#injury setback breaks your heart

[cityzenchick]

That moment when ........... I see this sad picture of a devastated John biting his lip as he sits on the bench, having being injured in last night's 'friendly' international match ......... and it breaks my heart .......... 💔

[barcaatthemoon]

tiny prancer || alanna kennedy x reader ||

you talk to alanna about your feelings after watching her play with harper.

"higher! higher!" your eyes drifted away from the interviewer once again as you heard harper's shrill shrieks of delight. she had been devastated whenever she saw you on the pitch, but had been immediately told that you were busy by gorry. luckily, alanna had swooped right in and picked the girl up before her pout could dissolve into a fit of tears. and now, you were swooning while trying to complete your media stuff for the day.

"sorry, sorry. this has been a hard comeback, but i'm grateful for my manchester family. i'd hate to give united their props, but those girls have also been so supportive. for our rivalry to be put aside, it means a lot. i'm very thankful for so many of my fellow players in the league from teams all over the country," you said. it was a good answer, one that people could tell came from the heart.

you had been away for nearly a year after a huge injury and bigger setback. it had truly been a freak accident, your knee giving out on you and the subsequent fall breaking your leg as you fell. there hadn't been any dirty tackles, and aside from alanna, the first person who had been at your side had been a manchester united player. some of those girls had really become some of your best friends when you needed a break from your teammates.

"well, everybody is excited to see you come back on the pitch this weekend. it has been overdue, and if the practice footage from this week is anything to go by, you're definitely in top form." you thanked the interviewer for their kind words before both of you were dismissed. almost immediately, you turned and jogged over to where alanna and harper were playing.

"do you have room for one more?" you asked. as into playing with alanna harper had been, she was quick to go to you. it had been hard for you not being able to play, but still going to practices over the course of the year, and harper was a big part of that. gorry had joked that you and alanna were like her other mothers, something that had always caused alanna to tense up a bit. although, you had noticed that she had seemed more okay with the joke, occasionally having a longing look on her face for the next week or so.

"of course we do, don't we harper? we always have room for prancer, don't we?" you rolled your eyes at the nickname alanna had not-so lovingly given you back at youth camp in australia. truthfully, the two of you had legitimately hated each other a little bit back then, but both of you had done a lot of growing up since then.

"we love prancer," harper said. you knew that she had probably been working on that for a while. harper had never called you that without alanna being directly beside her. alanna nudged her side, and harper stood up to give you a hug. "do you get to play at the game?"

"i do for a little bit, so i can't sit with you on the bench at first, but they don't want to hurt me again, so i'll probably be there for the second half," you told her. harper pouted a little, but she understood. there had been several long talks about you going back on the pitch where you belonged.

harper wordlessly handed you a doll to play with, explaining much better than alanna tried to what was happening. that game didn't last very long due to alanna's antsiness. the three of you played a game of tag, which ended with alanna and harper ganging up on you. alanna picked you up in her arms, gently placing you on the ground where she peppered your face and neck in kisses while harper tickled at your sides until gorry came to get her.

"i was nervous when we got here," you admitted. alanna knew it already, but you had been stubborn in insisting that you were fine. "everybody always says they can't wait for someone else to make their return, but i know what they weren't saying."

"don't think about it like that, okay? think about other things like how harper and i kicked your ass at tag," alanna joked. you punched her in the shoulder, earning you a bite to the thigh. "be nice. if harper sees you being mean to me, she'll think it's okay. i swear that kid loves you more than anybody else sometimes."

"we've become bench buddies, that's all. i bet when we have a kid, they'll love you the most. you'll get to be the fun parents, and i'll have to be strict," you sighed. alanna shot up and stared down at you, a confused, yet hopeful look on her face. "what?"

"what did you say?" alanna asked. you shrugged as you moved up onto your elbows. "you said 'when' not 'if' we have a kid. d-do you want to have kids with me?"

"kids? someone is getting ahead of themselves, but yeah, of course i do. i've been thinking about it, and seeing you with harper confirms it. before you came along and fucked everything up for my little 14 year old self, i was going to accept a promise ring from a boy. who knows how many kids i'd have now?" you said.

"i like the idea of a bunch of little prancers running around, but only if they've got the last name kennedy," alanna said. she leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips. you kissed her back, smiling into it a little. "how long have you wanted little kennedy babies?"

"alanna, don't," you tried, but it was too late. she was on something trying to get this out of you. truthfully, it had been before you were even injured, but you knew that you had been lucky then if alanna wanted to admit you were exclusively together at that point. she had fancied herself a player, something that only got worse whenever leila arrived at the club and they became friens.

"come on, i deserve to know. maybe if i've kept you waiting, i'll be sweet," alanna offered. you knew that she would be extremely sweet, but you'd have to get through the annoying phase first.

"fine, the first camp that i said we were together and harper was there. all the girls kept making fun of me because trying to tie you down was still a 'lost cause' or something," you said. alanna did the math in her head. you could tell whenever she had gotten there because a smile broke out on her face. "please don't be an ass about this, okay?"

"you thought i'd be a good parent back then?" alanna asked. you shrugged, unsure of what you had really thought. you just knew that you trusted alanna and wanted to do something special with her. "wow, maybe you really did love me back then too."

"of course i did. alanna, i've never been someone who could sleep with anybody i didn't love." you looked away from her, slightly ashamed of yourself. the girls had teased you a lot about your body count, which was the girl you made yourself fall for to forget about alanna hating you, and alanna herself. they had sort of thought you were joking, especially alanna, until you blew up at them for making fun of you.

"well then, i feel honored to be your person. and as much as i'd love to go to the doctor now and try to get you pregnant, your parents, gorry, and macca would kill me if i did," alanna pointed out. "so, what do we do?"

"let me play this season, and if things don't physically feel right in that way, we can look to starting a family sooner. we don't have to do this any other way than the one we want, remember that." you cradled alanna's face and pressed a kiss to her nose. despite the fact that you wanted a baby then and there, you were fine with waiting until alanna felt more comfortable.

[reminiscingtonight]

Reunions

Alessia Russo & Reader (Leah Williamson x Bronze!Reader)

Word Count: 713

A/N: Started this after the transfer news. Finished after Alessia's semi-final goal. Seems fitting to add it the Setbacks Universe

[Setbacks Masterlist] // [WOSO Masterlist]

The last couple months have been a rollercoaster. 

After working through your injury, you’ve bounced back with a vengeance, all the weeks you’ve spent cooped up translating to endless bounds of energy on the field. 

There’s no other way to describe the second half of the season than constant ups and downs. 

Arsenal beat out Chelsea for the Conti-Cup title. 

Your girlfriend tore her ACL.

You sold out the Emirates for the Champions League semi-final.

You lost the Champions League semi-final. 

And then you got called up for the freaking World Cup.

It’s definitely a bittersweet feeling, being called up to live your dreams while your girlfriend is stuck watching on the sidelines. But Leah’s quick to reassure you of how much you deserve it. Of how proud she is of you.

You thought making the world cup squad would be the highlight of your year. The peak of this year of ups and downs.

You never accounted for one Alessia Russo.

July 4th might be America day to those living across the pond, but July 4th will always be “Alessia Russo joins Arsenal” day to you.

“So.”

Blue eyes look up at you, narrowing with good reason. There’s a devious look in your eyes as you plop down next to one of your best friends. 

“Missed us that much, huh?” 

Alessia’s dressed in Arsenal gear, having just finished her photoshoot and making her rounds around the training ground. You lit up the second the blonde opened the door to the physio room, you having had accompanied Leah to her appointment, and you haven’t left Alessia’s side since.

Alessia rolls her eyes. “Lotte maybe. You? Not so much.”

“Ouch, you wound me,” you gasp, hands clutching at your heart.

Of course you’ve been aware of all of the rumors floating around. Alessia Russo to Arsenal everyone said, the media, the fans. Everyone but the one person who actually mattered. 

Despite all of your probing, Alessia refused to tell you where she was actually headed to after her contract with Manchester United ended. 

You were just starting to entertain the idea of her following her ex-Manchester teammate to Barcelona when Alessia finally spilled the beans. Not even Leah’s injured form could stop you from lifting and twirling your girlfriend around when you got the news. Leah had simply laughed at you, telling you to put her down.

And now you’re here. Sitting in the oh-so familiar locker room, with someone who’s also oh-so familiar, just not familiar with this side of the field.

“I can’t believe it. The Tar Heel gals, back together again.”

Alessia snorts at the phrase, remembering when she shouted that upon your late addition to the Lionesses senior squad.

“Only this time we get to do it at Arsenal.”

“The better reds,” you nod in return, laughing when Alessia shoves you back in retaliation. Alessia might be a gunner now, but you know she’ll always have a soft spot for her childhood team.

“Babe, leave her alone.”

The sight of Leah making her way into the locker room has your face breaking out into a smile, but something akin to a whine is quick to break out of your mouth at her warning. “But Leah! Lessi is--”

The sight of a perfectly crafted eyebrow raising at you has you shutting your mouth with a click.

“Lessi is what?” Alessia eggs you on, laughing at the face you pull at her. 

Leah ignores the disgruntled look you shoot her way, sighing at your dramatics. “The two of you are children.”

“Well this child gets to go home with you,” you point to yourself. “That child is banned from… ” you trail off, trying to think hard of something to stay. 

It’s Alessia’s muffled laughter that has you blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Alessia’s banned from ever meeting Winnie!”

The silence that follows is very telling.

Leah avoids eye contact while Alessia looks all too gleeful.

You gasp, pointing an accusing finger at Alessia. “You’ve already met Win?! They wouldn’t let me meet her until I my second month here!”

.

The three of you run into Win on your way out.

Leah has to try not to laugh when Win nearly knocks you over to get to Alessia.

[fleming-o]

Lean on me

Niamh Charles X Reader

another nimahy anon request! hope this is what you were having in mind :)

fluffy for sureeee

---

The medic room at the stadium is buzzing with quiet conversations and the occasional clink of medical equipment. Niamh sits on the examination table, her shoulder wrapped in ice and secured with a sling. She winces every time she moves, trying to mask the pain behind a forced smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

You rush in, your heart sinking at the sight of her. The game had been brutal, and you’d seen the way Niamh went down, clutching her shoulder. You’d barely paid attention to the final whistle, sprinting straight here the moment you were allowed off the pitch.

“Niamh,” you say, breathless, trying to keep your voice steady as you approach her. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Niamh looks up, her expression softening the second she sees you. “Oh, hey. I’m... alright, I guess. It’s just... a bit sore.” She tries to shrug it off, but you can tell she’s downplaying it.

You move closer, your hand instinctively reaching out to brush against her good arm, a gentle touch to ground her. “I saw the tackle. I’m so sorry, Ni. That looked horrible.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says, her voice small but grateful. She leans into your touch, her posture stiff and uncomfortable. The medics are busy talking to each other about her next steps, and you can see the worry on Niamh’s face, the tension in her brow. She’s trying so hard to keep it together, but you can see the flicker of frustration.

“It’s just... ugh, it sucks, you know?” Niamh mutters, eyes briefly meeting yours before flickering away. “I hate being stuck like this.”

You nod, understanding completely. Niamh’s the kind of player who’s always in motion, always on the go. Sitting still with an injury is the last place she wants to be. You gently place your hand on her good shoulder, offering whatever comfort you can.

“I know. But you’re not alone, alright? We’ll get through this,” you assure her softly.

The medics finish their discussion, and one of them turns to Niamh with a sympathetic smile. “You’ll need to rest it for a while, Niamh. No training, no heavy lifting, just take it easy. We’ll do a proper scan tomorrow, but for now, just keep it immobilized.”

Niamh nods, biting back a sigh. The medics leave the room, giving you both a bit of privacy. You stay close, rubbing your thumb in soothing circles on her arm. Niamh leans her head against you, her breath shaky as she tries to keep her emotions in check.

“I was doing so well,” she whispers, her voice breaking a little. “And now...”

“Hey,” you cut in gently, lifting her chin so she looks at you. “This doesn’t change how amazing you are. You’ve been incredible, and a little setback isn’t going to change that. We’ll figure it out.”

Niamh nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She leans into your touch, taking comfort in the warmth of your presence. You stay like that for a while, just letting her feel what she needs to feel, not rushing her. Eventually, you help her up, wrapping your arm around her waist to support her as you leave the medic room.

Back home, Niamh settles on the couch with a tired sigh, her injured shoulder propped up with pillows. You make sure she’s comfortable, fussing over the blanket and adjusting the ice pack until she laughs softly.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” she says, though there’s no real protest.

“Yes, I do,” you reply firmly, sitting down beside her. “Besides, I like looking after you. You’re kind of cute when you’re grumpy.”

Niamh snorts, rolling her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. As soon as I’m better, I’m going right back to carrying you around.”

“Deal,” you grin, gently nudging her with your shoulder. “But until then, you’re stuck with me taking care of you.”

Niamh’s smile softens, and she leans her head against your shoulder, her good hand finding yours and holding on tightly. The television hums softly in the background, but neither of you is really paying attention. It’s just the comfort of being together, the quiet reassurance that you’re here for her, no matter what.

You run your fingers through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp as Niamh lets out a content sigh. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to ease some of the tension she’s been holding all day.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “For being here. For... everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply softly, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. “I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.”

Niamh closes her eyes, allowing herself to relax fully into your side. The pain is still there, but it’s easier to bear with you by her side. You don’t need to say anything more; the quiet comfort of the moment says it all.

---

[coltermorning]

Of Love and Loss Ch. 11 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After narrowly escaping with your lives, the trip goes on without further trouble as the weeks begin to add up. To pass the time during a snowstorm, you and Arthur exchange questions over a bottle of gin.

Author’s Notes: Nothing like a little alcohol to make you admit your feelings to yourself :) Arthur and reader both get drunk in this one. Chapter eleven of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

~

Of Love and Loss

Eleven: The Gentle Act of Teaching

Word count: 5574

It has been a month since we started this journey and, as I assumed it would, it has come with no shortage of setbacks. Rambling like we do, I have seen a lot in my time and maybe even grown used to the pointless violence of it all. The wilderness is unkind and man more so, but I haven’t given it much care or thought until now. Now it seems I’m only leading a woman just to show her how cruel this world can be. That haunted look on her face will stay with me for the rest of my days.

~

Arthur rolled his shoulders, trying to undo the persistent ache that tightened them. Riding three days without much of a break to speak of had worn on his body, his mount, you and yours. In fact, it was so wearying you hadn’t said a word to him since the night before.

Your grief seemed to come in waves. This time it was pulling you back down into that shell of yourself you had been, unspeaking, unreacting, seemingly doing all you could just to make it another day. It was tough to watch, but Arthur didn’t have it in him to cheer you up. He was too worn down himself. That, and there was another nagging reason in the back of his mind he hardly let in for fear of letting it eat at him—that this was all his fault. He couldn’t do a thing about what else had happened to you, but he’d lost his head in that town. The mere thought of that slimy bastard calling you out like that had him bristling even now, fingers twitching with the need to shoot something. That nasty little look in his eye had been why Arthur had drawn iron in the first place, so fast it was more instinct than any sort of decision. That same look that had said plenty without words, that said the man felt he was owed something from you which warranted him following you out of town. Arthur didn’t care to ponder whether the man would have followed had he not threatened his life. It didn’t matter now anyhow. He had killed them all, exposed himself for what he really was. All because he saw red at the mere suggestion of someone wronging you. For protection’s sake, he had done his job. But it was obvious that you needed more from him than that. Your near silence since his shooting those men was plenty proof of that.

The truth was, Arthur suddenly felt that the side of him that town had revealed was glaringly wrong. It was a strange feeling, like denying the truest part of himself. But it gnawed at him now, that who he was did not have to be defined by his talent with a gun, but by the possibility of being something more. That the man he wanted to be became something he actually pondered. Things used to be about survival, about protecting those he held dear and nothing else besides. When had that changed?

As Arthur looked sidelong at you riding beside him, the empty stare on your face like that of a corpse, he knew. He had never had someone pure-hearted enough to warrant the believability of some better version of himself. With the gang, with Mary, there had only ever been a separation of good and bad, white and black, and he was always caught on the latter side of those things. But you made him think he could push beyond that, into some unknown middle ground. That look on your face was making guilt curl low in his gut for the first time in a long time at the act of taking lives. So he would push, do his best to shield you from it all. For you were good, and you deserved to remain so, lest he die trying to make it truth. If he didn’t try, no one would. Then you would be left like this—empty. And he knew enough about that to be determined to keep you from it.

~

The fourth day riding away from that terrible place and those terrible people, Arthur finally relented his pace. You had stopped here and there in the meantime, but never for a full night. The tiredness threatening to roll your eyes shut was testament to that.

Before the sun had even set and Arthur had finished with the tent, you laid back on the hard, thankfully snowless ground and fell asleep, the empty bliss of it like a gift.

When you woke, the sky was already lightening above you. You’d slept the whole night through, mercifully dreamless.

You looked down, curious over the warmth surrounding you despite the cold air, then remembered the bison coat. It was doing its job. The wind could hardly touch you with it on despite your poor judgement in sleeping outside the tent. And, like a pair of fools, it seemed Arthur had done the same. He sat against a nearby tree with his knee up, a gun in his lap and his head lolled down in sleep. Like he had every intention of standing guard but had let his exhaustion get the better of him. You couldn’t blame him.

No, the past few days had been anything but easy. You had been so plagued with guilt and worry and shame and regret the whole time it was a wonder you hadn’t given up. Given Arthur your mule and laid down and died right there in the dirt. In fact, the mule had been the only measure of happiness tethering you to the world at all. She still was. Though, sleep had helped clear your helplessness some. Instead, you were left feeling like you could go on but that there wasn’t much point in doing so. There was only brutal, unknown life ahead of you. And just like every interaction with strangers on this trip, that terrified you. The only comfort you’d known since losing your parents had been Arthur’s steady company. But that wouldn’t always be there. And, it seemed, you weren’t cut out for simple comforts anymore. It was time to grow up and see the world for what it was—unforgiving.

After plenty of rest, the pair of you packed back up and set out again. This time, you went two weeks without a break in routine. You passed over into Nebraska in the meantime, plenty of snow and cold following you in. You finally admitted to Arthur just how far you had left to go, nearly midway into the state, with no small measure of annoyance resulting on his part. But he agreed nonetheless, saying he had come this far. At least the railroad would tie into the trail soon, and he could take it back down to Denver instead of riding all the way back alone to join up with his gang.

His gang—you still hadn’t grown used to that. You hadn’t brought up the subject of his killing those five men, though it often crossed your mind to. The only thing stopping you was the fact that he didn’t owe you a thing, squeaky clean reputation included. In fact, his killer instinct had probably kept you alive thus far. Your judgement would be no help. If anything, it would just set you two to arguing again, as you often found yourselves doing. And the fact of the matter was you were tired of arguing. You were tired of a lot of things.

When the trees finally seemed to give up their steady growth, leaving behind nothing but wide open plains and brutal cold, Arthur stopped midday for the first time in a long time. The snow was blowing in sideways, and you nearly groaned in relief when he stopped his horse and swung off of her, saying, “Forget it. I ain’t freezing my balls off just to wait ‘til nightfall to do it again.”

You gave a pitiful laugh and dismounted, your legs like ice picks themselves when the pain of reaching the ground shot up them.

You and Arthur cleared a circle of snow for your camp, then built the tent and the fire. Arthur had been carrying kindling and a bit of wood for miles considering there wasn’t much of it to come by anymore, and you were impressed with his campfire skills when he got the thing burning despite the pelting snow. He had built it on the far side of the tent so that the canvas was blocking the weather, and when the flames began small then built, it took all you had not to shove your gloved fingers and your booted feet right into them.

You were both huddled close enough to the fire that Arthur suddenly took to laughing, calling you both idiots for being out in this kind of weather.

You managed a faint smile. “Montana got a lot colder than this, but…cold is cold.”

“Cold is cold,” he agreed. “How was it up there anyway? In the winter.”

“Brutal,” you admitted. Lots of days spent inside, chores finished as quickly as possible, week-long stretches where you didn’t know if the food would last. But it always did. Lucky you and your father were good hunters, your mother a good motivator.

“It wasn’t always like this,” you went on, having to raise your voice to talk over the wind. “It was sunny and pleasant some days. But still cold. The snow never left.”

Arthur just hummed his acknowledgment before holding his hands out to the fire, black gloves and harsh light eating up the reflection of the flickering flames.

After long enough, he reached around to his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Not a day went by he didn’t do this, whether for habit or enjoyment you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the experience of smoking one to know. But when he lit one, the butt smoldering to life beneath his inhaled breath, it suddenly seemed like just the thing to warm your bones. So when he offered, as he always did regardless of how many times you turned him down, you took one.

“Well,” he said with a drawl. “Finally become a bad influence, have I?”

You didn’t respond, sticking it in your mouth, rolling it over your tongue. It was faintly earthy. Bitter.

You watched him light another match. He brought his hands over to you, cupping them around the flame to keep the wind from snuffing it, touching the match head to your cigarette.

You didn’t know what you expected to happen, but nothing did.

He grinned at you. “You gotta breathe in. Just- small breaths-” he added, but too late. You had taken in such a large breath that your lungs crumpled beneath it, burning from the inside out. You took the cigarette away and coughed and coughed, the feel of it like hellfire trapped inside your chest.

He was laughing at you, but you couldn’t quit coughing enough to berate him for it. You did hand it to him, the disgusting taste and the horrible feeling enough to convince you that it wouldn’t be your new pastime. Then the cold set back in, frosting over your throat and combining with the burning feeling in your lungs. All in all, it only served to make you feel worse.

Arthur’s chuckling finally tapered off. “At least you didn’t get sick on yourself.”

“Does that happen?” you asked, hoarse.

“Sometimes.”

“Lovely.” You wrapped your hands around your knees, scooting closer to the fire, glad for your shaggy coat. It was nearly unbearably cold, but your only other option was inside the tent, and without the fire it would only be colder.

You watched Arthur smoke both cigarettes with ease, one after the other, like he needed their smoke to breathe.

“Why do people do that anyway?” you asked, still miserable from the rawness in your throat.

“What, this?” he said, putting the one that had been yours to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew out of his nose like a dragon would, smoke billowing out of both nostrils.

You didn’t answer, knowing he was just trying to show off or work you up or both.

He finally turned to you. “Calms you down. Takes the edge off.”

The first time he’d offered you one, he’d said the same thing. What edge had he been so desperate to dull back then? And each day since? It wasn’t hard to figure now—cold like this could drive any man to madness. It was certainly making you want to run circles around the camp like a crazy person.

“Same as anything I guess,” he went on, blowing more smoke. “Why does anyone do anything? Alcohol, sex, drugs, they’re all the same.”

You didn’t quite understand the sex part but let it pass. One conversation with him about it was enough to last you a lifetime. But the mention of alcohol had you suddenly desperate to try that too. You had before, what little you’d been able to get your hands on up in the mountains, but it was never enough to take much effect.

“Would alcohol warm me up?”

He eyed you, that boyish gleam returned. “Not necessarily. Though it can make you too busy thinking about other things to remember how cold you was before.”

Anything would help at this point. “You got any?”

He huffed a laugh and stood, walking over to his horse. The poor animals were both standing with their backsides to the wind, close enough to share body heat. Arthur pulled a small glass bottle from his saddle bag and shuffled back over, kicking snow as he went. He tossed you the bottle, and you caught it, flipping it. It had no label.

“What is it?”

“Gin. ‘Fraid I drank all the whiskey.”

You eyed it. “How can you tell? There’s no label.” The liquid was clear, tinged green due to the tint of the glass.

“I can tell,” he said with amusement. “Can’t afford the labeled stuff.”

You eyed him for that, wondering about your saddle and bridle and the mule standing beneath them. He was either exaggerating, or you owed him more than you thought you did if one bottle of good gin would put him out. He just inclined his head toward the bottle in your hand with a slightly upturned mouth, not giving whatever worry you had about owing him a moment’s thought.

You uncorked the top with stiff, numb, gloved fingers then lifted it to your lips. The burn of it was immediate. Almost as bad as the cigarette. You forced yourself to drink it down but let out a wincing cough after you did.

“Christ. Are all the vices so terrible?” you asked, wiping the excess off your mouth and handing the bottle back to him. It had to be a punishment, for people to drink that. Addiction born of the need to punish one’s self.

Arthur was snickering again, but this time you joined him in it.

“Tastes smooth to me,” he said, lifting it to his own mouth. You watched him drink it down with near reverence, his eyes half-closing as he did. Savoring it. He brought the bottle down and examined it. “Shitty, but smooth.”

You leaned over and snatched it from him. Like hell was it smooth. It was as cutting as swallowing ice. But the aftertaste wasn’t near as bad as the cigarette had been, so you took another sip, letting it cut all the way down.

Arthur took it back. And after some back and forth, minutes passed and enough swallowed to dull its burn, he stopped you from taking it again. “Slow down there, or it’ll come right back up. I ain’t letting you put out the fire with your own sick.”

You cringed at the thought but felt that familiar defiance within you stand up at the challenge. You went for the bottle, but he snatched it away before you could grasp it.

“Don’t be dense,” you spat, going for it again. He again held it out, far enough you couldn’t reach it. And the resulting smile curving across his face was making you mad enough to tackle him for the damn thing.

You were about to lunge for it when he stopped you with a hand held out. “All right, all right, quit it. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You already didn’t like where this was going. To hell with the gin. Now you were just angry. You crossed your arms at him.

He grinned then said, “You answer a question, I’ll give it back.”

As annoyed as humoring him made you, you just shrugged.

“Agreed?”

“Go on,” you snapped. Better to get it over with, get the bottle back and walk away so as not to have to deal with him anymore.

He thought on it a moment, taking another sip as he held your gaze, an amusement lighting his eyes you didn’t much care for. Then, “What’s something you never told anyone?”

That you still wished you had died with your parents. That life didn’t feel like it had much meaning after their deaths. That one of the sole reasons you went on was because the man staring back at you had given a damn at the right moment. But you didn’t want to go down that slippery slope, not right now and not with him. So you reverted back to your younger years, to the girl who was full of life and grit and the ability to get her way. What had you kept hidden even from your parents?

You landed on it then hesitated, heat staining your cheeks from embarrassment.

“Spit it out,” he said accusatorially, sensing that hesitation.

“I…” How to word it and not sound ridiculous? “When I was a kid I…fancied the postman.”

Arthur burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” you said miserably.

“That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

The deepest, maybe. Certainly not the darkest. But his laughter was slightly contagious given how stupid the confession had sounded, so you just said with a laugh, “I was little! He was handsome!”

“I’m sure he was,” Arthur said, tilting his hat to you in obvious sarcasm, his grin never leaving.

“And I never got to go to the post office,” you went on, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “So when Pa let me come with him, the hours that it took to get there, it was…it was just nice to see the man is all!”

Arthur was veritably howling with laughter now.

“Shut up!” you said, leaning over and shoving him. “Like you never had an infatuation with a girl.” This did seem to sober him some, and that gave you an idea.

“Give me that,” you snapped, yanking the bottle away. “And it’s your turn for a question.”

“Well, I never said-”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. You’re answering one.”

He settled back with a sigh but didn’t protest. So you took a swig of gin for courage and looked him straight in the eye. “Who taught you to shoot so well?”

Surprise crossed his face, lining every inch of it. He had obviously assumed you were going to ask about said girl, whomever that may be. But no, you wanted to know how he had taken down five men in a matter of seconds.

His face turned contemplative. Then, “No one, I guess. I always had a good eye. Good aim.”

“That aim was better than good,” you admitted. And the reference to what had happened back in that town seemed to sour his mood. He snatched the bottle back and took a long pull from it.

“Yeah, well, you’re either a decent shot or you get killed pretty quick in my line of work.”

His line of work. On the opposing side of the law, where bullets were aimed at you as often as a dirty glance.

“Do you ever get scared?” The question pushed out before you could stop it.

Arthur just looked at you, face tinged with mild curiosity.

“Not really,” he said. “Not anymore. But—” He tipped the bottle at you. “It ain’t your turn.”

You rolled your eyes and sat back, looking into the flames instead, knowing he would fire off another stupid question whether you got on to him for it or not.

Sure enough, he spoke, the amusement in his tone not lost on you. “You ever get into trouble up in them mountains?”

“What kind of trouble?”

You shouldn’t have asked. The smirk he shot back was enough for you to know he didn’t mean the kind where you got lost in the snow, where your life was in danger.

When he didn’t answer, you sighed like he usually did, drawing it out. “A few times. Once for this,” you said, taking the gin from him.

“What, getting drunk?”

“No, they caught me before it got to that point. I raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t much, a bottle of whiskey and some wine. But I was trying both when Momma and Pa came back from town early. They gave me hell for it.”

Arthur snickered. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” you answered. “But it’s not your turn,” you said sweetly, making him shake his head, though his smile never left.

You took a sip of gin, wondering what it took to be drunk. But you wouldn’t waste a perfectly good question asking Arthur about it. Instead, you asked him something you had wondered since the night after leaving that trading town.

“Why didn’t you buy another bedroll? At that trader stall.”

Again, Arthur seemed surprised by the question. He took some time to answer, gesturing for you to hand him the gin. You did so, and he took another long pull of it. Long enough that you wondered how often he did this, drinking his thoughts away.

“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I was trying to keep an eye on you when I was talking to that old croak. Weren’t thinking about it.”

You let out a breath of relief at his response. You had assumed he’d spent all his money and resources on you, that he couldn’t afford one. And, as it stood, he had been using the very edge of your bedroll ever since, both of you colder than you cared for but too prideful to cling together for warmth like you had that night after the wolves. So you had thought all this time another bedroll had been neglected at the cost of the coat on your back. But now that you knew otherwise, you didn’t feel quite so shameful. And you were grateful, too, that it had been because Arthur had kept such a watchful eye on you.

He took another long drink from the bottle, and you watched him, watched his throat work and his mouth purse with the harsh liquid. This man who you thought you knew—you didn’t really know him at all.

Arthur looked over and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head, pushing the thought from your mind. Not because it scared you, but quite the opposite—you always assumed he was bad, that he was the low-down outlaw, and at every turn, he proved you wrong.

“Nothing.”

He chuckled lowly. Then, “You ever kissed anyone?”

“Excuse me?” It was all you could manage through your embarrassment. Not this again.

“Couldn’t ask it any clearer,” he said, about to take another drink. But you snatched it away before he could, taking a long pull yourself. Drunk. You needed to be drunk.

“How much of this do I need before it blocks out the sound of your voice?”

“So, no then,” he said with that god awful smirk.

You drank again.

He laughed. “Easy there.”

“I told you,” you said, voice hoarse from the harsh liquor. “There wasn’t anyone up there to kiss.”

“Not even the postman?”

You could have hit him. Instead, oddly enough, you laughed at that stupid smile on his face. “No, not even the postman. He was twice my age. Maybe more.”

“Hm.”

“What?” you fired at him, the bottle clutched tightly in your hands.

“Nothing, just…” He smiled again, his teeth showing. “Imagining it, is all. That life you led.” He pried the bottle from your clawed grip, smiling as he brought it to his lips. “Sounds…boring.”

You tried not to think about his mouth kissing the bottle, his mouth kissing anything, as you replied, “It was what you made of it. I enjoyed it.” At your nerves, you reached over and took the bottle away before he was even done drinking. He made a noise of protest, but it didn’t register before you had the bottle at your own mouth, trying desperately not to think of how his lips had just touched the same spot.

When you brought it away, you looked at him. Really looked at him, all notion of it being improper to do so suddenly lost. “There are other ways of enjoying yourself, you know.”

His brows rose high, either at the way you were looking at him or at the implication in your voice.

After long enough, he said, “You plan on enlightening me?”

“I…” Your eyes dipped to his mouth before you took another long pull, the bottle blocking your view of him. Shaking loose the thought that began to plague you. The urge to experience something new, something you were afraid would be addicting in its own right, alcohol aside.

When you didn’t respond, just pulled the bottle back down and looked to the fire, Arthur said, “I can’t imagine it would be much beyond snow sledding or the like all the way up there. You telling me that’s the secret to happiness?”

There it was, an out. A diversion to the path this conversation had led you down. And in anything other circumstance, you would have taken it. But for some reason, you were starting to believe that drunkenness snuck up namelessly after all, a haze of intuition lost.

You looked to Arthur, to the soft amusement on his face, to the casualness that seemed to always weigh on his shoulders and make its way to his mouth.

“You could teach me.”

“Come again?”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth again, seemingly of their own volition. Then words spilled out of you like gin from a bottle.

“Kiss me. Show me how.”

His face softened. Surprise, realization, a bit of embarrassment. Then deflection as he chuckled, his face tingeing redder in the gray light than the cold could account for. “Nah, you don’t want that,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Not your first-”

“Kiss me,” you said again. You couldn’t imagine it being anyone else in the world. There was no one else you trusted. “I wouldn’t ask if that were the case.”

He looked at you then with such raw surprise you wondered when the last time anyone had shown him such affection was.

He stared at you, and you stared at him, and before you could ask if his brain had shut down entirely, he looked to the fire and said defiantly, “No.”

You scoffed. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal. Just think of it as teaching me something new.”

“But it ain’t that,” he fired back. He still wouldn’t look at you. “It’s…kissing someone to learn something and kissing someone because you want to are two different things.”

“Exactly,” you said, taking another sip of gin. “If it‘s just for learning’s sake, what’s the problem?”

He shook his head, disgruntled. “Forget it. I ain’t doing it.”

You groaned aloud, unbelieving he was being the stick in the mud for once. “You know, for an outlaw,” you said, standing, pointing the bottle at him. “You’re awfully honorable.”

He let out a barking laugh like he didn’t believe that in the slightest but still didn’t take the bait. The stubborn fool.

The ground swayed a bit beneath you as you added, “And cowardly.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, the question poised somewhere between annoyance and a threat. But he had finally looked at you at least.

“Woman asks you to kiss her, and you won’t even consider it.”

He stood now, swiping the bottle from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” But you couldn’t have pried the glass from his grasp if you wanted to, your vision starting to swim. “You don’t want to kiss me that’s fine, but don’t tell me what to do.”

He laughed that annoying laugh again. “I ain‘t kissing someone who can barely keep her feet.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, stepping over to him to prove a point. Close. You could have leaned over and kissed him yourself you were so close. In fact, the thought was a breath away from being turned into reality when he lifted the gin to his own lips, blocking you, his eyes catching on your mouth. Or maybe that was your shoddy vision making things up.

When he brought the bottle away, he was grinning. “Real impressive, being able to walk.”

“Shut up,” you said, but didn’t shove him like you wanted to. His closeness was…distracting you. And any forceful movement would likely land you on your backside.

“Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight so that he stood even closer. Not backing down from you in the slightest, that cocky grin lighting his face. “You answer one more question, and I’ll kiss you.”

Your face burned with those words, like your body was realizing this might actually happen.

When you didn’t respond, his grin went wider. Feral. Then, “Tell me your name.”

Damn him. Because he knew it was the one thing you wouldn’t give him.

“That’s not a question,” you said simply, holding his eye.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want me to know it?”

Now it was your turn to grin. “Because they were the last people to call me that.”

Arthur was confused by your smile despite your words, his brows pinching together. And you said without hesitation, “And I just answered your question. So kiss me.”

Realization hit him again, and he immediately let out an unbelieving laugh. “You’re a damn sneak, you know that?”

When his eyes met yours, his gaze shifted the slightest bit toward serious in the harsh daylight. And he definitely eyed your mouth this time. Alcohol or no, you could see it plain as day. Then at last, he groaned his annoyance, or tried to shake how flustered he was, and said, “All right then. You win.” He dropped the gin and stepped toward you.

All you had ever known of this suddenly became futile, juvenile, worthless in the eyes of him bringing his gloved hands to the back of your head. Your scant knowledge couldn’t hold a candle to the gentle way he brought your mouth to his, meeting you at last in a kiss so tender it sobered you. This was happening. Arthur was…

All thought was lost when his mouth pressed against yours a second time. Slow. Caring. You let him be, forgetting entirely what this was supposed to be about, instead navigating the newness that was kissing someone back.

The kiss went on for an eternity, the effect better than any cigarette, any gin, anything in the world. There was no snow, was no cold, was nothing but the way his lips parted. You did as he did, and soon your mouth was at his with a fervor, his tongue warm against yours, the taste of gin and tobacco all you knew and all you ever wanted again.

Then he was stepping away, letting his hands fall, his gaze shy as it hit the ground.

“Was that…what you wanted?” he asked softly, meeting your eye as his hands fell a bit nervously onto his gun belt, fidgeting.

You just stared at him. Dove deep inside yourself to remember your words, to remember your circumstances and who you were supposed to be to each other. Because it was certainly blurring as the warmth of his mouth lingered.

After long enough that he kept shifting his weight, you spoke. “I understand it now. Why people…enjoy that.”

You thought you saw the smallest softening of his gaze before the mask returned, his teasing smirk back in place. “You really don’t know nothing, do you?”

You couldn’t even be bothered to chide him. Not after what he had just given you.

You pursed your lips like you could hold that kiss forever then looked at the bottle at your feet. You knelt and picked it up, pushing it into his chest. He grabbed it. And you wouldn’t meet his eye for fear of wanting him to kiss you all over again as you said with a giddy smile, “Thank you for teaching me,” and stepped around him. Aimed for the tent. Focused on keeping your feet beneath you, keeping your head somewhere inside reality, keeping your thoughts away from the man at your back. Away from just how much you truly felt for him, your fondness veiled like the unfamiliarity of a kiss until now.

_________

Chapter twelve is here.

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445

[leonsliga]

manu's willpower really is something else. I can't imagine being so severely injured and working hard towards your comeback every day for a YEAR, only to have everyone else say meh he's too old, take away his no. 1, take away the captaincy, his coach, making fun of him even when he tells them his heart is broken. he deserves all the respect

It really is, isn’t it? 350 straight days of injury recovery—of setback after setback—would break even the strongest of professional athletes. And, like you said, couple that with media and fan criticism, strip him of the captain’s armband and his beloved goalkeeper coach (who’d worked closely with him for a little over a decade). No wonder the poor man’s heart was broken. And even after he’d explicitly stated this, they chose to pulverize it by fining him and publicly criticizing him for pouring his heart out. Right when our unflappable Manu was at his most vulnerable.

It’s not the same, but everything that happened during his recovery reminds me a bit of the whole “koan neuer” fiasco (can you tell Generation Wembley is still fresh in my mind? 😂😵). Only this time, it wasn’t just the fans who turned their backs on him. How could so much have changed but at the same time so little?

And yet, even after all this, Manu returned as resilient as ever. Never mind the critics who claimed he was too old to be nummer eins, never mind that his own club blindsided him by sacking his close friend and coach. Never mind any of that. He processed the hurt and repaired his broken heart all by himself; he came back with the same excitement and determination with which he approaches everything. And that, my friends, is truly commendable. He really does deserve all our respect for that, and for everything else he’s done for this club. It’s so good to have him back ❤️

[thatbrightblueshine]

it had been a while. christmas is long gone. around the time it had all happened, a time that passed on so quickly, yet so slowly. it was a strange time. a strange five months. snow fell, snow melted. flowers started to blossom, flowers withered. flesh bled. flesh healed.

fiction pope / trippier under cut. be warned.

another day, another day. so many of them. kieran sat on the rim of nick's tub. 6am. he hadn't slept, sleep had become tough. he'd spent so much time with him ever since last winter, so much time he regrets, so much time he's grateful he could share with him. they'd grown together even more, beyond casual hookups after games. rushed shower blowjobs turning into romance. kieran smiles - never knew they'd end up here. neither of them have said those words yet. they don't know if they'd mean it. they don't know what it is they have, too afraid to question it. it's like kieran has been snowed in, he can't leave. can't leave nick's place. can't leave his heart, a home he had to built for himself in times of isolation. well maintained and painted in colourful colours. a bright green on good days, matching the colours of the world outside, a dark grey on bad days, like the sky when it's about to break, raindrops landing on his face, at first it's few, then it pours.

"kieran?" nick's voice took him out of the well maintained little place in his head, the place he'd been trapped in ever since it happened. it hadn't been an easy 5 months. nick had become depressed. proper depressed. it's only 6 in the morning and kieran knew that today would not be one of the rare good days, it won't be bright green. looking out of the window, the world outside about to wake, but kieran is stuck. he's forced to be asleep when the world around him is awake. nick's depression wrapping its arms around him, so comforting. like a soft blanket, so warm. so easy to let yourself go down that path when the person you're so connected to cannot smile anymore. you lose the interest to smile, too. lose the appetite for living, feeling guilty for having good days whilst they have bad days.

kieran got up and walked into the bedroom, nick sitting in the bed. "you alright?" kieran sat beside him and put his hand onto his cheek. nick shook his head "don't know. i missed you." nick had become insufferable on some days, unable to leave kieran's side. stuck to him like glue, draining every last bit of self from kieran. he had become nick. what had begun as a little fling between teammates had turned into a connection that couldn't be broken anymore. like ivy growing on that one old house you see when walking down the street, covering it. this is how possessive nick's love was to kieran. nick looked at kieran and there it was again - the despair in his eyes, the events of february forced back into his brain. the same look in his eyes as when he'd found him, in the very state he was in. whispering his name with the very last bit of air left in his lungs.

can eyes change colour? on somedays kieran wondered. when they met for the first time nick's eyes were the colour of rain, the colour of the sea around midday when the sky was cloudy. now they're a dark shade of grey, like a thunderstorm in fall, one that indicates that the rain will continue to fall for days to come. nick takes kieran's hand in his, draws along the lines on his palm. he chuckles. "remember the first time your hands touched my body?" kieran remembered it all too well - electricity, being carried from nick's body to his. he nods "yeah. why?"

"i miss it. i miss those times." nick's injury is healed, but his soul remains shattered. all those months of uncertainty, all the setbacks, the complications. on some days nick didn't know if it wouldn't be better to give up, and not just on his career. but kieran was always there, even moving in with him. he had become kieran's everything. the air he breathed, the food he ate, the water he drank. it all tasted just like him. and he was there in that one night in february. he was the one on is knees cleaning it all up. scraping it off the ground, washing it off his body. the shock is still there, so is the fear. for what they have become. for the collective they are. nick smiles, kieran doesn't know what's real and what's fake anymore. the room dark, window screens shut so that the sun would not shine through, no chance of carrying in its warmth. nick's shoulder is still fragile, healed well enough to get back into light training. but he will not be back on the grass for at least another two months so the doctors said. what was initially supposed to be four months tops has now already been six months and counting. kieran doesn't mind it - doesn't mind the things he had to sacrifice, doesn't mind the the person he had become so long as he could protect nick. he knew this wasn't healthy. it's always this room - dark. nick hasn't really left it for a while now. so hasn't kieran. it reeks of them, the smell of what they have become. it looks like them - the darkness in their hearts shining through their chests making sure it's always night no matter how often the sun sets outside of their cave.

his hand finding its way into nick's boxers, the spark is long gone. it's become a routine. the pleasure kieran can give to nick is only temporary, but it's even less than that. their kisses don't feel the same anymore, the taste of nick's lips bitter. what once tasted like honey now tastes like salt, what once felt like velvet in his hands now feels like broken glass, so afraid it will cut even deeper into his skin, yet unable to stop touching it. the pain is addictive, the blood is warm. kieran knew that the door wasn't locked - he could leave at any time. but the waking world outside had become so strange now that he had been asleep for so long, asleep with him. under the blanket on so many days, so many nights. their bodies pressed up against one another, some nights woken up by nick's body shivering in pain, his voice had become so much weaker, so much quieter, some nights he wouldn't wake anymore when he was in pain, some nights the tears dripping onto kieran's skin would go unnoticed. had he become lost in this state? he can't focus, literally forgets he's got his cock in his hand right now, nick's eyes shut, in peace for once, no sight of pain written in his face, maybe he had just forgotten how to read it. kieran's palm is loosely wrapped around his cock, slow movements, the routine that should never have become a routine. his other hand stroking through his messy hair. he desperately needs a trim, but kieran always liked it a little longer on the sides so he doesn't complain. for all the times kieran had given him relief, for what started as a joke between teammates because he couldn't use his own arm to have a wank, has somehow become his life.

feeling trapped, unable to break this pattern. unable to speak his mind, too afraid it could send him back. back to february. back to the bathroom. he adores the look on his face nevertheless, adores his features in the dim light, adores the way he can feel his body shiver under his touch, the softness of his hair between his fingers, his grip tightening just as he likes it when he knows he's close. kieran would lie if he said it hadn't happened. would lie if he said he hadn't fallen deeply in love with this shattered person prepped up on the bed in front of him. the love he felt for him was deeper than anything he had ever felt before. falling for him was like setting foot into the ocean, walking ahead, only for it to get deeper and deeper until suddenly, you're about to drown. kieran had been stuck at this part of the ocean for months now, one more step and the air will be replaced with water, his sanity replaced with delusion. and he doesn't even know if crossing this line would be worth it - doesn't know if drowning is worth it, doesn't know if nick would come to save him. nick would be too proud to ever admit it, idiot that doesn't know what love is. doubts he can tell the difference between a fling and a romance, confuses fire with ice. a single little groan from his lips, sudden warmth spread in kieran's palm. his breath picking up, just temporary. it's as if it's the only time he knows he's alive anymore, a whisper only kieran can hear.

"i love you." so quite, barely audible. maybe kieran's mind plays tricks on him, maybe he just heard what he wanted to hear. kieran's eyes open wide "what did you just say?" nick opens his eyes, confused look on his face. "i said, that felt good."

[oh-nostalgiaa]

Hello, @asteroiideae, it's me, your R1 Crew Secret Santa! It's been a pleasure writing for you, although I had to take a big chunk of time to recover from a fun lil illness and this isn't nearly as long as I would have liked it to be!

The prompt was pretty much to write whatever my heart desired (a fun AU) and I was inspired by @carr-crashh-heartss-archive's lovely pirate au waves & the both of us, so have a sequel of sorts! I wish I could've sent snippets along the way but that would have ruined the pirate aspect! I really hope you like it and happy holidays to you. <3

You can find this fic on A03.

come back with the waves

The sea sometimes called to Captain Cassian Andor.

But he no longer heeded that call. Could no longer return to the man he had once been when sailing had been the very blood running through his veins. Decades worth of hard work and egregious injuries had taken their toll and against his better judgment, he had been forced to retire.

The same brutal battle that had seen a cannonball strike throw Cassian from the crow's nest to the deck below, breaking him into a thousand metaphorical pieces, his crew - Jyn and Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze and Kay and others they had picked up along the way - emerged victorious, the supposedly unbeatable, unsinkable Death Star sinking beneath the blue, blue waves, taking her villainous Captain Krennic with it.

They should have been celebrating the new beginning they (and every pirate ship from Scarif to Naboo) were being given now that other pirate hunters were going on the run - or would, if they knew what was good for them) but instead they were mourning their dead and quietly praying that their brave captain would pull through.

First Mate Kay deferred to Jyn, who ordered the Rising Hope to Takodana, where Cassian could receive the best medical care possible in the shortest amount of time. To Maz, who always knew what to do.

Even so, Cassian's condition had been touch and go for quite some time, and nobody knew whether his broken bones would heal correctly or at all, if he would walk, if he would wake a fraction of the man he had been before. The main crew stayed behind to watch over their captain, the others released to other ships, to new pursuits, to return home if they so chose. But there was no question for Jyn and Kay and Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze - they were going to stay until their Captain woke, they were going to stay at least until they knew he would recover.

So they sat with him and read to him, told stories and reminisced, prayed over him and sang to him, pleaded with him to just wake up, sat with each other in the reassurance that this was not all in vain. And the day that he finally opened his eyes was a day full of tears and cheering and thanking whatever deities that watched over pirates like them for allowing him to come back.

Cassian's recovery, however, was long and painful and not without its fair share of setbacks and complications. He fought tooth and nail to learn to walk again, and while he depended heavily upon a cane to get him places, was able to see Chirrut and Baze off to Jedha, where they planned on housing and teaching children orphaned by the piracy wars. And by the time Bodhi set off as navigator to intrepid young explorer Luke Skywalker, Cassian could walk without it (for short distances), only curling an arm around Jyn to keep himself steady.

Still, six years post-injury, Cassian still felt aches and pains deep in his bones when the weather dipped low, could foretell the brewing of a storm off the coast well before it ever reached land. Oh, he heard the call of the wild waves, but he could no longer answer in the ways he used to. He could dip his toes in from time to time, on the good days when his ever-present pain was minimal. He could walk along the beach on the calmest days when the wind wasn't whipping hard enough to make him unsteady on his feet.

He could sit on a blanket and teach their four year old daughter everything he knew, show her the wonders of the treasures the sea sent to them from time to time in the form of shells and stones and washed up driftwood. They would watch for whales and dolphins to breach the water's surface, imitate the barking of the seals, the calls of the seabirds soaring overhead, study crabs and snails and starfish and whatever else they might find on their shore adventures.

And on the clearest nights - if the weather allowed - they would all lay out under the blanket of the night sky and watch for shooting stars, Cassian teaching Asta how to look for constellations, telling her what they were meant to signify, but also making her eyes light up with wonder when he shared the myths surrounding them. He was slightly more restrained when regaling Asta with tales from their days at sea, but that didn't much matter, she knew enough and was bright enough with a vivid enough imagination to fill in the gaps.

Cassian certainly couldn't move with as much grace as he once did, but when Asta begged for him to swordfight her, he always obliged. Asta, Queen of the Pirates, always won easily, giggling madly at the way her silly papa crumpled to the ground and dramatically begged her for mercy. And for all his fears about not having the capacity to be a good father, when he glanced up at his wife and her gently rounding belly, he was reassured that despite his faults and the inevitable ups and downs they faced, he was doing just fine.

They were doing just fine.

With Kay living nearby ( "Someone's got to watch over the pair of you, and I'm the best man for the job") and letters coming in on a fairly regular basis from Bodhi and Chirrut and Baze, it was almost as though the little family they had cobbled together was still as strong as ever

Maybe it wasn't exactly the life Cassian had ever imagined having for himself - or even living long enough to have - but he wasn't sure that he would change a moment of it. Not the loss or the heartache or the pain. All of it, everything, was just leading him to where he was always meant to be. No longer fighting to see the next day, but living fully and loving with his whole heart.

With Jyn and Asta and their baby on the way.

Safe and happy.

[spandex-if]

DEMO (TBA)

GENRE: slice of life, humourous, romance, superhero

Seven years ago, you had uprooted your life after graduating and made a big move — away from everything and everyone you knew — to settle in the quiet city of Assay together with your partner. Things hadn't been easy, but the two of you made it work together. Not too long ago, everything had seemed to be coming together on the grand stage of life.

Until you had woken up one day with superpowers.

Contrary to popular belief, obtaining superpowers did not magically make everything better — in fact, it had made things worse. After multiple setbacks, your life is starting to feel more like a sitcom whose audience has packed up and gone home. One out of five stars. Would not recommend. And the only one still left watching is you.

Still, life goes on in your tiny studio apartment. Start a full time job again, strike up relationships with new co-workers and neighbours, and beat up a villain or two to keep the city safe. Oh, and perhaps find some love along the way too.

Will you be able to do it all, hero?

⚠️ content warnings: some violence, optional explicit scenes and the author's godawful sense of humour

craft both your mc's civilian identity and vigilante persona

choose from 1 of 5 superpowers — animal shapeshifting, electricity, persuasion, future sight, invisibility — all of which come with their own unique and exclusive scenes

fight a whole host of different villains and criminals to keep the city of Assay safe! — or not, and watch how public perception of you changes

keep your identity secret from the various parties trying to unmask you

build relationships with the neighbours living with you at Ivy Apartments or remain a recluse

kindle a romance with four romance options — your hard-headed police ex, an aloof and sardonic doctor, the easily flustered colleague or your new next door neighbour

and most importantly... pay your rent on time

The Good Doctor [m/f] — 34

The life of a vigilante comes with its fair share of scrapes and bruises and broken bones. Although their bedside manner has much room for improvement, there is no one better for mending your injuries than the good Doctor — a loner surgeon willing to keep your identity a secret. As long as you can cough up, of course. Now, if only they would be willing to lower those exorbitant medical fees, just a little...

Li Lin [m/f] — 25

The tenant who has just moved into the apartment beside yours. Well mannered and mildly reclusive, you don't know much about them aside from these facts: that they are studying to be a software engineer, they moved to Ivy Apartments to take care of their grandparents, and they make a mean bowl of chilli oil wontons. Still, with the way that every appliance in their apartment seems intent on breaking down at the most inopportune moments, it seems like you'll have no choice but to help your new neighbour out...

Hayden/Hayley Dayvis [m/f] — 31

A sharp, hard-headed police lieutenant who is determined to rein in the chaos happening in Assay City — and that includes bringing a certain spandex-ed vigilante to justice. Unfortunate, considering that they were also once your college sweetheart and life partner all rolled into one. But all that changed two years ago with a messy separation worthy of a TS hit song. It almost feels as though they can't stand the very sight of you now. Can that spark between the two of you be rekindled once again?

Scott/Stelle Barnes [m/f] — 33

Your colleague at your newest job whom you share desks with. Easily flustered but cheerful and warm-hearted, S is quick to make you feel welcome in the office. While they're an ordinary office worker with an ordinary 9 to 5 job, their admiration for your vigilante identity is just a little over the top. With you regularly running from your computer to take extended "bathroom breaks", will S catch on to your real identity?

[mind-and-body]

The Comprehensive Guide to Building a Sustainable Fitness Routine

Introduction

Achieving a fit and healthy lifestyle is a goal for many, but the path to it can be riddled with misinformation and short-term solutions. This detailed guide aims to provide you with a research-backed, sustainable approach to fitness that you can integrate into your daily routine, ensuring that you not only reach your goals but also maintain them.

Understanding the Foundation of Fitness

Before diving into workouts and diets, it's crucial to establish a solid foundation. This groundwork is based on understanding the pillars of fitness: strength training, cardiovascular health, flexibility, and nutrition. Strength Training Strength training is essential for building muscle, increasing metabolism, and improving bone density. Begin with bodyweight exercises, and gradually progress to using weights. A combination of compound movements like squats and deadlifts, with isolation exercises like bicep curls, provides a balanced strength routine. Cardiovascular Health Cardio workouts, such as running, swimming, or cycling, boost heart health and endurance. Incorporate short, high-intensity interval training (HIIT) sessions for efficiency, as studies show they can offer similar benefits to longer, steady-state cardio sessions. Flexibility and Mobility Incorporate stretching or yoga into your regimen to improve flexibility, reduce injury risk, and enhance recovery. Dynamic stretches are recommended before workouts, while static stretches can be done post-exercise. Nutrition Understanding macronutrients and the role they play in fitness is crucial. A balanced diet with the right mix of proteins, carbohydrates, and fats, along with hydration and micronutrients, supports physical activity and recovery.

Designing Your Fitness Program

Your fitness program should be tailored to your goals, be it weight loss, muscle gain, or enhanced athletic performance. However, a well-rounded program that addresses all aspects of fitness is crucial for overall health. Creating a Balanced Routine A weekly fitness routine should balance the different forms of exercise. For example, you could schedule strength training on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, cardio on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and flexibility workouts on the weekends. Setting Realistic Goals Set SMART (Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, Time-bound) goals to keep yourself motivated and on track. Breaking down your main goal into smaller, achievable targets can help maintain motivation and make progress measurable. Rest and Recovery Adequate rest is as important as the workouts themselves. Ensure you have at least one full rest day each week and get sufficient sleep each night to promote recovery and performance.

Tracking Your Progress

Monitoring your fitness journey is key to staying motivated and adjusting your program as needed. Use a combination of quantitative metrics like body measurements and qualitative data like energy levels to assess your progress.

Overcoming Plateaus and Setbacks

Plateaus in fitness are common, but they can be overcome with adjustments to your routine. Changing up your exercises, increasing intensity, or revisiting your dietary habits can provide a fresh stimulus for continued progress.

Nutrition for Fitness

Your diet should complement your fitness routine. Focus on whole foods and avoid overly processed options. Pre- and post-workout nutrition is particularly important for energy levels and recovery, so consider a carbohydrate and protein-rich snack before and after your workouts.

Maintaining Your Fitness Journey

Staying Motivated Staying motivated is crucial for long-term success. Keep your workouts fresh and exciting by trying new activities, setting new challenges, or working out with friends. Rewarding yourself for achieving milestones can also help maintain motivation. The Role of Community and Support A support system can significantly enhance your fitness journey. Join fitness communities, hire a personal trainer, or find workout buddies to keep you accountable and offer encouragement.

Conclusion

Developing a sustainable fitness routine is not about quick fixes or drastic changes. It is about building a lifestyle that incorporates healthy habits, consistent workouts, and balanced nutrition. As you continue on this journey, remember that patience, perseverance, and adaptability are your best allies in achieving and maintaining your fitness goals. Engage with Us What strategies have you found most effective in establishing a fitness routine? Do you have any tips for those just starting their fitness journey? Share your experiences and join the conversation below to help others learn from your journey! Call to Action If you're ready to take the first step towards a healthier and more active lifestyle, why not start today? Take one piece of advice from this article and integrate it into your life. Remember, progress begins with the first step. Share your commitment in the comments and let's support each other in our fitness goals! Read the full article

[benchsmartphysio]

Sydney Physio: Your Partner in Health and Wellness

In the bustling heart of Sydney, amid the iconic skyline and vibrant city life, there's a place where people find solace and healing. Welcome to Sydney Physio, where your journey to better health and wellness begins.

Why Choose Sydney Physio?

Sydney Physio is not just a physiotherapy clinic; it's a sanctuary for individuals seeking to restore their physical vitality and regain control of their lives. Here's why choosing Sydney Physio is a step in the right direction for your health and wellness:

Patient-Centered Care

At Sydney Physio, your well-being is our top priority. We take the time to understand your goals, concerns, and comfort levels to create a treatment plan that's tailored specifically to you.

Experienced Team

Our physiotherapists are leaders in their field. They're not only highly experienced but also dedicated to staying updated with the latest techniques and research to provide you with the best care.

Evidence-Based Approach

We pride ourselves on utilizing the most recent research and evidence-based techniques to ensure the most effective treatments for our patients.

Convenient Locations

With multiple clinics across Sydney, we make it easy for you to access our services. We want to be where you need us.

Dedicated Professionals

Our team of experienced physiotherapists is your staunch ally in the quest for a healthier, pain-free life. With unwavering dedication to their craft, they employ the latest evidence-based techniques and therapies to deliver exceptional results.

Comprehensive Care

From injury rehabilitation to chronic pain management and athletic performance enhancement, our services cover a wide spectrum of needs. Whether you're a professional athlete or simply looking to ease daily discomfort, we've got you covered.

Tailored Treatment

At Sydney Physio, we understand that every individual is unique. That's why we design personalized treatment plans that address your specific condition and goals. You're not just another patient to us; you're an individual on a path to recovery.

Sports Excellence

For athletes, injuries can be a major setback. Our sports injury rehabilitation specialists work hand in hand with you to help you regain peak performance and get back in the game.

Holistic Approach

Health is not just about treating symptoms; it's about addressing the root causes. We take a holistic approach to your well-being, considering not only your physical health but your mental and emotional state as well.

Your Wellness Journey Starts Here

At Sydney Physio, we believe in empowering you to live life to the fullest. Our commitment is to help you break free from physical limitations and enjoy a life without pain.

Whether you're dealing with the aftermath of an injury, managing chronic pain, or seeking to boost your athletic prowess, our team is here to guide you through your healing journey. We offer a range of services to cater to your unique needs, always keeping evidence-based practice at the forefront of our care.

So, if you're in Sydney and in need of physiotherapy, pain management, sports injury rehabilitation, or any other physical health services, we invite you to take the first step. Your journey towards a healthier, happier you begin with Sydney Physio.

Your path to wellness and a pain-free life starts with Sydney Physio. We invite you to get in touch with us to schedule your initial assessment. Let us be your partner in achieving your health and fitness goals. At Sydney Physio, we look forward to being part of your journey towards a healthier, happier you.

[murphysblogs]

It can't rain all the time

A Testimony of Gods Love. Written by Adam Murphy

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28–30 (NIV)

Life can be a wild ride, filled with unexpected twists and turns that test our strength and resilience. As I sip on some hot cider, contemplating the ups and downs of existence, I can’t help but reflect on my own journey. Trust me, my friend, I’ve faced my fair share of challenges. From losing my job and material possessions to battling insomnia and physical limitations, I know what it’s like to be knocked down by life’s storms. But amidst the chaos, I’ve learned an invaluable lesson: it can’t rain all the time. With every sunrise, a new opportunity arises, and with each passing day, I turn to our Heavenly Father and find the strength to keep moving forward.

Life has a funny way of humbling us, doesn’t it? Just when we think we have it all figured out, a gust of wind throws us off balance. It was only a year ago when my stable job, my possessions, and even my health seemed to slip through my fingers like grains of sand. Insomnia took its toll, and I found myself making mistakes at work, eventually losing my job. Financial burdens forced me to bid farewell to my beloved truck, and the woman I was ready to marry walked away. To top it all off, a debilitating injury left me unable to open my right hand, a constant reminder of life’s unpredictability.

Finding the Silver Lining:

Yet, within the storm’s fury, I discovered something profound — resilience. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I refused to let adversity define me. A dear friend opened her home, offering me refuge in a time of need. Each morning, as I wake to face the unknown, I remind myself that today holds the promise of something better than yesterday. With each step forward, I reclaim my power and embrace the gentle caress of life’s possibilities.

“Sometimes the Lord brings us to our limits in order to teach us lessons that we would learn in no other way. Our loving Heavenly Father permits us to feel the fullest depths of our weakness in order to strengthen us.” Russell M. Nelson

Lessons Learned, Strength Gained:

Life’s hardships can be brutal, leaving scars on our bodies and souls. But amidst the darkest moments, we have the power to cultivate strength and wisdom. As I navigate this uncertain path, I’ve learned valuable lessons that have shaped my outlook. I’ve discovered the importance of resilience, the art of appreciating life’s smallest joys, and the beauty of genuine connections forged through adversity.

So, my friend, as you sip your half-foam single shot and contemplate life’s challenges, feeling sorry for yourself and wanting to give up. Remember that it can’t rain all the time. Embrace the storms, for they hold the potential for growth and transformation. With every setback, let resilience be your guiding light, propelling you forward. Life may knock you down, but it is in the act of getting back up that we find our true strength. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter, may you have the courage to face life head-on, knowing that even amidst the downpour, the sun will eventually break through the clouds.

This is my testimony, and I testify, that God is real and he loves everyone of us. He took me to my breaking point, and when I was at my lowest, I called out for him; he answered my call and brought me back. I am stronger in faith and in spirit because of our Heavenly Father’s love for me. He knew what needed to be done to heal the scars on my soul that were caused by the storms of life, and I say these words in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

[hurdleherorics]

Hold onto your hats, because the Budapest World Championships are gearing up for an explosive showdown! The men's 400m event is highly anticipated, with a gripping storyline that's sending shockwaves through the track and field world. From defending champs sidelined by injuries to the world record holder and the Olympic victor making awe-inspiring comebacks, and even the third fastest contender facing an unexpected setback – this event is a fierce battle of resilience, determination, and raw athleticism. It's not just a race; it's a heart-pounding saga of human spirit and unyielding willpower. Get ready to witness history at the Budapest World Championships! Let's dive into the predictions for this exhilarating showdown.

Steven Gardiner: The Olympic Champion. Steven Gardiner stands as a true athletic powerhouse, dominating the 400 meters with electrifying speed and unwavering relaxation. His track prowess, crowned with an Olympic Games gold, cements him as an inspirational force and a beacon of excellence in the world of sprinting. With a PB only bettered by a few and a resumé to dream of, Gardiner comes into the World Champs with a chip on his shoulder as injuries prevented him from defending his 2019 world gold medal. However, he comes into Budapest with a 43.74 season's best, being his fastest time heading into a global championship, putting him as the world number one and the fastest athlete this year. Steven Gardiner is known for his incredibly relaxed and smooth running style and for always bringing his A game when it matters. Determined to prove that he's still the world's best expect Gardiner to come to Budapest with a point to prove.

Wayde Van Niekerk: The World Record Holder. Wayde van Niekerk shines as a track and field legend, renowned for his breathtaking world record-breaking performance in the 400 meters at the 2016 Olympics. His remarkable speed, resilience, and dedication make him an icon of athletic achievement, inspiring generations with his unparalleled achievements on the track. After capturing 2 world titles, 1 Olympic title and a world record he would suffer a career-changing knee injury that impact him for years to come. After years of being unable to find back his former form, 2023 seems to be a comeback year for him, his season's best of 44.08 being his fastest time since 2017 and placing as the number 4 athlete in the world. Similarly to Gardiner, Van Niekerk also wants to regain his place on top of the podium and given his years of championship experience, it would be foolish the count him out.

Muzala Samukonga: The African Star. Muzala Samukonga, the pride of Zambia's athletic prowess, blazes a trail of excellence with his astonishing Commonwealth Games victory and his unmatched dedication. His rough and raw running style leaves his competition stunned and his nation in awe. The young 20 year old has served as the frontrunner for the up and coming next generation of 400m runners with his astonishing 43.91 seconds season best and national record sent shockwaves around the world announcing his presence as a real contender to challenge for the 400m throne yet his medal chances might be in jeopardy as in his last race before the World Championships he was forced to pull up injured. But if he can get to Budapest fit and healthy fully expect him to be up there near the final 3.

Bryce Deadmon: The American Frontrunner. Bryce Deadmon emerges as a true track and field sensation, setting the stage ablaze with his extraordinary speed and unwavering determination. With each stride, he epitomizes athletic brilliance, promising a future of unparalleled achievements in the world of sprinting. Bryce Deadmon emerged as the American number one as he won the American Championships with a personal best of 44.22 seconds continuing his consistent and steady path to Budapest seeming to peak at exactly the right time.

Sean Bailey: The Jamaican Hope. Sean Bailey radiates as a dynamic up and coming force in track and field, captivating audiences with his explosive speed and unyielding spirit to put Jamaica on the map in terms of the men's 400. His relentless pursuit of excellence and remarkable accomplishments paint him as a beacon of inspiration following in the footsteps of his older sister Veronica Campbell-Brown. Sean Bailey cemented his place as Jamaica's biggest contender at the world champs in the absence of Rusheen McDonald by decisively winning his maiden Jamaican title over the distance. He proved to not be a one hit wonder with a string of sub 45 second clocking including a personal best of 44.43 seconds. If he can replicate and even improve on those performances expect him to be challenging for a medal come Budapest.

Michael Norman: The Fallen Hero. Michael Norman would ignite the track with his electrifying presence, boasting unmatched speed and a relentless drive for greatness. As a true athletic phenomenon, his records and performances etch his name among the elite, solidifying his legacy as a sprinting sensation. However, this season has not been a successful one for him as his decision to initially focus on the 100m this season seems to have not worked out as he has succumbed to multiple injuries. Luckily for him, since winning the World Champs last year on home soil in Oregan, he therefore, has the bye into the World Champs meaning his seat to Budapest is secured, however, not running a single 400 this year could seem to be a difficult obstacle in his path come Budapest.

Final Verdict And Prediction: As the countdown to the Men's 400m draws closer, the excitement is palpable. Steven Gardiner, Wayde Van Niekerk, Muzala Samukonga, Bryce Deadmon, Sean Bailey and Michael Norman are set to captivate the world with their speed, finesse, and determination. For my prediction, it goes as follows: 1. Steven Gardiner - 43.54 (SB) (WL) 2. Wayde Van Niekerk - 43.72 (SB) 3. Bryce Deadmon - 44.14 (PB) (SB) 4. Sean Bailey - 44.26 (PB) (SB) 5. Muzala Samukonga - 44.32 6. Vernon Norwood - 44.34 (PB) (SB) 7. Quincy Hall - 44.38 (PB) (SB)

8. Antonio Watson - 44.46 (PB) (SB)

[whumpshaped]

preparation: get in the mood! make ocs! flesh out the ones you have! dust off the wips on the top shelf! make playlists and plot outlines and worldbuild! daydream...

further notes: obviously if anyone wants to steal this and use it as a prompt list, go ahead! if you tag me i'll definitely try to get around to reading it, but you don't have to! you can switch days around, mix and match, and while i named it 'write me a novel', reality is... i don't expect anyone but myself to do that. you can write 31 separate little drabbles if your heart so desires. or write 10 drabbles and draw 5 prompt inspired pictures. anything! so yeah. :D

exposition

day 1: (new) beginning/friends/goal

day 2: journey/kidnapping/ambushed

rising action

day 3: tied up/concussion/darkness

day 4: hostility/locked away/doused

day 5 (theme): injustice/entertainment/misfortune

day 6: outside/(found) family/funeral

day 7: fight/flight/freeze/fawn

day 8 (sight): flashing lights/blinded/someone new

day 9 (smell): branding/perfume/fresh air

day 10 (sound): scream/gunshot/noise cancellation

day 11 (touch): itching/burning/collared

day 12 (taste): forced feeding/starvation/food poisoning

day 13: grief/distance/helplessness

day 14 (show, don't tell): forced to watch/muzzled/displayed

day 15: symbolism/morally grey/sadistic choice

day 16: shock value/lift the curtains/secret

day 17: failed escape/breaking point/obedience

day 18: beatdown/punishment/reward

day 19: love/desperation/resignation

day 20: meeting/shown off/hidden in plain sight

day 21 (write what you know): letter/rules/routine

day 22: ruin/opportunity/impulse

climax

day 23: snap/betrayal/self-sacrifice

day 24: rescue/death/duel

falling action

day 25: apathy/hope/relief

day 26: hospital/hidden injury/forced recovery

day 27: blame/revenge/setback

day 28: home/change/rebirth

day 29: progress/conditioned response/flashback

resolution

day 30: resolution/introspection/reflection

day 31: good end/bad end/cliffhanger

alternative prompts: questions/delight/stripped

[angeloddity]

Summertime Storms V

Breaking Skin

steve harrington x fem!reader

A stitch in your side, a cold downpour, and a desperation to see your boyfriend. If one more thing goes wrong, you think you might just break.

genre: hurt/comfort

warnings: injury, blood, depression

word count: 2,800

a/n: all of my fics are self indulgent, but this one is especially indulgent.

part iv || series masterlist || masterlist

You shouldn’t have decided to walk. You could see the dark clouds looming in the distance, the wind drawing them ever closer to Hawkins. It was a dumb decision to make the journey to Steve’s house from yours on foot, you should have known better, should have thought your choice through. 

Normally you would ride your bike to your boyfriend’s house, but the tires were low on air and pumping them up had seemed like too much effort when you were ready to leave. Why would you take the time to refill them when you could be that much closer to Steve already? At the time, the answer seemed obvious. 

The logic behind making the journey on foot wasn’t entirely sound, but you hadn’t seen your boyfriend all day and you miss him. You always miss him. Sometimes, when you get too excited to see Steve, you don’t think things through. It’s embarrassing, he says it’s endearing. 

You must have walked too fast, or eaten too much for dinner too soon before walking. Whatever the cause, a little past the halfway point to Steve’s house, you feel a stitch begin to form in your side. It forces you to slow down, something you don’t really want to do given how close the clouds have become. They’re nearly on top of you, and they look ready to burst. You have no choice but to accept your fate. 

You’ve known all day that storms could be rolling in, but the weather report said it would storm in the morning, and the morning came and went without a drop of rain, then so did the afternoon. You hoped that by this point the rain would just hold off until night, creating a nice soundtrack to sleep to rather than a nuisance to travel in. 

The whole situation is an inconvenience at most. Sure, taking your time to pump the tires on your bike would have allowed you to be at Steve’s already, and if you were lucky you would have exerted less energy and avoided the cramp in your side, but it was a bother. The simple act of adding air to the tires seemed like just enough of a setback to avoid it. You just wanted to see Steve. 

Now you’re still not with Steve, you’re in pain, and the first drops are beginning to fall. It’s annoying, frustrating enough to make you grumble at the sky. Soon, you remind yourself, almost there. 

The first drops to fall are hardly drops at all. They aren’t big and beautiful. They’re small, sporadic, cold. Summertime storms aren’t supposed to be so cold. The drops fall faster and faster, wind picking them up and blowing them into your face. They soak into your clothes, the fabric clinging to your skin as goosebumps break out across your arms. 

Luckily it’s not a thunderstorm. It’s safe enough to be walking in the rain. Besides, you’re almost at Steve’s now. He’ll just lend you some dry clothes and hold you close, and everything will smell like him. The thought of seeing him so soon gets you to move faster again, that excitement you felt at the beginning of the walk sparking just enough to keep your heart glowing, a lighthouse in your chest. There may not be any thunder, but the elation of being so close to seeing Steve again flows like lightning beneath your skin, making your whole body buzz with it. 

—♡— 

Steve has been waiting for you to arrive. You should be at his house already, even if you made the trip on foot. 

Maybe you got distracted, saw a cat that needed petting or some flowers too pretty not to stop for. It wouldn’t be the first time, and the distractions on the way to Steve’s house seem to be infinite. There’s always something new to look at no matter how little has changed. A small shift in lighting is more than enough to draw your eye to new curiosities. Steve tries to convince himself that there were just a few more distractions than usual, but after all that has happened in Hawkins these past few years, with everything that he knows is hiding just beneath the surface, he isn’t so sure. 

He tries calling your house again, just in case you were exaggerating about being ready to head out the door. He knows you’re always a little later than you say you’ll be, he accepts this, plans accordingly, but the line just rings without an answer. You have already left. 

Steve begins to fiddle with the little things in his home in an attempt to distract himself, or maybe to clear his mind, whatever it takes to keep the worry from taking over. He moves anything that seems even slightly out of place, just to ease his fraying nerves. It doesn’t help. 

A peek out the window shows that it’s pouring rain, small drops falling in heavy sheets, the wind pulling the rain along at a harsh angle. Steve has a passing thought about grabbing some spare clothes for you to change into when you arrive, certain you’ll be soaked even if you brought an umbrella (he doubts you did).

His quick glance out the window also shows a shift in the scenery from his usual view. It’s not a big shift, a change that is almost washed out by the condensation forming on the windowpane, but it’s enough to give Steve pause. He looks again, a little closer this time.  

There’s a lump lying in the middle of the sidewalk just a few houses over. It’s soggy—human. The lump moves, face looking up in Steve's direction as though the person could sense him standing there, watching from a distance. It’s a familiar face, it’s yours. Even from this distance he can tell you look sad, and, to be quite honest, a little pathetic.   

Steve’s legs are moving him forward before he fully registers what’s happening. He’s out the door and running in your direction, crossing over his neighbor’s lawn to reach you, ignoring the way his feet slip in the mud.

The rain is cold, he notes. You must be miserable.

He’s by your side in an instant, hovering, unsure what you need from him. He wants to touch you, but he’s afraid of hurting you.   

“What are you doing?” Steve practically shouts, voice laced with rising panic. He doesn’t mean to yell, not really. It’s a response to fear held over from his King Steve days—bared teeth to mask uncertainty. But you don’t really notice the volume of his voice or his harsh tone. It’s a little difficult to hear Steve even at a high volume, there’s water in your ears. 

“I tripped! And then I gave up.”

You almost made it. You only needed to go a few doors down and you could have been at Steve’s, where it’s warm and dry and safe. If you had been paying more attention you would have remembered the crack in the sidewalk, the one that rattles you to the core every time your bike wheel hits it. 

It’s just not your day. 

Red pools around your knees, lightening into pink before fading completely. Like food coloring in a glass, the rain washes any trace of you away. It’s a slow trickle of blood, skin scraped raw during impact with the sidewalk, but it’s enough blood for Steve to be concerned. Any amount is too much in his mind. 

“You’re bleeding,” he states. “and soaked to the bone. Come on, let’s get you inside.” He bends down beside you, his knees falling into the puddle where you lay, unconcerned by the additional water soaking into the fabric of his clothes. He’s already drenched from the rain, what difference will a little more water make? 

He reaches beneath your arms and scoops you up, tugging until you’re leaning into his chest. You help out, just a little, but he still does the bulk of the work to get you standing again. When he moves, you follow close behind. He reaches for your hand, a familiar gesture, but the press of his palm against yours stings, a sharp pain rather than the usual and expected comfort. The touch makes you hiss slightly, a quick intake of breath, and Steve drops your hand immediately.

“Your palms too? Oh, my sweet, disaster girl. Does it hurt a lot?” His lips pull in a half smile, an attempt to comfort you, the light not reaching his eyes like it usually does. He’s too serious right now, a look you rarely see on him. Steve takes both of your hands in his, cradling the backs to avoid causing you any more pain. A quick glance shows your palms to be bleeding too, though not as much as your knees. 

“It’s not too bad,” you mumble. And it’s true, they don’t hurt all that much, but between the cramp in your side and the cold rain still pouring around you, the setback from walking, the now raw and bleeding skin on your hands and knees, and the ache to just be held, it’s all just too much to handle.

Tears build behind your eyes, giving you no time to try blinking them away before they spill. They fall in heavy drops down your cheeks, searing and sticky. It’s just a couple, you can’t allow more to fall or else Steve might notice—the rain can only do so much to hide the redness of your eyes, even if the tears burning down your face blend in with the freezing rain. You don’t bother wiping them away, not wanting to draw any attention to the mess. Plus, that would mean having to pull your hands out of Steve’s gentle hold.    

Steve shifts his grasp on you, taking only the tips of your fingers and curling them into his palm, the heat of him the closest thing to safety you’ve ever known. 

He tugs you along until you reach his house. The inside is dry and full of the low yellow glow of table lamps, the low lighting giving the home a cozy feel. It’s a trick you learned that Steve uses to make the house feel less empty, a homely light that pulls the walls of the silent rooms in close. It makes the house feel more lived in, something Steve desperately needs when so much of his life is spent in isolation. The trick with the lights works, but it always makes you sad to see. 

“Here,” Steve says, keeping hold of your arm to help you balance as you take off your wet shoes and socks. He holds you with the gentleness you’ve grown familiar with, all fighting instincts settled into dormancy again. “It’s important you dry off, and get these scrapes cleaned.”

Steve bends down to look at the injuries on your knees. His warm breath fans across the exposed skin of your thighs, finger reaching up to prod at the undamaged skin around the scrapes, not quite touching where it hurts. Streaks of crimson spill from friction torn skin. He’s not sure if the blood pooling there is making the injuries look worse than they are, not without cleaning the wounds first. He frowns at them, pressing a kiss to your thighs above each scrape, before standing once more.

You could cry again, the simple act of affection enough to be overwhelming. How could someone love you so much? 

Steve takes his own shoes off before guiding you to his bathroom, where he encourages you to sit down on the side of the bathtub. Then he opens the cabinet beneath his sink, pulling everything out that he might need to clean your injuries, he even has gauze pads to clean off the blood. 

“I’ve been getting hurt a lot these past few years,” Steve jokes, as if each time he was hurt  he wasn’t involved in some sort of fistfight, beaten to a pulp from losing. Somehow it wasn’t the demogorgon or the demodogs that got to him, rather, it was his fellow human beings and, more often than not, his old classmates. 

“Try not to get into any more fights,” you plead. “I don’t think your head could handle another concussion.” 

“I won’t, I promise.” He grins. “At least, I won’t start them.” 

You smack his shoulder in response, instantly regretting the act when the scrape on your palm makes itself known again. You gasp, more in shock than actual pain, but it brings Steve’s attention back to the task at hand. 

He cleans your knees off first, trying to wipe away the blood before it drips down onto his floor. The gauze is warm against your skin, a nice reprieve from the cold of your rain soaked clothes still clinging to your body. He spreads bacitracin ointment across the scrapes before putting two large band aids on them, kissing each one lightly as he goes. Even that gentle touch stings, but you can’t help but grin down at Steve, who is trying so hard to be gentle with you. 

It’s not uncommon for your mood to take a nosedive the way it had along the way to Steve’s, you both know that the bad days can be really hard to trudge through, but he always helps to keep you distracted, easing the pain in whatever way he can. 

Steve repeats the steps of cleaning your knees as he cares for your hands, using a new gauze after the first was completely soiled. He works quickly and efficiently, the methodical nature of his process breaking your heart a little. It’s obvious how often he’s had to put himself back together. He doesn’t have to anymore though. Just as he’s helping you now, you will be there for him when he needs you—even if he tries to fight your help. 

“Thank you,” you whisper when he’s all done. 

“Of course,” he says. He presses one final kiss to your lips for good measure. “I’m going to grab us some dry clothes. I don’t want you getting sick.” 

He leaves for just a moment, taking the warmth in the room with him. Of course he does, he’s the brightest thing you know, burning hotter than a fire, the heat of him spreading to you with only the slightest touch. 

His absence is tangible, even if he’s gone for only a moment. 

He comes back with two sets of clothes, both his despite having several pairs of your own tucked away in his drawers. The thought that he wants you in his own clothing, safe and dry and warm, sends a fire burning across your cheeks. Of course it does, how could it not? He doesn’t even need to touch you to make you burn. 

You start to strip out of your wet clothes, grateful that you won’t have to be stuck in them for any longer.

“No, stop!” Steve exclaims before you can even get your shirt off. “If the band aids get wet I’ll have to change them again. Let me.”

He reaches out, pulls your shirt over your head gently before helping you out of your shorts. Your cheeks ignite again, heat spreading to your ears and down your neck, into your chest. Steve has seen you bare a hundred times over, tasted every inch of you, and yet this feels different. It’s almost embarrassing how tender he is, how fond as he takes you in for just a moment before helping you into his clothes, how gentle. 

“I love you,” you say, unable to stop yourself, not that you would even if you could. He deserves to hear it. He brings his palms up to your cheeks, cradling you completely, thumbs sweeping light circles across the delicate skin beneath your eyes. 

“I know,” Steve says, “I love you too. So much.”     

Maybe you’re crying again, it’s difficult to tell anymore. You don’t think you’d mind if you are, not this time.  

Steve’s half undressed by the time you get your wits about you again. His shirt drops to the floor in a wet heap, hitting the tiles with a loud splat. He smiles at you when he catches your gaze, the two of you laughing at the silliness of the sound. You ignore the way your own laugh holds a certain wetness to it—definitely crying. Your heart still hurts, bruised from just one too many small things gone wrong, but it’s not as bad now that you’re bandaged, warm, and with Steve.  

“C’mere,” he says, stepping over the growing pile of wet clothing and pulling you towards him into the curl of his arms. The skin of his chest is cool and damp beneath your cheek, but he will warm up again. After all, you have no intention of letting go of him anytime soon.  

a/n: when I have a particularly low day, I find the company of others to be the best thing to keep me from sinking too far

[wrenqueenisboss]

Thantophobia - c!Technoblade x gn!reader

Table of Contents - Masterlist

Warnings: blood, violence, war, injury, murder, grief, mild language Pronouns: you/yours, they/them Words: 1.5k+ Summary: Thantophobia- the fear of losing someone you love Enjoy the c!technoblade angst, people!

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Technoblade absolutely hated losing. For one, it was humiliating. Second, it had been over a decade since that had happened and he had no inclination to break the streak.

The last time he had lost, he had lost everything.

As the village's strongest fighter, he had a lot of weight piled onto his armored shoulders. The armor had been made specially for him by the blacksmith. At ten years old he was too small for the normal sets.

His heart had been too kind for the cruel atrocities of the world. The Nether, with its red earth and perpetually burning fires, seemed more like hell every day.

Gods, his life was punishing. Training was brutal. It had to be, if he was to grow up to be the village's protector.

He grew up too quickly.

To practice, there were sparring matches. At fifteen, he was fighting against the strongest beings around. Every night, he'd return to his family's cabin with dark blood running down his hands.

Everyone knew not to question who it belonged to, for they feared the answer.

And so the little broken boy built himself up.

He worked to become stronger than everything life threw at him. Day after day, more scars marred his skin. Every wound he cleaned himself. For getting help from the village healer was a sign of "weakness".

That was over a decade ago.

The Blood God still hates losing. It hasn't happened in so long. He'd like to keep it that way.

Betrayal doesn't count. That's a setback.

He's had many setbacks.

Technoblade hates making friends. It's dangerous. An emotional attachment to be used against him at the drop of a hat. It makes him scared. He knows how easy it is to be manipulated that way. He knows because he's done it too many times. Watched the way people crumbled when they couldn't saved those they loved.

Technoblade hates that he met you. It's a love-hate thing, actually. You were the kind soul that showed him around the village he had been traveling. You were the one who didn't hesitate to draw your sword and slay the skeleton that had its bow pointed at a small child.

You were kind and brave. Everything he was not. The pigling hybrid preferred to run from his problems. It was easier, for one. And it had a much lower risk of losing.

He finds himself loving each visit to your village more with each time he goes. Your bright eyes make him forget the tapestry of scars he stares at in the mirror every day.

You know who he is, for sure. The gold crown atop his pink hair and the velvet cape across his shoulders are a trademark. You know his dark history, even darker sins. You still accept him as a friend and he is eternally grateful.

Techno gives you a golden bracelet one day, specially carved. The edges are purposefully imperfect, because he knows how you like to rub your fingers around your wrist when you get nervous. Months later, the bracelet is worn smooth. You smile when you find another on the table a few days after.

No one else knows about you, thank the gods. The others in the SMP are too volatile, too violent. He doesn't trust them to not hurt you. He doesn't trust himself with what he'll do if you get hurt.

But still, he goes on a late night patrol with you. It was intended as a patrol. But now it seems more like a moonlight walk. A chilly moonlight walk, because you're shivering. The man tries to keep the blush off of his face as he pulls you close and wraps the cape around your shoulders too.

Techno stares at the ceiling that night, realizing he's let you in to his heart, the one thing he swore to himself would never happen. Because it's dangerous. But he can't bring himself to leave you, so he stays.

Thank the gods he did because you're there to help when the voices rage with demands of violence and rage once more. It's too risky to be sitting so close when the angry voices are chanting. Your embrace is too warm and comforting to break out of, so he stays.

He panics when a note is left tacked to his door. "Say hi to your 'friend' for me" it reads. Signed at the bottom with a simple smile. He sprints to your cottage before a rational thought can convince him not to.

You're safe, just tending to the little garden behind your house when he arrives, breathless and beyond grateful. You are safe, smiling as always. Out of instinct, he just hugs you, pulls you close and inhales the sweet floral scent of your hair.

That one day made him confident, too cocky. He walks for hours with you the next day, just enjoying a little adventure with the person he may-or-may-not love. He doesn't realize that your two close figures are visible from the grounds of the populated parts of the server.

A certain masked man notices with a hidden, malicious smile. He runs the whetting stone over the blade of his axe with a deeper intent. A scarred man sees. He laughs harshly, flicking the coin in his hand a little higher. He smiles when it hits the table and lands on the right side. The cards are lining up for his perfect revenge.

Technoblade walks you back to your cottage that night without a care in the world. Your eyes are too bright, smile too wide for him to be worrying.

He sleeps better than he has in a decade that night. He should have recognized it was a bad omen.

The next day, when he goes to give you another golden bracelet to add to the set, you aren't there. There's a note tacked to your door this time. Still signed with a smile.

Your house is messy. Not messy- a mess. Furniture is thrown everywhere. Pillows are a mess, the feathers dusting everything. Glass is shattered. But worst of all is the obvious gashes in the wood. The cleaner, thin lines are the remnants of a messy sword slash. Your sword. After all, fighting in a little cottage doesn't give a lot of room. No wonder your slashes were messy.

But the plain splits in the wood are unmistakable. The obvious work of an axe. Dream's axe.

Technoblade looks back at the note one more time, this time actually pausing to read what it says.

"you never said hello for me. I had to introduce myself."

He drops to his knees, in shock.

All because he let you in, he's gotten hurt again. He broke a vital rule he set for himself and now another scar is there. One you can't help him treat. One that's nearly impossible to treat himself. Heartbreak. Heartache.

There's absolutely no chance you're alive. No, absolutely none. Because he had been getting too comfortable. The voices had quieted down too much. Dream had left him alone. Dream only leaves people alone before tormenting them.

Technoblade is suddenly a child again, lying still on the sandy floor of the arena in his village. His blood stains the earth and everything hurts. He builds those walls up once again. The stone barriers that kept him sane when everything was meant to break him.

He lives the next week alone, after making a beautiful grave for you. Niki helps him pick out the perfect flowers. Techno leaves the bracelet, the last one you never got, by the carved stone. He makes three more to wear himself. The two of you match, now.

He's setting down a fresh bouquet of flowers when a figure drops down from the trees above. The Blood God doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.

He whirls around, sword already drawn and pointed at the person's neck. "Dream," he snarls, eyes dark. The voices chant horrible things and gods how he wish he could act on them.

It's obvious that the masked man is smiling behind his porcelain veil of malice and mystery. "Ah, Technoblade. How nice it is to see you."

"What the hell do you want?" He demands. The tip of the sword brushes Dream's exposed neck, drawing the smaller trickle of blood.

The server's villain notices the blade in his hand. He lets out a vicious laugh. "Saved your lover's blade, eh? Is it painful, holding that sword and knowing who once held it?" He knocks the blade of the nephrite weapon away from him. "Does it hurt knowing that they're dead because they could use that properly?"

The Blood God swings a punch. The days in the arena come rushing back. The rage the adrenaline. Everything.

With an infuriating chuckle, Dream dodges it gracefully. He springs right back up onto the branch, hanging upside down by his knees.

"Don't feel bad, Technoblade. You just have thantophobia. You hate losing the people you love."

A rustle of leaves, and Dream is gone.

Techno throws the sword to the side, letting it fall harshly to the earth.

It's true. It always has been. He hates losing. It's humiliating. And it's painful, he's learned.

His eyes drift towards your headstone, and the wreath of flowers resting atop its gray surface.

That decade-long streak is gone. Broken in the most painful of ways.

Your death.

~-~-~-

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