#like he has to stick around and be involved and helpful
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reblogandlikes ¡ 2 days ago
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So...let me get this straight.
Cassian can be fine with Rhysand threatening to kill Nesta, his literal mate (doesnt matter if he didnt mean it, the threat was very real to the point of her needing to be evacuated), and allow constant beratement of her to the point of a random human having to stick up for her and that's fine? His family's constant negative talk and treatment of her that are often unwarranted. That's...acceptable, despite it being known that mates should be super protective of each other, especially it being a main characteristic in mated males, no matter who the opposition is, friend or foe.
But he's perfectly able to be the protector and hold contempt towards Eris on the behalf of Mor due to him not getting involved with her when she was dumped in Autumn after being brutalised by her family. But in getting involved would have damned her to a life she tried to escape by sleeping with Cassian in the first place! Plus, Eris still got the message out for Azriel to help and it's been implied that Mor isn't being completely truthful about the events. What, exactly? I don't know, but it's something and she's scared of Eris exposing it (if it's her being gay, that's dumb as fuck when they're literally around HL's like Helion *bi* and Thesan *gay* and it's such a none issue, plus she's no longer residing in Hewn city and Velaris is meant to be a utopia. But seriously, why exactly is she still hiding that? Anyway...)
After 500 years, Cassian hates Eris' "treatment" of Mor and sticks up/protects her more than the mate his "brother" and High Lord and Co. constantly treats unfairly.
Bruh, I might not like Rhysand, but he'd never let anyone speak to and disrespect Feyre the way Cassian allows Nesta to be spoken to and disrespected. Hell, Rhysand was willing to allow his Mate to die in order to keep Feyre blissfully unaware and happy than give her stress (stupid reason - she should have been given the information and at least tried to transform, but you see the point I'm making).
Nesta and Cassian are the perfect examples of mates that try to work, but aren't compatible. Stop trying to force fated matches as always romantic and good when it's even been hinted at with past couples that its not. They're not always meant to be. Nesta should reject him, but she has too much self-loathing and thinks he's the best she can get - worse, thinks he's too good for her, and so she takes whatever affection and kindness he gives because her self-worth is so damn low.
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dauhtrofsevnthshe ¡ 1 day ago
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thinkin' about farmhand! arthur morgan being hired by your daddy. unknown to him that the man who hired him has a sweetheart for a daughter.
femreader, typical 1899 period mindset, your father is protective over his daughter. mlist.
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arthur morgan was a man who was recently employed by your daddy. now, he was very sure of the man he hired, and he was right. arthur proved to be one of the most helpful men ever to be involved with the ranch. he was strong and willing. nothing proved to be hard for him to do. hell, if your daddy told him what to do, he'd do. the money was well, too.
arthur morgan did nothing more than work. since that's what he was paid to do. a little small talk with your father and any men here and there, but he'd always go straight back to work. it made him feel wanted, needed, and useful. it made him feel like he was worth something.
arthur morgan started noticing you, he's never seen you before. hell, he didn't even realise the man he worked for has a daughter wnd you looked like they sweetest thing hes ever seen. how you were just prancing and playing around with your dog, throwing a stick or letting your them jump up at you. it was a wholesome sight to say the least vut he never said a thing. he kept it to himself.
you were very kind, very kind, even. he's never met a girl who was sweet as sugar. a little shy as first, but you quickly warmed up to him, noticing how much your daddy liked him. he thought arthur morgan was a good man. it didn't take you long before you were practically talking his ear off. its what happens when you get comfortable around someone. he adored it.
you watched him while he worked, mostly from your room, never seen a man's like him before. he was so big, he was tall and very strong. although you know that your father would let anything happen between you two, he's protective like that. he didn't want no man near his daughter ─ they only wanted one thing.
you two found small, subtle ways to talk and spend with each other. you'd watch him while he worked on the fence or something... or he'd talk to you while as you just happen to pass him while riding on your hourse.
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croquettish ¡ 3 days ago
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Thank you for talking about this because I’ve felt pretty shut down in fandom about the comphet idea before. The response is always like “well headcanon whatever you like but he has sex with women so you’re definitely wrong”. But I don’t think it is a headcanon, it’s how I interpreted the canon events of the game when I played it, before I saw any fandom opinions. It’s okay for others to interpret him as bisexual, but surely there’s a difference between Henry who proposes marriage to practically every woman he bangs and has canonically been in love with a woman before (Bianca), and Hans who pursues women but completely loses interest in them after the ‘conquest’, says he’s never been in love with any of them, and mainly brings them up in 2 only to deflect Henry’s romance lines. Then with Henry he makes a love confession (involving a super gay story he’s been holding onto in his mind for who knows how long) and clearly wants to continue the relationship afterwards. It seems important to me that this is THE FIRST TIME we’ve seen him in a genuine love relationship, and it’s with a man. If a piece of media shows me that story - man can’t find love no matter how hard he tries until he falls for another man - I’m going to assume their intent was to show me a gay character, not a bisexual character.
Having sex with women gives Hans a lot of advantages beyond getting off. He’s not very good at connecting with people, but he is handsome, so flirting/sex is an easy way for him to get validation. He gets to escape things he doesn’t want to do, or alleviate his total boredom, in a socially acceptable way by running off with women. Womanising also helps him live up to what he thinks nobles ought to be like. I think there’s justification for him to pursue women (and even actually think he enjoys it) while not really being that attracted to them.
I can see it if people want to say he’s bisexual and just such a misogynist that it’s hard for him to love a woman, but then what’s the point of describing him solely as bisexual, if you see what I mean… why is the biological fact of where he can stick it apparently the most important thing…
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Trust me, I definitely get you. It is frustrating. I haven't seen anyone disrespect people for headcanoning him as bisexual, meanwhile we're told it's morally wrong to headcanon him as anything else. To me that is deeply disrespectful.
The "he has sex with women" is a wild fucking argument to make, honestly. For one thing, he had sex with women. Past tense. For another thing, there is a non-zero chance that that actually never happened. I'm not saying it's very likely, but given that we know that he canonically failed with Karolina and that his favorite bath maid is the only bath maid that he literally isn't allowed to touch, we have literally zero proof that he's actually ever fucked a woman.
But let's move forward saying that he did. As far as things are in canon, he hasn't gone around sleeping with women since leaving Rattay. Even if you decide that Karolina is real (she isn't), then his last time sleeping with a woman was while everyone was at the Devil's Den. When he tries to talk to the women at the baths there he strikes out! So all we know is that he used to have sex with women. It's his choice of whether or not he decides to continue to do so.
All of the points you've brought up are extremely solid. Hard agree on all of those. I would further add on the fact that Hans, back when he was (maybe) sleeping with women, was not aware of the fact that men were even an option. Until I was 20, I went through life absolutely convinced that I was 100% straight. And I was aware of the fact that people could be queer. Hans didn't know that. At most he would have heard that sodomy is a sin. And he was desperate to find the sort of love he'd read about in books and heard of in tales. Of course he was going to be searching for that love in all the places he thought he was supposed to.
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invye ¡ 11 months ago
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Dressrosa would obviously be quite different in the CoraMiShanks AU, given that, well, Rosinante is there to help kick Doffy's behind, but I'm not sure if I want to touch the happenings in present day canon yet.
HOWEVER! I am once again thinking about how in canon Zoro dragged Law into the party after---
Zoro dragging Law along to have a drink and they inevitably talk about swords (it's Zoro and Law carries an interesting blade, what did you expect?) when Zoro, slightly tipsy, lets slip that he trained with old Hawkeyes for two years.
Law, already fully sloshed (seriously he should have known better than to try matching Zoro for drinks), immediately goes: "Does Hawk-san's 'training' still include tossing you across the entire island and letting you fend against the stupid monkeys for yourself?"
And Zoro just absolutely loses it. What do you mean Law knows that he's spend most of those two years traipsing around lost on that stupid foggy island?? What do you mean Hawk-san???
And drunk Law long-windedly explains that he grew up with Mihawk around, even lived in his dilapidated castle for a while with Cora-san, before they returned to the North Blue so Law could finish school. He even had extended dealings with the Red Emperor during that time, and don't belive what anyone tells you, they're both stupid powerful, but also stupid dorks, it's unbelievable how Cora-san is so attached to these idiots...
And while Law drunkenly prattles on, Zoro is sitting there, head in his hands, realising Hawkeyes actually did a good job with Law, even though his technique is disappointingly reliant on his devil fruit; which means that Hawkeyes probably also did a good job with him, and that on top of that, he might actually really care..?
Druing the trip from Zou to Wano with the Heart Pirates, Zoro learns that they all know Hawkeyes, or Hawk-san as Law calls him and they copy; because when they first set out he showed up all intimidating with his huge sword and unwavering stare and icily told them to "stay safe" and "don't bite off more than you can chew" and "here is my contact, do not use it" and he has shown up somewhat regularly since, especially after Cora-san officially joined the crew when they entered the New World.
Zoro is left sitting there with the knowledge that Hawkeyes apparently has at least three vaguely adopted children, and that he does care. And Zoro has no idea how he is supposed to feel about the knowledge that he is one of those children now.
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thebarneschronicles ¡ 5 months ago
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Nine Lives
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Word Count: 9.4k
Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.
You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.
Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)
Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x
-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.
Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.
And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.
The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.
Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.
You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.
Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.
And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.
You gritted your teeth.
“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”
Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.
Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”
Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”
Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.
Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”
Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”
You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”
Bucky smirked. “What?”
“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”
Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.
Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”
Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”
“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”
Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”
Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”
Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”
And that? That was the last straw.
Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”
Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”
“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”
And there it was. That goddamn nickname.
You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”
“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”
Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”
“Enhancing.”
“You mean ignoring it?”
He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.
God, this man was going to be the death of you.
You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”
He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”
You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”
Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”
Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”
Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”
Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”
His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”
You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—
No. Focus.
You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”
His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”
Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”
Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.
Oh. Oh, that son of a—
Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.
“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”
You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—
Nope. Not going there.
You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”
Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”
Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”
—
You didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.
Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.
He knew before you did.
And that was the worst part.
You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.
It had terrified you.
So you fought.
You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.
And it infuriated you.
How dare he?
How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?
How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?
How. Dare. He.
The memory took over before you could stop it…
It had been a disaster from the start.
The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.
But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.
You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.
“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”
You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”
Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 
Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”
“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.
Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”
“Still ruined.”
“You’re ruining it more.”
“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”
Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”
Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”
“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”
“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”
Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”
“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.
Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”
Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.
Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”
“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”
Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”
“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”
“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”
“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.
“No, I was waiting for backup.”
Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”
You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.
But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.
You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”
“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”
“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”
You stopped.
Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.
You weren’t just mad.
You were terrified.
Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.
“Doll—”
“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”
Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”
Something inside you snapped.
“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”
His eyebrows shot up at that.
“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”
Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.
“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”
Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.
But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.
“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”
Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.
You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.
You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.
You felt him watching you.
For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.
The weight of it pressed against your chest.
You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”
Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”
You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”
Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”
Your jaw tensed.
“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”
The smirk disappeared.
A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.
For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.
But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.
He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”
You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”
Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.
You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.
Because the truth was—
You weren’t sure what scared you more.
The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—
Or the fact that, one day, he might not.
–
You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.
No. Not thinking about that.
You couldn’t.
Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—
If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—
You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.
Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”
“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.
He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”
You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”
His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”
You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.
The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.
When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.
“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”
You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.
Your breath hitched.
He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.
“That it’s a good plan.”
Your pulse stuttered.
This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.
But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.
And that? That scared you more than anything.
“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”
The question hit like a sucker punch.
It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.
“I—” The words caught in your throat.
He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”
His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.
Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.
Completely, utterly furious at him.
And even more furious at yourself.
Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.
Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.
You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.
Why do you never take my side?
You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.
You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”
He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”
Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.
You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”
Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”
You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.
“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”
His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”
“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”
Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”
“I know you are,” you shot back.
He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.
There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.
You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.
“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”
The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.
Your breath caught. “That’s not—”
“Forget it.” 
— 
Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.
And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.
In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.
You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.
Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.
There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.
And you hated it.
You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.
Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.
Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.
And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.
But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.
No smirk. No I told you so.
Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.
By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.
The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.
But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.
It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.
Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.
“So are you.”
You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”
For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.
He noticed.
Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.
His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.
Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.
When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”
His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”
You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”
His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”
“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”
Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”
You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.
His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.
“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.
Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.
You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.
Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”
His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.
“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.
Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”
You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”
His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.
“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.
“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”
Bucky was still. Unreadable.
Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”
But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.
—
The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.
You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.
But you couldn’t.
Because Bucky was still watching you.
He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.
It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.
Something softer. Something heavier.
Something you weren’t ready for.
“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.
You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”
You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.
You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.
And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.
“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.
His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”
“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what do you mean?”
The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.
Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.
And God, you wanted to.
But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.
Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.
You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.
You were terrified.
Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.
This was Bucky.
And you couldn’t lose him.
So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.
You reached for him.
It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.
You just—needed to touch him.
Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.
Bucky stilled.
For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.
Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.
Your throat went tight.
Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”
You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.
Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.
You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.
Your eyes flickered around the cabin.
Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.
Something inside you snapped.
One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.
Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.
His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.
You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.
“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”
There was no bite to it. No real threat.
Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.
Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.
Didn’t tease.
Didn’t shove you off like he should have.
Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.
Like he wanted to.
His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.
His touch burned.
His warmth was everywhere.
You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.
For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.
Bucky swallowed.
His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.
It was enough.
Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.
And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—
You kissed him.
It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.
Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.
Bucky froze.
Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.
Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.
Didn’t kiss you back.
The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.
He wasn’t—
Oh, God.
The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.
You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Your voice broke.
Bucky was still silent.
And that was somehow worse.
It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.
You had kissed him.
You had kissed him and he hadn’t—
Your stomach plummeted.
“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”
You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—
But then—
God.
Then his hands tightened on your hips.
Hard.
Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.
Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.
His expression had changed.
The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.
In its place was something darker.
Something heated and unrelenting.
Something like want.
Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.
Then—
Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.
And then, finally, he spoke.
“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”
Your stomach flipped.
“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”
“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”
Oh.
Oh.
Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.
Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.
Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.
Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.
Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.
And kissed you.
You had been right.
Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.
He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.
You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.
You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.
A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.
Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.
You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.
Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.
“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.
The problem was—there wasn’t enough.
Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.
You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.
Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.
“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”
His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”
“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”
Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.
You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.
He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.
“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”
That did it.
Something snapped in him.
The hesitation vanished.
And then, suddenly, you were weightless.
Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.
Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.
You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.
His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.
“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”
You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.
There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.
But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.
The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.
“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.
Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.
You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.
“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.
His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.
“We have to be quick.”
You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.
“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.
Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”
Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”
A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.
“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”
His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.
“Bucky—”
“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.
“I do. I—”
The words faltered on your tongue.
Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.
This was everything.
You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”
His words were iron, unbreakable, true.
Something cracked inside you.
And then—there was no more hesitation.
His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.
“Jesus, doll—”
It wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t careful.
It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.
You felt full. Too full.
Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.
Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.
“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”
He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.
The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.
“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.
“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”
Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.
“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”
“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”
“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.
Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.
The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.
His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.
You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—
“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”
“No.”
It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.
His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.
“Baby.”
Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.
You froze.
Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.
But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?
Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.
And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.
You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.
“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”
His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—
“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.
Bucky froze.
The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.
His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.
You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.
“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.
“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.
“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.
“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”
“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.
“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”
His jaw clenched.
“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”
You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.
Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
And then he moved.
His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.
“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”
You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.
“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.
Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”
Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.
“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.
Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.
“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”
And that—
That was what finally broke him.
Bucky snapped.
A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.
And you took it.
You craved it.
Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.
“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.
Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.
“Bucky—”
“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”
You did.
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.
And that was it. That was everything.
Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.
His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.
For a moment, there was silence.
Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.
Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.
Neither of you spoke.
Neither of you moved.
You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.
You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.
You should let go.
You should move.
You should say something.
But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—
The words died on your lips.
Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.
Like you had just made him yours.
And you had.
Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.
His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.
It felt too big.
Too much.
But you couldn’t stop touching him.
Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.
A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.
When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.
“You meant it,” he murmured.
It wasn’t a question.
You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.
“Bucky—”
His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.
“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.
You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.
“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”
Your throat tightened.
You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.
His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.
“I’m not running,” you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.
And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.
Because what came next?
What happened after this?
There was you before Bucky Barnes.
There was you after Bucky Barnes.
And they weren’t the same.
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totally-here ¡ 10 months ago
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3 times Phantom's Guardian was Mentioned + 1 Time He Showed Up
One
Phantom’s introduction to Young Justice wasn’t as dramatic as Empress’ or Slobo’s, or even Arrowette’s first introduction to the cave. No, it wasn’t during the Olympics, or on a battlefield, and he didn’t come in injured and looking for help. 
Impulse just brought Phantom in one day and insisted that he should join because he’s their age, interested in justice, and now that Greta’s human again they need another ghost member. So Phantom stayed, popping in and out for missions but never really sticking around all that long. 
Today is one of the days that Phantom’s with them on a mission, that being looking around a lab of the Brain’s that had an energy surge recently, despite it being presumably abandoned. 
Kon got paired up with Phantom to check the rest out first, since they both have better hearing than Anita and Tim, who were both still in the main room working on checking the computers for previous activity. 
The room is dark except for the light green ball glowing slightly above Phantom’s hand. He waves it around enough for it to reflect off of glass, then throws it up to the ceiling. The light expands enough to illuminate the room. 
Phantom mumbles about not knowing he could do that. Kon ignores him and moves closer to inspect the glass tubes to the side of several monitors set up. 
“Looks like cloning equipment,” Phantom says, casually. He drags a finger through the dust gathering on one of the monitors. “Don’t think they’ve been activated recently, though, so that’s good.”
“What? You got a problem with clones or something?” It’s a quick and defensive answer, and Phantom puts his hands up in surrender. 
“Not in concept.” He shrugs and joins Kon near the tubes. “But not a lot of people ask before making clones.”
“So I don’t need to sic Superman on you?” Obviously Kon could chew Phantom out himself, but few can do a “not mad, just disappointed” face better than Clark. 
Phantom scrunches his face. “Why would you need to?” 
Kon stops pretending to inspect the tube and stares at Phantom. “You do know I’m a clone, right?” The blank look on Phantom’s face tells him that no, he did not. “Well I am. Clone of Superman, though we’re pretty much brothers now.”
“Cool,” Phantom says, not a bit less friendly. He hesitates for a second before continuing, “Could I maybe ask you how you got there? Me and my clone have landed on cousins, but that was also, like, given to us by her evil dad. So.”
Phantom trails off. Huh, that makes three members of the team that have been cloned. Not a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened three times. 
“You’re making sure she feels accepted, right?” 
“Yeah! Well, whenever she’s around. She,” Phantom waves his hand around, looking for the right word, “She’s a wanderer. Exploring the world and stuff. But Richard has a room for her at home, and I remind her of that whenever she does stop by.” 
“Well, first of all, don’t push it so hard,” Kon says. Phantom nods enthusiastically. “And second, who’s Richard?”
Kon doesn’t know a lot of Richards, and he doesn’t think that Phantom ever mentioned one before. Or even if he remembers his living life. 
“Oh, he’s my, uh, guardian? I guess that’s the best term. The guy I’m living with who forces me to go to school sometimes.” Phantom looks away and back to the tubes. 
Before Kon can ask for more details, Robin and Empress come in with a report of dead computers and wanting to know where they’re at with the cloning room.
They’re unimpressed with their lack of progress.
Two
Wally doesn’t really need to come by the Hamilton Lodge that often, not when that’s Young Justice’s territory and he doesn’t want to get involved in all of That.
But Red Tornado said that the team has a file on a planet that’s very quickly becoming a league problem, and he figured it might be a good time to try to check in with Bart, anyway. Make sure he hasn’t run any cars off cliffs again and all that. 
So he stops by Manchester to ask Bart about the file, then they both head East to actually find it. 
When they arrive at the hotel minutes later, Wally’s surprised to actually find it… clean? There’s no visible trash or overturned furniture or anything else he’d expect from an abandoned hotel filled with teenagers. Well, maybe not filled, lately. He doesn’t think anyone’s living here currently, with Greta at Elias’ for the school year and Slobo gone. 
Still, the room smells slightly of artificial pine scent, and Bart perks up before disappearing and reappearing rapidly, holding a teammate up by his armpits. Said teammate just accepts this, his legs folding into a wispy tail, and head rolling against his shoulders. 
“This is Phantom!” Bart holds him up higher. Phantom waves. Wally’s only heard of him through Max’s updates, the same way he would hear about Preston or Carol, but with more wariness about the supposed ghost. 
Actually looking at the pale face and glowing green eyes contrasting against the darker than dark jumpsuit, Wally’s a little more ready to accept his claim at being undead. 
“He stress cleans,” Bart explains, moving to carry Phantom under his arm. Wally bites down the urge to tell him to put him down, but only because Phantom doesn’t resist the hold, only moving to get into a more comfortable position. His hands are touching the floor. “So what happened?” 
Bart directs the question downwards, and Phantom heaves a very dramatic sigh. Definitely a teenager. It does raise the question of who exactly this kid’s mentor is. Hopefully he does have one. Maybe he’s the Spectre’s kid?
Phantom phases through the arm holding him only to lay on top of Bart’s hair. “I accidentally called Richard dad. And then fled.” 
Bart nods sagely. “Classic. One time I accidentally called Max dad, so I had to start a fire to distract him.”
Phantom sighs again, almost dreamily. “Genius.” 
Wally doesn’t have time to unpack all of that. Well he does, but he’s not going to, because there’s really only one Richard that comes to mind that might have the heart to take in a dead kid, even if he doesn’t go by his full name.
But surely Dick would have told him, or any other Titan, if he had adopted a kid. Right?
But there’s still a little shadow of doubt. Maybe Dick wanted it to be a secret, or it was really new or had a rocky start. Phantom doesn’t seem to hold himself like a Bat, but it’s not a guarantee Dick would have trained him. 
“The lodge looks nice,” Wally offers out loud, which Phantom shrugs at and wraps his tail around Bart’s head to keep secure. “Anyway, Impulse. The file on Myrg?” 
“Oh yeah!” Again, Bart disappears then reappears a few seconds later with a paper file. They really need to start digitizing more of these things. “That’s the planet where we played baseball so that they wouldn’t destroy Earth!” 
“You what.” 
The prospect of Dick following in his dad’s footsteps is forgotten in the face of what the hell Young Justice got up to on Myrg. 
Three
Tim may be in a…Predicament. 
It’s not his fault. Really. He knew what he was doing. He couldn’t let a civilian fall for the trap. But they were already so close, so he just, kinda, pushed himself into the rope instead. 
So there Robin is, tied upside down in a warehouse, with the Joker below next to an overly complicated control panel. The clown’s rambling about bombs hidden all over the city that Tim knows Batman is already tracking down with Batgirl. 
Tim’s not really paying attention to the rant because of that, more focused on wiggling enough to get the spare mini-birdarang out of his glove to cut the rope without notifying the Joker. 
“Yikes, bad time?” Asks Phantom’s voice beside him. Based on the source and accounting for the slight echo, he’s floating with his head near Tim’s, likely upside down. “Want some help?” 
Tim gets the birdarang out and starts sawing at the thick rope. They should be fine anyway, but stalling the Joker for extra time would be helpful. “Can you possess the Joker? Just hold him still.”
“The correct term is overshadow, but sure.” The voice disappears, and a few seconds later the Joker freezes. 
His body jerks forward, then backward, and a laugh chokes out of his throat. His hand claws over his mouth at the noise and he hunches over. All movement halts before he rights himself, shaking out his hands and rolling his shoulders. Phantom looks up at Tim and his eyes are glowing. 
Tim cuts through the rope, kicking and using the momentum to right himself and land on his feet. He brushes past Phantom in Joker’s body to handle the control panel. He turns off the radio broadcast and dismantles the bomb strapped to the panel.
Threat handled, he turns to Phantom and holds up some handcuffs. “Let me arrest you?”
Phantom obliges, turning the Joker’s body around and putting his hands behind his back. Tim lets him walk by himself out of the warehouse and moves the handcuffs around a lamppost. The Joker’s body jerks again, then slumps forward, just as Phantom reappears next to him, scowling down at the unconscious body. 
“That felt really slimy. Zero out of ten, would not do again,” Phantom grouches. 
“Why’re you in Gotham?” Tim asks. It’s not like Phantom makes a habit of visiting. The last time he came into the city, he complained about feeling the dead under the streets. Fortunately, that let Tim uncover a few tunnels that Talons travel through. Phantom, however, was unnerved by the Talons and left quickly. 
“Oh, Solomon Grundy’s back in our sewers. Richard said I should probably tell one of you Gotham heroes, since you keep track of those guys.” He shakes out his hands like they were cramped in the Joker. 
They hadn’t seen Grundy in a while. Tim assumed he was currently in a less violent personality. “What’s he doing?” 
Phantom shrugs. “Just chilling. Mostly underground. I tried to talk to him but he only grunted back at me. He also tried to pick me up, dunno what that was about.”
“Maybe because you’re both dead?” Tim guessed. That would be a surface level connection. Ivy and Woodrue have had more luck working with Grundy than anyone, and Phantom definitely doesn’t have the connection to the Green that’d help with that. 
Police lights turn around the corner, and Tim shoots a grapple to get to the roof above them. Phantom follows, but disappears as soon as they’re on the roof. Going back home, probably. 
Cass drops down from the roof she was listening on. “Richard?”
“Not the same one.”
They both stick around long enough to watch the Joker get put into the cop car. 
Plus one
A spaceship landed in the forests of New York, and Cassie’s team was the first to respond to it. Technically not respond, but check it out, since there wasn’t any alert or anything. 
Still, Wonder Girl has Empress, Robin, and Superboy on the other side of the ship, watching what looks like the back door, while she, Impulse, and Phantom watch the other door and main window. She has binoculars, but the windows are so tinted she can’t quite make anything out. 
No aliens have come out yet, and she hesitates to have anyone go in, in case whoever inside does turn hostile. 
Impulse has offered to run through a total of five times already, and it’s a testament to his restraint that he hasn’t, and a testament to Cassie’s that she hasn’t yelled at him yet. Phantom at least isn’t being annoying, but he’s not necessarily helpful, either. He’s not even watching the spaceship anymore. Now he’s trying to make a flower crown out of dandelions. 
“Door’s opening on our side,” Robin says from the comms. “But no one’s coming out.” 
“Alright, good enough to try to get in,” Cassie decides. She turns to Phantom, who’s closing off the circle of flowers. Beside him, Impulse has since pulled out a gameboy. “Phantom, go in invisibly through the open door and report back. Try to see what their plans are.” 
“Oh, sure. One second.” Phantom finishes the crown and tries to put it on Bart’s head. It doesn’t quite fit over his mane of hair, but Phantom shrugs and leaves it sitting there anyway before going invisible. 
“Maybe I should shave my head again,” Bart says as his game character dies. 
He gets a resounding no in response. 
Half an hour later they have a very annoyed Green Lantern lecturing them about league jurisdiction and knowing when to call someone else. 
Apparently, the alien ship was just stopping to complete some maintenance, and did not appreciate any spying on them, and especially did not appreciate who did it. Green Lantern was more than happy to explain that Wonder Girl’s team is not really a part of the Justice League and he can help with their maintenance. They denied his help and left to find a place with less people in it. 
“-and you!” Green Lantern rounds on Phantom next, but Cassie knows none of them are really listening. Sure, they messed up by freaking out the visiting aliens, and yeah maybe they should have contacted the league about it, but they’ve dealt with stuff worse than this! It’s not Cassie’s fault she thought that this would have stuck to the formula. 
“Who even are you?” Green Lantern runs a hand through his black hair, stupid green gauntlets shining in the sunlight. “Do I need to call your mentor?” He frowns. “Or do they know you mess up alien technology by just being around it?” 
Phantom scoffs and rolls his eyes. “How was I supposed to know their tech would go all fuzzy when I came in?” 
“You wouldn’t have to know if you just stayed out of the spaceship!” 
“Hey!” Cassie cuts in. “Technically that was my call. It’s not all on Phantom.”
“I still could've been more careful,” Phantom says to her, ignoring Green Lantern as they argue about blame. 
“Cut it out for a second, okay?” Green Lantern puts a hand between them and they stop to glare at him. He pulls the hand back. “Look, can I just talk to one of your adults about this?” 
Robin glares. “We don’t need an adult. We have this under control.”
“Only because I’m here now.” 
“I’ll call my mentor,” Phantom says. Kon opens his mouth, most likely to offer to call Superman instead in hopes of a lighter sentence, but Bart covers his mouth, smiling like he knows something Cassie doesn’t. Tim and Anita share a look, and don’t intervene as Phantom pulls out a phone from his chest. 
It rings once before it’s picked up. Cassie can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but Kon’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Hey, do you think you can pick me up? Green Lantern wants to talk to you.” Phantom looks Green Lantern up and down then says, “No, this one doesn’t have a cape.”
Phantom says goodbye after rattling off their coordinates, hangs up, and stares at Green Lantern in silence for a few seconds. 
And then a swirling mass of black seeps into the space next to Phantom. The end of a cane steps out of it, followed by a leg, then the rest of the immaculately dressed man holding the handle of the cane that’s shaped like a bird’s head. 
“Phantom,” The man says. His voice drips with condescension in only a way a british accent can, yet Phantom smiles up at him. The shadowy portal behind him disappears. “What, exactly, happened?”
“That’s the fucking Shade,” Anita hisses to Robin, who shrugs noncommittedly at her. Green Lantern seems to recognise him too, taking a step back and clenching his hand that holds his ring. 
“Well, the team and I were staking out this spaceship–super cool, by the way–and I went inside to check it out, but my presence messed with their tech–which was an accident–and they freaked out, so I freaked out, and then we kinda got into a little fight until Green Lantern came to mediate.”
“Hm. Is that right?” The Shade asks Green Lantern, who nods slowly, still anticipating an attack. “It seems like the problem’s fixed, then.”
“Well, yes, but–”
“And it does seem about time for these kids to get home, doesn't it?” The Shade pulls out an actual pocket watch, chain and all, from his suit pocket and takes his time in checking it. “I’ll see them home.” 
Shadows grow from behind the team, swirling until they become a giant, gaping maw that swallows them up and spits them out in a different forest, or maybe just a different part of the same forest. 
Either way, Cassie has to take a moment to make sure she doesn’t throw up from the sudden vertigo the shadow portal caused. 
The Shade looks at Phantom, and raises an eyebrow. “You can’t expect me to always bail you out.” 
Phantom shrugs, looking guilty. “I know. Thanks, Richard.”
Oh, so that’s who Richard is. Annoyingly, neither Tim or Bart look surprised by this revelation.
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wetpussyju1ce ¡ 6 months ago
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Alpha!KĂśnig x Omega!fem reader (smaller than KĂśnig)
original post
for @ohdrey89
+18. mdni.
könig and his tiny soon to be heat partner are a cute pair. since the day König shoved his whole knot inside her, his brain chemistry shifted and he's been stupid for her ever since. absolutely awe struck w her. he can't help it. now when she's all calm, asking him if he'd be willing to help her fix some fences to keep foxes away from her chickens, as if the day before his mind and whole being wasn't blinded with so much pleasure he felt reborn. she can't be asking him that so… so casual when he feels like he'd die if he stays away from her for too long.
he definitely knows he has some underlying issues if he's feeling this affected by them having sex for the first time. or maybe it's love. he'd like to think it is. because she's funny, smart, kind and pretty, and her pussy is the wettest, warmest and tightest he's ever been in. so yeah, she's definitely a catch. and she seems like she likes him to a degree, because even after their little excapade at the cottage, she still smiles at him and holds his arm or squeezes his thigh when they're all gathered up before dinner in his pack house.
his heart hammers in his chest and he feels his balls throb whenever she bats her pretty eyelashes at him or teases him. she asks him to help her with the most random things, things that require heavy lifting around her own little garden and cottage. and he does it. because why the fuck would he say no?
and she knows what she's doing too, sits on a bench with her chin resting on her palms as her elbows rest on her knees, watching the massive Alpha chop enough wood to last 3 winters, just because she asked. and he's sweating through his t-shirt, the fabric sticking to his freckled and scarred skin under. and she's just taking it all in. the bulging biceps, the big hands, the massive shoulders, his thighs that are as thick as trunks and the bulge between his legs, her absolute wet dream, live in the flesh.
when he's done, he's panting and his t-shirt is drenched, so he takes it off and she grins like the cat that got the cream. She offers him water off her cute pink pitcher, and he drinks like half of it. when he's done. she takes the water back inside the house, with him following her, his t-shirt in his hands. he stands in her small kitchen awkwardly, too big, too out of place for her soft and cozy home. that is until she tells him to leave the t-shirt on the floor, she'll wash it later. and he's about to disagree because he can wash it himself but then she's slowly lifting her tiny t-shirt over her chest, and he chokes on his spit.
His eyes immediately land on her small breasts and he can't breathe.
KĂśnig doesn't even realise he's already crossed the kitchen and now has her flat down on her dinner table, his mouth licking and sucking, taking his fill out of her chest. And he's moaning, big warm rough hands holding her still as she laughs and moans on the table.
He frantically unbuttons her shorts and pulls the zipper down, before he can pull down her shorts and underwear in one go he remembers his manners and looks up, “Can– Can I eat you out? Please?”
“Yes,” She grins and he doesn't waste another second, pulling her clothes down in one go. he gets his head between her legs, buries it as far he can go, his nose nudging her clit as he licks broad stripes over her wet lips, then shoved his tongue in.
One thing the Omega learned about KĂśnig is that when he wants something, he does it fully, wholeheartedly, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If he wants to eat her pussy, he will, with everything he's got.
The Omega quickly startes to trash under his filthy mouth, she grips his hair and pulls, her legs shaking as he messily drinks her slick between her legs. The noises he makes are loud and wet. She gets momentarily worries he may drown down there, considering she leaks a lot, like so much, especially when he's involved. But all KĂśnig does is feast on her sweet cunt, drinking out of her as if she was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and she may as well be considering his dick is about to rip through his jeans, his knot tingling and ready to swell.
Her mind is foggy, her eyes are rolling at the back of her head as he eats her out and thumbs at her nipples with one hand at the same time, he's not giving her time or space to breathe. With every exhale she moans, and when he ears finally stop ringing she realises he's been speaking to her. Or at least saying something and she makes a small confused sound, looks down her body and tries to listen over the sound of him loudly and sloppily drinking everything she has to offer, and finally picks up something. KĂśnig is another planet, his brain shut down and all he can repeat over and over again are praises for her, and her pussy; "You taste so good, so good-- So sweet and warm and tight-- Please come on my face, please I want it--"
That's it. That's all it took for her to squirt all over his face, shouting in her small cottage, writhing on her dinner table that she definitely needs to clean later. KĂśnig is over the moon, unashamedly moaning with his head between her legs, he doesn't give a shit about breathing when she's covering his whole face with her slick, marking him up. He doesn't even realise he's also coming in his trousers, ruining his boxers with a horrifying amount of cum, but he'll deal with that later, after he gets his fill.
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wonderjanga ¡ 9 months ago
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Billy’s Homelessness
Being a homeless kid has its perks, Billy supposes. He’s picked up tips and tricks from other kids and even adults during his time. It’s practically second nature to him at this point. Only thing is, the fact that it’s second nature in the first place is what can come back to bite him in the future.
Like lock picking. He’s good at it, and it’s not something he’s particularly proud of, but it’s helped him when he’s needed it most. He’s gotten shelter from blizzards, sleet, and rain with this skill. That’s why when Billy, Flash, GL, and Supes got locked in an all yellow room with red sun lamps and a locked door.
Supes, GL, and Flash: *all discussing how to get out* Marvel: *leans down in front of the keyhole of the door*
Supes: “Alright Flash, vibrate through the door-”
Marvel: “Done!” *opens door*
*silence*
GL: “How’d you do that?”
Marvel: “I picked the lock.” *walks out and immediately gets shot in the face by one of the guards*
Then there’s pickpocketing. He’s also unfortunately good at this. Freddy says he’s better though. Billy isn’t about to make a contest out of it. Batman found out about this particular talent when both him and Billy went undercover for a mission to uncover the scheme of some foreign politician.
Batman: *as Bruce Wayne* “That’s the man.” *subtly gestures to him*
Marvel: “Him? Okay… What do you wanna do?”
Batman: “First, we need to properly identify-”
Marvel: “Oh, okay.” *walks over to the man, passes him, then comes back to Bruce* “Here.” *places the man’s wallet in Bruce’s hand*
Batman: “…that he was involved in the crimes.”
Marvel: “Oh.”
*silence*
Batman: *opens the wallet anyways and starts looking through it*
Marvel: “Do you want me to put it back?”
Batman: *puts one finger up to Marvel’s face while he continues looking through the wallet*
Marvel: *deflates slightly* “Oh, okay.”
Batman: *pulls out a clue from the wallet* “Put this back, chum.”
Marvel: *scurries off to put the wallet back*
Bruce then heavily lamented how Marvel knew how to pickpocket so well. Cause the thing is, Marvel’s like six feet tall. (Had to make him a little shorter guys. My bad.) A man like that had no business doing that so well in a bright red sweater and yellow hat.
Then, there’s the avoiding cops. He rarely sticks around for them. He does not mess with them. He’s had too many bad experiences as Billy for it to translate well to Marvel. Whenever one tries to talk to him, he’ll say the bare minimum as politely as he can and fly off. Sometimes, if he knows it’s a cop who’s harsher on the homeless than most, he’ll act polite(passive aggressive) and then give them a nice, firm(crushing) handshake. One such incident was when a cop asked for a photo:
Cop A and Marvel: *posing for a photo by shaking hands*
Marvel: *smiling at the camera, his grip tightening on the hand*
Cop A: *awkward laugh* “That’s a tight grip you got there, Captain.”
Marvel: *lightens his grip, looking down to Cop A’s name tag: Richard* (This isn’t Nightwing guys) “My bad, dick.”
Cop A: “Excuse me?”
Marvel: “Oh no no no, not like “dick,” Dick.” *grip tightens again* “Not like some spineless, lowlife piece of shit from the bottom of my boot that gets scraped off onto a bigger pile of shit, kind of dick.” *smiles the whole time as he speaks* “No, like your name, officer, Dick.”
Cop A: “I prefer Richard.”
Cop B: *takes photo*
Also, anybody who gets that reference gets a kiss. Man or woman. It doesn’t matter. I don’t make the rules. By the way, someone definitely recorded that entire interaction and #passiveaggressivecap ended up trending on twitter.
Then, there’s the time Supes came over to Fawcett to hang out. They were chilling on a rooftop talking when down below they both saw a teenager steal food from a seller.
Supes: *doesn’t see Marvel move* “Aren’t you gonna stop that kid?”
Marvel: “Uh… no. He’s homeless. He clearly needs it more than we do.”
Supes: *blinks rapidly but then remembers he’s not in Metropolis and can’t really tell Marvel how to run his city* “Okay then.”
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ddrunkdazed ¡ 2 months ago
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cherry-flavoured (y.jw)
GENRE. smut. fluff. slight angst.
PAIRINGS. yang jungwon x reader
WORD COUNT. 1,9k.
SYNOPSIS. you lose your virginity to jungwon, your academic rival turned crush.
WARNINGS. allusions to drug use, boob sucking, brief mention of oral sex (f receiving), loss of virginity (with protection).
NOTE. finally this left the drafts. made for my beloved @treasxreblue, hope you enjoy! here's a short playlist if you're into that.
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Things were a lot easier when you “hated” each other. 
Truth be told, hatred was never part of the equation – just a nonsensical and short-lived rivalry that died as soon as you realized that joining forces was a lot more helpful to you both than trying to live those enemies-to-lovers, academic rivals tropes you so loved to read.
But now, as you flip through every app on your phone as the clock goes forward, you wish you had never gotten involved with him. It’s a petty sentiment, the brat in you coming out whenever he keeps you waiting. Once again, Jungwon was supposed to meet you (almost two hours ago this time around), yet there’s no sign of him anywhere. No text, no call, nothing.
As you consider getting up to leave, your brain supplies you with the memory of last time: his phone’s battery had died, which is why he couldn’t text you to let you know he would be late. Then, he proceeded to spend the rest of the week apologizing in various forms, even though you had mentally forgiven him as soon as you saw his face. But since that wasn’t fun, you figured you’d make him a little miserable for a while. 
And so, you figure that waiting for a bit longer while soaking up the sun isn’t that big of a deal. What was proving to be a challenge was avoiding your train of thought from diverting to those forbidden ways. Luckily, the familiar cadence of Jungwon’s voice snaps you out of your cyclical line of thinking.
“I am so fucking sorry,” he says.
You look up at him expressionless, as you gauge his features, taking note of his extremely red eyes and sluggish disposition as he struggles to sit down next to you on the sidewalk in front of his house.
“Are you high again?”
Jungwon takes his sweet time, perhaps trying to come up with an excuse, but the goofy grin that takes over his face quickly gives him away. “I was. I mean… maybe I still am, a little bit?”
“I’ve been here for almost two hours, you know?” You say quietly.
The cherry lollipop you’d been playing with to distract yourself with something other than your phone feels like the only thing tying you to reality. You’ve been playing with it, a nervous reflex, so you put it back in your mouth and look away to avoid saying something else. Something mean, or maybe something that will give you away.
Jungwon says nothing, but you can feel him staring at you. The silence that settles between you is heavy and oppressive, and you pretend not to notice when his beautiful eyes settle on your lips – but his gaze is so penetrating that you can’t help but stare back at him. Your hand hovers over the plastic stick, and Jungwon beats you to it. Softly, he coaxes the lollipop out of your mouth and puts it in his, proceeding to suck it slowly as he holds your gaze.
Such a deliberate move… seemingly insignificant for Jungwon but so earth-shattering for you. Heat rushes to your face, and you want to use that burst of energy to rip the lollipop out of his mouth, make a big deal of him being late, yell at him for doing drugs, for ruining his life (and possibly yours), but his little action has rendered you speechless. He’s sucking the lollipop you had in your mouth a minute ago… isn’t that like an indirect kiss?
Time slows down as he claims the piece of candy as his. Your eyes are trained on him the whole time, and you follow the lollipop’s trajectory as it exits his mouth. He gently pats your lips with it, pushing the cherry-flavored candy between your lips, prompting you to open your mouth and take it in. It’s all so intimate and nearly obscene, and you can’t help but make a little noise that snaps Jungwon out of his little reverie.
Jungwon rasps your name, and you reach for the lollipop with a shaky hand.
He tugs at his hair. “Do you still want to come in?”
“Huh?” You retort dumbly until you notice that he’s gesturing towards his house. That’s when you force yourself to focus on something other than the candy in your mouth. “Oh, sure.” 
The burning sensation that has settled between your legs is a lot more noticeable now that you’re standing up, but at least you’re no longer looking at Jungwon while you drench the fabric of your underwear. The lollipop hangs idly from your hand, half-eaten.
You’ve been inside his home countless times before, and yet, you feel terribly out of place. Uncomfortable, like you’re once again the new girl arriving on the first day of school, not knowing what to do with yourself. 
At some point, he speaks again, but you can’t make out the words, your head still replaying what happened just a few minutes ago, right outside this apartment, hand heavy with the spit-slick candy. Jungwon walks over to you and gets dangerously close to your face, whether to annoy you or to appease you, you don’t know. At least you didn’t, until you caught the taunting glint in his deep brown eyes when he notices that you’ve held your breath. 
Your entire body burns, from embarrassment, from longing, from desire. You are so, so angry at him – and emboldened, you caress the back of his head and then tug on his hair, hard. His eyes widen, and now you bask in the glory of having caught him off guard, at least this once. 
“I’m so sorry,” he says, slightly fearful of what you might do. 
“I don’t believe you.” You tug harder on his hair. 
“Let me prove it to you,” he pleads, finally moving to untangle your hand from his hair. 
You hate that whenever Jungwon does something like this, all it takes to disarm you is a single look from those pretty brown eyes, and you fall right into his trap, like a fool. And a fool you are, in bold, capital, scarlet letters. 
One second you’re menacingly tugging on his hair and the next, he has you against the wall, the entire length of his body pressed to yours. 
The burn between your legs deepens when he presses his knee to your core, forcing you to spread your legs for him in a swift motion, Jungwon’s cherry-flavored lips so close to your (also) cherry-flavored ones.
“You have no idea how crazy you make me,” his sweet, warm breath hits your face when he speaks. You’re so overwhelmed with emotion and want that you could start trembling under him, yet you stand there, unmoving, wide-eyed, lips parted and eyes glittering in anticipation. 
“Ever since we became actual friends, I’ve wanted to have you this close to me…”
If he’s expecting a response, he doesn’t wait for it. Instead, he crashes his lips against yours and despite the force, his lips are soft, searching. The way he kisses is exploratory, like he’s trying to map your lips with his, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth, pressing yourself further into his knee.
“I want you too, Jungwon – so bad.” you manage to gasp, in between kisses. The neediness in your tone would’ve had you wanting the floor to crack open and swallow you whole under other circumstances. Now, you feel like a starving woman who just had her first meal in weeks, and you can’t get enough of it. Of him.
Jungwon smiles against your lips when he dives in for another kiss. This time, you feel his tongue tentatively swiping your lower lip. The switch to open-mouthed kissing has given way to a myriad of new sensations and thoughts, and in the back of your mind you wonder if his tongue feels as good as it tastes. 
Like a mind reader, Jungwon starts kissing all over your face, your neck, hands groping your ass and forcing you to grind harder on his knee. His brown eyes are darker with desire when he asks, “May I?” Before lowering your top after you enthusiastically nod your consent.
And indeed, his tongue is sweet in everything it does. He leaves open-mouthed kisses all over your chest, softly nipping at your boobs before he hastily lowers your bra and takes one of your nipples in his mouth. You could cum, just from his mouth on your tits and his knee deliciously rubbing against your cunt, but you don’t want to. Not yet. So you push him back.
“Jungwon…” 
He looks up at you, reverently, mouth swollen and shiny. For a brief second, he’s a lost puppy, waiting for his next command. 
“I… I haven’t done this before.”
Immediately, he straightens up, still holding you close but this time a bit more carefully, like you’re a fragile flower he must take care of. 
“Do you… Do you want to do it?” Jungwon shakily asks, his big brown eyes scanning your features for every single ounce of information he can compile.
“I do. Please.” You say, honestly. However, the confession makes you feel a bit bashful, which results in biting your lip and looking away from him, your cheeks hot.
“Are you sure?” 
His voice is soft, just like his eyes. You feel yourself melting into him, his concern somehow being what seals the deal for you. It’s been him for a while now. Of course, it needs to be him now. The first one. You want him to be. You need him to be. 
“I’m sure. Please.” You repeat, looking directly into those beautiful eyes you love so much.
Jungwon nods, taking your hand and guiding you to the bedroom. The initial passion that brought you together is replaced with an intense devotion, every single one of his moves venerating. He undresses you slowly, pressing soft kisses to every inch of the skin that shows once the fabric is off. His touches, rough at first, have turned into careful caresses, as if he’s mapping you.
Soon enough, it becomes clear to you that this moment has become all about you, his pleasure momentarily ignored. Nonetheless, by the noises Jungwon makes as he kisses and licks every inch of your skin, you can safely assume he’s also enjoying himself.
“You’re so beautiful,” Jungwon murmurs, after pressing a kiss to your thigh. “I love seeing you like this,” after he’s collected your wetness with his tongue. He gives you no time to feel shy about the fact that he’s hungrily lapping up the result of your desire for him. When the orgasm rolls through you, he inserts one, then two digits to prepare you for the actual thing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He inquires, as he lines up (prepared) against your entrance. Once again, you give your consent. This time in spoken form, a shaky exhalation of, “Yes, please.” And he’s entering you, slowly, allowing you to feel every inch of him inside you. 
It’s a tight fit, but he patiently waits until you grow accustomed to it before he starts moving. Even when you plead for more, he’s never rough with you. And when you’re on the edge again, he presses his forehead to yours, his eyes looking straight into yours before he captures your lips in a soft kiss, the taste of cherry still faintly there when he lets himself go. 
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goldfades ¡ 5 months ago
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ICE QUEEN & HER HOCKEY PLAYER──CROSBY⁸⁷
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for this request!
─ summary | long awaited: crosby x figure skater where they both meet early in their careers and are not impressed by each other, so kinda enemies, they end up at the 2010 olympics and they still dont like each other but they both carry great pressure and basically just them falling in love over the years and of course the media would be highly involved in two generational talents
─ pairing | sidney crosby x fem!reader
─ word count | 19k
─ warnings | slooooow burn, angsty but gets very fluffy toward the end, lmk if yall want a part 2!!
─ ev's notes | thank you my babies cassie & amber for beta reading, yall are the best!!!!!! go give them some love<3 @v6quewrlds @sc0tters
ok love u bye!!! pls send me requests!!!!!!
⇨ missing out on updates? check out my masterlist!
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You first saw him across the rink, his focus sharp as he moved effortlessly through drills, like he was born on ice. It wasn’t admiration that struck you, though—more like irritation. Sidney Crosby. The “next one,” they called him. All this talent, all this praise, and yet here he was, gliding around like he had something to prove.
Not that you cared.
You had your own path, your own climb. Figure skating was different, but the pressure was just as suffocating. Every jump, every spin felt like the world was watching, expecting perfection. So why did it bother you, seeing him here, looking so... untouchable?
Your coach nudged you, urging you to focus, but you couldn’t help the flicker of competition that lit in your chest. He was just another athlete. Another story. And you, well, you were writing your own.
But something in the way his eyes met yours—cool, unreadable—told you that this wasn’t the last time you’d cross paths with Sidney Crosby.
You try to brush it off, turn your focus back to the ice beneath your feet, but that small moment lingers. His presence sticks with you, even as you push through your routine, every movement precise, practiced. It’s all muscle memory at this point, but somehow, your mind keeps drifting back to him. The way he didn’t seem phased by anything, not even you.
You lace your skates with a quiet determination, the cold air of the rink biting at your skin even though you’ve grown used to it. Every day, same routine. You’ve always found a strange comfort in that—the familiar rhythm of blade on ice, the tension before takeoff, the brief moment when you’re airborne, weightless, before gravity pulls you back. It’s your world, your escape. Everything else fades away here.
Except today, something lingers. Or rather, someone.
Sidney Crosby.
The name alone carries an echo in every corner of the sports world, like he’s already a legend and not just some kid skating circles with his team. You’re not immune to the whispers that float around the rink whenever he’s nearby—the excited murmurs from your teammates, the starry-eyed awe in the younger skaters who dream of meeting him, as if proximity to greatness might somehow rub off on them.
But that’s not you.
You’ve worked too hard to be impressed by anyone anymore. You’ve scraped your way to this point, each pirouette and double axel carved out of relentless practice, not natural-born talent. Sure, you’ve got skill, but it was earned—honed through hours of falling and getting back up again. Nobody handed you anything.
And him?
You glance toward the far end of the rink where he’s going through drills with the same cool precision you’d expect from someone nicknamed “The Next One.” It’s not that you don’t respect his ability—no, that’s not it at all. The guy moves like he was built for this. But there’s something infuriating about the way he carries himself, as if being good—no, great—comes so effortlessly to him, like it’s just a given.
You bend down, adjusting the tightness on your skates. You're focusing on the details, making sure everything is just right, because that’s what you do. That’s who you are. Everything has to be perfect, controlled. Sidney Crosby, meanwhile, looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, and for some reason, that grates at you.
Your coach claps his hands, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you move into your routine. Instinct takes over as you push off from the boards and glide onto the ice, the familiar sting of cold rushing against your cheeks. Your legs pump rhythmically, each motion deliberate and precise. You lose yourself in the movement—the stretch of your arms, the swing of your leg as you enter a jump. For a moment, it’s just you and the ice, the world falling away in the face of the one thing that still makes sense.
But not for long.
Because when you land, your gaze drifts again—over to where Crosby’s skating, his sharp turns cutting into the ice with a sound that digs under your skin. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. It’s infuriating.
You’re coming down from a series of spins when you hear a voice—your teammate. “You’re really in the zone today,” she says, breathless and smiling as she skates up beside you.
“Yeah, trying to be,” you reply, breathing heavily, trying to focus on anything but him.
Your teammate leans in a little, lowering her voice like she’s about to share some big secret. “Did you hear the news? Crosby’s making waves already. Some scouts are saying he’s the real deal—like, generational talent.”
You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. “Aren’t they all?”
She grins, nudging you playfully. “Come on, don’t pretend like you’re not a little curious. Everyone’s talking about him.”
“That’s the problem,” you mutter under your breath.
Your teammate skates off, oblivious, leaving you standing there with the weight of that name hanging over your head. Sidney Crosby. It’s like the universe just wants to shove him in your face.
Fine, you think. Let him have his spotlight. Let him be the guy everyone’s fawning over. But you? You’re not here for that. You’ve got your own goals, your own pressures, and the last thing you need is to get wrapped up in some star athlete’s orbit.
You push off again, forcing yourself back into your routine, ignoring the nagging itch that comes with every glance toward his side of the ice. But it’s impossible to drown out completely. You can feel his presence like a shadow, always there, always in the corner of your eye.
When you finally step off the ice, muscles aching in that satisfying way that comes after a hard session, you tell yourself you’re done with him. Done with thinking about the golden boy who’s probably coasting on talent alone.
Yet, as you untie your skates, his image still clings to the edges of your mind—the sharpness in his movements, the quiet intensity in his face, the way he seemed so utterly... unbothered. Like nothing, not even you, could break his focus.
In the locker room, the conversation drifts back to him, as it always seems to. The chatter is almost relentless—"Did you see how fast Crosby is? The way he handles the puck?"—and it takes everything in you not to roll your eyes again. You try to tune it out, focusing instead on the methodical task of packing your gear.
But as you sling your bag over your shoulder and head for the exit, the door swings open. And of course, there he is. Crosby, walking in with that same laser focus, gear in hand, barely acknowledging anyone around him.
He doesn’t look at you. Not even a flicker of recognition as he passes by. It’s almost laughable, how oblivious he is. You half expect him to at least give you a nod or a half-smile, something—anything—to show he knows you exist.
But no. Nothing.
You let out a huff, brushing past him as you walk out. There’s no reason for this to bother you, really. You don’t need his approval, and you definitely don’t need him to notice you.
Still, as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be the last time you cross paths with Sidney Crosby.
Not by a long shot.
───
“Again!” Your coach’s voice cuts through the air like a whip, sharp and biting, echoing across the empty rink. You’ve been at this for hours, it feels like—your muscles are screaming, every part of your body aching, but none of that matters. Not to him.
You swallow the frustration that bubbles in your throat, biting back the urge to snap. Instead, you skate back to the center of the ice, forcing your legs to cooperate, the burn in your calves a constant reminder of how long you’ve been doing this. It’s not good enough, though. Not for him. And, if you’re honest with yourself, not for you either.
You’re trying to perfect your triple Lutz, but every time you attempt the jump, something feels off—your rotation, your timing, maybe even your mindset. Your blade scrapes the ice as you reset, steadying your breath, forcing yourself to focus.
“Go again!” he shouts, his voice almost hoarse now, and you push off, gathering speed. The rink blurs around you as you build up momentum, arms tight, posture straight, the way you’ve been drilled to do since you were a kid. You hit the jump—lift off—but somewhere in the second rotation, it happens again. You come down wrong, your ankle buckling as you land too heavily on your right skate.
Your coach swears under his breath. “What was that? You’re rushing! Slow down, get your rotation tighter—again!”
You don’t say anything. You just grit your teeth and skate back into position. It’s not like you’re unfamiliar with this kind of pressure—no, this is your life. Perfection or nothing. You’ve heard the speeches, felt the disappointment every time you come up short. You know it’s about pushing yourself past your limits.
But right now, with every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, you’re beginning to wonder if there’s anything left to push through.
“Let’s go, again!”
You roll your eyes but quickly hide it. He’s watching, waiting for you to slip, and he’ll never let you hear the end of it if you show any sign of weakness. So, you breathe in deeply, shake out your arms, and steel yourself. Just one more. One more and you’ll nail it.
You skate hard, the familiar whoosh of ice beneath your blades almost comforting, like the calm before the storm. As you go into the jump, everything seems to click—your body feels lighter, your rotation sharper, and you think, for a second, that you’ve got it.
Then the ice meets you like a slap to the face. Your blade catches, and you fall, hard, knees scraping the cold surface as the impact sends a sharp shock through your legs. You feel the familiar sting of embarrassment heating your cheeks before the pain even registers.
“Are you kidding me?” Your coach’s voice booms across the ice, frustration crackling in every word. “You’re better than this! Do it again, and this time, stop messing around!”
Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you haul yourself up, limbs heavy and protesting. You can feel the sharp eyes of your coach drilling into you, his disappointment palpable even from a distance. And as you push yourself upright, swallowing down the lump of frustration lodged in your throat, something shifts at the edge of your vision.
Sidney Crosby.
Of course.
He’s on the ice now, on the other side of the rink, going through his own drills with an almost inhuman precision. His strides are powerful, fluid, each movement perfectly controlled. He makes it look easy. Like he always does.
You hate that it bothers you, but it does. Watching him now, so effortlessly skating through his practice, it only sharpens the contrast between his ease and your exhaustion. It’s like the universe has decided to throw him in your face every chance it gets.
You force your gaze away, back to the task at hand. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than whatever golden-boy magic Crosby is working over there. Your coach is waiting for you to try again, arms crossed, his face a storm of impatience.
“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to land this?” he snaps.
You nod, swallowing down the irritation that’s rising in your chest. He’s right. You can’t let this beat you. You won’t.
You take a deep breath, center yourself, and push off, the sound of your blades cutting through the ice grounding you. This time, you focus harder, your mind narrowing in on each detail of the jump. Speed, lift, rotation, land. One step at a time. You block out everything—your coach, the ache in your legs, and definitely Sidney Crosby.
You launch yourself into the air, feeling the smooth power of the jump. For a moment, you’re weightless, and it feels right—until, once again, you come down a hair too early, your blade skidding out from under you. You stumble but don’t fall this time, catching yourself just in time.
“Better,” your coach mutters. “But not good enough.”
You barely hear him, though, because when you glance up, you catch Crosby watching you out of the corner of his eye. It’s subtle, just a flicker of attention, but it’s there. His face is unreadable, but you don’t need to see his expression to know what he’s thinking.
She’s struggling.
And for some reason, that thought sets your nerves on fire.
I’m not gonna let Crosby win.
The thought flares in your mind, sudden and irrational, but you grab onto it like a lifeline. It’s ridiculous—you know that. He’s not even competing with you. Hell, he probably doesn’t even care about you right now, but it’s too late. The idea’s already wormed its way in, digging deep into that part of your brain that refuses to back down from a challenge. Even if it’s one you made up.
You grit your teeth, fists tightening as you push off for another go. The anger fuels you, hot and biting, spreading through your limbs like wildfire. Suddenly, the exhaustion that’s been weighing you down all practice disappears, replaced by a sharp, laser-focused determination.
This time, when you skate, it’s different. Every movement is smoother, sharper. The ice feels like it’s bending to your will instead of working against you. As you approach the jump, you don’t hesitate. There’s no second-guessing, no nagging voice in the back of your mind telling you what could go wrong.
You launch yourself into the air, and everything falls into place. The height, the speed, the rotation—it’s all perfect. You land with a crisp, sharp sound, your blades slicing through the ice as if they were always meant to. No stumble, no misstep. Just perfection.
The rink is silent.
You glance over at your coach, and he’s standing there, mouth slightly open, completely stunned. His arms drop to his sides, the frustration and irritation from earlier replaced with disbelief. For a split second, even he can’t believe what just happened.
“That…” he starts, still catching up to what he’s seen. “That was perfect.”
You feel the rush of satisfaction, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips, but before you can fully relish the moment, your gaze slides across the ice—right back to Sidney Crosby.
And there it is.
A smirk.
Small, barely noticeable, but unmistakably there, tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watches you. It’s infuriating. The heat of your anger that had just started to cool flares up again, boiling over. You know it’s ridiculous. You know you shouldn’t care. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he knew exactly what just happened, like he’s somehow responsible for flipping that switch in you.
It’s smug. Too smug.
You feel your fingers curl into fists at your sides, the triumph of your flawless landing fading as quickly as it came. It’s not enough. Not when he thinks he had something to do with it. The thought of him thinking that he was the reason you nailed that jump makes you grit your teeth all over again.
Your coach calls out, voice still tinged with amazement. “Take a break—you earned it. That was the best I’ve seen all season.”
You nod, skating off toward the edge of the rink, but your eyes never leave Crosby’s. He’s back to his drills now, that infuriating little smirk gone, replaced by that same focused intensity he always has. Like you don’t even exist. Like he’s already moved on.
But you haven’t.
I’m not gonna let Crosby win. You repeat the mantra to yourself, feeling that fire spark inside you once more.
This is only the beginning.
───
“I’m telling you, he’s got it out for me,” you say, waving your glass in the air as you slump back in your seat. “It's like, every time I look up, there he is, judging me with those stupid, intense eyes. Like he’s some kind of skating god who knows better than the rest of us.”
Your teammates snicker around the table, but you can tell they’re more amused by your dramatics than actually concerned. Abby, sitting across from you, rolls her eyes, sipping her drink with an amused smirk.
“Uh-huh, sure,” she says. “Because Sidney Crosby is totally obsessed with you, out of all people. That’s what he does with his free time.”
“I’m serious!” You huff, propping your elbows on the table. “Every time I mess up, he’s there. Just... lurking in the background. Like some smug, perfectly-groomed shadow, judging me. I swear he enjoys it.”
Tasha, who’s been quietly sipping her beer next to you, finally chimes in. “Are you sure he’s not just, you know, existing and you’re projecting all your frustrations onto him?”
You glare at her, but she only grins, nudging your arm. “I’m just saying, maybe he’s just trying to live his life and it’s not all about you.”
“I don’t project,” you grumble. “I’m very rational. This is just... observation.”
Abby nearly spits out her drink, laughing. “You’re so full of it. Admit it, you just don’t like that he’s good at literally everything. It messes with your perfectionist brain.”
“You’d hate him less if you stopped watching him all the time,” Tasha adds, teasing.
You groan, dropping your head onto the table with a thud. “I don’t watch him. He’s just always there. Like a bad omen with a hockey stick.”
“Yeah, well,” Abby shrugs, “I’d be there too if I were as good as him. Honestly, if you weren’t so busy hating him, you’d probably respect him a little. Maybe you two would even be—”
“Don’t.” You cut her off, lifting your head with a glare. “Don’t even suggest we could be friends. Or worse—something else. That’s the last thing I need right now.”
Tasha grins mischievously. “Well, considering how much you’re talking about him, it sounds like he might be the only thing you need right now.”
You swat at her playfully, but before you can respond, the loud crash of a door opening interrupts your rant. The energy in the bar shifts immediately as a group of loud, rowdy voices enters the room. You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is. You can feel it—the sudden frat-boy energy that seems to follow them wherever they go.
“Speak of the devil,” Abby mutters under her breath, clearly amused.
Sure enough, you glance toward the entrance, and there they are. Sidney Crosby and his teammates, rolling into the bar like they own the place. They’re loud, obnoxious, the exact opposite of what you wanted for this low-key evening. You watch as they laugh, shove each other, and call out to the bartender as if they’ve been best friends for years.
Sidney, of course, is in the center of it all—looking as effortlessly cool as ever in a black jacket and backward baseball cap. His laugh booms across the bar, and you can’t help but roll your eyes.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “Why are they always like this? Who gave them permission to act like frat boys in public?”
“Relax,” Abby says, still laughing at your expense. “It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong.”
“They’re just breathing, and it’s bothering you,” Tasha adds with a smirk.
“I can’t help it!” You say, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “They walk in here like they own the place. No one’s even looking at them, and somehow they just... demand attention.”
As if on cue, Sidney’s voice rises above the noise, calling out to one of his teammates with a laugh that carries through the entire bar. His presence is magnetic, drawing attention even when he’s not trying, and you hate how aware of him you are.
“I’m telling you,” you say, turning back to your friends. “This is a sign. The universe is trying to ruin my peace.”
“You’re such a drama queen,” Abby teases. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you and Sidney Crosby. Just let it go.”
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” you declare, crossing your arms stubbornly. “He’s not worth my energy.”
But as soon as the words leave your mouth, you feel a pair of eyes land on you. You glance up—and of course, it’s him. Sidney freaking Crosby. He’s looking right at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, almost as if he knows exactly what you were just complaining about.
Your stomach flips, and suddenly, the heat rushes to your face. Great, just what you needed. You quickly look away, trying to pretend like you hadn’t been caught mid-rant about him for the umpteenth time.
Abby leans in, her voice low and teasing. “So... what’s that about not caring?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your drink and downing the rest in one go.
Tasha bursts out laughing. “You’re so done for.”
“Am not,” you grumble, avoiding Sidney’s gaze. But you can still feel his eyes on you, that stupid smirk lingering in your mind, and you can’t shake the thought that, maybe, just maybe, he does enjoy messing with you.
Or worse—maybe you enjoy it too.
Later, you found yourself alone. You lean against the bar, the cool wood pressing into your forearms as you wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar hums around you—laughter, clinking glasses, some bad country song playing in the background. But for the first time since Sidney Crosby and his squad of obnoxious teammates showed up, you’ve managed to relax a little. Maybe it’s the alcohol kicking in or maybe it’s because you’ve successfully avoided looking in his direction for the past half hour. Either way, you feel lighter.
You tap your fingers against the counter impatiently, scanning the crowd for the bartender, trying not to let your mind wander back to Sidney. You promised yourself you weren’t going to let him ruin your night, and you’re doing a decent job of it so far. No reason to let him take up more space in your head than he already does.
"Hey, can I get another drink over here?" you call out to the bartender, who finally catches your eye and nods.
Just as you start to relax, though, you feel it—that presence. It’s like your body knows he’s there before you even see him, a tingle that runs up your spine, making your muscles tense involuntarily.
You don’t even have to turn around to know who it is.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Sidney’s voice is smooth, low, and far too casual, like he’s not already driving you insane.
You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes before you even face him. Great. Of course, he’d pick now to show up. When you’re alone. Just your luck.
Sidney leans against the bar beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but not so close that it feels like he’s crowding you. He’s got this irritatingly effortless way of taking up space without trying. It’s like the universe bends around him, making sure everyone notices when he’s around.
“What do you want?” you ask, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice as you finally turn to face him. You don’t have the patience for his smug attitude tonight.
He’s leaning casually with one elbow on the bar, looking at you with that infuriating half-smirk, like he finds the whole situation amusing. His backward cap is still in place, strands of hair peeking out messily, and his eyes glint with something that feels way too much like a challenge.
“What makes you think I want something?” he asks, his voice almost teasing.
You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Because you don’t come over here for no reason.”
Sidney chuckles softly, and the sound grates on your nerves. “Maybe I just wanted to say hi. You know, be friendly.”
“Since when are we friendly?” you shoot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Pretty sure we’ve never been that.”
He shrugs, still smiling, as if your hostility only makes this more fun for him. “There’s a first time for everything.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to gauge his angle. It’s impossible to tell if he’s genuinely trying to make conversation or if he’s just here to mess with you. Either way, you’re not having it.
“Look, Crosby,” you say, your voice sharp, “if you’re here to annoy me, you’re wasting your time. I’m not in the mood.”
His smirk widens, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip in a way you don’t like. “Who said anything about annoying you?”
You let out a huff of frustration, leaning back against the bar and glaring at him. “You always do. Every time you show up, it’s like you can’t help but get under my skin.”
Sidney tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words, but the smirk never leaves his face. “Maybe that’s because you make it so easy.”
The nerve of this guy. You open your mouth to fire back, but the bartender finally appears with your drink, placing it in front of you. You grab it with a quick thanks, eager for a distraction. Anything to avoid looking at Sidney and that stupid grin of his.
“Why do you even care?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. “You don’t know me. We’re in completely different worlds.”
Sidney doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those annoyingly intense eyes, like he’s trying to figure something out about you. It’s unsettling, but you refuse to let him see that he’s getting to you. You’ve already let him mess with your head enough tonight.
“Maybe I don’t know you,” he says after a moment, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “But you’re interesting. More interesting than half the people I’ve met in this sport.”
You blink at him, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Interesting?”
He nods, that playful glint still in his eyes. “Yeah. You’re not like everyone else. Most people just... try to stay out of the way, keep their heads down, play nice. But you? You don’t take shit from anyone. I like that.”
You snort, unable to help yourself. “So what, you’re saying you like me because I don’t like you?”
Sidney laughs, and the sound is so warm, so genuine, that it throws you off for a second. It’s not the cocky laugh you’re used to hearing from him on the ice. This one feels... real.
“I’m saying I like a challenge,” he says, his eyes gleaming with something that makes your heart race even though you really don’t want it to. “And you’re definitely a challenge.”
A challenge. That word lingers in the air between you, heavy and charged, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the way he said it or because of how it makes you feel. Because on some level, you know he’s right. You are a challenge. You’ve always been a challenge. And maybe that’s part of why he gets under your skin so easily—because he’s not backing down.
But you’re not backing down either.
“Well, if you think you can just waltz in here and... what? Win me over?” you scoff, taking another sip of your drink. “Good luck with that, Crosby. I don’t go down that easy.”
Sidney leans in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I never said I wanted you to go down easy.”
The words hang between you, thick with tension, and you feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your chest despite your best efforts to stay calm. His eyes stay locked on yours, and for a split second, you forget where you are, forget everything except the way his gaze makes you feel like he’s seeing through every layer of defense you’ve built up.
It takes everything in you not to let him see how much he’s affecting you. You keep your expression neutral, lips pressed into a tight line as you lean back, forcing some distance between you.
“You really think you can get to me with a few smooth lines?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.
Sidney shrugs again, but this time there’s a hint of something more serious behind his smile. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll find out.”
You glare at him, feeling that familiar frustration bubbling up again, but there’s something else there now too—something you don’t want to acknowledge. Something that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once.
“Well, don’t get too comfortable,” you say, standing up from the bar and giving him one last, pointed look. “I’m not as easy to figure out as you think.”
Sidney just smiles, leaning back against the bar as he watches you walk away, and you can feel his eyes on you the whole time.
“Good,” he calls after you. “I like a good mystery.”
You don’t look back, but damn it, his voice follows you all the way out of the bar, and it’s all you can think about for the rest of the night.
───
The rink is nearly deserted when you stayed that night, after practice. The cold air bites at your exposed skin, but it feels like a relief after the stuffiness of the bar. You needed this—the wide-open space, the sound of your skates carving into the ice, the familiar rhythm of movement that helps drown out all the noise in your head.
You plug in your phone to the speaker system, scrolling through your playlists until you settle on something fitting for the mood—dramatic, sweeping classical music, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like it’s going to break something wide open. It’s exactly what you need right now.
As the first notes fill the rink, you skate to the center, closing your eyes for just a moment, letting the music wash over you. The stress, the frustration, the lingering burn from your interaction with Sidney—it all simmers beneath the surface, but here, on the ice, you know how to channel it. You’ve always been able to let the pressure fuel you, turning frustration into focus.
Opening your eyes, you push off, gliding across the ice with an easy grace that comes from years of muscle memory. The music builds, and you pick up speed, letting the intensity of the sound guide your movements. Each jump, each spin, feels sharper than before, more deliberate. There’s no audience, no competition, just you and the ice and the echo of the music in the empty arena.
You land a triple axel cleanly, but it’s not enough. Not tonight. You need more.
I’m not going to let Crosby win. The thought flashes in your mind, unbidden, but once it’s there, you can’t shake it. It’s ridiculous—Sidney’s not even here, not even part of this—but somehow, he’s still under your skin, pushing you to go harder, to be better.
The frustration builds, a knot tightening in your chest, and with a surge of anger, you launch into another jump, pushing yourself to the limit. You flip in the air, body twisting with precision, and when your skates hit the ice again, the landing is so clean, so perfect, that even you’re stunned for a moment.
Your coach isn’t here to shout or correct you, but if he were, you know he’d be speechless. You nailed it.
You stop in the center of the rink, breathing heavily, staring down at the ice beneath your feet. How did you flip that switch so quickly? One second, you were spiraling, frustration threatening to spill over, and the next, you’re here—executing moves with a sharpness you didn’t think you had tonight.
It’s almost like—
“Nice landing.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, and you spin around, your skates squeaking on the ice as you search for the source of the voice.
Of course.
Sidney Crosby is standing in the entrance to the rink, leaning casually against the boards with his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that same infuriating half-smirk. His dark hoodie is pulled over his head, casting shadows over his face, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. You’d thought you were alone, but apparently, Sidney had other plans.
“Jesus—what the hell are you doing here?” you snap, pulse still racing from both the exertion and the shock of seeing him.
Sidney shrugs, as if he hasn’t just interrupted your entire night. “Could ask you the same thing.”
You narrow your eyes at him, pushing down the urge to scream. “I’m here because I’m training. What’s your excuse?”
He lifts an eyebrow, pushing off the boards and stepping onto the ice with ease, his skates gliding smoothly over the surface. “Didn’t realize you had the rink reserved.”
You cross your arms, glaring as he skates a slow circle around you, as if he’s sizing you up. The way he moves is so infuriatingly confident, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin.
“Sidney, I swear, if you’re here just to mess with me—”
He stops right in front of you, cutting you off with a grin that makes your stomach twist. “I’m not here to mess with you.” His voice drops a little, that playful edge still there but softer now. “Not unless you want me to.”
You take a step back, suddenly feeling a little too close to him. The music still plays in the background, dramatic strings swelling through the speakers, matching the tension that’s building between you two.
“Why are you really here?” you ask, trying to sound more composed than you feel. You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from skating or the fact that Sidney’s presence always seems to set you off, but your pulse is racing, and not just from the workout.
Sidney tilts his head slightly, watching you with those annoyingly intense eyes. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “You’ve been skating for hours. What’s got you so wound up?”
Your mouth opens to snap back, but you stop yourself, unsure how to answer. It’s not like you can tell him he’s part of the problem, that every time he shows up, he stirs something inside you that’s equal parts frustration and... something else you refuse to acknowledge.
“I’m fine,” you finally say, your voice tight. “Just working on a few things.”
Sidney steps closer again, his eyes not leaving yours, and you can feel your defenses rising instinctively. He has this way of making you feel exposed, like he sees through every layer you put up.
“You don’t look fine,” he says quietly, the teasing edge fading from his voice. “You look like you’re trying to prove something.”
“I don’t have anything to prove to you,” you snap, more harshly than you intended.
Sidney doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your tone. Instead, he just watches you, like he’s waiting for you to let your guard down.
“You don’t have anything to prove to me,” he agrees, his voice low, almost gentle now. “But it seems like you’re trying to prove something to yourself.”
The words hit you harder than you want to admit, and for a second, you feel the weight of the pressure you’ve been carrying—the constant need to be perfect, to land every jump, to be better than you were yesterday. And maybe, just maybe, part of that pressure comes from knowing that Sidney Crosby, of all people, has seen you falter.
Your hands tighten into fists, frustration bubbling up again, but this time it’s not aimed at Sidney—it’s aimed at yourself.
“What do you know about it?” you mutter, looking away from him, focusing on the ice instead of the way his presence is making you feel.
Sidney doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. “More than you think.”
Something in his tone makes you glance up, and for the first time, you see something different in his eyes—not the usual cocky smirk, not the playful teasing. It’s something deeper, something you recognize.
Pressure. Expectation. The weight of the world on his shoulders, just like you carry on yours.
For a moment, the air between you shifts, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the music still playing softly in the background or because of the way Sidney is looking at you. There’s something unspoken hanging in the space between you, something fragile and real.
“I get it,” he says, his voice quiet. “The pressure. The feeling like you have to be perfect every time you step on the ice. I know what that’s like.”
You swallow hard, the walls you’ve built around yourself trembling slightly. You’re not used to Sidney Crosby being... this. Open. Vulnerable. It throws you off balance, makes you feel like you’re standing on shaky ground.
But before you can say anything, he steps back, giving you space, and the moment passes as quickly as it came.
“Anyway,” he says, his usual smirk slipping back into place, “just wanted to check in. See if you needed anything.”
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to regain your composure. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Sidney grins, his playful edge back in full force. “Good. I like seeing you fired up.”
And just like that, the tension is back, simmering under the surface, and you’re left standing there, wondering how Sidney Crosby has managed to flip your world upside down in a matter of minutes.
As he skates away, you’re left with the echo of his words in your mind—and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he’s not the only one who likes a challenge.
───
A few weeks later, the cold of early winter is biting harder, a constant reminder of what’s looming: the Olympics. The most important competition of your life. Every jump, every spin, every session on the ice has been building to this moment, and now, the pressure is so thick, it feels like it's settled in your bones.
You’re sitting in the locker room, your gear strewn across the bench beside you. The atmosphere is tense but electric. Today is the day they announce the official Olympic figure skating team, and though you know you've earned your spot, the nerves are impossible to shake. Even after years of preparation, the thought of representing your country on the world’s biggest stage makes your heart pound.
Your coach comes in first, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He claps you on the back, and you can feel the energy shift in the room.
“They’ve posted the roster,” he says, barely containing his pride. “You’re on the team.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, and then the weight of them crashes down on you. You’re on the team. You’re going to the Olympics.
You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your chest tight with a mix of relief and exhilaration. All the hours on the ice, the grueling practices, the mental battles—it’s all been worth it. You’re going to be part of something bigger than yourself, and for a moment, you let yourself revel in the feeling of accomplishment.
But then, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon, another thought creeps in: Sidney Crosby.
You haven't seen him since that night at the rink, but his presence has lingered, a constant shadow in your mind. He’s been picked too—you know it without even needing to check the roster. Of course he has. He's Sidney Crosby. A generational talent, just like they call you, only... more somehow. More polished, more famous, more everything. And now, the media will eat this up, won’t they? Two stars, both at the top of their games, both chasing Olympic glory, both—
You shake your head, pushing the thought away. You’re not going to let Sidney Crosby get into your head. Not when you’ve worked so hard to get here.
Your teammates rush into the room, their excitement contagious as they celebrate together. You laugh with them, letting the energy lift you for a moment, but in the back of your mind, that quiet tension still lingers. You can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning of something bigger—and that Sidney is somehow going to be a part of it, whether you like it or not.
───
The night before the team heads out for the final round of pre-Olympic training, you find yourself back at the rink, once again pushing through a late-night session. The music is quieter this time, more contemplative, as you work on fine-tuning your routine. It’s just you and the ice, and for a little while, that’s enough.
Until the door creaks open again.
You stop mid-spin, your breath catching in your throat. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is—somehow, you can always tell when Sidney’s around. It’s like your body is wired to notice him, even when you don’t want to.
“What are you doing here?” you call out, not bothering to mask the annoyance in your voice.
Sidney doesn’t answer right away, but you hear the sound of his skates as he steps onto the ice, gliding easily toward you.
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, his voice calm, almost too calm, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “Training late again?”
You grit your teeth, refusing to let him get to you. “Yeah, well, some of us still have work to do.”
Sidney chuckles softly, skating closer until he’s just a few feet away. “You really think you’ve got that much left to prove?”
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Don’t you?”
For a second, he doesn’t answer, his eyes searching yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something almost… curious. Then he shrugs, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Maybe,” he says, his voice low. “But I’m not the one staying up all night to try and be perfect.”
His words hit a little too close to home, and you feel the flare of anger rise again. But before you can respond, Sidney’s already moving, skating around you with that effortless grace that somehow makes everything seem easy for him.
“You know,” he says, his tone light, “the media’s having a field day with this whole thing. Two Canadian stars, same Olympics, both at the top of their game. They love a good story.”
You roll your eyes, spinning around to face him. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Sidney’s grin widens, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s enjoying this more than he should. “You think they’ll keep us apart, or you think they’ll try to milk this for everything it’s worth?”
You cross your arms, refusing to play into whatever game he’s trying to start. “I don’t really care what the media does.”
Sidney stops in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours with that same intensity you’ve come to know all too well. “You sure about that?”
The question hangs in the air between you, and for a second, you’re not sure if he’s talking about the media… or something else entirely.
You stare at him for a moment, the weight of his gaze making the rink feel smaller, more intimate than it has any right to be. The soft hum of your music in the background seems distant now, a faraway echo compared to the silence between you. You want to say something cutting, to brush him off like you always do, but there's something different about this moment. It's not just annoyance. There's a challenge here—a tension, thick and electric, hovering just out of reach.
Sidney's eyebrow quirks up, and you feel your stomach twist in frustration. He's baiting you, but you don't know what game you're even playing anymore. And the worst part? He’s winning. Again.
"I'm sure," you finally manage to say, but your voice doesn’t carry the sharpness you intended. It's a little softer, almost uncertain, and you hate it. His smirk widens ever so slightly, like he's noticed it too.
"Good." Sidney pushes off the ice and skates a lazy circle around you, his movements fluid and deliberate, like he's taking his time to think about his next words. "Because it doesn't matter what they say. We're both here for the same reason—to win."
You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there's a part of you that knows he's right. You didn’t get this far by letting other people’s opinions get in your head. You worked for this. Hard. Late nights, endless drills, pushing yourself past your limits just to prove to everyone—and maybe to yourself—that you deserved to be here. That you belonged.
But somehow, Sidney Crosby always finds a way to make you feel like you're still fighting for that validation. Like there's always something left to prove.
"And here I thought you were just here for the cameras," you say, your words sharper now, biting back with the edge you'd been missing earlier. "They do love a good Sidney Crosby story, don't they?"
Sidney doesn't react the way you expect. He doesn’t bristle or fire back. Instead, he just smiles, a slow, knowing grin that almost—almost—looks genuine. "Maybe. But they’re not the ones I’m trying to impress."
Your heart skips, just for a second, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. You blink, trying to keep your composure, to ignore the way your body betrays you under his gaze.
"Right." You scoff again, trying to laugh it off. "You don’t have to impress anyone, do you?"
Sidney stops, coming to a smooth halt just in front of you. He's close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his breath fogs in the cold air between you. He tilts his head, that smirk fading into something else. Something more serious.
"Everyone's got something to prove," he says quietly. His voice is low, almost a whisper, like it's a confession meant for you and only you. "Even me."
For a second, you don’t know what to say. His words catch you off guard, and you feel the weight of them sink in, wrapping around you like the cold air of the rink. You've always seen Sidney as untouchable, a star so far beyond reach that nothing could ever shake him. But now, standing here, staring at him, you realize he’s just as human as you. Maybe even just as scared.
Your throat tightens, and for a moment, the walls you’ve built around yourself start to crack. But before you can respond—before you can even process what’s happening—Sidney’s already pushing away, skating back toward the other end of the rink, like the moment never happened.
"Good luck with the routine," he calls over his shoulder, his voice light again, casual. "See you in Vancouver."
You stand there for a long time after he’s gone, the rink feeling empty without him. Your mind is racing, filled with thoughts you don’t want to acknowledge. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter. You’ll go to the Olympics, skate your heart out, and that’s all that matters.
But deep down, you know things have changed. And no matter how hard you try, Sidney Crosby is already under your skin.
The weeks leading up to the Olympics pass in a blur of training, media appearances, and endless speculation. The pressure builds with every day, every practice, every headline that pits you and Sidney against each other. It’s exhausting, and yet, part of you thrives on it. The stakes, the attention, the challenge. It's what you’ve always worked for.
But it’s also terrifying. Because every time you step on the ice, you know there are a million eyes watching, waiting for you to slip. And every time Sidney’s name comes up—whether it’s in an interview or in passing—it’s like a spark of irritation flares up inside you, reminding you that he’s still there, always lingering in the background of your mind.
The final week before the Olympics, you find yourself at a press conference, surrounded by reporters. You’ve done a thousand of these before, but this one feels different. The energy in the room is palpable, buzzing with anticipation as everyone prepares for the biggest event of the year.
And of course, the first question they ask isn’t about your routine or your preparation. It’s about Sidney.
“So, Y/N, you and Sidney Crosby have both been named as Canada’s biggest medal hopes this year. How do you feel about that?”
You force a smile, even though you want to roll your eyes. “I feel great about it. Sidney’s an incredible athlete, and it’s an honor to be mentioned alongside him.”
The reporter doesn’t stop there. “Do you think the rivalry between the two of you has helped push you both to new heights?”
You want to laugh. Rivalry? Is that what they’re calling it now?
“I think we’re both just focused on doing our best for our country,” you say diplomatically, but the answer feels hollow even to you. Because if you’re being honest with yourself, the rivalry is there. It’s always been there, even before the media latched onto it.
It’s not just about skating or hockey or who wins the most medals. It’s about something deeper—something neither of you has been willing to admit yet.
After the press conference, you slip out of the room as quickly as possible, your mind still buzzing with thoughts of Sidney. You’ve seen him a few times in passing since that night at the rink, but neither of you has said much. There’s been no need. The tension is there, lingering between you, always simmering just below the surface.
And now, with the Olympics just days away, it feels like everything is coming to a head.
You don’t know what’s going to happen in Vancouver, but one thing’s for sure: Sidney Crosby isn’t going to be easy to forget.
───
The sun barely peeks over the Vancouver skyline as you step into the bustling arena, the energy already electric despite the early hour. It’s the first day of the Winter Olympics, and the anticipation in the air is palpable. Athletes mill around, warming up and going through their routines, while coaches and officials rush to prepare the rink and finalize schedules.
The ice skating events are divided by discipline, with singles, pairs, and ice dance categories each occupying different time slots throughout the day. You’re scheduled for the women’s short program later this afternoon, but you arrive early to settle your nerves and observe the competition. It’s been a long time coming—years of training, countless sacrifices, and now, it’s finally here.
As you watch the men’s short program unfold, you catch glimpses of familiar faces—skaters you’ve competed against on the international circuit. The stands fill with excited spectators, flags waving, the hum of different languages mingling in the air. You take it all in, your gaze flitting from one skater to the next, mentally noting their performances.
And then, you see him.
Sidney is seated with a group of Team Canada athletes near the edge of the rink, his attention fixed on the ice. He’s wearing the official red and white tracksuit, his posture relaxed, and his expression serious. You know he’s here to support his teammates, but it doesn’t stop your heart from fluttering. You haven’t spoken since the night at the rink, and the tension still lingers, unspoken but ever-present.
You try to focus on the skaters on the ice, but your gaze keeps drifting back to Sidney. He’s surrounded by people, but his eyes seem distant, as if his mind is somewhere else. A part of you wants to approach him, to say something, anything, to break the silence that’s grown between you. But there’s no time for that now. Not when everything you’ve worked for is at stake.
A sudden cheer erupts from the crowd as one of the Canadian skaters finishes his routine with a flawless quad jump. Sidney stands, applauding along with the rest of the crowd, and for a moment, his eyes meet yours across the arena. It’s a fleeting connection—one that sends a jolt through you—before you quickly look away, your pulse quickening.
You remind yourself why you’re here. It’s not for Sidney. It’s for the chance to compete on the world’s biggest stage, to prove to yourself—and to everyone else—that you belong.
Hours later, as the women’s short program draws near, you’re in the locker room, lacing up your skates and taking deep breaths. You can hear the muffled sounds of the arena through the walls—cheers, announcements, and the faint strains of music from other performances. Your coach is by your side, offering words of encouragement and going over last-minute details of your routine.
When your name is called, you make your way to the ice, nerves and adrenaline surging in equal measure. The arena is packed now, the crowd buzzing with excitement. You take your position at the center of the rink, the bright lights shining down on you, and as the music begins, you shut out everything else—Sidney, the pressure, the noise—focusing solely on the routine you’ve practiced countless times.
As you step onto the ice, the chill bites at your exposed skin, the cold seeping into your muscles despite the hours of warming up backstage. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of the rink—a mix of ice, metal, and adrenaline—filling your lungs.
The bright lights of the arena are almost blinding, but you’ve grown used to the glare. It’s everything else that’s harder to ignore: the noise of the crowd, the anticipation hanging in the air, and the weight of every expectation you’ve ever placed on yourself.
Your name echoes through the arena, and you take your starting position at the center of the rink, feeling the world close in around you. It’s just you and the ice. You’ve done this routine a thousand times—maybe more—in practice. You know every step, every jump, every nuance of the music. But the stakes are different now, and doubt has a way of creeping in when you need confidence most.
The music begins, a soft piano melody that rises and falls like a tide. You push off, gliding into your opening spin, your body rotating effortlessly as your arms sweep out to the sides. For a moment, you feel a flicker of hope—this part, at least, feels right. But as you transition into the next sequence, the familiar pattern you’ve rehearsed starts to fray at the edges.
Your first jump, the triple flip, is where the anxiety tightens its grip. You approach the takeoff, heart racing, and launch yourself into the air. For a split second, you feel weightless, suspended above the ice, but then something feels off. Your body twists at the wrong angle, your balance shifts too soon. You land, but the landing is sloppy—your skate scrapes the ice, and you wobble, arms flailing to steady yourself.
Panic surges through you, hot and electric. It’s only the beginning of the program, and already you’ve stumbled. You try to shake it off, but the rhythm is broken, and your mind spirals into self-criticism.
You practiced this a thousand times. Why didn’t you get it right?
The next element is a step sequence, a chance to regain your composure, but the nagging voice in your head won’t let up. You force a smile, hoping to mask the growing frustration and fear. As you weave through the steps, your feet move, but your mind is still stuck on the failed jump. You feel disconnected from the music, from the ice, from the performance that’s slipping through your fingers.
You approach the triple Lutz—one of the most challenging elements in your routine. You breathe deeply, telling yourself you can still save this, but the seed of doubt has taken root. You accelerate into the jump, feeling the power build in your legs, and then you launch into the air. This time, you feel the rotation, the speed, the familiar rush of adrenaline, but it’s too fast, too uncontrolled. When you come down, you feel your left skate catch, and before you know it, you’re pitching forward. You barely manage to stay upright, catching yourself with a hand on the ice.
The gasp from the crowd feels like a punch to the gut.
I can’t believe I just did that. This is a disaster.
You’re only halfway through the program, but every second feels like an eternity. Each movement feels heavier, each step more labored. Your body moves through the motions, but your mind is stuck on replaying your mistakes. The music swells, urging you to keep going, but all you can think about is how much you’ve already ruined.
The spins that follow are supposed to be your strength, your signature—a moment when you can let go and show your artistry. But you’re too distracted, your mind racing with self-doubt. You rush into the first spin, and it feels off—your center of gravity isn’t where it should be. You struggle to maintain speed, and by the time you come out of it, your legs feel shaky. You curse yourself under your breath, frustration bubbling up. You’ve never felt this out of control in a competition before.
You’ve blown it. Everyone’s watching you fall apart.
The final jump, a double Axel, should be simple compared to the others, but the fear of messing up again overwhelms you. You take off, and for a second, you think it might be fine—until you under-rotate. The landing feels heavy, and you stumble. This time, you can’t save it. You fall, hitting the ice with a thud, the sound echoing in the silent arena.
You want to stay down, to disappear, to let the ice swallow you whole. But the music pulls you back up, and you force yourself to your feet, biting back the tears threatening to spill. Your legs feel like lead as you move through the final moments of the routine, each movement mechanical and empty.
As the music fades and you hold your ending pose, all you can think about is the silence. It’s deafening. The applause comes a few seconds later, polite but subdued, and it feels like salt in the wound. You know what the crowd saw. You know what you felt. It wasn’t the performance you’d spent years dreaming of; it was the kind that haunts you.
You skate off the ice, head down, feeling the heat of embarrassment burn through you. Your coach approaches, a hand on your shoulder, whispering words of encouragement you can barely hear over the sound of your own self-recrimination.
You blew it. You had one chance, and you blew it.
In the kiss-and-cry area, the scores flash on the screen, but you don’t need to see them to know what they’ll be—low, lower than you’ve ever had in an international competition. You feel tears prick at your eyes, and you clench your fists, willing yourself not to cry in front of the cameras.
When you finally look up, you see Sidney standing near the boards, watching. His face is unreadable, but you know he saw everything. The thought makes your stomach twist. You wanted him to see you at your best, to show him the skater you’ve worked so hard to become. But instead, he saw you at your worst.
You tear your eyes eyes away, feeling your throat forming that familiar lump. “God fucking damn it,” you mumble as you shut your eyes. You rush off to the bathroom, shutting it behind you swiftly.
It feels like your world was upside down.
You can't control the sobs that come next as you slid down the door, as your legs give out beneath you. The sobs rip through you, harsh and unrelenting, and you press a hand over your mouth, desperate to stifle the sound. The last thing you need is for anyone else to hear you breaking down. But the tears keep coming, hot and uncontrollable, and your chest tightens with the weight of your own disappointment.
You curl up on the cold tile floor, knees pulled to your chest, feeling the ache spread through your entire body. Every mistake from the routine replays in your mind on an endless loop—the missed jumps, the stumble, the fall. Each one feels like a punch, and you can’t help but berate yourself for every single one.
Why couldn’t you get it right? Why did you choke?
You lean your head back against the door, the cool wood grounding you for a moment. But then the wave hits again. You’ve worked for years—years—for this moment, and you blew it in front of everyone. All those hours of practice, all those sacrifices, and for what? For a performance that feels like it’s ruined everything you’ve worked so hard for.
The tears blur your vision, and you rub at your eyes, only to feel the sting of makeup smearing across your cheeks. It’s a mess—everything feels like a mess. You dig your fingers into your hair, pulling slightly as if the pain might drown out the thoughts that won’t stop tormenting you.
You were supposed to be better than this. You were supposed to prove you belonged here.
The worst part is knowing that Sidney saw it all. You tried so hard to ignore the tension, to push past the uncertainty of what’s between you two. But in that moment on the ice, with the lights bright and the stakes high, all you could think about was wanting to impress him, to show him the best version of yourself. And now he’s seen you fail, seen you fall apart, and you can’t bear the thought of what he must think.
The thought twists in your gut, making the sobs come harder. You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. You feel like a little kid again, like all the progress you’ve made, all the strength you’ve built up, has crumbled in an instant.
After a few minutes, the sobs finally start to subside, leaving you feeling drained and empty. You breathe in, ragged and shallow, trying to calm the storm inside your head. But the silence only makes the thoughts louder. You can still hear the crowd’s disappointed murmur, see the faces of the judges as they wrote down your scores.
You’re not sure how long you stay there, slumped against the door, before the sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. You quickly wipe at your face, scrubbing away the tears and trying to pull yourself together. The last thing you need is for anyone to find you like this, crumpled up and broken.
There’s a knock on the door, soft at first, and you hold your breath, hoping whoever it is will go away. But then the knock comes again, a little more insistent.
“Hey,” a voice says quietly, and your heart sinks. You’d recognize that voice anywhere—Sidney.
You bite your lip, trying to steady your breath, but it’s no use. You know you can’t face him like this, not when you feel so raw and exposed. “Go away, Sid,” you manage to choke out, but it comes out weaker than you intended.
“Please, just… let me in.” His voice is gentle, and that makes it worse. You don’t want his pity, don’t want to be reminded of how badly you’ve messed up in front of him.
You wipe at your face again, even though you know you look like a mess. “I don’t want to talk right now,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word. You feel pathetic, and all you want to do is disappear.
There’s a long pause, and for a moment, you think he might leave. But then he speaks again, softer this time. “It’s okay to be upset. You don’t have to hide.”
The words are kind, and they cut through you. You hate that he knows, that he sees you like this. You hate that part of you wants to open the door, to let him in and just collapse into his arms. But you can’t. You can’t let him see how much you’re falling apart.
“I’m fine,” you lie, voice cracking again. “Just… go.”
But he doesn’t move. “Look, I know you’re upset. I saw what happened out there, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re still one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen.”
You press your lips together, shaking your head even though he can’t see. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sid.”
There’s another silence, and then, softer still, “I just want to be here for you.”
The vulnerability in his voice makes your chest tighten. You want to believe him, want to open the door and let yourself lean on someone for once. But the fear is too strong—the fear of being seen, of being judged, of letting someone close enough to hurt you.
“I can’t do this right now,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face again.
“Okay,” he says quietly, and you can hear the hurt in his voice. “But if you need me, I’m here.”
You don’t respond, biting down on your lip as the tears fall harder. You wait until his footsteps fade away, leaving you alone in the silence once more. Then, finally, you let out a sob, sinking back against the door, feeling the weight of everything crash down on you again.
───
The hotel room feels suffocating, the walls closing in as you sit cross-legged on the bed, staring blankly at the TV screen. The Olympics news channel is on, and you can’t help but watch, even though every fiber of your being screams to turn it off. They’re showing highlights of the day’s performances, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they replay yours.
The phone is pressed to your ear, and your coach’s voice crackles through the line, rough and familiar. He’s the one who’s seen you at your best and your worst, the one who’s pushed you to reach your full potential. But tonight, his words sting more than they usually do.
“You know, that wasn’t the skater I’ve been training for the past ten years,” he says, his voice firm, the edge of disappointment unmistakable. “What happened out there? You choked, plain and simple.”
You swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. You know he’s trying to push you, trying to get a reaction—he always thinks tough love will get you back on track. But right now, every word feels like another weight pressing down on your already heavy chest. “I know, okay? I messed up,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but you hear the waver at the end.
He sighs, and you can picture him running a hand over his face. “Messing up is one thing, but letting it get to you out there? That’s not you. You looked like a deer in headlights after that first fall. Where’s your fight? Where’s the girl who pushes through, no matter what?”
The criticism feels like salt in an open wound, and you bite your lip, willing yourself not to cry again. You’ve already spent most of the evening crying in the bathroom, and you refuse to do it now, not when he’s on the other end of the line. “I tried, but—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“But nothing,” he snaps. “Trying isn’t good enough at this level. You either do it, or you don’t. And today, you didn’t.”
You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, taking a deep breath as you try to keep your emotions in check. You know he’s right—of course, he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s laid it out like this, and usually, it works. Usually, it fires you up, makes you want to prove him wrong, to prove to yourself that you’re capable of more. But tonight, all it does is make you feel small.
“I get it,” you say quietly, struggling to keep your voice even. “I let everyone down.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then his tone softens, just a little. “It’s not about letting anyone down. It’s about you. You know what you’re capable of, and today, that wasn’t it. You’re better than this.”
You glance up at the TV, and your stomach drops. They’re showing footage of your routine, the slow-motion replay of your first stumble, the way you clutched your ankle like it was the end of the world. The announcers are discussing it with hushed tones, one of them saying, “A disappointing performance from someone who’s been touted as a medal contender. You can see the hesitation after that initial fall—she never fully recovered.”
It feels like someone’s twisting a knife in your gut, and you have to look away, turning your attention to the wall instead. “They’re showing it on the news,” you mutter, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re saying I looked scared.”
“Well, they’re not wrong,” your coach says, and the bluntness hits you like a slap. “You did look scared. You were scared.”
You clench your jaw, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over again. “I know that,” you snap, more harshly than you intended. “I know I messed up, and I don’t need you or the whole world reminding me.”
There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a moment, you worry he’s going to hang up. But then he sighs, and you hear the weariness in his voice. “Look, I’m not saying this to make you feel worse. I’m saying it because you’ve got two options now: you let this break you, or you use it. You’ve got another routine, and if you want any shot at the podium, you’ve got to be perfect.”
The words hang in the air between you, and you stare down at your lap, the weight of everything crushing you. “I don’t know if I can,” you admit, the vulnerability slipping out before you can stop it. “I feel like… I don’t know, like I’ve lost it.”
“You haven’t lost anything,” he says, his voice sharp again, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge. “One bad routine doesn’t erase everything you’ve worked for. You’ve been down before, and you’ve come back stronger every time. This is no different.”
The TV cuts to the end of your routine, the moment where you bowed your head and skated off the ice, and the announcers are speculating about whether the pressure of the Olympics got to you. You grit your teeth, feeling the shame creeping back in.
“I just— I don’t know how to fix it,” you say, your voice cracking. “I felt like everything was slipping away out there, like no matter what I did, I couldn’t get it right.”
“That’s your head talking,” he replies. “You need to get out of your own way. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding that zone where you stop thinking and just skate. You know how to do that. You’ve done it a thousand times.”
You want to believe him, but the doubt clings to you like a shadow. “What if I can’t? What if I mess up again?”
“Then you get up again,” he says simply. “That’s the only way forward.”
You lean back against the pillows, closing your eyes and trying to steady your breath. You know he’s right, deep down. But right now, it feels impossible to shake the disappointment and the fear. “Okay,” you say, even though it doesn’t feel okay. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I’m asking,” he says, and for a moment, his tone is almost gentle. “Get some rest tonight, clear your head. Tomorrow’s another day.”
You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, coach.”
“Hang in there, kid,” he says before hanging up.
You set the phone down on the bed, feeling the quiet of the room settle around you. The screen still shows highlights of the other skaters, and you watch as they soar effortlessly through their routines, their movements flawless, their expressions confident. You envy them—the way they make it look so easy, so natural.
But you know it isn’t. You know the hours, the pain, the sacrifices that go into making it look that way. You’ve lived it, day in and day out. And as much as you want to curl up and shut the world out, there’s a part of you that refuses to give up. A part that knows you have another chance, another routine.
The channel shifts from figure skating highlights to coverage of the hockey events. You immediately recognize the familiar red and white jerseys of Team Canada as the highlights reel begins, showing clips of their opening game. There’s Sidney, in perfect form, weaving around defenders with effortless grace. The crowd roars as he shoots and scores, the puck finding the back of the net like it was meant to be there all along.
The announcers are gushing, their voices rising with excitement. “And there’s Crosby with yet another goal—what an incredible start for Team Canada. Their chemistry on the ice is flawless, and they’re looking unstoppable.”
The camera zooms in on Sidney’s face, beaming as he’s mobbed by his teammates. There’s that calm, confident look you’ve seen so many times before, the look of someone who’s exactly where they belong, doing exactly what they were meant to do. The arena explodes in cheers, and you can almost feel the energy from the screen, the way the city has rallied behind their hockey hero.
You grit your teeth, feeling your hands ball into fists on your lap. Of course, he’s perfect. Of course, everything falls into place for him. While you’re stuck in this hotel room, replaying every mistake you made, Sidney’s out there doing what he always does—winning. Being flawless. Making it look easy.
The replay shifts to another play, this one showing Sidney setting up a teammate for a goal with a precise, lightning-fast pass. The announcers’ voices swell again. “Crosby’s vision is unmatched—he makes it look effortless. The chemistry and connection he has with his teammates are just on another level.”
You feel the knot in your stomach twist tighter. It’s not that you begrudge him his success; he’s worked hard for it, and you know how much pressure he’s under. But right now, it’s like every moment of his triumph is rubbing salt in your wounds. It feels personal, like the universe is reminding you of how far you’ve fallen, how badly you’ve failed.
And the worst part is, you can’t get his face out of your head. The way he looked at you after your routine—his expression soft, the same reassuring look he’s always given you when things went wrong. At the time, it felt comforting, like he was there for you when you needed someone the most. But now, seeing him bask in the glory of his victory while you’re drowning in your own defeat, it only makes the ache worse.
The camera zooms in again, catching Sidney in a post-game interview. He’s all smiles, his helmet still perched on his head, hair damp with sweat but eyes bright and full of that competitive fire you’ve always admired. “It’s great to start the tournament off strong,” he says, his voice full of confidence. “The guys have been working hard, and it’s awesome to see it pay off on the ice. We’re just taking it one game at a time, but we’re feeling good.”
The reporters laugh, clearly enamored with him, and you can’t help but scowl. It’s so easy for him to stand there and say that, to talk about feeling good when everything is going right. When he hasn’t been the one to crash and burn on the world’s biggest stage.
Your fingers dig into the comforter as the segment continues, showing highlights from the locker room—Sidney laughing with his teammates, high-fiving, all smiles and celebration. They look relaxed, like they’re already sure of their place in the finals. And why wouldn’t they be? They’ve got Sidney Crosby, and when you have someone like him, everything else falls into place.
You mute the TV, unable to watch anymore. The image lingers, though, and you can feel the anger building in your chest, tightening like a vice. It’s not fair. You’ve worked just as hard as he has, put in the same hours, made the same sacrifices. And yet, here you are, hiding in a hotel room, while he gets to be the golden boy, the hero.
You know you’re being unfair. Sidney was nothing but kind to you earlier. But you can’t help it—the jealousy and frustration bubble up, making it impossible to think straight. You want to scream, to throw something, to lash out at the injustice of it all.
Instead, you bury your face in your hands, trying to take deep breaths, but all you feel is the heat of your tears building again. “Why can’t I just be better?” you whisper to the empty room, the words cracking in your throat. “Why can’t I be like him?”
You know there’s no answer, and that’s the hardest part. You know that no amount of hard work or preparation can guarantee perfection. You’ve been told your whole life that you have to fight for what you want, that success doesn’t come without failure. But in this moment, it all feels so hopeless, like you’re swimming against an unstoppable current and no matter how hard you kick, you’re just sinking deeper.
You hear your phone buzz on the nightstand, and you almost ignore it, but a part of you hopes it might be a message from home—maybe your mom or your sister, someone who’ll tell you that it’s okay, that one bad skate doesn’t define you.
But when you check, it’s a notification from one of those sports apps, and your heart sinks again as you read the headline: Sidney Crosby and Team Canada Dominate in Opening Game. It’s everywhere, inescapable. Another reminder of how easily the world seems to fall in love with him, and how quickly they move on from the skaters who stumble.
You drop the phone back on the bed, shoving it away as you curl up against the pillows. You shut your eyes, trying to block out the noise, the pressure, the image of Sidney’s perfect smile and the sound of the crowd chanting his name. But it doesn’t help.
No matter what you do, it feels like you’re stuck in a loop, replaying your mistakes and wondering why, for once, you couldn’t have been the one with the perfect routine, the one who had everything fall into place.
Then, that familiar mantra repeats in your mind. I’m not gonna let Crosby win.
“Damn right,” you whisper to yourself as you lay back in the hotel bed.
───
The alarm blares, pulling you out of a restless sleep. You groggily reach over and shut it off, squinting at the clock—4:00 a.m. The room is dark, and the cold air bites at your skin as you push yourself out of bed. You’ve always been an early riser, but today is different. It’s not just about getting ahead of the competition; it’s about making up for yesterday, about proving to yourself that you can still pull it together.
You slip into your warm-up clothes, tying your hair back tightly, and grab your skates and jacket. You move quietly through the hallways of the hotel, the only sound being the soft hum of the lights and the shuffle of your footsteps against the carpet. The entire place feels eerily quiet, as if the world hasn’t woken up yet. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what you need—a chance to reset, to work without anyone watching or judging.
When you arrive at the rink, the lights are dim, and the ice is a blank canvas, untouched. You breathe in deeply, letting the chill fill your lungs, feeling the weight of your skates as you lace them up methodically. The rink is your sanctuary, your space to figure things out. Today, it feels even more important to reclaim it. You stand and step onto the ice, the familiar glide grounding you, and take a deep breath before you start.
You begin your warm-up routine—edges, spins, quick footwork. The movements feel stiff at first, but you push through, repeating them until your body remembers how it’s supposed to move. Every turn is sharper, every spin faster than the last. You skate hard, pushing your muscles to the limit, sweat starting to bead on your forehead despite the cold.
As you go through your jumps, you land a clean triple toe loop, and for a moment, it feels like progress. But then you try again, and your skate catches the ice wrong, sending you stumbling. You curse under your breath and reset, gritting your teeth as you go for it again. Over and over, you repeat the jump, and each time, it feels like it’s getting worse.
Your frustration builds, and before you know it, you’re skating full speed into your program. You launch into the combination sequence that tripped you up yesterday, determination burning in your veins. It’s messy—your timing’s off, your landings shaky—but you keep going, pretending that if you just push hard enough, you can force it to be perfect.
You don’t even realize how hard you’re pushing yourself until you skid to a stop, panting, your legs burning. The sound of your ragged breaths echoes in the empty rink, and you slam your hands on your thighs, hunching over. “What’s wrong with me?” you whisper to yourself, your voice echoing in the silence.
Just as you’re about to push off for another round, you hear a voice that makes you freeze. “Up early, huh?”
You whip around, and there he is—Sidney Crosby, leaning against the boards, still in his sweats. His hair is messy, and there’s a slight grin on his face like he knows he’s interrupting something private. You feel your stomach drop, the annoyance already bubbling up. Of all the people to show up at this hour.
“Yeah, well, some of us need the extra practice,” you snap, more harshly than you mean to. The last thing you want is to let him see how much this is getting to you, how much yesterday is still hanging over your head.
Sidney raises an eyebrow, his expression still annoyingly calm. “I figured as much,” he says, his voice annoyingly relaxed. “Saw the lights on and thought I’d come check it out.”
You glare at him, your grip tightening on the edge of the rink. “Well, you’ve checked it out. Congratulations. You can leave now.”
But he doesn’t move. Instead, he pushes off the boards and steps closer, resting his arms casually. “You know, beating yourself up like this isn’t going to help.”
“Oh, thanks for the tip, Coach.” You can’t help the sarcasm that drips from your words, your fists clenching at your sides. “I’m sure you’ve had so many moments where you just sucked and needed to figure out how to get it back together.”
He tilts his head, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes, but it only makes your annoyance grow. “Actually, yeah,” he says, his tone softer now. “I’ve had plenty of bad games. Plenty of times where I felt like I was completely off. It happens to everyone.”
You roll your eyes, looking away. “Not like this. You don’t know what it’s like to feel like everything you’ve worked for is slipping through your fingers.”
“Maybe not exactly like this,” he admits, and for a moment, you hear genuine understanding in his voice. “But I get it. The pressure, the expectations—everyone watching, waiting for you to mess up or be perfect. It’s not easy.”
You want to tell him to stop, that his sympathy isn’t what you need right now. But the more he talks, the more it feels like he’s seeing right through you, and that makes you feel exposed, vulnerable. “I don’t need a pep talk, Sidney. I just need to work.”
“Yeah? And how’s that going?” he challenges, gesturing to the rink. “You think pushing yourself like this is going to fix everything?”
“I don’t know,” you snap. “But what else am I supposed to do? Sit around and watch the highlights of you and your perfect team?”
His face darkens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I’m not here to rub anything in. I just—I saw you, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well, I’m not,” you admit, the words coming out harsher than you intend. “I’m not okay, and I don’t need you pretending to care. I just—” You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak.
He looks at you for a long moment, the frustration still in his eyes but mixed with something else—maybe concern, maybe understanding. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says quietly. “You’re not the only one who struggles.”
But you don’t want to hear it. Not from him. Not right now. “Just leave me alone, Sidney. Please.”
For a moment, it looks like he might argue, but then he nods, the disappointment clear on his face. “Fine,” he says, stepping back. “But if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”
He turns and walks away, and you watch as he disappears down the hallway, leaving you alone in the cold, empty rink. The silence feels heavier now, and the frustration sits like a weight in your chest. You push off again, skating into another spin, determined to work through it, but all you can think about is the look in Sidney’s eyes and the feeling that, for once, maybe you’ve pushed the wrong person away.
───
The next day, you walk into the rink with a heavy sense of dread. The weight of your previous performances and the mounting pressure of the competition is starting to feel like an unbearable burden. You arrive a bit later than usual, joining your teammates as they warm up. The mood feels different today—everyone is on edge, focused. No one says much; they just nod in acknowledgment as you step onto the ice.
You take a deep breath, the familiar chill of the rink grounding you as you skate a few laps to loosen up. The routine you’ve been working on still feels rough around the edges, and the more you practice it, the more you feel the lingering frustration. You can’t afford to fall apart again, not this close to competition.
As you glide toward the boards, planning to get some advice from your team’s coach, you notice a familiar figure standing there, arms crossed and a stern expression on his face. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then he steps forward, and you recognize the familiar build and the gray streaks in his hair.
“Coach?” you blurt out, stopping in your tracks. The surprise in your voice is evident, and your teammates glance over, curious.
He nods, his eyes sharp as ever. “Heard you were having some trouble,” he says, not wasting a second. “Figured I’d come see it for myself.”
You feel a mix of relief and irritation. Relief because there’s no one who knows your skating as well as he does. Irritation because, of all times, why now? “I didn’t ask you to come,” you say, trying to sound tough, but it comes out weaker than you want.
“I know you didn’t.” He steps onto the ice, his skates making that satisfying scratch against the surface. “But you clearly need it.” He gestures for you to come over, and despite everything, you find yourself obeying, gliding toward him like you’re fifteen again and still trying to impress him.
“You’re skating like you’ve got bricks tied to your feet,” he says bluntly, and you bristle. “I watched the tape, and honestly, it’s like you’re holding back. Why?”
“I’m not holding back,” you argue, feeling the defensive flare rise in your chest. “I just—” You pause, swallowing hard. “It’s the pressure. Everything feels off.”
He gives you a knowing look, one that makes you feel seen and called out all at once. “Pressure isn’t new for you, kid. You’ve handled it before. The only difference now is you’re letting it get in your head.”
You want to argue, to tell him that it’s not that simple, that the stakes are higher now, that you feel like the world is watching your every move. But then, as he stands there waiting, you realize he already knows all of that. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am in my head,” you admit.
He nods, satisfied with your honesty. “Good. Now let’s get you out of it.” He claps his hands together. “Start from the top. Show me the routine.”
You go through the motions, running through your routine as he watches with that critical eye he’s always had. He doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you move through the steps, and you try to shut out the noise in your head, focusing on the feel of the ice beneath your blades, the muscle memory kicking in as you twist into the jumps and glide into the spins.
But when you finish, you can already tell it wasn’t your best. You land off balance, your arms not quite in the right position, and the frustration hits you like a wave. “I can’t—” you start, but Ramirez cuts you off.
“Stop,” he says, holding up a hand. “You’re hesitating. Every time you go for a jump, you’re thinking too hard about sticking the landing. You can’t think. You just have to trust your training.”
He skates up to you, his eyes meeting yours. “We’re going to break it down. One section at a time. And when you hit that jump, you commit to it like it’s the last thing you’re ever going to do.”
You nod, taking a deep breath. It’s been so long since you’ve had someone push you like this, and even though it’s tough love, there’s something comforting about it. You start again, working through the steps slowly. He stops you, corrects your positioning, and has you repeat until it feels right. Then you move to the next part, and the next, until you’re sweating and your legs are burning from the repetition.
“Now, the jump,” he instructs, standing back a few feet. “No hesitation.”
You push off, feeling the adrenaline rush through your veins as you pick up speed. This time, when you go for the triple toe loop, you don’t think about the landing—you just let your body move. And for the first time, it feels right. You nail the landing, your arms pulling into the perfect position as you finish the rotation.
“That’s it!” Coach shouts, and you feel a surge of triumph. “That’s the skater I know.”
You repeat the jump a few more times, and each time it feels smoother, more controlled. The confidence builds, and by the time you finish, you’re panting but smiling for the first time in days.
Coach skates over, nodding in approval. “There you go. You’ve still got it. Just had to get out of your own way.”
You nod, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders. “Thanks, Coach,” you say, and you mean it.
He grins, clapping you on the shoulder. “Don’t mention it. Just go out there and show them what you’re made of. You know you’re better than what you showed the other day.”
As he leaves, you stand in the center of the ice, feeling the energy buzzing in your limbs. You go through your routine again, and this time, everything clicks. It feels natural, like you’re finally skating the way you know you can. The nerves are still there, but they’re manageable, and you feel like you’re reclaiming your rhythm.
Maybe you’re not back completely, but for the first time in days, you feel like you’re heading in the right direction. And that, more than anything, gives you hope.
───
The sun barely peeks through the thin curtains of your hotel room when your alarm breaks the quiet, a sharp reminder of the day that lies ahead. Today is the day, the one you've trained for endlessly. Months of repetition, muscle memory, and strategy all leading to this. You’ve imagined it countless times in your head, playing out the routine step-by-step in your mind, visualizing every move, every spin, every landing. Today, none of that changes—except the stakes.
You sit up in bed, the cool air of the room biting against your skin as you throw the blankets aside. The nerves should be overwhelming, but instead, a sense of clarity washes over you. Today, you’re ready. This is your stage, your time to shine, and no one can take that from you.
After getting dressed in your warm-up gear, you take a moment to glance at yourself in the mirror. There's something different about you today—your eyes are sharp, focused, determined. You’ve been through the pressures before, the tightrope walk between fear and success, but today, something just feels right. It has to be.
By the time you make it to the rink, the buzz of competition fills the air. The sound of skates slicing through the ice, the murmurs of coaches, and the faint cheers of early spectators start to build the intensity in your chest. But you push it aside. You’ve been in big competitions before; this is no different. It’s just another routine. You’ll hit it like you always do.
As you’re stretching in the corner, lacing up your skates, a familiar voice calls out from behind you.
“Looking sharp.”
You glance over your shoulder, finding Sidney standing there, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. He always knows when you need a bit of reassurance. His presence is steadying, calming. You offer a small smile in return.
“Of course,” you reply, your voice low and even. “I’m ready for this.”
Sidney steps closer, leaning down slightly to meet your gaze. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone get into your head today, okay?”
You nod, feeling the confidence surge in your veins. “I won’t.”
But as you finish tying your laces and stand up, something—someone—catches your attention.
A skater from Russia, one of the top competitors, is gliding effortlessly across the ice, her movements so fluid and smooth they almost mock gravity. You've seen her before, heard the whispers about how she's one of the favorites. You wouldn't mind, except she locks eyes with you as she spins to a stop, her lips curling into a smirk that drips with arrogance.
“Aw, look who’s here,” she says, her accent heavy as she steps off the ice, making her way toward you. “I thought you’d be smarter than to show up here. You must love embarrassing yourself on the world stage.”
Your heart skips a beat as you register her words, your jaw clenching. For a second, it’s like a hot flame flickers in your chest, spreading through your veins. You know better than to engage—this is a mental game, and she’s trying to get into your head, to throw you off. But your temper simmers beneath the surface, threatening to bubble over.
You take a step forward, your fists balling at your sides as the blood rushes to your face. You're ready to fire something back, something sharp enough to cut through her smugness. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and the ice beneath your feet feels like it's shifting, unsteady, as your emotions rise.
“Excuse me?” you snap, your voice low and dangerous, but before you can take another step, a firm hand grips your arm.
It’s Sidney. He pulls you back, his expression calm but stern, as if he’s reading every thought running through your mind. “Let it go,” he mutters quietly, his voice steady, almost like a tether anchoring you to the moment.
You hesitate, your body still tense, the adrenaline begging for release. But when you meet his eyes, the storm in your chest calms just enough to bring you back to your senses. Sidney’s grip on your arm doesn’t loosen until you take a slow breath.
“She’s not worth it,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze flicking over to the other skater who watches with amusement, a mock pout on her lips. He’s right. She’s baiting you. And as much as you want to prove a point, this isn’t the time. Not now.
You let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to relax. “Fine,” you say, your voice cold as ice, but you turn away from the smirking skater, following Sidney’s lead.
As you walk toward the locker room, the adrenaline still courses through your veins, but Sidney's presence beside you keeps you grounded. His hand never leaves your arm until you’re far from the other skater’s gaze, and only then does he finally let go.
“You alright?” he asks, his voice softer now, his eyes searching yours for any sign of lingering anger.
You nod, but the fire in your chest hasn’t fully burned out. “I almost lost it back there.”
“I know.” Sidney sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She’s just trying to get in your head. Don’t give her that power.”
You nod again, taking in a deep breath and forcing your mind to focus. Sidney’s right, and you know it. You can’t let anyone throw you off your game today, especially not someone who’s already threatened by you. She’s scared—that’s why she said what she did. You can sense it now.
“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally feeling the confidence return. “Thanks for stopping me.”
Sidney smiles softly, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding. “Anytime. Now go out there and show them why you belong here.”
You feel the weight lift slightly from your shoulders, and as you head back toward the rink, you feel that calm determination return. The fire’s still there, but this time, it’s focused. You’re ready to skate, and nothing is going to stop you.
Not her. Not anyone.
And finally, the time has come.
You stand in the tunnel just before stepping onto the ice, your heart pounding steadily in your chest. Everything about the rink feels different now—the lights seem brighter, the air colder, the buzz of the crowd more intense. You close your eyes, centering yourself, taking in the familiar sounds of blades cutting into the ice and the faint murmur of the audience above.
This is it. This is your moment.
Your name is called, and a roar from the crowd erupts in response. You take a deep breath, feeling the chill of the ice underneath your skates as you glide onto the rink, your body moving with precision. Every inch of you is alive with purpose. It’s as if the weight of months of preparation, of early mornings and late nights, presses down on your shoulders. But you’re not buckling under it. You’re thriving. You can feel the tension in your muscles, that sharp edge of nervous energy, but you channel it into determination.
Before you take your starting position, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the rink, landing on her. The skater from Russia, poised against the barrier with a smug expression painted across her face, her arms crossed as she watches you. She’s one of the best—hell, you know that. But it’s the way she’s staring at you, like she’s already counted you out, that makes something snap inside you.
You meet her eyes, and for a heartbeat, neither of you look away. There’s a flicker of judgment there, a cruel glint in her eyes that says she doesn’t believe in you. But instead of breaking you, it ignites something fierce in your chest. The fire from earlier flares up, but this time, it’s controlled, burning with a steady, focused heat. If she thinks you're going to falter under her scrutiny, she’s dead wrong.
You shift your focus back to the ice, feeling your breathing steady. You let her condescending expression fuel you. Today, you’ll give her a performance so perfect, she’ll have no choice but to remember your name.
As the opening notes of your music fill the arena, you take off, your blades biting into the ice as you begin your routine. The crowd falls silent, all eyes on you. Every step, every turn, feels deliberate. It’s not just muscle memory—it’s instinct now. Your body knows this choreography so well it feels like second nature, and you trust it. You trust yourself.
The first jump comes quickly—a triple lutz, one of the hardest in your routine. You feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as you gather speed, launching yourself into the air. For a brief second, you feel weightless, suspended in time as your body rotates. Then, the satisfying click of your blades hitting the ice. Perfect. The crowd erupts in applause, but you barely hear it. You're already moving on, focusing on what comes next.
Your mind is sharp, clear, hyper-focused on the moment. You move through your footwork sequence with precision, your blades carving intricate patterns into the ice as you twist and turn, your arms fluid and graceful. Every muscle in your body works in perfect synchronization, and for once, the nerves don’t feel like a burden—they feel like power, like fuel that’s pushing you faster, sharper.
As you glide into your next combination jump, a triple toe loop-double axel, you catch a glimpse of her again—the Russian skater, still watching you, her expression unreadable now. You wonder if she’s realizing that you’re not the pushover she thought you were. The thought brings a smug satisfaction to your lips as you execute the combination flawlessly, the landings soft and controlled.
You're in the zone now, riding the high of perfecting every element, your body responding to every beat of the music, every shift in the ice beneath your skates. There’s nothing but you and the performance, the world beyond the rink fading away.
As the music swells to its climax, you launch into your final spin. You feel the wind rush past your face as you whip through the rotations, faster and faster, your arms outstretched in perfect balance. The crowd is on its feet, the roar of applause echoing in your ears, but you don’t stop until the very last note. You strike your final pose, your chest heaving, every nerve in your body alive with the energy of the moment.
For a beat, there’s silence. Then, the arena explodes into cheers, a standing ovation. You breathe hard, your chest rising and falling as you take it all in, a rush of pride swelling in your chest. You did it. You nailed it. Every move, every jump, every spin was flawless, and you know it.
As you glide off the ice, that familiar sense of calm washes over you, but there’s something else too—a spark of mischief. You pass by her—the Russian skater—standing near the boards, her gaze still locked on you. You can see the flicker of something behind her eyes now. Is it irritation? Jealousy? You don’t care. You savor the moment, letting it fuel your next move.
With a cheeky grin, you blow her a kiss as you skate past, your lips curling in satisfaction. It’s not subtle, and you make sure it’s clear who it’s for. The boldness of the gesture sends a jolt of thrill through you. It’s petty, it’s catty, but damn, it feels good. You don’t even have to look to know the smugness has drained from her face.
By the time you reach the kiss-and-cry area, Sidney is there, waiting, his grin wide and proud. “That was incredible,” he says, his voice low with admiration as you slip off your skates.
“I know,” you reply, your breath still catching up to the adrenaline coursing through your veins. You can’t help but throw another glance toward the Russian skater, who’s still staring after you, no longer smirking.
Sidney chuckles when he catches your look. “Did you really blow her a kiss?”
“Of course,” you say with a laugh, unbothered. “I mean, someone had to put her in her place.”
You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.
You sit down next to Sidney in the kiss-and-cry area, letting the coolness of the seat and the reality of the moment settle over you. Your chest is still heaving from the effort, but a euphoric calm is taking its place. The roar of the crowd lingers in your ears, a distant hum compared to the electric rush that’s been running through your veins since the moment your blades touched the ice.
Sidney leans closer, his arm resting casually on the back of your seat, his familiar presence comforting. “You were incredible out there,” he repeats, his eyes bright with pride. His grin, that cocky confidence that’s so quintessentially him, makes you feel a surge of warmth. There’s something grounding about having him here with you, someone who understands what it means to perform under pressure, to feel the weight of expectations, and to still rise above it.
“Thanks,” you manage, your voice breathless but light, and you meet his gaze, feeling a smile tug at your lips. “I felt it. Everything just… clicked.”
Sidney nods, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. “It showed. That last jump? Nailed it. And that spin? Pure magic.” His grin widens. “And the kiss at the end? Bold move. But hey, if anyone deserves to be a little petty, it’s you after that performance.”
You laugh, the tension from the performance finally starting to melt away. “You know, it wasn’t planned, but she just…” You glance back toward the other skater, who’s now talking to her coach with a tight expression on her face. The same smugness she wore earlier has evaporated. “…she pissed me off,” you finish, shaking your head. “I wasn’t gonna let her get in my head.”
Sidney gives you a knowing look, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “That’s the spirit. You didn’t just show her up—you owned the ice. She’ll be thinking about that kiss for a long time.”
You lean back in your seat, still riding the high of the moment. The judges are deliberating now, your scores coming up on the board any minute, but you’re not stressed about it. Not like you usually are. You already know you gave the performance of a lifetime, and no number they flash on the screen will take that away from you.
Still, as the numbers begin to appear, you hold your breath, your fingers nervously drumming on the armrest. Sidney glances up at the screen, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“Here we go,” he murmurs.
The scores start rolling in—technical, artistic, execution—and they’re good. Really good. The kind of scores that make your heart skip a beat, that tell you everything you need to know.
You’ve done it. You’ve not only secured a personal best, but you’ve set yourself up as a true contender for the top spot.
The arena erupts in applause once more as your final score flashes on the screen, and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, a mix of relief and joy. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, the weight of all your hard work crashing down on you. You feel Sidney’s hand slip into yours, a squeeze of congratulations, and you turn to him with a beaming smile.
“See?” he says, his voice thick with pride. “Told you.”
You shake your head in disbelief, glancing back at the ice, as if you need to see it again to believe it. “I knew I could do it, but… seeing it up there, hearing them cheer like that…” You trail off, emotions swirling in your chest.
Sidney doesn’t let you stay in that awe-struck moment for too long, though. He smirks and nudges your shoulder playfully. “So, what’s next? Gonna blow more kisses at the competition?”
You roll your eyes, but the grin stays plastered on your face. “Maybe I’ll save that for when I win gold.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ll have to up your game for that.”
“You think?” you tease, arching a brow.
He leans in, his voice low and teasing, “Maybe save a kiss for me when you do.”
His words send a warm flush up your neck, but you manage to keep your composure, glancing sideways at him. “Oh, you think you deserve one, huh?”
Sidney flashes you a grin, leaning back with that easy confidence. “If anyone’s getting a victory kiss, it should be me. I did keep you from tearing someone’s head off this morning.”
You laugh, unable to argue with him on that one. “You’ve got a point.”
Before you can say more, your coach approaches, eyes gleaming with pride, and you’re pulled into a round of congratulations. The victory, the adrenaline, the applause—it’s all so surreal. You’ve done it, and as you sit there, surrounded by your team, Sidney’s presence grounding you amidst the whirlwind of excitement, you realize just how far you’ve come.
But there’s something else. Something that lingers in your chest, stronger now than it’s ever been. This wasn’t just about proving yourself to the judges or the audience or that snide Russian skater who thought she could rattle you. No, this was about you. About finding the strength within yourself to push through, to rise above the doubts, the pressure, and the competition.
As the celebration continues around you, you find Sidney’s gaze once more. There’s a look in his eyes—something deeper, something that tells you he’s proud of more than just your performance. He’s proud of you.
And in that moment, with the weight of your accomplishment settling in, you know that this is only the beginning. There’s more to come—more competitions, more challenges—but right now, you’re ready for all of it.
You stand, pulling Sidney up with you, and before the moment can pass, you do something bold, something just for you. You lean in, pressing a soft, quick kiss to his cheek, the kind of kiss that says more than words ever could.
Sidney’s eyes widen in surprise, but his smile is immediate, warm. “Told you I’d get one,” he teases, though there’s a touch of tenderness in his tone.
You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t get used to it.”
But as the two of you walk away from the rink, the roar of the crowd still echoing in the background, you know deep down—this is only the beginning of something even bigger.
───
The energy in the locker room is a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline. Your teammates are sprawled out on benches, some still cooling down from their routines, while others are glued to their phones, checking social media and results. You’re still riding the high from your performance, your mind replaying every step, every leap, and that perfect kiss at the end—both of them, in fact.
"Hey, turn that up!" someone yells from the other side of the room.
The television, mounted high on the wall, is blaring Olympic coverage, and everyone’s heads swivel toward it. You don’t pay much attention at first, too busy lacing up your shoes and chugging water, but the buzz of your name from the TV catches your attention.
"And in a stunning turn of events, it seems like all eyes are on Y/N L/N today!" the announcer’s voice booms, and your head snaps up.
“Wait, is that about—”
“Yup,” your teammate grins, elbowing you in the ribs. "They’re talking about you."
The screen shows a slow-motion replay of your final move on the ice, your body twisted into that perfect final pose, followed by the triumphant blow of the kiss aimed squarely at that other skater. The commentators’ voices narrate over the footage, practically salivating over the drama of it all.
“It wasn’t just her skill that had the crowd roaring,” one of them says with a chuckle. “That was a statement, folks. The kiss at the end was dripping with attitude. It’s all anyone’s talking about. People are calling it the ‘kiss seen ’round the world’ already!”
“Not to mention, did you see who she was aiming that at?” the other commentator adds with a laugh. “That wasn’t just a kiss for the audience—that was personal. Our sources are buzzing with rumors about the tension between her and the Russian favorite, and this just confirmed it.”
“Definitely adding some heat to the competition. This is shaping up to be a rivalry for the ages.”
The camera cuts to the Russian skater, her expression still cool and composed, though there’s an undeniable tightness to her posture, a simmering frustration just below the surface. It’s clear to anyone watching that your little display got to her.
“Whooo! She’s probably seething,” one of your teammates laughs, tossing her head back. “You really got under her skin with that one.”
The room fills with laughter and playful jabs, your teammates leaning into the cattiness of the moment. You’re not one to shy away from a little drama when it’s warranted, but you can’t help but roll your eyes, pretending to be above it all—even though a small part of you secretly loves it.
"Yeah, yeah, it was a moment,” you say, waving them off with a smirk. “It’s not that serious.”
“Oh, come on,” another teammate pipes up, sitting across from you. “You know that was the most iconic thing to happen all day. The commentators are practically obsessed with you now.”
You grin, unable to help yourself, but then you hear it—the kiss. The real kiss.
"And speaking of kisses…" the commentator’s voice lowers conspiratorially, as if he’s about to deliver some juicy gossip. “We’ve got some footage from after the routine that’s definitely got people talking."
Your heart skips a beat. They couldn’t be talking about that kiss. The one you shared with Sidney, could they?
The camera cuts to footage of you walking off the ice and into the kiss-and-cry area, and sure enough, there it is, caught on film—the quick, playful peck you gave Sidney on the cheek. The kiss that felt so impulsive but so right, in the moment.
Your teammates erupt into laughter, their eyes wide with delight. “Ohhh, no way!” someone shouts. “They caught that!”
The commentator’s voice returns, sly and teasing. “Looks like our gold-medal hopeful isn’t just a fierce competitor on the ice—there’s clearly something going on off it as well. A little victory kiss for someone special?”
“Is that Sidney Crosby?” the other commentator jumps in, clearly trying to contain his excitement. “It is! I’m calling it now: the hottest couple of the Olympics.”
Your face flushes red, and your teammates lose it. The locker room turns into a frenzy of laughter, teasing, and playful shouts.
“Oh my God, you’re in the tabloids now!” one of them cackles, clutching her sides. “They’re going to eat this up!”
"Seriously, we should be charging people for front-row seats to this drama," another teammate jokes, tossing a water bottle at you.
You cover your face with your hands, trying not to let the embarrassment take over, but you can’t help the smile creeping across your lips. You knew this was coming—Sidney is a massive deal, and your relationship was bound to catch the media’s eye at some point—but having it aired like this, right after one of the most important performances of your life? It feels like a lot.
“That was a cheek kiss, people,” you say, voice muffled as you shake your head. “It’s not a big deal.”
"Sure, not a big deal at all," your teammate mimics in a high-pitched voice. “Just a cheek kiss with Sidney Crosby, no biggie.” She winks. "But seriously, you two are adorable."
You groan, sitting back and letting the playful teasing wash over you. It's all in good fun, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Sidney. The way his cheek had felt warm against your lips, the way he’d smiled at you like you were the only person in the room. The commentators could speculate all they wanted—only you and Sidney knew what was really going on.
“Well,” one of your teammates says, pointing at the screen, “whether you like it or not, the world’s got its new favorite Olympic couple. You’re officially a thing.”
You raise an eyebrow, your lips quirking into a smirk. "Guess that means I’ll have to win gold now, doesn’t it?"
The room bursts into cheers and whoops, and even though you’re still a little embarrassed, you can't deny the spark of pride warming your chest. You may not have asked for the attention, but if people were talking about you, it was because of your performance. The kiss—both kisses—were just the icing on the cake.
As the chatter dies down and your teammates go back to their phones and conversations, you glance at the screen one more time. Your face is still up there, smiling, skating, kissing. The cameras are still following you, and now the world is watching your every move.
And somewhere in the crowd, watching all of this unfold, is Sidney. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, whether he’s amused by all the media buzz or quietly rooting for you to rise above the chaos, like he always does.
───
A couple of weeks have flown by, and life feels like a whirlwind. The days blur into each other, each one filled with intense training, interviews, and media attention, but you’re thriving in it. You’ve hit your stride—the moment where everything just clicks. The routines you’ve practiced for years feel effortless, like second nature, and every time you step on the ice, the crowd roars just a little louder.
You’ve gone from being an underdog to the one everyone’s talking about—the name on every commentator's lips. They’re calling you a "generational talent" now, comparing you to the legends of the sport. It’s surreal.
At every competition, you push yourself further. Your performances are more than just technical mastery—they’re performances, filled with personality, elegance, and a certain kind of fire that no one else has. The crowd can feel it. So can the judges. Your scores reflect that, each one higher than the last, inching closer to the perfect mark.
But the real magic is in how you’ve taken control of the narrative. It’s not just about your skating anymore; it’s about you. The girl who sent shockwaves through the arena with a playful kiss, the figure skater who got her get back. You're unstoppable right now.
The media follows your every move, dissecting each routine, each interview, each glimpse of you with Sidney. They’ve dubbed you "The Queen of Ice"—a title that feels daunting but fitting. You’re skating with a newfound confidence, and your momentum is undeniable. It’s almost like you’re skating for something bigger now, fueled by the pressure and expectation, but instead of letting it weigh you down, you thrive under it.
On top of that, the Canadian hockey team is doing just as well, if not better. Sidney and his teammates are on a tear through the tournament, steamrolling the competition with a precision and intensity that’s impossible to ignore. The headlines are full of glowing reports about how the team is clicking, playing like a well-oiled machine, and Sidney’s name is front and center. Every game, he’s putting on a clinic, and just like you, people are starting to use the word legendary.
It’s crazy to think about how things have shifted so quickly. Not long ago, you were just hoping to make an impact, and now you and Sidney are always in the headlines, dominating in your respective fields. The media plays it up, of course—every now and then you catch an article about "Olympic royalty" or some speculative piece about your friendship-relationship-rivalry (you're not sure what it is, anymore), but you’ve learned to tune it out.
Still, it’s hard not to feel proud when you see your name in another headline. It’s not just about the gossip or the hype—it’s about what you’re doing. You’re succeeding at the highest levels of your sport and you’ve worked your whole lives for this moment, and now, you’re in it. Living it.
You’re in the Olympic Village after practice, sitting with your teammates in the common area, watching the latest round of highlights on TV. The hockey team had just demolished their last opponent, and the commentators are practically swooning over the way Sidney’s been playing.
"Another incredible game from Crosby," one announcer says, his voice full of admiration. "The guy is playing out of his mind. He’s always been good, but this? This is something else."
“Yeah,” another commentator adds, shaking his head in disbelief. “If he keeps this up, there’s no doubt they’ll be in the finals. And honestly? I don’t see anyone beating them.”
One of your teammates nudges you, grinning. “You hear that? Your boy is killing it out there.”
You laugh, shaking your head as you felt a flush rise in your cheeks. “He's not my boy, shut up.”
Your teammate just laughs and shrugs, looking back up at the TV.
The screen cuts to a highlight reel of you from the most recent competition, and the room quiets as everyone watches. The slow-motion shots of you mid-jump, your spins and edges so crisp and precise, make it look almost effortless.
“Look at that,” the commentator gushes. “She’s redefining what’s possible on the ice. It’s not just about her technical skill—it’s the way she connects with the audience. She’s performing at a level we haven’t seen in years. You can see it in the way she moves—the confidence, the passion. She knows she’s the best right now, and she’s skating like it.”
Your teammates break out into cheers, some of them even clapping. You hide your face in your hands, half-embarrassed, half-proud.
“Okay, okay, calm down,” you say, laughing. “It’s just one performance.”
One of your teammates smirks. “Nah, sweetheart, you’ve had like ten of those just one performances. Own it.”
You lean back, still smiling, but your mind wanders for a second. All the attention, all the pressure—it’s a lot. But then you think about Sidney, how he handles everything with such grace and focus. You’ve watched him lead his team to victory after victory, never letting the noise get to him. It’s inspiring. And it makes you want to keep pushing yourself, to live up to that same standard.
As the hockey highlights come to an end, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at it, and your heart skips a beat when you see Sidney’s name.
Sidney: Saw the kiss thing on TV again. Apparently we’re the new "it couple."
You can’t help but smile. You ignore the weird butterflies that begin forming in your stomach—it's just Sidney.
You: Oh, so now you’re famous because of me, huh?
Sidney: Obviously. Also, everyone’s calling you the GOAT now. When are you going to start teaching me how to skate?
You: I’m already teaching you how to win.
There’s a pause before his next text, and you can practically hear him laughing through the screen.
Sidney: Touché. But seriously—you’re killing it. Proud of you.
You stare at the screen, his words sinking in. It’s such a simple message, but coming from him, it means the world.
You: Right back at you.
You tuck your phone away, feeling a quiet surge of giddiness. You glance at your teammates, looking at you almost expectantly—you immediately regret it.
“Oh, shut up!”
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jordiemeow ¡ 2 months ago
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summary: when anakin gets denied the rank of master, he's overwrought with tension. no better way to deal with it than sneaking out to visit his favourite girl at his favourite brothel on the lower levels of coruscant.
warnings: smut 18+, face-sitting, mild sub!anakin, reader is a prostitute, brief comfort ending in f!receiving oral, anakin is a giver!! cathartic head-giving
notes: in honour of may the fourth! need to remake my taglist for specific fandoms so not tagging anyone here. not my usual audience so if this flops idc but anakin has been on my mind a lot recently (when is he not). anyways happy star wars day :)
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"It's... it's a joke, is what it is. And he didn't stick up for me. Not once. What an excuse for a mentor if he's just going to—"
You're not listening at this point. Head tilted, lips slick with red paint, body on display. It's a shame the sheer two-piece is going to waste on a Jedi rambling on about how betrayed he feels by the Order. It's also terribly hard to listen to said 'betrayal' when his robes and tunic have been shrugged off to leave him in just his pants, defined muscles rippling under the dim light of your private room.
Something about feeling too restricted. You'd laughed and said the removal of clothes was pretty typical in this establishment, but your attempts at levity proved futile. Fast forward to now...
"—And don't even get me started on Master Windu." (You weren't going to.) "How can he look me in the eyes and tell me that? Like I don't deserve it for all the work I've done for them. Risked my lives countless times. Saved millions—no, dare I say billions—and this is the thanks I get!"
Billions? You aren't so sure about that. You keep the comment to yourself—maybe he's right. You don't ask him for information; it's always willingly passed on. He could be the most decorated Jedi in the Order after this war and you would be none the wiser.
He paces back and forth restlessly, hands tightened into fits and jaw taut with tension. You'd almost be a little frightened if most of your visits from him didn't start with some sort of temper tantrum. All this just for you to soothe him into bed and make him forget.
"Ridiculous," he spits as you watch on plaintively. It's like spectating a meltdown, you can't help but think. You're surprised he hasn't thrown something yet. Destruction is always a symptom of his annoyance. You wonder briefly if his room back at the Temple is in disarray. "And then Obi-Wan has the audacity to ask me to—"
You cross the room to reach him just in time to stop him from saying something he absolutely should not be telling a prostitute. You know half the Jedi Order's secrets by now from his visits. A hand rests upon his left arm, the one made of human flesh. Gentle, tentative, like you're trying not to scare off a frightened animal. He almost jerks it back, but his eyes soften when you speak.
"Ani," you croon gently. The nickname makes the tension in his shoulders ease. "Just come to bed. You're getting yourself all worked up."
He sighs. He knows you're right. But he's stubborn on a good day, and today is not one of those.
"You don't understand. They're treating me like I'm less than them just because the Chancellor recommended me. Like I haven't done everything to prove I'm more than just a Knight before he got involved."
"You aren't less than them just because they go around calling themselves Masters. A lot of men in here do that, you know. Makes them feel powerful. If it makes you feel better, I could call you that."
He rolls his eyes. Fond. Amused. "That doesn't really count."
"No, I suppose not," you smile. The kind with your eyes that crinkles softly. The kind that always makes him wonder whether you're actually being authentic. Sometimes he forgets you're human under all the sequins and smoke, when you strut around the room like you're one of the suns and everyone else is in orbit.
You seem like you genuinely want to put him at ease right now, even with all your playful little jabs. It makes him sigh, shoulders slumping as his hand finds your waist.
"You're good at this, you know," he murmurs.
"And you're good at being a Jedi hero," you counter, gently urging him back towards the bed. "But enough moping. I'm not wasting this outfit on you if you think your credits are going towards therapy."
He laughs as the back of his legs hit the bed, letting himself fall. He props himself up on his elbows to watch you trail a tantalising finger down your chest, through the valley of your breasts. It's enough to make any man's throat go dry. Especially a Jedi who's only form of action is the rare occasions he can sneak away to see you.
"No? What are they going towards, then?"
"Depends. Whaddya want tonight?" You ask playfully, tugging at the alarmingly thin strap between the two cups barely concealing your tits. His eyes are drawn to them, watching the way the fat spills out of the satin, the red material a stark contrast to your skin.
He swallows thickly.
"Eyes up here, big shot."
His blue eyes flick up to your own, a little sheepish. This is the part where he has you sprawl out beneath him for his perusal. But instead, he says:
"I just want to feel good at something. Make you feel good."
It surprises you a little, your hand faltering where it's been idly exploring your cleavage. You recover quickly enough that he doesn't comment on your blunder. "You always make me feel good."
"That's a practiced answer," he accuses.
"Practiced but true in your case."
"Fine. But I mean it. I could use the ego boost."
"But—"
"Who's the paying customer?" Anakin interjects.
"You aren't making me feel very good by smart-mouthing me, you know."
He ignores your faux-admonishment. "So you'll let me?"
It's not as if you're opposed to it. Not in the slightest. It's just surprising.
"I'd let you do anything. You know I would."
A shadow of a grin crosses his face, before his braced elbows fall and he lays down. Dark hair spread across your pillows, fanning out in messy curls against the satin.
"Ride my face."
He says it so earnestly you almost laugh. Sometimes you forget how young he is. Nothing like the old timers who come in here looking for a quick fuck with no regards for anything but their own dicks.
"Are you sure? We've never done that before."
"You're not the only girl I've been with," he counters. It's almost enough to make your chest twinge with jealousy—you know he's seen other girls here. When you're busy, or before you became his favourite. You're a professional, though. Don't let it show.
"Okay," you relent. You can't help but be spiteful, though. Panties dragging agonisingly down your thighs while he watches through half-lidded eyes as the fabric inches lower, lower, lower...
Eventually they pool around your ankles, and you step out of them. The bra (a generous term for such a skimpy piece of fabric) follows as you move to straddle him.
"Higher," he says, hands finding your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his body. The contrast between cool metal and a warm palm on each leg makes you shudder.
You whack a hand gently. "Patient. Thought you wanted to be good?"
He bites back a groan, his hands stilling. They still rest on the plush flesh of your thighs, but he isn't tugging insistently at your limbs to get you where he wants you. You continue with your torturous pace, moving up his body. The slick of your cunt drags across his bare abs, and a sharp breath escapes him.
The friction is enough to have you sigh softly as you ease upwards. You take your time teasing his nipples until he's tensing underneath you, back arched up off the mattress and fingers curling into your skin.
"I didn't think this would make you so much of a tease," he says breathlessly.
"Isn't this what you wanted?" Your eyelashes bat innocently at him. "This is what gets me off. You're being useful."
He gives you an unimpressed look for your faux-naĂŻf, but he keeps his mouth shut. You're so close that he doesn't want to goad you into holding back any longer. And he's rewarded for his patience when you give a little pat to his pecs, and finally move to hover over his face.
He looks like an undercity kid who's seen the surface for the first time. Eager blue eyes, mouth salivating at the sight of your dripping cunt above him. It's hard to find the restraint to not dive in and bury his nose in your folds. Just the smell almost has his eyes rolling back.
"Please," he murmurs. Breathy and whiny, like a young man begging for a drop of salvation, not the famed 'Hero with No Fear' breaking his Code to spend the night in a pleasure house. "C'mon. Just let me. Oh, please, I need it—"
You sink down onto his mouth before he can finish his sentence. He moans into your heat, tongue flicking out to drink up whatever has already spilled from you. There's nothing tentative about it—it's like he's devoting everything into worshipping you with his mouth. Gone are the thoughts of his Master and the rest of the Council denying him. All he can comprehend is your sweet mewls as you sit atop his face.
His chin is soaked with the fluids of your pleasure, nose nudging your clit each time you roll your hips against his face. It's instinctive and you hardly mean to do it, but he grips your hips and guides you to grind against his eager mouth.
"Oh, Ani," you moan softly. "Just like that. Mhm."
It's enough encouragement for him to keep working. Dutifully strokes of his tongue, switching between nuzzling between your slick folds and sucking at your clit. Cheeks hollowed out and applying suction as you brace a hand against the headboard, the other nestled into his soft curls.
Your thighs tremble on each side of his head, toes curling into the sheets every time he flicks eagerly at the bud. Hips rocking upwards against the air in search of friction he physically cannot receive right now, cock hard and leaking in the confines of his pants. His erection is almost painful, but he wasn’t lying when he said he wanted to be good for something.
"You'd do wonders in here, you know,” you manage through a groan. “If you're looking to become a— oh, fuckkkk—different kind of master. Very skilled mouth."
His laugh vibrates against your dripping cunt. "Tempting, if I get to work in such close quarters with you."
"Mhm, maybe. Perhaps we could become a bit of a duo. They pay extra for that, you know. And the tips are great. You should really— oh!"
His teeth graze against that sensitive spot that has your eyes rolling back. "I didn't come here for a new career. Just let me make you feel good, please?"
All you can manage is a hum of agreement with the way he's redoubled his efforts. Tongue flattened against the roll of your hips, obediently letting you use his wet mouth to chase your own pleasure. The feeling of your sopping cunt grinding against his face chases anything but you from his mind.
The pleasure grows almost blinding. "Fuck, close," you gasp out, tugging lightly on his hair.
It earns a pleased moan into your heat. "Please. Wanna feel it," he mumbles, a rumble into you in between licks of his tongue. He doesn't think he's ever tasted anything sweeter.
A few more carefully placed laps and your thighs tense. One of your hands moves to cup your breast as you ride through your orgasm, release spilling over his awaiting mouth. He welcomes it all eagerly, working you through it as his name falls off your tongue again and again.
When you roll off of him, you're both short of breath. Neither of you bother to wipe the smear of your slick off his chin as you sink down next to him. One glance to the chronometer on the wall tells you he's spent most of his time worshipping your pussy rather than chasing his own pleasure. Another glance, this time to him, makes it very clear he isn't bothered by that in the slightest.
Oh, well. You still have a few more minutes for him to smother you in affection unbefitting of two people from your stations in life.
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It’s quiet after that. Light, fleeting touches as you catch your breaths.
Aftercare with him is the best part, you think. When all the tension is released and he's all lazy, boyish smiles as he runs his hands absently up and down your bare arm. Soft kisses placed to your shoulders, an apologetic brush of his lips against any splotchy bruises left by the men and women before him. Most patrons are always right out the door, but Anakin...
Well, he likes to check in. Make sure you're okay. Have a bit of banter.
"Was I too much? Was that alright?"
You smile. A silly question, given you were calling most of the shots when you were actually on top of him. You answer anyways.
"No. No, you were perfect," you tell him softly, pushing a sweaty brown curl off of his forehead.
His brow pinches like he doesn't believe you. Not about the too much part. The perfect part. "But I—"
"Ani," you cut him off. The nickname makes him melt back into the sheets. More docile, relaxed. "You are perfect. Those Jedis all have sticks up their asses if they can't see you deserve to sit around their silly little table, or whatever it is they do up in their fancy pants Council Room."
He sighs. A beat of silence.
"... Lightsabers," he corrects.
You blink stupidly. "What?"
"They have lightsabers stuck up their asses."
There's the Anakin you know. You snort softly, bracing your forearm on top of his chest to peer down at him. "I'm pretty sure that'd burn them inside out."
"Maybe they deserve it," he fires back. Something about the way he says it makes you think he's not entirely joking. But you laugh anyways, head shaking softly.
"Maybe they do," you agree, ducking down to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Anyways, you best get going. I have to clean up before the next one comes in."
"Do I have to?" He groans. "Just cancel. Tell them you're sick."
"She's a regular. Unfortunately, you have to go face reality." You sit up, patting his chest. "Go be a big, brave Jedi for me, yeah?"
Anakin rolls his eyes, but he obliges reluctantly, even if he makes a big show of sighing loudly and dragging himself sluggishly out of the soiled sheets in search of his discarded robes.
If tonight has shown you one thing, it's that he probably shouldn't be a Jedi Master after all the rules he's broken in one evening alone. But you don't tell him that. You make your coin out of sleeping with sleazebags from all over the Galaxy in the Coruscant Underworld, after all.
Who are you to judge?
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steddie-as-they-come ¡ 1 year ago
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everybody talks
i could not tell you what this is. i wrote it all in one sitting. enjoy or whatever
It starts with the graffiti.
Scribbled in thick, permanent marker across the boys' gym lockers.
STEVE HARRINGTON FUCKS EDDIE MUNSON
The custodian tries half-heartedly to scrub it off, but he only manages to get about a letter and a half off the locker before his shift is over. It's back up by the next day anyway.
Half the school is walking on tiptoes around Steve, waiting for him to blow up and demand a manhunt for the culprit.
The other half is snickering and laughing as he walks by in the halls.
Steve doesn't give two shits. He holds his head up high and walks onwards, ignoring the laughs and the kissy noises. He needs to graduate. He needs to not get eaten by a terrifying monster from an alternate reality. More pressing things happen to Steve Harrington than grade school graffiti.
Until he turns the corner and sees Eddie Munson glaring furiously at his closed locker.
He doesn't speak to him. Even if the graffiti isn't a big deal, there's no need to add any fuel to the fire.
Eddie finally steps forward and wrenches open his locker door. The crowd milling in the halls begins to laugh.
Papers spill out, dozens of them, cascading over the floor and burying Eddie's shoes. One slides all the way to Steve's feet.
He looks down automatically.
There's an atrocious drawing of two stick figures bent over each other. The one on the bottom has two lines of curly hair, while the one on the top has a singular swooping line of graphite.
Great.
Steve swiftly scoops it up and crumples it in his fist, shoving it in his pocket. He'll toss it out later.
As he hustles past Eddie, steadfastly not looking in his direction, he thinks he hears Eddie mutter, "Every class period."
Steve turns a corner, and the train wreck that is Eddie's locker is gone.
He slides into his seat, knowing the band girls who sit in the back corner of the classroom are whispering about him, but finding he couldn't care less.
The teacher starts class.
He reaches into his pocket and slides the crumpled paper between his fingers, over and over.
Steve raises his hand. "Can I go to the bathroom?"
The teacher nods and waves him away, and Steve scrambles out the door, rounding the corner.
Eddie's still there, kneeling by his locker, trying to scoop up papers.
Steve kneels next to him. "Hey."
Eddie jumps like an alley cat that's been spooked. Steve could swear his hair starts bristling, puffing up.
"Your majesty," Eddie finally says, glaring back at the pile of paper like Steve'll disappear if he doesn't look at him. "To what do I owe the pleasure."
It's not really a question.
Steve answers it anyway. "Came to help," he says simply, picking up a piece of paper that has EDDIE MUNSON X STEVE HARRINGTON written on it in bold letters, surrounded by stupid little hearts. "After all, my name's on half this stuff."
"How kind," Eddie said. "Keeping me distracted while your buddies key my van or something?"
Steve reels back. "Huh?"
"I'm not dumb, Harrington," Eddie says, crumpling up another sheet of paper. Steve can barely catch EDDIE HARRINGTON on it before it's balled in Eddie's fist. "I get this is a prank or whatever. I just can't understand why you'd involve yourself with me. The King and the Freak."
"'Cause I'm not the King anymore." Steve says, standing to drag a nearby garbage can closer. It's already half-full of papers. "You sure don't listen to gossip, Munson. Billy beat my ass and I lost every friend I had. So. I think it's a prank on both of us."
"Oh."
Eddie, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, shuts the fuck up. Steve had seen people lose their meals to his impassioned school cafeteria rants, but it only takes Steve Harrington to shut Munson's infamous mouth.
Wait, that sounds wrong.
They keep cleaning in silence - relatively. Steve starts balling up the papers and tossing them at the trash can, unable to stop himself from hissing out a yes! if he makes the throw.
"Impressive," Eddie says dryly. "Can you do this?" He raises one hand in the air like he's about to take a pledge, and in the other he folds and rolls a slip of paper until it's shaped like a joint.
Steve chuckles. "Nope." He takes the fake joint, and it comes undone in his palm, revealing the same crude stick figure couple from earlier.
Right.
Steve had forgotten what they were doing here.
Evidently, Eddie had too. He looks down at the drawing, then snatches the paper from Steve, tossing it in the trash, two spots of pink high on his cheeks.
He scoops the last of the papers into his arms, dumping them in the trash can. "You can go back to class," he tells Steve, settling down with his back against the locker.
"What are you doing?" Steve says, slightly caught off-guard by the dismissal.
"Seeing if those pricks will try to do it again." Eddie says, folding his knees up to his chest. "They do it all the time. I think there's a jungle's worth of trees just being used to make shit for my locker."
"You're just gonna guard it?" Steve asks.
"Sure," Eddie says, picking at a piece of lint on his shirt. "What else have I got to do?"
Steve plops himself down next to Eddie. "I'll guard with you," he says stubbornly.
"Seriously?" Eddie asks, like Steve's particularly slow. Steve's gotten that tone of voice a lot in his life.
"Yeah." Steve says. He parrots, "What else have I got to do?"
"You're just gonna fuel the rumors, dude." Eddie says. "My name's mud around here. You know that damn well."
"Sure," Steve shrugs. "But it hasn't been half-bad hanging out with you, and I don't care what these jackasses think of me anymore. Bigger things to worry about."
They settle into a comfortable silence, watching the students pass by, their whispered comments and curious glances bouncing off the duo. Eddie taps his fingers rhythmically on the ground, humming a tune Steve doesn't recognize but finds oddly comforting.
He reaches into his pocket to feel the small paper, then tugs it out. Is it dumb that a stupid drawing is making him think about himself this much?
"Hey, Eddie," Steve starts, hesitating. "Can I ask you something?"
"Shoot," Eddie says idly.
"How do you... I mean, when did you know you were gay?" Steve asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Eddie's expression turns to one of suspicion, but he answers anyway. "I guess I always knew, deep down. But I really figured it out in middle school." He looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye. "Why?"
Steve bites his lip, considering his next words carefully. "I think I might be... different too. I mean, I've only ever dated girls, but lately, I don't know. I feel... something."
Something means he worried for weeks when Billy beat the shit out of him because suddenly all these feelings were tugging at his brain. Feelings for people like Eddie Munson.
Eddie's eyes widen slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. (What? Steve's not looking at his lips. Huh?) "Steve Harrington, the former King of Hawkins High, might not be straight? Now that's some gossip I'd actually pay attention to."
"Shut up," Steve mutters, but he's smiling too. "I'm serious."
"Well..." Eddie trails off. "We can try it out?"
Steve's heart skips a beat. "Huh?"
"We can try it out." Eddie repeats. "But, uh," he leans close, his breath ghosting over the shell of Steve's ear. "Just so you know, I prefer to be the one on top."
Weeks later, the school is overtaken by a new kind of graffiti. Papers plastered to every surface, a spiky handwriting (usually used to write setlists and D&D character sheets) adorning each and every one of them.
EDDIE MUNSON FUCKS STEVE HARRINGTON
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docrobinavitch ¡ 2 months ago
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say goodbye like you mean it | part four
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dr. robby x f!charge nurse!oc content: 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, detailed descriptions of domestic violence, there is a gun involved in a scene but it doesn't go off, swearing, usual canon medical events, vague age gap (oc mid to late thirties) words: 7.9k PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE synopsis: gwen is confronted with the ghosts of her past and robby desperately wants to help her through it, but in the process ends up pushing her away. a/n: hellooooo there (: thank you all for following robby and gwen to the end. this is the last part! i had so so much fun! i hope you all like the finale. thank you again for all the support on the previous parts, it really means so much to me!! i'll probably turn my attention to one shot/reader fics for the forseeable future, unless some other idea really grabs me. feel free to send requests. ok!! well can't believe i'm saying goodbye to our gwendolyn. love her dearly. i hope she sticks with you all the way she has with me.
It had been a terrible shift. They had started the morning coding a 7 year old who had been in a car accident. Gwen wasn’t normally superstitious, but it had been true for as long as she had worked in the ER that if the shift started with a mortality, there was no saving the day. If a kid was lost first thing in the morning, she thought it was destined to be somewhere in the top five worst shifts of all time.
On top of that, they were slammed. Even more so than usual. There were too many beds in the hallways and the waiting room was standing room only for the entire shift. It was Gwen that day who had gotten snippy with Gloria when she came downstairs and Robby who had had to intervene and send Gwen out for a break to keep her from losing her job.
In order to not fall apart, to stop seeing that poor battered and bruised dead seven year old, Gwen had allowed her rage to fuel her the whole shift. She had broken up a few fights that day, mostly just to have an excuse to shout at someone. But it was the man at the end of the shift that had shouted at Princess that caused her to absolutely lose any semblance of cool she had left.
“Sir, back up. Now.” Gwen said loudly over his shouting, stepping between him and Princess. The man was speaking a mix of English and another language she couldn’t identify. She didn’t quite know what he was saying, but it was clear from the look on Princess’s face that she knew. And it wasn’t good.
The man didn’t back off, so Gwen shouted louder, taking a step towards him, hoping he’d take the hint and match her step back. But he stayed where he was, now directing his vitriol Gwen’s way.
“Sir, if you don’t back off right now, I will have security remove you from the premises. Your choice.”
He stopped his yelling and for a moment and Gwen thought she’d won. But then he curled his lip, “Fucking cunt.” He spat and then shoved her, hard.
Gwen’s head ricocheted off the wall behind her from the force of the shove and she lost her balance, sliding to the floor. There was shouting around her, from the man, and the other nurses around, and then security.
She was dazed from the blow to the head, so she wasn’t sure how long it was before Robby was kneeling in front of her, gentle, warm hands on her face and a bright light shining in her eyes.
“…Can you hear me, Gwen?”
She went to nod, but it immediately made her feel dizzy, “Yes,” She managed.
“You need a head CT.”
Gwen closed her eyes, “If you just let me sit here for five minutes, I’ll be fine.”
He laughed, “You really think that’ll work on me?”
“Considering the fact that your ER will probably be in shambles the second I leave the floor, yeah, I hoped it would.”
“We’re already in shambles,” He helped her up and onto a gurney, his hand lingering on her thigh, “It can’t possibly be any worse than it already is. Princess will take over as charge.”
Gwen closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the gurney, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“Are you okay? Besides the obvious?” She heard Robby say softly into her ear.
She wasn’t. She was so far from okay and had been far from it all week, not just this shift. Tomorrow was her and James’s anniversary. The last couple of years, it had been tough to get through without being bombarded by memories, both good and bad. But she hadn’t been working, then.
Gwen had thought being back at work would make it easier. She’d be too preoccupied to think about it. But it just made everything worse because it had been in a hospital that most of their relationship had flourished. She saw him in every EKG ordered and every STEMI that rolled through. 
They had been dating exclusively for a few months now so Robby knew her well enough to know something was bothering her, but he was hoping she would bring it up herself. She hadn’t thus far, and it was beginning to scare him. He was finally beginning to understand why refusing to communicate your emotions could threaten to destroy a relationship.
“I’m fine.” Gwen said.
Robby stared at her for a moment longer, his heart sinking, but he only nodded, “Mateo, could you escort her up to CT please?”
About an hour later, Robby found Gwen still in her gurney on the imaging floor, texting Princess about where to move patients in order to clear more beds before the night shift came in.
“Head CT came back clean, time to go home.”
“I could have told you that.” Gwen said, putting her phone down and swinging her legs over the side.
“Better safe than sorry.” Robby said quietly. Gwen said nothing to that. “I sent the police up here, did you talk to them?”
“Yes,” She said and began walking past him, “I told them I didn’t want to press charges.”
“You what?” Robby asked incredulously.
Gwen sighed, “Please don’t get all righteous on me, I’m not in the mood. Assaulting a healthcare worker is a felony, it seemed extreme.”
Robby scoffed, “It’s extreme for a reason, Gwen. If he pushed you any harder you could have a brain bleed or a skull fracture.”
She nodded, “But I’m fine, so.”
He stared at her as she got her things together, “Do you not care about your wellbeing or safety, is that it?”
Gwen headed for the stairwell, Robby close behind her, “You’re being very dramatic about this for no reason. I’m fine.”
Robby sidestepped her and planted himself in front of her, a step down, so they were eye level, “You’re doing the same thing now that you did in Manhattan, you’re running away instead of facing it—“
She flinched as if he had hit her, but he couldn’t regret it. He was pushing too hard, he knew, but he didn’t know how else to get through to her. To get her to admit something was wrong, whatever it was. He had his suspicions it had something to do with James. She had been more on guard recently. Jumping at the sound of the door or the drop of a pan. She was tense beneath his fingers, until her body seemed to register it was only Robby. 
“This has nothing to do with him.” Gwen ground out, but she flushed as she said it. 
“That’s not true,” He shook his head, “I mean, Christ, he nearly killed you and you let him walk away. Then you get assaulted by a stranger and you let that slide too, and why wouldn’t you? You’ve already set the precedent that you think your life meaningless—“
“Stop.”
“—What would someone have to do to get you to hold them accountable? Or will you just keep running until someone puts you six feet under?”
Gwen’s eyes shone with unshed tears and she looked down at her sneakers. Too far. She was dangling off a cliff and he had crushed her fingers beneath his foot. She was free falling, with nowhere safe to land.
“I think we should spend the night apart.” She said finally.
She kept her head down and heard him sigh deeply, “Pushing me away won’t make it disappear.”
Gwen stepped around him and started descending the stairs, “You have no idea what it’s like to fear for your life every second of every day. Do not talk down to me and act all holier than thou because you think you would’ve made a better decision. I did what I thought was best.”
“You did the thing that scared you the least.”
She almost laughed at his cruelty, tears clung to her eyelashes. Choking back a sob, she pushed open the stairwell door at ground level, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael.”
***
Robby had tried calling her a few times the previous night, but she had let them all go to voicemail. He had only left a message once, implying that he was sorry he pushed her so hard, but that he still thought she should press charges. He went on to say that he would go with her to the police station if she changed her mind.
Gwen had been pretty certain that she was in love with Robby before this argument, but now she knew it for certain. Otherwise, it all wouldn’t have hurt so badly, knowing that he believed her a coward. And sure, she had the same thoughts about herself occasionally, but it hurt more to hear it from him.
She thought about calling him on her walk to work that morning, or stopping by his apartment. She longed to see him, to be folded into his arms, to be reassured that everything was okay. But he would want to talk it through. And she didn’t want that.
This week and this day especially were already hard enough. If she had to talk more about him, about all the ways she hadn’t been good enough at the end, the scars that still festered in his absence, she would fall apart completely.
It had been more than two years now since the last time she saw James. But that didn’t stop her from seeing him everywhere. Anytime she saw a doctor with thick dark curls from the back, her heart rate would pick up until she could see their face. It was the same in public, except she’d look for a baseball cap instead.
This morning, she walked her usual path to the hospital, through the park. She mulled over her argument with Robby in her head, thought about what she would say to him when she saw him. Probably nothing. It would be easier that way. Maybe if she ignored it long enough, they could pretend it never happened.
She was thinking about this as she crossed the street in front of the hospital, and how she was being childish, when she saw him. He was unmistakable. Dark brown curls peeking out from a Mets baseball cap she had bought him years ago, and in the middle of the street she stopped cold.
She vaguely heard a car slamming on their brakes. The horn pulled her out of her reverie finally, and she turned around.
“Shit, sorry!” She yelled at the car and then doubled back the way she came, back to the park.
Gwen turned back towards the emergency room long enough to see James walk through the doors she walked through every single day.
Her heart raced and her brain was going a hundred miles an hour. Why was he here? Today of all days? Surely it couldn’t be coincidence. He must’ve found out she worked here. He couldn’t stand the thought of her moving on and so had to come and ruin it all. She couldn’t breathe and she found she couldn’t bring her feet to move towards the ER.
She took a step back and hated herself for it, tears burning the backs of her eyes.
Robby had been right, she thought to herself, turning to walk back to her apartment. She was a coward.
***
When Robby walked into the ER that morning, he did a double take at the hub when he saw Gwen wasn’t there. He checked his watch and indeed it was 6:58 AM. Gwen was always here at 6:45 AM the latest. She liked to make rounds with the night shift nurses before everyone else came in so she could get the board in order before the day shift trickled in. It was possible she was running late, but he had never known her to be in the six months she’d been running the ER.  
She hadn’t answered his calls last night, but he was certain she was just taking some space. He didn’t think she would abandon a shift just to avoid him.
“Princess, have you seen Gwen?”
She shook her head, “I don’t think she’s here yet.”
Robby nodded, though his mind was already rapidly extracting worst case scenarios. Maybe she was hit by a bus on her walk in. Perhaps she was mugged. Or she had finally tripped over that loose step on her apartment stairs that he’d been begging her to let him fix for months.
“I already told my landlord, why should you have to do it? This is why I pay rent!”
“Is sticking it to your landlord really worth the risk of breaking your neck every time you take the stairs?”
She had pretended to contemplate, and then grinned, “Yes.”
Though there was a small part of him that worried, he knew realistically she was just late so digging his phone out of his pocket, he dialed her number.
It rang for about thirty seconds and then went to voicemail. Well, was she still giving him the silent treatment or was something really wrong? He sighed and hung up, typing a quick message: Everything ok?
The message delivered. He waited another few seconds to see if she’d start typing, but nothing.
“Fuck.” He looked back up at the ER, the patients, the nurses, his residents and med students that were starting to trickle in. Abbot was still around with a patient.
Robby had grown so accustomed to Gwen being here, to leaning on her for support, he was afraid of who he’d be here without her.
It scared him, the way she’d enmeshed herself so deeply into his life, he could no longer imagine it without her in it.
Sighing, he turned back to Princess, “If she’s not here in ten minutes could you please call her again? And if she doesn’t pick up try and see if you can get Dana here?”
When Princess nodded, he began walking around the ER and gathering his residents and students for rounds.
Just as he was beginning them though, he heard a commotion in the waiting room.
He put up a finger to quiet Samira as he listened. Definitely yelling. “One second, I’ll be right back.”
Pushing through the double doors, he saw security manhandling a guy with a Mets hat on and Lupe yelling at him.
“Hey!” He shouted over the yelling and they quieted, though the man continued struggling against security, “Lupe what’s going on?”
“This man tried to sneak through to the back. He’s perfectly healthy, says he’s looking for a nurse.”
“My fiancée works here and it’s our anniversary! I just wanted to surprise her.” The man said, then added, “I’m a doctor!”
Robby crossed his arms, “You may be a doctor, but you don’t work here. You should know you can’t just go waltzing into any ER.” Then he sighed, “Who is it you’re looking for?”
“She’s the charge nurse here. Gwen Keating.”
His head spun and his blood went cold. Gwen was missing and this had to be James standing right in front of him, looking for her.
He cleared his throat after a moment, “And your name is?”
“James Loverde.”
He could barely hear past the roaring in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. Was it really their anniversary? Was that why Gwen had been off all week? The things he would give to be able to punch this guy’s lights out without repercussions.
But he needed to keep him here until he figured out where Gwen was. Otherwise, he might end up at her apartment.
“Alright, Dr. Loverde, why don’t you come on back with me.”
“But Dr. Robby—“
“I’ll take care of it, Lupe, thank you.” He gestured to one of the security guards, “Olsen, with me.”
The two men followed him through the double doors and he felt his students watching curiously as he brought James into an empty family room.
“Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll see if I can find Gwen for you, alright?”
Before he could object, Robby closed the door, leaving himself and Olsen outside.
James was already surveying the area through the glass, looking for Gwen he presumed. It made him feel sick. Robby’s mind kept flashing back to the shame on her face when she had told him the truth about why she had left New York. The image of her being pummeled by this fucker. The pain in her eyes yesterday when he had thrown her shame back in her face. It was taking everything in him to keep up his calm and friendly demeanor.
“Olsen,” He pulled the security guard to the side, “Whatever you do, don’t let him leave. And don’t let anyone talk to him or vice versa. Got it?”
Olsen frowned, “Should we be calling the cops?”
Robby sighed, scratching the back of his head, “I don’t know.” He hated that he hadn’t asked her more about her protective order. He knew most protective orders were carried across state lines, but that would have required that Gwen had registered it with the county when she moved here. And he had no idea if she had done that. If she hadn’t, the police wouldn’t help and this motherfucker would definitely leave to go look for her elsewhere, “Not yet.”
Olsen looked at him skeptically, “Boss, what is going on?”
***
Gwen stared at the safe under her bed, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Unconsciously, she rubbed at her throat. Her thoughts had been littered with all the ways James had messed her up as she had walked back home. The most recent memory that had assaulted her was when he had violently choked her during sex and then afterwards pretended like he thought she liked it.
Her therapist was always reminding her that her PTSD meant that her brain would hide away certain memories from her to try to protect her and that anything could trigger one. This was one she hadn’t remembered until seeing him again across from the hospital. It had hit her so forcefully, she had to pause her walk home to hyperventilate while she leaned against a tree. She could still feel his hands, the weight of him on her windpipe, the panic of not being able to breathe.
She remembered that she had scratched his hands up in an attempt to get him to loosen his grip and he had later made her feel so badly about it, she cleaned and bandaged them for him. He never so much as iced the bruises he left on her neck.
Gwen had let Robby’s call go to voicemail. She knew she should answer. Despite their argument, he would be there for her through this. Even though she had fled yet again, proving his point. But, his voice would probably soothe her. He’d know what to do. But she didn’t want to hear the voice of reason right now.
She wasn’t sure what she wanted. Mostly she felt stupid for believing that she was safe from him, here. That since she had dropped the charges he would leave her be. It was just fucking like him to show up at her hospital, her ER, demanding to see her. She was certain that’s what he would be doing. Entitled narcissist that he was. She hoped Ahmad kicked his ass.
But that would just mean once he was kicked out of the ER he’d find some other way to get to her. And she wouldn’t allow that. Could not allow him to float through Pittsburgh unsupervised. No. This was her city, her ER, her friends, her family, her boyfriend. He would not taint this new life she had built. She would not yield this fragile safety net that was beginning to feel like home. She would not run away again.
Her phone vibrated with a text. Robby.
Everything ok?
She stared at it blankly until her phone screen went black again and then turned back to her safe. Unlocking it, Gwen took out the gun.
Her hands trembled as she loaded the clip, slowly and methodically, just as her instructor had taught her, and then slipped it into her bag.
She stood and then stared at her phone that sat on the hardwood. It lit up again, this time indicating an incoming call from Princess.
Gwen lightly kicked her phone until it slid under the bed and then left her apartment.
***
“Hey,” Collins approached Robby with caution as he ended his most recent attempt to get in touch with Gwen, “I don’t want to pry, but is something going on with you and Gwen? I noticed Princess is charge today.”
Robby sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face, “No, we’re fine. Or at least, I think we’re fine, but she didn’t show up for work this morning and she’s not answering any calls.” He glanced towards the room James was sitting in, “Fuck, I don’t know, maybe she’s left the state by now.”
Collins frowned, “Why would she do that?”
Robby looked at her, deciding what to disclose. But fuck, Gwen was in the wind and he needed someone to talk to, to tell him he was overreacting, “Well,” He again looked at James through the glass, “She left New York because of that guy in there and she has a restraining order against him after he fucking beat her within an inch of her life and he turned up here this morning and she didn’t and she won’t answer any of my calls. So.” He looked at Collins, “You do the math.”
Heather’s eyes widened, “Shit.” She looked towards the man sitting in the family room, then back to Robby, “She’ll come back, Robby.”
“How do you know?” He asked, and he can’t help the way his voice shakes when he says it. He hadn’t fully allowed himself to feel how fucking scared he was for Gwen until this conversation.
Heather sighed and gave him what she thought was a reassuring smile, “Because she’s tough. And because she has something worth fighting for here.”
***
Gwen sat in the back of an empty ambulance hands shaking in her bag where she concealed the gun. She wasn’t quite sure what her plan was, if there was a plan. James likely was long gone by now. And even if he was still inside, she would never bring a gun into the hospital. She had been working during many gun scares. It never got less terrifying. She wouldn’t do that to her patients or her friends. Especially after the mass shooting they had worked through just months ago.
She doubted she could even pull the trigger if she was faced with him. In a way, she thought, it would be a bit like killing a part of herself. They had been together for a decade, shared the same bed, the same meals. The mannerisms and idioms they both picked up from the other. The language of people who had loved for so long they could no longer decode the outside world without the other by their side.
Gwen couldn’t look at James without seeing the man she had fallen in love with. The same man whose knuckles had split and bled after beating her was the same man who spoon fed chicken noodle soup into her mouth in bed when she had caught strep. And it was impossible for her to separate the two. She couldn’t kill him anymore than she could kill herself.
So instead she sat, running her hands over the gun in her bag, feeling stupid.
The adrenaline rush was beginning to wear off and she wished Robby were here. She should have answered her phone. He was probably worried sick.
Or maybe not, maybe he was just annoyed she had skipped her shift.
Gwen took her hands out of her bag and pressed her palms into her eyes, she was tired of thinking.
There was a knock on the ambulance door and Gwen jumped.
But it was only Robby and he was looking at her like he was scared out of his mind, eyes red rimmed.
At the sight of him looking at her like that, clearly distraught, she broke, sobs that wracked her whole body, “I’m sorry.” She managed.
Immediately, he was next to her, pulling her into his arms, “You have nothing to apologize for.” She felt him kiss her hair as he held her, “You’re okay. You’re alright.” He repeated, and she wondered which of them he was trying to comfort.
“James was here.” She managed through hiccups as she calmed down.
“He’s still here.” Robby said, slowly running a hand through her hair.
“What?!” Gwen started to jump up, but Robby secured her with an arm around her waist, effortlessly pulling her back to him.
“Not yet,” He said softly, “Stay with me.”
“Robby,” She said incredulously, “You can’t expect me to sit here when he’s in there.”
He was shaking his head, “What’re you gonna do when you get in there, hm? Scream at him? Cause a scene? Hit him?”
Gwen thought about the gun in her bag and rubbed at her eyes, “I don’t know. I’m tired of being afraid. I want to show him I’m not afraid of him anymore.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he resumes running a hand through her hair, “It was unfair of me, all the things I said to you yesterday and I’m sorry. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Of course you were scared. Of course you wanted to leave. Who am I to judge you for that?”
Gwen fully melts into him, his apology a salve to her frayed nerves, “Where is he?”
“In the family room. Olsen’s with him.”
“He was looking for me?”
Robby nodded, “Said his fianceé was the charge nurse here. Is it really your anniversary?”
“That fucker,” Gwen sighed, “He said that?”
“Yeah. Is that why you haven’t been yourself all week?”
She almost shook her head, almost denied that anything had been wrong before this morning. But what was the point of pushing him away besides hurting herself? “Yes.” She said finally.
“You could’ve told me.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” She looked up at him, “I thought I could handle it myself.”
He stroked a hand across her cheek and then threaded it into her hair at the nape of her neck, “The whole point of having each other is so we don’t have to do this shit on our own.”
She nodded and then laughed, “When did you get so good at being a boyfriend?”
Robby smirked, “Well, I have this really lovely girlfriend and she taught me everything she knows.”
Gwen smirked, “Ah, she sounds really cool and well adjusted.”
He barked a laugh, “You’re ridiculous.”
She hummed, pleased with herself for making him laugh, “So, what do we do about… James?”
He was still running a hand soothingly through her hair, “Did you register your protective order with the county when you came here?”
Gwen nodded.
“Good, then we can call the police.”
She stiffened under his hands, “He… could lose his medical license.”
“Rightfully so.”
“If I ruin his life,” She said slowly, “He’ll want revenge. He’ll become even more obsessed with me.”
“Not if he’s in prison.”
She scoffed, “Violating a protective order doesn’t come with a very lengthy sentence.”
“No,” He agreed, shaking his head, “But domestic assault with a deadly weapon does. You mentioned a rolling pin as I recall.”
Gwen balked, “You just said I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
“You don’t,” He said quickly, “I want you to do what you think is right. But the fact is James is in the ER right now… And…” He tore his gaze away from her, “If we don’t call the police, that means he just gets to walk away. And I am so fucking terrified of not being able to keep you safe if he comes back one day.”
He presses his palms into his eyes, “I know it’s not about me. And I really don’t mean to be selfish. But if you won’t do it for yourself, could you please do it for me?”
Gwen stared at him for a moment, floored to silence by his admission. When she opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted by a voice that sent chills down her spine.
“Am I interrupting some sort of lover’s quarrel?”
A few things happened at once when James appeared in front of them, Olsen slightly behind looking remorseful.
Robby stood, placing himself between James and Gwen. He was almost a full head taller than James, and so James backed up just slightly.
“I’d like to speak to my fianceé now if you don’t mind.” James said quietly, his voice dangerous and menacing.
“Not a chance.” Robby said, then looked up over James to Olsen, “What the hell, man?”
“He started saying shit like ‘false imprisonment’, Robby.”
“Gwen, honey,” James called, never looking away from Robby, “Call off your dogs, would you? So we can talk?”
Then they all went very still when they heard a click from behind them.
Gwen had stood and backed herself away, gun behind her back, until she had a clear shot of James. Now, her hands shook and the barrel was aimed at his head.
“Woah, what the fuck?” James backed off, hands up.
“Gwen,” Robby said very carefully, “I don’t know where you got that, but I’m gonna need you to put it away.”
“It’s mine,” She said, her voice shaking, eyes zeroed in on James, “I have a license to carry.”
Well, Robby was certainly learning new things about Gwen today, “Baby, look at me,” He said gently and her eyes flicked to his, “This will ruin your life. Don’t let him win.”
“Olsen,” She said slowly, hands shaking, “Could you please handcuff him?”
Olsen obliges and Robby feels relief flood through him as she lowers the gun.
“Gwen, this is ridiculous,” James starts as Olsen starts walking him away from them, “I just wanted to talk—“
“Oh, shut the fuck up!” She shouted, “I heard nothing from you for two years, but the second I get a job, the second you hear an inkling that I’m doing better, you come down here to try to ruin it all. Fuck you. I hope they take away your medical license.” Gwen said, turning away from him again.
Robby watches Olsen lead James away as he continues to shout after Gwen and then walks up behind her as she unloads her gun and puts it back in her bag, “Would’ve been nice to know you were carrying a firearm earlier.”
She sighed heavily, shoulders curling in on themselves, “I was never going to use it. I just wanted him to be scared for once. To know how it felt.”
“I know.”
She finally smirked at him, “Really?”
“Well,” He rubbed at his beard, “For a second there you had me doubting myself.”
Without warning he reached out and pulled her to his chest, one arm around her shoulders, the other cradling her head to him.
“You scared the hell out of me today.”
“I know,” Gwen said, greedily inhaling the scent of him, “I’m sorry.”
“I thought you left.”
Gwen pulls back slightly to look up at him, “What, like, permanently?”
He nods, “I thought maybe you left the state or something.”
Gwen was exhausted of being angry, but she still felt the resentment stir in her chest, “Right, because you think I’m a coward.” She said bitterly.
Robby doesn’t say anything for a moment, just continues holding her to his chest, “Part of me hoped you had,” He said softly, “Because it meant he couldn’t hurt you. You were right yesterday, about how I didn’t know how it felt to be scared like that. I’m sure I still don’t know, not really. But when he showed up here and I couldn’t find you…” He trailed off, “You’re not a coward. You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever known.”
Gwen sighed and tightened her arms around his waist, “Thank you.”
“Hey,” Dana walked up to them and they separated, “What the hell? I was told you weren’t here.”
“She’s not here,” Robby said, and picked up Gwen’s bag, handing it back to her, “She’s going home.”
Gwen frowned, “But you’ll be calling the police—“
“You don’t need to be here for that,” Robby said, “They can interview you later. You’ve been through enough today, don’t you think?”
Gwen looks like she might argue more, so Robby adds, “I’ll come find you after. Text me when you get home safe?”
Finally she sighs and nods, “Okay.”
As she walks off, Dana comes to his side, “Do I wanna know?”
Robby watched Gwen as she walked off, “Did Gwen ever tell you about the gap in her resume?”
“You mean the jack off cardio attending that beat her? Yeah, she told me.”
“He showed up at our ER this morning.”
Dana’s eyes widened, “Jesus.”
“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”
“Happy to be here, cap,” She put a hand on his arm, “You okay? Maybe you should go with her. We can call Abbot. Or Shen.”
Robby shook his head, “No, it’s fine, I should really get back in there.”
***
When Robby lets himself into Gwen’s apartment after his shift, it’s dark and quiet. She had texted him that she was home, as he requested, but he still felt that little bit of panic at finding the apartment dark. The police had taken James into custody, but it was likely he would get out on bail while he awaited a hearing.
He found Gwen fast asleep on top of her bed covers, still in scrubs, her phone close to her face. He was relieved the find the gun was no where to be seen, but he made a mental note to ask her where she stored it later.
“Hey,” He sits on the edge of the bed and places a gentle hand to her shoulder, “It’s me.”
Gwen roused slowly, and then blinked up at Robby, giving him a sleepy smile, “What time is it?”
“Almost 7:30.”
She hummed and reached up to stroke his beard, “That’s early for you.”
“I was eager to see you.”
She smiled, “Well, lucky me.”
“The police took James in—“
“Can we not talk about James, please? Just for tonight?”
He nodded, “Of course, whatever you want. But can I just say one thing?” When she nodded her affirmation he continued, “I want to be clear that I know I asked for a lot from you when I encouraged you to press charges. I realize that it would take a lot from you and there would be only a slight chance that it would pay off. But I wanted you to know that if you did decide that you wanted to pursue charges that I’ll be here. Whatever you need.”
“Robby,” Gwen tilted her head a bit as she looked at him, “That’s sweet, but I just… You don’t have to do that, I… We’ve only been dating a few months and I have a lot of baggage.” He watched her eyes tear up.
“Well,” He scratched the back of his head, “I’m in love with you and your baggage so I think you’re stuck with me.”
She inhaled sharply, her heart beginning to race. They had never spoken about the depths of their relationship so openly. She had certainly felt like she was in love with him for weeks now, if not months.
They shared a bed most nights now and spent their days off together. Countless nights making dinner while sharing a bottle of wine, hikes in the mountains on their days off, nearly every moment spent together, even off shift.
It was in the dark of her bedroom the first time he had spoken of Pitt Fest, when she couldn’t quite see his face. She had wiped his tears silently, kissed his cheeks, whispered that he had done everything he could.
Weeks later, on a hike, he had told her about Adamson in the light of the Sun. She, in turn, shared her own stories about the pandemic. The Advanced Directives her and James had drawn up for themselves, just in case. The 12 year old girl she had lost in order to save her 9 year old brother. Some of her own nurses that had died on her shift.
It had healed something in both of them, just having someone to listen who understood.
And it had been staring her in the face for a while now that she could no longer picture her life without him in it.
But she had never expected him to be the first to admit it.
“Really?” She asked breathlessly, mind still reeling.
He nodded, “I mean it. I’m all in.”
She almost laughed, giddy at his confession, “I love you too.”
He exhaled slowly, and grinned at her, “Good, that’s a relief.”
He lowered himself beside her on the bed, and gently pulled her face to his to kiss her.
“Take a shower with me?” He murmured against her mouth.
She nodded, and he pulled her to standing. It was her apartment, but he had been here so many times, he knew how to find his way to her bathroom in the dark.
He left the lights off as he turned on the water and began to undress her. With every article of clothing he removed, he pressed a kiss to the bare skin revealed there. The gentle scratch of his beard against her skin left a trail of goosebumps in his wake.
Beneath his gentle and careful touch, she recognized the barely restrained hunger buried within. They had both had a difficult 48 hours, and so she knew he was keeping himself on a tight leash, should she not want anything further than this, this quiet tenderness. But one word from her and he would become ravenous.
They stepped into the warm spray of water and collectively sighed, Gwen rested her forehead against Robby’s chest. They stood like that for a few moments, the only sound was of the rushing water.
Robby pumped some soap into his hands, lathered it, and began running his hands over Gwen’s shoulders. She, in turn, mirrored him.
“You’re so tense.” She said quietly as she worked the soap into his skin. He grunted softly when she pushed her fingers deeper into his muscles.
As she worked the soap onto his body, she eventually felt his erection against her leg. He didn’t acknowledge it, instead continuing to focus on the sole job of cleaning her skin.
Gwen watched the warm spray of the shower wash the soap from his shoulders and then she kissed the freckles there, “Let me take care of you?” She murmured.
Finally his eyes lifted to meet hers. She saw the carefully lidded desire, embers smoldering in his eyes, but still, he said nothing.
Slowly, eyes never leaving his, Gwen lowered herself to her knees.
She took him fully into her mouth, one hand firmly on his base.
“Oh, fuck me,” He moaned and pressed a hand to the shower wall to steady himself.
Robby ran a hand through her hair, behind her ear, and down to her jaw, securing her chin between his fingers, “Gwen, baby,” He said breathlessly as she hollowed out her cheeks, “Keep looking at me, please. Want you to see what you do to me.”
Gwen moaned against his cock and Robby’s whole body shuddered at the sensation. He swore again, “I’m close,” He ground out and she quickened her movements in response until hot ropes shot down her throat.
She sucked until he was dry, Robby still shuddering with the aftershocks of his orgasm, and then she stood again.
Robby immediately grabbed her face and pulled her mouth to meet his. Gwen let out a soft gasp in surprise at the urgency of his kiss, she would’ve thought he’d be tired now, but he showed no sign of slowing.
“I want to taste you,” He said, and reached behind him to turn the shower off, “Go lie on the bed.” He instructed, mischief glinting in his eyes.
Gwen laughed, “I wasn’t done showering.”
“We’ll shower again,” He smirked and wrapped her towel around her shoulders, “After I’ve made a mess of you.”
She returned his grin and after drying off, headed back to the bedroom.
Gwen heard the padding of his feet on the hardwood behind her. He watched from the foot of the bed as she propped herself back onto the pillows.
Slowly, he crawled over her, kissing up her legs as he did so. His fingers dusted delicately across her skin, following his kisses closely.
Gwen fidgeted under his slow tease, sure she had to absolutely be dripping just from the look of him gazing at her body with pure undiluted adoration.
If he noticed her impatience he didn’t comment on it. When he began kissing her inner thigh, she could no longer hold back her sighs.
“Robby, please.” She whined finally.
He looked up at her, a cocky smirk on his face, “I’m sorry, I’ve been teasing you for too long, haven’t I?”
Finally, he parted her legs, hooking one of her thighs over his shoulder. He held eye contact with her on the first swipe of his tongue, drinking in the way her lips parted and eyelids fluttered. She was so beautiful, like an angel, the way her back arched at the flick of his tongue.
As he languidly circled her clit with his tongue, he slipped a finger inside her, and the moan she let out went straight to his cock. “So tight for me,” He murmured as he curled his finger upwards, “You’re already ready to finish, aren’t you sweetness?”
Gwen rutted her hips, searching for more friction from his mouth, chasing her high. She loved the sight of him between her legs. Loved the way he seemed to gorge on the taste of her, like he could never get enough. Robby could be difficult to read sometimes, he could be distant and moody and distracted. But here, on the hallowed ground that was their shared bed, she never doubted for a second how badly he wanted her. How he craved her, desperately. She felt it in every look, every touch, every kiss, every swipe of his tongue and graze of his teeth.
It felt holy, the way he worshipped her body when they were home together. She would never get tired of it. Just the thought of his soft brown eyes looking up at her from between her legs was enough to unravel her. And it did, then. He curled his finger once more against her walls before he felt her convulsing around him. She moaned his name as she came down and as she caught her breath, he came back up to her, beard full of the scent of her.
“Michael,” She said softly, eyes dazed, “Need you inside me, please.”
Robby tilted his head and smirked, “Really, you still want more?” The taste and feel of her had him erect again, but he doubted he’d be able to finish again.
“Please.” She said, and Robby noticed with some alarm, her lower lip was trembling.
“Hey, baby, what is it? What’s wrong?” He raised a hand to stroke her cheek gently, but she was shaking her head.
“I don’t know, I just feel…” She was crying in earnest now, “I think the day has finally caught up to me.” She reached between them, impatient to feel his erection, “Please, we don’t have to fuck, I just want the closeness, please, I want to feel you.”
He couldn’t deny her anything, not when she was like this, “Okay, shh,” He tried to say soothingly, “It’s alright.”
He slowly pushed himself inside her, watched as she gasped at the way he filled her up, and the tears that kept cascading down her cheeks, “I got you, baby.” He said softly as he slowly rocked his hips into hers. Robby cradled her head in his hands and kissed the wet trails on her cheeks, “You’re okay.”
Gwen pulled him closer, close enough that they were sharing breath, “I love you so much,” She said.
Robby pushed his nose into hers, “And I love you.” He kissed her, the saltiness of her tears on his tongue, “You’re alright,” He repeated, “I’ve got you.”
He wasn’t sure if he had somehow said the wrong thing, because she began sobbing earnestly. He stayed inside her, but he stopped his movements and simply wrapped her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could manage. He continued to murmur soothing things in her ear, reminding her that he had her, that she was okay, that he loved her, that he wasn’t going anywhere. Eventually her sobs eased into hiccups.
“I’m sorry.” She said finally, her voice still thick with tears, “I don’t know what that was.”
Robby shook his head and pulled back enough to see her face, “It’s been a really hard couple of days for you. The physical release from your orgasm maybe triggered some emotional release.”
She huffed a laugh and stroked a hand down his cheek, eyes still shining wet with tears, “Well, thank you for…” She shook her head, “Maybe this is too much to say, but I don’t know that I would have survived today if not for you.”
“It’s not too much. I would do it ten times over if it meant ending the day like this, with you, in my arms. I would do anything to end every day like this, forever.”
Her lower lip trembled again and he caught it between his thumb and forefinger. She kissed the pad of his thumb and sniffled, “Careful. I might hold you to that, Robinavitch.”
He smiled, “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Another laugh escaped her, and then she grew serious, “You’ll come with me to the police station tomorrow?”
He nodded, “Anything you want,” He kissed her slowly, “I love you.” He said again, drunk on the sound of it.
Gwen sighed against him, “I love you.”
God, did he love hearing it. The things he’d do to make sure he got to hear it every day for the rest of his life.
He brushed the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, “Let’s go get cleaned up again, shall we?”
In the shower again, they silently washed each other up. The desire in Robby’s eyes had been replaced by a tenderness, the depths of which Gwen didn’t think could be measured. She felt safe and loved and cherished under the weight of it, under the touch of his fingers as he methodically cleaned her body and followed the trails of suds as they were washed from her body with kisses.
Robby was safe. Robby was good. And most importantly, she got the feeling that Michael Robinavitch would love her until the end of time if only she gave him the chance to.
And she planned to give him the chance. She planned to give him everything.
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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat ¡ 6 months ago
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I’LL MAKE A HOUSE INSIDE OF YOU, I’LL GO IN THROUGH THE MOUTH ; SUGURU GETO
synopsis; what awaits you by the entrance to the woods is not a wolf, but a man. he thinks your grandmother can wait.
word count; 14.7k
contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (’girl’ is used only in allusion to the actual fairy tale), fairy tale au, hunter/wolf!suguru x little red riding hood!reader, yan!sugu, captivity, forced caretaking, infantilization, excessive use of ’little one’, hints of stockholm syndrome, slightly suggestive in one part (suguru gets a hard-on, blink and you’ll miss it), noncon kissing but that’s the worst it gets, instances of gore (ie; descriptions of a corpse, horror-inspired imagery), depiction of cannibalism (not involving reader), violent undertones, suguru never physically harms you but it’s mentioned that he could. open ended + almost entirely from reader’s pov. meta narrative.
a/n; happy halloween <3 (i’m late)(it’s 2025) this au has been haunting me since last year so i’m happy to finally have it out …. i don’t dabble in yan!sugu v often but it’s . so so sooo easy to turn him into one just by tweaking him a little bit … if nothing else i hope he ended up awful & hot 🫡 + biggest shoutout in the world to my beloved mickey (@teddybeartoji) for all your help and encouragement w this fic :’< also my belovedest dilly for doing the same and supporting me always … i love u……
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[ ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A DEAR LITTLE GIRL … ]
the sun is stuck in vitro. 
a glance up at the sky, in tune with your rapid steps. you’re threading through a meadow, red hood over your head, a basket hanging off your arm; wine and apricots and slices of cake, covered by the crocheted blanket your mother made. the sky you see when you tilt your head is painted gray, a bottomless pit, cotton clouds sticking together like the light layer of mist laying its legs across the landscape. dewdrops stick to your bare ankles as you wade through tall grass.
everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt— the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once. 
and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your grandmother. it’s a force of habit; from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. this story is your home, you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have. you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole— you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.
you know this story.
(you should know this story.)
only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.
it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant, a threat and a reassurance all at once, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. it’s the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up, neat and tidy, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing; your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud. 
it’s nothing new.
(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)
before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick — the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. and only then do you spot a splotch of red in his calloused hands, cradled closely.
for a moment, you’re sure it’s blood. upon closer inspection, it’s a young, crimson-flecked poppy.
he’s caressing the petals, and he’s smiling.
like he knew you’d be here.
molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths — the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing, you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely little bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into. 
only a man, parting his lips.
”and where are you headed, little one?”
his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.
it’s only him, after all. 
(the ever reliable hunter.)
”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”
he nods along, smile never changing shape — hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.
”i see,” he hums, a low buzzing in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”
the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle — it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air. 
”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”
that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”
”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”
golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.
”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”
”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”
”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.
then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.
and he parts his pretty lips.
”would you do me a favour, little dear?”
a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been. 
so you speak before you think.
”sure.”
a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?” 
”… tea?”
your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.
”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”
a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut. 
your mother told you not to let anything distract you.
(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)
”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.
”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”
and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite. 
your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.
(… you shouldn’t, but…)
”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”
(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)
”i’d like to rectify that.”
there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad. 
(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)
you stop to think, for a moment.
you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.
… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.
(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)
”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”
his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”
two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 
a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.
his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;
”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”
and you follow his lead.
you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron. 
before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.
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his home is as warm as his smile.
the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal. 
all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.
you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease. 
”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 
an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following just behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge, where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath curled around it; serpentesque.
already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind. when you raise your head he’s looking at you, standing by the threshold to the kitchen and waiting, lips curled into a soft, ikebana-like smile.
a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. and then he’s turning on his heel.
you follow him. 
”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on; and you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves, jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white little petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it, reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two. cozy.
”thank you, mister hunter,” you offer him a smile.
”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”
his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. you can hear it, though, the tender hint of happiness beneath it. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, and you spot a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…
a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.
as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers — barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming. 
”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds swimming like fish in the sea. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”
when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth — it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”
his eyes gleam under the dim lights. 
”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”
and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. hot enough to burn your tongue, rich and sweet. 
a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.
”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.
a warm smile.
”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”
he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.
”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”
he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.
enamored.
(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)
that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.
before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.
with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.
a shallow breath — duty calls.
(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)
suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.
”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”
the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.
”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils. 
you aren’t sure what to say.
it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”
”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”
”i insist.”
…
crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.
”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”
something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable. 
it’s not safe out there. 
(he’s right, of course, but…
when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)
a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, your voice unsteady. ”if it’s really okay…”
he perks up, at that. 
”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”
a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh. 
just until tomorrow, you think.
his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.
it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.
he loves you.
(it’ll be fine.)
”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”
”… anything is fine.”
”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”
it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.
(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)
a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.
… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.
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it starts out small. it always does. 
(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)
“it’s too early.”
“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”
“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”
a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.
but never like this. never, ever like this. 
never as suffocating.
“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”
— that bite. it sneaks up on him, gradually, makes a place between his gums. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. still gnawing at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you— makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.
(soon, he’s outright denying you.)
“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”
a sigh, and a shake of his head.
“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.” 
nails paint crescents on your inner palms.
“… she’s waited long enough.”
frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.
so much stronger than you. 
even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.
“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”
…
“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”
he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile bubbling up at the base of your throat. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you, firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone.
all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.
”believe me.”
when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, it feels as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room, gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.
something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.
(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)
the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than an evening. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.
the hunter is trustworthy.
in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.
but hunters don’t smell like wolves.
hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.
but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.
once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall— you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick up your coat, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight. 
the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.
no noise. no creak.
a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.
out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed shut.
your heart strings together a tale of worry.
(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)
and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.
eight steps. nine steps.
when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.
your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.
it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.
freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the stage-lights. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence. 
freedom. freedom. freedom.
you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home — 
and the door slams shut behind you.
(a betrayal of the wind.)
it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.
the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure— and you know he’s watching. you feel it.
so you run.
it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs— you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over— placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel. you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole. 
it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again— you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here. 
your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.
and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 
(— the hunter begins his chase.)
tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.
distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue. 
you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —
he’s stares back at you. 
golden eyes, sharpened in the night.
you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body mass, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar. 
you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. his hair tickles your neck, hot breaths leaving goosebumps across your skin. you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile. 
(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)
”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”
it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured. 
resigned. surrender.
suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.
”what were you thinking, hm?”
he doesn’t sound upset, only gently reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.
”… you never change.”
the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back. 
when he turns around, and begins to walk back to his house, your stomach fills with dread.
”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.
“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”
but you don’t.
(you don’t know anything anymore.)
”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, and it sounds like a death sentence. giddy. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly thing.”
a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon. 
your skin itches from the burning cold. 
suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.
he apologizes for that, too.
”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”
maybe you did.
he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.
you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.
the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.
“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”
you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.
”… do you mean it?”
his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”
when he kills the wolf, you can leave.
if only it were that easy.
this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.
it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.
it’s a corpse.
(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)
he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.
always a wolf, never a man.
when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.
(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)
you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants. 
by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.
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the more time passes, the worse he gets. 
the more comfortable. 
(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)
every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.
he’s sweet, about it. gentle.
”let me say hi, little one.”
all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.
it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.
there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.
it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.
during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.
and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.
but you’re sure you’d fail again. 
and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.
(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)
you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer. 
or a wolf for a stack of bones.
anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help. 
that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.
suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.
that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will. 
no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.
for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep. 
a comfortable cage is exactly right. 
(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)
it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis. 
you miss feeling alive. 
(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)
you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.
the only advantage you have is this:
suguru believes himself to love you. 
maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.
(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)
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the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.
they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.
you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.
and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.
(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)
with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents. 
the air smells of chestnuts and incense.
you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.
”please let me leave.”
his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.
it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.
(it makes him look unsettling.)
but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left. 
”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”
his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.
how powerless you are against him.
but you push through.
”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”
a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.
(his lips curl into a scowl.)
”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”
a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through — 
tread it through and through and through. 
”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”
the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.
and then a grating sigh. 
”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”
suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.
and his eyes burn you to cinders. 
”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”
the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.
”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”
a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter. 
”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.
(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)
a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.
you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.
”i can.”
spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them. 
he can keep you here. 
(forever, and ever, and ever.)
a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful. 
once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks. 
”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”
suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.
”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”
…
when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.
(you never asked to be devoured.)
”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”
a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.
”do you understand?”
every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.
never again. 
no matter how much you beg. 
you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning. 
so there’s no point.
his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.
”… i understand.”
(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)
a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear. 
”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”
the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.
it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 
”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”
safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.
(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)
a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”
suguru pauses. 
then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need. 
you’re well aware of what he means.
(and that’s the end of that.)
”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”
the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.
a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.
”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”
his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.
you nod, and he smiles.
”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”
”… mhm.”
he seems content, with that response. 
the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.
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time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.
you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.
suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.
if only you didn’t know the truth.
it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other. 
(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)
the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.
it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort. something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.
you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.
it’s comforting, all the same. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead. 
(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)
each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —
a noise, echoing from the hallway.
rap, tap, tap. 
(knuckles against wood.)
it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal. 
when you come to, your heart is pulsing.
a moment of silence.
the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen. 
(how silly, when it already has.)
another knock.
this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.
on shaky legs, you move forward, making your way towards the hall. slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache. 
you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise. 
(ba-dump. ba-dump.)
your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.
just behind the door.
and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.
freedom. freedom. freedom?
(hope.)
a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot. 
no one forgot about you. 
you move your leg, and — 
”keep still.”
… a breath brushes against your neck.
only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.
he’s always there to catch you.
suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.
too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.
and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.
(you think he was trying to control himself.)
his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger. 
yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.
one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens. 
then, the sound of boots against gravel. 
moving farther, and farther away. 
(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)
”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm— 
you swallow down a sniffle.
and he loosens his grip. sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew. 
(you can’t take this, anymore.)
”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”
you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.
you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.
(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)
”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”
another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.
it comes out pitiful. 
a broken, battered whisper:
”… i wanna go home…”
more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.
you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.
when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.
you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you and collapse against it.
a weak, gurgling sob.
home. this is home.
(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)
all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there. 
nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.
(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)
if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again, if only that wasn’t your very nature. if only you had known better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 
if only you weren’t you — 
maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 
broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.
suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.
(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)
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it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.
but not to you.
the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.
you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.
pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.
someone.
(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)
you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.
rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 
the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick enough to make tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.
it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.
(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.
maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)
it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers. 
suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.
you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.
golden eyes violating the dark.
when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.
this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.
(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)
terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.
suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.
(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)
you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.
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a tentative sip.
you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.
he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.
it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.
(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)
(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)
it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.
a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.
in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.
content to watch your captor playing house.
(soon, this’ll all be over.)
(soon.)
”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”
your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine. 
”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”
you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.
”and your hands are big…”
a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars. 
(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)
so he plays along.
”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.
a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of white teeth. pink gums.
a silent intake of breath.
”… and your teeth are sharp.”
silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.
and suguru looks conflicted.
”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”
something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.
a voice like no other rings in your ears.
(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)
the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute. 
(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)
you feel as if you might throw up.
”… goodnight, sweet thing.”
his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away. 
the nightlight flickers off.
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once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.
it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.
at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.
you’re well beyond accepting that.
all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.
but now you really are trapped.
(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)
you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end. 
the sun is stuck in vitro.
the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.
the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 
an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.
(everything’s already broken, anyway.)
crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.
”the tea is ready, honey.”
— and you stand up.
his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off. 
it’s time to choose an ending. 
you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.
you know which one you want.
(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)
— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.
an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.
(now. now. do it now.)
hunger. hunger. hunger.
you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.
a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.
his guts will spill out just the same.
[ … AND ▇▇ ▇NE DID ▇▇▇ING T▇ HARM H▇▇, ▇▇▇ AGAIN. ]
you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —
and swing.
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dickgraysonisnothereforthis ¡ 4 months ago
Text
Everybody’s on the Call Line (Jason todd x gn!reader)
Humor, fluff, established relationship. whole batfam gets involved. Reader is a hacker
This happened because I read the latest coffee shop au from @jjenthusee (and you should too!) and I remembered that I can also write cute fluff. So here this fic is, straight from my drafts where it’s been languishing for months. Anyway.
Swearing, as always. No use of y/n. I don’t know how long this is
———
Jason eases himself carefully onto the fire escape, metal creaking beneath his boots. He stifles a groan. He’s taking a risk sneaking into your apartment like this, he knows he is. If you wake up and see Red Hood snooping around outside your window, you’ll probably call the cops. But he’s tired as all hell, patrol was long and stupid, and your apartment was closer. Jason will just slide in while you’re sleeping, stow his gear where you won’t find it, and collapse into your bed. In the morning, he’ll just say he let himself in with the spare key you gave him. Easy. All he has to do is disable the window alarm he’d gotten for you, and then he’s home free.
The alarm trips, and Jason moves to silence it but then realized it doesn’t matter, you’re still up, working at your computer.
He freezes as you glance over your shoulder, then turn around to face him. He still has his gear on. Shit.
“Uh, hi,” you offer, looking at him with a curious glance as he races to figure out an excuse. “I don’t think we’ve met before?”
This throws him for a loop. You’re reacting very well to a vigilante crawling through your window at 2:30 in the fucking morning. But you’ve given him an opening, and he’s going to take it.
“No,” he says shortly, wincing behind the helmet. He’s never spoken to you like this and instantly hates the tone he’s using, but he’s got a persona to keep up. Or something.
You nod, seemingly unfazed. “No worries. Do you work with Red Robin?”
What? Why are you asking about Tim? Do you have some secret Red Robin crush that he’s going to have to push Tim off a building for?
Dumbfounded, Jason answers, “Uh, sometimes?”
You nod again. “Do you think you could give something to him for me?”
What the shit is happening right now?
As if to help tip Jason’s world off its axis, you’re interrupted by a tap at the window. Jason looks to see Red Robin crouched on your fire escape. You wave him inside.
“Hey, Escher,” Tim says. “Hood.” Jason has no idea what the fuck is going on.
“I’ve got the script,” you say, holding out a flash drive to him, but Tim shakes his head. “No good. They updated the security.”
“Well, shit.” You turn and dump the USB stick into a glass of water on your desk. “It’s a paperweight now. Only took me five hours to figure out.”
“I know,” Tim says, clearly frustrated. “They keep outmaneuvering us.”
Wait, wait. Jason’s still three steps behind you. “Escher?” he demands.
Both you and Tim turn to look at him, frowning. “Like, M.C. Escher? But, spelled ‘emcee,’” you say, as if that explains anything. “It’s my screen name.”
“You two know each other?”
“Yeah, we work together.” Tim raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that?”
Jason shakes his head, and Tim looks at you for a flash of a moment before turning back to Jason. “Sorry,” he mouths, shrugging. Jason waves him off. He’ll deal with that later.
Tim turns back to your computer screen, but your eyes stay on Jason, narrowing. “What does it matter if we work together? Do I know you from somewhere?”
Shit. You were always too sharp for your own good. Jason’s tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. “Uhh…”
You fold your arms over your chest. Behind you, out of your field of vision, Tim grins at Jason, delighted. Asshole.
“We don’t normally work with civilians,” Jason says, fishing for an excuse.
You sniff, rolling your eyes. “And yet, here you are. Which, the way, you haven’t explained. What are you doing in my bedroom?”
Fair. What is he doing in your bedroom? Would it freak you out if he said he was a burglar? Too late for that now.
“I told him to meet me here,” Tim says, pulling Jason’s ass out of the fire. “Sorry I didn’t tell you first.”
You shrug. “S’okay,” you say, spinning back around in your desk chair to face the screen.
Over your shoulder, Tim mouths, “you owe me.” Jason gives him the finger.
“Do you have a safe copy of the new security system?” you ask, looking at Tim intently.
He shakes his head. “Not yet, Oracle is working on duplicating it.”
You slump down in your chair. “Drat. I hate waiting.”
“Yeah,” Tim sits on the floor next to your bed, knees to his chest. “She said it’d be ready in a few hours.”
“Balls.” You fidget with a pen on your desk.
“Hold on. How did you start working with Red over here?” Jason asks. He knows you work in tech, that you’re a programmer, but he didn’t realize you were building code for fucking Batman.
Tim laughs. “I found them solving random problems on a Swedish forum.”
Jason blinks. Okay.
“Well, yeah. You found me there. Oracle found me hacking your comm links,” you grin, pleased with yourself.
Holy shit. “You got into the comm links?”
“Yeah,” you nod, satisfied. “I’ve done it twice now,” you add smugly.
“Don’t tell B,” Tim warns. “He doesn’t know. Oracle said she wouldn’t tell.”
Wow. You must be the real deal. He wonders if he can get you to fuck with Bruce’s plans, just to be a shit. "How long have you been working for the Caped Crusader, then?"
"I don't work for Batman," you say primly, as Tim sighs. "I help him out when you guys can't get your shit together."
Jason snickers under his breath. "Sore subject, huh?"
"They don’t like B," Tim confirms from the floor. "If you did it would make everything easier," he grumbles.
"It's stupid," you insist. "Come on, how is this a viable solution to any long-term problem?"
Jason laughs outright as Tim sputters. "He's a detective! He detects!"
"Then why does he have to dress up like that?" you point out. “You can be a detective in normal clothes, you know.”
"He needs armor, he keeps getting shot at!"
"Explain the cape, then," you shoot back. "Justify that monstrosity."
"It's fucking idiotic," Jason adds, piling on gleefully. "It'd be different if he could fly, but he just hops around."
Tim gasps, affronted, while you crack up in your chair. "Thank you. I mean, look at yourself, Red. You're sitting on my bedroom floor in a goddamn cape."
"It looks cool," Tim says defensively.
"No," you counter, "that looks cool." You point your finger in Jason's direction, and he feels his face heat up.
"Oh, come on," Tim scoffs. "You think his costume is cool?"
"Uh, yeah," you say, eyes taking Jason in as you nod. "Very cool. Very hot."
"Oh my god," Tim mutters. "It's tactically stupid. Why are his forearms exposed?"
"So I can see how muscley they are." You stare at them, eyes wide. Jason coughs awkwardly, and your eyes flit back up. "Sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I like leather."
"Of course you like his costume," Tim mutters under his breath.
"What's that supposed to mean?" you shoot at him, and Tim flusters. "Why do you care if I don't like your costume?"
"Yeah," Jason adds, letting some menace fall into his voice. "Why do you care if they don’t like your costume?"
"I didn't—I wasn't trying to—"
"I have a boyfriend," you interrupt, looking at Tim scornfully.
"They have a boyfriend," Jason parrots, grinning behind the helmet.
"Oh my god. I know you have a boyfriend. Relax," Tim pacifies you. "Relax," he adds, nodding at Jason. Jason grunts.
Before you can argue further, there’s another tap at your window, and Cass slips softly into the room. You light up. “Hello, my love!” you greet her excitedly. Cass raps you on the top of your head, and you beam up at her. Your hands twitch toward her before you stop yourself, folding them in your lap. Cass turns to Jason, placing her hand carefully on his arm. He bumps against her, waiting until she pushes back lightly. She then moves onto Tim, tugging gently on a lock of his hair, before depositing a flash drive on the desk. You snatch it up eagerly.
From Oracle, Cass signs.
“It’s O’s duplicate!” Tim plucks it from your fingers, driving it into your desktop.
“Be nice to her,” you warn, running a hand over your computer as the file loads. Strings of code write themselves across your screen. Jason moves forward to get a better look at you. He can’t help it, he wants to see you in action. Your face is scrunched up, tongue between your teeth as your eyes flash back and forth, following the cursor. “It’s incomplete.” You squint at Tim. “What gives?”
Tim tsks. “I don’t know. Let me get Oracle.” He puts a hand to his ear. “Oracle, come in.”
Barbara’s voice answers in Jason’s ear. “Here. I know, I know, it’s not all there,” she says, annoyed. “Let Escher know that I had to reverse engineer it from what we found.”
“She says she has to reverse engineer it,” Tim repeats.
You drum your fingers on the desk. “Okay, what else does she know?”
“What else do you—”
“Hold on, this is stupid,” you interrupt. “Can you, like, put her on speaker? Actually,” you click over to another screen, enter a command. “You’re broadcasting live, O.” Jason hears Barbara’s sigh through the speakers of your computer. “That’s three times,” you add smugly.
Jason let’s out a low whistle. Damn. You’re really good at this.
“We've got to stop meeting like this, Escher.” Barbara almost sounds amused. “How did you get in this time?”
“Hiya, babe.” You click back to your project. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out. I don’t want you closing your back door.”
Barbara chuckles. “Red and I will shut you out.”
“But for how long? I’m too slippery, baby.” Jason almost blushes underneath his helmet. It always trips him up when you talk like this.
“I had to reverse engineer the code from what it spit out when I tried to get in this time,” Barbara explains. “Can you fill in the gaps?”
“Some of them.” You type quickly, deleting code as you get error messages and retyping just as fast.
“Wait, here…” Tim points to something on the screen.
“Yeah, okay,” you back up to where he’s pointing and add something.
“There’s something about the updated security,” Barbara adds. “I think there’s a pattern somewhere.”
“Where?” you demand.
“I don’t know. Gut feeling. But I think I’m right.”
“Do you think there’s something generating new code?” Tim asks. “Like, a program that’s spitting out new security?”
“Oh.” Your fingers still on the keys, face relaxing. “Yeah. Good call, Red.” You scan the code again, scrolling back to the top. “Okay. This changes things.” You start from the beginning, erasing whole sections of Barbara’s work and typing out new code. “Well, shit,” you laugh under your breath. “This is some sexy-ass code we’re looking at.”
“You can fill in the blanks?” Jason asks.
You glance up at him. “Of course I can. I wrote it.”
“What?” Tim shouts. “This is you?”
“It’s me,” you confirm. “Guilty.” A small smile plays around your lips. “Sorry.” Cass steps forward, pinching your ear until you yelp.
“Fuck, Escher.” Tim rubs the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know you were a traitor.”
“Chill, bird brain,” you say defensively, leaning out of Cass’ reach. “This was from, like, five years ago. I needed some cash.”
“You could be on B’s payroll,” Tim offers.
You snort as Barbara huffs a laugh over the comm line. “Fat chance, I’ve been trying to convince them for months.”
“I’m not a fucking lapdog. I play by my own rules,” you insist.
“Yeah?” Jason can’t help but push you. “And what rules are those?”
You cock an eye at him warily. “The rule of not tying my kite to some lunatic.”
Jason nods. Can’t argue with that one.
“Anyway,” you turn back to the computer. “Because I wrote it, I can build you the malware.”
“To get past the security or to neutralize the program spitting out new code?” Barbara asks over the line.
“Dealer’s choice,” you say, then stick your tongue between your teeth as you squint at the screen. “I can make both happen.”
The comm crackles in Jason’s ear. “Oracle, come in,” Bruce barks.
Tim whips his head toward you with a crack. “Nothing from you now, Escher,” Barbara warns. “I’m patching him through.”
You grin, eagerly pretending to zip your lips.
“Here,” Barbara answers.
“I heard from one of my informants,” Bruce’s monotone growl fills the room. Jason catches you roll your eyes and almost bursts out laughing. “They’re going to get into the controls for Blackgate prison.”
“This is Black Mask?” Barbara clarifies.
Bruce grunts as your eyebrows shoot up. “This is Black Mask?” you whisper, except you’ve never been very good at whispering. Tim slices a hand over his neck to silence you as Jason moves to your computer. He’s been eyeing the program you’re using to broadcast the comm connection, and he thinks he’s found the mute button. He taps a key and then turns his head toward you. “Off?”
You nod. “Off. Thanks. This is Black Mask’s security?”
“Yeah, he’s making a move against the jail. He’s going to get some of his guys out,” Tim explains.
“Hmm. Hmm hmm hmm.” You tap your fingers against your chin.
“What?” Tim folds his arms over his chest.
“I originally sold it to the Falcones.” You flick your hair out of your face. “Guess they sold me out behind my back.”
A security program that’s making its way through the mob? That’s…really useful, actually.
“Can you get in and stop them?” Bruce asks.
“Maybe,” Oracle hedges. “Hold on, I have to call in reinforcements.” She mutes Bruce’s line. “Escher, you’re up.”
“Wait, you want it now?” you say, aghast. “Christ, how long do I have?”
“Act quickly.” Bruce orders. “My intel says they’re moving at 3:45am.”
Your eyes fly to the clock on your monitor. “What the fuck!” you screech. “That’s in forty minutes! I can’t do it in forty minutes! I have to break through my own walls!”
“Escher,” Barbara starts, just as Tim says “listen, you have to—”
“I can’t, it’s not enough time!” you wail.
“Hey, hey,” Jason cuts in. “Easy. Don’t worry, love. You can do it.”
You look at him fearfully. “You haven’t even told me what to do!”
“Just get past the security,” Jason says patiently. “Don’t worry about shutting down the whole program.”
You nod at him, eyes wide.
“Deep breaths, now,” he instructs. “Come on, in for two, hold, out for four. We’ll do it together. Ready?”
You nod again.
“Okay.” Jason sucks in a breath, loudly so it’ll register over the modulator. You copy him, inhaling, holding, and exhaling on his rhythm. After a few breaths you shake your head, turning back to the computer.
“Alright. I can make it happen.” You resume typing, eyes narrowed as you focus.
“We’re alright, B, I’ve got someone on it,” Oracle says, satisfied.
Tim turns to Jason, clearly impressed. Jason shrugs. You’ve been together for a while now, he knows how to pull you out of a spiral.
He turns back to you. You’re ripping through code at a hundred miles an hour, hunched over the keyboard. Jason grimaces, he’s always trying to get you to sit up straight to help your tech neck. He’ll have to rub out the knots in your shoulders later.
Jason feels Cass’ eyes on him, and he tilts his head toward her. Less than forty minutes, she signs to him. I’ll have to take it back to the Clocktower.
Jason’s thought of that. He evenly points his chin in your direction. You can handle it, he knows you can. Cass nods.
Tim coughs quietly, and Jason raises his head to look at him. “You want the keys to the castle?” he mutters.
He means code you built that generates new security programs. Jason nods. “But that’s just between us, yeah?” It would be loads easier for Jason if he keeps the code out of Bruce’s hands. Black Mask has been operating in Jason’s territory, and Jason has a long string of investigations against him, well-beyond the scope of this Blackgate shit. Bruce needs to keep his nose out of it.
Tim scoffs. “Fine. Seems like you should get first dibs anyway.” He nods towards your desk where you’re still working stubbornly.
The room is silent, all three of them letting you work. After a few minutes, Tim steps toward you. “Here, you need any hel—”
Jason throws an arm out to stop him, just as Cass grabs his wrist and tugs him backwards, shaking her head. He holds up his hands in surrender.
Fifteen minutes later, you rap your knuckles on your desk. “Oi, peanut gallery!” You spin around in your chair, smiling wickedly. “I solved your case for you!”
“It’s not a case,” Tim mutters, and Jason scoffs.
“Don’t be jealous, RR,” Babs says over the line. “You can both be the prettiest.” Tim splutters as you laugh delightedly.
“Nice job,” Jason says, placing a hand on your shoulder. You grin up at him. He catches Cass and Tim share a look, sees her sign something too fast for his eyes to follow.
“Batgirl’s bringing it to you now, Oracle,” Tim says as you unplug the flash drive and hand it to Cass. You wave to her as she slips through the window.
“My backup came through,” Babs reports to Bruce. “They’ll be obsolete in a few minutes.”
“Copy.” The line fizzles as Babs cuts him off.
“Fuck yeah,” you grin in satisfaction. “Nothing like hearing that overgrown Bat say ‘copy.’”
Jason cackles as Tim rolls his eyes. “Oracle,” he says loudly. “Hood was in the dark about our friend here.” His eyes flick to you before he looks at Jason meaningfully.
And just what the fuck does he think he’s doing? Jason all but snarls at him.
“Huh. I could’ve sworn you were smarter than that, Hood,” Barbara admonishes.
“Shut up, O,” he grumbles. Jason glances at you to make sure you haven’t caught on to what they’re talking about, but you don’t seem to be paying attention; you’ve pulled up Steam and are scrolling through your game library.
“Maybe it’s time to clue them in. Take off your party hat,” Barbara says meaningfully. Tim nods forcefully.
“Butt out,” Jason says half-heartedly, but it doesn’t stick. He’s been thinking about telling you about Red Hood anyway; you’ve been together for a year and a half. He’s been…well, he’s scared. But maybe he shouldn’t be.
“We’d have to vote on it,” he says gruffly. Tim pumps his fist in the air. “In person,” he says meaningfully. Comm links aren’t safe, apparently.
“You have my vote,” Babs says confidently. “And Batgirl’s, too, she’s here.” Barbara pauses meaningfully. “I’m happy for you, Hood.”
“Me too!” Tim pipes up immediately.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jason waves them off, like his heart isn’t pounding. “Can you call everyone over?”
“Roger that.” Barbara seems pleased. “Hood is asking us all to meet near him,” she broadcasts aloud. “Sending you coordinates.”
Dick, Steph, Bruce, and Damian all copy. Jason steels himself. “Alright, RR, time to go.”
You glance at him as he moves toward the window. “Heading out?”
“Yeah,” Tim answers. “Got a big family meeting to get to.” He grins at Jason.
“Okay. See you around. Nice meeting you,” you say to Jason, before turning back to your screen.
“Uh, yeah,” he says uncomfortably, while Tim snickers. “See you later.”
The troops have already assembled two rooftops over. “Hood, what’s the situation?” Bruce asks sternly.
“The situation,” Tim starts happily, “is—”
“Hold on,” Jason cuts him off. “Disconnect comm links.” He watches warily as everyone takes them out of their ears.
“Compromised?” Dick asks with concern.
“Uh, yeah.” Jason scratches the back of his neck. “Listen, uh…” he looks at Tim helplessly.
“Jason’s dating Escher.”
“What!” Dick screams as Steph claps her hands together excitedly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating anyone?”
“Uh—”
“Fuck, yeah!” Steph interrupts. “This is great! Escher’s the freaking best!”
“Language,” Bruce says as Jason takes off the helmet to glare at Steph accusingly.
“We play Minecraft together,” she explains. “I didn’t know you two were dating!”
“Wait, hold on. I thought you all knew about that.” Jason shifts his glare to Tim.
Tim shrugs. “Only me and Babs knew,” he says.
“Timmy, why didn’t you share!” Dick groans, bounding over to ruffle Jason’s hair.
Jason pushes him away, trying to swipe his feet out from under him. Dick dodges easily, throwing a light right hook in return. “Wasn’t any of your business, now was it?” Jason says gruffly.
Tim looks at Dick, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t want to get on his bad side.”
“Fair.” Dick grins softly at Jason, bumping shoulders with him. “Nice job, Little Wing.”
Jason blushes. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Congrats, Todd, but why are we all here?” Damian interrupts.
“I’m gonna tell ‘em,” Jason says simply. “About this. If it’s cool.”
“Fine with me,” Steph says instantly.
Tim nods, “seconded. Babs and Cass say it’s fine with them, we asked before we went dark.”
“Well, who am I to stand in their way,” Dick half-jokes, but he’s looking at Bruce with serious eyes. So is Jason.
“I’ll follow Father’s ruling,” Damian says stoutly.
That leaves the big man himself. Bruce smiles gently. “Of course, Jaylad. We’re all happy for you.”
Jason blushes all over again. “Thanks, old man.” He lets out a breath.
“But we have to ask Duke,” Bruce adds meaningfully.
“I texted him, he says it’s fine,” Tim says quickly. “But also, uh—” he holds his hand to his ear.
Warily, Jason puts his comm back in. “Jason, what the fuck!” you shriek. “What the fucking fuck is this!”
“I forgot to disconnect,” Babs says sheepishly.
“Jason, you ass! Why didn’t you tell me you ran around in a fucking costume?” you shout down the line. Steph and Dick keel over laughing. Jason realizes everyone has taken the liberty of putting their comm back in.
“Baby, please,” he says resignedly.
“Baby?” Dick mouths, beaming.
“Don’t you fucking ‘baby’ me!” you holler.
“Babe, you are a hacker,” he points out. “How come you didn’t share that with the class?”
That makes you pause. “Fair fucking point, I guess,” you mutter. Jason sees Bruce try to tug the comm out of Damian’s ear, but Damian dances out of reach.
“Uh, also, can you cool it with the swearing?” Jason asks. “There’s a kid here.”
“…if it’s Robin I am going to throw up.”
“Hello,” Damian says helpfully.
Your end of the line is silent.
“Hey, Escher, it’s Spoiler!” Steph cuts in. “Nice job shacking up with Hood.” She eyes Jason evilly.
“This is a fucking ambush,” you grind out. “Jason, you fucking ambushed me.”
“Language,” Bruce orders gently. Tim just about busts a gut while Jason waves frantically at Bruce, shaking his head rapidly. “Nice to meet you over the phone,” Bruce adds. Dick gives him a thumbs up.
“…likewise,” you say eventually. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but this has been insane, and I’m disconnecting. Jason, get your as— get back here after you’ve finished your family dinner.” Your end goes dead.
“They seem nice,” Bruce says after a moment. “We’ll have to talk about how they got into the comm links,” he looks at Tim reproachfully.
“See you later, Hood,” Dick says easily, nodding at your building.
Jason turns back to your apartment. He can already see you in the window, arms crossed over your chest. You’re trying to scowl at him, but he can see the smile trying to escape.
He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. You throw up your hands but beckon him anyway. Come on, come back.
Don’t worry, Jason’s coming.
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thexsilentxwordsmith ¡ 1 year ago
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Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!reader
Author's Note: I had a comment left on my post HERE. The person who commented brought up this scenario of Simon being dared to kiss you and you think that he won't, but he actually does and sparks end up flying. So, of course, I had to write it because... I mean... Come on... (lol). And here it is.
Fandom: Call of Duty
Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader, Soap
Summary: During a game of Truth or Dare, your lieutenant is dared into giving you a kiss, but something about the way he has been acting lately may mean this is going to be more than a quick ordeal. And the way you have been feeling towards him won't be helping.
Word Count: 4k
Part 2: READ HERE
The night has started innocently enough: you and your fellow officers sit around together in the rec, blowing off a little steam after another successful mission. Some nice, simple fun of playing cards and shooting the shit like you usually do when leaving the base to go down to the bar isn’t an option. Everyone happens to be here tonight, including that brooding, mask-faced lieutenant that you can’t seem to keep your mind from drifting to as he stands against the wall behind you. 
Maybe it’s just your imagination, but you’ve noticed that the lieutenant’s presence has become more and more common lately, especially when you’re around. He keeps mostly to himself, staying on the edge of the fun by just watching, yet you swear that if you are stealthy enough from out of the corner of your eye you can catch his gaze lingering in your direction. 
Whether it’s just a trick of your mind or the truth, either way it makes your pulse race. And tonight is no exception.
All has been pretty calm so far, nothing too rowdy or out of hand. At least, it was until now as the night has waned on and inhibitions have fallen. What was once an innocent bit of fun has turned a bit more risque as Soap decides that cards aren’t enough to keep everyone entertained. What game is it he always seems to pick when everyone is more loose? One where the consequences always end up interesting: Truth or Dare.  
Several rounds have passed already where the truths have consistently gotten more honest and the dares even more spicy. No one is ready to call it quits just yet, but there is one person that hasn’t had a turn after all this time and that just won’t do, not if the Scottish sergeant has anything to say about it. Taking matters into his own hands, Soap turns his attention to the big man standing with his arms crossed, watching quietly. 
“Oy, Lt. Come on, you’re already ‘ere. Ya gotta join us,” Johnny says through the raucous laughter to drag the silent lieutenant into the merriment. “Or are ya chicken, hmm?”
As much as you want Lt. Riley to join in, you would rather him stick around and something like this could get him to walk out; you don’t want that to happen. “Fucking can it, Johnny,” you say as you strike him in the bicep with your fist. “You’re talking out of your ass, alright? Knock it off.”
To everyone’s surprise and yours, after a momentary pause, Lt. Riley steps up closer to the table with his arms still crossed. “ ‘s fine,” he dismisses your concern. “But, one round is all you’re gonna fuckin’ get from me, sergeant, so better make it count.”
Johnny nods his head in agreement, actually caught off guard that he is even able to get this far with the ever stoic and cold-shouldered officer. It all seems a bit too easy, but Soap isn’t going to pass up an opportunity like this to get the lieutenant involved. He’s gotta make this good whatever it is that gets chosen and so he pauses a minute to think of an idea for either scenario before speaking up. “Alright Lt, ye know how it goes. Truth or dare?”
Truth is never going to be an option for Lt. Riley, not with the level of secrecy he keeps to at all times when it concerns his life; he knows if he gives Johnny an inch he will take a goddamn mile. So, there is only one other option and though he tries to hide the fidgeting in his hands, he picks it.  
Maybe it’ll be something that’ll help him strike up a conversation with you later. “Dare,” he says. 
The grin that lights up Soap’s face instantly lets the entire table know that he is up to no good and the words that follow are a testament to that fact. You thought you knew Johnny well enough by now, but not even you could have been prepared for what came out of his mouth then. “Alright, I dare ye ta kiss our sassy little sergeant right here,” he says as he looks at you with an unwavering gaze. 
You meet his blue eyes and hold them in stunned silence. Is he fucking serious? As if Lt. Riley would ever go for something so fucking dumb as this. Johnny has to be out of his goddamn mind to put you in this position; it’s like he knows something he shouldn’t. Again your immediate reaction is to sock him in the arm, this time a bit harder to drive home the point that you are done with his bullshit. 
And yet… shockingly… you hear the lieutenant speak up.
“Fine,” Lt. Riley agrees to everyone’s amazement. 
You turn your attention to face him. “Are you sure? Johnny’s just being a dick, you don’t have to listen to him, sir,” you reassure as you shoot a glare that has the Soap nervously shifting in his seat, worrying about what is going to happen to him later for pulling such a ridiculous stunt.
“Said it’s fine,” he repeats, his gruff tone metered. “But I ain’t doin’ it ‘ere though; you’re not gettin’ a free fuckin’ show if that’s what you’re after Mactavish.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll give ya that,” Johnny concedes. Those blue eyes scan the room for a solution. “How about ‘round tha corner there.”
He points to the bend in the wall a few feet away; far enough from the group that they won’t be able to tell what’s happening behind it. Since there are now stipulations that the lieutenant has set, Johnny is going to add his own as well for good measure. “However,” he pipes up, “since it ain’t in front a us here, ya gotta stay in place for 10 minutes. I doubt ye’ll actually do anything, but might as well make ye both have ta awkwardly stand there for a bit. And don’t think yer gonna pull a fast one; I’m gonna be countin’.”
You look back at the lieutenant and he gives a nod. “Fine,” you agree as well. How you are able to keep your voice so steady when you feel that jolt deep in the pit of your stomach is a mystery, but you pull it off just fine.
With the rules set Lt. Riley stares at you as if waiting for you to get up from your seat first before he moves. You do and he immediately follows close behind as you make your way over to the wall just past the corner amidst the sounds of whistles and whoops. With a quick flip of the bird back over your shoulder to the group, you both vanish around the side and come to a stop a few feet from the edge. 
You lean your back up against the wall as he comes to stand in front of you, watching you intensely through the opening in his thin balaclava. As you wait to see who will speak first, you notice a tension in his broad shoulders that hadn’t been there before. This is the first time you both have ever been this close to one another and you can’t overlook the fact that he seems even bigger now that you are standing so near; you can’t help but admire how small you feel next to him.  
The longer he stares at you with those golden eyes, studying your face as if he is deciding something, the more rapid your heartbeat thumps heavy in your chest. He takes a step closer and then another before coming to a stop again. Now there is less than a foot’s distance between your bodies and suddenly there is a shift in the atmosphere around you both, a thick tension that is growing harder to ignore. 
The sounds of laughter filters over to the both of you, breaking you out of the haze of your thoughts. “You know, we don’t have to do anything. If you want me to lie, it’s fine, sir,” you speak before he has a chance to. “Fuck Johnny for putting us in this situation. We can just stand here in silence until we get called back.”
He clears his throat. “Who said anythin’ ‘bout lyin’?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrow that you can make out through the mask. “Just don’t wanna, is that it?” 
Something in the way he says the statement catches you off guard. Why does he sound slightly disappointed? Did he want to actually do this? You couldn’t really believe that; no, you must be reading this all wrong. “No, that’s not…” you stumble over your words; why is it getting harder to speak? “I just… didn’t think you’d want to… but… if you do then…”
“Yes or no?” he cuts off your string of stammering.
“Yes,” you confirm. 
Nothing else needs to be said other than that. His hand moves to his face, his fingers finding the bottom edge of his mask, and now you can’t breathe as you wait to see what’s under there. This is the first time you’ll be able to see more than just his eyes and that leaves your mind reeling.
Okay, you prepare yourself, it’s just a kiss, right? Nothing to it; you’ve been kissed before. This will be no different. Just breathe and we’ll get through it.
The mask is wrenched up above his nose so that his mouth is revealed and spread across waiting for you is a subtle, cocky smirk. Your cheeks flush as your eyes are drawn to the facial hair covering his jaw and outlining his lips; short, light brown outgrowth from not having shaved today. It accentuates his strong jaw perfectly and though you try, you can’t look away.
Still focused on his face you miss the warning as a strong hand suddenly finds its way onto your waist as he moves against you. His broad chest is pressed up to yours, you can feel it through the thinner fabric of his shirt, and you can’t tell whether it’s your own pounding heartbeat or his that you feel. That tension is suffocating now that he is this close, the air so thick it feels like you can cut it with a knife. You wait impatiently for the moment to finally break.  
It feels like you are holding your breath when after a few more seconds he finally speaks. “Good,” he says with a bit of breathiness to his voice, “cause I’m no liar.”
Leaning his head down slowly to reach you his lips inch ever closer until you can feel their warm, ghostly presence brush over your mouth causing your eyes to flutter shut as the ecstasy from the anticipation of them making contact overwhelms you. They are there, right there, and you plead with the universe to finally let them touch. You feel him inhale sharply and with that they are crashing against yours. It is with such an automatic, visceral intensity that it knocks the wind from your lungs.
Simon had been certain until the second your lips made contact that he could keep himself under control, that this was nothing more than sinless fun, but as he breathes in the hot, moist air from your mouth while he captures it again, he already knows that this is not going to end how he has intended. There is an immediate magnetism that you both cannot pull from and what is supposed to be something quick, turns mind-numbing in an instant.
Time stands still as your lips twine together in that familiar back and forth and what can only be a few short seconds extend out into an eternity. It’s like flicking on a switch how easily you melt into his embrace, like acquainted lovers, like your lips have always meant to be pressed tightly together. 
How can this be the first time you have ever kissed?
The stubble covering the exposed half of his face pricks along your cheeks the more he advances; the skin around your lips and your jaw growing more raw each time he moves, but the way it makes your face burn is far from painful. His breathing has become more strained, muscles tensing as he risks nipping carefully at the skin on your lower lip.
You inhale a sharp breath through your teeth and then it happens: an unconscious reaction to the pleasure surging through your veins like liquid fire. You can’t stop yourself as a sneaky moan creeps up your throat and before you can swallow it back down you hum it into his mouth. 
That low, alluring sound leaves that hulking military officer hungry to hear more. Those large hands of his desperately want to paw at your body, to caress all those silky curves against the coarse skin of his palms, to let his fingertips linger at all that delicately soft flesh for as long as he can. A deep, gnawing ache settles itself in his chest as he takes your lips with more feral aggression; Simon has never craved something more in that moment than to keep you like this entangled with him. 
The longer he goes, the more there is nothing tentative about his movements; he kisses you like he owns you. Lt. Riley steals from you as if your lips are air and he will suffocate without them, his desperation is the kind that feels like this is life or death and he needs you to survive. You are unprepared for the fucking bliss of it all, the raw, unbridled passion that his lips create as the friction abrades the tender skin of your mouth. 
And your thoughts scream for him to keep going.
You match his intensity with your own, kissing him back with everything that you have in you. He opens his mouth slightly and without thinking your tongue moves in and presses against his, trying to shove its way into his mouth. Fuck, he is not prepared for you to be so keen and it throws him off for only a moment before he leans into that passion and comes back with his response.
The lieutenant braces one of his large hands near your hip, pinning you to the wall while his mouth engulfs your own as he slides his tongue in between your teeth to fill the cavity full. It slithers over the surface of your tongue towards the back of your mouth, the taste of you intoxicating so that he cannot get enough. The pleasure is so intense that it severs his connection with reality and everything outside of your joined mouths fades away into background noise. His other hand moves from your waist and is suddenly wrapped around the back of your neck, his thumb holding steadily against your jaw to keep your head securely in his grip so that he can pull you as tight against his face as he can stand. 
Your head is reeling from the potency of those hot, feverish lips that are suck yours into their desperate embrace. Then his knee forcefully pries its way between your thighs and you are sure that you will not come back from this. It’s too much to handle and you’ve lost all control… no, that’s not right. You’ve yielded everything completely to him without even having to think about it and he has taken every single ounce of what he has been given as if it has always been his. 
Leaning up into him, you stand up on the balls of your feet as he guides the movement of your head by tilting it from one side to the other in that natural dance that happens when lips play. You are both insatiable as that carnal need to devour the other makes it impossible to not relinquish yourselves to the ecstasy that overwhelms in that moment. 
Never in your life have you wanted a man to possess you more than you want your superior to right now. Images of him picking you up and slamming your back into the wall, making you encircle his waist with your legs, his cock straining and throbbing between your clothed sex as you plead with him to take you, fill your mind until they make you light-headed. 
Lt. Riley is not faring any better and he has to focus his entire will into keeping his hands engaged so that he can resist the tingling in his fingertips to find the button on your pants and undo them. If you were alone without the threat of interruption, you might already be half undressed by now, but just as that urge reaches its peak and his fingers are moving in, you both hear the words that make your hearts sink.
“Eh, you two,” you hear Soap calling out from a distance, “times up.”
It is torture to pull away from you; Simon is on the verge of combusting from being forced to stop before he is ready.  But he has to or else he might be found out and there is still hesitation to admit that he might actually want more of this. Even after the ecstasy you both had just shared he isn’t sure how far he should let this go and so with a sigh of defeat he releases your lips from his own. 
By the time he lets you go and moves out from between your legs, your stance is unsteady and your mind fuzzy. The sudden lack of pressure against your mouth leaves you feeling empty and you have to stop yourself from whining aloud. As your eyes slowly flutter open you look up into his face and are met with that chocolate brown gaze lingering on you. There is something swimming in the depths of his eyes: a question, a statement, you’re not sure, but he doesn’t say it aloud. The need to say something yourself eats at you, but you close your mouth tight and bite your tongue to keep silent. 
You can’t bring yourself to risk admitting that you don’t want him to stop; what if he doesn’t feel the same? The pressures of putting it all out there at this moment is too much to handle. Instead, you let the moment die away quietly as you breathe deeply through your nose.
“Times up,” Lt. Riley repeats the phrase softly as he situates his balaclava back down under his chin to hide himself from you once again. The others are cheering for your return, giving you no time to collect yourself, so you simply sigh and stride back to the group together.
Heads turn your direction as you reappear back into the main room. “Well?” the heavily accented voice of the bastard that has orchestrated this whole thing questions you both. 
Trying not to stumble back to your seat, you play it off as if you hadn’t just had your soul sucked out through your lips. “Well what?” you return as the lieutenant passes you up and takes his place back behind the group.
Soap’s brow furrows. “Don’t play dumb with us, lass,” he chides. “Was he any good?”  
You cautiously take your seat back where you had been as everyone waits for your answer, trying to give yourself more time to calm your pulse that is still racing like wildfire through your tingling limbs. “It was fine,” you say, hoping you are collected enough to pull off such a bold-faced lie. 
“Oh really?” Johnny asks skeptically as he eyes you up and down to read your body language. Your heart leaps in your chest as you think you’ve been found out, that the bloom in your cheeks is still too noticeable, but he continues like nothing. “I think yer full a shit. Probably didn’t even get a peck, knowin’ LT. I bet ye did nothin’ back there, but stand in silence.”
You snicker at him, carefully adjusting yourself in your seat so you can squeeze your legs together to relieve the throbbing in such a way that it doesn’t draw attention. “Aww... Guess that’s only for us to know and for you to spend all your time worrying about, bitch. It’s gonna eat at you, isn’t it? Gonna lose sleep thinking about me and the lieutenant, hmm?” you pick back, which seems to get him off your case. 
“Ye wanna add anythin’ here?” Soap asks as he turns to the mask officer.
You risk a glance over your shoulder back at your superior, knowing that this could undo all your progress at regaining your composure, and you catch him completely lost in thought, not having heard a word that Soap just said. Quickly he recovers, clearing his throat. “What’re ya on about, Mactavish?” he questions back. 
“I asked if ye had anythin’ to add to her account of events,” Johnny chuckles. “Or are ye too stunned ta speak?”
The lieutenant shoots him a glare before pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Don’t push yer fuckin’ luck, yeah?” he answers it like a threat as he flips open the pack and places a cig in between his fingers.
Soap holds up his hands innocently with palms facing out in agreement not to start any trouble. “Ye must a been terrible, lass,” Soap picks as he turns his attention back to you to keep the jovial atmosphere up. 
You slug him hard enough to make his chair squeak from the force before joining in the others laughter to disguise the heat still burning through your cheeks. Simon takes the opportunity to slip out unnoticed, though you let your eyes follow him one last time. It is a monumental task that he has to perform to actively put one foot in front of the other, to calculatedly focus his breathing to stay calm, and make it out of the door without anyone noticing that his composure is clearly broken. 
Once out of sight he hurriedly steps out into the cool night air and immediately rips up his mask as he lights his cigarette, taking a long, heavy drag off it as he leans up against the brick of the building. The nicotine tingles his throat and he hopes it’ll be enough of a distraction to stop the intense pounding in his chest. Breathing the smoke out in a weighty sigh he adjusts the crotch of his pants as they have suddenly become too tight for his comfort. 
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath as he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, desperately trying to focus on anything in a vain attempt to calm himself, but he already knows its no use.
The second his eyes are shut all he can think about is that kiss: he can still feel his arm around you, detect the ghost of your lips against his, sense the warmth of your breath in his mouth. He tries to push the delectable sensations from his mind, but they aren’t going anywhere anytime soon and he knows it. 
Opening his eyes he stands back up off the wall with a need that compels him, making him move strategically so that he can peek through the door without being seen. Sneakily he stares back into the building, those brown eyes catching the sight of you smiling and laughing, those full lips making his blood pressure rise as he watches them move about as you speak, still red and swollen from being claimed. 
This is a problem, a big fucking problem. Now the only thing that that hardened military man can think about, instead of keeping his distance, is how he can recreate that exact scene with you again.
And maybe, just maybe, take it even further.
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