#i hear the weird ticking noise ive heard since ive moved here

[sweetiepotatofry]

I am a girl, in my apartment, and I am scared.

[thepuckbuddies]

lifeline

prompt:  nhlhockeydreamer asked - would you be willing to write one with auston mathews where he forces the reader to go to a hockey gatherimg with him and hes tired but the reader is more awake and offers to drive and he declines and then he accidentally goes through a red and driver hits the passenger side of the car and the reader gets hurt where as matthews doesnt and how he reacts

player: Auston Matthews (Toronto Maple Leafs)

TW: Characters are involved in a car crash, and there is discussion of hospitalization and some injury.

“(Y/N)!” Auston calls into your apartment, door slamming shut behind him.

“On the couch!” you call back, pausing the movie you’d been watching. Auston bustles in, stripping off his coat, and reaches out a hand to pull you up.

“Come on, time to get dressed!” He begins to usher you into your bedroom and gives you a little nudge towards the closet.

“Uh...for what?”

“There’s a dinner tonight for all the guys and their families,” Auston replies, stripping off his shirt and heading towards the bathroom. You unashamedly wolf-whistle, admiring the cut lines of his body. He turns are gives you a withering look. “Babe, I’m serious. It’s in, like, forty-five minutes. We’ve gotta be there!”

“Forty-five?” You raise your eyebrows and look down at yourself. Ratty t-shirt you’ve had for years, comfy Leafs sweats that are definitely Auston’s and way too big for you, fuzzy socks, unwashed hair. You know, the works. “Auston…” He huffs and scoots back over to press a kiss to your cheek pleadingly, resting his big hands on your shoulders and ducking to look you in the eyes.

“(Y/N), please? It’ll be fun! Just hop in the shower now, we can totally make it in time!” You sigh.

“Alright, alright, put away the puppy-dog eyes, Aus. But afterwards, we’re coming back here to relax, okay?” Frowning, you brush a thumb over the dark circles under his eyes. “These are worse than usual, baby, are you sure you want to go?” you ask. Auston waves a hand dismissively.

“Those bags are Gucci, sweetcheeks, I’m good,” he says with a grin. “Now, shower? Please?” You shake your head ruefully and move to the bathroom.

“If you say so…”

*****

Thirty minutes later, Auston is standing at the apartment door, checking his watch.

“Babe, are you ready to go yet?” he sighs.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m right here!” You say, standing on one foot as you tug on the straps of your heel, supporting yourself with one hand on the wall. “I would’ve been ready earlier if you had told me about this, you know,” you add mildly. Auston holds out your coat, and you slip into it, turning around to meet his gaze,

“You look beautiful,” he says, smiling slightly down at you. You press a chaste kiss to his lips, resting one hand on his jaw.

“Thank you.” Stepping back, you give him some cheesy elevator eyes. “You clean up well too, handsome,” you tease. Auston rolls his eyes and offers you his arm as he whisks you out of the apartment and to the elevator.

Watching the numbers tick down, you look over to see Auston covering a yawn with his hand, leaning back against the elevator wall and closing his eyes.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask. “We can always go to the next one.” Auston cracks one eye open and squints at you.

“I’m good,” he replies, pushing himself off the wall as the elevator dings at the ground floor to let you both off. He wraps one arm around your shoulders and tucks you into his side as you walk in step to his car. You feel him yawn again.

“How about I drive?” you ask, holding out your hand for the keys. Auston scoffs and steers you to the passenger door, opening it up.

“Come on, babe. I’m fine,” he says, pouting a little.

“I know, Auston, I’m just saying, you could rest a little as we drive over? That’s all.”

“It’s not a big deal, (Y/N).”

“I know, I’m just saying, I could drive us.” Auston shakes his head and offers you his hand to step into the car.

“I got this.” Shrugging, you hop into the car and buckle up while he makes his way over to the driver’s seat.

Auston’s music plays over the speakers as you turn onto University Ave. You don’t talk much as you make your way out of downtown Toronto and onto quieter streets, letting the low thrumming of the bass fill the silence. You’re looking out at the bright lights of the city nightlight when you hear Auston yawning again.

Huffing a little laugh to yourself, you turn and see him resting with one hand comfortably on the wheel, head tipped back against the seat. He’s squinting a little against the flashing bars of street light that pass over his eyes, lashes turned gold in the slight yellow glow.

Smiling to yourself, you turn back to your window and watch the buildings flow by. Your phone buzzes in your lap - a text message from a friend. Typing out a reply, you see a weird movement out of the corner of your eye. Looking up, you gasp and yell out.

“Auston, look ouー!”

The pickup truck barrels through the intersection, slamming into the passenger side door. Glass shatters, metal crunches, and your vision goes black.

*****

“(Y/N), baby, come on, answer me. Come on, please, answer me, Iー”

“No, you have to let me go with you, I can’t leave her, pleaseー”

“Stabilize her neck, and watch her arm. Get me an IVー”

“(Y/N), you’re going to be just fine, alright? You have to beー”

“God, this is my fault, it’s all my fucking fault, I can’tー”

“Come back to be, okay? Please, I can’tー”

“I love you so muchー”

“(Y/N)ー”

*****

Beep. Beep. Beep. The steady rhythm of a heart rate monitor is the first thing you notice. Wrinkling your nose, you try to shift away from the noise.

“Ahー!” You hiss through your teeth as a searing pain radiates from your shoulder and the right side of your face begins to ache. Your eyes fly open to see the bland white and blue of a hospital room. Instinctively, you try to move your opposite hand to touch your collarbone or your cheek, but you can’t move it from under a heavy weight. Looking over, you see your boyfriend fast asleep, hand tucked into yours and cheek resting on them both, fast asleep. He looks, frankly, like hell.

He’s unshaven, his hair is greasy, and the bags under his eyes are, somehow, three times the size they were earlier. Softening, you slowly work your hand out from under him, running your fingers through his hair and watching as the lines between his eyebrows and next to his mouth begin to fade. The door clicks open as two familiar figures shuffle in, quietly closing the door behind them. Mitch Marner and Patrick Marleau are carrying flowers and a balloon that cheerfully proclaims “Get Well Soon!”, clearly acting as team representatives.

“You’re awaー” Mitch starts, blue eyes wide in surprise. You hold a finger to your lips and gesture down at Auston, smiling a little as Mitch winces. “You’re awake!” He repeats, somewhat quieter. He moves towards the bed and sets the flowers down on the table there. Patty follows behind and smiles at you.

“How are you feeling?” he says, eyes kind.

“A little banged up,” you say, wincing when you automatically try to shrug. You tuck your hand back into Auston’s hair and keep stroking as you look between your two guests. “What exactly happened?” you ask. “Last thing I remember is the pickup truck hitting us.”

Mitch nods. “Your car spun out pretty badly. Since you took most of the impact, you’ve got most of the injuries.” You nod, remembering how fast the other car had been going.

“We’re lucky it wasn’t worse,” you mutter, zoning out a little. Your eyes jump to Patty’s again. “Wait, the other driver! Is he alright?” Patty nods.

“Matts said they kept him in the hospital for a day to monitor him for head trauma, but he was released with no injuries.”

“A day? How long have I been out?” you ask, startled.

“Just under two days,” Mitch pipes in. “You’ve kind of been in and out of consciousness.” He nods towards Auston. “He hasn’t left your side except for when they make him. I think this is the first time he’s slept.” You look over at your sleeping boyfriend, shaking your head. No wonder he looks so terrible. Auston snuffles a little and his shoulders shift as he starts waking up as if he had heard them talking about him. Patty grips Mitch’s shoulder, tugging a little.

“We’re going to go grab something to eat, alright? Give you two some time to talk. We’ll bring you something back, if they’ll let us. This hospital food isn’t the best.” You thank them quietly and watch as they make their way out of the room, talking in low whispers. Auston recaptures your attention, groaning a little as he flexes his hand.

“Auston, are you alright?” you ask, keeping your voice quiet. Auston’s head shoots up, spine suddenly ramrod straight.

“You’re awake!” He says dumbly, voice still thick with sleep. The chair screeches a little when he stands up, leaning over you to press kisses all over the left side of your face. “Thank God, I thought I’d lost you,” he mutters into your hair. He leans back again, expression worried.

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry,” he begins, scanning your face. His dark eyes start to well up with tears as his mouth trembles. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, I didn’t mean to, I swear, I’m sorryー” You shush him, gingerly reaching up one hand to cup his cheek, brushing away a stray tear.

“Auston, baby, it’s okay, we’re alright.” He shuts his eyes, pressing a kiss to your palm as he covers your hand with his.

Worriedly, you scan him up and down. “Aus, are you alright? Are you hurt?” He chokes out a little laugh.

“You ask if I’m alright? Baby, you’reー” he cuts himself off, taking a breath. “You’re all bandaged and broken, and it’s my fault, and you’re still asking if I’m alright.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” you protest.

“I ran a red light, (Y/N), of course it’s my fault!” Auston half-shouts, another tear running down his cheek. Shocked, you blink dumbly at him for a second. Giving yourself an internal shake, you quickly recover.

“Did you do it on purpose?”

“What? Whyー”

“Did you?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then it’s okay.” You say, emphasizing the last word slowly. “It’s okay. I don’t blame you for any of this, alright?” Auston stares at you disbelievingly.

“How? How? I was tired and you told me I shouldn’t, but I didn’t listen and now you’re in the fucking hospital? Andー”

“And it was an accident, Auston. They happen sometimes. We’re alive and we’re okay, which is all that matters.” Auston’s face drops. Gritting your teeth, you scoot a little to your right, ignoring the pain coming from what seems to be a broken collarbone and your boyfriend’s confused protests.

“Come on, hop on up,” you say, patting the bed next to you and leaving your arm outstretched. Auston shuts his mouth and scrambles up, careful not to jostle you too much as he tucks himself into your side, legs scrunched up comically in the tiny hospital bed. He rests his head on your the join of your chest and shoulder, and you card your fingers through his hair again.

“Mitch and Patty say you haven’t left,” you murmur. He gives a minute shake of his head.

“I couldn’t,” he says in reply, wrapping one arm around you to rest a warm palm over your ribs. Humming slightly, you scritch against his scalp and feel him melt into you. “I wouldn’t.”

“Aus?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.” Shuddering out a sigh, Auston presses a kiss to your neck and snuggles in closer, weaving his legs in between yours.

“I love you, too.”

********************

A/N: yoooo check me out trying with the angst that really just turns to cuddles because i am INCAPABLE of writing anything without cuddles!!!! 

also disclaimer i’ve never been in anything more serious than a fender bender, so any inaccuracy in regards to injury or accidents may be blamed on my poor googling skills. also support people with broken collarbones, they are the actual worst

hopefully you all enjoyed this! as always, requests are open and i am more available to write recently, which is why a little less radio silence. love yall and catch ya on the flip

[infinitehouseofbooksya]

CHAPTER EXCERPT - The Tick Tock Man

Excerpt

Chapter One Something wasn’t right. I’d planned on sleeping in Thanksgiving morning because, hey, it was Thanksgiving, and that meant no school and no stupid alarm to wake me up. Well, that was the plan. At precisely eight a.m., the clock sitting a mere two feet from my head wailed. Thunka thunka thunka thunka. Stupid clock. That wasn’t even a real alarm sound. It was just an invented strange noise to annoy me. I checked the buttons on top. No alarm set and no radio. Maybe it was a dream? Just to be sure, I gave the clock a good whack. All was well. Back to sleep. Bonka bonka bonka bonka. Now it was nine o’clock. I sat up and grabbed the clock with every intention of tossing it against the back wall. What a pleasure it would have been to see it smash into a million pieces. I win! But, this clock was a birthday present from Uncle Artie. He’d said it was “a special clock for a special kid.” I didn’t like being called “special” because that had a different meaning at school. But it was a cool clock. Until now. I mean, what kind of noise was that? Certainly not the alarm sound I was used to. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t help but wonder what crazy not-real-clock noise Uncle Artie’s “special” clock would make next. So I got out of bed. Since it was Thanksgiving, I was not at all surprised to see my mom up and in the kitchen. The turkey was on the counter in a large pan. Her arm was halfway up the turkey’s you-know-what. Not what I wanted to see this early in the morning, thank you very much. “Good morning,” Mom said. “You’re up early.” “Couldn’t sleep.” I wanted to mention the special-but-stupid clock that made strange noises at weird times, but she had grabbed another handful of stuffing and stuffed it “up there.” “We’ll need a few guest chairs from the basement when you get a chance. Nana and Papa are coming over, of course. Plus Grandma and Grandpa Boyce. And Uncle Artie too.” “Sure thing, Mom.” I was barely awake and she was already asking me to do math. Nobody was coming over for quite a while, so I wouldn’t need the, let’s see, two-plus-two-plus-one chairs for several hours. I had tons of time. What better way to spend it than on the couch watching TV? It would probably be the most fun I would have all day, with both sets of grandparents coming over. It was annoying enough that they had different titles: “Nana and Papa” on the Barnes side, “Grandma and Grandpa” on the Boyce side. Then there was Uncle Artie. He wasn’t really an uncle but that’s what we always called him. I’ve also heard him called a “distant cousin,” whatever that means. He said his job as an “importer” took him around the world to some pretty exotic places such as Vienna and Timbuktu and South America. No matter what faraway land he went to, he almost always brought us back a clock. We had wooden clocks, metal clocks, cuckoo clocks, and some that were just too odd to describe. Mom would open a package from him and say, “Hey, look. It’s a clock. Imagine that.” Each clock came with a wonderful story, so my parents loved to get them for just that reason. Unfortunately, both of them hated having all those clocks, with their constant ticking and chiming, so we kept them stashed away in the spare room upstairs until Uncle Artie came to visit. And since he was on his way, I sat up, knowing what was coming next. In three … two … one. “CJ! Your Uncle Artie’s coming over, so you’ll need to set the clocks out.” Mom could sure belt it out when she needed to. I knew the drill. I went to the spare room, pulled the special box out of the closet, and lugged it down the stairs. The crescent moon clock went in the living room, replacing a family portrait, which was fine with me since I looked like a dork in that picture, anyway. There was a special cuckoo clock for the bathroom that was pretty cool. The doors on the upper level opened at the top of the hour, revealing either a boy dancer or girl dancer. I set the correct time and adjusted the weights at the end of a long chain to keep the gears going. Six clocks later, I had completed the task, finishing it off in Dad’s basement shop with a clock made from a circular saw blade. Uncle Artie’s favorite saying was, “You can never have too many clocks.” On this Thanksgiving Day, it was certainly true, even though I was sure my parents would disagree. Not me. Although I never paid a lot of attention to the clocks, I felt something strange as I took each one from the box and hung it in its rightful spot. The crescent moon clock had two huge eyes, one on the crescent side and the other on the orange side that completed the circle. The eyes were painted on but I swear they followed me as I moved around the room. I double-checked the time on the cuckoo clock in the bathroom and admired the details in it. The entire clock was a house from a German village, with people dressed in lederhosen on the lower level. Lucky for me it was the top of the hour and the clock chimed, revealing the bird from a door at the top and children dancing in the two small doors just below it. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? What awesome detail! I completed the clock replacement task, storing the non-clock items in the same box and returning it to the spare bedroom. That practically wore me out, so it was back to the couch. The smell from the great stuff Mom was cooking drifted into the room, reminding me I hadn’t eaten yet. “I made you some scrambled eggs.” Mom smiled as I entered the kitchen. “Thanks. I’m starving.” She held out a plate then pulled it back, still smiling. “Just as soon as you bring up the chairs from the basement.” This wasn’t fair, but it was the second time she’d asked. The third time would not be as charmed. On my way to the basement, I realized my early morning math was wrong. There were four chairs already in the dining room, so I only needed four more. I could easily get them all in one trip. I passed Dad’s shop right at 10:30 and the heard the blade clock begin to make noise. I turned on the shop light to get a good look and, sure enough, the blade was slowly turning. Clockwise, not surprisingly. Even stranger was that the numbers never moved as the blade turned. A few seconds later, it stopped and went back to normal. Another clock I had never paid much attention to was suddenly freaking out. I hurried back upstairs with two chairs on each arm. I got my scrambled eggs, finally. *** At 11:00, things got even weirder. Dad was up by now, sitting in front of his computer, but that wasn’t the weird part. When the hour struck, the crescent moon clock made a strange clicking noise, and those crazy eyes began to wink at me. The painted-on lips between the four and eight went from a Mona Lisa smile to a full-blown grin. I wanted to say something to Mom or Dad, but who would believe me? I went into the bathroom, and the boy and girl dancers in the German village twirled next to each other while the bird stayed home. This was quickly moving into “bizarre” territory. It didn’t help when my watch—another gift from Uncle Artie—started chiming a sound I had never heard before. I took it off and stuffed it in my pocket. Problem solved. *** I played video games in the back room, trying my best not to look at or listen to any of the suddenly crazy clocks in the house. It was working too, as I finished off another level of Mortal Warfare IV. “CJ,” my mom called. “Please set the table.” “Okay. Just one more level.” I sat up as the battle intensified. “Now would be better. They’ll be here in less than an hour to watch the football game.” “I’m on it.” I made it past the gatekeeper to complete the level, which allowed me to save my spot in the game. I grabbed plates and set them out on the table. I took one plate and placed it on the TV tray next to the window. That’s where I would sit. The rule was: adults at the big table and kids somewhere else. Sometimes it was a card table when my cousins showed up. Since I was the only kid this year, I would have to settle for a TV tray. My mom’s cell phone rang, and she talked with the phone squeezed against her shoulder as she mixed something in a large bowl. She stopped mid-mix and put the bowl down. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Her voice was all serious. She walked out of the room before I could hear any more of it. I returned to my table-setting duties, grabbing forks, knives, and napkins. The smell of turkey and all the fixings hit me hard as I placed the silverware around the table. Maybe all this work would be worth it. I took another whiff. Maybe. Mom returned to the kitchen, put the phone down, and stopped stirring. “Mom, you okay?” She looked up at me with moist eyes. “Uncle Artie is in the hospital and can’t make it for Thanksgiving. He hasn’t missed one since your dad and I have been married.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron. “Fortunately, it’s nothing serious and my parents are heading there right now, so they can’t make it until the weekend. I’d better go tell your father. Looks like we’ll only need five plates at the table.” No Nana and Papa Barnes? No Uncle Artie? I truly hoped Uncle Artie was okay, but this was my big chance to sit at the head of the table, something I’ve always wanted to do. The head chair was bigger and had arms, and it felt like a throne. Uncle Artie always got the honors while I was stuck with the TV tray under the window. I followed Mom out to the garage where Dad was cleaning out the van, getting it ready for our traditional late-afternoon drive. Dad didn’t seem too bummed to hear the news about Uncle Artie or his in-laws. He barely looked up as he polished the dashboard. “Yeah, well, sorry to hear about Uncle Artie. He’s never down for very long.” The time was right to pounce. “Mom? Dad?” Dad turned toward me and nearly bumped his head on the visor. “Yes?” “I wish Uncle Artie was coming today, I really do.” I tried my best to act like I was crying. It must have worked because I felt my throat tightening. “His are some tough shoes to fill, but I bet he’d want me to sit in his spot at the head of table. After all, he gave me this watch for my birthday last year.” I pulled it out of my pocket to show them. “And we have the same middle name and everything.” I, Carlton James Boyce, was merely guessing at his middle name, hoping neither of my parents knew the truth. “Please? I think I’ve earned it.” Neither of them thought about it for too long. “It’s all yours, kid,” Dad said as he leaned on the roof of the van. “Remember your manners at the table,” Mom said. “Uncle Artie would want it that way.” Manners? Oh, please. Uncle Artie smoked a lot, drank a lot, and sometimes swore a lot. In spite of all that, he was my favorite relative. Over the years, besides the watches and clocks, he had given me several toy cars, baseball cards, stuffed animals, and even a five-dollar bill. These gifts were always “our little secret.” Plus, he told the greatest stories. Grandma and Grandpa Boyce arrived a little later, and each gave me a quick hug. It’s a terrible thing to say, and I know I’m supposed to love my grandparents without question, but Mom’s parents—the “good ones” who actually liked me—weren’t coming. If Mom and Dad ever found out I felt that way, I’d be grounded for a month—Dad’s typical punishment. Dad and Grandpa went to the living room to watch the game while the women got the food prepared. I tried to help, but I mostly got in the way. Everything was ready just before two o’clock, and I grabbed the spot at the head of the table, with Grandma and Grandpa to my right and Mom and Dad to my left. Everyone sat down except Grandpa. He placed his hands on the table and leaned toward my dad. “I guess this doesn’t rate as a special occasion, eh, George?” “How’s that, Pop?” Dad said. “The Hoffhalder. It’s a Thanksgiving tradition, isn’t it?” “You bet it is.” The Hoffhalder was a large mantle clock that sat in the corner of the dining room on what mom called the buffet. The Hoffhalder had been in the family for decades, and Dad would only wind it on special occasions. Uncle Artie always had the honors when he came over. “I’ll do it, Dad,” I said. “Can he handle it?” asked Grandpa. “He’s just a child.” I’m right here! I thought. And I’m not a child anymore. I’m thirteen. “Sure he can,” Grandma said. “Now, make Uncle Artie proud.” She gave me her patented don’t-screw-it-up look. “CJ, just be careful, okay?” Dad said. “Sure thing.” I had seen it wound a thousand times. I took the key from the drawer of the small desk nearby, carefully opened the glass in front, and put the key in the keyhole near the number four. There was another near the number eight. I knew it wound clockwise on the right and counterclockwise on the left. “Whatever you do, don’t overwind it,” Grandpa said. He gave anyone who ever got near the clock got the same warning. I started winding. One turn. Two turns. Then it started to get tight, so I stopped. I placed the key in the left hole and began to turn in the other direction with my left hand. One turn. Two turns. It wasn’t getting any tighter. Three turns. That was odd; it usually tightened up by now, but I figured it had just been a while. Four turns and still not tight. I switched to my right hand to finish it up. Five turns. Surely it would start to get tight. Then I heard a faint click, and the key wouldn’t move anymore. Uh-oh. “Everything all right?” Dad asked. I pulled the key out and put it back in the drawer. “Everything’s great.” I looked at my watch, and then spun the Hoffhalder’s minute hand around until the time was five minutes until two. After closing the glass, I gently moved the large pendulum at the bottom, and the Hoffhalder began to tick. Whew! All was well. When the Hoffhalder chimed, it made a beautiful sound. In fact, it seemed to be the only clock sound my family liked. It was a perfect combination of bells and gears and springs working in harmony. We now had three minutes until it would chime on the hour, and everyone at the table waited patiently for the moment to arrive. As the last thirty seconds ticked off, Grandpa nudged Grandma. “Here it comes,” he said in a low voice. The Hoffhalder struck two and began to chime. Once. Then another. But the second chime lingered way too long and the pendulum began to swing wildly, knocking into the side walls. The chime sound turned into a grinding noise, and the pendulum stopped. “CJ!” Dad yelled. “What have you done to my clock?” “He overwound it,” Grandpa said while making a turning motion with hand. “Clearly,” said Grandma. “And I’ll bet Uncle Artie is rolling over in his grave as we speak.” “Artie’s not dead,” Mom said. “Just in the hospital.” “I’m sorry, everyone,” I said. “I didn’t mean to. Honest. It was an accident.” “You’re grounded,” Dad said. “For how long?” I asked. “A month.” “A month? Mom?” “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” she said. I looked around the table, and three sets of eyes were on me. Mom reached out and touched my hand. At least someone was on my side. “That clock’s been in the family for four generations,” Grandpa said. “Built by the finest clockmaker in Germany.” “And smuggled out on a steamer ship during World War I,” Grandma added. “Truly one of a kind. Irreplaceable.” I knew the details by heart, and it just made matters worse. “I’ll get it fixed, okay? I have some money saved up.” “Sounds like you snapped the mainspring,” Grandpa said, adding a “break in half” motion with his hands. Grandma leaned over and got as close to me as she could. “It’ll never be the same.” “A month,” Dad said. He put a finger in my face to make his point. “For breaking my clock.” He continued to glare at me as Mom began to serve the turkey. We ate in near silence. I had ruined Thanksgiving.