#they tear they burn they crumple etc
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Sheila quite talented at origami and papercraft (it's the math nerd in her) so just. y'know. I have thoughts about her folding paper roses for D
#there's symbolism in there somewhere#like#one of her ... issues with her immortality is how little people care about your wellbeing when they know you Can't Die (for good)#blah blah blah the thing that makes life so beautiful and precious is its ephemerality#which she doesn't have anymore#and the delicacy of roses is often symbolic of that#but PAPER ROSES..... which do not wilt and will last much longer than real roses if kept safe#will hold their shape so long as the integrity of the paper remains intact#are still fragile if handled carelessly#they tear they burn they crumple etc#✨ symbolism ✨#also the fact it's something she'd put a lot of time into making FOR him with her OWN HANDS !!!!!!!
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⋆｡˙ runaway pets ˙｡⋆
pairings: dark regulus + dark poly marauders
warnings: NON-CON, DUB-CON, implied kidnapping, threesome, implied fivesome, voyeurism, overstimulation, (light) slapping, choking, stockholm syndrome, smoking, shotgunning, pet names, etc.
a/n: please enjoy the much more comprehensive version of one of my very first works. there were a lot of inconsistencies and issues with the first version. I added a lot more detail to this and it honestly feels more like a one-shot than a drabble now. i'll add the unedited version at the bottom just incase anyone wants to take a peak. anyways, happy reading <3
“I told you it’d be worse if you went to get help.” Regulus sits on one end of the bed, a small indulgent smile flitting across his lips. As if nothing was wrong.
As if you weren’t being fucked within an inch of your life.
You turn your head to him, breathless pants leaving your mouth as Remus continues to rock into you. His hips slap into your own at a steady pace. How long had he been sitting there?
The air is stifling, sweat beading along your forehead and the small of your back. The arm around your waist only adds to the oppressive feeling, Remus’ strong grip keeping you upright and in place.
Your arms shake from exertion, and you have to force your hands to unclench from where they’re fisting the damp sheets.
With a whimper, you reach for Regulus, trying to find the comfort you once found in him before it all. Before he had selfishly stole you away. Before you knew of the darkness lingering just beneath the surface.
You weakly try to pry off the arm wrapped around you, but it doesn’t budge. It only tightens, pulling you up until your back hits Remus’ firm chest.
“Want sir now. Please- Remmy-” The lanky brunette ignores you, muttering something unintelligible into your neck as his thrusts speed up. Your attention was stolen from him. He doesn’t like that- not one bit.
Your face crumples at the silent dismissal, the tears you’d been holding in falling just as you reach another trembling high.
“Please, m’sorry sir- c-can we please go home now?” You gasp out. Your limbs burn, they have been for a while you suppose, but still you try to ignore it, concentrating on just Regulus for now.
But he only hums noncommittally, standing as he makes his way to the makeshift bar in the corner of the room. Regulus rubs his jaw in mock thought, scrutinizing the scene before him while he pours himself a glass of firewhiskey. The smell of cinnamon saturates the air, adding to the heavy atmosphere.
“Thought you wanted to come here-“ He gestures around the room, lazily draping himself on the nearby armchair. “For help.” The last word is said with a sneer and laced with so much venom that you balk.
Even though you can tell he’s done arguing about it, you still sob out: “I’ll be good- promise.”
You hear Sirius let out a scoff. He’s leaning against the headboard, his shirt unbuttoned and a lit cigarette in hand, doing nothing but watching as his friends ruin you.
He’d been the one to call Regulus when you came running to their house, barefoot and in nothing but a frail, white nightgown. “You’re already being good here, pup- s’no use in leaving.” He makes his way towards you, squishing your cheeks together, your lips forming an o-shape.
He blows smoke into your mouth, smirking when you cough at the burn. “Y’already gonna be punished anyway, might as well do that here- ain’t that right Reggie?”
Regulus rolls his eyes, breaking his normally composed demeanor. “Don’t call me-”
“Hush, I can’t focus when you lot keep talkin.” James' speech is slurred as he speaks up, moving his head slightly from between your legs. He pays no mind to the way Remus pumps in and out of you. His mouth is so close to where the two of you meet that you can feel his cool breath against your clit as he talks.
“S’annoying.”
You clench around Remus at the feeling, and the man in question groans, giving you a particularly rough thrust.
James goes back to work at that, humming softly as he drinks in yours and Remus’ juices. You let out a another strangled moan, instinctively trying to tilt your hips away.
Instantly Sirius’ face darkens with anger, “Uh-uh, I don’t think so puppy.” A hand shoots out to grab the base of your neck as James’ hands grip the front of your thighs tightly.
“Don’t fuckin’ run away from him- you understand?”
You nod shakily, chest rising and falling quickly as you watch him with unseeing eyes.
“Just take it like a good girl, princess.” James cooes, lightly nibbling on the inside of your thigh. You let out a startled yelp.
“What d’you say bunny?” Remus asks from behind you, hips slowing as he tries to find that spot. Trying to coax the words out of you. You whine, unable to answer until Sirius gingerly slaps your cheek, raising a sharp brow at you.
“M’sorry- m’so sorry Jamie.” Your head is spinning, an ache growing until it becomes practically mind numbing.
At this point it’s all you can focus on.
“Thought I taught you better than that pet.” Regulus chides, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He looks only slightly more disheveled than before. His hair is not neatly combed back like it was earlier, and his tie considerably loosened. His fingers dig into the cushioned arms of the chair, the veins in his forearms flexing in a way that makes your mouth water.
You lick your lips. “Sir-”
Remus shushes you. “S’ okay bunny- y’just have to make it up to him.” You cry out as he brushes against your g-spot, finally finding what he’s been looking for this whole time.
Each hit of his hips is aimed perfectly, giving you no room to breathe until you’re a gasping mess.
James’ mouth certainly doesn’t help. His warm tongue suckles at your clit, unrelenting as he brings you to that exhilarating peak over and over again.
Eventually he breaks away, wiping the wetness around his mouth with the back of his hand. A feral grin forms as he pushes the hair away from your face, cupping your teary cheeks. “That wasn’t so bad now was it? You can take a little more, right?”
Sirius answers before you can even think to open your mouth, a mocking frown on his face. “I don’t know about that Prongs- she seems a right mess already, huh? Don’t think she can go on.” He slaps between your legs, and a panicked moan startles its way out of you.
You quickly come undone, so worked up from before, but the torment doesn’t end there.
“I think you're right, Pads.” James murmurs, as he slips his fingers through the mess of your cunt, the tips of his fingers grazing the base of Remus’ cock.
It’s enough to startle a groan out of him.
Sirius grabs onto your hips, reaching around James to take control of the even pace Remus set. “C’mon pup, make a mess on Moony’s cock- be a good little cockslut for us.”
He bounces you viscously atop Remus, everyone watching intently as you become a drooling mess.
Your set your lidded gaze on Regulus, whose self-control looks like it’s seconds away from snapping.
Yet he makes no move to stop the situation.
“Come on princess- fuckin’ come for us. Make a fucking mess.” James growls into your ear, pinching your clit roughly. Tears well in your eyes, body tensing as you are, yet again, pushed off the edge.
“Fuck- such a good bunny.” Remus curses.
Sirius and James mock your high pitched cries, taking a sadistic pleasure in watching you sob at the overstimulation.
Your limbs go slack, Remus panting heavily as he fucks you through it all, his breath fanning against your neck. He kisses your temple softly and you whine, barely able to move, even as the aftershocks flow through you.
The three continue to overstimulate you, and Remus lets out a breathy chuckle when Sirius lets go of your hips, letting you fall face first into James’ chest.
“S’your turn princess. We’re not doing all the work for you- besides you still have three more cocks to go.”
☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾
UNEDITED VERSION
#hunnie writes ☀︎#dark hunnie ☾#sirius black x reader#dark sirius black x reader#dark sirius black#sirius black smut#james potter x reader#dark james potter x reader#dark james potter#james potter smut#remus lupin x reader#dark remus lupin x reader#dark remus lupin#remus lupin smut#regulus black x reader#dark regulus black x reader#poly marauders x reader#poly marauders#poly marauders smut
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lover of mine - n.hischier
nico hischier x f!reader
warnings: swearing, angst, description of injury/bruises etc, sad nico, mentions of vomiting/dizziness, medical inaccuracies
word count: 21k
You were in your room, having just got back from a late trip to the store for some last minute bagels and milk – you weren’t doing anything in particular. You were sitting on your office chair, eyes occasionally drifting to the essay waiting for your corrections on the table, but you found it hard to tear your attention away from your phone. There wasn’t anything specifically attention grabbing that you were scrolling through, mainly just browsing Instagram and replying to some messages from friends.
There was no jeopardy surrounding the evening: it was dark outside, around eight – so not too late that you felt like you had to rush to sort things out, but late enough to deplete your energy levels completely to the point where you couldn’t really bring yourself to work.
Your bedroom door was open, vague chatter from the Devils match playing in the living room – your roommate, Maisey, wrapped up in the whirlwind that seemed to accompany any fan of hockey. The last time you’d seen her she was leaning towards the TV, her elbows on her knees as she shouted words every couple of minutes.
It was a routine quickly becoming familiar to you both; usually you’d be sitting next to her, both yelling profanities at the TV in synch, but in an attempt to distance yourself from the drama in your relationship at the moment, you’d decided to take a step back somewhat. You could still watch the highlights and every now and then you’d sit in and watch with her, but there was only so much of watching the matches anymore that you could take without being reminded of your recent heartbreaks and tribulations – all because of a certain captain.
Needless to say, when her shouting stopped and an eerie quiet descended from the living room, the commentating getting louder as though Maisey was trying to listen even more carefully to what was being said, it didn’t escape your interest, and your curiosity peaked. You paused, your thumb faltering as you threw a cautious glance at your door, still no sign of any rustling or movement that indicated she’d only turned it up to take the bins out or have a quick toilet break. In fact, apart from the occasional flickering from the light of the TV, the only thing you could see was the ajar bathroom door from across the hallway.
You furrowed your brows, ears straining to pick up the quickfire chatter as something ugly and dreadful settled itself in your mind and chest. You tried to dissect the sensation, but the tightness of your chest and the cold chill of your bones could only pull you in the direction of foreboding.
“Maise?” You called out, slowly hauling yourself off your chair, phone switching off as you turned into the hallway.
When you looked down the corridor to the sofa just in sight, you could see Maisey’s worried gaze peek over the back, and you gravitated towards her, “Yeah?” She asked, blindly fumbling for something as you got closer.
It was only when you rounded the corner to cast a glance at the TV, heart thudding against your sternum in anticipation of seeing something you didn’t want to, that the commentary cut off, the screen turning an abrupt black. You could see your reflection looking back at you, the momentary flicker of people in black tracksuits crowding around a horizontal figure crumpled against the boards.
You looked to Maisey on the blank screen, who was looking at you with an essence of anxiety, awkwardly spinning the remote in her hand, her eyes burning holes in the back of your head as though she expected you to react.
To what?
“What’s wrong?” You spun around, moving to take a seat next to her, completely unaware of what had been playing out before your entrance.
You knew there was a Devils game tonight, she’d been watching it when you came back from your little trip and unloaded the fresh produce into varying cupboards, and you’d even cast curious glances at it when you were looking in the general direction of the TV, but you’d immediately hidden yourself back in your room with the honest intent of finishing some work before bed.
She shrugged, acting nonchalant as her shoulders drooped, “Nothing.” She mumbled, “I thought you were working?”
You nodded slowly, feeling some tension begin to wear off at her lack of urgency, “I tried to, but I can’t concentrate. It’s too late to think.” She nodded, twisting her mouth awkwardly, “Why’d you turn it off?”
She shrugged again, pulling the remote away from you before you could even move to turn the TV back on, “Just…Nico was playing.” You fought a wince, a wave of sadness clenching in your chest, “I didn’t want to upset you.”
You were grateful for her consideration, but her subdued, almost too-casual demeanour was off-putting and quite frankly irritating. You could tell she was hiding something from you, that much was obvious from the way she hid the remote out of your sight and made no move to turn the TV back on even despite your reassurances. You’d seen some of Nico’s games recently, she knew that – and she also knew that you had nothing against her watching them in the front room.
And it wasn’t like you and Nico were over – even if it had felt like it recently, although that was the definition of being on a ‘break’, wasn’t it? You’d agreed (after much deliberation and many tears on both your behalfs) that a rather reluctant break was needed; little to no communication…it was rough. It was also the first time in two years that you hadn’t gone two weeks without speaking to Nico, or even seeing his face on FaceTime, and you were kind of dying. Or, at least it felt like it.
It was difficult trying to sleep lately, hence why you’d been trying to get into bed earlier – mind seemingly intent on torturing you with images of Nico and replaying conversations and moments.
You’d lost count of the number of times you’d had to remind yourself that this break – although temporary – was essential for your relationship, and it was no secret neither of you wanted to break up. That had been made abundantly clear the last time you had spoken when you were both speechless in his front room before you’d reluctantly left him there.
And Maisey knew this, she respected this, which was why you found it so hard to believe she was telling the truth.
“You know I don’t mind watching the games.” You said, tilting your head in interest when she squirmed under your gaze, “Are you okay?”
Your heart was hammering in your chest when she turned to look at you, brows knitted together and eyes wide, chewing on her bottom lip, “I–” She hesitated, “The game wasn’t very interesting.”
You nodded, attempting a smile even despite the thick atmosphere. You had been friends with Maisey since high school, so you knew when she wasn’t telling you something, but you brushed it off, respecting whatever reasoning behind it – you trusted her, so if she was avoiding telling you something, you knew it was within reason.
“Do you want some tea or a drink?” You asked, switching the topic of conversation to avoid maintaining the awkward tension.
When you looked at Maisey she was eyeing your phone. And almost as though she’s willed it into existence, the screen lit up.
Her eyes snapped to you, where you’d frozen half-lifting yourself off the sofa, and there was an immeasurable panic in her face. It had something dropping in your stomach, dread pooling throughout your body, and you swallowed anxiously, your mouth drying.
“You should answer it.” She said, thrusting it towards you.
You blinked, taking it numbly and without allowing yourself to dwell yourself into a pit of your own panic, clicked the answer button.
You sat back on the sofa, vaguely aware of Maisey switching the TV back on, muting it instantly, but you were too focused on trying to hear what someone was saying on the other side of the line to even glance at the TV.
“Hello?” You asked, voice somewhat shaky.
“Hi, is this Y/N L/N?” The voice on the other side was stern, and at the mention of your name you paled. Usually if someone began a call like that it was to schedule an appointment of sorts, but judging from Maisey’s sombre reaction and prediction, you knew it was something worse.
“Yes.” You replied, tucking your hands into the arms of your hoodie to stop them from trembling.
“My name is Oliver Crosby, I’m one of the physios from the Devils Hockey Team.” You closed your eyes momentarily, before opening them to the TV, your eyes frantically scanning the ice for any sign of Nico’s familiar #13 C jersey. The sluggish movements of the players immediately had you guessing something had happened, because the Devils players seemed to be hanging around near the bench, and even the Capitals were skating absentmindedly. You shared a look with Maisey – she was sympathetic, biting her lip, “I’m calling on behalf of Nico Hischier, you’re listed here as his emergency contact–”
“Has something happened?” You interjected, horrified at the mere prospect.
It seemed Oliver had expected a reaction of sorts, because he responded without hesitation, “He’s alright, not in any immediate danger. He made contact with another player and we’re waiting for an ambulance. He’s in a lot of pain and we’ve assessed him as thoroughly as we can; we think he’s got a concussion, a separated shoulder, and a broken collarbone.”
You let out a breath, “Right.”
“See, he keeps asking for you is all, won’t really let us do anything until he sees you. We would ask you to come to the Center, but with the amount of pain he’s in, and the severity of the concussion, we think it’s better if you could meet us at the hospital, is that alright with you?”
It took you a beat to answer, the information overwhelming, but Maisey was already holding out her car keys towards you, a reassuring smile on her face.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Was all you could manage, briefly fighting the urge not to hurl.
“Okay, thank you, we’ll tell him you’ll meet us there. If we get there before you – oh, the ambulance is pulling up now – I’ll wait by the entrance.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. I should be about fifteen minutes.” You were trembling, not allowing yourself to look back at the screen, instead focusing on your lap. You honestly didn’t know how you hadn’t at least stuttered through the entire conversation, let alone not started crying.
His reiterations of Nico’s pain only escalated your concerns, and you already knew you wouldn’t be coming home tonight.
“Great, that’s amazing…” Oliver paused, and over the commotion in the background, you could vaguely hear him talking to someone else in the background, before his voice became clearer – at the same time, Maisey had climbed off the sofa, and was rooting around to pick up your coat and a pair of suitable shoes, “I know this is all pretty scary, but he’s gonna be just fine.”
You nodded, shivering, “I just–He’s kind of…This is the first time anyone’s rung me as his emergency contact–”
“–We tend to enact that protocol when injuries require immediate medical attention, i.e. the hospital – even more so when it involves a head injury.” Oliver’s tone was grave, but understanding, and his ability to read you even through the phone had you guessing you weren’t the first…whatever, that had said that to him.
His honesty was refreshing, but it did little to ease your churning stomach.
“Fuck.” You whispered under your breath, a hand going to rest on your stomach, “Yeah, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“See you then. Please drive safely.”
“Always will. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
And then you were pocketing your phone, and shrugging your coat on from where Maisey had held it up ready for you, struggling with the zip as you fought to calm your nerves. You wouldn’t be able to drive if your hands were shaking, let alone your brain firing off warning signals.
Maisey placed her hands on your shoulders, steadying you, “Do you want me to come with you?”
You shook your head, “I think I’ll be okay. You don’t need the car tomorrow do you?”
“No.” She offered you a small smile, squeezing your shoulders in a reassuring manner, “Text me when you get there, and feel free to ring me at any point. If you want me to, I can start getting a bag ready–”
“No, that’s fine, most of my stuff is still at his anyway, and I don’t know what’s gonna happen after the hospital, so don’t bother.” You inhaled through your nose, thanking the universe for sending you an angel like Maisey and planting her on your timeline of life, “Thank you, though.”
She brought you closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much-needed hug, which you reciprocated, not really wanting to pull away.
“I love you.” You said, not really knowing how else to convey your utmost appreciation.
“Love you too,” she pulled away, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “Let me know how he is.”
You nodded, pulling away completely before snatching your bag from the table by the door before walking out and into the car park – your mind so completely stuck on Nico’s condition that you bypassed Maisey’s car entirely, having to double back and press the unlock button to pick it out of the sea of vehicles.
When you switched the engine on, the sudden blaring of the radio had you automatically smashing your fist against the control panel, turning it off and calming your racing heart at the shock of the sudden sound. The car remained silent the entire ride to the hospital, you not really able to stomach listening to whatever songs were playing at that particular time, which, realistically, would only irritate you – and drove with the passenger window half down, needing to distract yourself with the white noise of the road.
And when you pulled into the dark parking lot of the hospital, the first thing you did was seek out Oliver near the side entrance. He was a familiar silhouette – one you recognised as having seen around the Center on game days before, and he was standing in front of the door, his eyes jumping over empty faces until he saw you above their heads, immediately meeting you halfway and placing a comforting hand on the crook of your elbow, already talking your ear off before you could spout a greeting.
“We’ve got him scheduled for an MRI–” he opened the front door, and you lent closer, trying to hear him over the busy corridors of the ER, “it’s not for another fifteen minutes, though.” He pulled you to one side, stopping short of a curtained off room.
You gulped, not expecting it to have been so close to the entrance, and felt your eyes naturally drift to the gaps in the curtains. You could see there was a low light – possibly from a bedside table. There was a head of hair directly next to the door, one you could just make out. You let out a sigh you hadn’t known you’d been holding, and turned back to Oliver.
“He was on our gas and air and when the ambulance came they got him an IV of morphine.” Oliver started, glancing at a clipboard you hadn’t realised he’d been holding, “It looks like we were right; definitely a concussion, a pretty serious one – but it doesn’t look like they’re wanting to keep him for overnight observation; it also looks like he’s broken his collarbone, but the MRI should confirm that, and he’s definitely separated his shoulder, too.”
You paused, “How long will he be out for?”
He winced in response, and you felt something tighten, “It depends on the results of the MRI. Purely from the separated shoulder, it could be anything between two to at least ten weeks.”
You let out a breath, brows shooting up your forehead, “Shit, he’s gonna be so bored.”
Oliver nodded in agreement, “Oh yeah, you’re gonna be sick of him by the end of it,” he joked, “I can talk to you afterwards about treatment, but he hasn’t stopped asking for you.”
You nodded, your anxiety spiking as your attention flickered to the closed door on your right, “What’s he like?”
“He’s been complaining of dizziness and he’s a little bit confused – doesn’t remember what happened, but it’s expected with his grade of concussion.”
You nodded, making a mental note of his symptoms, before thanking Oliver and heading inside. Like you’d seen through the blinds, there was only one light on in the corner of the room, and you made sure to shut the door softly, not knowing if any particular sounds would trigger something or irritate his head further.
Honestly, you were a little weary of his confusion, and it had occurred to you that the reason he’d been asking for you consistently and diligently was because he didn’t remember what exactly had happened between you both, but at the end of the day, you didn’t really care if that was true or not, because the first thing you did was look at him; his entire left side strapped and braced up, his right arm home to an IV. His eyes were shut, a deep frown on his face as he winced occasionally, a cardboard dish resting on his heaving chest.
He wasn’t wearing his game pads, but his leggings were still on, and there was a hospital gown draped across his body, tied at the back, you suspected – easy access for the doctors to look and assess his shoulder.
You didn’t really want to look at it, mainly because you’d never been the best at looking at injuries deeper than a surface scratch, but also because you were fixed entirely on his face. His brows were pulled together, his mouth twisted to keep a groan at bay. He’d scrunched his eyes up, and you could see his uneven breaths from under the gown. His hair was wet with sweat, and he still had that post-game glow, his cheeks red with exertion.
As you shut the door behind you gently, your attention switched to the person sitting on your right, who – upon noticing your arrival – stood up, flashing you a comforting smile as he walked out straight after you. You cautiously placed your bag on his empty chair, taking a seat on Nico’s uninjured side.
He made no reaction as the doors opened and closed, and although you desperately wanted to soothe that ache and touch him, you didn’t want to startle him and make him tense his shoulder at a sudden touch, or overstep your boundaries.
“Nico?” You whispered as softly as you could, fearing something in the room would break if you raised your volume even a little more. You shrugged your coat off onto the back of your chair and lent as far forwards as you could without making contact with his outstretched arm.
At your whisper, something flickered across his face, and he slowly peeled one red eye open. Your fears seemed almost irrational when he attempted a shaky smile, before immediately snapping his eyelids shut and pushing himself further into the mattress.
His palm opened, and you took it as a signal to touch him, one of your hands holding his as tightly as you were comfortable with, and your other going to rest at his wrist, not daring to touch anywhere higher on his arm out of fear you’d knock his IV.
“How’re you feeling?” You cringed at the question, having already been debriefed on his symptoms, but he showed no protest, squeezing your hand.
“Fucking hurts, ‘nd missed you.” He struggled, almost fighting for breath.
Your heart seemed to shatter in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you were reaching up for him, eyes stinging, as you ever-so-carefully threaded your fingers through his sweat-ridden hair, peeling it off his forehead. His brows softened slightly at your delicate touch, and before he attempted to move into your palm, you spoke up.
“Don’t move or open your eyes, you’ll make yourself dizzy.” You whispered, leaning closer to the bed and fighting with yourself. The last thing you wanted was to cry. Nevertheless, you couldn’t help the watery laugh that escaped you when Nico grunted in protest.
“But I want to look at you.” He complained, eyes still screwed shut.
“You can look at me plenty when we get home, okay?” You negotiated.
He hummed, seemingly content with that promise, even if the ‘home’ had slipped from your lips unconsciously. He didn’t seem to notice, though.
“I missed you too.” You pressed a kiss to his free shoulder – the skin hot and salty under your lips, finding some amusement in the way you were practically stretched across him, one hand in his, your other in his hair, and your head near his.
His mouth curled up, lips twitching somewhat at the contact, and you breathed a soft, quiet laugh against his skin at the momentarily emotional relief you read on his face.
“Didn’t think you’d come.” He muttered after a while of silence, your hand still gently working his hair, not wanting to intrude too much in case his head was still sore.
But at his comment, you froze, hand stilling, and you had to look at the ceiling to suppress the tears that almost broke free, “Don’t be silly…” The chastise was half-hearted, before you resumed your previous motions, “I’m always gonna show up when it comes to you.”
“I really wish I could look at you right now.”
Even despite his condition, Nico was managing to compose himself a lot better than what you’d originally imagined. Sure, his speech was a little slow – as though he had to think hard about talking and thinking, and you could tell the small conversation was beginning to wear him out a little. He’d softened, relaxed, a product of a comforting touch and the effect of the painkillers.
Then, almost as if he’d lulled himself into a false sense of security, he seemed to pale, and before he could control himself, he was opening his eyes, and you could sense something was wrong purely because he’d tensed, and your body seemed to know what he needed before your mind had even registered it, because you’d lifted the cardboard bowl from his lap right under his chin, rubbing a soothing hand down his arm as he chucked up the contents of his stomach – not that there was much left to spew.
He groaned, clamping his eyes shut and breathing heavily as you reached for the box of tissues on the side of the table, hastily wiping his mouth. You couldn’t tell if the groan was from the dizziness or the pain from having moved his shoulder fractionally.
He groaned something in German, squeezing your hand even tighter as his face screwed up.
“I take it that’s not the first time that’s happened tonight?” You asked, carefully placing the carton on the side, not really knowing where to put it – you were sure there was a protocol for human waste in a hospital, but you'd have to ask someone when they’d come to pick him up for his MRI.
He grunted in response, slowly lowering himself back on the propped up mattress with a sharp wince, “Twice in the ambulance.”
You sighed, brows knitting together, “Oh, baby.” There was a small part of you that felt a little guilty for not going to his recent home games, let alone watching them all on TV live.
Maybe if you’d have been there, he wouldn’t have been so alone in the ambulance. You knew that Oliver and his partner were a capable set of hands, but there was nothing as daunting as travelling to the hospital by yourself, dazed and in pain, and lacking a familiar support network.
Before you could say or do anything to ease him, the door was creaking open, Oliver offering a polite smile – eyes inevitably drawn to the carton – with a string of people in uniform following behind him.
They all ensured to keep quiet, not wanting to disturb him too much – though you knew as soon as they’d wheel him out of there that that effort would be wasted, because the corridors in the ER were anything short of quiet. The lighting was harsh as well.
Oliver gently explained what they were going to do, though you both had an inkling none of it really mattered to Nico, considering he remained stoic, a firm grip still on you, and you took the liberty of digesting the information, a cautious glance thrown at his shoulder. It was strapped against his chest, his arm in a compressed sling of sorts. You imagined the contraption was fitted around his back, keeping his separated shoulder in place, and the sling at the front could only be to stabilise his suspected broken clavicle.
You nodded along to Oliver, only when it was time to wheel Nico out, he gripped you even more, a groan of disapproval passing his lips as the porters attempted to wheel him. It was safe to say they didn’t get too far.
Despite his eyes still being closed, you could sense the panic across his face. His brows were furrowed, and where there was a wince on the bottom half of his face, now it looked more like someone had drawn a smiley face and rotated it 180°, because that was the frown now decorating his mouth.
“Come with me?” He mumbled, gritting his teeth.
You shared a look with Oliver, already knowing there wouldn’t be much point, “I can’t. By the time you’re in the room for the MRI, I wouldn’t be able to touch you anyway, and Oliver says it’s going to be a quick in and out procedure until they get the information they need.” You squeezed his hand.
“Stay here?” He all but whimpered, brows dipping in question. His mouth quivered – he wasn’t about to cry, but you could tell the separation (both of your relationship and of the current moment) was having him doubt your whereabouts.
“Hischier, I’m coming home with you.” You laughed softly, placing a kiss on his forehead when the tension in his face seemed to dissipate slightly, “I’ll stay here until you get back.”
“M’kay.” He grumbled, the right side of his mouth quirking upwards.
___
It was a dire struggle trying to get a well-built, 6’1” hockey player into the passenger seat of your car when he was half-conscious, unable to use an entire shoulder, and exhausted. Oliver had wheeled him out of the hospital, promising to email you a report of exactly what to do with him as soon as he found himself in front of a computer (which you were incredibly grateful for), but he’d had to scuttle off and ring management with the updates, which left Nico blinking tiredly, a cardboard bowl on his lap and unable to move properly for you to sort out.
It had taken a long three minutes trying to wrestle him in through the door, you being incredibly careful not to bang him against the frame or hurt his shoulder in any way – your heart practically leaping to your feet every time he groaned or grunted in pain.
Nevertheless, you’d managed, arms aching after the exertion. You switched the engine on, casting a short glance back at him as your car lit up, but he’d lent his right shoulder against the side of the door, his cheek pressed against the glass.
Neither of you had said much when he came back after the MRI scan – there wasn’t much of a need to considering all your questions had been answered by Oliver, and the ones you had for Nico would be pointless considering he wasn’t entirely there enough to even process your words, so you’d stuck with holding his hand, his grip tight against your own, until he had to be coaxed to change into spare clothes that someone had thoughtfully packed when they were all waiting for the ambulance.
And in the car, as you pulled out of the car park, taking extra precautions to turn corners slowly and braking gently, trying your best not to disturb him. He was asleep, or at least trying to, his right hand cradling his left to his chest, that telltale furrow of his brows and crease on his forehead letting you know he was still in an immense amount of pain. You kept the radio turned off, and you tried to keep the heating in the middle, not wanting to freeze him or cook him – he’d had concussions before, and he always had trouble regulating his body temperature, so you’d negotiated.
When you pulled into Nico’s parking spot and killed the engine, there were a few seconds where you kept your hands on the steering wheel, leaning forwards slightly to rest your forehead on your arms.
You’d tried to keep everything bottled inside before you made it into the apartment, but the stress of the last few hours, most of it sitting and waiting for results, had taken its toll on you. You were exhausted, but the worry for the man curled up next to you overwhelmed you to the point where you couldn’t decipher the heaviness in your chest when you glanced at him, even out of the corner of your eye.
You felt your breathing hitch, eyes pricking for a second before you pulled yourself together. It was no use sitting and moping in Maisey’s car when you had to attend to Nico. You’d barely let yourself feel it properly for thirty seconds before you were taking a deep breath and leaning across the console, placing a hand on Nico’s thigh.
“Honey, you need to wake up.” You said, hand gently squeezing him.
He shifted, frowning, and before you could give him a little nudge, he blinked, “I-Can we stay in here? I don’t really want to move.” He muttered, trying to tuck himself further into the crevice he’d nestled himself in.
“No, we need to get you into bed. Lots of pillows, too, because you need to be propped up, and if you stay in here, you’ll only end up more uncomfortable.”
You waited, but it took a while for him to answer, seemingly gathering the courage to actually move.
“Okay, then.” He sighed, straightening up in his seat, eyes still glued shut.
You moved over to his car door, opening it gently. It wasn’t far to walk to get inside Nico’s apartment: he was on one of the top floors, but the walk from the car park to the lobby lift was short. You knew, however, that it would be almost double that time if he couldn’t stand up properly or walk in a straight line with his dizziness.
It was a hobble and a half – lugging Nico into the lobby and then having to shove a paper bag under his mouth if his breathing got heavier and he lent against the wall. You had to stop four times, and out of those four, he threw up once. Thankfully, you’d managed to make it past the desk and into an empty lift, so there weren’t any wandering eyes or nights ruined by the sight of someone hurling in the corridor.
It shocked you to know that his inability to remain upright and walk fluently in a straight line wasn’t because of an injury to his legs, but sheerly due to the fact that his concussion was that bad, and he was that drugged up on painkillers, that he couldn’t see straight.
It felt like an injustice that the hospital didn’t lend you a wheelchair.
He was almost catatonic when you sat him on the edge of the bed and unzipped the hoodie he’d been given. Only one arm was through the sleeve, so it was relatively easy to remove, but it didn’t stop the twinge in your chest every time he groaned or made a noise of pain.
You felt it almost inhumane to force him to clean his teeth or put on his pyjamas when he couldn’t keep his eyes open for longer than three seconds in one go, so you worked quickly in propping up his pillows like you’d seen them do in the hospital, and took his hat off his head once more, running your hands through his hair so it wouldn’t bother his nose.
You had to clench your jaw when, even in the darkness, you could see how pale he was, how he fought to keep his head up straight. It made you feel nauseous looking at his half-conscious state.
“You still with me, hm?” You whispered.
You were as soft as you could be with your touches, as quiet as your voice would allow you for it, and you hadn’t turned on any lights on entry. Trying was all you could do considering the fact you didn’t exactly have the knowledge you were comfortable with in looking after him in the state he was in.
His lashes fluttered against his cheeks, and he hummed halfheartedly.
“I’ve put up your pillows behind you, but you need to shuffle back a bit.” You started, halting when you heard his breathing get ragged for a moment, fearing he was about to be sick again, “You good? I’ll help you.”
He sniffed, eyes opening enough to see the room around him, and he turned, anchoring his shoulder to his chest as he looked back at the shadow of his pillows. You let him manoeuvre himself, not wanting to intrude further, but ghosted a hand on the back of his t-shirt just for precautions, until he slowly lowered himself onto the pile, huffing a contented sigh.
You saw his entire body relax, and you reached towards the foot of the bed and draped the duvet over him. He didn’t react, so you left the room to fill up a glass of water and took out some of the medication Oliver had given you in a plastic bag before placing them on his bedside table. You were about to leave the room again to take off your own coat shoes when you heard him grumble something under his breath.
You paused initially, not sure if he was complaining about something or just huffing and puffing, but upon hearing your silence and stillness, he cracked one eye open.
“Stay here?” He whispered clearer, his good shoulder twitching in the direction of the space on the bed you usually occupied.
You swallowed nervously. You wanted to. You wanted to crawl under the covers with him and just watch him like a hawk the entire night for your own peace of mind, but you were also aware of the looming black hole in your relationship.
You guys were on a no-contact break, and something felt wrong about climbing into his bed before having a conversation about the entire thing.
But then again, he’d been advised not to think too hard – literally. And by doing what he says, you guessed it’d spare his thinking…for arguments sake.
Truthfully, you also wanted to make sure he was okay, and if you were across the hall, he wouldn’t be able to shout for you as easily as he would if he just reached out across the mattress.
He must have sensed your hesitation, even through the darkness and with his eyes closed, because he reached his hand out, just catching yours, “Please.”
You sighed, squeezing his hand in a way of reply, and you could tell from the slight smirk that momentarily flashed over his face – almost like he’d forgotten his pain for the briefest moment (and that alone made you cave and crumble completely) – he’d known he’d win you over with that simple action.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You gently untangled your hands, lifting your bag over your shoulder and making your way around to your usual side of the bed, “Will you be okay if I go for a quick shower?”
Your side hadn’t been touched. Some books you’d left behind but knew you wouldn’t miss were still stacked on top of each other; your digital clock was still there, as was the empty dish for your jewellery. Though, contradicting your previous observation of untouched, organised madness, you could tell he’d dusted around it. Two weeks meant dust was inevitable, yet there wasn’t a single speck of residue on your fingertips when you swiped your finger across the top.
Your bag found its usual home on the chair next to the radiator, and you turned back to him. He was watching you. His eyes were open wider, and you could see them glisten in the dark.
“I’ll be fine.” He whispered.
You attempted a smile, taking your coat off and placing it next to your bag.
You could still feel his eyes on you as you made your way to the chest of drawers at the foot of your bed, taking out a pair of your pyjamas, which – in your rush from leaving before – consisted of an old pair of Nico’s boxers and a Darth Vader long-sleeved t-shirt.
The thought of shooting him one last look before you left the room hurt too much to dwell on, so you left the room without saying another word, not turning on any lights until you reached the bathroom on the other side of the house. You knew he’d have questions as to why you didn’t just use the en-suite, but…you needed the privacy – somewhere to just let a few tears slip down under the water, because as much as you tried to deny it, it hurt even being in the same room as him.
Not only had he almost sent you to an early grave because of sheer worry and panic, but two weeks felt like too soon, and you’d already made your decision, but you didn’t want him thinking you were taking advantage of him needing someone to look after him to just pop back into his life again, much less if he hadn’t even made a decision yet.
Being back in this house, this area, this car, this stupid bathroom, where – even if it wasn’t the one you’d primarily use – he still had your body wash and hair care bottles lined up, like he was waiting for you to come back – and that tangible taste of knowing exactly how easy it would be for you to just infiltrate back into his everyday life, for both of you to coexist around each other like it was the easiest thing apart from breathing, felt like torture.
And you knew if you got back into bed with him, you might not even be able to sleep properly. You’d be terrified that he’d stop breathing through the night and you wouldn’t be awake to notice it.
The only thing that seemed to solidify the whole situation was the endless texts from Maisey and Jack, not to mention a few other friends too, and the entire ESPN page raving about how long he might be out for.
That was another thing: if Nico didn’t have hockey, what did he have? Sure, he’d find some way to get himself back in the gym and near the ice at least, but he’d miss the general euphoria and adrenalin of playing with his guys.
“So…” he was crying, a hand over his mouth. His eyes were red, and tears were dripping down his cheeks, but his shoulders weren’t heaving. He was sitting on the sofa, his elbows resting on his knees from where you were sitting on the floor, your hands resting on his kneecaps, not much better than him, “How long should w…we do it for?”
You shrugged, not really finding an answer. You weren’t sure if there was a correct answer to that question. It couldn’t be too soon, or else you’d both still be fresh from whatever had blown up here, but if you left it too long, neither of you would have the courage to rehash everything.
“A month?” You suggested weakly.
You didn’t want to do it for a month. A month was too long. Please say a month is too long–
“A month?” His brown eyes flickered up to yours, brows furrowing somehow even more, and his expression crinkled after holding your gaze, “I don’t–It’s too long.”
You sniffed, “What do you suggest, then?” It hadn’t meant to come out so sharp, and you hated that it did, hated it about a hundred times more when he looked at you again.
“I’ll miss you too much.” He admitted quietly.
“I think that’s the point of going on a break.” You laughed bitterly, squeezing his knee.
“I already know what I want, and four weeks won’t change that.”
You sighed, retracting your grip on his knees and sitting back on your heels, “Nico–”
“Do you not want me anymore?” He sounded so wrecked in himself you had to do a double-take, your own tears beginning to melt down your cheeks.
“Come on, you know that’s not it–”
“Then what is? Because I really don’t see the issue. I want you, I love you, and I think you feel–”
“Of course I fucking love you, but this is different–”
“Explain it to me, then!”
“I’m trying! Only every time I do you interrupt me.”
You were both glaring at each other, frustrations rising to a boiling point as the pain of the past few weeks all emanated through the fiery stares. He sighed, leaning back against the sofa and flourishing his hand for you to go ahead.
“I want this to work so badly, but we both come home after work, and we don’t talk to each other. Sometimes we can barely stand looking at each other because it’s just another thing to maintain after an exhausting day, and that’s not right. It’s not healthy for either of us, and I don’t know about you, but it really fucking hurts me when that happens.” You took a breath, watching him carefully. You knew he understood what you were saying because he’d softened and his chest was hitching as though he was forcing himself not to break again, “I miss when we used to come home and not feel like being with each other was a chore. I want that again; I want us to hang out here and not get drained just forcing conversation.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want a break,” you admitted, voice soft, “but I think it’s the best thing for us.”
“Three weeks,” he interjected, making eye contact with you, “and then if we decide this really is worth it, then we go to couple’s counselling.”
You turned the handle, and the shower stopped. You made sure to take as long as humanly possible, using a towel to squeeze your hair out and taking what was left in the cupboard and using it on your skin. Then you took twice as long as usual in cleaning your teeth, and slowly put on the pyjamas, taking extra care not to slip on the water that had gathered on the tiles.
On your way back to Nico’s room, you made a quick detour to the living room, pulling his laptop out from under the chair. Oliver had told you he’d emailed the recovery plan to Nico, only you didn’t know where his phone was, and his laptop was the next best thing. You lugged it back to the room, quietly shutting the door behind you upon noticing he was asleep already.
You had to tiptoe to the bed, gently lifting the covers so the draft wouldn’t wake Nico up, and you settled yourself in, making sure to plug your phone in to charge, and lifted the lid of the laptop.
The screen was bright but after dimming it and logging onto Nico’s email, eyes eagerly drinking up every work Oliver wrote, you found yourself almost hypnotised by it all. Oliver’s report was brilliant – very informative – but it didn’t stop you from obsessively googling the actual injuries so you could visualise what had gone wrong in his body and where.
Each word you read only seemed to send your heart plummeting, and made you cast anxious glances to Nico, who’d slumped slightly against his mass of pillows.
He wasn’t snoring – he never did. His chest was rising and falling rhythmically, the action pulling the sheets each time he inhaled, but you could hear his heavy breathing. The lack of silence you’d become accustomed to was oddly comforting. It was something you hadn’t realised you’d gotten used to in the past three years of living together, but that first night in Maisey’s house only seemed to highlight his little idiosyncrasies, or lack of them.
Were you being dramatic?
Two weeks was all you’d spent apart, and in hindsight, it wasn’t a lot of time at all – especially not in comparison to the four years of previous dating history, but four years of Nico and then a day without made you realise how other-worldly it felt not being with him.
Maybe you were, in a way, being completely rational?
____
You woke up to the feel of a draft against your back and the sound of retching.
You barely had time to wipe the sleep from your eyes before you registered what was happening, leading Nico into the bathroom by the crook of his elbow, his good arm clutching the bedroom bin under his chin.
It was difficult trying to navigate in the dark, but you could still make out the gleam of the toilet bowl. You hesitated, flushing it first just because boys aren’t the most hygienic of people, and then knelt on the tiles, aware of the fact that you were currently on his injured side.
Nico followed suit, sitting on the cold floor and passing you the bin as he hovered himself over the toilet, breathing slowly as his eyes fluttered shut.
You were operating automatically when you placed the bin in the bathtub, and then turned your attention immediately back to Nico, his hair hanging in his face.
Headband.
Your eyes looked to the sink station just above him, trying to pinpoint where your other dish for hair ties was, and you stood up, carefully sidestepping him as you blindly reached a hand out, fingers tracing the marble surface until…bingo. You snatched up an elastic headband, before crouching back down on the floor next to him, rubbing a soothing hand across his back.
“The room’s spinning.” He said, clamping his eyes shut, gripping his own leg with his hand.
At his admission you faltered, retracting your hand, “Is it okay if I touch you?”
“Yeah.” He took in a deep breath, his entire body shuddering.
You’d been dizzy before – it was an oddly recurring thing you’d grown out of, and it was horrible. Waking up dizzy completely threw off your balance and sense of the world around you, and the fear of it all had you shaking – not just because you were cold. It was a genuine shock to the system. You hadn’t had one in a year, but whenever you did, Nico seemed to have a sixth sense because he’d do what you were doing for him right now.
And him saying he’s okay with you touching him only cemented the idea that actually having someone to touch you anchored you to solid ground.
So you replaced your hand on his back, your other playing with the elastic headband you’d acquired, silently waiting for him to calm down before you asked if you could move his hair out of his face to stop it getting drenched – both from sweat and the other alternative.
You could feel his heart hammering in his chest through the palm on the back of his ribs.
“I’m gonna put a headband on you, okay? You don’t have to move or turn your head, just let me know if you’re gonna be sick.” You said, shuffling yourself on the floor so you were somewhat facing him – again, incredibly conscious of the sling contraception taping his entire left arm to his chest.
You were slow with your movements; sliding the band over his head and letting it drop to the base of his neck – the speed of your usual movements might have overwhelmed him – before slowly dragging it back up his face, careful not to clip his nose as it brushed his fringe out of his face.
How you’d not managed to notice it in the hospital was beyond you, but when you lifted his hair up, there was still a visible redness from where his mask had dug itself into the corner of his head. Usually it meant the sponge stuck to the skin or whatever, but this one looked different. There was a bruising quality to it, and you found yourself inching closer to get a better look at it.
“Boards.” Was all he managed.
You knew he wouldn’t be able to see it, but you nodded.
Oh.
___
It had been about fifteen minutes since then, and both of you had nearly fallen asleep against various surfaces: Nico against the cupboards, and you against the side of the bath.
It was Nico straightening and hovering over the toilet again that caught your attention, but he paused, brows furrowing.
Then there was a grumble and a groan, and almost comically you saw him look at you out of the corner of his eye.
You’d frozen, sure you’d mistaken the sound for something else, but with the way he’d eased up and gradually gotten to moving his head and eyes around without getting caught in a bout of dizziness, something had undoubtedly changed.
“Are you hungry?” You asked, fighting a smile.
“Yeah.” He answered, visibly confused as he placed a hand against his stomach.
You lifted your watch up to your face, the screen illuminating the room.
7.18am.
You almost laughed at the hilarity of it, because you knew his morning alarm was always set for 7.20, and without fail, he’d always end up waking up a few minutes before – partly due to routine, and also partly because his stomach always woke up before he did.
“It’s nearly twenty past seven. You good to move back into bed?” You began to stand up, offering him both of your hands, but he groaned and without hesitation you were kneeling in front of him again, brown furrowed as you searched his face for some sign of discomfort.
He could do with taking some painkillers if he’s finished throwing up.
“What’s up?” You asked, your eyes darting across his face from his pinched brows to the slight curl of his upper lip.
He was clearly in some sort of pain, not that it was entirely surprising, but you asked anyway, preferring to have a rundown of his symptoms instead of guessing.
“Shoulder, head, chest.” He listed, squinting up at you.
You furrowed your brows.
You’d accounted for his head and shoulder, but his chest…Did they miss something on his MRI?
“Your chest?” You sank to your knees, level with him.
He seemed to be breathing normally, his chest wasn’t hitching when he inhaled and exhaled, and his breathing wasn’t rattling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what you were supposed to be looking for, least of all through a t-shirt — which would be another challenge to overcome when the time came for him to shower.
“Chest.” He repeated, nodding as his hand came to rest right over the source of pain.
You were sure you were pulling a face, and when you made eye contact with him, it was clear he was implying something else. His eyes had softened, the creases having faded out, and he swallowed nervously when you looked at him.
It had you wondering if it was the first time he’d realised you were there since last night; he was so out of it from the painkillers and concussion you didn’t know how much he’d have remembered, but the intense way he was gazing at you had you faltering, your brain going blank for a moment.
You knew what he was implying. It was hard not to once he’d moved his hand right over to his heart, and you were pretty stunned to say the least.
Honestly you wanted to talk about it as well, the elephant in the room that you’d pushed to the back of your mind after prioritising him over your own wishes, and you knew now wasn’t the time to discuss it, even if the look on his face had your confidence dwindling by the second.
“I can’t do anything about that right now.” You mumbled, twisting your mouth to the side rather regretfully as his face fell.
“Why?”
“Because Oliver said you’re not supposed to be thinking much for at least another day or two. Something about the concussion and it inhibiting your ability to think and do.” You weren’t lying, it had been part of the recovery plan for his concussion, something you couldn’t quite understand the specific logistics of, but it seemed reasonable.
You also weren’t too sure how much you should believe what he was going to say until you were certain he was back to his usual mental activity.
“I can think clearly.” He insisted, frowning slightly as he pushed back at your excuse.
“I’m sure you can, but that’s a discussion for a later time.”
“Later, when?”
“When you’ve had painkillers, eaten and drunk something, had a shower, called Luca yourself and updated him, had a good few days of rest…”
“Why?”
You sighed, beginning to get a little frustrated with him. You’d given him a reason backed up by medical advice and a list of priorities and he was still fighting back — albeit not with his usual vigour and quick wit, but it was to be expected.
“Because you don’t need to stress yourself out—”
“I’m not stressing myself out. If anything, dragging this conversation out is stressing me out.”
“And arguing on the bathroom floor knowing you don’t have any painkillers in your system and aren’t in bed with a plate of food is currently stressing me out.” You pressed a hand to your cheek, refraining from rolling your eyes.
It was still dark in the bathroom, the automatic lights fitted under the sink gently illuminating the tiled space, but your eyes had gotten used to the darkness after a good amount of time, so you could see the lost look on his face.
It made you feel guilty, but you weren’t about to break doctor’s orders if it meant following them would help him get back on his feet quicker — even if this one little factor might not play a large role in his recovery.
You yawned, deciding to change tactics seeing as you were both a little hurt from that topic of conversation, “Do you want to shower first or eat?”
The rumble of his stomach answered for him.
—
Nico had only stayed in bed for eight minutes before you heard his feet enter the kitchen from where you were leaning over the hob, scrambled egg cooking in the pan.
You hadn’t expected him to stay still much but you’d hoped he would. He’d had some more painkillers and you left him with the TV remote but he’d clearly gotten bored of early morning programmes and wandered out into the hall, even despite your stern advice.
That’s all it was, really. Advice. You knew it would be futile trying to tell him exactly what to do, because it would only frustrate him, knowing his entire day was set out by your concerned orders, and at the end of the day, Nico did what Nico wanted.
And he clearly wanted to stand as close as he could to the pan. You heard him take a deep inhale from over your shoulder, and a moment later the familiar rumbling of his stomach could be heard even over the noise of the extractor fan.
“It’s only gonna be another two minutes.” You promised, dodging around him to take the four slices of toast out of the toaster and making quick work of spreading butter onto them.
It was a routine you weren’t entirely used to, but one you’d seen Nico follow countless times before, and you didn’t want to seem too proud of yourself, but it was easier than what he’d made it out to be. Whenever he made eggs on toast he’d manage to splatter some egg all over the countertops and he’d fall over himself in an effort to take the toast out of the toaster but then remember he hadn’t gotten any plates out. It was always an awkward dance of wrong timings but it used to be your favourite morning entertainment.
That, and he always used to cook without many layers of clothing on.
Now, however, it was you performing a similar routine, only this time having to dodge him as he remained standing in between the island and the hob. You guessed he did it on purpose because every time you had to pass by him, you had to brush last slowly so as to not disturb or accidentally knock his arm.
He only moved when you were dishing out the egg on top of the toast, and even then he seemed to stretch his back before wincing and making his way back into the bedroom, the sound of the TV turning off following a moment later.
You paused, waiting to see if he’d decided to stay in bed or was simply turning off the TV before choosing to eat at the island, but when he made no reappearance you were forced to carry both plates into his room. He was settling himself against the cushions again, and although you hadn’t noticed it when you were cooking, his cheeks seemed to have regained a little more colour.
He always got pale when he was hungry, but this was something else. Did pain make people lose colour?
Maybe.
As he was leaning back against the cushions another thought occurred to you, and you stopped where you were, mind racing to come up with an immediate solution.
“What?”
“I’ve just realised now that you can’t actually cut up your food.” You replied, and it seemed Nico had only thought of that issue then and there because his gaze slowly trailed from you to his arm and then back to you, “It’s okay, I’ll leave mine in the microwave—”
“You can eat yours first—”
“Your stomach says otherwise.” You laughed softly, placing his own plate on his lap before replacing yours in the microwave to keep warm.
When you got back, Nico was looking at you expectantly, a proud smile on his face, “We can share both plates. That way we both eat now.”
Admittedly, it was probably one of the most effective ideas he’d ever had.
“Sure.” You nodded, climbing onto your side of the bed. You’d turned on your bedside light before you’d gone in to the kitchen, not wanting to startle his eyes too much and give him another headache, but you both knew he’d have to get used to a little bit of light, and even though it was on the dimmest setting, you could tell he was trying his darndest not to look in that direction.
You took a seat directly next to him, your front angled towards the side of his torso, and took the plate off his lap and placed it into yours.
Neither of you said anything as you took it in turns, carefully balancing each forkful before feeding him a bite and then taking one for yourself. It stayed that way until both plates were demolished and both your stomachs were significantly fuller.
It was the sound of your phone dinging that caught your attention, and you leant over to your side of the bed, reaching for it.
Jack: Do you want me to drive Nico’s car round?
You: Please. When do you want to come over?
Jack: Does 11 work for you?
You: Yeah, see you then.
You switched off the phone, pushing yourself back up and into Nico’s line of sight. He had an eyebrow raised and you rolled your eyes at his nosiness.
“Jack’s coming by to drop your car off at eleven. It gives you enough time to shower and maybe have a nap if you feel like it.”
He nodded, and you took the silence as an opportunity to stack up the plates and take them into the kitchen, leaving them to soak in lukewarm water as you headed back into the bedroom. You had every intention of asking what Nico wanted to do next, whether he’d rather shower or sleep before Jack came over, but you’d found yourself facing his back, his t-shirt half taken off as he struggled to lift it over his shoulders.
You waited for a moment, wanting to give him an opportunity to at least try to undress himself so you couldn’t be accused of coddling him, but it was clear from the way he huffed and then audibly ‘ow’d’ before relaxing his entire body, part of his t-shirt somehow wrapped over his head that he was having a particularly hard time.
He stumbled, blindly spinning on the spot, and you found yourself automatically reaching for him – God forbid this man hurts himself even more – and steadied him with a hand tugging at the band of his shorts and on his good arm, the one that happened to be caught up in the shirt he was trying to take off in the first place.
“I’m stuck.” He grumbled, and the shirt moved, exposing the tired bags under his eyes through the neckline.
“I didn’t notice.” It was a half-hearted attempt at trying to conserve some of his dignity, and he huffed in response, rolling his eyes at you through the neck of his t-shirt.
All it took was one quick glance at the knot of material to figure out what he’d done, and it did leave you glad that you’d shot down his previous attempts at The Talk in the bathroom earlier, because he clearly wasn’t anywhere back to his normal range of thinking – Nico was intelligent – seeing as though he’d forgotten to take his sling off in the first place.
You pulled his shirt back down before reaching for the clasp – a big, bulky plastic thing that looked as though the arm pinned to his chest would fall into a usual sling, the kind that someone with a broken arm would usually wear – and turned to him, a stern glint in your eye.
“I’m gonna need to unplug this to take it off so please,” you emphasised the last syllable, “keep it held with your other arm.”
He nodded, wordlessly moving to grip his elbow, before steeling himself by closing his eyes and screwing his face up. You could see the steady, controlled rise and fall of his chest, as though he knew to keep himself breathing regularly because no matter which way you approached this, it was gonna hurt like a bitch.
Your fingers found the clip, and squeezed.
The tension keeping his arm to his chest slackened, and Nico bit his lip in pain as it fell away, before you pulled the material over his head – quickly snapping the headband off his head as well.
He peeled open one eye, looking straight at you expectantly, “What now?”
Your eyes widened, “I don’t know. Don’t you know?”
“No.” He shrugged with one shoulder, before his jaw dropped and he fought a sharp intake of breath at the discomfort shooting across his back. “Why don’t you know?”
“Because it didn’t come with a fucking instruction manual, I–” you halted, trying to recall if Oliver wrote anything, “Okay, you’re gonna have to drop your arm.”
“I don’t want to do that.” He shook his head.
“Then I’ll have to cut you out of your shirt.”
“No.” It was a fierce protest, one that left little to no room for argument – and was remarkably stroppy.
“Do you want to stomp your foot, too, and get it all out of your system?” You were smiling now, and you saw Nico’s eyebrow twitch upwards slightly at having caught you, before he slowly drew his sore shoulder down.
You pressed your lips together, trying to maintain a front that wouldn’t let him know that his pain was beginning to make you uncomfortable, because even though his mouth remained shut, you could tell from the way he seemed to tremble and the way the hairs dangling in front of his face were being blown, that he was having to force some exertion into not groaning out loud.
He did it, and looked straight back at you, his smile a little wobbly. Even though it had only been a matter of seconds, it looked like he’d worn himself out after hours of practice. The bags under his eyes seemed heavier and more prominent, and any trace of previous amusement had melted from his features, leaving nothing but the expanse of someone that desperately needed to sleep, and even more desperately needed a shower.
You wanted to smile at him, offer some comfort, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it just yet.
“Okay,” you cleared your throat, not sure if you could feel your heart beating or breaking in your chest, “if you slip your right arm through the sleeve and over your head, you should be able to just pull the rest of the shirt off your other shoulder.”
Instead of jumping to undress himself, he inhaled, tilting his head in your direction, a question clearly written on his face. You tried to brush it off, instead reaching forward to brush your hand along the hem of his shirt, trying to encourage him to take it off, because the quicker he did, the sooner he’d be able to sleep, but he didn’t budge.
“What?” You asked, retracting your hand. You were still standing pretty close – enough so you could see his mouth twitch and something flicker across his face. “Do you want me to leave you…?” You trailed off, feeling a haze of uncertainty wash over you.
“No, I need you to help me shower–”
“Shower?” You laughed.
He nodded slowly, his good hand going to cradle the hand on his bad shoulder, as though he was itching to pin his arm back up.
“Okay…” you swallowed nervously, “Why were you looking at me like that?”
“Did you Google how to take a shirt off with only one functioning shoulder?”
You breathed a short laugh, hand going back to tug at the hem of his shirt, this time internally cheering when he lifted his arm up, allowing you to lift the shirt up with it, purposefully covering his face with the material so he couldn’t see you blush. You guessed your silence was enough of an answer, though, because when the shirt popped back off his head, coming to hang around his injured one, he was attempting a grin.
His dimples were the first thing you noticed. It was funny how you didn’t truly realise how much you’d missed seeing them when he smiled until he was smiling at you for the first time in a while.
Nico’s dimples meant he was happy, even if it was momentary, and you’d take that over the melancholy any day of your life.
Which was why you found yourself smiling silly at him without even realising it.
“You looked it up.” He said, his voice a little higher in excitement, and you swore his smile widened because his dimples looked deeper, and something in your chest fluttered and then clenched, and it seemed that entire internal reaction was synonymous with the fact that your eyes had trailed from his face to the deep blotches on his skin – blotches that were so dark and so large you’d noticed them when you were looking the opposite way.
Holy fuck.
Your brows knitted together, your smile no longer on your face as you gently dragged his shirt off his injured arm, letting it drop by your feet.
It was a horrific sight. You’d never seen gore or many injuries on other people in your life, and even though Nico had been injured before, it wasn’t anything like this. Looking at his shoulder – generally speaking – was like looking at tyre marks on a race track. The bruises were so dark they almost looked like dirt in the night, and they crawled right from the back of his neck, down across his collarbone, and followed in a left movement until the colour seemed to fizzle out just below his shoulder joint on his arm.
You knew it was bad; a broken collarbone with a separated shoulder – yet the visual confirmation seemed not to do the diagrams of what had happened to the inside of his body any justice at all. This was real, and it was…ugly. It turned your stomach to know the lump on his collarbone was where the bone had snapped, and that the bump on the top of his shoulder was where it had separated.
“I’m okay.” He reminded you gently.
You hadn’t noticed it, but you were squinting when you’d seen the blossoming legion, trying to block out the sight to some extent – a natural reaction to stop yourself from crying, too, because it was difficult looking at the mess of it all.
And when your gaze all too gratefully slid back to his face, he was regarding you with an element of shyness. He’d crooked his jaw, eyes flicking awkwardly between your face and reaction to the shirt on the floor, and you wanted to just gather him up in your arms and not let go, because he had no choice but to be vulnerable with you, as much as you wished it was a choice, he didn’t have a say in the matter. The truth was that he only had one good shoulder, and he used that one to hold the broken one with – meaning he couldn’t really move.
Couldn’t cook eggs, cut the bread, butter the toast, take his shirt off, shower.
It was a big adjustment for someone usually so capable, and you knew then and there that he was in for a tough recovery – not only because of the frustration, but because he was bound to forget and then he’d work himself up.
“I know.” You replied, biting the inside of your cheek, “What does it feel like?”
He took a moment to gather his thoughts, “It feels like someone’s wrapped really tight tape around the underneath of my shoulder…but then it feels like the only thing keeping everything in place is my skin.”
___
You were in for another shock when he’d turned around to step into the shower. You hid it better this time, managing to keep your mouth shut as your eyes trailed over the slightly paler marks on his back, and recovering your shock in time to smile back up at him when he turned back around, dipping his head under the water and letting out an audible sigh of relief as the warm water bounced off his skin.
You had to laugh at the fact that he kept his shorts on, but you understood why he did it, even if he didn’t voice it. You almost made the comment about how it wasn’t anything that you hadn’t already seen, but he was making an effort to respect the break you were both still on, even if he had pinged the elastic band and looked at you with raised brows, as if to say ‘this is your own doing’.
“Is it warm enough?” You asked, cheek leaning against the side of the glass door as you watched him step further under the water, the droplets streaming down his body, darkening his shorts.
There was a moment where you thought he hadn’t heard you over the roar of droplets from the shower, but when you looked back up at him, it was clear he’d caught you staring. You rolled your eyes, knowing you were blushing, and stepped into the shower, closing the glass door behind you.
You’d opted to stick to wearing your clothes too, and the slight frown Nico had tried to hide as you stepped in with him wasn’t lost on you, but you hid your smile well when you reached for the rack in the corner, picking up the shampoo he was still using from when you bought it three weeks ago and piling a good amount onto the palm of your hands.
Nico was tall, that fact remained quite obvious, especially when he couldn’t lower his neck down to your exact height because of the shooting pain he’d get emanating from his back and shoulder, but you made it work. There wasn’t that much of a height difference between the two of you, even despite his hulking frame, so you were able to reach up fairly easily to take your time to rub the sweat and grease from his hair, your nails raking deliciously against his scalp. By the end of it, his forehead was resting in the crook of your shoulder, and if it weren’t for the way he lifted himself back up, blinking slowly in the process, you would have assumed he’d gone to sleep. His good arm was still holding his sore one, and after you reached up to rinse out his shampoo, his hair practically squeaking between your fingers, he looked just about ready to collapse.
“You know how you said if you didn’t have hockey, you’d have probably stayed in school?” You found yourself asking, desperate to keep him awake so he’d be able to sleep properly before Jack came.
He hummed, head still tipped back into the shower, exposing the veins in his neck and bob of his throat in a way that had you not really knowing where to turn your attention. You didn’t want to look at his shoulder, but you also didn’t want to get caught looking at the softened contours of his stomach, because you’d already been caught checking him out earlier…he was making it difficult, though.
You supposed the water didn’t help, either. He always looked sort of romantic when his hair was wet and droplets of water were rolling down his skin.
“What do you think you’d be doing as a career if you stayed on?”
You retracted your hands from his hair, figuring the shampoo was washed out enough, and tucked some of his hair behind his ear before you reached for the conditioner. You were drenched to the bone; the clothes you were wearing were soaked, the material clinging to your skin, and you could feel your hair frizzing up with the humidity, and although the water was warm, you could feel the cold air picking at you seeing as though you weren’t entirely under the rain of the water.
Nico’s cubicle was pretty big – a half-frosted glass cube with a rain shower and a bath attached at the end, just below a silver rack of products, both your own and his.
Nevertheless, it felt as though there wasn’t enough space between you both. Especially not when he reopened his eyes and slouched a little in your direction so you could reach to lather the conditioner into the ends of his hair.
His brows furrowed, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead as his mouth pouted slightly. His eyebrows always seemed to accentuate whatever emotion he was feeling, and usually when he was confused, or thinking hard about something, he tended to look…sad – something he was doing right now.
“I think…a teacher?” His eyes slid down to yours, almost as if searching for some form of validation in his answer, considering he’d phrased it as a question, not entirely certain of himself.
You nodded, mildly impressed. He’d suit being a teacher, he already had the authority from his Captaincy, but would he still have that same trait if ice hockey was completely out of the picture? You couldn’t possibly know.
“What subject?” You’d finished putting the conditioner in his hair, your fingers now twirling at the ends, purposefully curling his hair against his forehead and resisting the urge to smirk at the baby curls plastered there. Only, when you could tell he was getting suspicious of your repetitive motions, you turned back to the rack, taking the comb and spinning back to him.
“Maybe Literature…o-or…” he stuttered, and when you turned your attention to his direct eye line, you blushed.
Your t-shirt. It was stuck, displaying…everything. Everything being the lace bra you’d found left in your drawer, not the same colour as the grey t-shirt you were wearing.
Funny.
He was blushing too, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he awkwardly fought to look anywhere else, his eyes fixating on something behind you. Despite the unavoidable awkwardness, you found yourself smothering a smile, reaching the comb up to straighten the curls you’d created, until his hair hung in thick curtains past his eyes, his nose poking out.
You laughed softly, finding his new look amusing, “Literature or…” You trailed off, encouraging him to carry on.
Just as his chin bobbed – a sign he’d opened his mouth to resume talking – you combed his curtains sideways, having way too much fun with the whole thing than you probably should.
“Latin.” He was smiling, his cheeks a healthy rosy colour, “Are you enjoying yourself, there?”
“Thoroughly.”
There that damn dimple was again.
You pressed your lips together, sucking in one cheek to try and stop yourself from smiling, but as soon as you’d registered the dimple, you could feel your smile slowly slipping from your face. He seemed to acknowledge the fade, because his dimple disappeared again, and the creases around his eyes unwrinkled.
“I’ll just head outside,” you pointed to the door, “let you wash.”
“Wait,” his voice interjected, just as your hand touched the cool glass door, and you turned, “before you do, please could you wash my right side? I can’t with my left—”
“Sure.” In hindsight, you maybe did agree a little too quickly, but over your own ministrations of ‘how did I not think of that before?’, you didn’t particularly notice the way Nico’s brows shot up his forehead, his mouth parting slightly at your supposed eagerness.
___
Nico had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his body freshly rejuvenated and feeling significantly more comfortable than he did hours earlier. He’d initially snuggled as far down into the duvet as he possibly could, with every intention of asking you to stay with him when he slept, knowing you could use both the rest and relaxation after everything, but it had escaped his mind entirely when his eyes shut of his own accord.
He supposed he was grateful for the quick onset, because ever since he’d woken up in the early hours of the morning, head feeling like it had been used as a jackhammer for the inside of a bell, shoulder on fire and numb, his stomach rolling, and the desperate and sudden need to extract himself from the bed and make his way as quickly as he could to the bathroom in complete darkness, and his own perspective on what was up, down, left and right entirely skewed by the dizziness that caught him when he’d so much as even opened his eyes – he was feeling guilty. It had gotten to the point that every time he looked at your tired eyes or caught you looking at him in a way that had him feeling like he was going to throw up (for different reasons), he felt like he might combust with it.
Every time he looked in your direction, all he could do was picture you in his position, and imagine himself in your place: he imagined the extent of his concern, so much so that he’d probably be less able to keep his cool around you, unlike you. He’d be in a constant state of panicked frenzy, asking you questions the entire time, adjusting your pillows, repouring you a glass of fresh, cold water every five minutes so there weren’t any bubbles clinging to the inside of the glass. He’d be a complete mess.
He’d have called his brother, parents, Jack, Maisey, Oliver and anyone else he could get his hands on to ask for a second, third and fourth opinion on whether or not he should adjust the thermostat because you might get too warm when you were sleeping.
Quite simply, he wouldn’t know how to function, and he knew that although the roles were reversed currently, you were probably just as clueless as him.
You tended to have better coping mechanisms and ways of dealing with it that he wouldn’t necessarily even be aware of. That was where the two of you contrasted: he was more outgoing and vocal, tending to think out loud and not mask what he was feeling as easily as you, whereas you would gather in on yourself and just…deal.
And he hated that he knew he was the source of such stress. He didn’t want to burden his incapabilities upon you in any way, let alone confine you to his apartment (although you seemed to do that willingly) and act as his personal carer. He didn’t know why you hadn’t complained – scratch that. He did. Because he knew you’d rather make sure he’d be looked after properly than leave it in the less trusted hands of someone else.
He definitely didn’t know why you were acting as though nothing had happened before the incident. How you were able to be in such close quarters with him without feeling like your heart was getting ripped out of your chest, because he had that going for him on top of everything else. Or maybe you did, and just hid it better.
He didn’t dare voice it, and he was a little ashamed of his own wants and needs, but whenever you looked at him, the actual motion: how your eyes would slide casually over something and then they’d lock with his like some sort of magnetic force, he just wanted you to kiss him and tell him he’d be okay. Granted, you’d already done the latter, many times this morning, but he wanted you to kiss him and tell him you loved him, because when you didn’t do that – when you refused to even venture into that area of conversation – he was forced to think the complete opposite, and then he felt truly broken because he felt betrayed by his own body being so fragile, but his state of mind and brain went haywire as he was being pulled in every sort of emotional direction.
It all boiled down to confusion, though. Maybe it was the concussion, maybe it was the painkillers, but at the end of the day, Nico felt confused. Your tender actions: a hand on his back, making him breakfast, washing his hair – your damn teary smile in the shower played on a loop in his mind – he felt loved. You made him feel like he mattered, like you cared about him, but what came out of your mouth juxtaposed it so ridiculously that he felt like you didn’t love him.
He knew what he wanted from you, and what he didn’t want, and he needed to tell you before something happened, because he felt like he was constantly on the precipice of something happening – jeopardy. He feels like he’s running out of time to tell you, and that if he doesn’t let you know as soon as he can, something irreversible is going to happen, and then you’ll be gone for good and he’ll have to leave New Jersey because every street corner has some sort of memory attached to you, and he doesn’t want you to leave and he doesn’t want to leave New Jersey.
It’s a constant, crippling sense of panic that he needs to get under control before he says something and ruins it all.
But he knows you won’t listen to whatever he has to say – not for at least another couple of days – because something Oliver wrote has you thinking he can’t think properly or something. All he knows is that it has something to do with his brain and the fact that he has a pretty serious concussion, and that you’re too fucking stubborn to even jest with him about it.
That had been made pretty clear.
It was also that sense of inevitable doom that had him startling from his nap, the tensing of his entire body as he somewhat lurched in place sending an agonising stab of pain everywhere. It hurt so bad sometimes that he couldn’t decipher if he'd hurt something else; it seemed to dissipate across the rest of his body in an effort for him to cope with the level he was enduring.
He noted, however, that his head didn’t feel like it was being used as some sort of carousel. His dizziness had faded, at least for the moment.
And just as he was about to haul himself out of bed, that shot of adrenalin having woken him up, he heard the distant sound of voices filtering in through the crack under the door.
It was 11.13; Jack must be here.
Then he stopped his motions, because the voices sounded muffled, and from experience, that meant the both of you were whispering about something, and knowing he was supposedly asleep and in another room, he guessed you were talking about him. Which is why he cautiously lifted the duvet off himself, careful not to make too much of a sound as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and crept – avoiding the squeaky floorboards – to the door.
He wasn’t about to open it – not when the noise would catch your attention, but he knelt on the floor and pressed his ear to the handle.
He was curious, and in desperate need of some sort of confirmation from you because he knew Jack would at least try to coax some answers out of you, and probably embarrass him in the process by revealing how mopey he’d been in training or something.
“–don’t believe you.” It was Jack, his voice lowering at the end, playing into his statement.
“It’s not a matter of belief, it’s the truth.”
Oh. You were frustrated already.
“Do something about it, then.” Jack protested. Nico could imagine him rolling his eyes, but given the unexplained context of the situation he’d found himself listening in on, he couldn’t gauge the mood.
“No.”
“Why not? You can’t coexist, care for, and live together for what’s probably gonna be at least for a few weeks, and not talk about it.”
“I haven’t even thought that far in advance, I thought you were talking about immediately.”
Jack scoffed, and Nico could hear him splutter a small laugh, “Not immediately, no. But better sooner than later, before you both get the wrong ideas and end up hurting each other even more.”
Nico heard you sigh, and he pressed his ear closer against the metal, “Is this the part where you fulfil your duties and tell me–”
“–That he’s been moping–” there it was, “and sad for the past two weeks? I hope so. He’s been insufferable, not in the overbearing way, but he looks like a kicked puppy and he’s not been smiling at me as much, and I swear every time he gets a notification on his phone, he teleports to it or something. I’ve never seen him move faster over a News app notification before.”
There was a beat of silence.
“What?”
This time it was Jack’s turn to groan, “You’re both depressed over the entire thing, okay, and I know for a fact, that the only thing that would solve it is if you just talked about it.”
There were some words exchanged that Nico couldn’t quite make out, and before he could make his way into the bathroom to flush the toilet and make it known that he was awake, something caught his ear.
“Why did you phrase it like that? ‘He’s not been smiling at me as much’?”
Jack laughed sheepishly, and Nico grinned.
“Usually when he sees me he smiles. He’s just been doing this half-smile thing, and it’s really, like, jarring.”
He heard your laugh tinkle through the door, and something throbbed in his chest, “Oh, you poor thing.”
“Shut up.”
“But how are you going to survive not seeing him in training for at least a couple of weeks? Is it going to affect your performance? Do I need to arrange FaceTime calls so you can see his face and let yourself be inspired?” You quipped, and Nico could imagine clearly the mocking concern you had on your face, maybe even a comforting hand to Jack’s arm, fully playing into the narrative.
“You know what? FaceTime sessions seem like a good idea.”
Then there was another round of silence and mumbling. Once more, Nico made to heave himself off his knees, but he was stopped once more.
“–Kicked puppy–”
“–It’s the eyebrows!” You both chimed, and Nico rolled his eyes, this time moving himself into the bathroom, not before making a quick stop at the mirror.
He furrowed his brows. Then pouted. Then smiled, lifting his brows up.
He didn’t know what you were talking about – kicked puppy? No way.
Anyway, it seemed like the two of you had stopped talking about a subject pertaining to Nico’s own desires, and despite being a little disappointed with the lack of ‘what-are-you-thinking?’ he received from your end, he decided to flush the toilet and wash his hands, schooling his tired face in the mirror before picking up a pair of socks and wandering down the hall into the living room.
Jack was sitting at the kitchen booth, his chair spun around to face the sofa, where you were leaning across the back.
Jack grinned at him, though Nico didn’t miss the way his eye slid to the sling, but you only offered a small smile. It looked like you weren’t really in the room with him, your mind clearly occupied to some extent
“Back from the dead?” Jack stole his attention, and Nico nodded, trudging to take a place next to you on the sofa, once more feeling guilty when all he did to greet you was hand you a pair of socks he couldn’t put on without your help.
“Something like that.”
You put your mug down on the coffee table, happily taking his socks—
“No coffee.” You stated sternly, Nico’s eyes zipping straight to yours in protest.
The protest died on his lips when he saw the hardness in your face, not a single part of you budging until he’d rolled his eyes and turned to Jack; then you put his socks on for him, seemingly satisfied with his compliance, even if he was a bit bitter about it.
“You okay?” Nico found himself asking, arching a brow at Jack, who (despite his best efforts) was watching the entire exchange with a broad grin painted on his face, and as much as Nico tried to deny it, Jack looked as though he knew something he didn’t.
He saw how you shook your head out of the corner of his eye, and Jack’s smile dropped a little. Nico could still clearly read it in his eyes, though.
Something was up. He’d missed something.
Instead Jack took a deep breath, composing himself, “I think I should be asking you that.”
Nico shrugged with one shoulder, ignoring the sharp pain across the expanse of his back, aware of the fact that both you and Jack were watching him with eagle eyes, trying to deduce if any movements caused him any sort of pain. He was used to attention to some varying degree, but this length of detail and scrutiny made him want to go back to bed.
He knew it wasn’t the effect either of you desired, but to Nico, it felt like you were pitying him. Granted, he was pitying himself, but to have it come from a teammate and close friend and you was a little
overwhelming. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin.
“I’m fine.”
Jack raised a brow, disbelieving.
“It’s painful, but I can manage it.” He tried again, and Jack nodded, pulling a face.
“Did they say how long you’d be out for?”
“Six weeks for the shoulder and maybe up to twelve for the collarbone.” This time it was Jack’s turn to shrug, and Nico’s turn to pull a face as an unspoken, mutual agreement seemed to pass through them.
“So about seven weeks, then?” Jack asked casually.
You paused, mid-sip of coffee, your eyes darting between the two of them with an obvious confusion written on your face. You knew Nico would have been eager to get back to playing, and the twelve weeks recovery isn’t even guaranteed in the first place, but it was still quite optimistic – especially considering the extent of his injury. Shoulder and collarbone? Mad disaster.
Fucking hockey lore.
You rolled your eyes, but didn’t say anything.
It was Nico swinging his head to look at you that caught your attention, and when you swivelled slightly to look at Jack, who was already awaiting some sort of answer to something. He raised his brows, and you cast an unsure look back at Nico, who swallowed nervously.
“Sorry?” You turned back to Jack, who’s smile had dipped, and you got the awful feeling you’d done something wrong. Nico had looked at you with something akin to anxiety, as though the answer to an unheard question was so important that something hung in the balance depending on what you were going to say.
Jack’s eyes slid over to Nico momentarily, “Did you see it?” He asked softly, and it briefly flashed through your mind that the reason you hadn’t heard him in the first place was because he’d asked it in such a gentle tone it sounded like a whisper of white noise.
Dread punched in your stomach, and you felt yourself stiffen slightly. You knew what he was insinuating, but you still furrowed your brows, trying to hold off from seeing the inevitable hurt that would crumble on Nico’s face when he heard the answer. Something had been hanging in the balance – you rarely missed one of Nico’s games; if you weren’t there in person, and even if you were busy with work, you’d have the game on mute in the background – something to occupy your mind with and show your support.
Dread because Nico could tell when you were lying, and because there was no way you could get around this unless you just told the truth. You wished Jack wasn’t there to witness the awkwardness that was about to envelope the entire room and dash the previous light-hearted atmosphere Jack had unintentionally created with his casual conversation.
You didn’t say anything, afraid your voice would give you away before you could actually tell the truth, so you let your brows speak for themselves, in the hopes that Jack would repeat it for a third time and once more allow you to stall for a little longer.
You wouldn’t feel so fucking guilty if Nico didn’t already look like a kicked puppy.
“The game last night, did you watch it?” He hesitated, and you could see that he’d read between the lines on your face and was already regretting asking it in the first place.
Jack was close with Nico, which also meant he was also pretty close with you. He was beginning to see the downside of that, knowing he’d asked a question that was about to tear a rift in your already rocky relationship. The way Jack could see it, you and Nico were hanging on by a rope – one that he’d just severed a few strings of, completely unintentionally – and he also knew that it would be due to some sort of misunderstanding: that Nico would just assume that the reason you weren’t watching his games was because you’d decided that you were going to leave him…something that kind of broke Jack’s heart because the two of you had just talked about it before the toilet flushed, and he knew for a fact that you didn’t have any intention to leave him.
Of course, with Nico’s recent ramblings in training, he wouldn’t exactly let himself see past your answer, and would probably spin a reality based on nothing but baseless words put together with no context at all.
You swallowed, Nico already yawning out of the corner of your eye – probably a pre-established escape tactic to excuse himself.
“No.” You paused, trying to remain steady as you held eye contact with Jack, fighting with yourself not to look in Nico’s direction, “I had to do a last-minute shop, and catch up on some work. Maisey was watching it, though, and I could hear the commentary.”
It was a slight lie. You couldn’t hear much of the commentary – just the mumble of it in the background and through the walls.
Instead, Nico nodded, as though he’d been expecting that answer, and when you looked at him, he was offering you a sad sort of smile, a crease between his brows and a dimple on his cheek. You were watching him closely, trying to decipher exactly how he felt about your admission, but he wasn’t giving you much to go on.
“It’s probably for the better.” He said weakly, yawning again.
You shared a look with Jack.
“Yeah, it was pretty rough.” Jack agreed, shrugging at you behind Nico’s back.
You nodded, feeling the need to contribute to the conversation before the awkwardness consumed the room and sucked out any chance at maintaining a normal conversation for the sake of Jack’s own comfortability, “Maisey switched it off after it happened so I couldn’t see anything. Then my phone rang.” You took a sip of coffee.
There was an unspoken kind of heaviness that settled over the room – Jack looked at the floor, and Nico’s sad smile dropped into a frown.
If you were being honest, it felt like they were both mourning something you were unaware of.
“Are you guys okay?” You asked, a little tentatively. You were definitely missing something.
“Yeah.” It was Nico who got to answering quickest, shocking you, “Just…I kind of hoped they’d never have to use the emergency contact. It’s just–It must have been–I’m sorry.” He stuttered, before yawning.
You couldn’t even tell him it was okay, whatever he was apologising for, because the next thing you knew, he was pushing himself up off the sofa and walking back to the bedroom, muttering something to Jack under his breath, to which he smiled and nodded understandingly.
You waited until the door shut behind him before you turned to Jack, pressing your lips together.
“He’s not offended.” Was all he said, and you could tell just from the tone of his voice alone that he knew something you perhaps weren’t quite aware of yourself, “It’s just in his head.”
“What is?”
“This idea that you’re gonna leave him.”
___
You waited three hours after Jack left, trying to gain the courage to go back into the bedroom, cursing yourself because you hadn’t possibly thought that Nico would have ever doubted that you loved him. You’d tried to convey that through your actions recently, but looking back on it, you didn’t entirely give as much of yourself away as you’d thought you had, so not reading the subtle signs were understandable.
And you had avoided the conversation of your relationship as much as possible, and you knew how dejected he was over it, but you were following orders. He wasn’t supposed to think about complex things for some reason, because his concussion was so severe, and you really did want to talk to him about it all.
It just scared you, but you’d face that fear head on right now if it meant that he’d stop hurting and wallowing or whatever the hell else he was doing in that room. You knew he wasn’t asleep, the TV could still be heard through the wall. Brooklyn 99. An easy watch – good.
You’d been sitting on the sofa, trying to do something with your hands to fight the urge to bite your fingers, not able to switch the TV on in the living room just in case he needed something from you. Your book was on the cushion next to you, the pages splayed out because you kept picking it up and putting it down, not able to focus on anything else.
You hadn’t felt this anxious in a long time. Your heart was thudding, and it felt like there was a hand gripping your lungs.
He was afraid you were going to leave him.
Fuck.
Jack’s words kept thudding around your mind like they were put on a spin-cycle, and you alternated between feeling slightly relieved at the fact that the thought of you leaving him scared the shit out of him, but then feeling guilty that you were the cause of that insecurity.
It had you doubting your mutual decision – emphasis on the mutual – to take a break because life was pretty much getting in the way of your relationship, and there was a void of…real comfort and love, almost, and you both felt yourselves dwindling and drifting away from each other.
Fuck.
You were going to have to do something about it before all this uncertainty consumed the entire house and left you both too scared to talk about it. If you let it fester too much it would only come back to haunt you and then it’d ruin you both to completion and past the point of no return, and that was the last thing you wanted – ever.
You loved that man, sad eyebrows and all, and if you had it your way, you’d go into the bedroom this instant and tell him that, but something was stopping you.
His injury, for one. That because he was hurting, he was vulnerable, and you hated that your mind made you think that because of that, he’d be relying on you because he just needed somebody there with him.
Ultimately, if the roles were reversed you knew you’d want him to be there for you, to look after you and provide some sense of comfort when you needed it the most.
Fuck.
Your fist pounded the end of the sofa, once, twice. And then you pushed yourself up off the cushions, not allowing yourself to freak out before you reached the door, and you twisted the handle, opening the door just a crack. He might have fallen asleep with the TV on in the background, and if that was the case, you weren’t about to wake him up for what you were about to say.
Somehow the sight before you was even worse.
You stepped through the door properly, making a beeline for the bed, trying to focus on anything other than the sound of your own heart shattering inside your chest. He was slumped down under the duvet, his free arm slung over the top of his head, but it wasn’t that that caught your attention.
It was the deep set bags under his eyes and the way he blinked like he was using all of his effort to keep himself awake. It was also the way his mouth was pulled down into a sad, crestfallen frown on his face – one that he didn’t have the chance to change when he initially looked up after you opened the door – and the tissue he had crumpled in his fist.
When he saw you, he sighed, but didn’t protest when you moved over to lay next to him, your cheek pressed into your pillow.
He’d been crying.
He didn’t make a move to show you any attention, and you were glad for that – he couldn’t see the way you blinked to prevent yourself from crying, or the way you had to fist the pillow in your hands to refrain yourself from reaching out to touch him.
“How’s your head?” You asked lightly.
He blinked, “My head’s fine. I’m fine.” He replied, somewhat grumpily, his jaw clenching.
You were unphased; he was frustrated and tired, so you didn’t take it to heart, “Do you want to do something tomorrow?”
The question seemed to pique his interest, because his jaw slackened and he tilted his head towards you, allowing you to see his red-rimmed eyes, “Like what?”
You shrugged, “A walk? Get some fresh air.”
His eyes flicked to the screen briefly, seemingly considering something, “Sure.”
Your chest contracted at what you were about to say and ask him, anticipation lingering in your tense muscles. You fought with yourself, what you were about to submit to going against all professional advice and all rational thinking on your behalf – the same kind of thinking you’d made a point of reiterating in the past twenty-four hours – shit, you couldn’t even last that long without giving in to him – and a part of you felt a little sheepish and almost embarrassed because your insistence had been heavy.
“Um…” you hesitated, blinking harshly, before turning back to his awaiting eyes, “Do you maybe want to talk tomorrow?” You pressed your lips into a line – there was absolutely no going back from this.
He swallowed, his lips parting in shock, brows furrowing slightly, “About what?” He was a little breathless, and you had the sneaking suspicion he already knew what you were talking about.
“Us–”
“Yeah. I’d like that.” His mouth twitched up slightly, accentuating his tired eyes.
You pushed yourself up with your shoulder, nodding, “Okay.”
You were unsure of where to go or what to do, so you let yourself stay in that position – watching the TV. It was one of your favourite episodes.
“Do you want to watch it?” It was Nico, hand holding out the remote.
You couldn’t read his face properly, and you hesitated, “You need to sleep.”
“I can still sleep if you want to watch it.”
“Okay.”
___
You couldn’t speak for Nico, but the fresh air on your face felt like a godsend. The stuffy air of the house – no matter how many windows you’d opened and shut because it got too cold – was no match for the way you felt infinitely fresher once you’d reached the local park. You could practically taste the air it was that refreshing, and you honestly just wanted to drink the entire thing up, because you didn’t know how long Nico would be able to last before the pain meds wore off.
He’d told you earlier that his head felt better – the dizziness had worn off, his vision was clearer, and he felt less cloudy. He just had a constant headache, and honestly, you could tell he felt better – he was more with it than he had been.
You were both sitting on a bench overlooking the giant pond, you sitting sideways with one leg on the floor and the other tucked under you, and Nico with his back straight. Neither of you had spoken much on the walk over, either too immersed in the fresh air or entirely overcome with nerves for the impending conversation, so the silence enveloping the both of you was a little uncomfortable.
“How’s Maisey?” Nico started, clearing his throat.
The question was clever, a sly way to work up to the main topic of conversation.
You smiled tightly, swallowing nervously before you answered, “She’s good, been watching every Devils match…I think there’s something going on with her and Jack, you know? She hasn’t told me much but they’ve been ‘hanging out’ quite a lot.”
Nico turned his head, the hat shielding his face somewhat, but you could tell this was the first he was hearing of it because he frowned, opening and shutting his mouth as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, “They have?”
You nodded.
“Jack’s not mentioned it, but I guess I’ve been a bit distracted lately.” He cringed, looking down at the floor to avoid looking at you, “They’d actually fit each other well.”
“She balances out his madness–”
“A voice of reason–”
You both spoke at the same, and the synchronisation elicited a small laugh that seemed to break some of the awkwardness, lighten the atmosphere slightly.
Until Nico spoke.
“So, you haven’t been watching my games?”
It felt like the air had been stolen from your lungs. It wasn’t that you felt confronted by the question: it was one you’d been expecting since the conversation yesterday with Jack, and even with the way Nico asked it you could just tell he was as hesitant at approaching the conversation himself.
It was just a bit of a blunt transition from Maisey, and your nerves seemed to come crumbling down almost instantly – as soon as he asked that.
You shook your head, embarrassed but already knowing inklings of what he thought, “I haven’t watched every game. The highlights – I watched some of those.” You took a breath, steeling yourself to look at him. When you did, you took in the kind eyes, intent on soaking up every word you spoke, and couldn’t help but smile – albeit a little bitterly, “It just hurt seeing you.”
He nodded, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the limp sleeve of his hoodie. He looked devastated, but the nod of agreement eased you slightly.
Then Jack’s words echoed through your mind. This idea that you’re gonna leave him.
Somehow remembering that little slice of the conversation put everything in perspective. Admittedly you hadn’t really believed Jack when he said that, but when Nico wet his lips and looked directly away from you, his chest rising and falling a little faster in the material of his hoodie, only seemed to paint this heartbreaking image of him right in front of you. He didn’t look surprised by your admission, but he was on the verge of saying or doing something, and it had you wondering if he’d honestly expected you to leave him after it all.
He had been expecting it, hadn’t he? He’d been looking at you differently the last couple of days. When you left the room to fetch him something, you could always feel his burning gaze on your back watching you intently from where he was sitting – afraid of something.
And the shower?
He’d thought this entire time that you looking after him would be the last time for everything, and you felt silly not having caught onto it before.
You opened your mouth to speak, tell him your true intentions, but he moved jerkily, and you paused. The hand that was playing with his sleeve suddenly stuck up, and he produced a piece of paper. It was lined and crumpled, as though he’d balled it up one too many times before reopening it – as though he’d changed his mind. You could make out the indentations through the folded up paper on the back.
What the fuck? Did he write notes, or something?
He took in a shuddery breath, rolling his eyes at himself, and you leant forwards unintentionally, curious as to what it was. You expected him to recoil, hide it from your view, but he did the opposite. He turned a little towards you, and he must have misjudged how quickly and how close you’d suddenly placed yourself, before the rim of his hat knocked into your forehead, the cap falling onto your leg.
He stopped, eyes flicking between your blushing, retreating figure to the cap that you’d made to pick up. You took the liberty of resituating it on his head. You knew it was cruel considering where his mind was taking him, but you couldn’t help swiping some strands across his forehead.
He drunk up every single motion you made.
“I–” he cleared his throat, “I wrote something that…I don’t know how to say everything that’s going on in my head, but I wrote this a while ago, and I,” he pushed it in your direction, his eyes lingering on the lines, “I want you to read it – not out loud, but just read it, please.” He rushed it all out, blinking at you with something akin to desperation, his jaw clenching and unclenching as the side of his mouth twitched upwards unconsciously.
All you could do was nod, “I can read it.”
He sat backwards, seemingly relieved, and turned back to face the park, just as you unfolded it and looked at his familiar scrawl at the top of the page. The writing was a little shaky–
“I’m sorry if you can’t read it. My hands shook the entire time…I’m sorry.” He shrugged, swallowing, not looking at you.
You turned your eyes back to the page, and you swear your heart stopped for a millisecond. The date. The fucking date was the day after you agreed to go on a break.
“You don’t have to apologise.” He’d been doing that quite a bit lately, “Why were you shaking?” Was what came out of your mouth.
He muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as though he thought it was silly, but over the wind and the chirping of birds, you didn’t quite manage to catch his mumblings.
“Sorry?”
“Because I think you’re going to leave me.” He admitted, keeping a straight face and refusing to look at you.
The honesty was startling, and you knew you should have said something to alleviate his clear anxieties about the whole thing – tell him you weren’t going to – but the words caught on your tongue. You so desperately wanted to let him know, but your body couldn’t physically function the way you intended it to. You felt stuck, trapped inside your own skin – claustrophobic, even – at the weight of his words. So you swallowed nervously, turning your eyes back to the paper.
You read it four times.
The first to read it. The second to double-check your eyes weren’t deceiving you. The third to make sure you hadn’t missed anything. The fourth to commit as much of it to memory as possible.
You were oblivious to the way his fidgeting seemed to worsen the longer you continued to stare at it. You knew Nico was intelligent, and despite him not writing this in his native language, it was incredibly eloquent. He was honest, straight to the truth – and parts of what he mentioned scared you, but in a good way. A really good way. It was a short passage, not even half a page, but it said everything it needed to say and more.
Your eyes kept snagging onto the last line, and you had to fight with yourself not to cry at what he’d said.
I can’t predict what decision you’re going to make, but I want you to know that I’m always going to love you. Even if you break my heart – especially then.
You had to take a while to digest what exactly he was saying in that–
“I’m always gonna love you too.”
Your mouth moved faster than your brain, but upon immediate reflection, you didn’t think it was the wrong thing to say. You didn’t know what else you could have said. You were so overwhelmed by the mere presence of him sitting in front of you, the way your chest ached at his written words, and the way your eyes pricked when he nearly snapped his neck to look at you after you’d spoken. You’d never seen anything like it – never felt it.
You wanted to press pause on the entire thing just to dissect it, but you knew any refusal to answer his questions and figure the mess out would be crucial – and you didn't want to put him through it even more, not when you were spending an unknown stretch of time in such close quarters like you were.
You had to sort it out, and it was looking like the bench was where you’d be doing most of that.
He didn’t say anything, just watched you closely as you used your sleeve to wipe your eyes. You weren’t exactly crying, but water was slowly trailing down your cheeks, and you sniffed, taking the time to gather your thoughts.
“I don’t know what to say…” you hesitated, and he took a sharp inhale, about to say something, “but I don’t want to leave you–I’m not leaving you. I pretty much decided that the second I left.”
“You did?” He huffed a watery laugh, hurriedly swiping at his own eyes. His brows were furrowed slightly, but he was smiling shakily.
You both felt it, that release of weight that had been hanging over the both of you like a dark cloud. It was remarkable the way the pressure seemed to lift off your chest.
“Yeah.” You felt your chin wobble, and you folded and unfolded the paper in your hands. The irony in the fact that it was your hands now shaking was amusing.
There was a moment of silence, the both of you absorbing exactly what it all meant, taking in the simple complexity of the fact that you weren’t ending things with each other – very much the opposite, if his letter was anything to go by.
“I’m not leaving you either, by the way. I didn’t actually say it.”
“The letter said plenty.” You replied, resting your arm along the back of the bench, your chin sitting on your fist, “But it’s nice to hear it.”
He smiled, and unlike yesterday you took comfort in the fact that his red rimmed eyes weren’t because he was feeling down.
“So we try again?” He sniffled, angling his body so you were both sitting directly opposite each other. His positioning was awkward – his uninjured arm mirroring you by resting his head on his fist, his elbow on the back railing.
You nodded, watching as his cheeks flushed in excitement, his smile lines cracking through his demeanour. You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from blushing at the sheer excitement and overwhelming sense of adoration coursing through your body. You were sure your pupils were as dilated as they possibly could be, and despite wanting to pull your attention away from Nico – a bit of breathing room – you couldn’t quite bring yourself to do it. It was when he raised an eyebrow, beginning to laugh that you remembered you’d forgotten to answer his question.
He didn’t mind, though.
“Yes.” You smothered a smile by tucking your face into the crook of the elbow on the railing.
You weren’t sure you’d been this flustered around Nico since you first started dating four years ago.
“Could we take it slow?” He asked, his hand reaching out to pull the material of your hoodie away from your face.
You nodded, resurfacing again, “Counselling?”
You felt fingers brush strands of your hair out of your face, and when you looked at him, you found he was nodding, brown eyes scanning every millimetre of your face as though he was drinking you in. Other than the shower, this was the first instance you’d both freely been able to look at each other in minute detail – to the extent you both desired. Sneaking glances when the other wasn’t looking didn’t exactly count.
For example, you could see that there was a splodge of red under his bottom lip, presumably from where he’d been tugging at it between his teeth all of last night. You’d opted to sleep in the spare bedroom, sure that he’d be able to make it through the night – besides, you both knew that you needed your space if you were to have the discussion the next day.
You could also see that he was refraining from doing something, because there was a small crease between his brows – a crease that told you he wanted to do something badly. You had a feeling you knew what it was, but you’d let his need linger a little longer.
“I think counselling is the right way to go, yeah.” A beat, “I want to do things right, take it slow, talk things out more. I don’t want a repeat of…this.”
He twirled some of your hair around his fingers, his eyes marvelling the movement, until he followed the strands to your face, and you broke out into a smile – not holding much back as you let out a short, breathy laugh.
“We’ve already made that mistake.” You agreed.
He sighed, “You know in that letter?”
You hummed.
“I meant it, you know. When I said I think you’re the only thing I got right.”
You rolled your eyes, feeling smaller under his gaze, “What about hockey?”
He grinned, “Hockey doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Hockey chose me. That’s different from me choosing you.”
You narrowed your eyes, still smiling, “How?”
“Because…” he trailed off, “I had to make choices when it came to you, ones that might have ended differently if I, say, hadn’t looked in the front window of the cafe that day, or hadn’t kissed you for the first time after the third date–”
“You took way too long.” You laughed.
He smiled, denying it as he waved a hand, “I think I waited just the right amount of time. I made all the right choices when it came to you. Hockey I didn’t really have to think about; it was all laid out for me – there weren’t as many things to think about compared to when it came to you.”
You sighed, pressing your lips together momentarily, before trailing your eyes to his smiling face and red-tinted cheeks still covered in some scruff. Your hand reached up and touched his chin, then his cheek, feeling the prickle that left your fingers tingling. It was a nice contrast he’d grown into the past couple of years, one that you’d grown to love, though you missed seeing what his face looked like clean-shaven.
You still loved him the same – that never changed.
You seemed to be reminded of that fact when he tilted his head into your palm, placing a kiss there and taking your wrist in his hand and gently tugging you closer. You obliged, of course you did.
“I love you.” You said.
His smile softened as he gently slid his hand from the grip on your wrist to be clasped between you both, “What happened to taking it slow?”
You shrugged, “I just haven’t said it in a while – I wanted to let you know that hasn’t changed.”
He blinked, his smile unwavering, “I love you too.”
There was also an unspoken acknowledgement under that reminder. There was still a lot you both needed to sort through before you even ventured into the realm of dating each other again – though the material left of each other that defined ‘dating’ was limited. There was only so much you could talk about without having heard it all before.
“I was thinking,” he started, his eyes flicking up to yours to catch your reaction as you raised a brow, “you don’t have any plans tonight, do you?”
You were toying telling him you did, that maybe you’d already organised something with Maisey, just to see how he’d react, but it was a little too soon to be teasing him like that, “My plans…involve making sure the captain of the Devils is recovering nicely.”
He nodded, pulling a faux inquisitive expression, “That’s incredibly convenient for me, actually. I happen to be the captain of the Devils–”
“No way.” You laughed.
“And, as the captain of the Devils, I was wondering if you’d like to hang out later. Maybe watch a movie and have dinner?”
You tilted your head, “Like a date?”
“Your words not mine.”
“What happened to taking it slow?”
He shrugged, “We can still cuddle, right?”
“I don’t know.”
He scoffed, “It’s a yes or no.”
You rolled your eyes, “I’m talking about your shoulder. Cuddling is going to be pretty fucking limited.”
He nodded, his mouth forming an ‘o’, proving he hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, “Kissing?”
You laughed, “Out of the question.” The comment was verging on being sarcastic, and the roll of his eyes proved he got the message, but you carried on, “We’re taking it slow. You need to focus on recovering in time for the playoffs–”
“Actually,” he held up a playful finger, “when you kiss me, my body releases endorphins, and they contribute to better mental health, and also reduce pain levels in the body. Lucky me,” he gestured to his shoulder, “I’m in a good amount of pain and in need of some endorphins to reduce th–”
You reached a hand up to take off his hat in the midst of his educated rambling, and you saw he could read what you were doing because the earnest protest in his eyes dimmed, and he swiped a tongue delicately over his bottom lip, a smile growing on his face. You could hear the thoughts beginning to fall away in his mind when he followed you with his eyes, his free hand settling in your hair on the side of your head. You had to praise him for it, because he didn’t for one second falter in what he was saying, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye gave him away almost immediately.
He angled his face towards you, and you both leant forwards, connecting your lips. It was short – the kind of kiss you’d usually share after he’d win a game and you were both in public. Celebratory – happy. You barely felt the gentle scratch of his scruff on your chin or the warmth of his mouth before you were pulling away. He didn’t let you get that far, the hand entangled in your hair keeping you nose to nose with him.
You were both smiling, and you weren’t mad that the only thing you could actually see properly were his eyes, staring directly into yours. You bit your lip – half trying to stop yourself from laughing, and half-trying to keep yourself from doing it again.
As much as you didn’t want to, it was essential to keep things slow – it was the right thing to do, despite the annoyance that came with it.
“So, kissing is on the cards?” Nico joked, unwinding your hair from his fingers gently to tuck the curtain that had fallen behind your ear.
“To compensate for the lack of cuddles? I might have to think about it.” You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, replacing his hat back on his head.
“Remember: the endorphins.” He smiled, though you knew he’d let you actually think about it.
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“How long are you going to think about it, though?”
#nico hischier oneshot#nico hischier imagine#nico hischier x reader#nhl fic#nhl imagine#hockey fic#hockey imagine
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Bitter Water 0.05 ~ ♆
“ Fuck you, Odair ”
{{ Finnick Odair x Reader }}
{{ previous part || next part }} {{ masterlist }}
warnings: typical Hunger Games violence/trauma/themes, language, blood, injury, insinuation of forced prostitution, enemies to lovers, slow burn, death, nightmares, reader throws up whoops, alcohol/tipsy! reader, Finnick is still an ass, etc
{{ word count }} 2.8 k
{{ prompt }} Readjusting to life outside the arena is a challenge. You’re barely able to cope with the blood staining your hands and the new terrors that arise before you’re whisked away back home.
{{ a/n }} happy holidays ! we’re finally going to be getting somewhere in reader and Finnick’s relationship this time around !! there will still be a lot more build up from here don’t fear <3
Finnick had to adjust his grip to keep your buckling knees from bringing both of you to the linoleum tile below. You had gone all but limp in the boy’s arms as choked sobs escaped your lips. You broke down right there in his arms, eventually taking the two of you to your knees regardless of the boy’s strength nor his futile attempts to keep you either standing or to guide you back to your cot. Wires connected sticky monitors to a wailing device and tangled themselves around your arms and chest. A small trickle of blood dribbled down your forearm from where your IV tube had been ripped out in your scuffle away from the medics.
Finnick’s brows knit together in a tight crease as your fingertips pressed hard into his honey-tanned skin. A muscle in the boy’s jaw fluttered as your sobs and burning touch tugged that thread in his chest hard. Your claim from the train ride had been ripped from your grasp without so much as a goodbye, all in the name of survival.
“I’d rather choose death than a life with blood on my hands.”
He didn’t really know why you were gripping him so tight, as if he’d disappear should your grip be released, considering you’d almost taken him out with a medical tool upon his entrance to the small medical bay. The device had cracked the small window next to the doorway, and broken glass now speckled the floor beneath the shattered pane. Your broken, hiccuped cries continued on, ragged breaths barely bringing air into your lungs, while Finnick shot warning glares back towards the doctors who tried to enter the room. The medical professionals slowly backed out upon meeting the deadly daggers within the Darling’s sea-green gaze. You were in hysterics, to say the least. The reality of your survival and the invisible crimson caked into your skin slammed into every fiber of your being and brought bile rising into your already constricted throat. But nothing heaved itself from your empty stomach. Finnick sat cautiously still, the linoleum tile cold beneath his knees, as his gaze turned away from the open door back to your crumpled form. He didn’t say anything nor make any moves to comfort or touch you, only providing space to allow you to get everything out. To be frank, Finnick didn’t know how to react besides sitting still. You hadn’t expressed kindness to him since meeting one another, nor had he you, but the thought of your fear and the pain tearing apart your chest being intensified by the poking and prodding of medics and nurses tugged that thread again painfully as if the tension was pulled so tight on a guitar sting that one more twist would cause it to snap and fly back in a heated slice across his heart.
So the Darling stayed.
He sat with you till exhaustion ebbed into your shoulders, and your tears slowly dried. He sat still as a rock until reality came back into focus, and your fingernails left small, purple crescent moons on his tanned forearms as you released your grip. Your breaths were shaky, and your voice was shot as your bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks flushed with color dragged up to meet calm sea-green oceans. “I-I’m.. sorry…” You struggle to gasp out before your chin dips, and a trembling arm comes up to cough viciously into your elbow. Finnick simply shook his head, rubbing sweaty palms on his tear-stained trousers before combing a hand through the bronze waves thrown atop his head.
“It’s fine,”
The small room fell silent, aside from the bustling commotion outside the bay and your gasping breaths as air still struggled to fill your lungs. “I should go get a nurse. You’re bleeding again.” Finnick huffs after a beat before moving to stand. You don’t say anything as your arms curl around yourself in a tight hug. A thick swallow goes down the boy’s throat as he forces himself away from the room and into the bright, sterile hallway. That thread tugged his shoulders back as if trying to push him backward into that room towards the corner you’d curled into, but he willed himself to move forward. You were just a scared victor. You had gripped the first familiar thing to you after being trapped in a cruel Game for a month. Your actions were instinct-driven and nothing more. You’d only met for two days. There was no point or reason for his chest to be this tight or his skin to hunger after your touch. His jaw sets as he rubs the crescent indents on his skin, searching for a nurse down the hall.
That thread snaps tight in his chest again with each brush of his thumbs over the purple marks.
You’re kept in the medical bay of the Capital’s Tribute Center for a fortnight. The lengthy stay was mostly for observation purposes following a psyche evaluation alongside the closing ceremonies of the 67th Games and another sugarcoated interview full of bright lights and flashing cameras with Caesar Flickerman. You’d thrown up at least once before or after every public appearance. You despised the spotlight, gargling a minted mouthwash between your teeth to coat your tongue and rid the sour taste of bile from your lips. Hyacinth returned to plaster you in garish flourishes and flounces along with an opaque concealer to cover the deep-set smudges of purple beneath your eyes from lack of sleep. The Capital had been gracious enough to mend your wounds well, but makeup was still needed to cover bruises in various stages of healing. You did your best to plaster on that faux, practiced smile before performing once again for the entertainment of millions of Panem citizens.
Your stomach painfully churned upon your realization that the performance would never end. You’d always be forced to perform from this moment forward.
You’d only seen your mentor, Mags, consistently after your breakdown, besides various medical personnel needing to check on you. Finnick was only seen in passing. The two of you hadn’t spoken since your outburst, nor had the two of you stood in the same room long enough to converse with one another, let alone stand beside one another. Only fleeting glances were shared across crowds, and the bronze-haired boy was constantly moving, constantly changing. Each night, he would appear strapped to the hip of a new Capital elitist in progressively more revealing tunics and netting that unfortunately left less and less to the imagination. Your nose crinkled at the aura he put out, cocky and self-absorbed while flashing showboating smirks and suggestive comments back to back. At least the rumors concerning the two of you harboring some kind of “star-crossed lovers” spectacle had died out upon your announced victory and the Darling’s consistent appearances with new presumed partners, earning him the term playboy in the gossip strips of Capital newspapers. You tried to avoid the victor and his attitude at all costs, forcing yourself to forget the moment shared in a forgotten hospital room corner and move on.
Mags was sweet as ever, doting on you like a worried mother hen and doing her best to ensure your comfort, considering your unstable circumstances. She visited you daily, sometimes more than once. The two of you would share a meal or cup of tea, conversing in your own signals and whispered words, discussing anything and everything to help you get through the day. On the hard days, the two of you would sit in a calm silence, simply absorbing the pleasant company of one another.
Tonight, you would finally board the train back to District 4. Back home. You didn't sleep at all the night before. Whether it was nerves, excitement, or the haunting phantoms behind your eyes whenever they closed? You're not sure. It could be all three, honestly. Thatcher was busy lecturing your procession as bright flashes blinded your vision, and loud hollers of the Capital upper-class bludgeoned your ears. However, all you wanted was to be out of the spotlight and locked inside your personal quarters for the next two days before finally seeing your lovely younger brothers again. A gloved hand grips your shoulder and urges you to keep moving. The stark-white uniforms of peacekeepers cloud your peripherals, sending your skin crawling. The grip feels like a brand on your skin.
Moments after the train car doors shut, the industrial machinery surges to life, and the train sets into motion. An ascending chug roars as the metal car picks up speed. “Come, come! Just like our last journey, there is much to be discussed!” Your escort queries while ushering everyone towards a too-familiar dark wood dining table. Your group was small, but Thatcher, Hyacinth, Mags, Yourself, and surprisingly, Finnick gathered at the long table, taking seats behind cursive name cards and crystal wine glasses. You couldn’t help your sweeping gaze across the silk tablecloth toward the 65th victor. The boy was lounged across his armchair, weight pressing into his left elbow on the armrest as his free arm dangled the wine glass, dark wine slowly swirling inside the goblet. His position appeared comfortable but exuded pride. You forced your gaze down to your glass of wine after sea-green oceans caught wind of your unintentional staring. A cheshire smirk pressed dimples into his tanned cheeks, but no words were exchanged between you two.
“Now, we have two days before arriving back on the sunshine sands of District 4. For our dear victor,”
Your name sounds foreign in such a cheerful tone.
“Your family has already been transferred to your lovely new home in Victor’s Village! Our Darling, Finnick here, will be just across from your new home with Mags beside him. Your fellow victors will be around you in the rest of the village for support and companionship!” You wince at the escort’s last words. You didn’t want their feigned “companionship” You just wanted to go home. A dark chuckle resonated across the table, and even Thatcher goes quiet for once.
“Yes of course, we have weekly parties to discuss our methods from the arena, and sit in circles and sing koombaya.”
Your nose scrunches in discomfort at the bronze-haired victor’s blatant sarcasm. Mags shifts uncomfortably in her seat at the end of the table between the two of you while shooting the boy a pointed look. A beat passes before Thatcher clears their throat and tries to continue their speech. “Uhm, yes… I suppose. Ahem. When we arrive at the station, cameras will be ready, so I expect nothing more than big smiles! We are happy to be home and to see our beloved District again. No more, no less. There will be a meeting with the Mayor, then a procession through the District to Victor’s Village, and then another meeting to discuss the terms of the next six months before beginning your Victory tour through all of the districts, ending with a grand celebration in the Capital city with our Honored President Snow.” Thatcher continues. Their voice regains its usual lilt and confidence, almost as if they’re convincing themself of the festivities ahead. They gives another speech on rules and expectations, Hyacinth flutters on about her ideas of possible designs for the tour, among other details, and you feel like you’re about to be sick.
You quickly down about two and a half glasses of wine before you’re buzzed and floaty enough to settle in your seat. You’d drowned out the conversation long before, finding the dozens of tiny rainbow light fractals sparkling in your crystal goblet far more intriguing. The dark wine was dry and bitter-tasting. Through slow-blinking eyes, you finish what’s left in your goblet and excuse yourself from the nonsensical conversation. Amidst your hazy stumble from the table, you didn’t bother or care to notice the sea-green eyes fixating on your retreating form.
You just wanted to lay down, possibly throw up; you couldn’t decide which quite yet. You’d never bothered with alcohol before. Seeing what the fermented liquid had done to your father made the idea unpleasant. But after experiencing the hazy warmth the drink brought to your core and the ease of a clouded mind, you began to see why he had taken up the habit. The Capital didn’t seem to care if minors drank anyway. You told yourself over and over you wouldn’t let this get bad. You refused to be like him. You just needed to get home and see the sweet faces of your brothers.
Your personal quarters were the same as before, sleek and industrial with shades of grey and royal blue velvet followed by dark wooden accents. Your clothes were comfortable linen, the same ones you’d worn off the train before the Games, but this time, your top was an inky black, and your lightweight pants a cool, forest-toned green. Face planting into the plush bedding, you curled in on your side. Your hair had been left in its natural texture since the games, only maneuvered when Hyacinth needed you to appear publicly in her newest design. Your knees hugged close to your chest, and your arms curled in close, making for a tightly coiled fetal position. The back of your skull felt fuzzy as if a hand was leaving ghostly pinpricks up along the nape of your neck to the crown of your head. The feeling was peculiar yet welcome, adding to the fuzziness behind your eyes and the warmth wrapping around your torso.
Your sleep was light and thankfully, dreamless.
Sleep held you hostage for several hours before jolting you awake in a cold sweat, as the fervent need to expel your stomach sent you scrambled to the black porcelain latrine and heaved bile and wine. You were lucky you’d made it to the small washroom at all, with how quickly the intoxicated need took hold of your consciousness.
“Well now, haven’t we been here before?”
You could hear the smirk on Finnick’s face before you’d even finished wiping your mouth on a strip of bath tissue.
“Get out.”
Your tone was cold, glare laced with irritation, as you shifted to clean yourself up and shakily stood after gripping the onyx rim of the washroom sink. You weren’t in the mood for idle chatter nor the taunts that glinted in the sea-green irises behind you. “If you’re just here to gloat or say, “I told you so,” you can shove it. I’ve had enough false charm and teasing, Peacock.”
“Peacock? Is that a new pet name, hm? What was it you told Caesar? Oh, yes - that you would never fall for a stuck-up Peacock like me in mm…say, a thousand years? Maybe Mr. Flickerman was on to something."
"Fuck you, Odair."
Venom spits from your lips as you finally turn, only to be caught off guard by meeting that insufferable smirk mere inches from your face. The two of you were on a fairly level height, but the slight slouch in the boy's stance hinted that he was taller. Your palms connect with honey-tanned skin as you shove the vain Darling back to get around him. "Get out of my room." You quip, blood simmering in your veins as you thrust a pointed finger toward the open door. The swagger in the boy's walk almost had your eye twitching as the various reasons you'd disliked the boy before became crystal clear in the front of your mind. Whatever regret for your previous outburst, or feelings that had flickered between you two in the medical bay were gone, replaced by whatever Golden Boy persona had infected Finnick and twisted calm concern in his eyes to an unreadable cruelty. You hated the boy standing in your doorway.
"Get. Out."
Finnick simply shook his head, before sauntering out of the room, not bothering to mention you’d slept through breakfast. Again.
As the industrial door slid shut behind the boy, that thread snapped tight in his chest again. Swallowing thickly, Finnick shoved his hands deep into his pockets and tried to shrug off the tightness in his chest. The words had tumbled from his lips quicker and harsher than intended and he felt like kicking himself in the ass for his actions. The phantom touch of your hands pressing into his chest made the pink crescents on his forearms sting, and he had to reach up and pick an invisible piece of lint from his tunic for any sense of relief. Maybe he should let you hate him, keep up the act, and remain at arm's length instead of nursing that tight string in his chest linking back to you. You were frightened, traumatized beyond belief, and you just wanted to go home.
Mags was sure to chew him out for a good hour on his behavior well into the late afternoon.
{{ taglist }}
@emerald-09 @reader-bookling123 @finnickodaddy @thehairington86 @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @avoxrising @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @whens-naptime @violettbae @the-lonely-abyss @secretsicanthideanymore @nexxus13 @takanparadiae @yourdailymemedelivery @wowzabowza69
#finnick odair#bitter water#finnick odair x reader#the hunger games#finnick imagine#thg#finnick x reader#finnick x you#x reader fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction#the hunger games finnick#finnick#finnick odair imagine#thg finnick#finnick odair fanfic#finnick fanfic#hunger games finnick#finnick x y/n#finnick odair x you#finnick odair oneshot#enemies to lovers#slow burn#thg imagine#thg fic#thg series#thg fanfiction#finnick odair angst#finnick oneshot#finnick fluff
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do you accept requests right now? if so, i'd like a cater diamond and rollo flamme version of this fic. i really loved the previous one.
feel free to disregard this if you don't write fir those characters or not taking reqs. thank you.
What if I Left? (Pt. 2)
Synopsis: With a previously "Gifted Child" partner who's burnt out and questions of NRC would be better off without them.
Genre: Angst
Contains: Cater Diamond, Riddle Rosehearts
CW: panic attacks, thoughts of not being good enough, overthinking, talk of sewerslide, etc.
Word Count: 1k
Part 1, Part 2
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You sighed shakily as you stepped out of the classroom and into the crowded hallways, clutching your folders to your chest as you tried to force down the lump in your throat. How did it come to this? You were the 'gifted kid' in your world, had excelled in these new classes during your first few months, and even helped tutor Ace when he was failing. Now, you had forgotten your assignment for Professor Crewel, been late to nearly every class today, and had gotten failing marks on two tests. What happened...?
It didn't matter at this point, all you knew was the tears were coming and fast, you couldn't cry, not here, not in front of everyone. You just had to breathe, right...? When did It become so difficult to breathe? Your mind was running miles a minute as you pushed through the crowd, not caring who you accidentally ran into, mumbling quiet apologies as you tried to run, not expecting your partner to find you.
Cater Diamond
The redheaded boy looked up as a body pushed past him, his phone dropped from his hand as he processed your form getting further and further away. It took him a moment to realize the situation before he chased after you. Quickly picking up his device and breaking into a full sprint, he called after you desperately trying to catch up despite the head start you had gained.
"Yo! Babe?! Slow down, please?" Cater's voice carried through the quickly emptying hallways, panting as he keeled over. He placed his hands on his knees as he found your curled-up form. He watched as your hands crumpled and ripped apart various note sheets and poor scoring tests. Your harsh sobbing grew as you threw the balls of paper away from yourself, not noticing your boyfriend's presence only mere feet away.
"(Y/N)," He mumbled out once he caught his breath. He quietly kneeled to your height, gently cupped your cheek, and lifted your head to look into your misty eyes. Softly rubbing the tear stains from your cheeks, he sighed and pulled you into his arms. "Hey, doll... What's going on? What's got you in such a state?"
Cater stumbled back as your sobs grew louder. You pushed your face against his neck and practically groveled in his arms, your voice no louder than a whimper against his skin. " Do you want me to be honest?" you said sobbing even harder. "Yes of course I do doll" Cater replied with a gentle yet concerned voice. "I can't anymore, Cater... I was made a fool today, no matter how hard I studied I couldn't do any better than a 'D'... I'm not meant for this school, I'm not good enough for anyone," The redhead frowned, about to argue back that you were worthy of good things and worthy of being here. "I'm not even good enough...for you..."
Cater's face burned red at the insinuation, not taking a second before pulling your lips together. As he tightened his arm around your waist, he attempted to tell you exactly how much you mean to him in a single kiss. He knew it would never be enough to show or tell you all the love he held for you, but it was a start. He took short breaths as you parted, hoping you had no reason to continue with the self-deprecating thoughts as your foreheads rested against each other. Cater silently promised to protect you, even if it was from yourself.
"I love you, doll... Never think that you're not enough. Even when things get rough, please try to remember there's at least one person who will miss you and will mourn."
Riddle Rosehearts
Riddle was studying when he heard it, the soft cries coming from a secluded corner of the library. At first, the housewarden had ignored it, trying to focus back in on his own notes. The harder he tried to block out the world, the harder it was to not hear the sobbing grow louder. Quickly standing from his seat, the redhead searched nearly every aisle, every nook and cranny, every corner. The sound didn't stop but continued to grow louder, your breath catching in your throat once you saw Riddle appear at the end of the bookshelves, his eyes softening at the sight of you.
"Rose?" He softly called out, eyebrows furrowed in worry as he looked over your tear-stained face, taking note of the trembling in your fingers that gripped the edges of your papers. Guilt began to plague Riddle, seeing a younger version of himself in your eyes, a scared child who wishes to prove themself. Sighing, he knelt down and gently took the papers from your hands, eyes tracing over the red marks and comments.
"I know what you're thinking, for I too felt that way once," Riddle whispered, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and beginning to wipe away your tears, his heart aching at the thought of you experiencing the same thing he did as a child. Remembering the same pain you are feeling right now, the desperation to be enough for someone. "this isn't how it has to be... You've helped me during my worst, it's only right that I return the favor."
The soft cloth was dabbed against your cheeks, carefully drying the wet streaks along your skin as Riddle smiled softly, leaning forward and pressing a gentle but love-filled kiss to your forehead. "You're not alone in this and you never will be."
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Authors Note: Thank you for requesting! I currently don't write for Rollo Flamme and don't have current plans too soon. I have taken down and changed the original draft to include another student so I hope this is to your liking! If there's anything else you'd like to see, please feel free to request! My inbox is always open!
#twisted wonderland x reader#cater diamond#cater diamond x reader#twisted wonderland#riddle rosehearts#riddle rosehearts x reader
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hi yeah so Kara's portrayal of Mrs. Danvers absolutely tore my heart out and blew the roof off when I saw Rebecca London two weeks ago so here are some observations I'm finally writing down
- after the costume ball scene, Ich was trying to run back up the stairs, and Danny came down them towards her with THE MOST SWEETLY EVIL GRIN IMAGINABLE, just absolutely smug and delighted and totally unashamed of herself, I have literally never loved Danny more, good for her, let her be happy etc. you just know she slept SO well that night
- balcony scene, when she's telling Ich to jump: for the first few lines, she wasn't looking at Ich at all, she was gazing out into the ocean, and she had this awful twisted look of despair/panic on her face as she said 'you'll never be happy, no one wants you, no one needs you', and my heart literally plummeted because it seemed as though Danny was talking to herself*, not Ich. she snapped out of it a second later and very deliberately turned to look at Ich to deliver the rest of her speech, but oh my gosh, WHAT an inspired and heartbreaking choice???
(*apparently Kara confirmed on Instagram that this is her intention with those first few lines huuhhjsdhfksajdf I'm obsessed)
- the first time I saw this production, I was confused by how polite and normal Danny behaved to Ich for most of Act 1, BUT NOW I SEE THE LIGHT!!!! the whole brilliance of Kara's portrayal is this delicate slow burn effect, she's perfectly cool and collected during their first interactions, then gradually gets more mad and emotional as the show goes on
- Rebecca IIII (after the phonecall) she walked very, very slowly down the stairs with one hand clapped over her mouth, fell to her knees clutching the banister, and sobbed. she hadn't sung a note and I was already crying watching her. so many Dannys make that moment about anger and betrayal (which is valid!!!), but I was bowled over to see Kara make it about Danny just crumpling to pieces and finally allowing herself to cry and cry for the woman she loved.
- (then she somehow proceeded to sob and belt her way FLAWLESSLY through the entire reprise, I couldn't believe how clean her notes were when she had tears streaming down her face???? and the absolute icing on the cake: on the final few lines, it was like all her grief just iced over, her face hardened into this look of total focus and hatred, and she stood up slowly singing 'now it's time for your revenge on Manderley' absolute perfection honestly.)
basically we're all blessed beyond belief by Kara's Danny and idk what I will do when this production closes. live in perpetual grief forever I guess.
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How would Steve react if he and reader were to sleep together atm and he doesn't fire her because he's so hooked, but he sleeps with another maid for whatever reason and fires her, but this maid knew he slept with reader and didn't fire her. She's so mad and shouting about why didn't reader get fired and calling her names/being rude about her etc 👀
I’m turning this into a drabble….
Warnings: smut-ish, mentions of sex, bit of asshole Steve, threats are made
Steve was fucked.
He finally got what he wanted, you. Instead of finally satisfying the long standing need that you had created, sleeping with you only made Steve want more. He wasn’t even sure how it happened. You were in his room making his bed and in the blink of an eye Steve is hovering over you and caging you in. His lips are on your neck while your nails dig into his back. It’s like you’re claiming what’s yours even if you don’t know it yet. It didn’t help that you sounded so pretty when you begged for more.
When it was over and your breathing was back to normal you grabbed all your clothes and disappeared into a spare room to make yourself more presentable. You didn’t even spare a glance at him as you left but he could see the worry on your face. Steve sent Coulson a message and told him that under no circumstance would he allow you to be let go.
~~~~~~~~
The following days had been tense between you and Steve. It didn’t help that the new maid, Kate, kept flirting with Steve and he would openly flirt back. You couldn’t understand why, when you went in to talk to Coulson he said he was under strict instructions that you weren’t fired and he wouldn’t accept your resignation. Especially if he was going to continue acting like he had before. So you you just had to grin and bare it.
It was about a week after you and Steve had been together that you heard him and Kate in his office. He’d never done that before. Anytime he slept with someone it was up in his room, maybe he wanted you to hear it. You kept yourself busy and fighting off the tears. It wasn’t until a yelling match started that you reappeared to see what was going on.
Kate stood in the middle of the living room, her hair disheveled and uniform a crumpled mess.
“You can’t just fire me. I’ll sue you for sexual harassment.”
“It’s in the contract you signed so is an NDA. So you sue me and I’ll own you.” Steve shot back.
By now Bucky, Sam, Dom, Coulson and a few other men were watching the fight. When Kate noticed she looked around and saw you standing in the door way. Your presence made her see red.
“Why didn’t you fire her? You fucked her last week and she’s still here.”
Everyone’s attention was on you and it caused your cheeks to burn with embarrassment.
“What is she your favorite whore? Are you going to pass her around to the rest of your friends first.” She turned to you with a twisted smile. “How does it feel to know you aren’t good enough for him? You are just some fuck toy form him and his friends.”
“Fuck off Kate.”
“Oh she speaks. I thought you were only good at being his dumb fucking slut. How stupid do you have to be if you think he’d-“ she doesn’t get to finish what she was saying because Steve had pulled her away from you. His palm covers her mouth as his fingers dig into her cheeks. The hold is strong and the look in his eye is terrifying.
“Don’t you ever fucking talk to her like that again or I’ll cut your tongue out myself. You should be so lucky to be in her presence. Now get the fuck out of here. The only dumb slut here is you.” Venom dripped from every word and it was enough to scare Kate and have her scramble to leave the house for good. “What the fuck is everyone looking at, get back to work.”
His eyes land on you but the hardness is gone. Steve takes a step closer to you but Bucky pulls him away and Dom escorts you to the kitchen while glaring at his boss.
~~~~~~~~
After taking a moment to calm down Steve walks into the kitchen. His intention was to make sure you were ok but of course you weren’t. Why had he been so stupid? You sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water in front of you. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you so upset.
“Dom give us a minute.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” Dom stand between you and Steve in order to shield you from the man.
“I said get out.”
“And I said I wasn’t going too. You’ve done enough already.”
“I’m your boss you’ll do as I say.”
“As if I give a flying fuck. Walk out now Rogers.”
“It’s ok Dom, let him get this over with.” You said from behind him. He reluctantly walked out of the kitchen but didn’t go to far.
Steve knelt down beside you but you wouldn’t look at him.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, you’re the boss you do what you want.”
“You didn’t deserve that.”
You turn to look at him, now with that fiery gaze he loved so much. “You’re right I didn’t deserve that but I should have known better too. You’re a man whore and I didn’t know what I was expecting to happen. You got what you wanted from me.”
“I thought I could get you out of my system. All I can do is think about you all the time. It was different with you and I didn’t know what to do with that feeling. I though I could just get over you if I was with someone else.”
“I’ll make it easy for you then, I quit.” You stood up and headed for the changing room.
“Wait you can’t just leave. That was a mistake.”
“No, being with you was a mistake. I never want to see you again.” You say, leaving him alone in the kitchen.
Dom walks in with a scowl on his face followed by Bucky and Sam.
“I should cut off your dick for what you’ve done.” Don says.
Steve ignores the older man and walks out. His only thoughts now are how he could possibly get you back. Not only to the house but back in his bed and keep you there permanently.
#heart’s munition Drabble#heart’s munition extra#mob boss!steve rogers#mob boss!steve rogers x single mom!reader
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a little WIP… technically for WIP Wednesday I am starting early.
tags under cut etc etc this is really unfinished I just wanted to prove I’m working on something
Fenris felt the lightning before he saw it; the air churning around him and changing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The smell of sulfur enveloped the room as he turned to see sparks fly from the tips of Jurian’s fingers, crackling down the length of his arm. The mage clasped his hands together like a prayer, but there was no divine intervention to save his opponent as Jurian slammed his hands into the helmet of the Templar. The resounding crack of thunder as the other man crumpled to the floor, spasming. The nauseating scent of burning flesh.
The hot red blood seeping through Jurian’s armor. The studded leather tunic ripped open along the length of his torso, the bloodied sword that fell next to the Templar. Jurian’s horrified expression as he pressed a hand to the wound, and pulled it away only to find blood dripping between his fingers. The horror in his eyes as his gaze lifted to meet Fenris’s own.
“I’m bleeding,” he whispered.
Trystan shouted something but Fenris didn’t hear it as he lurched forward, throwing aside his greatsword just in time to catch Jurian before he hit the ground. Fenris tried not to think how dangerously light he was, he tried not to notice how pale he’d turned so quickly.
“Anders!” He roared over the din of battle. Anders turned—or rather, Justice did, fending off another Templar—but the second he saw the blood, the spirit fled.
“What in the Maker—?!” Anders exclaimed, tearing off through the length of the cave to join them.
“Fall back!” Trystan snapped, picking up Fenris’s greatsword along with his own as if it weighed nothing to him. “I’ll hold them off! Don’t let him bleed out here.”
As the four of them made a hasty retreat out of the cave, where Merrill and Isabela waited at the entrance to chase off any stragglers, Fenris tried to ignore the warmth of blood against his hands and trailing hot on the stones as he ran.
@beastofmoss @bog-mummies @daggerbean @dragonologist-phd @flashhwing @greypetrel @hannahrama @idolsgf @jellydishes @midnight-coffee94 @nightmarist @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul @oopsalltes @rustythorns @rosella-writes @thiefbird @vahingoniloinenlapsi
not even gonna apologize for going through alphabetically
#this will probably end in Anders’s clinic#jurian comes to and mumbles about how the wound better not scar#Anders scoffs and reminds him to be grateful that he’s even alive#begrudgingly gestures to Fenris and says jurian should be thanking him#Fenris doesn’t ask for thanks but lingers at the end of Jurian’s bed#jurian thanks him anyway#genuinely and perhaps a little flirtatiously#jurian apologizes for frightening him#to which Fenris insists that he wasn’t frightened#and Anders#overhearing this#scoffs and says his whinging implied otherwise#Cas writes#wip wednesday#dragon age#da2#jurian amell#Trystan hawke#Fenris dragon age#Anders dragon age#jurian meta#Trystan meta#Cas meta
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Kitten Ears;; Satan
Word Count;; 2.5k
Genre;; Smut
Pairing;; Satan [Obey Me!] x Reader
Summary;;
Tight ropes grace your figure. You’re expected to sit pretty and await his command… but you’ve always had a rebellious streak. If he’d rather spend the night reading his silly little book, you’ll just have to give him a reason to focus on you instead.
Warnings;;
Masochist Bratty Rope Bunny!Reader + Mean Dom!Satan
Explicit language, explicit BDSM, Shibari / Bondage, pain kink + dacryphilia, improper use of a belt (as a gag), pet names (kitten, toy, etc), thigh riding, rough nipple play and clit stimulation, degradation (including some slutshaming), biting, choking, edging and orgasm denial, & of course cockwarming eventually lmfao
Request;;
Anon said: “Obey me satan cock warming please! 🙏”
Notes;;
It’s;;; about the control.
The shibari position is called ‘Bunny Ears’ or Futomomo Delta if you’re curious. AlsO i Think this awoke something within me lmfao the lines left on the skin after shibari are so pretty??
My Masterlist
Tears well in your eyes from the stretch. Tied behind your back by jute rope, your arms are growing tired. Due to the sharp angle your fingers dangle against the shallow indents of your shoulder blades. Your elbows extend overhead in what Satan refers to as ‘kitten ears’. Each wrist is bound together in a criss-cross while also connecting with the opposite limb’s forearm. Forearms and biceps are locked against one another by forest green rope.
It didn’t seem like a difficult position when he first suggested it. How wrong you were. Within minutes your upper half had begun to ache. Even now the soft expanses of your inner arms rest against the back of your head, pushing it forward. There’s no end to this gentle torture; you can’t relieve the tension building within your strained neck.
When you look up at Satan, you turn a little too fast and pull a little too hard at your restraints. Each string is interwoven and reacts to the smallest movement. The ropes tighten against the flex of your arms, constricting the two lone strands wrapped around your naked torso, one above your breasts and the other below. Digging deep into your smooth skin, they etch their mark upon you, leaving behind a masterpiece to be admired once he deems this torment enough.
Shifting from knee to knee, you appreciate the (albeit limited) freedom you have. Your legs remain bare of the green ropes and the artwork that follows. Despite how much he loves playing with the intricate designs forged upon your skin, fleeting yet enticing, this time is different, perhaps even special. Pressing your thighs together, you once again gaze at him. He’s reading some old book in some dead language, ignoring you.
Unable to bear the sting licking at your muscles any longer, you try to stand but fail, unable to unfurl a single leg. Top heavy and numb from remaining in one spot for far too long, you crumple back down to your knees. His artisan rope-work is formidable, inescapable. Threaded together to immobilise you for his own entertainment, you remain still and silent, too proud to concede.
Another minute passes and a shiver trickles down your spine. He’s looking at you. No, he’s devouring you. Call it a sixth sense – you know he’s to blame for the goosebumps rising across your skin. Risking a glance at the expense of your comfort, you seek his attention. Emerald eyes drink you in. A small smile forms on his lips as he places his book aside. When he gazes upon you, it’s electrifying. Pressing your face against your bicep, you relish in the throb of your overextended shoulder. The ropes tighten, crawling inch by inch along your ribcage in a slow, delightful burn.
“What a beautiful little toy you are.”
You want to reply but the words are muffled by the belt in your mouth. The taste of leather lingers on your tongue as you bite down a little harder. Saliva dribbles down your chin. Despite how sore your jaw is, you’d choose the gag over the ‘kitten ears’ any day of the week.
“Are you tired, pretty one?”
Trying to nod elicits a whimper from deep within your throat. His eyes shine a shade brighter at the sound. Leaning forward to capture your face within his slender fingers, his smile widens. A single tear rolls down your cheek, leading the charge with the promise of more to follow. Satan collects the droplet on his thumb before smearing it across your heated skin. Your eyelids flutter shut at his gentle caress, forcing more tears to spill forth.
“Irresistible,” he murmurs. A breeze whisks around you. While refreshing, you don’t have time to appreciate it. Strong arms lift you to your feet, holding you steady as you open your bleary eyes. Satan’s hair appears as strands of gold through your filter of tears. Mesmerised, you watch the way it bounces around his petite features as he tilts his head. “Does my pretty kitten need to tap out?”
When you shake your head and furrow your brow, he smirks. Part of the fun is seeing if he can break you just so he can put you back together again, to be the knight that cares for his little damsel. There’s also some appeal in the fact that you’re too stubborn (or perhaps stupid) to give in. No matter what he throws your way, you take it. Despite the pain, you beg for him. You refuse to use the safe signal, allowing him to use you as he pleases, but that just makes it more of a challenge. It isn’t enough to control your body, he wants your mind too – he wants to possess every last piece of you.
“Would you like to hear a story, kitten?” You nod. “Good. Let’s get you comfortable, then.”
Expecting him to untie the ropes, you shuffle on the spot. His fingers ghost over the elaborate cluster of knots that adorn your back. With the amount of time he spent on perfecting them, you’re eager to view the end product. The lines left behind on your skin from his binds are always clean and captivating.
There’s a clink! like that of a belt buckle. It rings in your ears. Before you can turn, his arms wrap around your waist. The fabric of his jacket sleeve tickles your skin. Somewhere in the back of your mind you’re irritated by the fact that he’s fully dressed but the thought dispels as fast as it came. He falls back onto his lounge chair without loosening his hold on you, dragging you down with him.
Between your bodies lies empty space; miles of it, cold and unwelcome. Seeking his warmth, you rock on the spot as you try to wiggle closer to him. It’s unintentional at first but the motion triggers a wave of yearning that you’re eager to sate. Balancing on his leg, your bare cunt rubs against his thigh. Cool air kisses your pulsing heat and pleasure grips your core from the sensation. Remaining cautious, you spread your legs open wider, pressing down hard against him. You pick up a subtle pace as you ride him. It takes a lot of effort to make it look natural, like you’re just trying to readjust yourself rather than chasing the slightest stimulation.
Pages rustle behind you as he grabs the book he was reading. He holds it within one hand while the other draws symbols on your stomach. While innocuous at first, his relentless teasing eats away at your willpower. You can’t hold yourself back when the answer to your carnal desires is within reach. A flash of bliss tears down your spine as your body reacts to the mere thought of him. Ravenous from the delectable memory of him pounding you into the sheets, your cunt clenches around nothing, hungry to be filled to the brim.
Your nails dig into your back the longer your little charade continues, teetering between obedience and pursuing what you crave. Satan’s breath warms the nape of your neck as he recites some ancient poem from his stupid little book. The words are lost on you; everything he rattles off is ignored in favour of eliciting every ounce of pleasure possible from your rocking.
It isn’t until he pinches one of your nipples, twisting the sensitive bud between his smooth fingertips, that you crash back down to earth. His tone is harsh as he addresses you, cracking down upon you like a whip. “You’re going to stain my pants if you keep doing that, slut.”
Ceasing your actions with a low whine, you tremble on his lap. He, however, doesn’t stop. Releasing your nipple, he grabs a fistful of your tit and squeezes until your back arches. You fall back against him, fleeing the biting pain that erupts where his claws mark you. When he sees the red indents later he’ll frown, disappointed in how his beautiful canvas is marred, but in the heat of the moment he’s enslaved by his sin. He scratches your delicate skin to quell his anger, scraping deep enough to paint you in various shades but never deep enough to draw blood.
“You’re too pretty to act up like this. Haven’t I trained you well enough?” he spits the words out. Slamming the book shut, his hand snakes around your neck. The veins in his arm bulge as he tenses, straining to hold himself back. “Are you broken? Should I throw you away? Or…” He adds some pressure to your throat. It’s when your breath hitches that you notice he’s hard, his cock twitching within its confines. “Or would my little kitten like a second chance?”
It’s a trap, of course. There’s no way to win – he wants you to fail.
Even so you nod, desperate to be used despite how pathetic you feel.
“Good girl.”
He pulls his cock free and it rests against the curve of your arse. Much hotter than your own skin, you fight the urge to rut against him. Instead you sit still and pretty, awaiting his next move. You forget to breathe during the long seconds that pass. It isn’t until he lifts your hips in one swift movement that you let your hopes up. Shivering in excitement, you whimper against your gag.
“You’re soaked already.” He tuts, flicking your clit with his middle finger. “I don’t even have to prepare you. Your greedy little hole is always ready to be fucked, isn’t it? Disgusting.”
Aligning himself with your entrance, he pushes inside. Pulling you down further on his cock by his tight grip on your hips, your muscles tremble. It’s hard to maintain such a slow pace. Inch by inch, he fills you. The stretch is exquisite. Once he bottoms out, sheathed within you in his entirety, you expect a punishing speed to be set. What you receive, however, is quite the opposite.
“Now where were we?”
With no regard for your needs, he flips open his book and begins reading once more. Frustration surges through you – why must he always be difficult? It’s one thing to tease, but this is just cruel. Every time you inhale, chest rising to utilise every last ounce of your lung capacity, your hips rise ever so slightly. When you exhale and sink back down, his cock nudges against your g-spot. It’s an endless cycle of gentle stimulation.
Despite his excellent rope skills, he’d made a mistake: leaving your legs untied. If he won’t give you what you want, you’ll bypass him and take what you want. Biting down harder on his belt, you brace yourself. It’ll require precision and haste to get yourself off before your thighs grow exhausted from the exertion. With a final tweak of your neck, relishing in how it cracks and the relief that comes with it, you lift yourself. His cock slides out of your pussy until only the tip remains and you clench around him, preparing to bounce on his hard shaft.
Your plan is thwarted when his hand wraps around your neck, using it as a point of leverage as he slams you back down on his cock. Tears spring from your eyes, cooling your warm cheeks as they run down your face. Tight around him, your cunt continues to clench, greedy and impatient. His breath fans against your shoulder before his teeth dig into your skin. A sharp pain explodes outward from the point of contact.
Breaking away from you, a patch of wetness left in his wake, he growls, “Stop moving. I’m busy.”
His bite is nothing compared to the need gnawing at your core. Heavy seconds tick by and you relent to the ache of your neck, dropping your head only for your arms to follow, pushing your whole body forward until your back is slumped. Satan doesn’t move, his voice like velvet as he reads his book uninterrupted. At this moment you might very well hate him, but still you refuse to tap out.
Instead you opt to seek out any morsel of pleasure you can. Staggering breaths aid the incessant pulsing of your walls. The more light-headed you become, the closer you push yourself toward the edge. It’s a delicate yet dangerous game and that recklessness throws you into overdrive. Chasing the memory of how orgasmic bliss feels, your mind stimulates the sensation, and though it isn’t the real thing, it’s close, especially when his cock sitting inside you is very, very real.
Eyes fluttering shut, you continue to clamp around him all without moving your upper body, intent to follow Satan’s rules while also breaking them. Your nostrils flare with each hindered breath. Orgasming without being touched is a difficult but not impossible phenomenon. With enough dedication and the right state of mind, you can do it, you know you can. And that’ll really piss him off… which very well might make you come a second time untouched.
Satan’s irritated sigh is far away but his rough treatment of your clit is grounding. He rubs the bundle of nerves beneath his fingers, aiding in your endeavour to reach that heavenly precipice. While his is not a gentle touch, it doesn’t take much stimulation before your orgasm approaches. Throwing your head back against his chest despite the taut ropes chafing your breasts, you buck into his hand.
“What a nasty little whore you are. Do you really need to come that badly?” Panting around the belt, you mumble out your pleas. It’s a jumbled, incoherent mess. “Then you should get yourself off, kitten.”
Eyes locking, you take in his lazy smirk. You know that look. Racing toward your peak, you can’t push his sadistic smile out of your head. Even as your core starts to shake and your body quivers, your mind instead focuses on his cold expression. With a low whine that reverberates in your throat, you pause before you can reach the finish line. He, too, halts.
“What’s wrong? You were so close. Don’t you want to come?” He pinches your clit, pulling on the small nub. You shake your head and close your eyes, unable to look at his deepening scowl. His fingers graze along your entrance, almost slipping inside only to disappear completely. Even with his cock filling your cunt, you feel empty without his hands warming your skin.
“Since you want to play by yourself today, you can learn to play by yourself for the next couple of months, too.”
From behind the belt comes your gargled cries. When you twist on his lap, his cock drives a little further into you, triggering a burst of pleasure to echo throughout every nerve in your body. Brilliant emerald eyes bore into you, widening in amusement as you squeeze your thighs shut. Moisture overflows from the corners of your eyes and your vision turns blurry. His cock twitches within your walls and it’s tantalising how easy it would be to come right here and now out of sheer rebellion. Yet you hold your ground, unwilling to go without him for such an unthinkable length of time.
“Don’t cry, little one.” Patting the top of your head, he fixes your dishevelled appearance. “I’m starting the chapter over. Pay attention this time.”
#obey me!#satan x reader#satan smut#obey me x reader#obey me smut#obey me satan smut#obey me satan#omswd#omswd smut#omswd satan#omswd x reader#om smut#om x reader#om x you#satan x you#obey me x you#obey me shall we date#satan x mc#obey me x mc#obey me fanfic#obey me imagines#om satan
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SHAKES FIST!! I need to know more about your FMA Ocs!! I don't have any specific questions SO JUST- INFODUMP GKLFDJLKGF,,,, Anything about them THEY LOOK SO COOL,,,,,
JDJGJGKGKDKD JEEZ I'M SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG FOR ME TO ANSWER THIS BUT IT MEANS SO MUCH TO ME THANK YOU SO MUCH AAAAAAA
I have about 6 FMA:B ocs at the moment and tbh they can be split between a group of kids I have from Leore and two Briggs folks (though one is retired from the military) But without further ado!!
Damaris is one of the first fma ocs I've made!! She's from Leore, her mom is Amestrian and her dad is Xingese and they run a flower and tea shop, respectively. Damaris is a hugeee nerd as well as a tomboy and she's not afraid of getting her hands dirty and was known to brawl with neighborhood bullies, especially if they picked on any of her friends. She's 19 by the events of the series, and uses medicinal alchemy as well as a form of alchemy that allows her to change the chemical makeup of metal and wears a set of bangles and rings she turns into a knife and brass knuckles, respectively. She's also Bi 😗✌️Her introduction into the series occurs shortly after the Elric brothers expose Father Cornello as a fraud, when she returns from her studies of alchemy and alkahestry in Xing on word that her mom is seriously ill.
This is Sylva Cartwright! He's one of Damaris' childhood friends and they are opposites in almost every way between her extroversion and his introversion, her recklessness and his anxiety, etc. They are besties tho and she defended him a lot from people picking on him when they were kids. His dad is a Colonel at Briggs who works in Intelligence, and his stepmom is a school teacher in Leore. He works in Damaris' dad's tea shop and is also 19 during the series.
Rena is another of Damaris and Sylva's friends. She's also 19 in the story. Her mom ran a bakery and pastry shop in Leore and her father was a tailor. They were both murdered in the Ishvalan massacre, and she and her younger sister Miriam were separated. Rena holds onto hope that her sister survived, however, especially after she's given a crumpled letter in her handwriting meant to tell her that she's trying to find her. She has significant burn scars on the left side of her face and her shoulder and torso.
Rena eventually returns to Leore and finds Damaris and Sylva who are both equally shocked to see her again when they'd feared the worst for her, and there was a tearful reunion between the three of them before Rena explains that she's looking for Miriam, thinking she'd tried to go home too and when she's not able to find her in town, Damaris and Sylva both agree to travel with her across Amestris to find her.
And this is Miriam! I can't tell you very much without spoiling the story I'm wanting to write with her, but do know that she's alive. She's 16 during the story.
One of my (former) Briggs oc's! This is Laurel Enfield, he is currently a foreign languages professor at a military academy in Central. He holds the rank of Brevet Colonel, and is retired from the military after receiving a very serious injury that cost him his right arm and left him with a permanent limp. He's about 33 during the series and is prematurely graying because he went through a lot of stress with u know.... almost dying, and having a particularly brutal recovery process.
Despite how I drew him here, he's very sweet and a huge nerd about history and languages and eventually becomes bf's with @decoloraa 's William Thorne! He actually only had a minor role in my story but my friends decided he was babygirl so I was able to really flesh out his story and give him a larger role!
Whew! And finally this is Dr. Antony Fairchild! She is a psychiatrist who works at Briggs and is a huge lesbian. I don't have any colored drawings of her unfortunately so this will have to make do😭. She comes from a family of doctors in Central and is a bit of the oddball in that she chose psychology as her specialty- which I sort of view as holding a lot of uncharted territory with current studies in Amestris. She's sweet and got a corny sense of humor, and I look forward to writing her shenanigans with the Briggs medical team!! I also ship her with Patricia 👀
#GAH THAT TOOK SO LONG IM SORRY#i fully intended to redraw Rena and give Antony a better visual ref but it just Didnt happen#hope this is okay though and that this is adequate 😭#fmab oc#fma oc#my ocs#my art
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Terrors From the Past(JSE Schneeplebro Fanfic)
(TW!! Mentions of murder, blood, suicide, trauma, reoccuring nightmares ETC)
If I have missed something please let me know and I will add it to the list as soon as possible.
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‘I didn’t mean to kill her. He made me do it. I wasn’t in control; my body wasn’t mine anymore. My mind wasn’t in the right place.Those are not my thoughts, that isn’t me. I’m sorry Stacey..I am so sorry. I’m sorry Grayson, Samantha..I’m so..so sorry.’
Henrik stared at the blood stained scrap of looseleaf notebook paper that was crumpling in his shaking hands. His soft blue eyes peered over back at the wall to meet the pale lifeless eyes of the one he held close to him, his best friend, boyfriend, and soon to be fiance leaned against it. His eyes were filled with fear, as if he had seen the worst thing imaginable, but still went on until he mentally couldn’t bare the pain. Henrik’s eye’s burned with fresh tears forcing their way through; he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a pained whimper.
“Chase..” The rush of emotions outweighed his efforts to surpress himself and he let out a choked sob as he clutched Chase’s coat and brought him close to his chest. “You told me you wouldn’t leave me.. You promised!” His body shook as he heaved and sobbed heavily into the blood soaked jacket.
“You failed him, good doctor,” Henrik’s eyes shot up, to meet the pitch black eyes of a familiar someone from a few years ago. The one who claimed the life of another friend, Antisepticeye. The glitch began to grin from ear to ear, wickedly sharp teeth bared as Chase’s body suddenly vanished from Henrik’s view. The other began to panic as he frantically searched for his friend’s body. “He trusted you, doctor,” Anti’s maniacal and distorted laughter echoed and filled the room, causing a loud piercing ring through the German’s ears, causing him to cover them and shut his eyes once more; his body collapsed onto his knees.
“SHUT UP!” The younger shouted, trying to block out the loud ringing in his ears and the distorted laughter around him that caused it. “You’re the cause of this, of all this! And you know it!”
The other only continued. “You left him when he so desperately needed you. So if anyone is to blame, it is you.” The glitch taunted him for what seemed like hours, until the room fell silent once more. Henrik’s eyes slowly began to open, and he glanced at where Anti once stood. There was nobody left. Even before the slightest bit of relief hit, the room began to glitch and contort into his own personal hell. The walls seeped thick black ooze that he could only compare to the blood that spilled each and every time he believed he had found a way to save the only friends he has ever known. The only family he’s ever known. The ringing had grown louder and more painful and he had to keep his ears covered to try and protect his hearing, if he wanted to make it through this.
“Leave me alone!” Henrik screamed at the void of nothingness, hoping that bastard could hear him. “Go away you asshole!” His voice cracked, and he could feel more warm salty tears fall from his face. He didn’t waste any time, forcing himself up on two feet he darted straight for the door. It felt like a never ending hallway to get to, but apon finally reaching, the door wouldn’t open. Anti’s sinister laughter started again, and the door vanished in front of the German’s teary eyes. A black clawed hand reached out and gripped Henrik’s throat, his grip tightened with every passing second. Henrik could only struggle as he felt his very life slowly slip from him.
“Henrik..!” The voice started so softly, gradually getting louder as time progressed; beginning to fill the room and soon it was like a miracle occured. “Henrik wake up!”
The doctor woke with a startled yelp, his grey-blue eyer scanning the surrounding area frantically. A clamy hand was put to his neck, as he tried to feel for any signs of attempted strangulation. Henrik’s eyes finally met the others, full of worry and concern.
“Hen..” Chase put a hand on Henrik’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “are you okay?” There was no response from his partner, just silence as he stared at him as if he needed to process the others existance to keep himself sane. “Please say something Henrik..you’re worrying me..”
The only words to escape him was his name. “Ch..Chase..” More warm tears forced their way out as he clung to his partner tightly and sobbed. “Thank Gott..!!” The other did his best to comfort.
“Hey..hey..” Chase gently squeazed his shoulder, attempting to ground him to help calm him down. “Breathe..deep breaths for me okay Baby Blue..?” The other snuggled closer to Chase, as if he was too afraid to let him go. “Do..you want to talk about it?” Henrik shook his head and clung tighter.
“Nein..I..I don’t want to think about it” Henrik sniffled, his voice cracking still.
Chase only sighed and held him closer, pulling the covers over the two. “That’s okay..you don’t have to.” He placed a soft kiss on his boyfriends forehead and then cheek. “Let’s cuddle until you can fall asleep again okay?” Henrik nodded softly, and nuzzled Chase’s chest.
--------------------------------------Timeskip------------------------------------------------
Chase looked at the other, and noticed he was finally asleep. All he could do is smile as he kissed his forehead. “Goodnight Baby Blue..sweet dreams.”
#jse fanfiction#jacksepticegos#jacksepticeye fanfiction#chasebrody#staceybrody#dr henrik von schneeplestein#antisepticeye#schneeplebro#angst with comfort#twsuicide!
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I would love to hear about Sparrow <3333
hi moth!!!! thanks for asking me about one of my little stories!!! okay @jathis also asked about this, so i'm going to cheat and answer you both in this post <3
for context sparrows is a wip of the story i've been ruminating on since late 2017. originally it was wildly different than where it ended up, AND i kept flip flopping between whether i wanted to write it as a story, a screen play, or as a comic. i think i've finally decided on a comic, but before that i was going pretty hard on the traditional novel route. this is the result of that! for a little more context, the story is about a man named markus who has spent most of his young adult-mid adult life working for his family's taxidermy business (they specialize in birds!). when his father dies, markus is forced to close the business, a move that proves to be extremely traumatic for him. the story itself follows markus post breakdown as he tries to figure out his identity in a world where he's no longer tied to this obligation. sorry to fucking go on about this, but here's a little excerpt (also just a warning but there is a lot of swearing, mentions of gore and blood etc, and some of the language can be read as misogynistic):
Each empty day after that has been filled with my growing anger. It’s such a foreign feeling for me. I’ve never been an angry person before. I hate this festering blackness that builds inside me. I imagine this must be how my father felt when the cancer invaded him. Insidious and reaching. I can feel it eating away at my muscle, tearing away at sinew to expose the white of bone. Not just anger, fear has been growing inside me as well. Another sickness. My fear makes me angry, and my anger makes me afraid. The snake biting its own tail. I might just consume myself. I really don’t want to be back in that office I think as I continue downwards, away from the monstrous building. Coward, I'm such a coward. But, no wait. That’s wrong, I don’t need therapy. I don’t need to think about my past. I don’t want to remember what happened. Because -and this is the rub of it- nothing happened. Vivian overreacted when she found me, like she always does. It was a tragic, attention seeking, stupid fucking stunt for her to call an ambulance. She’s always craved attention, always! If a situation can’t be twisted until it’s about her, then she won’t even bother with it in the first place. So what? I cut myself a little on broken glass, who fucking cares? But no, for Vivian it’s the perfect opportunity to martyr herself. Oh woe is me, the poor, long suffering wife of a fucking lunatic. A joke, a fucking joke! And now I have a doctor who wants to know all about me. She needs to know every little aspect of my past so she can build a whole new Markus from the ground up. She wants to decide who I am for me, but she can’t! I won’t let her! My past is my business, she has no right to pick apart my memories and give them meaning.
I try not to hold my arms out like an idiot as I go down the hill, but it’s slippery and my feet keep threatening to come out from underneath me. I want to fall, I suddenly realize. I’m tired of being careful, of holding back. My legs start pumping faster, slick and dangerous, and I'm running. My precarious balance only gets worse, and I can feel my legs wanting to give. I’m exhilarated! Such a righteous feeling burns inside me, because maybe, if I do fall and really hurt myself, Vivian will finally have a real reason to throw herself into the spotlight that stupid bitch. I can see myself falling, legs crumpling and my head careening into the ground. I can hear the thunderous crack as my skull splinters against the still frozen dirt. It would hurt, I'm sure, a violent kind of hurt that’s all black spots and confusion. My momentum is so great, so unstoppable, that I would flip over and over in a sick imitation of a somersault. The slickness of the ground mixed with the viscous flow of blood gushing from my head would easily propel me onto the tarmac, the black surface offering enough friction to stop my limp body. Just in time for a large car -or better yet, a transport- to violently come around the corner, too fast to stop, much too fast like my body had been. Its large metal body would zip by in a blur, the bump barely felt as my body is crushed under its fearsome wheels. Blackness, a curtain drawn. Goodnight!
I do slip then, but momentum propels me backwards, onto the seat of my pants. The impact sears through my tailbone and rattles my teeth hard enough to break. I slide, but not fast enough, and I soon spill to the bottom of the curve. I stop all at once and sit in a shameful crumple amongst snow and dirt. I don’t even have the decency to fly out onto the road, get my body under the wheels of a transport. It’s undignified, and everything hurts. My ass, my back, my fucking mouth -everything hurts, but all I want to do is scream. Unhinge my jaw and scream, and scream, and scream. I let my head fall back against the earth, the weight too much for me to support in my anguish, and I listlessly gaze at the top half of the forest.
#also i apologize in advanced for my horrible grammar and spelling :))#THANKS SO GUYS I'M SO GLAD YOU ASKED EVEN IF SHARING MY WRITING IS NERVE WRACKING#rhubarb asks
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I feel so stressed with telling rafa that I want to leave the lab. I’m so scared that he’s going to go ballistic on me because I had previously said I would leave in May. I’m also terrified of Simo and having to meet her to go over the “project” (ugh). I’m so sick of going into lab and I hate it so much. Even if my parents don’t want me to quit until next month, I’m going to quit by the end of this month and just live like a mouse until I can move back away. I can’t I can’t I can’t stay. I would rather just not eat, not go out, not do anything that costs any money at all if it meant that I wouldn’t have to go to lab. I hate being scared and anxious and nauseous about work, at this point I’ve been burned so bad that I’m just ready to pass out if it means I don’t have to go into work. I know it’s weak of me, probably to my parents’ eyes, that I can’t stay for just a whole month longer, but I just do not want to deal with the whole drama that is and will be my presentation unless I at all have to.
I’m so scared of people yelling and screaming at me and going off about how I’m such a disappointment, mistake, taking advantage of the lab, etc. I’m so tired of people saying whatever they want at me and hurting me just to hurt me. I don’t want to deal with it anymore, I’m so tired of people hurting me and getting away with it all the damn time because I’m in a lower position of power and can’t afford to go against them. I hate it so much and I can’t deal with it. I can barely deal with it for two weeks, much less a month. I can’t. Like I promise I’ll take such good care of my health and everything, just I don’t want to go back. It drains me to be in lab, and especially when Simo is storming around in my aisle. I forgot the absolute stress and hell that is being in close proximity to this angry lady, like I just can’t deal with it. It makes me want to crumple up and die. It makes me high key anxious and on high alert at every hour of every day. I don’t want to deal with her so bad. I just can’t. Sigh.
I just need to tear off the bandage on this talk though. Or I’ll literally never leave. It’s either I address this feeling of being sick inside so I can finally be free, or endure and die inside emotionally every day, every week, for another four months. four month, like holy SHIT I think I would just not be able to deal with that.
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you guys should send me kinky(?) nsfwhump asks/ideas/prompts, I want them very much 👀💕
okay SO.
explicit noncon where whumper has their way with whumpee somewhere they could get caught? like closets, bathrooms, office etc. whumpee accidentally gets too loud despite whumper’s warnings and whumper’s friend catches them in the act?
as punishment to whumpee, whumper can let the friend watch. or join 😈
omfg adskjfah yes. when it's 'secret' but then when someone finds out and poor whumpee thinks maybe it'll be help...it's just not. maybe even especially if it's like, the only other person who wouldn't, if it had been anyone else maybe it would have been different, but they're just very unlucky.
i love these. more please. creepy/intimate whumpers are my fav to write!
CWs: explicit nsfwhump, noncon (18+ ONLY! Minors + IRL (non-fictional) nsfw blogs DNI!), abuse of authority/power, victim-blaming and shaming nonconsensual arousal, creepy/intimate whumper and friend, self-blaming from Whumpee.
“I thought I told you to stay quiet.”
Whumpee doesn’t even realize they’ve let out a noise until Whumper’s growling into their ear, and it makes them choke in fear. It makes them hold their breath and try even harder to obey because they don’t—
“You want someone to hear?” Whumper whispers, chuckling softly, breathlessly, as they continue to fuck into Whumpee from behind, as Whumpee clutches at the sink they’re bent over even harder. “Is that it? You want someone to see, don’t you? Such a damn slut.”
Whumpee shakes their head, lowering it down, their teeth grit so hard their jaw is aching. They’re grateful that unlike the bathroom last time, the janitor’s closet doesn’t have a mirror they’re being shoved into, that their hair isn’t been grabbed and they’re not being forced to watch themselves.
“But we knew that already,” Whumper goes on, nipping at their neck, licking under their jaw and smirking when Whumpee gasps. “Didn’t we, pet?”
They give a particularly hard thrust, and Whumpee slams their hand out against the wall, then reaches up and covers their mouth, squeezing their eyes shut.
“Yeah. Yeah. Bet it makes you feel special, getting attention from someone like me. And what’s this, huh?”
They reach their hand down between Whumpee’s legs, and Whumpee moans, ears popping from how hard they try to stifle it back.
“Wet as hell for me. You love it. I’d make you tell me if I didn’t know you’d scream it. Keep that hand there, pretty baby. Much as I love to hear you…”
Whumper starts to touch them, to stroke them in time with their movements, and tears run down Whumpee’s face as they helplessly choke out muffled grunts. It’s too much, too damn much—and it’s not quite enough, because they need to—
“Slut,” Whumper groans, biting down hard on Whumpee’s neck, and Whumpee’s hand slips, or they lose grip, or something, because when they cry out as they come it’s loud, and Whumper scoffs, starts to call them names, make them feel worse for it and then--
The door jerks open, and Whumper freezes.
“What the fuck,” the man says, standing in the door, and then looks around behind them, checking the hall for anyone else. “Well.”
Whumpee, maybe, had been about to beg them to help. Now they’re completely frozen, too, in terror, because that tone of voice...it doesn’t sound like help is what they’d offer.
“Oh, please,” Whumper grunts, still buried inside Whumpee, and Whumpee’s face is burning so hot they can’t stand it. “Like you haven’t been wanting this tight little ass since they got hired.”
“I didn’t say otherwise,” Whumper’s friend murmurs, tilting their head. “Was kinda just enjoying the view of it."
Whumper hums. They pull out of Whumpee, and Whumpee slumps as their legs give out, held up only by the way they’ve crumpled over the sink, sobbing softly.
They hear whispering, from the two of them, but not what they’re saying. They shiver, and stay there in place, because they know by now if Whumper’s not done with them, they’re not going anywhere, even if they try.
And God, how they’ve tried.
“...wouldn’t mind it,” Whumper says a little louder, and Whumpee raises their head just a bit as Whumper saunters their way over to them again. They force Whumpee to stand up straight, and pull their back against Whumper’s chest, one arm around Whumpee’s waist to keep them there. They reach down, fingering Whumpee gently, and Whumpee cries out again before Whumper covers their mouth.
“It’s like they want the whole world to know,” Whumper’s friend says.
Whumpee’s not sure they believe it, either.
“I think they do. Don’t you, baby? Didn’t you want this to happen?”
No, Whumpee tries to whimper against the palm over their lips, and the weak sound makes both of them laugh. It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like they’d listen or believe it.
“Gonna be a tight fit…”
Whumper smirks, drinks in the horror on Whumpee’s face as Whumper’s friend closes all three of them inside, and says, “Both.”
Whumper’s friend licks their lips at Whumper’s words, looking Whumpee over in a way that makes them shudder, that makes them cross their arms and try to cover themselves as best they can, as if it matters at all.
“In the closet or in them?”
#nsfwhump#whump#whump writing#creepy whumper#intimate whumper#two whumpers#creepy/intimate whumper#whumpblr
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"It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone."
– John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
1998 | dean winchester x fem!reader
description: it's the year 1998, y/n y/l/n is nineteen years old. she's known the winchester family her entire life. growing up a hunter was difficult enough, but when she loses her father to the yellow eyed demon, she resorts to finding the winchesters for help.
trigger warnings: blood, gore, graphic violence, trauma, mentions of depression, etc. read at your own risk.
word count: 4.5k
December 27, 1998
Lawrence, Kansas
Holding the pen between your index and thumb, you scribbled within the lines of the opened journal of which rested against the kitchen table. Your deep eyes gazed upon the words of which you wrote, nearly unable to make sense of your writing due to how sloppy it was. Your gaze transfixed upon the opened book beside your journal; an old book of Greek lore. There'd been a trail of missing persons – in a town a few hours north of Lawrence – that all fit the same background; no father, single and a virgin. You'd been on a case with your father, but he made you focus on the research rather than physically hunting.
Pehaps he didn't want you to get hurt, but you had an undeniable amount of adrenaline at times while working on these cases. All you desired was to get off your chair and fight alongside with your father. He wouldn't have it that way and you knew better than to argue with him about it.
"Something feeds off their purity," You muttered gently, tracing your bottom lip with the opposite end of the pen. Your eyes squinted gently as you examined the book. You took your fingers and traced over the slightly crumpled texture of the paper. Turning the page, your eyes gazed upon an image of a scaly looking creature. Its mouth was opened wide as firey breaths were directed towards a young person stood before it with nothing but a shield and a sword.
You dropped the pen and scrambled out of your seat, scurrying towards the phone against the wall. You took it and quickly dialed the number of the motel your father was staying at, while on the case. Placing the phone against your ear, you waited as it began to ring. Your hands shook softly at what you had just discovered. Not even the oldest hunters would have suspected such a thing.
"Yeah?" Answered a deep, gravely tone.
"Dad, it's a dragon," You released in a single breath.
"What?" He ran his palm down his face, in disbelief at your discovery.
"It's a dragon that's behind the kidnapping. They feed off purity, Dad. It says so right in the book," You allowed the phone to rest between your ear and shoulder as you reached over to grab the book. The curly wire against the wall phone made this a bit difficult.
"Enough, Y/N!" He snapped through the phone. "Every hunter knows that dragons don't exist."
"But, Dad–" You were cut off.
"No, Y/N. Find something else, it's not a dragon," His voice darkened.
You released a gentle sigh, "Yes, sir."
Removing the phone from your ear, you placed it back against the wall. Your plump lips glossed from the dim lights of your small home. You were a prisoner inside the walls of a place you should've called safe. All you did was the research. You sat in the same chair day after day doing more and more research.
You tossed the book of Greek lore back onto the table. A subtle bang flooded the first floor of the house. You frustratedly took your hands to your face, rubbing your tired eyes slowly. You needed rest, you craved it. It would be no longer than twenty minutes, you tried to reassure yourself as you trudged your way to the living room. You slowly pressed your bum against the couch and leaned your head back against the arm of it, while your legs laid out before you, taking up all the cushions.
Slowly, your eyes fluttered closed.
.
Despite the dark sight you had on the inside of your eyelids, a figure before you was shaped and engraved into your view. A darker figure of someone staring over you, as if they were watching you sleep. You stirred uncomfortably, in deep desire to sleep peacefully. It was useless, for you couldn't drift with the feeling of someone watching you.
Fluttering your eyes opened, you gazed up at the ceiling watching as a dark figure was sprawled out against the stippled material of the ceiling clung to a body. Your eyes squinted as you noticed the dark figure had a thin line of blood along its chest. The red matter slipped from the cut and fell upon your forehead. You flinched softly and sat up, taking your finger and swiping the blood off. You brought your hand back down and examined the plasma upon your finger.
As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you looked up once more and the site of your father upon the ceiling filled your view. Your glossy lips parted as you stared up at him, stuck to the ceiling as though he were a starfish against a rock.
Before you could process anything else, your teary eyes found the body against the ceiling spread into flames. The entire living room lit up with fire and smoke. You pushed yourself off the couch and rushed to the kitchen table, grabbing the Greek lore book and your journal.
The flames surrounded you, as though it trapped you inside, not desire to let you leave. You coughed harshly and found your tears fallen from your eyes rapidly, staining your cheeks. The burning wood of the furniture was lifted by the smoke, implanting the ashes against your cheeks. You took your arm and covered your mouth and nose as best as you could.
Your body was growing weak as you clung the journal and book to your chest. You ran quickly and found a route to the front door. Taking all the strength you had left in your limbs, you rushed to the door and swung it open, jumping off the porch and to the front lawn. You tripped while getting up and ran to the curb, noticing fire trucks were down the street. You thanked your lucky stars you had caring neighbors.
Taking your arm down, you watched as the fire trucks headed in your direction. You hugged your journal and book tightly as the men rushed out of the vehicles with the hoses attached to the back of it. Your cheeks were stained with ash and hot tears. Your eyes were glazed with a glossy veneer as more tears trickled down your face.
"I'm sorry, Dad.." You released a soft whisper, feeling your legs weaken as you sat against the curb, hugging your books as they gave you some form of comfort.
Blue lights flashed out of the corners of your eyes, to your left. You slowly picked your head up and watched as police cars were headed for your, once put-together, home. The flames had died down as the firefighters continued to spray the house with the hose.
You watched as policemen exited their vehicles to step forth to the scene. Releasing a gentle sigh, you flickered your eyes up and watched two men walk towards you.
.
"What's your name, miss?" Questioned one of the officers as you stood before them, still hugging your books to your chest.
Your bloodshot teary eyes looked up at them, "Y/N.. Y/L/N."
"Miss. Y/L/N, how old are you?" He followed up.
"Nineteen," You whispered.
"Who else lived in this house with you?"
"My dad."
The questioning seemed as though it took forever, you couldn't help but revisit the last thing you and your father spoke about before he was found against your ceiling, up in flames. You chewed against your plump bottom lip as more hot tears slipped from your eyes and fell down along your cheeks.
"Miss?" The officer placed a hand against your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts.
"Yes?" You parted your glossy lips.
"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?"
You took a moment and found your deep colored eyes transfixed upon your feet. You were in nothing but a sweatshirt, leggings and some busted up sneakers. You thought over about where you could possibly go. After debating about it within your head, you glanced up at the officer and nodded slowly.
.
Four Hours Later
Lincoln, Nebraska
Before exiting the taxi, you slipped the driver a crumpled hundred dollar bill. He took it and gave you a soft nod with a thin smile. You slipped out of the car and slung your bag over your shoulder. A few pairs of clothes that didn't get ruined were shoved into it along with a new toothbrush and some deodorant, your journal and Greek lore book as well.
The tires of the taxi squeaked as the driver sped off, leaving you in the parking lot of a motel. You looked around, in an attempt to figure out which motel they'd be in. A clean looking 1967 Chevy Impala was parked outside room ninety-three. You took your weakened legs and walked towards the room. As you stood before the door, you knocked gently. Your knuckles shook as you prayed that it was the right room.
A subtle creak was heard as the door slowly opened. You stared at a brunette boy with soft round cheeks. He was eye-level with you, maybe an inch or two taller. "Hey, Sammy," Your lips curved into a soft smile as more tears slipped from your eyes.
"Y/N? What are you doing here? Are you okay?" He questioned slowly, noticing your troubled state.
As you were about to speak, your deep colored eyes shifted up to glance behind Sam. Met with the familiar evergreen eyes, you almost lost your balance, but gripped onto the doorframe before you'd be able to trip.
Your vision faded into pitch black as your fingers slipped from their grip upon the doorframe.
.
A cold compress was felt against your forehead, causing you to softly shift against the mattress of which your body was implanted upon. You slowly peeled your eyes opened and gazed up to find the same evergreen eyes you saw before.
"Hey, sweetheart.." His voice was soft as he gently pressed a cold cloth to your forehead. Your eyes bounced around the room and soon found their way back to him.
"Dean," You breathed out and slowly sat up.
"Whoa, Y/N, take it easy, yeah? You bumped your head pretty hard," He whispered and slowly laid you back down against the pillows. You nodded gently and eased your body against the soft bed.
"So, what happened, Y/N? How'd you know we were here?" Sam's voice was heard as you turned your head, seeing that he sat against the edge of the second bed.
"Dad's dead," You whispered, your throat ran dry at the realization. "It was the same kind of thing as your mom.." You spoke softly, knowing that the subject was still sensitive to talk about with the Winchester family. "The whole house went up in flames.. I nearly couldn't get out," You breathed out.
Sam and Dean exchanged worried and saddened expressions. Both of them glanced back at you as if to reassure you that everything would be okay with just their eyes.
"Hey.. where is John anyway?" You asked softly, while Dean continued to pat the cold, damo cloth against the side of your cheek.
"He's working on a case, he says we're getting closer to finding out what killed Mom.. and your dad," Dean whispered the last part and laid his emerald eyes upon you. Your gaze locked with his for a few moments.
"My dad mentioned you guys were here a couple days ago, so when the cops asked me if I had a place to go tonight, I immediately thought of you guys," You whispered gently, your eyes bounced from Dean to Sam.
The sound of the front door opening caused the three of you to turn your heads and meet with John Winchester, father of Sam and Dean. His eyes looked immediately to you as you were laid against the bed. You slowly sat up against the headboard of the bed and looked at John, noticing how exhausted he looked.
"Y/N, what are you doing here?" He asked, releasing a soft breath. He removed his jacket and tossed it onto a chair by the table.
"Shawn's dead, Dad," Sam answered for you, his voice was slightly shaky.
"Y/N thinks it was something from the thing that killed Mom," Dean spoke gently, not wanting to create more tension.
"I'm sorry for your dad, Y/N.. Shawn was an excellent hunter," John spoke softly and took a seat against the edge of the bed that Sam was on. You released a gentle breath and nodded softly.
"The flames were everywhere," You whispered, tears blurring your vision. You let them slip from your eyes and stain your soft cheeks. You looked up to John and found that his gaze was soft, you knew he empathized with you.
"We'll figure something out, Y/N. We'll find that yellow-eyes son of a bitch and get rid of him, okay?" John mentioned softly. You nodded your head and felt Dean drape an arm around your shoulders. "For now, go clean up and we'll take you to Bobby's tomorrow. You'll stay with him," John pushed himself off the bed and looked down upon you and Dean.
"But, Dad, why can't Y/N stay with us? She's really good at research and–" Sam was cut off by a stern look from John.
"It's too dangerous for her now. For all we know yellow eyes could be after her next," John spoke firmly, making Sam retreat.
"Yes, sir," The youngest Winchester nodded slowly.
"Go clean up, kid," John turned to you with a softening expression. "Dean, give her a pair of your pajamas," He spoke and Dean nodded, taking the cold damp cloth in his palm and scurrying to his bag to find a pair of pajamas for you to wear.
"Thank you, John," You whispered softly and pushed yourself off the bed. John placed a hand against your shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.
"You're family, kid. We look after our own," John offered a gentle, thin smile. You nodded and peeled from his grasp, escaping to the bathroom.
Before you could get inside, Dean walked up behind you and handed you one of his t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants. You took them into your hands and offered him a soft smile.
"Thanks, Dean," You whispered and felt your fingers graze against his as he handed you the clothing.
"You're welcome, Y/N," He whispered softly and let you escape into the motel room's bathroom.
.
After your shower, you stepped out onto a couple towels upon the floor. You stretched your hand to grab a towel along the small hook againsg the wall and begun to dry your body. The ash hd been washed off along with the other bits and pieces of debris against your body. You felt refreshed. You quickly brushed your teeth and after completely drying off, you changed into the pajamas that Dean let you borrow. They smelled just like him and you couldn't help but notice how they loosely draped around your body.
They didn't cling to you like your own clothes did, but that's what you liked how them. It felt like they protected you as Dean always did when you would spend time with him. Despite being the same age, Dean always made sure to look after you. He always looked out for Sam as well, mostly because John made Dean grow up rather too fast.
After combing your hair, you exited the bathroom and found Sam and Dean watching TV while John was nowhere to be seen. Soup was cooking in a little pot upon the small stove inside the room.
"Hey, sweetheart, feeling better?" Dean turned to look at you softly, his emerald eyes were so warm and made your body heat up.
You shrugged lightly, "I'm physically okay, mentally.. I'm not so sure."
Sam turned to look at you with a gentle gaze, "We saved some soup for you, Y/N." You offered a soft smile to Sam and thanked him before making your way to the small pot over the stove. You removed the lips gently and placed it upon the counter.
You felt a presence behind you as you reached into the cabinet, stood upon your tip toes. Struggling to read for a bowl, you felt the presence behind you slowly reach up, his arm grazing against yours as he grabbed a bowl for you. You smiled softly and turned around to face him. You were met with Dean, softly grinning at you with his glossy lips enclosed together.
"Thanks, Deanie," You spoke the nickname you gave him when you were younger. As you leaned your lower back against the counter, he stood before you with a soft, comforting smile.
"Y/N/N, I'm really sorry about your dad and I'm sorry you're gonna be stuck at Bobby's for a while, not that it's a bad thing, I just wish you could be here with me where I know you'll be safe," Dean released in a soft breath.
"I'll be fine at Bobby's, Dean. Trust me, I'll do some research there and whatever I find, I'll give you or Sam a call," You softly spoke and let your hand run up to his cheek. You took your thumb and caressed beneath his eye slowly, watching as he leaned into your touch; his eyes closed.
"Can you give us a call even if it's not about research?" You heard Sam's soft voice from behind Dean, making you slowly retreat your hand back to your side. Dean opened his eyes and turned to look at Sam who looked over the back of the couch. The sound of the TV muffled in the background.
"Of course, Sammy," You nodded gently. The youngest Winchester curved his lips into a smile as he turned his head back to the TV.
Dean looked back at you and parted his lips slowly. You took the opportunity and snuck your around his torso, burying yourself into his chest. His arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders as he pulled you tightly in. A few tears slipped from your eyes and ran down your cheeks as you buried yourself deeper into his embrace.
You felt Dean's lips gently press against the top of your head as you pulled back to look up at him. Your bodies were still entangled together. "I'm right here, Deanie, I'm always right here," You whispered and watched as he looked down at you with a soft grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
.
Asleep against the couch, you stirred when you felt a cool draft hit your bare toes. Subtle static came from the TV along with the aroma of dirty laundry. You shifted and clung the blanket around your body tightly in an attempt to keep yourself warm. Slowly, you felt your body had had enough sleep and your eyes fluttered open. You found your gaze was locked upon the TV. It had been turned on. You slowly sat up and rubbed your tired eyes, they'd been puffy and red from the mourning of your dad.
"Morning, Y/N," Sam gave you a soft grin as he sat against his bed with a new pair of clothes upon his body.
"Good morning, Sam," You mumbled, sleepily and turned your head to gaze at the clock beneath the TV. It read nine thirty-eight. You released a gentle sigh and pushed yourself off the couch, making your way towards Sam. "Where's John and Dean?" You asked and sat beside him, your hair stuck out in all the wrong places with a couple knots in the back.
"They went to get breakfast and fuel for the Impala," He replied flatly.
You nodded softly and gazed at the TV. A cartoon you were unfamiliar with played upon the screen. The door to the motel room opened and in came John and Dean, with a couple plastic bags in their hands.
"Morning, Y/N," John gave a soft smile.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Dean offered you a soft smile and nudged your shoulder as he placed down the plastic bags upon the small table beside the window.
"Morning," You replied to them both with a soft grin.
"Here, Y/N/N," Dean reached into one of the bags and grabbed a warm breakfast sandwich. He tossed it towards you and you caught it within your hands.
"Thanks, Dean," You smiled softly.
"Thank Hector Aframian," Dean sent you a wink as he slipped the fraudulent credit card into his wallet and in his backpocket. You chuckled softly and rolled your eyes as you unraveled the sandwich from the foil it came in. You began to eat at your sandwich as John, Dean and Sam started to pack up their belongings.
You took the time to change in the bathroom into your own pair of clothes that you managed to get from your burnt down home. There'd been a couple articles of clothing that survived, so you took them into your possession.
After changing, you returned the pajamas back to Dean, who smiled and took them back into his bag. You felt your face heat up at his grin.
"Need help getting anything to the car, John?" You asked as you slung your bag over your shoulder in a pair of jeans and a loose, baggy t-shirt.
"Just get yourself in the Impala, kid," John offered a softly smile and ruffled your hair. You chuckled and nodded lightly. You stepped out of the motel room and headed towards the Impala with the Winchesters behind you.
.
In the backseat, beside Sam, you gazed out the window as the world passed. You felt almost like a burden to John for having him go through much trouble to get you somewhere safe. You knew he did it out of the kindness of his character, but you were unsure if this got in the way of him trying to find the demon that killed Mary and your dad.
You leaned your head against the seat and attempted to rest for a while. The drive was about three and a half hours. With that time, you attempted to get as much sleep as you could. You had a feeling that Bobby wouldn't make you stay for free, perhaps he'd have you help out at the Singer Salvage Yard.
While the ride was long, you were able to sleep respectively and soon awakened when the gravel against the tires of the Impala rumbled the body of the car. You slowly stirred and blinked twice as you lifted your head up. You rubbed your eyes slowly and looked around, noticing the salvage auto parts were around the front. Bobby's house was towards the back. You gently yawned as John pulled into the back, parking the Impala in place beside Bobby's car.
When John and Dean started to exit the car, you did as well, grabbing your back and slinging it over your shoulder. You watched as Dean walked around the front of the car to make his way towards you.
Bobby exited the front of his house and walked along the gravel towards John. The two grown men hugged and spoke for a moment while you, Dean and Sam stood together beside the Impala.
"You'll be okay, sweetheart?" Dean asked softly, looking down at you.
"I'll be fine, Dean," You whispered and nudged his side with your elbow playfully. He softly grinned and gave you a warm hug. You snuck your arms around his torso as he clung around your shoulders.
You felt Sam hug you from behind. You released a soft giggle and pulled from Dean, turning to face Sam. "Take care of the old man, okay?" You chuckled softly towards Sam, inference to Dean.
Sam smiled lightly and nodded. "Call us as soon as you can, Y/N," He mentioned.
"And if you need anything, we'll be here," Dean added. You looked between the two brothers and smiled softly.
"What would I do without you boys, hm?" You offered a grin and pulled them both into a hug. They returned the favor.
The Winchesters treated you like one of their own and that's what you loved most about them. Family was their safe place and you were a member of their family despite no blood relation. You grew up with them and the fact that most days you woke up and it being life or death made you all the more closer with them.
Once you pulled back from them, you caressed Dean's cheek and offered a small smile. He softly grinned and leaned into your touch as he always did. When you slowly pulled back, Dean gazed at you warmly.
"Hey, girl," Bobby's redneck voice was heard from behind you. You turned and offered a soft grin as he stood on the other side of the Impala. You walked around the back of it and hugged Bobby from the side as he rubbed your arm softly, in a fatherly manner. "Sorry to hear about your dad, kiddo.. was a hell of a hunter that one," He mentioned and pulled back.
"I'll have to keep his legacy going," You brought your chin up and watched as Bobby nodded slowly.
"Well, why don't you come on in? I've got a room for you upstairs and some old clothes of Karen's in a box in the attic you can look through if you want," Bobby spoke while looking down at you.
"Thanks, Bobby," You whispered gently, knowing the topic of his wife was a sensitive subject.
"Well, Y/N, we'll keep in touch, yeah?" John mentioned as he looked at you.
"Of course and if you guys need any research done, gimme a call and I'd be happy to," You offered them a warm grin. Your warm eyes found Dean's as he gazed at you, his expression looked both distressed and worried.
"Sure thing, kid," John nodded and pulled you into a warm hug. You returned it and felt him squeeze you before he pulled back and patted your shoulder softly. "Alright, come on, boys," John looked to his sons who continued to watch you with an forced grin.
"Bye, Dean. Bye, Sam," You waved slowly and watched as they waved back while getting into the Impala.
You and Bobby stood upon the gravel as you watched the Impala rumbled due to the engine starting. Bobby's arms crossed over his chest as yours were down at your sides. Dean's gaze was locked with yours as you found his while the Impala turned around and exited the salvage yard. You could see Sam's head turned to look at you through the back window of the car.
Bobby patted your back gently, "C'mon, girl. We got work to do."
.
a/n: hi!! so i really wanted to write this on my wattpad (narcissistiches), but i really don't know if this idea has potential or if it'll go anywhere so i'm posting this here in hopes of you guys giving feedback, maybe?? i hope you guys enjoyed this and that you want more! i'm planning to rewrite the first season with this little plotline! anyway, thank you for reading! be safe and treat people with kindness. — angelina.
#smut#imagine#supernatural#dean winchester#samwinchester#castiel#x reader#y/n#dean x you#dean x reader#jack kline#spn edit#spn fic#spnfamily#spn rp#spnfandom#supernatural imagine#supernatural one shot#supernatural season 1#spn rewrite#rewrite#bobby singer#john winchester#mary winchester#winchester#winchester brothers#one shot#spn smut
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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐨𝐩
。゜♡ ゜・♡ 。 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 | 🍭 | 𝐣𝐨𝐢�� 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 。♡・゜♡゜。
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || you’ve been a good girl all day, and as the rules follow good girls deserve their treats.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 || mob!daddy!ari levinson × little![black//woc]fem!reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 || smut, porn with no fucking plot
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 1.5K ➳ 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 || @firefly-graphics
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || 18+ nsfw; ddlg dynamics, daddy kink, degradation, crying kink, slapping mention (harmless slap dw) blowjob, dirty talk, slight dumbification 18+ CONTENT - MINORS DNI
𝐰. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 || i wrote this after I finished my assignments cause I was h-word so I hope you sweet cherubs enjoy! muah! enjoy reading! 💗
+ p.s || do not repost, republish or plagiarize my work on any other fanfic platform such as: wattpad, ao3, tumblr, etc or steal my work all together. do so and i will rip your spine from your scumy asshole and shove it down your talentless throat. ♡♡♡
“yeah that’s it, suck that fuckin dick. you like that don’t you? like havin your brat hole stuffed with Daddy’s cock, huh?”
the filth streaming out from Ari’s mouth smooth and seamlessly as the cigar smoke he exhaled. pushing the burning ash of his cigar against the tray, the stain of your pink lipgloss against the white paper visible in the golden bulbs of his office.
forgetting he asked you a question, you gurgle something in response. mouth too stuffed with the thickness of his dick to say anything coherent but you don’t mind the fauxly sympathetic cooes and the head pats Ari gives you. saying under the gravely tone of his breath how his dumb little girl can’t think straight when she’s stuffed with him.
it makes the slickness of your cunt increase with each slurp you have at his tip, his groans and hisses in approval. it’s been a while with you in this position, your knees digging into the softness of the expensive Persian carpet but you don’t complain. you love nights like this, when he’s stuck in his office doing stacks of paperwork and only you can have the power to pull him away from the stress of it all.
of course Ari likes it too, he gets to treat his princess to whatever she wants because she’s been a good girl for him while he’s been preoccupied with work. de-stressing and relaxing while his princess takes the workload off his shoulder with every lick and suck of her kitten tongue and soft lips. Ari is a serious man that follows a strict set of guidelines, the following of those golden requirements have their perks.
well... they applied only if you’ve been good— which you have been all day!
in Ari’s, Daddy’s, rulebook: good girls get rewarded. designer clothes, runway bags, nights out in the city— sweet little treats for you to enjoy. as a good girl you were being rewarded with a very special treat.
it wasn’t the promise of going out to the boutique tomorrow or a wad of cash you could spend on anything but something else and both options didn’t compare to this treat because let’s make it clear—
you’re a sucker for your Daddy’s lollipop.
it shows in the way you’re bobbing your head up and down, licking the long length of his hard cock with the tip of your tongue. fingers rubbing sensual and sloppy circles against his tighten balls, all while you enjoyed the symphony of groans and moans that erupts from your daddy’s mouth.
Ari glances down to your eyes, your pretty lashes crumpled together from your tears. crying those pretty tears for his cock with each thrust he shoves, all because of him and damn does he get harder when you shed more. typical for you to cry over his dick but fuck did it not bother you one bit as you take him deeper into your mouth. still looking up at him with those pretty starlight eyes that shine their innocent radiance.
“Daddy asked you a question, princess. come on, you can still blab your bratty mouth with my dick stuck in it.”
it has you sliding your tongue up his shaft until it rests on his bountiful tip, licking the slit leaking with salty perfume in thought. “yes Daddy, I love your cock in my mouth. I can’t live without it,” the voice that excludes past your lips wrapped around his member muffled yet he was able to hear every sloshed word.
“yeah Daddy fuckin knows you do. go on pretty girl, keep makin a mess on my dick,” it makes him lazily smirk when you bob your head up and down to respond to him, god you’re so fucking hot.
leaning his back against the leather of his office chair, thick muscles of his firearms and biceps folded behind his head to enjoy the show before him. watching his little princess taking him deeper down her little throat but making one mistake.
“nah ah, fuck! look up at me princess, look up. eyes on me when you take your treat,” you follow your eyes from the base of his cock, traveling them up the trail of chest hair from his lower muscles abdomen to his bare chest. “let Daddy see his pretty crybaby suckin’ his fat cock, don’t make me fuckin’ repeat myself,”
although your eyes still latch on the shiny silver pendent gleaming in the golden light of his office. oh how that chain and pendant rested in between your teeth as he thrusted his cock deep in you till you felt him in your belly the other night.
suffocated in the heat of summer nights that led to endless fucking, the evidence stained on the silk sheets. although the slap of his large hand against you peach cheek awakens you from your dreamy reverie.
not too soft but not too hard, a warning that you dared not to ignore.
with that you latch sight of his half lid eyes, a storm brewing in those hues that almost make you stop sucking on his girth. the cloudy blueness in his summer borne hues shaded a much darker aura, shading much darker as you hallow your cheeks and sucker harder around his member. batting your lashes as you continue to take him further into your mouth while taking in the sight of his head thrown back and his mouth agaped.
the series of grunts and moans to his hand to come down to pull you off his dick, not knowing why. you thought that you were treating and taking care of your daddy real good as you played with him. glancing down at the carpet beneath you as you sit on your knees, poignant demeanor catching Ari’s attention, causing him to slowly smile.
taking in your glossy pout that was centimeters away from his standing cock, wrapping his large hand gently around her chin, lifting your head up so you could look up at him.
“Daddy was about to cum princess, you were gonna get your special treat too early and we can’t have that now can we? daddy just gave you his lollipop.” his thumb glides against your bottom lip, slicked with your spit and his pre-cum.
the silent command to open your mouth follows, obediently parting your lips so you can take his thumb and suck on it. “good little slut,”
wrapping your own hands around his wrist, you perk your lips around his thick digit. swirling your tongue around his thumb, with that you can see his cock twitching. bringing a darker shade of red with a glossier tip leaking and dripping more pre-cum down his shaft. “there we go baby. suck Daddy’s thumb like you do with his cock. good girl,”
Ari’s praise and the sinful sight of his hard standing cock has you rubbing your thighs together in need. whining around his thumb because you need to put your mouth back on him even when it’s torturing your cunt when he isn’t buried in you. although it seems that wish will soon be granted when Ari take his thumb out of your mouth with a swift pop! before wrapping his single hand around your neck.
“stick your tongue out for Daddy,” he grunts, the pressure of his fingers around your throat tightening a slight but still leaving room for you to breathe.
immediately you obey, sticking your tongue flat out and he darkly smiles while taking his cock in his hands. slapping his cock across your face before letting it tap against your tongue. moaning as the salt of his pre-cum hits your tongue, you wan to savor it in your mouth but Ari tsks at you when he notices.
“nah ah, baby. keep that tongue out for me, Daddy’s turn to play with that mouth. smile for Daddy princess, smile for me,” and you smile that million dollar smile that everyone talks in love with all while he smacks the tip of his cock against your tongue.
“nasty girl, such a dirty slut for her Daddy.” the slaps of his cock against your tongue stops but you’re too quick to have your mouth on him. his hands gripping your jaw roughly, his thumb and fingers pressing against your cheeks causing your lips to perk.
“wait wait wait- did I fucking tell you that you could have my cock yet?” his words sharp and willing to cut but he takes mercy upon those bambi eyes and those marshmallow tears.
“you want this princess?” Ari gestures as he takes his cock in his rough hands, he’s so sensitive that even his own touch causes him to bite his bottom lip.
“yes Daddy, I need it Daddy,” you whimper while nodding your head up and down.
it’s almost pathetic, Ari reflects but he rethinks that thought.
it’s indeed so pathetic how you were craving and yearning for his cock even when you were making out with it seconds prior. but damn did Ari love to tease you till you were in tears, so close but not given permission to run your tongue over your treat, trace all the veins bulging and pumping for their desire of your mouth—
if one thing was true is that you were a messy and desperate slut, but you were his messy a desperate slut — and you couldn’t look anymore hot when you’re sitting pretty on your knees in between his spread thighs.
“you need what princess?” Ari throws, that same hand that’s been gripping your face falls down to take its rightful place around your throat. bellowing voice low in his throat but you aren’t gonna let him intimidate you from finally getting your reward.
“my lollipop Daddy,” you perk dumbly, Ari secretly loving how you’re slowly going stupid for him as you lick your lips and he squeezes the sides of your neck while you’re midway through talking.
“you’re lollipop? i’m not so sure princess, is it your lollipop or my lollipop?” Ari questions, playing dumb to those furrow bros and pout of yours. that single thumb that you sucked earlier tracing those tears.
“yes Daddy it is mine, it’s only mine. my lollipop, cause i’ve been a good girl today,” you plead, those bambi eyes melting his heart like they always do.
“a good girl?”
“you’re good girl,” you correct and in response you see the softly dark twinkle in his eyes re-emerge.
silently, you lean your mouth towards his cock. kissing the white dewdrop of pre-cum that has been dripping down the thick vein of his shaft. hearing your daddy’s groan in approval, you continue to press your sloppy open mouth kisses until you reach his weeping crown. dipping the tip of your tongue in the thick coat of his salty brim, giving the fat head a delicate kitten lick.
“yeah lick that, lick Daddy’s cock pretty girl. it’s yours, all yours. your lollipop,” smiling to yourself as you wrap your mount around the tip and swirl your tongue around it.
enjoying the string of sweet moans and raspy sighs you get from your Daddy, both of you enjoying your reward. cause you’re a sucker for his lollipop and he’s a sucker for your mouth.
♡♡♡ thank you for reading! ♡♡♡ pretty please like, reblog and/or comment what you think and if you enjoy this join my taglist to be notified of my future works! ♡♡♡
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