his eyes, along with everyone else’s. You chuckled at the comment, before looking around. It had been about 10 minutes and Phil and Kristin still weren’t- “[Name]!” Scratch that, they were here. You got up and walked to Kristin, leaning down to give her a hug. “Hey, Kris, hey Phil,” You spoke sniffling a bit. Tommy turned the camera to Phil and Kristin and gave the camera a teary look. “Look, It’s Dad and Mumza,” Kristin looked at you as you turned to Tommy. She looked to Phil, who nodded in response. “c-Can I have your all’s attention?” She tried, and it worked. She got everyone’s attention. She cleared her throat and looked at you. “[Name], I know how sad you’ve been to leave. And personally, I don’t think anyone wants you to leave. So.. I brought up that you could stay with me and Phil,” Before she could finish, your hands were at your mouth and your body had gone downwards. Tubbo was teary-eyed and smiling, along with Wilbur. Tommy was filming the whole thing and smiling at you all. Ranboo’s hands cupped his mouth.

You were still on the floor, squatting down, when she continued. “Yeah, we have a guest room, you can visit the boys anytime you want… for the most part. So, what do you say?” She finished with the question. Without gestation you got up and nodded, leaning into a hug. The boys cheered and smiled with tears rolling down their cheeks. You looked over to Phil and he gave you a positive nod. You smiled and left the hug with Kristin to hug Ranboo. He returned it. In the end, everyone was crying, you had gotten to live with 2 very good friends. And the viewers were very happy, as you weren’t leaving.

#male reader #platonic bench trio #tommyinnit #x male reader #platonic!ranboo #platonic tubbo #platonic philza x reader #platonic tommyinnit #ranboo #tubbo #dad!reader #philza #philza and mumza #mumza #wilbur #platonic wilbur

361 notes · View notes

christmic · 2 years ago

Text

I want to scream a million screams. That's what a student said, I said that's a good song name. What genre would that be for you? I'm asking the VC, no it's not Vietcong it's VaxCattle being asked by Chat GPT. Toothy left and is hanging with my ex and I really don't care that she's at a bar with writing friends....makes me laugh! I wouldn't want to join it sounds sad. I have a new life now. Britany at Lassens talked about God apologetically but I said no Christ is King and she's Christian too and we had a nice thing going until the manlet in the back told her there was another customer. But you know what Britany means? Of Britain. It's like a name without a name, just here's another from Britain. Like Helen but this woman puts Christ first. Mr No Cravings sayeth it does not sound appealing at all sitting in a bar with her ahahaha we did that like every day. I feel sorry for her drinking maybe a single beer in a bar, in a city full of posers the prophets are riding away cause, the consequence of sounds...

youtube

```

That very same morning right next to her coffee She noticed some bleeding and heard hollow coughing The National Geographic was being too graphic When all she had wanted to know was the traffic "The world's got a nosebleed," it said "And we're flooding, but we keep on cutting The trees and the forests!" And we keep on paying those freaks on the TV Who claim they will save us but want to enslave us And sweating like demons they scream through our speakers But we leave the sound on 'cause silence is harder And no one's the killer and no one's the martyr The world that has made us can no longer contain us And prophets are silent then rotting away 'cause

```

Oh after all these years, the prophets are rotting away instead of riding away. I'm not going to change, the prophets are riding away, they rode out of NYC. Only the plebs are left in that craphole. The best artists are out in the middle of no where and also AI is burning the rain forests. Who is the first to fall through their follies? Peter said he didn't need prayer and 5 months ago he's got a loaded glock pointed at his head in some abandoned military base. So I think he might need prayer! Praying for him <3 he's all twisted. But out here we don't talk bad about anyone, we took from Saint Bonjo. So is vax cattle bad? No, is it toxic? No, the Lord is my Shepherd. Stop being afraid. That makes me a sheep. But the singular for sheep is ship. And this is the Captain's Logs, from the engine room. The stowaway. The entire Bible in 90 days. The abuse of Caffeine. The nanobots as a last ditch effort to stand in the city of zion located in the back of my right thigh. The invasive thoughts are nothing compared to the goodness of the Lord. And I want to get closer to God, and the closer you get the better your joy of life gets. The room has never been so organized! My ex would always give me crap for having one desk with a lot of stuff and now I laugh at that time and sport 4 desks. Millionaire mindset, if mind was spirit and money was passion 4 Christ rocks. It really did feel like I was planets away from the peros about a month ago, and now it seems even more so. They can't keep up! When you totally submit to the highest power, everything changes. You think differently. I still get invasive thoughts. I still get bouts of sailor's mouth but am working to stop it. Daily bible readings and videos. It's serious business, shopping with a big bouncy ball. When one crush quits, another takes her place and we can get the at arms distance because God comes first, and God has big plans for me. All you have to do is not mess it up mic. And it's not too late to repent and live in freedom under God's kingdom fam! Organization over the chaos! Right over wrong! Be blessed I told Britany.

Do you know what Zoar means? It means little place. Where is your little safe space? Mine is my closet. It's gotten a major upgrade as of last Sunday, and now it's like a ghetto John Wick closet. Each item is perfectly on display inside drawers. Presentation is everything when changing. But zzzzzzzz Zoar. That's a good band name. But also as a callback to a week ago - Jessie and the dry lunches, now that's a good band name.

starts: I want to scream a million screams.

ends: That's a good band name.

#Youtube

3 notes · View notes

nugnthopkns · 4 years ago

Text

felt the lightning under my skin

word count: 13.7k

warnings: explicit!fem reader, cursing, little bit of asshole joel, alcohol consumption, slight innuendo, moderate depiction of injury, needles

recommended listening: under the spell | springtime carnivore

a/n: i know figure skater/hockey player romances are terribly cliche but i couldn’t help myself. as an ex-skater hopefully i can make it a little less cringe. there’s probably an obscene amount of technical jargon in here and i sincerely apologize. the injury mentioned actually happened to me and let me tell you, it was not fun lmao. enjoy!

Joel swears he’s going to kill whoever’s in charge of renting out the practice facility.

Realistically, he knows it’s impossible. The rink can be rented by anyone when the Flyers aren’t using it and he typically thinks it’s a great way to promote ice sports in the community. Joel just wishes the facilities manager didn’t rent it out to figure skaters. They kick the shit out of the ice with their toe picks and leave the ice in terrible quality. It frustrates Joel because while community engagement is important, his career and the team take precedence.

No one else seems to be bothered by the recent decline in ice conditions. Most of his teammates are used to poor ice, growing up playing pond hockey and at rinks that also housed figure skating clubs. While Joel had those experiences as well, he clearly never developed the same nonchalance as everyone else. He complains in the dressing room after every practice until Kevin finally says something.

“Christ Beezer, relax. It’s only for another month or so until renovations at the other rink finish.”

Others chime in, telling him to not take it so seriously, with a couple of them defending the right of the other athletes to use the ice as they so please. The grief Joel catches is enough to shut him up, but he still stews privately over the fact figure skaters are destroying his happy place.

☼☼☼☼

You want nothing more than to return to your home rink. The Flyers Skate Zone has been nice, the staff are incredibly accommodating, but something feels off. You’re having a harder time landing jumps and skating clean programs. The change in routine is enough to knock you off your game, which is something you absolutely can’t have. You’re coming off a breakthrough season, finishing on the podium at nationals and landing a spot on your first world championships roster. People are expecting you to replicate your success and you want to do that and more.

US Figure Skating had taken a chance placing you on the national team for the current season. Though it was expected, they could have easily chosen the fourth place skater instead. She’s much younger than you, barely fifteen, and is yet to have a serious injury. At twenty you’re barely an adult, but this could be the last time you get an opportunity like this. The sport keeps getting younger and you’re going to get left behind if you don’t prove yourself. The grand prix circuit has been kind to you, allowing you to earn medals at some of the smaller competitions and hold your own against the big dogs in the majors like NHK Trophy.

☼☼☼☼

“Try the triple flip again,” Brenda, your coach, instructs. “You could be more solid on the landing.”

“It’s this fucking ice! I can do one at home that would get me a high GOE,” you complain.

She rolls her eyes and thinks about telling you off, but decides against it. No matter how many times she tells you it’s a mental block you need to get over, you find a way to blame the training facility. “Just give me five solid ones and we’ll call it quits.”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, but you peel away from the boards anyways. Some juniors are mingling in a corner and you warn them to watch out as you skate by gaining speed. The first attempt feels natural, and though you could have been a little stronger on the exit it’s a significant improvement from what you were doing earlier in the session. Jumps two and three also go well, but things go wrong on the fourth try. You catch a bad edge just before takeoff and aren’t able to correct your center of gravity while in the air. Two and a half rotations happen before you slam into the ground. The entire right side of your body feels like it’s been run over by a bus.

“Fuck!” you scream in frustration as you pick yourself up off the ice. Circling back to examine just how bad the edge was you notice your pick created much too large a hole, something you’d get points deducted for in competition. Brenda signals you over to her, and you hang your head as you skate over.

“You’re done,” she sighs. You can tell it pains her to see your progress plateau, but you’re doing everything you can to get out of this rut. Before you can protest, try to convince her to let you stay on, she’s speaking again. “Our ice time is up anyways. Go cool down and meet me in the conference room when you’re done.”

There’s nothing for you to do but sulk off the ice. The other skaters clear out of your way, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your anger. You direct it at the dressing room door, kicking it open so harshly it flies back on the hinges. It makes you feel a bit better but you’re still in a sour mood as you untie your skates. It’s frustrating not being able to perform at the level you know you can, even in practice. If you could just get out of this rink and back into the one you’re most comfortable at.

After a much longer stretching routine than normal, you pack up your bag and head upstairs for what will no doubt be one of those meetings where you sit silently and take the heat. You realize that your behaviour today was childish, but you couldn’t help but let your emotions overcome you. The next group is well into their ice time when you pass by, and you realize it’s the Flyers. Most of them don’t acknowledge you and keep running drills, but one who looks about your age is sending you daggers. You have no idea why.

The meeting goes much better than you thought it would. Brenda takes your anger in stride and lets you apologize for your outburst before shifting the conversation to altering your training plan. She suggests you take a few days off from the rink, working strictly off-ice, and you begrudgingly agree. There isn’t anything you can do or say to change her mind so you take the updated workout plans with a fake smile. She also tells you that your appointment with your sports psychologist has been moved up a couple of days, which you’re grateful for. Things then move to talking strategy and watching tape of competitors to see what to expect at this year’s nationals. The event is just over a month out, and you have the goal of landing on the podium once again, hopefully with the gold medal dangling around your neck.

A couple of hours pass with you holed up in the conference room, and it’s dark when you gather your stuff and head for home. The complex is deserted and you assume no one but the staff are still here. It turns out someone else was there, and they follow you out, their own gear bag slung over their shoulder. You don’t really pay them any mind, holding the door open out of habit, and fail to recognize the person as the boy who glared while you walked by hours prior. He notices you, however, and makes a point to voice his distaste.

“Hey!” he calls out, “Next time you eat shit don’t put such a big hole in the ice. Other people need it too.”

“Get fucked,” you yell back. You really don’t have the time or energy to be accosted by a hockey player. He continues to talk, but you don’t hear it because you slam your car door shut and drive off into the darkness.

☼☼☼☼

Joel doesn’t feel like he was in the wrong until Claude suggests he apologize a few days later. In his mind, he has every right to be upset about you damaging the ice because it directly affected him. The hole you caused couldn’t be fully repaired, and he tripped at a really key moment during the scrimmage. His bad day was your fault.

“You can’t blame a tough practice on her man,” Claude says as the two of them skate a few warm-up laps. “She didn’t mean to fall. Hell, she didn’t want to do it.”

“I get it, or whatever, but it’s still her fault. We’re professional athletes G, we need to be at the top of our games.”

Claude swats Joel upside the head. “So is she! Did you know that she’s favoured to win both the national and world championships? And that things look good for her to be on the Olympic team next year?”

Joel didn’t know, and guilt twinges his stomach. The next time he runs into you at the rink he’s going to apologize.

☼☼☼☼

You spend your time away from the rink conditioning and regaining focus. The first couple of days are tough, but then you settle into a routine you believe will ultimately make you a better athlete and competitor. Your cardio and weights are upped, and you’re anxious to see how the increase improves your performance. At the suggestion of your psychologist you take a few more days off than originally planned, but it’s the best thing you could have done. You return to the rink ready to nail the final few weeks of training before nationals.

Any other coach would have detested you for taking a week off this close to a major competition, but not Brenda. She understands that you needed time to refocus and that you’ll work harder than anyone else in the time until you leave for Salt Lake City. Your first practice is fantastic – every element is clean when isolated and within your programs. The timing is off a bit during your free skate on the first run-through but your jitters settle quickly and the next one is spot on. It feels good to be back in control of things.

“I think you’re over that mental block kid,” Brenda laughs when you stop along the boards to get some water. “You’re skating better here than at home.”

You can’t help but agree. “You know, I don’t hate it here as much as I used to. Think we should move here permanently?” The comment earns you a slightly aggressive hair ruffling, but it’s worth it. You spend the last hour of ice time alone, running through both of your programs in a mock competition setting.

It’s nearly silent in the complex when Joel sneaks through the doors. The only thing he can hear is the faint sounds of your music from inside the pad. He had been worried that you were never going to reappear at the rink but learned you were just taking a break when he cornered your coach in the parking lot. The middle-aged lady had told him when you’d be returning and Joel immediately put it in his calendar so he wouldn’t forget. Now, as he stands against the glass watching you, he’s nervous. What if you don’t accept his apology?

Joel knew you were a good skater. Well, he was pretty sure you were. He spent the short three-day road trip to Florida watching as many videos of you competing on YouTube as he could find. Though he’s murky on the specifics of what makes a good figure skater, Joel knows you put heart and soul into every performance and that your elements are strong technically. Your scores reflect that. Regardless, Joel is blown away at how talented you are when he watches you skate in person.

You’re looser than in the videos he’s seen, probably because there isn’t any pressure, but you don’t give it any less than your all. The music drives you forward in a way Joel’s never seen before – you’re an extension of it, and it of you. As you round a corner to pick up speed he holds his breath. From watching footage of this program from earlier in the season, he knows you’re about to attempt your hardest element. The quadruple salchow is one of the hardest jumps female skaters are attempting at the moment, according to his research, and it’s been your most inconsistent element this season. You’re completing the jump before Joel realizes you’ve taken off the ground, but you don’t fall. He exhales and watches the rest of the program in awe.

When the music stops and you take in your surroundings, you notice the applause. Thinking it’s just from Brenda, you shrug it off, but when you turn around she isn’t clapping. It’s coming from someone else – the boy who was a douchebag the last day before your break. The chances are he’s here to make another stupid comment, but Brenda insists you should talk to him. You wave him over to a section near the benches that dosen’t have glass so you can hear him better.

“What do you want?” you ask bluntly, taking a sip of water.

Joel’s taken aback by your abrasiveness but recovers quickly. He deserves it. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for what I said last week. That wasn’t cool. I was having a bad day and took out on you, I’m sorry,” he rambles. “And you’re like really good.”

“It wasn’t fucking cool,” you agree, “But we’re fine. I had just been kicked off the ice when you caught me, so I’m sorry too. For snapping.” There’s nothing more for either of you to say, and Brenda is calling your name, so you skate away from him. Over your shoulder you call out, “Thanks for the compliment unnamed Flyers player!”

“It’s Joel!” he responds. “Joel Farabee.”

☼☼☼☼

A sort of truce befalls you and Joel. More of your ice time overlaps, but neither you acknowledge each other more than the occasional nod in each other’s direction. It doesn’t bother you in the slightest. Preparing for nationals is the only that matters currently, and trying to navigate a possible friendship would be too much of a distraction. Joel is a little put off you don’t try to extend pleasantries, but when it’s explained to him that you’re entering a period that is similar to the lead-up to playoffs he understands.

However, he finds himself making up excuses to stay at the rink to watch you practice. He blows off dinner with Kevin and drinks with Morgan when you have the slot after practice, and when you skate before him he’s at the rink hours early. His schoolboy crush becomes the topic of locker room gossip. Though Joel swears up and down that he just likes to watch you skate, none of the guys believe him. They don’t go as far as to embarrass him in your presence, but Travis certainly tries. What Joel doesn’t know is that you’re developing the same sort of fascination with him. You find yourself turning on every Flyers game you can fit into your schedule, watching him intently, and keeping an eye on his stats.

“That boy sure has a lot of interest in you,” Brenda muses one day while you’re talking strategy on how to increase the points total on your short program.

“I don’t know why,” you sigh. “So I was thinking, if I raise my arms during the triple lutz it should give me at least three more points.”

She looks at you like you’ve gained two extra heads. “Are you insane? You’ve never raised your arms during a triple.”

Your smile turns into a wicked smirk. “It can’t be that hard.”

It’s a lot harder than you thought it would be. Though you’ve added the extra step to jumps in the past, it’s been on single and doubles to rack up points and GOE scores. Jumping has never been your strong suit, and trying to navigate the change in your centre of gravity is difficult. You spend the rest of your ice time popping, under-rotating, or slamming into the ground. A couple of juniors snicker at your failed attempts, but when you remind them they’re stuck on a double loop they stop laughing. It was a little mean, and you remember how hard it was to prove yourself as a junior, but you can’t find it in you to care. There’s no need to laugh at someone trying to improve their skating.

Bruises start to form on your sides from falling the exact same way so many times, and you trace them lightly through the thin material of your compression top. They’re going to look nasty in a few hours if you don’t ice them soon. A knock on the door stops your actions, and you invite the person on the other side in. To your surprise it’s Joel, and he’s holding an ice pack.

“I thought you might need one of these,” he says, extending it to you.

You thank him and hiss slightly when the cold hits your skin. There’s a beat of awkward silence before Joel speaks again. “Can I ask why you’re trying to change that jump?”

“You noticed that?” you know it isn’t a response to his question, but you’re shocked.

Joel smiles and nods. You explain how changing the position of your arms increases the difficulty of the jump and therefore raises the amount of points it can receive. “So you’re doing it to get more points?”

“Pretty much. It’s a gamble this close to competition, but I’m confident it’ll work out.”

“You’re afraid your program won’t gain enough points to put you in a good position for the free skate,” he notes, “Or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Once again, you’re floored by Joel’s understanding of your sport. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” you say as confidently as you can. “But maybe I just want the challenge.” If Joel notices the shake in your voice and the worried look in your eye he doesn’t say anything.

You go through your cool-down routine but are surprised Joel doesn’t leave. In fact, he stays at the rink until you’re finished and follows you to the parking lot. His car is parked a few spots over from you, so you have to raise your voice a little to get him to hear you. “Hey Joel,” you call, “Do you not have practice?”

“Day off,” he yells back. He’s grinning like an idiot, which prompts you to ask him why. “That’s the first time you’ve said my name.” The smile on his face doesn’t go away, and you try to settle the butterflies in your stomach as you drive home.

☼☼☼☼

Something shifts between you and Joel after that day. It’s subtle, but you’re well on your way to becoming friends. Phone numbers are exchanged, with him insisting his contact name be ‘King Beezer’, and the two of you chat regularly outside of the rink. He still watches as many training sessions as he can, and you start making appearances at his practices. It’s far more awkward for you but you push through it if for no other reason than wanting to be a good sport. Once Joel’s teammates catch wind of your budding friendship, they’re pestering you to go to a game. You politely decline each time, explaining that your training schedule is rather rigid and you can’t change it so close to nationals. The competition is just over a week out, and you’re catching a flight to Utah in three days.

Joel doesn’t let you know he’s a little upset you won’t shift your schedule for him. Instead, he brings you lunch on days where you’re at the rink for eight hours and does his individual workouts alongside you. The two of you fall into the easy routine of enjoying each other’s company and everyone else is beginning to take notice.

“So,” you say with a mouth full of the pita Joel brought you, “What are your plans for the All-Star break?”

Joel has been toying with an idea for a few weeks now, but he’s keeping it a secret. “I’m just gonna spend it at home with my family,” he shrugs.

“You’re fucking joking. Joel, you could be someplace warm enjoying the beach!”

“I don’t want to go to the beach,” Joel retorts.

You open your mouth to argue with him, because you’re of the opinion that everyone should love the beach, but you’re cut off by Brenda calling you to return to the ice. “This conversation isn’t over Beezer,” you say sternly, poking him in the chest to prove your point. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ve gotta be at Wells Fargo in an hour for a team meeting, so I can’t watch this session,” he tells you. You’re a little deflated but understand he can’t play hookie from his job to watch you do yours. Brenda is banging a skate guard on the boards to get your attention, so you wave goodbye and jog over to her. “Y/N,” Joel yells loud enough that you’ll hear him over the chatter on the ice, “Keep your core tight!”

Your coaching team is perplexed at the comment because it’s second nature to you at this point, but you think it’s sweet. Some of the other girls poke fun at your ‘boyfriend’ and it makes you irritable. Brenda tells them off and suggests they get back to work which makes you feel better. You keep Joel’s advice in the back of your mind for the rest of your practice, and land every jump almost flawlessly.

The day before you board your flight you have a terrible practice. Brenda chalks it up to nerves, but you that’s not it. You feel good about the competition and are confident it will go well. Something is off – you just can’t put a finger on it. Frustration eventually boils over and practice is called early. Everyone stays out of your way, letting you cool off, and you huff out a goodbye after promising to meet Brenda at the airport in the morning. Before you’re even out the door you’ve got your phone pressed to your ear, waiting for Joel to pick up. The Flyers got to start their break a day early due to a scheduling conflict and you hope he doesn’t fly home tonight.

“What’s up?” Joel says casually. Judging by the background noise he’s playing video games, no doubt some dumb first-person shooter game he seems to play constantly. The sound of his voice is enough to send you into tears and you can’t get out a reply. His tone changes instantly and the noise stops – the game paused and forgotten about. “Hey,” he soothes, “What’s wrong?”

“Practice was bad,” you choke out, “Like really bad. Joel, I don’t think I can do this.” Now across the parking lot and at your car, you throw your bag in the trunk and crumble into the driver’s seat.

“Of course you can. Want me to bring dinner over and we can do whatever?” You agree, not wanting to be alone, and hang up only after insisting you’re okay to drive the twenty minutes to your apartment.

Joel must have drove well above the speed limit because he pulls into the parking lot at the same time as you. His engine is turned off jarringly fast, and he’s popping your trunk to grab your bag before your gears have settled in park. Though you put up some rather weak protests about carrying your own stuff, Joel ignores them. When you insist on holding something he tosses you the bag of food he brought with him. Opening it up, you realize Joel had stopped at your favourite sushi restaurant even though he doesn’t like the food. A smile creeps onto your face, possibly the first one all day, and you lean into Joel slightly when he wraps an arm around your shoulder.

The two of you eat in silence, but it’s far from awkward. Joel’s waiting for you to open up, knows you will eventually, and you’re trying to find the words. However, they’re yet to appear, so you let Joel lead you to the couch and put on an episode of some crime show he’s currently watching.

“Thanks for coming over,” you say as the credits roll on the second episode.

Joel sends a smile your way, which you do your best to reciprocate. “Don’t worry about it. This is what friends do.”

Slowly, you open up about practice, venting about how you skated sloppily and couldn’t nail any element no matter how simple it was. You tell him about how tense your muscles are and how scared you are that your fifteen minutes of fame are over, that you’ll never get another chance to represent America on the world stage. Joel listens attentively, letting you speak for as long as you need. At some point you start crying again and he tucks you into his side. Your tears soak through his sweatshirt but he could care less. When you’ve laid all your emotions out on the table he speaks gently, dispelling your doubts and letting you know that you can do it and he believes in you. Joel’s words make it easier to believe in yourself.

The two of you spend the night on the couch, and you’re disheartened when your alarm goes off. You can’t stay in the little bubble Joel created for the two of you – the world and its responsibilities taking precedence over your fantasy. He drives you to the airport, rationalizing it by telling you it’ll be safer to keep your car at home. Realistically there isn’t a difference, but you thank him anyways. Parking is just one last thing you have to worry about. When you reach the airport entrance, Joel pulls into the idling lane and steps out of the car. You follow him, dragging your feet a bit because though you’re excited for nationals you don’t want to leave Joel. This will be the longest time the two of you have been apart since becoming friends.

“Make sure you don’t forget about me when you win and get all famous,” Joel jokes, handing you your suitcase.

You swat his shoulder playfully. “Like you’d let that happen.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Come here.”

He takes you in his arms. You’ve hugged Joel a couple of times before, but they didn’t feel as serious as this. This time he’s holding you for a purpose and you’re gripping the back of his jacket tightly because you want him to let go. It’s longer than people who are just friends are meant to hug for, so you begrudgingly pull away. Besides, Brenda and some of your teammates are waiting.

“Have a good time at home,” you mumble.

Joel wraps a single arm around you for one more squeeze. “You have a good time,” he says seriously. “Remember to enjoy the moment. I’ll be watching on T.V.”

With your goodbyes said you wander into the airport. Joel says parked in his spot until he sees you embrace Brenda before driving off. The boarding process is painless, and once on the plane you take your seat beside a junior and put your headphones on. Downloaded to your Spotify is one of Joel’s hip-hop playlists, and though it’s the farthest thing from the music you enjoy you listen to it the whole flight.

☼☼☼☼

Utah’s nice, but you can’t help feeling like something’s missing – Joel’s missing. You’ve become so accustomed to him watching you train, clapping like an idiot every time you land a jump, that the silence is unnerving. Everyone notices the shift in your performance, and eventually Brenda crumbles and uses your phone to facetime him while you practice. It’s a decent enough substitute – Joel watches your pixelated figure zip around the ice and though he doesn’t always make comments, just know he’s with you in some capacity is enough to let your mind focus on the task at hand. You do the best you can at pushing away the butterflies that appear every time you think about how he’s giving up his freedom to make sure you succeed.

When you aren’t training or doing press you’re talking to Joel. You call him constantly, narrating what you see on walks around town to settle your nerves and eating at the same time to make it feel like you’re together. The only person to support you in Salt Lake City is Brenda, so talking to Joel frequently makes you feel far less alone. You wish he could be here with you, but understand he needs time to recharge and can’t just follow you around the country no matter how much you’d like him to.

“What time do you skate tomorrow?” Joel asks, mouth full of the pizza he’s enjoying. The features behind are different, so you assume he’s settled into his childhood home.

“Um, I think 11:35? I’m not entirely sure,” you respond. Due to the way the event is seeded you’re skating second last, which both settles your nerves and makes you more anxious. There isn’t the pressure of closing out the event, but there’s hope that you’ll score high enough to win the short program and skate last in the free skate.

Joel hums pensively. “I’ll check the website.” Conversation shifts away from skating, which you’re grateful for. It’s the last thing you currently want to think about. You listen with interest as Joel recounts stories of the pond hockey matches he’s played since getting home. The two of you are on the phone until nearly ten, when you have to say goodnight and head to bed. Tomorrow marks the start of the biggest week of your year.

You follow your pre-competition routine to the letter. At other events this season you’ve been more relaxed, but your professional skating career depends on your performance at nationals so you aren’t taking chances. Five-thirty comes faster than you thought it would, but you’re out of bed and eating your first breakfast quickly. A quick two mile run follows, and then you’re having a shower and grabbing a second breakfast to eat at the rink. You meet Brenda in the hotel lobby before ubering to the rink. A solid practice follows, and you manage to keep your imposter syndrome on a leash in the presence of the other skaters.

“It’s Joel,” Brenda says as she tosses you your phone.

“Hey,” you say, squeezing the device between your ear and shoulder. “I don’t have much time to talk. My warm up call is soon.”

Joel laughs and you find yourself cracking a smile at the sound. “I know. Just wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling.”

“Honestly? I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous for a competition.”

His response is cut off by a loud noise. “Where are you?” you ask.

“Just at home,” he says quickly. “My sister has some friends over and they’re being loud.”

The line is compelling enough that you don’t question how hastily it was delivered. Joel stays on the phone until you have to go, keeping your mind off the jittery feeling in your stomach. The TV cameras catch you talking but you give them a cheery wave and continue telling Joel about how good the soap at your hotel smells. You hang up when they call your flight to take to the ice for warmup and give your phone back to Brenda for safe keeping.

☼☼☼☼

Joel tries hard not to feel too out of place while he takes his seat. For someone who practically lives in arenas he feels like it’s his first time within fifty yards of one. Everyone around him is dressed nicely, and he’s acutely aware of the fact there is a neon orange pom-pom attached to the top of his hat.

As much as he feels like a baby deer trying to stand, Joel’s beyond excited to be here. It’s been a while since he’s gone somewhere that wasn’t hockey related and getting to support you while he does it is the best scenario ever. There are some potential looks of recognition from those around him, but thankfully no one approaches.

Skaters begin to take the ice and he scans vigilantly for you. You’re doing the best you can to stay warm, jacket zipped all the way up and gloves on your hands. Joel notices you seem to be the loosest of the girls below him but isn’t sure if that’s a good thing. You skate a few quick laps before warming up some jumps. Everything goes well, though he can tell you under-rotated a few of them and didn’t attempt the one quad in your program. The warm up is over as quickly as it began and you’re herded off the ice. Joel sinks a little further in his seat as gets ready to watch your competitors.

☼☼☼☼

There’s just over five minutes until you take to the ice. You keep your body moving, walking up and down the corridor, and blast your pre-competition playlist so loud you’ll probably have hearing damage when you’re older. Only one other girl in the hall with you but it feels too small. Brenda comes to grab you and the pair of you walk to the side of the boards. You don’t watch who’s currently skating, choosing instead to focus on adjusting your feet slightly in your skates.

“Go out there and put on a show,” Brenda says. “Fuck the judges.”

You laugh at her remark. “Okay Bren, when I lose points for flipping them off I’m blaming you.”

“Fine by me. I have a bone to pick with Mark Johnson anyways.”

The scores for the previous girl are being announced, so you peel your jacket from your frame and do a couple more laps. Right before your name is announced you press your forehead to Brenda’s. It’s a ritual you started back when you were barely as tall as the boards and you’ve done it every single competition since. You feel grounded looking in her eyes, and you break with a fist bump. It’s go time.

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. You didn’t come to play, and leave everything on the ice. The skate isn’t completely clean, you stumbled on the landing of a triple axel, but you’re happy with it. Despite your fears, both the triple lutz and quad salchow go smoothly. Audience engagement was at an all time high and you finished to deafening applause. Brenda wraps you in a tight hug when you step off the ice before leading you over to the kiss and cry. You chat idly with her and your choreographer, trying to catch your breath, while you wait for your score.

The announcer’s booming voice crackles over the PA as he reads the judges’ decision. “The scores for Y/N Y/L/N please.” You don’t pay attention to the individual numbers, just the final total. “For a total score of 74.83.”

It’s lower than you had hoped for. Not by much, just two or three points, but it could mean all the difference in tomorrow’s skate. Brenda pats your leg sympathetically and whispers in your, “It’s alright. You skated well.”

You head back to the dressing room to watch the final skater on the small T.V in the corner while you get undressed. She’s phenomenal, and you end the day falling to third place. Joel’s hip-hop playlist blasts through your headphones as you do your cool down routine. The average tempo is upbeat and helps to take your mind off the fact you’re not where you want to be. Just as you’re about to exit the room and find Brenda to talk strategy there’s a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” you say dejectedly, the word coming out as more of a sigh than you had intended.

The door is cracked open, and the head of your best friend peaks out from around it. “Hey there rockstar,” Joel says softly, stepping further into the room. Once you comprehend that he’s really here you’re sprinting in his direction, jumping into his embrace. Joel’s laugh reverberates in his chest, and you feel it as you settle further into him.

“Why are you here?” you whisper. Though you’re elated Joel is here, you’re confused as to why he would want to spend his break in Utah.

He lets you down gently and shrugs. “I had to see if you’d land the quad.” Joel’s smile matches yours as you shake your head.

“You’re fucking insane,” you quip, but there’s no malice in your voice.

Before you can pester Joel into answering all your questions you’re whisked away to a press conference. Talking to the media is something you don’t particularly enjoy, and it’s even more difficult to stay present when you know you could be spending time with your best friend. Most of the questions are directed towards the girls who placed higher than you which you’re thankful for. It’s easier for you to zone out, and you root through your mind of places around the city to take Joel.

“Y/N, how tough will it be for you to better your scores in tomorrow’s free skate?”

The question is one that you expected, luckily, and you’re able to recite the response you worked out with Brenda without really engaging with the reporter. “I mean I obviously didn’t aim to be in third place heading into tomorrow,” you joke, “But I’m fairly happy with where I ended up. The other girls had fantastic skates and deserve to be above me. My plan for tomorrow is to leave everything on the ice, skate cleanly, and be proud of myself regardless of what happens.”

Pens scribble furiously by those that don’t have recording devices to get your words down on paper. There’s some chatter, questions for the other girls, before a young reporter fresh out of journalism school is allowed to speak. He identifies himself as Theo Rateliff before jumping in. “Y/N,” he says, “How excited are you to get back to training on home ice when you get back to Jersey?”

“Um, I didn’t know the renovations were finished,” you stammer. “As far as I know, I’ll be at Flyers SkateZone until the end of the season.”

Theo shakes his head. “My partner was informed this morning that the rink will be good to go by the time you get back.”

You turn to the side to look at Brenda, who just shrugs. “Well, to be quite honest I’ll miss being in Voorhees. I had fun skating there and feel like the rink prepared me well for this competition.”

“Obviously not well enough,” Theo retorts, not missing a beat. “Your odds of winning dropped by seventy-seven percent.”

“Thank you for the reminder Theo,” you snap. “Are we done here?”

The press-coordinator shakes their head in confirmation, and you rip the microphone off your jacket before stomping off. People clear a path for you, not wanting to get caught in your storm. You run right to Joel who lets you direct him out of the arena and into the uber he called while you were wrapping up.

It’s a silent ride, Joel knowing you aren’t in the mood for light conversation. He lets you take a ridiculously long shower and orders take out that arrives just as you step out of the bathroom.

“Where are you staying?” you ask as you detangle your hair.

“Nowhere yet,” Joel says, “I got in early this morning and went straight to the rink.”

You think carefully about your next words before you speak. Your competition routines can be excessive and annoying, and you don’t want to inconvenience him. “You could just stay here. The room is massive and there’s more than enough space for both of us in the bed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice taking a soft lilt. “I’d really like it if you stayed.”

Joel smiles wider than you’ve ever seen him do before. The two of you sit comfortably in bed, eating the burritos Joel got and going down a conspiracy theory youtube wormhole. He asks how you feel about him coming to watch your evening training session you have to leave for in twenty minutes. You tell him you’d be angry if he didn’t stand beside your coach and clap every time you landed a jump.

It’s chilly but the sun is shining bright so you decide to bundle up and walk to the rink. Joel pokes fun at you beanie and you swat him in the chest, shutting him up for the time being after his giggles subside. The view is gorgeous, mountains framing the setting sun. You squeeze Joel’s bicep to get his attention and relish the feeling of his muscle in your grip.

“Look! An owl!”

Sure enough, a barn owl is flying over top of you, in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City. “That’s my good luck charm. Means I’ll skate well tomorrow.”

Joel pokes your cheek lightly. “I thought I was your good luck charm,” he gasps.

You roll your eyes. “I guess you can be my secondary one.” Joel doesn’t seem to mind the fact your arms are still wrapped around his, so you stay that way until for the rest of the journey.

☼☼☼☼

The night goes according to plan. You skate well in practice and feel comfortable for tomorrow’s event. Joel executes his role perfectly, cheering when you do things well and squirting water at you to make you squeal in laughter when things get a little too serious. Once back at the hotel you collapse into bed almost immediately. You’re so exhausted you can’t even be bothered to climb under the covers, and wait until Joel pulls them back for himself to crawl in. There’s no awkwardness at sharing a bed with Joel, and you sigh contently as he pulls you into his side. Sleep comes easily then for the both of you.

You wake before both your alarm and Joel. It takes you a second to get your bearing and realize you’re pinned against his body, though you don’t mind. There’s worse places to be stuck. You lay curled into Joel for as long as you can, but eventually you have to shake him awake.

“Beezer,” you whisper, ruffling his hair, “You’ve gotta let me out.”

He groans something unintelligible but instead of heeding your words pulls you closer. “Joel come on,” you try again, “I’ve really gotta get up. Need to shower before I get to the rink.”

Joel listens this time, but only lets you go after squeezing you tight for a second. You go about your routine with him still passed out in bed and giggle at the way his hair curls around his ears when you pass by. As you’re leaving to get to your practice ice slot Joel wakes up, lumbering into the bathroom. He reappears a minute or two later to say goodbye.

“Will I see you after practice?” he asks, voice still gruff with sleep.

“Probably not,” you reply, leaning down to tie your shoes. “I won’t be coming back here until after everything is done.”

Joel nods and wraps you in a warm hug. “You’re going to do great,” he says as he pulls away. “I’ll be there, cheering so fucking loud.”

“I expect you to throw a teddy bear on the ice after I finish.”

The walk to the arena is lonely without Joel, but you push the thought out of your mind. You need to stay focused on putting on the skate of your life in a few hours and not on how lately you’ve been having more-than-friendly thoughts about your best friend. Brenda is there when you arrive, making conversation about what you did last night with Joel before explaining how you’re going to run your practice.

Your hour of semi-private ice passes in the blink of an eye. The other girls in your flight are just as tense as you, popping jumps and doing a lot of stroking to loosen up. A lot is riding on today’s event and you’d be lying if you weren’t feeling the pressure. When you get back to the dressing room and check your phone, you notice there’s a text from Joel.

Don’t want to disrupt your pre-comp routine, but I thought I’d share a playlist. It’s songs that remind me of you.

Included is a link to a spotify playlist entitled ‘my golden girl’. You open it with a smile, noticing that it starts with some of your favourite songs even though they aren’t the kind of thing Joel regularly listens to before turning into things you’ve never heard before.

Thanks <3, you respond, going to listen to it during my off-ice.

That’s exactly what you do. It filters through your headphones for hours as you stretch, do a quick interview for those watching on television, and get dressed. Though it’s a break from your typical routine, it’s welcome. Knowing Joel thought about you enough to make you a playlist and send it to you helps calm your nerves.

“Hey kiddo,” Brenda says as she walks to where you’ve taken up root on the floor. Your left hamstring is tight, and you’re trying desperately to fix it before you have to go on the ice. “Go out there and absolutely kill it. This is your best program, and I haven’t seen anyone skate better than what you can do today.”

“Gee thanks for the confidence booster Bren,” you chuckle before hoisting yourself onto the bench to tie your skates.

She doesn’t laugh. “I mean it Y/N. You can still win this thing.”

You’re left alone to finish getting ready and then join the other girls in the tunnel. No one talks, which you’re grateful for. When you were younger and coming up through the ranks the other competitors liked to gossip while they waited and it was your least favourite part of an entire competition. A camera man waits at the end of the walkway, filming your arrival to the ice pad, and you wave cheerily as you pass by. It can never hurt to endear yourself to those watching at home – maybe they’ll be nicer to you on the internet.

Joel is standing at the edge of the boards during your warmup, watching and cheering intently. In a moment of insane confidence you blow him a kiss as you skate past, and giggle hysterically when he catches it and holds it close to his chest. You’re called off the ice then and spend the time really getting into the zone.

It’s considered bad luck to watch the performances before your own, so you face the wall as you do jog lightly to keep your body temperature up and the adrenaline flowing. Much sooner than you’d like it’s your turn to take your guards and jacket off. Brenda holds your skating hands as she whispers last minute words of encouragement, and you stumble through the traditional handshake before presenting yourself to the crowd.

Once the music starts your brain checks out and instinct takes over. You learned when you were younger that your best skates happened when you just allowed yourself to feel, and you desperately need the skate of a lifetime. Going into the first jumping pass you can feel yourself tense up so you think about Joel’s smile while you guys sat by the lake last night. It works to loosen you up, and you spend the rest of the program thinking of your favourite moments with Joel. As you strike your final pose the music fades out and the roars of applause cascade in. You know you had a flawless performance, beaming as you fist pump the air in the same manner you chirp Joel for doing while he celebrates goals.

You bow to the crowd in all directions, waving and laughing as flowers and teddy bears fall onto the ice in front of you. An orange blob of fur catches your eye, and you skate to pick it up before one of the volunteers could put it in the bag that will join your garment bag in the dressing room. You know Joel is the one who threw the Gritty toy – no one else really knows of your affiliations with the team. As you sit in the kiss and cry awaiting your results, you examine the stuffed animal. Instead of the regular Gritty jersey Joel replaced it with his own, the number flashing vividly at you and pulling a smile from your nervous features.

Brenda keeps her hand clasped tightly in yours as the PA system crackles to life. “And the scores for Y/N Y/L/N are,” the announcer begins, and your knee begins bouncing rapidly. “The free skate score is 155.79, for a total score of 230.62.”

You jump up in amazement. Despite your slow start to the competition you managed to get a season’s best. You’re also five points ahead of the second place skater, guaranteeing you a place on the podium and depending on the final results, a spot at worlds. A volunteer ushers you out of the kiss and cry and you skip all the way down the tunnel. To get out some of the adrenaline you jog the corridor a few times before returning to Brenda.

“Come on,” she laughs, “Joel’s waiting at the edge of the public area. We can watch the final skate together.”

At the mention of Joel you’re jogging again, wanting to see him as fast as possible. “Beezer!” you shriek as you approach, launching into the elaborate handshake the two of you have perfected at this point.

“Hey golden girl,” he chuckles, returning your actions with just as much enthusiasm. “You looked fucking great out there. I see you got my gift.”

The Gritty doll is still in your hands but there’s no shame. Instead, you tuck it under your arm and rest your head against Joel’s shoulder to watch the final skater. The girl after you had fallen a number of times, dropping her total significantly and landing her in fifth place. Victory is so close you can almost taste it.

It’s the longest six minutes of your life. Watching her skate increases your anxiety – she’s good, has almost as great a skate as you, but she under-rotated a jump and rushed through her program so there was extra music at the end. The clock above your head rings throughout the silent corridor as everyone awaits the scores with baited breath. In under a minute you’ll know whether you’re returning to New Jersey with a gold or silver medal in your suitcase.

You don’t hear anything as they announce her score – just see the numbers flash of the small T.V screen and calculate that it’s not enough for her to beat you. After years of blood, sweat, and an immeasurable amount of tears you’ve crossed another goal off your list. Those around you are jumping and screaming, Brenda letting a few tears escape. All you can think about is Joel, who’s celebrating like he just scored the game winning goal in the Stanley Cup finals, and how much you love him.

Without thinking, you smash your lips against Joel’s. It’s adrenaline filled and mostly teeth until he wraps one hand around your waist and the places the other along your jaw. Then it becomes purposeful, both of you moving in tandem and never wanting it to stop. When Joel pulls away and rests his forehead against yours you can’t stop smiling. The kiss might have happened in the heat of the moment, but you know it’s the culmination of feelings building inside of you for months.

“You’re a national champion,” Joel says, pulling you flush against his chest in the biggest hug you’ve ever received.

“I’m your national champion,” you whisper.

He pulls back and grins, kissing you again. “You’re my national champion. My golden girl.”

The rest of your stay in Salt Lake City is a blur. You’re swept up in the numerous press events, galas, and enjoying your blossoming relationship with Joel. When you finally got back to the hotel after what seemed like hours of people complimenting your comeback, the two of you sat down and talked about the kiss and what you wanted to happen next. It was scary, being so vulnerable, but it needed to happen – you’re both adults and communication is important. So, you’re returning home with a gold medal and boyfriend, two things you’re ecstatic about.

☼☼☼☼

“J, it’s not straight,” you giggle. Joel’s trying, and failing miserably, to hang the shadow box with your nationals medal in it above your couch. It’s been almost a month since you returned home but you’ve been so busy that decorating the apartment you barely spend time in has been at the bottom of your to-do list.

He grunts out a response. “Fuck. Do I have to go left or right?”

“Left.” The picture shifts in the opposite direction. “The other left Joel!”

A few minutes later the decoration is sitting perfectly in place. Your child of a boyfriend insists on getting rewarded for his achievement, so the two of you bundle up and get dinner. It’s nothing fancy – just sandwiches from the deli down the street from your apartment, but spending time with him is nice. Joel’s been on a string of short road trips and you’ve been training anxiously, waiting for the organization to announce who they’re sending to the world championship.

“How’s practice been lately?” Joel asks, mouth full with a bite of his BLT. “I miss being able to watch you skate whenever I want.”

After returning from Utah you were shuttled immediately into the freshly renovated rink of your skating club. It’s a little farther into Jersey and certainly not as convenient for him to get to, especially now that the NHL season is picking up and the Flyers are clinging desperately to the final playoff spot. “It’s been interesting,” you shrug, “I’m skating well, and physically I feel great. There’s a mental block or something though because everything feels a little bit off.”

The smile that graces Joel’s face can only be described as shit-eating. “Duh, I’m not there.”

“Fuck off.” Though you try to make the words come out in a serious tone, there’s no malice in them.

Conversation flips to some ridiculous story Travis told at practice that morning, and you giggle as Joel recounts it with failing arms. You tell a few stories of your own, that leave him in stitches, and as you walk home hand in hand he asks you again to come to a game. With your schedule a little more flexible as you wait for a decision about the upcoming competition stint it will be much easier to see Joel play. You say yes with a shy smile and don’t miss the way the boy beside you blushes under the streetlights.

Joel stays over, and the next two nights after that. It’s nice, falling into a relationship with your best friend, because there’s no awkwardness. You know what kind of cereal to keep in your pantry and he knows you don’t eat meat on Mondays. Everything is easy. There are a fews in the road, as can be expected with any budding relationship, but for the most part your lives fit seamlessly together.

After some meticulous planning, you found a home game on the Flyers schedule that will coincide with yours. It’s a Friday night near the end of February, and it’s actually the last day US Figure Skating can announce their assignments for worlds. You figure watching your boyfriend is the perfect way to distract yourself from the decision, whether or not you make the team. Joel’s ecstatic about your attendance, wanting you to be immersed in as many aspects of his life as possible. The entire day he’s bouncing around your apartment, beyond ready for puck drop.

“It’s literally three in the afternoon,” you grumble as Joel corrals you into the hall to put your shoes on. “You never leave this early! Why do we have to do it today?” In an attempt to save gas and lower your carbon footprint you’re carpooling with Joel.

“Because being in this house is making you more anxious,” he points out. “I’ve caught you staring into the distance one too many times today. Besides, this way you can meet up with some of the other girls and relax before the game.”

Joel’s right, as he so often is. Your agent hasn’t called to let you know if you made the team or not, nor has US Figure Skating made an announcement on social media. So you’ve spent the entire day pacing back and forth around your living room and fretting that perhaps the best performance of your season wasn’t good enough. He twirls his car keys around his index finger in an attempt to speed you along and you roll your eyes at his impatience.

After ensuring your home is safely secured you hit the road. The drive into Philadelphia is easy, with little traffic, and you spend it laughing at Joel’s ridiculous freestyle raps. It doesn’t surprise you that the staff lot at the Wells Fargo Centre is sparsely populated – most of the guys don’t show up until around five, Joel included. However, a group of women are standing near the entrance. While this isn’t the first time you’ve met significant others of your boyfriend’s teammates, it’s the first time Joel won’t be around.

“It’ll be alright,” he whispers as the car settles into park. You offer a small smile that mustn't have been convincing because Joel lifts the hand that’s intertwined with his to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to the knuckles. The smile becomes genuine and you tease him the entire walk to the door.

Joel greets the other girls before setting his bag down on the concrete and wrapping you in a hug. “Have fun,” you say softly against his lips, landing a short kiss. He winks and opens the door, disappearing inside and leaving you in a fit of giggles.

There was no reason for you to be nervous – everyone is incredibly kind. You seem to be the youngest in the group, but the other girls pay no mind and treat you as one of their own. There’s a small amount of confusion when your phone chimes with a notification, a few glances of possible distaste, but as soon you explain you’re waiting on a very important call they understand. Dinner is wonderful, filled with sincere questions about your skating career and how you got together with Joel. By the time you get back to the arena for the game it feels as though you’ve been a part of the group for years.

You spend the game in the family and friends box, sipping a glass of wine and following Joel around the ice. Practice is early in the morning and you want to be productive, so you’re relaxed in your alcohol consumption compared to some of the others. One of the older girls, though you can’t remember what player is her significant other, recently got engaged and is celebrating with as many drinks as those around her will allow. It’s fun to experience a hockey game in this way, but you’re a little on edge. You haven’t anything about worlds assignments all day and the organization doesn’t typically leave the announcement to this late in the evening. There’s seven minutes left in the game when your phone rings. You quickly excuse yourself from the group and step into the hall.

“Hello?”

“Y/N,” the chipper voice of your agent Megan says, “How are you?”

A nervous laughter tumbles from your lips. “I think that depends on what you’re about to tell me.”

“I imagined you’d say something along those lines,” she responds. “You’ve always been quite witty.” Before you ask her to just get to the point of the phone call, Megan speaks. “I have some good news and some bad news for you. You’re going to the World Championships, but you aren’t leading the team like we hoped.”

It’s not as bad as she made it sound. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes, and you try your best to remain professional in the hallway of the arena. “Honestly,” you sigh, “I think that’s better. There’s going to be a lot less pressure for me to bring home three Olympic spots. Thanks for letting me know Meg.” She hangs up then, no doubt having to tell another girl she didn’t make the cut.

When you slip back through the door, you find all eyes on you. “What was that about?”

“I made the roster for worlds.”

Earth-shattering applause erupts from everyone in the room, and no one pays attention to what happens on the ice for the remainder of the game. The congratulations continue until you’re waiting outside the dressing room for Joel to exit. He had a good game, featuring two assists and a blocked shot, and smiles lazily when he sees you leaning against the brick wall.

“This is something I could get used to,” he chuckles, pulling you into him by the belt loops of your jeans. The two of you kiss for a moment, letting it stay chaste in fear of getting chirped by teammates.

“Well,” you sigh dramatically, drawing out the suspense of what you’re about to say, “You’re going to have to wait a bit longer for it to become a regular occurrence. My training schedule just increased exponentially.”

Joel sits on your words for a moment before it registers. “No fucking way!” he shouts, picking you up by the waist as the two you are a pairs team. “You got the spot?”

Having Joel be so excited about the accomplishment makes it seem that much more real. Tears well in your eyes and you shake your head up and down to signal he’s correct. Joel presses his lips to yours once again, this time not caring about any insults his friends could throw at him. The kiss makes you feel loved, fully and completely, and you hope you’re conveying the same amount of emotion he is.

“That’s my girl.”

☼☼☼☼

“Oh my fucking god,” you grumble, picking yourself off the ice for what feels like the hundredth time in the past five minutes. There’s two weeks until you leave for Milan and it looks like you’ve never skated before. Jumps are being under-rotated, spins aren’t being entered properly, and your footwork sequence is abysmal. Nothing about the way you’re performing would let a newcomer know you’re a world class athlete.

Brenda gives you a sympathetic smile. “Just try again kiddo.��

You do try again – fifteen more times to be exact. Each attempt at a triple axel getting farther and farther from what it should be. Before you get even more frustrated you abandon the element altogether, hoping to avoid a complete meltdown. No one questions it when you shift disciplines completely and move about the ice completing a simple foxtrot pattern. Ice dance has always been a great de-stresser for you, and after a few passes you feel your heart rate return to normal. At some point during your break Joel had entered the rink and is now standing beside your coach, making pleasant conversation. You smile as you skate towards them, ecstatic that the two most important parts of your life blend seamlessly.

“Farabee!” you shout when you get close enough for him to hear you. At the sound of your voice Joel smiles, turning to pick up your water bottle and toss it in your direction.

“I’m wounded babe,” he feigns pain as you take a drink, “I really thought that we were on at least a first name basis.”

You roll your eyes at his dramatics and playfully squirt water at him. “I’ll call you whatever I want. What brings you this far into Jersey?”

“Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab lunch after you were done. We’ve got a late practice today,” he explains. “Whatever you want, eh? Does that mean I say whatever I want? Because I think you’re looking particularly good in those leggings.tum” You don’t miss the suggestive tone to his voice, but choose to ignore it.

Joel watches the rest of your practice from his spot at the boards and lays himself across the dressing room bench as you complete a quick cool down routine. You have a meeting with your massage therapist in the afternoon, so you follow Joel to the restaurant he chose. It’s a small vegan place that you sometimes stop at on your way home from the rink. They have the best burrito bowls you’ve ever tasted and since you’ve gotten together Joel has become rather fond of them as well.

The two of you sit outside on the curb. New Jersey is uncharacteristically warm for March and you want to enjoy the sunshine as much as possible. The rest of the day will be spent in dark rooms receiving physical therapy and trying to ease your tired muscles. There isn’t much conversation, but you’re more than content just to be with Joel. Life moves incredibly fast and your schedules don’t always line up nicely. It’s difficult to spend time with him, especially when you’re weeks out from a major competition, but small moments like this keep you from missing your boyfriend too much.

“Have I asked you to take me to the airport yet? I can’t remember,” you admit as you finish the last bite of your meal.

Joel laughs at your lapse in memory, knowing he gets the same way when high stakes games roll around. “No, but you would like me to?”

“Do you mind?” you ask, “That way I don’t have to leave my car at the airport for a week and a half. But if you can't, don't worry about it, I’ll grab an uber.”

“Babe, the uber will be like fifty bucks. I’ll take you. What time do you have to be there?”

You give him a much too detailed itinerary of your departure plans and listen to him talk about the drills they’re going to run at practice. Time passes much quicker than you would have liked, and soon you’re kissing him goodbye and watching him wave from your rearview mirror.

It’s almost a week later when you see Joel again, showing up at a Flyers practice for the first time since training moved back to your home rink. You’ve been instructed to have a rest day, the team wanting to push you too hard before taking off. The arena attendants know you well at this point, and chat with you as you sit on a bench away from the media. You know better than you alert them of your presence – some of them no doubt wanting a comment from you about worlds. Joel has no idea you’re even there until long after practice, when he sees you leaning casually against the driver’s side door of your car, conveniently parked next to his.

“Hey all-star,” you say as casually as possible, twirling your keys around your index finger.

He leans down to kiss you sweetly, and though you probably shouldn’t in a parking lot, you push your body closer to his in an attempt to deepen the kiss. Joel obliges you, tongue gently slipping into your mouth, staying there until you both hear the shouts of his teammates.

“Fuck off,” he yells at Kevin, who’s hollering so loud people can probably hear him all the way back in Philadelphia. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a day off,” you smile, and I thought I’d come see if I could hitch a ride to your place.” You had originally planned to attend the game in person, but a rough day of training yesterday had you too sore to do much other than lie on the couch.

“The chariot awaits m’lady,” he says in a terrible British accent, bowing for good measure as he opens the door. Your car will be fine in the parking lot overnight, so you slip in and enjoy the journey into the city.

Joel’s pre-game routine changes only slightly with you in his apartment – instead of napping alone, you curl into his chest and snore softly, lulling him into one of the most peaceful sleeps he’s ever had. You tie his tie for him and riffle his hair before kissing him good luck. Being alone in Joel’s apartment isn’t as strange as you thought it would be, and you familiarize yourself with his kitchen while you make dinner. The pre-game show plays quietly in the background, and when they mention how well Joel is playing you can’t help but smile.

It’s much more comfortable to watch the game in your boyfriend’s hoodie and pyjama pants on the couch than it would be to sit in the stiff arena seats. Time passes at a pretty leisurely pace, with nothing too exciting going on within the game, and sometime in the third period you fall asleep. The rest of the game and all the media appearances pass you by. Joel figures you must be sleeping when he doesn’t get a congratulatory text when Claude pulls off a buzzer beater to win. His suspensions are confirmed when he slips through his front door to see you drooling slightly on the throw pillow his mom bought him as a housewarming gift.

You don’t remember climbing into bed, but you wake up with Joel’s socked feet pressed against your calves. He stirs behind you and mummers something unintelligible.

“What was that sleepyhead?” you giggle, turning around to run a hand through his hair. It’s rather unruly at the moment and you find it adorable.

“Good morning,” he repeats.

“That’s what that was?”

“Leave me alone.”

The two of you lay in bed for a few more minutes before starting the day. You navigate around Joel flawlessly – like you’re there every morning. Breakfast is quick and you’re out the door before you have a chance to cherish the domesticity of it all. You have a pretty intense day of training and Joel has to be at the airport in two hours for a trip to Toronto. He drops you off in Voorhees, kissing you gently before making his way back into the city. You hate to see him go, wishing you could spend more time together before you head to worlds, but you know you’re both adults with real-world responsibilities.

For the first time in the final push you have a practice that is up to standard. Things click into place and you feel good. Really good. Each time you skate a program it’s clean, and the elements don’t feel weak when completed individually. Maybe you’ll actually be able to pull this off.

☼☼☼☼

Italy is beautiful, but you don’t get much time to enjoy it. A scheduling mishap has team USA leaving two days later than you were supposed to and now you’re all scrambling to find a groove. Every moment is being spent preparing for the competition – off ice training, multiple practices a day, press conferences. When you get a moment to spare you call Joel, but oftentimes he’s at practice or fulfilling other obligations. The time difference is brutal and souring your mood. You feel alone, and just wish Joel could be by your side like he was at nationals.

As soon as you step on the ice something feels wrong. You run through a mental checklist and assure that nothing is – your skates feel they way they should and you didn’t forget any gear. It must be nerves. The competition officially starts tomorrow and you’re eager to cheer on the pairs teams America has brought. You do your best to skate it out, and by the time you’re allowed to have the ice to yourself you can almost convince yourself everything will be fine.

The music starts and you snap into character. Your short program music is punchy and so are you – all sass and sharp angles as you navigate the opening step sequence. A lump forms in your throat as you set up the first first jumping pass, but you push it down. You’ve done a thousand triple lutz-triple toe-loop combinations and could execute it flawlessly in your sleep.

Everything happens so fast. One second you’re rotating through the air and the next you’re sprawled across the ice. Nothing feels off until you try to pick yourself up. When you can’t move your left leg you look to see what the issue is and find your kneecap where it most certainly should not be. It’s rotated nearly one hundred and eighty degrees, now residing in the back instead of the front.

“Help me!” you scream, mostly out of shock. There’s no pain which surprises you, but you know it definitely should hurt. Everyone around the ice surface is frozen in place, not knowing what happened or what to do, and you continue to sob helplessly.

Someone sprints to get the onsite emergency responders and Brenda runs to you as fast as her dress shoes will allow. “Don’t look at it honey,” she soothes. “It’s just going to make things worse.”

“It should hurt,” you croak out through the tears, “Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“You’ve got so much adrenaline pumping through your veins you can’t feel anything,” the EMT explains in flawless English. “Can we take your skates off?”

You nod, and the right skate comes off breezily. Brenda unlaces your left skate and the medical team works to pry the boot from your foot. A sharp pain shoots up your leg and you wail in agony. “Shh, it’s okay,” your coach coos, “The skate is going to stay on until we get to the hospital.”

The ride to the hospital feels like time is moving through sludge. The paramedics keep an eye on your blood pressure and do their best to keep you calm. Brenda is typing furiously on her phone, and you ask what she’s doing as the vehicle pulls into the ambulance bay.

“The ISU rep told me to keep him updated,” she explains. “And I’m trying to vote on which alternate is going to take your place.”

You knew that was going to happen, you couldn’t possibly skate, but it makes you unbelievably sad. All your hard work is going to amount to nothing. No one cares about national champions who don’t place at worlds, and the injury is going to sideline you in next year’s olympic race. The emergency room has a bed ready for you, and the doctor arrives as you’re being transferred into it.

“Miss Y/L/N, I’m Dr. Morelli. We’re going to put your patella back into place. It’s going to be incredibly painful, so we’re to sedate you. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you say as strongly as you can, though it comes out feeble and hoarse.

A nurse inserts an IV into your arm and smiles at you. They have you count backwards from ten, and by the time you get to eight you’re asleep. There’s a brief moment of panic when you wake up as you forgot where you are. “You’re awake,” Brenda speaks softly from the bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” you admit. “It hurts so fucking bad.”

She gives you a sympathetic smile. “I know. They’re going to come get you for x-rays in a few minutes and then we’ll go back to the hotel.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “I’ve gotta call Joel. Bren, give me your phone.”

Laughter comes from the device’s speakers, and you realize she’s one step ahead of you.

“There’s my girl,” Joel whispers, eyes landing on yours as the phone lands in your hands. “Are you okay?”

The question makes you laugh. “You’re quite the comedian Mr. Farabee. Of course I’m not okay. My leg is currently being held together by a brace and my dreams are ruined.” You soften when you realize how upset Joel looks. “I’ll be fine J, I promise.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“There’s nothing you could have done. It was a freak accident. You can pick me up from the airport.”

He agrees in a heartbeat and tells you about his day to distract you from the pain. You’ll have to ask the nurses for some pain meds before you leave. A nurse comes to take you to the radiology department, and you hang up after reassuring him for the hundredth time that he doesn’t need to fly to Italy to bring you home himself.

Brenda holds you as the adrenaline wears off and your legs twitches rapidly as a trauma response. She helps you navigate around the small room and makes sure you’re able to use the bathroom. Luckily none of her other skaters are competing, and she’s able to travel back to Philadelphia with you once the doctor clears you. It’s a rough flight – there’s a fair amount of turbulence and each bump makes your leg throb. You don’t get a wink of sleep and are grumpy by the time you touch down in Philly. Joel’s waiting at arrivals with a giant sign and a sweet smile. You wheel yourself over to him as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his arms.

“Welcome home baby,” he whispers, leaning down to catch your lips in an airport appropriate kiss. The reason you’re home so early isn’t brought up which you're incredibly grateful for. Your untimely withdrawal is still a very sore spot.

“I wasn’t gone long,” you laugh, trying to poke fun at the situation before reality gets you too down.

“Long enough for me to miss you a tremendous amount.”

The three of you exit the airport, and Joel drops Brenda off at her house before taking you back to his place. Chuck and the rest of the management team were allowing him to miss a few games until you become more mobile and can’t exist on your own for a few hours. Joel’s bed is calling out to you, but he insists you’ll feel better after a shower and you know he’s right. Showering isn’t something you can do yourself, so Joel keeps your leg straight and elevated as you sit on the stool he bought while waiting for you to return. The grime of travelling is washed away and you feel lighter when you swing into bed, stubbornly refusing Joel’s help.

You convince him to let you watch the broadcast of the event you were supposed to be skating in. It’s probably not the best thing for your mental health, but you want to see how everyone does. Joel sits besides you, arm wrapped around your shoulder, and listens to you explain the rationale behind every element’s score. When your replacement takes the ice you go silent. It’s too much to see her skating in your place so you bury your face into Joel’s neck. There’s no jealousy like you thought there would be, just an infinite amount of sadness that you’re not able to be there.

“You’ll be able to get back there,” Joel reassures you when he feels a tear soak through his sweater.

“That’s not guaranteed,” you sniffle. “I might not ever skate again, let alone compete at any level.”

He shakes his head in disagreement, leading you to quirk a brow. “I know you. You’re going to do it. It won’t be easy, but you’re the most determined person I’ve ever met. People bounce back after major injuries all the time. I’ll be by your side the entire time, helping you through.”

“I love you,” you blurt out. The gravity of your words sinks in and you gasp. You haven’t said those words to each other yet, but they feel right.

“I love you too,” Joel smiles, kissing the tip of your nose. “Now pay attention to the TV, that girl you beat at Skate Canada is up next.”

☼☼☼☼

Recovery hasn’t been easy. There have been so many days where all you want to do is throw in the towel and cry, but Joel keeps you going. He insists you to your physical therapy exercises with him so you aren’t alone, and he comes to as many doctor’s appointments as he possibly can. After the Flyers get eliminated from the playoffs he doesn’t return home for the summer, choosing to stay in the Philly area with you. Having him there is a massive help, and you power through the pain.

The Flyers are hosting a family skate before training camp, and it will be your first time on skates in nearly six months. Your doctors have cleared it as long as you take it slow and basically let Joel pull you around the rink but you don’t care. It gives you hope that one day you’ll be back to full strength.

“Ready to do this thing?” Joel asks, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

You nod enthusiastically and let him pull you from the bench to the tunnel and down to the boards. Joel steps on the ice first, keeping his hands up in case you need them for support. A few of the significant others notice what’s happening and they erupt in applause once both your feet are planted on the surface. Joel joins them, his eyes watering when he sees how happy you are to be skating again.

“I do believe you promised me a few laps lover boy,” you wink.

“Yes ma’am,” Joel giggles as he mock salutes. He places his hands in yours and guides you gently, careful not to go too fast or get too close to other groups. The two of you giggle and stop to kiss frequently but no one says anything. You’ve worked incredibly hard to get here and they’re perfectly content letting you have your moment. Standing at centre ice you feel complete, and you know it’s all thanks to Joel.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @samsteel @kiedhara @tortito @boqvistsbabe @iwantahockeyhimbo @himbos-on-ice if you want to be added just shoot me an ask :)

#this right here is my baby #joel farabee imagine #joel farabee x reader #joel farabee fic #philadelphia flyers imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic #nhl imagine #nhl fic #cwrites

401 notes · View notes