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duskholland · 4 years

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Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.

summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around... word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni. a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3 —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!

extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”

You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.

“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.

Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”

The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.

“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”

You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”

She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”

“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”

“No. What happened?”

You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.

“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”

Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.

Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.

You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.

There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.

“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.

Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.

A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.

Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.

Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”

Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.

“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.

You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.

Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.

“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.

“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”

You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.

“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”

“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.

Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?

He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”

You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.

“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”

You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.

“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.

“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”

The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.

You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”

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Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.

The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.

For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.

You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.

He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.

“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”

You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”

Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.

“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”

He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”

You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.

“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.

“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.

Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”

Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.

You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”

“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”

Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”

You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”

Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.

“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”

There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”

You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.

“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”

“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”

You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.

“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”

Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”

You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.

“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”

You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.

“There!” you announce, smile on your face.

Tom gulps nervously.

“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.

Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.

“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”

His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”

You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.

“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”

Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”

You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.

“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”

You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”

You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.

Tom cackles.

“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.

“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.

Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.

He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”

“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.

Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.

“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”

You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”

You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.

“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”

He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.

“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.

Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.

“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.

It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.

“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”

“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”

He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.

You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.

Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”

All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.

“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”

Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?

“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.

One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.

It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.

His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.

Tom follows you…?

Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.

Interesting.

After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.

“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.

“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”

“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”

He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.

“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.

Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”

You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.

Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.

“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”

Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”

Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”

He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.

He’s cute.

“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”

You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.

Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.

Y/N: hey x

A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.

Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”

You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.

“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”

You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.

“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”

You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.

“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”

It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.

Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.

“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”

“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”

You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”

Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.

“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”

“Wait, is it a home game?”

Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”

You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.

“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”

It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.

“Absolutely.”

You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.

“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.

Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”

You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”

“Give me a spin, darling.”

You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.

“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”

It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”

Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”

Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”

“Dutchy?” you question.

Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”

You coo. “That’s cute.”

Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.

“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.

Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.

The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.

And Tom… Tom.

Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.

Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.

The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.

He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.

The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.

The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.

“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”

You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.

“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.

“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”

Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.

“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”

A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.

Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.

You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.

“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”

Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”

He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”

It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”

Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”

Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.

“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.

You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.

The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.

On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.

“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”

The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.

“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”

You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.

“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.

There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.

“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”

Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”

You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,

“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”

He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”

The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.

“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”

Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”

You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”

Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”

“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”

His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.

“Thanks, darling.”

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.

“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”

“What, sweetheart?”

Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.

It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.

There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.

“What?”

You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”

Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.

“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”

He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”

You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.

Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”

“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.

“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.

“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.

You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.

Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.

Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.

“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”

It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.

“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.

“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”

You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.

“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.

“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.

Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”

Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”

“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”

A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.

You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.

…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.

You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.

“What— Tom?”

For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.

“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”

You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”

Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.

“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”

“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”

Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.

Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”

You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”

He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.

“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”

You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.

“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”

Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.

By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.

“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”

You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”

He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”

Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.

“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”

You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”

Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.

You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.

The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.

“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.

“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.

He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.

“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”

You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.

“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”

His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.

“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”

Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.

“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”

He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.

Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.

“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.

“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”

Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.

“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”

You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”

Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.

“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”

You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”

Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.

“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.

The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.

You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.

He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.

It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.

“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”

Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.

“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”

You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”

Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.

Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.

Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.

“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”

Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”

You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”

Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”

You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.

The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.

You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.

“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”

“Yeah. Penalty.”

“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”

He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.

“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”

You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.

“Funnier than me?”

“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”

“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”

Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.

“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”

He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”

“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”

Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.

It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.

You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.

“Y/N!”

You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.

“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.

“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”

Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.

You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.

“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”

A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.

“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”

Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.

“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

A smile breaks out across your face.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”

Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.

“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.

His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.

“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”

You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.

“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.

“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.

You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”

Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.

It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.

“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”

“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.

Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.

“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”

The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.

“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.

“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.

You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.

Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.

The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.

You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.

Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.

“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.

“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.

“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”

Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”

“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”

Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.

“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”

Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”

The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”

You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”

His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.

(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!

mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!

#tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland fluff #hockey!tomfic #tblr....please let me in the tags...? please?

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kiriluvbot · 4 years

Text

pros of shipping rare pairs: you have to make your own content, creative freedom, less ship wars

cons: you have to make your own content

so here i am, making my own content. also, manga spoilers ahead.

—

seroroki, post war arc, in the hospital

—

nothing felt real.

not the uncomfortable plastic seat beneath him, not the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead, not the ticking clock on the wall. most certainly not the school uniform clinging almost too tightly to his skin.

he was aware of every loose string of thread, of the sickly scent of sterilizer in the air, of the voices humming in tune with the lights. a door slammed to his left and he flinched.

“we can’t reach them, i don't know what’s going on—“

the battle against all for one and shigaraki ended only a few days ago, but it felt like no time at all and all the time in the world had passed. the number one hero, endeavor, had nearly been killed. half of hanta’s classmates were in hospital beds, unconscious or barely able to speak.

“endeavor, he—he’s down!”

the world had been turned upside down. hero society as everyone knew it was falling apart of the seams. heroes were dead. civilians. classmates. dead. cities were flattened, disintegrated or on fire. the very earth seemed to be crumbling.

“that—that thing. it’s coming this way. we have to move. sero—“

hanta sero wanted to be a hero. hanta wanted to be a hero dammit, but when the time came, what could he do? what could his quirk do? he was not strong enough, not fast enough, not smart enough. he applied to the best hero school in the world and trained until he felt like he was going to die and it was not enough.

the whole thing had felt like some terrible nightmare. the worst nightmare, worst case scenario, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. not as shigaraki during a whole city to dust, not as giantomachia flattened an entire forest, not as endeavor was knocked clear out of the sky. not as their friends lay on the ground dead or dying, not as civilians cried out for help under rubble, not as the bad guys slipped away like they were in no hurry at all.

“just—be careful out there, hanta. please.”

“sero, bub, come on.”

“come back to me in one piece. okay, shoto? promise me.”

a hand rests gently on sero’s shoulder. it makes him jump, immediately turning to search for the source. sero finds it’s just smiling kirishima, red hair down and framing his tired eyes. his heart races as another door shuts a little too hard.

“is it time?” sero’s voice sounds dry and foreign to himself.

“yeah,” kirishima replies. “let’s go see todoroki.”

the name alone is nearly enough to send sero buckling to the floor.

“shoto—where is he? why can’t i see him?”

“you need to calm down, kid. we’ve got everything under control.”

“tell me he’s going to be okay. tell me!”

sero is hardly aware of his own footsteps as a nurse leads them through a maze of blinding white halls. he’s numb and hyper aware all at the same time and it’s awful.

as soon as they’d gotten word that todoroki was awake, a small group consisting of sero, kirishima, satou, momo, and jirou left immediately to go see him. no word on bakugo yet, or midoriya. the three idiots dived head first into the worst of the battle. sero hadn’t known until hours later. he briefly recalls the dull look in kirishima’s eyes, how he merely clammed up and went silent. sero hadn't reacted quite the same. he only remembers falling to his knees, begging for answers.

not much comes to mind after that.

sero wishes now that he could see todoroki alone, that he could scoop him up and run away to some imaginary land where villains and heroes didn’t exist. where they could be safe.

he also considers turning tail and running back to his dorm and never leaving again. sero wasn’t sure how he could stand seeing todoroki in whatever state he was in—

“i am touya todoroki, the eldest son of endeavor.”

the flames, the smell of burnt—

the nurse leading them says, “his voice isn’t completely back yet, but he’s awake and doing well. just be careful, please.”

then the door opens. kirishima leads the way and sero finds he’s okay with that, because he’s quickly realizing that he’s not at all prepared. not even close.

shoto todoroki is leaned up on his bed, wrapped almost entirely in bandages. his baby blue hospital gown is too big for him; it dips off one shoulder. nearly his entire face is bandaged, his right arm, his chest too, it seems. what skin can be seen is dull, but his eyes are not. they shine with unshed tears that sero can see even from this distance.

“todoroki,” kirishima starts. “so glad to see you, man.”

the others chime in, smiling softly and hiding their hands behind their back, keeping a vice like grip on their self control. sero finds, for the first time ever, he can’t say a damn thing.

todoroki opens his mouth. the sound that comes out is horrible and broken, but he rasps out a simple hey, guys.

“you’re gonna need a full time translator,” kirishima jokes, and sero’s lip quirks despite the heaviness in the air.

and after a while, one by one, this little group dissipates. kirishima and sero are left, and then kirishima goes, too. his hand finds sero’s shoulder once more, and he shoots a see you later at todoroki before exiting.

and then it’s just them. sero and todoroki.

just like it’d been before this whole shit show started.

legs tangled, fingers entwined, promises made, confessions unsaid.

“hanta—“ that voice comes out again, raspy and shattered. “i—“

“you came back to us in one piece,” sero says, interrupting. “please don’t start to apologize.”

what he doesn’t say is: i didn't tell you before we left—i didn’t tell you because i was scared. and for a bit i thought i’d never see you again. for a bit i thought i was going to die. i thought you were going to—

sero sits on the bed, todoroki’s legs just barely a ghost behind him. this lighting makes him look paler than usual, makes his scar stand out, makes his hair look like fresh—

stop.

todoroki doesn’t even know where to start. he was sure he was going to die on the battlefield. he was sure he was going to die in dabi’s—no, touya’s arms. he was sure his brother was going to kill him.

when todoroki woke, all he could remember was the sheer terror he felt on that hill, his supposedly dead brother right in front of him, dancing like a mad man, laughing hysterically. it was like everything had been ripped out from underneath todoroki. he had become very unsure of everything he knew about himself, about his father, about his whole family at that moment. even more unsure than he’d been previously.

as much as todoroki wanted to deny it, wanted to scream that dabi was nothing but a meddling lunatic, the sensible part of him knew it was true.

endeavor may be number one hero but he had not succeeded at a single thing except making a monster out of his first born. the rest, well—you know how the story goes.

the truth made todoroki feel tainted, stained. it made him feel contaimniated and heavy and like maybe—maybe he should’ve let dabi finish the job. maybe, by killing shoto, touya would finally be free of whatever he had weighing on him. get rid of the thing that replaced him.

it had been on todoroki’s mind since he woke up. the truth would rage through the world like wildfire. endeavor would be scorned. shoto would forever been stuck in the shadow of his failures. he’d never be free—never—

sero grabs his hand.

sero watches as todoroki grimaces, turns his face away. he watches as todoroki starts to guard himself, starts to clam up—

todoroki pulls his hand free.

“sho—“

“you should go,” todoroki hisses. even as he speaks them, he regrets every word. it all comes out wrong and harsh, rough around the edges.

what he doesn’t say is: you’re too good for me, hanta. why can’t you see that? why can’t you see i’ll only ever weigh you down? my family’s a disaster, i’m a mess, and you’re—you’re you.

there’s a pause. the air is heavy. sero’s hand is cold. he watches as todoroki avoids his gaze, as more tears well in his eyes. nothing feels real.

“you—what?”

“hanta,” todoroki whispers. “go. please.”

and it’s like the world is ending, all over again. if he hadn’t been sitting, sero might have collapsed at the knees again. he wonders briefly if his ears need to get checked, if he heard him correctly, if the world really is ending.

and to make it so much worse, todoroki says, “you deserve better, dammit.” his voice barely raises a single octave. “don't want you getting dragged down because of me. ‘cause of my family.”

he says me like it’s poison on his tongue.

todoroki pulls into himself completely, pulling entirely out of sero’s orbit, leaving the room icy and feeling nearly empty. sero isn’t sure exactly what he’s feeling, but he knows it must be something close to anger. his brows knit together as he tries to keep a tight leash on his emotions, but sometimes even hanta sero loses control.

sero stands so fast his vision blurs for half a second. todoroki looks meek and small beneath him, hands clamped together, eyes dull and face wrapped up. sero’s heart beats all the way down to his toes, the room closing in on him slowly. it’s iciness seeps into his bones, fear and anger and confusion simmering in his veins.

“you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think i’m gonna let you shove me away so easily,” sero cuts out, ignoring the bewildered look on todoroki’s face. “i know you’re hurting, shoto. and i know you're strong, but you don’t have to do this on your own.” sero unclenches his fists but god, his chest feels tight. “we’re just kids, dammit! you don’t have to carry all this weight, just let me help you. let me be here for you!”

“hanta—“

“i’m here because i—“ you know, sho, i really— “because i care about you.”

the room seemed to shrink in that very short time period, sero’s chest heaving with all the things he didn’t say, all the things he wanted to say, all the things he wanted to do. he’d spent nearly every single day in the past year-ish by todoroki’s side, training, laughing, sharing manga. he’d grown close to someone who seemed so untouchable when he first met him. sero got to be there as todoroki brought down his own walls, came out of his own shell, became someone todoroki himself could be proud of.

and now this idiot wanted to push sero away? because he deserves better? because todoroki didn’t want sero to see the ugly truth of his family history? because todoroki thought he himself was too much for sero?

“just trying to protect you,” todoroki mutters, not daring to look away from sero’s face. not yet. “i’ll only—“

“don’t—“ sero snaps. “don’t say it. you know it’s not true. you know it isn’t.”

todoroki finally breaks eye contact, gaze dropping to his hands. his shoulders heave as he takes a shaky breath. if he could just get it into hanta’s thick skull that he hung the stars, that he was a god send, an angel on earth, that todoroki was unworthy and undeserving of someone like him—

todoroki doesn’t have time to reel in the tears as they start to fall. slowly at first, then all at once like the dam had finally broken. sero is at his side in an instant, like todoroki hadn’t just told him to leave, like todoroki didn't just try to make it obvious he’s undeserving of someone as kind and caring as sero. and here sero is, further proving that point as he sits carefully on the bed and gently takes todoroki’s face in his hands, fingers ghosting over bandages. the touch is searing and unbearable and not enough all at once.

“‘m sorry,” todoroki chokes out. “sorry, sorry. hanta—“

sero lifts todoroki’s face ever so slowly, and todoroki finally sees the redness of his dark eyes, the bottom lashes clumped together from a cry that might have happened just before he got here. todoroki can’t seem to get a handle on his own tears, can’t seem to reel in his uneven breathing, can’t seem to stamp out the shaking nerves dancing up his arms. grief rages inside him, grief and guilty and that same achy breaky loneliness todoroki hadn’t felt in so many months.

“please, shoto,” sero whispers, so close todoroki can’t even breathe. “everything is a mess right now but please. let me stay by your side. don't—“ his throat catches, “—don't shut me out, okay?”

“someday you’re gonna realize you don’t have to carry the weight of the universe all on your own, todoroki.”

“sero—“

sunset colors begin to pour in through cracked curtains, washing them in gentle warmth. sero’s gaze doesn’t waver, his touch doesn’t disappear. he’s light and he’s holy—pure and too kind. todoroki wraps hesitant hands around sero’s wrists, trying his hardest to reign in his tears. he lets their foreheads press together slowly, carefully.

promises are made, confessions stay unspoken. todoroki doesn’t let go, not again, not ever.

—

#seroroki #sero hanta #todoroki shoto #todosero #postwararc #my hero academia #mha #bnha #rarepair #angst #seroroki angst #keepingupwiththetodorokis #mha manga #mangaspoilers

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womanoflettersinthebunker · 3 years

Text

Dean looked down at the remains of the family with an arm wrapped around his stomach, willing his lunch to stay down. It shouldn't be affecting him like this, not when this was the third family he'd seen like it just this month.

A whole family torn to pieces- parents, grandparents, children. Every single one of them, coating the walls, the furniture, every last piece of them scattered around him.

The scent of blood was thick and it twisted his stomach so badly that, for a moment, he thought he was about to lose his meagre meal.

There was a slight scuffling sound and his gun came up immediately, slowly moving towards the source. It was coming from down the hall, from inside a closet. The sound stopped as he got closer, but he could hear the faint sound of fabric shifting behind the door. Steeling himself, he grabbed the doorknob and pointed his gun, only to bring it back down and curse when he saw what was inside.

A kid, no older than four or five, flinched hard at the sight of him and curled around the small bundle in his arms. A bundle that Dean could see was a baby. The kid was shaking and holding the baby close to him, even moving to try to shield the baby from him.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, I'm here to help," Dean said reassuringly, putting the gun in the back of his pants and kneeling down. "I'm Dean. Are you guys okay?"

The boy peeked up at him with one eye, then slowly lifted his head up to look at him. "Is he gone?" He whispered.

"Is who gone?"

"The… The man. The tall man," he said, voice still a whisper. Whether it was from shock, fear, or just trying not to jostle the baby too much, Dean didn't know. "The man that put us in here."

"What did he look like?" Dean asked, trying to keep his voice even. Dimly, he could hear his dad outside, moving around. "Did he say anything?"

The kid shook and buried his face in the bundle, whole body starting to shake. "I want momma," he could hear him whisper. "I want daddy."

He didn't dare look back at the kid's parents' remains.

"Let's get you outta this closet and outside, alright bud?" Dean suggested, reaching for him. "And then we can-"

The kid jerked back hard, holding the baby impossibly closer to him. "You can't take him, you can't!" He said, almost imploringly. "He told me not to let go!"

"Not let go of what?"

"My brother," the kid whispered, voice shaking as he buried his face in the bundle once more, the bundle that was still asleep, innocent and untouched by the carnage that had happened outside the closet door. "He told me to never let go of him. Cause that's my job, I gotta look after him, cause I'm older."

Dean swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, the words all too familiar and ringing in his ears.

Along with his failure.

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said hoarsely. “And you’re doing a great job, buddy. But now it's time to get outta the closet here, we gotta get you someplace safe.”

“Are mommy and daddy gonna be there?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t have the heart to lie to him but he also couldn’t tell the truth. “"But you gotta get outta here first."

"With my little brother?"

Dean closed his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose. "Yeah," he whispered. "With your little brother." He slid his jacket off and used it to cover the boy and his baby brother, carefully picking the both of them up. The kid reached for his shirt, his hand curling into the fabric as he stubbornly held onto his brother.

"I gotta take care of you," Dean could hear him whisper to the baby. "Cause that's my job."

He forced himself to swallow, keeping a hand on the back of the kid’s head to prevent him from looking at the carnage, and walked on and away from the house, each step taking a great deal of strength that he didn't know how long would last.

------------------------------------------------------

“We saw the broken door and called the police. I went inside to see if there was anything I can do to help,” Dean recited in a monotone voice. “I’m an EMT in training, I wanted to help if there was anyone that I could. All I found was… What you saw. And the kids in the closet.”

“So he killed two other kids, but for some reason, he spared these two,” the officer surmised, shaking his head. “Anything else?”

“No,” Dean told him. “Just… Just what was there.”

The officer nodded, closing his notepad. “Next time, don’t go on the scene son, first thing you should know, don’t-”

“Contaminate a crime scene,” Dean finished. “I know. Just wanted to help.”

“I get it, I do,” the officer said sympathetically. “You’re free to go son, thank you for your time.”

Dean nodded and walked away, joining his dad in the hallway. “Anything?”

John handed him a cup of coffee- it was cheap and barely real coffee, as hospital coffee always sucked, but Dean shot it back gratefully all the same. They walked away from the room, passing one window through which Dean could see the kid; crying and still holding onto his baby brother.

He felt his stomach clench. He decided to blame it on the bad coffee.

“Same as the others,” John said as they put some distance between them and the police. “Bodies completely ripped to shreds, no organ in particular is missing, but also in pieces. Kid showed no sign of trauma so that means he didn't hear any screams or anything like that."

"So it was like a… One time thing, before they even had a chance to scream?" Dean asked, throwing the cup into the trashcan they passed. "What the hell could even do that?"

"There was a forced entry, the broken door tells us that," John said, voice flat as he listed. "The television was on and there was burnt food on the stove, meaning that the family was awake and possibly together. Whoever came in either saw the family and decided on the spot. Or…”

"Or they were watching and picked this family in particular," Dean finished for him. "He grabs the family, has time to shove the kid and baby in the closet, and just… What? Eviscerated the rest of them?"

"It was hard to tell but they weren't cut, the pieces weren't sliced, they were jagged and rough, meaning that most likely, done by hand."

"Or by something else," Dean said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "The kid's lack of reaction is what seals it. He wasn't acting like he heard screaming or crying. For him, he was put in the closet and he stayed there until I came. Door wasn't locked either, so that means the kid chose not to come out."

"Did he say anything? About the guy?"

"Said he was tall. And that he told him to look after the baby, cause that's his job." Dean tried but couldn't completely keep the bitterness out of his voice. "Said he had to look after his little brother."

His dad didn't say anything for a moment. Then he placed his hand on his shoulder. "Dean…” His voice had gone soft.

Dean shrugged it off, walking forward. "This makes the third family. They have nothing in common. We can't find any signs of anything supernatural other than them being torn into pieces, which, like you said, looked like it was by hand. They came from different backgrounds, different styles of life, religion. Nothing links them with the others. Other than their deaths."

"And this time, with two survivors, almost like they were chosen," John added, shaking his head. "I got no clue, son."

"Me either," Dean agreed, reaching their respective cars. "Bobby?"

"Already let him know, he said he'll get back to us."

"Great," Dean said, without humor or confidence. "Time to get a drink."

"Dean-" he hated his dad's delicate tone of voice. "-maybe you should cut down on the drinking? I can't remember seeing you actually ingest something that wasn't alcohol."

"Had a bagel this morning. I'm fine."

"Half a bagel. If that."

"Dad, I'm fine!" Dean said firmly, staring his dad in the eye. "Drop it. I'm getting a drink, join me if you want."

Not giving him a chance to say anything else, Dean got into the Impala, closing the door tightly behind him. He spared a moment to glance at the empty passenger seat, a habit he still couldn't break. Jaw clenched and shifting side to side, he started the car and got onto the road towards their motel, tongue curling in his mouth.

He really needed a drink.

-------------------------------------------------------

He didn't end up going to the bar, remembering he still had a few bottles left from the last town in the trunk. He got into his room and locked the door behind him; it wouldn't stop his dad from coming in, but it would give Dean a couple extra seconds.

He ignored the second bed, not even putting anything on it. He threw his jacket to the side and collapsed onto the bed closest to the door, groaning slightly as his hand fumbled for one of the bottles he’d kept nearby for just this. He finally managed to grip one,not caring which one, and brought it up, turning onto his back so that he could pour it into his mouth a bit better, choking slightly as too much sloshed in and coughed, swallowing with some difficulty.

He relished in the burn of the drink, even as it made his stomach cramp and bile fill his mouth. Could be from the alcohol, could be from the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he had an actual meal.

Every time he tried to eat, he ended up getting only a few bites in before throwing up, so it was easier to just have an all liquid diet.

Also, at times, if he was lucky, it made the nightmares go away. You can’t really dream if you get blackout drunk after all.

Dean stared up at the ceiling, unseeing, and brought the bottle up again, taking a deep pull. He drank until it hurt and coughed again, feeling his eyes getting heavier and closing them. He couldn't really focus on anything other than his own beating heart that sounded too loud and overpowering in his ears, so much so that he was tempted to reach into his chest and rip it out.

Not like he had much use for it at this point.

His hand came up to his chest, fumbling for something that wasn't there anymore. He had spent years getting used to the weight of the amulet, used to the leather cord digging into his neck, used to reaching up to grip it in reassurance.

But it wasn't anything there anymore, had been melted and destroyed in fire along with-

"Dean, it's okay. I'm okay like this, promise. Please don't send me away."

-the rest of his heart, hence why he no longer needed the organ beating in his chest.

Bringing the bottle up, he took another swallow, throat working as he drank the rest of it, letting the bottle hit the ground before he turned onto his side and curled into a ball. Closing his eyes, he already knew it was going to be a sleepless night.

Whatever scenes played in his head during the night, they were encompassed completely in fire and blood, Sam’s pleas audible over the rest.

"Please don't do this!"

He didn't get that much sleep anymore.

#supernatural #Supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #SPN #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #365 #6/365 #2021 writing challenge #365 Days Of Writing #rebirth in fire au

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celestianstars · 5 years

Text

Sweet Dreams

Chris Evans x Black Female!Reader

Request: Chris is sleep deprived from stress and you decide to do what you can to help him get some rest

Warnings: lots of fluff and only some mentions of smut

Word Count: 2.3k

Note: I know I said I’d try and make this one short but kinda didn’t stick to that plan lol, but it’s a quick read I promise!

——————————————————————————

“Did you get any sleep last night, Chris? You look wiped out.” you watched your boyfriend make his way around the kitchen, eyes low and sunken.

“I mean...I think I got a solid hour or two.” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and sitting down at the table next to you.

You chewed at the inside of your lip, your hand automatically reaching out to hold his.

Chris had been super busy lately in terms of work and work related things.

He had just gotten back the other day from filming another project and then 24 hours later was on another flight to D.C for a more important, political endeavor he’d been working on for a good couple years now.

It shocked you that he wasn’t out like a light the second he got home last night, he looked ready to be back in his own bed, only if you and Dodger would accompany him, however, which was made clear by the pout he gave you when he asked you to come to bed a little earlier than your usual time.

But seemingly, he hadn’t slept at all while you lay your head on his chest and fell asleep within minutes.

Chris was always good at getting you to do that, he was warm and his heart was beating calm and steady and his fingers were lightly brushing against your skin as he held you, all a recipe for you slip into a deep sleep.

It worried you a little, sleep was so important and you didn’t like seeing Chris look this tired or stressed either but you tried to persuade him and your own mind that it was probably just the fact that he’d been travelling so much lately, his body was too wired to really let him rest.

It made sense, and it was true to an extent but Chris wasn’t ready to admit that it was because he was more stressed than jet lagged.

Talking about it might bring those fears about his work to reality so for the time being, Chris tried to shove it all to the back of his mind and just focus on having a nice stretch of time off where he could finally spend some quality time with you and his best dog and go visit and catch up with family.

“Alright sleepyhead, what do you want for breakfast is the real question here.” you stand up and come over to ruffle his hair, smiling softly at the way his arms immediately come up to wrap around your waist.

“Hmm, I’ve been dying for some of those homemade waffles and eggs of yours. Tried making them myself and it was a disaster in my hotel kitchen.” Chris snorts, leaning forward to press a kiss to your ribs.

“I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down, but you got it baby. Oh, also! I was wondering if we could drop by the beauty supply store, I need more braiding hair, I was thinking of doing smaller braids this time.”

“Sure thing! We need more dog food anyways and it’s right in the area. And braids, huh? I can’t wait, you know I love seeing you with that style.”

Chris caught you rolling your eyes at that, both of you chuckling because of the very dirty innuendo to his tone.

He liked to play with your braids and pull them in bed, gently of course cause he knows you’d kill him if one of them loosened up and unraveled. But he also really couldn’t stop himself from doing it while he fucked you good, and not that you were complaining either.

---

You were browsing the chew toy section of the pet store you were in, letting Dodger sniff around the toys. Chris was right behind you, shaking his head at how much you spoiled his dog.

“What?! He deserves another toy, ok. He was such a good boy keeping me company while you were away. Best cuddle buddy.” you shrugged at the way Chris feigned shock.

“Oh so my own dog had taken my place as best cuddle buddy huh? I thought you were supposed to be wingman, Dodge, not steal my girl.”

“I can’t with you oh my god. Nah, you’re still my number one everything, Evans.” you lean back against his chest, letting your head rest against his shoulder, turning your face to press a kiss to his bearded jaw.

“And I see that barber I told you to go to has shown this beard some love. Such a clean line up.” you wink at him and he pinches your ass.

“That’s for sure, thank you for that by the way. But it could also use some extra love with you sitting on it, is all I’m sayin.” now it was Chris’ turn to watch your jaw drop.

Yeah, it had been awhile and though neither of you were up for it last night, tonight Chris intended to show you exactly how much he’d missed you.

---

Later that day you were sitting on the couch watching a show on Netflix, Dodger at your feet while Chris drank some coffee, brows knit in concentration as he read over some papers.

“How’s the business in D.C coming along?” you noticed the usual stressed out body language and gestures from him. He kept running his hands through his hair and letting out little sighs and huffs here and there.

“So far so good I would say, we’ve got more senators on board for the project it’s just...I don’t know.” he leaned his back, arms crossed. Defensive and on edge was written all across his features.

Shifting your body so you were facing him, you squeezed his thigh and took the papers from his lap, stacking them neatly and setting them aside on the coffee table.

“Talk to me, baby. Are you worried about it all coming together? I know you’ve been taking on a lot lately, even though you’re not doing this project alone, it’s still a lot and you are the face of it, I’m sure that makes you feel some anxiety.”

He felt tense and it made you frown, you wanted to help relax him as much as you could, and now you could see this was probably what was keeping him up at night.

“Yeah you’re right, actually. I just want this thing to be good, something informative and easy to use and it scares me to think it’ll be a huge failure or it’ll be used for the wrong things. I think I’ve been thinking of about a hundred ways it could go wrong if I’m being honest and I don’t really know what to do,”

“By now people have seen me going back and forth from here to D.C and I’m nervous about..well everything.” he placed his palm over yours and squeezed your hand.

Chris appreciated that you took the time to ask and really listen to him, cause half the time all he felt like he was doing was talking about his problems and not paying enough attention to you but then you’d quiet his fears and tell him that you would make sure he knew if you felt neglected.

You understood the nature of his work and of his always good and kind intentions and how his anxiety played into all of it.

“I wouldn’t blame you, it’s a big thing you’re doing. But remember that you’re trying to do some good, trying to make understanding politics and policy a little easier and I don’t think anybody can call you a failure for that, no matter what happens. The best any of us can do is try and bring something about that will help others and baby, you do that in so many different ways. Creatively in the art of acting and also in what you believe in outside acting.”

You scoot closer and rest your forehead against the side of his head for a minute, letting your words sink in.

“You’ve put so much of your time and energy and passion into this, I think you have to trust yourself a bit more. Maybe this certain project is new to you but from what I’ve seen, you’ve thought this out so well, so detailed and thoughtful to the audience you’re trying to reach. I think, and I’m not just saying this because I clearly have a bias, that you are putting out something great here,”

“And if it fails, if things don’t go how you wanted, you know that you did your best to steer it in the right direction and sometimes it doesn’t always work but that doesn’t make you a failure. You always have the opportunity to make something amazing, and coming from your insanely intelligent brain, I know it’s endless.”

You finish off your pep talk and give him some quiet to think about what you said, smoothly sliding across to sit in his lap so you could massage his shoulders.

Chris hummed, smiling at how soft your hands felt on him.

You were such a gift.

Not only did you know exactly what to say during times like this but you also seemed to know exactly what he needed, you were so observant and it kind of amazed him how you seemed to be two steps ahead of him sometimes.

It made him want to strive to be on your level.

All he hoped for was to reciprocate the same love and affection and support you offered him and you always reassured each other that you were doing exactly that.

After a minute Chris opened his eyes and met your gaze, blue eyes soft and tired.

“I fucking love you, you know that?” his voice was low and breathy and it made you bashful.

“I know and I love you too. I just believe in you and the talent and heart you give to everything. It’s stunning to watch you work.”

You keep a steady rhythm with your hands, moving them up to massage the back of his neck.

“Thank you for everything. And in that case I wanna come clean about something. I haven’t been sleeping much more than an hour or so for a bit now, I thought it was just because of traveling and the workload but you were right, it’s from stressing over all this shit. But you’re right, I gotta trust myself more and have some hope in it.”

“Yeah I figured. And I know you’ll get there, I’m sure it’s still gonna stress you out but as long as you remember what we talked about and can call upon that when it happens. How about we have a de-stress night? We’ll take a warm shower, maybe do a face mask, and I don’t know...something else that might require another shower afterwards too.” you wink and he throws his head back in a laugh.

“Oh so that’s what this whole thing was really about, she’s trying to get in my pants, I’m just a piece of meat to her!” Chris fake cries.

“You’re sO ridiculous oh my gosh. I mean that may have been part of it but for real, I know this is gonna come together and succeed. You’ve been doing such a great job.”

Chris nods and leans forwards, his arms coming around you again, pressing you forward into his chest where his lips met yours, a searingly passionate and loving kiss melting everything else away.

Abruptly, you pulled away, squirming your way out of his grip to drop down to your knees in front of him, your head resting on his thigh while your hands tugged at his belt buckle. His eyebrows went up in question but he didn’t stop you.

“Oh so this is your idea of de-stressing?” his eyes darkened and he raised his hips up slightly to help you slide his pants down.

“Mhm, sucking your dick is therapeutic for me honestly, and I wanna make you relax.” you smirked again, letting your hands start going to work because you truly were eager to get your hands on him.

“God, you’re really something else. Not complaining though, fuck that feels good. I’ve really missed this. And as long as you know I’m gonna return the favor. I was serious about this beard needing some of your love.”

“Fine by me, baby.” you giggle, sinking your mouth down around his tip, relishing in his taste and the way he hissed and contracted underneath you.

---

After a couple hours of going at it in bed rather loudly, and a nice shower and peeling face masks off each other, you and Chris were finally settled in bed, Dodger laying at the foot of the bed.

“I am actually struggling to keep my eyes open right now, baby. It’s a miracle.”

Chris smiled lazily, pulling the covers up around your shoulders while you got comfy snuggling into him.

“See, told you I knew the trick to getting good rest. You deserve it too. I hope you have sweet dreams, meatball.” you nuzzle his neck and place a chaste kiss to his lips before settling back down.

Chris only grunted in response and you went on talking for a little bit longer, explaining how happy you were he was home and that you’d finally be able to sleep in with him for a good week.

He’d been quiet for a minute and when you glanced up to check, you found your handsome man asleep, a calm look on his face, his breathing beginning to slow.

And with another soft kiss to his chest, you lay your head against his heart and shut your eyes, happy and serene knowing you were in his arms and had gotten him to finally sleep easily again.

Sweet dreams.

---

A/N: Reading that interview Chris did where he mentioned he only slept like an hour a night recently I was like...my baby, nooo. Hopefully he’s getting some good sleep soon cause it’s what he deserves, periodt pooh!

I hope this was alright and thank you to the anon that requested this, I loved writing it and hope it wasn’t too long since I know we discussed making it shorter.

And thank you to everyone reading! I love y’all so much I truly do!

Please let me know what you think also, I’m a slut for feedback!

——————————————————————————

Tags: @themyscxiras @chaneajoyyy @wittysunflower @amirra88 @lady-olive-oil @fumbling-fanfics @designerwriterchic @dc41896 @endless00paradise @oceanscorazon @champagnesugamama @ml0103 @mimigemrose@beaminglife @jojolu @avfug @earthsmightiestasses @crushed-pink-petals @titty-teetee @lifesaverslipstick-n-melanin @kati-1997 @skinnyevilcunt @forbeautyandlife @captstefanbrandt @veryhellshdia @amelatonin @jbrizzywrites @xo-goldengirl @tgigoldie @quaint-and-curious @yaint-me @savvy-ivvory @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @blowmymbackout @captainsamwlsn @carefreebarnes @harduy @breddiefrooks @curvynsweet @vvigilantes @est1887 @p-writes @thorohdamnson @ellixthea @lovelymari4 @littlesouthernrebelle @uhlxis @lareine-c-blog @captainfiveby5 @blackandnoir @wildfirecracker @xkandixrose @vvigilantes @eclecticblkgirl @pananegra @honey-poooh @bibicarson @ceelikedat @sheagawdess @ljstraightnochaser @savemeroman @m00nlightdelights @thottio @yaunaz @jetaimeamore @melo-yello @glitterandheatlightning @lavitabella87 @laketaj24 @hushfakeomens @valkyriesnymph @notsomellowmushroom @write-fromthe-start @theitcaramelchick @felicity-x0 @nina-skyee @islanddgal @princess-evans-addict @bluestarego @jaz-wegott @munteanhore @buffisummerz @blackvscogirl @gwenspacy @raveviolet @uranoscope @cantbribetheangel @suckthatskittlebiiitch @amberakawolfie @reaper-thighss @academic-glowup @stormsslut @star-spangled-steve @saturnsteverogers @thotgomery

#amalia writes #chris evans x black reader #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans oneshot #chris evans fanfics #chris evans fics #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x woc #chris evans x poc #chris evans smut

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crowleyellestair · 4 years

Note

Maybe... Injured! Geralt x freezing!soakingwet! Reader? Like reader is so focused on take care of Geralt (he's unconscious) they forget that they are in cold, wet clothes. Every inch of there skin is wet. They're so cold that they're shivering and their lips are a slight shade of blue. Hewakes up when reader is finishing taking care of his wounds. Reader is now shivering harder and Jask and Geralt kind of freak out. Angst but with a fluffy ending please (this is my last one for a while I swear)

AN//// Another amazing idea!! Keep em coming if you want, I love these <3

Kayrans. Nasty sea dwellers that can live for decades, unnoticed, sinking ships and eating livestock close enough to the coastline. They are rare, and mostly found in the Pontar or the Gulf of Praxeda. Of course, those are known habitats, not rules, and creatures are allowed to migrate. The Nimnar river sat just before the Kestrel Mountains, branching from the Buine, arching to the town of Ghelibol. It was late autumn, and being in the north had put a toll throughout the area. Frost lasted till late morning, and kids weren’t allowed outside without an extra layer.

Wind carried nothing but silence as the trio scoured the area. Jaskier had huffed, watching as his breath tumbled out of him visibly. His arms wrapped tightly around himself as he plopped onto a tall rock, trying to get a great view of their side of the river. Geralt had been trying to listen in on the movement around him, but he couldn’t distinguish anything. The river was only partially frozen, the waterfall at the end of its wake throwing down a current from its high vantagepoint. He could distinguish the heartbeats of his companions, but the life below the ice bubbled together.

It was what caught Y/n’s attention that had gave the silence a deathly tone. The frost and dirt that rolled over the top had blurred her vision to the moving thing under the surface. She carefully kneeled down, brushing her leather clad hands over the ice cap, trying to clear the debris. An orange, reflective tendril slithered just out of view. The day had an overcast, light dull and dreary, and that is what cave the creature away. Y/n didn’t know much about types and attributes of fish, but she was sure no fish could reflect as bright on this kind of day. Her hand flew to the hilt of her sword that was strapped to her hip. Her eyes remained to the ice, standing fully quickly, but careful to not lose her balance.

“Geralt. Here.” The warriors free hand pointed to the ice, and the witcher took a step towards her, away from the edge of the cap. “Tentacle looking thing. Are there any monster eels?” Jaskier was trying to make his way down safely from the top of the rock, but stopped to question her logic, his tone sassy.

“Eels that live by themselves and comes to shore, eating any animal that passes. Or is big enough to take down ships?” Y/n scoffed at his tone as she looked to the bard. Her stance had become relaxed, hand going to her hip.

“Ok, I was simply asking-.”

“Geralt!” The bards voice resonated in the dead air despite the open fields surrounding them and the river. Fear pierced the woman as she whipped her head to the witcher. Daggers flooded her veins, but not for fear of her own safety. There was an arsenal of emotions that lived in her whenever she thought of the White Wolf, and most of them pertain to love and caring. When she caught sight of what the bard had, a large orange tendril raised high and ready to strike, she knew that she would trade spots with the man in a heartbeat. Y/n’s mouth opened, but nothing would escape her tightened throat.

The wolf had easily dodged the appendage as it finally swung at him, pressing the flat face against the arm. He ran it against the scales while pushing it towards the ground, quickly cutting the bulb pulsing halfway up the length of the arm. His foot pressed it into the ice as it started to squirm, cutting into the opened bulb and severing its arm. Golden, worried eyes flew to the edges, yelling to his partners behind him.

“Kayran! Y/n, I want you off the ice.” The woman shuffling her way to the man while finally finding her voice once more.

“No chance. Go for those bulb thingies?” A low grunt could be heard, and she made another step towards him, but shattering ice could be heard immediately being her. Shards flew around her, and she heard Jaskier yell once more. She tried to steady herself, but her steadying step sent her straight through the ice. It wasn’t the first time it had happened in her life, so she didn’t flail. Her head popped back up after catching a glimpse of the creature. The body was closer to Geralt, and she knew she had to get out to warn him. Wiggling back onto the surface, trying to be quick, yet disburse her weight as much as possible, she watched as the ice became red around a kneeling Geralt.

The daggers she had felt before returned in full force. Her lung seazed, and her whole body felt hot. Her vision tunneled around Geralt, watching as he arched his sword, catching and slicing another bulb. That brought the Kayran to the brink, heaving its body onto the ice. The movement sent Y/n slightly back into the water, making her work harder to get back to her witcher. Geralt had two fend off two remaining tentacles, and by the time she had made it out ad to him, he cut another tendril. The creature shrieked, Geralt taking the opportunity of its open jaw to throw a bomb in.

Y/n threw herself under his arm, trying to help haul him off the ice, barley making it to the grass as the explosion shattered the rest of the ice cap. Y/n lowered the witch to the ground, calling to him. Her calls started to become gargled through the wetness behind her eyes. His skin was as white as now, blood splattering over his jaw. A shoulder paulron floated in the water, the tendril that hit him had ripped it off. The silver spikes and hardened leather cut through the meat that connected his neck to his shoulder, the gash deep. The bard’s hands were felt on her shoulders, but she easily shrugged him off. Furious eyes flew to him.

“Get the damn bags!” There was a response, but she couldn’t hear anything but ringing. Breathing became hard, and her whole body shook. Though, Y/n thought it was from fear.

Y/n had been a friend of Geralt’s for as long as the Bard had been, joining the two five years in. Y/n had been around to pick up the pieces burned from his heart in the aftermath of the toxic relationship he had shared with Yennefer. The only problem is that she hadn’t done anything with those pieces. She tried to glue them back to him with kind words and a caring hand, but the glue never seemed to dry. The warrior watched as he threw himself into contracts or brothels to try and forget the emotions he apparently wasn’t supposed to have. There had been multiple times where he had been on death’s door, but even then, she couldn’t bring herself to say something. While it broke her inside to be brought so close to never tell him how much she truly loved him, she was certain he didn’t feel the same. And because of that, she wanted him to be peaceful, not having to war over her confession as he passed into the afterlife.

Their medical chest was shoved into her, and her hands flew to her eyes trying to wipe away the tears. Jaskier’s lute calloused hand gently pressed a needle and surgical thread into her arm, and she leaned over Geralt brushing his hair away to get at his neck. Blood still poured, and she couldn’t wipe away much, but she could see the gash easy enough. Her fingers pinch the skin together, and she started to curse herself allowed for having a shaky hand.

“Y/n, let me.”

“No, I was backup, just-.” Her head leaned down, keeping her eyes close to the wound. It took what felt like hours, but really only minutes, to finally seal the wound. She grabbed White Honey, pouring some over the wound, and when nothing bubbled, she continued to clean in. A sharp breeze blew over the trio, and Jaskier stood between her and the brunt of it, his arms going around her again. Again, Y/n tried to shrug him off, her head snapping to look at him. “I need to focus-.”

“Y/n.” Her name was grunted from under her, and her heart skipped a beat. She turned, her hand grabbing Geralt’s cheek. Her smile was short lived as anger and worry flew over his features. Despite her small grunt of protest, Geralt shot forward. His hands clasped both of hers in one of his large ones, his other hand clamping behind her back, pulling her to his chest.

Y/n, confused, still let out a relieved sigh, feeling the heat of fear and adrenaline leave her body. Maybe too quickly. Why is she turning so cold? Once she tried to shift in his arms, she felt how tight her skin was. How even both Geralt’s and Jaskier’s hot breath felt like cold breezes. The bard left once more, stepping back to where he had been originally, picking up the discarded blanket. She looked to his angry eyes as he huffed, forcing the blanket around her shoulders, and back over Geralt. Her head fell onto the witcher’s uninjured shoulder as a wave of nausea hit. She could hear her hair crunch against his armor when her head fell, and she tried to stop the shaking that came from her body worse than ever before.

“If you throw that blanket off one more time,” Jaskier’s finger wagged as he threatened. “Geralt’s blood was already clotting at the edges, you could have used the half-second it takes to keep the blanket on.”

“Well-.”

“Y/n.” The wolf’s gruff tone rolled to her heart, tightening now not just from the cold, but from the twinge of failure. She hadn’t truly failed in anyway, but in her mind, his tone was displeased. It was, but she never wanted to hear it being presented towards her. “I would have been fine.” She tried to reply, but she had to pry her lips open, and when she had accomplished that, her voice waivered and her jaw continued to clamp close as she chattered.

“You don’t-t-t know that. I-it was ba-bad.”

“You don’t know that either.” Y/n forced her torso away from the man, regret unperceived yet as anger and worry flooded her.

“You wouldn’t-t open your…eyes, Geralt! For all I k-knew, you wouldn’t op-pen them again!” He huffed as he yanked her back against his chest. The bard’s hands were on her back, trying to rub heat back into it. The witcher tilted his head so her lips were flush against the corner of his own. When they landed there, a shiver racked through him, Y/n sighing at the heat flooding through their connected skin, feeling following and flooding her numbed parts. After a minute of the two trying to put heat back into their warrior, Y/n’s shivering was lessened immensely.

“I rather you be warm.” Geralt’s tone had softened once he felt her skin warm. She scoffed once more, her voice quiet, but finally even.

“How would you know if you had died?” She felt Jaskier’s fingers twitch on her back before they clench the blanket. The White Wolf pressing her face into his neck.

“If you had died from this. From helping me, even if I was brought to that point, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” The breeze once again carried silence, but only for a moment. “What would I have to live for if you were gone?” The woman’s heart pounded in her chest, and she nuzzled closer.

“I..I’m sorry. I feel the same, and I will happily trade my warmth for your safety.” Geralt tilted his head again, placing a kiss to where the corners of their lips meet.

#witcher imagine #witcher x reader #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #jaskier imagine

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padawan-jiejie · 4 years

Text

My Choice [3 / 3]

Summary: You are Anakin’s twin sister and Mace Windu’s apprentice with forbidden kind of interest in Master Kenobi. You’re there to witness your brother’s turn to the Dark side and have trouble dealing with the consequences. Five years later, you visit Obi-Wan on Tatooine…

PART 1 | PART 2

Word Count: 5.8k

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x reader

Warnings: !MyEnglish!, ptsd talk, talk about regrets, angsty!reader, but also comforting!Obi and fluffy!Obi and baby!Luke + one more character has a cameo and overly fluffy ending the reader is a bit of a crybaby in this one, sorry

A/N: THIS TOOK ME SO LONG - I SINCERELY APOLOGIZE!!! Also I haven’t read the comic about Obi-Wan and his time on Tatooine so… I just hope all of you are doing the best you can and enjoy 💖💖💖

Tagged: @retrobhaddie @multi-madison @treestarrrrrrrr @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @lysawayne

Five long years since the tragedy of the Jedi. Since their failure and the purge. After all those years, here you were. Flying in your stolen ship, fleeing away from your inevitable destiny. You ran out of supplies and had to take a break, stop somewhere safe. You had a planet in mind, it was close and you were certain no one from the Empire would be looking for you there if you don’t stay for long. It was the hole of the universe after all. But somethin- no, someone was calling for you to land there. So you set the coordinations to Tatooine. You used your connection to the Force to find the perfect place to hide your ship nearest the pull you sensed. You shut down all systems and took a deep breath. For the first time in years, you would step into the harsh, dry and sandy grounds of the planet you were born on. It wasn’t your home for a long time and you felt bitter and nostalgic looking outside. Yet as you were sitting there in the cockpit, you saw a familiar cloak walking towards your position from behind a mountain. At that moment, all your worries and doubts faded like a mist.

You ran out as fast as you could and stayed staring at the figure few feet away from you. Your heart was beating quickly from the excitement and when he pulled his hood off and looked directly into your eyes, it definitely felt like coming back home.

“Y/N?”

“Obi-Wan…”

Your voices were nothing but a whisper. A whisper that told a million words and more. Obi-Wan Kenobi was standing there in front of you and it was like yesterday when you said your last goodbyes. And he was stunned. He came to the conclusion that it was very likely he would never see you again in his lifetime after Order 66. He never quite made his peace with that and couldn’t believe in what was happening. He thought he was hallucinating. There you were, in all your beauty and grace. Your y/h/c hair was messy, y/e/c eyes red from fatigue and your brown robes dusty. Even like that you still managed to look as elegant as always.

Kenobi took a hesitant step towards you, fearing that you might disappear any second. You didn’t. He took another step closer and you jumped into his arms.

“I’ve missed so much, Obi-Wan!” You blurted out as tears of joy started streaming down your face. You held onto him tightly and sobbed and cried your heart out. As he came to reality, he too embraced you and buried his face in your neck. It wasn’t just a dream. You were indeed here. In his arms. Right where you belong.

“Y/N… I am so happy you’re actually here. You can’t imagine how bad it was being alone like this!” He lifted you up and spun around before putting you back on your feet.

You dried your tears, while he was holding you close to him by your waist. “Master Jedi, I… You… Just… Me…” You spent hours thinking about all the things you wanted to talk about with him but now as you finally had the chance to express yourself, your own mouth was failing you. You could not even make up one proper sentence.

“I-I’m… Umm… It’s been so long.”

“I know, I was afraid I would never see you again. I’m so glad that will not be the case.” He said with a blissful expression. You smiled at him and he kissed your forehead, sending a warm feeling to rush through your body.

“Obi… I could sense you. With the Force, I sensed you. I think.”

“I sensed you too. That’s why I came. I thought I was losing my mind. What would you be doing here, right? But now I see that my senses have not abandoned me yet.”

“No, they are still pretty decent.”

“Oh, decent you say? Well, what are you doing here anyway? I guess you’re not just stopping by to say hello to an old friend.”

“Actually, I ran out of supplies so I need to get some food and stuff. And I think I need to check this beauty for any damage.”

Obi-Wan frowned and touched his beard. “That is not the ship Bail Organa had given you. What happened to it and how did you get this one? It looks ancient.”

“Yeah, you really don’t wanna know how I got that. Maybe I’ll tell you later but it’s a long story that I don’t wanna get into right now.”

“If you think that would be for the best, I’ll leave it be. But come on. We’ll go to my little house and I’ll get you something to eat.”

“That would be so nice! I am starving! Um, but I shouldn’t leave her here unguarded.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nothing will happen to it. Trust me. And if anything does happen, I have my methods of getting it back.”

“Alright then. But um, I actually call her Soka. Because of the blue and white stripe there on the side.” Obi-Wan paused for a second, then smiled. With one of his arms around your shoulders, you two walked over to the house that he was apparently now living in. The place looked poor and you couldn’t help but think about the Jedi quarters you spent half your life in.

“That’s a whole another level, Kenobi. Even for you.”

“There wasn’t really much to be picking from.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll get you some soup.”

You sat down near a tiny window and pulled your legs to your chest. The heat reminded you of your childhood. How you used to help your mom with cleaning, cooking and then would go to play with Anakin and the other local children. Looking back at it now, you could tell that as much as it sucked, those were good times. Just you, your mamma and your big brother Ani. You signed at the thought, pictures from the past running through your head. Padmé, the handmaidens, Qui-Gon and young Obi-Wan with his cute padawan braid. He certainly did not enjoy it when you hopped next to him and started playing with it, asking him questions why is he letting grow only so small piece of his hair. A sad smiled appeared on your lips as you remembered the moment you met. He didn’t really believe in neither you or Ani and none of you could see how important you would become for each other. What a wonderful team you would make in the future. It wasn’t fair that it all fell apart out of nowhere.

“Here you go,” Obi-Wan said, holding out a bowl of soup, waking you up from your trance.

“Thank you.”

After you finished your meal and your stomach felt better and you and Obi-Wan were sitting next to each other, both trying to get a grasp of this situation. You haven’t seen each other in 5 years and it didn’t look like you accomplished much. Quite the opposite. Former Jedi Master looked dragged from his current life, you could see the wrinkles forming on his face. He looked a lot older now. For you, it was your eyes. Obi-Wan remembered how they would always light up whenever you had some crazy idea or simply when you were happy and oh, how he loved your smile! Your eyes had a sparkle in them whenever you smiled or laughed. Now? Your eyes felt cold, tired and filled with sorrow. As if you’ve grown tougher during the time of your separation. He pointed that out.

“That’s because I had to grow up. Suddenly I had no one to look after me and as you know my entire life I had someone by my side. Whether that be my mom, my brother or my master or… Padmé or you. Life had been hard on me, Obi. That’s just how it is. In my core, I feel the same but on the outside, I lost a lot of my faith. But don’t play it on me. You’re damaged too.”

“I am not denying that.”

“Speaking of which, how do you like living on Tatooine?”

He laughed. “Like isn’t the word I would use. More like tolerate. But as you can see, I manage. Nobody’s visiting but sometimes I go to check up on Luke - much to your step-brother’s distaste when he notices me.”

Obi-Wan would swear on the Force that as he mentions Luke’s name, for a split second your eyes filled with that spark he thought you lost. Maybe you weren’t that doomed after all.

“Luke? My nephew? How is he? Is he tall already? I mean, I know, he’s 5 but is he okay? Are they taking good care of him?”

“Not to worry, milady. They are maybe too protective of him but he’s not actually lacking anything. He’s in good hands.”

“What does he look like? Does he have brown hair like Padmé or is he blonde?”

Obi-Wan was amused by your interest in your nephew. He knew you would ask him about Luke but he didn’t realise how eager you would be to find out more about him. “As far as I am concerned, he is blonde. He’s just like his father with blue eyes and I am sure he’s going to be an excellent pilot. Not like someone.” He gave you a side-glace and you looked at him in disbelieve. Is he really challenging me like this?

“Of course! Make fun of my flying skills! You know, I got better since the Clone Wars and I no longer crash-land as you could see back there.”

“I am never going to forget the moment when you almost killed us while landing and Anakin turned at me and said: ‘See, master? And you complain about my flying!’ I will always remember the face you made! And you didn’t want to talk to us the entire day.”

“You two totally deserved it! Don’t try to sugar-code it!”

“Silent treatment never resolved anything, Y/N. Besides, you could have us all killed.”

“No, we are not going down that road. I did save you so shut it, Jedi! I too have some tricks up my sleeve - you are not as perfect as you think you are.”

“Oh is that so? I thought I was being completely irresistible!”

Your body unintentionally reacted with a flush on your cheeks to his statement. Mostly because it was absolutely true and thanks to the fact that you ran out of ideas of how to out-sass him, you just proclaimed: “Okay, I give up.”

“And what were you doing this whole time? I suppose, you still don’t want to tell me the story behind the ship.”

“Well, no. But I was mostly just moving around the Outer Rim. Nothing too special. I wanted to stay off the radar for as long as possible and I think I was quite good at it. You know, putting my stealth-mastery into practice once again. You wouldn’t be proud of me though. I tried to be true to what I was taught since I was nine. To be a good person and to protect peace in the places I went to and I tried to suppress my emotions about all this but… I couldn’t do that. I thought that the Republic were the good guys and I thought that the Jedi, although not exactly always right, were too the good guys. We had each other’s back and now all of that is gone and call me stupid or naive for having hart time adjusting to that. Sometimes it just gets too rough and too much to take, knowing that all of what I was fighting for tumbled down… I’m sorry, it’s just been getting to me lately.”

Obi-Wan put a hand on your shoulder. “I understand. It wasn’t easy for neither of us but it was worse for you. I know how miserable you were when Yoda told you that you should stay out of Luke and Leia’s lives.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s bothering me.”

“What is it then? I am here, you can talk to me about anything. I might not have the solution but I am listening. If that’s enough?”

You were tense. How would you tell him this? How were you supposed to say it out loud? You could still see it in front of your eyes and it was haunting you in your dreams. Never in a million years would you thought that this would happen. After all that you’ve been through you thought he knew better and a part of you still felt like he didn’t deserve it. You closed your eyes to calm yourself down.

You swallowed. “Have you felt… something? Even if it was just in the back of your head…Do you know anything about Anakin?”

Now Obi-Wan knew what you meant. His hand rubbed your back as he sighed. He heard about him a couple of weeks ago. Anger, sadness and helplessness were boiling inside him. He thought Anakin died on Mustafar and when he overheard that Darth Vader was actually causing some problems out there in the Galaxy, he was horrified.

“I found out some time ago. I couldn’t believe it.”

You bit on your lip to stop the sobs coming out from your throat. Salty water blurred your vision. Your heart was aching. You somehow always felt that he wasn’t killed, the feeling of your brother was still present but to learn that he is now a huge threat in the galaxy was not only shocking but also tragic and traumatizing. You blinked and teardrops fell down. You quickly brushed them away and took three deeps breaths.

“Forgive me my sentiment but… It’s hard to deal with that because I remember all those times during the Clone Wars and despite the fact that it was a war, it was actually… Some of the best time of my life. We lost our friends, we were shaken and not once and we risked our lives for a better cause and we were heroes thanks to that but we… We had each other. Me, Anakin, Padmé and you. Even Ahsoka and Rex and Cody! It felt like a family. Yeah, a very dysfunctional family but… It was something to let you know where you belong… Where home is. If I wasn’t on a mission with Ani and Snips, I’d be with Padmé or you, just having the time of my life. It wasn’t perfect but if I knew what was to come, I would certainly more appreciate it then! Now I just…” You covered your face in your palms, crying. “I wish I could just forget that this is happening.” Echoed your voice from behind your hands.

Kenobi felt your despair and pulled you into him, letting you cry your feelings out while holding you in his arms. He himself didn’t exactly process the events yet, but he knew that you needed his support right now much more than he needed yours. He waited for you for five long years and he was ready to wait for next 50 if it meant he could see you one more time. Now he didn’t want to make your issues seem smaller because he felt betrayed too. He wanted to help you get through this so he kept on rocking you back and forward until you looked up. He caressed your cheek and lightly kissed your forehead. He was well aware of what your supposed family meant for you so he decided to let you feel like you still have at least a part of it. Because you do. Dispite his Jedi teaching, he would never let you go.

“Tomorrow I’m going to take you to see Luke. Owen will probably throw us out but if it is going to help you, I’ll take you there.”

“Thank you, Obi-Wan. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it, Y/N.”

You melted into his embrace and listened to his heartbeat. He was a soothing presence to you. He’s always been. After getting over your depressive emotions, you found a warm feeling creeping up from inside you. You buried it deep down so it wouldn’t bring you pain while you and Obi were apart. As you were so close there, it was coming back up to the surface. This time, though, there was no Code, no Jedi Council, no forbidden attachments to make you feel wrong about what you felt. Obi-Wan sensed this change in mood and smiled to himself. He felt it coming back too.

After you both showered - separately, may I add, we’re not there yet - and changed into more comfortable clothes, you decided to go to sleep. He insisted you keep the bed to which you replied: “Obi-Wan, there’s no way you’re sleeping on the floor and I want to feel like I am not alone in here so just… Are you up for cuddles? Please? I need my cuddling buddy back.”

He just shook his head in amusement and didn’t say anything. He couldn’t reject you at this point. Not to mention that when you were together on missions to deal with some Jedi business with no one around, snuggles were on a daily basis. Although I must say, there was one time when Anakin appeared out of the blue, saw you two getting way too close for friends and wouldn’t shut up about it for a week. It was kind of cue though.

Obi-Wan tugged himself under the sheets next to you on his not-so-comfortable bed and lay on his back. You put your arm around him and placed your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady and calming. Even though you were tired, you couldn’t close your eyes to fall asleep. You had to wonder what is Luke like and what will you feel when you see him. You held him once when he was born and couldn’t help but wonder if he is Force-sensitive too. It would be only logical.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Umhm…”

“Do you think that Luke and Leia should be raised to be Jedi?”

“Well, I hope so. I don’t know about Leia but Luke is so much like Anakin when he was a child, it would surprise me if he wouldn’t grow up to be one.”

“Who’s going to show him?”

“I am. If you’ll stay, you can help.”

You tighten your grip around him. “I don’t know. The problem is that I and Ani had such a bond through the Force and I still feel him and I fear that if I stay here, he may be able to find me.”

“Why would he come back to the planet that represents everything he despises? Slavery, his mother’s death, sand.”

“I know but he had the chance to kill me before as a Vader and he didn’t. What if the Sith have some plans with me? What if they want me to turn to the Dark side?”

“I highly doubt that would happen.” He protectively put his arms around you. “Mace Windu taught you about the Dark side and when they could turn you to it completely, they had no interest in doing that. Why would they suddenly change their minds?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’re right but the possibility of hurting you or Luke is making me go nuts.”

“I understand that but again, Anakin knew that even with your knowledge of the Force and with our feelings for each other being strictly against the Code, you stayed loyal to the Order. Even now when things are so uncivilized, you still decided not to turn, that shows your strength and even if Vader senses you, he will see that.”

“You mean he would rather kill me than try to turn me? Yeah, cool, can’t wait.”

“You know what I meant. You don’t need to worry about him. If he comes, which he won’t, he’ll have to get over me first, anyway.” He kissed your hair and whispered: “Good night, my love.”

You spent so much time in space and on cold planets that now walking around the sands of Tatooine was an absolute horror. You were sweating and thirsty and the two suns high on the sky were blinding your vision. You and Obi were on your way to Owen and Beru’s moisture farm. You never saw or met them but Ani told you about them. He blamed them a little bit for not searching for Shmi and you couldn’t help but feel the same. You were sure they were good people but at the same time maybe if they did something more, your mom would be still alive. You knew these thoughts were not the Jedi way but let’s face it, you and your brother were never the perfect examples of the Jedi.

Obi-Wan stopped and pointed into the distance where you could see a small dot on the horizon.

“That is where they live but maybe you should go on your own. Owen isn’t really fond of me and if you arrive alone and say that you are his step-sister, he’s probably gonna let you in. I’ll wait for you somewhere here.”

“Okay. Thank you, Obi-Wan. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome but umm, I changed my name.”

“You changed your name? To what?”

“I call myself Ben Kenobi now.”

You sighed. “Satine used to call you that.”

He just nodded and you smiled at him. She meant so much for him when they were young that you understood why he did that. He wanted to pay her some tribute. Besides, you would have done the same if you were at his place.

“Well, Ben, wish me luck.”

He squizzed your hand and started to walk away. You swallowed and walked the other way, towards your distant family house. You were nervous and excited at the same time. You desperately wanted to meet Luke but you didn’t know what would Owen and Beru think about you being there. As you almost reached your destination, a sight in front of you made you stop in your tracks. There was a little blonde boy sitting in sand playing with some droid parts. He didn’t seem to notice you so you stood there amazed. He looked exactly like his father. You felt tears of happiness mixed with nostalgia burn in your eyes. You covered your mouth as Luke’s toy fell apart and he mumbled under his breath. You sniffed and made your way to where he was sat.

Luke turned around startled. “Hello. Who are you?”

“Hi…” you whispered, gaining strength to speak more. “Umm, you’re Luke Skywalker, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. But I asked you first.” He made a grimace of childish anger and you had to smile. You dropped to his level and held out your hand. “My name is Y/N Skywalker.”

His expression changed. Obviously he knew that name and kept on wandering his eyes between your hand and your face.

“You are my dad’s sister?”

You nodded.

“Uncle and aunt told me about you. They said you would never come.” He took your hand and held onto it.

“I am sorry. For everything. I am so sorry, Luke. You were supposed to live with your parents somewhere else and enjoying your life very differently.”

“I like it here.” He was genuine but you knew that one day this place would be too tiny for him.

“Okay.” You stroke his cheek and you sensed the Force in him but he pulled away.

“I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

That hurt. You were a stranger. He didn’t know you and even if you loved your nephew so much, this was the first time he saw you.

“That’s right, you shouldn’t. I hope that one day I won’t be a stranger to you anymore but for now… It was lovely to meet you, Luke.”

“Sure. It was lovely to meet you too, umm…Should I call aunt Y/N?”

“That’d be great.”

“What would be great?”

Both your heads shot up as you heard a voice. There was a man with scruffy in grey robes and he looked mad.

“Luke, come here.”

“It’s okay, uncle. This is Y/N. She’s my dad’s sister. You told me about her.”

You stood up and Owen frowned at you. He shook your hand, though he was suspicious.

“Luke is telling the truth. I am Anakin Skywalker’s sister and just came to say hello. I never had a chance to properly meet him and I stopped by and I couldn’t go without meeting my nephew. You too. From what I understand, you are my step-brother. Thank you for taking care of the boy.”

Owen crossed his arms over his chest. “Kenobi told you where to find us?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I’m glad that we finally met but I don’t want your Jedi stuff anywhere near Luke. His parents had life bad enough and I don’t want him to get hurt like they and you did.”

You blinked confused. You sensed Luke’s connection to the Force and you knew he would become aware of it sooner or later. “We got burned. Many times, I admit but neither Ben Kenobi nor I mean any harm to him or to you.”

“I believe you. On the other hand, why add insult to injury?”

A sandstorm was raging outside. You were supposed to be on your way by now but something always came into it, making it impossible for you to leave the planet. You’ve been living with Obi-Wan for 9 days now and as much as you were scared something unfortunate was going to happen because of your sibling bond, you couldn’t deny how your mood improved over time. You finally had a moment to breathe, to live, to drop the worries because when he was around simply being himself, it was so easy to forget the reality. It would come back to hit you later but when he was telling you stories, he heard in the Mos Eisley Cantina and you two would laugh, it didn’t matter. When you two cooked and tried to combine both of your (anti)talents, sometimes it resulted in friendly arguments and spilt tea. At night, you would fall asleep in each other’s arms only to wake up to the warmth of the body next to you and the calming feeling of safety. If there would be anyone to witness it, they’d say they’re watching a married couple doing normal things. It felt right being there, being like that, although it was a bit strange at first. It made you feel wanted, welcomed and loved. It gave you a sense of much-needed belonging. Little did you know that Obi-Wan felt the same.

It was already late at night but you couldn’t sleep and the sandstrom made you feel uncomfortable. It had been 15 years since the last time you experienced one and you didn’t like remembering it. It brought up old fears to the surface. Lucky for you, though, former Jedi Master managed to stay up as well to keep you company.

“Will you finally tell me where did you get the ship?”

You smirked. “From a friend.”

“A friend? What friend?”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“I am not! I am just… curious.”

You turned to sit on the bed face to face with him. “We’re not the only survivors of the Purge. There are more Jedi in the galaxy.”

“I knew we couldn’t be the only ones!” His eyes filled with hope.

“I met a guy called Kal Cestis. He was a padawan when it happened. He helped me to get my new ship. Not exactly new but better than nothing since my original one broke down.”

“Hmm… Interesting. Do you know anything about Ahsoka?”

“Unfortunately no. I haven’t seen her anywhere. Not that I’ve been to many places but if she’s alive, she’s hidden well.”

“I don’t think she gave up like that. She must be somewhere out there.”

“I really hope that she is. I miss her.”

“We both do,” Obi replied and caressed your cheek. You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes. It was an intimate moment that you decided to delve into.

Obi-Wan was watching you, trying to print this image in his memory. He never wanted to forget you and the way you made him feel. It was precious and sacred to him. You were captivating, graceful and he was thanking the Force every day for bringing you back into his miserable life. He didn’t deserve you and yet he never wanted to let go off you. He couldn’t. He knew it was selfish of him to want you all for himself but he was too attached.

“Y/N?”

“Um?” You opened your eyes to look into his. You were cantured by his intense gaze and your lips parted. You weren’t used to him staring at you like that as if you were the most devine creature in the galaxy and your cheeks turned the deepest shade of pink.

“Can I kiss you?”

Your stomach flipped and your held your breath for a second. You blinked several times before placing your hand over his, still resting on your cheek. “Yes.” was a simple word but there was so much more behind it.

Obi-Wan lowered his head to your level and cupped your face to pull you to him. You couldn’t believe it. After so many years of loving this man and having to hide it, you were able to finally express it. You waited for him to softly press his lips to yours. It was sweet, slow and filled with so much emotion. All of the unsaid ‘I love you’s, all of the suppressed feelings, all of it finally blossemed into this special moment. Electricity ran through both of you at the slight touch. It was new and you couldn’t quite put a finger on this feeling inside you. It was your first kiss after all! Obi-Wan was your first crush, first love, now first kiss and most definitelly he was going to be your first also in another way.

He pulled away to see your reactions but you didn’t let him. Your hands shifted to his neck and brought him back to you. He started kissing you properly this time and let himself loose. Deepening the kiss, he found himself hovering over you and soon you were lying under him. You both laughed as your back hit the bed. He kissed you one more time and lay down onto his side next to you. You stared in his eyes that reflected all the kindness in the world.

“Y/N, I know where you stand, I know Master Yoda told you to stay away from Luke and Leia and I know that you’re afraid what would happen if you stay here longer but please. We’ll figure it out somehow… I love you, Y/N. I have for years now.” He brushed your hair out of your forehead and played with it for a while. “I can’t let you go after this. I won’t. I wanted to be with you for so long and now that we are finally allowed to be ourselves freely, I am begging not to go. Please.”

“I have already made up my mind and I am not backing up.”

He kissed the tip of your nose to shut you and took your hand in his. “Yes. It is up to you in the end. I can’t make decisions for you, I know. I don’t want you to go but the last thing that I do want is to be forcing you into something. Even if you'll leave… I promise that I will wait for you. I have waited ages, I can wait a little longer. I’d really rather not but you are worth it, stars.”

“Obi-Wan…”

He smiled sadly and it broke your heart. He was giving you freedom even when he was lonely. He was fully aware of your stubborness but this time you gave in.

“You are the love of my life. You’ve always been. I have loved you so much all this time and I always will. I want to stay but I am too scared that something’s gonna happen to you or to Luke so I… I thought about it and…” You squeezed his hand. “I decided to cut myself of from the Force so that I could have a life with you.”

“What?!”

“I have made my peace with it. I am like a beacon to Vader if he decides to search for me, this is the only way I can have what I want. You.”

Obi was staring in disbelief. You just decided what your faith was going to be and Obi-Wan was the happiest man alive. He was shooked at first but soon happiness and pure joy took over him and he hugged you, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. You pulled him even closer to you as you let the sandstorm outside be completelly forgotten.

It’s been about a week since you and Obi were living officially together in your new home. It wasn’t ideal nor perfect but hey! What is in this galaxy, right?

You were walking hand-in-hand from a town where you successfully sold your ship, Soka. It was a little sad since she reminded you of your adveture with Kal and of your friend Snips but at the same time, you were most likely never going to need her again. Hopefully.

The two suns were shinning bright, tanning your skin. The course and rough sand was cracking underneath your weight as you walked. The dry air made you thirsty and at some point you couldn’t help but cough. You two were wandering around the place without putting much thought into it and before you knew it, you pauzed.

“Won’t we reach the spot were you first landed on Tatooine if you continue walking that way?”

“I think we will.”

“So this is where it all started. The Skywalker’s journey straight to the botom!”

“Not straight.”

You gave him a you-know-what-I-mean look.

“I’m just teasing. Sorry, Y/N.”

“You always are, I don’t mind but... Actually, you know what? I think I want to change my name too.”

“What? Why? Your name is so lovely!”

“Because it is my choice, not yours, mine. I guess I want to asociate myself with something different. I want to disconnect from my past and focus on the future. Luke’s gonna carry on the Skywalker legacy. It wouldn’t fair if no one carried on yours. Besides, Y/N Kenobi sounds pretty great, doesn’t it?”

Obi-Wan was staring at you with open mouth. “You want to take my last name?”

You put your arms around his shoulders. “I do. I mean, you’re not getting married but still you can take this as a sign of my devotion. I truly, deeply love you and I want to be all yours - body, soul, even the surname.”

He didn’t know exactly how to react to that, so he just crashed his lips onto yours. He was astonished. “I love you so much, my sweet Y/N. You are the greatest thing that happened to me. Although not the name, I am yours too. Body and soul.”

You pulled him into a tight embrace. People passing you by were giving you strange looks but it’s not like any of you cared. You simply stayed in the moment, forgetting all your worries. It was a promising day for you two, after all. Promising for your relationship but most importantly it meant a new start. It was an enterance to a brighter state of existance and a new stage in life. A stage where you could finally be a little selfish and build a life for yourselves. A life where your and Obi’s love, was the only thing that mattered.

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beerecordings · 4 years

Text

Poison - Chapter 5

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4

So this was going to be the final section but it was longer than I expected! So there will be one part after this, I think, or one part and an epilogue. It should be posted next week :)

Marvin is, at last, rescued. But whether or not his brothers have been quick enough to truly save him - and what is to be done with the broken amalgamation of Anti and Chase, bound together in confusion and agony by a possession which out-stayed its welcome - is yet to be seen.

Trigger warnings for trauma reactions and hospitalization, including intubation, major illness, and forced psychiatric hold with restraints and drugging (Anti-Chase is the one in psychiatric holding). There are parts of this that could be interpreted as soft!Anti, but mostly it’s just Chase’s influence on the merged character they’ve made.

All that being said... hope you enjoy and thanks for reading :)

-----------

white

room.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, whispers the machine pumping oxygen into his lungs with a hiss.

The only noise.

Silence and oxygen.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Hisssss.

Can't feel anything at all.

Even his skin is a stranger.

Untouchable.

Colors and images and words with a vile sound to them – memories, realizes some part of him – filter through his mind like dust through the air.

Meaningless.

Empty as a white

white

room.

White coat. He stares up at it. It moves. Someone's wearing it.

White sheets. They do not fidget. His body is frozen beneath them.

White man.

His blue eyes are the only color in the room.

White

room.

Dark.

Cool.

Silent.

“Schneep,” his mouth attempts, just once, and then he is asleep again.

Henrik lets himself touch his wrist. Only for a moment. Just to feel the heart still beating beneath his own fingers.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, and hopes it reaches him somewhere, a light in dark dreams. “Stay with me, my brother.”

The first night is the vital one and he’s done everything he can.

Now he has to wait.

“I’ll finish up the last of it,” murmurs Kaashif, a nurse he’s worked with for two years now, touching his shoulders. “Go check on your brothers. Get something to eat. Your hands are good ones to be in, Henrik.”

“You can say that if he survives,” answers Henrik, clapping him on his shoulder and sending one look back at Marvin, small and as white as a gutted bird in that great blank bed.

Stay with me, my brother.

--------------

The cool walls of Henrik’s office surround him, comforting in their familiarity. The table is glass, a customary splattering of papers discarded across the smooth surface. A Newton’s cradle with smiley faces on the balls that Chase bought for him rock back and forth, back and forth, soothing white noise to Jackie’s ears. He stares up at the abstract blue and orange painting on a full meter of canvas pinned up above Henrik’s chair. Jameson made it for him himself. Just some nice colors. Just something to brighten up his office. For you, Schneep.

Hospitals can be scary. Jackie knows. But for his family, this place in particular has never been an omen for them. This is where they come to pick up Henrik after long days of work. This is where they’ve shared over-priced cafeteria food and smuggled-in Taco Bell at four in the morning. This is a piece of their city, of their home, of their family. Most of the staff know them by name, or at least as Henrik’s brothers. They can get roof access just by begging Cameron the security guard hard enough. And even when they’ve come here because someone was sick or Jackie broke a bone or that one time Marvin stepped on a piece of glass after breaking a crystal ball that wasn’t working, this was never the place to come to out of fear. It was the place to come because they knew Henrik was in the hospital, and Henrik would make it better.

JJ signs something incoherent and burrows deeper into Jackie’s shoulder, sighing against his shirt. Jackie wants to smile at his sleeping face, but he’s so tired, and so full of adrenaline, and so, so, so scared.

They’ve waited for hours by the time Henrik finally slips into his office behind them, letting the door shut behind him with a tired click. There’s a long silence. Jackie closes his eyes. Please don’t let them be gone.

“You made yourself at home,” Henrik teases, stepping forward, though his voice cracks slightly on delivery. He has a point, however. Wrappers from vending machine candy and a couple bottles of fizzy drinks lie abandoned around the chairs in front of his desk, the drawers of which have been ripped open in search of entertainment – or, better put, distraction. Not that the caffeine or the many drawings of sheep given to Henrik by Chase’s kids were enough to save Jackie from the full, shaking weight of his fear. He strokes his thumb across his little brother’s wrist and reminds himself to breathe steady.

Henrik moves to Jackie’s side and puts a hand on his free shoulder. He doesn’t even look up. His tired eyes have drifted down from his painting to the glass that makes up Henrik’s back wall, where snow is drifting out of the sky.

Henrik crouches down beside him and puts his head against his arm, and for a long moment they just rest, together, listening to Jameson breathe.

“Can you talk?” asks Henrik. “Do you need somewhere quiet to go? The lights off?”

“I’m okay, Schneep,” whispers Jackie, touching the bandage over Henrik’s cheek where Marvin burned him. “Just worried. Is he…”

“He’s alive.”

Jackie’s gloved hand squeezes around Jameson’s, making his little brother’s sleepily-clutched rosary clink and glitter in the starlight. Henrik looks up to see Jackie’s face squeezed just as tight, his eyes closed.

“Is he going to be alright?”

“I can’t make any promises,” whispers Henrik. “JJ seem okay to you?”

“You heard that he fainted just about as soon as we got here?”

“Magic is exhausting. I could have gotten him a bed somewhere.”

“He just wanted to be in your office. He likes it in here. There’s been a nurse checking in on him anyway. You know how much all the nurses here love him.”

“Yeah, cause he’s always bringing baked goods to the break room for ‘my big brother and his coworkers.’”

“Aka, being the cutest person in the world.”

“Yeah. Well, when Marvin is better, he’ll know what to do to take care of magical exhaustion better than I do. And he can teach JJ everything he needs to know. And everything will be okay.”

Jackie stares up at him, seeing himself reflected in Henrik’s glasses. His fear reflected – shared – in Henrik’s eyes.

“What happened?” he whispers. “Tell me everything.”

What a fucking night. What a fucking night. Henrik laughs without knowing why and goes to sit down on his side of the desk, burying his face in his hands.

Jackie waits, watching him. Eventually he leans down and picks up a Dr. Pepper, sliding it towards his brother.

“I’m going to pretend this is whiskey,” says Henrik, and he pops the cap and chugs the half that remains, making Jackie give him a faint, amused smile, which is all that matters to Henrik right now, really, because it’s all he can do.

He explains to Jackie what he can, trying not to go too fast. Jackie sits there holding Jameson and listening quietly to Henrik talking about things like renal failure and sedatives for seizures and a cool white room with all stimuli set to a minimum and muscle relaxants pumping into their brother to stop any more convulsions – not to mention what sounds like enough activated charcoal to detox a sickly elephant. Marvin’s intubated, Henrik explains, and extremely unwell. He won’t know for a couple days how bad the damage to his body will be. He could still die. And no, they can’t see him. No one can. Not for days.

“I could wear all white,” Jackie tries to bargain, voice rasping. “I could be really quiet and not touch him.”

“You can’t, Jackie. The risk is too high.”

“I can’t just sit with him? I can’t see him through the window of the room?”

“There is no window to the room. He has to rest. Alone. Quiet. No color. As little movement as he can. He won’t even be conscious for a couple days.”

Jackie bangs his fist against the arm of the chair in an effort to be contradictory, but he doesn’t take his head off Jamie’s. He buries himself against his brother’s hair, hoping Henrik won’t see him cry.

“Listen, Jackie… I need to give you the medical professional talk now, okay? I need you to know this. I’m not trying to be pessimistic and I’m not giving up hope, just – ”

“It’s okay, Schneep,” says Jackie softly. “I already know most people who get poisoned this badly die.”

A silence falls between them. Henrik stares at his own hands and says nothing.

“Cottonmouth?” he manages eventually, looking up at his brother.

“Dead,” mumbles Jackie. “I’ll let the cops handle that one. It’s horrible, really... even for her. Wonder what Moccasin will do.”

“Right,” says Henrik, his voice a little dark, and Jackie thinks that his little brother doesn’t think it’s so horrible at all, that she got what she deserved. “Yeah.”

Jameson shuffles sleepily on Jackie’s shoulder. The snow is quieting outside.

“And Chase?” Jackie whispers.

Found after all this time. Found after all this time.

Found like this.

“What did the police say?” asks Henrik.

“They almost tried to take him back to the station! I could have pounded them for it! But I looked after him til the emergency responders said he should go to the psych ward of the hospital. Wasn’t going to let pigs touch my little brother.”

“Is he going to be arrested once he’s better?”

“I don’t think so. Max is pulling some strings for us. He knows Chase isn’t… himself. He’s going to buy us time to deal with this.”

“Well, if they do try to put him on trial, I can always smuggle him back to Germany.”

Jackie laughs despite himself, covering his face with his hands for a moment, trying to keep it together.

“I won’t let anything happen to him. He can’t, like, glitch away, right?”

“As far as we can tell. He’s heavily drugged.”

“And how is he?”

“I, um. I don’t know.”

“What?”

Henrik looks up at him, face drawn and guilty.

“Schneep, they told me you were looking after him.”

“I meant to. I mean, I wrote up his treatment plan and everything and I had the nurses give him everything he needs. But I couldn’t go in there. I got – I got…”

Henrik trails off, mouth pursed. Jackie sighs and pulls his face up from JJ’s hair.

He got scared.

“He doesn’t really look like Chase, does he?” he murmurs.

“Or act like him,” Henrik all but whimpers, clutching at the white sleeves of his coat that hide the pale string scars underneath. “He acts like… like him, and I couldn’t…”

“It’s okay,” says Jackie. “It’s not your fault, Schneep. I’d be nervous too.”

“Will you go with me?” he asks.

“You still want to see him?”

“Yes.” Henrik tries to look resolute when he nods. “I do, yes. I need to help him with this. I need to find a way to save him, Jackie. I think I can do it. If you’re there.”

Jackie grins at him, hallowed by the stars and the snow outside. There’s his Schneep. That’s his tough little brother.

“Course, man. That’s what I do. They don’t call me Jackieboyman for nothing.”

“They call you that because you are a dork. Come on. He’s in the psych ward.”

“Wait, what about Jamie?”

“Oh, I talked with the nurse. He’s just sleeping. For once. So he should be okay to keep resting a while. Call me when he’s possessed and/or someone’s fed him gopher poison in revenge for imprisoning their drug lord partner.”

“Don’t even joke, von Schneeplestein. Don’t even joke.”

He picks Jameson up and readjusts him in the chair, leaving him sleeping deep and dreamless beneath blue and orange canvas, warm with Jackie’s hoodie wrapped around his shoulders.

At least Jackie gets to see this one resting.

Now it’s time to go poke a bear.

-----------------

“Where am I?” he asks himself, staring at the ceiling above him.

White ceiling. White bedsheets. White light, painful on the eyes after so long in unconsciousness.

“I think… a hospital?” he answers, his voice weak, his tongue terribly thick in his mouth. “Please, no words… oh, I ache…”

He’ll think instead. It’s easier.

This is a hospital?

I think it is.

I don’t want to be here! Let’s get out.

Look, in the doorway… the men who look like me.

He turns his head more fully towards the door, breathing anxiously.

Those are the men I ran away from?

I don’t remember… did I? Oh, our head… we have to lie back down.

He sinks into the pillows and nearly passes out again, his head throbbing and his limbs sluggishly motivated, tasting blood in his mouth.

He doesn’t remember much of that day he went away.

In fact, he doesn’t remember much at all.

He thinks there was a train that day, or maybe not a train. A train underground. He was holding… something soft. He was holding something soft. He was smiling.

He was on his way to see his children.

He was on his way to see his kids. Yes, he was smiling. He was smiling very big.

The subway rattled merrily around him as he sat clutching the stuffies he had bought them to his chest, his eyes bright, grinning at the exhausted assemblage of people headed to work around him. Things were good, and Hunter had been excited to see him on the phone, and Stacy was going to go out of town and let him stay with them, and everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be better than okay. Everything was going to be perfect.

And then he wasn’t who he was anymore.

There was nothing theatrical about it, really, nothing like in the movies, with throes of passionate fighting against the thing inside your head or a look of horror as the eyes turned black in the mirror. Anti did sit suddenly down beside him, yes, emerging from the crowd though he had not been there when the subway doors closed, and Chase’s heart took flight like a bird after a gunshot cuts through the air. He said nothing. Clutched Izzy’s stuffed seal tighter to his chest. Tried to breathe. Anti did not speak either.

A few minutes later, he was aware of a change in himself, and then he was lost, and as time went on, Chase only grew more and more lost within the dark tangle of trees and bristle and thorn in which he found himself. He cried out for his family. No one could hear him. He struggled. His hands tore open on the sharp wood and blood would seep through, moment to moment, staining together his consciousness and Anti’s, embedding him deep within the forest until, at last, he looked up and found Anti looking back at him, gripping his shirt, his arm, his hair, his body, desperate to tear him out of the forest they shared.

Entirely without success.

This was not what either of them meant to have happen. They were bound and bolted together, both caught in a constant recoil and a constant coming together. Anti was as tangled up as he was. Their blood seeped into the earth. Eventually the creature that remained – fae and man and monster and brother – forgot that there had ever been two to begin with at all. There was just him.

In pain.

And in confusion so great as to match it.

But despite that confusion, he thinks, now, as his eyes flicker open, that he recognizes the man in front of him, the one who has come into the room, leaving the other out in the hall, looking anxious and defensive.

He had recognized the other man a couple days ago, hadn’t he? Hanging from handcuffs? Convulsing with poison? They had stalked him, he thinks, and then, when he saw him in those chains, something in inside him snapped like a tree branch on the forest floor. Who was he? What was his name?

I wanted to see him die so badly.

He… loved me…

“Chase?”

He blinks drowsily, trying to come awake.

“Let me the fuck out,” he hears his own voice, thick and strained. “No…”

He is hand-cuffed to both sides of the white bed.

Confinement. No. Not this. He can’t bear it. To be chained down. Filthy mortal flesh, keeping him stuck, keeping him static, his whole being drowning under muscle and bone, unable to get out from the man’s body, from… his body?

We’re okay. I’m okay. Stay calm. Here I am.

He’s nothing but a sniveling excuse for a healer anyway.

Yes. He’s pathetic. I am strong. I’m here. We’re here. Hold on to me.

“Chase. It’s me. Are you okay? Please say something.”

He looks up again, eyes burning.

“Oh,” he says, feeling a smile, a sneer, grow malignantly across his face. “I knew I recognized you somewhere.”

“Yes,” the man whispers, eyes warming with relief. “Yes, my brother. It’s me. It’s me.”

“Of course,” he whispers back. “I still remember how beautiful you were chained to my basement floor. My lovely little torturer. I knew you’d come back to me one day, my doctor.”

Henrik’s body tenses, his pupils going small, his heart caught in his throat.

“I’m not scared of you,” he manages after a minute, but his eyes turn down to the ground, his posture shrinks small and submissive, and his hands clutch together as though he can hold his own heart and protect it inside of them. In the hallway, Jackie puffs up with worry, not allowed into the room by the shadowy figures Anti can see guarding the door. “I want Chase. Give him back to me.”

“Give him back to me,” he mocks, tilting his head, and when his eyes flash black Henrik whimpers and leaps up from his chair, jerking back towards the door and almost falling over his own feet. “Stupid little doctor.”

“Where’s Chase? I want him! You’re not him! You stole him from me!”

“I am and always have been the AntiJack,” he laughs, tearing against his restraints, panting as he tries to force the flesh to glitch, but, oh, he feels so heavy, so sluggish, so pinned down. Needles protrude from his arms. He cannot reach back to tear them out. “The one who is not him and the one who pretends to be. I am the reverse and the imposter. I… I am… ungh, Schneep, what did you even give me?”

“Enough calmatives to keep a horse on its knees,” spits back Henrik, wiping his hair shakily from his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Little fucker,” he mumbles, feeling his head drop onto his chin. “Bet you had to have the psych ward nurses do it, huh? Little man? You were always such a little coward, Schneep… letting everybody else do the big boy work… sitting in your little office, sorting through your papers, pretending you can do anything to save anyone. You just… you… fuck, I h-hate this flesh… fucking let me go.”

He tries to palm at the old scar on his head, groaning as pain lances through his brain. Another one of the random aches the body gets. He needs to lie down and sleep through it if he can. That’s what he does when the body is in pain. Maybe get some of the bitter, fermented liquids that humans like to help him quiet himself down. He’s gotten such a taste for whiskey. He can hear himself mumbling, trying to reorient himself, and his hands burn for his neat little notebooks. He has to keep track. He can’t just lose himself. He can’t just keep losing such big pieces of himself.

Hold on. Hold on to me. We’re okay!

I’ll get out of this like I always get out of trouble.

Yes, I’m okay. Focus on this little bastard. Confining me… who does he think he is?

We should rip him open like a candy bar wrapper.

“I can’t let you go,” the doctor tells him, slipping nervously back towards him. “Don’t scratch at your palms like that.”

“I’m going to cut you up like the little sardine I always meant to make of you,” he purrs, sing-song, scratching away at his palms until the blood comes, relieved for the pain to focus on. “I’m going to pluck the feathers off you, little bird, alouette, gentille alouette, alouette, je te plumerai.”

His own singing begins to calm him, his exhausted eyes flickering shut. He thinks the song was an old lullaby anyway.

“I will pluck your feathers out, I will pluck your feathers out. On your head, on your head, and your neck, and your neck, and your back, and your back… and your chest, alouette… ungh, too much medicine, Schneep… my head hurts. I’m going to skin you and make you into a hat for Jay… for J… for the other boy, the one with the… what’s his name, I…”

Henrik touches his bloodied palm.

He stills.

The doctor wipes the wet blood gently from his hands and bandages them. The soft pads of his fingers drift along the veins of his palms. Of his wrists. Of his fingers.

Someone is touching him.

Someone is touching him, touching him gently.

“Marvin?” he hears himself say. “Brother? Are you there? Where are you?”

“He’s resting,” whispers Henrik. “I am looking after him.”

“Yes,” he says. “Schneep. Look after him. Alouette, gentile alouette, alouette, je te plumerai…”

A needle is jammed into his throat. He screams, his fingers tightening around the hand holding his own and digging down into the back of it, his black eyes flashing open to stare at Henrik even as the world seeps rapidly away.

“You won’t be in control much longer, Anti,” murmurs Henrik, some deep and agonized fury glowing in his eyes as he shoves him back onto the bed. “Don’t pretend to be my little brother. I am not your slave anymore. I will find a way to set Chase free too.”

Anti can hear himself laughing as the darkness swallows him up.

“Please,” he thinks his mouth moves to say before he loses consciousness. “Yes, please, someone set us free.”

He is so lost, and this forest is blacker than blood.

------------

“What do we do?” whispers Henrik, hiding in both the stairwell and Jackie’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Jackie whispers back, letting himself slump against his little brother. “I don’t know.”

They stand in the cold of the stairwell and they hold each other.

“Try to remind him who he is,” suggests Jackie finally. “Try to help him get himself free, since it doesn’t feel like we can do hardly anything. And… wait for Marvin to wake up?”

If he does wake up. Henrik grinds his teeth and presses closer into Jackie’s shoulder. “I hate waiting,” he growls.

“I know, man. Me too. Me too.”

But they’re doing everything they can already.

Please let it be enough.

Please don’t let them be gone forever.

They stand – for a long time – in that cold stairwell. They hold on to each other.

------------

Marvin sees, in his dreams, the poison.

On his handcuffs he is immobilized as an insect in dark amber, his blue eyes glittering, agonized, in his skull. There is nothing left in him. He can feel death like a dog at his throat.

“Marvin,” sobs Chase. “Marvin!”

“Here I am,” he needs to say. “Here I am, amata! I’ll help you. I’ll fix it!”

But he can’t speak and he can’t move. He can barely stare down at Chase beneath him, watching the poison fill his little brother up.

“Marvin, there’s something in my head! Please help me! Where are you?”

His eyes flicker and drip blood and Chase whimpers, clawing at his head as his irises move through a dance of different colors. In the end, they settle on black. He heaves and something like ink comes pouring out of his mouth.

“I don’t know what to do,” Marvin croaks. “I don’t know how to help.”

He can feel his body convulsing on a bed and strong arms holding him gently, protecting his head. He can feel their heart beating through the point of contact. He can feel Henrik’s hands.

“Here I am, here I am,” he is whispering to him. “I’ll help you. I’ll fix it. Just hold on for me, my brother.”

“Schneep,” he tries again. Maybe he could speak this time, but something cold and plastic has filled his throat up, and his pain is so high his whole body trembles from it.

“Here I am. Here I am. Marvin, don’t die. I can’t lose you. Just rest. Here I am.”

A needle slides into his throat. Fog fills his head like a lake at dawn. He sleeps.

But he doesn’t sleep forever.

-----------

Someone is whistling softly around the room.

Back and forth, back and forth with a sweet song Marvin doesn’t recognize. Maybe he’s just too tired to search his brain for the sound of the song and find its name. Memories have been painful recently anyways. He will just stay right here in the present. And listen to the pretty song.

He lies there for a long time, feeling stunningly comfortable and incredibly cozy for the first time in days. Being awake is nice. He thought it would be scary again, but it’s nice. Nice with pretty music. He can tell he’s been taken out of that silent white room where he was all alone for so long, and he’s glad of it. His eyes slide open. Nice with pretty music and a comfortingly familiar figure wandering across the room, back and forth, back and forth.

There’s a rush of dazed fondness through Marvin’s head. He hears himself giggle strangely, his head flopping back against his pillows. He’s so sleepy but he feels so nice, really nice.

Jamie’s whistling cuts off and his nice shoes tap against the floor as he hurries to Marvin’s side, sitting down in a hard plastic hospital chair at his side and reaching tentatively for his hand, though he doesn’t quite touch him. Marvin turns his head again to look at him, smiling dizzily. He sees the trepidation in his little brother’s face and tilts his head quizzically, his fingers twitching for his hand. Jameson should know he can always hold his hand if he wants to. Everyone has different boundaries in their family, but Marvin doesn’t think he’s ever been bothered by Jameson touching him, at least not since they first became friends.

Jameson smiles softly and touches his hand. Or his fingers, more like. Marvin frowns and looks down his arm.

Did he break it? There’s a stiff white cast from beneath his wrist all the way up to his knuckles. Jameson makes a soft, soothing sigh of a noise and scoots closer to him, cradling his weary fingers and rubbing his arm above the cast.

Marvin decides he feels too nice to be distressed about it. He smiles again and tries to make the sighing noise back at Jameson. Jamie smiles and Marvin feels delighted about it. He finds his other hand after a moment of mentally searching his body for all of its parts, and this hand is only bandaged around the wrist, so he reaches out to touch Jameson’s face, carding his fingers lovingly through his beard. Jameson’s eyebrows shoot up for a moment, but he doesn’t protest, still smiling gently down at him.

Is Marvin in the hospital? He doesn’t know why. He feels great.

Jameson’s free hand reaches up to sign, but Marvin snatches it out of the air and draws it fondly to his face. Jameson looks surprised for certain at that, but he only laughs. In his right mind, Marvin would probably realize it was rude to stop him from signing, but he isn’t exactly in his right mind right now.

Jameson frees his other hand from Marvin’s broken one and holds it up flat above his head. It’s a sign that usually means “tall.” Right now, Marvin’s pretty sure it means “high.”

He giggles wildly, squeezing his eyes shut. That’s so funny. He is, yeah. He’s so high. He’s high like a teenager. Henrik must have gotten him the good stuff, the really good stuff. Mhhh. It’s nice. He’s high! He laughs and runs Jameson’s fingers across his cheek, though a sting of pain stops him and he jerks in surprise, opening his eyes to look up at JJ, alarmed.

“Broken,” signs Jameson gently, bringing Marvin’s hand back to his cheek. He feels bandages and, beneath them, scratchy stitches. “Healing.”

He doesn’t want his cheek to be broken. That’s so mean and sad and he’s going to look so ugly. He scowls at Jameson and shakes his head, tears prickling in his eyes. Jamie smiles with real sympathy and sighs at him again, massaging his good hand.

Okay, that’s nice again. Marvin takes the hand and puts it in his hair and Jameson runs his fingers across his scalp without protest, close enough that Marvin can feel his familiar warmth. Marvin blinks sleepily and touches his mouth. Jameson chuckles and begins to whistle for him again.

That’s nice.

That’s all really nice.

He feels good.

Everything’s okay.

“Okay?” asks JJ.

Marvin nods, a dopey grin fixed on his mouth.

“Talk?”

Marvin pauses, confused.

“Talk,” repeats Jameson slower. It’s a sign that means speak or sign. Communicate. “Feeling okay? Talk to me?”

Oh, yeah, talking. That’s something people do. Marvin coughs and looks up at the ceiling.

Um… talk.

He can do that.

It’s easy. You just kind of open your mouth and make sounds. For words you know the meaning of. Or you just put your hands up and move them. Come on, Marvin. You’re a fucking linguistics major. He has to be able to find the right words somewhere in his addled brain.

But he just… can’t.

He looks over at Jameson, who’s assuring him it’s okay if he can’t talk or doesn’t want to. “Just need to rest,” he’s soothing, and Marvin can read the words perfectly on his hands, understands and processes immediately. “Just take it easy, okay? Should I get Schneep?”

He understands everything he’s saying. He’s not intubated anymore and his throat is sore, yes, but not sore enough to silence him. But he can’t speak. He can’t find the right words.

Something’s wrong.

“It’s okay,” promises Jameson, moving forward quickly to thumb away the tears sliding down his face. “Poor Marvin, big brother, it’s okay. Love, love.”

But it’s not okay. Marvin stares up at the ceiling, trying to find the right words, and he begins to realize just how not okay everything is.

This is the hospital. He’s in the hospital and he’s high on morphine or whatever it is Henrik gave him. He’s in the hospital and his cheek is broken and his wrists are bandaged and beneath the warm haze of the drugs there is an undercurrent of pain waiting to swallow him whole the moment his medication is reduced. A thrill of fear squirms down his aching spine.

Something bad must have happened to him.

Something bad happened and then… and then…

In his dreams, poison.

“Ch-chase.”

Warm water runs down his face. He stares up at the ceiling, mouth trembling. Jameson leans in close to him, his face sad and worried, and all Marvin can seem to do is reach out and touch him, running his fingers through his hair as his memories float back to him, faraway but painful still.

“Chase,” he whimpers.

In the whole of his brain, it seems to be the only word he can find, and he clings to it, staring up at Jameson, begging him to make it all better and tugging at him, trying to bring him closer, closer, wanting to know that his little brothers are safe.

“Chase. Chase.”

JJ sighs his soothing sigh and climbs carefully into the bed beside him. Marvin’s never been more grateful to have someone next to him in his whole fucking life – except, maybe, when Jameson and the others arrived in that cold and terrible basement to save him from his torment. The memory turns his tears into quiet sobs.

Jameson wraps his arms around him and puts his head in his chest. Marvin runs his fingers through his brother’s hair and cries against his pillows, exhausted and unhappy, feeling broken and sick. Jameson’s body and the soothing of the drugs are his only protection against everything that happened, and he clings to them like the lifelines they are, repeating Chase’s name in a soft, miserable daze no matter how many times Jameson tries to tell him he’s alive and receiving treatment in the psych ward.

That’s how Henrik finds them perhaps an hour later, though Marvin can’t seem to get any track of how time is moving around him. He’s gone quiet, but still the hot tears are dripping down his cheeks. Still he’s stroking Jameson’s hair and remembering all too clearly the things that happened to him and the sight of his little brother filled up with Anti’s poison.

“Marvin,” Henrik whispers, real fear in his voice, and Marvin looks up and sees his own mortality in his friend’s eyes.

I’m not okay, am I? he wants to ask, but even for this, he cannot speak; he cannot find the words.

Henrik touches his unbroken hand. Marvin wraps his fingers around Henrik’s and Jameson cuddles closer against his chest. The three of them breathe together, in silence.

Eventually, Henrik turns Marvin’s medication back up, and the world becomes warm and pleasant again, and he listens to Jamie whistling for as long as he can keep his eyes open.

--------

“This place really is a shithole,” says Max, teething at his lip as he stares around the trashed little apartment. “What exactly are you looking for?”

Jackie tears the drawers open and then slams them shut again, shaking his head as he continues his ransacking. “Just anything that’ll help Chase, I guess.”

“Couldn’t you get something from his room back home? This place is a dump. I don’t think Anti’s been buying him souvenirs or anything, you know?”

“I tried bringing him stuff from home. Actually he played Animal Crossing for a little while after I had the nurse bring him his Switch, but he didn’t even look at the pictures of Hunter and Izzy and he doesn’t really seem to… get it. It’s like he doesn’t even remember.”

Jackie sighs and closes the fridge, tossing out a couple packs of rotting deli meat. There isn’t much else in there and the cupboards are bare of anything but an empty pack of Oreos and half a jar of black olives.

“Schneep won’t listen to me when I tell him about the journal,” he says. “About how Chase and Anti both got, like, mashed together. He thinks Anti’s trying to trick me and Chase is just tucked away somewhere in their head, sleeping or watching or trying to get out.”

“Well, there’s a chance he’s right, right?” In his boredom, Max has begun cleaning, wetting one of the abandoned shirts on the floor with water and wiping the counters down. “Schneep probably knows Anti better than you do, to be fair. Maybe that journal was just moments of weakness.”

“Okay, yes, he does know Anti better than me. But I think the fact that Anti’s done so much to him is making it really hard for him to see anything but Anti in that person. Even when he acts like Chase, he thinks it’s a trick. I don’t know. I just want to try everything I can.”

“That’s fair,” says Max. “I mean, he can act all he wants, but we found those toys still here, so he can’t be entirely immune to some cute shit, even if he is mostly Anti.”

Jackie stands up straight. “Max, you’re a genius.”

“Oh,” says Max, flushing dark and shifting his weight from side-to-side, a shy smile on his mouth. “What did I do?”

“Where are those stuffed animals? They were for his kids. If he kept them, they have to mean something to him, right? Or he would have destroyed them. Plus they’re just nice to cuddle with, I bet.”

“They were by the mattress.”

Jackie moves over to the mattress and finds the stuffed animals flopped against the wall where he left them. He takes them back in his hands and buries his face in them, rubbing against the soft fuzz of Izzy’s dragon and the smoothness of Hunter’s squished seal.

“I hope you guys have been keeping my little brother company while he’s been trapped,” he mumbles, shoving them into his hoodie pocket. “Let’s get these back to the hospital.”

“Get you a coffee and a snack on the way?” offers Max, still dark in the cheeks.

Jackie frowns up at him, getting to his feet. “I should really get back.”

“You’ll make Schneep more stressed if you don’t take care of yourself,” says Max.

“That’s… true.”

“Come on. I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Jackie can’t help but smile, chuckling as he steps towards him. “You’re too good to me, man.”

Max is definitely blushing now, but Jackie’s always known him to be shy. “That’s what, uh, friends are for,” he answers, smiling back. “I’d, well. I’d be happy to get you something, Jackie. I like to.”

“Hey!” A voice in the doorway makes them both turn to find a disgruntled-looking old man regarding them uncertainly from the hallway. “Here to tell me why my tenant’s gone missing? He’s about three months behind on rent and now he’s disappeared.”

“Don’t worry about it,” replies Jackie easily, picking up Chase’s old bracelets from the windowsill and heading towards the door. “I’ll pay you that and however much it is to end his contract. He’s not living here anymore. My little brother’s coming back home.”

“And if Anti comes back here,” adds Max. “Call the cops. He’s wanted for murder. Like… a lot of murder.”

“What?”

“Send us the bill! Bye!”

-------------

“Hey, is that Jamie?” asks Jackie, still shoving fries in his mouth. He hasn’t eaten all day. Luckily he funneled all of the rest of Henrik’s leftover pasta into his mouth while crying last night at eleven while home alone because Schneep forced him to go try and get some sleep at home, but other than that he’s been missing meals. It was pretty good pasta. Salty.

“What?” says Max, tilting his head.

And then, after a moment:

“Yeah, that’s definitely Jamie.”

“I wish that just once it wasn’t one of my little brothers being weird in public. Just once!”

“Says the vigilante!”

Jackie snorts and rolls down Max’s window. “Hey! Dippin’ dots! What are you doing standing mysteriously in front of a random alleyway with a tray full of hospital cafeteria food? You okay, Jamie?”

Jameson turns around, blinking down at the tray of food in his hands. He looks confused as to how it got there and looks up to shrug at his brother. His eyes are burning silver.

“Fuck,” swears Jackie, leaving his fries behind and getting out of the car. “Here, give me the tray. Another vision?”

“I just felt like I had to come here,” mumbles Jameson’s hands as he stares dazedly down the alleyway. “Like it was important.”

“You walked a couple blocks from the hospital in a trance?”

“I… guess I did?”

“That sucks, bud, I’m sorry you got confused. We’re going to have to keep an eye on you while you get this magic stuff figured out. Got your location on on your phone?”

“Yes, Jackie, like you always tell me.”

“Thatta boy. Come on, poor guy, let’s get you out of the cold.”

Max grins at Jameson as he gets back in the car. “We have to stop meeting like this,” he teases.

Jameson smiles back weakly and rubs at his quieting eyes. “Thanks for picking me up. It smells like Wendy’s in here.”

Max looks at Jackie. “Should we turn around and go back to Wendy’s?”

“We should turn around and go back to Wendy’s.”

“This must have been what my trance was for,” signs Jameson cheerfully, setting aside the cafeteria food, and Jackie laughs and passes him the rest of his French fries. He’s glad Max made him take a break. He’s been stressed. In retrospect, the crying into his pasta might have been a red flag about his anxiety levels.

But everything will turn out okay. It has to. It has to.

-------------

Marvin needs surgery on his wrist.

“Just going to put you under for a little while and I’ll do it myself, okay?” says Henrik, sitting at his side. “Quick surgery, not too many wrists. Risks, I meant. Dammit. You had some tearing from the convulsions while you were in the handcuffs and it’s broken, but it should heal okay in a few months after this gets done. Does that sound okay?”

He tries to smile at Henrik. His little brother smiles back, rubbing his shoulder slowly. Marvin can tell he’s scared, but not about the surgery. He wants to ask him more questions, but he still can’t seem to speak, and Henrik isn’t offering up a lot of information. Probably for his own good. He’s still on a lot of medication and Schneep keeps saying he doesn’t need to stress. Just rest and keep fighting. Rest and keep fighting. Marvin doesn’t know how to choose to do that.

He doesn’t know if he can.

But a surgery on his wrist isn’t too scary, not while he’s this high and Henrik is here reassuring him.

“Sign this for me, okay? Saying you’ve been informed.”

He hands Marvin a form on a clipboard. Marvin can read it just fine – basic shit about informed consent and risks involved. Apparently there’s a chance of losing all feeling in his hand, but he figures he’s a lot more screwed over if he doesn’t get the surgery, and he trusts Henrik anyway, even if he probably shouldn’t be performing on family. He signs the paper with his good hand.

Or tries to.

All that appears on the paper in one long squiggle.

He stares down at his attempt at a signature, faintly alarmed through the haze in his mind, and then up at Henrik. A faint whine falls from his mouth, a weak attempt at his brother’s name. Henrik frowns and scoots forward, worried, looking at the paper as he holds it out to him.

His mouth purses. He looks back at Marvin and doesn’t speak for a moment.

Marvin touches his throat. “It’s probably just the drugs,” murmurs Henrik, trying again to smile for his sake. “But I think I’ll have the speech specialist come see you when you’re ready. Lie back down, alright? I bet Jackie will be a ball of energy as soon as he hears you were awake, and I’m going to schedule your surgery for tonight. Okay?”

Marvin nods.

“You can understand me just fine, right, my brother? Can you blink twice for me?”

Marvin blinks, once, twice.

Henrik smiles and grips his good hand, eyes warm and concerned. “Okay,” he says.

And then, to Marvin’s surprise, he takes off his coat and he stays.

“Technically I’m on my vacation days,” he murmurs by way of explanation. “So I told Nadia you’re the only patient I care about. Okay, you and that really cute kid on third floor. He’s my favorite.”

Marvin smiles wide and earnest this time, and Henrik smiles right back.

“Should I read to you?” he asks.

Marvin nods. He would like that. Henrik gets out Life of Pi. Marvin’s been meaning to read it.

“This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain.”

His accent is so warm and familiar these days. Marvin remembers long nights spent up with him, Henrik home from a graveyard shift and Marvin home from a night with his friends. A night like the other night, but without getting kidnapped before he could go home. A good night, and Henrik’s dry wit and unspoken love when he came home maybe the best part of it.

“In the spring of 1966, my second book, a novel, came out in Canada. It didn’t fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise…”

Marvin listens to him read and thinks that he could write a book of his own, just about his wild little family and everything they’ve been through. He thinks about how this could have been the end of his book. Maybe it still will be. He made his peace with it when he was in those handcuffs, or at least when he got the chance to see Henrik and the others one more time. Maybe they should have let him go then. Maybe that was the end of it, and the chapter closed, and the book would leave you feeling sad, but also moved by it in a way that mattered more than you had realized it would when you began reading.

“… Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries of monkeys would fill my ears. The weather would be just right, requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, and something short-sleeved midday…”

Green hills heavy with mists. Monkeys and clean warm air and bright light somewhere on the horizon. He daydreams to Henrik’s voice and Martel’s words and thinks that this isn’t so bad, not really. Yes. Maybe this is meant to be the end of him yet.

But Chase.

Chase.

The only word left on his tongue.

He has to help his little brother. He can’t end the story without him. Without knowing he’s safe, and well, and maybe even, if Marvin can swing it, happy.

Marvin registers vaguely that his eyes feel oddly swollen, and then he lets himself loose in the world Henrik is presenting for him, and drifts without fear, on a boat in the ocean with a tiger still sleeping in the empty bed on the other side of his hospital room.

------------

He stands in the doorway in black and white, with a pair of stuffed animals clutched to his chest.

“What do you want?”

His voice is loud and slurred, his head rolling back against his pillows, straining his neck and coughing. Determined wrists pull weakly at their restraints. The ferocity of his words is undermined by the low, agonized groan he gives out afterwards.

“What do you want?” he repeats again, shrill and screamed. “Let me go, let me…”

Jameson sits quietly down beside him, the seal and the dragon on his lap.

“Little fucker,” mumbles Anti, mumbles Chase, looking up at his big blue eyes and his all-too-sweet expression, so soft and concerned. “Pinned me down. Gave me a concussion. Little brat. I’d be home right now if not for you.”

Jameson nods, tilting his head back and forth a little as though admitting it.

“I’m tired, Jamie,” he says, thunking his head back against the pillow.

“You’re on a lot of medication.”

“How are you in here, anyway?”

“Jackie’s friend is distracting the cops for me.”

“Jackie having a friend,” he growls. “There’s the real shocker.”

“You and Jackie are friends,” answers Jameson calmly. “You love him.”

“Shut the fuck up, you sappy, weepy, pathetic little child of a man. What you come in here for, huh? You want to see your papa? Does Chase take care of the little baby? Everybody knows you can’t take care of yourself, after all. You’re just a whining, mute, needling little – ”

“Is your pain very high?”

Jameson can see him trying to breathe. It doesn’t look easy. He’s stressed. He’s scared. He stares at Jameson and doesn’t seem to know how to answer.

“Anti,” he says, his hands clear and careful. “Chase. I know you both very well. And the truth is that I don’t want to see either of you in pain, even after everything Anti did to me. I still remember the days when I thought of you as my family. When I loved you.”

He stares down at his bedsheets. Jameson sighs and gets to his feet, standing over him, and he shudders and gives a soft whine, curling in on himself, his face pale and frightened.

“Do the nurses treat you well?” asks Jameson. “The cops leave you alone? Have you been out of this room at all?”

“I want to go,” he whispers, licking at his dry lips. “I want to go back home. I want to – I want to – I’ll make you all pay for this. I’ll slit Henrik’s white throat like I always meant to do and you and Jackie can writhe for trapping me here. Your fault, your fault… please let me go, p-please, I’m…”

Jameson places the seal stuffie on his lap and the dragon on his shoulder.

He breathes in the smell for a moment, his hollowed eyes flickering. The last six months have not been good for him, for either of his fighting parts, but they did manage to hold on to some things here and there – most importantly, a place to stay, a place where he wasn’t trapped and no one hurt him, where there was a soft, if broken mattress and a couple soft animal toys that made him feel happy somewhere in the back of his mind. This dragon smells like home. His fingers touch the soft body of the squished seal.

“I don’t know what you think this is going to accomplish,” he mumbles, wishing he could wrap his arms around himself, because he is the only person who has held him in months and his flesh is aching for it. “I’m not… I’m not… not what you think I am.”

“Like I said.” Jameson sits down beside him again, his hand resting gently on the bed beside Anti’s. A little closer and he could touch him. “I know you both pretty well.”

His fingers touch Chase’s.

He goes very still.

Jamie holds his hands and they sit together for a long time.

The lights buzz above them. Outside the window of the room, a pair of finches flicker back and forth. The sunlight touches their skin.

Jameson draws away a moment. His brother chokes, shaking his head, groaning for the loss of him, but he only gets to his feet and places his body against him, wrapping him into a careful hug. Warm arms encircle him like a sweater and squish comfortingly against his body, and all he wants to do – all he wants to do in the whole fucking world – is wrap his arms around JJ in return and pull him into his lap and be held for hours. He’s panting and burying his face against Jameson’s chest, whimpering to be touched at last, to be kindly touched at last.

“Chase,” Jameson signs against his heart. “Chase, my Chase.”

Chase clings to his hands and cries.

“Please let me go,” he begs. “Please, please, I can’t get it out!”

“I’m right here,” promises Jameson, kneeling down to look at him and stroking his hair. “You’re going to keep fighting, okay? You’re going to cast him out.”

“No, I can’t,” he cries. “We can’t tell each other apart anymore. You have to help me, I can’t, I got lost, I got stuck! I tried, I promised, I wanted to go home. Now I can’t even remember what home is. We’re too tangled up!”

“We’re going to help you get him out, okay?”

“There’s nothing you can do. Please, you have to let us free. Kill us, JJ, we’re tearing each other apart.”

“Hey.” Jameson takes his hands in his own for a moment and squeezes them before drawing away again to speak. “Don’t say things like that. You will only get yourself stuck in this place longer if you do. Besides, Anti’s always said things like that to manipulate me. You won’t move me with words like that.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” he screams, and when he grabs Jameson by the side – the only place where he can reach him with his hands restrained – and digs his overgrown nails as hard as he can into his little brother’s stomach, Jameson does not so much as flinch, just closes his eyes and waits for the rage to go away. “Stupid little boy! This isn’t something you can remove with kind words or Henrik’s scalpels.”

“Then we will find another way,” answers Jameson, soft crescent moons of blood welling against his shirt. “You have to trust me.”

“You betrayed me,” he hisses. “Left me behind to go be someone else’s family. Left me alone!”

“You didn’t treat me well, my brother. I’m happier without you. Without Anti, at least. I gave you everything I was. If you had been kind to me, I would have stayed.”

He scowls and shoves him away, gritting his teeth and seething, nuzzling his face against Izzy’s dragon, tears running down his cheeks. “Look how weak we are,” he cries. “We both broke each other. There’s nothing you can do… nothing anyone can do… I’ve been trying to get free for so long.”

Jameson sits down again, tucking away the small bloodstains on his shirt without anger in his eyes, and when he takes his brother’s hand again, he does not try to dig his nails into his palms. Just holds on to him.

“I can’t promise you I have everything figured out right now,” says JJ after a moment of comfort. “I don’t know exactly how to save you, Chase. But here’s what I do know – you are touch-starved. You are scared and you have every right to be. You’re not well and you’ve lost a lot of weight because you’ve never known how to take care of human bodies well. So here’s what we can do. I’m going to make sure you’re getting some Cymbalta, because that was Chase’s prescription when he was suicidal. And I’m going to sit here with you as long as I can so you’re not alone and I can touch you. And I have Wendy’s. And you’re going to eat it.”

He holds up a brown paper bag with a pig-tailed girl on it and smiles. “Because the hospital food is pretty shit and I don’t blame you for refusing it.”

He stares at him, eyes wide. Jameson stares back, smiling.

“You’re out of your mind, baby brother,” he says, and then he laughs despite himself, weak and shaken, and takes Jamie’s hand again.

“Probably,” he signs with one hand, and gets up to kiss the side of his head and feed him a handful of fries.

There’s only so much he can do. But he will do it. He will do it. And he will love him with every moment that passes, harder and harder, until Chase can find his way back to him.

“When did you get so grown-up?” he whispers, when an hour has passed and they are sitting together in silence.

“When someone gave me the chance to grow up,” Jameson replies gently.

“I loved you, you know.”

“No,” says Jameson, and his eyes still love him, but his heart knows better. “No, Anti, you didn’t.”

They rest together, hand-in-hand, and the finches come and go, singing.

#writers of jack #jacksepticeye #jse egos #bee writes #see tws #poison

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overwatchworks · 4 years

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Ooo I have a McGenji prompt! ((It sounds kinda dumb though)) Maybe some sort of apocalypse-wasteland like Au where Genji and McCree both got separated for years. But, the way the reunite is through some sort of brutal injury Genji receives when scavenging by himself. ((Oh god I am legit cringe, I’m so sorry-))

Okay, I have a few things to say about this first:

1.) Nonnie, you are enjoying a harmless, if a bit more rare, AU for a pairing you like. Do not talk yourself down for liking it. Don’t call your little joys or things that make you excited dumb, because if they make you happy, then that’s all that matters. It’s not cringy to enjoy things, and it’s not cringy to be excited about an idea. Don’t let yourself be the person that talks down on your own interests, rather, be the one to encourage yourself to enjoy them to their fullest! So what if no one else really talks about it or you’ve never seen it before? Enjoy it anyways! Offer the idea anyways—there is no harm in it whatsoever! And you’re not cringy for enjoying it!

2.) When I first saw this prompt, I in no way, shape, or form thought it was cringe. I was simply intrigued by an idea I have never seen before for a McGen AU. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it happen, or how I would make it work, but when I sat down to actually write it, I had a blast. Your idea is fun and creative and I had a really good time figuring out what to make from it! You absolutely do not need to apologize. Which leads me to my last point.

3.) This is a no judgement zone. You shoot me an idea, I will do my best to make it happen. You have nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to be afraid of. The worst anyone can tell you for this is “no thanks”. And I’m telling you now, this was fun. This was great, and I’m glad you asked for it.

Now, with that out of the way; Nonnie, here is your Apocalypse-Wasteland AU McGenji!

Genji knew he should not have gone in to that airship carrier alone. Knew he should have brought some of his crew with him for back up in case something went wrong. Hana had said she would come with him in the morning. Said she needed parts for her mech and that Jamison would be with her as well.

But Genji had not wanted to wait.

There would be too many scavengers like them looking in such a prize overnight. All the good metals and wiring and fuel cells would be gone by morning. Precious materials he needed to keep his systems functioning and the joints of most of his limbs still working. So Genji had gone in alone, even when he knew he should not have, when he knew there was so much that could go wrong.

And of course, of course, it all went wrong.

The wires he had been using as a rope to climb to a communications room of some sort were frayed. They had snapped when he was half way up, suspended forty feet in the air. Vertigo, and then static when he hit the ground. Fell through some of the debris and down even further into the wreckage. Somewhere he would not be found, even by luck, buried too deep for any of his comm signals to work.

He could feel the parts of him that were broken. The synthetic parts. Wiring exposed and sparking at the ends, lighting up his nerves with fire that had only subsided slightly with time. Half of his vision was gone, sensors pinging in the peripheral of what he had left in bright red warning.

System failure.

Ruptures in his prosthetics.

Something puncturing his chest.

He couldn’t move his legs, they were trapped beneath something. The dull thudding of his heart—one of the few human accessories he had left—was a constant throbbing in his ears, high-pitched ringing beneath that.

Genji was dying.

Could feel the mix of biofluids and blood dribbling out of him slowly. Everything that was supposed to keep him working and healthy failing him. He had been too reckless—this carrier was huge, there would have been plenty left over for them in the morning. He should have just waited, he should have judged the wiring better, he had done this his whole life, was built to be the best at it.

And yet here he was. Bitterly, there was a thought that at least if someone did eventually find him, he would be quite the treasure to scavenge. Long after he had died and the human parts of him rotted away, of course.

Genji was dying, and all he could do was wait.

He had almost drifted to the point of no return. Had almost let go and not been able to come back. There was the sounds of scraping and clattering, someone grunting. Underwater. Muted to his ears, like he was underwater.

Genji blinked slowly, eyes barely able to open. A flash of red greeted him, glowing hellish in the darkness. Heavy breathing. From him or whatever it was in front of him, Genji could not tell.

And then he was being lifted from the rubble, body dangling limply from the strong grip he was held in. A familiar voice swam to him through the darkness.

“Hang on, Genji. Just hang on.”

Laughter. Something sweet and innocent. Childish. Because they were children. Children running through a scavenger’s yard, a workshop of sorts.

There were creatures made of metal and what they had thought was a little bit of magic; sentient, in a sense, but simply run by mechanics. By cybernetics. A tinker’s shop.

Genji was hiding behind a piece of sheet metal leaning against a pile of scraps, hand pressed to his mouth to quiet his giggles. Someone grabbed him from behind, and he squealed in delight as Jesse lifted him off his feet.

“Caught you!”

“That’s not fair, you grew up here so you know all the good hiding spots!”

“Even when we play at your place I still win,” Jesse shot back playfully, Genji sticking out his tongue.

“You do not always win.”

“Do too! You’re too easy to find! I’ll always find you.”

Genji smiled, and so did Jesse. And they were happy, in a time where it was okay to be happy and carefree. In a world where it was still safe to be children.

Genji woke to quiet whirring. His sensors were offline, he could not feel the right side of his body from the neck down. His cybernetics were not connecting to his conscious nervous system.

Manual override: system shutdown, they blinked at him in green beneath his eyelids.

Alarm shot through him, fear a tangible thing in his mouth, sharp and tangy like iron. Something began to beep, Genji turning his head to look around frantically, snapping awake. Both his eyes worked, and clearly his auditory sensors were back online as well. At least there was that.

“Woah, woah there. You’re okay. I didn’t scavenge you or anythin’. You were pretty beat up as it was, not much worth takin’.”

The accent was odd. Not quite because it was out of place, but because it was so familiar. Like traces of a dream still clinging after waking up. The source of the voice was a man wrapped up in a metal chestplate and a gauntlet on one arm, a tattered cloak of some sort hanging from his shoulders. He had a hat, too, and a cigar. Something old school.

One of his eyes was glowing red, brighter than the lit end of that which was hanging from his lips. Heavy boots, metal around his waist, chains hooked to his belts. He stepped closer, into the light, hand raising to tip his hat back from his eyes. On closer inspection, Genji saw that it was a prosthetic, not a gauntlet.

And those eyes were strikingly familiar. That face was one he could never forget.

Old memories that Genji had thought were lost came back to him. Laughter. Something sweet and innocent. Childish. Jesse grinning underneath the blazing sun, both of them sweating. Jesse playing in the dirt, drawing a poor rendition of Genji’s face in it. Jesse chasing one of the cybernetic dogs after it took off with part of their lunch, Genji laughing until the dog came back and stole more of his.

Jesse, Jesse, Jesse.

“Sorry, had to shut you down to fix you up. It would have killed you otherwise, trying to keep all of you functioning at once and keeping up with pinging your sensors. Would’a been in agony. I kept your most important systems up and runnin’, but gave the rest of you a break,” he continued lightly, walking over and unplugging some of the wiring that had been hooked up to Genji’s body.

All he could do was stare wide eyed as Jesse reached down and connected the rest of Genji’s ports, clasping his prosthetics back on for him. Each one shocked back to life, Genji feeling the nerves burn for a moment before they connected and resynchronized with the rest of him. He flexed his toes, stretched his legs and shook out his arm. It was muscle memory more than him actually being aware of doing it.

“Now, I’m trustin’ you not to immediately jump me here. I saved your life, you spare mine, yeah?”

“Jesse,” Genji finally breathed. Jesse blinked, brows raising slightly.

“Oh. So you do remember...”

“Of course I remember.”

“They said you would lose all your early memories with the modifications and whatnot. Figured that’d mean me too, especially after I had to leave. You had no chance to relearn who I was.”

Genji took him in, simply stared and recalled as much as he could about them. Childhood friends. His best friend. All the mischief they would get into. Jesse building things in the night and showing Genji how to bring them to life. Their first scavenge together, gathering materials to make some of the very first models of what eventually became Genji’s modifications.

Jesse leaving before they were finished.

“I...Know who you are. I remember. There are gaps and places that are static,” Genji grimaced, fingertips brushing against his temple. Sometimes remembering was hard. Certain things were hard to recall, others impossible. But sometimes it wasn’t.

“But I know one thing for certain; you’re my Jesse.”

Jesse’s face softened, a smile gracing his lips. It was not as big or as carefree as it once was, weighed down by the harsh reality of their world. But it was familiar. Something Genji could never forget.

“It’s good to see you again, Genji. It’s real good to see you.”

Genji smiled back, something warm in him that was definitely human making him feel light in a way he had not been since the world had broken more than it already was.

“It is good to see you too, Jesse. Perhaps we can take some time to catch up while my systems reset.”

Jesse sat with a grunt, taking off his hat, running a hand through his hair. Genji watched the movements, eyes scrunching slightly with his grin.

“I’d like that,” Jesse nodded.

#asks #anonymous #mcgenji #jesse mccree #genji shimada #request prompts #wasteland AU #WhiskeyWrites #you're all sweet and have great ideas that people should listen to #at the very least #anyways hope you enjoy #^^#prompt request

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thecolonelsqueen · 5 years

Text

Shaky Hands

I’ve spent so much time on this and it’s a collaboration with @mustangsbigdickenergy. Please Enjoy and Share with fellow friends.

Whump.Tober Prompt No.1

Day 1: Shaky Hands

The day had finally come. The day that they had been working towards for nearly a decade. That morning Hawkeye rose from bed, a heavy burden finally lifting off those shoulders as the day they looked forward to surfaced on the calendar. Mustang becoming Führer was a big sigh of relief knowing the end of King Bradley was official, a new reign of justice could begin. They started this journey together, becoming one in Ishval but at last only two made it through. Hughes was most likely smiling down from heaven as this day began, if there was such a thing, to bad he wasn’t here to mock the new Führer. They may have not been lifelong friends like Mustang but she still felt a bit of sadness for his passing and the fact that he couldn’t finish this the way they started it, even Elicia didn’t deserve such sorrow.

Blue uniform pulled fresh from the dryer as she drank her morning tea before donning such an outfit. It felt like there was so much to do but, for once, she only needed to attend the ceremony. For once, there wasn’t paperwork waiting at the desk, for once, there wouldn’t be arguments about upcoming meetings, for once, everyone could relax, and lastly, for once, there wasn’t a homunculus threat breathing down their back. Everything was perfectly normal. Maybe this time she’d actually go out with her fellow teammates for a drink, just to relish in this perfect day because the stressful burden wouldn’t allow her to enjoy any festivities with the team. Lieutenant Hawkeye arrived earlier than usual to the ceremony, wanting to make everything was set and ready to go, probably because of those natural instincts, but those assigned to the task continued to usher her away eventually leading her to hangout with comrades. They all seemed so happy about today, happy for Roy, happy for this country but Riza felt slightly different in their presence.

Was it really this easy?

If Mustang were among the group, he was separated for preparation of his own, he would easily detected his Lieutenant’s thoughts telling her to relax and enjoy the day so perhaps she was simply overthinking it; That did tend to happen lately considering the events of the Promise Day. A ceremonial gunshot finally rang signaling the start of Roy Mustang’s ceremony and all of those who served by his side climbed the steps of the stage to take their place alongside the new Führer. Everyone held a salute as he followed behind his teammates approaching the top of the steps before giving them the signal to at ease, allowing hands to be placed behind their backs in tight grips. Roy stood before a large crowd of military personnel and citizens alike, eyes staring straight ahead as he repeated the statements by the newly found members of the board and soon became Führer President Roy Mustang. In unison, the military in the crowd rose and saluted their new commander. A heavy hand came to his forehead as he returned the salute, his chest welling up with the gravity of the moment. When he released his hand, everyone began shouting and cheering, those members on stage who swore in the President came forward to shake the hands of the newly found Führer; who couldn’t contain his own jitters as those hands met others. After thanking the board, Roy turned his head to where his team stood behind, Havoc held Fuery in a headlock who complained and Falman managed to high-five Breda but if he truly looked close enough he could make out the spirit of Hughes standing alongside his favorite Lieutenant. Riza Hawkeye, the best lieutenant he could ask for, was looking directly at him with her hand still saluted along her forehead as if she were transfixed into the moment. When their eyes met, he was reminded of all the years he’d known the blonde, all the memories, the failure, and the heartache. She had gone through it all at his side and that would never change even if they went to hell.

Hawkeye felt the world slow as they continued to gaze at one another and honestly, something was different. Those eyes that once held determination with guilt, rage, and even fear dissipated into the atmosphere to the point she almost didn’t recognize those chocolate pools, but they were still his. Was this happiness for him? Had Roy finally achieved the stepping point for peace among his country? Surely, that had to be it.

The warmthness inside the woman’s heart spread to her face as she smiled that angelic smile realizing the new man in this new age for its country. Everything would be alright, because he really could change the country with eyes like that.

Now, it was time for his speech allowing Roy to remove a folded piece of paper from his pocket. They were up nearly half the night going over the exact words he would speak which, in the end, most of the speech was Riza’s words. She saved the day on his work as usual when heavy boots aimed him toward the podium but when looking upon the crowd something change, meaning the crumpled paper ended up back in his pocket; There was so much more to be said then what was scribbled on the paper so he began.

“People of Amestris, I am beyond honored to be standing here today, ready to serve you. Our country has been through too much war, and bloodshed in our recent years, but I intend to bring a long lasting peace to our great lands-“ Cheers interrupted him, and he momentarily paused. As the crowd died down, he continued. “The very first act I would like to do as Führer, is to promote those who stood by my side through it all. Without these brave men, I would not be standing here today.” Starting with the lowest ranking officer in his team, Fuery, they were all given new high ranking positions with a handshake and a salute to their new Führer. If Hughes was on this stage, he would be bawling.

Mustang worked his way up through each rank until settling on Jean Havoc. “Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc, please step forward.” Roy turned his head, a light smile on his face as Havoc stepped up next to his commander. “This man has perhaps been dealt the worst hand in life, not including his bad luck with the ladies-“ Cue a glare from the tall blonde. “-But I wouldn’t be here without him. He is the most resilient, and loyal man I have ever had the pleasure to work alongside. I am proud to announce his new rank as General Jean Havoc.”

The last ranking official to be called would be Riza Hawkeye. Was a promotion something she honestly wanted? A new rank would end in a new office, her own recruits and possibly somewhere else that wasn’t near the Führer because he would have a special team for protection. They had been together for so long and until Bradley interrupted that, Riza never considered anything else.

Tension hung through the air as Roy called his First Lieutenant up, “First Lieutenant Hawkeye,” her name rang loud as she stepped forward. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t announce her new rank yet, just remained silent as he gathered those thoughts. His dark eyes studied her, in awe of their luck of both making it through the war and the Promise Day. They didn’t deserve such mercy for all the terrible things they’ve done, but Roy wouldn’t waste another breath on it. He finally spoke. “I’ve never feared death. In every battle, I welcomed it with open arms. It was only fitting. Riza Hawkeye has saved me from death, over and over again. She’s saved me from myself. She is the only reason I’m here today.” A pause. A deep sincerity running through his dark eyes as he looked over at the woman. “I’ve never feared death. Not for myself, but when I saw the light fading from her eyes, I have never been more truly terrified. If she dies, so do I. It’s the unspoken truth we’ve always shared.”

The statements lifted into the air as she felt the burning eyes of another’s gaze, making Riza remain in that untouched position of arms tightly clasped behind her back. The soldier’s shoulders remained squared as if she already knew the information being told but still, a small fragment of the Lieutenant’s heart skipped a beat never knowing that that Roy couldn’t live without her. There’s been so many references where Hawkeye refused to live among the world without the Flame Alchemist and for once he chose the same words, actually admitting them aloud for his country to hear.

The crowd was quiet. The sharp cry of a baby in the distance being the only sound, faded by the wind. “I’ve never feared death, until the day I thought I was dying. I pictured her face, and I was more scared of death then I ever had been. Not because of actually dying, but at the thought of not being at her side. I would never get to see her again. It’s my most haunting thought.”

Roy wasn’t looking at the crowd, his eyes were locked on Riza’s strict stature as she remained faced toward the people. He took a step forward causing the Lieutenant to finally meet his gaze. “I never feared death...until I realized I might never get to tell the woman I love how I feel.” His heart was pounding in his chest, and he half expected her to slap him for being so incredibly sappy during his first speech as Führer. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t wait another day to tell her how he felt. “So, while others received promotions, Lieutenant. I stand before you today, requesting that you retire from the military, and rule at my side as my Queen.”

The blonde lieutenant’s heart began to rise like a wild cheetah running to catch its prey, the gasping of the crowd around them began to fade as they were the only ones standing on stage gazing into one another’s dark’s pupils. She tried her best to remain calm, to keep those arms tightly behind her back but eventually they slipped falling gently to her sides. The woman was stunned in place without any words being able to form, all the blood rushed toward her heart as it wanted to burst from her chest and it took all the ounce of strict nature to not slap him on stage from his proclaiming love. After all this time, after all these battles, after risking their lives countless times, Roy Mustang truly felt the same as her. There was so many times he joked about other women making Riza feel as if she never got the time of day but right here and right now was different, he was looking directly at her as were the rest of the country. These incredible, rare feelings were caught in the moment leaving the lieutenant completely lost for words, the very first time she had ever become flabbergasted.

A small step back was taken as Roy Mustang lowered himself to one knee pursuing a tiny box from the confines of his pocket allowing his Lieutenant to become diagonal with the audience. Hawkeye’s insides felt fuzzy, the world lifted becoming lighter, it was like she was looking into the mirror for the first time gazing upon a more beautiful, attractive, strong, and intelligent man before her. They could achieve anything together, they could rock the universe as the truth finally unfolded, no one could possibly feel what they are feeling right now. That sneaky love bug had already clouded both their memories, making them believe that anything was possible if they stayed side by side, that they couldn’t do anything wrong and could complete one's life together.

‘Be my queen’

Hawkeye lost it. Her heart exploded as if glass inside shattered into a million pieces but in a good way. “I...-“ She took another heavy step back, still peering inside the male’s dark hues before glancing toward her comrades who was as shocked as she. All of them made eye contact as their head moved accordingly into a nod, telling Riza to accept this position because although the pair ‘denied’ their feelings, they knew otherwise.

Getting the confidence she needed from fellow subordinates, Riza took one deep breath and stood proudly. Arms remained by her side as she regained footing toward Mustang peering downward into his eyes, “Sir, If you think I would just simply resign from the military after everything that I’ve done then you’ve better reconsider your options.” She stated aloud strict and clear, if she was no longer in the military than she couldn’t be beside the Führer at all times, to become a housewife like Bradley’s. That was something Riza was against. The woman swore an oath to remain by her commanders side and that’s exactly what she intended to do.

“But...“ Her demeanor changed dramatically into something more soft as she gazed longingly into Mustangs eyes about to speak those words he was waiting for. After that small moment everything seemed to move faster, eyes aimed directly toward the Lieutenant as if awaiting an answer but the blonde couldn’t speak. She couldn’t form words or even a syllable, the heavy burden inside that heart radiated throughout only growing more intense. The blonde soldier became clouded within those thoughts that she didn’t recognize the true events unfolding before the Fuhrer’s eyes, a bubbling substance welded up inside the woman’s throat and that body gave way to the unknown watching as a splatter of red landed upon a beautiful canvas. The world moved leaving them no longer inside their tiny safety bubble with the Lieutenant collapsing onto the floor of the stage, the sharp pain from before grew stronger and she attempted to blink away any haziness.

Those beautiful features of the man she loved transformed into something old, rage entered through the darkness in the Fuhrer’s heart as the sounds around them finally resurfaced inside the downed soldier. All the woman could see was red as it covered nearly every inch of that perfectly cleaned uniform, and defiled the man who proposed reminding Hawkeye of a war from long ago. Were her mistakes finally catching up to them? Was she now feeling ‘karma’ coming back to bite?

Just like the day the enemy slit the soldier’s throat, blood once more poured out from the open wound in the woman’s chest. Roy was among the first to drop onto the stage to save his subordinate's life, rough hands ruptly found their way upon the open enclosure with dedication of keeping the blood inside the victim. Mustang was lost in a blind rage of power, searching to find the culprit who dared to harm someone he held dearly, a formed team of others slipped out of the veil of confusion to help mandate the search or seek a medical team. The sharp pain from the bullet entering into the body was like a long-term friend Riza had known, pain was never an enemy in this Lieutenant’s life allowing this to feel no more than baseball pegging its target but with each passing minute the warm blood that seeped into the woman’s clothing maintained the worst part of it all.

Although senses slowly became duller, Hawkeye could easily figure out the words the Fuhrer claimed. Someone had simply shot the Lieutenant right before her captain’s eyes. Hearing was among the first to fade but smell followed shortly behind, the air around them felt damp like indicating a rainfall on such a perfect day. The sky held an array of colors as the sun fell beneath the horizon attempting to fade away to leave everyone in a void of darkness but Riza found calmness in the lit sky that dared to hang on. If one looked closely, it seemed like everything was symbolizing the adult dying right before the countries eyes and with each minute passing the clouds and sky tried their best to hang on before turning into a dark grey. Circulation aimed directly toward vital organs but the wound became the greatest problem as blood tried to find any point other than the open chest wound. Fact is, Hawkeye was beginning to lose too much blood.

Riza’s dark pupils finally found Roy’s as they stared into his dark tainted hues, through all the pain and suffering she attempted to smile. She wanted to accept his proposal and to place a hand upon his cheek to ensure him everything would be ok but the body refused to move; She could barely feel anything other than the burning pain inside.

Rebecca appeared on stage, yelling at the Fuhrer to step aside and allow the young soldier to attempt the blood flow to stop but he seemed lost the longer he watched the life drain from his woman’s life. Strong hands shook the shoulders of the president drawing forth enough attention to allow his cooperation but that didn’t stop his slow response. He wasn’t sure what to do in this moment as he was truly losing his queen.

A discarded box caught the male’s eyes lying in a pool of blood from his lieutenant, digits inched forward sliding through the red substance that dared to soil the ground they stood upon. Tears pricked the edges of brown as the guilt weighed heavily on his heart, if he didn’t propose would she have been saved? The former Colonel could still feel the drops of blood that splattered onto his face, the hardness of them drying in the chilly air and if a tear spilled through the veil than it would mix with the woman he loved as it traveled the surface of his face. When fingers finally flipped over the open box, a small engagement ring was missing, it laid delicately in the blood as if bathing in the solution of it’s captor. The features absorbed the substance into each crook without even a drip slipping back onto the soiled ground as if it enjoyed the sacrifice being made.

A perfectly made diamond created by the man himself rested in his palm, he couldn’t count the hours it took to make something so special but it was something he would do all over again, the amounts of alchemy and studying he learned for this specific moment felt broken.

Those palms shook greatly realizing all his dreams wouldn’t be conquered without his queen, brown eyes became so fixated on the ring with a familiar body laying in the outskirts of those pupils hazily. Tears poured outward falling onto the soaked hands covered in blood and a heart laid among the mess that continued to unfold.

How could something so special create such darkness…?

@whumptober2019

#whumptober2019 #no.1 #royai #Fullmetal Alchemist #brotherhood #Roy Mustang #roy and riza #lieutenant hawkeye #second lieutenant havoc #colonel mustang #fuhrer mustang #FMA #fmab #military #riza #riza hawkeye #broken #writing #story

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darkpoisonouslove · 5 years

Note

Since you asked, I'm all too happy to oblige and send you a few more since these have been amazing! (Feel free to ignore it if I managed to pick a number you've done already xd) But 3, 25, and 26 :)

I feel like this took forever to write (even though it obviously didn’t) but anyway, enjoy all the words since I went way overboard with these.

3 – final

All the times they had met on the battlefield had had her terrified that it would be the last one, the final time she saw his face. Even their last kiss or last embrace hadn’t left her so paralyzed with fear. Maybe because she’d known what they’d been, for she’d planned her escape. But the uncertainty of every battle left her shaken with the question when one of them would die, putting an end to the messy affair between them. And that was the last thing she’d wanted. For she’d never wanted to leave him in the first place.

The final time she’d seen him, which had only become clear in retrospect, had hurt with the fact that she knew it wasn’t final. They were both still alive. He was trapped in the ice but he was alive. And it couldn’t end like that. A story like theirs could never end like that. She knew in her heart that he’d be back. The final time she saw him couldn’t be in her memories or dreams.

Seventeen years and it still hurt to see him. The pain hadn’t changed just like he was exactly the same as she remembered him. Full of rage and out to get her. She couldn’t escape from his wrath even if she wanted to. She’d left him once and he wouldn’t let her do it again. And as she lost consciousness from his attack, she knew that wasn’t the last time she’d see his face, for he wouldn’t kill her.

“My face will be the final thing you’ll ever see.”

The words rang in her head long after she’d been freed from her cell and he was dead. He hadn’t been wrong. She still saw his face. And that would be the case until the very end. Their story had been interrupted before it could reach its final form and it would never leave her alone. It was never finished, and he might have taken his final breath, but her love for him hadn’t perished yet. And no end was in sight until then.

25 – return

The book lay abandoned on the couch–open no less like she never left them because it hurt their spines–as she paced around the room waiting for his return. He was late and she couldn’t concentrate on reading when she felt the heaviness in the pit of her stomach and her heart racing to compensate for the slow movements of the hands of the clock. Something must have gone wrong. He could be in trouble and she could do nothing because his mothers hadn’t let her go with him. She wasn’t even told where he’d been sent, otherwise, she would’ve been there already. But the Ancestral Witches had been separating them a lot lately, claiming it was not necessary to have both members of their strongest team exhausting their energy for a job that could be done by just one of them. And so far their tactic of utilizing their resources had been working but Griffin knew something was bound to go wrong at some point. And she’d dreaded the moment, hoping they’d realize that Valtor and her were better off having each other’s backs since that reduced the risk of injuries and failures. But they’d kept it up and now…. she hoped it wasn’t too late to fix the mistake.

It was a little more than half an hour after his estimated time of return that she felt the enormous whirl of magic accompanying the opening of a portal. It was in the other end of their base and bursting chaotically with no sense of direction. He hadn’t been in the proper mindset to concentrate on a precise location and the magic had spat him out at a random place.

She let her own magic seek out his and whisk her away to him and she was soon teleporting herself. She ended up in one of the smaller corridors of their base, somewhere she didn’t go often but she didn’t have time to think about that.

Valtor was standing in front of her, doing his best not to fall over as he held his ribcage with one hand, his other arm limp at his side and sporting a cut that, thankfully, wasn’t deep. It was just a surface wound unlike the injury to his chest. By the expression on his face that was all bruised and swelling she could tell he was in a lot of pain. More than when he had a cracked rib. He had at least one broken rib, possible internal bleeding and multiple smaller injuries over his entire body. His clothes were dirty and ripped as he’d probably been tackled to the ground where he’d struggled with his opponent. Or, more likely, opponents. She doubted one person could beat him up that badly.

She approached him slowly, resisting the impulse to throw herself at him, for he could barely support his own weight currently. Her quiet steps could do nothing to drown out the sound of his harsh, ragged breaths and it pained her to see him like that, gathering himself and all the strength he had left in order to just move through the base. The battle and the following use of his magic to open the portal must have drained him completely.

It took him some time to raise his head and he only noticed her when she was making her final step and stopped in front of him. He didn’t even look her in the eyes before the arm hanging at his side wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer. He drew in a hissing breath through his teeth at the motion, the cut on his bicep probably burning, but he held on to her, pressing against her body despite his injuries.

She wrapped her arms around his neck since that was pretty much the only affection she could provide without irritating any of his injuries and hurting him more. She was torn because she wanted nothing more than to offer him comfort but he needed to have his injuries checked. Every second they wasted could be vital.

She pulled away to tell him all of that but the words died in her throat when she caught his eye. He was looking at her like he was seeing her for the first time, with so much relief in his eyes that it had her weak in the knees, her hands shaking as she reached for his face.

“Valtor,” her voice was shaking as well and her eyes filled with tears when she touched his skin, cupping his cheeks gently. She had to reassure him that she was there and she was real, that he was at home, in her arms, and the only way to do that was to touch him. Even if it made him wince. It was better than the thoughts that had been running through his head, better than the pain of thinking he would never see her again. Shivers ran down her spine at the realization how bad it had been.

He ran a hand through her hair before pulling her into a kiss, his lips parting hers and his breath filling her lungs finally had her breathing. He was alive. He was safe. He’d come back to her. And that was all that mattered in the world.

“Valtor,” Belladonna’s bark was like a whiplash making them jump apart, Griffin’s insides freezing. She was standing at the other end of the corridor and yet, the chill of her presence could be felt from all the way across it. And she wasn’t even alone. Tharma and Lysslis were standing at her sides like they always were and they all looked furious. “You were supposed to come to us and report about the mission.” Frost started creeping up the floor and walls towards the two of them, making the temperature in the closed space drop quickly and significantly. Griffin was shaking again but not just from terror this time and she instinctively reached for Valtor for support even though he probably needed that more than she did.

“That’s where I was headed, mother,” Valtor’s voice was steady but still respectfully quiet and his head was bowed down as he avoided eye contact, adopting submissive attitude. He didn’t let go of her hand, though.

“And it took you forty minutes?” Belladonna asked even though she was well aware he was just coming in. If Griffin had felt the portal, there was no way the Ancestral Witches hadn’t. They just wanted to force him to admit his failure so that they could lash out at him. She’d seen them do it before. And she knew what would follow. She couldn’t let it happen. “Report. Now,” Belladonna’s tone got sharper, deadlier as the frost kept making its way through the corridor and was now close enough to bite at both of them as soon as the news of the mission left his mouth.

“He needs to go to the infirmary first, Mistress Belladonna,” Griffin cut in, keeping her head down to avoid challenging them any further than was strictly necessary and keep her courage. She was still shaking on the inside and wasn’t exactly sure how much of that was visible on the outside as well. “If there’s internal bleeding, every second could be essential.” She dared a quick glance at the direction of the ancient witches and that was enough to have her swallowing, her voice dying in her throat. If they required a reply from her now, she wouldn’t be able to give it and that would get her a punishment as well.

“But he found the time to get all romantic with you,” Tharma said, her voice seemingly controlled but the rage was burning in it steadily and insidiously and it was a good thing Griffin couldn’t talk currently because anything she said would be the wrong answer.

“Is that what you’re doing now?” Lysslis spoke, her words full of cold, soulless curiosity that was like a knife poking at their open wounds and cutting through every nerve in its way. “You’re letting her fight your battles?” The way Lysslis referred to her crushed every last bit of hope Griffin had that she and Valtor could reason with them. They’d been praising her for her strategies when she’d first joined them and won them some huge victories. But lately all she did was get frowned upon. Especially if it concerned Valtor in any way. “You can’t speak for yourself and you can’t complete missions on your own. Are you co-dependent on her now?”

“That’s not-”

“That was a rhetorical question,” Belladonna’s voice was loud enough to break the ice crust covering the corridor in pieces as she interrupted him. “She speaks out of turn to us and you come back empty-handed. The answer is crystal clear.” The cold flushed over them, making their muscles shake so hard it was impossible to keep holding hands and their teeth chattering which she was sure the Ancestral Witches could still count as disrespect and punish them for that, too. “That partnership was bad for you.”

“We’re your most successful team,” Valtor argued, looking her in the eyes, heat pulsing out of him and warming Griffin up enough to have her muscles relax. Steam filled the corridor as the frost melted off. “We’re unstoppable together.”

“You still need to be able to function as an independent asset.” Belladonna snarled, more frost creeping their way. It couldn’t reach them with the heat coming off of Valtor but that was because she wasn’t trying to reach them. She wasn’t controlling the process. It was happening subconsciously. “Yet, all we’ve gotten is proof of the opposite.”

“My mission failed because the Company of Light had sent word the king to warn him of my attack and the guard was five times what I expected.” Of course it had. The Ancestral Witches didn’t let her plan much anymore, leaving their fingerprints all over everything they touched and giving away their plans to the Company. They were a force to be reckoned with but they lacked any subtlety in their planning, relying on brute force instead of stealth and that could cost much. It’d almost cost everything today and they still hadn’t realized it. Even the might of Valtor’s Dragon Fire wasn’t enough against too many opponents. “I still defeated them all and managed to escape.” If they’d captured him… Griffin didn’t even dare think of that. The Council had no mercy against any random dark magic user that was caught doing anything they considered wrong. There was no telling what they would’ve done to him.

“You still came back empty-handed,” Tharma stepped in, the wind swirling around her feet and destroying Belladonna’s frost, making small pieces of it start spinning in the air. If they’d been any thicker, they would’ve been dangerous like glass shards. “And you dare talk back to us?” Electricity crackled around her and a lightning aimed at Valtor left her form.

“No,” Griffin summoned a magical shield that stopped the attack from reaching its aim. Valtor’s hand was immediately on her hip, squeezing warningly to snap her out of it. She couldn’t oppose them like that and she knew it. But she couldn’t let them torture him either. “If you attack him now, it will take him more time to heal and go back on the battlefield,” she tried to be logical about it which had about fifty percent chance of just angering them more.

And it looked like that was the case with Tharma who was seething, more electricity crackling around her, but she still waited for Belladonna to react first. It was Lysslis who spoke instead.

“So you’re just thinking about the Coven?” she asked, her voice soothing, lulling you into false security as she slithered in front of her sisters and ever closer. “Our little strategist,” the words finished in a resentful hiss.

Griffin knew better than to open her mouth. She just stood still, looking at Lysslis’ general direction but not into her eyes. She wasn’t suicidal.

“Very well then,” Lysslis’ praise was like a slap in the face but she stood her ground as the ancient witch stopped in front of her. “We have a mission just for you. And you’ll either come back victorious or you’d wish to never have come back at all,” the threat was quiet but impossible to miss. Especially with Lysslis’ magic plunging her directly into an illusion, making the feeling of Valtor’s touch disappear.

She was wrapped into darkness, unable to hear or see anything, before a flash of white searing agony sliced through her mind and she couldn’t even feel herself react. She could’ve screamed or fell to her knees but all her brain registered was the pain and nothing else.

“You’ll bring us what we want no matter how much blood you have to spill,” Lysslis’ voice reached her, making her misery worse. That was a part of the problem. She was trying to leave as few victims behind as possible. It was better from a strategical point of view but they were taking it as misplaced mercy. Though, any mercy would be misplaced by their standards. Even when bloodshed clearly wasn’t the answer. “Otherwise, I will personally pull your mind apart piece… by… piece…” every word echoed in her head, bouncing off the corners of her consciousness, hitting it with brutal force and leaving bruises behind.

The illusion ended as abruptly as it had begun and left her out of breath, the memories of terror and suffering fresh in her head, but at least she could feel Valtor’s hand on her again. It seemed like she hadn’t had any external reactions, for he hadn’t tried to pull her out of it. Or maybe he was just being cautious, playing along with their reign of terror. It was possible that he just didn’t have enough strength for anything left, too.

“Get him to the infirmary and then come find us to receive information about the mission,” Belladonna’s voice cut through her but she was grateful for it also cutting them lose from that confrontation. It was over.

She wrapped an arm around Valtor’s waist, relieved that it didn’t cause him pain or even discomfort, and opened another portal. He probably wouldn’t have enough strength to even walk the short distance to the infirmary. And even if he did, she had no desire to go past the Ancestral Witches who were blocking the corridor. So she focused on the map of the base in her mind and helped him into the portal, letting her anger at his mothers feed her magic. She’d finally recognized their current location. It was in the part of the base that the Ancestral Witches had to themselves and he’d been going to them to report about his mission despite the seriousness of his current state. If his return hadn’t drawn her to him, they would’ve hurt him even worse than his mission.

26 – protection

This is a continuation of the storyline from the previous prompt.

Griffin stood in front of the door she’d pushed open so many times with her hand rested over the handle and her pulse pounding in her ears. She couldn’t understand her own hesitation. Over the last couple of weeks she’d only lived with the thought of that moment and now that it had arrived after countless sleepless nights and wrecking her brain without rest in order to complete one of the hardest–and most brutal–missions in her life, it was finally here and she couldn’t make herself open the door that would lead her home.

She shook her head and exhaled slowly to collect herself and banish all worries from her mind. The worst was behind her. She could breathe now. And she could see him.

She pushed the door open and walked in, her eyes immediately finding him. He was on the bed, resting, and just that sight made everything she’d been through worth it. His face had gone back to normal, all of the bruises gone, leaving just the familiar features. She couldn’t quite tell about his ribs even though they had to be almost healed by now as well.

“You shouldn’t have tried to protect me back then,” he said, halting her step and leaving her wounded in the middle of the room. After all these weeks they’d spent apart, that was the first thing he had to tell her? Something that would keep her away before she’d even managed to kiss or touch him. “You put yourself in danger.”

She stood in her place, holding his gaze. She’d done the only thing she could’ve lived with in that situation. He could reprimand her all he wanted, she wasn’t going to apologize for caring about him.

“You know the real reason why they keep us separated isn’t saving resources,” he said in a softer tone this time and extended an arm to her which she quickly took, the warmth of his skin entering her veins and spreading inside her to chase away the memories of how awful the weeks without him had been. “It’s because you don’t sleep in your own bed anymore.” Well, they’d made sure she’d have to when they’d forbidden her to see him. Not that she’d had any time to, planning carefully and doing other missions to get the Company off the trail of what she was actually after. “It’s because I laugh more.” The admission made her smile and she tried not to think about how his weeks of recovery had gone. At least his mothers had been focusing on her which must have kept them mostly off his back for the time being. “It’s because we fell in love.”

Her eyes filled with tears against her will and she leaned in to kiss him and as their lips met and the teardrops falling from her closed eyes left cool tracks on her cheeks, she was washed over with relief. She was finally back in his arms and they were unstoppable together. So she hated it when he pulled away.

“I heard your mission went well and you came back with everything they wanted,” he said as he cupped her cheek with the hand that wasn’t holding hers and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes to enjoy it. “That’s good considering your behavior after my failed mission didn’t do you any good.”

Her eyes snapped open and she was ready to protest but he didn’t give her the chance.

“You stated that you were loyal to me and not to them loudly and clearly,” he raised his voice a little, startling her. He usually didn’t do that. “And that can be good as long as I am loyal to them but you’re still unpredictable enough to be a problem.” She would normally smile since that was something she prided herself on. It was what being a witch meant. But his expression made the heaviness in her chest return. “There are two ways this can go from here. Either they’ll put us back together as a team or…” his hand dropped from her cheek as his gaze left hers.

“Or what?” Griffin asked, her voice cold and harsh as she squeezed on his hand to draw his attention back to herself. She wanted to hear it. She wanted to be certain what awaited her if the Ancestral Witches deemed her more harmful than useful.

“Or they’ll kill you,” Valtor said, his voice quiet, causing her hand to get pulled out of his as her arm fell limply at her side. “Which is why I want you to be ready to leave,” he continued as he grabbed her shoulders, shaking her slightly to make sure she was listening. She was. She just couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing.

“Leave?” she hissed as she grabbed at his forearms, holding on for dear life. “How am I supposed to leave? They control this place. If I try to open a portal, they can just close it and I won’t be able to do anything.” Her magic wasn’t strong enough to defeat theirs. Not to mention that she didn’t want to go anywhere where he wouldn’t be. She couldn’t leave him behind. That was out of the question.

“Fairy dust can open a portal that they won’t be able to close,” Valtor said, his voice frantic and his words an absolute madness.

“Where am I supposed to get fairy dust?” Griffin cried, gripping at him tighter. It was madness. All of it. It was madness that they had to go through that because they were in love and his mothers were afraid of that. And it was madness that he wanted to send her away. How was that supposed to work out? She’d be alive but without him she wouldn’t be living. She couldn’t leave him.

“I’m certain you can find one fairy,” he held her gaze adamantly as if trying to communicate the answer to her through telepathy. Faragonda. He wanted her to reach out to Faragonda. It was a genius plan. The fairy would help her even after everything she’d done and she could count on her protection no matter what it was that she had to face. But that would mean never being with him again. “Please, Griffin,” Valtor said as if he’d read the thoughts in her head. “I need to know you’ll be safe.” His hands cupped her cheeks and she covered them with hers, soaking up the feeling of his skin on hers. It was possible she wouldn’t get to feel much more of it.

“Okay,” she nodded, tears spilling from her eyes again. But the ache in her chest was better than the thought of how much he’d hurt if he had to watch her die. He was not only willing to let her go to ensure her safety but he was also telling her to get in contact with Faragonda. It couldn’t have been easy on him and she didn’t want to make it any harder. But she still held hope that none of that would be necessary as she pulled him into a kiss.

#winx club #winx griffin #winx valtor #griffin x valtor #ancestral witches #winx belladonna #winx tharma #winx lysslis #ask #her-majesty-wears-jeans #drabbles #not #seriously i should stop making them so long #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing #heaven or hell

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mattzerella-sticks · 6 years

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Happy (Sam & Cas, Dean/Cas, 2k) Coda to 14x15 “Peace of Mind”

It's a long while between Arkansas and Kansas, and Sam & Cas had to fill that time somehow. Cas knew that there were things he shared and needed to share with the younger Winchester, things he believed could make him feel better. Hopefully he gets through to him. Their bond may not be 'profound', but Cas values it all the same.

(Link to Ao3)

Castiel wanted to say something. He’d been silent for the remainder of the hunt, too lost in his own thoughts to do more than answer simple questions. Sam took the reigns, thankfully, helping Sunny to clean up her grandfather’s mess. She used her powers one final time to make everyone in town forget the illusion they were trapped in, rendering any memories of the past few months a blank slate. All Castiel did was drive them around town in his car, watching the citizens return to their senses. After exchanging contact information with her, they said goodbye and began the long journey home.

The closer they drove, however, the more uncomfortable Sam looked. He shifted in his seat, stretching his legs as best he can. “Maybe adjust it a little?”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked, “Dean made sure it was the appropriate length, the same as in his car.”

Sam rolled his eyes, muttering under breath. “It’s not the only thing that’s similar…”

Castiel chose not to answer. He had none to give. His car was a gift from Dean, the elder Winchester leading him to the garage with his hands over Castiel’s eyes. He surprised him with it, the sleek, beige model sitting quite comfortably next to Dean’s own car, a near exact replica of Baby. “I saw it out on a lot and knew it’d be great,” Dean explained, babbling and unable to meet Castiel’s eyes, “After some tough love, I brought the best out. Even painted it nice and stuff, like your trench coat.”

The kind gesture moved him beyond words. But none were necessary, as the soft touch to Dean’s face and the tight hug he wrapped him in spoke more than all the entries in the dictionary combined.

After Sam rolled the window back up for the fourth time, Castiel decided to intervene. “You’re nervous.”

“No I’m not.” His response was too sudden, too loud; obvious to both of them that he lied.

Understanding how sensitive Winchesters get when emotionally exposed and flayed, Castiel tried a different approach. He glanced to his right, studying Sam’s guarded expression and stiff shoulders. Castiel started, “If I wasn’t aware of the unsettling nature of this town, I’d have believed you were really happy Sam.”

It was the right wrong thing to say. Sam, taken aback by the direction Castiel took, fell for the bait. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you had a wife, a stable home,” Castiel continued, shrugging, “Isn’t that the dream of happiness everyone searches for?”

Sam scoffs. “Are you looking for a wife?”

“I think you and I both know a wife isn’t in the cards for me.”

He waited for Sam’s response. Fiddling with the radio, searching for a station that wasn’t pure country. In the back of his mind, he wished he hadn’t forgotten Dean’s mixtape in his other truck. By the time he settled on some soft rock, Sam seemed ready to talk.

“That wasn’t real happiness,” Sam admitted, so quiet even the radio overpowered him. His senses managed to pick up on it, however.

“What’s happiness to you then, Sam?”

They still have hours to go before returning home, and Castiel will happily wait until Sam feels ready to talk again. He noticed how Michael’s defeat has been weighing on his soul, crushing his spirit in a tight vice. His fear and misery were loud enough for Castiel to feel, except surrounding them were massive walls the younger Winchester was too stubborn to tear down.

Dean confessed to him before his and Sam’s last hunt how helpless he felt. Sensitivity and raw emotions weren’t his strong suit – barely able to tell Castiel any of this, only doing so because of the comforting blanket of darkness. When they came back from it, Castiel clearly saw the physical and emotional exhaustion pouring out of him. Believing he was letting Sam down. Castiel came to the conclusion that he sat on his ass long enough, and gladly stepped up to look after Sam. Being there, keeping him safe until he was ready to talk.

Nearly a half-hour passed before Sam cleared his throat.

“Yes?”

“I was pretty happy, before,” Sam told him, “Even with Michael locked in Dean’s mind it was… it was all good.” He tapped out an uneven rhythm on Castiel’s dashboard. “We were all together and I felt… I felt like my life was going somewhere. Like after years of taking hits, we were finally building something that could be better than just you or me. That could save more and more people than any of us ever could. I allowed myself to –“ His voice broke, and Castiel was kind enough to disregard how his knuckles brush away a few stray tears. “To let others in. And yeah, I knew that some point we were going to lose some of our friends. But the – the massacre that happened, that I… let happen by not locking Dean away –“

“You are not responsible for that Sam,” Castiel interrupted, “We both would have done anything to keep Dean from his horrible and idiotic plan.”

It’s watery, but a chuckle nonetheless. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected too much,” Sam said, “The shoe has to drop at some point.”

The beat dragged out between them, Castiel making sure Sam finished. When it became clear he had, he took the wheel on their conversation.

“Do you remember what I said earlier?” he asked, “To help break you from that wretched man’s influence?”

Sam hummed in the affirmative.

“I still mean it,” Castiel said, “You and I we’re… we’re very similar, now more than ever. I understand the burden you’re carrying, and appreciate telling me all that you have.”

“How do you do it?” Sam asked him, “All the responsibility… all the – all the failure?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Castiel told him, “I let my mistakes drag me under in a vicious cycle, where I believed that only by proving myself useful that maybe I… maybe I’d matter. How I wasn’t some despicable thing that infected everything. That I wasn’t… broken.” He shuddered at that, already dancing on the edge of a cliff he spent too long climbing back up from. For Sam, he’d flirt with that darkness once more.

“Was that really how you felt?”

“It’s okay, these feelings were not something I liked to share…”

“Have you though?” Sam prodded, “Now that it’s behind you?”

“I… might have,” Castiel said, “pieces, here and there. Small doses.”

Sam nodded, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, probably for the best. If Dean heard all of that at once –“

“My confessions are not burdens,” Castiel said, “They’re healing. I spent too long isolating myself, convinced that I didn’t belong – here on Earth and up in Heaven. If it weren’t for all of you I don’t… I don’t know where I’d be now. That is how I made peace with it all. With the help of my family.”

Sam nodded, his crestfallen features smoothing back into something calmer. “I’m glad you’re in a good place, Cas.”

He shrugged. “It’s better than where I was.”

“Do you think I can come back from this?”

“You’re one of the strongest people I know Sam. Of course you will.” Blushing, Sam shook his hair out behind him, hiding his pleased grin. To help with the mood, Castiel carried on. “You also have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen, too.”

A laugh escaped Sam’s lips, cutting across the tension in the car. Pleasure curled itself in Castiel’s gut, the sound delightful after the long hours of silence and adequate music.

Sam chuckled again, more freely. “Now I know you’re telling me the truth,” he said, “Dean wouldn’t have told you to babysit me if you were going to support my hair habits.”

His good mood fell before it even began. He turned to Sam, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “What?”

“I mean… I know I’m not the first person you’d rather be with,” Sam continued, babbling, “You and I don’t have the same kind of bond you and Dean do…”

Castiel decided it’s better to speak up now, interrupting Sam’s rambling. “You’re right, my relationship with you is much different than the one I have with Dean. But it doesn’t mean I hold you any lesser to my heart. I meant it when I said you and I are a lot alike. You understand me in ways that even Dean cannot. You are not alone. I’m lucky to have you as a friend Sam, and I hope you feel the same.”

From the corner of his eye, Sam nodded. Clearing his throat, he said, “Yeah. The best kind of friend.”

A happy rumble purred, and Castiel wasn’t sure if it was from his car or himself. “Good,” he said, returning his attention to the road.

With his mind free of the speeches and emotions he bottled up for so long, Castiel allowed himself to slip into a trance. Where his focus was locked on the road ahead, keeping track of the mile markers so he knew how much closer he was from home.

Sam wasn’t done, however, and he approached Castiel once more. “Yes, Sam?”

“I… while we’re talking about happiness and all that,” Sam drawled, choosing his words carefully, “I know I haven’t been the easiest to deal with –“

“You were going through so much Sam –“

“I know but… but even though I had my head buried in my tablet, I still noticed a few things.”

“Really?”

“And Dean he… he was smiling exactly how I wanted to. Free from all the weights and worries… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him let down his guard completely. That’s only been happening around you.”

Castiel tightened his grip on the steering wheel, cautious not to let his face reveal the machinations of his heart. “It is a truly wondrous sight, although I am curious why you’re bringing this up?”

Sam snorted, bumping his fist lightly to his shoulder. “You’re smarter than this, Cas. Of course you do. I wouldn’t be a good brother – or a good friend – if I didn’t ask what was going on between the two of you.”

It’s a turn Castiel wish Sam hadn’t taken. Talking about his problems were so much easier, things he conquered once already. Sam wasn’t ready to handle the oozing, black tentacles squeezing his heart.

“Dean has, in the past few weeks, been more open,” Castiel began, cautiously, “It surprised me as well. We had fallen into this comfortable pattern already, I never let myself think it could become even more so…”

“He really cares for you…”

“I know.”

“Has he told you?”

“No… everything between us remains unspoken, still.”

“Do you want it to?”

Castiel sighed. “Some things don’t need a name. As it is now, I am content with our relationship. If Dean decides he is not then that is a conversation we’ll have to have.” He prayed Sam dropped it, unsure where to go if he chose to continue.

Luckily Sam did, fiddling with the radio instead. “You don’t have any rules about this do you?”

“Have at it.”

They’re closing in on the Bunker. Sam switched the station to something faster, power chords slamming into him. “Sorry,” he said, “This is kind of like lullabies to me… gonna try and catch some sleep before getting back. I’m not even sure I can…”

“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Castiel told him, “Sleep. You deserve it.”

Slumping across the window, Castiel waited until he heard Sam’s breathing even out. Assured he wouldn’t be disturbed, he slowly pushed out a litany of curses. Sam inched close around his dark secret, one he wasn’t ready to tell either Winchester brother. If he had to, he would tell Sam. But he’s not selfish enough to do that to him. Sam has so many other things going on with him; Castiel wouldn’t force his own problems onto him. Especially when he already knew how to keep the Empty at bay.

He only hoped Dean would never take the next step.

Heart unsettled, he dialed up the only person who can make him feel better even at risk to his own safety. Dean answered on the second ring.

“Cas, where’ve you been man? You and Sam decide to give me the silent treatment?”

A smile arose without thought. “Not by choice,” he said, “If you have the time, I’d love to tell you what happened.”

“I always have time for you, Cas.”

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn14 #14x15 #Supernatural Coda #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Spn coda #Castiel #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Destiel #Destiel fanfic #deancas #deancas fanfic #Cas and Sam best of friends #Sastiel friendship #14x15 Peace of Mind

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thebeethathums · 6 years

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Broken Together - 1

Pairing: Eventual Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: A lot. Mentions of torture and death, mild cutting, depression, suicidal thoughts. (if I need to add others let me know)

A/N: I’ve been playing with this idea in my head a while and it just... happened. Wanda and Pietro are being held against their will after volunteering for the scepter experiments and it's taking some time for their powers to fully come into their own in this one. Also FULL WARNING this is dark. Those of you who read my usual stuff will know there is a certain Wholesome™ quality to them. This is not like that. Please read at your own discretion.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, dragging a hand over your face as if in an attempt to erase the exhaustion written all over it. It would be time to go soon. Stepping away, you tugged a long sleeve shirt over your head, letting the light fabric cover the methodically spaced needle track marks up both forearms. It had been a rough night in the lab and your handlers had left you alone when it became clear you had no further use for them for the day. After two years they trusted you were broken enough not to try anything and they were right… to a degree.

Strucker was a man obsessed but, as the man in charge, he was also spread unbelievably thin. A fact you were glad for as he had little time to oversee your practices and procedures. As long as he got results, how they came about mattered very little to him. You would take advantage of that for as long as you possibly could. You stretched your sore muscles and rubbed your temples to try and ease the tension building up there before gathering a few things: a lab coat for yourself, two new books you’d managed to procure, and an old digital stopwatch.

The door to your quarters slid open and you tensed. Seven A.M. on the dot. It was time to start another day. When you didn’t immediately respond, the agent in the doorway crossed his arms, brows raised as if to say ‘there are two ways to do this,’ and you quickly gathered your tablet and other research- you’d long since stopped fighting.

You followed the agent down the hall obediently, feeling the weight of emotional and physical exhaustion settling in on your shoulders. It was going to be another very long day but you were prepared. Nothing would go wrong. You had assured that in your late night tests and preparations. You slowly sucked the stale air deep into your lungs through your nose and then pushed it back out through your mouth, readying yourself with your mantra in your head- Endure.

In the beginning, you had refused daily. They would drag you out kicking and screaming, beat you within an inch of your life, and then return you to your room. You had been tossed on the floor every night in a crumpled heap but no matter the pain you convinced yourself you could withstand it. It was better than the alternative. That tactic had lasted a few months before they shifted to psychological torture. During those few brutal weeks, you still hadn’t wavered.

Every morning they had given you a choice: comply or suffer another day and again and again, you refused.

To you, the only options were: endure or die.

Originally, your captors had been perplexed when you hadn’t relented quickly. They underestimated your resolve. Why wouldn’t they? Before you had just been a scientist- soft and unfamiliar with the horrors they had subjected you to; blissfully privileged to a life without this level of fear or suffering.

In reality, they overestimated your will to live.

Depression had been a constant theme in your life in varying degrees and somehow, by some small miracle, it had allowed you to draw a line in the sand. Endure or die. You had repeated it to yourself over and over. Those were your options and in your mind either had been acceptable. The only fight in you then was the fight against what they wanted. That was all that mattered.

Or so you had thought.

The laboratory doors slid open for your bulky escort and he ushered you in, posting himself outside as the doors closed and locked with a finalizing click. You nodded a greeting to your two ‘assistants’ and slid into the chair at your workstation, glancing at the time. You still had a few minutes to before they arrived and you felt the doubts gathering low in your stomach. Every experiment day was the same. The doubts were impossible to completely shake and, somewhere deep in you, you knew the day that you could was the day they had truly broken your spirit. Today was not that day. You took another deep breath in and then slowly out, letting the memories wash over you to remind you why you were here.

They weren’t stupid. Once it became clear that you weren’t going to give in to their usual tactics, they regrouped. You hadn’t expected that. They wanted your mind. It limited their options- push too far and they may lose the brilliance that had drawn them to you in the first place. You knew this. It had spared you the fate of some the others they had taken through the years. You had been able to maintain the luxury of free thought. The last thing you expected was for them to find a way to use it against you.

That day they had come in and dragged you out as they usually did, but instead brought you to the viewing room of the lab. Strucker had brought in someone else. A researcher willing but lacking your insight and experience. You were forced to watch his misguided experiments on three separate test subjects and by the third, a boy who could not have been more than ten years old, you were openly weeping, pleading for them to stop.

The Baron had gripped your chin harshly, disdain in his voice as he seethed, “You caused this. You will watch.”

None of the three had survived more than a half hour. They left you alone with your thoughts for a full day after that- somehow they had gathered that your own mind would torture you more than they ever could. You had been so blind… so monumentally stupid. You had no control. It didn’t matter if you didn’t comply. The experiments would continue. They would find another scientist. The atrocities would still come to pass after you were gone.

When they came for you the next day, you went willingly.

In the time that had passed since then, your only goal was to complete what they asked of you with limited suffering and as much compassion as you could. When your first subject had lived past a week, the Baron had allowed you whatever you needed with only minor questioning.

The young agent who had volunteered to be your subject, Daniel, hadn’t much cared for your compassion or care.

He had only wanted power.

That hadn’t stopped you from administering substantial amounts of pain medication to ease his suffering when the experiment failed a month in. It hadn’t stopped you from holding his hand with a whispered prayer as the life slowly faded from his eyes. It hadn’t stopped you from mourning him that night in the solitude of your room with stifled sobs over how you had failed. It hadn’t stopped you from quietly craving his name into your wrist with a scalpel the next day to remind you of that.

You let out the breath you’d been holding when one of your handlers interrupted your thoughts to announce that breakfast had been brought. You didn’t know which. You never bothered to learn their names. They did as you asked for your work while supervising your progress for Strucker. You trusted them with nothing. Shaking off the memories as you stood, you silently took the tray with a fleeting glance at your wrist.

Three names.

Three failures.

You looked to the testing room as your current subjects were escorted in and determinedly worked your jaw- their names would not be joining that list.

Wanda looked up when you came in the with tray, a faint smile gracing her face as Pietro offered a grin, “Morning, Doc.”

You set the tray in the middle of the table and took your usual cup of coffee from it, forcing a small smile, “Good morning, Pietro… Wanda. Did you both sleep well?”

Nodding, Pietro dug into the breakfast as soon as you set it down and Wanda took just piece of toast, watching you closely. Things had gotten easier over the past few months since her new abilities had started to become more developed. They trusted you now that she could see your care was genuine.

She sat back with her toast, nibbling at it as Pietro told you about some nonsensical dream he’d had and you jotted down notes on a pad in front of you, your eyes lighting up in a way they rarely did anymore. This was the time she’d come to treasure. Even with the overall circumstance seeming bleak, at least you all could find comfort in small moments like these. Since they had been tricked into volunteering by Dr. List, these peaceful and normal moments came few and far in between. She appreciated the effort you put into making them happen as often as you could.

You slid the stopwatch across the table to Pietro when he came to a stopping point, “I know it’s nothing fancy but…”

He had already snatched it before you could finish, chattering away happily in Sokovian at a speed that you couldn’t easily make out what he was saying before he disappeared from his chair to test it out.

Letting him with a soft chuckle, you turned your gaze to Wanda as you slid the two paperbacks toward her, “And these are for you. One in English and one in Sokovian. I can’t guarantee they’ll be a good read but it’s something at least.”

She tilted her head at you ever so slightly with a light smile, “Thank you.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“I did… I suspect we will need it for whatever we are doing today?”

Your eyes met hers, “Always better to be prepared for the worst but hope for the best.”

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storiesnobodyreads · 6 years

Text

Introduce me

Characters: Bucky Barnes x reader

Story: Bucky wants to be introduced to your parents but you dont really wanna cos your parents suck. Bucky tries to convince you/blackmail u all the time and finally he wins a bet.

Warnings: abusive/neglecting parents, fighting, but also love and fluff

A/N: yay I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for so long and it feels good to finish things.

You tried to remember how you had gotten yourself into this situation. Bucky by your side, silently moving his fork around in the disgusting, brown-looking mashed potatoes, opposite you were your parents, who judgementally stared at you and your boyfriend as if it were a staring contest in which only they were participating.

This sucked. You wished it had never come to this.

Bucky had been wanting to meet your parents for a very long time. Quite frankly, he was insulted that you hadn’t introduced him sooner: as if you didn’t take the relationship seriously. You did. You just didn’t want him to experience the horror to meet your parents. As much as you appreciated everything they had done for you, and they were still your mom and dad, you despised visiting them. They always made you feel like a failure. Nothing you did was ever good enough. Ever.

Nevertheless, Bucky never ceased to grab the opportunity to get you to introduce him to your parents. “Because I want to meet the people who created you,” he’d offered as an explanation when you’d asked him why on earth he was so determined considering this. The second reason was because he’d lost his family a long time ago, thus he insisted on appreciating every sort of family member that he had. It was this second reason that got to you.

Often did Bucky attempt to blackmail you, but he’d never had the proper leverage. He once took an embarrassing picture of you from an unflattering angle, showing you with three double chins and one eyelid closing slightly faster than the other, while you were taking a bite of pie. “I’ll delete the picture if you introduce me to your parents,” Bucky had tried to make a deal. “If you don’t, I’ll show it to all the Avengers.”

You had politely declined. Bucky had then proceeded to show the photograph to all the Avengers, which was awkward but much more endurable than having to sit through dinner with Bucky, mom and dad.

One day, you and Bucky had gone out to dinner and afterwards decided to take a walk through the natural park in your neighbourhood, enjoying the golden hour and watching the sky light up pink as the sun set. Birds chirping, squirles gathering nuts, leaves flying peacefully through the air. Everything looked gorgeous, and with Bucky’s hand in yours, it all became even more stunning.

The two of you were peacefully strolling over a bridge, at least thirthy meters above a wildly raging river, when you made a bad decision. “Do you know what would be awesome,” you offered suggestively, “If you could jump off this bridge. You know, and do a triple salto like the pros.”

It was completely a joke and Bucky took it completely seriously. He smiled broadly. “If you want me to do it, I’ll do it.”

You realized your mistake instantly—the fact that Bucky was prepared to do anything for you. “Bucky,” you sighed deeply, “As much as I love you, even you, Sargeant James Barnes, Winter Soldier, cannot possibly survive a fall this high. So do me a favour and just give up.”

He cocked up his eyebrows in indignance. “You don’t think I can do it, doll?”

“I don’t—“ you started.

Before you could even finish your sentence, Bucky interrupted you. His eyes started shining as if he had got struck by the greatest idea in the history of great ideas; he looked like there quite literally lit up a lightbulb above his head. “What do I get from you if I jump?”

You rolled your eyes. “A dollar.”

“I am about to risk my life,” Bucky spoke up exaggeratedly, emphasizing risk my life. “I’m not gonna do that for one dollar.” He held a dramatic pause. “I will, however, do it if you’ll introduce me to your parents.”

A little laugh escaped your lips. Not for a second did you think he was actually going to jump. “Sure, Buck, but you—“

“You said sure!” Bucky gestured excitedly. “If I jump, you’ll introduce me to your folks. Now you promised. No take-backs.” It was ridiculous how childlishly exhilarated he became by all this. In a wild movement, he pulled you toward him by your forearms and kissed you firmly on your lips. Then, suddenly, without saying another damned word, he swirled around and jumped. Straight over the railing.

It was as if he had slammed all the oxygen out of your lungs. “Bucky!” you shrieked, throwing yourself toward the edge. Hearing his scream over the roaring river, you could just see him plunge into the water with an enormous splash. He fell in flawlessly; his body firmly in pencil-shape.

“SHIT!” you screamed, staring at the gaping cliff below you, hoping and praying and wishing that Bucky would come up. You stared desperately for what felt like eternity—finally, his head bopped up through the hostile surface. You couldn’t quite make out whether he was alive and swimming or dying and drowning. Before you know what your body was doing, you were running over the bridge as fast as you could. All your training with the Avengers, with the strict supervision from your boyfriend, kicked in as you sprinted to the side of the bridge, then jumping down and parcouring all the way down the rocky hill. You flew over the stones; heart beating insanely fast while panic clouded your senses.

Bucky was standing, you observed as you could hardly keep your balance when you reached the sand on the banks of the river. He was standing. Alive. ALIVE. You were still sprinting faster than your legs could carry you, now into the river, toward Bucky.

Bucky welcomingly spread his arms as he stood knee-deep in the shores of the rushing river. “Mr and Mrs Y/L/N, here I come.”

You shoved him against his chest. Tears were burning in your eyes. You were pretty sure you had never felt so many extreme emotions before. “Jesus Christ, Bucky!” you hoped to say it angrily, but the words came out rather like panicky sobs.

The smile on his face quickly vanished when it occurred to him you didn’t find this as hilarious as he did. “Okay, babe, calm down—“

You shoved him again, causing him to stumble backwards. “I thought you were dead! I honestly didn’t think you could survive this!”

“Argh,” Bucky did tiredly when you tried to hit him again but he effortlessly caught your arms. You struggled, but he didn’t show any recognition of your struggle. “Will I make it better or worse when I tell you I’ve done this before with Steve?”

You stared at him. “Yes—no.”

He stood there grinning with that stupid, boyish smirk on his face, very aware that he had shocked you but also very aware that you were already forgiving him.

The emotions were still swirling inside of you, to the extent that there really was only one reaction possible. It came so out of the blue, even the Winter Soldier didn’t see it coming. You climbed onto him, wrapping your thighs around Bucky’s neck, then threw yourself backwards into a summersault to slam Bucky to the ground. Only when he was fully underwater, did you release the grip you had around him. It was a particular move that Bucky and you had practiced a thousand times, mostly because he enjoyed the move a little more than he probably should.

He had started teaching you to fight three days after you had joined the team of Avengers. You weren’t an actual Avenger, no superpowers or actual skills, but you were an engineer. Quite a good one, if you dared to say so yourself. By working incredibly hard, studying your ass off, doing everything in your might to become better, you had managed to catch the eye of the one and only Tony Stark. You had become his intern and was now his assistant, helping him whenever you could, otherwise working on your own projects that Tony always declared to be mind-blowing. The Avengers had soon recognized your talent, noticing Tony’s face light up with pride every time you dropped by with a new invention for them, and everyone had welcomed you with open arms.

Three days into being Tony Stark’s official assistant, and it was publically known, Hydra wanted you. You, being an unprepared city girl with no experience in fighting whatsoever, was easily kidnapped walking down the street. The van stopped, two men jumped out, wrapped a dark bag over your head, pushed you into the van, and drove off.

It shouldn’t have been that easy, but it was.

Thankfully, the Avengers had immediately come to action after you had slammed the emergency bulb you carried in your pocket, setting off all the alarms in the Stark Tower. “We had no choice but to go rescue you,” Tony had later complained, “You were the only one who knew how to turn off those alarms.”

Bucky had been less capable to joke about the situation; he was furious that you had been taken by the enemy so effortlessly, and insisted that you’d learn how to fight. You’d told him you’d do it, but only if he’d be the teacher. And it was pretty clear how that relationship turned out.

You realized your thoughts had gotten slightly off-track; you had been chewing the same piece of carrot for a full minute.

After years and years of being around your parents, you had grown used to the fact that they didn’t respect you. But it bothered you to hell that they didn’t respect Bucky. First, they had wasted half an hour staring at his metal arm, their expressions filled with fear and not-so-subtle disgust. They had then proceeded to ask Bucky to put his coat back on and keep his hand underneath the table, so that they would have to see it as little as possible. Bucky had been polite about it. He was used to people being scared of him.

It was almost hard to describe how much you hated them for it. There was an uneasy feeling in every nerve of your body—only half-way through dinner you realized this was what it felt like to really want to punch someone in the face. Hate.

“How did you two meet?” your mother asked, voice cold and lips pursed.

Bucky put his fork down and leaned back in his chair, glad to start up a conversation. “Actually, it was Tony Stark who introduced us. See, your daughter is one of the brightest engineers on the planet, so of course she caught Stark’s eye, and he recruited her. She instantly proved invaluable to the team. I think she’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

“Hmm,” your mother did, shaking her head a little after Bucky finished his last sentence.

Bucky didn’t miss the nonverbal signal she was sending. “Excuse me?” he asked for an explanation.

“You just give her a lot of credit,” she shrugged disapprovingly. “Without the education that we provided for her, she would have been nothing in this world. She might be able to study, kind of, but if we hadn’t given her the chances we have given her, she would have been completely worthless.” Never mind the fact that you had worked insanely hard to make money to provide for the entire household during highschool, and despite that had managed to get a scholarship for a University.

Bucky’s eyes were wide. “I mean, what does—“

“Yes,” you interrupted him, “Thanks, mom and dad, for everything you did for me. I would have been nothing without you.” You had learned over time to get the words over your lips without vomiting.

Bucky glared sideways at you, his eyes shining confused. Offended for your sake.

“Dad, why don’t you tell Bucky about your business?” you suggested. He did, and that was it then. That was the last time you were mentioned in the conversation or that you even said anything. Your parents didn’t want to talk about you or your life; they didn’t care about you or your life. They wanted to talk about themselves. The only way you could come up in the conversation, was when it would make them feel better; by either emphasizing it was thanks to them you were successful, or remembering what a failure you actually were. You had always found this quite a conundrum.

“I almost cancelled that meeting for Y/N’s tenth birthday party,” your dad was telling Bucky about the meeting in which he had been offered a promotion. “Boy, was I glad I didn’t! No one showed up to her party anyway.” No one had showed up because everyone was scared to death by your parents; you’d later celebrated your birthday in class because the teacher and the kids wanted you to feel happiness when you reached the age of two hands.

Your mom laughed. “That’s right, dear,” she smiled evilly. “She didn’t have any friends. No one likes her.”

Bucky’s fist was balled so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“You’d think that her having no friends would mean that she’d spend more time helping out in the house, but no, lil missy here was always too good to clean a table. Like I said before, quite a worthless child.” Your dad seemed to have a good time talking about this to Bucky.

“After her tenth birthday party failed so miserably, we gave up on her birthdays,” your mom added. “We knew that no one was ever going to celebrate her. So after that, we always went on a nice vacation, to Hawaii or something alike.”

Bucky’s jaw was hard as he was clenching his teeth. His jaw did look sharp as if it could cut you. “That’s nice,” he brought out politely. “Must have been cool to spend your birthday in Hawaii,” he said to you.

“Oh, no,” your dad laughed out loud. “We didn’t take her with us. Why would we take some stupid child to ruin our holiday?”

Bucky looked so shocked, he came up with no response.

“Not that all children are horrible,” your mom intoned, completely misinterpreting his mood. “I’m sure you were a lovely child. Before you lost your arm, that is.”

Your dad agreed, “Yes, you are quite the gentleman.” The old man leaned forward over the table, making it look like he was going to whisper, but his words were as loud as before. “Tell me, Bucky, why on earth are you with our daughter?”

“Oh!” your mom snapped her fingers excitedly as she got an idea. “She paid you to pretend to be her boyfriend, didn’t she?!”

Bucky’s expression promised a storm. “No, I—“

“How much did she pay you?” your dad went along with it whole-heartedly. “Must have been a lot! She’s such a nobody, foolish and worthless, and you, well, you are a superhero!”

Your mom nodded. “Must have been a million bucks, for someone as talentless and dull—“

All of a sudden, Bucky rose to his feet. Promptly and aggressively, making the glasses of wine spill and the cutlery rambling. He angrily threw his napkin from his lap on the table. “I love Y/N,” he spat out the words. “I love her so much I didn’t even fucking know it was possible to love someone so much. And you—“ He inhaled sharply, having trouble finding the words. “Just because you cannot see what an incredible woman your daughter is, does not give you the right to speak about her like that. You are family. I can’t even wrap my head around how you can act this way.” Roughly, he shoved his chair backwards and held out his hand to help you up. “I mean, come on.” His voice dripped with disapproval. “Have some damn respect.”

The looks on your parents’ faces was priceless.

Bucky’s metal fingers tightly held your hand as he steered you out of the house, not allowing you to say another word to your parents. You had never seen him this mad before, except perhaps after you had gotten kidnapped by Hydra.

He didn’t let go of your hand until he had the door of his jeep open for you to enter. After you had climbed into your seat, he slammed the door shut behind you, making the vehicle shake. He moved around the front, took his seat behind the wheel, grunted something about “no idea what family means”, and as soon as the car was started, hit the gas to jolt of your parents’ property.

“Bucky?” you tried to say.

“I love you, but I need a minute to calm down, okay?” he breathed out.

You could feel yourself shrink, as if he had stepped on your soul. Softly, you replied, “Okay.” For a year you had managed to prevent this occassion. You had known that it was going to be a disaster since the beginning. But perhaps you had overestimated the strength of your relationship. Maybe this was the thing that pissed Bucky off to the point of no return—that you had made him loose faith in the concept of family.

You sat there worrying for quite a while. Bucky drove and didn’t speak. His silence was deafening. You couldn’t figure out what he was thinking or what he was going to say; soon the unrealistic fear that he didn’t love you anymore settled in. God, did you love him. You couldn’t imagine your life without him.

After what felt like hours, Bucky finally spoke up. “Your parents were wrong, you know.”

You sighed, feeling relief wash over you that he was saying words to you again, but also feeling very tired. You didn’t want to talk. You could predict a preach coming, one that Bucky had undoubtedly picked up from the righteous Steve, and you didn’t want to hear it. Sharing your feelings sucked. “I know. I refuse to argue with them, so I let them think they’ve won. I get the satsifaction of knowing they haven’t.”

“As much as I respect that approach,” Bucky started carefully, “I don’t think you—“

“Do you want to listen to some music?” you interrupted him. Now that you knew he didn’t hate you nor did he want to break up with you, you realized the absolute last thing you wanted to do was talk about your mommy and daddy issues. You preferred ignoring the problem until it just went away. You knew Bucky had been a fan of that method, too, until he had found you to talk to.

Bucky tensed his shoulders as if he intended to protest, but you had already arranged the music anf turned up the volume to its highest extent, blasting Bruno Mars across the dark, abandoned road. No one was out and driving in this neighbourhood on a Tuesday evening. No lanterns. All there was, was the risk of hitting a deer crossing the asphalt.

Soon you found myself getting absorbed by the stars, your forehead firmly pressed against the icy glass. You attempted to seek out constellations, but you were constantly welcomed by so much light from the moon and stars that all you could do was gawk. Mouth agape.

After at least an hour of driving through enchanting no-man’s-land, Bucky abruptly switched off the music. Only when you snapped your neck to look at him did you realize your neck muscles were aching. “What is happening?” you brought out insecurily.

“I’m pulling over,” Bucky informed you, while instantly following up on his words, stopping his jeep on the side of the road. His metal arm whirred in readjustment.

You still hadn’t the faintest clue what his intentions were. “Are we out of gas?” was your simplest conclusion.

Bucky threw the door open and leaped out of the car, leaving the engine roaring and the headlights shining bright. Stomping on the muddy grass, hands in his neck to help him breathe, he stood in front of the car. His silhouette perfectly outlined by the headlights—you were painfully reminded by how gorgeous he was.

“James?” you asked quietly. His name brought up no reaction, though it should have, since you only called him James during intimate times. Slowly, you made your way out of the car and joined Bucky to stand by his side.

“Okay, here goes,” growled Bucky, his eyes fluttering open when he sensed your warm presence beside him. “I don’t think you should let your parents talk to you that way. That makes no fucking sense. But that’s not why I’m mad. That’s your parents’ fault. Apologies, but they fucking suck. They don’t deserve you. At all.”

“Wait,” you still had to catch up, “What are you mad at me for?”

“For not fucking telling me!” Bucky busted out. “Doll, I have told you everything there is to know about me. My whole past, all my fears, it’s all out there. I talk to you. You have to talk to me too.”

For some reason, you could only think of that once he’d said it. After helping him overcome so many traumas, he could help you, too. Though the things you experienced were on a significantly smaller scale than Bucky, it was still troubling, and Bucky still wanted to help. You couldn’t even remember how often Bucky had woken up from a nightmare, screaming, bathed in sweat, occasionally attacking you with his metal arm, the one that had been so wired to do the killing. It had taken a long time before he was willing to talk about it. It had taken an even longer time for him to stop trying to push you away every time something happened. However, once he had accepted that you weren’t going anywhere, the relationship had grown all the more stronger.

“Bucky, it’s not that easy--”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Bucky demanded, his full body and full frustration now turned to you. “Doll, you’re the one who convinced me to share my feelings, talk, talk, talk. And now I find out you haven’t been talking about the thing that bothers you most. I guessed your parents were shitty but I never knew it was like this.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, aching your ribcage. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you exclaimed. “You have enough on your plate as it is. You don’t need my childish mommy and daddy problems on top of that. It’s fine! I learned how to deal with it. I just didn’t want to fucking bother you with it.”

Bucky’s eyes flared dangerously as he stepped in closer to me. “I want you to bother me!” he yelled. “I want you to tell me everything that’s on your mind, every little thing. I want to know everything about you because I love you, and I want you to trust me. I want you...” He inhaled sharply, seeing your shocked expression, taking a step back. Took a deep breath. “I just want you to bother me. Like I bother you.”

There were tears burning in your eyes. “I’m sorry. I... I guess I tried to protect you from my stupid problems but you’re right. I wanted you to bother me, too.”

“Okay,” Bucky was focussing on his breathing, probably counting to ten. It had started to rain. There were only several raindrops one second, then ear deafening thunder boomed in the distance, and suddenly rain came pouring from the sky without a shred of mercy, instantly draining you to the bone. “Well, shit,” he growled. “I hadn’t expected the day to go like this.” The furious fire that had been awakened in his eyes was slowly mellowing, and he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue despite the rain.

You shrugged, wiping a tear from underneath your eyes, which also didn’t matter thanks to the rain. “I kind of did. I knew it was going to be a disaster.”

“All this because I jumped off the bridge, huh?” Bucky smiled a little, picking up your gesture and removing the smudged mascara from under your eyes. “Listen, I love you, crazy parents or not. I’m glad you introduced me. Feel like we took a step today.”

“I hadn’t expected this, but I’m glad I introduced you, too,” you said. “I mean, you really showed them. Told them what you thought and then got the fuck out of the house. That was... Thank you for that. I love you so much.” You were still crying, but they had transformed themselves into happy tears, and mingled with the rain streaming down your face. Your hands cupped Bucky’s face, holding him close.

Bucky’s hands, flesh and metal, were on your waist, pressing you closer to his body. “I love you too,” he whispered against lips, his hot breath sending chills down your spine.

You shivered, inhaling the smell of him, strengthened by the heavy rainfall. “We did enough talking and sharing feelings for today, right?”

Bucky couldn’t get himself to properly respond, and firmly pressed his lips on top of yours. He held onto you and you held onto him, both with so much passion and adoration, you realised it didn’t matter how much you would ‘bother’ each other. You’d always love him, and he’d always love you.

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